“It’s my duty to serve.”
“Right. Now try answering the question.”
She rubbed at her eyes for a moment, then sighed. “I’m head of the domestic imaging division, reporting directly to General Patrick.”
“Which means you get the crap job of dealing with me at two in the morning.”
“Yes sir.”
Drake liked an officer who didn’t pass on their responsibilities to subordinates. There was a respect for his office there that he really appreciated. “So, what do you have for me?”
Again, she handed over a slip of paper with a secure address.
“Same password?”
“Our system doesn’t allow duplication of passwords.”
Drake could only smile. “What’s he calling me this time?”
Again, the sigh. “‘Fuck you twice, asshole!’ Sir. Including the exclamation point, only the entire second word capitalized.”
If that bastard didn’t control twenty percent of the US intelligence budget, Drake just might take him on. He still might.
He keyed in the password and the files opened. He dimmed the office lights and began running the clips.
“Movies at two a.m., shouldn’t we have popcorn?”
He appreciated the humor, but was too tired to do more than offer a brief smile in the dark.
He started with the visible-light view that had so interested the Chase woman.
It was such a wide area that it took him some time to even find the doomed C-130 Hercules—identifiable by its blinking navigation lights. He lost it twice when he tried to zoom in.
“May I?”
“Why not? You’re the imagery specialist in the room, after all. I’m just the lowly Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and don’t know shit.” Drake shoved the keyboard and mouse across the desk.
Gray made no comment. In moments, she had the C-130 centered and the invisible nighttime landscape sliding by, indicated only by the changing latitude and longitude readouts in the corner of the screen. There were no lights in the middle of the Nevada Test and Training Range other than at the few scattered airfields themselves.
She began zooming in.
“Not too close,” he called out.
She stopped the zoom at about ten times the view he’d had before.
One moment the Hercules was dead center on the screen: red and green wingtip lights, white taillight, and red anti-collision beacon on top.
The next moment it was gone.
“Back up slowly, frame by frame.” Wasn’t that what Chase had done? Yes, it was.
As she scrolled backward in time, she reached the crash—all of the Hercules’ lights blinking into being. The white tail and rear-side wingtip lights said he was looking almost directly down on the stern of the aircraft as it plunged nose-first into the ground.
“Continue going back.”
Instant by instant, the alignment of the lights changed as the plane spent the one-point-something seconds Chase had designated as its transition from flight to crash.
Just as it achieved regular flight in a way that he recognized from the zoomed-in images the NRO had released earlier, there was the tiniest flash of light off the tip of the wing.
“There. What’s that?”
“What is what, sir?”
“Drop the sir, Gray. Name’s Drake. Go forward one frame. There. I’m talking about that small flash off the port wing.”
She zoomed in, but the faint smudge simply became a larger smudge.
“How did I miss that? It isn’t there on the prior…or the following frame,” she flickered some control back and forth with bright clicks of the keyboard.
“Maybe you all dismissed it as a stray signal. I didn’t even see it until it was pointed out to me. That’s why I wanted the wider area view.”
But no matter what they did, neither of them could see how it impacted the wreck or what its point of origin was.
“What can we tell from the shape of the flare?”
“If that’s what it is, sir, nothing. It doesn’t fit any profile that I’m familiar with.”
Drake was wishing he hadn’t let Miranda Chase leave, even if she was out on her feet. “Go back one frame.”
The flare disappeared.
“Zoom back.” The plane grew smaller.
“More.”
“Again.” Nothing.
“Goddamn it, how far could it travel between frames?”
“That would be based upon the speed of whatever caused the flare. A railgun projectile that fires a round at two-point-four kilometers per second, about Mach 7, would travel approximately four hundred meters between image frames, but it would leave a hot streak of light behind as it burned the air around it. This image is broad enough to cover even that.”
“Could it have come from the aircraft? No, Chase told me it wasn’t.”
“Who is Chase, sir?”
“Miranda Chase, NTSB. Clearly knows her aircraft.”
“Implying we at the NRO don’t. May I remind you that I started as a combat pilot, then spent fifteen years as a line officer specializing in tactics for the US Air Force before joining the NRO, sir.”
“You can remind me all you want, but you’ve never met anyone like that NTSB woman. Stand down, Gray. I’m not impugning you. The woman probably couldn’t command her way out of a paper sack, but she knows her planes bolt for bolt. She’s also the one who spotted that damn flare or whatever the hell it is.”
“Yes sir.” She didn’t sound happy about it and there was no expression to read as they sat in the dark.
Drake turned on the desk lamp, which had them both blinking like confused owls. He slouched in his chair, folded his hands over his belly, and inspected her.
“Fifteen years on the line?”
“Yes sir.”
“If I recall, your boss spent less than two.”
“He never was a line officer—never eligible for combat command. He flew as a RIO in an F-14 Tomcat, but didn’t see any action either. He screwed up his knee in a motorcycle accident. Rumor is that it’s even less glamorous than it sounds. Apparently he knocked over someone else’s motorcycle, staggering out of a bar, and it landed on him. That’s why he still limps.”
“Radar Intercept Officer, a backseat driver. An NFO.” Technically a “non-flying officer”—Radar Intercept Officers weren’t pilots—but everyone knew the second definition of “no future occupation” so there was no need to say it aloud. NFO as much as meant the person wasn’t qualified to do any job except their present one. Too injured to be a RIO, he’d played politics instead.
Gray’s lips curved slightly, “Yes sir. A total NFO.” He’d bet she had a good smile if she ever relaxed that ramrod spine of hers.
“Let me guess, he has a big F-14 poster by his desk.”
“No sir,” and then she did flash that smile and it was a shocker. “But he does have a two-foot-scale die-cast model of it right down to his name painted on the side. It even has its own accent spotlight.”
They shared an easy laugh. “So he’s not going to be of any help on this. Any other suggestions?”
“It would help, sir, if I knew why this crash was of such interest to you. I’m surprised that—”
“That it’s receiving so much of my attention on a busy night like this,” Drake sighed. He wished to hell it wasn’t and he could only pray he was wrong about what had happened out there in the Nevada desert. And why.
38
Miranda lay in Terence’s guest bedroom but couldn’t sleep no matter how badly she needed to. Being awake for two nights and three days should have knocked her out as well.
She and Terence usually got together when she came to Washington—which wasn’t all that often. She did her best to work from the Seattle office when she had to report in at all. She mostly lived out in the field or on the family island in Washington State.
His wife had left him twenty years ago, before Miranda had even joined the NTSB, and he seemed to appreciate t
he company. She appreciated coming to a safe and familiar place whenever she was in DC.
The life of a top NTSB investigator, by its very nature, included a great deal of unpredictable travel that happened with no notice and continued for an unguessable duration. His wife had tolerated it until the kids were teens, then broken it off, hard.
Terence didn’t speak about it much. He’d ended up with the house when she eventually settled in with a law professor at Howard University.
Miranda did her best to get home every night, and succeeded less than half the time. She knew Terence’s schedule must have been the same—though he was doing more instruction than investigation now.
He’d be retiring soon, which she didn’t like, but was staying in Washington, DC, to be near his kids: one in college, the other clerking to a US Senator. Terence said he was looking forward to being home.
Her own shortest assignment had been a nose-over loss-of-control event at the Tacoma Narrows Airport near the NTSB’s West Coast office where she kept her own plane.
A two-seat Piper Tomahawk trainer had come in on a crosswind landing, missed the edge of the runway, and planted a wheel firmly in the muddy median after a typical Pacific Northwest rain dump. The plane had nosed over, bent the propeller, and flipped onto its back to perch balanced on its canopy and high T-tail.
She’d been headed home from work, but the runway had been closed while they tipped the plane enough to open the door and let the uninjured pilot out. By the time they had it flipped back over and towed to the service hangar, she’d already interviewed the pilot and the control tower operator. They both confirmed that he’d been properly notified of wind conditions.
Pilot error in failure to plan properly for reported crosswind.
The fact that a gentle breeze could easily brush the tiny plane aside had also been a factor, but not relevant as it was the only plane type the pilot had ever flown and he should have known better.
She’d only been an hour late in climbing into her jet for the ninety-mile flight home. The next shortest had been three days because they saved the simple ones for the newer IICs, something they’d never done with her. Her longest had taken months of work to resolve.
Over the years, Miranda’s relationship with Terence had shifted from mentee / mentor to colleagues. A few years after she’d graduated, he’d offered her the guest bedroom. She supposed it meant they were friends—her only real one.
“Thinking mighty hard there, Mirrie.” Terence knocked lightly on the door, then stepped into the room carrying a large mug of hot chocolate. He always kept the kind with marshmallows for her—the same mix her mom had always kept.
As he set it down on the nightstand, he tugged on a lock of her hair as if lightly ringing a bell pull. She must have slept some, because she hadn’t noticed the arrival of daylight.
He’d called her Mirrie since the very first day at the NTSB. Back then he’d been an aged and wise forty-five to her twenty-two. She was the only female student of twenty there—fresh from her double masters at the University of Washington in materials and aerospace engineering with a bachelor’s in mechanical engineering. She was also the only one he’d ever bestowed a nickname on.
“I’ve been thinking about my parents.”
“Must be some bad juju going on if you’re going back to that.”
“For one of the most well-educated men I know, you make a curious choice about when to regress to Jamaican roots your people left behind a century and a half ago.”
“West African roots we left behind more like three centuries gone, girl, and we never really leave those behind. Just trying to tease you some.”
Teasing as a form of endearment. Holly certainly teased Mike a great deal in the short time Miranda had known both of them, but they didn’t appear to be endearing themselves much to each other. She dropped the subject.
“There’s something going on with this crash that has me thinking about my parents a lot.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I can’t. I shouldn’t. They code-word classified the investigation, but not really.”
“Huh,” he sat on the foot of the bed. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Me too. I was hoping you knew what to do about that.”
“Is that why you came to DC, to talk to me?”
“Yes. There’s something about this crash that is upsetting a lot of people.”
“Victims’ families—”
“No. It’s a military flight with only five aboard. I suppose with your clearance, and the general faking the code word, it doesn’t really matter.” She sipped at the hot cocoa and scorched her tongue just the right amount on a half-melted marshmallow. “A C-130 went down unusually hard in the NTTR.”
“And the Air Force investigators called you in?”
“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He’s one of the upset ones.” He’d pounded his desk enough times in frustration for her to be very sure of that.
“Whoa, Mirrie. That’s way above this old boy’s pay grade. That makes no sense.”
Miranda sagged. She’d so hoped on Terence having some answers.
“Have a cause yet?”
She could only shake her head. “Nighttime crash. I have a flicker of light, perhaps a meter square and twenty meters away from the wingtip, from a satellite image. A flicker with no discernable radar or infrared signature.”
Terence stared quietly out the window while he contemplated that. He always made her think of a preacher when he did that—suddenly so quiet and wise. She could always count on—
“Nope. Not a clue. Who else is hot under the collar on this besides the chairman?”
“The commander of Groom Lake and a division director at the CIA who had me kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” He jolted to his feet, then looked down at her. “You okay?” His dark eyes were narrowed with worry. How many emotions were accompanied by narrowed eyes?
“They didn’t use force. And I got to see Kryptos. You know how long I’ve wanted to do that. But I could never get permission to enter the CIA’s grounds.”
“Kidnapped? You had me on the phone and you didn’t just say that? I’d have raised the cavalry.” He looked upset enough that he might just have done such a thing.
“I was fine. Maybe ‘escorted to a meeting against my will’ would be more accurate. Though I did take some comfort in knowing that you’d be expecting me. I was able to depart at a time of my choosing. Though in retrospect, I’m surprised that my tactic worked. It might not have if the Army hadn’t been waiting for me. They then took me to a meeting with Drake.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”
“Yes. His request. He’s the one who assigned me to this crash. I can handle the wreck myself. But there’s something else going on about it and you know how bad I am at political things.”
“Yep, you do suck at it.” Again he gazed out the window. “Only been in the Nevada Test and Training Range once myself.”
“It’s my third.”
“You always were hot shit.” A phrase that she’d always meant to look up the etymology of because—the literal interpretation was so…unsavory.
She went on to describe the wrangling that had occurred over the wreck: the CIA, the CJCS, and now the bombing of the wreck.
“They blew up the wreck before your investigation was done.”
“Yes, apparently by someone other than the Groom Lake commander who was in charge of it. He sounded quite surprised that it had happened.”
“So, there were aliens on board and they wanted to destroy all of the evidence.” Terence laughed aloud.
It was a good, deep sound, which made her feel much better.
“Mirrie,” he was still chuckling. “You’ve got some serious problems.”
“Is it a male trait to repeatedly state the obvious?”
“Don’t be changing the subject, honey. You’ve got the CIA and the Chairman of the Joint Ch
iefs both interested in this wreck. You have some unknown third party blowing shit up in the desert. Anything else I don’t know about what’s going on?”
“Don’t forget your aliens.”
Again that surprising burst of laughter. “That must have been a hell of a wreck.”
“It had a very atypical final flight profile. Like a big hand had reached down and wiped it from the sky.”
He harrumphed at that, then turned to her.
“My suggestion, Mirrie? Don’t chase the what. You’re the best there is at that, but that’s not going to help you here. Follow the who; then you can figure out the why.”
“I was never very good at the who.”
“I know,” he ran a soothing hand down her hair and over her back. He kissed her gently on top of her head. “I know, girl. It’s okay. You’ll figure it out.”
39
Harvey punched over the California coast at Harmony. The town boasted eighteen people, a bankrupt dairy, and a chapel that belonged in Hobbiton far more than southern California. He’d grown up there.
They never found Dad after he went down in his F-14 off Honolulu. No ashes for him. Probably shark food.
Mom was there…her ashes as fertilizer in a rose garden, but not really counted as a resident anymore. He hadn’t been back in twenty years.
Harvey waggled his wings in a wave anyway. Not that she’d have heard him pass by at sixty thousand feet running at Mach 0.99 anyway.
Once clear of the shore, he dropped and turned south. He didn’t even need to think about it—his desires and the drone were one. The night sea rushed to greet him as he dove down to a mere hundred meters above the surface.
At Mach 2.1 supercruise, he raced by oil rigs and supertankers, container ships and cruise liners. He’d never appreciated the amount of sea traffic moving along the California coast until he had to be careful to keep at least two kilometers from any surface vessel.
The wingtip vortices spinning off behind him, like sideways tornados, could be as much hazard to surface vehicles as they were to other airplanes in flight. After his passage created them, they would sink through the air at a hundred meters a minute. As long as the circular wind currents he generated hit the water and dissipated before any surface vehicle could stumble into them, everything should be okay.
Drone: an NTSB / military technothriller (Miranda Chase Book 1) Page 16
