Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (17 page)

"The other spacecraft."

"What?!" Anders exclaimed, almost putting the Cheyenne into oncoming traffic.

"Whoa! Watch it, Mike! Break right!" Crash cried in alarm.

"Oooo shit! Sorry," Anders apologized, straightening the vehicle before it could hit anything. "Wrong continent. Dammit, don't do that to me, Crash! What have you found, where, and how??"

"In the downlink data," Crash explained. "Couple of the Earth observation payloads picked up a large object moving across the planetary face at speed, during the chase to recover the tethered satellite."

Anders mulled this over, then nodded. "Makes sense. They had to adjust their orbit substantially to re-capture NTS, which changed the timing of their orbits."

"Right," Crash agreed. "And that was something the other ship hadn't counted on, so it got caught in the field of view. Actual, hard evidence of their existence."

"But why," Anders began, "would your own government be trying to cover it up?"

"A--we don't know it's the government," Crash said, but Anders cut him off.

"Only damn organization with this kinda resources."

"Mmm… maybe you're right. I can think of some others, though. The United Nations, for instance. But B--it's a very legitimate ‘prevent mass panic' move. Because if the general populace knew we were on the brink of interstellar war…" He paused, dropping back into a military way of thinking. "Not to mention, it's probably a case of national, or maybe even planetary, security. That's usually the reason for keeping something like this under wraps; you don't want the other side knowing what you know, how you know it, or what you can do about it."

"Yeah. Guess so."

"But there's still one thing that's really bothering me," Crash admitted, frowning.

"What's that?"

"They're killing people that find out."

"Well," Anders shrugged, "you know the old joke: ‘I could tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya.'"

"Yeah, but Mike, that's just it--it's a joke," Crash pointed out. "That's not the way it works in real life. If somebody finds out, they either get recruited into the project, or they're made to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Or, if they're really just completely uncooperative, I guess there might be an effort made to discredit ‘em to the public."

"Make the poor blokes look like raving maniacs, that sort of thing?" Anders suggested.

"Exactly. They don't just go around killing people. Not like this." Murphy shook his head vehemently. "I mean, there's seven people dead in the Shuttle, seven that aren't the crew, ‘cause the aliens got the crew, and they don't want anybody knowing. Then there's Mitch and Gayle. And they tried to kill me. Sounds like they'd love to get you, too. That's eleven murders or attempted murders that we know of, right there. God only knows who else they're after, just for suspecting something fishy."

The two men were quiet for a long time as the Cheyenne rolled down the desert highway. Finally Anders broke the silence.

"So?" he asked, trying to hide his eagerness.

"So--what?" Crash answered, deep in thought.

"What's it look like?" Mike followed up.

"What look like?"

"THE OTHER DAMN SHIP!!" Anders shouted in frustration.

"Oh," Crash grinned, "no idea."

"WHAT? Then how do you know--"

"Telemetry data, like I said," Crash answered. "I know there's something there, because the instrument flagged it. But I don't have any software to convert the data to an image."

"Oh." Anders' whole body sagged in disappointment.

"After Jet's little message, I went looking for it," Crash added, "and hit the jackpot. Of the three sets of data that made it out of Texas with me, two have a signature."

"Well, at least you have some hard evidence," Anders remarked, trying to shake his frustration. "I mean, you pretty much lost everything else. You know the medical records and flight recorder transcripts are fake, but we can't prove it."

"Sure we can," Crash disputed. "Well, not the medical records. I guess they burned when… when Gayle… had the wreck…" Crash's choked voice tapered off. His face was drawn with the pain that seemed to crush his chest whenever he thought of the woman he loved.

Anders glanced at him in sympathy. "Hurts bad, huh?"

Crash sighed, and looked away. "Yeah. Imagine if you lost Cayleigh…"

"You loved her that much?"

A nod was Anders' only answer.

"Crash?"

Crash shook his head, remaining silent, face averted. Anders, realizing Murphy couldn't trust himself to speak, nodded in understanding.

"Keep going, Crash. She'd have given you hell if you quit now."

"I know." The tone was low and rough.

"So go on. What can you prove?" Mike encouraged.

"Well," Crash took a deep breath, finding his voice again, and fighting it back into its normal tone, "like I said, I can't prove the med records were faked. But I can prove the transcripts are bogus."

"How?"

"Aside from the fact that, according to the transcript, the Orbiter was remarkably stable after losing the right wing AND the empennage…" a grim Crash pointed out.

"Ooo, good point," Anders interjected, eyebrows ascending.

"…Remember what the malfunction was supposed to be?" Murphy continued.

"Control surfaces locked up, wasn't it?" Anders replied, thinking back. "Flaps and rudder got stuck, basically."

"Right. Why?"

"According to the pilot, because the commander hosed ‘em. He said, ‘what'd you do, Jet?' or some such."

"Yup," Crash said with satisfaction. He pulled the CD from his pocket and popped it into the player, then fiddled with the buttons until he had the audio queued to the spot he wanted. "Now, listen to this."

* * * *

CDR: Copy. Houston, Atlantis. Entry switch checklist complete.

CapCom: Houston copies. Entry switch checklist complete.

PLT: Beginning control surface prep.

CDR: Houston, this is Atlantis. RCS dump complete.

CapCom: Houston copies.

PLT: ADI shows roll of zero, pitch thirty, yaw zero.

CDR: Copy. Throttle switch?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Pitch?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Roll?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Yaw?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Body flip?

PLT: Manual…

[Nominal 5 minute pause]

CDR: Body flip switch to Auto. Houston, Atlantis. We're at entry interface.

* * * *

"There!" Crash exclaimed, punching off the player. "Right there! Now, who was doing the control surface prep?"

Anders' jaw dropped. "The pilot."

"Exactly! NOT Jet! The last part of the CD is scripted, and the script writer screwed up, because he did a rush job before they got their hands on the original, and didn't have it to go by!"

"Damn," Anders breathed. "So it doesn't matter that you don't have the original…"

"Right," Crash agreed with a grin. "I can prove it's a fake on any damn dub of this thing they give me."

* * * *

"Coming up on Phoenix proper, Crash," Anders called back to his companion as they entered the suburbs of that desert city. "I'm going to need to stop and get petrol. Can you run into the hot stop and grab some stuff while I pump?"

"Sure, Mike," Crash, who was still studying what data he had, looked up. "Whatcha need?"

"Mmm," Anders thought hard, "several liters of bottled water, some milk, a loaf of bread, and anything you want."

"Wilco." Crash grabbed his baseball cap and crammed it on.

"Here's cash," Anders said, handing a wad of bills to his friend as he turned into a service station. "I'm gonna put the petrol on plastic."

Crash paused, his hand on the door latch. "Sure they can't trace it?" he verified, worried.

Anders grinned like a Cheshire cat. "I'm positive," he answered.

"How?"

"Tell ya later. Now go."

* * * *

After his little discovery, Blake spent about half his spare time mapping out the maintenance shafts, ascertaining where they went, where the surveillance equipment was placed, and how often they were accessed. The answers seemed to be, in order: apparently everywhere, very little, and only as needed.

A particularly momentous day was the day he discovered the tunnel leading upward. Blake set a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder that ran the length of the shaft, gazing up, excited, then glanced at his watch. "Oh, shit," he exclaimed, dismayed. "Haig's staff call is in thirty!"

He mentally logged the location, scurrying back through the tunnels to his room, where he closed the hatch, made himself presentable, then resumed the area surveillance. Walking over to the bed, he casually picked up a nearly empty beer can, turning it up and downing the last swallow. He tossed it in the trash on his way out the door.

* * * *

As the President walked the gauntlet in Scottsdale, shaking the hands of his supporters, a tall man in a dark suit and almost opaque sunglasses watched from nearby. An air of power, of intensity, and of danger, exuded from the agent. A soft beep issued from his hip. He extracted a state of the art cell phone from its belt holster and put it to his ear.

"Watcher One."

"Watcher One, Hotdog. Divert. Repeat, divert."

"Copy divert. New locus?"

"Firebird. Two miles east. Hot stop."

"Copy Firebird. Two miles east. Wilco."

The man replaced his cell phone and stepped forward.

"Mr. President?" he courteously touched the campaigning politician lightly on the shoulder. "There's been a slight change in plans…"

* * * *

Another RV sat on the opposite side of the fuel pump. A short, plump, balding man ran the pump. "Hey, there," he addressed Anders. "How's it going? Kinda windy to be drivin' one of these today, ain't it?"

"Yeah, just a little bit," Anders grinned back. "But I'm used to it. Wind's a pretty common condition around these parts, seems like."

"True, true," the other driver said. "Ya know, I think I might have met your friend, there," he nodded at the convenience shop. "Name's George Phillips. I ran into him over in Las Cruces, on my way to Roswell. Where ya headed?"

"Oh, just playing tourist," Anders tossed off. "As you might notice by listening to me, I'm not from around here. Ray, there," he gestured toward the shop, "has been nice enough to show me around a bit."

"So, whaddaya think?" Phillips asked proudly. "Ain't the States great?"

"I'm enjoying myself," Anders offered in a lighthearted fashion. "The Native cultures are fascinating. Rather similar to the Aboriginal cultures in the Outback, in some ways, but very different in others."

"Hey, listen," Phillips commented, "there's a bunch of us headed on west. We're gonna meet up in Death Valley in about a month and a half. Big camp about seventy-five, maybe a hundred, miles north of Inyokern. You and your friend oughta join us."

"What's the meeting for?" the astronomer asked, puzzled.

"You ever seen a UFO?" Phillips asked. "You know, a flying saucer thing?"

"Er," Anders sputtered uncomfortably, "uh, no."

Phillips waved his hands, dismissive. "No big deal. Come on anyway. The rest of us can tell you all about ‘em, inside and out. Before it's over, you might even get a first hand view," he grinned, winking conspiratorially.

"You guys aren't gonna, like, drink any ‘special' Kool-Aid, are you?" Anders asked, worried.

"Nah, nah," Phillips chuckled. "Those guys, they were trying to force it. You gotta relax, let it happen. They'll come to you when they're ready, not before. That bunch didn't know what the hell they were doing."

"And you lot do?"

"Sure." A confident Phillips grinned.

"Uh, well," Anders thought fast, "we'll see. I, uh, I need to get back inside and empty the trash, make some room for the milk and what not."

"Okay," Phillips piped. "I'll look for you at the camp."

"Sure," Anders tossed off, disappearing into the Cheyenne. He didn't come back out until Phillips had climbed into his RV and left.

* * * *

Crash had just paid for the groceries and stepped out of the shop when the motorcade pulled up, complete with news crews. "Oh, shit," he murmured, juggling bags as he pulled his cap lower over his face. He saw Anders' eyes widen in horror as the entourage pulled directly between them, and Crash glanced around, desperate for somewhere else to go. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the emblem on the black limousine.

"Dammit, Jim, you just had to show up here on a campaign junket, didn't ya? Today, of all days," Crash muttered to himself.
Stay calm,
he thought, trying to talk himself into it.
Can't let Jim see me. We go way too far back. If he recognizes me, he'll come over, and then I'm a dead man, for sure. Every Groom Patrol squad will know exactly where I am, just by proximity. They wouldn't even give me time to tell Jim a thing.