Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281

by Stephanie Osborn

  Crash's eyes twinkled. He shot a secretive, amused look at Bradenton, who found himself desperately hiding a smirk behind his hand. "Promised what?" Crash wondered, playing the innocent.

  "Damn it, Tom!" Anders exploded. "You promised we'd take a look around the hangars when we were done here!"

  "Did I say that?" Murphy teased. "I didn't say that."

  "Yes, actually, I believe you did," Bradenton chortled his amusement.

  "No, I didn't," Murphy vowed with a mischievous expression in his eyes. "I'd remember if I had said that. I'm sure I would."

  "Dammit!" Anders exclaimed in irritation. "Tom, after I babysat you for two blasted days through puking and squirting, you'd damned well better not back out on me!"

  Crash and Bradenton laughed aloud. "Relax, pal," Crash clapped Anders on the shoulder. "I'm just pullin' your leg. We've got the whole rest of the day to explore those damn hangars to your heart's content, and like Mr. Bradenton here said earlier, still be on the clock, to boot." He turned to Bradenton. "Say, can we borrow your driver and Humvee again? I'd rather not melt into a puddle, trying to get back over to the blasted hangars."

  "No problem, gentlemen," Bradenton grinned, watching as Anders all but hopped in place with excitement. "Come on, I'll see you on your way."

  * * * *

  "There they are!" Paul cried from the top of Black Butte, staring through his binoculars at the Humvee roaring across the dry lake bed. "They're headed back over to the hangars!"

  "That's our cue, guys!" Phillips called, and the large group gathered around. "Is everyone ready?"

  Nods and calls of, "Hell, yeah!" came from around the top of the butte.

  "All right, you all know what your jobs are," Phillips noted. "Let's do it!"

  Immediately the group split up. One third of the group, including Phillips, turned and ran away from the edge of the butte, down the gentler slope to the east, away from the secret base. The remaining two thirds split in two, one group running north, the other, south, down the slope of the mountain to its base.

  There, they began a steady, determined advance toward the perimeter of the Groom Lake facility, dodging the cacti and Joshua trees. "Look sharp!" Paul called to the southern group, studying his photocopied map as he strode forward. "Sensor up ahead!" He pointed at a well-hidden infrared sensor inside a large clump of sagebrush. Deliberate, he walked squarely through its range. "There we go! That ought to get their attention!"

  They continued to advance on the perimeter. Up ahead, a tall chain link fence topped with concertina wire could be seen through the brush.

  * * * *

  The security guard dropped the pair off at Hangar 1 just as the call came in on his radio. "Yeah, Control, this is Charlie-Two," he responded to the call.

  "Charlie-Two, you are needed at the eastern perimeter, straight across from the base of Black Butte," the radio said in a tinny voice. Behind the guard, unseen, Crash and Mike exchanged satisfied glances. "Code three."

  "Nature of the situation?" the guard wondered.

  "There are two large contingents of civilians approaching the perimeter fence from the north and south sides of the butte," the metallic voice said again. "Head for the gate and be prepared to back up perimeter guards in apprehension."

  "Roger that," the guard replied. "Wilco." He turned to the two infiltrators. "Well, you guys take it easy," he said. "The first Janet flight will land around about five this evening, and keep arriving every twenty minutes or so for three hours after that. You can hop on board any of ‘em. I gotta go."

  "See ya, dude," Crash waved, as the guard shifted gears on the Humvee and drove off. "Thanks."

  Anders and Murphy waved until the guard disappeared into the distance. "Let's go," Anders said then, and they turned to enter the first hangar.

  * * * *

  Inside the door of the hangar, Crash and Mike stared. "Well, shit," Anders grumbled, disappointed, as he gazed across the cavernous, empty floor. "Not one bloody thing. Except dust."

  "Nope," Crash agreed, surprised. "That's… troublesome."

  "Yeah. On to the next?" Anders wondered.

  "I guess so. We can always come back if we decide we need to."

  They closed the door and wandered on to the next hangar.

  * * * *

  "Damn, this is beginning to look like a pattern," Murphy noted when the view inside Hangar 4 was as bare as that inside Hangar 1. "But we know there was shit in Hangar 18."

  "Yeah," Anders agreed. "And some of that shit was our coveralls. I'm about ready to go find ‘em, Crash," he noted. "I am sweltering in this thing." He flopped the lapels of his dark wool suit coat in a vain attempt to get cooling air beneath it.

  "Well, that's not a bad idea," Crash decided. "Let's just make for 18 and peep in each one on our way, then. If we actually find anything, we can come back for it after we change."

  "What are we waiting for, then?" Mike asked.

  Suddenly the sound of gunfire rang out in the distance to the east. Both men flinched, turning and staring out at the mountains, most particularly at Black Butte. "Damn," Crash whispered, anxious.

  "George is out there," Anders murmured, ill at ease. "You don't suppose…?"

  "I sure hope not," Crash's forehead was creased in worry. "Not that there's anything we can do about it."

  "I suppose not." Anders was subdued. "It was my idea. I'll never forgive myself if…" his voice faded into silence.

  "Well," Crash became very determined, "let's make use of their sacrifices, and get as much done as we possibly can, while we can."

  "Good point," Anders nodded, encouraged, and matching Crash's firmness. "Let's get the lead out and go."

  * * * *

  When the perimeter guards showed up, all hell broke loose. The paramilitary force moved in on the groups of UFO aficionados, guns raised. Several of the guards fired over the heads of the civilians, who stood their ground for a few more minutes as the guards continued to advance.

  The sound of multiple engines revving erupted from behind the UFO groupies, and the guards jumped, startled. Instinct and training kicking in, they snapped their weapons into position in preparation for this new, perceived threat. "Down! Stand down!" the commanding officer cried, reminding them of the standing order procedure to apprehend only.

  Over the slight rise along the base of Black Butte, several dozen four-wheel drive vehicles burst from the sagebrush, many going airborne over hillocks as they accelerated toward the civilians. The guards stared in amazement, then started running toward the invading enthusiasts.

  "Yaa-hoooo!" Paul howled, turning and sprinting toward the nearest truck. "Cut and run, guys! GO!"

  At that, the UFO nuts scattered like mice with a cat in their midst, scurrying toward the closest vehicles, which slowed down just enough to enable the civilians to fling themselves into the back, before revving their engines and turning tail.

  Within seconds, the security guards were left standing alone amid the sagebrush, as the sound of truck engines retreated into the distance.

  * * * *

  Back inside the huge bay door to Hangar 18, around the corner just enough to be out of sight, Anders and Murphy retrieved their ATF jumpsuits from the hiding place they'd found earlier, stripping all the way down to their shorts before putting the coveralls on. "Mike," Crash suggested, "get all the identifying info out of the suits, why don't ya, while I see about finding a good place to deep-six the suits."

  "Okay," Anders agreed. "But don't get rid of ‘em, Crash, just hide ‘em real good."

  "Why?" Crash wondered, zipping up the front of his coverall.

  "I dunno," Anders admitted. "We might need ‘em to get back out of this place again."

  "Well, good point, I guess," Murphy decided. "Let me see what I can find. Maybe one of these crates is open."

  One was, holding nothing more than old, obsolete fire extinguishers. Anders brought the suits over when he had emptied the pockets, and together he and Crash roughly folded trous
ers, shirts, and jackets, and tucked them into the nooks and spaces around the extinguishers, then replaced the lid of the crate.

  "There we go," Murphy murmured then. "Well, so far we've got nothing except what's in this hangar." Anders handed him half the retrieved identification, and both men secreted the lot in cargo pockets of the jumpsuits.

  "I guess we should start figuring out what we've got in here, then," Anders considered.

  "No, let's look through the rest of the hangars real quick, just to make sure there's nothing else," argued Crash.

  "Ah, what the hell. Okay," Anders shrugged.

  They slipped out the large doors and headed for the next hangar.

  * * * *

  At the end of the row, Crash shook his head as they emerged into the sunlight once more. All they had found had been a few specialized tool kits, essentials for handling any malfunctions that occurred to the Janet aircraft. "That's just too strange," he muttered, shaking his head in puzzlement. "I… there should be more there. A lot more."

  Anders shrugged. "Well, we know they're here. And my money's on an underground base. If they gave over the topside to the bean counters, then maybe they took most everything below with ‘em. You know Bradenton said it was only a hardware graveyard and storage. I still bet there's aliens and UFO hardware in there, though."

  "Yeah," Crash admitted. "But something's wrong here. My gut's telling me something's just… off."

  Anders looked at him, worried. "Any idea why?"

  "No."

  "Any ideas, other than to go back to 18 and start poking through all the shit in there?" Anders followed up.

  "No," Crash sighed.

  Anders shrugged. "Then let's go."

  * * * *

  Carefully, the two men moved deep into the large structure, exploring the cavernous hangar. They moved from one large silhouette to another and listened to the sounds of their echoing footsteps.

  "Geez," Anders whispered, excited, "I feel like a kid walking through a graveyard on Halloween. We could find who knows what kinda bodies any minute."

  "Why are you whispering?" Crash asked in a normal tone, and Anders flinched.

  "Dammit, Crash!"

  "What?!"

  "It's that test pilot testosterone, isn't it?" Anders demanded. "You just can't admit that this place weirds you out."

  "It doesn't," Crash protested.

  "Yeah, right," Anders drawled, the sarcasm obvious.

  "You weren't faking it when you were about to bounce out of your skin to come explore this, back at the accounting facility, were you, Mike?" Crash realized with no little humor.

  "Hell, no," Anders grinned. "Too many of the conspiracy theorists say this is where the Roswell stuff is kept. There's too much smoke not to be fire here someplace."

  They moved to another object. "Whassat?" Anders hissed.

  "Compressor, looks like. Air tank is over here."

  They moved on.

  "Whatcha got, Mike?"

  "Plane engine, I think. Not a dead ET, at any rate. You?"

  "Motorized lift…"

  On they went, systematically exploring the dark area, as much by feel as by sight. Anders grew more and more frustrated.

  "Where the hell are they?! This is Hangar 18. No ETs, no spacecraft. Nothing but a bunch of shit. Wish to hell we'd brought a flashlight."

  Crash stood before a large, oblong crate. "Hey, Mike, go look around and see if you can find a crowbar or something. Let's find out what's in here."

  Anders moved toward a section of wall with faint illumination and searched the work table in the dim red glow of emergency lighting. He returned with a claw hammer and a tire iron.

  "Here. Best I could do."

  "It'll work. Hand me the tire iron," Crash said, taking the tool. He energetically applied it to the side of the crate nearest the light source; as the side began to give way, Anders used the claw hammer to work the opposite corner loose. The effort was not silent.

  Moments later, the side panel fell from the crate with a high-pitched screech of offended wood, clattering to the cement floor with considerable noise. Both men stopped and waited, prepared to take cover if necessary.

  No one came.

  After several tense minutes, an eager Anders peeped into the opening in the crate, pulling out packing material. "Ohmigosh."

  "What?" Crash joined him.

  "It's a capsule of some sort." Mike was about to burst with suppressed excitement.

  "Looks like a port on top. C'mon, help me get the lid off," Crash urged.

  The two men went to work with a will, heaving and straining, until the top of the crate loudly splintered and came free.

  "It's too big. I can't see the top," Anders complained.

  "Hang on a minute. Where was that step ladder…?" Crash turned to survey the room, then hurried to get the wheeled platform he'd discovered in their earlier search. "Here. Climb up." He positioned it and locked it down.

  Anders, then Murphy, ascended the steps to the mesh steel platform, and peered into the crate with anticipation.

  "Shit!" Anders exclaimed in chagrin. "Nothing."

  "Well, no aliens, at any rate," Crash grinned his sympathy at his friend's disappointment, then sobered. "But I wouldn't exactly call a hyperbaric chamber ‘nothing.'" Crash pondered a moment, staring downward at the chamber as Anders clambered, no longer interested, down the ladder. "What the hell is an old hyperbaric chamber doing here, in the middle of the desert, anyway?"

  "Old is right," Anders shrugged, "judging by the dents and scratches on the thing. Probably just junking it."

  "No, I don't think so," Crash disagreed. "It's crated up too carefully…"

  "Well, that's the last of the stuff in here. Maybe they moved our ETs to another room in the hangar."

  "Maybe," Crash agreed.

  "Let's go see."

  "One problem."

  "What?"

  "Where's the door?"

  Anders stopped dead, then turned in a slow circle, surveying the room. "There's the big plane doors," he murmured, then paused. "Aw, shit. No other way out."

  "I doubt it," Crash decided. "Probably hidden. Let's start looking."

  * * * *

  Dr. Cayleigh Monteith dialed Dr. Mike Anders' cell phone number for the twelfth time that day, and waited, worried, while it rang and rang. Finally the voice mail activated.

  "Hello, you've reached Mike Anders' cell phone. I can't answer right now; I'm probably either asleep or in the middle of the telescope farm. But leave your name, number and message at the tone, and I'll get back with ya."

  The tone sounded, and Cayleigh started talking. "Mike, it's Cayleigh. Love, where are you?? I haven't heard from you in days. I'm getting worried, sweetheart. Please, please, give me a call. Is everything all right? I need to hear from you, darling. Are you having second thoughts? We can work things out, I swear. I love you, Mike. Please, just call and talk to me."

  The end tone sounded, and a worried Dr. Monteith hung up.

  * * * *

  In the back of the Cheyenne Mountain, lying on the bedside table beside the computer, Dr. Michael Anders' cell phone rang, and rang, and rang.

  No one was there to answer.

  * * * *

  The better part of the day had passed, and the time was drawing near to the first evening Janet flight, and still the two had not found a route into the facility proper.

  "Dammit," Crash cursed under his breath, when another section of wall came up blank.

  "We don't have long, Crash." Anders, nervous, glanced over his shoulder at the big hangar doors.

  "Hell and damnation!" Crash exclaimed, spinning on Anders, patience expended. "Don't you think I know that, Mike? Be my guest, if you think you can do better!"

  Anders stared at his frustrated friend, and Crash calmed himself. "Sorry, Mike," he murmured, a bit shamefaced. "Tension's gettin' to me, too. We gotta find a way in before those flights come back and find us." They both paused, deep in thought.

>   "There's got to be something obvious we're overlooking, buried in all this dust," Anders muttered. "This hangar's been used, so there's gotta be something…" His voice tapered off. He rubbed his temple. "Damn. Coffee was a long time ago. And no doughnuts, either."

  Crash snapped his fingers. "That's it!"

  "What?"

  "Coffee!" Crash ran to the corner, where a large whisk broom, unused for ages, leaned against the wall. He caught it up, carrying it to the dusty tire marks where the C-130 had deposited them, and began cleaning the drifted desert sand from the floor. A cloud of beige dust ballooned up around his energetic efforts.

  "What the hell…?" A bemused Anders watched Crash work.

  "C'mere, Mike, quick! Help me look!" Crash began scanning the floor.

  "For what?" Anders hurried over.

  "Coffee stains!"

  "Huh?"

  "There!" A triumphant Crash pointed. There on the concrete could be seen the dark brownish marks that were all that remained of a long-dry coffee spill. He used the broom to clear off the surface around it. More stains appeared to the right of the first. A quick sweep of the broom revealed still more. The light dawned for Anders.

  "I get it! The break room was over this way, somewhere!"

  In short order they uncovered a trail of spilled coffee stains. The trail led to the back of the hangar, on the right-hand side, then ended abruptly at the wall.

  "Door's here…" Crash murmured, "somewhere." They stared at the peg-boarded wall, covered with tools, as if it were the enchanted gateway to a magic treasure.

  Suddenly Anders began pulling and yanking tools. "Hey, what the heck are you doin'?" Crash asked, surprised. A soft hiss startled them both, as Anders tugged on a rubber mallet.

  A rectangular outline of cracks formed in the peg-board, and Anders pushed the door open with a creak. A gust of warm, stale air breathed in their faces. The sloping passage beyond glowed a dim red.

  "Now tell me I read too many damn spy novels." Anders stared in triumph at Crash.

  "Okay. You read too many damn spy novels." Crash grinned at his friend. "But so, apparently, do these guys. Let's go."

  Cautious, they stepped into the yawning opening, pulling the door closed behind them.