* * * *
"…And the crew of the downed shuttle was found at sea, having miraculously managed to bail out of the spaceship. The bodies found previous are believed to have been that of a fishing vessel struck by debris from the burning shuttle. A small mix-up in the records at the coroner's office resulted in the misidentifications…"
Jet and Crash watched the sanitized news report on the television in Jet's apartment. The two men made low, growling expressions of extreme disgust, but otherwise remained silent. The news announcer continued.
"In related news, Lisa Stephens, an investigator into the shuttle disaster, was found in her Washington, D.C. apartment, dead of an apparent heart attack. Coworkers indicated that Stephens had been under considerable stress during the course of the investigation, heightened by the apparent death in a ranching accident of an old friend, former NASA Flight Director Emmett Murphy, presumed to be dead in a house fire. It is rumored that she and Murphy were once romantically involved. Ironically, only twenty-four hours after Stephens' death, the missing Murphy turned up alive and well, in the company of missing Shuttle Commander Lawrence Jackson. The two made an emergency landing at Spaceport USA in an experimental aircraft. The plane itself was a total loss.
"It was also revealed that previous accusations of child molestation, levied against Murphy after his presumed death, were in error, and the retired flight director has been formally cleared of all charges. The accusations had in reality been filed against a different Emmett Murphy, elsewhere in the state, and the records were inadvertently switched in the Texas Rangers' office…"
"My, but we have a lot of incompetent public servants running around, don't we?" Jet muttered in revolted irony.
Crash bowed his head in crushing grief. They couldn't even let you die in honor, Lisa, he mourned. First Gayle, now you. He shook his head, deeply bitter, as Jet watched him with concern. No more. He raised his head as the newscaster caught his attention once more.
"In other news, famed astronomer Dr. Michael C. Anders, jointly of Rice University and the Anglo-Australian Observatory, was found dead in the desert outside Socorro, New Mexico this morning. Investigators think that he had taken a break from his research to go for a walk, a not uncommon practice with the affable and personable scientist, when he was savagely attacked by a cougar. By the time witnesses found him, his body had been severely mauled, and partially consumed by what appeared to be coyotes, as well as other scavengers. Rice University issued a statement…"
A shocked Jet glanced at Crash, whose face was drawn in what appeared to be unbearable pain. Crash met his eyes, and Jet saw deep self-doubt and uncertainty there.
"There had to have been another way, Jet," Crash whispered in a rough, uneven voice. "I… I should have gotten him out, too, somehow… He stood by me, rock solid every damn step of the way, and I let him down… and he died for it… God help me…" He put his face in his hands. Liquid drops spilled between his fingers.
"Aw, buddy," Jet said softly, "I am so sorry…"
An insistent knock came at the door. "Great timing," Jet groused as he rose to answer it. Glancing through the peephole, he let out a choked sound, and Crash spun in alarm to see what was up as Jet opened the door. As the visitor entered, Crash jumped to his feet.
"GAYLE?!" Crash gaped at their visitor, certain he was losing his mind.
"Oh, Crash!" The petite strawberry blonde launched herself into Crash's arms.
"Oh, dear God," Crash murmured in a low, fervent voice, and heedless of his friend standing at the door, pulled Gayle close and kissed her, long and hard.
Jet closed the door and stood, averting his gaze. Finally, after an embarrassingly long interval, he discreetly cleared his throat. The only response was an impatient grunt from Crash.
"Okay, you two, break it up or get a room," Jet chuckled then, and Gayle began to giggle. Crash raised his head, annoyed.
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kinda busy here," he proclaimed.
"Oh, I noticed," Jet said dryly. "Kinda hard to miss." He moved to the couch and sat. "What I'm more interested in, no offense, is how Doc comes to be here. You told me you saw her car demolished, Crash."
Crash shrugged. "‘Bout like everyone saw my house burned down," he replied, "that's what I'd be guessing."
"And you'd be right," Gayle answered. "I got pulled over by--I thought it was the state police, but it wasn't. It was… them. As I got out of the Suburban, I felt something prick my arm. Next thing I knew, I was in some sort of little cell of a room, no windows and only one door, and that was locked. I was fed three scant squares a day, and that was about it. Then, after I ate one day, I got groggy again. Next thing I know, I'm in my apartment. I turned on the tube, and saw the reports earlier. Just took a gamble that someone would be here."
Crash glanced at Jet. "Same place as you and the crew?"
"I'd say." Jet nodded.
"We scared ‘em, then," Crash murmured in bleak satisfaction. "We got ‘em worried enough to release not only the crew, but Gayle."
"I'm betting that's all that's left to release, though," Jet noted glumly.
Crash sat down on the other end of the couch, and pulled Gayle down beside him, into his lap. The three sat silent, pondering.
"You know," Jet considered, "they're still out there. We didn't exactly cripple their program."
"No," Crash agreed, choosing not to mention his encounter in the parking garage. "No, we didn't, by a long shot."
"So they could still come after us, if they decided to."
"That's a problem," Crash admitted.
"Damn," Gayle murmured. "And no evidence left."
"Weeell," Crash drawled, "I wouldn't exactly say that…"
The others stared at him.
* * * *
After a few days, Lieutenant Gibson managed to venture out of his quarters. He made his way to the mess hall, where he got a large grilled chicken salad, having grown tired of the tinned and frozen foods in the tiny kitchen of his quarters. Making his way to an empty table in the corner of the large room, he sat down alone and began to eat in silence.
Several soldiers from affiliated units noticed the lone soldier and glanced at each other, questioning, then nodded in tacit agreement. They moved over to Gibson's table and sat down companionably. "Hey, Gib," one said. His gruff tone was meant to convey sympathy.
Gibson never looked up.
"You okay, buddy?" another asked, concerned.
Gibson shrugged, sighed, and took another bite of his salad.
"You don't look good," a third remarked, looking Gibson up and down. "Have you seen the medics? I'd swear this has aged ya, pal. And you're still pale as a ghost."
"You would be, too, if you'd watched your entire unit shot down like that," the first retorted. "Why was a damn scientist running the operation anyway? What the hell does he know about fighting? No, instead, they let some pencil-necked geek go and get good men killed."
"And that's the damn truth," the third agreed.
Gibson, they noted, had said nothing throughout the exchange. But his consumption of salad had slowed noticeably.
"Hey, buddy," the second soldier asked, voice as soft as he could make it. "It can't have been that bad, can it? What happened in there? How'd it go down?"
Gibson's head snapped up at that, an odd gleam in the blue eyes. "Shut. The hell. Up," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "If I'd wanted to talk about it, I wouldn't have sat in the damn corner by myself. Just… just let me the hell alone." He put his face in his hands, as if trying to hide his eyes from sights he didn't want to see.
The others glanced at each other and withdrew without another word.
After a few minutes, Gibson resumed eating. When he finished the salad, he rose and took his tray to dispose of it.
But before leaving the mess hall, he located the mess officer. "Sir," he said, saluting smartly, trying to sound normal, but still very hoarse, "request permission to put in a requisition."
The offic
er glanced at his ID badge, and a recent report registered in his brain. "Permission granted, Gibson," he said. "What do you need?"
"Do… you know about…?"
"I do," the officer said softly. "I am, frankly, surprised to see you in here today."
"That's what I wanted to ask about, sir," the distressed soldier sighed. "Mess is… too noisy for me right now. I was hoping… maybe I could get some fresh meals delivered to my quarters, at least for lunch?"
The officer nodded his understanding. "Consider it done, soldier," he said. "Lunch AND dinner. Anything else?"
"No, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Dismissed."
Gibson saluted again, and headed down the corridor toward the living quarters.
* * * *
As Gibson left, the men of his affiliated unit watched him go. "Man, that is so not good," one said.
"Yeah, he looked like hell," another remarked. "Hope they get a psych on him soon."
"REAL soon," the third commented. "Else he looks like going postal on us."
"And THAT… would be a HELLUVA mess," the first declared.
"Wouldn't it, though?" the third said, in an odd tone.
* * * *
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 bottle of water and a large bag of beef jerky.
He went to the maintenance panel, opened it, and disappeared into the tunnel with the water and jerky. He was gone some little time.
When he returned, the water and the bag of jerky were gone.
* * * *
Crash took the small box to the post office, and had it shipped, air mail overnight insured, to Messrs. Brown and Jones, care of an office address in Canberra, Australian Capital Territory, Australia. He had already emailed, faxed, and ftp'ed almost everything in the box, but was determined to make sure that as many copies of the contents as possible got into the hands of two men presumed to be in the employ of the Australian Defence Science and Technology Organisation. Another, smaller box went out alongside it.
Then, with a sad sigh, he dropped a small padded envelope into the mail, addressed to a Sydney street address.
I promised Mike. It's the least I can do.
* * * *
"Air Marshal," Blake asked, sitting in Haig's plush office, "if you don't mind, I need to run into town for a bit. I gave the observatory a story about a sick cousin," he explained, "when Hotdog called me in. I need to call them back."
"Why?" Air Marshal Haig asked, confused.
"Because I told ‘em I'd only be gone a few weeks," Blake elaborated. "They're holding my observing slot for me. If I'm late, and don't check in, they'll start asking questions."
"Ah, good point," Haig nodded, comprehension arriving. "You don't have authorization for an outside line, do you?"
"No sir," Blake verified, then admitted wistfully, "But a look at the stars wouldn't come amiss, either, sir."
Haig chuckled. "I suppose an astronomer does crave the occasional sight of stars," he grinned in understanding, glancing obliquely at a medical report half-buried under some other paperwork on his desk. Especially about now, the air marshal considered. Anything to get the images out of his head. What the hell was the OD thinking? He mentally shook himself from his musings to ask, "How long do you want?"
"Oh, just a twenty-four hour pass will be fine, sir," Blake answered.
Haig pulled some forms across the desk toward himself, beginning to fill them out. "All right, just a mo' and I'll have your leave pass authorized." He finished the forms, signing them with a flourish, before handing them over to Blake. "There ya are, mate," he smiled. "Take some time off, away from this place, make your phone calls, and get a fresh perspective. It isn't like we're goin' anywhere, here. We'll be waiting when you're ready."
"Thanks, sir," Blake smiled gratefully, taking the forms and leaving the office.
* * * *
The phone rang at the Anglo-Australian Observatory, and one of the techs grabbed for it. "AAO, Colin here," he answered by rote. "What can I do for ya?"
The tech sat up, reaching for a notepad. "Yes, Dr. Blake," he said, starting to scribble on the pad. Two of the other techs came over to see what was going on.
"You're going to be delayed? What's up?" Colin listened for a few more moments. "Well, that's just rotten, mate. That sucks some serious pond scum. I'd be givin' someone a real ear bashing for that." He scratched down a bit more on the paper. "Well, no worries there, Doc. I'll get this to the director first thing. She'll be right, Doc, you wait an' see. No, really, don't worry, we'll get the schedule all worked out for ya, I swear. Yeah, you take care, too. Later." He hung up the phone.
"What's up?" Jake, one of the other techs, inquired.
Colin shook his head. "You know Steve got that emergency call from his cousin in the States?"
"Yeah?"
"Seems his cousin's pretty sick," Colin noted, concerned. "The doctors misdiagnosed him. Steve's stuck there for at least another month, he thinks. He's not sure if his cousin's gonna live or not."
"Oh, that's hard, mate," Jake replied, shocked. "Poor ol' Blake. He's a real true blue, stickin' by his cousin like that and all."
"You got that right in one." Colin pulled a face. "I gotta re-write this note and get it legible, then leave it for the director, though. Steve asked to have his observing schedule reworked, so he can get back here in a month or so, and still work into the instruments."
"That shouldn't be too much of a prob," Ryan, the other tech, and the one who usually worked with Anders, noted. "Mike's gone walkabout with those radio telescopes of his again, so that frees up some of the regulars' time."
"Yeah," Colin agreed. "Let me turn this into an email, and then we can get back to our own stuff. You about ready for your defence, Jake?"
"Uh-huh," Jake told him, as Colin opened the email utility on his computer and began to type. "Dissertation's done, and my prof is puttin' together the committee now. What about you blokes…?"
* * * *
Crash met Gayle at the Grand Floridian Hotel in Orlando. The two were clad in evening wear; Gayle thought Crash looked incredibly handsome in his tuxedo. He took her arm and they went straight in to Victoria and Albert's, the four star restaurant, where they had reservations.
After the waiter took their order, Crash pulled a small velvet box out of his pocket and handed it to Gayle. Gayle opened it, and gasped at the size of the diamond solitaire. She glanced up at Crash, a question in her gaze; he asked softly, "You will, won't you?" with his heart in his eyes.
"Of course," she whispered, face aglow. "Of course I will, Crash Murphy. We're more than half married, at least in my mind, as it is."
"Good," he grinned then, dark eyes shining, pleased. "Now that that's settled, let's eat, then get upstairs. I got us a suite."
"King size bed?" Gayle grinned mischievously.
"You know it, sweetheart."
"Then hurry up and eat."
Crash burst out laughing, and, moments later, Gayle joined him.
"Hm," Crash pondered. "What say we have the order turned into room service, and go on up, then?"
"That's what I like about you, Mr. Murphy," Gayle grinned, "Semper Gumby--always flexible."
Crash gave her a mischievous glance as he signaled the waiter. "I would've said that about you… but it woulda meant something a lot different."
Gayle blushed furiously as a grinning Crash had the waiter arrange to send their meal up to their room.
* * * *
The package arrived on Jones' desk late one evening after work, and was there waiting for him when he arrived, bright and early the next morning. Jones took one look at it and called in Brown and Johnson before so much as touching it.
The two men were in Jones' office in mere moments. "What's up?" Brown asked.
"This is… interesting
," Jones noted, his voice sounding strained. "A package from the States, from…"
"Our boy Anders," Johnson said with immense satisfaction, folding his arms.
"No," Jones said, subdued. "Emmett Murphy. Addressed to me and Brown."
Johnson started in surprise. "That's… odd," Brown said, as foreboding filled him. "You don't suppose the rumors are true? After all, they faked all the others…"
"Except for Jaime, and Mitchell, and a few like that," Jones remarked bitterly.
"Yes, but… Murphy got out. The crew got out… Surely…?"
"One way to find out. Open it," Johnson ordered.
Jones pulled out a knife and slit through the packing tape. Then he opened the box gingerly, just in case. The three men peered inside.
Within was a collection of CDs. One was labeled, in a firm, strong hand, "Emails." Another was, "Fake Flight Recorder Dub." Yet another was labeled, "Dispositions." Still a fourth was marked, "Telemetry and Downlink Data," and another was annotated, "Translations." There were several dozen CDs with labels indicating logs of various console positions, from both Johnson Space Center and the Marshall Space Flight Center mission control rooms. The last CD was labeled, "Debriefs."
"Hm," Johnson noted, pursing his lips in consideration. "This looks to be the same data he's already sent us in every other electronic medium currently known to man. He must really want to make certain we have this information."
"I'd say so," Jones agreed, extracting the CDs and stacking them on the corner of his desk. "Wait, what's all this?" He dived back into the box.
Beneath the CDs were two bubble-wrapped objects. One was a broken piece of rather heavy ceramic, very roughly spherical, some three inches in diameter, and with a somewhat odd, metallic sheen. Next to it was a triangular shard of torn metal, some four inches by six, having a strange blue cast to the alloy.
Underneath that was a plain white business envelope.
The three men glanced at each other, uncertain and suddenly full of dread. Finally Brown screwed up his nerve, then reached in and extracted the envelope, opening it.
Inside was a letter, written in a firm hand. It read:
Dear Sirs:
I am sorry I cannot address you more directly. You see, Mike never told me your full names, if he even knew them himself; I only know you as "Jones" and "Brown." You might know me as Emmett Murphy, or perhaps as "Crash," as it's what Mike usually called me.
Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 Page 34
