Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 by Stephanie Osborn
Authors: Stephanie Osborn
Tags: Science-Fiction
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friendly fashion, "what have you got for us, mate?"
"Well, sir, I was hoping you could tell me," Blake responded, surprised.
"What do you mean?" Haig asked, puzzled, gesturing an invitation to take a chair.
"I was finishing my last observing run before I completed my report," Blake elaborated, sitting down in the cushioned visitor's chair in the air marshal's plush, walnut-paneled office. The thick padding beneath the slate blue upholstery cradled him, easing the residual stiffness the scientist still experienced after his trans-Pacific flight, and he sighed in relief. "Oh, that's a helluva lot better than a plane seat," he commented offhand, and Haig smiled.
"Why do you think I made sure to get such plush, cushy chairs, mate?" he smirked. "You aren't the only one to have a long plane ride to get here."
Blake grinned companionably. "Anyway, I was trying to get just a bit more data to refine my numbers, when Hotdog called me in, no ifs, ands, or buts. I got no idea, really, what's up. I think an old mate of mine might be a little too close, but I don't know any more than that."
"Hm," Haig frowned with concern. "That's troubling. Who's the mate?"
"Mike. Dr. Michael C. Anders."
"Ah, that bloke," the air marshal remarked, knowing. "Yes, we have reason to think Canberra contacted him."
"I know that," Blake informed him. "I took the bloody call."
"Ah," Haig said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, likely Hotdog just wanted you available, then, as a resource."
"Mm," Blake answered, noncommittal.
"Look, Steve," Haig said, glancing at the heavy walnut door to ensure it was well closed, "you know what Hotdog's like. You stand a better chance of protecting your mate if you're involved in the planning."
Blake glanced around in suspicion, then asked in a low tone, "What the hell sort of man is Hotdog, anyway?"
"Damned if I bloody well know," Haig admitted. "Never met ‘im."
"You?! Never met him??" Blake blurted in astonishment.
"Just so. A little scary, eh?" Haig noted ruefully.
"A lot scary." Blake was badly shaken.
Haig sat down across the solid mahogany desk from Blake, and sighed. "So your observations are incomplete."
"Well…" Blake hesitated, searching for the right words, "let's just say they aren't as complete as I'd like, but they're acceptable. The margin of error is still a bit larger than I'd prefer, but I can still wind up the report as is, and present it to the team in a couple of days. Provided I don't have to bloody well become Anders' bodyguard."
"I'll see what I can do about that," Haig promised. "Meanwhile, you finish that report. Can you have a briefing ready a week from now?"
"On next Thursday? Mmm…" Blake considered. "I haven't refined the new data yet… need to extrapolate, to cover for the data I DIDN'T get… then calculate the coordinates…"
"Two weeks, then."
"Two? Sure thing."
"Good man…"
* * * *
Anders slaved over the next few days. He completely dropped his original planned observing program, concentrating solely on adding to the database of observations provided by his Canberra associates. His entire focus was on locating the mysterious bogey the G-men, Jones and Brown, had introduced to him.
After a few days, he had enough data to make a prediction.
"Tonight, 07:12 UT," he told himself with a grim smile. "Think I'll break out the old Dob."
He set about extracting his Dobsonian telescope with its CCD photographic equipment, and setting it up beside the RV.
"Time to bag an alien," he murmured with grim satisfaction, as the sun set.
Chapter 8
Crash finished typing the email and pressed "send," then sat back and stared at the computer screen, waiting. A half an hour later, his computer beeped, and he brought up the reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subj: Special Tests
Recvd 18:32 CDT W Jul 14
Crash,
Thanx for the words re: Mitch. Am forwarding your condolences on to the team and the Mitchell family. It happened about three hours after you left. Mitch
"Well, sir, I was hoping you could tell me," Blake responded, surprised.
"What do you mean?" Haig asked, puzzled, gesturing an invitation to take a chair.
"I was finishing my last observing run before I completed my report," Blake elaborated, sitting down in the cushioned visitor's chair in the air marshal's plush, walnut-paneled office. The thick padding beneath the slate blue upholstery cradled him, easing the residual stiffness the scientist still experienced after his trans-Pacific flight, and he sighed in relief. "Oh, that's a helluva lot better than a plane seat," he commented offhand, and Haig smiled.
"Why do you think I made sure to get such plush, cushy chairs, mate?" he smirked. "You aren't the only one to have a long plane ride to get here."
Blake grinned companionably. "Anyway, I was trying to get just a bit more data to refine my numbers, when Hotdog called me in, no ifs, ands, or buts. I got no idea, really, what's up. I think an old mate of mine might be a little too close, but I don't know any more than that."
"Hm," Haig frowned with concern. "That's troubling. Who's the mate?"
"Mike. Dr. Michael C. Anders."
"Ah, that bloke," the air marshal remarked, knowing. "Yes, we have reason to think Canberra contacted him."
"I know that," Blake informed him. "I took the bloody call."
"Ah," Haig said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, likely Hotdog just wanted you available, then, as a resource."
"Mm," Blake answered, noncommittal.
"Look, Steve," Haig said, glancing at the heavy walnut door to ensure it was well closed, "you know what Hotdog's like. You stand a better chance of protecting your mate if you're involved in the planning."
Blake glanced around in suspicion, then asked in a low tone, "What the hell sort of man is Hotdog, anyway?"
"Damned if I bloody well know," Haig admitted. "Never met ‘im."
"You?! Never met him??" Blake blurted in astonishment.
"Just so. A little scary, eh?" Haig noted ruefully.
"A lot scary." Blake was badly shaken.
Haig sat down across the solid mahogany desk from Blake, and sighed. "So your observations are incomplete."
"Well…" Blake hesitated, searching for the right words, "let's just say they aren't as complete as I'd like, but they're acceptable. The margin of error is still a bit larger than I'd prefer, but I can still wind up the report as is, and present it to the team in a couple of days. Provided I don't have to bloody well become Anders' bodyguard."
"I'll see what I can do about that," Haig promised. "Meanwhile, you finish that report. Can you have a briefing ready a week from now?"
"On next Thursday? Mmm…" Blake considered. "I haven't refined the new data yet… need to extrapolate, to cover for the data I DIDN'T get… then calculate the coordinates…"
"Two weeks, then."
"Two? Sure thing."
"Good man…"
* * * *
Anders slaved over the next few days. He completely dropped his original planned observing program, concentrating solely on adding to the database of observations provided by his Canberra associates. His entire focus was on locating the mysterious bogey the G-men, Jones and Brown, had introduced to him.
After a few days, he had enough data to make a prediction.
"Tonight, 07:12 UT," he told himself with a grim smile. "Think I'll break out the old Dob."
He set about extracting his Dobsonian telescope with its CCD photographic equipment, and setting it up beside the RV.
"Time to bag an alien," he murmured with grim satisfaction, as the sun set.
Chapter 8
Crash finished typing the email and pressed "send," then sat back and stared at the computer screen, waiting. A half an hour later, his computer beeped, and he brought up the reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subj: Special Tests
Recvd 18:32 CDT W Jul 14
Crash,
Thanx for the words re: Mitch. Am forwarding your condolences on to the team and the Mitchell family. It happened about three hours after you left. Mitch
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