"Sure you want to?" Anders asked, concerned. "They might recognize--" he broke off as he glanced back, then started to chuckle. "I done good."
"Yup. They're not gonna recognize me, not at first glance, at any rate," Crash remarked dryly. "You did a damn good job picking the color. It's almost the exact same shade as my brother Jimmy."
Anders laughed aloud, pulling the RV to the road shoulder. "Well, red hair was about as different from your usual look as I could come up with."
"Yup," the flame-haired man said, taking Anders' place in the driver's seat. "I even dabbed a little on my eyebrows, to make ‘em match. Stunk like hell, though."
"I bet," Anders agreed, grinning as he stretched a bit.
"Why don't you get some sleep?" Crash offered.
"I will. But I had an idea," Anders noted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, toward the computer on the dressing table. "I just want to see if any of my astronomical imaging software can do anything with your telemetry data first."
A scarlet eyebrow rose. "There's an idea. How long will it take?"
"Dunno. May not work at all. I'll set it running, then collapse."
"Roger that, old buddy."
* * * *
The two black-clothed men stood in an alleyway in the dawn-lit Mexican village of Heroica Nogales. A black Jeep Cherokee was parked nearby. One of them held a western shirt and baseball cap, extracted from a trash bin in the alley. Eyes hidden behind dark aviator style sunglasses, their expressions were nevertheless furious.
"Damn," one of them said. His tone was dangerous in its deceptive softness.
They threw the garments into the back of the Jeep as they climbed in, then pushed further into Mexico.
* * * *
"Vegas!" Anders exclaimed, as they crossed the city limits after a meandering journey. "City of ‘You Can Do Anything For A Price.'"
"Yup," Crash agreed from the driver's seat, "including hide most anything in plain sight."
"Lucky for you." Anders threw Crash a meaningful glance.
"Cuts both ways, Mike. I've gotta be careful." Crash returned the glance with a grim look.
"Make that ‘we,' Crash." Anders was pointed.
"We," Crash agreed, though reluctantly.
"Where exactly are we headed?" Mike wondered.
"McCarran Airport."
"Hah!" Anders exclaimed again, triumphant. "I knew it! The Janet flights!"
"Janet? Who, or what, the hell is that?" A frowning Crash threw Mike a puzzled look.
"The secret flights in and out of Area 51. That's what they call ‘em," Anders informed him rather smugly.
"Oh. Yeah." Crash paused, disgusted. "Some secret."
Anders chuckled. "Yeah. What's the plan?"
"Find one. Get on it. Get inside. Look around."
"Riiiiight," Anders drawled in total disbelief. "Simple and straightforward. Like bloody hell."
"‘Bout like," Crash agreed, navigating the interstate spur to the airport. "We're gonna start by scoping the place out."
* * * *
"Where the hell are you going, Crash?" Anders asked as Crash parked the RV. "This is the freight area."
"You were never in the military, were you, Mike?" Crash asked in response.
"No," Anders stared at him. "But what does that have to do with the blasted price of tea in London?"
"Trust me." Crash opened the door and exited the RV, and Anders followed.
The two silent men stood beside the Cheyenne, as Crash turned a knowledgeable eye on the nearby hangars in the airport, scrutinizing each one in turn. "Mmm…" he mumbled to himself, as Anders simply gazed about in bemusement. "Uh-huh," Crash muttered. "Bingo."
"What?"
Crash glanced away in order to appear like a casual onlooker. "C-130 at one o'clock," he murmured, "in front of the Air Train Freight hangar."
"I see it. So?" Anders shrugged.
"No other C-130s in the area. And no activity around the hangar."
"Again--so?"
"A C-130 is a military transport," Crash explained, "and it's mid-morning--no Janet flights."
"Yeah, okay, I'll buy that," admitted Anders, "but that's not a military craft. It's got this company's logo all over it."
"Mike, look around us. Do you see any other cargo hangar with that kind of craft?"
"No…"
"Any other hangar with no activity or signs of life?"
"No." Anders nodded, beginning to understand Murphy's reasoning. "So ATF is the one. Ah--ATF--cute. Hm. They've changed front companies, then. Now what?"
"Now," Crash sighed, "I have to figure out how to get in."
"What do ya mean, mate?"
"Well, if I can get in, I can sneak aboard and ride it to the site."
"Oh," Anders said, then, excitedly, "Oh!"
"‘Oh' what?" Crash asked, curious.
"Get back in the RV," Anders ordered.
* * * *
"Okay," Crash demanded, once they were ensconced in the Cheyenne, with doors and windows closed tight, "spill it."
"Would it be good if you looked like one of the workers?" Anders queried.
"Well, sure. But that's got a snowball's chance in hell of happening," Crash said, eyebrows rising.
"Not necessarily," Anders mused. "I think I know how to pull it off."
"How?!" Crash's eyebrows all but disappeared into his hair in his astonishment.
"It's kinda iffy," Anders admitted, "and probably illegal, to boot. Bad if we get caught."
"So is murder," Crash said, grim-faced. "Do it."
"Head downtown," Anders commanded.
* * * *
While Crash parked the Cheyenne, a nervous Anders studied some papers from a manila file folder, which had been hidden in one of the drawers of the dresser in the bedroom, under a pile of disorganized socks. "Okay," Crash called, "we're here."
An anxious Anders glanced up, closed the folder, and tucked it away. He stood, heart pounding, and moved to the door, where he took a slow, deep breath, composing himself. "Wait here," he told Crash firmly.
Then he stepped outside.
* * * *
On the sidewalk, Anders glanced around, as alert as he knew how to be. In a nearby alley, leaning against the brick wall, lounged a Hispanic youth, wearing a red leather jacket. "Hm," Anders murmured, considering. He casually wandered by the young man, paused, peered down the alley, and muttered, "Australian opal." Then he glanced at the boy, watching surreptitiously to see what his reaction would be.
The youth met Anders' gaze for a long moment. He pushed off the wall, then turned, sauntering back into the alley. From the depths of the alley floated the soft words, "Australian sapphires, too."
After a few moments, Anders followed.
* * * *
Ten minutes later Anders emerged from the alleyway, leaving the young Hispanic man behind, and climbed into the RV. "It's done," he announced to a waiting Crash. "His name's Jaime. We meet back here at five p.m. tomorrow for the goods."
"You're joking," Crash said in disbelief. "He's just a kid."
"Don't let him hear you say that," Anders warned. "You'd have a shiv between your ribs before you could finish the words."
"He could try," Crash drawled, confident.
"Crash, you haven't been in the military in a long time, mate," Anders pressed. "Reflexes slow down, like it or not."
Crash brushed the protest aside with impatience. "Never mind. So how's he gonna manage it?"
"Let's just say the boy has… connections," Anders allowed. Crash cocked a red eyebrow.
"Mafia? Red Hand? Mexican gang lord? Colombian--"
"I don't know, and I didn't ask," Anders interrupted, waving his hands to stop the barrage of questions. "I… can guess, though. He showed me his IDs, several dozen, all fakes, and convinced me he… knew where to get the stuff."
Crash nodded slowly, deep in thought. At last he emerged from his reverie, and clenched his jaw. "All right, then," he said, "I'll be on a Janet fl
ight the next morning."
"WE will be on a Janet flight the next morning."
"We?"
"Yup," Anders remarked confidently. "Two sets of IDs."
"Uh … Mike?" Crash ventured, as Anders started the Cheyenne.
"Yeah?" the scientist tossed over his shoulder as he put the RV into gear and pulled out into traffic.
"Dudes are gonna be expecting payment…"
"Deposit in advance," Anders grinned. "Had to negotiate that one. He wanted it all up front. Guess I'm not such a lousy diplomat after all."
"I'll give you that one," Crash said wryly. "But how…?"
"Cash advance off the, uh… the special… plastic."
Crash glanced at his friend, anxious.
"Relax, mate. I told you it's not traceable." Anders' eyes twinkled devilishly.
"Why not?"
"It belongs to my assistant."
"But… you don't have an assistant."
"Exactly."
And the two men grinned.
* * * *
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 a one-liter bottle of water and a small bag of beef jerky.
He went to the maintenance panel, opened it, and disappeared with the water and the jerky. He was gone some little time.
When he returned, the water and the bag of jerky were gone.
* * * *
Brown entered Jones' office, tossing down a fax. Jones picked it up, scanned it, then read it in detail. His eyebrows rose, and he glanced up at Brown. "When did this come in?"
"Five minutes ago."
"Jaime?" Jones pressed.
"Yep."
"Mm."
"Exactly."
The pair stared at each other awhile. Then Jones began, "Contact--"
"Gordo and Deep Six," Brown finished, headed out of Jones' office at speed.
* * * *
While Brown contacted their operatives, Jones got down to related business. He rose and went down the hallway to a heavy steel vault door with a cipher lock on it. A few keypunches later, he was inside the vault. It was deserted at that time of night. For this, Jones was thankful; there was no risk of untoward questions, or being spotted at his task.
He strode past the empty desks of the vault to a nondescript terminal almost hidden in the corner; seating himself in the faded, threadbare desk chair, he brought the screen out of sleep mode. He typed in a long, complex password, then waited as the system allowed him access.
Once he had received approval, Jones called up another password prompt. This in turn brought up still another prompt, and another, and finally, a screen to which he should not have had access, but did. A dull screen it was, all in tones of grey and blue, but across the top stood out three key words: Air Train Freight.
"Manifest, manifest…" Jones murmured to himself, searching the online page.
* * * *
Some time later, Jones and Brown met back up, this time in Brown's office. "Well?" Jones asked.
"The IDs are arranged, as well as some appropriate garb," Brown reported calmly, leaning back in his plush seat. "Two sets. Names as agreed, Emmett Conrad and Mike Peterson."
"Excellent," Jones said, face expressionless. "They're on the manifest for flight J-370, at 9:02 a.m. local, in two days. Or rather, they will be."
"Rationale?"
"Two separate rationales, one for each phase," Jones explained. "At the appropriate time, there will be an indication of aircraft malfunction on the tarmac in the Target Zone. A borg will trigger an amendment to the manifest at that time, placing them on the flight as mechanics, in a last-minute addition."
"Excellent. Deep Six is already arranging for the preceding flight to experience a slight malfunction in a hydraulics sensor at the designated locus. And then?" Brown asked, curiosity showing only in his eyes.
"Once they have arrived, and begin interacting with the personnel in the Zone, they will become General Accounting personnel," Jones stated dryly, allowing himself the hint of a chuckle. "I'm sure by now Anders will have found the new additions to his wardrobe, along with the appropriate accessories and identification."
"Ah," Brown said in satisfaction, a grin spreading across his face. "Very good. That should enable them to go anywhere, and access almost anything."
"Precisely," Jones joined his partner in a huge grin.
* * * *
Back in the airport's long term parking lot, Crash meditated in the driver's seat while Anders got some sleep. Abruptly he rose, and moved to the cabinets. He dug around for several minutes, then, with a grunt of satisfaction, produced a pair of binoculars. Returning to his seat, he trained the binoculars on the ATF hangar, far across the airfield.
"Hm," he murmured with interest, watching. "That's good to know. They've got two completely different shifts." He pondered this discovery for a few moments as he watched men arrive for the evening flights. "Probably keeps things more isolated, I guess." He glanced at his watch to fix the time. "Specialized tasks…"
When Anders woke, Crash was still observing. Without a word, he rose, pushed Anders into the seat he'd just vacated, and shoved the binoculars into his hands.
"Here. Watch."
And the tired man went to bed, leaving a dumbfounded Anders to continue surveillance.
* * * *
The sun was just going down when there was a sharp knock on the door of the RV. Anders jumped as if he'd been shot. Almost immediately, a scrabbling sound came from the bedroom in the back, and the astronomer knew that his compatriot was now wide awake and preparing for whatever was on the other side of the door. "Crash?" he hissed. "What do I do?"
"Answer it," came the reply, sotto voce. "I'm prepared. Be ready to get this baby rolling and get the hell out of here, though."
A soft clicking sound came from the bedroom. Like a safety going off a pistol, a grim Anders thought, recognizing the noise. Better be prepared to dump the bodies along the way, then.
"Got it." Anders approached the door and opened it, being careful not to get between it and Crash. He stared out into the twilight.
"Bloody hell," he expostulated. "Where did you come from?"
"Hey, there, fellas!" George Phillips exclaimed genially. "Long time no see!"
A soft groan came from the back. "We gotta stop meeting like this," Anders could just hear Crash muttering.
* * * *
The UFO nut, flying saucer addict, alien abductee, total fruitcake, loony tune. All those names and more flitted through the minds of both Murphy and Anders as Phillips fairly made himself at home, bringing the food he was preparing for dinner over and informing them he intended to be a proper neighbor and share. Phillips glanced around in curiosity, raising an eyebrow as he noted Crash's new red-headed look, but saying nothing about it. "What're you guys having for dinner? I was gonna do hot dogs," he said, unceremoniously plunking down a bag with frankfurters and buns, as well as relish, mustard, and sauerkraut.
"Uh," Anders stammered, glancing at a dumbfounded Murphy, hoping for a hint of what to do, "we were gonna fix, um, chili." He pointed to the pot on the back of the stove that Crash had thrown together several hours earlier. A soft bubbling sound emanated from it, along with a spicy, mouth-watering aroma. "It's, uh, Ray's specialty. He's pretty good."
"Perfect!" Phillips exclaimed. "We'll do chili dogs. Mind if I use the oven?" Without waiting for permission, the man turned the oven on "broil," opened the door, and grabbed a bag of hot dogs, slitting it open. Soon he was laying the dogs on the rack inside the oven.
Crash and Mike exchanged glances. Neither needed telepathy to know what the other was thinking: How the hell do we get rid of this pain in the ass?
"Um, well," Crash began, "I, uh, I've been having a little trouble sleeping, and…"
"Yeah," Anders added. "I was letting him take a nap while--"<
br />
Phillips grinned. "While you watched the Janet flights. I saw you through the windshield with your binoculars," he added.
"The what? Janet? Who's that? No, uh," Anders protested, "I just like watching aircraft. Dad used to take me to the local airfield on Sunday afternoons, when I was a kid."
"Uh-huh," Phillips grinned, skeptical. "And this is sure one interesting place for aircraft. Only one place I can think of that's more interesting. That one's a little further north of here, though." He smirked.
"Uh, where would that be?" Anders played dumb.
"Aw, don't give me that, guys. You're one of us," Phillips smirked again. "We all know about Area 51 here." He turned back to Murphy. "You go ahead and lie back down. We'll call ya when soup's on."
Anders threw Murphy a desperate look. Crash emitted an inaudible sigh, unwilling to desert his friend. "No, no," he replied, "my momma raised me to be more polite than that." He pointedly closed the door into the back of the RV.
* * * *
After a dinner of chili dogs with all the extras, which proved surprisingly good, Phillips revealed his real reason for coming over. "Look, guys," he admitted, "I need some help. I know who you are," he glanced sagaciously at Murphy. "You're that Shuttle crash investigator that's supposed to be dead. Saw your picture on the TV and recognized you back at that gas station in Las Cruces. ‘Course, I didn't remember where I knew you from ‘til you'd already driven off. I knew something was bad wrong, though, because the television report was saying you'd died in a house fire, and, there you were, about as lively as Fat Albert at a buffet."
Phillips noticed the anxious glance that passed between Anders and Murphy, and tried to reassure them. "I didn't tell anybody. Don't worry. Your secret's safe, I swear. The red hair's good, too. Gonna take somebody several glances to decide it MIGHT be you. Looks real natural."
Then he focused his attention on Anders. "I don't know exactly who you are, Mike, but the way I figure it, if you're one of Mr. Murphy's friends, you got to be some kinda rocket scientist, too," Phillips added.
"Astronomer," Crash volunteered, giving in, as Anders shot him another glance.
"Er, yeah," Anders confirmed, uncomfortable. He had not been quite ready to yield and acknowledge themselves to this odd man.
"Oh, cool," Phillips grinned. "I wanna sit down and talk to you one of these days, then. Anyway, like I was saying, right now I need some help." He pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper. "Look, I know that people think I'm some sort of nut. I know y'all do. I can see it in your eyes; I know what that look means. But I'm not. Back before the abduction, I worked for FedEx in Memphis. I was a ground crew chief, but after I pulled a stupid and admitted what happened, they let me go. Said they understood it was a stressful job, and sometimes people burned out. Said they couldn't risk having someone in that job they couldn't count on to stay cool if an emergency situation arose." He began spreading out the paper.
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 16
