With MILA down, the satellites that tracked Atlantis had no way to relay information about the shuttle’s position. The only way to locate it was to sweep the sky with ground-based dishes and hope to pinpoint it, after which they could track it. The problem was that a ground-based dish could only cover a small segment of the sky. So NASA had asked the operators of every available dish on the planet, from Spain to India, to scan the heavens and search for Atlantis. They were even restarting retired dishes, like the one in Central Australia, to widen the net.
‘It’s important we have eyes and ears down there. Technicians from the Deep Space Network in Canberra will meet you on site.’
‘What about Scully-Powers? He’s Australian. Can’t he do it?’
‘He’ll be here. I’m putting together a working group to plot our next move.’
‘What about the police? I’m pretty sure they’ll want to interview me —’
‘This takes precedence. They can talk to you when you return. I’ll take care of it.’ Thompkins pulls his face into a shape that resembles a smile and stands.
They both know what just happened. The ‘night of the quarters’ has come back to bite Judd on the arse and this is his punishment, sent to the far end of the earth to do a menial task.
Thompkins moves to the door. ‘You’ll be contacted at the bottom of the hour with your itinerary. Call in once you arrive at the dish.’ Judd nods and then Thompkins is gone.
**
High above the Pacific Judd sits in economy class of a Qantas 747-400. Between the hospital and the airport he’d managed a quick trip home to pick up his passport, pack a carry-on bag and offload The Ghost and The Darkness, his elderly neighbour Kathleen reluctantly taking the cats after he woke her from what appeared to be a deep sleep.
Now he involuntarily replays the night’s events. He realises how Rick Calvin’s warning on the crew access arm had, without doubt, saved his life. Judd had never been very pleasant to Rick and he can’t help but regret that now. He pushes the thought away, swipes open his iPhone and reads his itinerary, tries to fill his mind with details of the job ahead.
After landing in Sydney he flies directly to Alice Springs in the centre of Australia, where he’ll be met at the airport and choppered to the Kinabara dish. Once on site he’ll liaise with technicians from the Deep Space Network dishes in Canberra as they restart the installation.
Liaise. Christ. At least he’ll be doing something. Better than sitting around in Houston waiting for the other shoe to drop. If this trip Down Under, somehow, even in the smallest way, helps recover Atlantis, then it’s worthwhile.
He looks out the window to his left, takes in the darkness that envelops the aircraft. He’s never been a religious man, hasn’t been to church since he was boy, but tonight he silently prays Rhonda is okay.
**
15
Edgar drives the trowel into the ground, twists it hard, grabs the weed, wrenches it from its dirt home and catches his forearm on the rose’s thorns. ‘Damn bush!’
The five-man secret service security detail, positioned strategically around the sprawling garden, spring into action and sweep towards him.
Edgar sees them coming. ‘Stand down, for Chrissake! I’m just weeding.’
The security detail stop, mutter into their wrist microphones then return to their positions.
He watches them retreat. ‘Christ almighty, I’ve shot ducks with more brains than you people.’ He studies the jagged line of thorn pricks across his forearm then turns back to the flowerbed and wonders how in hell he ended up here, doing this. He used to be the most powerful man on the planet. The. Most. Powerful. Bar none. For eight glorious years. Now look at him, surrounded by these fools, weeding.
His wife won’t let him out of the compound. She instructed the fools that if he slips the leash again they’ll be walking point at Gitmo within the week. So they make sure he’s always within view, even if he’s on the john. She doesn’t want a repeat of last week’s ‘incident’ with the Ukrainian maid, who had to be paid off with a sizeable chunk of hush money.
His wife has restricted Edgar to home duties until she decides to forgive him. Hence the weeding. The best way to get back into her good graces, and win his freedom, is to garden. A lot. He really wants to make that conference in Jakarta later this week. Of course the fools will be there, they are always around, but at least he’ll be out of this prison.
He knows the fools don’t like him. They pretend to, but they don’t. Not really. Of course if he’s honest with himself, who does? That’s the downside of lying, he realises. It doesn’t matter that there’s a venerable tradition in American politics of lying to the people - eventually the lie is uncovered and everyone hates you for it. It pisses him off. Who cares if he told a couple of little white lies? It was for the country’s own good!
He thrusts the trowel into the dirt again, more venom on it this time, twists out another weed, makes sure not to snag his arm on that damn bush.
What Edgar knows but is unwilling to admit, even to himself, is that there were more than a couple of little white lies, many more, and one of them was not little. Or white. Far from it. No, it was big. And dark. Perhaps the biggest, darkest lie ever told.
**
16
The day-glo-yellow Loach screams into a high bank. Tail up, almost vertical, the little chopper hangs in the dawn sky for what seems like an eternity, tempting the laws of physics, then plunges into a steep dive. It pulls up a metre off the desert and blasts rust-red dust from the parched surface as it chases a galloping steer.
Chewing gum and grinning a crooked grin, Corey works the controls and tips his beaten-up, doorless chopper into a series of tight turns.
The Loach shushes through a twisty rock formation, close enough to strike a match, right behind the steer. Spike expertly balances on the seat, shifts his weight and props himself against the side of the cabin with a paw when necessary, his claws the reason for the seat’s scarred leather upholstery.
The steer clears the rock formation and sprints towards the open desert.
‘You’re just gonna die out there, little fella.’ The turbine whines as Corey yanks the Loach into a sharp climb, then drops it in front of the animal, a metre off the deck. The steer stops dead.
It’s a stand-off.
The steer breaks left. Corey works the controls, blocks it. ‘Tape.’ Spike rummages in the pile of rubbish within the passenger’s foot well and finds a grubby cassette tape with ‘BM’ scratched on the case. He bites down on it then slots it into the tape deck under the instrument panel. The tape deck autoplays and from the speaker attached to the fuselage blares: ‘Copa - Copacabana —’
Startled, the steer instantly pivots and gallops back from where it came. Corey grins. ‘Nothing gets past Barry Manilow.’ He works the controls and the Loach climbs, follows the steer as it navigates the rock formation then slots through a break in the fence and trots back to a large herd of cattle. Corey kills the song and unhappily studies the broken fence. ‘Gonna have to fix that today.’
He swings the Loach around and notices a glint on the horizon. The dawn sun blinks off something distant, deep in the arid, uninhabited no-man’s-land of the Northern Territory.
Spike barks.
‘I’m not blind, mate, I can see it.’ Corey sets the Loach in a hover, slides his Randolphs to the top of his head, pulls a tarnished telescope from the leather pouch attached to the side of his seat which also houses his field knife, then pushes the telescope to his eye and focuses. The glint is closer but no clearer.
‘Whatever it is, it’s miles out. Should we go have a look-see?’
Spike growls.
The dog’s right. Corey knows they don’t have time for it, there’s too much to do today. Incredibly, after the mortifying scene at Les Whittle’s the other day, Les felt bad and hired him for a job. It was a one-off that wasn’t booked through the usual tourist operators so Les could of
fer it without concern.
Corey decides to forget about the glint on the horizon. He replaces the telescope in the pouch, slides his sunnies back on, works the controls and guides the Loach towards a collection of large hay bales. There’s a dozen and they need to be distributed across Clem Alpine’s sprawling cattle station. The drought has bitten hard over the last six months and the hay kept the cattle fed. Some of the rocky terrain was impassable for wheeled vehicles so Corey moved the feed with the Loach.
He glances at the horizon again. The glint is still there.
A bark.
Corey drags his eyes from the glint. ‘Yep, I’m on it.’
A five-centimetre-wide hole has been cut into the floor between the Loach’s two front seats. Above the hole is mounted a large electric winch with a fat, sky-blue Dynamica rope wrapped around it. At the end of the rope is a carabiner attached to a big hook. Corey flicks a switch on the winch and the hook drops towards a hay bale, wrapped in wire cord with a large loop at the top.
Corey’s eyes move to the glint on the horizon. It twinkles and glistens. Curiosity gets the better of the pilot. He works the winch and retracts the hook.
Spike growls.
‘But they might need our help.’ Corey knows that Spike knows this is nothing but a lame excuse. Of course if someone needs help they’ll assist in any way they can, but the real reason Corey wants to fly out to no-man’s-land is that when he sees something shiny in the distance he always thinks it’s treasure.
It’s been that way for as long as he can remember. He was the kid who would traverse 50 metres of thorny thicket to discover if what glittered was gold. It never was, of course. It was a discarded piece of tin or a shard of glass reflecting the sun. Never the diamond he hoped for, never the gold. Even so, he can’t help but think there will come a day when it is a diamond or it is gold or something equally valuable. This glinting object might be an abandoned car he can salvage. He’s always wanted a ‘67 Mustang. Or something that fell off an aircraft that he can sell, like an engine of something. Or maybe it’s a UFO. He always thought he’d make an excellent ambassador for planet Earth.
His head swimming with the possibilities, Corey swings the Loach around, throttles up and sets sail for that glint on the horizon.
**
17
Seven marines dressed for combat stride across the airfield at the naval air station in Pensacola, Florida. Bringing up the rear is Severson Burke. He tugs at his collar, tight against his neck, and grimly studies the Greyhound. It’s not a member of the canine family but a stubby, twin-engined aircraft built by Northrop Grumman. Its turboprops splutter to life.
Severson’s not happy and it’s that 24 carat prick Thompkins’ fault. He’d always considered Severson a rival so his first order of business as head of the Atlantis recovery mission was to dispatch him far from Houston, to be his ‘eyes in the Pacific’ as a ‘liaison’ officer attached to a marine unit. Severson would be miles from the action and any chance of contributing to Atlantis’s recovery, or at least being seen to contribute, before the investigation into the hijacking began. The only job that was worse was the one Judd had been given in Central Australia.
The marines stride up the Greyhound’s cargo ramp and enter the aircraft. Severson stops at the entrance. His collar feels even tighter than before. A prickly sweat breaks out across the back of his neck.
‘Major Burke?’
Severson turns to the approaching marine. Late twenties, blond, stolid features and a foghorn voice that somehow mashes the inflection of southern gentry with the urban rhythms of Fiddy Cent.
‘Sorry I’m late, sir; needed to collect our orders. I’m Captain Mike Disser and I couldn’t be happier that you’re joining us.’
Jesus Christ, this kid’s voice is loud. Severson nods dully. ‘Yes, yes, good.’
‘It’s an honour to work with the first marine pilot to fly the space shuttle, sir. You’re a legend in the corps.’
‘I am?’
‘I would not lie to you, sir.’
Severson’s sure of it. Disser turns to his seated squad and honks over the roar of the Greyhound’s turboprops. ‘Hey, we got ourselves a bonafide, genuine marine astronaut hero in the house. Give it up for Severson Burke! This man’s been to space, ladies.’
The marines erupt in hoots and hollers, their faces abeam with old-school pride. Suddenly Severson feels better. He holds up his hands like a victorious politician half-heartedly tamping down an enthusiastic crowd. ‘Please, please, you’re too kind. Really.’
The hoots and hollers morph into applause. Severson just loves applause, it’s his favourite sound in the world. It rolls on, momentarily drowning out the Greyhound’s engines. ‘Oh, come on, that’s not necessary.’ He laps it up but knows they wouldn’t be clapping if they knew the truth.
The applause slowly dies away. Disser takes a seat at the rear of the cabin but Severson doesn’t move from the entrance. Everyone stares at him. Disser points at the empty spot beside him. ‘Sir, it’d be an honour it you’d park it here.’
Severson nods, takes a breath, nods again, takes another breath then steps into the Greyhound and stiffly makes his way to the seat beside Disser. He sits down, watches the Greyhound’s rear hatch whine shut then whispers a private affirmation to himself: ‘I can do this.’
The aircraft judders, begins to taxi. Disser honks: ‘Buckle up, sir.’ Severson fits the straps over his shoulders, fastens the harness across his midsection, breathes as elegantly as he can and whispers to himself again: ‘I can do this.’
The Greyhound’s turboprops run up and the aircraft jolts forward. Severson’s collar feels even tighter than before, the hot prickly sweat returns to the back of his neck and, as an added bonus, his stomach turns over. He closes his eyes, grasps the side of his seat and squeezes. It’s soft and comforting and much too soft —
He looks down. He’s squeezing Disser’s thigh. He looks up, takes in the marine’s mortified expression, and instantly removes his hand.
The Greyhound thunders down the runway and lifts into the sky.
**
18
The glint just up and disappeared on Corey. One second it was there the next it was gone. He scans the horizon as the Loach skims across the empty red desert, 30 metres off the ground. ‘See anything?’
Spike stares out the open doorway, silent. Corey can’t blame him for being annoyed. They have a tonne of work to do and they’re wasting the morning on this wild goose chase. He decides to take it as far as the Curve then head back.
Just ahead is the large, jagged red-rock formation nicknamed ‘Dead Men’s Curve’. It is, unsurprisingly, curved, the ‘Dead Men’ portion of its name courtesy of a couple of nineteenth-century explorers who brought along a large wooden dining table and six chairs but forgot to pack enough water. Corey eases the Loach over the Curve then pulls it into a steep turn to head back.
He sees the glint. It’s not gold. Or diamonds. On the other side of the Curve hovers a black chopper, sunlight reflecting off its windscreen. It’s not just any old chopper either, it’s a serious piece of military tech. A warbird.
‘What the hell is that?’
Spike sees it and barks.
‘I think you’re right.’ Corey angles the Loach behind the Curve. Out of sight, they fly back the way they came.
Corey glances at the side-view mirror bolted to the Loach’s door frame. There’s no sign of the black chopper. ‘We’re good. They didn’t see us —’
Sunlight glints off the stealthy angles of the black chopper’s fuselage as it gracefully descends in front of the Loach, 200 metres away.
‘Damn.’
It’s another stand-off, though Corey preferred the one with the steer.
Spike stretches a paw towards the tape deck.
‘Don’t think Barry can help us with this one, mate.’
Corey flicks the comms switch, tries to sound as cheerful as possible as
he speaks into his headset’s microphone: ‘G’day! How you going? Hope everything’s okay, saw you out here, thought you might be lost —’
The black chopper’s cannons blaze. Bullets scorch towards the Loach.
‘— but it seems you’re fine.’ Corey yanks the Loach into a steep turn and the bullets slide past. ‘Hold on!’
The black chopper follows with another burst of fire from its cannons. Bullets thump into the Loach’s fuselage.
‘Buckle up!’ Spike immediately wriggles into the passenger seat’s harness.
Velocity Page 13