Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281

by Stephanie Osborn

  "Dr. Blake?" a voice pierced his thoughts as he neared the front of the terminal.

  "Yes?" Blake instinctively swung toward the sound.

  "Lieutenant Washburn, sir," the young soldier snapped off a salute. "I'm here to take you to… China Lake Naval Station."

  "Oh, er, right," Blake responded, turning and following the young man out a side entrance. Washburn casually threw Blake's luggage into the back of a waiting Humvee, then moved to the driver's side as Blake got into the front passenger seat.

  Moments later, they were headed out of the airport, toward the naval air weapons station.

  "Folks around here must be bloody brilliant," Blake remarked into the silence.

  "How you figure?" the lieutenant asked, offhand, glad to make small talk.

  "A naval station in the middle of a damn bleedin' desert? And they've never figured out…? Real smart blokes you fellows have livin' around here."

  Washburn shot him a confused glance, and kept driving in silence, deciding that maybe small talk wasn't such a good idea after all.

  Once through the base gate, Washburn continued for some little distance, then hung a right. Pavement gave way to gravel after a few miles, and soon they were making their way through bleak, parched brown desert, punctuated by the occasional striated butte.

  Washburn swerved off road, navigating sand and desert scree, dodging sagebrush and tumbleweeds to traverse the area between two tall, tawny sandstone buttes. As they rounded a promontory, a dark hole yawned in the side of the butte, a hole visible from only one direction--the direction in which the Humvee came. Blake sighed, tested his seat belt, and took a firm grip on the "shit handle" installed over the passenger door.

  Washburn scanned the area, then glanced at his watch, pausing for a few moments as the digital minute and second display ticked down to the correct time. "Right," he said then. "Hang on," as he floored the accelerator, aiming straight for the blackness of the cave.

  Moments later, the Humvee was gone--and so was the cave.

  * * * *

  At the Harris County morgue, Gayle introduced Crash to the coroner. "Bob, this is Crash Murphy, Commander Jackson's old friend. Crash, Dr. Robert Harrison, the Harris County medical examiner."

  The two men shook hands and murmured greetings.

  "I understand you've got my pal here," Crash said quietly.

  "Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Murphy," the coroner answered in sympathy. "Would you… like to see the remains?"

  Numb, Crash followed Dr. Harrison over to a drawer. The medical examiner pulled it open, exposing a black body bag labeled "Jackson, L." He unzipped it halfway and pulled the bag a few inches apart.

  Crash looked down, blanched, and spun away. "Oh, God," he whispered fervently, fighting back a gag reflex. The alert coroner zipped the bag and slammed the drawer closed.

  * * * *

  Suddenly Crash was standing by the burning wreckage of an F-4 on the landing strip near the Demilitarized Zone, watching in horror as the screaming GIB fought his way clear of the flames and debris, flight suit ablaze. The runway crew doused the man with water and foam as fast as they could, but not in time to prevent severe burns over most of his frame. The stench of burnt meat filled the air as a blue haze rose from the GIB's body. Behind the GIB, Crash could see the pilot's corpse, still in the wreckage, blackening and shriveling in the fire. He turned away as his stomach lurched, and found himself vomiting violently on the edge of the landing strip.

  * * * *

  "Crash, are you going to be okay?" Gayle worried, slipping an arm around him. "I should've warned you…"

  "No. I'm… I'm all right, Gayle. I just… didn't think. Somehow, I was… I was expecting to just… see Jet's face. It… brings back some old memories, too…"

  "Nam?"

  "Yeah…"

  "Mr. Murphy, why don't you sit down over here for a minute?" a grave Dr. Harrison suggested in concern, leading them over to a chair across the room and easing the former flight controller into it. "Dr. Tippett, let's give him a moment alone to collect himself. If you'll step into my office for a second, I'll give you back the crew's medical records…" The two doctors moved off.

  Aw, damn, Jet, Crash thought, burying his head in his hands, desperate to blot out the horrible memory of what he'd just seen. What happened to you, buddy? What did you have to go through, and why did it happen?

  Gayle came back with a stack of folders and bent over him. "Crash? You okay?"

  Crash raised his head, still pale. "Yeah. Ready to go?"

  "Uh-huh. Take these and give me your keys." She handed him the stack of folders and held out her hand.

  "Why?" Crash fished in his pocket, extracting the keys.

  "I'm driving. You've had a bad shock. Just lean back and ride. It's not like I haven't driven your truck a few times before."

  * * * *

  On the way back to JSC, Crash idly thumbed through the blue manila file envelopes Gayle had handed him. Opening Jet's, he leafed through it absent-mindedly, then stopped all of a sudden and started over, taking more care this time. Flipped all the way through, and started over again.

  Gayle glanced at him as she drove, curious, seeing his puzzled expression. "What's wrong?"

  "There's been some mistake, Gayle. These aren't Jet's medical records."

  "What do you mean? Of course they are."

  Crash extracted an x-ray and held it up to the windshield. "Where's the pin?"

  "What?!"

  "The pin in Jet's left arm. He broke his wrist in a bad landing out at Edwards in an experimental. The medics did a good job, and Jet didn't lose any mobility, but they pinned one of the bones back together. There are no pins in these x-rays. They don't belong to Jet."

  Dr. Tippett pulled Crash's battered old white truck to the road shoulder, throwing gravel in the process. "You're right! Let me see those!"

  Quickly the flight surgeon went through the stack of medical records, then raged, furious. "Blast it! How did this happen? But… but the names are on everything… oh, damn. These are good. Made to look just like the real thing. If I didn't know these guys so well… and if you hadn't noticed the pin missing…"

  "What?" Crash wondered.

  "None of these medical records belong to any of the crew," Gayle declared. "They're fakes. If these were what Bob used to identify the bodies--and they were--then… we may have seven bodies, but we don't have the crew of STS-281."

  * * * *

  Blake headed straight for the elevator, but was stopped along the way. "Dr. Blake," the new lieutenant stiffly addressed the scientist, "I'm Lieutenant Baker. You have been requested to report immediately to Hotdog."

  "Son of a bitch," Blake cursed, annoyance nearing the breaking point. "Can't I even dump my shit off in my quarters first? It isn't like I only drove five minutes to get here, ya know. A mo' to stretch my legs and put my clothes away would be bloody nice."

  The lieutenant's stiff demeanor softened a bit. The ghost of a grin crossed his face. "Turbulent flight, Doctor?"

  "Wha?" Blake replied, confused by the sudden change of subject.

  "You look a little green around the gills," Baker continued, seeming oblivious to the astronomer's confusion. "Perhaps a bit of rest is in order, and a couple of Dramamine. I'll escort you to your quarters personally, get you some anti-barf pills from Medical, and report to Hotdog that you'll be available in about two hours, once the nausea medications have taken effect. Meanwhile, you can rest."

  Blake gazed at the young soldier as if he'd just gotten a lavish Christmas present. "Uh, yeah. Turbulent. That'd be bonzer, mate."

  The lieutenant's entire demeanor had now changed, becoming relaxed and friendly, as he herded Blake to the elevators. "No problem, Doctor," Baker smiled. "You're not the first person who's arrived here grumpy, tired, and nauseated after a long international flight. Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of it."

  "Thanks…"

  * * * *

  Brown entered Jones' office at speed.
Without a word, he pulled out his palm computer and set it on the corner of the desk. Jones stared at him, his eyes speaking for him: What's up?

  Brown pointed at the computer on the corner of Jones' desk. "You have the list open?"

  "Yeah, I was just starting to go through it," Jones admitted. "Why?"

  "Check out line item 163."

  Jones scrolled down through the long list. His jaw dropped. "Aw, shit. Damn it to bloody hell and back." He looked up at his partner, disbelieving. "Air Marshal Haig is part of this?"

  "Looks that way," Brown noted. "Only the highest strategic planner in the Australian Air Force."

  * * * *

  Crash arrived at his ranch house that evening with his head reeling. Damn. If those seven bodies recovered from the crash site aren't the crew, then who the hell are they?? And where is the crew? And how'd it all… the hatch. Shit, what was I thinking? I forgot all about it. I need to check my email pronto. Mitch ought to have me some more results by now.

  He booted his PC and flipped on the television to listen to the news while he worked. Crash opened his email and began systematically scanning it. "Lisa… figures…" he murmured to himself in disgust as he saw the green-eyed beauty's missive in the queue. "And she didn't even HAVE my email addy. There's Jimmy… I swear the boy emails me half a dozen times a day… a press release… ‘nother press release… my agent… my publisher… press release… Mitch, where the hell ARE ya?" Crash scanned the list of emails again, but there was nothing from Guy Mitchell.

  As Crash was composing a joking email nudge to his friend, the national news report filtered into his conscious awareness. "…and the Atlantis investigation has received a severe setback. A freak industrial accident today claimed the life of Guy Mitchell, director of the Materials and Processes Laboratory at the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, when a piece of debris from the accident slipped from a crane and fell, crushing Mitchell, the leader of reconstruction efforts, beneath it…"

  Crash Murphy stared at the television in shock.

  Chapter 7

  It was pitch dark and very, very late when Anders finally got his RV parked, generator hooked up, satellite dish aimed, and everything running as it should, in his usual spot in the midst of the radio telescope farm, sprawled across the San Agustin Plains of New Mexico. He picked up the cell phone and dialed the number of the Array Operations Center in nearby Socorro.

  "VLA Ops Center."

  "Hey, this is Mike Anders. Um, who've I got?" Anders smeared his hand up his face in exhaustion.

  "Hi, Dr. Anders. This is Jenny." The young female voice was soft and understanding.

  "Ah! Hi, Jenny. Sorry; the ol' brain quit working and locked up for a second, there. Listen, I'm on site, and all hooked up."

  "That's great! Did you have a good flight?" Jenny asked cheerfully.

  "Yeah, long but good. Jet-lagged as all hell. As usual."

  "I bet," Jenny's voice betrayed her laughter. "I remember last time. The guys swore you were sleep-walking when you came over here the next day."

  "I came over there the next day?" Anders wondered, bemused. "I don't remember doing that. Did I walk, or drive?"

  "Drive." Jenny was giggling now. "It's way too far to walk, Doc."

  "Shit," Anders said blankly. "That can't be good. I wonder how many people I gave nervous breakdowns to, on the road…?"

  Jenny laughed harder. "Gonna get some sleep now--this time--or are you gonna ship me your observing program?"

  "Sleep," Anders declared in no uncertain terms. "I already know I've been sleep-walking for the last half hour as it is. I'll email you the program in the morning."

  "That'll work. Get some good rest, Doc."

  "No problem there. See ya, Jen."

  "Bye, Doc!"

  Anders closed the phone, and looked about himself blankly, bleary eyed. "Okay, let's do that, and then bed," he decided, staring at the cherry veneer dining table, which did double duty as his desk.

  Exhausted, he booted the RV's personal computer, inserted several CD's worth of data, and instructed his software to begin looking for the Canberra G-men's mysterious object. I can let this run while I get some sleep, he thought, somewhat light-headed, then start my real observing later.

  He staggered back to the tiny but comfortable bedroom, stripped, and collapsed in the queen-sized bed, pulling the pale blue blanket and comforter over his weary naked form. But before rolling over and letting oblivion take him, he reached for his cell phone once more, hitting a speed dial. Several clicks later, a voice answered on the other end.

  "Dr. Monteith…"

  "Hello, love."

  * * * *

  Anders woke, several hours later, to the annoying alert sound on the computer.

  "Bloody hell," he grumbled, flinging back the rumpled bedcovers in exasperation, before getting up and stalking, stark naked, to the front of the dark RV. His bare feet padded, cat-like, across the plush navy carpet, even in the dark. "If it's the Blue Screen of Death, I swear it's going into the nearest ravine."

  But when he got to the desktop, he stared in shock, dropping into the desk chair. "Shit," he remarked blankly. "I've got something. I've actually got something."

  Entering several commands, he sat and watched the computer crank. Moments later, it spat out a specific waveform and frequency. "Hmm…" he murmured, intrigued. "That's bloody interesting. All right. What the hell. Let's see if I really can get a parallax out of this pile of shit…"

  Several more key strokes, and the computer resumed work. Mesmerized, Anders sat staring at it for almost half an hour. At the end of that time, a series of numbers spat themselves onscreen.

  "I'll be damned…" Anders whispered, shocked. "Low earth orbit. Those govvie blokes were right."

  He snatched up other CDs and ran their data through his analysis. While the computer was searching, he stood, intent on getting his cell phone, but yelped in pain instead as he simultaneously heard a soft ripping sound.

  "Trousers, trousers," he muttered to himself, walking awkwardly toward the rear of the RV, rubbing the backs of his naked thighs and posterior, checking for missing skin. "Damn fake leather chair. Ow. Shit."

  He shucked on a pair of faded old jeans, fished out the contact number that Brown had provided, and dialed it.

  "…DSTO. Jones."

  "Good… whatever the hell time of day it is there, Jones. Mike Anders here."

  "Doctor Anders, this is a surprise. We hadn't expected to hear from you so soon." Jones' voice indicated mild pleasure.

  "Well, I decided to start searching my old data, looking for that object of yours, and my computer could do that while I un-jet-lagged," Anders explained.

  There was a laugh on the other end. "Smart man. I take it you found something?"

  "Looks like it. I've got a periodic occultation at the same time and same coordinates as one of your observations."

  "Uh… occultation?"

  "Sort of like an eclipse," Anders elaborated, "except there shouldn't be anything around my object to eclipse it. So we call it an occultation instead, because something passed in front of it."

  "Oh."

  "I've started plugging in my last six months of data, to see what I can find," Anders continued, "but I've already got a parallax that confirms your suspicions."

  "Low Earth orbit," Jones said with satisfaction.

  "Got that, mate," Anders agreed. "Some periodicity of data, too. I'll see if I can refine it."

  "Excellent, Mike," Jones replied, a smile audible in his voice. "Anything else?"

  "Not yet. I'll keep you posted."

  "Looking forward to it." Jones paused. "Did you hear that?"

  "Hear what?" Anders asked, puzzled.

  "Doctor, how did you call me?" Jones demanded.

  "Picked up the phone and dialed the number," Anders shrugged indifferently.

  "Mike, go through that packet of info we gave you," Jones suggested. "There's a special procedure we'd like you to use,
from now on."

  Anders scrabbled in the manila envelope. "Okay, there it is. Why?"

  "Well, we… don't want anyone cheating us out of our discovery, do we?"

  Anders frowned, suspicious. "Is this some sort of spy satellite you blokes have me monitoring? Because--"

  "Mike," came the quiet answer, "You're a radio astronomer. Think about the frequency."

  Anders reached for his note pad, glancing at the requested info. "Yeah. So?"

  "What nation uses that band?"

  Anders paused in thought, eyes widening in realization. "No… nobody. But… but…" he stammered. "If it isn't us, then… then who…?"

  The voice on the other end was very quiet. "Now you know why it's so important."

  "Shit," Anders murmured blankly, shocked.

  * * * *

  It was a relief when Blake found himself alone in his quarters at last. After swiping his just-returned badge through the lock, he entered and tossed his suitcase into a chair, dropped his carry-on kit onto the counter in the tiny, utilitarian white bathroom to the immediate left of the door, then stopped, looking around the small space. It wasn't much, but, while he was here, it was home. Or as close to home as this place ever got.

  His living space in the underground facility was somewhere between a hotel room and an efficiency apartment. The walls were a pale cream shade, the floor covered with an industrial grade tan carpet. A reasonably comfortable double bed stood along the left wall, clad in basic white cotton sheets and a military green thermal blanket; pressboard night tables covered in a fake oak grain veneer stood to either side. Across the room from the bed was a mirrored oak dresser, very basic and blocky in design. Between the door and the dresser was an alcove with shelves, rods, and hangars that functioned as a closet. On the far side of the dresser, in the corner, was a grey metal, government-issue desk, complete with computer hookups. Along the back wall was a two-person dining table; a small cable television perched on one corner.