"All right, Chief," he answered, picking up the phone.
"Even this time America can be proud of us," the Chief declared finally relaxed. He untied the knot of the scarf with stars and stripes that he wore around his neck like a cowboy and used it to dab his cheeks and chin. Then he bent down to look for something under the desk.
"So it's serious!" Exclaimed Truman, the Radar Man, seeing that the Chief had taken from under the table a Moet et Chandon Magnum. Lee began to arrange the crystal flutes on his desk reproducing the shape of the shuttle.
"Every time I sweat like a sauna, tonight I'll have to drink five or six beers to replenish all the mineral salts I've lost," Rupert Lee announced, wiping his neck again with a scarf. "Who's coming to keep me company?"
All those present raised their hands in participation except the Communications Officer, who remained with his eyes glued to the screen as if he had not even heard.
"Hey Connor, what's wrong with you? Have you become teetotaler or deaf?" "Chief ... it would seem that something is not going well."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Connor explained, "the video signal comes and goes, it would seem that the shuttle is like ... like fading."
"Fading? What the hell does it mean "the Shuttle is fading"?" Rupert asked running to sit beside him.
"Wait a minute ... here, can you see?" Said Connor clicking on the mouse zooming the image.
"What the hell, you're right!" Rupert admitted. "What is it?" He then asked, putting his hand back into his red curls to scratch his head perplexedly.
"On the spot, I don't know, it could be a defect in the cameras or a magnetic storm or a train of electromagnetic charge that they carried from the ionized belt. In any case, there is something that disturbs the transmission. What do you think about it?"
"I have no idea, you are the expert! Can't you be more precise?"
"I don't know what to say, the monitor has been doing this since Atlantis entered the Triangle area," Connor informed him. "It looked up, lost speed, and then ..."
"Don't say bullshit! Won't you believe those silly superstitions on the Bermuda Triangle?"
"Of course not, Chief, but I would still try to contact them to see if they are okay."
"All right," Rupert said, wiping his neck again with nervous gestures, then he sighed and turned on the microphone.
"Houston to Atlantis ... do you receive us?"
"Strong and clear, Chief ... are there any problems?" Major Salas answered promptly.
"No, no problem, it was just to inform you we are working on those chickens," Rupert Lee lied to not unnecessarily alarm the Shuttle crew. "We look forward to meeting you, make yourself beautiful for being on TV. Out."
The chief closed the call and dedicated a murderous look to Connor because he had made him worry for nothing.
"Houston," the radio croaked right after.
"We are here, what's going on?"
"Boss, what's the weather like?"
"Excellent, why ?"
"Because last time we heard, the weather was a fairy tale here too, but within ten minutes it has changed and now is rapidly darkening. It seems as if a storm was brewing, moreover all the instruments on board have started acting up," explained Major Salas. Rupert's collaborators exchanged odd looks because the last conversation between the Atlantis and the control room had taken place no more than fifteen seconds before and not ten minutes as the commander of the shuttle had just said.
"What is this, another one of your jokes?" Lee growled into the microphone and began to warm up. "We haven't seen such a clean sky for years," he resumed, "and then ..."
"Chief, look at the monitors," Connor interrupted softly.
"What's up?"
"The sky is very clear, but the image of the shuttle is continuing to lose consistency. If you look at it well, now it seems to be wrapped in a green mist ... actually, it would seem that it has been enveloped by some invisible tentacles."
"Connor, do you want to finish saying these bullshit?"
"Chief, here is Atlantis," Major Salas called nervously, "we need help. Here it started to rain badly and the instruments do not ... ggzz ... ffffrrrr we've ... lost ... ggzz ... tion. Oh God! Wha ... ... hell? ... Help !!!" shouted the Major as the image on the monitors became more and more evanescent.
"Enough with jokes! Atlantis, do you understand me? I've said enough with jokes, I've had enough! Salas, answer me! ... Salas! ..." shouted Rupert one last time into the microphone with all the breath he had, then he took off his headphones and threw them away pissed off. He let himself fall back on the chair and stared at the screen in complete disbelief. His Shuttle, an entire Shuttle, had literally vanished before his eyes and he couldn't believe it. A cold silence had fallen in the Control Room, and everyone was wondering what the external relations Officer would have told the crew members' relatives. Rupert roused himself almost instantly, his quick reflexes were one of the aspects of his character that made him a good leader.
"Nick, contact immediately the Crisis Unit and make sure the research starts immediately, within ten minutes I want at least six planes to patrol the area! If the Atlantis has impacted the water the wreckage and the oil and fuel spots will be seen miles away, if the crew has catapulted out and there are survivors we can still save them. David, contact the Navy and ask for the nearest ship to be sent immediately," he ordered. "They can't have disappeared like that, and above all, they can't have gone far. We have their path and their last coordinates, we have to find them at any cost, even if this means moving the entire US army!" He concluded, banging a gritty fist on his desk.
Relatives and journalists, authorities and onlookers, who had managed to crash somehow, had witnessed speechlessness at the slow disappearance of the shuttle from the giant screen that dominated the stage. But above all, thanks to the idea of making the public take part in unclassified conversations between the shuttle and the control tower, they had listened to the last, shocking, desperate request for help from Major Salas. Now they were all looking in the direction of the sector reserved for the authorities, waiting for some explanation. The General, in turn, looked at the External Relations Manager so that he could somehow decide to intervene, because he didn't know what to say. He answered with a vacant look, because he had not the faintest idea what could have happened, immediately after he took the phone to contact Houston. The big screen continued to transmit images of the blue sky for a few moments until someone finally decided to turn it off. Emergency personnel got on the vehicles that left quickly towards the management buildings. A man and a woman, in their seventies, were crying softly, hugging each other. After years of vain promises to their son, that time they had finally overcome the fear of flying and had put up with twelve hundred miles in an airplane to see him getting off the shuttle at least on that last occasion. "Mom, what happened? Mom, why did they turn off the screen?
Why can't we hear dad's voice anymore?" Asked a child. His mom opened her mouth trying to say something but she couldn't, she got up to take her child out of there, but before she could realize what had happened she was taken ill and ruined down from the gallery.
James rushed into the Police Station clutching a paper bag containing two milkshakes and two sandwiches, glanced at the clock above the front door and walked straight to the meeting room.
"Good morning, Mr. Robinson, did you rest well?" Agent Benelli taunted him, seeing him out of breath, as usual, he was in the mood for irony.
"Back off! It's not a good day," James replied seriously, taking a seat; he put the bag on the counter and rubbed his eyes.
"If you had called me I would have brought you breakfast at bed," the other insisted. Without saying a word, James jumped to his feet to face him, because that morning he wasn't exactly in the mood to put up with trouble.
"Hey,