A steadying hand rested on her shoulder, keeping her in the present.
“Ken?” Miranda asked the crucial one-word question.
She could only nod.
“Colonel McGrady,” Miranda spoke louder but didn’t let go of her, which was good. “What you see is that one of the pilots lost physical control of their body. Spastic seizures are an element of hydrogen cyanide poisoning.”
“Who’s Ken?”
“Ken,” Andi forced herself to answer because the yawning black chasm wasn’t as far away for her as everyone seemed to think, “was my copilot. He was killed by a grenade when he and I were as close as Miranda and I are now. I was flying nap-of-earth in hostile territory. His…” she swallowed hard “…remains were thrown against the cyclic. By bracing with my grip and swinging in my left leg, I managed to retain flight. Otherwise, my final flight profile, from ten feet above the ground, would have looked just like those two moments.”
“Mike, play the Beckstein video.” Then she forced herself to open her eyes and stare at the screen.
He patched a tablet into the computer beside Jeremy and opened the video.
The Becksteins had posted a video of the five-helo Vice Presidential flight. Rather than capturing the crash, they’d been near the area of the fire.
Jeremy rolled the image back and forth, making small adjustments until he had it synced up with data and voice streams. Then he hit Play.
The helicopter burst through the wall of smoke, leaving a great swirling plume behind it.
Exactly on her mark there was a jink to the left.
At her second mark, there was another. Except the second recovery was much slower—and by then the helicopter was on its side and falling fast.
She jumped when a slurred voice spoke, “Poison. Oxy. Generator.”
“Tamatha,” the colonel groaned. She could hear the pain for his captain. “Sounds like she’d been on a three-week bender.”
The Superhawk was still sideways when it fell out of view of the Beckstein’s video.
“Nineteen seconds between the two moments with no change in attitude but with enough control input to indicate that someone was holding the controls steady. Now run the prime video.”
“Prime?”
“It’s still the best video we have of the crash itself.”
Again, she waited while Jeremy got it synced up.
It picked up in mid-fall, approximately a mile after the helicopter had emerged from the smoke wall.
“There. Captain Jones is still alive, see on the graph. Marine Two is rolling level due to control input, not chance.”
“Hey!” Sergeant Whalen called out from beside Jeremy. “I have an initiation notice on the pilot-side emergency air bottle just before she drove through the smoke wall.”
Miranda stepped over to confirm the observation. “Good. That explains why she was still functioning after the copilot’s body was already in spastic shutdown.”
“Good? That she lived through that?”
Andi turned to McGrady. As a fellow pilot, she knew just how clearly he was picturing the moment in his head. She also knew the only lifeline she could offer him to appease that image he’d never be able to erase.
“She was a pilot in extremis, Colonel, still trying to do her duty. Try to never forget that.”
He spun away to face a double rack of computer equipment. She gave him a moment while she checked that Miranda was okay. Was she her normal calm…or too calm? Andi couldn’t tell. Not that she had a lot of reserve in her own mental balance at the moment.
“Okay, Jeremy, let’s finish it.” Andi needed something other than her own past to focus on.
She watched the rest of the data play out, long after the helo had smashed and disappeared into the store. After the final leveling, there were no more control inputs. If Captain Tamatha Jones lived through the crash, there was no sign that Andi could see in the data.
She forced herself to watch until the power loss had ended all of the helicopter’s data feed. Just before the end, there was a sudden, extreme spike in the cabin pressure.
“The first explosion starts building right there,” Jeremy noted.
After that, most of the instrumentation flatlined. But this was a new generation combi unit that had an integral battery and it had kept recording. With the helicopter losing power, no instruments were sending data, but there were two more large audio spikes over the cockpit microphones.
“See, I was right,” Jeremy sounded pleased. “Three distinct explosions. I’m going to need time to filter it down and see what else is in there.”
“Keep on that, Jeremy.” Miranda sounded fine as she continued.
So it was just Andi who felt as if she was losing it.
“Andi can help you and Sergeant Whalen with interpreting the flight data and any special systems information. Shunt the audio over to the Listening Room. Colonel McGrady, Mike, and Holly, if you’d come with me, we’ll see what we can recover from the audio tracks.”
Miranda led the way out of the room without once turning to look at her.
Andi would pay a lot to know if there was another reason that Miranda had assigned her to stay in this lab with Jeremy as she moved to the other.
59
When Clarissa answered the door at One Observatory Circle, she looked like hell. So bad that even the lone Secret Service agent simply gawked in surprise.
Rose ushered her inside quickly and shut the door behind them.
Clarissa’s long hair was in such disarray that it looked tattered. She wore a La Perla chemise and a man’s thick bathrobe completely askew and missing its belt. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with lack of sleep.
“This won’t do, Clarissa.”
She looked around as if bewildered.
“I was…cleaning up. Upstairs. I have to…” Then she turned and simply walked toward the staircase.
Rose had been here for a few parties. Rather than following, she turned left through the dining room with its twelve-seat mahogany table, brass chandelier, and broad fireplace. Past that, the pantry kitchen had not been prepped with breakfast. The Navy staff who ran the main kitchen downstairs had probably been called off duty with the Vice President’s demise.
There wasn’t time for niceties.
She found a large mug, a teaspoon, and dumped in a double dose of instant coffee. Filling it from the instant hot water tap, she then added a heavy splash of cream to cover the taste. She stirred it as she followed Clarissa up the stairs.
In the main bedroom were two large piles of clothes: his and hers.
“What are you doing?” she pushed the mug into Clarissa’s hands.
“They’re going to throw me out, aren’t they? Why in the world would I want to take any of Clark’s clothes?”
“And those?” Rose pointed at the impressive display of designer lingerie. It had far more variety than she herself had ever collected. She put a finger on the bottom of the coffee mug and nudged it upward.
Clarissa, or at least her habits, took the hint and she drank.
“They were for…him. This is awful.”
“Drink it,” Rose ordered before Clarissa could set it aside.
It was definitely time for a dose of woman-to-woman therapy.
“Sit,” Rose pushed her toward one of the Chippendale armchairs by the Federal Period walnut-and-brass dresser. “No, first give me that stupid robe.”
Rose tossed it on Clark’s discard pile, then flipped through the pile of Clarissa’s clothes and came back with a lovely Carine Gilson hand-painted silk robe that Rose would snitch if Clarissa ever parted with it.
“I wish I still had your body. I miss that body,” Rose handed over the robe, held the coffee while Clarissa slid into it, then pushed the mug back into her hands. She strode into the bathroom.
“I’m just praying that it’s still as good as yours in twenty years,” Clarissa raised her voice from mumble to audible. That was a good sign. She was starting to sound more a
live.
“Less words, more coffee.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s caffeinated. Drink.” She handed over a hairbrush. “Fix.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Rose began sorting through all of the designer silk. “This is a lifetime supply. You are hereby outlawed from buying anything new for at least a year.” Most of them were keepers. Every now and then she’d find one that wasn’t even bedroom sexy, but was just pure slut.
“I’ve sworn off men for life.”
Rose laughed and picked up another horrid lace teddy. “Please tell me these were foolish experiments in your misguided youth.”
Clarissa made noises that might be hair-snarls, or might be trying to avoid the question.
“Seriously, girl. Were you thinking your body was still twenty?”
Clarissa winced like she’d just been slapped, so Rose tried to find a softer way to put it.
“Men may act like they’re permanently twelve. But any man worth having wants the sexy sophisticate more than the teen fantasy. Finding one who’s actually interested in this—” she tapped her temple “—neither you nor I was so blessed.”
“Clark did, sometimes. He always encouraged me.”
“Well, that’s a bonus.” Hunter had just liked showing her off. She definitely needed a distraction from that line of thinking and began tossing more rather than less. “The slut pieces are going in a burn pile. I don’t care what they cost. You can’t be caught having ever even owned these.”
Clarissa was done with her hair before Rose had finished sorting the clothes, so she sent Clarissa to do her face while Rose began on the business clothes. There were only a couple of business-slut pieces to be tossed and they were tucked well to the back. But there were several more tasteful pieces she might borrow at some future date. Clarissa had incredible taste in clothes, probably when she was thinking about herself instead of her men.
Clarissa returned with her hair hanked back in its trademark severe ponytail.
“No, down. You’re in mourning, not in power mode. And put this on,” Rose handed her an Alexander McQueen black pantsuit cut long and lean to match Clarissa’s length but full to match her figure, and a navy-blue tie-neck blouse. “Traditional black, but powerful. Every woman is powerful in a McQueen. Low heel shoes. Remember, mourning. At five-ten, you’re tall enough to already dominate anyone you can’t intimidate.”
Clarissa obeyed.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to fend for ourselves for breakfast; the staff are gone.”
“Maybe not. I never eat breakfast, so they’d know not to set out anything for me.”
“Blood sugar, girl. That’s probably half your problem. Give them a ring. I’ll eat anything: omelet, bagels and lox, pancakes. We need fattening food this morning because we both deserve it. I want a chocolate chip muffin if they have one. And coffee.”
Clarissa groaned. “You may have cured me of coffee for life with that sludge.”
“Nonsense. Order it to the veranda, it’s a lovely morning, then come over here.”
Clarissa called downstairs, then joined her in front of the big mirror.
“Look at these two fine women. Together they can do anything!” Rose absolutely needed to remind herself of that after Hunter’s revelation. A detail that Clarissa could never, ever know or she’d murder Hunter personally.
She watched Clarissa’s reflection as she inspected herself.
The girl slowly shifted to match the suit. Spine stiffening, confidence rising. Rose didn’t speak until Clarissa was once more nearly her usual self. Maybe even a little better.
“That touch of…not sad, but thoughtful. Don’t lose that look. It’s particularly good.”
“You’re the best, Rose. I…needed a friend.”
“Hard to say that?”
Clarissa’s reflection nodded. “I’m not good at relying on others.” At the moment, Rose could use a friend as well.
“Well, look in the mirror. Are these two women who are ready for anything?”
“We are!” Then Clarissa lost a bit of her shine. “The White House is going to be a much harder task now, Rose.”
“That’s why we’re going to start planning over breakfast.”
Clarissa gave her a sideways hug. “I was right, you are the best.”
“Damn straight.” It was probably best not to break Clarissa’s spirit this morning. By Rose’s estimation, the Oval Office was now wholly out of reach. But Rose liked having the Director of the CIA as a protégé. They would think of something.
And if she had to throw one Senator Hunter Ramson under the bus to achieve it, she certainly wouldn’t be losing any sleep about that. But for now, she needed him.
60
The NTSB Listening Room was as unique as each of the prior rooms for processing the contents of a Cockpit Voice Recorder. McGrady had never been involved in a crash investigation before, but this was like some strange monkish cloister.
In twenty-four years of service, he’d lost a few friends to training accidents, but never been in the flight. He’d lost more friends to the wars he hadn’t been assigned to, but Marines were needed everywhere in the world.
And this was definitely a first for HMX-1.
The room was as plain-white-and-fluorescent-lights as any military conference room, with black two-foot squares of—he rubbed his fingers over one—cloth panels on the walls that must be for sound absorption. The parquet floor probably came from Home Depot.
But that’s where the similarities ended.
The room was dominated by a large U-shaped desk with eight seats. Each position had a narrow counter, a set of headphones, and a computer screen. No keyboards or mice. In the center of the U was a full multi-screen computer station. And on the wall, a big-screen monitor.
“Please have a seat. Where you sit will make no difference,” the Chase woman, as unreadable as ever, moved to the central position. They would fill only three of the eight positions.
“Where the hell is everyone? Secret Service? General Macy? FBI?”
“This is the NTSB’s part of the process. Within twenty-four hours of an incident, we issue a report to the other parties that is as complete as possible. That will then steer the on-going investigation. To achieve that short time frame, we keep the initial team very small, only bringing in experts and other specialists as needed.”
The woman looked around the room, apparently focusing on everything except the people there with her.
“I will try to explain this in your terms.”
“You go, girl,” Holly muttered.
“When you fly Marine One, do you have the mechanics, traffic controllers, White House Military Liaisons, the Marines of the decoy birds and the soldiers of the overwatch birds aboard, or do they stay off your aircraft and let you do your job? Did I do that right?” She asked the last to Mike and Holly.
“Nailed its ass to the Outback!” Holly declared. Mike just offered a thumbs-up.
“Okay. Please have a seat. Where you sit will make no difference.” She repeated her earlier phrase verbatim. It actually sounded as if she was speaking by rote. “On the overhead screen, we will have the complete audio package of the flight. No instrument readouts. No visuals. Only the words and sounds matter here. On your screens I will be creating a timeline of every word spoken, every noise change, whether or not we can identify it. Your task is to aid in that identification.”
Mike and Holly took side-by-side stations.
Knowing he was the outsider in this circle, McGrady left an open spot between him and Holly.
“Sucks, doesn’t it, mate?”
“What?” He turned to the blonde. He didn’t recall her having such a strong Australian accent last night.
“Not knowing whether to shit or get off the pot. Just brace yourself in the bucket, this is the worst part.”
“Nothing’s worse than extracting their bodies knowing they were murdered.”
Holly’s look of sympathy
cut off his protest.
He shifted his focus back to Miranda just as the screens flashed to life. On the one in front of him, there were three column headings and nothing else but white: Time, Source, and Content.
On the overhead screen were the wiggling sine waves of four audio tracks and a time clock. They were labeled as well.
“Hot-1,” Chase explained before he could ask, “is the continuous feed from the right-hand pilot’s headset microphone whether or not they have keyed transmit. Hot-2 is the copilot and CAM is the Cockpit Area Microphone at the center of the cockpit that will monitor all ambient noise. There is also a channel for all radio traffic.”
It was like looking at an alien script. He’d never had to actually look at a sound waveform before.
“We will perform the initial listen,” Chase continued her rote explanation. “Once we concur, then we will bring in additional experts as needed to help create an in-depth analysis of any doubtful anomalies. Colonel McGrady?”
“Yes?” He stumbled before answering because it was all in that exact same tone.
“We’ll be depending on your familiarity with the crew’s voices to help us with those. Did you also know the Vice President?”
“I flew him a number of times, but he, uh, didn’t commonly interact with the crew.”
In response, the woman pulled out her phone and dialed.
He glanced over at Mike and Holly, but they weren’t surprised by any of the woman’s behavior. In fact, she’d been like this much of last night as well: sometimes deer in the headlights, but otherwise intensely focused.
“She always like this?” he whispered to Holly and now wished he’d sat closer.
“You have no idea, mate. When she’s on a crash investigation, nothing else exists. Hope you slept last night; you’ll need it.”
He hadn’t.
On the phone, Miranda jumped right into the middle of the conversation. “We are at the NTSB headquarters, beginning the review of the flight recorder information. It is unlikely that we’ll be picking up anything of significance from your husband’s voice—”
“Miranda!” Holly snapped it out.
White Top: a political technothriller (Miranda Chase Book 8) Page 21
