Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (4 page)

Twisted, scorched wreckage lay scattered, seemingly at random, across the floor of the cavernous, but meticulously clean, white, bay. The apparent chaos was deceptive, however: The detritus was being assembled with care like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Crash watched as the huge yellow crane that ran across the ceiling skillfully maneuvered a large piece of debris into position.

"Damn.
Challenger 2
: The Sequel," Crash whispered, paling. "Thought I got outta this."

"Hey, Murphy," a booming voice echoed across the gigantic chamber, "‘bout damn time you showed up!"

"Hi, Mitch!" Crash met the stocky blond man halfway, clapping him on the back, as glad for the diversion from morbid thoughts as he was to see his old friend. "How's it goin', pal?"

"Depends, I s'pose," Guy Mitchell, director of the Materials and Processes Lab, responded. "Mary an' the kids are great. My oldest just started at Vandy. Double-E. But if you're talkin' about work, well… this kinda work I could do without."

"Know what ya mean…" Crash glanced around the high bay again and sighed. "Well… what have we got so far?"

"Hunk o' the port side wing here, some pieces of fuselage down the center, most of an OMS pod in the far corner. Over there's part of the starboard payload bay door. I've got a team back there in th' back trying to reconstruct the empennage and the rest of the tail section of fuselage, but we're missing part of the vertical stabilizer. They're still fishin' the Gulf for the rest of it." Mitch pointed around the bay as he spoke.

"Flight ops recorder?" Crash queried.

"Not yet. Divers are pushing hard for it, though."

"PAO put out the beachcomber request yet?"

"Just issued in the last hour. But you know how much good it did on
Challenger
. Everybody wants a piece of shuttle wreckage for a souvenir." Mitch sounded disgusted. "Worse than a bunch of damn gawkers at a traffic accident."

"Yeah. But we still got some turned in." Crash tried to be encouraging.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. It won't hurt. I'm just not holdin' my breath."

"No. Hey, listen, Mitch… have they… found any of the crew yet?" Crash avoided looking at his friend.

"Yeah, Crash." Mitch's voice was subdued, and he turned his attention to the white paper booties on his feet. "I heard they found somebody this morning. Didn't hear who, though. Takin' ‘em to Houston, gonna have the flight surgeons help the coroner ID ‘em…" He shuffled his feet.

"OK," Crash nodded sad acceptance. "Guess I'll check in with Ham after I get settled in the hotel tonight, then."

"Hey, Crash, got an old… er, friend of yours workin' this," Mitch told him then, his tone indicative of warning.

"Oh? Who?" Crash's ears perked up, and he turned, catching the hint.

Guy Mitchell pointed across the bay at a shapely brunette in a clean suit overseeing the tail reconstruction. "Lisa Stephens."

* * * *

Crash relaxed into the navy satin clad pillows, sighing in contentment, as Lisa rose from the bed, shrugging her black silk robe over her matching lace negligée before crossing the room to the silver ice bucket. She poured a glass of Moet, then walked back to the bed, sitting down close beside him.

"Here you are, darling," she murmured, holding the glass to his lips. He sipped the champagne, then smiled at her, putting his hands on her hips to tug her closer. She smiled in return, setting the glass aside before leaning down to kiss him. "What a wonderful celebration, just the two of us."

"Celebration?" Crash asked, puzzled.

"Of course, sweetheart," Lisa answered with another smile. "I thought you knew. They announced the D.C. position today. I'll be heading up the new department. We have two weeks to move."

Crash sat up straight, contented good humor vanishing like fog in a firestorm. "Dammit, Lisa, did you hear anything I told you, the other day?! I am not interested in that kind of shit! I don't want to move to D.C., and I'm getting out of the damn SPACE PROGRAM!"

Lisa's voice was cold and calm. "I heard it, and I don't believe a word of it."

"Well, start believing it."

"Why should I?"

"I'm tired, Lisa. I'm burned out. I like the work. It's the damn politics I hate."

"Perils of working for a government agency. Deal." Lisa's face held no more sympathy for Crash than her voice.

"I have been. I'm sick of it. And I'm not up for more in D.C." Crash took her gently by the arms. "Lisa, am I asking for so much? I just want you here with me, backing me, to be here for me, instead of off, running around the country, around the world." He paused, pleading. "Please, Lisa. Let's just stay here."

Lisa turned her determined gaze on him. "I'm going, Crash. My mind's made up." She turned sultry, sliding her hands sensually up his bare arms. "You'll see. It'll be just fine. I'll--"

"NO, Lisa." Crash was stern. "We're staying in Texas."

Cold fury shook Lisa's frame at that. "‘We' are not staying in Texas, Crash. My career will be made in Washington." She stared at him calmly, supremely confident. "If you want me, you'll just have to come along."

Crash gazed at the raven-haired beauty for a long moment, suddenly seeing past her beauty and warm seduction to the cold ambition beneath. At that realization, he rose from the bed, silently and somewhat haphazardly throwing on his shirt and tightening the belt on his trousers before heading for the door.

Lisa stared at him, shocked. "Crash, what--?"

Crash turned at the door. Deliberately, he forced his expression to mimic her earlier cold, unsympathetic gaze. Profound pain filled his being, and he momentarily wondered if it showed in his dark eyes, despite himself. "Have a nice career, Lisa. See you around."

He exited, eased the door closed behind him, and didn't look back.

* * * *

Crash's eyebrows climbed upward in surprise and mild dismay. "Oh, boy. That's gonna make things interesting…"

"Uh-huh. Thought you might wanna know up front," Mitch replied in a comradely fashion. "Didn't want you blindsided. You an' she were an item a few years back, weren't you?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"Is this gonna be a problem?"

"Not from my point of view," Crash noted, unruffled. "She may have different ideas."

"Relationship go south?"

"Wasn't the relationship as much as the careers," Crash recalled. "That's about the time I started wanting out of the space program, and about the time she started making a name for herself at Headquarters. We just sort of… went in different directions. Wanted different things out of life. Had some hellacious fights before we went our separate ways. Don't know that she ever really forgave me for not being as ambitious as she was."

"Looks like you're about to find out real quick, ‘cause here she comes," Mitch remarked in a low, cautionary tone, as the object of their conversation looked up, spotted them, and began walking over. As she approached, she scanned the two men, then spoke in a dry as desert tone.

"Well, well, well. Look who's here. I'm surprised to see you here, Crash. Figured you to be baking in the hot sun out on the back forty somewhere in Texas."

Mitch and Crash exchanged eloquent glances.
Yup… different ideas.
"Given my druthers, Lisa, I would be," Crash pointed out, subdued. "Beats the hell out of investigating my best friend's death."

Green eyes blinked at him, disconcerted for a moment, then resumed that steady, emerald gaze that had so attracted him on their first meeting…

* * * *

Crash stepped back to avoid the instrumentation cart being wheeled through the laboratory, only to feel his left hip bump solidly into something warm as he did. Before he could react, the low, soft voice drifted over his shoulder from behind, an amused lilt in it.

"Well, hi there, cowboy."

Crash turned, to find himself staring into the depths of jade green eyes, mesmerized. After a brief moment, he mentally shook himself out of their spell. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," he replied in apology. "I didn't see you standing there."

"That much was obvious. You do now, I hope," the green eyes murmured.

"Of course. Forgive me."

"Oh, I'd never hold a grudge against a handsome cowboy." The woman proffered her hand. "Lisa Stephens…"

* * * *

Lisa looked away for a second, then glanced meaningfully at Mitchell, who took the hint and faded away, moving over to supervise the wing reassembly.

"Sorry, Crash. I… forgot about Jet," Lisa admitted. "Stands to reason they'd call you back in, under the circumstances. It's hard enough on you without my making it worse. Besides," she added, with an intrigued glance at the tall, rugged investigator with the light tan, "life on the ‘back forty' seems to… agree with you."

"Forget it. We've got a job to do here, and I'd as soon get it over and done with," Murphy responded brusquely, determined not to let the green eyes cast their old spell on him. "What's your take on it?"

Strolling with him back toward the partially rebuilt tail, Lisa told him. "We don't really have enough yet to make a call, Crash, but so far there's no evidence of mechanical failure."

"Sabotage?!"

"No, no. Everything is… damn, Crash, I hate to say this… Everything's consistent with… operator error."

Murphy stopped dead in his tracks. "You're saying…"

"Yes."

"No. Not Jet."

"It might not have been Jackson in the pilot's seat, Crash. You know the commander's prerogative. He could've bumped it to the pilot."

"Yeah. But you know who the media will blame, Lisa. And Jet was too good, too experienced, to screw up like that." Crash shook his head in disbelief. "Or to let somebody under his command do it."

"I'm sorry, Crash," she shrugged. "But I have to call ‘em like I see ‘em. I understand how you feel."

"Do you? Did you--ever?"

Crash turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there, jaw slack.

* * * *

By the end of the day, about fifty percent of the spacecraft's tattered, scorched bulk lay in Building 4619. Unfortunately, that fifty percent still did not include the flight ops recorder. Nor did it include indications of a mechanical or computer failure, to Crash's grim dismay. He got in the rental car and zipped down Rideout Road, back through Gate 9, and hit the interstate spur to his hotel near the space museum. Once he'd checked in and settled into his comfortable, well-appointed room, he picked up the room phone and dialed a number with a Houston area code.

"Hello--Carter residence."

"Hi, Elaine. Crash. Is Ham home yet?"

"Yes, Crash, he just walked in. Hold on a minute." There was a pause.

"Hamilton Carter…"

"It's Crash, Ham."

"What's up, Crash?"

"Not much, I hate to admit. No sign of anything, so far. Ham, they're trying to put the blame on Jet."

"…I know, Crash."

"You an' I both know that's a load o' bullshit."

"Crash, if there's no sign of structural failure or equipment malfunction… well. Mistakes happen, Crash. Jet is--Jet was--only human."

Crash was silent for a long moment, thunderstruck and utterly numb, as he listened to Carter.
I'm not hearing this,
he thought in disbelief.
Please, God, tell me I'm not really hearing this.
After a moment to gather his thoughts, he said in a shocked tone, "Ham… you know better."

"I'm sorry, Crash, but… no, I don't."

Crash shook his head in shocked disappointment, then changed the subject. "Ham, I heard they've started finding the bod--finding the crew."

"Yeah."

"Who?" Crash pressed.

"Not sure yet. The… bodies… are pretty badly burned. Gonna have to use forensics to ID ‘em. I'll have the flight surgeon call ya as soon as we know more, okay?" Ham promised.

"Okay. Anything else on that end?"

"Negative." Crash heard Ham sigh.

"All right. I'm gonna grab a bite, read some more log books, an' get some sleep. I'll let you know if anything turns up."

"Copy that. ‘Bye, Crash."

"Bye…"

Crash hung up and stared at the phone from his prone position on the king size bed. At last he grabbed the remote control from the nightstand and turned on the TV. CNN was reporting on the accident.

"…And initial indications point toward pilot error, according to an inside source. NASA sources say that debris is being recovered at a rapid pace, and request all coastal residents of the Gulf to be on the lookout for possible wreckage washing ashore. In the event you find such important evidence, please contact… "

Crash mentally tuned out the rest of the broadcast.
Shit
, he thought, staring at the ceiling,
that was one hell of a major leak. We don't even have quite half the orbiter recovered yet. Dammit, the bureaucrats are gonna try to pin it on Jet, I can see it already. Doesn't look like a malfunction, I'll admit--so far
. He clicked off the television in disgust, tossing the remote aside.
But I know Jet. No way he did something as stupid as this would have to be. It's almost as extreme as if the flight crew had a suicide pact. But that would've shown up in the psych profiles… wouldn't it?
He ran a tired hand over his face, considering.
Three pilot-certified astronauts on board--Jet, the pilot, and the MS-2--and nobody in the lot could figure out how to bleed off enough velocity?! How to correct the descent angle? I don't think so. There's gotta be something I'm missing…