Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (36 page)

"I… I can't," Jet answered, shocked. "Don't you know it?"

"No."

"How the hell did you get in here, then?" Jet wondered, amazed.

"Long story. You don't know the password?"

"No." They stared at each other. "Hell, try aurora again," Jet suggested.

Crash punched in the code. "No joy."

"UFONut07?"

"No joy."

"Uh… blackbird?"

"No. Roswell? No…"

"Damn, Crash, we're gonna lose it right here…"

"Hello, boys." The silken voice came from behind them. They spun.

It was Lisa Stephens. With a Beretta leveled at them.

"So you're in on this, too," Crash's voice dripped disgust, and Lisa winced. "That explains a lot. Like how the air to ground tape dub got modified."

Lisa's eyebrows rose. "You knew?"

"Yeah."

"Damn."

"So, Lisa, answer me this: Who really died in the shuttle?" Crash demanded, and Lisa flushed.

"Nobody."

"Hell, you take me for a fool? There were seven bodies recovered, supposed to be the crew," Crash snapped in fury. Jet stared at Crash, horrified, as he made this pronouncement.

"Really, Crash, no one was killed. We… we're in the middle of Death Valley, and… and sometimes accidents happen. Real accidents. So… so the base coroner… collected the…"

"Good God," Jet murmured, sickened. "You cut open the payload bay, dragged us through the airlock to kidnap us, then replaced us with dead bodies and sent ‘em into atmosphere?"

"Yes," Lisa answered, miserable. "But, Crash… we didn't kill anybody! I swear!"

"What about Mitch? And Gayle?"

"I…" Lisa had no answer. She looked up at him with agonized, tear-filled eyes. "Crash, I…"

"Shut up," Crash said, repulsed. "You've said enough. Hell, I thought you and I could've made a go of it, once. Was I ever wrong."

Lisa instinctively stepped toward him. "Crash… for what it's worth, I…"

Crash turned away, revolted. "I don't want to hear it."

"Why?" It was a plea.

"You've betrayed everything I ever believed in!" Crash exclaimed, spinning on her. "Freedom, the sanctity of life, the right to knowledge, loyalty--especially to friends--all that stuff that you probably think is disgustingly old fashioned and smarmy! All the things that I fought for, things my pals died for! Hell, you wouldn't help your own mother if she had a flat tire!" He turned his back on her again.

Lisa stared at him. "Is that what you meant…?" she broke off.

"What do you mean, ‘what I meant?'" Crash snapped, looking over his shoulder at her.

"Back before we broke up. You said… you said you just wanted me to back you, be there for you, instead of off running around the country…"

"Yeah, that's what I meant." His voice was heavy with loathing. Crash turned to Jet. "Sorry, old buddy. Looks like I let you down this time. Now we're both in dutch."

Lisa watched the two men for a long moment. Then she stepped forward, punched a code into the keypad, and stepped back. The hatch of the Aurora slid open. Jet did a double take, but didn't question; he immediately climbed into the craft. Crash turned to Lisa.

"Why?"

Tears filled the green eyes. "I do love you, Crash," she whispered. "I just never understood. And I… I didn't know about Mitch until after… the email I sent you… was the truth. I've never… NEVER…"

Crash stared at her, comprehending. "Come with us, then," he urged. "We can--"

"No. There's only room for two," she answered with a sad smile. "I'm… it wouldn't work, Crash. Not now. Too much has happened. I'm in too deep. They'll never let me go."

"It would've worked--then," he said, gathering her close. "It would've worked then."

"Yes," she whispered, just before his lips closed over hers.

"We'll get you out, Lisa," he vowed, ending the kiss gently. "I swear. We'll get you out, too."

Lisa gave Crash a tearful smile, starting to extricate herself from his embrace. "I know," she whispered, pushing away. "Hurry, Crash."

Crash was reluctant, anxious for her. "I swear, Lisa. Just hang on."

When he finally released her, she nudged him toward the hatch. "Go, before someone else catches you," she whispered. He nodded and smiled his gratitude, and she tried to return it through a blur of tears. "Goodbye, Crash."

Crash entered the hatch and cycled it closed.

Outside, on the catwalk, Lisa raised the pistol with a shaking hand.

As Crash climbed the ladder up toward the cockpit, he heard a gunshot. He froze, then closed his eyes, dread filling him.

"What was that?!" Jet called from the cockpit.

"Did you see anyone enter the hangar?" Crash demanded.

"No…"

"Oh, damn. No, no, no; not another," he breathed in horror, realizing what had happened.
Goodbye, Lisa,
he thought in anguish.

He put aside his grief for the moment and climbed into the cockpit. "Why aren't you in front?" he asked Jet.

"I haven't exactly been kept in the best shape," Jet admitted from the GIB seat, handing a helmet and oxygen mask up to Crash. "I think my left arm's cracked, if not broken. Pin's messed up to hell and back, at any rate. Figured you'd be in better shape, if it came to some fancy stuff."

"Roger that," Crash noted, grim-faced, and strapped himself in. He handed the leather attaché over the seat back, exchanging it for the helmet. "Stow this back there."

"What the hell is it?" Jet asked, complying.

"Evidence. It goes where we go. Make sure of it."

"Roger that."

Moments later, the two veterans had completed checkout, Lisa's manual override had opened the launch shutters, and the Aurora craft shot up the ramp and out of the Death Valley base.

Chapter 22

"What the hell is going on?!" the Officer of the Day demanded in the main control center. The room was a frenzy of activity, scientists and military personnel mingling as they attempted to gain control of the situation.

"I have it, sir!" a captain called. "I show one body in the Auxiliary Control room, at the sim sup console!"

"Authorized?"

"No, sir!" The soldier brought up a video image.

"Damn," said the officer. "Isn't that--"

"The nerd from the radio telescopes," answered the man beside him. The man wore a flight jacket with a Triple Nickel patch; the left sleeve was worn threadbare. "Doc Anders. Means Crash Murphy may be around someplace. Keep an eye on your prisoners."

The officer turned to him. "Pogo, go get that son of a--"

"Sir! Colonel Wilson is right! Prisoner missing!" another soldier called.

"Hold, Pogo. Dammit, which one?!" the officer demanded.

"The shuttle commander!"

"SIR!" another called. "We have Aurora launch!"

"WHAT??" the officer shouted in fury, as Dr. Stephen Blake, late of the Anglo-Australian Observatory, ran up. He stared in horror at the image on the video screen.
Oh, dear God, help. Mike! What the hell are you doing HERE?!

Wilson nodded to himself. "Crash," he murmured. "I knew it. He came for Jet."

"Number Seven Bird is launching from Hangar Tube Foxtrot! Due to the alert, manual override has engaged the scramble mode! I can't shut it down!"

Blake stared around him, assessing the situation and thinking fast. "Sir," he volunteered, "permission to extract Anders from Aux Control."

The commanding officer glanced sharply at Blake, inquiring.

"You'll need Wilson to go get the rogue Aurora," Blake explained. "I know Anders. Know what he'll do."

The officer nodded ominously. "Pogo," he ordered then, "go get that bird back. Dr. Blake, you're right, he's your compatriot. Go get our little ‘sim sup' out of Aux Control." He tapped the belt holster of the nearest console officer, then held out his hand. When the officer handed over his weapon, the OD turned to Blake. "Here. You'll need this." He deposited the semi-automatic pistol in Blake's hands. "Know how to use it?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely," Blake replied grimly.

The two men glanced at each other, then at their commander. "Status of occupants, sir?" Pogo Wilson asked with a wolf-like grin.

"Whatever it takes, Colonel. Whatever it takes."

* * * *

Anders was managing to lead the base's inhabitants a merry chase with the abilities of the simulation console. Fortunately it had apparently been based upon NASA flight control consoles, and having worked several Shuttle missions as either a principal investigator or mission scientist, he was very familiar with their workings. Once he'd hacked into the system, the graphical user interface made operations control a breeze.
Everything I could want, laid out menu by menu,
he thought with glee.
Let's see how big a headache I can give ‘em.
Monitoring the responses, he added just enough complications to the incoming missile scenario to give his friends time to get out. When he saw the report of the Aurora launch, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Go, guys," he whispered. "Godspeed. And God help you. God help us all."

Then he heard the whir of the video camera from overhead. He glanced back, straight into its lens.

"Damn," he whispered.

Anders turned back to the console, ignoring the camera for the moment, and searched the video monitors. "I am in deep shit," he murmured, as he saw the heavily armed soldiers, led by Blake, headed for Aux Control.

"Steve?!" Anders exclaimed in recognition, staring at the monitor, shocked to the core. "Dear God, help. I thought we were mates…" The light dawned. "So that's how these lowlifes knew. You answered the phone, when the govvies called. Ya bloody bastard."

He worked faster than he ever had in his life. First he sequentially locked down the doors to the wing, forcing them to either use manual override or cut through each doorway en route to Aux Control. Then he activated the automated defense perimeter around the room.

At last, he picked up the Ruger, popped off the safety, drew a bead on the camera, and fired. The surveillance camera shattered. Anders sighed.

"That's one less thing to worry about," he muttered.

Then he turned to face the locked door.

* * * *

"Waaa-hoo!" Jet called as the Aurora cleared the launch tube. "We are so outta there!"

"Roger that, Jet," Crash said through the headset. "You okay, buddy?"

"Affirm. Just glad to get the hell outta Dodge. Where are we headed?"

"Uh, real good question. Where can this baby land?"

"Oh, anywhere," Jet answered readily. "They set us down in the desert on a dime. She's got vertical landing."

"Oh. Then we go where we'll get the most attention. D.C. sound okay?" Crash asked.

"Hum. Dunno. Might be good, or maybe put us in deep shit, depending on if the press--or these guys--get there first. Who knows who's on which side in D.C.?"

"Good point. East Coast anyway, though, I think."

"Sounds good. Let's go exo, then. Aim ‘er straight up, and hit the mains--control to your left."

"Got ‘em. Hold on."

"I oughta be tellin' you that," Jet grinned. "You're the one who's never been--"

"Ughn," Crash grunted as the thrust kicked in, his sight progressing toward a colorless kind of tunnel vision. "Uhf."

"Hang on… Crash," Jet spoke in measured breaths as he resisted the g-forces. "I know… we don't have… pressure suits. Just remember… your old training. Breathe. Tighten your abs, squeeze your butt. Don't grey out on me, pal."

Crash's helmeted head nodded to his GIB. "Wilco." He tensed muscles against the pressure. "Been awhile."

"Better?"

"Affirm."

"Good. Like I said, for the most part, this bird is like an F-4," Jet explained. "They seem to have had a preponderance of old Phantom pilots involved in the design. Anyway, the main prop controls are the only difference."

"What's the… main prop?" Crash enquired.

"It's pretty cool," Jet enthused. "I figured out some of it from watching maintenance. There's a special ceramic torus at the center of gravity of the ship, and it generates some kind of… reverse magnetic, or maybe anti-gravity, field, I'm not sure which, in exact opposition to the Earth's field. Exo, the anti-field is vectored relative to the ambient field, and that provides your direction. No need for vernier thrusters."

Crash nodded, impressed. "Not bad. How'd they… develop it?"

Jet frowned. "That, old pal, is a really good question. I don't know. Nobody ever mentioned a creator for the technology. Not by name, anyway. I figured maybe, after we get back home, you and I can scout ‘im out, though; I got his--or her--initials."

"Oh, really? What are they?"

"R. N. M.," Jet answered.

"Huh?" Crash mused, puzzled. "Rosw--?"

He was distracted by the view as the blue of the sky faded to black, and stars emerged into sight. "Oh," he said blankly.

"Welcome to space, old buddy," Jet smiled. "You made it after all."

Crash smiled too, allowing himself a few moments to look around and "sightsee," soaking in every experience, including the twinge in his stomach as he floated up against his seat harness. Dark eyes sparkled with delight as the reality hit him: He was here, in space. Piloting an advanced spacecraft.

His delight was short-lived. "Crash," Jet interrupted his musings, "I have rattlesnake…"

* * * *

Blake's storm troopers were at the door of Auxiliary Control, intense, adrenaline pumped, and at the ready. Anders watched the external video monitor as they systematically took out the known auto defenses, then brought a cutting torch to bear on the steel door. Behind the welder, troops stood, weapons at the ready. Blake was cursing as he moved to one side of the corridor, locating a special keypad.

"…You no good son of a bitch. You're road kill. You got that, Anders? You're coyote food. You won't even get a chance to explain. You're goin' down, y' bastard." He keyed in a code sequence on the pad.

Suddenly Blake looked straight into the camera lens. The rage on his face disappeared. He mouthed a single phrase:
Go down.

Anders, inside Aux Control, stared at Blake's image on his monitor, puzzled. "Go down?" he wondered aloud. "He wants me to give up? Hell, no!"

Then Blake resumed ordering the squad.

As the torch cut through the door, Anders took his premeditated position in an alcove between consoles, off to one side of the door, sitting as far back--and down--into the corner as he could, his back pressed tight against the bulkhead. He pulled his knees to his chest, raised the Ruger, and rested his wrists on his knees, steadying the pistol. One hand loosened his tie, reached inside his shirt and pulled out the little spaceman fetish, clutching it for a brief moment as he said a quick prayer, not to it, but to the One who had, presumably, created its archetype. Then he aimed at the door, and waited.

* * * *

At the moment that Blake entered his keypad command, the video link from the corridor outside Auxiliary Control flickered and went down in the main control room. The Officer of the Day grinned wolfishly. "Captain!"

"Yes sir?"

"Is Security getting the corridor feed on this?"

The captain turned to his console, punched a button, and murmured into his headset, before turning back to the OD. "No, sir. Corridor feed has gone down. Shall I work to bring it back?"

"Negative," the OD replied, satisfied. "Just means that Stargazer has his own ways of handling things, and doesn't want… a record," he grinned. "As long as he gets the job done, I don't give a shit. We'll oblige him and look the other way, this once."

* * * *

Blake studied his men as they worked furiously to enter Auxiliary Control. His attention was drawn to one of them. Tall, dark blond, lean, the soldier, oddly enough, resembled their quarry in many respects. His ID read
Lieutenant Gibson.

Blake glanced at the other troops, whose faces held varying degrees of anger, adrenaline, and determination.

Blake's brain began to churn as he pulled his pistol from his pocket and popped the safety.

* * * *

"…What's after us, Jet?" Crash asked, scanning his instruments.

"Looks like another Aurora," Jet remarked. "Bogey approaching from below at six o' clock."

"Copy. I see him." Crash double-checked the console. "Lessee…"

"Display screen on your upper right," Jet anticipated him. "It'll show us if he launches anything."

"So these things do pack."

"Ooooh, yeah."

"Shit."

A voice from the past infiltrated their headsets. "Aurora Seven, this is Phantom-One. I am giving you one opportunity for RTLS. Repeat, you have one opportunity to return to launch site."

The two men were silent a moment. Then Crash keyed the external mike. "Pogo, you always were the biggest jerk in the Triple Nickel."

"Best damn pilot, too," Wilson fired back. "Present company included."

"Funny how the brass never quite agreed with you on that point," Jet remarked, and was rewarded with a momentary silence.

"You two suck-ups always made sure of that," was the sarcastic reply.

"Actually," Crash murmured into the inside comm, "the brass were pretty much convinced the three of us were a dead heat. Four, if you count Knife-edge."

"I know," Jet answered, begrudging, "but you have no idea how grating his arrogant brand of bullshit can get, when you're stuck in a tin can for days, listening to him. Damn, even his new call sign is as cocky as he is."

Wilson's voice interrupted again. "I repeat: You have ten seconds to signify you are preparing an RTLS."

Jet scanned his readouts. "He's closing fast, but he's still too far away to pull anything just yet. If we kick it into gear, do a suborbital hop, maybe--"

"Aurora Seven, do you--"

"Go to hell," Crash growled into the external comm, suddenly nosing the craft over and taking it toward atmosphere.

A laugh came from the headsets. "Thanks, there, Crash. You'll do my job for me, that way."

"That's what you think," Crash muttered, punching retro and slowing the craft down. It plummeted toward re-entry as Phantom-One overshot.

"All right," Crash twisted toward Jet and asked, "how does this baby handle at atmospheric interface?"

Jet nodded. "‘Bout like the Orbiter, but smoother. You can use the prop to compensate better. Here." He keyed in a couple of commands with his right hand. "There. That will automatically correct for atmosphere." He looked up at his friend and grinned. "Bet you just love my photographic memory."

"Roger that, pal." Crash turned back to his console. "It came in useful more ‘n once in Nam, as I recall. Here's hoping the heat shielding is as advanced as the engine."