Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (42 page)

* * * *

Jones and Brown were together in Brown's office, going over all of the data that Murphy had sent them, when the phone rang in an unusual manner. The two government agents stared at each other. "That's the ‘special' incoming ring," Brown noted, an odd, surprised look in his eyes. "But there's no one who should be calling that…"

"Not now, anyway," Jones agreed, morbid curiosity growing along with his partner's. "Answer it."

Brown reached for the phone, hitting a special button as he did. "DSTO. Brown here." He punched the speaker button so that Jones could hear as well.

"Hello, Mr. Brown," a soft voice with a distinct Aussie accent said. "You don't know me, but I know you. My name is Doctor Steven Blake, and I need your help."

* * * *

After the call ended, Jones and Brown sat looking at each other in mild dumbfoundment. "That… was odd," Brown noted, a puzzled expression etched on his face.

"Indeed," Jones agreed, baffled. "Very odd. I can't think of a stranger occurrence in this entire sequence of events."

"Except, perhaps, the Outback incident," Brown amended, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"True," Jones admitted. "Still and all, it was strange."

"How the hell did Dr. Blake know to call us?" Brown wondered in amazement.

"More," Jones added, "how did he know to use the secure encryption?"

"How did he know HOW to use the secure encryption?" Brown pointed out.

"I don't know. Do you?" Jones asked.

"Don't look at me," Brown murmured.

They sat staring at each other in silence, for a long time.

* * * *

A few days later, three companions rendezvoused in a luxurious hotel room in the British Virgin Islands.

"Okay, Crash, the gang's all here," Jet said, as he entered the room. "What's up?"

"Yeah," Gayle agreed laconically, lazing in a cushioned wicker chair. A sparkling diamond glistened on her left hand.

"‘I suppose you're all wondering why I've called you here,'" Crash, brown-haired once more, began with a grin. "Well, here's the reason." He pulled three small jewelry boxes from his jacket pocket, and handed one to each of them, reserving one for himself. Puzzled, they opened the velvet boxes.

Inside each was a simple sterling chain, on which hung two pendants. One was a little aluminum key. The other was a small shard of broken ceramic with an odd metallic sheen, whose sharp edges had been filed smooth. Crash took the necklace from Gayle's hands, stepped behind her, and put it around her neck, clasping it securely. Jet tried pulling the chain over his head, as Crash extracted his own and donned it. Finally in frustration, Jet opened the clasp and put on the chain before staring at Crash.

He met the two curious stares with a calm gaze. "Evidence," Crash noted. "Wear these all the time. ALL the time."

Jet's eyebrow shot up in understanding. "The ceramic torus," he stated. "The power source for the Aurora."

"Yep. Or what's left of it. Hanging around our necks." Crash looked at Jet. "That's why the chain won't go over your head, pal. Nobody can just yank it off you, that way." He paused, and looked at the Shuttle commander grimly. "But it wasn't the power source," he said. "Just the driver."

"What do you mean?" Jet wondered.

"This thing was a ceramic magnet," Crash pointed out. "A hell of a strong one. And, from what Mike and I saw, I don't think it was a permanent magnet."

"Yeah?" Jet shrugged, uncaring. "So it was an electromagnet. So what?"

"So… what ran the electromagnet?" Crash asked him, point blank. "What kind of power plant strong enough to do…this," he lifted his own ceramic shard, "would fit into a space as small as an Aurora?"

Jet gaped, mouth open. He didn't have an answer.

"But the key?" Gayle asked, as Jet nodded ominously.

"Look at the keys a minute," Crash instructed.

"There's a number," Gayle observed, picking up the dangling key and studying it, as Jet followed suit.

"Safe deposit box," Crash explained. "To a box in Bank West of Nevada, in downtown Las Vegas, to be specific. Before we got on the Janet flight, Mike and I put all the evidence I had at the time into a safe deposit box with that number. Since then, I've added quite a lot to it. These keys fit that box. We--and a couple of guys Down Under--are the only ones who know the name and location of the bank. We three, however, are the only ones with access. We each have a duplicate key. And there are some spare keys, hidden away, as well as some spare evidence caches." He pulled out two CDs, and handed them out. "Here's a little more evidence I salvaged from Area 51, as well as the locations of the spares, in a code I worked out that only we would understand. Keep it someplace safe."

"Smooth, pal," Jet grinned, but Gayle frowned.

"I don't get it," she said.

"Failsafe," Jet said, and Crash nodded.

"Honey, we have the evidence to blow Project Aurora wide open, right here," Crash explained gently but firmly. "Complete with rogue nation involvement, and a shitload of illegal activity on American soil. If any one of us should ever disappear, or one of the necklaces go missing, the other two will immediately go to the news media with everything we've got, and expose them. And after all they've done, all the people who are dead at their hands, I have no compunctions about doing it, either."

Crash sat down on the end of the bed with an expression of grim satisfaction. "I sent a photo of the necklaces to the Air Train Freight Company front organization at the Las Vegas airport, about the time that Associated Press story on the telemetry came out. They know we have it, and they know that we will use it if we need to. They won't bother us."

The three companions smiled, and Gayle moved to sit beside Crash on the bed. He put his arms around her.

"‘And they all lived happily ever after,'" Jet grinned. Gayle frowned.

"Guys, I have a question," she said, puzzled.

"Shoot," Crash offered.

"What are they going to do with Project Aurora?"

Jet and Crash looked at each other, considering. Jet shrugged. "Space is the high ground," he said. "Sun Tzu.
Principles of War
."

"But… so many people died… no, were killed…"

Crash nodded. "Sometimes, people like Pogo, all they care about is the mission, the glory. Being the best."

"I'm guessing he's raw on that point," Jet interrupted, amused. "You showed him up pretty well. And I'm not ashamed to admit that you out-flew me, too, Crash."

Crash's face reddened in pleasure and embarrassment. "Thanks, Jet."

"So are they going to start a war?" Gayle asked. "They were sure willing to do about everything else."

The two men stared at the woman, then glanced at each other, uncertain.

"Shouldn't we stop them?" Gayle followed up.

"Be patient, Gayle," Crash urged. "Things are happening behind the scenes. In multiple locations. I'm making sure of that, or trying to. Give it time."

"We always have the necklaces," Jet pointed out. Gayle nodded, then paused.

"What?" Crash asked, alert to her expression.

"Well, I was wondering… who invented the Aurora, anyway?"

"Dunno," Jet interjected, "but they said his initials were ‘R. N. M.' I'd say, find the scientist or engineer who fits those initials, you got the genius who developed the propulsion system."

"Mm, I don't know ‘bout that," Crash pondered.

"Why?" Gayle and Jet both turned to him.

"Three words: Roswell, New Mexico," Crash said. "R. N. M."

They stared at him.

"Oh, shit," Gayle whispered. "The alien crash."

Jet gaped in astonishment. "Crash, you don't really think--"

Crash shrugged. "Mike and I didn't make it all over the Death Valley base by a long shot," he admitted, "and we never found the true R&D area, just some peripheral labs. That place was freakin' huge. We did see some interesting notations on some panels we couldn't translate, both inside," he recalled George Phillips, "and outside the base. Mike thought it was Russian at first, but I speak and read Russian, and it wasn't Russian--or any other language either of us recognized.

"And consider this," Crash continued. "How is it that, in a project developed from scratch, the top test pilot didn't know or understand all the capabilities of his own spacecraft? One that he'd been flying for some time?"

His friends stared at him, thinking.

"I guess there's more to Project Aurora than I want to know," Gayle said quietly.

"Got that right," Jet agreed. "I vote for a change of subject. It's about damn time we three lightened up for awhile. What say we go out and have a drink, do the tropical hedonistic thing?" Gayle jumped up, enthusiastic.

Crash smiled, a sad, knowing look deep in his eyes, and stood. The universe was a big place, and he--and the rest of humanity--had only dipped his toes into its edges. Project Aurora was apparently dabbling with things beyond its knowledge, like a child playing with an unknown mechanism. He only hoped they didn't damage the rest of humanity in the process.

As the trio stepped out of the hotel into the velvety tropical twilight, Crash glanced upward, deep into the star-spangled heavens. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a swift flash of light, moving due north. He paused, staring into the depths of space.

"Hey, c'mon, man," Jet urged, and Gayle took his arm with an inviting smile.

Crash Murphy returned to Earth, and lost himself in the tropical night.

Epilogue

It was night, and the Alyawarre met at the base of Uluru in Australia's heart, as was their tradition, in one of the sacred places, for a very special inma. A bright shooting star hissed by overhead, lighting up the red monolith and leaving a myriad of spangles in its wake. One of the eldest of the elders, a wizened little woman, stopped to watch, softly keening her worry and fear.

"Don't worry, grandmum," one of the young men, called Len by his friends, soothed the old woman, though his attitude was somewhat insolent. "It's just a meteor, a big rock from outer space. It can't hurt you."

Several of the other young people chuckled in amusement at the elder's fears. The old woman glared at Len. "You do not respect the old ways. Why have you even bothered to come for the inma? All you want to do is to sell the bad medicines of the piranypa, the ones that make people sick and cause them to be put in jail. Go back to the white man's cities where you belong! You are no more of the Alyawarre."

Len, astonished and angered, opened his mouth to speak, but the elder turned away, ignoring him, continuing her preparations for the sacred ceremony.

* * * *

The male elder walked out of the night, into the Alyawarre encampment, in the middle of the inma. The sound of the didgeridoos faded as the shocked people saw what accompanied him: In the darkness, at the extremity of the firelight, stood two beings.

They were bipedal, these strange visitors, wearing some sort of dark blue military-like jumpsuit uniform, and what little light reached them from the bonfire glinted off the pebbly, almost scaly, dark, liver-colored skin of their hands and faces. Their yellow, slitted eyes darted to and fro, taking in everything, and many of the Aborigines stared in fear as the firelight gleamed on sharp, crocodile-like teeth when the visitors smiled in greeting. Others among the natives, however, smiled back a welcome, and even waved in recognition. The beings stood, watching the Alyawarre with their almost luminous eyes, as the elder walked up to the fire.

"They have returned," the elder pronounced at last. "Mita and Lungkata, the Lizard-men of the Dreamtime, have returned."

"I don't bloody believe it," Len murmured to his companions. "Gotta be somebody pullin' one on us." The other young people, already high on the white powder Len had brought them, dreamily nodded agreement.

The elder spun on them. "You!" he shouted. "You and those like you are why they have come. You have turned your backs on the Tjukurpa to follow the piranypa, the whites! Our ways will be lost. The lizard-men come with a message! Turn back to the Tjukurpa, the Dreamtime, or they will send Kurpany, the demon dog, among you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure, old man," Len sneered. "Send the Hound of the Baskervilles after us, too, while you're about it. Nice costumes you got, mates. Rent ‘em in Alice Springs?"

* * * *

The lizard-men were fed well by the older Aborigines. The small group led by Len, the drug dealer, watched in suspicion. While the ritual departure was being said, the group of youths seemed to evaporate into the darkness.

* * * *