Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (12 page)

Chapter 10

Crash checked the vicinity from beneath the thick stand of live oaks in the corner of the pasture before he stepped out into the open. The black Jeep was mere feet away, but the two dark-clad men were standing up at the ranch house nearly a quarter of a mile away, one on either side, watching it burn and making certain no one emerged. Crash tried hard to avoid looking at the black column of smoke that rose high into the air as his home was destroyed. By this time, flames had erupted through the roof, and he knew the inside was an inferno.
I've lost it all,
he thought in agony,
and if I don't play my cards right at this point, I'll lose the woman I love, too.

A determined Crash crept across the intervening space to the Jeep, using it as cover and staying low. It was turned around, headed out for a quick getaway, and the first thing he did was ease up the hood just enough to reach inside with his knife and hack at the belts, being careful not to cut all the way through, nor to leave obvious cut marks.
They won't get very far now…
he thought in intense satisfaction. Then he quietly closed the hood and slipped back along the side of the vehicle, glancing in through the open windows, looking for any clues as to who was making the murderous attacks.

Judging by the paperwork on the dash, and the sticker in the window, it's a rental,
Crash thought as he studied the vehicle.
Hmm… Makes sense, if they're not from around here. Out of state tags would draw way too much attention in a place like Brenham.

A two-way radio… military style,
Crash observed with a raised eyebrow, leaning through the front passenger window and reaching for the mid-seat console to check it out with gloved fingers. He checked the frequency, and both his eyebrows rose in some surprise as he recognized the band in use; then he slipped his fingers behind the portable long-range comm set. He made some delicate adjustments by feel, then nodded.
That oughta hose up communications, but good.
His smirk wore a vindictive glint. He spotted a duffel bag in the back seat, and shot a swift look up at the house to judge whether he had time to investigate it.

Crash's home was fully involved now, and the two men had moved together into the front yard, watching.
Don't have long. Once the roof comes down, they'll be headed back to get the hell away before anybody shows up to help.
Putting aside his grief and anxiety for the moment, Crash ducked out of the car window, then leaned through the back window and grabbed the duffel, digging inside it. On top was a summer weight, military pilot style, casual dress jacket. Pulling it out, he studied it for a minute or two.

The jacket was Air Force blue, and the first thing Crash noticed was the "Triple Nickel" patch, identifying the 555th Tactical Fighter Squadron.
Oh, shit,
Crash thought, horrified,
please don't tell me this is
somebody I know.
A quick examination of the jacket revealed two more patches, but one had to be a joke: "Groom Lake--Area 51." The other was a POW patch. The jacket was a size 40, with a rather threadbare, worn area on the left elbow and forearm. The name patch, however, had been removed, leaving a darker area where the rest of the jacket had faded, and a lacerated area where the seam had damaged the fabric.

Triple Nickel, size forty; threadbare left forearm. Now, why does that ring a bell?
Crash wondered, pondering the familiarity of the jacket and its characteristics. He spared a few seconds to work his way through the mental roster of his old squadron. An image came to him, of a rather short, stocky F-4 pilot in Nam, so left-handed that his left sleeve was always worn away. Crash nodded grimly, filing away the details for future consideration, and looked up.

The men were starting to walk down the hill away from the house fire, and Crash folded the jacket, stuffed it back in the bag, dropped to the ground, and slipped back into the woods. There, he untied Yaw, led him to the opposite side of the trees, mounted, and headed for the Johnsons' house at speed.

* * * *

As he rode up to the Johnson place, a pretty little one-story white frame house set in several acres of horse pasture, Crash saw absolutely no signs of human life. "Aw, shit, this is Thursday," he muttered to himself, thinking fondly of the craggy old, weather-beaten cowboy, who often assisted Crash with the ranch work, and his sweet, wrinkled little wheelchair-bound wife. "They've gone to town. Oh, well." Crash rode up to the barn, dismounted, and led Yaw in, where he untacked. Then he hung up the saddle and tack, and turned Yaw out with the Johnsons' horses.

Crash returned to the barn, where he removed the loose board in the corner stall, reached into the recess thus exposed, and pulled out the spare house key. He went into his neighbors' house, located the keys to their old pickup truck, and left a cryptic note.

John and Patty,

Had an emergency come up and my damn truck broke down. Borrowed yours. May be gone awhile. Please clean my tack and take care of Yaw and the herd until I get back. You know where everything is.

Crash

He locked up the house and replaced the key in its hidey-hole, threw duffel, laptop case, and saddlebags in the passenger side floorboard of the pickup, topped off the gas tank at John's farm pump, and headed toward Brenham.

* * * *

Crash saw the emergency vehicles at the wreck site when he was still a half a mile away. As he neared, he saw the smoke and flames as the fire trucks tried to extinguish the grass fire on the road shoulder. Then he saw the overturned blue Suburban, fully engulfed, and his stomach knotted, face paling. The rescue squad stood by helplessly, and he watched as the ambulance attendants got out and prepared a body bag. Two rented black Jeep Cherokees were pulled off the road, and a state trooper took statements from the four witnesses, one of whom wore a blue military style jacket with several patches.
No. Oh, damn, NO. God help me. Gayle, I'm so sorry, honey. I'm so, so sorry. I'm too late. You never had a chance. And I… I've lost it all, now. Past, and present, and future.
Despite himself, a single, soft, male sob escaped his throat, breaking the silence inside the truck before quiet reigned once more.

A brokenhearted Crash Murphy pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and shoved them on, hiding dark, pain-filled eyes, glistening with unshed tears. Then he reached behind the seat and drew out John's ratty, ancient baseball cap, jamming it on his head and pulling it low over his pale, drawn face. He negotiated the battered old pickup past the emergency trucks, averting his face, then speeded up and made for the interstate by way of highway 36.

* * * *

Brown stopped by his manager's office first thing that morning. "Hi, boss," he commented, closing the door behind him and giving Johnson a meaningful glance. "How's it going?"

"Mm. Not so good." Johnson looked morose.

"How so?" Brown patted his jacket breast, but Johnson shook his head, opening a drawer and pulling out a small device of his own. The bug scrambler was already active, Brown noticed.

"It's not working," Johnson admitted, glum. "Our target group is too tightly knit, too much like a family. I can't get anyone infiltrated."

"Not even Joe?" Brown asked, surprised.

"Nope, not even him," the manager confirmed. "And they don't trust the government quite enough for us to recruit from within their group."

"Not surprising, I guess," Brown considered. "The history there isn't very good, when you think about it. They don't have any real reason to trust us."

"No," Johnson agreed with a discouraged-sounding sigh. "I suppose I'm going to have to scrub that attempt, and infiltrate the whites instead."

"They should be a lot easier," Brown noted, trying to be encouraging. "Let me know if Jones and I can be of any help."

"Will do," Johnson nodded. "C'mon, let's go get a morning cuppa."

"Good idea."

Johnson rose and came around the desk after replacing the Blackberry in his desk drawer, and the two men left the office, headed down the corridor toward the break room.

* * * *

As he neared the interstate, Crash fished out his cell phone and dialed an old, familiar number from memory.

"Rice University Department of Physics and Astronomy. May I help you?" the cheerful voice on the other end answered.

"Elaine? Elaine Grisham? That you? It's Crash Murphy," he answered, identifying the voice.

"Crash! I didn't recognize you! Do you have a cold? You sound hoarse. We haven't heard from you in awhile! What's happening with one of our star alums? Just bought your new book at lunch today. So far, I love it. Can't put it down." The friendly department secretary babbled on, and Crash was hard pressed to get a word in edgewise. "I just hope Dr. White doesn't catch me reading instead of sorting these records," she chuckled.

"Keepin' busy, Elaine, I'm keepin' busy," Crash managed to break in. "Thanks; I'm really glad you're enjoying the book. Uh… uh, yeah, I've… uh, got a cold."

"Don't you just hate summer colds? They're just so miserable."

Crash wasn't sure he could stand the department secretary's eternal cheerfulness for long in his current frame of mind. "Yeah, Elaine, it sucks. Listen, I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if Dr. Anders was in…"

"No, Crash, he's on sabbatical--doing research on Seyfert galaxies, you know. He's only just arrived back from Down Under, and now he's out at the VLA," Elaine volunteered.

"VLA?" Crash had heard the acronym, but couldn't quite pull it out of the huge file of similar acronyms that lived in his brain, as a result of so many years of work in Mission Control.

"Very Large Array. You know, the big radio telescope network near Socorro?"

"In New Mexico?"

"Yeah, that's the one. You want his cell phone number…?"

* * * *

Crash headed west on Interstate 10, driving hard. A couple of hours past San Antonio, he stopped at a convenience store for fuel and food. Pulling his wallet, he started to put the whole thing on a credit card, then thought better of it.
Plastic will show up electronically,
he thought.
Better use cash while I can. Thank God I still have a big chunk of the travel advance left from the Huntsville trip…
He fished out his money clip instead.

By late afternoon, he was driving through El Paso, then headed into New Mexico, veering north onto I-25 just before Las Cruces.

He decided to stop off outside Las Cruces to top off the gas tank, but mostly because he just needed to stretch his legs for a few minutes. A large recreational vehicle sat on the opposite side of the pump, fueling unattended. The short, plump, balding driver wandered around with a camera, taking pictures of the surrounding landscape. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it," he murmured, beaming. "I've dreamed of this all my life, and now I'm actually, finally almost there."

Murphy stared at him, puzzled, and the man felt the scrutiny. He turned to Crash and grinned. "Man, can you believe it? I mean, just over there is where it happened, less than a hundred and fifty miles away. Two more hours and I'm there." He turned and pointed into the distance.

"Where what happened?" Crash queried, confused.

"Roswell, man," the RV owner noted, as if that were all that needed to be said. "You know--the crash."

"Crash?" Murphy parroted, confused and not a little alarmed. Did this man recognize him? Did he know something about the Shuttle disaster?

"The saucer crash," came the incredulous response. "Back in the fifties. The ranch where it hit is right over there. Man, I've been dyin' to come here for years. The name's George," the man proffered a hand, and Crash shook it gingerly. "George Phillips. I'm here ‘cause of the abductions back in 1977. I was one of the abductees. You?"

"Oh, er… just passing through," Crash tossed off nonchalantly, relieved, but secretly wondering what particular variety of wacky weed this guy had been smoking.

"Ah. What a shame," Phillips lamented. "I thought maybe you were headed to the meeting."

"Oh, is there going to be a UFO convention?" Crash asked politely.

"Not quite," Phillips grinned. "You ever seen the movie, ‘Close Encounters'?"

"Uh… yeah." The gasoline pump clicked off, and Crash tried to tune the man out, focusing on the business of removing and replacing the nozzle, and getting his receipt.

"Well, the movie had it pretty damn close, they just picked the wrong site," Phillips volunteered. "They told us, you see, while we were on their ships. There's a site for each continent."

"Oh, really? That's very interesting," Crash noted, affecting a semblance of courtesy as he cut Phillips off. "Well, I'm on a tight schedule. I'd better get going, or I'll be late. Have fun."

"See ya around," Phillips waved cheerfully, as Crash got behind the wheel, started the truck, and headed back onto the road.

In his rear view mirror, Crash saw Phillips raise his camera again and begin photographing the landscape around the gas station.