Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281

  "All aboard," he said.

  * * * *

  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 several one-liter bottles of water and extracting a small, battered, discarded old backpack from a hiding space inside one of the cabinets. He loaded the bottles into the pack; they didn't come close to filling it.

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

  When he returned, the water and the rucksack were gone.

  * * * *

  The pair rested as the car moved itself down the track, and eased up on rationing their supplies, since they no longer had such a long trip. This perked up Anders, who was, being a bit more slightly built than Crash, suffering somewhat from the deprivation of both food and light.

  Some ten hours later, a structure became visible in the distance, lit by no less than three tunnel lights. Crash backed off the throttle, and Anders stood to look ahead.

  The tunnel was blocked by a huge steel door.

  "End of the road," Crash remarked quizzically.

  Chapter 18

  "Well, now what?" Anders asked, staring at the gigantic door. "We go back?"

  "And give up?" Crash asked, angry. "Hell, no! We're way too close now." Then he glanced at his dejected friend, and his mood softened. "Hey, buddy. This is my fight, not yours. Take the car and head back if you want to."

  Anders stared at him in disbelief. "Is too my fight. Besides, what exactly would I tell the Dreamland guards, when they find me??"

  Crash hesitated only a moment. "That I kidnapped you and made you help me." He shrugged, trying to hide his pain. "After all, I'm already a ‘child molester.' Might as well add kidnapping to the list."

  "Hell, no." The scientist straightened his shoulders. "I'm in this for the long haul, mate. Besides, they wouldn't believe that story anyway. Probably shoot me on sight. Not to mention, charge me with espionage. No, if you can figure out how to get through that thing," he indicated the steel door, "I'll follow you through it."

  Crash sighed in mingled frustration and relief. "All right, let's start looking."

  * * * *

  The end of the tunnel, they found, opened up into a gigantic staging area, so large as to be poorly lit even with the three huge floodlights. The "room" was sheer rock; the enormous steel doors set flush with the granite in a wide frame that extended almost to the rim of the tunnel. They were welded shut. "Hm," Anders remarked idly, "titanium steel."

  "How d' you know?" Crash asked, looking around and trying to get his bearings.

  "Look at the rainbow effect around the welds," Anders noted. "Thermoelectrically stressed titanium. Probably used an arc welder."

  "Oh. Good point," Crash agreed. "Well, let's start in the middle and work out. Or had you rather look at the tunnel walls first?"

  "Door's welded shut," Anders remarked. "Nothing there. Might as well take the walls. Maybe there's an alcove with a door or something."

  "Okay," Crash shrugged. "Good point." He moved to the left wall as Anders took the right. "Flashlight ‘d sure be useful about now."

  "Yeah. We shouldn't be too far below the surface, though."

  "How you figure?" Crash paused to glance over his shoulder.

  "Nice fine-grained granite, this," Anders noted, running his hand over the rugged rock face, appraising it. "These small crystals only form when the rock melt cools fast, and that only happens near the surface. Of course, there's plate tectonics to consider, in this area, so this granite might not be where it started out, I suppose."

  Crash's eyebrow rose, impressed. "Not bad, for an astronomer."

  Anders grinned, sheepish. "Never said I wasn't interested in rocks too, mate," he admitted. "Fact of the matter is, I almost became a geologist."

  "Really?" Crash asked, interested. "Cool."

  "Er, Crash?" A slightly anxious tone had entered Anders' voice.

  "Yeah? You find something?"

  "Uh, no. No, I was just… wondering if we needed to be talking so much. Don't want to draw attention…"

  Crash paused in his perusal of the rock face before him, and turned to scan the staging area. He moved away from the wall to walk the perimeter of the area. "Nothing that I can see," he noted, calm. "I think we're in the clear."

  "But why?" Anders asked. "It doesn't make any sense."

  "No, it makes perfect sense," Crash pointed out. "Remember where we came from."

  "Yeah?"

  "Area 51, one of the most secure places in the States, maybe the world?"

  "So?" Anders asked irritably.

  "So," Crash explained with tolerant patience, "to get here, right where we're standing, first you gotta get into Area 51 to begin with. Then you gotta get across the desert to the actual topside base without getting caught or blown up or otherwise deep-sixed; find the right hangar without getting caught. Find the way into the first underground facility. Find your way all the way to the bottom and through the big doors…"

  "Then hike however many hundreds of miles we covered," Anders said, the light dawning.

  "Or take the train," Crash grinned at his friend. "No, I think it's safe to say they figure their back is adequately covered. Not to say that we can afford to be careless," he added, "but I think we don't have to worry about being spotted at this stage of things. Once we get on the other side of that," he jerked a thumb at the steel doors, "all bets are off."

  "Right," Anders agreed. "Well, I've got a nice solid granite wall here for about ten or fifteen meters." He glanced upward. "No sign of anything up there that I can see."

  Crash resumed his previous position and studied the rock face as well. "Not real smooth," he noted, running his own hand over the rough-cut rock, "but there probably wasn't a need for that anyway."

  "No," Anders confirmed, drawing his fingers along cut marks in the stone. "I bet they used one of those giant drills like Great Britain and France used to cut the Chunnel. Everything's cylindrical, and the bore marks kinda show on the wall cuts. I'm gonna go ahead and move…" he glanced back toward Crash and stopped, head tilted back. "Whazzat?"

  "Whazz what?" Crash asked, following his gaze.

  "Up there," Anders pointed to the far wall. "That long shadow."

  "Son of a gun," Crash expostulated, staring upward. "Looks like a shelf or ledge or something, eagle eyes."

  "Entrance!" Anders crowed. "I'd lay money our way in is up there!"

  "If it is, we're in deep shit," Crash frowned. "How we gonna get up there? This rock ain't smooth, but it isn't like it's got steps cut in it, either."

  Anders pulled a frustrated face. "Damn." His eyes traced the deep shadows above. "Wait. Crash, can you tell how far the ledge goes?"

  "Uh, geez, Mike, dunno," Crash answered at a loss, staring at the structure. "Looks like the whole length of this room thing."

  "In that case," Anders grinned, "lemme see what I can do."

  * * * *

  The tunnel was indeed more or less cylindrical in shape, but the door wall at the end produced enough of an angle relative to the tunnel walls that Anders, who had made a hobby of rock climbing some years back, decided he could chimney up to the ledge.

  "You sure about this, Mike?" Crash asked, doubtful. "Been awhile since you did any climbing, I thought."

  "Yeah, ever since I fell and busted my leg ‘bout three years ago," the scientist agreed, "but I think I can do this. Besides, we need to know if there really is something up there."

  "I dunno how to do this… ‘chimneying' crap," Crash replied, his dubiousness apparent. "If there is something up there, like a door or something, how ‘m I gonna get up?"

  Anders paused, thinking. "Disassemble the hand car for the wiring, and make some sort of cable or rope out of it," he decided. "But we'll worry about that when we get
there. Now… I think you Yanks say, ‘allez oop!'"

  Anders began climbing cautiously, a bit uncertain at first. But as he gained altitude, his confidence increased as well. "Not so bad," he noted aloud, "with the curvature of the wall, I'm almost lying back."

  "Good thing the ledge isn't up near the top," Crash pointed out. "It'd work against you then."

  "Yup."

  After about five more minutes, Anders was at the ledge. He had a sticky bit, getting himself out of the chimney-climbing position and onto the rock shelf; the ledge was almost too deep for him to reach to the wall. But in the end he managed it, and hoisted himself onto it. "Ta-daaa!" he called down to Crash.

  "Good job!" Crash called back. "Now check it out!"

  Anders turned to face the corner, running his hands over the surfaces for as far as he could reach, in addition to scrutinizing it visually; the lights in the area were offset relative to his position, and there were long shadows over much of the rock. Taking his time, he moved to his left, down the length of the ledge, staring and feeling in increments of a couple of feet at a time. Below, Crash kept pace.

  Suddenly Anders tottered. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, grabbing at the rough stone for purchase.

  "Watch it!" Crash called anxiously as the scientist regained his balance. "What happened?"

  "Think I found what the ledge is for," Anders answered. "Should have been watching where I stepped. There's hand tools and shit lying around up here. Must be an access ledge for working on some of the bigger stuff they shipped in."

  "Oooh," Crash responded, intrigued. "Interesting. Be careful."

  "No shit."

  At last they came to the far end of the ledge. "Well?" Crash demanded.

  "Nuthin'," Anders replied, despondent. "Comin' down."

  "Roger that," Crash sighed. "I'll keep looking at the walls down here."

  * * * *

  Blake sat near the front of the solid walnut conference table, trying not to appear as nervous as he felt, while the multinational brass filed into the room. He knew what they expected to hear, and he was reasonably confident of his answers. Nevertheless, he was well aware that none of the military officers--or most of the bureaucrats--present cared a rat's ass about the fact that an appreciable margin of error existed. No, he thought with a certain bitterness, they just want a hard number, a target they can aim for, literally and figuratively. And maybe, he considered, watching a Chinese officer enter the room, a scapegoat if they miss. Dear God, how did I ever get myself into this?

  That was a deceptively easy question to answer, far easier than the answer he was expected to provide at this meeting. What astrophysicist worth his sheepskin wouldn't have jumped at the chance to work with this project, after being shown hard evidence of extraterrestrial life? What man or woman in his position wouldn't have stepped up to the plate to locate the stellar system in question? And he had. He had no doubt of that. He'd had to sandwich the clandestine observations into the rest of his observing, which had slowed the process a bit, but he'd done it.

  But now they own me, he thought, despondent, as Australian Air Force Air Marshal Anthony Haig convened the meeting and provided a brief synopsis of its purpose.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Haig stated, "I don't really need to explain why we're here. We know the program has been going on for decades, and we know that we've all been involved, most since the outset, at least from a national standpoint. But as we all know, we need a target for this little show. Dr. Blake is here because, as our resident astronomer, he's going to provide that target."

  I suppose it'd be one thing if I was military. And if these blokes are right, the military's gotta be involved. But I hate it. And Blake did, with every fibre of his being.

  Problem is, Blake considered, it has to be an international project if it has any hope of working.

  He watched the Libyan representative seated with the Russian general as they conversed in low tones across the table from the Chinese and North Korean officials. The British RAF officer, seeing the exchange, rolled his eyes surreptitiously at his compatriot subordinate. Blake took it all in without comment.

  And not all of said nationals have quite the same philosophy, the same political agenda, he thought, an acerbic edge to his musings, as those of us that used to be considered "the good guys." The "cooperation" is really more of a compromise. Of procedures, doctrines, philosophies, morals, the whole works. And that's affecting some that ought to know better. Some of these folk have let it all go to their heads, too. I mean, not even the UN Security Council knows about all this, yet. The only blokes who know about the program are the blokes on the program. NO accountability. He shuffled his papers just to look busy, making sure they were in order. Just look at what might've happened to Mike. Hell, he's being just as patriotic as anybody here. He's as much a govvie operative as I am. Maybe more, since Canberra doesn't know about this project. But these blokes here, they'd have killed him as soon as look at him. No accountability.

  "Dr. Blake? Steve?"

  Blake snapped out of his thoughts, glancing up to find everyone looking at him in expectation. "Oh, sorry," he grinned sheepishly, hoping his expression had not betrayed his mind's workings. "I was just… thinking back to when I came on board the program."

  Smiles ran around the room. "The culmination of several years' work, eh, mate?" the air marshal answered in a genial fashion. "I think we can all understand a bit of retrospection, under the circumstances."

  "Thanks, Air Marshal Haig," Blake grinned back, swallowing the bitterness and anxiety. "First slide, please."

  * * * *

  "…And based on signal triangulation," Blake explained to the tense, anticipatory officials, "the signal came from the vicinity of Ursa Major." He brought up a sky chart of the constellation.

  "The Big Dipper," an American major volunteered.

  "Yes, the Big Dipper is Ursa Major's famous asterism," Blake smiled, "but the constellation is the Great Bear. See here…" He reached past the lieutenant who was "driving" the computerized presentation, to hit a few strokes on the computer's keyboard. An overlay of the constellation appeared atop the star chart. "What we all know as the Big Dipper is actually the hindquarters and tail of a huge bear."

  "So maybe we should call it Bear Ass, instead," quipped the major, whose last name happened to be Payne, and a snicker went around the room. "Or is that ‘bare' ass?"

  "That's enough, mates," the grinning Aussie air marshal got the meeting back on track. "I think Dr. Blake here has some ground-breaking discoveries to show us. The least we c'n do is to let him finish before starting in on the Uranus jokes."

  Another wave of muffled laughter swept the room, and this time, even Blake grinned despite himself. "Thank you, Air Marshal, much appreciated," he continued. "As it so happens, we could and did narrow down the location quite a lot, with further observations providing data to refine our coordinates. My final calculations put the signal's source within this box." He nodded to the lieutenant, who hit two keystrokes. A dark red rectangle appeared on the map, overlapping some of the lines that formed the bear's hind legs.

  "Gah," the British RAF officer murmured in wonder.

  "And finally… I was able to pinpoint…" Blake leaned over the lieutenant once more, reserving the final series of keystrokes for himself.

  A bright red X appeared inside the box, forming the perpendicular vertex of a right triangle with Mu Ursae Majoris and Psi Ursae Majoris. Blake gazed calmly at his audience.

  "47 Ursae Majoris," he declared. "Or, more specifically, the newly discovered terrestrial planet 47 Ursae Majoris D. Newly discovered by this program."

  Despite himself, a sense of satisfaction ran through the scientist as he watched the wide mix of reactions from the speechless military officers.

  * * * *

  "So, as you can see here, at the re-entry vehicle's maximum velocity of 0.94c," Blake explained to the assembled officials some time later, "it would take some fourteen thousand, three hundred years to trave
l one way from 47 Ursae Majoris to Earth."

  "Or vice versa," the Russian general muttered in thought.

  "Right," Blake confirmed.

  "So…" a tentative Air Marshal Haig began, "maybe we don't have anything to worry about, after all?"

  "It's a nice thought," Blake answered in a wry tone, "but I'm afraid it's unlikely."

  "How so, Doctor?" the Japanese NASDA representative queried.

  "Archaeoastronomy," Blake said. "The study of prehistoric astronomical lore. Because the Anangu of Australia, and the Anasazi of North America, among others, both have records of being visited by just such beings as we now know exist," the scientist pointed out. "The Aboriginal Dreamtime was some sixty-five thousand years ago, by most estimates, but the Anasazi pictographs date to only about one or two thousand years back. Yet we know that we were visited in 1947," he continued, "and we also know that they have not established a base within our solar system."

  "Yet," the Chinese general added grimly.

  "Yet," Blake admitted, somewhat grudging.

  "So what is your explanation, Dr. Blake?" the American major asked, voice sharp. "Or are you telling us you have none? Dammit, we need a hard date!"

  "Calm yourself, Major Payne," Blake said blandly, trying to keep the ironic smile from his face and tone. Never was a man more aptly named, he thought, rueful. "In point of fact, I believe I have the answer you want."

  "‘BELIEVE'?!" Payne bit out. "I'm not interested in what you ‘believe,' Doctor. I need hard data, a date to plan to. We're talking about the survival of the species, here."

  "I am well aware of what you require," Blake answered, maintaining his calm, "and that you feel that planetary survival is at stake." The Australian air marshal shot Blake a knowing look; he had caught his oblique reference to Payne's own beliefs on the matter. "If you will please allow me to proceed," Blake continued, "I will give you the information you want."

  "We are very near the target, ladies and gentlemen," Haig interjected mildly, by way of pouring oil on troubled waters. "Let us not lose patience with each other now, when we are so close."