White Top

by M. L. Buchman

  Andi breathed a sigh of relief. The director clearly knew how to handle the literal aspect of Miranda’s autism.

  “I’m not in charge,” Miranda explained once the director released her.

  “Really?” he was smiling as if it was a joke. “Who then? You, Captain Wu?”

  “Jeremy Trahn is, sir.” Andi held out her hands palm out while shaking her head fast. No way was she an investigator-in-charge. She was impressed, though, that he’d remembered her name and title.

  That sobered him up. “Really? Is that boy ready for his own team?”

  “That’s what we’re finding out, sir,” Andi explained. “We’re backstopping him on an opportunity to fail—not that Taz would let him.”

  “I’m not a sir, Captain.”

  “I’m not a captain either. I’m an Andi.”

  “Terence.” They shook on it. “Jeremy and who?”

  “Retired USAF Colonel Vicki ‘Taz’ Flores.”

  Terence looked aghast, “You unleashed the notorious Taser on young Jeremy.”

  “What do you mean? Shouldn’t I have allowed that?” Miranda sounded suddenly worried.

  Andi rested a hand firmly on Miranda’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Miranda. You know how good they are for each other.”

  “That’s true. She’s right, Terence. They were both efficient and effective on yesterday’s crash in Seattle.”

  He inspected them both carefully. He stared at Andi’s hand on Miranda’s shoulder until she yanked it away. Terence would know how few people’s touch Miranda could tolerate and she didn’t want him reading anything into it.

  “I never thought Jeremy would be the one to tame the beast.”

  “Beast? What beast?” Taz had preternaturally sharp hearing and stepped over from where Mike and Holly were still with Jeremy.

  “He was referring to you,” Miranda didn’t have a clue about playing it coy.

  “Sweet, innocent, little,” she patted a hand on top of her head, “me? A beast? Who are you to call me that?” Her voice, thin and pouty, made Andi laugh.

  Terence must have caught her expression because he held out a hand to Taz and offered a smile, “Terence Graham, Director of the NTSB Training Center at your service.”

  Taz looked down at his hand. “Don’t know as we need a schoolteacher.”

  “He’s also been my mentor for the last eighteen years,” Miranda spoke up.

  “Well, aren’t you the cagey bitch, Miranda? Welcome then,” she grabbed Terence’s hand and shook it once hard.

  “I don’t mean to be,” Miranda whispered.

  Andi placed a soothing hand on her back and whispered, “Joke.”

  “Oh. I’m never good at those.”

  Andi rubbed a soothing hand on Miranda’s back until she realized what she was doing and stuffed it into her pants pocket.

  Then an evil smile creased Taz’s face. “Beast, huh? Yeah. Damn straight, people. Now let’s get a move on. I already had Jeremy remind the incident commander to get us every floodlight he could. Sun is setting soon and it’s gonna be a long night, so let’s get our asses moving. The cranes are setting up to start clearing the debris.”

  “Black Hawk and…a Viper.” Miranda said before anyone could move.

  Andi listened and could just barely make out the sounds of two approaching helicopters over the hubbub of the emergency crews. The beat frequencies were hard to separate but she ultimately decided that Miranda was right.

  “Wow! How could you hear that over everything?”

  Miranda tugged her sleeve, pulling her over tight against Miranda’s side, then she pointed to the east.

  A parked fire truck had blocked her own view, but not Miranda’s. The two helos were approaching fast, not settling for landing at the nearby airport.

  “Taz is right. You can be sneaky.”

  “I don’t mean to be,” Miranda said again.

  “Joke,” Andi whispered once more.

  “Again,” Miranda sighed.

  The team watched as they circled in, then landed side-by-side on the grassy field that separated the parking lot from the highway. Few of the rescue workers spared them a glance.

  The narrow Marine Corps AH-1Z Viper gunship landed first. Two men in combat utility uniforms clambered out and came over to their group as the big transport landed beside the Viper. An older man, wearing Air Force combat fatigues that didn’t actually look all that different, came from that transport.

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation here?” The Marine Corps colonel, she could see his insignia now that he was close, snapped out. “I’m Colonel Blake McGrady of Marine Corps HMX-1. I’ll be taking over this investigation.”

  “Actually, Colonel, you’re outranked on that—by me. General Jack Macy of the US Air Force Accident Investigation Board. At least I thought I’d be in the lead,” the Air Force general said in a much calmer voice, “until I saw this man. How you doing, Terence? Can’t believe they dragged your old carcass back into the field once more, even if you are the best investigator ever.”

  “Actually, not anymore. With Miranda Chase here, I’m not the one you want in charge.”

  They all turned to face Miranda.

  “Hmm, might have heard some about you.”

  “I’m not the one in charge this time, General. The IIC for this investigation is—”

  “No, Miranda,” Terence cut her off. “Apologies to Jeremy, but this one is too important. You’re on deck.”

  Andi could see that the change was upsetting her. “It’s okay, Miranda.”

  “No prob.” Taz agreed very quickly.

  Andi didn’t mind seeing that Taz even could be cowed, however briefly.

  Miranda looked at them both for a long moment before nodding her acceptance and turning back to the others.

  “I’m Miranda Chase. Investigator-in-Charge for the NTSB.” She stated her rote line, drawing strange looks from the new arrivals.

  Andi saw that Terence gave Miranda a smile and a satisfied nod. So he knew about her strange ways.

  “You sure about this, Terence?” General Macy didn’t look happy.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well,” the general tipped his head toward Miranda, “some of the reports I’ve heard—”

  Before he could continue, Jon rushed over and saluted sharply. “There you are, General. Now we can get this moving.”

  “ ‘Some of the reports I’ve heard’,” Taz stepped in front of Jon, who stumbled back. “What the fuck lies have you been spreading behind Miranda’s back?”

  “They aren’t lies. They’re—”

  Andi didn’t wait for Taz to shoot him with her Taser again.

  She shifted from Miranda’s side and, putting every bit of training she had into it, she punched Major Jon Swift square in the nose.

  He swore loudly as he stumbled back, tripped over a twisted shopping cart, and landed on a pile of fire hose. He clutched his bleeding nose. She could only hope she broke it!

  Andi tugged down on her t-shirt to straighten it and turned to the general.

  “Captain Andrea Wu, formerly of the 160th Special Aviation Operation Regiment—1st Battalion. Don’t believe everything an idiot neurotypical says about someone he never understood, sir.”

  “Neurotypical?” But he didn’t sound as if he was asking what it was. Instead, he glanced at Terence for confirmation before turning to Miranda. “You have staunch defenders, Ms. Chase.”

  “I do, General Macy. I find that…” she pulled out her notebook and flipped to her page of emoticons.

  Andi pointed at “comforted” but Miranda shook her head. She tried pointing at “happy.”

  “Almost… Oh, this one. And that one. Pleased…and surprised. Can I be both at once?”

  Andi nodded, “Except there’s no need to feel surprised. You earn it, Miranda.”

  “If you say so,” she turned back to the general. “I feel pleased, General.” He’d been watching her carefully as she tucked away t
he notebook.

  She must have noticed his attention.

  “I find emotions difficult to understand, General. I do not have the same issues with aircraft incident investigations.”

  He finally nodded. “Then let’s see you do your stuff.”

  Miranda pulled out a different notebook, turned to a clean page, and carefully wrote “VH-92A” across the top then the date and place.

  Next, she tugged a weather gauge out one of her vest pockets and held it aloft.

  She had to wait as another air ambulance, racing by low overhead, blasted them with the downdraft.

  41

  Drake sat at the PEOC conference table with the President and Sarah. The new Presidential Emergency Operations Center was five stories under the West Wing entrance driveway. The old PEOC under the East Wing was far too distant and outdated for use in a true emergency. And Roosevelt’s original hardened bunker under the North Portico had been such a small and uncomfortable space that even Roosevelt himself hadn’t used it.

  The only thing that had happened out of the ordinary since landing was the eight-minute flight from Andrews Air Force Base. A small fleet of helicopters from the 160th SOAR Night Stalkers—far more than the usual overwatch protection for Marine One—had whisked them to the White House. Each of the three of them had worn full HazMat suits complete with isolated air bottles from the E-4B’s lower hold until they were secure in the PEOC. SOAR’s pilots had worn the same.

  The press hadn’t been notified of the President’s return and the phalanx of Secret Service agents had immediately hidden the HazMat suits from view.

  The President and Sarah had spent much of the flight on the E-4B Nightwatch putting the shambles of the G-7 meeting back together—videoconferencing from the sky.

  After another brief announcement to reassure the nation, they were seated at the big conference table finishing the last cobbled-together sessions of the meeting remotely.

  Drake had listened in for a while, but found nothing to add. It was out of his hands now and up to the politicians. So he’d taken a seat at the far end of the table, out of sight of the conference, and set one of the side screens to CNN.

  His aide was feeding him all of the moderate-priority items that he’d been holding in abeyance during the week-long trip. Drake began working his way down the list as he kept one eye on the news.

  Even though Clark had been dead for less than seven hours, speculation ran hot and heavy on his replacement—a question the President hadn’t said a single word on. Even when they were reporting on the stock market, the “money shot” of the stark scene at the Walmart where Clark had died remained behind the anchors.

  Their long telephotos were following all the worst aspects of such a massive rescue. As the parking lot casualties were cleared, tow trucks had swept in, clearing swaths of broiled cars. That allowed the arrival and setup of heavy equipment for lifting away sections of the collapsed building. The cranes were up and big dump trucks began arriving to cart away the wreckage.

  But they were still a long way from reaching the obvious epicenter of the disaster near the center of the structure.

  He caught a brief glimpse of Miranda’s team, their vests with the large NTSB letters across their shoulders making them easy to pick out when the news camera focused there. Then it swooped back to the carnage, seeking anything new to show after so many hours on site.

  “Well, that’s done,” President Cole dropped into a chair beside him.

  “Is the G-7 still up and running?”

  “Maybe we should crash an executive helicopter more often,” Sarah slid into a chair across the table. She scrubbed two hands over her face. “Christ! Please pretend I didn’t just say that. What time zone are we in anyway?”

  “It was how they were behaving though,” the President sighed. “Ridiculously pandering lip service. For whatever reason, I did get them to sign off on several of our key priorities with impressively little quibbling—at least until the next meeting. Anything new in the world?”

  “Bookies are going to make a fortune on who replaces the Vice President. Even the news anchors are laying down bets,” Drake pointed at the screen. “Nobody’s pulled my name out of the hat, so I’m feeling pretty okay about the whole game. Looks like you’re in the clear too, Sarah.”

  She offered a sigh of relief.

  President Cole simply grunted in exasperation.

  They’d finally gone to a new story—for about ten seconds—then they flashed the Breaking banner for about the tenth time since he’d started watching. Behind it was an image of Clarissa Reese.

  “This should be good,” Drake turned up the volume.

  An anchor spoke over the banner, “We’re switching to the crash site in Frederick, Maryland, where the Vice President’s helicopter crashed this morning and killed over seven hundred people—mostly shoppers and employees of a Walmart. The following happened just a few minutes ago.”

  “Grieving widow?” Cole asked.

  “No. That red power suit definitely belongs to the Director of the CIA,” was Sarah’s guess.

  Whatever it was, Drake supposed that she’d chosen her background carefully. The disaster of her husband’s crash was clear behind her, accented by the long shadows of the evening sun.

  Then the camera pulled back enough to show the man standing close beside her.

  “Isn’t that—”

  “My nephew,” Drake groaned. He’d been getting reports of Jon’s treatment of Miranda through his wife, and he wasn’t happy with the boy. Now Jon was in the shark’s clutches and who knew what could happen next.

  “He looks like he slept in a gutter.”

  Indeed, his uniform was badly stained and his hair was a mess. His eyes were unnaturally wide. “Bambi in the headlights now.”

  The on-site reporter took over. “We’re here at the crash site with CIA Director Clarissa Reese, the wife—” the reporter blanched for a moment before continuing awkwardly “—the widow of Vice President Clark Winston, whose body still lies in the wreckage behind us. Director Reese…”

  Something had the reporter looking up—then ducking abruptly.

  A loud roar came out of the television’s speakers as a pair of helos swooped by close overhead: an Air Force Black Hawk and a Marine Corps Viper, both in their landing flare as if they’d tied in a race to be first on site. A camera made a dizzying, and unsuccessful, attempt to follow their flight.

  The picture blurred and was blanked as the cameramen were battered aside by the wind, but they recovered quickly.

  The screen split, one image tracking the helicopters as they came in to land, and the other—

  “First time I’ve seen her looking less than perfect,” the President observed.

  Indeed, Clarissa Reese looked disheveled. Her jacket was askew, her leather portfolio clutched rather desperately, and her hair was out of its permanent ponytail and looking distinctly windblown. For half an instant, she looked pissed as hell.

  Someone had stolen her spotlight.

  Then she glanced to her side and looked truly livid for just an instant before regaining control.

  “Where did your nephew go?” Sarah was the first to notice.

  “There,” President Cole pointed at the other side of the split-view screen. “Showing the good sense to get away from Reese and rejoin the crash investigation team. That is his job after all.”

  The reporter attempted to recover from his bumbled introduction, Clarissa’s face shifted back, not to sad, but at least to businesslike.

  “Director Reese, please let me add my condolences to the nation’s; we’re all grieving tonight. Your husband was a great public servant. Can you tell us how you’re holding up?”

  “I’m…okay.”

  “And what will you miss most?”

  “Other than having my husband beside me? I think that I’ll most miss the close collaboration we shared as we strove together to preserve and protect our great nation.”

  “That doe
sn’t sound like any version of Clarissa I know,” Drake studied her face to see what she was up to.

  “Not the grieving widow,” President Cole watched the screen closely.

  “I bet she’s running for office.” The moment he said it, Drake knew it was true.

  “I will miss him,” Clarissa managed to look sad. “And I will keep the memory of him alive as I strive to fulfill our shared dreams for the safety of America and Americans everywhere.”

  “You each owe me five bucks,” Drake would like to be wrong about Reese, even just once.

  Sarah laughed at his chances of collecting on that. Cole just grimaced.

  “I will grieve for him later. But as the Director of the CIA, I will not rest until—”

  “Yipes! That had to hurt!” a voice shouted over hers.

  The other half of the split screen zoomed in to fill the entire screen, pushing Clarissa out of view.

  They replayed the segment.

  The group of inspectors were gathered near the helicopters. Three small women and one older man with NTSB emblazoned across the back of their vests were facing mostly away from the camera. Three military men had approached them from the newly arrived helos.

  And Jon.

  “That’s General Jack Macy,” one of the commentators noted as a pointer circled his face. “He is the lead investigator for the Air Force’s Accident Investigation Board. The man next to him is believed to be the commander of HMX-1, responsible for the Vice President’s helicopter that crashed here today. And we’re not sure who this is. He left Director Reese’s side, apparently feeling that he had to be part of that discussion. There, we can see him gesticulating…”

  And then one of the NTSB women half a foot shorter than Jon hauled off and punched him in the face. He tumbled over backward, adding a massively bloody nose to his dishevelment. Even at the distance they were being kept back, the news team had picked up his yelp of pain.

  “Nice one, Andi!” President Cole practically cheered. “Um, I’m assuming your nephew deserved that, Drake. Either way, it was a beautiful punch.”

  Everyone else on the investigation team continued talking as if nothing had happened.