"No."
"NO?! What the hell are you doing?? You're gonna get us killed!"
"I'll get us killed if I do, Jet," Crash explained. "I'm betting on something."
"What?!"
"That Pogo's not a physicist."
"Huh?"
"I'm betting that Pogo's flying the bird like an ordinary shuttle," Crash explained, fighting to hold the stick steady and maintain a constant level of friction on the Aurora-Seven. "I'm betting he WILL use the roll reversals, and that'll slow him down. But I'm using the Earth's magnetic field, riding it like a roller coaster, and using the ionization to shield our computer. It oughta buy us a few extra seconds to get on the ground."
Behind them, Wilson was wrestling with his craft, swinging it from side to side: he had misjudged his angle of re-entry, in a fury to catch up to his rivals, and was coming in too hot. He comforted himself with the knowledge that, as Crash and Jet were less experienced with the Aurora, they were probably already roasting in their own juices by now. Unconcerned with them, he concentrated on saving his own hide.
* * * *
The two shooting stars flew over Washington, D.C. in broad daylight. The Capitol, the White House, and the Pentagon, notified of the two incoming on radar, went on full alert.
At the Pentagon, a ranking military official, brass on his uniform, stars on his shoulders, stepped outside with his aides, and looked skyward. He muttered a long string of expletives and imprecations under his breath, and went back inside.
After glancing in confused concern at one another, the aides followed.
* * * *
"There!" Jet pointed. "Merritt Island! The Cape! There's the runway!"
"Aiming for it," Crash acquiesced.
An incoming transmission interrupted their approach prep.
"Unidentified craft, you are entering a restricted airspace. Please divert."
"Shit!" Jet exclaimed, "didn't think of that!"
Crash keyed the microphone. "Tower, this is Crash Murphy, retired NASA Flight Director, with Commander Lawrence Jackson, requesting permission to land."
"Unidentified craft, permission denied. I don't know who the hell you are, buddy, but we aren't amused by your impersonation of our two dead friends. Get the hell out of restricted airspace before we shoot you out of it."
"Damn," Crash breathed, veering off. "Time for Option B."
"What's Option B?"
"Hell if I know. I'm open to suggestions."
* * * *
Wilson pulled out of the last roll reversal and scanned his instrumentation for signs of debris. "Aw, SHIT," he muttered in annoyance, as he saw, at extreme range, a single object, displaying the signature of an Aurora in flight. He pushed the stick forward, and the spacecraft leapt ahead.
* * * *
"Awwwwww, shit!" Jet exclaimed.
"What now?"
"Pogo's catching up. The remote code's searching again."
"Time's up, then," Crash announced. "Gotta get on the ground."
"Where?!"
A calm Crash diverted away from Merritt Island toward the mainland. He flew along the beach until he came to the causeway connecting Merritt to the mainland, then slowed to a hover. "There," he said, pointing. Jet followed the direction of his finger.
The Kennedy Space Center Visitors' Center. Spaceport USA. Jam-packed with tourists.
Jet put his helmeted head in his hands.
* * * *
Crash used the vertical takeoff and landing capability of the Aurora to set the bird down, squarely in the middle of the lawn, next to the Astronaut's Memorial. With all the speed he could muster, he shut down the craft, as an excited crowd of tourists formed a ring around the spaceship.
Ping. 95641.
"BAIL!" Crash yelled, jettisoning the canopy and tearing off his harness. "It's gonna blow!" Jet followed suit, coolly thinking to grab the attaché as he went, and the two men vaulted from the craft, running as hard as they could, away from the ship, shouting and waving the crowd back in desperation. The startled, somewhat frightened tourists obeyed without question. When they were a good forty or fifty feet from the Aurora-Seven, Crash and Jet hit the ground. The nearest tourists followed suit.
The detonation tore the sleek craft to bits, knocking the memorial to fallen astronauts off its base and breaking it into several large pieces.
High overhead, and virtually unnoticed, a dark streak passed by, headed spaceward.
* * * *
When the danger had subsided, in the mill of stunned people, Crash wandered over to the remains of the spacecraft. He stood, surveying the debris, as several news media vehicles screeched to a halt nearby. Abruptly he stooped, picked up several handfuls of small shards, and slipped the lot into his pocket.
Chapter 24
Blake returned to Aux Control with a guard contingent. They found Gibson standing there, pale but at the ready, and gently relieved him of duty. "Go on home and get some rest, buddy," one of the guards offered. "You've more'n earned it."
Gibson nodded bleakly, then glanced at Blake. "I'm sorry," the scientist apologized sincerely. "I didn't know it would go down like… that." He kicked his toe against the floor, then murmured, "C'mon. I'll escort ya back to your quarters. It's the least I can do."
Gibson nodded again, seeming numb, and the two guards glanced at each other, worried.
Blake set off, Gibson a half-step behind him, and the guards watched them go.
"There go two really disturbed men," one of the guards remarked, just low enough that his voice didn't carry down the corridor to the retreating forms.
"Amen, brother," the other guard agreed. "How bad could it…?"
The first guard turned and peered through an opening between the warped metal door and its doorframe, then went white. "Hell on earth bad," he replied in a shocked whisper.
The second guard spun, looking through another opening, then turned away just as fast, stifling a retch.
Both guards faced stiffly forward, and never turned around again.
* * * *
Blake, having ascertained the location of Gibson's quarters from the officer of the day, led the numb soldier through the corridors to the living section. "Heh," Blake noted, trying to affect some humor, "you're only around the corner and down the hall from me, mate." He gestured to the left, toward the far bend in the corridor, and curled his hand to denote the turn. "I'm first door on the right, if… if you wanna talk. Here ya go." He stopped in front of Gibson's quarters.
Gibson just stood staring at the door.
Blake sighed, then shook his head, understanding. He reached for Gibson's badge, removing it from his lapel, then swiped it through the door lock. There was a click, and he grabbed the door handle, then guided Gibson into his quarters. "There we are, mate," he said, voice soft. "Stretch out on the bed and have a rest. Oh, wait."
Gibson paused halfway to the bed as Blake closed the door. "Do you know how to, uh, to have a little privacy when you want it?"
"Huh?"
"Way I figure it," Blake explained with compassion, "you're gonna need some private time to vent. Lord knows I will. So," he moved to the wall control, waving Gibson over, "lemme show you how."
Gibson moved to Blake's side, curious, and Blake showed him how to turn off the monitoring system to the area. "There," Blake said in satisfaction. "Get that?"
"Yeah," Gibson nodded. "Yeah, I did. So now Security can't see or hear?"
"Right," Blake said. "Nobody can."
"You did something like that in the corridor after the firefight."
"Yup," Blake agreed. "I was turning it back on. Nobody saw what happened during the fight except the ones who were there. I had hopes I could talk Anders into backing down, but…" He turned away, his stomach lurching. "Dear God. What a bloodbath."
"Yeah," Gibson agreed in a hollow, hoarse voice. "I've heard some of the older soldiers, the ones who've seen heavy combat, say nothing really prepares you for it; now I believe it."
The
two were silent for a long moment, lost in a place they did not want to go, a place of red and black, flame and darkness. Finally Blake shook himself from his morose reverie.
"Okay, here's how to turn it back on," Blake noted, then hit the sequence of keys to reinitiate the system. "Got it?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Now you try."
Gibson demonstrated he had the knack; then he turned the system off and left it off.
"Turn it on at least once in awhile, mate," Blake warned. "I know you're upset, but they'll come looking if you don't. And you don't need a serious psych note in your record. They'll understand this to a point, and damn well should. But…"
"I know," Gibson agreed. "I will. I just… need some time now."
"Need something to sleep?"
"Dunno. I might. Damn."
"Okay, I'm off to the medic about this arm anyway," Blake tried not to wince. "Feels like it's gonna fall off, it hurts so bad. How can such a small wound ache like bloody hell?"
Gibson shrugged.
"Don't worry; I'll get you time off, too," Blake urged. "You up for counseling?"
"Maybe."
"Okay. Listen, I'm… SORRY."
Gibson tried to shoot him a reassuring smile; it came out rueful instead. "I know. Go, before you bleed all over my damn quarters."
Blake went.
* * * *
Blake sat on the gurney in the medical center with his shirt off, while the doctor examined his wounded arm, a nurse nearby, assisting. "You're not one of the soldier boys," the doctor, whose name tag read "Edwards," remarked, making small talk to divert his patient's attention while he administered a local anesthetic. "What happened?"
"An old… acquaintance… was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Blake commented, trying to be as casual as he could manage, but still wincing as the Novocaine was injected. Unconsciously, he rubbed his right hand on his pants leg, as if trying to clean his fingers. "Since I knew the bloke, I got the job of taking him out."
"Get caught by a stray shot?" Dr. Edwards asked, as he flushed the graze wound with sterile saline.
"No, it wasn't a stray," Blake admitted ruefully. "He was bloody well aiming at me, all right." Another hand rub. "I thought maybe I could get him to… go down, to surrender, you know? But he wasn't about to do that. And then I figured, well, maybe we could just take him prisoner."
"Why didn't you?" the physician asked.
"You ever tried to command a unit of soldiers whose adrenaline and testosterone have both kicked in, they're pissed, and they're itching for a fight?"
"Oh. So you got to him before he got to you?" Now the doctor began delicately stitching the edges of the wound together.
"Yeah," Blake told him vaguely. "Yeah, I did. Eventually. I did have a little help, though."
"Mm," Dr. Edwards remarked, noncommittal. "Yeah, I heard about your help."
"Oh?" Blake wondered guardedly. "What did you hear?"
"I heard your help wasn't quite good enough," the doctor remarked, still stitching the long, shallow wound. "I heard the rest of ‘em got sent to the morgue."
"Yeah," Blake replied, subdued. "Well, all except for one. First Lieutenant Gibson managed to avoid the crossfire. I think he was trying to cover my ass. He's… not in good shape, though, seein' all his buddies shot down like that." He tapped his temple. "It… well, it wasn't pretty." Blake looked away and swallowed hard.
The doctor considered for a moment, taking in both what Blake was saying, and what he was not. "Gibson need some down time?"
"I would if I were him," Blake shot back. Both of the astronomer's hands rubbed the length of his thighs at that.
Edwards nodded. "I'll write out a note to his commanding officer, then, as well as a prescription for a psych exam when he's ready. He's probably due a bit of leave time after this, too."
"Sounds good," Blake agreed, very somber. "He covered my back, I'd like to help him out now."
"No problem," Edwards soothed. "Now… continue your story, Dr. Blake."
Blake shrugged. "Well, not bein' a soldier myself, I stayed in the back, where I thought I wouldn't get in the way. Anders, our bogey, was armed and took cover between two consoles. He had a nice view of the doorway as my men came through…" Blake sighed, a world of pain and weariness in the tone, as he tried to put away the mental images of men dying, and failed. He stared at his hands, noticing the gunpowder stains on them for the first time, and instinctively rubbed them against his jeans yet again.
"Oh," Dr. Edwards said quietly, grasping the strategic logistics of the situation. He dropped the conversation and began tying off the sutures. Finally, by way of trying to find some humor for his distressed patient, he offered a lame, "A good commander has to keep his men alive, there, dude. Many little missions like this one, your code name's gonna be ‘Custer.'" He grinned weakly, attempting to tease the scientist.
Blake snorted, unamused, as the medic finished his work, applying gauze over the wound and starting to tape it down. "I'm an astronomer, mate," Blake told him bluntly. "I never wanted to be a military commander. As far as I'm concerned, you can call me any damn thing you please, as long as I never have to do the like of that again."
Suddenly his stomach lurched, flip-flopped, then did a slow somersault. "Huhg," emerged from his mouth.
The eyes of both the doctor and the nurse widened, and the doctor freed one hand long enough to gesture a finger at the nurse, then at a large, stainless steel kidney bowl. The nurse scooped it up and shoved it in front of Blake, just as most of his last meal came up. The doctor paused his work, allowing the astronomer to purge his belly.
When the retching ceased, the nurse discarded the bowl momentarily and fetched a cup of cool water for Blake. He rinsed his mouth, then spat into the bowl that the nurse held for him again. "Th-thanks," he whispered, sipping gingerly on the water to settle his stomach. "Sorry about that."
"No problem," the doctor murmured, as the nurse nodded. The physician completed the bandage. "I've done a battlefield stint or two, and it happens with the new recruits all the time--the ones who've never seen real battle before. You can't know until you've been there."
Blake took the paper towel the nurse handed him and wiped his mouth. "And I never want to go there again," he said in a low, fervent tone.
The doctor nodded, comprehending, then wrote out a leave note and a sleeping pill prescription for Lieutenant Gibson, to be routed through channels, and a prescription for pain for Blake and sent Blake to the pharmacy to have it filled.
* * * *
Crash was returning to the apartment in Friendswood outside Houston, a little bedroom community not too far from JSC. He carried a sack full of much needed groceries--groceries that were rather heavy on the whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables. Since Crash's home had been burned to the ground, with nothing left standing but the stone shell, Jet had offered to share his own apartment with his old friend for the time being, while Crash's ranch house was rebuilt, and Crash had agreed.
But when they had arrived after such a long absence, most of the kitchen's contents had had to be thrown out. "And that, with gas masks," Crash had remarked in amusement; now he was in the process of restocking said kitchen--
When a tall, burly man in a black suit and sunglasses stepped out of an alcove in the parking garage and barred his way.
"Good evening, Mr. Murphy," the unknown man in black addressed Crash in a deep voice.
"And who the hell are you?" Crash wondered in a voice tinged with irony.
"Who I am isn't important," came the reply. "We know who you are, Mr. Murphy. We know where you have been. We know where you are."
"That much is obvious," Crash answered dryly. "So?"
"Let us just say, I have a message to deliver," the agent remarked in a low, menacing tone.
"And that would be?" Crash wondered calmly.
"Cooperate. Or else."
"Oh?" Crash asked, voice and expression innocent. "You think?"
"I know."
"Really," Crash responded sarcastically. "Well, I have a message too."
"Yes?"
"Yes. Get the hell out of my way."
And he stepped around the agent and made his way to the elevator.
* * * *
"Okay," the very sober officer of the day reported to Air Marshal Haig, "we have the bodies cleared from Aux Control. Now we have to clean it and repair a few things. Damn, what a mess."
"You saw it personally?" Haig asked in a reserved, quiet tone.
"For a few minutes, yes sir," the major said, grimacing as he swallowed bile. It wouldn't do for him to throw up before the Air Marshal. "It… wasn't pleasant. Not at all. Blake said it was a bloodbath, and he meant it."
Haig sighed sadly. "And this Dr. Anders? Is he…?"
"Oh, he's dead, no doubt about it," the major, whose name was Hunt, said sardonically. "According to the reports we got from both Blake and Gibson--and let me note that Gibson filed by email, and Blake had to dictate his--one of our boys had an automatic weapon. When he took a fatal hit, his hand spasmed on the trigger and sprayed the whole room with lead. Anders, being front and center, must have taken the brunt of it. He's hamburger."
"Uhm," Haig winced. "Positive ID?"
Hunt shrugged. "From two corroborating witnesses. And he had the fake ID badges he used to get into Dreamland on him, too. We didn't bother with forensics. Dental records won't help at this point, nor fingerprints much, either, really…"
"Damn," Haig interjected, his face hardening in the experienced soldier's response to horrific battle.
"…And we don't have access to a DNA sample to compare. We could get one, I guess, but…" Hunt shrugged.
Haig waved a dismissive hand in the air. "That'll do, I suppose. Do we have a cover story yet?"
"Yes, sir," Hunt replied. "We're having to procure a recreational vehicle to plant in the Very Large Array, to look like Anders has been there most of the time, but we've got a cover story." He paled a bit. "I didn't ask Hotdog where he gets his pets, though."
"I… yes. Probably best not to," Haig agreed, subdued. "Get on it, then, yesterday, if not sooner."
"Already there, sir."
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 33
