Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (40 page)

"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.

I am doing my best to ensure that, as Mike was working with you, you get as much data and proof as is safe for me to send. Given what has been uncovered, by Mike, my friend Jet, and myself, I am going out on a limb in trusting you. However, you held up your end of the relationship, going even so far as to arrange special agents by which to contact us and to provide us the equipment and such needed to get us where we went, as safely as was possible under the circumstances. (Perhaps therefore, as I suspect, you won't find it puzzling when I send my condolences for the loss of your young agent Jaime in Las Vegas.) Accordingly, I think it only fair that you get everything I deem it prudent to send at this time.

That material includes copies of all electronic data we obtained and/or salvaged, as well as two very important pieces of a very special and unique spacecraft, dubbed the "Aurora" in the popular press. The ceramic shard is one of several pieces of the central propulsion system that we were able to recover from a destroyed Aurora spacecraft. According to Mike, it is a specially doped ceramic magnet. Having seen it in action, I can readily vouch that it is very powerful and quite unique in our experience. The metal shrapnel fragment is from the underbelly of the nose of the same spacecraft, and is a variety of heat shielding which is completely unknown to me, nor do I recognize the alloy from which it is made.

I have not sent you my only pieces of evidence. I am neither stupid nor foolhardy. Everything you now have in this box, I have as well, many times over, secreted in several different locations, known only to myself and certain other close associates. These can be considered fail-safes, in the event that other parties may attempt to coerce or otherwise "persuade" us to go along with their plans.

You may well wonder why Mike is not contacting you himself, perhaps even hand-carrying these items to you. Unfortunately, and much to my grief and intense regret, my old friend Mike did not survive our… investigations. I will not go into details here. Suffice it to say that I will spend the rest of my life doubting my judgement, wondering if I should have handled matters differently, if there had been some other way, a way that might have enabled Mike to survive. You will find the complete story, told from my point of view as well as that of NASA Shuttle Commander "Jet" Jackson, on the CD labeled, "Debriefs." Also on that CD is coded information indicating how you may reach me for further details and information.

I will be in touch, gentlemen.

Yours truly,

Emmett "Crash" Murphy

Brown looked up from reading the letter, meeting the stunned, regretful gazes of Jones and Johnson. "Dr. Anders is… dead," he said, deeply pained, shaking his head in disbelief. "Mike is dead. We sent another good man to his death."

"No," Johnson said, saddened. "We did everything possible to prevent his death, and that of Mr. Murphy as well. We weren't the ones that killed him, Brown. You know who it was."

"Yes," Jones said, jaw tight, eyes hardening in anger.

Johnson laid a light hand on Brown's slumped shoulder. "You two take a good long look over all of this," he swept a hand over the box's contents, spread over Jones' desk. "See what you can come up with out of all of it. If we need materials analysis, let me know. I'll see to it that it gets sent to an analyst we can trust. Put together your best summation of what you believe occurred, and get it to me as soon as you can. I'll see what can be done about Anders' effects and next of kin."

Johnson paused and directed a meaningful gaze at his two dejected agents. "The best way to avenge a friend is to bring his killer to justice," he pointed out.

The two agents nodded, as Johnson grimly left the room.

"Well, let's get to it," Brown sighed, despondent, picking up a CD from the stack and slipping it into Jones' computer.

* * * *

Harold Waters, longstanding liaison between Dr. Cayleigh Monteith and the Australian Museum, picked up the ringing phone on his desk. "Waters." He listened for a moment. "Dead? Hm. Yes, Monteith was his fiancée. Of course I'll keep an eye on her. Best source of intel we could have had." He smirked. "No, she never had any idea what he was doing. And if she ever figures it out, I'll… take care of it."

Waters listened for a few more moments, then nodded. "Right, then. I'll let you know."

He hung up the phone, swiveled his chair, and stared out the window at the Sydney skyline, smiling in satisfaction.

* * * *

Colin answered the phone at the observatory. "Anglo-Australian Observatory. Colin speaking."

"Hello, Colin, this is Carl, at Cornell, in the States." The voice on the other end was cordial, but subdued.

"G'day there, Carl, good to speak with ya again, mate," Colin answered cheerfully. "It's been a long time since I've heard from you lot. What can I do for ya today?"

"It… has been awhile," Carl admitted. "Is Director Johns there?" the Cornell scientist asked in an odd, strained tone of voice.

"Mark? No, he's not here at the mo'," Colin admitted. "He got called into Sydney on some administrative business this morning. We expect him back before sunset, though, because he has an observing session of his own scheduled for tonight. Can I give him a message?"

"Damn," Carl murmured, his distress beginning to become obvious. "I really wanted Mark to be the one to break the news to the observatory staff, but it can't wait. It's all over the networks up here, so it's only a matter of time before it hits down there, too. And I'd rather you didn't all find out from the cable news stations."

Colin frowned in concern. "What's up, Carl?"

There was a sigh from the other end of the line. "Sit down, Colin," Carl murmured, subdued. "It's bad news. Really bad news."

Colin's frown grew deeper. "I'm already sittin', mate. Tell me. What's wrong?"

"Mike Anders is dead."

"WHAT?!" Colin exclaimed, badly shocked. "What the bloody hell happened?"

"Best anyone can tell," Carl explained sadly, "is that he went for a walk in the telescope farm out in Socorro, and a mountain lion got him. One had been reported in the area for the last several weeks, threatening some livestock and a few hikers."

"Oh, shit," Colin whispered, pale. "Oh, damn. Poor Mike."

"Yeah." Carl was quiet. "Colin, I'm afraid… it gets worse."

"How could that get any worse?" Colin whispered, white lipped.

"Um… because, after the cougar was… was done with him… the coyotes found him before the facility staff did," Carl choked out the explanation, the sound of tears in his voice. "They… he was in… bad shape. Funeral will have to be closed casket. The positive identification was… they had to go with the driver's license in his wallet, and the clothes he was wearing."

"Oh, dear God." Colin clutched the edge of the desk in horror, nauseated. "Not Mike."

"I'm sorry," Carl apologized. "I'm… I just wanted you to find out this way, instead of… so impersonal…"