Condor

by M. L. Buchman

  Then …what the hell was she doing here?

  Checking up on her own handiwork? That took a certain arrogance that even the Australian SASR didn’t have. But the Russians? Maybe.

  She glanced back to see the crew of the Black Hawk finishing with lifting the fingerprints. As she’d suggested, they were making a show of doing maintenance on the door so that it wouldn’t be obvious.

  One of the crew hit a button on his phone, then turned to glance at her, offering a microscopic nod.

  Prints found and sent.

  Elayne had her back to them as she was walking the toupee pilot over to a baggage conveyor that had been near the crash. Once there, she shoved him down to sit on the bumper.

  The way the man winced and drew his knees together, the sweet-little-blonde Elayne had just offered to cut off his balls if he moved. He did indeed stay in place as Elayne rejoined the team.

  Everyone was standing around inspecting the juncture of the two planes. Except Miranda, of course. She was slowly walking the perimeter of the two aircraft, probably making sure there wasn’t any debris before she looked at the two planes looming above her.

  Holly caught up with her near the tail section. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Miranda nodded her thanks.

  Even with two of them, they moved slowly, zig-zagging their way across the bare pavement.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  Miranda didn’t look up as they circled around behind the 767’s tail. It was strange to have such a close-up view, resting on the ground but still intact and undamaged. Though it would take some careful inspection before it flew again.

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes,” her tone said that she was answering the first question, not the second one. “I think I do.”

  “Major Swift isn’t setting off any alarms for me. But…” But what? Like Holly’d had such great luck with love herself. “Just take it slow.”

  “How do I calibrate a timeline for interpersonal relationships when I hardly know what they are?”

  Holly laughed and Miranda looked up, hurt.

  “No, sorry,” Holly apologized. It took her a moment to get her laugh back under control.

  “That’s universal, Miranda. None of us has a bleeding clue what relationships are or how they work. We know we want to be with others, but what that means…?” She shrugged. “We have to rediscover that every single time.”

  “Like you and Mike.”

  “I wish you’d stop coming back to that.”

  Miranda stared at the ground, but clearly wasn’t scanning for any debris.

  “But, since you mention it, it seems that Mike isn’t the hundred percent troll I’d judged him to be.”

  “What’s his percentage of trollishness now?” Miranda wasn’t much for jokes, but it sounded like one.

  “Ninety percent.”

  Her flat statement earned the laugh Holly had been hoping for.

  “The other ten percent is pure vile goblin.”

  Miranda actually considered Holly’s tease. “No. The other ten percent is gnome.”

  “Like a garden gnome?” Holly liked that.

  “Yes, they’re cute and rather sweet.”

  “They’re ghastly.” But that was now two women calling Mike “cute.” That implied a niceness factor that she’d somehow overlooked. Or maybe ignored?

  Miranda appeared to have another question.

  At which moment both of their phones rang.

  Holly answered hers—blocked number.

  “Harper here.”

  “We got answers from the lab,” the man on the other end of the line didn’t waste time with names. “The prints on the transmitter and the helicopter’s cargo bay door handle match.”

  “I knew it!”

  “There’s more and, according to my records on you, you’re cleared for it—which is weird as shit for a civilian, even with your background. But I’m looking right at your clearance, so here you go. Elizaveta Egorova’s last registered fingerprint was over a decade ago. She was a flight attendant for Aeroflot. Not a thing since. We have one questionable report of an SVR agent of that name being killed ten years ago.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  “Check your phone.”

  Holly pulled it away for a moment. Elayne / Elizaveta had one of those ageless faces that didn’t seem to change with time. Her hair had been a short bob, but there was no question it was the same woman. “It’s her. Different name. Same face.”

  “If we trust her passport scan, she was born within the closed administrative area of Polyarny, Murmansk Oblast, Russia. Present age is thirty-three. Mother a torpedo guidance system design engineer. Father Spetsnaz Colonel. All we’ve got.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Tight lid on this. No one who doesn’t already know.”

  “That would be me, you, and this computer.”

  “Thanks. Keep it that way.”

  “You know what she is?” It wasn’t a question about Elayne, but rather about Holly’s background.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Okay. Be careful.” And the guy was gone. No name. No organization. No way to call him back.

  A spook.

  A military spook if he understood the implications of Elayne’s history the same way she did. The Intelligence Support Activity? Had she just had a call from the spookiest team of the entire US military? That ramped up her fears. For that fingerprint to ramp up to that level so fast was a very, very bad sign.

  Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to cover Elayne Kasprak’s tracks.

  Shit! Even Special Operations types still had their names. Her own name was still hers. Elizaveta Egorova / Elayne Kasprak / Ms. Whatever had “died.”

  That only happened in teams like the CIA’s Special Operations Group, Israel’s Mossad Kidon assassination squad, or—Zaslon.

  It took Holly three tries to slip her phone into her back pocket. She’d drawn against a Zaslon agent-saboteur-assassin and lived to tell the tale. Even though Elayne had been unarmed, that was a good trick.

  Shit on a popsicle stick!

  33

  “I’m in Nashville on another incident now—non-military. I should have called as soon as we solved the Antonov at Fort Campbell. I’m sorry that I forgot.” Miranda really did feel bad about that.

  Drake grumbled for a moment, then stopped. “Wait. You solved it? You landed in Fort Campbell, like, seven hours ago?”

  Miranda checked her watch. “Six hours and forty-nine minutes.”

  “And you solved the crash?”

  “Yes.”

  “In six hours and forty-nine minutes?”

  “No.”

  “No? But you just said—”

  She waited for Drake to finish his sentence.

  But he didn’t.

  Then she waited for the loud buzz of a FedEx Cessna 208B turboprop racing into the sky on the nearby Runway 2L. A smaller aircraft, it must be making local deliveries, probably within the state. Finally it rotated and was gone aloft. Once more, only the background noise of jets on more distant runways filled the air.

  “We did it in four hours and twenty-nine minutes,” she told Drake. “Then we handed it over to an AIB team and proceeded—”

  “Under five hours?”

  “—to Nashville. We’re currently investigating a collision on a taxiway with a 767 cargo plane.”

  “Miranda. Would you please tell me what you found?”

  “I haven’t done my investigation yet. A private Bombardier Global 7500 apparently rammed a fully loaded FedEx Boeing 767-300F as it was preparing to taxi for takeoff.”

  “I’m not talking about Nashville. I’m talking about Fort Campbell.” He sounded rather upset. “What did you find there?”

  “Um. Hold a minute.” She muted the phone over his squawk of protest.

  Holly had finished her phone call.

  “Is it okay to tell Drake what’s going on?”

  Holly looked around.

 
; Miranda did as well but couldn’t figure out why. Oh! Pinkie-swear privacy.

  Holly nodded and Miranda unmuted the phone.

  “Yes, Drake. I can tell you.”

  “Damned right! There was a question about that? Never mind. Well?” His thoughts seemed to be jumping about quite erratically today.

  “The incident was initiated by—”

  “Accident or attack?”

  She tried again. “The incident was initiated by a hidden microswitch behind the thrust reverser controls. It transmitted a signal to a shaped charge of approximately two kilos. This—”

  “I don’t need all of the details. Someone blew up the plane? Did I hear that right?”

  Miranda had become better at incomplete sentences. But an incomplete report was so much worse.

  Holly offered to take the phone, but Miranda shook her head.

  “Drake…” Miranda took a deep breath. “Yes. The Antonov crew and the Antonov plane were not at fault—”

  “Shit!”

  “—based on initial findings.”

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Miranda thought it best to wait as well. It seemed to be the only way to avoid being interrupted. While she did, she completed the report of the chain of events that had destroyed the AN-124 Condor under her breath. She felt better when she’d finished.

  “Well,” Drake finally spoke again. “We have a bigger problem.”

  “No. A Boeing 767 is not bigger than an Antonov AN-124-200. In fact, the Ruslan 150 can carry three times the load of a Boeing 767-300F.”

  “I need you back at Fort Campbell.”

  “But the 767—”

  “I’ll be landing at Fort Campbell in under thirty minutes. We will be in a meeting in thirty-one minutes. Do you have transport or do I need to arrange that?”

  “But—”

  “Miranda. Is Holly there?”

  Resigned, she handed over her phone.

  Holly looked around and put it on speaker. Another plane was taking off on Runway 2C—the fifth in the seventeen minutes since they’d landed. An Airbus A320 with the CFM rather than the IAE engines by the acceleration profile down the runway. Yes, the narrowed nacelle shape around the engine exhaust confirmed that.

  Once the noise died down, Holly spoke.

  “Holly Harper here, sir. I would really prefer it if you’d let Miranda complete her sentences in the future, sir.”

  Even to Miranda’s ear she sounded angry. Or at least sharply irritated.

  “I don’t give a shit. I need—”

  Holly hung up the phone.

  “You just hung up on the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?”

  “He was being a jerk.”

  The phone rang again, but Holly wasn’t answering it.

  “He said that something else has come up and he needs us back at Fort Campbell immediately. He’s meeting us there.”

  “Okay.”

  Miranda could never ignore a ringing phone. It felt as if her skin was crawling off her body with each successive ring.

  Holly finally answered the call.

  She started speaking immediately. “We’re on our way. Now mellow the fuck out, mate.” Holly hung up again, returned Miranda’s phone, and smiled.

  No question but Holly was enjoying herself as she started leading them back the way they’d come.

  “But…” And Miranda didn’t know how to continue. “What about this wreck?”

  “Do you really want to spend the day arguing with this idiot? The Night Stalkers pilot had a little chat with the tower. Apparently the goober landed on the taxiway rather than the runway in his pretty new jet—arguing with his own copilot on an open mic so that the tower couldn’t call them to abort. Frankly, just tell them to arrest him and let’s go.”

  “But I haven’t done a proper investigation.” That made an incomplete sentence, an incomplete game of Charades, or even an incomplete incident report appear completely trivial.

  “Miranda, how about this? You never even really properly started this investigation. So, maybe you can let go of it?”

  Miranda considered. She hadn’t really started properly. The offensive man with his noxious cologne had confronted her before she could introduce herself. She’d never even declared her role at this site.

  So, if she didn’t have a declared role as an investigator-in-charge for the NTSB, could she imagine that she hadn’t yet taken on that role?

  As they circled around from behind the tail section, they could once again hear the tycoon shouting at someone.

  “Yes.” Miranda decided. “Get the others, Holly.”

  Her phone rang in her hand and she almost jumped out of her shoes. It was Drake again.

  “Miranda, do not answer that.”

  “Are you sure?” It was bothering her not to answer it, but it wasn’t creeping her out. Not completely.

  “I’m sure. We’ll see him in half an hour, he needs to just chill. Kick his uptight ass straight to voicemail. I don’t care how many times he calls.”

  Miranda nodded her understanding. Holly knew so much more about people.

  She wished she could be more like Holly.

  More confident.

  More sure that she knew what she was doing.

  For a moment, Miranda pretended she was Holly Harper. She simply tucked her phone in her pocket and walked away toward the helicopter that had brought them.

  Behind her, Holly laughed aloud and called out a hearty, “Goodonya.”

  Good on you. Well done, Miranda translated from Australian for herself and just kept walking tall. Well, kept walking five-foot-four, but that had to count for something.

  The helo’s crew were sitting on the other side of the aircraft in the sun. They were playing a fierce game of Dungeons and Dragons Dragonfire. That was new just a couple of years ago and she’d never played it.

  But it reminded her of happier times when she used to play D&D with her parents most evenings to learn strategy—after she was done with her homework, of course.

  She let them complete the current play, then the roll after that before she spoke up.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. We’re ready to go back.” She could hear the tech baron with the bad toupee’s protests redouble as Holly called off the team. “Very ready.”

  They marked their places, closed up the game, and began preparing their helicopter for immediate departure.

  34

  Holly called the team over. “We’re out of here.”

  “But—” the FedEx guy looked incredibly upset.

  “You have my permission to get those packages off the plane and get them moving again.” She had absolutely no authority here, but she didn’t see any reason for that to stop her.

  “Oh, thank God. What about my plane?”

  “Have the police arrest this asshole for being an asshole.”

  “What the hell?” Mr. Toupee sounded ready to pitch a fit. She didn’t remember him having a black eye, but it was swelling up impressively.

  Holly rested her hand on his shoulder and pinched the upper pectoral.

  He gasped, then squeaked. Bonus pack: he also stopped talking.

  “It’s not nice to interrupt a lady when she’s speaking.” She didn’t let go despite assorted whimpers. “Throw him in jail and ask the judge to set the bail at the value of your cargo jet plus the delay cost and the replacement flight.”

  “The tower has the recordings to back it up,” Mike agreed.

  Holly nodded her thanks that he was at least somewhat focused on his job before she continued, “An NTSB team will file an initial finding… Do you have enough information to do that, Jeremy, or do we call Jill to send another team?”

  He looked at her in surprise, then down at his tablet, then back up at her. “Um, yeah. I’ve copied both QARs onto my computer. The tower is sending me flight and voice data. No one’s questioning what happened. Well, except the owner of the Global 7500. I can’t believe that he’d do th
at to a brand-new seventy-million-dollar plane. I’d like to inspect the plane more carefully, but only because I’ve never seen one before. There are only fifteen of them so far. We know what happened here. I was even able to interview the 7500’s copilot—after she punched the owner and quit, but before she left the site. I’ve got measurements and—”

  “Congratulations. You’re about to file your first NTSB report. Miranda will check it for you, but it’s yours.”

  “Oh my God! Really? I can’t believe it. I mean this one is so simple, but I’ve always wanted to—”

  “To present yourself in a calm and dignified manner.”

  “Oh, right.” Jeremy grimaced, then looked down at his tablet clutched tightly in both hands as if he couldn’t contain his excitement any other way.

  Holly let go of Mr. Toupee, who sagged—straight into the arms of the two airport police who’d been hovering nearby. They read him his rights as they handcuffed him and led him to their squad car.

  A news reporter, who’d somehow talked his way through airport security, was having a great day. Mr. Toupee was going to have a very bad one when his board saw the news he was creating—hissy-fit GIF had probably already gone viral. This crash was particularly photogenic and Mr. Toupee captured in all his rage was most definitely not. Or maybe his board would love the publicity; who could tell with corporations.

  Holly ignored them and turned to Elayne / Elizaveta.

  “Ms. Kasprak, I’m sorry that we won’t be able to spend more time with you. Thank you for your assistance with the regrettable loss of the Antonov AN-124 Condor. Please make sure that Mike has your contact information—”

  Mike held up his phone and nodded to show that he already did. Total dog. He’d just regained his hundred percent troll rating—not one speck of cute garden gnome anywhere in sight.

  “We’ll make sure that your company receives a report of our investigation and any on-going information gathered by the AIB team. Again, we’ve made an initial determination that your plane is not at fault. We may never know exactly what happened, especially if it was human error in the handling of the helicopters. But I assume the plane was insured and you will be found not at fault.”