White Top

by M. L. Buchman

  “Danziger?”

  He placed the two lists side by side on the screen.

  The Man read down them.

  Over the years, Danziger had learned to read the President’s body language even through his ex-Green Beret shield.

  He spotted the discrepancy immediately.

  President Cole tipped his head slightly to the side as if to deny the possibility, but caught himself.

  For ten seconds he didn’t move.

  Then he looked up.

  “Here. Right here. Do it personally.”

  Danziger headed for the door.

  “And do it nicely.”

  He nodded. And if he couldn’t, whatever force was needed wouldn’t bother him for a second.

  65

  The Marine Two aircraft had been parked at Camp David for three full days and nights, departing the morning of the fourth day.

  Miranda had done a quick review of the overall recording to bookmark the long gaps between activity when the recorder had switched off.

  Each morning like clockwork, the three voices that Colonel McGrady had identified as the crew’s boarded the helicopter.

  Miranda never had their arrival on the recording because the systems were powered off. But she could set her watch by when they powered up the helo.

  “It’s their prime duty during a layover,” Colonel McGrady had explained. “Every morning at seven a.m. they have to make sure that the helicopter is ready for immediate departure in case of an emergency. They perform a full preflight. At 0703, because Tamatha’s crew is—was that good, they power up, start the engines, and spin the rotor for ten minutes. Shutdown at 0713 with checklist and report done by 0715. Textbook efficient.”

  The battery in the Voice Data Recorder allowed it to record another ten minutes of audio before shutting down itself.

  On Day Two—their first full morning at Camp David—it had recorded the few words the crew exchanged as part of the power-down process.

  Captain Vance Brown had then asked who was up for a run and received a pair of yeses.

  The door closed.

  And then there was an odd, rising-and-falling sound that took several minutes to identify. When they did, it had made them all laugh: beyond the helicopter’s heavy sound insulation, someone at Camp David was mowing the grass.

  They were now starting the detailed review of Day Three.

  Through to 0715 and crew’s subsequent departure, there was hardly a word of variation or timing, except this time it was Major Tamatha Jones who asked about the run.

  “Marines run a lot,” McGrady said with a shrug. “Get grouchy if we miss our run for more than a day or two.”

  “I get grouchy if Mike wakes me before noon,” Holly groused.

  “Says the woman who keeps dragging me out of a nice warm bed to go running in the rain with Taz.”

  “I can’t believe someone a foot shorter than me can run me into the ground. It’s simply not right.”

  “What? Someone who does something better than the supreme Miss Holly Harper?” Clarissa’s voice had a sharp edge that Miranda might identify as…gleeful? A tease or a nasty jab? Despite several interactions, Miranda still lacked sufficient data to map Clarissa’s vocal personality traits well enough to generate even a first-order approximation.

  Holly, however, resolved the uncertainty by giving Clarissa the finger. A definite sign of teasing with an eighty-three percent accuracy across all individuals—one of her better correlations regarding humor. Though oddly, Holly’s snarl said it might fall in the seventeen-percent category.

  As they continued their banter, Miranda wound back the recording to before McGrady had first spoken and began listening again.

  People were always so distracting.

  For seven more minutes after the crew’s departure, she heard nothing and saw nothing. All four audio channels showed as a flat line on her screen.

  Nothing. Not even a lawn mower.

  Then, at nine minutes and forty-nine seconds, there was a very distinct sound, one she’d already heard twice: the opening of the helicopter’s door.

  At nine minutes and fifty-six seconds, there was a noise.

  At ten minutes, the recording automatically stopped.

  “What was that?”

  They all stopped talking. “What was what?”

  Because she couldn’t figure out how to say it politely, she resisted pointing out that, if they’d been listening like they were supposed to, they would already know the answer to the question.

  Miranda rewound to the door opening and keyed the time into the transcript.

  She typed 7:24:49 CAM Door opens.

  She then pre-keyed 7:24:56 CAM for the cockpit area microphone and kept listening.

  It was soft. No more than a step.

  Except it wasn’t a step.

  “Again,” McGrady ordered. After three more listens, the others began guessing.

  Miranda opened the spectrum view, which showed the sound as a pillar that was time wide and from low bass to the upper limits of hearing high. The pillar had a very distinct shape. Again, she should recognize it, but didn’t.

  She opened the library of comparison sounds that the NTSB had built and began eliminating.

  It lacked the sharp percussive shape of an explosive or a strike—even a bird strike. But neither did it have the unruly shape and slow build of a spoken tone. Sharp exclamations had slower build curves than the one on her screen. It also split high and low.

  “Maybe it’s in the main cabin.”

  Miranda twisted to look at Holly.

  “Check the pilot’s headsets to see if there’s any time differential of when the sound arrived at the various microphones.”

  She zoomed in the display until they could see only the first arc of the first curve of the sound in each channel.

  “Camp David rests at an elevation of seventeen hundred feet. I don’t have the temperature there, but I have the temperature and elevation at the Frederick crash site.” She opened her VH-92A notebook to look at her entry from yesterday. “We arrived six hours after the crash, therefore there are inaccuracies, but evening and morning temperatures are often similar. Adjusting for standard temperature drop for the increased altitude at Camp David’s elevation, the speed of sound would be approximately two meters per second faster than the normal dry air value. Hence…”

  Miranda happened to look up and see that Clarissa was frowning and Holly smiling.

  She finished her calculations in silence.

  There were variations of the noise’s sound wave arriving at the three microphones, but as she didn’t know their precise locations—and the variation was so minute, under three thousands of a second—it was hard to be sure.

  “This…suggests,” yes, that was a good word, “that the noise came from the right side, high in the cabin. I have to repeat, this is only a suggestion that I’m not yet able to accurately verify.”

  “The emergency air generators,” Colonel McGrady said softly.

  “Yes.” It fit with the ceiling mounted units.

  “I think it’s two sounds, not one.”

  Miranda looked at the shape of the sound and decided that Clarissa was absolutely right.

  The moment she isolated them, they each became familiar. Very familiar. She isolated each and played them separately. Familiar, but even then she couldn’t lay her finger on it.

  Before she could write anything into the transcript, the Listening Room door banged open.

  Agent Danziger strode in, looking no nicer than he had when he’d been on her island. His eyes were bloodshot and dark with lack of sleep, or excessive drinking. She could look at them briefly because he wasn’t looking at her.

  She finally connected his snarl to the origin of the simile—he was worse than the Chow dog that had scared her so badly at seven. She’d never approached a dog since, and there had never been another allowed on the island. Besides, they always chased the sheep and deer, and she didn’t like that. />
  Danziger came into the room that way, all snap and nerves.

  Miranda looked to Holly, who wasn’t reacting, which meant it must be all show.

  Still, Miranda slumped lower in her seat, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her.

  66

  “Ms. Reese. Could you come with me, please?”

  Clarissa rolled her eyes at the President’s Secret Service agent. “That’s Director Reese. And I’m busy here.”

  But as she turned back toward Miranda, two more agents slid into the room, standing to either side of the door. Behind them, Jeremy, Andi, and the others moved to peer in from the Data Analysis Lab.

  “Director Reese,” Danziger’s voice managed to drip with vitriol that belied his polite words. “Now. Please.”

  She felt a frisson of fear sliding up her spine.

  What could the Secret Service want with her?

  Had they been monitoring her and Rose’s conversation this morning about how to reach the White House? Not a day went by in DC when someone wasn’t planning how to get their own seat in the Oval Office. Of course, it wasn’t usually the CIA Director doing so.

  But Danziger was head of the President’s Protection Detail. What could he want with her?

  “Why do you need me?” She managed to say it as if she was an asset, not a target. Her gut said otherwise.

  “I’ve been requested to escort you to a meeting in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center.”

  Clarissa wanted to burst out laughing. To call Rose and tell her they were on their way.

  She’d been in the Situation Room for any number of briefings, but she’d never been in the PEOC where rumor said that the President was still locked down. Never one to waste time, President Cole was obviously thinking about the replacement for his dead Vice President.

  She pushed to her feet and checked her clothes. Rose had selected well. The black pantsuit and the slightly frilly navy neck-tie blouse said nothing flashy, but pure professional. Her hair being down still bothered her, but Rose had insisted. You must invite people into your sphere of influence. A bit of vulnerability on the outside goes a long way.

  Halfway to the door, Miranda called out behind her.

  “But you can’t go. We aren’t finished yet.”

  Clarissa opened her mouth, then closed it again. Whatever issues she had with Miranda’s people, Miranda herself was almost pleasant. Clarissa appreciated her dedication and focus. In fact, the ease with which they’d worked together over the last several hours was surprisingly pleasant—aside from the subject. Which gave her how to answer.

  “It’s okay, Miranda. You’re doing fine.”

  Holly looked at her in surprise.

  Eat that shit, Harper! I was just nice to your little Miranda. Bet you have no idea what to do with that in your squidgy brain, do you?

  “I’m glad I could help,” Clarissa let her tone go sad, “but I don’t want to have to listen to my husband die.”

  Then she turned and followed Danziger out of the room.

  Because if she listened to him die, it would just make her all the angrier that he wasn’t alive for her to kill him herself.

  67

  Breezing through White House security had never been so easy before. And once she was Vice President, she could do this any time she damn well pleased.

  Two miles from the NTSB lab to her future home. It passed in a single blink of the eye.

  Vice President.

  Now! It was a triumph.

  She’d have a year and half of training by Roy Cole. Even if she didn’t agree with all his policies, he was one of recent history’s most savvy politicians. Then the Presidency would be hers.

  Driving right onto the grounds as if she already belonged, they strolled through the security scanners at the West Wing Foyer—and took that critical right turn into the Situation Room. Past the briefing room and watch center manned by the National Security Council.

  At the far end behind a nondescript door, they entered a small elevator she’d never seen before.

  Danziger unlocked it with a thumbprint and, once inside, spoke simply, “Presidential Emergency Operations Center.” Accepting the voice recognition security, the elevator descended. No indicator lights, but she’d guess they descended at least four stories.

  It opened on a corridor that could have been inside any office building. To the left, it extended back toward the Oval Office and probably included the rumored direct entrance for the President—she’d find out about that soon enough. To the right was a large pressure door worthy of a bank vault.

  Danziger didn’t approach it.

  Instead, he just waited.

  Inside, some security agent decided they were safe and the door swung silently open. It was a massive thing that just might survive a nuclear blast.

  On the other side was a set of rooms not all that different from the Situation Room.

  There was a hum of serious activity. A heavily armed officer double-checked their security at the entrance. Clerks were at desks and on phones. Military personnel were studying their screens. This was exactly what she expected the PEOC to be.

  The main conference room, despite being deep under West Executive Avenue, felt light and airy. The long conference table was mostly empty, except for the three people seated there, who all looked as if they’d been underground far too long.

  “Mr. President, Sarah, Drake. How can the CIA be of service this morning?”

  Cole waved her to a seat at his left hand. That placed her between the President and Drake as Sarah sat at the President’s right. She couldn’t help thinking that Sarah was sitting in Clark’s seat. His Chief of Staff, when he was included, habitually sat at the President’s left, but she wasn’t here today.

  “How are you, Clarissa?” If Cole’s tone hadn’t been quite so solicitous, she might have brushed it off with an “I’m fine.” But his manner reminded her to behave.

  “I’m okay, I suppose. It’s hard. But last night and this morning I appreciated being of assistance in determining what happened to my husband. That has been some solace.”

  Cole nodded, but looked uncomfortable. Not the look of someone about to announce her as his choice for VP. Perhaps she was here for an interview first. Yes, that fit. President Cole was never one to act slowly when action was needed. Time for a new VP, get it moving fast, but he was also a careful man.

  While she was still trying to calculate what the right words might be to help move that along, Cole slipped two pieces of paper in front of her.

  “Passenger manifests of Marine Two’s trips to and from Camp David.”

  She scanned the lists. “I know most, but not all of these people. The only ones I knew at all well were Jake, the head of his detail, and Avi, his right hand. Sometimes I wondered if the four of us, rather than two, lived at One Observatory Circle.” She tried a smile, but the joke fell flat in the room.

  This was not a receptive audience.

  Which meant that the movers were probably already there packing the house. She pictured the pile of clothes that Rose had insisted she dispose of, still on the bed. Well, there was nothing she could do about that at this moment.

  Drake to her left was unreadable, and Sarah across the table was no better.

  “Anything else about the lists, Clarissa?” Cole’s dark tone belied his calm expression.

  She scanned them again. “Four names I don’t know at all.” She might not even recognize their faces; they’d been little people. “The only difference I see is that I’m not on the return flight.”

  Cole didn’t even blink, instead studying her face.

  That was too absurd! She actually laughed aloud.

  His expression didn’t change.

  Perhaps laughing in the President’s face had not been her best choice. She’d write it off to not sleeping a wink in the last two nights.

  “Do you think I’m stupid enough to kill off my best path to the Oval Office after all the trouble I went to putting him
in line?”

  And then she heard her own words.

  They were going to be much harder to write off.

  68

  “Would you care to repeat that?”

  “I’d rather not,” her voice was small—and Clarissa Reese’s voice was never small.

  Drake came close to pitying the woman. Clarissa’s eyes were bloodshot, though he couldn’t imagine it was from weeping for Clark’s death. Her constant blinking implied that it had been even longer since she’d last slept than he had. Her skin was paler than her white-blonde hair, attesting that she was probably out near her limits.

  Her skin paled another shade, making it nearly bloodless. Maybe she was a secret vampire. Drake wouldn’t put anything past her.

  “Elaborate.” President Cole didn’t make it a suggestion.

  She blinked hard again, but for once Clarissa Reese was struck speechless.

  “Oh fuck,” Danziger whispered it. Then snapped to attention, “Please excuse my language, Mr. President. I just put together a couple of stories I’d heard regarding former Vice President Mulroney. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even said that much. The Secret Service does not discuss the personal matters of protectees.”

  Drake tried to connect together the pieces, but even with that hint, he didn’t have them.

  The President growled, “Danziger. The person with the lowest security clearance in this room is the National Security Advisor, the Director of the CIA, or the Joint Chiefs of Staff. My vote is you, Drake, just so you know. So tell me.”

  Clarissa had buried her face in her hands.

  Danziger stood stiffly and kept his jaw clenched.

  Clarissa finally snarled in frustration and uncovered her face. “Christ, the Secret Service is so fucking lame, Danziger. Keep the President safe,” she said the last in a singsong voice that then descended into a snarl, “even protecting him from the knowledge of his asshole running mate’s vile predilections in two elections.”

  Without the slightest hint of tears, she turned to the President.