Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281, Page 2

  Anders laughed. "What are you into this week?"

  "Got the sound track to the Wachowskis' latest, right here." The assistant twiddled the CD between his fingers.

  "No, thanks. I'll pass." Anders stifled a snort.

  "Your loss. Those blokes make good movies," Ryan noted.

  "Oh, I'm sure they do," Anders protested. "It's just not my taste--"

  "Hey, Mike," a voice called up the stairs, "phone call."

  "Thanks, Steve. Coming down," Anders called by way of reply, before turning to the tech. "I'll be right back."

  "Okay," Ryan replied nonchalantly, popping the movie score into the CD player.

  Intense, pounding symphonic music blasted from the observatory's dome as Anders descended, and the scientist grimaced. "No wonder I have to recalibrate every other night," he muttered good-naturedly, unable to restrain a soft chuckle.

  He turned the corner into the office wing, where Dr. Steven Thomas Blake stood in the doorway, holding the phone for him, the extra-long cord stretched out behind the tall thin brunet. "Damn, Mike," Blake commented, "it's awful late to be gettin' a phone call up here, mate. Caller ID says it's out of Canberra, too. You got a govvie, here."

  Anders shrugged, glancing at his watch. "It's only one A.M., Steve," he answered. "Besides, everybody who knows me knows this is where I am, and not to bother calling me in the daytime. I'm going back to the States the day after tomorrow anyway; what's the point of switching back to Sydney time?"

  Blake gave his colleague a wry grin as he handed over the phone. "You have a point there, Mike." He turned to his desk, gathering up a stack of papers and charts. "Guess I'd better get with it, myself. There's an Echelle spectrometer waiting for me."

  "Good viewing," Anders wished his co-worker as he put the phone to his ear and his fellow scientist exited. "Hello."

  The voice on the other end of the line was male, Australian, and, somehow, deceptively quiet. "Doctor Anders?"

  "Speaking." Anders glanced absently at his watch, wondering how long it would take Ryan to finish the calibration.

  "Dr. Anders, this is…" the voice hesitated for a brief moment, "Mr. Brown, of the… Defence Science and Technology Organisation."

  "Yes, Mr. Brown, what can I do for you?"

  "My colleague and I, Mr. Jones, would like to meet you and discuss a little matter. Our people seem to have found an object on which we'd like your professional opinion." Brown's voice was quiet, precise, and somehow, attention-getting.

  Anders shrugged, wondering what they could possibly have discovered that would be of interest. Still, his curiosity was piqued. "Okay."

  "You have no problem with that? Some scientists would prefer not to work with the Defence Department," Brown queried.

  "No, it's not an issue. When do you want to meet, and where?" Anders grabbed a pencil and notepad that he found on the desk, and prepared to write down the information.

  "As soon as possible, doctor." Brown was firm.

  Anders thought for a moment, pondering timetables in his head. "All right. I'll be headed for Sydney tomorrow morning, after I finish my observing run here tonight. How about tomorrow night in Sydney for dinner?"

  "Perfect. Let's meet at Wu Fat Restaurant, just off Dixon Street in Chinatown, around seven?" Brown suggested.

  "Oh, I know the place," Anders remarked, blue eyes brightening as he recalled the restaurant and its delicious cuisine. His mouth watered at the memory. "Little hole in the wall with great food."

  "That's the place. You'll be there, then?"

  "At seven, or as soon thereafter as the traffic will let me," Anders agreed.

  "Very well, Doctor. We are very much looking forward to having your expert advice."

  "Always glad to help," Anders replied amiably.

  * * * *

  In the narrow stairwell, Blake paused, pulling out his cell phone and hitting a speed-dial number before putting it to his ear. "Flyboy, this is Stargazer. Bottom of the world, looking up. Yeah, they got a clay pigeon. Skeet shooting club out of Canberra. Anders. Uh-huh. All right, mate, consider it done."

  He closed the cell phone and replaced it on his belt. Then he slipped out the battered side door to the car park. Mere moments later, he re-entered, continuing upward to the dome, unseen.

  * * * *

  The night of observing went well; Anders burned the raw data onto a CD, and shut down his laptop, putting it and the CD into his case. He shook his assistant's hand with a cheery, "See ya next time, Ryan!" and headed out of the observatory to his rental car, a late model navy Holden Commodore.

  Once in Coonabarabran, he stopped for a--large--cup of coffee and a full tank of fuel, then headed out on the road to Sydney.

  Three hundred kilometers and just over three hours later, the car's engine lurched, gasped, then sputtered to a stop in the middle of the emptiest stretch of road between Coonabarabran and Sydney. "What the hell?!" Anders exclaimed, as he coasted to the side of the road and parked his vehicle. Glancing down at the dash, he stared in annoyance at the gas gauge. "Aw, dammit. Must be a leak somewhere. No way in blazes I ran out of petrol already, otherwise. Bloody hell."

  He got out, popping the bonnet, and looking around underneath. "Ah, there you are, you bloody little nuisance," he muttered, spotting the loose connection in the fuel line. He reached in and tightened the connector by hand, astounded to discover just how loose it was. "All right. Now, I just need some more petrol." He closed the bonnet, looked around, and sighed in discouragement. There was no gas station in sight, and precious little traffic. "Shit. It's gonna be a long walk." He turned and began the hike back to the last service station he remembered passing.

  Just then, a passing truck from one of the vineyards to the north topped a hill and slowed to a stop in the empty roadway. The truckie leaned out the window. "You in trouble, mate?"

  "Rental car had a leak, and I'm out of petrol," Anders replied glumly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the stranded car.

  "Hop in. I'll take ya down to the nearest servo, and bring ya back. We'll get ya goin' again in no time." The friendly driver beamed at him.

  "Much appreciated…" Anders enthused, climbing in.

  * * * *

  When Anders finally entered Wu Fat, laptop case slung over one shoulder, it was almost half past seven. He was escorted to a secluded booth in the back of the tiny, somewhat shabby, family owned restaurant. He slid into the dimly lit, red faux leather seat, opposite two dapper men in dark suits. "Misters Brown and Jones, I presume?" he smiled at the two.

  "I'm Brown," commented the shorter of the two, reaching out and shaking hands, "and this is Jones." Jones also clasped Anders' hand, then they each retrieved identifying information from their suit jackets and showed them to Anders.

  "Pleased to meet you," Anders murmured genially, making a point of noting the identification badges. "Sorry I'm late. Had a little car trouble."

  "What happened?" Brown worried.

  "No biggie. Fuel line had evidently worked loose, and all my petrol leaked out."

  "We've already ordered," Jones remarked, holding out a menu, "feel free."

  Anders reached for the menu as Jones and Brown exchanged surreptitious, worried glances over Anders' mishap. Brown reached inside his suit jacket, extracting a small Blackberry-type electronic accessory. Jones gave the slightest of approving nods, and Brown pulled its stylus, tapping several protracted combinations of keystrokes. The little palm computer beeped several times, and Brown watched its readout expectantly. Then he looked up at Jones and nodded once, before replacing the device in his jacket pocket, leaving the program running.

  Anders refreshed his memory of the menu, then turned to the solicitous waiter who appeared at his elbow. "Chicken with black bean sauce, please." The waiter bowed and departed. "So, what's up, gentlemen?"

  Brown and Jones exchanged reluctant glances, and tacitly agreed to begin with the latest international news first. "Have you heard about the American Space Shuttle mission?
" Jones asked, subdued.

  "No, what about it?" Anders' attention was captured.

  "It came apart on re-entry. Total loss. All hands." Brown's voice was quiet.

  "NO!" Anders exclaimed, shocked. "Shit! What happened?"

  "No one knows," Jones answered, shrugging and raising his hands. "The investigation is ongoing."

  "When did it happen?"

  "About noon today, our time," Jones noted.

  "There's likely an old friend of yours who will be assigned to the investigation, Doctor. One Emmett Murphy?" Brown pointed out.

  "Aw, damn," Anders muttered compassionately. "Poor Crash. I'm sure he doesn't need this."

  "No. But then, no one does, I suppose."

  Anders sighed his grief. "Well, what's this data you wanted me to see?"

  Jones produced a printout from somewhere beneath the level of the table, and handed it across to Anders. "Can you make anything of this, doctor?"

  Anders accepted the printout and looked at it. "I'll give it a burl." It was a long table of numbers, indecipherable to most, but an elementary read to Anders. He studied the data for several long moments. "Hm. Let me see… Radio frequencies…" He flipped a few pages, continuing to study the columns of numbers intently. Another flip of pages, then he turned back to reference an item. "Mmm… Do you have any more?"

  "No, Doctor, I'm afraid that's all we have," Jones answered, somewhat diffident.

  "Hm. Not really enough here to say for sure, but my first guess…" Anders remarked absently, then went back to studying the printout.

  Let's see here, Anders considered. Radio frequencies, looks like a periodic signal. Why the hell are they bent out of shape about this? Off the top of my head, it looks perfectly normal to me. Surely their analysts could figure this out. If not, I'm asking for a cut back on my taxes.

  Jones and Brown exchanged glances, wondering what Anders was thinking. Finally Brown bit.

  "We have reason to believe it is an object in the Solar System," a tentative Brown offered. "But it seems to show a distinct and unusual pattern. Our analysts say it is indicative of intelligence."

  Anders dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. "Offhand, I'd say you blokes have found a pulsar," he commented. "You have sky coordinates for it?"

  "Well…" Jones hesitated. "We have a set of several coordinates."

  "Several?"

  "It… moved." Jones reddened in embarrassment, knowing the reaction he was likely to get. He got it.

  Anders snorted loudly in scorning disbelief. "Then you have several different objects."

  "No, sir, we don't think so." Jones was firm.

  Anders gaped at them. "Then what do you think you have?"

  Brown and Jones glanced at each other, trying to gather the nerve to tell this highly respected scientist their best guess. "A spacecraft," Brown finally ventured.

  Anders stifled the laughter; it came out as a slight cough instead. "Gentlemen," he began, "pardon my skepticism."

  Brown shrugged. "Believe me, Dr. Anders, it matches our own. But this is… important. There are… groups… in our government who must know what this object is, and where it is located. They believe it may connect with an… incident… being investigated in the Outback. A serious incident. I would like to stress that this discussion is… confidential."

  Anders studied them for a moment. "You have the data in electronic media?"

  "Yes."

  "Let's see."

  While Anders retrieved his laptop from its case and booted it, Jones fished out a CD from his dark leather attaché, which was hidden under the table. "Here."

  Anders nodded, then extracted the proffered CD from its case and inserted it into the laptop, initiating his periodograph software. Slowly it built a display on the screen, and he turned the computer so that the government agents could see the forming chart. "This is a periodogram," he explained. "It searches for, and will show us, any regular repetitions of events in the data as peaks on the graph, and we'll be able to determine the period between those repetitions."

  The three men watched as the graph continued to form. All too soon, it completed.

  "Hm," Jones observed, "pretty messy."

  "Looks more like a smudge to me," Brown agreed.

  "Well, we just don't have enough data yet," Anders pointed out. "You only have, maybe, a hundred or so data points for it to work with, if that. If we had more, say on the order of four or five hundred, we'd likely start seeing a distinct pattern emerging. At the level of a thousand or so data points, we'd have a clear cut solution."

  "Doctor Anders," Brown began, "we were wondering, since you are already headed to the States to work with the Very Large Array, if you would be willing to, in your spare time with the Array, help us add to the database?"

  Anders wondered for a moment how Brown knew of his impending session on the VLA, then remembered these were government agents; they had probably thoroughly investigated him before ever approaching him. "I don't see why not," he consented, "as long as I get credit in any paper that gets published."

  Brown and Jones raised eyebrows, and Jones answered mildly, "Of course, Doctor."

  The food came, and their conversation drifted onto innocuous subjects, most notably the poor performance of the New South Wales rugby team in the State of Origin match against Canberra, as the three men tucked into their dishes. When the waiter arrived with the check, the two G-men took it, Jones flipping a government credit card down onto it.

  As the three men exited the restaurant shortly thereafter, carrying their various briefcases, they paused at the window of the martial arts school next door, watching the kung fu class underway inside. In an idle tone, Jones tossed off, "Doctor, have you ever practiced martial arts? Just wondering…"

  Anders nodded with a shrug. "Yeah, did some karate, way back when."

  "Really?" Brown responded curiously. "How far did you get?"

  "Oh, I made it to purple belt before I ran out of spare time. Won my belt level in a few tournaments, sparring." Anders beamed in recollection. "Sensei said I was pretty good if it came to a scrap."

  "Not bad," Jones noted, impressed. "You keep it up?"

  "Well, I don't have a regular studio anymore; I travel too much," Anders admitted. "But I still try to practice the katas, and I spar with a bag. It's a good way to stay in shape, and I don't have to have a gym handy."

  Brown and Jones glanced at each other behind Anders' back, and nodded, satisfied.

  * * * *

  As Anders arrived at his car, the agents handed him a small packet. "Contact information," Brown murmured, by way of explanation.

  Anders nodded and began searching pockets, looking for a business card. "Don't worry," Jones waved him off, "we know how to reach you, if we need to."

  "Oh," Anders answered, nonplussed and more than a little uncomfortable.

  "It's all right," Brown chuckled in sympathy, reading his expression, "we aren't following your actions that closely. We just needed to verify we could work with you. You were appropriately vetted, and you checked out. End of story. But we did end up with all your contact information as a result."

  Anders nodded again, their statements confirming his earlier suspicion. "Well, I'll let you know what I dig up as soon as I find anything."

  "We appreciate that," Brown said. "Oh, when you get to New Mexico, be sure to contact your friend Carl at Cornell, and ask him for a copy of that analysis software he's been developing. We'll grease the skids for you. Our analysts indicated that would be a very good tool for work on this."

  Anders grinned appreciatively. "Cool. Sounds great."

  "Oh," Jones added, tensing in mild trepidation, his face tightening, "you might expect a package or two to be waiting for you, too. And… please forgive us, Doctor… but we've arranged to have a few little modifications made to your recreational vehicle--purely for safety's sake. Not everyone cares for the Department of Defence, or those who work with us, I'm afraid. You know how it is."

 
; Anders nodded his approval, failing to grasp exactly what the two agents were implying, and therefore, unconcerned. "I figure you blokes are just doing your jobs."

  "Thank you, Doctor," Jones said in relief. "That's more appreciated than you know. We have authorization to provide you with whatever you need to perform this study for us, including a… special bank account, should it be required." Jones handed a credit card to Anders, who studied it for a moment, curious.

  "Uh, gentlemen," Anders offered quietly, "I don't have a graduate assistant, let alone one named…" he glanced at the card, "Todd Wilson."

  Jones and Brown smirked at each other. "Let's just say, you do now," Brown offered, with a knowing wink. Anders caught on.

  "Damn," Anders murmured, impressed. "Remind me to work with Canberra more often."

  "We will," Brown chuckled, and the two men left Anders, headed down the street.

  * * * *

  Jones got into the driver's seat, and Brown took the passenger side of the dark government vehicle. But instead of starting the ignition, they sat in contemplation for long minutes. Brown took out his palm computer and studied its readout. "Did it get anything?" Jones asked, seeing what his partner was doing.

  "No," Brown answered quietly. "No surveillance. No cameras, audio bugs, nothing."

  "Good," Jones murmured, satisfied. "Until we get a handle on who in the government is on which side, it's probably best to keep that little thing handy."

  "You think we can trust him?" Brown wondered.

  "Yeah, I do," Jones noted calmly. "He's got a good reputation as a researcher. He hasn't yet understood what we're really asking, but he will."

  "And then we need to tell him," Brown declared.

  Jones nodded agreement. "And then we need to tell him. Meanwhile, we have to keep our own bums clear, or this whole thing will be shut down faster than a pub at closing time."

  "You've got that right, mate," Brown agreed.

  Jones started the car, and moments later, they were headed out of Sydney, back to Canberra.

  * * * *

  On his way out of Chinatown, Anders found himself increasingly annoyed by a tailgating local in a black Subaru. "Dammit," he cursed under his breath, "if this bloke follows any closer, he'll ride up my exhaust pipe. Never mind if I have to stop fast."