White Top: a political technothriller (Miranda Chase Book 8)

by M. L. Buchman

  Then she looked at Mike and Holly again as they laughed with Jeremy like friends before following him back toward the plane.

  Taz had come to respect them immensely. Holly the Protector, who was still the only person to ever outdraw her in a knife fight. Mike the Peacemaker, who always found the common ground where everyone could get along and solve a problem.

  Between them, they kept Miranda functioning and performing at the highest levels of the NTSB. Were they deluded enough to think that she’d take over that role for Jeremy?

  She was going to…

  Huh! She didn’t have a good end to that thought. She no longer faced down people for her general. It had been decades since she’d had to defend herself and her mother against drug gangs. Now, she was…

  Jeremy’s lover and a member of Miranda’s NTSB crash-investigation team.

  And she was enjoying the challenges.

  Enjoying herself?

  That alone was a new concept.

  Jeremy’s liaison to the wider world around him?

  Maybe that wasn’t such a bad gig.

  Taz could feel her competitive nature kicking in.

  With reason, Miranda Chase was widely acknowledged as the best crash investigator living. Yet, unlike the Pentagon’s warped mentality, in this field there was room for two at the top.

  She yanked out her phone and dialed Miranda. There was a ring far below, down on the stage floor.

  “This is Miranda Chase. This is actually her, not a recording of her.”

  “Hi, Miranda. I—” she smiled to herself. “Jeremy asked me to give you a call. Is Andi with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could the two of you start interviewing the rescue workers and firefighters who are still here? Find out if they saw anything out of the ordinary.”

  “More unordinary than an airplane crashing into an opera house?”

  “Yes, please, Miranda.”

  “Okay,” and she was gone.

  This could get to be fun.

  She stuck her head out the door. “Hey Jeremy, don’t forget to ask Mike to track down the survivors at the hospital and interview them before they’re all released.”

  “Hey, that’s a neat idea. Could you do that, Mike?”

  “Sure, buddy,” Mike rolled his eyes at her as soon as Jeremy’s back was turned.

  Taz shrugged in reply. She’d have to work on how to pass off ideas as Jeremy’s and not her own. After nineteen years as a general’s aide, she didn’t need to lead—but she sure liked to win.

  11

  “Talk to me,” President Roy Cole dropped into his chair and buckled up as Air Force One began its final descent into Victoria International Airport.

  Drake considered the stack of notes he and Sarah had made.

  As Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, it was his role to advise the President on military matters. Sarah’s scope was wider. As National Security Advisor, her purview included all areas of national security. Neither of them had any direct power, unlike the Secretary of Defense.

  Well, he’d done his years of service and had been granted dispensation despite passing mandatory retirement because of his job as the chairman. The worst the President could do was actually let him retire. Sarah still had years of service in the government ahead of her—perhaps decades. Politicians were like touring rock-and-roll bands, they were never too old, even if they were.

  He took the bit first.

  “Sir, we can come up with one reason to continue support of Saudi Arabia ahead of others in the region, and dozens of reasons not to.”

  “How significant is the one?”

  Drake smiled at Sarah before speaking it aloud, “Because we’ve always done it.”

  The President’s glare was daunting enough for Drake to wonder if he was about to be retired on the spot. He began enumerating all of the “reasons” of the past and all of the reasons not to of the present and future.

  “And?” The President was smart enough to know there was more.

  There was a low grind and a loud thunk as the landing gear was deployed. They were on short final and had only a few minutes left.

  Drake nodded to Sarah to take the positive.

  “There’s a second country in the region that it would be genuinely nice to have cooperation with. They’re close to becoming nuclear. They were the ninth country in the world to pull off an orbital space launch on their own. Global top twenty in population. Despite sanctions and depending on how you count it, they’re the second or third largest economy in all of southwest Asia. Definitely worth the trouble if we can figure out how to dial down the anti-Western rhetoric.”

  “You’re talking about Iran.”

  “I’m talking about Iran,” Sarah acknowledged.

  “Who hates us.”

  “We’ve given them a lot of reasons to hate us. What if we considered giving them reasons to like us?”

  He harrumphed.

  “We also caught Vice President Winston before he went into his first meeting with the Southern governors. He concurred and gave us,” Drake held up a sheaf of notes, “several possible strategies that he thinks could work. None of them are a short-play solution, but it could significantly shift regional alignments within a year or at least dial down the madness.”

  “Clark has a scheduled trip to Cairo and Jerusalem next month, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can get them to agree to add Tehran to his itinerary. Okay. What are your conclusions after our three days in Southeast Asia?”

  The plane entered that giddy moment of floating. Seconds later there was a bright squeal of the wheels hitting the runway.

  “Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, and the Philippines combined would make the eighth-largest economy in the world. Add in Australia and Taiwan and it’s the fourth largest. All are US friendly, yet we’ve done our best to not set up advantageous trade and security agreements with them.”

  Drake slid two one-page summaries across the President’s desk.

  “Suggestions on both regions.”

  The President studied them in silence from the turn off onto a taxiway until the plane rocked to a halt. The only motion in the room was the light tapping of his left forefinger on the desk as if counting marching time. Then he dropped the page into the shredder over a burn bag.

  Sarah looked at him in surprise, but Drake winked.

  He knew that, whatever his decision, President Roy Cole wouldn’t forget a single fact on either page.

  “Time to fly.” President Cole pushed to his feet and opened his office door just as the flight stairs were pushed up to the plane. “Hustle it up, you two. Don’t want to keep Colonel McGrady waiting.”

  Drake and Sarah scrambled to pack their briefcases as he headed down the stairs. They both knew that if they weren’t aboard the Marine Corps helos when the President was ready, they’d be marooned thirty kilometers from town. The motorcade was already in downtown Victoria waiting at the Camel Point waterfront heliport to deliver the President the one mile to the Empress Hotel—host to the G-7 meeting.

  “Bloody Green Berets,” Drake muttered as he reached the door, then had to double back for his coat and hat.

  “Bloody 75th Rangers,” Sarah told him as he nearly plowed her to the ground with his sudden change of direction.

  “What’s your excuse?”

  “I don’t need one, both of my parents were Marines.”

  They did their best to be dignified as they hustled down the airstairs together.

  “Why didn’t you follow in their footsteps?”

  “I preferred being the UN ambassador until you snatched me away by dangling the NSA role.”

  “Politics,” Drake shuddered as they reached the four steps up into the waiting VH-92A Superhawk. “I was never a political animal.”

  “Says the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

  Which, sadly, was exclusively about politics.

  Shit.

&nb
sp; 12

  Clarissa Reese raced ahead, the treadmill tilting as she pushed up the simulated grade of the first big climb in her 10K program. She could feel the sweat evaporating through her Victoria Beckham black-and-gold sportswear. Her TrailHeads headband kept her eyes clear and had a hole for her long ponytail as it whipped from shoulder to shoulder, helping her keep the rhythm. On the screen in front of her, the trail continued its climb up into the trees.

  This afternoon, she was the only one in the small gym at Camp David. At least on her treadmill’s screen it was a sunny day; Camp David was drenching wet. For now, it was just her and the array of machines.

  Her phone buzzed—the Director of the CIA could never be out of touch. She punched Answer on the screen but kept running. Taylor Swift over her earbuds was cut off in the middle of her double-standards anthem, “The Man.”

  Clark’s face showed. “Where are you— Oh, never mind. Good idea. I’ll come join you. Bye.”

  Good. It saved her wasting breath on him.

  Taylor slammed back in and Clarissa kept running.

  Clark would come ready to do a workout…ish. He enjoyed watching her workout more than doing anything himself.

  She sighed. It was all good. She liked keeping the Vice President on a short leash. But there were days she just wanted to run and be done. This wasn’t one of those days.

  Election campaigns would be kicking off in the next six months. She’d positioned her husband carefully to take over Roy Cole’s legacy since she’d maneuvered him into replacing the scandal-ridden former VP a year ago. Clarissa still hadn’t decided on her own best path to the Oval Office.

  The treadmill notched up another few degrees: a breath-stealing push to take the peak at speed. She leaned into it, refusing to slacken her pace.

  There were the two obvious strategies to land her in the Oval Office.

  She could give up her power as the CIA Director and become that most useless of creatures, the Vice President—the first husband-and-wife team in history.

  Or she could retain power and shine as the First Lady. Of course, then she’d be left to run against whoever had been his VP. Unless she helped the party choose someone who would need replacing. That’s how she’d created the opening for Clark to be made Vice President so that she could take over his job at the CIA—finding the weakness of Roy Cole’s first Vice President, then feeding it.

  Now that was an interesting possibility.

  “God you look awesome,” Clark was grinning up at her as he shouted loud enough to be heard over the pounding rhythm of Imagine Dragons. Beckham’s sleek and seamless gym clothes designs left no doubts about her level of fitness.

  She hadn’t noticed him or his Secret Service detail entering the gym.

  “All for you, honey!” she managed to gasp it out as she crested the on-screen trail’s peak and the treadmill flattened for the next stretch. She could see the next climb not that far ahead. She always chose programs that drove her to her limits.

  Clark just grinned. “How far along are you?”

  She glanced at the display, “Three of ten.”

  “Whoa! Go you!”

  And there were things she appreciated about Clark. While she’d certainly leveraged his weakness for tall, built blondes—his cancer-dead wife and now her—he didn’t hesitate about cheering her to excel.

  Even after a year married, it was still a surprise.

  He settled into his routine.

  The Secret Service guys started their own workouts—much tougher than Clark’s. Despite their isolation here inside the high-security perimeter of Camp David, she noticed that they took workout positions that let them keep their eyes on the doors and windows more than on her. The start of the next climb didn’t leave her any excess energy to feel piqued about that.

  Clark had done yeoman service for his own reputation this week. It had been overshadowed by Roy Cole’s globe-trotting journey and his first day at the G-7 meeting, but she would make sure that people heard about it.

  As Vice President, he’d spent the last three days mediating the resurrection of the Southern Governors’ Association that had collapsed in 2016 after more than eighty years. He’d actually convinced them to behave more like humans than they normally did—which was an impressive feat.

  Clark was always good with people. Just as he’d been good with her since she was a field agent bucking for a headquarters’ directorship.

  Her phone rang again, chopping off Hailee Steinfeld proving she wasn’t “Most Girls.”

  The cyber twins, Harry and Heidi, showed up on her screen. Never a good sign.

  “Go,” was all she had breath for.

  “We were monitoring overseas traffic and there was something odd. The British GCHQ picked up the signal off the Europe India Gateway undersea cable and processed it through—”

  “Someone,” Heidi cut off Harry before he could trace every electron for her, “is hiding encrypted traffic under a mask that makes the transmission look like it came out of India. Not only is this one new, but it’s not in their style at all. We’re thinking that it comes from another source on the same line, which includes Oman, UAE, Egypt, and the Saudis. We’re seeing signs of a follow-on pulse in the trans-Atlantic cables that could possibly signal rogue activity. That’s why we called.”

  Rogue meant terrorist. “Need any action from me yet?”

  Clark looked over at her in surprise from the exercise bike he was presently spinning like he was on a bakery tour. Since becoming Vice President, he’d drifted so far out of the loop. The CIA had once been his mandate yet he’d let it completely go. She would never let that happen to her—not a chance. Even once she made President, she’d keep it close to hand. Knowledge was power.

  As VP, she could easily outshine Clark; she could become such an obvious power behind the throne that she might be able to replace him after a single term. President before she was forty-five. That’s what fast-track should look like. Then she could really clean up some of the messes that only people like the CIA Director could see.

  She’d have to set up a dinner with the Ramsons—their normal first-Friday-of-the-month dinner was tonight and she’d had to cancel. Senator Hunter Ramson was the most powerful party member other than the majority leader. And his wife was the brains behind the man.

  They’d have to sell the idea to the party leadership but, unlike Clark, she could rock the world from the Vice President’s chair. Also, it was the best place to make sure that Clark didn’t screw up her ride to the Oval Office.

  “Sorry, what was that?” Heidi had said something.

  “At this time, we just wanted to give you a heads-up. It has a fingerprint similar to the Saudis fomenting the civil wars in Iraq and Syria—though we can’t prove it’s them yet.”

  “NSA is on it?”

  “As are we, but no one has cracked it yet. Whatever it is, it sparked a cloud of similarly encrypted chatter. The burst pattern mirrors a terrorist-attack scenario far more than a war scenario. US probable. Eastern seaboard possible. We thought you should know. The next twenty-four hours could be particularly interesting.”

  Heidi was always the queen of understatement. For the Head of CIA’s Cyber Security, a bit of a kerfuffle translated to a concerted multi-country attack on the CIA’s servers, which had only been fended off after fourteen hours of blazingly arduous work.

  Interesting in Heidi’s parlance meant that Clarissa should be headed back to the office right now.

  She barely noticed the last of the climb as she crested the top of the trail and began the long descent through the alpine meadows.

  There was a governors’ dinner tonight before tomorrow morning’s final meetings. Tomorrow would be all about self-congratulation for re-forming the Southern Governors’ Association, but she didn’t want to miss the dinner tonight. It was the main reason she’d agreed to come here on this trip. Tonight would be another chance to shine in front of the leadership.

  She wouldn’t float the idea
of a husband-wife ticket yet, but she would ask the right questions to figure out who was open to it. Or where the weakest links were open to attack.

  “Keep me posted. I’m an hour away if anything goes critical. Twenty minutes if it’s really bad.” She’d co-opt one of the Marine Corps helos if it came to that.

  “Okay.” And they were gone.

  “What’s up?” Clark asked.

  She pretended that she hadn’t heard him as Steinfeld came back on, then faded out before her mix slipped into Lady Gaga’s declaration that she was “Born This Way.”

  Sorry, Clark. I won’t be in your bed tonight.

  The instant the governors’ dinner was over, she would be driving back into DC, even if the cyber twins hadn’t discovered anything else. It was a relief to know she’d be sleeping alone tonight. She didn’t mind Clark, but it was nice to have a break every now and then.

  13

  The sauna in Camp David’s gym was just big enough to do what Clark wanted. It had become part of their routine when they were here, as the Vice President’s house didn’t have a sauna.

  Clark was there first, of course.

  He said it didn’t matter, but she always took a quick shower to knock off the workout sweat. “Always smell clean for your man.” The rule from whatever ridiculous preteen mag she’d read forever ago had served her well.

  His workouts were never hard enough anymore to make him really sweat, so she didn’t mind that he didn’t shower. His few extra minutes in the heat sweated his body clean enough.

  She entered the sauna and shook out her hair. Clark’s guards wouldn’t follow him in here. In fact, it was one of the few times she found them useful, making sure that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  The heat scorched her; Clark liked it ridiculously hot. Probably all those years he was running undercover in the Middle East. And he definitely enjoyed the slickness of the salty sweat that was already springing to her skin.

  She tossed two scoops of cold water onto the heater’s hot rocks using the big wooden ladle. It flashed into a searing steam that left them both gasping for a moment. Once they could breathe normally, he pushed to his feet. She felt more sweat forming.