Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281

by Stephanie Osborn

  Crash smiled, the expression grim. "Mike?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I owe you an apology."

  "How so?" Anders wondered.

  "Sometimes, us veterans," Murphy murmured, somewhat embarrassed, "can get a certain… attitude. Especially the ones that saw combat. We think we're stronger, tougher, just because we've seen war. You just proved how wrong that notion is. Thanks for putting my head back on straight."

  The two men exchanged brief, awkward hugs. Then Crash got back to his hands and knees and proceeded on down the vent shaft, Anders right behind.

  * * * *

  Crash and Mike said nothing to each other as they sneaked looks out of the air vent. They didn't need to; it was obvious they were--literally--inside the medical facility. White coated medics and green scrub clad nurses and technicians wandered about, performing various tasks, examining the occasional patient.

  "Hey, Dr. Johnson," one nurse asked, "do I need to set up the blood cart?"

  "No, Alice," Johnson replied, "today's going to be a slow day, thank God."

  "No corps screening?"

  "Nope. No fly boys today. Just the standard clinic stuff. They finished the latest recruitment phase yesterday."

  "Hallelujah!" the nurse, who looked to be in her 20s and was rather attractive, cried. "If I get hit on by one more of ‘em, I swear I'll strangle him with the BP cuff. What is it with test pilots and testosterone?!"

  Dr. Johnson laughed. "Well, even if our ‘visitors' decide to change their minds and sign up, we'd have a little extra paperwork to do, but no lab work. I've already got their records, fresh from the flight surgeon's files."

  "Oh, really? That must've been an interesting job, getting that into our hands."

  "Wouldn't know, Alice. I just weigh ‘em and measure ‘em before they go, and patch ‘em up when they come back. I leave the snoop stuff to the black suits."

  "Amen to that."

  "Say, Alice," Dr. Johnson smirked, "if there's not enough for you to do, you can always wander next door to Forensics and give ‘em a hand."

  "Oh, gee, thanks, doc," Alice rolled her eyes. "Not just no, but hell, no."

  "What, you don't wanna help ‘em cut ‘em up?"

  "And see all those weird, disgusting, grey guts those… those things have? No thanks, I'll pass."

  Johnson quirked an eyebrow. "I think it's fascinating work."

  "Then you go do it. I'll stay here and hold down the fort."

  "But think, Alice. They're determining how they function, what their strengths and weaknesses are. You could be helping to save the species."

  "I'm helping right here, thanks," the nurse shot back tartly. "I don't need to be creeped out when I go back to my quarters alone."

  Anders and Murphy exchanged looks, and crawled on.

  * * * *

  Somewhere in the middle of the medical division, they decided it was time to stop and have a bit more to eat and drink from their dwindling supply of C-rations. Anders, ever the scientist, still had his mind on the alien autopsies they had discovered were being performed nearby. So he amused himself in the semi-dark silence by considering human body functions and wondering how the aliens' might differ. Halfway through his meal, however, that particular train of thought brought an entirely new, and very personal, consideration to mind. Anders stopped and stared at his food as if it had sprouted legs.

  "Uh… Crash?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Uh… well… er, when's the last time you had to take a dump, mate?"

  Crash paused, chewing thoughtfully. "That would be…" he stopped chewing, swallowing with sudden difficulty. He looked up at Anders. "A long time back," he realized. "Um, in the tunnel? Shit."

  Anders covered his face at the unintentional pun. "More like no shit, don't ya think?"

  "Uh, yeah," Murphy flushed. "Dammit. I'd forgotten about that."

  "About what?" Anders wondered.

  "We've been eating C-rations for days," Crash explained. "Those were intentionally designed to, uh… well…"

  "Cork up the ol' insides?" Anders grasped where Murphy was headed.

  "Exactly," Crash sighed. "So, if you were in a dangerous area--say moving through sniper territory--you could eat enough to keep you going. But then you wouldn't have to take a crap that might either put you in danger by being stationary and vulnerable, or that might give away your position by the, er, refuse."

  "Oh," Anders sighed. "And I suppose we haven't needed to piss because we're a wee bit on the dehydrated side, despite the water bottles in the rations."

  "Yeah," Crash agreed. "Not that we've had that much water to begin with--I mean, it's been enough--but then with the air flow through these vents, we're getting a good bit of evaporation right off the skin."

  "We are in such trouble."

  "Oh hell yeah. I wouldn't want to be within a mile of either of us when things… blow."

  Anders made a sound somewhere between a snort and a retch. "Hope you like prune juice."

  "Yiecch."

  "My thoughts exactly."

  Without another word, both men put the rest of their meals, uneaten, into the backpack.

  * * * *

  "Wow," Crash commented as he peered into the room. "Look at that."

  "Looks like an auto shop," Anders noted, looking around. "What--?"

  "Well, it's a--a spacecraft shop, I guess," Crash replied, "but I meant over there on that table. Look."

  "Tires?" Anders puzzled, looking at the hardware lying on the corner workbench.

  "Landing gear," Murphy clarified. "Looks like somebody landed a little hard. Strut's busted. Broken off clean. Must have been a helluva landing. I'd guess they're trying to figure out if there's a flaw in the part, or if the tolerances were exceeded, before replacing it, judging by the strain gauges over there." He pointed.

  "Oh," Anders said, spotting the twisted, broken metal rod. "I see what you're talking about now. Shit. Bumpy ride."

  "Yeah."

  Anders studied the broken strut as best he could from a distance. "Crash?"

  "Yeah?"

  "What kind of alloy is that? I don't recognize it. But then, I'm not up on all the latest space faring metals."

  Crash's eyebrows went up. "Now that you mention it, I don't know what it is, either. It's got an odd bluish sheen to it that I've never seen. Weird."

  Anders shrugged. "Well, this is not helping us find your friends. Let's go."

  * * * *

  "We definitely seem to be in the research and development wing," Anders noted, peering up into the room from their position near the floor. "Materials science now?"

  "Yeah," Crash agreed. "Some sort of manufacturing and testing facility, I'd say."

  "What are they making, you think?"

  Crash shrugged. "Hard to say for sure. But that setup up there--" he pointed up, into the room, and to the right, "looks to me like a nose cone. And there's thermocouples scattered all over. If I had to guess, I'd say they're working on some new heat shielding."

  "Look anything like what you NASA blokes use?"

  "Negative," Crash noted. "Shuttle uses ceramic tiles on the bulk, and the hot spots, like the nose and leading wing edge, use a reinforced carbon-carbon composite stuff. This stuff looks like… well, like some sort of new alloy with a powder coating. At least, if that really is a nose cone they're testing."

  "Wish we could grab a bit, take it back for analysis," Anders murmured, scientific curiosity welling up.

  "Well, maybe we can," Murphy grinned. "Where's your multi-tool?"

  Anders grinned back, fishing the tool from his pants pocket. "Here you go, mate. Good on ya."

  Crash had just applied the tool to one of the bolt nuts on the inside of the vent louver, when the door to the lab opened. The men shrank back into the darkness of the duct.

  "Okay, Charlie, ready for the next session?" one of the lab technicians asked as he entered.

  "Yeah, Joe. How long is this one gonna take?"

  Joe consulted
his notes. "This run'll be a good six hours."

  "Okay, setting it up now. Hope you brought a copy of War And Peace."

  Murphy glanced at Anders, who shrugged in amiable defeat. "Oh well," the scientist mouthed. "Let's go."

  * * * *

  "T- this is f- freezing," Anders commented, trying not to let his teeth chatter audibly. "Arctic -tic gale comin' th- through here."

  "Yeah," Crash sighed, also shivering. "I bet I know why. Lemme look when we get to the next vent."

  The two men crawled a bit farther along the frigid sheet metal before peeping out through a grille. "Yup. Computer room, " Crash confirmed.

  "B- big -g one," Anders agreed. "L- lotta--woop!"

  They ducked out of sight as a computer technician walked by.

  "Lotta people in there," Anders finished, finding a corner to shelter in and block part of the airflow. He wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm.

  "Yeah. Looks to have a little of everything, too: Mainframes, PCs, laptops. Probably a main computing center."

  "Sort of like what Rice used to do, with central computer rooms for the students and faculty," Anders agreed, able to speak more steadily out of the main draft. "Anything useful in here, you think?"

  "Nothing we could get to," Crash sighed again. "The place is crawling with techies."

  "Yeah. Keep moving?"

  "Keep moving…"

  * * * *

  "Where are we?" Anders breathed.

  "Wing Bravo, finally, I think," Crash answered. "That last bend took us out of Wing Delta."

  "Oh. Glad you can tell. I sure can't."

  "Umph," Crash grunted, concentrating on keeping his bearings as they navigated the airshaft. There was a long silence as they traversed a long, straight stretch of vent, periodically peeking out of available gratings to determine what was outside.

  "My hands are numb," Anders complained then.

  "Huh?" Crash glanced over his shoulder, pausing in his stealthy crawl down the ducting.

  "My hands are numb," Anders repeated in a soft whisper. "This sheet metal is bloody cold."

  "It's an A/C duct, it's supposed to be cold," Crash breathed with a grin. "We aren't that far away from the computer room yet, anyway."

  "I'm too bloody out of shape for this," Anders groused.

  Crash sobered. "Mike, go back. You can still get out."

  Anders pulled a disgusted face. "You're the homing pigeon. No way I can find my own way out of the vents. Not now. We've been wandering around in here at least a couple of days now."

  Crash stopped, and maneuvered himself around until he faced Anders.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Mike wondered.

  "Turning around," Crash answered.

  "Why?"

  "To take you back to the tunnel."

  Anders stared at him. "You're serious."

  "As a heart attack."

  Anders sighed. "Crash, don't pay any attention to me. I'm… I'm nervous. I'm just sounding off. Like I told you before, I'm in this for the long haul. To the end."

  Crash studied his friend in the dim light. "You sure?"

  "Positive. Turn around and keep going."

  "Wilco." Crash followed the command, then tossed over his shoulder, "Maybe it won't be much longer."

  "Maybe…"

  * * * *

  "If many more of your predictions start coming true, I'm gonna figure you for psychic," Anders breathed in Crash's ear as, together, they peeped through a louvered vent.

  In the small room just inside, a lone prisoner sat, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. He wore the blue flight suit of a Space Shuttle crew member; patches on his chest revealed him to be CDR Jackson, late of the STS-281 mission.

  "Too damn easy. Long, but easy," Anders decided.

  Crash snorted. "Says you. Nothing about this has been ‘easy.' Long, yeah. Easier, with the help of your ‘boys' in Canberra. But easy? Dude, I don't ever want to do something ‘hard' with you."

  "Psht. Now what?" Anders asked, dismissing Crash's complaint.

  "We get ‘im out," Crash answered with satisfaction.

  "That will NOT be easy," Anders added.

  Crash sighed.

  * * * *

  The pair clandestinely examined the exteriors of several vent grilles before selecting the one from which they would exit. They chose an empty laundry room, even though it was some distance from Jet, for two reasons: one, because washers and dryers obscured the room's vent, and two, because they hoped to find uniforms to fit. After some little time searching for the right sizes, they succeeded.

  "Look at this, Mike," Crash murmured, holding up a uniform as they looked.

  "Shit," Anders said, staring at the clothing in Crash' hands. "It's a bloody Australian Air Force uniform. Look at this one," he held up a North Korean uniform. "Told ya I thought I saw one in that meeting."

  "Hell," Crash murmured. "THEY have access to this??"

  "Judging from what I saw on the budget, looks like it," Anders agreed. "Not quite what I'd call a patriotic sort of gig, this."

  "Hardly," Crash agreed, pulling out another uniform. "Damnation, look at this… isn't that patch a Libyan flag?"

  "And here's a French one…"

  "Russia." Murphy tossed aside a jacket.

  "China," Anders noted.

  "Oooo…" Crash said, holding up a distinctive blue beret. "Guess what."

  "UN," Anders breathed, staring at the beret. "You were right."

  "This thing really is international," Crash noted, tossing him the Aussie uniform. "See if this will fit. I'll grab an American one, there's tons of them." He swiped a large leather attaché case stored nearby, transferring the contents of the small rucksack he had appropriated in Area 51, then hiding the rucksack, along with the ATF coveralls, inside the air vent from which they had come.

  Once they were dressed, they looked at each other. "Not bad," Anders decided. "Let's go."

  "Not yet," Crash said, bothered. "Something's missing." He thought for a moment before realizing it was staring him in the face. "Shit. No ID badges."

  "Oh," Anders said, deflating. Then he brightened, and began digging in the dirty laundry. After several minutes, he came up for air, holding an item. "You mean this?" He was holding an American badge with clip.

  "Yeah," Crash said, the beginnings of an idea forming. "Put that on the washer there," he pointed, "and keep digging. We need three, total."

  "Okay," Anders shrugged. "Picture doesn't look much like either of us, though. And it looks to have been all created in a piece. Picture's printed on with everything else."

  "Yeah," Crash agreed, reaching back into the air vent for his coverall, "but I think I can fix that."

  "How?" Anders wondered, still scrabbling among the uniforms.

  "You remember I mentioned that little mission that I trained for, but didn't actually go on?" Crash hinted.

  "Oh, you mean the…" Anders broke off, wondering how to put it in a discreet fashion. "The martini stuff?"

  Crash stifled a chuckle. "Yes, James," he confirmed.

  "Okay, yeah…"

  Crash dove into a pocket of his coveralls and came up with a small package. "I wondered what this was in here for," he observed, holding it up. "Your boys must have known about my ‘special' training somehow, and stuck it in, just in case."

  "What is it?" Anders asked, curiosity piquing his interest.

  Crash grinned wolfishly. "All the tools I need to take the picture from one badge and transfer it to another." He waved his fake ATF badge at his friend.

  "Instant badges," Anders grinned back in understanding. "We DO need dese steenkink batches."

  "We do," Crash agreed, reaching for the badge Anders had already found, sitting in the corner, and setting to work.

  Crash painstakingly removed the photo from his badge, while Anders rummaged in the laundry. Anders' head shot up. "Whassat?" he hissed.

  Crash jerked around to stare at the closed door. "Shit! Footsteps in the ha
ll. Headed this way, sounds like!"

  "Into the vent, quick!"

  Crash scooped his items into his arms and they both dove for the vent, getting inside just as the laundry room door began to open. Anders snatched up the grille and put it into place, holding it in an awkward position so it looked normal while keeping his arms and hands hidden. They waited patiently.

  It was a pretty female NASDA scientist from Japan with a load of laundry. She plopped her full basket down and proceeded to sort its contents, then loaded several washers. But once the washing machines were running, the young scientist departed, and Crash and Mike emerged again.

  "Thank God," Anders said, massaging his fingers. "I thought my hands were gonna fall off. Twenty freakin' minutes, it took her! Why couldn't she have sorted the shit in her quarters?!"

  "Never mind," Crash grinned. "Who knew Japanese women liked skimpy lacy things?"

  Anders snorted, resuming his badge search through the laundry. "What, you figure they still wear kimonos and stuff?"

  "Nah," Crash tossed off, bending back over the project badge and working to finish removing the photo from the ATF badge. "I just find it interesting, what different women like for lingerie. It's kind of a male's insight into their minds, you know?"

  "Yeah," Anders agreed. "Like Cayleigh. She's got this real businesslike public persona, all science. But in private, and under all those business suits, she loves bright colors and lots of silk and satin."

  "Uh-huh," Crash nodded. "Gayle insisted on specific cuts for her undies, so they wouldn't show through her clothes. She liked the ‘nude underneath' look. And she liked those little short nightgowns. I forget what she called ‘em. But…" he broke off, struggling to control the memories. "Damn, was she sexy in ‘em," he choked out.

  "Yeah," Mike murmured in sympathy. "They'd probably kill us if they knew we were talkin' about ‘em like this."

  "Yup," Crash agreed, his voice turning brusque. "Best change the subject."

  "Okay. Boxers or briefs?" Anders shot back, attempting to boost his friend's mood.

  Crash stifled a guffaw. "By now, you oughta know. Boxers. You?"