Thunderbolt

by M. L. Buchman

  The captain just looked at her wild-eyed for a moment.

  That had been a very long night and she was sorry now that she’d remembered it. Too many people had died before she’d solved the cause behind those losses. She hoped that she never had to deal with the CIA ever again.

  Some instinct told her that she should knock on wood as a safety precaution. As surreptitiously as she could, she rapped her knuckles on her head. The captain didn’t notice, but one of the SECFOR troops grinned at her.

  Her stomach growled. She was becoming as bad as Holly—now she craved several slices of pizza rather than her usual salad.

  52

  Jeremy spotted Miranda first as they came off the Eglin chow line with their trays. She was almost invisible at a corner table. He might not have noticed her at all except for the three military police standing along the wall behind her.

  And they had a war dog.

  He rushed over, but stopped abruptly when the dog snarled at him.

  “Not friendly?” He set his tray beside Miranda’s but turned to face the handler.

  “Surprised him a little is all. As long as you don’t piss me off, you’re safe.”

  “Good to know,” Jeremy slipped a piece of bacon out of his bacon cheeseburger as an apology.

  At the handler’s nod, he held it out for the big German Shepard.

  “Viktor,” the handler said.

  “Viktor. Good doggie,” he offered the bacon.

  The dog looked to the handler for permission. At the man’s nod, Viktor snapped it so fast the Jeremy was left holding only the tiny bit still pinched between his thumb and finger.

  Two chomps and it was gone.

  Then Victor gently wrapped his teeth around Jeremy’s fingertips and scooched the last bite free.

  “Lucky to still have your fingers. Viktor likes bacon,” the handler grinned.

  “Me too. Maybe I’ll just sit down.” There were a ton of questions he’d like to ask about the dog and how to handle him, but with Holly and Mike headed their way, he felt it was better to sit down. Mike might not push his tray aside to sit beside Miranda, but Holly definitely would.

  He slid into his seat beside her.

  Miranda sat across from a Captain Bell, but neither was speaking.

  “Can you believe we’re at Eglin?”

  Miranda looked at him with some surprise.

  “This is one of the big sim centers.”

  “Like the card in my phone?” Mike asked as he sat down beside the captain.

  “Flight simulators,” Holly corrected him.

  Holly sat on Jeremy’s other side, which was awkward. Now he could either face Miranda or keep an eye on Holly, but he couldn’t do both.

  “Oh,” Mike sounded bored.

  Colonel Campos arrived last, hesitating at the head of the table for a long moment before moving down to sit by Mike across from Holly. If he did like Miranda, did it bother him to be forced to sit kitty-corner from her? It definitely worked for Jeremy. During the flight, he’d decided that he didn’t like the way the colonel might be thinking about Miranda.

  But Mike’s indifference didn’t let Jeremy focus on that.

  “No, Mike. Seriously. This place is super cool. These sims aren’t those clunky multi-million-dollar boxes on hydraulic legs. They’re fully networked systems capable of large-scale battle scenarios with tons of simultaneous players.”

  The Air Force captain had stopped eating and was eyeing him strangely.

  “The Army has CAMTT—Combined Aircrew Mission Task Trainer—over at the Air Maneuver Battle Lab in Fort Rucker, Alabama. They play these massive helicopter wargame scenarios there. The Navy has one too, though I forget the name. The Air Force pretends that they canceled their sim program, but no way. For beginners, they’ve just launched the Pilot Training Next program in the last few years, but that’s just simple scenarios. One of their biggest simulator setups is here at Eglin, all part of the Air Force Agency for Modeling and Simulation. Their primary development site is just over in Orlando. You can bet Disney has a couple of big contracts in there.”

  He took a bite of his burger and felt a bit like Viktor when he only chewed it twice, then swallowed it down so that he could keep going.

  “Between the three main services, they can now run wargames with literally hundreds of aircraft, main battle tanks, helos, destroyers… You name it, they’ve got it. All without burning a drop of fuel or shooting a single round. I’ve always—”

  “Hey!” The captain across the table snapped out. “That’s classified.”

  “Oi, mate,” Holly wrapped an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, but she didn’t seem to be about to attack him.

  Jeremy kept his shoulders braced just in case.

  Instead she leaned toward Captain Bell.

  “Haven’t figured it out yet, have ye? Think we should tell him, Jeremy?” Like he was on the inside of some grand secret.

  “Why don’t you?” He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but he decided to be on the winning team—which meant being on Holly’s team.

  “Captain Bell. Like Tinker Bell?” she asked.

  One of the SECFOR guys snorted, then whispered none too softly, “His call sign is Tinker. Like the little fairy.”

  “I got it while flying the big tankers out of Tinker Air Force Base. Besides, you telling me Julie Roberts wasn’t hot as Tinker Bell in Hook?”

  “Your point, sir. She’s old, but she is always hot,” the SECFOR acknowledged.

  “Well, Captain Tinker, buddy, pal,” Holly drew it out. Maybe because she could see it was really bothering the guy. “The person at this table with the lowest security clearance is the one in your shaving mirror. Closely followed by your buddy there,” she hooked a thumb at Colonel Campos.

  The captain glanced over at the colonel.

  “Nothing would surprise me at this point, Captain Bell,” the colonel said mildly as he dipped another piece of fried fish into his tartar sauce.

  “The top of the stack?” Holly picked up a piece of pizza, took a big bite out of it, then pointed it over at Miranda.

  Jeremy watched Holly closely, but still missed how she managed to smear a long line of tomato sauce across his vest—like a slash through his heart. It wiped easily off the nylon, but still, she was sneaky.

  “You were saying, Jeremy.” Holly took another big bite before she finished chewing the prior one.

  “Uh…” What had he been saying? And how much more could he say, not knowing the captain’s security clearance?

  Not much.

  Though what he knew hadn’t really come in the front door. Most of it had come from Dad. The Microsoft Flight Simulator game that most people saw—and that Dad was a lead programmer on—was only the tip of the iceberg. It was also the deep core of the US military simulator systems: Air Force, Navy, Army, and Coast Guard. Which probably meant he should mention even less rather than more.

  He knew far more than his security clearance allowed. And if they ever found out, his security clearance would be gone.

  Then Miranda wouldn’t be able to use him on any high security investigations.

  He’d be off the team.

  And then he’d just die.

  No, keep his mouth shut. That was the ticket—the only safe choice.

  “Anyway, I’d really like to see the Cray XC50. I’ve never seen one in person before.”

  “The…what?” The captain’s eyes appeared to cross.

  Holly leaned forward again.

  Jeremy checked, but both of her hands were clean and now empty.

  “It’s a ruddy big computer.”

  “Oh.”

  Jeremy wondered how Holly knew that.

  Once the captain had returned his attention to his next forkful of meatloaf, Holly whispered in Jeremy’s ear.

  “Did I get that right?”

  They shared a grin and he whispered back, “Yep. A ruddy big one.”

  Yes, belonging was a very good feeling.
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  53

  Clarissa had always wondered how a man like Hunter Ramson had become such a significant force in the Senate. Nothing about him stood out. Even less now, wrapped in a Kimpton Hotel bathrobe with his thin chest hair just starting to go gray. She’d never liked chest hair and was glad that Clark was smooth-chested.

  Hunter had done nothing truly underhanded or Harry her pet hacker would have found it, and he hadn’t.

  Though she’d wager that he could find a lot more on Ramson’s boss, Senator Clint Howards, Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. And if he couldn’t find it, she wasn’t above fabricating it.

  Now she could see exactly how Hunter had risen so high—and that meant that she knew how to read him. Clarissa had been looking for his hidden strength, and not finding it.

  Now she had.

  Rose Ramson commanded the room. It was irrelevant that she’d walked into the living room from bedding her own husband in one of the luxury hotel suites in a town known for them, wearing no more than a bathrobe herself. She had walked in just like the beauty queen she’d once been.

  A simple statement, here is the power.

  So why had Ramson tried to slip this operation past his wife?

  Rose was asking exactly those questions.

  Not that Clarissa cared. Though she’d definitely have to make sure that Clark didn’t think he could get away with that around her.

  The more she listened to Rose Ramson—not fists on hips and ripping Hunter a new asshole—the more Clarissa shifted her thinking on that. Rose didn’t ram her power down Hunter’s throat. Instead, she had sat back down on the love seat beside him, but kept her robe tightly closed. She proceeded to make it clear that she was an asset, but only if she knew everything that was going on. Everything.

  Rose treated them like a unified team, even if she was clearly the one in charge.

  Clarissa had always stood alone.

  After her abusive father’s sudden and unexpected—at least to him—demise, she had been on her own.

  Her tall, blonde-and-built looks had started as a burden.

  Then she’d cultivated that power and ultimately weaponized it.

  Men were distracted by the body as she ferreted out their secrets. Then they either did her bidding or she destroyed them.

  By the time the opportunity of running Black Site interrogations was offered, she’d made herself the obvious choice. Extreme rendition to extract actionable information from fucking Taliban and al-Qaeda slime? No problem. She never even got the shakes.

  Taking down the A-10 Thunderbolt IIs that should have been retired a generation ago? So what if it there were some losses to make it happen?

  As Hunter slowly explained the project to Rose, Clarissa thought about how such a scene would play out with Clark.

  He wouldn’t like it. Really wouldn’t like it. So, she wouldn’t tell him.

  No, she couldn’t tell Clark about this project, but maybe it was time she let him really know just how much more she was worth than for fucking against the Kryptos sculpture.

  Yes.

  It was time for the next step.

  “Rose?”

  Rose broke off with Hunter and turned to face her.

  “If I remove Clint, what word do I have from you that Vice President Ricky Mulroney will be gotten out of the way—without damaging President Cole? It needs to happen soon.” Before someone else saw what she was up to and tried to supplant Clark’s rightful place as the next Vice President.

  Or attack her. She just might need the protection of being D/CIA if this operation went too far sideways.

  “Well, that will be up to you, my dear.” Smoothly professional, Rose Ramson didn’t miss a beat.

  “To me?” Clarissa allowed the question to sort of hover between them. Casual, but not too much so.

  “Oh yes, completely.”

  “And Clint’s reelection announcement is this coming Monday?” Clarissa knew she’d have to pay the price first.

  “Oh, I think that timing would work very well. Perhaps right after that. Hunter dear…” Rose turned, her bathrobe slipping partly open once again.

  Clarissa wanted to laugh.

  Hunter’s hindbrain would know his transgression was forgiven, but she wondered how much longer Rose would keep his forebrain on tenterhooks.

  “…you should invite Ricky to join you on your inspection trip to South America next week.”

  “I should?” Hunter pretended to look surprised, but wasn’t. He wasn’t a complete idiot.

  That meant the answer to taking down Mulroney was right there on the table. Not revealed yet, but promised in that invitation to the VP that there was indeed an answer that could be delivered quickly.

  Rose leaned back on the loveseat beside her husband.

  I am a woman in command in every way.

  Clarissa liked meeting another elemental force. Perhaps she’d ask for some advice from Rose in Clark’s upcoming campaign. Or maybe reserve that weapon for after Clark had served his time as VP and it was her own turn to run as his VP.

  Hunter might not want the presidency—or rather not be allowed it by his wife. But perhaps Rose would enjoy being Vice President when Clarissa ultimately reached the top.

  For now, Clarissa simply nodded that Clint’s campaign was doomed to a disastrous launch.

  Rose smiled that million-dollar smile of complete satisfaction.

  “I’d prefer if you’re the one who arranges things,” she said with all the sweetness of a debutante pit viper. “When he’s traveling out of the spotlight, Ricky likes his girls dark and very young.”

  Clarissa felt her gut wrench. Her father had once maintained an avaricious taste for her own youth.

  A taste she’d killed him for.

  Ricky Mulroney?

  Him, she’d merely ruin. And it would be a pleasure.

  54

  Jeremy had made Miranda curious about the Cray XC50 supercomputer.

  However, now that she was standing in front of it, she was disappointed—though Jeremy didn’t seem to be.

  After Jeremy’s descriptions of high-tech simulated warfare and advanced pilot training, even modeling of future control methodologies, she’d expected more. Jeremy had made it all sound so exciting.

  Instead, they’d stood together in an underground room of stark white. White plastic floor tiles. White ceiling tiles. White walls. Air conditioning cool enough that she was glad she still had her coat.

  The computer itself was four lines of six-foot-tall cabinets. It had a long blue swoosh logo across the cabinets—much simpler than Nike’s swoosh.

  Clean lines.

  She liked that at least.

  And it was a nice color of blue. Not soothing, but giving confidence that the computer behind the cabinet was very high tech and definitely knew how to do its job.

  Across the face of the line of cabinets, it declared “Cray XC50” in foot-high letters, so there was no doubting what it was.

  A Lt. Colonel Kiley had tried to explain it to them, but he knew less than Jeremy and barely managed to insert a word in edgewise.

  “It runs a petaflop per cabinet,” Jeremy stood at a cabinet that had been opened for him and couldn’t seem to look away even as he spoke. “That’s a thousand-thousand-billion floating point operations per second, a million times faster than the average home computer. IBM didn’t really break the one petaflop barrier—a peta is a one with fifteen zeroes after it, you know—until 2008 with Roadrunner, which filled six thousand square feet and had almost three hundred computer racks. Now here it is in a single cabinet.”

  Miranda looked down the four rows of three computer cabinets each. So, twelve computers all hooked together into one.

  “See these?” Jeremy pointed at the narrow cabinet attached to each main computing one. “Water-cooled electronics because the air can’t dissipate heat fast enough.”

  But seeing the computer was a little like seeing the inside of the crash before the outside.
It was the wrong layer. She was still pursuing the pattern and causes of the crashes, nowhere near ready to consider the cause of the overall calamity.

  Observing the crash first…

  The crashes…

  “I need to see the tape of the DMZ incident. Actually, everything on any simulations run through this particular computer in the last thirty-six hours.” Only after she’d turned and walked to the exit did she realize that Jeremy had still been talking.

  Lt. Colonel Kiley rushed to catch up with her. “This system is involved with between fifty and five hundred simulations at a time—all the time.”

  “Narrow it down to simulations including any A-10 Thunderbolt IIs. I need to see them all now.”

  55

  Miranda was halfway through the list when the screen at the head of the conference room table lit up.

  “Hello, Ms. Chase. It’s good to see you again.”

  Drake Nason was on the screen. Along with General Lizzy Gray.

  She didn’t have time for them and kept working.

  Mike said something nice and she continued to ignore them.

  The standard flight training programs were easy to dismiss. She swiped them off the screen one by one. A few she had to watch, but often only briefly.

  “Ms. Chase?”

  “Later.” She kept working.

  “Miranda?” Drake repeated much more forcibly.

  She turned to the screen.

  “Drake, you’ve lost ten A-10 Thunderbolt IIs in the last twenty-one hours. There appears to be a break in the pattern or I would have said that you have approximately three hours and forty-two minutes until you lose the next one, or more.”

  “Until I what?” Drake shouted the last of it.

  “Remember, Drake, there’s a reason you called her,” Lizzy Gray reminded him.

  “Ten? And you think they’re all connected?”

  “Nine of them almost for certain,” Miranda considered. “I don’t have proof…”

  “And we all know how you like your proof.”