A tiny kitchenette opened off the main room opposite the desk, near the dining table. It was just big enough to turn around in, but it was sufficient for Blake's purposes; he hated the common mess halls, and avoided them like the plague. The little kitchenette was always stocked with the items Blake considered essential--Tooheys, bread, cheese, Vegemite, his favorite breakfast cereal Weetbix, milk, potato chips, and the like. When Blake had first arrived, it was already stocked. He had wondered, at the time, just how they had known what he liked, when nothing of the sort had been discussed by his recruiter; but then, he had concluded, perhaps it was best not to know.
After a moment's thought, he went to the kitchenette, where he procured a can of soda. He would have preferred one of the Tooheys, but if he had to report in only two hours, he considered that it would be better if his breath did not smell of beer. Popping open the can, he took a couple of sips, then sat it down on one of the night tables and stretched his aching length atop the bed. Time for a catnap, he decided in weariness; there would be plenty of time to unpack before the lieutenant arrived later, to take him to his meeting with Hotdog.
* * * *
A patient Anders spent the next couple of hours downloading CDs full of data into his program, and watching as the periodogram slowly refined. Some time later, realizing that he was starting to fall asleep in the chair, he stood and wandered back toward the bedroom, collapsing into the bed without even bothering to remove his jeans.
* * * *
"Sir," the captain reported to the general in the control room, "this just came in."
The general took the proffered transcript, scanning over it. "Synopsis?"
"Skeet shooters have acquired a target, sir."
The general scowled. "Dammit."
"Shall I fetch Blake, sir?"
"Not just no, but hell, no. Not until we know he's not going to blow chunks over half the installation."
"Oh," the captain replied, nonplused.
The general thought for a moment. "Who've we got close?"
The captain held up one finger in the classic "hold on" gesture, then moved back to her console, entering several commands on her computer. The general looked over her shoulder, reading down the list that appeared. "Ah," the general exclaimed with satisfaction, tapping the screen. "There we are. Send Crawdad and Waffen. Have them reconnoiter. Standard procedure."
"Wilco, sir."
* * * *
The next morning, Anders was awakened to the sounds of a creature scrabbling around outside the RV. He raised his head, listening, then leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing a shoe in preparation to throw it at the wall and scare off the animal, when he heard the voices floating in on the breeze through the open window. Anders froze, listening.
"So… what to do now?" That voice has a strong foreign accent, Anders decided, curious; umm… maybe Germanic? but he wasn't certain.
"Nothin', f'r the moment. Just scout around. Get a feel for th' place." Definitely American, Anders thought. Can't miss that Southern drawl.
"We do nothing?" asked the Germanic voice, sounding disappointed.
"For the time bein', yeah."
"Damn. Get rid of him now, we should, before more he discovers."
"We need t' know what he knows, first."
"What if us he sees?"
"Diff'rent story." The American voice had an audible leer in it.
"Aha," Germanic grinned.
"Hell, go see if you can wake him up, if ya want to," American chuckled. "I wouldn' really mind. But good luck. The guy only got in from Australia last night."
Laughter followed, then a considerable racket. Anders' eyes widened as he grasped their intent, and realized they were trying to lure him to his death. Thinking fast, he rolled noisily onto his back, letting out his best imitation of a loud snore, gurgling a bit, then quieting. He listened, tense and anxious.
The American let out a long laugh. "Told ya," came his response. "He's out like a light."
"Damn," the Germanic voice sounded disappointed.
"Well, don't worry. You'll get yer chance soon enough, I ‘spect." A pause. "Go over there an' check out that setup. Make sure he hasn't attached anythin' unusual t' th' telescope dish."
"Very well…"
Anders waited, tense, as the two entities puttered around the vicinity of the RV, nosing around everything, even the utilities connections. Damn, Anders pondered, if the phone wasn't bugged before, it is now, I bet. Shit.
He eased himself out of bed, careful to avoid the one spot on the floor that always creaked, making no sudden moves to shake the RV and thankful he had already leveled and anchored it so well. Silently he padded over to the window and peeped out from the corner of the pale blue damask curtain.
One man walked past, some twenty yards away. Anders scrutinized him, taking in as many details as he could while making sure to remain unseen behind the curtain, which billowed in the cool morning breeze. He was about average height and build, dressed like an American military man in a green jumpsuit, eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. Just then he turned, and Anders lunged backward, out of possible view, as the man called, "C'mon. We're done here," in an American accent.
Finally, there was the sound of footsteps crunching across the ground, and two car doors slamming. An engine cranked, then Anders heard a vehicle driving away, the sound fading into the distance. He closed the window. "No more of that," he noted grimly.
* * * *
This time, Anders precisely followed the instructions to contact his Canberra sponsors, going through a specific sequence on his cell phone.
"Brown here."
"Brown, it's Anders. I had visitors this morning," Anders said with no preamble, not even questioning the fact that the two government agents apparently worked around the clock.
"Really? You sound agitated. I take it these were not ordinary visitors."
"No. They snooped all around the RV, and were making veiled threats about me, banging around, trying to wake me."
"Did you leave the windows open?" Brown queried, apropos of nothing in particular that Anders could see.
"Yes."
"Don't do that again. Keep the windows closed at all times. They're… special, now. Vibration dampers, among other things."
"Already figured that one out, mate," Anders noted, raising an eyebrow. "Did that before I called you. But I was just hoping they'd muffle sounds inside the RV a bit. I didn't know they were soundproof."
"When you called, did you use the procedure--" Brown began.
"HELL, yes," Anders interrupted. "I went down through the procedure step by step to call you. If things weren't bugged before, they sure as hell are now."
"My colleague and I suspect they already were, Doctor. We expected this, to be frank. May I make some suggestions?"
"Absolutely."
"I would recommend that you do not let your RV remain in one place in the antenna farm anymore. Every day or so, move it to a different location. Stay inside it when you can. And be prepared to… disappear."
"Disappear where?" Anders asked, shocked, and wondering what in hell he had gotten himself into. "And who were those guys?"
Brown paused a moment before answering. "How many were there?"
"Two, that I could hear talking."
"Did they have any discernible accents?"
"One sounded typical Yank, Southern, to be specific. The other… mmm…" Anders pondered. "I couldn't place him for certain; I thought it sounded kind of Germanic, though. The syntax was all backwards. Sort of like that little green bloke from the Star Wars movies. You know, ‘Killing of you, I will be.' Shit like that."
"Hmm…" Brown considered. "Did you see either? Could you swear they were… human?"
Anders' eyebrows climbed his forehead, but he didn't question, not anymore. "Uh… I saw one of ‘em. He was human." Damn, this is cracked, he thought, trying to maintain a mental even keel.
"The other?"
"Didn't see ‘im."
"So you ca
n't say for certain."
"Um… no."
A sigh was all Anders heard from the Australian end of the line.
"Wait just a damn minute," Anders began, the light dawning, "are you telling me that…"
"Doctor," Brown told him patiently, "we have already established that the frequencies in question are not used by any known Earth-based government or organization. What does that leave us?"
Anders opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again, mind churning. The silent pause grew intolerable. At last he responded. "Sherlock Holmes."
"I beg your pardon?" Brown's confusion was evident in his voice.
"Sherlock Holmes," Anders repeated, quoting the fictional character. "‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'"
"Exactly," Brown agreed, understanding.
"Shit," Anders muttered, shaking his head, still trying to wrap his skeptical mind around the concept.
"Keep working on that data, Doctor. As to where and how you should disappear," Brown added, "we already have a plan for that. Give me your computer's fax number. I already have it, just not handy. And don't forget to activate the decryption program we installed on it…"
* * * *
Some time later, Anders' computer beeped, letting him know he had an incoming fax. He sat down at the computer desk, initiated decryption, and opened the file.
"Wow…" he muttered to himself in surprise. "They have everything planned for me to the nth degree."
He scanned through the details of the modifications they'd had made to the RV. "Bloody hell. This little baby's a rolling stealth bomber now. IR shielding, the works! Shit, with this much on it, how the hell does it move?! I didn't notice any difference in mileage…" He continued to study. "A special generator?! And extra fuel… Damn, they're serious. Survival gear…"
He scrolled further down, then stopped in astonishment, staring at the map that appeared. "Oh, dear God."
Mike Anders leaned back and gaped at the computer screen.
* * * *
A nap, a bit of food, and most of his unpacking later, a knock sounded on Blake's door. "Doctor?" Baker's muffled voice sounded from the other side. "Are you awake?"
"Yeah, mate," Blake answered with a smile, opening the door. "Feeling in a bit better humor, too."
"Excellent," the lieutenant grinned, closing the door behind himself. "Over any residual ‘airsickness,' I hope?"
"Right as rain," Blake grinned back, then sobered. "Off to Hotdog, then?"
"Negative," Lieutenant Baker replied. "He went off duty about an hour ago. You'll report to the Air Marshal."
"Haig?"
"The same."
"Wonderful." Blake's entire demeanor seemed to relax. "He's… a little bit easier to talk to."
"He has a face," the lieutenant answered in a whisper. "I like to see the guy I'm talking to, not stare at the blank side of a two way mirror."
"Got that in one, mate," the astronomer agreed, as they both glanced with suspicion around the room. "Well, let's go, then."
"Wait a moment," Baker murmured, stepping over to the environmental controls on the wall beside the door. "Let me show you something first."
"What?" Blake picked up on the surreptitious way the other man was acting, moving to stand close beside him so that he could pick up Baker's low voice.
"How to… have a bit of privacy," the lieutenant said. "Watch what I do, and memorize it."
Blake watched as Baker hit a specific sequence of buttons on the control panel. "There. Can you do that yourself?" Baker said, sotto voce.
"Mm-hm," Blake agreed under his breath. "What does it do?"
"Turns off the surveillance to the same area that the panel controls the A/C for," Baker explained. "To turn it back on…" he demonstrated another short sequence without actually touching the buttons. "Got it?"
"Got it," Blake muttered. "Thanks, mate. Why…?"
The lieutenant shrugged. "Everyone needs some down time once in awhile, Doctor. You're important to this project. Hell, you're important to the whole damn planet. I can't help but think, there's a lot of stress involved in that, you know? I'm your liaison for the next couple days, until you're settled back in, and my orders are to see that you're kept well and given what you need to do your job. Way I figure it, sometimes that includes being able to take a dump without being watched." He looked at Blake with sympathy. "I'm here to help, Blake. Not everyone here is as rigid as Hotdog."
Blake smiled, obviously tired. "Thanks, mate. You've no idea how much I needed to hear that."
"Roger that. Now, turn the lights back on and let's go."
Blake, under Baker's tutelage, re-instituted the surveillance in the flat. Then the two exited the apartment, headed for Control.
* * * *
"So, Steve," Air Marshal Haig remarked in a friendly fashion, "what have you got for us, mate?"
"Well, sir, I was hoping you could tell me," Blake responded, surprised.
"What do you mean?" Haig asked, puzzled, gesturing an invitation to take a chair.
"I was finishing my last observing run before I completed my report," Blake elaborated, sitting down in the cushioned visitor's chair in the air marshal's plush, walnut-paneled office. The thick padding beneath the slate blue upholstery cradled him, easing the residual stiffness the scientist still experienced after his trans-Pacific flight, and he sighed in relief. "Oh, that's a helluva lot better than a plane seat," he commented offhand, and Haig smiled.
"Why do you think I made sure to get such plush, cushy chairs, mate?" he smirked. "You aren't the only one to have a long plane ride to get here."
Blake grinned companionably. "Anyway, I was trying to get just a bit more data to refine my numbers, when Hotdog called me in, no ifs, ands, or buts. I got no idea, really, what's up. I think an old mate of mine might be a little too close, but I don't know any more than that."
"Hm," Haig frowned with concern. "That's troubling. Who's the mate?"
"Mike. Dr. Michael C. Anders."
"Ah, that bloke," the air marshal remarked, knowing. "Yes, we have reason to think Canberra contacted him."
"I know that," Blake informed him. "I took the bloody call."
"Ah," Haig said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, likely Hotdog just wanted you available, then, as a resource."
"Mm," Blake answered, noncommittal.
"Look, Steve," Haig said, glancing at the heavy walnut door to ensure it was well closed, "you know what Hotdog's like. You stand a better chance of protecting your mate if you're involved in the planning."
Blake glanced around in suspicion, then asked in a low tone, "What the hell sort of man is Hotdog, anyway?"
"Damned if I bloody well know," Haig admitted. "Never met ‘im."
"You?! Never met him??" Blake blurted in astonishment.
"Just so. A little scary, eh?" Haig noted ruefully.
"A lot scary." Blake was badly shaken.
Haig sat down across the solid mahogany desk from Blake, and sighed. "So your observations are incomplete."
"Well…" Blake hesitated, searching for the right words, "let's just say they aren't as complete as I'd like, but they're acceptable. The margin of error is still a bit larger than I'd prefer, but I can still wind up the report as is, and present it to the team in a couple of days. Provided I don't have to bloody well become Anders' bodyguard."
"I'll see what I can do about that," Haig promised. "Meanwhile, you finish that report. Can you have a briefing ready a week from now?"
"On next Thursday? Mmm…" Blake considered. "I haven't refined the new data yet… need to extrapolate, to cover for the data I DIDN'T get… then calculate the coordinates…"
"Two weeks, then."
"Two? Sure thing."
"Good man…"
* * * *
Anders slaved over the next few days. He completely dropped his original planned observing program, concentrating solely on adding to the database of observations pr
ovided by his Canberra associates. His entire focus was on locating the mysterious bogey the G-men, Jones and Brown, had introduced to him.
After a few days, he had enough data to make a prediction.
"Tonight, 07:12 UT," he told himself with a grim smile. "Think I'll break out the old Dob."
He set about extracting his Dobsonian telescope with its CCD photographic equipment, and setting it up beside the RV.
"Time to bag an alien," he murmured with grim satisfaction, as the sun set.
Chapter 8
Crash finished typing the email and pressed "send," then sat back and stared at the computer screen, waiting. A half an hour later, his computer beeped, and he brought up the reply.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subj: Special Tests
Recvd 18:32 CDT W Jul 14
Crash,
Thanx for the words re: Mitch. Am forwarding your condolences on to the team and the Mitchell family. It happened about three hours after you left. Mitch had been handling some business over in the M&P Lab, and just got back to the bay. We're *still* investigating, but it looks like the crane cable jammed and initiated an oscillation. The vibrations shook loose the biggest chunk of P/L B door we had, on the crane. Mitch was just in the *wrong* place at the *wrong* time.
Re: Mitch checking this "airlock hatch hinge," no one here knows anything about it. There were *no* parts of the wreckage in the M&P Lab, *no* results of any testing, and *no* log of such a part having been found in any of the records. Let me know if you think it may have been another part and I will check.
Jack Woodard
WK41
MSFC
"Shit," Crash murmured, wincing. "The entire payload bay door came down on him? Damn. Poor guy." Then he paled, as he finished reading the rest of the email, and grasped its import. "Somebody stole the part," he realized. "Somebody stole the part, and erased the records of it. And then the only guy there who actually knows about it… dies. Oh, God." Another thought occurred to him, and he paled further. "Oh, dear God."
Crash hit "print mail" and laid the hard copy of the email on top of the stack of logs as he reached for the phone. He hit a much used speed dial number, and waited for an answer. "Gayle? Grab the fake records, throw some stuff in an overnight bag, and get the hell out here to the ranch--NOW."