Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (27 page)

Over the slight rise along the base of Black Butte, several dozen four-wheel drive vehicles burst from the sagebrush, many going airborne over hillocks as they accelerated toward the civilians. The guards stared in amazement, then started running toward the invading enthusiasts.

"Yaa-hoooo!" Paul howled, turning and sprinting toward the nearest truck. "Cut and run, guys! GO!"

At that, the UFO nuts scattered like mice with a cat in their midst, scurrying toward the closest vehicles, which slowed down just enough to enable the civilians to fling themselves into the back, before revving their engines and turning tail.

Within seconds, the security guards were left standing alone amid the sagebrush, as the sound of truck engines retreated into the distance.

* * * *

Back inside the huge bay door to Hangar 18, around the corner just enough to be out of sight, Anders and Murphy retrieved their ATF jumpsuits from the hiding place they'd found earlier, stripping all the way down to their shorts before putting the coveralls on. "Mike," Crash suggested, "get all the identifying info out of the suits, why don't ya, while I see about finding a good place to deep-six the suits."

"Okay," Anders agreed. "But don't get rid of ‘em, Crash, just hide ‘em real good."

"Why?" Crash wondered, zipping up the front of his coverall.

"I dunno," Anders admitted. "We might need ‘em to get back out of this place again."

"Well, good point, I guess," Murphy decided. "Let me see what I can find. Maybe one of these crates is open."

One was, holding nothing more than old, obsolete fire extinguishers. Anders brought the suits over when he had emptied the pockets, and together he and Crash roughly folded trousers, shirts, and jackets, and tucked them into the nooks and spaces around the extinguishers, then replaced the lid of the crate.

"There we go," Murphy murmured then. "Well, so far we've got nothing except what's in this hangar." Anders handed him half the retrieved identification, and both men secreted the lot in cargo pockets of the jumpsuits.

"I guess we should start figuring out what we've got in here, then," Anders considered.

"No, let's look through the rest of the hangars real quick, just to make sure there's nothing else," argued Crash.

"Ah, what the hell. Okay," Anders shrugged.

They slipped out the large doors and headed for the next hangar.

* * * *

At the end of the row, Crash shook his head as they emerged into the sunlight once more. All they had found had been a few specialized tool kits, essentials for handling any malfunctions that occurred to the Janet aircraft. "That's just too strange," he muttered, shaking his head in puzzlement. "I… there should be more there. A lot more."

Anders shrugged. "Well, we know they're here. And my money's on an underground base. If they gave over the topside to the bean counters, then maybe they took most everything below with ‘em. You know Bradenton said it was only a hardware graveyard and storage. I still bet there's aliens and UFO hardware in there, though."

"Yeah," Crash admitted. "But something's wrong here. My gut's telling me something's just… off."

Anders looked at him, worried. "Any idea why?"

"No."

"Any ideas, other than to go back to 18 and start poking through all the shit in there?" Anders followed up.

"No," Crash sighed.

Anders shrugged. "Then let's go."

* * * *

Carefully, the two men moved deep into the large structure, exploring the cavernous hangar. They moved from one large silhouette to another and listened to the sounds of their echoing footsteps.

"Geez," Anders whispered, excited, "I feel like a kid walking through a graveyard on Halloween. We could find who knows what kinda bodies any minute."

"Why are you whispering?" Crash asked in a normal tone, and Anders flinched.

"Dammit, Crash!"

"What?!"

"It's that test pilot testosterone, isn't it?" Anders demanded. "You just can't admit that this place weirds you out."

"It doesn't," Crash protested.

"Yeah, right," Anders drawled, the sarcasm obvious.

"You weren't faking it when you were about to bounce out of your skin to come explore this, back at the accounting facility, were you, Mike?" Crash realized with no little humor.

"Hell, no," Anders grinned. "Too many of the conspiracy theorists say this is where the Roswell stuff is kept. There's too much smoke not to be fire here someplace."

They moved to another object. "Whassat?" Anders hissed.

"Compressor, looks like. Air tank is over here."

They moved on.

"Whatcha got, Mike?"

"Plane engine, I think. Not a dead ET, at any rate. You?"

"Motorized lift…"

On they went, systematically exploring the dark area, as much by feel as by sight. Anders grew more and more frustrated.

"Where the hell are they?! This is Hangar 18. No ETs, no spacecraft. Nothing but a bunch of shit. Wish to hell we'd brought a flashlight."

Crash stood before a large, oblong crate. "Hey, Mike, go look around and see if you can find a crowbar or something. Let's find out what's in here."

Anders moved toward a section of wall with faint illumination and searched the work table in the dim red glow of emergency lighting. He returned with a claw hammer and a tire iron.

"Here. Best I could do."

"It'll work. Hand me the tire iron," Crash said, taking the tool. He energetically applied it to the side of the crate nearest the light source; as the side began to give way, Anders used the claw hammer to work the opposite corner loose. The effort was not silent.

Moments later, the side panel fell from the crate with a high-pitched screech of offended wood, clattering to the cement floor with considerable noise. Both men stopped and waited, prepared to take cover if necessary.

No one came.

After several tense minutes, an eager Anders peeped into the opening in the crate, pulling out packing material. "Ohmigosh."

"What?" Crash joined him.

"It's a capsule of some sort." Mike was about to burst with suppressed excitement.

"Looks like a port on top. C'mon, help me get the lid off," Crash urged.

The two men went to work with a will, heaving and straining, until the top of the crate loudly splintered and came free.

"It's too big. I can't see the top," Anders complained.

"Hang on a minute. Where was that step ladder…?" Crash turned to survey the room, then hurried to get the wheeled platform he'd discovered in their earlier search. "Here. Climb up." He positioned it and locked it down.

Anders, then Murphy, ascended the steps to the mesh steel platform, and peered into the crate with anticipation.

"Shit!" Anders exclaimed in chagrin. "Nothing."

"Well, no aliens, at any rate," Crash grinned his sympathy at his friend's disappointment, then sobered. "But I wouldn't exactly call a hyperbaric chamber ‘nothing.'" Crash pondered a moment, staring downward at the chamber as Anders clambered, no longer interested, down the ladder. "What the hell is an old hyperbaric chamber doing here, in the middle of the desert, anyway?"

"Old is right," Anders shrugged, "judging by the dents and scratches on the thing. Probably just junking it."

"No, I don't think so," Crash disagreed. "It's crated up too carefully…"

"Well, that's the last of the stuff in here. Maybe they moved our ETs to another room in the hangar."

"Maybe," Crash agreed.

"Let's go see."

"One problem."

"What?"

"Where's the door?"

Anders stopped dead, then turned in a slow circle, surveying the room. "There's the big plane doors," he murmured, then paused. "Aw, shit. No other way out."

"I doubt it," Crash decided. "Probably hidden. Let's start looking."

* * * *

Dr. Cayleigh Monteith dialed Dr. Mike Anders' cell phone number for the twelfth time that day, and waited, worried, while it rang and rang. Finally the voice mail activated.

"Hello, you've reached Mike Anders' cell phone. I can't answer right now; I'm probably either asleep or in the middle of the telescope farm. But leave your name, number and message at the tone, and I'll get back with ya."

The tone sounded, and Cayleigh started talking. "Mike, it's Cayleigh. Love, where are you?? I haven't heard from you in days. I'm getting worried, sweetheart. Please, please, give me a call. Is everything all right? I need to hear from you, darling. Are you having second thoughts? We can work things out, I swear. I love you, Mike. Please, just call and talk to me."

The end tone sounded, and a worried Dr. Monteith hung up.

* * * *

In the back of the Cheyenne Mountain, lying on the bedside table beside the computer, Dr. Michael Anders' cell phone rang, and rang, and rang.

No one was there to answer.

* * * *

The better part of the day had passed, and the time was drawing near to the first evening Janet flight, and still the two had not found a route into the facility proper.

"Dammit," Crash cursed under his breath, when another section of wall came up blank.

"We don't have long, Crash." Anders, nervous, glanced over his shoulder at the big hangar doors.

"Hell and damnation!" Crash exclaimed, spinning on Anders, patience expended. "Don't you think I know that, Mike? Be my guest, if you think you can do better!"

Anders stared at his frustrated friend, and Crash calmed himself. "Sorry, Mike," he murmured, a bit shamefaced. "Tension's gettin' to me, too. We gotta find a way in before those flights come back and find us." They both paused, deep in thought.

"There's got to be something obvious we're overlooking, buried in all this dust," Anders muttered. "This hangar's been used, so there's gotta be something…" His voice tapered off. He rubbed his temple. "Damn. Coffee was a long time ago. And no doughnuts, either."

Crash snapped his fingers. "That's it!"

"What?"

"Coffee!" Crash ran to the corner, where a large whisk broom, unused for ages, leaned against the wall. He caught it up, carrying it to the dusty tire marks where the C-130 had deposited them, and began cleaning the drifted desert sand from the floor. A cloud of beige dust ballooned up around his energetic efforts.

"What the hell…?" A bemused Anders watched Crash work.

"C'mere, Mike, quick! Help me look!" Crash began scanning the floor.

"For what?" Anders hurried over.

"Coffee stains!"

"Huh?"

"There!" A triumphant Crash pointed. There on the concrete could be seen the dark brownish marks that were all that remained of a long-dry coffee spill. He used the broom to clear off the surface around it. More stains appeared to the right of the first. A quick sweep of the broom revealed still more. The light dawned for Anders.

"I get it! The break room was over this way, somewhere!"

In short order they uncovered a trail of spilled coffee stains. The trail led to the back of the hangar, on the right-hand side, then ended abruptly at the wall.

"Door's here…" Crash murmured, "somewhere." They stared at the peg-boarded wall, covered with tools, as if it were the enchanted gateway to a magic treasure.

Suddenly Anders began pulling and yanking tools. "Hey, what the heck are you doin'?" Crash asked, surprised. A soft hiss startled them both, as Anders tugged on a rubber mallet.

A rectangular outline of cracks formed in the peg-board, and Anders pushed the door open with a creak. A gust of warm, stale air breathed in their faces. The sloping passage beyond glowed a dim red.

"Now tell me I read too many damn spy novels." Anders stared in triumph at Crash.

"Okay. You read too many damn spy novels." Crash grinned at his friend. "But so, apparently, do these guys. Let's go."

Cautious, they stepped into the yawning opening, pulling the door closed behind them.

* * * *

The two men moved down the corridor with as much stealth as they possessed. In Crash's case, this was considerable, as old military training kicked in. Anders was somewhat less successful. Nevertheless, the two remained unchallenged as they approached an open doorway on the right. Crash moved to the right wall of the hallway, motioning Anders to fall in behind him, and they eased up to the edge of the opening. Crash slipped a hand into one pocket, then eased forward and peered into the room. Sliding around the doorframe, he paused a moment, staring hard at the darkness, then motioned Anders into the room.

"Break room," he breathed in Anders' ear, as Anders took in the cabinets, sink, and two dusty, broken wooden chairs. They scanned the room for a few more minutes, then Crash added in a normal tone, "This place is deserted."

Chapter 16

"Dammit, Crash, keep your voice down!" Anders hissed, voice urgent. "Maybe this is all just a trap, stuff intended to throw us off guard."

"No," Crash insisted. "It's all been heavily used, but most of the stuff is outdated or broken. If they were trying to throw us off, it'd be recent. This crap is all at least twenty years old."

"So you're saying…"

"I'm not sure yet," Crash admitted, "but for sure there's nobody home, and doesn't appear to have been, for quite awhile. Guess I won't be needing this after all." He pulled a 9mm Ruger from the pocket of his coveralls, and engaged the safety before slipping it back into his pocket.

"Wha--? Where the hell did that come from?!" Anders exclaimed.

"When we got ready to tow John's ol' pickup, I cleaned it out," Crash explained, "and found this hidden under the seat, with a spare magazine and a box of cartridges. Figured it might come in handy." He patted a pocket of his coveralls.

"Damn. Should have thought about that," Anders mused, remembering the sound of a safety being removed when Phillips had showed up at the RV. "Used ta be pretty handy with the things myself."

"Zat so?" Crash queried. "I thought there were some strict gun laws Down Under." They crept across the dim room.

"Yeah, but only since 1996. Besides, country boy, me. Some places in the Outback, well, they don't worry too much about…" Anders jabbed a finger in the general direction of the pistol hidden in Crash's pocket.

"Oh."

"Hey, Crash, you don't happen to have a flashlight in one ‘a those pockets, do ya, mate…?"

"No joy. Sorry."

"Yeah. S'pose there's anything in the cabinets?"

Crash shrugged. "We can take a look."

Nothing came to light, however, except a few pieces of bent cutlery, a stack of ancient C-rations, and some old wooden swizzle sticks.

"Shit," Anders said. "Literally and figuratively." His stomach rumbled.

"Let's keep going," Crash said.

* * * *

"Damnation," Anders sighed, hours later. "Nothing but moldy old offices and busted furniture. Even the computers are Stone Age."

"And wiped clean," Crash pondered. "Appears like Dreamland has been sleeping for a looooong time."

"Yeah. But I haven't," Anders complained. "Listen, Crash. I know this is important, and all that. But we've been going for nineteen hours straight, since we left the RV. No food since then. And last night was a damned short night. I. Am. Wiped."

"Me, too," Crash admitted. "Pick an empty office, and we'll lock ourselves in for the night."

"I gotta pee first."

"Okay. Um…" Crash headed down the hall and found a restroom. "Here we go."

They both entered and relieved themselves, then exited in a hurry.

"Whew," Anders said. "With no running water, THAT was unpleasant."

"Yeah. You know when I said pick an empty office?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Pick one a looooong way from there."

"Got that one."

They marched a considerable distance from the bathroom, around several corners, then Anders selected a door at random. "Think we should keep watch?"

"Probably. I'll take first guard," Crash offered, as they entered a room. He locked the door as Anders curled up in a corner. Crash turned and saw his friend.

"Not on the floor, Mike. Get up on that old table." He gestured at the tiny wooden conference table in the middle of the small room.

"Why?"

"Rats and stuff. Haven't seen any signs, but you can't be too careful."

Before Crash could even finish speaking, Anders was on the table, heedless as he tossed a battered old knapsack to the side, onto the floor. He stretched out and settled in, as Crash picked up an old phone directory listing to balance a broken office chair. Crash had a sudden thought: He stepped under the emergency light and leafed through the directory. A soft snore came from Anders, and he glanced up momentarily, smiling with male affection, before returning his attention to the phone book.

Crash stopped, ran a questing finger down the listing, and stared at the name on the page. An image formed in his mind's eye, of a stocky, sandy-haired pilot, so left-handed his jacket sleeve was always worn threadbare, arrogant to a fault. "Lieutenant Colonel Roger J. Wilson, Jr.," he murmured, reading from the phone directory. "Pogo Wilson. It is him. Dammit." He ripped out the page and crammed it into a pocket, slammed the book closed, rammed it under the chair wheel, and sat.

Crash stared into the twilight for a long time, remembering.

* * * *

The Air Force flight headed over the DMZ, into Viet Cong airspace. Jet, Hotshot, Crash, and Pogo flew formation toward their target, a village taken over by the Viet Cong and used as a local base of operations. Their intent was to strafe the village and send enough missiles into the central compound to take out the operations.

"Damn," Hotshot grumbled, "this is a job for a B-52, not an F-4."

"You know the B-52's are occupied over near Hanoi, Hotshot," Jet sighed. "Like it or not, we're stuck with it. Command wants this installation down by sunset."

"We'll get ‘em." Pogo was confident.

"Coming up on coordinates," Crash murmured into the mike.

"Roger that, Crash," Jet answered. "From here on in, keep the chatter down, guys."

"Copy," Hotshot answered.

"There she is," Pogo noted, as the village came into view. "Starting approach run now. You girls can follow behind me."

Suddenly the incoming comm activated. "Flight Bravo, this is Triple Nickel Base."

"Base, this is Bravo-One," Jet responded.

"Bravo, abort mission. Repeat, abort mission. Intel indicates the Viet Cong evacuated Phan Lu five days ago. Village is civilian only. Repeat, village is civilian only. Decoy radio communication from Phan Lu has been maintained by a Vietnamese boy under duress. Abort mission. Confirm abort."

"Bravo-One abort mission; wilco," Jet replied immediately, and peeled off.

"Bravo-Two. Roger that, abort," Crash added, following his wing leader.

"Bravo-Four, aborting," Hotshot agreed, also banking.

They waited for Pogo to respond.

He didn't.

"Bravo-Three, respond," came the call from base. "Confirm abort."

The three pilots stared out their windscreens at each other, shocked. "Crash, you see him on your radar?" Jet asked.

"Yeah, I got ‘im," Eyeball, Crash's GIB, answered on comm after a few moments. "Shit! He's still on course for his strafing run! He hasn't aborted!"

"Pogo! This is Jet! Abort! Abort!" Jet called into the mike. "Bravo-Three, respond!"

"Oh, damn, he's started his strafing run," Eyeball groaned, horrified.

Crash peeled off, returning to Phan Lu. "Jet, maybe his comm went down. I'm gonna try to wave him off."

"On it right with ya, buddy. C'mon, Hotshot." Jet banked the aircraft hard.

"Right behind ya," Hotshot answered, turning to follow.

But by the time they'd returned to their previous coordinates, Bravo-Three's missiles had already leveled most of Phan Lu.

* * * *

The inquiry afterward had been… interesting, Crash decided, along the lines of the ancient Oriental curse: "May you live in interesting times and attract the attention of important and influential people." Pogo and Rawhide, his GIB, had both claimed that their comm had gone down, and it had turned out to be impossible to prove or disprove the claim. Pogo even seemed quite proud of the fact that he'd taken out an entire civilian village single-handed.

"Shit, you gotta be kidding," he'd answered, when Crash had challenged him on it in private after the inquiry. "Don't matter if they're civvie or not. They're the enemy, dammit."

In the end, the board of inquiry had had to rule it an accident, as it couldn't be proved that Pogo had deliberately disobeyed an order. He returned to flying soon thereafter, but the barracks gossip had been rife, and few of the Triple Nickel's pilots cared to fly with him.

* * * *

"How many floors, Crash?" Anders asked.

They had been searching the abandoned base for two full days, according to their watches, and Anders had long since lost his sense of direction.

"Mmm… five, I think," Crash pondered.

"And so far, nothing."

"So far. Except for the C-4-rations." Crash pulled a face and shifted the decrepit pack on his back that he had appropriated from their first night's campsite. Anders wore another; between them, they were now fairly well supplied for food and drink.

"Hey, it's food and water."

"If you can call it that. Hell, MREs would be better than this shit."

"Keeps us on our feet, mate," Anders pointed out. "After two and a half days, I am glad of it, too. I'm not quite as fit as you are. And between those two break rooms, we got a decent supply of it."

"Yeah. Damn, I swore I'd never eat another one after I left Nam. Uiccch." Crash scowled in disgust, making a retching sound.

"Okay, so it's not gourmet," Anders admitted, "but--"

"That's a hell of an understatement," Crash interrupted.

"But at least they're not spoiled, and they're calories."

Crash shrugged, then nodded. "I guess. Beggars can't be choosers. Nor infiltrators, either, I suppose."

"Down another floor?" Anders pushed open the stairwell door.

"Might as well," Crash decided. "There's nothing here. Except another set of those hellacious big doors, welded shut."

"Yup. We are way the hell below ground," Anders muttered to himself as they descended. "I feel like… like a, an echidna, or a… what're those things, prairie dogs, or something. I swear I'm starting to be able to see in the dark."

"Yup," Crash agreed, succinct.

"How are you managing to keep from getting us lost?" Anders wondered, mystified.

Crash shrugged again. "I dunno. I was just always good at that."

They reached the bottom of the stairwell. "That's interesting," Anders observed. "Looks like six, and no mo'?"

"Maybe," Crash hedged. "Or maybe there's other, deeper stairs, and we just haven't found ‘em yet."

"Could be, I suppose," Anders agreed easily enough. "I have no idea where the hell they'd be, given we've gone through every door available, but maybe so."

They fell silent as Anders gingerly opened the door and peeped out. "Shit," he muttered. "Same song, sixth verse."

The corridor was dim, red-lit, and deserted, just like all the others. "Dammit," Crash swore. "If we can't find anybody, we can't figure out what happened to the shuttle crew. Jet, where the hell are ya, pal?" He sighed. "Well, let's start looking. Again."

* * * *

Blake got out several cans of Tooheys, putting them within easy reach of the bed, and turning on the television before going to the thermostat and switching off the surveillance system in his quarters. Then he went into his kitchenette, getting three one-liter bottles of water.

He went to the maintenance panel, opened it, and disappeared into the tunnel with the water. He was gone some little time.

When he returned, the water was gone.

* * * *

"Hey, Crash, come over here," Anders called from somewhere in the red twilight, and his friend hurried down the hall toward his voice. "Look at this."

"This" was, by the look of it, an old staging room, complete with worn out conference table and chairs with torn upholstery. Along one wall sat a row of tall file cabinet safes, locks removed.

"Hm," Crash remarked, thoughtful as he surveyed the room.

"Any luck finding another set of stairs?" Anders asked.

"Not yet. Let's look through this." Crash moved to the cabinets and began pulling drawers. Anders followed suit. They started at opposite ends, working inward and downward.

"Empty."

"Same here."

"Ditto…"

"Nada."

"Crap."

Crash glanced up at Anders' comment; Anders shook his head. "No, I mean literally, mouse turds."

"Shit."

"Egg-zackly."

On the second file cabinet, Crash pulled out some old headsets. "Huh."

"What?"

"Same ones we used at the old MCC."

"Old MCC?"

"Yeah, the Mission Control that dated to Apollo days. These are the exact same kinds of headsets."

"Really? Interesting." Anders stared at him, considering the implications.

"Isn't it, though?" Crash agreed, and resumed rummaging.