"And like you don't know, either?" Anders retorted. "To be honest, it depends on whether or not Cayleigh's around. If she's not, it's boxers. If she is, it's bikini briefs."
"Aha. That's telling."
"About her, or me?"
"Yes."
By that time, Anders had also come up with another badge, but it wasn't a regular badge. "Hey, Crash, what's this thing?"
He held up a black badge with a large red T in the center.
"Ah, cool," Crash said in satisfaction. "A temporary badge. Those are used when someone's left their badge in their quarters, or hasn't had a badge made yet. Hang onto that; we can use it in a pinch."
By the time Crash had begun covering the picture on the Project: Aurora badge with his own image, Anders had come up with another T badge, but nothing more. "And I've even gone through the underwear," the scientist noted in some distaste. He moved to one of the washing machines, opening the lid and washing his hands in the water once the agitator stopped.
"Eiugh," Crash muttered, delicately setting his image, now with a hint of special glue on the back, in place on the Aurora badge. Then he dove back into the counterfeiting kit and emerged with a clear, hard plastic laminate. Gingerly positioning it, he fit its pre-made recess over the photo, then cut it to size and peeled off the backing, revealing the sticky adhesive on its reverse surface. He attached it to the entire badge over the photograph, then carefully trimmed it flush with the edges of the badge. He held the badge up to the light, turning it this way and that.
Murphy ran his hand over the badge's surface, smoothing it, before using a burnishing tool on it to apply a proper finish and ensure no bubbles were underneath the laminate. He held up his handiwork, turning it about to survey it from different angles and in different lighting. "There. That oughta do it."
To Anders' inexperienced eye, it looked exactly like it had before Crash had begun work on it, save that it now contained Crash's picture. Evidently Crash's more experienced eye was satisfied also, because he nodded.
"Yep, that'll do. I've got this one, you can use that one, and pocket the other one for Jet."
"Got it," Anders agreed.
A half-hour later, two officers, one with a handsome attaché case, emerged from the laundry and nonchalant, sauntered down the corridor toward Wing Bravo.
* * * *
Just as they turned the corner into Wing Bravo, they spotted a security guard approaching.
"Stay cool, Mike," Crash murmured without moving his lips. "You ‘outrank' him."
"Mm-hm."
"Can you salute?"
"Mm-hm."
As the guard approached, he raised his hand and saluted. "Good afternoon, sirs."
Murphy and Anders saluted. "Afternoon, son," Anders replied, completely calm.
They made as if to move past him, but he stepped in front of them, politely barring their way. "Excuse me, sir, but you don't have a facility badge, just a T badge." He turned toward Mike. "I can't let you into this wing without a proper ID badge."
Anders thought fast. "Beat the paperwork in," he tossed off, shrugging. "You know how slow Canberra's been of late. Can't have the badge made until the paperwork gets in."
The guard frowned. "I know there's been a problem there, but I'm sorry, sir, I just can't allow--"
"Son, if you want to go call Canberra and get the authorization, you go right ahead. I hope you can get someone at this hour, otherwise you're going to be waiting a bit." Anders folded his arms, cool and collected, raising one eyebrow.
Murphy jumped in, taking full advantage of the situation. "You can't ALLOW?! Who the hell are you, soldier, that you can't ALLOW a colonel and a lieutenant colonel to go about our business?? What the hell do you think I'm here for, my health? It's called a damned escort, soldier! Back it down right now, private, unless you want to spend the rest of your tour in Nordvik!" He flapped the forged badge on his jacket lapel at the guard.
"Uh, but sir," the guard began, "I'm a first lieute--"
"I know what the hell you are, soldier. I'm telling you what you'll be if you don't lay off!" Crash barked into the young man's face.
"Uh, uh, yes sir, sorry sir!" the red-faced guard apologized profusely. "You're right, sir, an escort is acceptable, under certain conditions. I-I was just--"
"We know what the hell you were trying to do! Now get the hell out of our damn way and let us get to it!"
The pair swept haughtily past the guard and marched down the hallway. Behind them, a flustered guard gathered what was left of his shredded composure and turned the corner into Wing Charlie.
Chapter 21
"Okay, up here and left," Crash murmured, and the two men rounded the corner, hearts beginning to settle back into a normal rhythm as they counted doors under their breaths. "One… two… three… four. Here." They stopped in front of a door. A guard stood beside it. Crash stepped back in deference, motioning to Anders, who moved forward.
"Son, I've been sent in to interrogate the captives," Anders said authoritatively. "Canberra wants some specific information."
"Uh, I don't have any notification of that, Colonel," the young sentry replied, confused.
"Dammit," Anders turned to Crash. "They did it again. I hate it to hell and back when I beat the paperwork. Bad enough when they won't give me a bloody badge, but this is getting ridiculous."
"You could just order him, Colonel," Crash replied, letting more than a hint of arrogance creep into his tone.
"I could," Anders agreed. "Probably the best way. I don't have time to wait for the damned bloody bureaucrats to get their shit together between D.C. and A.C.T. Jake wants this information as soon as I can get it back to him." He turned to the guard. "Son, for your sake, consider this a direct order: Bring out the prisoners and escort us to some room close by, suitable for interrogation."
"Yes, sir."
As the guard opened the door, Crash asked, "They all in here?"
"No, sir, just the commander. The others are in separate holding chambers."
As the prisoner exited the room, he glanced at his captors. Crash met Jet's eyes calmly. Jet returned the look, giving nothing away.
"All right, son," Anders said, addressing the guard, "take us someplace we can talk."
* * * *
"So, Commander," Crash said, conscious of the video camera in the corner, "you and your people saw too much."
"That's what they tell me," Jet answered, nursing his left arm.
Crash's eyes narrowed, watching the astronaut gingerly rubbing the arm. If they've tortured these guys, there'll be hell to pay, he thought grimly. "And just what did you see?"
"Beats the hell outta me. We chased after our damn satellite, and I was too busy working on getting that thing back to see anything else."
"What about the rest of your crew?"
"Same thing, so far as I know."
"So," Anders added, "you don't know why you're here?"
"We're here now because we're here," Jet answered, deliberately cryptic. "From what I've been able to gather, the scientific packages must've picked up something, and somebody assumed that we had, too. Now we're here, and we're stuck here, because we've seen the place."
"What do you intend to do about that?" Crash asked.
"I'll be damned if I know. They keep ‘asking' us to join your little fraternity."
"And?"
"Not just no, but hell no."
"What about the rest of your crew?"
"Can't say for sure. Haven't seen any of ‘em in days. But I doubt it."
Crash nodded; he personally knew most of the astronauts that had been aboard, and he knew Jet was probably right. Time to get--and give--some info.
"So you're quite ‘alien' to this installation, hm?" Is this where they're keeping the Roswell aliens?
Jet pulled a wry face. "Only ones I know of, anyway." No. Don't think so, at least.
Anders and Crash exchanged a glance. "It makes no sense to you?" What's going on here, then?
&n
bsp; Jet shot Crash an eloquent look. "It's all a huge, nasty ‘black' box to me." It's a military black op. A really big one. Pretty dirty on the inside, too. Corrupt.
Anders glared at the "prisoner" before continuing. "You tellin' me NASA's best is ‘bird'-brained, son?" NASA type spacecraft?
"Compared to this place, yes sir. This place is full of ‘bird' brains, if you ask me. I just want the hell outta here." Hotter than NASA, by a long shot. Advanced spacecraft all over this installation. Get me out.
"How you figure on doin' that?" Crash wondered.
"Snowbirds."
Anders stared at Jet, confused; Crash's gleaming eyes met Jet's, whose eyes lit up. Gotcha, pal. Time to spread our wings and fly away.
"The man's crazy," Crash said, shrugging.
"Stir-crazy, eh?" "Colonel" Anders commented.
"Yes sir."
"Snowbirds, indeed. And just how do you expect to find snowbirds here, Commander?" Anders scoffed. Do you know where they are kept?
"Oh, gimme half a chance, Colonel, I'll find some." You bet.
Anders glanced at Crash, who gave him an eye signal.
"I believe this interview is at an end," Anders pronounced. "Lieutenant Colonel Childers and I will escort you back to your… room." Time to blow this joint.
Jet sighed and shrugged. With Crash in front and Anders behind, he left the interrogation room.
* * * *
"Keep it cool, Jet," Crash murmured as they made their way down the empty corridor. As he walked, the same large, handsome leather attaché was clutched firmly in his left hand that he had carried since first emerging from the laundry; it contained all their collected evidence, and he was not about to let it loose. "We got you some duds and a T badge out of the laundry, but that doesn't mean we can't still blow it. We gotta get out of here and alert the press before we're home free."
"No shit," Jet agreed. "What's next?"
"Find a ‘snowbird' and get outta here."
"Won't be that easy, Crash."
"Nothing ever is," Anders sighed.
"This from the guy who was saying two hours ago that we'd had it easy so far," Crash muttered sarcastically.
"Aw, shaddup," Anders fired back, then addressed Jet. "Why?"
"They'll be on us before we can get far, even in their own birds. We have to slow ‘em down."
Crash thought fast. "How do you know all this?"
"They've shown me the inside of their hangars. They even took me up in one of the birds. Thought it'd tempt me to join ‘em, I guess. No joy. Anyway, I've been through the checklists and everything. Even flew one for a few minutes." They paused the conversation to salute a passing soldier. "You'd love it, Crash. Flies just like our old babies. Least, as near as a spacecraft can fly to an F-4. They're talking about upgrading to F-18 style controls, though, from what I heard. Some of the new pilot recruits were complaining. I think they've already started on a few."
They walked on for a few moments. "Listen, guys, I've got an idea," Jet remarked. "If we can get to the backup control center, we ought to be able to throw a serious monkey wrench into the works. It's almost never manned, that I can tell."
"You know where that is? How to get there?" Anders asked.
Jet nodded. "I've got a lot better head for directions than they think, or expect. I pretty much know my way around here."
Anders glanced at Crash, who nodded. "Let's go, then."
* * * *
"Aw, shit," Anders muttered, looking ahead down the long corridor. "Not again. Same bloke?"
"Yup," Murphy almost groaned when he glanced up and saw the same security guard headed their way. "Must be his patrol route. Jet, ease behind us and pull your cap low. Mike, chin up, look down your nose at him. That's it," he encouraged, as Anders complied. "Shoulders square. Now stride. Jet, we go straight?"
"As an arrow."
Murphy and Anders drew shoulder to shoulder and stared hard as they approached the security guard, who blanched a bit when he recognized them. He saluted smartly, and all three men saluted in response, but never broke stride. The lieutenant opened his mouth as if to speak, but then thought better of it and kept going.
Some thirty feet past, Jet murmured, "Left here."
The three men turned sharply in lock step, and the lieutenant, far down the corridor, disappeared from sight.
* * * *
"Well, you were right," Anders commented, once Jet's photographic memory opened the cipher lock into the backup control room. "Empty."
"Just like most backup controls," Crash added, closing and locking the door behind them, "in my experience."
"Yup," Jet grinned. "Now we have to figure out a monkey wrench."
"No," Crash corrected, "first we have to log in."
"Hm," Anders remarked, studying the layout and consoles. He sat down at one, put on a headset, and studied the console. Punching a computer key, he got a log-in prompt. "Um. Anybody got a clue here?"
"Yeah," Crash said, glancing his way. "Console name is the user name. That's standard. You're at the Simulation Supervisor console, so you're ‘sim sup.' Probably all one word."
Anders typed. "Okay; password. Any ideas?"
"Try ‘aurora,'" Jet offered. "That seems to be a big joke around here."
Anders typed in the word and hit
"Um, capitalize it and…" Crash paused. "What the hell month is it now? I lost track…"
"July," Jet replied.
"Shit, no wonder it was so hot outside," Anders said, recalling wandering around the Area 51 site and sweltering. "So ‘AuroraJuly?' Or ‘JulyAurora?'"
"No," Crash amended, "try ‘Aurora07.' Title case."
Anders typed that in, but got the same error prompt. "We better hurry up, guys, before somebody notices."
"Or else the system locks us out," Jet added.
"I know, I know," Crash muttered, thinking hard.
"AHA!" Anders exclaimed in triumph, then he typed, ‘UFONut07,' and the others watched his eyebrows fly upward. "I'll be damned. It worked. I'm in."
"Hot damn," Jet said eagerly. "Now, we just need that monkey wrench."
"I've got another idea," Anders said, while exploring the system. "What would an incoming do to these guys?"
Jet and Crash stared at each other in smug understanding. "This place would look like a hornet's nest," Crash said, grinning. "They'd lock everything down--except…"
"Except the birds," Jet finished, nodding. "They'd have those ready to scramble. But not until they had to. Not here."
"And I'm logged in as the sim sup," Anders said with satisfaction. "This is easier than fishing with dynamite." Several keystrokes later, the room's ambient light automatically reduced, and outside, in the corridor, a klaxon sounded, audible even through the closed door. "Gentlemen, we have just detected two dozen hostile incoming to North America." He hit several more buttons. "Hum." A couple more buttons, then a resigned sigh emerged from the scientist. "Oh, well. I knew it was too easy. Get going, guys."
The two ex-pilots headed for the door. Crash stopped. "Mike? Come on!"
Anders shook his head, eyes solemn and apologetic. "I can't, Crash."
"What?!"
"As it turns out, I have to park here and baby-sit this thing. I thought I could automate the incoming, but I don't know enough about the system. I have to stay." Anders was very quiet.
Crash stared at his friend in horror. "No…" It was a groan of realization.
"I'll be okay," Anders reassured him, with a bravado he didn't feel. "They'll let me go just like the rest of the crew, as soon as you two get to the press. Now get going."
Crash came back into the room. "Here." He handed Anders the 9mm and the extra magazine and box of ammo he'd found with it. "Just in case you need it."
Anders took the weapon, checked it out, and nodded grimly. "Okay. Thanks. Now get going, Crash."
Crash hesitated another
moment, agonized, looking at Anders. "C'mon, Crash!" Jet said urgently from the door. "We don't know how much time we've got. We'll get ‘em all out, don't worry."
Anders and Murphy stared at each other for a long moment, then joined hands, squeezing hard.
Moments later, Anders was alone in the room. He initiated an auto lock of the room, then laid the Ruger on the console beside him.
* * * *
"Come on! This way!" Jet called to Crash as they made their way through the maze of corridors. The installation was swarming in a kind of organized confusion, as people ran to their assigned stations. As they darted down the corridor, an attractive brunette head poked out of a connecting hallway. Lisa Stephens stared after them, an expression of shocked recognition on her face.
The ex-fighter jocks entered a hangar. They found themselves on a catwalk, in a missile-silo-like launch facility, high up in the bay. At the far end of the catwalk was the closed hatch of an Aurora spacecraft, positioned on a launch ramp, ready to go. They ran across the catwalk.
"Okay, let's get in!" Crash cried.
"There's a key pad," Jet pointed out.
"So punch in the code word and let's get the hell outta here!" Crash urged. "I've got another friend in trouble now."
"I… I can't," Jet answered, shocked. "Don't you know it?"
"No."
"How the hell did you get in here, then?" Jet wondered, amazed.
"Long story. You don't know the password?"
"No." They stared at each other. "Hell, try aurora again," Jet suggested.
Crash punched in the code. "No joy."
"UFONut07?"
"No joy."
"Uh… blackbird?"
"No. Roswell? No…"
"Damn, Crash, we're gonna lose it right here…"
"Hello, boys." The silken voice came from behind them. They spun.
It was Lisa Stephens. With a Beretta leveled at them.
"So you're in on this, too," Crash's voice dripped disgust, and Lisa winced. "That explains a lot. Like how the air to ground tape dub got modified."
Lisa's eyebrows rose. "You knew?"
"Yeah."
"Damn."
"So, Lisa, answer me this: Who really died in the shuttle?" Crash demanded, and Lisa flushed.
"Nobody."
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 30
