"You too, Gayle," he murmured, lifting her chin to kiss her. "I'll see you at the Mouse Kingdom." He watched in silence, a foreboding feeling of anxiety gripping his gut, as she got in the sport utility vehicle, started the ignition, and drove away.
As he turned to go back into the house, Crash thought he heard, in the near distance, the sound of an engine starting. He paused for a split second on the threshold, startled, then continued inside, locking the front door behind him.
Once inside, he paused to muse for a brief moment. I know every sound on this place, and that wasn't one of ‘em, he realized, growing worried. There's no road or other house for a couple of miles in any direction, until you get off my ranch … and what happened to Phantom? He was up half the night last night, barkin' like an idiot at Gayle's Suburban, but this morning… nothing. He didn't even come out to tell her goodbye, he recalled with a shock. That doesn't sound good.
Crash flipped on the light in his study, then went to his bedroom and grabbed his binoculars. Running to the great room in the front of the house, he slipped inside the room and combat crawled across the carpeted oak floor to the large picture window, where he cautiously raised his head over the sill. Nothing in the yard… He raised the binoculars and scanned the area. Since the house was situated in a shady clump of live oak on the top of a rolling hill, it commanded a good vista, and with the aid of the binoculars, Crash had an excellent view for at least a mile.
"Shit," Crash breathed, in shock at what he saw. Off to the left of the house, about three-quarters of a mile away in an empty pasture, on one of the roads Crash had cut in for the farm truck, sat a black Jeep Cherokee. Two men in dark clothes stood beside it in the early morning light, brazenly watching the house as the sun rose behind it. A small, furry black mound lay nearby, and as Crash zoomed the binoculars on the object, a pool of congealing blood became discernible around the animal's body. Aw, hell, Crash thought, appalled, as he recognized the pitiful remains of his faithful little four-footed companion. Phantom, ol' buddy…
He blinked a moment, clearing his blurred vision, then continued to scan the group. Several pieces of equipment lay spread out on the hood of the Jeep. An ominous trail of pale dust hung in the still morning air, leading away from the Jeep. Another vehicle must have just left, he inferred, then suddenly understood. Oh, damn, damn, DAMN… Gayle. "They're after her," he whispered aloud, horrified, terror gripping his heart.
Crash dropped flat to the floor, desperate, thinking fast. He had to try to catch Gayle before they did. But they'd see him if he took the truck down the driveway. He had to slow them down, in any case, or they'd be on top of him before he could get far. He raised his head again, and scanned the entire area within sight of the window. No others. Good. Dropping back down, he crawled out of the room, then ran to the kitchen, where he used the binoculars to check around the barn. Looks like they're it. This might just work, then. Gotta move fast, faster than I've ever moved in my life.
Slinging the binoculars over his shoulder, Crash hurried into the bathroom, dug in the cabinet, and got out a heating pad, then hastened into the study. Forcing himself to saunter over to the window, he closed the curtain, then switched on the PC. While it booted, he plugged the heating pad into the power strip, plopped it into his desk chair, and turned it on, selecting the high setting. If they're using infra-red sensors, he thought, that might confuse ‘em for a bit.
Turning to the computer, he brought up the web browser, selected the bookmark for the noisiest web site he could think of, and initiated the audio system. Then he picked up the phone and dialed his brother's number.
"Be gone, Jimmy, please be gone like I told you," he mouthed almost prayerfully, as the phone rang. Moving to the window, he peeped through with the binocs, and saw the two men lean over the equipment on the Jeep's hood. That answers that question. The phone's bugged. I wonder how long they've been watching…?
The phone clicked as the other end of the line answered. Jimmy's voice announced, "Hi, you've reached the Murphy residence. We're not in at this interesting moment, but leave your message and we'll get back to you as soon as we can."
As he listened to the new message, Crash smiled in relief. Good job, little brother. You got my message and got the hell outta Dodge. That's one bunch I don't have ta worry about. At least, I hope.
As the answering machine shrilled in his ear, Crash began talking fast, extreme worry translating as excitement in the tone of his voice. "Jimmy, it's Crash. I've figured it out. I know what happened to Atlantis. And it wasn't Jet's fault. In fact…" Crash went out on a limb, watching through the binoculars, "Jet wasn't even at the controls. Get over here right away. I'll fill you in."
As he hung up, Crash saw one of the men scowl fiercely, then slam his fist down on the hood in anger and frustration. The pair in black scrambled to gather up the equipment, stowing it in the back of the Jeep, in preparation for a quick getaway. Crash tensed in unpleasant anticipation. When he saw one of them reach into the Cherokee and pull out a large pistol, then slip it into a shoulder holster, he knew they meant business.
"All right, they can't cut across the pasture ‘cause of the fence, so they'll have to take the road," Crash told himself, as he rapidly analyzed the situation. "That means I've got about ten minutes, max. Time to get my ass in high gear."
Glancing around the room, he grabbed a huge handful of data sticks from the stack of evidence and dropped them in his shirt pockets until they bulged, buttoning them shut. Several more data sticks on lanyards likewise went around his neck, inside his shirt. Three more, without lanyards, went into his jeans pocket.
Spotting the stack of mail, he saw an overnight express package from Lisa, and snatched it up. Probably the transcript and tape dub, he thought. He grabbed the laptop, still in its travel case, and ran back to his bedroom. For once I'm glad I hate to unpack, he thought as he caught up the duffel and headed for the back door.
Cautiously he glanced out the kitchen window, seeing nothing to put him on alert, then slipped out the door, locking it behind him. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and made for the barn at a dead run.
"C'mon, Yaw, ol' boy," Crash told his quarter horse while he saddled up as fast as he could, flinging gear into saddlebags, "we gotta make tracks--no, I guess we gotta not make tracks--and fast. Never thought I'd be glad of a drought."
Leading Yaw out the back of the barn, Crash listened with his entire being. Nothing yet. But they probably won't bring the Jeep all the way to the house. That would be a dumb move that could get them seen from the road, and from what I've observed, they aren't that stupid. That'll slow ‘em down, then, because they'll have to walk up the hill. He glanced at his watch, making a quick decision. I should still have a couple of minutes left. I'll risk it. Mounting Yaw, Crash turned the horse away from the house and urged him into a gallop on the sere, sunburnt grass, being careful to keep the barn between them and the house. To Crash's relief, the ground was so hard, Yaw's hoof beats didn't raise so much as a puff of dust. But Yaw veered off to the right, starting to move out of the protection of the barn's extensive silhouette as viewed from the house.
"Dammit, Yaw!" Crash exclaimed, reining his recalcitrant horse back onto the desired path, and pushing his right calf into the horse's side, "break left! I don't have time for this fool running-out shit of yours! You'll get us both killed!" After a moment, the horse yielded to the cues, and horse and rider continued on at speed.
About a half a mile away in the back pasture was a creek, a tributary to the nearby Brazos River, now cut some five or six feet deep into the surrounding soil by the last hurricane's flash flood. Crash rode down between its banks, then dismounted and led Yaw along it until he could see the house. A curl of black smoke rose from the front of the house into the clear blue sky. Crash's eyes grew wide in shock. "No, they didn't," he whispered, horrified. "Dear God… not my house. Not my home." As he watched, orange flames appeared in the first floor windows, and moments later, he heard the sound of
glass shattering as the windows broke in the heat of the fire.
"Oh, damn," Crash whispered, agonized, face drawn in pain as he watched his home destroyed. Then he turned away, mounted Yaw, and slunk downstream.
Chapter 10
Crash checked the vicinity from beneath the thick stand of live oaks in the corner of the pasture before he stepped out into the open. The black Jeep was mere feet away, but the two dark-clad men were standing up at the ranch house nearly a quarter of a mile away, one on either side, watching it burn and making certain no one emerged. Crash tried hard to avoid looking at the black column of smoke that rose high into the air as his home was destroyed. By this time, flames had erupted through the roof, and he knew the inside was an inferno. I've lost it all, he thought in agony, and if I don't play my cards right at this point, I'll lose the woman I love, too.
A determined Crash crept across the intervening space to the Jeep, using it as cover and staying low. It was turned around, headed out for a quick getaway, and the first thing he did was ease up the hood just enough to reach inside with his knife and hack at the belts, being careful not to cut all the way through, nor to leave obvious cut marks. They won't get very far now… he thought in intense satisfaction. Then he quietly closed the hood and slipped back along the side of the vehicle, glancing in through the open windows, looking for any clues as to who was making the murderous attacks.
Judging by the paperwork on the dash, and the sticker in the window, it's a rental, Crash thought as he studied the vehicle. Hmm… Makes sense, if they're not from around here. Out of state tags would draw way too much attention in a place like Brenham.
A two-way radio… military style, Crash observed with a raised eyebrow, leaning through the front passenger window and reaching for the mid-seat console to check it out with gloved fingers. He checked the frequency, and both his eyebrows rose in some surprise as he recognized the band in use; then he slipped his fingers behind the portable long-range comm set. He made some delicate adjustments by feel, then nodded. That oughta hose up communications, but good. His smirk wore a vindictive glint. He spotted a duffel bag in the back seat, and shot a swift look up at the house to judge whether he had time to investigate it.
Crash's home was fully involved now, and the two men had moved together into the front yard, watching. Don't have long. Once the roof comes down, they'll be headed back to get the hell away before anybody shows up to help. Putting aside his grief and anxiety for the moment, Crash ducked out of the car window, then leaned through the back window and grabbed the duffel, digging inside it. On top was a summer weight, military pilot style, casual dress jacket. Pulling it out, he studied it for a minute or two.
The jacket was Air Force blue, and the first thing Crash noticed was the "Triple Nickel" patch, identifying the 555th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Oh, shit, Crash thought, horrified, please don't tell me this is somebody I know. A quick examination of the jacket revealed two more patches, but one had to be a joke: "Groom Lake--Area 51." The other was a POW patch. The jacket was a size 40, with a rather threadbare, worn area on the left elbow and forearm. The name patch, however, had been removed, leaving a darker area where the rest of the jacket had faded, and a lacerated area where the seam had damaged the fabric.
Triple Nickel, size forty; threadbare left forearm. Now, why does that ring a bell? Crash wondered, pondering the familiarity of the jacket and its characteristics. He spared a few seconds to work his way through the mental roster of his old squadron. An image came to him, of a rather short, stocky F-4 pilot in Nam, so left-handed that his left sleeve was always worn away. Crash nodded grimly, filing away the details for future consideration, and looked up.
The men were starting to walk down the hill away from the house fire, and Crash folded the jacket, stuffed it back in the bag, dropped to the ground, and slipped back into the woods. There, he untied Yaw, led him to the opposite side of the trees, mounted, and headed for the Johnsons' house at speed.
* * * *
As he rode up to the Johnson place, a pretty little one-story white frame house set in several acres of horse pasture, Crash saw absolutely no signs of human life. "Aw, shit, this is Thursday," he muttered to himself, thinking fondly of the craggy old, weather-beaten cowboy, who often assisted Crash with the ranch work, and his sweet, wrinkled little wheelchair-bound wife. "They've gone to town. Oh, well." Crash rode up to the barn, dismounted, and led Yaw in, where he untacked. Then he hung up the saddle and tack, and turned Yaw out with the Johnsons' horses.
Crash returned to the barn, where he removed the loose board in the corner stall, reached into the recess thus exposed, and pulled out the spare house key. He went into his neighbors' house, located the keys to their old pickup truck, and left a cryptic note.
John and Patty,
Had an emergency come up and my damn truck broke down. Borrowed yours. May be gone awhile. Please clean my tack and take care of Yaw and the herd until I get back. You know where everything is.
Crash
He locked up the house and replaced the key in its hidey-hole, threw duffel, laptop case, and saddlebags in the passenger side floorboard of the pickup, topped off the gas tank at John's farm pump, and headed toward Brenham.
* * * *
Crash saw the emergency vehicles at the wreck site when he was still a half a mile away. As he neared, he saw the smoke and flames as the fire trucks tried to extinguish the grass fire on the road shoulder. Then he saw the overturned blue Suburban, fully engulfed, and his stomach knotted, face paling. The rescue squad stood by helplessly, and he watched as the ambulance attendants got out and prepared a body bag. Two rented black Jeep Cherokees were pulled off the road, and a state trooper took statements from the four witnesses, one of whom wore a blue military style jacket with several patches. No. Oh, damn, NO. God help me. Gayle, I'm so sorry, honey. I'm so, so sorry. I'm too late. You never had a chance. And I… I've lost it all, now. Past, and present, and future. Despite himself, a single, soft, male sob escaped his throat, breaking the silence inside the truck before quiet reigned once more.
A brokenhearted Crash Murphy pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and shoved them on, hiding dark, pain-filled eyes, glistening with unshed tears. Then he reached behind the seat and drew out John's ratty, ancient baseball cap, jamming it on his head and pulling it low over his pale, drawn face. He negotiated the battered old pickup past the emergency trucks, averting his face, then speeded up and made for the interstate by way of highway 36.
* * * *
Brown stopped by his manager's office first thing that morning. "Hi, boss," he commented, closing the door behind him and giving Johnson a meaningful glance. "How's it going?"
"Mm. Not so good." Johnson looked morose.
"How so?" Brown patted his jacket breast, but Johnson shook his head, opening a drawer and pulling out a small device of his own. The bug scrambler was already active, Brown noticed.
"It's not working," Johnson admitted, glum. "Our target group is too tightly knit, too much like a family. I can't get anyone infiltrated."
"Not even Joe?" Brown asked, surprised.
"Nope, not even him," the manager confirmed. "And they don't trust the government quite enough for us to recruit from within their group."
"Not surprising, I guess," Brown considered. "The history there isn't very good, when you think about it. They don't have any real reason to trust us."
"No," Johnson agreed with a discouraged-sounding sigh. "I suppose I'm going to have to scrub that attempt, and infiltrate the whites instead."
"They should be a lot easier," Brown noted, trying to be encouraging. "Let me know if Jones and I can be of any help."
"Will do," Johnson nodded. "C'mon, let's go get a morning cuppa."
"Good idea."
Johnson rose and came around the desk after replacing the Blackberry in his desk drawer, and the two men left the office, headed down the corridor toward the break room.
* * * *
As he neared the
interstate, Crash fished out his cell phone and dialed an old, familiar number from memory.
"Rice University Department of Physics and Astronomy. May I help you?" the cheerful voice on the other end answered.
"Elaine? Elaine Grisham? That you? It's Crash Murphy," he answered, identifying the voice.
"Crash! I didn't recognize you! Do you have a cold? You sound hoarse. We haven't heard from you in awhile! What's happening with one of our star alums? Just bought your new book at lunch today. So far, I love it. Can't put it down." The friendly department secretary babbled on, and Crash was hard pressed to get a word in edgewise. "I just hope Dr. White doesn't catch me reading instead of sorting these records," she chuckled.
"Keepin' busy, Elaine, I'm keepin' busy," Crash managed to break in. "Thanks; I'm really glad you're enjoying the book. Uh… uh, yeah, I've… uh, got a cold."
"Don't you just hate summer colds? They're just so miserable."
Crash wasn't sure he could stand the department secretary's eternal cheerfulness for long in his current frame of mind. "Yeah, Elaine, it sucks. Listen, I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if Dr. Anders was in…"
"No, Crash, he's on sabbatical--doing research on Seyfert galaxies, you know. He's only just arrived back from Down Under, and now he's out at the VLA," Elaine volunteered.
"VLA?" Crash had heard the acronym, but couldn't quite pull it out of the huge file of similar acronyms that lived in his brain, as a result of so many years of work in Mission Control.
"Very Large Array. You know, the big radio telescope network near Socorro?"
"In New Mexico?"
"Yeah, that's the one. You want his cell phone number…?"
* * * *
Crash headed west on Interstate 10, driving hard. A couple of hours past San Antonio, he stopped at a convenience store for fuel and food. Pulling his wallet, he started to put the whole thing on a credit card, then thought better of it. Plastic will show up electronically, he thought. Better use cash while I can. Thank God I still have a big chunk of the travel advance left from the Huntsville trip… He fished out his money clip instead.
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 10
