"Well, not much we can do about it," Crash admitted with an acquiescing sigh. "We're in way the hell too deep to stop now. I'm a dead man anyway if they catch me. Might as well see it through."
Anders stared at the resigned flight controller for a moment. "No, Crash, we… we could try to disappear…" he protested.
"Nah," Crash waved the thought aside. "How long do you think we'd make it? They've probably got a tracer on this baby," he waved his arms around him, indicating the Cheyenne, "and without it we wouldn't get very far."
"Good point," Anders sighed, yielding. "On we go, then."
"Okay…" Crash resumed rummaging in the box.
"Damn. What else is in there?" Anders wondered, surprised. "Some kind of little treasure trove, that box."
"Aha," Crash grinned in satisfaction, extracting two small cases. "These'll really make us look like a pair of government spooks. I like the way your boys think. I think." He handed Anders a pair of sunglasses, reserving a pair for himself.
"Thanks," Anders accepted the sunglasses, then watched as Crash slipped on the Predators. "Those look pretty good on you."
"Yeah, I've always liked Ray-Bans." Crash studied himself in the mirror. "Huh. Not bad."
"Oh! You look like that bloke in the movie! You know, the one that was the alien policeman?" Anders remembered, sliding on his own glasses.
"Well, that seems appropriate," Crash chuckled. He nodded back at Anders. "The look suits you, too."
Anders took his turn at the mirror, pursing his lips critically before nodding approval. Suddenly his mind flashed back to Brown and Jones; he frowned. "That's odd…"
"What is?"
"There's something familiar about all this…" Anders remarked, fingering the square frames of his sunglasses. His hand slid along the temple, toward his ear; the frown deepened, as he strove to place the image.
"Never mind. Let's go," Crash remarked from the other room.
Anders dropped his hand, shrugged, and followed Crash out of the RV and up the street.
* * * *
Inside the bank, they discreetly flashed their identification cards, and the bank manager arrived, taking them to the ultra-secure wing of the lock box area. Crash had appropriated Anders' laptop case as a temporary housing for the evidence, and lugged it along, loaded for bear with data sticks, CDs, and printouts.
"Here you are, gentlemen," the manager told them smoothly, stopping in front of a small vault. "We were instructed in advance to have this prepared for you."
"Thank you," Anders responded, and the bank official handed them two keys before departing.
Anders opened the safe deposit box while Crash studied the area. "No apparent monitors," he murmured. "All security on the outside. Good. Very good. No wonder your boys picked this bank."
"Hey, Crash…" Anders was bent over the box, peering inside.
"Yeah, Mike?"
Anders turned from the box, bemused. "There's a car key in here. And a note…"
Crash came to stand beside Anders. "What does it say?"
Anders unfolded the paper. "Black Audi A4. D 21. NV 14658. Full tank. Compliments, J & B."
Crash grinned. "Color, make, model, parking space, license plate, and fuel. We got ourselves some govvie wheels."
Anders grinned slowly. "Damn, but I like those blokes." He hesitated, remembering their earlier doubts. "Well… at least, I think I do."
Moments later, the evidence was locked away, and Anders and Crash strolled out of the bank, got into their waiting vehicle, and drove calmly off.
* * * *
With a bit of juggling, the two got both the RV and the government car back to the airport, careful to locate them in two different sections of parking lot. Then they changed back into jeans and shirts, and sat back down to casually watch the aircraft come in and out of the ATF freight terminal.
"You know, it's a real pity that Phillips bloke can't come along," Anders mulled. "Not seriously, of course. But I do feel bad for him."
"Yeah, me too," Crash agreed. "For all we know at this point, he really has been abducted. I mean, that would be a logical strategic move by some types of governments, kidnap local civilians and find out what they know, pump ‘em for information and all that."
"Yeah, I guess so," Anders conceded. "You'd know more about that than I would, though. I just wish there was some way to work with the guy."
"We can't do that," Crash pointed out somberly. "We're doing good to keep our heads above water as it is. George over there," he nodded out the window, toward the other RV some distance away, "would bite it in a heartbeat. He doesn't have a clue as to the real nature of the situation. Not that I'm exactly one hundred percent convinced I do, either," Crash admitted, rueful.
"Yup," Mike sighed. "It's a pity, though, we couldn't make a distraction of some sort and get him in with us, at least enough to get some sort of real evidence for the poor bloke." Anders sat up a little straighter in the seat, eyes widening as an idea occurred. "Or… we could… get him to make the distraction… and then we bring the evidence to him?" the astronomer wondered.
Crash turned to him, following the other man's train of thought. "Ooo. Didn't he say he was meeting some fellow abductees?"
"Yeah, and they were going to go see how close they could get to Dreamland," Anders recalled.
"That couldn't do anything but help us," Crash pointed out. "If there are enough of them to cover a little ‘event' here and there, both…"
Anders nodded, enthusiastic. "A diversion here, while we get aboard, and a diversion there…"
"Maybe two diversions there," Crash noted. "Takeoff here, and landing there."
"Yeah," Mike grinned. "Wanna talk to him about it?"
Crash glanced at his watch. "Isn't it almost time we met your dude to pick up our package?" he asked then.
"Ooo, shit! Yeah, it is," Anders said, checking the time. "Well, I'll run across and tell him we want to talk to him when we get back, then we can head out."
Crash paused in thought. "Mike… how do you feel about meeting the guy by yourself?" he asked, anxious. "We can't be taking the Cheyenne Mountain everywhere. It's too big. It'll be recognized."
"Good point," Anders squinched up his face in understanding. "And every time you get out and about, there's that much more risk someone will recognize you, and blow our whole cover wide open. So… what? You want me to take the govvie wheels and go it alone?"
"Would you mind?" Crash asked, worried.
"Nah," Anders did his best to appear nonchalant, hiding the twinge of apprehension he felt. "No prob, mate. I'll go give a heads up to our bloke Phillips over there, then go walkabout over to the car in the other car park and head over to get our little shipment."
"I'll keep an eye out, Mike," Crash said, concerned.
"Not to worry, mate. I'll be right as rain," Anders told him, with more bravado than he felt, as he exited the door of the RV.
* * * *
Anders had no trouble finding his way back to the alley. He parked alongside the street nearby, then got out and meandered down the sidewalk toward the alley, trying hard not to look as nervous as he felt. Just inside the opening between the buildings, Jaime lounged in his red leather jacket, the same Hispanic teen that Anders had contacted before. They made casual eye contact as Anders walked by, and Mike heard him murmur, "Opal shipment."
"Half paid," Anders muttered in reply. He moved over to the far wall and leaned against the brick, glancing casually up and down the street. Jaime turned and sauntered back into the alley. Moments later, Anders followed.
In the back, hidden behind a big trash bin, was a largish, flat box. "¿Habla en español?" Jaime asked.
"Um… un poco," Anders answered, then added, "About enough to get my bum in deep shit." He grinned, embarrassed.
Jaime gave a low laugh. "All right, then," he answered. "English it is. I've got your… er, card number. Take the box. I'll get the rest of the payment off your card later."
"Right, then,"
Anders said, bending down and pulling out his multi-tool.
"What the hell are you doing?" the boy asked, surprised.
"Checking the goods," Anders replied calmly, slitting the packing tape and opening the lid.
"It's all there, like you asked," Jaime protested, glancing down the alley anxiously. "There's a message in there, too. Pocket of one of the coveralls. I was told to tell you it's very important. You'll have help; watch for Gordo. Now, take this shit, and get the hell out. Come on. Hurry up."
"In a minute." Anders took his time, flipping through the two sets of coveralls, feeling the envelope inside one pocket, finding the matching baseball caps, and locating the identification badges and lanyards. All had the appropriate worn look and feel to them, as if they'd been in use for several years already. "Okay, terrific. Looks good."
"Great," Jaime almost snapped, staring at two teens wandering by on the opposite side of the main street. "Take it and go, while you still can."
"What do you mean?" Anders wondered, closing the box and hefting it under one arm as he stood.
"Rival gang," Jaime explained, terse. "This turf we're in here is… under dispute. Get out while the gettin's good. Take this. Put it on your arm." He held out a white bandana. "It will mark you as a neutral party."
Mike's eyes widened in alarm. He put out his left arm, and watched as Jaime quickly tied the handkerchief around his wrist. "GO," Jaime told him urgently. Anders rather awkwardly tried to amble back to the street, carrying his precious box.
As he sidled down the sidewalk, Anders glanced around, trying to appear as offhanded and casual as possible. From down the street behind him, several young men wearing various items of black clothing were converging on the alley he'd just left. Ahead of him, Mike saw an equal number of teens dressed in red, moving toward him. He held his breath in anxiety, and transferred the box, moving it underneath his left arm, thereby calling attention to the white cloth wrapped on that wrist. As the red-clad young men drew even with him, one of them, on Anders' right, put his hand to Anders' chest, stopping him.
Shit, shit, shit. I am dead. Despite himself, terror gripped his entrails, and Anders' blue eyes dilated in fear in response to the surge of adrenaline that coursed through his body. He lifted his left hand a bit, wondering if Jaime had set him up, instead of trying to protect him. Instinct kicked in, and he softened his knees, easing into a shallow horse stance, prepared to fight if need be.
Another youth, standing on his left, waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, man," he said to the first. "Off limits. Look. Australian opal." He pointed to Anders' wrist. The others noted the handkerchief then and promptly ignored him, passing by on either side.
A few feet more, and Anders had reached the car. He scrambled in, flinging the package into the passenger seat, closing and locking the door, before sparing a fleeting moment for a deep, calming breath. Swiftly, realizing he wasn't out of danger yet, he put the key in the ignition, started the engine, and pulled out. The astronomer fought the instinctive urge to get away as fast as he could, choosing instead to make his departure look casual and unhurried.
He was fully a half a mile away by the time the first shots rang out.
* * * *
Crash had raised the antenna and turned on the television while Mike was gone, flipping through the local stations to find the news. Anders, in turn, had decided to take a more roundabout route back, so as to avoid looking suspicious under the circumstances; thus he was late arriving back at the Cheyenne. So Murphy was pale and worried, pacing the floor, by the time the astronomer returned, some little time later.
"Mike? You ok?" he asked anxiously, grabbing the other man's shoulders as Anders clambered up the steps into the Cheyenne.
"Yeah, why?" Anders wondered, staring at Crash's white face. "What happened?"
"I was gonna ask you that." Crash's eyes darted over his friend, reassuring himself that Anders was indeed all right.
"Why? What's up?" Anders asked, mystified.
"I saw the local news earlier," Crash said, sitting down heavily on one of the dining table seats. "Did you know there was a gang turf war, centered exactly where you were going?"
"Oh, that. Yeah," Anders noted, unruffled, putting the box down on the dining table. "I got out before it got started. With the goods, I might add." He patted the box.
"Damn," Crash muttered, impressed, his already high opinion of Anders going up several more notches. "Did you know your boy got shot and killed?"
"Jaime?" Anders stopped in shock, turning to stare at Crash, who nodded confirmation with tight lips. "Aw, shit. No, no, no." He plopped down across the table from Crash, deeply upset. "He was a good kid, too. I'm starting to think you and I have some sort of bad luck juju, mate. Seems like everyone around us keeps getting killed."
"You noticed, huh?" Crash murmured, subdued. "I was afraid you were about to get added to my list, there."
"No, not yet, anyway," Mike said, very quietly. "Same could be said on my side, I suppose. Makes me wonder if involving Phillips and his blokes is the right thing to do, after all, though."
"Too late," Crash informed him. "After you spoke to him, he came by and invited us to dinner in his RV. But I told him that we should meet here instead. I said we had a…" Crash broke off, making a face, "that we'd lined the inside of our RV in tin foil. Said it blocks the transmissions from the government agents who work at Area 51."
"Oh, strewth," Anders ejaculated in amusement. "What did he say to that?"
"He thought it was a great idea," Crash snorted. "Promptly agreed to come over for dinner later, and… Mike, I think he went out and bought a whole shit load of aluminum wrap."
Crash looked at Anders with wide, wild eyes, and the scientist could see the mirth he was struggling to suppress. Anders suddenly had to quash a snicker. It emerged as a gurgling snort instead. After their earlier strain, that was all either of them could take.
Despite themselves, the two men broke up, howling with laughter, as their tension released. "O-oh, God," Anders panted fervently, slumped across the table. "I s-so needed th-that."
"M-me, too," Crash chortled, lying on his back across the bench seat, hands waving aimlessly. "Li-little humor to b-break up the–the mon-monotony."
"Monotony," Anders said, raising his head, eyes large in his flushed face. "That's a bonzer one, mate! Monotony! Just what we need in our lives! Let's hear it for some monotony!"
And the two went off into gales of laughter again.
* * * *
Johnson's summons arrived to both Jones and Brown via highest priority instant message, and they answered it immediately, meeting each other in the marble-tiled hallway that ran in front of the boss' door.
"What's up?" Brown asked Jones, as they strode down the corridor toward their superior's office.
"No idea," Jones replied with a shrug. "I was about to ask you the same thing."
"Hm," Brown pondered. "It seemed extremely urgent."
"I know. Well, only one way to find out," Jones noted.
"Indeed," Brown nodded. "Here we are." He pushed open the door marked "T. Johnson," and stood back for his partner, gesturing him in, before following himself.
"What's up, boss?" Jones asked, as they entered.
"Yes, we got your message, and came immediately," Brown noted, closing the door behind them, then moving to take one of the visitor chairs as Jones sat in the other. He pulled out his Blackberry and checked it, then nodded to the other two, before replacing it inside his jacket.
"We just lost another one," a pale Johnson said quietly. "Within the last hour or so."
Brown and Jones exchanged worried glances. "Who?" Brown asked.
"Jaime," Johnson sighed, downcast.
"Oh, no," Jones breathed, shocked. "The kid?"
"Yeah, the kid," Johnson nodded, trying to hide his distress. "He was a good kid, too. Did you know he wasn't a gang member to begin with? He only joined it to better position himself to help…"
"Aw, shit," Jo
nes whispered, aggrieved.
"What happened?" Brown wondered, saddened.
Johnson shook his head, morose. "We're still trying to sort it all out," he told them. "But it seems there was some sort of gang war."
"Legitimate, or orchestrated?" Jones pressed, suddenly suspicious.
"Unknown at this time," a grim Johnson informed them. "Truthfully? I strongly suspect orchestrated. That turf was not in question three days ago." Then he added, "Have you heard from your boy Anders? Wasn't he scheduled to make a pickup from Jaime about…" he glanced at his watch, "two hours ago?"
"Hell. Yeah, he was," Jones said, worried.
Anxious, Brown got his palm computer back out, pulling up the telemetry data history. "Mm," he murmured, studying the information. "Looks like he made it into downtown. Yeah, that's Jaime's turf. Stayed there about ten minutes… then left, headed back to the airport… the Audi is in the long term parking lot."
"And the RV?" Jones almost snapped in his anxiety.
"The RV never left the freight lot," Brown noted, scanning the data. "Internal sensors show two occupants currently. Signature on one matches Murphy, the other…" he glanced up, smiling, "matches Anders. Our blokes are all right. They're safe."
"Good," Johnson sighed, mood lightening marginally. "There's one thing that went bloody right today."
"Amen to that, mate," Jones exhaled in relief.
* * * *
Some time later, a perspiring George Phillips showed up at their door, a large pot of beef stew in hand. "Here," he panted, handing it up the steps to Anders, who grabbed it by the pot-holders and put it on the stove nearby. "Damn, it is entirely too hot t' be wallpaperin' the inside of my RV," he noted, wiping his dripping face with the back of his forearm. "But if that idea of yours really works, pal," he told Crash, "it'll be every bit worth it. I sure as hell don't want ‘em finding out what we're doing. Me and my buddies want to get as close to… er, you know where… as we can get, without getting caught." He huffed his way up the steps and into the air-conditioned Cheyenne Mountain. "Ohh, that feels good," he noted, as the cool air blew on his sweaty, flushed skin.
"Have a seat," Crash invited, waving a hand at the living area of the RV. "I just finished throwing together a salad, and we've got some rolls heating in the oven, then we'll be ready to eat." He checked the oven, then turned and leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms.
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 18