Read Online Burnout: the mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 by Stephanie Osborn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Osborn
Tags: Science-Fiction
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Atlantis. We are at entry interface.
Ready for LOS.
CapCom: Roger, Atlantis. We'll see you on the ground.
CDR: Copy…
* * * *
Crash paused for several minutes; then, when no more audio appeared forthcoming, he keyed the mike. "HOSC Manager, I-I on S-O-P-G."
"I-I, HOSC Manager. Go ahead."
"Hey, Brian, where's the rest of it?"
"Stand by…" There was a momentary pause, then Christiansen's voice returned. "That's it, Crash."
"Broken?"
"Negative. That's it. No more recording. Blank tape all the way to the end."
"What the hell…?" Crash was shocked. Where's the comm blackout recording? Everything's nominal, and then it just… stops… right at re-entry. The critical part is completely missing…
"Listen, Crash, I'm gettin' word to get the POCC log books and data to you for investigative review. Got ‘em here if you want to grab ‘em when you pick up the mag tape."
"Wilco. I'll be there in a minute."
* * * *
A sleepy Blake arrived at the airport at the prearranged time, having printed off the e-ticket from his computer. He dragged himself onto the Qantas flight to Honolulu, took his seat, and promptly fell asleep.
* * * *
When Crash arrived back at the computer room, Jack Woodard was there talking to Christiansen, and holding the mag tape.
"Hey, Jack, missed you at the high bay," Crash greeted the manager, who shook his hand.
"Yeah; I'm sorry, Crash. I got sucked into a high level strategy meeting for organizing our part of the investigation. Authorizing round the clock staffing and all. You know the drill. I didn't get home until almost midnight." Woodard looked apologetic and rueful.
"Ouch." Crash pulled a face.
"Yeah," Woodard agreed, then grew serious. "Hey, listen, Crash, I've gotta take the flight ops recorder tape and send it to D.C. by special courier. Orders from on high. They want special analysis done."
"But Jack, that's nothing I can't--" Crash began protesting.
"I know, Crash, and I told ‘em so, but it's out of my hands." Woodard shrugged in annoyance. "Beats the hell outta me what's going on there. I'm told they'll provide us with high quality dubs and written transcripts A.S.A.P. once they're done with… whatever the hell they're going to do with it. That'll have to do for now."
Crash sighed. "All right, Jack. I understand. Brian, you wanna give me those log books now?"
"Sure, Crash. Hope you brought a wheelbarrow," the HOSC manager told him, maintaining a straight face as the implications of his statement sank into Crash's consciousness. Before Crash could ask just how many hard copies of the logs he would have to haul out of the center, Christiansen grinned and added, "Just jokin'. They're all electronic these days. We got ‘em transferred onto CD for you."
* * * *
At long last, a bleary, jet-lagged Steve Blake arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. "Damn," he muttered to himself. "I swear, this gets harder every time I do it."
He dragged his weary body from LAX's Terminal B to Terminal 1, before boarding a Sky West puddle jumper to Inyokern, California.
Scrunching his carry-on into the tiny overhead bin and folding his long frame into the cramped seat, he sighed as the propellers of the small plane spun up into a noisy, high-pitched whine.
"I hate it," he muttered under his breath. "Damn it to hell, I hate it with a passion."
"Excuse me, sir?" asked one of the flight attendants as she passed.
"Nothing," Blake answered aloud.
* * * *
Back in his hotel room, Crash mulled over the audio tape. Damn strange , he thought . Nothing past the re-entry LOS. That's when it should've started getting bad. When… when they'd start to… when it all would have gone to hell in a hand basket. And that last comment of Pete's… you almost couldn't hear it… but it sounded like he was surprised about something, like he was saying, "What the hell?" But then Jet sounded pretty normal on the LOS call. And everything was per the entry checklist. Completely nominal. At least as far as it
Ready for LOS.
CapCom: Roger, Atlantis. We'll see you on the ground.
CDR: Copy…
* * * *
Crash paused for several minutes; then, when no more audio appeared forthcoming, he keyed the mike. "HOSC Manager, I-I on S-O-P-G."
"I-I, HOSC Manager. Go ahead."
"Hey, Brian, where's the rest of it?"
"Stand by…" There was a momentary pause, then Christiansen's voice returned. "That's it, Crash."
"Broken?"
"Negative. That's it. No more recording. Blank tape all the way to the end."
"What the hell…?" Crash was shocked. Where's the comm blackout recording? Everything's nominal, and then it just… stops… right at re-entry. The critical part is completely missing…
"Listen, Crash, I'm gettin' word to get the POCC log books and data to you for investigative review. Got ‘em here if you want to grab ‘em when you pick up the mag tape."
"Wilco. I'll be there in a minute."
* * * *
A sleepy Blake arrived at the airport at the prearranged time, having printed off the e-ticket from his computer. He dragged himself onto the Qantas flight to Honolulu, took his seat, and promptly fell asleep.
* * * *
When Crash arrived back at the computer room, Jack Woodard was there talking to Christiansen, and holding the mag tape.
"Hey, Jack, missed you at the high bay," Crash greeted the manager, who shook his hand.
"Yeah; I'm sorry, Crash. I got sucked into a high level strategy meeting for organizing our part of the investigation. Authorizing round the clock staffing and all. You know the drill. I didn't get home until almost midnight." Woodard looked apologetic and rueful.
"Ouch." Crash pulled a face.
"Yeah," Woodard agreed, then grew serious. "Hey, listen, Crash, I've gotta take the flight ops recorder tape and send it to D.C. by special courier. Orders from on high. They want special analysis done."
"But Jack, that's nothing I can't--" Crash began protesting.
"I know, Crash, and I told ‘em so, but it's out of my hands." Woodard shrugged in annoyance. "Beats the hell outta me what's going on there. I'm told they'll provide us with high quality dubs and written transcripts A.S.A.P. once they're done with… whatever the hell they're going to do with it. That'll have to do for now."
Crash sighed. "All right, Jack. I understand. Brian, you wanna give me those log books now?"
"Sure, Crash. Hope you brought a wheelbarrow," the HOSC manager told him, maintaining a straight face as the implications of his statement sank into Crash's consciousness. Before Crash could ask just how many hard copies of the logs he would have to haul out of the center, Christiansen grinned and added, "Just jokin'. They're all electronic these days. We got ‘em transferred onto CD for you."
* * * *
At long last, a bleary, jet-lagged Steve Blake arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. "Damn," he muttered to himself. "I swear, this gets harder every time I do it."
He dragged his weary body from LAX's Terminal B to Terminal 1, before boarding a Sky West puddle jumper to Inyokern, California.
Scrunching his carry-on into the tiny overhead bin and folding his long frame into the cramped seat, he sighed as the propellers of the small plane spun up into a noisy, high-pitched whine.
"I hate it," he muttered under his breath. "Damn it to hell, I hate it with a passion."
"Excuse me, sir?" asked one of the flight attendants as she passed.
"Nothing," Blake answered aloud.
* * * *
Back in his hotel room, Crash mulled over the audio tape. Damn strange , he thought . Nothing past the re-entry LOS. That's when it should've started getting bad. When… when they'd start to… when it all would have gone to hell in a hand basket. And that last comment of Pete's… you almost couldn't hear it… but it sounded like he was surprised about something, like he was saying, "What the hell?" But then Jet sounded pretty normal on the LOS call. And everything was per the entry checklist. Completely nominal. At least as far as it
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