Ghostrider: a Political Technothriller: Miranda Chase, #4

1

Gig Harbor, Washington

Elevation: 37 feet

(0300 hours Pacific Daylight Time)

Miranda’s phone vibrated violently under her pillow. It slipped into her dream of a single-element plane.

No engines.

No separate fuselage.

Somehow all one, single, unified machine of perfect flight.

Nothing to break.

It flew clean.

Pure white.

Transonic but with no boom to echo across the pastoral land below.

Untouchable by fault or error.

Perfectly silent and safe for—

The phone’s second vibration shattered the plane. Not merely broke it apart but shattered it into a hundred thousand pieces from within.

Her breath caught and she could taste the panic of every soul on board. Somehow they all survived, only to die in the long fall to—

The end of the nightmare was familiar enough, if not the white plane, that her hand only shook a little as she slid it under her pillow to silence the call.

Across the room, Holly mumbled something in her sleep but didn’t appear to wake. On the rare occasions when Miranda stayed in town rather than flying back to her island home, she had taken to staying in Holly’s spare bed. Holly, Mike, and Jeremy had rented a three-bedroom house in Gig Harbor.

It was a quiet little community just ten minutes from the airport. The cozy harbor was thick with pleasure boats, ringed by houses and then tall conifers atop the surrounding ridge to three sides. To the fourth side, beyond the harbor mouth, was a splendid view of the icy peak of Mt. Rainier; the quiescent volcano soared fourteen thousand feet above all of the surrounding area. The tickling smell of roses blooming outside the just-cracked window floated on the damply cool June air.

Miranda had woken hours ago. Actually, she’d finally given up after a few hours of not really sleeping at all.

Even leaning sideways close toward her parents’ picture—the only way she used to be able to tolerate a hug was one-armed and sideways—didn’t help.

Normally it did, because the image was so familiar. Her parents in their garden by the house on Spieden Island. Behind them the one-third-sized replica of the enigmatic Kryptos sculpture at the CIA she’d spent so many hours trying to decrypt with her father. Her mother in her big gardening hat. And herself, carefully not in any photograph, safe behind the camera.

Tonight, all it did was make her miss them all the more.

Twenty-four years ago next month they’d gone down when TWA 800 had exploded over the Atlantic Ocean. Through all the Kübler-Ross phases of grieving, even the anger phase, she’d never stopped missing them.

Unable to sleep, she had sat up in bed and fired up her laptop.

The discussion at dinner had circled around a variety of topics. But one had kept coming back. Once during the fried chicken taquitos appetizer, twice during the main course—two bean enchiladas for her, a monstrous plate of shrimp-and-steak fajitas for Holly, and carne asada burritos for the boys—and yet again over flan and deep-fried ice cream.

Their workspace.

Her personal airplane hangar at the south end of Tacoma Narrows Airport wasn’t really up to the task of high-security military plane-crash investigations any more than their Western Pacific Region offices at the NTSB.

After two hours of lying awake and organizing her thoughts, she’d decided it was time to make some changes. Windows, with one-way glass, cut into the walls.

A bigger workbench for Jeremy and a small desk for herself that he would be forbidden to encroach on. But she wasn’t comfortable having to say that to him, or to the others. Then she spotted the answer. A lovely, hand-carved teak rolltop desk that she could lock for security’s sake without having to tell the others not to use it. It was only a little underhanded and she decided that she was okay with that.

When she was done with the furniture and fittings, she focused on ordering interior walls, heating, high security… It had taken her much of the night, but she was pleased with the results.

She’d finally lain down and gone to sleep at three. The house at Gig Harbor was even quieter than her own island residence. It was rare to not hear the waves at home, and the gulls here apparently slept very soundly.

Now it was four a.m. and the stars were just dimming in the east beyond Holly’s big bay windows. Miranda’s phone vibrated again with a re-call rather than a message. She slipped out of bed and raced into the bathroom to avoid disturbing Holly, then closed the door on herself before answering.

Miranda, we’ve got a bad crash in Colorado. Are you available for a launch?

Good morning, Jill. Miranda had been practicing what Mike called appropriate human interaction. It was supposed to make things easier, or so he said. She wasn’t convinced yet.

Jill sighed. It’s too early in the morning for this; I haven’t had my coffee yet.

It’s four a.m. here. It is seven a.m. in Washington, DC, where you are.

Oh, right. Sorry. Still haven’t had my coffee. Are you available for a launch?

And for all her efforts in appropriate human interaction, they’d ended up exactly where they’d started. Yes, seemed to be the simplest way forward. Holly had, as usual, been right: their empty queue hadn’t lasted for long.

The military has put a high priority on it. They’ve asked me to forward you through to the military liaison for transport. Jill’s mumble of I really need some coff— was cut off by the military liaison clicking in and Jill hanging up.

Miranda liked this version of Jill much better. Normally her conversations were rife with incomplete sentences and laughter when Miranda asked for the rest of the thought. Barely awake, Jill was just business.

This is Major Swift. She hadn’t expected him as the liaison, though perhaps she should have. He was an officer of the Air Force’s Accident Investigation Bureau and she’d known he was returning from his overseas assignment. They’d also been lovers briefly before he’d left, which had been nice.

Good morning, Jonathan.

Miranda! The enthusiasm in his voice said that he was not struggling to wake up. I was hoping it would be you they called in. It’s wonderful to hear your voice. Where are you?

Sitting on the edge of the tub in Holly’s bathroom. It’s still just four a.m. here.

Are you wearing that white flannel nightgown? His voice shifted to a low and soft tone that probably implied something, but tone of voice was often deceptive. It didn’t sound like sarcasm or irritation…

Yes, why?

His laughter seemed friendly. Just like picturing you in that.

I would have thought that you liked picturing me out of it. Or is that some way of saying you don’t want to have sex again? She really hoped it wasn’t. Jon had been the first man she’d really enjoyed spending time with that way.

I also like picturing you out of it, and no, I’m not saying that at all.

Then why did you say that you liked picturing me more clothed rather than less clothed?

You look lovely both ways, Miranda. Different, but lovely.

How different?

Would it be okay if we tabled this discussion until after we talked about the crash? How you look in your full NTSB gear versus that flannel nightgown versus completely unclothed is something I’m happy to discuss—at length. But not at the moment.

She was getting better about when to set aside a topic. Her system was to note it down in her personal notebook that she reviewed each evening for Incomplete Issues. But the notebook wasn’t here; it was in her vest out in Holly’s bedroom. She’d have to wait to write it down and only hoped that not too many other conversational threads had to be set aside before she had a chance to access her notebook and record them.

Yes, it would be okay.

Based on the call sign, we just lost an AC-130J Ghostrider gunship. It’s—

She cut him off. "You know I don’t like to hear about the crash. I prefer to witness it for myself and reach my own conclusions."

Right. Okay. Where are you now?

Sitting on the edge of the tub in Holly’s bathroom. She didn’t like repeating things, but this time it helped to ground her as she remembered the last time she’d been able to meet up with Jon.

It had been right after a Black Hawk helicopter crash in Hawaii. She’d been called out because it had collided with a Cessna Citation Sovereign 680 business jet. Hawaii was part of the NTSB’s Western Pacific Region, which was based out of the Seattle Office incongruously located thirty miles south of Seattle in Federal Way—a fact that continued to bother her but upper management had remained unwilling to rectify.

After the investigation, they’d had three particularly enjoyable days together, touring the air bases of all five branches of the service. Jon’s rank had granted them access to study many types of planes she’d never before been aboard.

Jon had explained the various crew chiefs’ curious reactions to her.

You’re famous now, Miranda. Every crew chief is spooked by what you might find that they’ve done wrong, but they’re also crew chiefs who love their aircraft and are desperate to learn how to do their jobs better. You kind of freak them out both ways.

She really didn’t understand the former sentiment; only the results mattered. On the latter sentiment, she and the crew chiefs had aligned perfectly.

She and Jon had also spent two equally enjoyable nights together, then he’d been posted to the Middle East for a three-month assignment shortly afterward.

Ninety-seven days since he’d left. So, it was reasonable to assume that he was back in the States again. He’d called several times, but talking on the phone had never particularly worked for her. Their e-mails had gone better and she’d looked forward to hearing from him.

But now was a perfect example of the problems with phone conversations.

Jon’s continued silence told her she was being too literal again.

She never seemed to get that particular question regarding her location right. Her answer of her position on Holly’s bathtub was the most valid and descriptive but, she was learning, not the most useful to the situation.

We’re all ten minutes from the Tacoma Narrows Airport in Washington State.

I’ll have a C-21A Learjet there in fifteen.

I haven’t even woken the oth—

Holly threw open the bathroom door. She was dressed in her full gear. What are you still doing in your nightgown? There’s a crash, isn’t there?

Miranda could only nod.

I already rousted the boys. Mike is doing his fancy-coffee-machine thing. Sure enough, there was the soft sound of grinding echoing from the distant kitchen.

She noticed coffee was the one habit of Mike’s, perhaps the only habit, that Holly didn’t roll her eyes about. Mike always made sure that Holly received a monstrous thermal mug full each morning.

And he’s making his espresso and your hot cocoa, and there was the missing eye roll. So, let’s get going, Miranda. Not like you to be so slow off the mark.

She always left Miranda a little breathless when she was in this mode. Actually, from what she’d seen, she left everyone a little breathless most of the time.

I’m still on the phone to—

Holly pulled the phone from her fingers. I’ll flirt with whatever yobbo is on the mobile. You, go! Get dressed. She put the phone to her ear. Is this Drake, ye old bastard, or Jon sniffin’ round our Miranda?... Jon! How ya garn? Guess what? Miranda’s about to get as naked as a James Bond girl in the next room, and you aren’t here to see it, you poor sod. She’s hot, you know.

Miranda opened her mouth to protest but, as Holly burst out laughing over some reply, she decided that escape was her best option.

2

Miranda had never been to Aspen. It was a small, municipal airport known to her primarily for its general aviation crashes. She had specialized in commercial aviation early in her career, but the military investigations had become her team’s most common callout.

Colorado has the third highest number of small planes per capita of any state in the US after Alaska and Montana. Though their pilot fatality rate is lower than seventeen other states, it’s still a lot of crashes. Miranda was glad that the statistic did not carry into commercial air crashes in the state; the countryside beyond the plane’s window looked to be very rugged.

You know… Mike leaned back in his leather airplane seat. The little eight-passenger C-21A VIP transport Learjet was a very comfortable way to travel, even if it did belong to the Air Force.

Aside from the pair of military pilots, there were just the four of them aboard. They sat in pairs of facing seats on either side of a narrow aisle.

There’s a saying about Aspen. ‘The millionaires ruined it for the hippies, and the billionaires ruined it for the millionaires.’ So, don’t forget about all the out-of-state jetsetters flitting in and out of here in the worst of conditions for your crash tally.

It’s late June, Miranda looked out the window as they began their descent into Aspen. Presently sunny. On the high lakes I can see only a little ice, so I would project that it is warm with a decreased chance of low-altitude icing on the plane’s surfaces. As there are no clear reflections off the water, there must be wind-rippling. However, the lack of buffeting aboard our flight would indicate that this wind is not of sufficient velocity to turbulate the air significantly despite the close proximity of numerous high mountain peaks.

Jeremy had a Bluetooth earpiece and was listening to something intently. Aspen ATIS currently reports barometer steady at thirty even, winds at fifteen out of the west, humidity forty-seven percent, and temperature is sixty-eight. She hadn’t realized that he carried a broadband receiver that covered the FAA frequencies. The Automated Terminal Information Service frequency would have all of the weather and pertinent airport information regularly updated on a broadcast loop.

This does not appear to be the ‘worst of conditions’, Miranda concluded. "We’ll need to verify, of course, but it seems unlikely that last night’s conditions were significantly