Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281

  Crash manufactured a scowl and directed it at his companion, all but sticking his tongue out, as Gordo chuckled, then scrutinized the two again.

  "Hang on. I think I know ya, but I gotta make sure."

  Gordo turned toward the building, leaving two anxious infiltrators standing on the hot tarmac, trying desperately to look nonchalant.

  * * * *

  Inside the building, one of the ATF flight controllers popped to her feet, catching his eye. "Gordo," she blurted, "an automated report just came in from satellite telemetry. We got an injured bird on the ground in the Zone. Hydraulics malfunction, per telemetry data."

  "Yeah, the mechanics from evening shift are already here for it," Gordo noted. "I gotta go make sure they're manifested right."

  "That ain't all that's comin' in, Gord," the controller added, pressing her headset to her ear as she listened, and Gordo paused, waiting to hear what else was up. "Oh, shit." She looked up at him. "I'm getting multiple calls from the fly boys that the lot we got out there," she gestured toward the front of the building at the unseen protesters, "is the least of ‘em. There's a whole slew of ‘em up on top of Black Butte, just watching."

  "Shit," Gordo cursed, irritated. "That means they got a full view of our little problem."

  "Roger that, boss."

  "Can the pilots see the downed bird? Is it on the tarmac?" Gordo queried.

  "Hang on a sec," the controller told him, then keyed her mike, flipping on the external speaker so her supervisor could hear the conversation. "Juliet Three Four Oh, this is Alpha Tango Foxtrot. Do you have a visual on the injured bird? Over."

  Gordo bent over the console partition as he listened for the reply. The speaker broke into a crackled, "Alpha Tango Foxtrot, this is Juliet Three Four Oh. Negative, but we departed Zone approximately one half hour ago. Our info may be OBE."

  "Hm," the flight controller muttered to Gordo. "Coulda happened after…"

  The speaker sprang to life again, interrupting her. "Alpha Tango Foxtrot, this is Juliet Three Fiyuve Oh. We left Zone fifteen minutes ago with no visual on Three Six Oh. Have you been able to raise them?"

  "Negative," the controller replied, nodding and pursing her lips in comprehension. "Their comm has been acting up the last few days, and they entered the comm shadow about twenty minutes ago, anyway."

  "Shit," an angry Gordo grumbled under his breath. "They're givin' us nothin' but shit."

  "I'd say you've identified your downed bird, then," Juliet Three Five Oh replied.

  "Sounds like it," the controller agreed, glancing at Gordo, who nodded grimly.

  Gordo headed straight for his private office, securing the door behind him. Inside, he picked up the phone, dialing an odd combination of numbers. When the other party answered, he immediately launched into his prearranged signals.

  "Gordo. Australian opal. Two eagles. Emmett Conrad, Mike Peterson."

  There was a pause while he listened, then Gordo responded, "Affirmative. Wilco," and hung up.

  He turned to his computer and opened the status window, to see that a report had indeed been filed of a disabled aircraft, that it was in fact Juliet 360, and nodded. He was well aware that the minor problem would be corrected and the bird in the air--though not out of the comm shadow--before his two doppelgangers would arrive. Then he hit a complex sequence of commands, before locating the names of Emmett Conrad and Michael Peterson, hydraulics experts, in the ATF manifest.

  Another complicated set of keystrokes later, Gordo leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. He stood, moved to the outer office window, opened the blinds, and waved the pair ahead. Crash and Anders lost no time in sprinting to the plane and boarding.

  "Go, boys," he muttered under his breath, before going out to dispatch, to send the call verifying their visitors' veracity to the flight crew.

  * * * *

  Upon entering the cabin, Crash cheerfully greeted the pilot and co-pilot, whose handles were "Fearless," and "Deadeye," respectively, then asked, "Hey, different shift and all, well, we didn't get sleep or breakfast, or supper, or whatever you wanna call it, either--got any coffee?"

  "Yeah. Look in my kit behind the bulkhead. Thermos is in there. You're welcome to it." Deadeye waved in the general direction of the flight deck's aft bulkhead.

  "Thanks. Cup?"

  "Cabinet aft. All the way aft, I mean. In the tail."

  "Roger." Crash turned to Anders. "Want some?"

  "Sure." Anders shrugged.

  The pilot shook his head. "Sorry, guys, hold up. I'm not thinking." The co-conspirators glanced at each other, then watched the pilot as he radioed base. "Alpha Tango Foxtrot, this is Juliet Three Seven Zero. Do you copy? Over."

  "Juliet Three Seven Zero, this is Alpha Tango Foxtrot. Go." The female voice sounded somewhat terse.

  "Hey, Groundhog, this is Fearless. How about a clear on my priority cargo?"

  Crash tensed imperceptibly. Anders felt sick.

  The radio voice changed. "Juliet Three Seven Zero, this is Gordo. You have a clear on that cargo, per computer dispatch."

  "Roger that. Thanks."

  Deadeye indicated the two seats behind the pilot and copilot. "Strap in, boys. You can grab java in a few. We're goin' airborne now."

  Crash and Anders obeyed, plopping into the seats and fastening the straps.

  The cargo craft taxied smoothly onto the runway. Fearless contacted the tower, receiving takeoff clearance, and within moments, they were in the air, headed out of Las Vegas. A surreptitious Crash glanced at the instrument panel and noted that they were not headed in the direction of Groom Lake, but were, instead, on a somewhat north by northeasterly heading.

  At last, when they seemed to have reached a cruising altitude, Fearless turned to the two men. "There we go. Help yourselves, guys. Like I said, cups in the back."

  Anders' churning stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly, and all four men laughed. "C'mon," Crash grinned at his friend, "let's go get some joe."

  * * * *

  "Here comes Janet flight number thirty-six," the semi-official bean counter for the UFO group announced, pointing into the bright morning sky at the approaching aircraft. Some fifty to seventy-five people stood around on top of the butte, watching the Janet flights buzz by.

  "Thirty-six!" Phillips called into the air, seemingly to no one. "This is the one that'll sit on the ground for awhile. The next bird will have our boys in it. Twenty minutes! Everyone take your positions and get ready!"

  Suddenly the rest of the waiting group began to emerge into the desert morning light, hidden behind sagebrush, rock outcrops, and manzanita bushes. The entire lot, which had now swelled to well over a hundred and fifty people of various ages, moved into the open near the crest of the peak, facing west, looking down into a broad salt flat.

  "Hello, Groom Lake," one of them murmured with affection, pulling out a huge pair of binoculars.

  * * * *

  The two men exited the flight cabin, and tried to act normal as the sight of the plane's occupants greeted them: faceless mannequins, all clad in the ATF jumpsuits. The two sole--and very somber--living passengers retrieved the Thermos and made their way to the tail of the aircraft.

  Hidden by the cabinet doors, the two men exchanged glances. "Gettin' too weird for me," Anders muttered, uncomfortable, handing Murphy two styrofoam cups from the cabinet. "I'm not cut out for this spy shit. Or else I'm gettin' too old."

  "Yeah," Crash agreed, pouring hot coffee into both cups, then adding cream to his own. "Your boys are good. Wonder who they--"

  "I'm talking about the cabin," Anders hissed in annoyance. "No people."

  "Oh. Yeah," Crash murmured, looking around, meditating on the situation. "Makes me wonder what we'll find when we get there."

  As the two men re-entered the flight cabin, steaming cups in hand, the pilot informed them, "Just declared VFR, guys. We're down below eighteen thou, in the comm shadow, hidden in the edge of the mountains. Nobody's payin' us any attenti
on--‘cept the UFO nuts, that is. Damn, are there a bunch of ‘em out and about today, too. Ah, no sweat. Ain't like they can do anything anyway, damn buncha nuts. We'll be in Dreamland in no time, fellas. Sorry there's just us for company; the live cargo flights ended ‘bout forty-five minutes ago."

  "Roger that," Anders muttered, dropping into the empty navigator's seat, somewhat as if his knees had given way.

  A worried Crash glanced at the overwhelmed scientist, now staring, dazed, out the cockpit window.

  * * * *

  The mountaintop was filled with the soft buzz of conversation. Juliet Three Six Oh had, after about fifteen minutes' delay, ascertained that the hydraulics were functional and the craft had a bad sensor. Soon thereafter, its pilot had scrambled it back into the air, acutely aware of the scrutiny from the mountaintop, and taken, per usual, a different return route. The fact that that return route deviated a little further out of the way than normal was noted by the observers on the butte. The UFO enthusiasts were jubilant; all was going according to plan. Ten minutes later, they were still discussing the smoothness of the plot when a faint drone made itself heard in the distance. "Ooo, hey, Paul, you hear that?" one asked, perking up.

  "Yeah!" Paul exclaimed. "It's Janet flight number thirty-seven! Here come George's boys! Hey, George!" Paul waved, then jabbed his finger at the oncoming craft.

  "Yeah, Paul, I see it!" Phillips called back, shading his eyes with his hand and staring to the south. "Here they come! Godspeed, guys! Good luck!" He got a very determined expression on his face, and started forward, relentless. The others followed.

  Within moments a veritable horde of people was perched on the edge of the butte, binoculars out, staring down at the military base far below. As the sound of the approaching C-130 grew louder, Phillips counted down. "And five… four… three… two… one… NOW!"

  Easily half of the binoculars in the crowd tilted back, targeting the Janet flight. Sun glints glimmered on optics across the entire top of the peak.

  * * * *

  "Strap in, guys, we're on approach," Deadeye told Crash and Anders. "Welcome to Groom Lake." He scanned the dry lake bed. "No sign of your crippled bird. Somebody must have had sense enough to pull it into a hangar, out of sight. Good thing, too. Did you see that lot of watchers up on that mountain?! Musta been a couple hundred!" Deadeye shook his head, worried. "We need to report that when we get back."

  "Hell, yeah," Fearless grumbled. "Just what we need. Like that bunch of kooks back at the terminal wasn't bad enough. Well, at least the downed bird is outta sight."

  "Damn," Crash grumbled, leaning forward to look out the cockpit window and survey the area, "that means we gotta hike around in this heat. And us never having been away from the terminal before, too."

  "Don't sweat it," Fearless grinned. "ATF provides curbside service, pal. I'll taxi on into a hangar and let you out. Who knows? This baby I'm in may need your services next."

  "Hey, thanks, guys," Crash grinned in grateful response. "Just yell if you ever need a hand."

  "Roger that," Fearless chuckled. "Be careful what you wish for. Hey, you guys know there's no more flights left this morning, right? I'm afraid you're on your own until tonight. The guards only stay around the perimeter. Do NOT wander out there, no matter how bored you get."

  "Why not?" Crash queried, curious.

  "Land mines," came the terse, succinct answer.

  "Oh." Crash sank back into his seat, disconcerted.

  Fearless glanced at them with a smirk. "Bean counters are over there, though." He pointed at some nondescript buildings, set somewhat apart from the hangars. "If you get bored, go there. They're always good for some laughs."

  "Yeah," Crash bluffed, glad of the information, "but somebody oughta come up topside to give us a hand, right?"

  "Can't say," Deadeye tossed off. "I've never stayed long enough to see, myself." He busied himself with landing. "Pencil pushers won't be any help, that's for damn sure. Everything you'll need is in the hangars, though. I wouldn't worry. And if you get done fast, and get the bird in the air, you can always get some sleep until the evening flights."

  "This just don't happen that much," Anders filled in, his peerless Texan impression returning to the fore, eliciting a relieved glance from Crash; he had been concerned for Anders' mental state. "It's a little… you know."

  "Yeah," a wry Fearless agreed. "I'm outta here, after the requisite twenty minutes on the ground. This place gives me the creeps."

  * * * *

  Blake got out several cans of Tooheys, putting them in easy reach of the bed, and turning on the television before going to the thermostat and switching off the surveillance system in his quarters. Then he went into his kitchenette, getting two one-liter bottles of water and a fair-sized bag of beef jerky.

  He went to the maintenance panel, opened it, and disappeared into the tunnel with the water and beef jerky. He was gone some little time.

  When he returned, the water and the bag of jerky were gone.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later, Crash and Anders were alone in the hangar.

  "So this is Hangar 18. I have to admit, it's not quite what I expected. No wonder it gave that bloke the creeps," Anders observed, Aussie accent back in full. "The bloody place is worse than a damned mausoleum."

  It was. The two stood in a cavernous room without windows, and only scant emergency-type lighting. The dim shadows of tools and equipment stood or hung around the periphery. Cobwebs wove their way between some of the larger objects. Dust eddied along the floor, caught in small air currents.

  "Funny," Anders mused, looking about, "this is not at all what I anticipated. You'd think this part of the facility was deserted."

  Crash spun to stare at his friend, eyebrow arched in contemplative consideration. Deserted… echoed in his mind. At last he spoke.

  "C'mon. Let's see what we can find."

  * * * *

  They stashed the ATF jumpsuits behind a stack of crates just inside the hangar, where they would be accessible but well out of sight. Soon thereafter, two very official-looking, dark-suited men bearing identification cards from the Government Accounting Office headquarters in Washington made their way out of the hangar, across the brown desert scree, and toward a cluster of low, prefab buildings some little way distant.

  "Damn, and I thought the Outback was hot," Anders grumbled, sweating profusely inside the black wool of his suit.

  Crash shrugged, fishing inside his breast pocket to extract the small, elegant square of ebony silk that served as a pocket handkerchief, using it unceremoniously to mop his perspiring face. "I think it's the same basic terrain setup, Mike, if I remember right. You know, mountains and prevailing winds and geography and all that shit. Kinda stands to reason it'd be similar."

  "I suppose," Anders commented, irritated. "That doesn't mean I have to like it, though." He removed the jacket and slung it over his shoulder, exposing his short-sleeved dress shirt and allowing what little breeze there was to hit his bare arms and sweating torso.

  "Mm," Murphy took note, and likewise doffed his suit coat. "Ah, that IS better."

  "Considerably." Anders paused as an idea came to him. "Don't suppose it'd do to shuck the trousers, eh?" he asked whimsically, with an endearing, lop-sided grin.

  "Er, I wouldn't do that if I were you," Crash observed, returning the grin as he pointed at the buildings ahead. "We're about to have company."

  "Oh. Well, bugger."

  "Good idea, though," Crash agreed with a shrug, wiping his face again.

  It was evident that the pair had been observed from the cluster of low grey prefab buildings, for three people had emerged, and were climbing into a Humvee, which left a trail of brown dust in the air as it roared across the flat to meet them.

  By the time it pulled up beside them in a cloud of dust, Anders and Murphy could see that the vehicle contained a young driver, an older, balding man in dress shirt and tie, and an armed security guard, whose weapon was at the
ready. Murphy and Anders grabbed the lanyards around their necks, holding up the fake identification. "Government Accounting Office, gentlemen," Murphy called in an officious tone, trying not to cough as the Humvee came to a stop and dust billowed over them. "D.C. seemed to think a little review was in order."

  The three in the Humvee exchanged concerned glances, then the older man in the dress shirt got out, extending a hand. "Ted Bradenton," he introduced himself. "Sorry, we don't often get visitors."

  "I can imagine," Murphy said, straight-faced. "I'm Thomas McIntosh, and this is my colleague, Charles Anderson."

  "Hi there," Anders murmured politely, shaking hands.

  "Well, hop in, gentlemen," Bradenton waved them toward the Humvee. "No sense standing here mummifying in the sun."

  Murphy and Anders clambered aboard. The driver wheeled the wide vehicle around, and sped back toward the complex of buildings. Crash and Mike lifted their faces into the wind, grateful for the cool breeze of travel.

  * * * *

  "You see anything, Paul?" Phillips asked, his anxiety showing, as Paul trained his huge binoculars on the hangars.

  "No, not yet," Paul murmured, staring through the optics. "No, wait! There they are! Two guys in black suits just came out of one of the hangars!"

  "A blond and a redhead?" Phillips queried.

  "Yep!" came the response.

  Phillips punched a jubilant fist in the air. "That's my boys! Go, guys!"

  "Okay, there comes a Humvee from the other complex to meet ‘em…" Paul reported.

  "And?" Phillips pressed, tense.

  "They're getting in," Paul continued the play by play. "Headed back to the other buildings." He paused, watching. "Okay, they're going in. My gosh, this is gonna work."