Lisa's voice was cold and calm. "I heard it, and I don't believe a word of it."
"Well, start believing it."
"Why should I?"
"I'm tired, Lisa. I'm burned out. I like the work. It's the damn politics I hate."
"Perils of working for a government agency. Deal." Lisa's face held no more sympathy for Crash than her voice.
"I have been. I'm sick of it. And I'm not up for more in D.C." Crash took her gently by the arms. "Lisa, am I asking for so much? I just want you here with me, backing me, to be here for me, instead of off, running around the country, around the world." He paused, pleading. "Please, Lisa. Let's just stay here."
Lisa turned her determined gaze on him. "I'm going, Crash. My mind's made up." She turned sultry, sliding her hands sensually up his bare arms. "You'll see. It'll be just fine. I'll--"
"NO, Lisa." Crash was stern. "We're staying in Texas."
Cold fury shook Lisa's frame at that. "‘We' are not staying in Texas, Crash. My career will be made in Washington." She stared at him calmly, supremely confident. "If you want me, you'll just have to come along."
Crash gazed at the raven-haired beauty for a long moment, suddenly seeing past her beauty and warm seduction to the cold ambition beneath. At that realization, he rose from the bed, silently and somewhat haphazardly throwing on his shirt and tightening the belt on his trousers before heading for the door.
Lisa stared at him, shocked. "Crash, what--?"
Crash turned at the door. Deliberately, he forced his expression to mimic her earlier cold, unsympathetic gaze. Profound pain filled his being, and he momentarily wondered if it showed in his dark eyes, despite himself. "Have a nice career, Lisa. See you around."
He exited, eased the door closed behind him, and didn't look back.
* * * *
Crash's eyebrows climbed upward in surprise and mild dismay. "Oh, boy. That's gonna make things interesting…"
"Uh-huh. Thought you might wanna know up front," Mitch replied in a comradely fashion. "Didn't want you blindsided. You an' she were an item a few years back, weren't you?"
"That's one way of putting it."
"Is this gonna be a problem?"
"Not from my point of view," Crash noted, unruffled. "She may have different ideas."
"Relationship go south?"
"Wasn't the relationship as much as the careers," Crash recalled. "That's about the time I started wanting out of the space program, and about the time she started making a name for herself at Headquarters. We just sort of… went in different directions. Wanted different things out of life. Had some hellacious fights before we went our separate ways. Don't know that she ever really forgave me for not being as ambitious as she was."
"Looks like you're about to find out real quick, ‘cause here she comes," Mitch remarked in a low, cautionary tone, as the object of their conversation looked up, spotted them, and began walking over. As she approached, she scanned the two men, then spoke in a dry as desert tone.
"Well, well, well. Look who's here. I'm surprised to see you here, Crash. Figured you to be baking in the hot sun out on the back forty somewhere in Texas."
Mitch and Crash exchanged eloquent glances. Yup… different ideas. "Given my druthers, Lisa, I would be," Crash pointed out, subdued. "Beats the hell out of investigating my best friend's death."
Green eyes blinked at him, disconcerted for a moment, then resumed that steady, emerald gaze that had so attracted him on their first meeting…
* * * *
Crash stepped back to avoid the instrumentation cart being wheeled through the laboratory, only to feel his left hip bump solidly into something warm as he did. Before he could react, the low, soft voice drifted over his shoulder from behind, an amused lilt in it.
"Well, hi there, cowboy."
Crash turned, to find himself staring into the depths of jade green eyes, mesmerized. After a brief moment, he mentally shook himself out of their spell. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," he replied in apology. "I didn't see you standing there."
"That much was obvious. You do now, I hope," the green eyes murmured.
"Of course. Forgive me."
"Oh, I'd never hold a grudge against a handsome cowboy." The woman proffered her hand. "Lisa Stephens…"
* * * *
Lisa looked away for a second, then glanced meaningfully at Mitchell, who took the hint and faded away, moving over to supervise the wing reassembly.
"Sorry, Crash. I… forgot about Jet," Lisa admitted. "Stands to reason they'd call you back in, under the circumstances. It's hard enough on you without my making it worse. Besides," she added, with an intrigued glance at the tall, rugged investigator with the light tan, "life on the ‘back forty' seems to… agree with you."
"Forget it. We've got a job to do here, and I'd as soon get it over and done with," Murphy responded brusquely, determined not to let the green eyes cast their old spell on him. "What's your take on it?"
Strolling with him back toward the partially rebuilt tail, Lisa told him. "We don't really have enough yet to make a call, Crash, but so far there's no evidence of mechanical failure."
"Sabotage?!"
"No, no. Everything is… damn, Crash, I hate to say this… Everything's consistent with… operator error."
Murphy stopped dead in his tracks. "You're saying…"
"Yes."
"No. Not Jet."
"It might not have been Jackson in the pilot's seat, Crash. You know the commander's prerogative. He could've bumped it to the pilot."
"Yeah. But you know who the media will blame, Lisa. And Jet was too good, too experienced, to screw up like that." Crash shook his head in disbelief. "Or to let somebody under his command do it."
"I'm sorry, Crash," she shrugged. "But I have to call ‘em like I see ‘em. I understand how you feel."
"Do you? Did you--ever?"
Crash turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there, jaw slack.
* * * *
By the end of the day, about fifty percent of the spacecraft's tattered, scorched bulk lay in Building 4619. Unfortunately, that fifty percent still did not include the flight ops recorder. Nor did it include indications of a mechanical or computer failure, to Crash's grim dismay. He got in the rental car and zipped down Rideout Road, back through Gate 9, and hit the interstate spur to his hotel near the space museum. Once he'd checked in and settled into his comfortable, well-appointed room, he picked up the room phone and dialed a number with a Houston area code.
"Hello--Carter residence."
"Hi, Elaine. Crash. Is Ham home yet?"
"Yes, Crash, he just walked in. Hold on a minute." There was a pause.
"Hamilton Carter…"
"It's Crash, Ham."
"What's up, Crash?"
"Not much, I hate to admit. No sign of anything, so far. Ham, they're trying to put the blame on Jet."
"…I know, Crash."
"You an' I both know that's a load o' bullshit."
"Crash, if there's no sign of structural failure or equipment malfunction… well. Mistakes happen, Crash. Jet is--Jet was--only human."
Crash was silent for a long moment, thunderstruck and utterly numb, as he listened to Carter. I'm not hearing this, he thought in disbelief. Please, God, tell me I'm not really hearing this. After a moment to gather his thoughts, he said in a shocked tone, "Ham… you know better."
"I'm sorry, Crash, but… no, I don't."
Crash shook his head in shocked disappointment, then changed the subject. "Ham, I heard they've started finding the bod--finding the crew."
"Yeah."
"Who?" Crash pressed.
"Not sure yet. The… bodies… are pretty badly burned. Gonna have to use forensics to ID ‘em. I'll have the flight surgeon call ya as soon as we know more, okay?" Ham promised.
"Okay. Anything else on that end?"
"Negative." Crash heard Ham sigh.
"All right. I'm gonna grab a bite, read some more log books, an' get
some sleep. I'll let you know if anything turns up."
"Copy that. ‘Bye, Crash."
"Bye…"
Crash hung up and stared at the phone from his prone position on the king size bed. At last he grabbed the remote control from the nightstand and turned on the TV. CNN was reporting on the accident.
"…And initial indications point toward pilot error, according to an inside source. NASA sources say that debris is being recovered at a rapid pace, and request all coastal residents of the Gulf to be on the lookout for possible wreckage washing ashore. In the event you find such important evidence, please contact… "
Crash mentally tuned out the rest of the broadcast. Shit, he thought, staring at the ceiling, that was one hell of a major leak. We don't even have quite half the orbiter recovered yet. Dammit, the bureaucrats are gonna try to pin it on Jet, I can see it already. Doesn't look like a malfunction, I'll admit--so far. He clicked off the television in disgust, tossing the remote aside. But I know Jet. No way he did something as stupid as this would have to be. It's almost as extreme as if the flight crew had a suicide pact. But that would've shown up in the psych profiles… wouldn't it? He ran a tired hand over his face, considering. Three pilot-certified astronauts on board--Jet, the pilot, and the MS-2--and nobody in the lot could figure out how to bleed off enough velocity?! How to correct the descent angle? I don't think so. There's gotta be something I'm missing…
Crash picked up the phone again and dialed room service, ordered a club sandwich and coffee, then pulled out the stack of log books and prepared for a late night read.
* * * *
The next morning, bright and early, they were all back at the high bay. More chunks of debris had come in overnight, and the night shift had been busy assembling them into a telling whole. It was becoming obvious that Atlantis had simply nosed in, fast and steep, and had overloaded the heat dissipating capacity of the tiles that protected her. At that point, the underlying alloys had begun to soften and melt, and Atlantis had lost her structural integrity, outer parts ablating and shedding along the final miles of her trajectory. Impact with the water of the Gulf of Mexico at the high Mach speed she had been traveling had, quite efficiently, finished the job. Approximately seventy-five percent of the orbiter had been recovered so far: The parts clustered around the point of impact in the Gulf. But Crash remembered the blazing fireball that night, and knew that not all would be recovered; in addition to souvenir hunters on the beaches, some of the orbiter had ceased to exist.
One of those non-existent parts, however, was not the flight ops recorder. Crash watched with Mitch and a seemingly omnipresent Lisa as an olive drab Army cargo helicopter, rotors beating the air, brought it suspended in a crate to the Redstone Arsenal airfield, and technicians loaded it onto a flatbed to carry it to the high bay for analysis.
"Well, finally," Lisa remarked, her voice shrill with impatience. "Now maybe we can find out something."
"Yeah," Mitch remarked in full agreement. "You gonna handle it, Crash, or they callin' somebody else in from Houston?"
"Well, at least for now, I guess I'll handle it, see what it tells me about the re-entry trajectory and guidance systems. If I need help, I'll give JSC a call."
"Want a hand, Crash?" Lisa murmured, with a sidelong emerald glance. Mitch, behind her, rolled his eyes.
"…No. I'll do just fine on my own, thanks," Murphy replied curtly, just before leaving.
Chapter 4
When Anders let himself into the spacious, warm, inviting flat, Doctor Cayleigh Monteith, tall, statuesque blonde and future Director of the soon to be constructed Sydney Planetarium of the Australian Museum, stood waiting, clad in a turquoise silk negligée. Anders stopped dead, staring. Dear Lord, she's gorgeous. Her ivory brow was furrowed with worry, and as soon as he got well in the door, she came to him.
"Mike! Where have you been?" she pressed, grasping his hands. "I've been worried half sick."
Anders shook himself out of his ardent reverie, flushing in embarrassment. "Oh, damn. I should've called, love," he murmured penitently. "I'm sorry. I ran out of petrol on my way in to Sydney, and that ran me late to begin with. Then I had to meet two blokes from the A.C.T. for dinner, there was this near fender bender in Chinatown--"
"Fender bender?! Are you all right?" She took him by the arms, surveying him for more personal damage.
"I'm fine, love," Anders soothed her, "and, well, it all just ran longer than I thought it would. Forgive me?"
Cayleigh smiled then, her lovely brow smoothing. "Of course. Don't I always?"
Anders grinned sheepishly. "You do."
Cayleigh took his hand, leading him deeper into the apartment. "Come on. It's getting late, and you have to make your flight tomorrow."
Anders followed her back to the bedroom.
* * * *
"You know," Cayleigh mused some little bit later, as they lay, snuggled close in the huge platform bed clad in red silk linens, "I think it's your turn."
"My turn?" Anders looked at his longtime lover, puzzled.
"Yeah. Lie back and close your eyes and relax. I'm taking over."
Anders' eyebrows rose in characteristic curiosity, then he lay back against the satin clad pillows. "All right."
Cayleigh leaned over him and kissed him. Anders sighed his pleasure. Then her lips left his mouth, trailing over his firm chin, down his throat, teasing the stubble there. He tilted his head back, letting her nuzzle his Adam's apple, and sighed again as her lips wended their way further down, traversing his collarbone. She deposited kisses across his chest, outlining his strong pectorals. Suddenly she seized one of his nipples between her teeth, nipping gently, and he almost shot upward into a sitting position at the exquisite, delicious pain. "Ahh!" he exclaimed. "That… Cayleigh…" With some reluctance, he allowed her to push him back into the feather pillows.
He gazed up at her hungrily with dilated blue eyes, causing Cayleigh to wonder in delight at seeing him so willingly vulnerable. "Do it again… please, love."
Cayleigh leaned over his torso, lovingly savaging his nipples as he groaned with pleasure. After awhile, she eased her way lower, watching his sensitive, smooth skin ripple at the butterfly touch of her lips against his firm, flat belly. He began to pant in anticipation.
"Now, Cayleigh."
"No. Not yet. You have to wait," she teased him with a smile. "I'll get there… eventually." She chuckled with mischief at his frustrated moan. But instead of giving him the instant gratification he desired, she stoked the fires of his passion, kissing all around his groin area without ever contacting his genitals, even spreading his legs to give herself room to deposit kisses all along the sensitive inner thighs.
By the time her lips wrapped around his manhood he was in agony. Mike gasped, his body arching, his shaft filling her mouth. He felt her tongue on him, rasping delicately against the tender tissue, its tip following his contours, running around the rim of the head before she applied delicious suction. She released him, her breath warm against his saliva-wet skin, and his body instinctively thrust upward, seeking to be imprisoned again in the warm wetness of her mouth.
"Cayleigh… take… me…" he whispered the plea.
With that, she was astride him, and he was thrusting deep into her loins, arching again. She rocked her hips, and he gasped his ecstasy. He felt the heat beginning in his shaft, and he began to pant again. "Hur… ry…" A flurry of thrusts was his response. He heard her groan, a low, sweet sound, as her body contracted around him.
Anders was lost.
"Cayleigh!" The cry seemed to come from the depths of his being, wrenched from him and yet effortless, as his body reached a new level of sensation. His hands fastened on her hipbones, locking her against himself, nearly immovable, as he deliberately surrendered himself within her.
"Ahh… ahh… oh, dear God…" he panted fervently, "Cayleigh… don't stop…"
"Ca… can't stop," Cayleigh gasped, writhing on top of him. "Mike… oh, Mike…"
; She flung her arms around him, pressing as close as she could get to him, thrashing wildly. As the throes of their passion subsided, he smiled in tenderness, wrapping his arms around her and cuddling her against his chest. She snuggled into him, and Anders smiled, delighting in the feeling of her soft, warm body molding itself to his.
"Damn," he breathed happily, with more than a hint of teasing in his tone, "I have got to make it to Sydney more often." He chuckled before planting an affectionate kiss on the tip of her nose as she looked up.
Cayleigh grew anxious. "Mike… love, can we… talk about that?"
Anders felt the sudden tension in her. He held her in place as he rolled them onto their sides, facing each other. He gazed down into her lovely sapphire eyes, letting his own expression become open and curious; somewhere in the back of his mind he was musing on how beautiful she looked, lying there surrounded by flame colored silk, her long platinum hair spilling across the pillows. "Sure, sweetheart. What do you want to talk about?" he asked, his voice soft and low.
"Mike… I…" Cayleigh's eyes dropped, as her cheeks flushed deep red. "Mike, have you ever considered… settling down here in Sydney?"
Anders looked bemused. "Well, not really." He paused in thought. "It isn't that I… well, I stay so busy, it just hasn't crossed my mind."
"I know," Cayleigh sighed her wistfulness. "I've been there myself. But… but, Mike, I'm going to direct the new planetarium. I'll still get to do research junkets and such. We've been a couple so long--ever since grad school--together but never really together, at least not for long. Always on the go. Grabbing little stolen moments with each other, like tonight, but never for more than a couple of days at any given time. Mike, we could be together now. All the time. Not just once in awhile, when we're both in the same place at the same time. I can work the planetarium, and you can head the Anglo-Australian Observatory's Sydney office--they're looking for a director. I dropped your name just to see, and the committee was positively ecstatic at the thought of getting an astronomer of your international stature. And then, we could do our research together, go to the States, or to the Inter-American Observatory, or… or anywhere you wanted…"
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 4