Christiansen pointed down the hall. "Through that door. Hang a right just before you reach the stairs, and go all the way back through the Science Operations Area. Through the double doors, first left, only door on the left."
"Thanks."
Crash followed the directions, and arrived at the videoconferencing room used for the scientists' meetings during missions. Once there, he closed the door and activated the communications set, punching up the SOPG loop. Keying the microphone switch, he said, "Eye-eye to HOSC Manager on S-O-P-G loop for a comm check."
"HOSC Manager to Independent Investigator," Brian's voice sounded on the comm set, as Crash adjusted the volume to a comfortable level, "I read you five by five, Crash."
"You are loud and clear also, Brian." Crash opened up his documents to the Entry and Deorbit Checklists, and prepared to follow through the activities.
"Are you ready for audio playback?" Christiansen's voice sounded on the speaker.
"…Affirmative." Crash sighed to himself, dreading what was coming.
"Commencing playback."
* * * *
CDR: Houston, this is Atlantis. APU prestart complete.
CapCom: We copy, Atlantis. APU prestart complete.
PLT: Jet, you got the deorbit program loaded?
CDR: Doin' that now, Pete. Won't be long now.
PLT: Yeah. It's been real.
CDR: Yep.
CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. You are go for deorbit burn.
CDR: Houston, Atlantis. Copy; go for deorbit burn… [Pause] Everybody ready?
Crew: [Chorus of] Yeah!
CDR: All right. Begin maneuver to burn attitude. Check DAP to Auto. ADI Att to Inertial. ADI Error to Med. ADI Rate to Med. Let's do it… Houston, Atlantis. Maneuver to burn attitude complete.
CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. We show burn attitude.
CDR: Copy… Cue cards out. RCS/OMS heater… Forward RCS--Off. Left Pod A, B--Off. Right Pod A, B--Off. OMS crossfeed lines A, B--Auto.
Forward and aft RCS Jets 5--Off. Begin Single APU Start. Number one APU fuel tank valve switch--Open… control switch… Hydraulic pressure indicator… green… Houston, this is Atlantis. We have single APU start.
CapCom: Roger, single APU start.
PLT: DAP to Auto.
CDR: Copy, DAP to Auto. Left and right OMS to GPC. Houston, Atlantis. OMS engines armed.
CapCom: Copy, Atlantis. OMS armed.
CDR: Executing deorbit burn command… now.
[Short pause]
Houston, Atlantis. Countdown to OMS burn. Deorbit TIG in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… ignition.
CapCom: Copy ignition, Atlantis.
[Approximately 00:04:45 pause.]
CDR: Houston, Atlantis. Deorbit burn complete.
CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. Copy OMS burn complete.
CDR: RCS--check. OMS status--check.
PLT: DAP to Manual.
CDR: Copy DAP to Manual. Begin maneuver… Houston, this is Atlantis. We are in entry attitude.
CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. We confirm entry attitude.
PLT: Begin switch checks?
CDR: Roger. Cabin Relief A?
PLT: Enabled.
CDR: B?
PLT: Enabled.
CDR: Antiskid?
PLT: On.
CDR: Nosewheel steering?
PLT: On.
CDR: Entry mode?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: Speed brake?
PLT: Full forward.
CDR: SRB Sep?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: ET Sep?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: Air data?
PLT: Nav.
CDR: ADI error?
PLT: Med.
CDR: ADI rate?
PLT: Med.
CDR: HSI select mode?
PLT: Nav, one; nav, two.
CDR: Turn RHC to inhibit, panel--On.
PLT: Roger.
CDR: Radar altimeters one, two?
PLT: On.
CDR: MLS?
PLT: Three--On.
CDR: TACAN mode?
PLT: Three--GPC; ANT three--Auto.
CDR: Copy. Houston, Atlantis. Entry switch checklist complete.
CapCom: Houston copies. Entry switch checklist complete.
PLT: Beginning control surface prep.
CDR: Houston, this is Atlantis. RCS dump complete.
CapCom: Houston copies.
PLT: ADI shows roll of zero, pitch thirty, yaw zero.
CDR: Copy. Throttle switch?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: Pitch?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: Roll?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: Yaw?
PLT: Auto.
CDR: Body flip?
PLT: Manual… [faint] …what the?!…
[Nominal 5 minute pause]
CDR: Body flip switch to Auto. Houston, Atlantis. We are at entry interface.
Ready for LOS.
CapCom: Roger, Atlantis. We'll see you on the ground.
CDR: Copy…
* * * *
Crash paused for several minutes; then, when no more audio appeared forthcoming, he keyed the mike. "HOSC Manager, I-I on S-O-P-G."
"I-I, HOSC Manager. Go ahead."
"Hey, Brian, where's the rest of it?"
"Stand by…" There was a momentary pause, then Christiansen's voice returned. "That's it, Crash."
"Broken?"
"Negative. That's it. No more recording. Blank tape all the way to the end."
"What the hell…?" Crash was shocked. Where's the comm blackout recording? Everything's nominal, and then it just… stops… right at re-entry. The critical part is completely missing…
"Listen, Crash, I'm gettin' word to get the POCC log books and data to you for investigative review. Got ‘em here if you want to grab ‘em when you pick up the mag tape."
"Wilco. I'll be there in a minute."
* * * *
A sleepy Blake arrived at the airport at the prearranged time, having printed off the e-ticket from his computer. He dragged himself onto the Qantas flight to Honolulu, took his seat, and promptly fell asleep.
* * * *
When Crash arrived back at the computer room, Jack Woodard was there talking to Christiansen, and holding the mag tape.
"Hey, Jack, missed you at the high bay," Crash greeted the manager, who shook his hand.
"Yeah; I'm sorry, Crash. I got sucked into a high level strategy meeting for organizing our part of the investigation. Authorizing round the clock staffing and all. You know the drill. I didn't get home until almost midnight." Woodard looked apologetic and rueful.
"Ouch." Crash pulled a face.
"Yeah," Woodard agreed, then grew serious. "Hey, listen, Crash, I've gotta take the flight ops recorder tape and send it to D.C. by special courier. Orders from on high. They want special analysis done."
"But Jack, that's nothing I can't--" Crash began protesting.
"I know, Crash, and I told ‘em so, but it's out of my hands." Woodard shrugged in annoyance. "Beats the hell outta me what's going on there. I'm told they'll provide us with high quality dubs and written transcripts A.S.A.P. once they're done with… whatever the hell they're going to do with it. That'll have to do for now."
Crash sighed. "All right, Jack. I understand. Brian, you wanna give me those log books now?"
"Sure, Crash. Hope you brought a wheelbarrow," the HOSC manager told him, maintaining a straight face as the implications of his statement sank into Crash's consciousness. Before Crash could ask just how many hard copies of the logs he would have to haul out of the center, Christiansen grinned and added, "Just jokin'. They're all electronic these days. We got ‘em transferred onto CD for you."
* * * *
At long last, a bleary, jet-lagged Steve Blake arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. "Damn," he muttered to himself. "I swear, this gets harder every time I do it."
He dragged his weary body from LAX's Terminal B to Terminal 1, before boarding a Sky West pu
ddle jumper to Inyokern, California.
Scrunching his carry-on into the tiny overhead bin and folding his long frame into the cramped seat, he sighed as the propellers of the small plane spun up into a noisy, high-pitched whine.
"I hate it," he muttered under his breath. "Damn it to hell, I hate it with a passion."
"Excuse me, sir?" asked one of the flight attendants as she passed.
"Nothing," Blake answered aloud.
* * * *
Back in his hotel room, Crash mulled over the audio tape. Damn strange, he thought. Nothing past the re-entry LOS. That's when it should've started getting bad. When… when they'd start to… when it all would have gone to hell in a hand basket. And that last comment of Pete's… you almost couldn't hear it… but it sounded like he was surprised about something, like he was saying, "What the hell?" But then Jet sounded pretty normal on the LOS call. And everything was per the entry checklist. Completely nominal. At least as far as it went… it just didn't go far enough. And I have no idea why.
Crash Murphy stretched out on the hotel bed and stared at the blank ceiling, brow creased in thought.
Chapter 6
The next day, Crash walked into the high bay and greeted Mitch as he scanned the area, studying the progress made since the last time he was in the bay. It was substantial.
"Hi, Mitch. How's it goin'?" he asked as the lab manager wandered by.
"Pretty good, Crash," Mitchell paused to address the investigator. "We've got about eighty to eighty-five percent of Atlantis recovered now. My guess is that's pretty close to all we'll get. Now it's just a matter of piecing it all together."
"How's it looking?"
"I know what you wanna hear, Crash," Mitch sympathized. "I'm sorry."
Crash sighed, and scanned the bay again, wary. "Where's Lisa?"
Mitch gave Crash a sly smile. "Now why would you ask that?"
Crash looked as exasperated as he felt. "Maybe because she didn't pounce as soon as I walked in the damn door."
"Lisa left last night, Crash," Mitch revealed. "Headed back to D.C. Jack sent her back with the mag tape from the ops recorder."
"Oh." Murphy paused. He crossed his eyes whimsically. "Would it be rude to say, ‘Thank God'?"
Mitchell snorted once, then suppressed it, grinning.
"I guess not," Crash decided, not bothering to hide his smirk.
The two men were silent for a moment, sobering as they stood, considering the reconstruction work. White-suited engineers scurried around the huge room like worker ants. Just then, one of the hard-hatted workers waved a hand.
"Hey, Mitch, c'mere."
"What's up, Charlie?" Mitch bestirred himself and headed over to the section of floor reserved for the payload bay contents where Charlie was working.
"Look at this…" Crash overheard Charlie say as Mitch walked up.
Mitchell stood conversing with the worker for a few moments, then turned and waved. "Crash, come take a look."
Crash sauntered over. "Whatcha got, Mitch?"
"This is strange, Crash. Here's the airlock assembly," Mitchell gestured to the reconstructed debris before them. "It was in an external, payload bay configuration. It's busted up some, yeah, but we've got it reassembled…"
"Not quite, Mitch. You're missin' a hatch," Crash pointed out.
"That's the strange part, Crash. It's the INNER hatch that's missing." Mitchell stood with a puzzled frown on his face, staring at the hardware.
"Really? That IS interesting…" Crash mused, and moved closer to examine the airlock. "Hmm… Can I take a look?"
"Sure, go ahead. You're here to investigate, so investigate to your heart's content. C'mon, Charlie, I want you to see about reassembling…" The two men walked away, and left Crash to check out the airlock assembly.
This really is weird, Crash thought as he crouched down and examined the debris. I wouldn't have thought the inner hatch would be the one to go missing. I'd assume that the inner hatch would be more likely to stay with the craft, but the outer hatch might get lost when the payload bay doors came off as the shuttle disintegrated. He ran delicate rubber-gloved fingertips over the inner hinge joint. What the hell?! Wait a minute… He bent his head low, then knelt, and studied the area where the missing hinge would have been. He produced a jeweler's loupe from a pocket, and studied the joint.
"Hey, Mitch!" Crash turned and flagged the Materials Lab chief, who broke off his conversation and came back to Crash's side.
"Whatcha need, Crash?" Mitchell asked immediately.
"Can we take this section over to the Lab and look at it a little closer?"
"Sure. Let's check it out of the computer records and walk across the street…"
* * * *
"Oohhh, shit," Mitch murmured as he scanned the hinge surface under the microscope. "Damn. Good catch, Crash."
"What do you see?" Crash demanded.
Mitchell raised his head and looked straight into Crash's eyes with a foreboding gaze. "The inner airlock hatch wasn't lost, it was removed. This hinge was cut."
"I thought it looked awful damn smooth for a break," Crash admitted, irked. "How can you tell for sure?"
"Look," Mitchell said, moving to one side and gesturing to the microscope. Crash bent and looked through the stereo eyepieces. "See those striations? Those are cut marks from a diamond tipped blade."
Crash looked up at Mitch, casting about for logical, normal explanations. "Then maybe the hatch will come in later; it may have been too unwieldy to handle all in one piece…"
Mitchell looked at the independent investigator grimly. "You know as well as I do that's not proper procedure, Crash. And it's not possible anyway. The ablation marks and burn scoring overlay the cut striations. This cut was made before re-entry."
Crash stared at the lab chief blankly. "Aw, hell. That means…"
Mitchell nodded, troubled. "It means somebody was hacking the Orbiter into pieces just before re-entry."
* * * *
"All right, my flight's set up for noon," Crash told Guy Mitchell shortly thereafter. "I've got just enough time to get back to the hotel, pack everything, check out, and get to the airport."
"Good. I'll run a few more tests on this, and email you the results later today. This is major, Crash."
"I know, Mitch. I'm goin' straight back to JSC as soon as I get off the plane."
"Got your laptop?"
"That's a roger. I'll plug in and download your report as soon as I can find a port."
"Good luck, Crash… Godspeed," Mitch said in an odd tone, glancing about in apprehension.
Crash was in a rush, however, and missed both Mitchell's tone and his look. "See ya, Mitch."
* * * *
On the smooth flight back to Houston, Crash broke out his laptop and pored over the payload controller logs, scrutinizing every little detail. For the most part, he found them fairly straightforward, but with the occasional amusing entry, usually dry "space humor" or accounts of minor flubs on the communications loops.
The Operations Controller log was a bit different, however. The log was chock full of notations, even in the margins, especially during TSS operations and retrieval. Then he encountered an odd entry.
Position Mission Elapsed Time Event
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OC 09/10:23:08 Meteor viewed on D/L vid; below Orbiter altitude. No ionization trail observed. Exo skim? SSL interested.
Wow, Crash thought, fascinated. The video down link caught a meteor! And beneath the Shuttle, too. That's damn rare. No wonder the Space Sciences Lab was interested. Odd that there'd be no sign of friction though. Anything big enough to see on the monitors would have to be causing some friction, even at those altitudes, and that means an ion trail. So that's kinda weird. Pretty cool, though.
The nonstop flight wore on, and Crash plodded through the logs, finding nothing more of any real interest. The flight attendant came by, informing him that landing
was imminent, so he shut down and stowed his laptop under the seat. Shit, he thought, annoyed. Nothing so far.
* * * *
When Crash checked his cell phone messages upon arrival at Houston's Hobby Airport, he found a voice mail waiting from Gayle Tippett, who was both the STS-281 flight surgeon, and his girlfriend.
"Crash, it's Gayle. I know you've been busy, but… Come by my office as soon as you can, honey. We've… we've got Jet, Crash."
Crash headed straight for the parking lot, threw the luggage into his waiting truck and pointed it toward NASA Road 1.
* * * *
"Hey, ‘Doc,'" Crash's pet greeting for his flame was decidedly subdued as he entered the flight surgeon's office. "Got your message, Gayle. I just got off the plane from Huntsville, so I came straight here."
"Yeah, I got your message you were out of town on the investigation, so I didn't worry. I just thought you might… want the opportunity to say goodbye." The petite strawberry blonde looked at him, compassion in her eyes.
"Gayle… are you sure it's him?" Crash asked, in deep pain. "I… I just…"
"I know, Crash. But we have all seven bodies now, and the Houston medical examiner gave us positive IDs on all seven. You're in denial, Crash. Let him go, sweetheart," Gayle whispered, laying a tender hand on his forearm and squeezing. "Come on. Let's go tell Jet goodbye together."
* * * *
The Inyokern airport was little more than a long patch of asphalt with a building at the end of it that the locals and the airlines called a terminal, and a few hangars around the periphery. Planes sat strewn around the tarmac. Beyond the perimeter fence lay nothing but sagebrush, scrub, and burnt sienna desert; the El Paso and Sierra Nevada mountains rose in the near distance, stark and bleak and monotonous.
Lovely, Blake thought sarcastically, as he stood at the top of the aircraft ladder. Just bloody damn lovely. I'm so happy to be back in this godforsaken desert.
He schooled his face into indifference, an expression he'd learned to master in the last couple of years since signing up with Hotdog and his group, and descended the steps to the tarmac. A ground attendant brought the luggage from the hold, placing it on the asphalt beside the plane, and Blake spotted his case. Extending the handle and attaching his carry-on bag to the larger case's strap, he trundled and bumped across the cracked pavement and into the terminal building, dodging RJ, the airport cat, in the process. There has to be a way…
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 6