“Don’t toy with me, Ms. Chase. You wouldn’t like it.”
“I have three investigations with the reports in final draft and undergoing editing, two presently in peer review. Another which is on hold pending metallurgy and two others on hold for other reasons outside my control.”
“I’m speaking of the C-130.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“According to your earlier statement, you are the Director of Special Projects for the Central Intelligence Agency. It is a statement that I’m willing to accept at face value.”
“And you know what that means?” There was a rising tightness in Clarissa’s voice that Miranda had learned to associate with tension. Perhaps even irritation. Curiously enough, Clarissa Reese reminded her of a young Corsican mouflon ram on her island. Even in his first year he was lording his great curved horns over all of the other yearlings and was unflagging in his challenges to the bigger and wilier adult sheep—no matter how many times they thrashed him.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Because Miranda had no idea what it meant.
“It means that I have the highest level of security clearance available, so tell me.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”
“You what?” Clarissa’s fair skin actually began turning quite red, distinctly offset by her pantsuit. It wasn’t a pleasant color for her complexion. Then Clarissa flinched when a hand rested on her shoulder. A tall man with broad shoulders and hair just starting to go salt-and-pepper gray had come up without either of them noticing.
“Something wrong, Clarissa?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “Are you coming to our one o’clock meeting with Franklin?” He hadn’t removed his hand.
She, in turn, did nothing to make him remove his hand from her shoulder.
He squeezed it sufficiently to ripple the material of her jacket.
If she were to dissect the individual actions of the new arrival and Director Reese, would she be able to unravel their motives? The man’s hand on Reese’s shoulder was neither restraining nor admonitory. It appeared…casual. As if touching her was a common occurrence. Her reaction said that she too was inured to his contact in this manner.
She herself had had few lovers in her life and had never been comfortable with casual touching.
“This…” Clarissa flapped a hand in her direction (still not dislodging the director’s hand), “…person! She refuses to disclose information that I need.”
“Not many people get away with denying our Clarissa anything she wants.” He finally removed his hand and held it out. “Hi, I’m Clark Winston. I’m the Director of the CIA. Perhaps I can help here.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my current investigation with you either.”
The man blinked at her in surprise.
Miranda sighed. It seemed that she was going to have to explain the obvious.
“Per the National Security Act of 1947, the Central Intelligence Agency was formed as a civilian foreign intelligence service. My current investigation that Director Reese is inquiring about is regarding a military aircraft that has crashed on domestic soil. As this occurred inside a restricted military environment and has been code-word classified, I am not at liberty to discuss this with you or your staff. Now, while I appreciate seeing Kryptos, there is nothing further I can say. If you wish a copy of my final report on the matter, that will not be available through typical NTSB channels. All inquiries should be routed through the proper military authorities at the US Air Force Aircraft Accident Investigation Board.”
Miranda rose to her feet and headed back toward the lobby. She had other things she needed to be doing. Hopefully she could get a cab at the front door.
21
“Wow! I’m guessing that didn’t go the way you wanted. What was that all about?” His laughter stung.
It took everything Clarissa had to not swat at Clark.
First, for resting his hand on her shoulder in public, as if she was just some woman he was fucking and he didn’t care who knew. She had to get that retrained right away.
Second, because she needed someone to strike at.
“That,” she spat out the word, “is the lead crash investigator on a small problem we had with our drone project.”
“What crash? What the hell aren’t you telling me, Clarissa?”
“Not now, Clark.”
“That’s Director Winston, Ms. Reese, and you’d damn well better remember that.”
She kept forgetting that Clark actually had a spine when it suited him. Dangerous mistake. “Nothing important, Clark. Just a C-130 that went down in a sensitive area that we don’t want a civilian investigator poking around in.” Which was at least partly true.
“Well, fix it. That’s a key project in your portfolio.”
She would.
Right now!
Nobody, but nobody just walked away from Clarissa Reese. Miranda Chase had just crossed the wrong woman and was about to find out how painful an experience that could be.
She yanked out her cell phone and dialed.
“Security,” a female voice answered.
“There’s a woman named Miranda Chase who has just passed through the lobby. Short, frumpy beyond belief—”
“I thought she was kind of cute,” Clark mumbled. Clarissa ignored him.
“—carrying a backpack. I need you to stop her.”
There was a brief pause, then, “I can’t do that, ma’am. Sorry.”
“And why not?”
“She got into a black Chevy Suburban, not one of ours, and is just now rolling out through the main gate.”
“Bitch!” Clarissa ended the call and shoved her phone into her jacket pocket.
Clark started laughing again.
“What? There’s nothing funny going on here.”
“Sure there is, Clarissa. You’ve got to lighten up,” again that too familiar hand on her shoulder. Instead of slapping it aside, perhaps she should break it. “You just called one of our top security people a bitch.”
“No, I was calling that NTSB woman a bitch.”
“I’ll bet you a steak dinner at The Capital Grille that I get an ‘inappropriate use of language’ report on my desk by nine a.m. tomorrow morning.”
Clarissa sighed; he was probably right. Clark usually was about people. “No bet.”
He laughed again in that easy way of his that charmed staff and senators alike. And how many unsuspecting foreign nationals had he charmed in his decades as a field operative? No reason that skill wouldn’t work on the majority of the American people as well.
If she was going to do this, she might as well put her bet down.
“You pay for the steaks at The Capital Grille…” Some news hound would chronicle them dining together in public. And that would set the wheels rolling. She could be his lover, his successor at the CIA, his wife when he made President, and then run for the office herself—perhaps set a new precedent of a four-term First Family. Definitely time to consolidate the image. “…and I’ll pay for breakfast in bed.”
“Deal!” They shook on it right there in the CIA courtyard. He tried to make it a soft, sensual handshake, maybe even tug her forward against him, but Clarissa used all her gym-time strength to keep it as firm as any man’s would be.
“Two things, Clark. One, you can have me in private….” After they were photographed at The Capital Grill he could have her in public, at least on his arm. “But you can’t have me in public at work. Here you’re still my boss.” Everywhere else? Well, they’d just have to see who played the stronger hand.
“Right. What’s the second thing?”
“Never, ever laugh at the woman you’re fucking. Clear?”
His grin was as easy and winning as ever. “Yes ma’am.”
22
“That was…amazing!”
“You had better be talking about me,” Helen bent down to blow a raspber
ry against the center of his chest so hard that it tickled. He clamped his hands hard on her hips and leveraged her side to side to rub more tightly against her.
Harvey had come back to Helen’s apartment from the simulator, charged up like he’d never been in his life. Sex after a flight had always been an awesome combination—something he’d mostly forgotten in his two years as a refueling UAV pilot. And while he couldn’t fly the real drone until after dark, he had synced into the simulator like it was a lost part of himself rediscovered. Every instruction was answered as fast as thought, responding to his merest whim in ways even his own hand couldn’t achieve.
He’d greeted Helen with a full-body slam, torn her clothes aside, and feasted upon her like a man reborn. And he was.
The sense of flying the drone wasn’t sitting in some ground-based armchair with flight controls and a keyboard.
It had been visceral.
As real as he could imagine.
Well, maybe not as real as burying himself in Helen’s raging heat, but it had only been a simulator and she was definitely the genuine article.
They hadn’t made it past the throw rug just inside her door and he didn’t care. She had squirmed and bucked and egged him on until their final release lit up like a turbocharger on full burn.
Or a supersonic stealth drone.
“Of course I was talking about you. You could short-circuit a man’s brains.”
At her sudden frown of worry, he could only laugh. Having flown even a simulated MQ-45 Casper allowed no room for doubts. The brain-drone interface had performed seamlessly.
“Fear not, fair Helen,” he palmed her breasts. “Wait, that comes from somewhere.” He let himself continue to watch and tease her magnificent breasts. Helen, as a mature woman, knew what to do with her body in ways the younger set never imagined. And they were so in tune now that her magnificent hand-full breasts responded to his slightest touch.
“It comes from Helen of Troy,” she remarked drily as he raised his head enough to taste one.
“Ah yes, the queen who launched a thousand ships and one lowly jet jock.”
“She also destroyed a kingdom.”
“Destroyed a man is more like it. Being inside you,” he shifted his hips to emphasize his meaning, “is exactly where I want to be.” If there was some way to have her and fly the ghost drone at the same time, that would be the real ultimate. Maybe a blow job while he flew? It might be ridiculous, but he couldn’t help imagining it, because that was another thing Helen did better than anyone before her. Such a pity that a crew of three people worked around him for every flight.
“Helen of Troy was young and beautiful.” She still didn’t understand the mature beauty she possessed. She’d accused him of being infatuated, which was hard to argue with.
“How can I show you what I mean?”
Helen stretched against him in a long, catlike gesture but didn’t say a word.
“Pilot’s discretion, huh?” He rolled her aside so that now she was the one on her back and he lay on his side beside her.
“Left bank,” he nipped her left breast, making her grab it with a protective hand.
“Right bank,” her right. He sucked deeply until she rested her other hand on his cheek to guide him downward.
“Yaw,” he mumbled not releasing her right breast. He slipped his fingers through hers from behind, then ran their joined hands along the inside of her right leg, up the thigh, and she opened to his touch. “More yaw,” he teased the other leg open.
“Now watch.” He slipped his arm behind her head to support it tipped up on his biceps, then rested his cheek on her forehead so that they were both looking down her length.
He took a long time arousing her notch by notch, guiding her hand with his, only his fingertips between her own touching her skin. Without ever quite touching between her legs, he helped her trace the line of her slender waist, the curve of her hip, the softness of her inner thigh. Her breathing accelerated as together they palmed her soldier-flat belly, then once more up over her chest. She was soon arching her hips, straining against his grasp to guide his hand down.
Once she was beyond speech, groaning in helpless frustration, he leaned down and whispered into her ear, “Keep your eyes open…
“Throttle.” And he curled their interlaced fingers around and into her.
Harvey could only watch in fascination as Helen unraveled before him at their shared touch. He could do anything to her in this moment. Anything, and it would only make it better. But all he did was hold her tightly and watch as she crested against their hands.
“Yes, you’re that lovely,” he whispered into her ear as the release slammed through her again.
Flying Colonel Helen Thomas resulted in an incredible sense of control and power. He watched the tears from such a powerful orgasm slide down her cheeks even as her desperate gasps settled into contented murmurs and sighs. She curled around their joined hands, clasped tightly between her thighs.
Infatuation? The word came back up. No. He’d always enjoyed toying with a woman’s body. But watching her had been something more…giving her a release that had made her weep and cling seemed only a part of what had just happened.
What would it be like to take his Casper drone so far aloft?
23
Miranda wasn’t sure if she’d stepped out of the lion’s den and into the lion. But the car had pulled up the moment she’d stepped out of the CIA’s front doors and the second man from the airport had been waiting for her.
He’d at least had the decency to introduce himself, Sergeant Oscar Lamont, and ask if she was willing to accompany him to a meeting at the Pentagon. It wasn’t where she’d been planning to go, but at least it wasn’t being kidnapped. And it was closer to Terence’s office in downtown DC than the CIA’s Langley headquarters.
She’d stepped in. The speed of their departure seemed startling until she turned and saw one of the CIA guards running out of the lobby and trying to flag them down. Miranda double-checked, but she had her knapsack with her. Nothing left behind.
The midafternoon traffic was already thick and slow. At a stop, she tested the door handle. She could feel the latch mechanism engaging—no rear door lockout—so she released it without opening the door.
Not a prisoner this time, it was easier to settle back in her seat and try to picture the Kryptos sculpture again. Instead of the great copper curves, she now considered the tall Director of Special Research. So elegant in her blue pantsuit, poised on her rock bench as if she too was a statue built with perfect care.
And the easy hand of Director Winston upon her shoulder.
Obviously lovers, but she doubted that was relevant.
A lowly C-130 Hercules lay shattered in the Nevada desert, and it was of deep interest to Clarissa Reese.
Why would the CIA possibly care about such a crash?
Because there was something the CIA didn’t want anyone to know.
Something they were testing?
But what relevance would that have to the downing of a manned C-130? If they needed a target drone, they could certainly have launched one without personnel aboard. So that didn’t fit.
It was something about the aircraft itself.
But she’d seen no unusual radome or radar pod under the wings. No sign of atypical electronics. Anyway, if they were testing a new performance capability, it would be on one of the new generation C-130J Super Hercules, not on a thirty-year-old airframe.
If the CIA’s Director of Special Projects was willing to kidnap her and then try to stop Miranda’s departure, what might she do to the NTSB team in the NTTR? She wasn’t sure, but until she had more information, caution seemed appropriate.
She dialed Holly’s number again. It was four o’clock here, one p.m. in Nevada. The team would likely remain in the field for another four hours before they’d be able to check messages. Next time she’d make sure they were all issued satellite phones.
“Be prepared to leave on no
notice.”
The sergeant glanced at her in the mirror.
She hung up the phone. This time she was able to return to her contemplation of Kryptos and the unsolved fourth panel.
24
Mike mopped again at the sweat on his forehead. He wished it was only due to trudging around in the Nevada heat and the threat of being unexpectedly eaten alive by some desert beast. So far he’d spotted only three sparrows and one lizard as long as his forefinger.
The three perimeter guards had looked bored out of their skulls when he’d first stepped from the aircraft with his fistful of plastic bags and a set of orange flags that Holly had given him as his only defense.
After Mike had decided that the center of the aircraft’s wreck should be where the wings had once joined onto the fuselage, he pulled out his tablet computer. The guards had seen them wandering through the wreckage enough yesterday that it apparently didn’t raise any alarms.
Now that Miranda had departed, they were all synced to Holly’s computer for the master diagram. She knew more about crashes than he did, but he still didn’t like having her in charge. The person best at dealing with people should be the leader.
Of course that didn’t begin to explain Miranda Chase.
Certainly it was his first investigation for the NTSB, but he knew project management and team operations.
Holly was so dismissive of something that he knew accounted for the bulk of crashes—the human factor—that he wondered if she was human or some kind of anti-human alien. She was a technical girl, but did she have to keep ramming down his throat how much he didn’t know about aircraft? Metallurgy 101 as if he couldn’t see that the aluminum beam had been snapped rather that twisted to the point of failure. It seemed that half of her jargon was just to mess with him.
He tipped his head back to glare up at the achingly blue sky. Dummy! That’s exactly what half her jargon was for. Well, two could definitely play that game.
Drone: an NTSB / military technothriller (Miranda Chase Book 1) Page 11
