Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (22 page)

"Nah," Anders did his best to appear nonchalant, hiding the twinge of apprehension he felt. "No prob, mate. I'll go give a heads up to our bloke Phillips over there, then go walkabout over to the car in the other car park and head over to get our little shipment."

"I'll keep an eye out, Mike," Crash said, concerned.

"Not to worry, mate. I'll be right as rain," Anders told him, with more bravado than he felt, as he exited the door of the RV.

* * * *

Anders had no trouble finding his way back to the alley. He parked alongside the street nearby, then got out and meandered down the sidewalk toward the alley, trying hard not to look as nervous as he felt. Just inside the opening between the buildings, Jaime lounged in his red leather jacket, the same Hispanic teen that Anders had contacted before. They made casual eye contact as Anders walked by, and Mike heard him murmur, "Opal shipment."

"Half paid," Anders muttered in reply. He moved over to the far wall and leaned against the brick, glancing casually up and down the street. Jaime turned and sauntered back into the alley. Moments later, Anders followed.

In the back, hidden behind a big trash bin, was a largish, flat box. "¿Habla en español?" Jaime asked.

"Um… un poco," Anders answered, then added, "About enough to get my bum in deep shit." He grinned, embarrassed.

Jaime gave a low laugh. "All right, then," he answered. "English it is. I've got your… er, card number. Take the box. I'll get the rest of the payment off your card later."

"Right, then," Anders said, bending down and pulling out his multi-tool.

"What the hell are you doing?" the boy asked, surprised.

"Checking the goods," Anders replied calmly, slitting the packing tape and opening the lid.

"It's all there, like you asked," Jaime protested, glancing down the alley anxiously. "There's a message in there, too. Pocket of one of the coveralls. I was told to tell you it's very important. You'll have help; watch for Gordo. Now, take this shit, and get the hell out. Come on. Hurry up."

"In a minute." Anders took his time, flipping through the two sets of coveralls, feeling the envelope inside one pocket, finding the matching baseball caps, and locating the identification badges and lanyards. All had the appropriate worn look and feel to them, as if they'd been in use for several years already. "Okay, terrific. Looks good."

"Great," Jaime almost snapped, staring at two teens wandering by on the opposite side of the main street. "Take it and go, while you still can."

"What do you mean?" Anders wondered, closing the box and hefting it under one arm as he stood.

"Rival gang," Jaime explained, terse. "This turf we're in here is… under dispute. Get out while the gettin's good. Take this. Put it on your arm." He held out a white bandana. "It will mark you as a neutral party."

Mike's eyes widened in alarm. He put out his left arm, and watched as Jaime quickly tied the handkerchief around his wrist. "GO," Jaime told him urgently. Anders rather awkwardly tried to amble back to the street, carrying his precious box.

As he sidled down the sidewalk, Anders glanced around, trying to appear as offhanded and casual as possible. From down the street behind him, several young men wearing various items of black clothing were converging on the alley he'd just left. Ahead of him, Mike saw an equal number of teens dressed in red, moving toward him. He held his breath in anxiety, and transferred the box, moving it underneath his left arm, thereby calling attention to the white cloth wrapped on that wrist. As the red-clad young men drew even with him, one of them, on Anders' right, put his hand to Anders' chest, stopping him.

Shit, shit, shit. I am dead.
Despite himself, terror gripped his entrails, and Anders' blue eyes dilated in fear in response to the surge of adrenaline that coursed through his body. He lifted his left hand a bit, wondering if Jaime had set him up, instead of trying to protect him. Instinct kicked in, and he softened his knees, easing into a shallow horse stance, prepared to fight if need be.

Another youth, standing on his left, waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, man," he said to the first. "Off limits. Look. Australian opal." He pointed to Anders' wrist. The others noted the handkerchief then and promptly ignored him, passing by on either side.

A few feet more, and Anders had reached the car. He scrambled in, flinging the package into the passenger seat, closing and locking the door, before sparing a fleeting moment for a deep, calming breath. Swiftly, realizing he wasn't out of danger yet, he put the key in the ignition, started the engine, and pulled out. The astronomer fought the instinctive urge to get away as fast as he could, choosing instead to make his departure look casual and unhurried.

He was fully a half a mile away by the time the first shots rang out.

* * * *

Crash had raised the antenna and turned on the television while Mike was gone, flipping through the local stations to find the news. Anders, in turn, had decided to take a more roundabout route back, so as to avoid looking suspicious under the circumstances; thus he was late arriving back at the Cheyenne. So Murphy was pale and worried, pacing the floor, by the time the astronomer returned, some little time later.

"Mike? You ok?" he asked anxiously, grabbing the other man's shoulders as Anders clambered up the steps into the Cheyenne.

"Yeah, why?" Anders wondered, staring at Crash's white face. "What happened?"

"I was gonna ask you that." Crash's eyes darted over his friend, reassuring himself that Anders was indeed all right.

"Why? What's up?" Anders asked, mystified.

"I saw the local news earlier," Crash said, sitting down heavily on one of the dining table seats. "Did you know there was a gang turf war, centered exactly where you were going?"

"Oh, that. Yeah," Anders noted, unruffled, putting the box down on the dining table. "I got out before it got started. With the goods, I might add." He patted the box.

"Damn," Crash muttered, impressed, his already high opinion of Anders going up several more notches. "Did you know your boy got shot and killed?"

"Jaime?" Anders stopped in shock, turning to stare at Crash, who nodded confirmation with tight lips. "Aw, shit. No, no, no." He plopped down across the table from Crash, deeply upset. "He was a good kid, too. I'm starting to think you and I have some sort of bad luck juju, mate. Seems like everyone around us keeps getting killed."

"You noticed, huh?" Crash murmured, subdued. "I was afraid you were about to get added to my list, there."

"No, not yet, anyway," Mike said, very quietly. "Same could be said on my side, I suppose. Makes me wonder if involving Phillips and his blokes is the right thing to do, after all, though."

"Too late," Crash informed him. "After you spoke to him, he came by and invited us to dinner in his RV. But I told him that we should meet here instead. I said we had a…" Crash broke off, making a face, "that we'd lined the inside of our RV in tin foil. Said it blocks the transmissions from the government agents who work at Area 51."

"Oh, strewth," Anders ejaculated in amusement. "What did he say to that?"

"He thought it was a great idea," Crash snorted. "Promptly agreed to come over for dinner later, and… Mike, I think he went out and bought a whole shit load of aluminum wrap."

Crash looked at Anders with wide, wild eyes, and the scientist could see the mirth he was struggling to suppress. Anders suddenly had to quash a snicker. It emerged as a gurgling snort instead. After their earlier strain, that was all either of them could take.

Despite themselves, the two men broke up, howling with laughter, as their tension released. "O-oh, God," Anders panted fervently, slumped across the table. "I s-so needed th-that."

"M-me, too," Crash chortled, lying on his back across the bench seat, hands waving aimlessly. "Li-little humor to b-break up the–the mon-monotony."

"Monotony," Anders said, raising his head, eyes large in his flushed face. "That's a bonzer one, mate! Monotony! Just what we need in our lives! Let's hear it for some monotony!"

And the two went off into gales of laughter again.

* * * *

Johnson's summons arrived to both Jones and Brown via highest priority instant message, and they answered it immediately, meeting each other in the marble-tiled hallway that ran in front of the boss' door.

"What's up?" Brown asked Jones, as they strode down the corridor toward their superior's office.

"No idea," Jones replied with a shrug. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Hm," Brown pondered. "It seemed extremely urgent."

"I know. Well, only one way to find out," Jones noted.

"Indeed," Brown nodded. "Here we are." He pushed open the door marked "T. Johnson," and stood back for his partner, gesturing him in, before following himself.

"What's up, boss?" Jones asked, as they entered.

"Yes, we got your message, and came immediately," Brown noted, closing the door behind them, then moving to take one of the visitor chairs as Jones sat in the other. He pulled out his Blackberry and checked it, then nodded to the other two, before replacing it inside his jacket.

"We just lost another one," a pale Johnson said quietly. "Within the last hour or so."

Brown and Jones exchanged worried glances. "Who?" Brown asked.

"Jaime," Johnson sighed, downcast.

"Oh, no," Jones breathed, shocked. "The kid?"

"Yeah, the kid," Johnson nodded, trying to hide his distress. "He was a good kid, too. Did you know he wasn't a gang member to begin with? He only joined it to better position himself to help…"

"Aw, shit," Jones whispered, aggrieved.

"What happened?" Brown wondered, saddened.

Johnson shook his head, morose. "We're still trying to sort it all out," he told them. "But it seems there was some sort of gang war."

"Legitimate, or orchestrated?" Jones pressed, suddenly suspicious.

"Unknown at this time," a grim Johnson informed them. "Truthfully? I strongly suspect orchestrated. That turf was not in question three days ago." Then he added, "Have you heard from your boy Anders? Wasn't he scheduled to make a pickup from Jaime about…" he glanced at his watch, "two hours ago?"

"Hell. Yeah, he was," Jones said, worried.

Anxious, Brown got his palm computer back out, pulling up the telemetry data history. "Mm," he murmured, studying the information. "Looks like he made it into downtown. Yeah, that's Jaime's turf. Stayed there about ten minutes… then left, headed back to the airport… the Audi is in the long term parking lot."

"And the RV?" Jones almost snapped in his anxiety.

"The RV never left the freight lot," Brown noted, scanning the data. "Internal sensors show two occupants currently. Signature on one matches Murphy, the other…" he glanced up, smiling, "matches Anders. Our blokes are all right. They're safe."

"Good," Johnson sighed, mood lightening marginally. "There's one thing that went bloody right today."

"Amen to that, mate," Jones exhaled in relief.

* * * *

Some time later, a perspiring George Phillips showed up at their door, a large pot of beef stew in hand. "Here," he panted, handing it up the steps to Anders, who grabbed it by the pot-holders and put it on the stove nearby. "Damn, it is entirely too hot t' be wallpaperin' the inside of my RV," he noted, wiping his dripping face with the back of his forearm. "But if that idea of yours really works, pal," he told Crash, "it'll be every bit worth it. I sure as hell don't want ‘em finding out what we're doing. Me and my buddies want to get as close to… er, you know where… as we can get, without getting caught." He huffed his way up the steps and into the air-conditioned Cheyenne Mountain. "Ohh, that feels good," he noted, as the cool air blew on his sweaty, flushed skin.

"Have a seat," Crash invited, waving a hand at the living area of the RV. "I just finished throwing together a salad, and we've got some rolls heating in the oven, then we'll be ready to eat." He checked the oven, then turned and leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms.

"That's fine," Phillips agreed cheerfully. "To be honest, I'm more curious to know what it is that you two want me to do," he admitted. "Doc over there sounded real intriguing this afternoon."

"Well, it could be interesting," Anders agreed, lounging in the doorway into the bedroom suite, then met Phillips' eyes somberly. "It might also be dangerous, too."

Phillips' rotund face grew grim. "Might this have anything to do with why Crash's house burned to the ground?" he asked with unexpected perception.

Crash and Mike exchanged meaningful glances. "Yeah, sorta," Crash answered. "Look, George, there's something going down. Something major. Mike and I aren't sure what it is yet, but we know what we've gotta try to do."

"And what's that?"

"We need a couple of diversions, mate," Anders admitted. "And we need your help setting ‘em up."

Phillips stared at them. Anders didn't think a human's eyes could get any wider than Phillips' were at that moment. "You're going to try to get in, aren't you?" Phillips realized, shocked. "You're going into Dreamland."