Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (23 page)

"Yup," Crash nodded calmly. "It's a long story, George, and some of it… well, we can't really tell you yet. If everything goes off okay…"

"And, to be honest, that's a bit of a long shot," Anders added.

Murphy nodded. "But if it does, you may very well get your job back, and then some."

"Or," Anders opined, "you could get y'r bum shot instead."

Phillips sat and thought for a bit; the expression on his face was serious and intent. Then he looked up at Crash. "You were investigating that shuttle crash," he observed. He shot a glance at Mike. "And you're an astronomer." He paused a moment. "And now you're trying to get into Area 51."

"Yup," Anders confirmed.

"I'm not a rocket scientist, but I guess I know what that means," Phillips decided. "The shuttle going down was no accident, huh?"

"I can't say for sure, George," Crash answered, "but I don't think so, no. Now I've got to get some information, try to figure out exactly what happened. And there's only one place I can think of, to try to find that information."

Phillips nodded. "It had to have been the greys," he declared. "Had to have been. The reppies, well, they just wouldn't shoot down one of our spacecraft. They're too nice."

"Are you sure of that, George?" Anders insisted. "I mean, are they really the way they're presenting themselves to you, or are they just damn good actors?"

George shook his head. "No, you don't understand," he said quietly. "Before I was abducted, I had a heart problem. The first abduction was by the greys. It… wasn't nice," he said, pale face drawn in pain at the memory. "Not at all. I… don't talk about it much. After that, though, the reps found me, and damned if I don't think they kept the greys away. Seemed almost like… like maybe they were looking out for me, ya know? But it took me awhile to figure that out. The second time the reppies took me aboard, I got pretty scared, and I ended up having another heart attack. Felt like an elephant sat on me," he said emphatically.

"Shit," Anders remarked, shocked.

"Yeah, I was pretty much sayin' the same thing," Phillips nodded. "I thought I was gonna buy the farm, right then and there. But the reppies? They got all agitated and upset. Then one of ‘em gives me a pill, and some sort of tart green liquid to drink with it, and the next thing I know, the pain's all gone, and my whole body felt warm. The next day, after they took me back home, I went to a doctor. There was no sign I'd ever had a heart attack, and everything was clear." He gazed up at them, sincerity in his eyes. "The doctors say my heart's as strong as a mule, now."

Anders and Murphy stared at him, wide-eyed in stupefaction, then looked at each other. "Damn," Crash murmured, not knowing what else to say.

"Yup. All the more reason to find out what the hell is going on," Anders commented, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Crash agreed. "Not to mention where Jet and the others are."

Phillips nodded. "I'm in," he noted. "And… I know how to keep my mouth shut. I'll get the other guys lined up later. For now, tell me what you want me to do."

* * * *

After grabbing a quick meal, the three men discussed and planned late into the night. Anders and Murphy gave Phillips just enough information to satisfy his curiosity and make sure he understood what they needed. Phillips, in his turn, didn't press for more.

"After all," he pointed out, "the less I know, the more I can plead pure dumb ignorance if something goes south." He shook his head. "Way I figure it, this is something a lot bigger ‘n the United States. Especially if you're involved," he told Anders. "Gotta be the United Nations or somethin' like that. An' I got no particular allegiance to them. I didn't have any say in electing any of ‘em or nothin'. Still," he noted, "I'm not by way of makin' trouble. You're an investigator," he stared at Crash. "Government asked you to investigate, and I reckon I'm just tryin' to help you with your investigatin'."

Shortly thereafter, Phillips pulled his cell phone.

"What's that about?" Crash asked.

"If I'm gonna line up the boys and girls for tomorrow morning, I gotta give ‘em a heads up, before it gets too late at night," Phillips pointed out.

"Wait a minute," Anders said. "Let me see that."

A puzzled Phillips handed his cell phone to Mike. "What?"

"Mmm," Anders considered, pulling out a piece of paper, then he began punching a specific sequence of buttons. "Okay, now dial away."

"What'd you do?" Phillips wondered.

"Let's just say I made it so no one could listen in," Anders said. Crash raised an impressed eyebrow.

"Oh," Phillips said flatly, then, "Oh!" as understanding dawned.

"Go ahead and make your calls now, mate," Anders told him. "You're in the clear."

About an hour and a half later, the word was put out. "There," Phillips said, closing his cell phone in satisfaction. "All I have to do is call and let ‘em know where and when and what. They'll be there, every one of ‘em."

So they sat through the remainder of the night, discussing the best ways to create diversions, trying to estimate the sequence of events, and working out timing. Finally Phillips looked at the clock. "Guys, it's gettin' late. We all better get some shut-eye or there won't any of this be happenin'."

"He's got a point," Crash agreed, stretching, as Anders yawned wide. "I think we're about as ready as we're gonna get. Let's get some sleep. Thanks, George," he told Phillips, who was already halfway down the steps of the RV.

"No problem, y'all," Phillips responded with a smile. "I think I'm doin' the right thing. You two got your heads on straight, and you're doin' what you're doin' for all the right reasons. See ya in the morning."

* * * *

In Canberra, Jones came hurrying into Brown's office, where his colleague was deep into electronic paperwork. "Did you see it?" he asked urgently.

"See what?" Brown asked, looking up from his computer.

"Pull up the phone codes."

Responding to the imperative in Jones' voice, Brown minimized the windows in which he had been working and initiated a new program, downloading the code sequences used by their various operatives to secure a transmission. "Shit," Brown said in amazement. "Dr. Anders has been… quite busy, it seems."

"So it would appear," Jones noted. "Nearly two dozen phone calls in a space of less than two hours. Why don't you run a trace on them, and let's see what we get?"

* * * *

Some time later, Brown made his way to Jones' office; it was Jones' turn to be immersed in computer work. "Look at this," Brown murmured, plugging a data stick into the back of Jones' computer. "Open this file."

Jones did, and then gaped in amazement at what he found. "Abductees," he said, stunned. "They got in touch with every abductee in a three-state area."

"Looks like it," Brown grinned, delighted, at Jones' surprise.

"Now… what do you suppose they have in mind?" Jones wondered.

"Maybe they've decided to elaborate on our plan, a bit," Brown suggested with a smirk of glee.

"Ooo," Jones matched Brown's expression. "Even better, even better."

"C'mon," Brown chuckled, retrieving his data stick. "Let's go tell Johnson."

The pair rose and exited the office, headed down the hall in the direction of their supervisor's office.

Chapter 15

As the pair drove up in the black Audi, they found a group of some fifty people, men and women, clustered on the street outside the Air Train Freight parking gate. They were all carrying signs, which read various things like, "ATF Stop The Cover Up," or "We Have A Right To Know," or, "Stop The Lies!" One young man, just out of his teens, even had a sign that read, "Aliens Rule!" All of them wore jeans and t-shirts; often, the shirts bore messages of their own, either pertaining to the subject matter, or were from science fiction movies with or about aliens.

The determined protesters marched back and forth past the gate, chanting, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Crash eased the nose of the Audi into the driveway, careful to inch forward, worried he might inadvertently bump one of the very people who was there to help. He needn't have been concerned, however, as the instructions passed on from Phillips had been very specific:
Do not obstruct the entrance. Our boys have to get in.

"Damn," Crash murmured in astonishment, as they inched the car through the protesters. "This is way the hell more people than George called."

"Yeah," Mike averred, ogling the crowd in disbelief. "They must have passed on the word."

"Must have," Crash agreed. "Hush. Coming up to the gate."

He rolled down the driver's side window, then pulled a faded parking pass from a pocket in his coveralls and tossed it heedlessly onto the dash. He and Anders held up their badges for the security guard in the guard shack to see. "Hey, pal," Crash addressed the guard through the open window, pretending to be curious, "what the hell is goin' on?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the protesters, pretending to look as annoyed as the guard.

"I'll be damned if I know," the guard scowled, shrugging as he glared in intense annoyance over the roof of the Audi at the group in question. "They just showed up this morning, all of a sudden, like. Got no idea what it's all about, besides making my job a damn sight harder than it has to be. Don't think I want to know, to tell the truth, either. I need to hurry this up, so nobody but you two gets through the gate while it's open. A good half dozen of ‘em have been tryin' to sneak in past me." The guard looked back down at the two men, scrutinizing their badges, trying to be thorough and fast at the same time. "I don't know you two, but your badges look legit. Different shift?"

"Yeah," Crash told him, as Anders bobbed his head up and down. "Some sort of problem in the Zone, and they needed additional hands, so they called us in."

"Okay," the guard agreed, performing a quick check of his computer. "Ah, there ya are. Go on in, then. Gordo can sort ya out and get ya into the Zone, lucky him."

"Thanks, buddy," Crash called, already easing forward as he rolled up his window.

Once the window was shut, and the gates secure behind the Audi's rear bumper, Anders shot a triumphant glance at his companion.

"We're in," the scientist said, satisfied.

* * * *

The large group parked their vehicles, scattering them about in the pre-dawn desert, hiding them to the best of their ability. Some even pulled out expensive infrared camo from automobile trunks and draped the various vehicles. Then, armed with binoculars and small telescopes, the group of some hundred or more UFO aficionados slowly, and oh so cautiously, converged on the perimeter of the military base. Photocopied maps told them the locations of the extra-perimeter sensors, which they avoided like plague. Gradually they began to meet up, by ones and twos, aiming for one of the lesser known, lower peaks, a mountain known as Black Butte that, as yet, had never before received attention from the UFO interests. That mountain's status was about to change dramatically.

"Hey, George," one murmured to a stocky, balding, middle-aged man. "Good work. You're a great organizer, man."

"Thanks," Phillips said, almost painfully serious, "but I had help."

"Are they really gonna try it?" another doubted.

"Yep." Phillips was confident.

"They may try it. But are they gonna make it?" the first skeptic pointed out.

"If anybody can make it into that place, they can," Phillips decreed. "It's our job to maximize their chances as much as we can."

"Here comes the first Janet flight!" a voice floated from the edge of the butte.

"Good. Start counting," Phillips ordered grimly.

* * * *

"All right, hotshot, here we go," Anders muttered to his companion as they strode toward the hangar, the shouts of "Tell the truth!" still clamoring behind.

The two had, some hour or so before, hidden and secured the Cheyenne back at the airport parking lot, and the "government" car was now parked in the ATF employee lot after having successfully negotiated the guard gate. The pair were garbed in the clothing that Jaime had given his life to ensure they got: nondescript, worn, yellowish-tan jumpsuits, with the ATF logo on the back. Matching caps covered their heads. Around their necks, photo IDs hung on lanyards. Hidden beneath the coveralls, per the instructions that had come with them, they wore their black dress suits. Government Accounting Office IDs rested inside the suit jacket pockets, and Anders' phone cipher instructions were in his pocket as well, per Crash's suggestion.

"Yup." Crash was succinct. "Geronimo time, there, big guy."

"What's our story gonna be?" Mike double-checked.

"We're gonna bring it down just like your boys said." Crash's eyes darted about, taking in everything about the bland, featureless stucco building they approached. "By the book. Well, by the note," Crash amended, a bit flustered. "Aw, you know what the hell I mean."

"The note in my coverall pocket?"

"Yeah, that thing. Do what I tell you," Crash advised. "See the gate?" With the slightest nod, he subtly indicated a revolving-door turnstile, made of steel pipe and set into the secondary chain link fence enclosing the front of the building.

"Yeah…"

"Card swipe is on the right. Our badges should open it… if the kid was really on the ball." Crash was grim. "If he wasn't… this is gonna be one hell of a short ride."

"Okay…"

"I'll go, then you. Pull your cap down low," Crash instructed, following his own advice. "As low as you can get it, without it lookin' dumb. Hides your face better that way. Once through, as soon as I start moving, you fall right in with me. Don't hesitate. There's a camera on the roof that pans the area, so don't look up; we don't want to leave any kind of identifiable record on it. We'll have to time it just right to avoid it."

"Got it." Anders nodded.

"Once we cut around the side, just act casual, like two buddy maintenance workers. Kinda drift along with me, and then we'll see about getting inside one of those tin cans," Crash determined.

"Roger that." The Australian accent had disappeared, to be replaced by a decided Texas drawl.

"Huh?" Crash glanced at Anders, startled at the sudden and pronounced change in his dialect.

Anders shrugged with a grin. "I've listened to you enough, over the years. Figured I better get with the lingo. Don't wanna give myself away as an Aussie."

"Oh, copy," Crash chuckled, amused that the astronomer should have picked him as a role model, and not a little curious to see what he would do with it. "Okay, Mike, in character."

"Affirmative… Emmett." Anders grinned as he watched his friend register the use of the much-maligned given name.

Crash's face displayed a rapid series of emotions: shock, irritation, realization, distasteful resignation, before he sighed in long-suffering forbearance, then swiped his badge through the reader. To Anders' immense satisfaction, there was a metallic click, and the gate turned to allow Crash admission. Within seconds, Anders had followed suit, and the two stood inside the enclosure. Crash took out his money clip and made a business of handing Anders a couple of bills, stalling for time as he kept the camera in the corner of his eye. As soon as it swung away, he moved in the opposite direction. Anders followed on his heels, and they scooted along the side of the building, toward the tarmac in the back.

Within minutes, the men were on the tarmac, only yards away from a C-130, already loaded and prepping to taxi out. Crash broke into a run.

"Hold up! Hold up!" he shouted, crossing his arms above his head as a startled Anders sprinted after him.

Several people on the ground crew came running up. Crash panted, out of breath, "We just got word from HQ. One of the birds has a busted hydraulic system, an' it's sitting on the desert floor, stranded, in plain sight."

"Damned piece o' shit," the apparent leader, whose jumpsuit name read "Gordo," cursed, waving his arms upward into an X to signal the C-130 to halt. "I keep tellin' ‘em to quit givin' us that old junk." He waved the others back to work. "They say which one?"

"Naw," Crash answered. "Said ya couldn't miss it, though."

"That's for damn sure. Hellation." Gordo stared at them, eyes narrowed. "Who are you, and how the hell did you find out?"

"Emmett Conrad," Crash answered smoothly, "an' this here ‘s my buddy Mike Peterson. Hydraulics guys. Evenin' shift. Got the call at home. You know the drill."

"Yeah, I know. Hang on, guys. I gotta run check you out." Gordo turned toward the hangar.

"Go ahead, there, Gordo, I know you gotta," Anders piped up just then, with a quite excellent faux Texan drawl out in full. Crash tucked his head, staring at his toe scuffing the asphalt, as he struggled to internalize the grin. "But in th' meantime we'll miss this flight, an' the busted bird'll just be sittin' out there in th' bright sunshine, gettin' eyeballed real good by all o' th' damn ‘ufologists' ‘til the next plane comes along."

He tossed a thumb over his shoulder, where the demonstrators could be seen around the corner of the building. "If they're out there, you know they gotta be up on the mountainsides someplace, gettin' a damn good show. ‘Sides, ‘f we ain't legit, how ya figger we got in here? Reader never gives my badge any problem," Anders waved the card around, then grinned. "Ol' Emmett here, though, he has trouble with it ‘bout every other day, I think. ‘Course, if he'd quit leavin' th' damn thing on th' hot dashboard an' lettin' it warp, it might work a little better."

Crash manufactured a scowl and directed it at his companion, all but sticking his tongue out, as Gordo chuckled, then scrutinized the two again.

"Hang on. I think I know ya, but I gotta make sure."

Gordo turned toward the building, leaving two anxious infiltrators standing on the hot tarmac, trying desperately to look nonchalant.

* * * *

Inside the building, one of the ATF flight controllers popped to her feet, catching his eye. "Gordo," she blurted, "an automated report just came in from satellite telemetry. We got an injured bird on the ground in the Zone. Hydraulics malfunction, per telemetry data."

"Yeah, the mechanics from evening shift are already here for it," Gordo noted. "I gotta go make sure they're manifested right."

"That ain't all that's comin' in, Gord," the controller added, pressing her headset to her ear as she listened, and Gordo paused, waiting to hear what else was up. "Oh, shit." She looked up at him. "I'm getting multiple calls from the fly boys that the lot we got out there," she gestured toward the front of the building at the unseen protesters, "is the least of ‘em. There's a whole slew of ‘em up on top of Black Butte, just watching."

"Shit," Gordo cursed, irritated. "That means they got a full view of our little problem."

"Roger that, boss."

"Can the pilots see the downed bird? Is it on the tarmac?" Gordo queried.

"Hang on a sec," the controller told him, then keyed her mike, flipping on the external speaker so her supervisor could hear the conversation. "Juliet Three Four Oh, this is Alpha Tango Foxtrot. Do you have a visual on the injured bird? Over."

Gordo bent over the console partition as he listened for the reply. The speaker broke into a crackled, "Alpha Tango Foxtrot, this is Juliet Three Four Oh. Negative, but we departed Zone approximately one half hour ago. Our info may be OBE."

"Hm," the flight controller muttered to Gordo. "Coulda happened after…"

The speaker sprang to life again, interrupting her. "Alpha Tango Foxtrot, this is Juliet Three Fiyuve Oh. We left Zone fifteen minutes ago with no visual on Three Six Oh. Have you been able to raise them?"

"Negative," the controller replied, nodding and pursing her lips in comprehension. "Their comm has been acting up the last few days, and they entered the comm shadow about twenty minutes ago, anyway."

"Shit," an angry Gordo grumbled under his breath. "They're givin' us nothin' but shit."

"I'd say you've identified your downed bird, then," Juliet Three Five Oh replied.

"Sounds like it," the controller agreed, glancing at Gordo, who nodded grimly.

Gordo headed straight for his private office, securing the door behind him. Inside, he picked up the phone, dialing an odd combination of numbers. When the other party answered, he immediately launched into his prearranged signals.

"Gordo. Australian opal. Two eagles. Emmett Conrad, Mike Peterson."

There was a pause while he listened, then Gordo responded, "Affirmative. Wilco," and hung up.