Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (2 page)

"What's wrong, Crash? What's happening?" Jimmy asked his suddenly worried brother, as the flaming speck, growing larger and larger, flew almost straight overhead. Smaller sparks could now be seen peeling off the main object.

"Dammit! Jet, flare out, man! Shit! Break it out! NOW!!" Crash began shouting into the sky. Tracy, the "fourth team" relief FAO, was frozen, staring upward in shock, and Ham stood stiffly, head tilted back, listening to the cell phone he held to his ear. They all watched dumbly as the white-hot streak shot by overhead and disappeared behind the house, trailing flaming sparks in its wake.

Crash ran around the house to the front, trying to keep the airborne conflagration in view, and the others followed. "Damn, Jimmy, she's comin' in hot," he belatedly answered his little brother. "Jet's not bleeding off velocity in the roll reversals like he's supposed to…" Crash paused, horrified. "Not that it looks like it would do much good, anyway…"

The gathered celebrants watched in stunned disbelief as the fireball plunged toward the southeastern horizon, flickered, and burned out.

Chapter 2

"…Yeah, I just don't like that," Dr. Michael Charles Anders commented to his observatory assistant in a soft, lilting Australian accent. The tall, handsome blond scientist remarked, "Let's run a quick calibration, shall we?"

"Sounds like a plan, mate," came the casual reply, as Ryan, the tech usually assigned to Anders for his observing sessions and a doctoral candidate in his own right, entered the appropriate computer commands to begin calibrating the coudé spectrograph of the Anglo-Australian Observatory. "Never hurts."

"Exactly," Anders commented with satisfaction. "I want to make sure my last night of data is good."

"There she goes," the tech added, as the automated process began.

"Good."

"Wanna listen to a CD while we wait for it to finish?" Ryan asked.

Anders laughed. "What are you into this week?"

"Got the sound track to the Wachowskis' latest, right here." The assistant twiddled the CD between his fingers.

"No, thanks. I'll pass." Anders stifled a snort.

"Your loss. Those blokes make good movies," Ryan noted.

"Oh, I'm sure they do," Anders protested. "It's just not my taste--"

"Hey, Mike," a voice called up the stairs, "phone call."

"Thanks, Steve. Coming down," Anders called by way of reply, before turning to the tech. "I'll be right back."

"Okay," Ryan replied nonchalantly, popping the movie score into the CD player.

Intense, pounding symphonic music blasted from the observatory's dome as Anders descended, and the scientist grimaced. "No wonder I have to recalibrate every other night," he muttered good-naturedly, unable to restrain a soft chuckle.

He turned the corner into the office wing, where Dr. Steven Thomas Blake stood in the doorway, holding the phone for him, the extra-long cord stretched out behind the tall thin brunet. "Damn, Mike," Blake commented, "it's awful late to be gettin' a phone call up here, mate. Caller ID says it's out of Canberra, too. You got a govvie, here."

Anders shrugged, glancing at his watch. "It's only one A.M., Steve," he answered. "Besides, everybody who knows me knows this is where I am, and not to bother calling me in the daytime. I'm going back to the States the day after tomorrow anyway; what's the point of switching back to Sydney time?"

Blake gave his colleague a wry grin as he handed over the phone. "You have a point there, Mike." He turned to his desk, gathering up a stack of papers and charts. "Guess I'd better get with it, myself. There's an Echelle spectrometer waiting for me."

"Good viewing," Anders wished his co-worker as he put the phone to his ear and his fellow scientist exited. "Hello."

The voice on the other end of the line was male, Australian, and, somehow, deceptively quiet. "Doctor Anders?"

"Speaking." Anders glanced absently at his watch, wondering how long it would take Ryan to finish the calibration.

"Dr. Anders, this is…" the voice hesitated for a brief moment, "Mr. Brown, of the… Defence Science and Technology Organisation."

"Yes, Mr. Brown, what can I do for you?"

"My colleague and I, Mr. Jones, would like to meet you and discuss a little matter. Our people seem to have found an object on which we'd like your professional opinion." Brown's voice was quiet, precise, and somehow, attention-getting.

Anders shrugged, wondering what they could possibly have discovered that would be of interest. Still, his curiosity was piqued. "Okay."

"You have no problem with that? Some scientists would prefer not to work with the Defence Department," Brown queried.

"No, it's not an issue. When do you want to meet, and where?" Anders grabbed a pencil and notepad that he found on the desk, and prepared to write down the information.

"As soon as possible, doctor." Brown was firm.

Anders thought for a moment, pondering timetables in his head. "All right. I'll be headed for Sydney tomorrow morning, after I finish my observing run here tonight. How about tomorrow night in Sydney for dinner?"

"Perfect. Let's meet at Wu Fat Restaurant, just off Dixon Street in Chinatown, around seven?" Brown suggested.

"Oh, I know the place," Anders remarked, blue eyes brightening as he recalled the restaurant and its delicious cuisine. His mouth watered at the memory. "Little hole in the wall with great food."

"That's the place. You'll be there, then?"

"At seven, or as soon thereafter as the traffic will let me," Anders agreed.

"Very well, Doctor. We are very much looking forward to having your expert advice."

"Always glad to help," Anders replied amiably.

* * * *

In the narrow stairwell, Blake paused, pulling out his cell phone and hitting a speed-dial number before putting it to his ear. "Flyboy, this is Stargazer. Bottom of the world, looking up. Yeah, they got a clay pigeon. Skeet shooting club out of Canberra. Anders. Uh-huh. All right, mate, consider it done."

He closed the cell phone and replaced it on his belt. Then he slipped out the battered side door to the car park. Mere moments later, he re-entered, continuing upward to the dome, unseen.

* * * *

The night of observing went well; Anders burned the raw data onto a CD, and shut down his laptop, putting it and the CD into his case. He shook his assistant's hand with a cheery, "See ya next time, Ryan!" and headed out of the observatory to his rental car, a late model navy Holden Commodore.

Once in Coonabarabran, he stopped for a--large--cup of coffee and a full tank of fuel, then headed out on the road to Sydney.

Three hundred kilometers and just over three hours later, the car's engine lurched, gasped, then sputtered to a stop in the middle of the emptiest stretch of road between Coonabarabran and Sydney. "What the hell?!" Anders exclaimed, as he coasted to the side of the road and parked his vehicle. Glancing down at the dash, he stared in annoyance at the gas gauge. "Aw, dammit. Must be a leak somewhere. No way in blazes I ran out of petrol already, otherwise. Bloody hell."

He got out, popping the bonnet, and looking around underneath. "Ah, there you are, you bloody little nuisance," he muttered, spotting the loose connection in the fuel line. He reached in and tightened the connector by hand, astounded to discover just how loose it was. "All right. Now, I just need some more petrol." He closed the bonnet, looked around, and sighed in discouragement. There was no gas station in sight, and precious little traffic. "Shit. It's gonna be a long walk." He turned and began the hike back to the last service station he remembered passing.

Just then, a passing truck from one of the vineyards to the north topped a hill and slowed to a stop in the empty roadway. The truckie leaned out the window. "You in trouble, mate?"

"Rental car had a leak, and I'm out of petrol," Anders replied glumly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the stranded car.

"Hop in. I'll take ya down to the nearest servo, and bring ya back. We'll get ya goin' again in no time." The friendly driver beamed at him.

"Much appreciated…" Anders enthused, climbing in.

* * * *

When Anders finally entered Wu Fat, laptop case slung over one shoulder, it was almost half past seven. He was escorted to a secluded booth in the back of the tiny, somewhat shabby, family owned restaurant. He slid into the dimly lit, red faux leather seat, opposite two dapper men in dark suits. "Misters Brown and Jones, I presume?" he smiled at the two.

"I'm Brown," commented the shorter of the two, reaching out and shaking hands, "and this is Jones." Jones also clasped Anders' hand, then they each retrieved identifying information from their suit jackets and showed them to Anders.

"Pleased to meet you," Anders murmured genially, making a point of noting the identification badges. "Sorry I'm late. Had a little car trouble."

"What happened?" Brown worried.

"No biggie. Fuel line had evidently worked loose, and all my petrol leaked out."

"We've already ordered," Jones remarked, holding out a menu, "feel free."

Anders reached for the menu as Jones and Brown exchanged surreptitious, worried glances over Anders' mishap. Brown reached inside his suit jacket, extracting a small Blackberry-type electronic accessory. Jones gave the slightest of approving nods, and Brown pulled its stylus, tapping several protracted combinations of keystrokes. The little palm computer beeped several times, and Brown watched its readout expectantly. Then he looked up at Jones and nodded once, before replacing the device in his jacket pocket, leaving the program running.

Anders refreshed his memory of the menu, then turned to the solicitous waiter who appeared at his elbow. "Chicken with black bean sauce, please." The waiter bowed and departed. "So, what's up, gentlemen?"

Brown and Jones exchanged reluctant glances, and tacitly agreed to begin with the latest international news first. "Have you heard about the American Space Shuttle mission?" Jones asked, subdued.

"No, what about it?" Anders' attention was captured.

"It came apart on re-entry. Total loss. All hands." Brown's voice was quiet.

"NO!" Anders exclaimed, shocked. "Shit! What happened?"

"No one knows," Jones answered, shrugging and raising his hands. "The investigation is ongoing."

"When did it happen?"

"About noon today, our time," Jones noted.

"There's likely an old friend of yours who will be assigned to the investigation, Doctor. One Emmett Murphy?" Brown pointed out.

"Aw, damn," Anders muttered compassionately. "Poor Crash. I'm sure he doesn't need this."

"No. But then, no one does, I suppose."

Anders sighed his grief. "Well, what's this data you wanted me to see?"

Jones produced a printout from somewhere beneath the level of the table, and handed it across to Anders. "Can you make anything of this, doctor?"

Anders accepted the printout and looked at it. "I'll give it a burl." It was a long table of numbers, indecipherable to most, but an elementary read to Anders. He studied the data for several long moments. "Hm. Let me see… Radio frequencies…" He flipped a few pages, continuing to study the columns of numbers intently. Another flip of pages, then he turned back to reference an item. "Mmm… Do you have any more?"

"No, Doctor, I'm afraid that's all we have," Jones answered, somewhat diffident.

"Hm. Not really enough here to say for sure, but my first guess…" Anders remarked absently, then went back to studying the printout.

Let's see here
, Anders considered.
Radio frequencies, looks like a periodic signal. Why the hell are they bent out of shape about this? Off the top of my head, it looks perfectly normal to me. Surely their analysts could figure this out. If not, I'm asking for a cut back on my taxes.

Jones and Brown exchanged glances, wondering what Anders was thinking. Finally Brown bit.

"We have reason to believe it is an object in the Solar System," a tentative Brown offered. "But it seems to show a distinct and unusual pattern. Our analysts say it is indicative of intelligence."

Anders dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. "Offhand, I'd say you blokes have found a pulsar," he commented. "You have sky coordinates for it?"

"Well…" Jones hesitated. "We have a set of several coordinates."

"Several?"

"It… moved." Jones reddened in embarrassment, knowing the reaction he was likely to get. He got it.

Anders snorted loudly in scorning disbelief. "Then you have several different objects."

"No, sir, we don't think so." Jones was firm.

Anders gaped at them. "Then what do you think you have?"

Brown and Jones glanced at each other, trying to gather the nerve to tell this highly respected scientist their best guess. "A spacecraft," Brown finally ventured.

Anders stifled the laughter; it came out as a slight cough instead. "Gentlemen," he began, "pardon my skepticism."

Brown shrugged. "Believe me, Dr. Anders, it matches our own. But this is… important. There are… groups… in our government who must know what this object is, and where it is located. They believe it may connect with an… incident… being investigated in the Outback. A serious incident. I would like to stress that this discussion is… confidential."

Anders studied them for a moment. "You have the data in electronic media?"

"Yes."

"Let's see."

While Anders retrieved his laptop from its case and booted it, Jones fished out a CD from his dark leather attaché, which was hidden under the table. "Here."

Anders nodded, then extracted the proffered CD from its case and inserted it into the laptop, initiating his periodograph software. Slowly it built a display on the screen, and he turned the computer so that the government agents could see the forming chart. "This is a periodogram," he explained. "It searches for, and will show us, any regular repetitions of events in the data as peaks on the graph, and we'll be able to determine the period between those repetitions."

The three men watched as the graph continued to form. All too soon, it completed.