Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (32 page)

"I understand," Haig had said. "Don't let Payne get under your skin. Sometimes I'd like to throttle the bloke myself."

"That's good to know," Blake had grinned. "I was starting to wonder if it was just me."

"Hardly," the air marshal had chuckled. "The man's name and rank… it has to be some sort of karma payback thing. Now, what exactly is the margin of error?"

Blake had looked uncomfortable before replying, "Plus or minus about a year and a half, sir."

Haig goggled. "But… you said…"

Blake bobbed his head. "I know."

"…So they could already be here."

Blake nodded affirmation.

A stunned Haig had sat there, considering. "Well, that's a bit disquieting," he'd admitted at last. "But we've had no indications from our sensor constellation that there's anything to be concerned about, as yet."

"No," Blake had agreed. "Not yet. So you should have a bit of time."

"Which brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you," Haig informed him. "I want you to spend a bit of time here, just relaxing, then get back to your observations. I want you to do two things. One, see if you can refine your data a bit like you were trying to do before Hotdog called you in, and shrink that error margin. Two, keep an eye on that wormhole. You said if anything came through, the Hawking radiation levels should increase, right?" Haig had verified.

"Right. That's what the theory says." Blake nodded his confidence. "We'll get a measurable spike."

"Good. Then you'll be our first line of alert."

"Um… Air Marshal, I kind of thought maybe I could just… get back to my observing, get back to my life. You know," the astronomer had voiced a mild protest, "I've done what you asked for, done my part for the project and the planet…"

Haig had just smiled, as smooth and sweet as Belgian chocolate. "And done a wonderful job, Steve. But we need you to do just a little bit more. We're not out of the woods yet."

"I… see," Blake had said, trying not to let his disappointment and dismay show.

The air marshal clapped him on the back. "Again, congratulations, mate. Truly fantastic."

And with that, he'd been sent back to his underground quarters.

Now he sat there in misery, downing beer, while pretending to watch the tiny television, which he'd moved to one of the bedside tables so he could flop on the bed and still see it.
Damn it all to hell,
he thought, bitter.
I'd hoped I was about to be done with the lot. I gave them what they wanted. I thought I was through, that I could finally quit. I wanted to go home, get the hell out of this place, this project, get away from these people. I've got to get out. Before I end up having to sell my soul to the devil himself; before someone gets killed--no, call a spade a spade, Steve, old chap, before someone gets murdered--on my watch. I swear, if I'd known to begin with, I never would've signed on, no matter what kind of carrot they'd dangled in front of me. God help me, how the hell do I get out?

Blake gazed at the television, as if the answer might appear on the small screen by magic.

But nothing did. He sighed, popped open another Tooheys, and stared at the bland grey ceiling.

* * * *

"So where do we start?" Anders asked as they traversed the duct.

"Ummm… well, good question, now that you ask," Crash realized. "I guess we need to know where we are, first. Grille up ahead. Lemme see what I can see."

They paused next to the vent, and Crash peeped around the edge. Seeing no one in sight, he leaned further, then stuck his head into the center of the grid for best seeing vantage, and peered into the corridor outside. "Hmm," he said.

"What do ya see?" Anders asked, curiosity up.

"Looks like some conference rooms," he noted in response. "That one across the hall has a room number of ‘C-128,' so I'd guess we're in Wing Charlie."

"Makes sense," Anders shrugged. "So we're in the wrong wing."

"Yeah, but let's keep our eyes open just the same," Crash decided. "No telling what we might find."

"Yeah," Anders agreed.

"Aigh!" Crash exclaimed softly, lunging forward to the opposite side of the vent louver. "People!"

They stayed out of sight, one on each side of the ventilation grille, backs pressed against the corridor side of the duct, as a group of some eight or ten officers came by, entering a conference room several doors down. Once they had disappeared behind closed doors, Crash, whose face was pushed close to the grid frame in order to see, waved Anders past. The astronomer scuttled past the opening as quietly as he could, and the two men continued onward.

They hadn't gone far when Anders stopped dead. "What?" Crash asked.

"We need to find the vent into that conference room," Anders declared.

"Why?" Crash wondered.

"Call it a hunch," Anders replied. "But I got a feeling, mate, that we need to hear what's going on in there."

Crash shrugged. "Roger that. Lemme see, then…" He paused and looked around. "Turn around," he instructed. "Go back to that junction we passed about forty feet back, and hang a left."

* * * *

Blake got out several cans of Tooheys, putting them in easy reach of the bed, and changing channels on the television to a soccer game before going to the thermostat and switching off the surveillance system in his quarters. Then he went into his kitchenette, getting six one-liter bottles of water and a large box of granola bars.

He went to the maintenance panel, opened it, and disappeared into the tunnel with the water and granola bars. He was gone some little time.

When he returned, the water and the box of granola were gone.

* * * *

"This ain't conference rooms," Anders breathed in annoyance.

"No shit, Sherlock," Crash retorted in a sarcastic whisper. "Looks like we found the offices of the brass."

"Yeah… lots of ‘em," Anders agreed. "And I thought Enron was bad…"

"Yeah, shoulda taken the first branch ‘stead of the second, I guess," Murphy nodded, as they surreptitiously watched American and Canadian officials enter side-by-side doors, while a Japanese officer emerged from a plush office two doors down. At regular intervals along the hallway, a large alcove would open up, where a clerical type sat, busy at work. From time to time, an officer would emerge from an office with a sheaf of papers and hand it to the nearest clerical staff member.

Abruptly a U.S. admiral burst from one of the offices and stalked to his clerical worker's desk. "What the hell is wrong, here?!" he exploded, furious. "Dammit, this is NOT ACCEPTABLE! Australasian paperwork, arriving on my desk the DAY AFTER the shipment was received?? Last week, the new recruits got here before their CV's! What's next? High officials arriving unannounced? What the hell is the bottleneck, Nelson?"

"We aren't quite sure, sir," the lieutenant responded in a kind of meek apology. "Most of the Australasian work passes through Canberra as a central office, and they seem to have slowed down considerably in their processing time for about the last year. Reports indicate some interference from other branches of the Australian government, the ones not in the know."

"Yesss!" Anders hissed into Murphy's ear. "That's my boys! Good on ya!"

"Hmph," the admiral grumped. "Get Harold Waters on it. See what he can manage. He's got some pull. I want the paperwork process speeded up, and I want it yesterday!"

"Wilco, sir!"

Murphy and Anders both raised eyebrows as they glanced at each other; then they withdrew back to the ductwork junction.

"Looks like all isn't sweetness and light around here," Anders noted then.

"Nope," Murphy agreed. "I suppose, with as big and as international a project as this seems to be, maybe it isn't surprising. Make an organization too big, and too all-encompassing, and it becomes a bureaucracy and starts to bog down." He thought for a moment. "We might be able to use that to our advantage at some point, too."

"Good point," Anders nodded, then turned his attention to the open air vents before them. "Eenie meenie mynie mo?"

"Nope, this one here," Crash decided, crawling into the second vent to the right.

* * * *

As it turned out, the air vent leading to the conference room itself was extremely narrow.

"Hell, no way," Crash grumbled, staring at the small opening.

"Yeah, way, I think," Anders muttered, shrugging out of his backpack and trying to ease past Crash. "Let me up there."

Murphy flattened against the side of the duct, and Anders squeezed in front. "Yeah, I can fit. It'll be tight. Wait here. I'll probably be awhile."

Murphy camped out in the cold duct as Anders wormed his way into the small opening and disappeared.

* * * *

The louver was set high in the back wall of the darkened conference room. Anders had a bird's eye view of the entire room, with no one inside the wiser, as all eyes were fixed on the slides being projected on the screen on the front wall.
Oh bugger,
Anders thought, looking at the presentation.
Maybe I oughta back out and just forget this. A budget meeting?! This'll be dry as dust. Hope I don't fall asleep and start snoring. Or freeze half to death,
he added to himself, feeling the cold sheet metal pressing against him on all sides.
Thank God I'm not claustrophobic, too.

"…So this segment of our development budget is hidden in this line item from the Pentagon," the speaker noted, indicating a specific area of the slide with his laser pointer. "Most of the rest of the budget is coming from London, Canberra, Moscow, and Beijing."

"Do not forget the Korean portion," a heavily accented officer remarked in an offended tone.

"Ah, yes," the speaker, whom Anders noted was an American major named Payne, added dryly, "and approximately 1.5% of the segment's funding is provided by North Korea."

A chuckle went through the room, and the North Korean officer scowled. "At least we are providing part of it," he snapped. This pointed comment appeared directed at the Libyan general, who lunged forward. A Russian official put his arm in front of the angered Libyan, just as the Chinese official cast a warning glance at the North Korean. The motion stopped the Libyan in mid-lunge, and he settled back into his seat, casting discomfited glances at the unruffled Russian. Meanwhile, the North Korean, taking the hint, subsided into silence.

"And so are we on schedule?" the Russian general asked. Anders recognized the voice as the same one that he and Crash had overheard earlier, as he was being statused on the prisoners.

"As a matter of fact, General Ivanovich, we are a bit ahead, for once," the major noted, using a remote to change the slides. A large milestone display appeared on the screen, and Anders' eyes opened wide. Forgetting the cold, he managed to squirrel his notepad and mechanical pencil from his pocket, and began scribbling.

* * * *

Crash waited and waited for Anders to return, but he had been gone close to an hour already, according to Crash's watch. Sitting in the dark except for the occasional illumination from his watch face, the former flight controller realized that he had been on the move and tense for far too long. He glanced up and down the dark air duct, and decided he was as safe as it was possible to be, in a location like this.

So he eased the rucksack off his shoulder and, using it as a pillow, curled up in the corner of the duct. Moments later, he was asleep.

* * * *

Two hours later, the meeting ended. Picking up on Major Payne's cues, Anders inched his way backward, out of sight of the louver, just before the lights in the conference room were switched on. He lay still while the occupants of the room exited, then wormed his way backward down the length of the narrow duct, until he felt his feet emerge into the open volume of the larger duct. Several hard shoves served to get him out of the claustrophobic secondary duct.

"Crash?" he whispered into the darkness. "You there?"

Listening hard, Anders heard faint breathing. "Crash?"

Feeling gingerly about, he encountered the sleeping form of his friend. "Ah. Not a half-bad notion, that," Anders decided.

He located his own pack, curled up opposite Crash and tried to relax. It took some doing, but in short order he, too, was asleep.

* * * *

Anders awoke to darkness again. "Wha…?" he murmured groggily, sitting up. "Umph. Stiff." He stretched.

"Ssh. Good morning," Murphy's voice responded. "I think we needed that."

"Hell, yeah."

Faint shuffling sounds, then Anders felt his hand tapped, and something placed in it. "Here. Breakfast."

Anders munched on the stale bread, as Crash followed suit. "Not much, but it'll do," the astronomer said. "A hot bath would be good about now. Emphasis on hot."

"Yeah," Crash agreed. "At least it's too cold in here to sweat. Otherwise, they'd smell us all over the installation."

"Ugh," Anders commented in disgust at the thought. Then memory of the meeting returned. "Hey, Crash, I got something from the meeting."