Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (6 page)

"Can you… I mean, it's very expensive, love…" Cayleigh gazed at him, troubled.

"I'm not rich, Cayleigh, but I can afford this. Trust me," he offered, gazing down at her, eyes serious. "It isn't like I've had a lot to spend my salary on. The only thing I really own is the RV in the States, and I bought that second-hand. No car, no house. Just you. Let me do this." He took her hands in his.

Cayleigh smiled her understanding. "All right, then, love," she agreed, nodding. "This is the one, then."

Anders smiled in return, and waved the shop assistant over. "We'll take this one." He extracted a credit card from his wallet, and handed it to the clerk.

The clerk returned the smile, taking the card, and went over to the cash register. Mike and Cayleigh turned to each other, hugging and kissing. "I'm so excited," Cayleigh murmured, azure eyes sparkling, matching the diamonds about them.

"Excuse me, sir," the clerk interrupted, returning. "There seems to be a problem with your card. It's being rejected."

"Oh," Anders remarked blankly, coming up for air. "Huh. It should be okay. I just paid it off a couple of weeks ago. Oh well, try this one." He fished out another and handed it over.

The shop assistant swiped it, frowned in thought, then shook her head.

"What the hell?" Anders wondered, mystified.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Cayleigh asked, concerned.

"My damn credit cards don't work," Anders informed her.

Cayleigh's eyes got big. "Why?"

"Don't know."

"Sir, do you have an eelskin wallet?" the clerk asked. "Sometimes those generate enough static electricity to affect the magnetic stripes on cards."

"That's old wives' tale bullshit," Anders protested in annoyance.

"Well, sir, no offense, but what else could be the explanation?" the clerk asked reasonably.

Anders started to say something, then shut his mouth, looking thoughtful. "Well…" He considered for a moment. "Hell. I'll write a check."

"That's acceptable, sir," the clerk agreed, taking his identification to verify the check. "Congratulations to you and your fiancée."

"Thank you," Cayleigh smiled, as Anders signed the check.

* * * *

In their superior's closed office, Brown and Jones sat in front of the desk, as Johnson saved the report he was writing on his computer and turned to greet them. "Well, gentlemen," he said congenially, "how are things going?"

"Pretty good, boss," Jones answered as Brown extracted the Blackberry and laid it on the corner of the desk, so that they all could see the display. It was clear.

"Excellent," Johnson murmured. "Down to business. How did last night go?"

"Quite well, I thought," Brown answered. "He seemed very interested, if a bit skeptical."

"Don't blame him there," Johnson agreed. "If I didn't have some of the information I have, I'd probably be skeptical, too. Will he follow through?"

"We think so," Jones informed his boss. "All indications are that he is a thorough and trustworthy researcher. International reputation and all that. And we definitely grabbed his attention."

"Good. The Main Office wants to know what the hell is going on, so keep me posted."

"The Main Office?" Brown gasped, shocked. "You don't mean…"

"I do mean," Johnson said, deadly serious. "Too many good people have gone missing. And some of them have turned up later, dead. The Boss wants to know why. And he's getting stonewalled by some other offices in our organisation. One even had the unmitigated gall to tell him that no mere elected official had a need to know."

"So he came to us," Jones realized.

"So he came to us," Johnson confirmed. "Be very, very careful about this, gentlemen. I cannot emphasize this enough: The situation is very delicate. Here's an encrypted list of the offices he's contacted, with specific points of contact, that have either been evasive or denied any knowledge of the matter." He handed the pair a data stick. "Assume that these offices have been corrupted by whatever the hell is going on, and further assume that the specific personnel listed are double agents."

"Double agents? We have a mole?" Jones stared in shock.

"We have moles, plural, Jones," Johnson informed him. "At least, we have to go on that assumption at the moment."

"Shit."

"Indeed. And very deep. In particular, be especially careful of the higher echelons of the Air Force," Johnson added in a tone of warning. "My intel indicates something very disturbing there."

"Stands to reason, I suppose," Brown shrugged. "Disappointing, but not exactly unexpected."

"Agreed," Johnson said. "Keep me posted on Dr. Anders' work, if you please."

"Of course," Jones murmured deferentially. "Have you heard any more on the situation in the outback?"

"Not much," Johnson admitted to them. "There seems to be some sort of impromptu gathering scheduled to take place in a month or so; I don't have an exact date or location yet. I'm trying to get one of my people infiltrated into the group, but it's proving difficult."

"Why?" Brown wondered.

"Between the ethnicity and the particular… attributes, I'm having a hard time finding a good match," Johnson conceded. "So far it's been next to impossible to get someone convincing on the inside."

"Mmm," Jones considered. "Have you tried Joe?"

"There's a thought," Johnson said, brightening. "Good idea."

"Anything else, boss?" Jones asked.

"Not at the moment," Johnson allowed. "Keep a close eye on Anders. He's not experienced at this, and I don't want him to go missing, too. Give him anything--ANYthing--he needs."

"On it," Brown said.

"Good. You two get back to it, then," Johnson said, turning back to his computer as the two rose. Brown retrieved his palm computer, and the pair left their supervisor's office, headed back to their own, there to review the information on the data stick secreted in Jones' trousers pocket.

* * * *

Blake was in his flat, asleep in his bedroom, when his cell phone rang. One hand reached out from under the covers, groping blindly in the dark room until it contacted the cell phone on the bedside table. He flipped it open and brought it to his ear. "Blake," he slurred through a sleep-induced haze.

"Stargazer, Hotdog." The voice on the other end was harsh, grating.

Blake sat up, awake immediately. He glanced at the alarm clock. "Damn, Hotdog, it's 10:00 am local. Couldn't you have--"

"No. Listen up. The skeet shooters got the clay pigeon."

"Damn," Blake breathed. "Fuel line didn't work, eh?"

"Negative," the voice on the other end answered. "Nor the trash compactor."

"Trash compactor?!" Blake exclaimed. "You ordered a--"

"You have a problem with that, Stargazer?" the voice became silky-soft.
Dangerously soft,
Blake thought with a shudder.

"Uh… uh… no," Blake denied uncomfortably. "It's just… he's an old mate, man. We did school together…" Blake brainstormed. "Maybe we could recruit him. I can go to Sydney…"

"Too late," Hotdog retorted. "He should already be en route to the airport, to catch a flight to Honolulu. Once he gets State-side, he'll analyze that data and it'll be too late to recruit."

"Oh."

"Be on Qantas flight 1480 out of Sydney at 2:42 p.m.," Hotdog ordered. "E-ticket's on your computer now. We have… issues."

"But I haven't finished my observing--"

"You have now," Hotdog grew harsh. "Get your ass on that plane. Or would you like to be… an example?"

"I'll be there," Blake acquiesced, trying not to cringe.

"Good." The connection terminated. Blake closed the cell phone and stared at it.

"Son of a bitch," he said bitterly.

* * * *

After they left the jeweller's, Cayleigh turned to Anders. "Mike," she began shyly, "can we go by my office for a few minutes? I'd like to share the news with my friends."

"Sure," Anders grinned, aiming the car for her office.

Soon after, the couple stood in the center of a gushing group of astronomers and other assorted scientists, the happy recipients of congratulations from all sides. "Let me see, Cayleigh," Harold Waters, a short, rotund, balding man, and Cayleigh's friendly museum liaison, remarked, reaching for her hand. "I want to see this bauble." He looked at the ring with wide eyes, then grinned at her. "Wow. Some rock. You finally snagged this one. I'm glad to see you both settling down at last."

"Isn't that the truth?" Margaret Singer, the office administrative assistant, agreed. "We all knew you two were made and meant for each other, but we were beginning to wonder if you'd ever slow down long enough to realize it."

The entire group laughed, and Cayleigh and Anders both flushed, sheepish. "Well, at least I didn't let her get away," Anders managed the lame comment.

"That's true," Margaret agreed with a smirk. Then, glancing at her watch, "Speaking of which--you two had better get moving! Mike will miss his flight."

"Oh, dear," Cayleigh worried, turning to Anders. "I wanted to tell Brian, but it'll have to wait. Let's go, love."

"Don't worry," Waters called reassuringly after the retreating couple, "I'll make sure the museum board hears about it! And I'll start lining up the applications for Mike, too."

"You're a dear," Cayleigh called back with a smile. "I'll be back soon…"

* * * *

Cayleigh accompanied him to Sydney Airport to see him off. At the security checkpoint, they paused. Anders bent his head to hers, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her. It didn't take long before the kiss turned intensely passionate, and amused travelers smiled their tolerance as they passed, observing the glittering bauble of a diamond on Cayleigh's left ring finger.

At last, the security guard cleared his throat, grinning, and the couple broke apart.

"Hurry, Mike," Cayleigh whispered, urgent. "I'm counting the seconds."

"I know, love. Me, too," Anders admitted. "It won't be long, I swear."

"I love you, Mike."

"I love you too, Cayleigh."

Reluctantly, he turned and shoved his carry-on luggage into the x-ray machine and pushed deeper into the airport. He refused to look back, not certain he could continue if he did.

Fifteen minutes later, he boarded a plane for the long flight to the United States.

Chapter 5

Crash followed the flight ops recorder back over to the high bay, where he supervised removal of the magnetic tape inside. From there, he took possession of the tape and headed over to building 4663, the Huntsville Operations Support Center, or HOSC, where the Payload Control center was housed.

"Hey, Brian," Crash greeted the HOSC manager as he entered the office.

"Crash Murphy!" Brian Christiansen exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing here?" He stood to shake Crash's hand.

Crash held up the battered mag tape in one hand, Flight Data File documents in the other. "Guess," he said.

"Oh…" Christiansen drew back his hand, stunned.

"I need a little help playing this back," Crash told him. "Got anybody that can help me out?"

"Sure, Crash," Brian replied, returning to his usual amiable self. "I'll do it. Let's go downstairs to the computer room and we'll see what we can do."

* * * *

Some time later, Christiansen turned to the independent investigator. "All right, Crash, it's ready to go. We'll play it back for you on the SOPG loop. That's a restricted loop, so if you go on into the Science Ops Planning Group room you can close the door and punch it up."

"Thanks, Brian. I… appreciate the… privacy."

"Aside from the investigation, I figured… listening to the flight deck audio during the descent… when everything started to… to burn… well… I'm glad it's your job, Crash." Christiansen shrugged, looking a bit pale.

Crash pulled a wry face. "…Thanks, Brian. Where's this… SOPG room?"

Christiansen pointed down the hall. "Through that door. Hang a right just before you reach the stairs, and go all the way back through the Science Operations Area. Through the double doors, first left, only door on the left."

"Thanks."

Crash followed the directions, and arrived at the videoconferencing room used for the scientists' meetings during missions. Once there, he closed the door and activated the communications set, punching up the SOPG loop. Keying the microphone switch, he said, "Eye-eye to HOSC Manager on S-O-P-G loop for a comm check."

"HOSC Manager to Independent Investigator," Brian's voice sounded on the comm set, as Crash adjusted the volume to a comfortable level, "I read you five by five, Crash."

"You are loud and clear also, Brian." Crash opened up his documents to the Entry and Deorbit Checklists, and prepared to follow through the activities.

"Are you ready for audio playback?" Christiansen's voice sounded on the speaker.

"…Affirmative." Crash sighed to himself, dreading what was coming.

"Commencing playback."

* * * *

CDR: Houston, this is Atlantis. APU prestart complete.

CapCom: We copy, Atlantis. APU prestart complete.

PLT: Jet, you got the deorbit program loaded?

CDR: Doin' that now, Pete. Won't be long now.

PLT: Yeah. It's been real.

CDR: Yep.

CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. You are go for deorbit burn.

CDR: Houston, Atlantis. Copy; go for deorbit burn… [Pause] Everybody ready?

Crew: [Chorus of] Yeah!

CDR: All right. Begin maneuver to burn attitude. Check DAP to Auto. ADI Att to Inertial. ADI Error to Med. ADI Rate to Med. Let's do it… Houston, Atlantis. Maneuver to burn attitude complete.

CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. We show burn attitude.

CDR: Copy… Cue cards out. RCS/OMS heater… Forward RCS--Off. Left Pod A, B--Off. Right Pod A, B--Off. OMS crossfeed lines A, B--Auto.

Forward and aft RCS Jets 5--Off. Begin Single APU Start. Number one APU fuel tank valve switch--Open… control switch… Hydraulic pressure indicator… green… Houston, this is Atlantis. We have single APU start.

CapCom: Roger, single APU start.

PLT: DAP to Auto.

CDR: Copy, DAP to Auto. Left and right OMS to GPC. Houston, Atlantis. OMS engines armed.

CapCom: Copy, Atlantis. OMS armed.

CDR: Executing deorbit burn command… now.

[Short pause]

Houston, Atlantis. Countdown to OMS burn. Deorbit TIG in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… ignition.

CapCom: Copy ignition, Atlantis.

[Approximately 00:04:45 pause.]

CDR: Houston, Atlantis. Deorbit burn complete.

CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. Copy OMS burn complete.

CDR: RCS--check. OMS status--check.

PLT: DAP to Manual.

CDR: Copy DAP to Manual. Begin maneuver… Houston, this is Atlantis. We are in entry attitude.

CapCom: Atlantis, Houston. We confirm entry attitude.

PLT: Begin switch checks?

CDR: Roger. Cabin Relief A?

PLT: Enabled.

CDR: B?

PLT: Enabled.

CDR: Antiskid?

PLT: On.

CDR: Nosewheel steering?

PLT: On.

CDR: Entry mode?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Speed brake?

PLT: Full forward.

CDR: SRB Sep?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: ET Sep?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Air data?

PLT: Nav.

CDR: ADI error?

PLT: Med.

CDR: ADI rate?

PLT: Med.

CDR: HSI select mode?

PLT: Nav, one; nav, two.

CDR: Turn RHC to inhibit, panel--On.

PLT: Roger.

CDR: Radar altimeters one, two?

PLT: On.

CDR: MLS?

PLT: Three--On.

CDR: TACAN mode?

PLT: Three--GPC; ANT three--Auto.

CDR: Copy. Houston, Atlantis. Entry switch checklist complete.

CapCom: Houston copies. Entry switch checklist complete.

PLT: Beginning control surface prep.

CDR: Houston, this is Atlantis. RCS dump complete.

CapCom: Houston copies.

PLT: ADI shows roll of zero, pitch thirty, yaw zero.

CDR: Copy. Throttle switch?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Pitch?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Roll?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Yaw?

PLT: Auto.

CDR: Body flip?

PLT: Manual… [faint]
…what the?!…

[Nominal 5 minute pause]

CDR: Body flip switch to Auto. Houston, Atlantis. We are at entry interface.

Ready for LOS.

CapCom: Roger, Atlantis. We'll see you on the ground.

CDR: Copy…

* * * *

Crash paused for several minutes; then, when no more audio appeared forthcoming, he keyed the mike. "HOSC Manager, I-I on S-O-P-G."

"I-I, HOSC Manager. Go ahead."

"Hey, Brian, where's the rest of it?"

"Stand by…" There was a momentary pause, then Christiansen's voice returned. "That's it, Crash."

"Broken?"

"Negative. That's it. No more recording. Blank tape all the way to the end."

"What the hell…?" Crash was shocked.
Where's the comm blackout recording? Everything's nominal, and then it just… stops… right at re-entry. The critical part is completely missing…

"Listen, Crash, I'm gettin' word to get the POCC log books and data to you for investigative review. Got ‘em here if you want to grab ‘em when you pick up the mag tape."

"Wilco. I'll be there in a minute."

* * * *

A sleepy Blake arrived at the airport at the prearranged time, having printed off the e-ticket from his computer. He dragged himself onto the Qantas flight to Honolulu, took his seat, and promptly fell asleep.

* * * *

When Crash arrived back at the computer room, Jack Woodard was there talking to Christiansen, and holding the mag tape.

"Hey, Jack, missed you at the high bay," Crash greeted the manager, who shook his hand.

"Yeah; I'm sorry, Crash. I got sucked into a high level strategy meeting for organizing our part of the investigation. Authorizing round the clock staffing and all. You know the drill. I didn't get home until almost midnight." Woodard looked apologetic and rueful.

"Ouch." Crash pulled a face.

"Yeah," Woodard agreed, then grew serious. "Hey, listen, Crash, I've gotta take the flight ops recorder tape and send it to D.C. by special courier. Orders from on high. They want special analysis done."

"But Jack, that's nothing I can't--" Crash began protesting.

"I know, Crash, and I told ‘em so, but it's out of my hands." Woodard shrugged in annoyance. "Beats the hell outta me what's going on there. I'm told they'll provide us with high quality dubs and written transcripts A.S.A.P. once they're done with… whatever the hell they're going to do with it. That'll have to do for now."

Crash sighed. "All right, Jack. I understand. Brian, you wanna give me those log books now?"

"Sure, Crash. Hope you brought a wheelbarrow," the HOSC manager told him, maintaining a straight face as the implications of his statement sank into Crash's consciousness. Before Crash could ask just how many hard copies of the logs he would have to haul out of the center, Christiansen grinned and added, "Just jokin'. They're all electronic these days. We got ‘em transferred onto CD for you."

* * * *

At long last, a bleary, jet-lagged Steve Blake arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. "Damn," he muttered to himself. "I swear, this gets harder every time I do it."

He dragged his weary body from LAX's Terminal B to Terminal 1, before boarding a Sky West puddle jumper to Inyokern, California.

Scrunching his carry-on into the tiny overhead bin and folding his long frame into the cramped seat, he sighed as the propellers of the small plane spun up into a noisy, high-pitched whine.

"I hate it," he muttered under his breath. "Damn it to hell, I hate it with a passion."

"Excuse me, sir?" asked one of the flight attendants as she passed.

"Nothing," Blake answered aloud.

* * * *

Back in his hotel room, Crash mulled over the audio tape.
Damn strange
, he thought
. Nothing past the re-entry LOS. That's when it should've started getting bad. When… when they'd start to… when it all would have gone to hell in a hand basket. And that last comment of Pete's… you almost couldn't hear it… but it sounded like he was surprised about something, like he was saying, "What the hell?" But then Jet sounded pretty normal on the LOS call. And everything was per the entry checklist. Completely nominal. At least as far as it went… it just didn't go far enough. And I have no idea why.

Crash Murphy stretched out on the hotel bed and stared at the blank ceiling, brow creased in thought.

Chapter 6

The next day, Crash walked into the high bay and greeted Mitch as he scanned the area, studying the progress made since the last time he was in the bay. It was substantial.

"Hi, Mitch. How's it goin'?" he asked as the lab manager wandered by.

"Pretty good, Crash," Mitchell paused to address the investigator. "We've got about eighty to eighty-five percent of
Atlantis
recovered now. My guess is that's pretty close to all we'll get. Now it's just a matter of piecing it all together."

"How's it looking?"

"I know what you wanna hear, Crash," Mitch sympathized. "I'm sorry."

Crash sighed, and scanned the bay again, wary. "Where's Lisa?"

Mitch gave Crash a sly smile. "Now why would you ask that?"

Crash looked as exasperated as he felt. "Maybe because she didn't pounce as soon as I walked in the damn door."

"Lisa left last night, Crash," Mitch revealed. "Headed back to D.C. Jack sent her back with the mag tape from the ops recorder."

"Oh." Murphy paused. He crossed his eyes whimsically. "Would it be rude to say, ‘Thank God'?"

Mitchell snorted once, then suppressed it, grinning.

"I guess not," Crash decided, not bothering to hide his smirk.

The two men were silent for a moment, sobering as they stood, considering the reconstruction work. White-suited engineers scurried around the huge room like worker ants. Just then, one of the hard-hatted workers waved a hand.

"Hey, Mitch, c'mere."

"What's up, Charlie?" Mitch bestirred himself and headed over to the section of floor reserved for the payload bay contents where Charlie was working.