Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 (37 page)

"It is."

"Good. We're gonna need it."

A buzz sounded in their helmets. "Rattlesnake, Crash…"

"I copy." Crash scanned the readouts. "Incoming missile…"

"No, make it two…"

* * * *

Anders sat in his little niche, nervous, one hand fidgeting with the worn carpeting of the computer flooring. Just then, his sensitive fingers registered something odd at the base of the wall, hidden in the edge of the carpet.

"Wha--?" he murmured, glancing down. "What the hell…?"

With a loud clatter, the steel door fell free of the frame, landing on the carpeted metal decking. Six soldiers, weapons ready, jumped through.

"Oh, shit," Anders breathed, and aimed the pistol.

"There!" one soldier cried, swinging his weapon in Anders' direction. A bullet slammed into the console to Anders' right, spraying molten plastic. Anders pulled the trigger.

The room erupted in gunfire.

Chapter 23

"Hm," the expert re-entry Flight Director said, as the missiles homed in on them. "I wonder…"

"Crash, better stop wondering and start breaking, if we're gonna get back in one piece," his GIB warned him.

"Don't worry, Jet," Crash said. "I got an idea. Hold on. We're gonna put the heat shields to the test."

"And he says don't worry," Jet muttered. "Never seen this thing before and he's already gone back to test pilot mode."

"No, Flight Director mode," Crash grinned, as he nosed even farther over and increased speed. "Think, Jet." The nose of the craft grew indistinct as they began encountering significant atmosphere. Seconds later, a faint reddish fog began developing around the nose. It deepened in color, and expanded up the vehicle's fuselage toward them.

"Comin' in hot," Jet remarked.

"Too steep?"

"No. But close."

"Good. I want it close." Crash wrestled with the stick for a moment, hitting some turbulence. "How's the rattlesnake?"

"Still coming. Both of ‘em."

"Are they into interface yet?" Crash asked.

"No…" Jet answered slowly, comprehending. "Yeah… yeah, it oughta work."

"Thought so."

They continued their downward plunge, as the cockpit windows glowed ruby red with the friction of their descent. A white flare overwhelmed the red, and the bogeys disappeared from their screens. Crash pulled up, and the friction plasma faded.

"Good work, Crash," Jet said with a grin. "Suckers weren't as shielded as we are."

"Nice work, hotshot," came a sarcastic voice. "See what you can do about this."

Another buzz sounded, as Pogo launched another missile. Simultaneously, all the readouts went momentarily crazy.

"What the hell…?" Crash wondered.

"Beats me," Jet replied, puzzled. "Haven't ever seen this before." He stared at a heads-up display that had formed on his screen. It showed five digits, with the first digit changing rapidly; the others were generic blanks.

"Just in case you little girls were wondering," Wilson explained, as Crash searched for the incoming missile, "these babies can be remote controlled. My computer is talking to yours, searching for the remote code.

"But," he continued, "there's only one reason to remote control an Aurora, and that's if it falls into enemy hands. We want to prevent that at all costs, even if it means losing a bird."

"He's trying to initiate--" Jet began.

"Roger that," Wilson said, and Jet realized he'd keyed the mike. "Auto-destruct. My little failsafe mode. If the missile doesn't get ya, the bird itself will. Lights out, boys."

"Damn," Jet murmured, being careful to avoid the external mike switch.

"He doesn't have the code yet," Crash growled. "We have time."

"Not if that missile gets us," Jet answered.

"Let me worry about that," Crash snapped back, terse. "You concentrate on remembering something for me."

"What?"

"What's the direct-link comm range on these birds?"

Jet pondered, as Crash dove deeper into the atmosphere, luring the missile down. After a moment, "Damn, buddy, line of sight, best I could tell."

"What I figured," came the tight answer.

"Oughta be gettin' the first number soon," Jet noted, subdued.

But the first digit kept cycling. Crash grinned without humor.

"Well, that's good to know."

"What?"

"Re-entry ionization's hosing comm, slowing down the computer cross-talk."

Jet's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, that is good. But the missile…"

"Is toast," Crash answered, as he suddenly threw the Aurora into a high, arcing barrel roll, shooting back spaceward. Another white-hot burst erupted behind them as the missile, unable to change course fast enough, plowed into dense atmosphere. Blue faded again to black as the craft went exo. "Jet, find Pogo," Crash commanded as he scanned the console.

"Ten o' clock high, Crash," Jet answered, twisting in his seat to survey the sky, trying not to wince at the pain in his arm. The rattlesnake sounded again. "That's two more." He noticed his partner's scrutiny. "Whatcha looking for?"

"Some sort of--" he broke off as a
ping
announced the first digit: 9----. "Some sort of anti-missile defense…"

Jet scanned his own console. "Got it back here."

"Whatcha got available?"

"Several things: chaff, pebbles… mm, looks like lasers…"

"Good," Crash said with satisfaction, watching the second digit scroll through the search. "Think you can handle it?"

"Sure," Jet answered, "even with one hand. But what are you--?"

"Gotta get out of sight of his ‘puter, or we're gonna make a nice ring around the planet," Crash replied.

"Copy that. Do it, buddy. I'm on this."

"Roger."

Jet scanned the dark sky for the incoming missiles; painted flat black, they were difficult to discern. But Jet was in peak physical condition except for his arm, and he spotted them quickly enough. "Okay, let's try a little misdirection." With one hand he keyed an arming sequence, then told Crash, "On my mark, break left."

"Wilco."

"Three… two… one… MARK!" Jet's finger slammed down on the release button, and Crash put the Aurora into a hard left translation. Despite straps, both men slammed against the right side of the cockpit, as the Aurora changed direction. The two missiles overshot, pursuing the chaff, which continued on the previous trajectory.

"Good job, GIB," Crash crowed, falling in behind the missiles. "Take ‘em out."

"Targeting laser sights now…"

"Do it."

"Done. Guns, gu- er… Lasers! Lasers!"

A dull red beam lanced out from what passed for wingtips, tagging each missile's nose in turn, and Jet and Crash were thankful for the dark cockpit windows at the resulting eruptions. They grinned, pleased, but were brought back to reality by another
ping:
The console now read 95---.

"Damn," Crash muttered.

* * * *

A badly shaken and no little horrified Blake bent over a mangled body in the uniform of an Australian colonel; a black and red T badge hung from his lapel. The hair had once been dark blond; now it was caked with blood. The face was mutilated; the torso shot to hell and back. Beneath this, and several other, bodies, pools of congealing blood soaked into the utilitarian carpeting on the raised floor.
Not even his own mother would recognize him at this point,
Blake thought in anguish, staring down at the body. Standing over him, pale and grim, but seeming relatively calm, was First Lieutenant Gibson.

"That was a helluva fight," Blake murmured through white lips.

"No shit," Gibson replied, glancing around the battered, blood-spattered room. "Auxiliary Control won't be much use for awhile. But at least we got him."

"Yeah," Blake agreed hollowly. "What now?"

"Pockets, maybe?" Gibson suggested.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good," the disturbed Blake agreed, and began rifling through the dead man's pockets.

Blake turned up an ATF badge and a GAO badge, as well as a small slip of paper with a numerical sequence on it. "Hm," he muttered. "So that's how they got in."

"Looks like it," Gibson noted shortly.

Blake absently shoved the paper into his own pocket, replacing the ID badges. He glanced at his watch, somewhat stunned to find not only that it still functioned in this electronic mausoleum, but that scant minutes had elapsed from the start of the entire firefight. He stood, then wobbled. Gibson grabbed his arm, steadying him, and the scientist found himself fighting his stomach, which seemed determined to turn wrong side out. Glancing at Gibson, he realized the soldier really wasn't in much better shape, after all; the man was trembling. Only then did Blake notice that he was, too.

"Let's get out of here," Blake breathed, headed for the door.

"Right behind you," Gibson agreed, trying not to gag.

They stumbled through the doorway, and together somehow managed to set the metal door upright, so that the sight, at least, of the dead unit--plus one--was blocked.

As the adrenaline began to fade, Blake dimly noticed that his arm ached. "Shit," Gibson exclaimed just then. "You've been shot."

Blake looked down at his left arm. "Sonuvabitch," he expostulated in surprise. "He got me."

Gibson gingerly held open the torn sleeve. "It's just a nick," he observed. "Few stitches and a bandage will fix it."

"All right," Blake nodded dully. "I'll have the medics tend to it soon. I've got to report in first." He moved to the wall control unit and punched a sequence of buttons. "You stand guard until backup arrives, while I do that."

Gibson tried not to fidget, his still-pale face gazing at the scientist. "If it's all the same, Doctor, I'd rather not…" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the warped door.

"I'm sorry," Blake said. "I know it's hard, standing guard over the rest of your unit, your buddies. Not to mention the mess that got made of Anders when he nailed the soldier with the automatic rifle and bullets sprayed everywhere. Damn, I thought we were all gonna buy the farm on that one. But it's got to be done, Lieutenant. I have to report in, and get them to send backup."

"Yes, sir," a reluctant Gibson acquiesced. "Permission to speak frankly?"

"Granted," Blake said softly.

"A barf bucket would be appreciated in the meantime, just in case, sir."

"Done."

Blake ducked into the nearest office and emerged with a plastic wastebasket, setting it beside the shaken soldier. "There." He glanced up at the man, then said, "Take it easy, Gibson. When I'm done reporting, I'll bring relief and see you back to your quarters. Or… do you need to go to the medic?"

"No, sir," Gibson said, subdued. "I just need to get away from this hellhole." He pulled another thumb over his shoulder. "My quarters will be okay."

"Will do, then," Blake offered in sympathy. "I'm not likely to forget it anytime soon, either. I'll be back as fast as I can get away."

"Yes, sir."

Blake left the jumpy lieutenant standing guard, and headed for the main control room.

* * * *

Five minutes later, Blake reported to the officer of the day in the primary control room. His smile was grim, and he was in some pain. The left sleeve of his white shirt was bloodstained, and he held his left arm gingerly.

"Resistance eliminated, sir. No repercussions possible," Blake declared calmly. "It took all my men except one, but Dr. Anders won't be bothering us any more. Son of a bitch fought like hell, but we took him out."

"Excellent, Doctor." The OD was satisfied. "Now sit down and watch our top squadron commander at work." He gestured to the view screen, where the dogfight was displayed on schematic.

Wincing, and glad he wasn't bleeding badly, Blake obeyed his commanding officer.

* * * *

"Damn orbital mechanics!" Crash exclaimed, maneuvering frantically. "In order to outdistance him and get ahead, I have to go higher, which also increases the line of sight distance."

"Why don't we fight back, Crash?" Jet asked.

"There's been enough killing," Crash decreed. "I swore, after Vietnam, no more, and I meant it. And you have no idea the hell Mike Anders and I went through, or how many good people have been lost, for me to get this far. No, Jet."

"Not even Pogo?"

"No. Pogo may be a sonuvabitch, and at this point I'm not sure what else, but he was a fellow jet jockey in the Triple Nickel. Unlike some organizations I could name, I don't kill our own. No matter what they have, or haven't, done."

Jet nodded understanding. "Roger that. Do another dive, Crash," Jet recommended, "and let me think about this bird for a minute."

"Roger that," Crash shrugged, nosing the craft over and plunging into the atmosphere again. "Okay, we've bought ourselves a few more seconds with the ion field. Think fast, ol' pal."

"All right," Jet began, "you have two ways of increasing speed. One is what we just did, a nose dive…"

"And the other is pushing for a higher orbit," Crash finished for him. "I know. Problem is, if we keep up the one too long, we hit the ground. We do the other, we give ol' Pogo up there all the time he needs to hack our computer and do a manual shutdown the hard way." He pulled up, beginning the climb out of atmosphere.

"Shit," Jet murmured.

"Yup," Crash answered, then paused, as the sky faded to black yet again. The rattlesnake sounded in their ears, and Jet began scanning for the missiles. Suddenly a dull red line flashed through space beside them.

"Whoa!" Jet exclaimed. "He's got lasers too, dammit!" He set up a burst of mirrored chaff directly behind them, and released it. "Crash, we're runnin' out of options here, pal! Get your butt in gear!"

"Jet," Crash began, thinking hard, "what did you say was the prop on this thing?"