Condor

by M. L. Buchman

  “So, now you’re here to make sure that it wasn’t a problem with your plane.”

  “Nyet! Never! Our planes are so very good. Not their fault.”

  “If you say so, I’ll believe you. Shall we go see your innocent plane?”

  “No,” a brunette no taller than Elayne herself stopped beside them for a moment. “I’d like to map the major debris first.”

  “But they need to reopen the runway as soon as possible.” Suddenly Mike appeared to be the submissive one, not the team leader Elayne had been trying to attach to.

  “I don’t think that should have an effect our course of action,” the brunette was adamant.

  “Will the possibility of a speedy result best be served by mapping the debris field or by an initial inspection of the hull?” Mike sounded as if he had no opinion and was waiting for the brunette.

  Elayne was trying to figure out what was happening. Who was this little woman? She should be a librarian or a schoolteacher for little children. She—

  “An interesting question with numerous open variables. We don’t know the relevant details, Mike. There’s—”

  “Something strange about this aircraft,” a young Asian man interrupted.

  “Very good, Jeremy. That is precisely the point I was about to make.”

  The young man looked as if he’d just been patted on the head like a dog.

  “However, Mike’s point is not without merit.”

  “Mike said something useful? That’s news,” the blonde enforcer joined them and her tone was quite dismissive.

  Elayne’s head was spinning. Who was in charge here? Her normal tactics included attaching herself to the team leader—male or female. That always afforded her both the purest information flow as well as being best placed to strategically mistrack any plans that weren’t to Elayne’s advantage.

  “Let’s consider,” the small brunette spoke and no one interrupted.

  “Consider what?” Elayne asked into the silence.

  “Try using your ears, and keeping your gob shut,” the enforcer snarled at her.

  “Nice one, Holly,” Mike shifted closer to her, but Elayne was no longer sure if she wanted him close. But she’d already blown the join-with-the-leader gambit. This Mike was now her designated access point into this investigation.

  Or maybe Mike was the leader and this Holly person was a complete bitch even to her team leader?

  “Major Swift has already twice inquired how long it will be before he can begin clearing the runway.” Again, it was the brunette leading the conversation.

  “Do we even have a body count yet?” Mike asked.

  “Six,” Elayne spoke and then wished she hadn’t. She knew because she’d screwed one and been introduced to five others—while her shirt was still unbuttoned enough to reveal that she wore no bra. Voskov had apparently liked bragging to his crew. It had been useful to have them focusing somewhere other than her face while she catalogued each of them for herself. “Unless there is a stowing person.”

  “Stowaway,” Mike offered.

  “A stowaway. Yes. We, Antonov Cargo, fly with flight crew of four and two of loadmasters,” or had it only been this flight? What was Antonov’s standard practice? Didn’t matter. She knew there were six on this crew as a fact.

  “Major Swift’s team of medics were only able to locate five bodies.”

  Elayne felt the blood drain out of her head.

  None of the crew would be likely to remember her face, except Voskov who she’d screwed twice less than eighteen hours ago. She looked again at the plane.

  He must be dead.

  12

  Holly pulled Miranda aside, leading her back toward where they’d nearly finished mapping the edge of the debris field. She knew how much that incompleteness would be frustrating Miranda. They stopped right where the dirt met the edge of the runway pavement.

  Jeremy plunged back to photographing every detail about the wreck.

  The Elayne woman started to follow them.

  As much as she hated to do it, Holly signaled to Mike to distract her.

  Mike didn’t even have the decency to hesitate before he swooped in and was once more chatting her up in that smooth way of his. Bastard. Sure the woman was stunning in an ever-so-cute, petite-blonde-in-designer-clothes way.

  Yet Holly could never predict Mike.

  He certainly acted like a total dog around women. But then she’d stumble on him sitting out by the pool of whatever motel they’d landed in near the site investigation. Fully dressed, lying in a lounge chair, with a half-finished beer beside as he watched the stars—alone.

  He’d certainly had plenty of opportunities. The brunette passenger from the 737 crash. He’d been like glue on her…checking on her in the hospital and then putting her on the bus home.

  After that, he’d cozied up to the redheaded stewardess from the same damn flight.

  And extensive interviews with a lot of useful observations would end up in his reports.

  Holly could never quite determine that he’d slept with them, but she’d be shocked if he hadn’t. Her trust of him definitely didn’t run even skin deep, no matter how useful he was.

  Even now, was he calculating how to get Ms. Designer Blonde out of her knickers? Probably.

  He could get anyone to take him anywhere.

  She’d seen him do it.

  Schmooze his way into some place where he had no right to be, make everyone his friend until they were begging him to stay, then…she didn’t want to know what.

  She’d tracked him down in air traffic control centers, airplane cockpits, off yucking it up with a group of hard-worn, rough-as-hell mechanics who thought he was God’s gift just like the women.

  Not that she’d been staked out and watching or anything.

  Mike wasn’t worth the time.

  She was just protecting Miranda. That’s all she was doing. Sure thing, Holly. Tell that one at the pub and see how far it flies.

  Holly tried to lead Miranda back to where they’d been standing when she’d spotted the approaching vehicle.

  But Miranda was showing no signs of a desire to complete the unfinished Debris Field Sphere of her typical investigation pattern.

  That’s when she remembered that Miranda had said…she couldn’t quite recall what…while Holly was keeping a gun on the Antonov woman and holding the boy in blue upright by his windpipe.

  “You said something.”

  “I’ve said many things. But you keep not wanting to answer them.”

  “Sorry,” Holly inspected the ground, the wreck, and wished she could think of somewhere else to look. Jeremy, photographing something along the far edge of the right wing wasn’t particularly interesting. Even a flight of helicopters returning from some practice flight wasn’t going to work as a sufficient distraction, because she knew exactly what was coming.

  Give it up, Holly. She braced herself.

  “Okay. Fire away, Miranda.”

  “First, can the pilot really fly a C-130 Hercules one-handed?”

  Or not.

  Six months ago, Holly would have been confused. Three months ago, she would have laughed in Miranda’s face for making that her first question. Now she knew that it was best to just answer.

  “No, he was just bragging.”

  “Bragging that he could or that he couldn’t?”

  There were times Holly wished she saw the world as such a simple, yes-or-no place. “Bragging that he could and making a joke at the same time. He can’t. You need four hands—two people,” before Miranda could ask about multi-armed humans, “to fly a C-130. You know that.”

  “I do. But he said… Okay. I get it now. Though I don’t see why it’s funny.”

  “That’s not you. It was a pretty lame joke.”

  “Oh. Okay. Are you sleeping with Mike?”

  “No!” Even knowing it was coming, she wasn’t ready for the question. Holly just couldn’t imagine why this kept coming up when it was so…wrong. “No. Not
now. Not ever: past, present, or future.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Holly could see her struggling and felt awful for answering a question with a question. Miranda never did well with those.

  “Look at them, Miranda.”

  They both turned. Mike and Elayne were now arm-in-arm, strolling toward the wreck.

  “Any bets on how long it takes him to get her in bed? The answer is: not long. I won’t be another notch on his belt. I want my lovers to at least pretend I’m human. What made you ask that anyway?”

  Miranda looked away and kicked at the edge of the runway’s pavement for a moment. “I wondered if your verbal sparring was some sort of mating ritual.”

  “So not. His type really irritates me is all. Oh, that’s why you asked what my type is?”

  Miranda just nodded without looking up.

  “You wondering what your type is?”

  She nodded again. “If I even have one at all,” she told one of the lights marking the runway’s edge. “I’m not an idiot, Holly. I know how much I don’t fit in…anywhere. I can’t ever seem to—”

  “Miranda, I’m not going to let you finish that sentence no matter how much you want to. We all have a type. Even you. You’re different, sure, even by my utterly whacked Australian standards. But you’ve absolutely got a type. Your type is going to be smart as hell and understand just how special you are.”

  “Really?” Miranda’s voice was so soft, and so afraid, that Holly could only answer it with a hard hug. Miranda gave her a brief pat on the back, which was the most response she’d ever given.

  And then they separated.

  “The other thing I said was…”

  Holly couldn’t remember what else except the dumb-ass game timer.

  “Based on the wings having broken free, and as they are presently lying along either side of the fuselage, it implies that the expanded debris field was most likely due to an explosion occurring in the forward section of the plane.”

  “Word for word,” Holly knew as she turned to inspect the plane herself.

  She let her eye follow the line of orange flags. There was a distinct forward bulge of the debris field, starting from where they stood, swinging out to where she’d stopped the Security Forces patrol car, and the final curve of it tailing back toward the nose of the fuselage.

  Nothing lay forward of the fuselage except the flipped-over cockpit and crew quarters section itself.

  “Thirty-to-fifty kilos you said?”

  Miranda, never one to repeat herself unless specifically asked, simply nodded.

  “Say the size of a couple missiles on a helicopter?”

  Miranda did one of her look-into-space things for under thirty seconds before replying. “Not as the primary explosion—insufficient energy and the force vectors are wrong. But certainly as a secondary one.”

  Holly nodded. “We need to inspect the hull next. The debris field can wait.”

  “Okay. If you say so. But what about the rest of the perimeter walk?”

  Holly scanned the tiny bits of AN-124 Antonov Condor scattered far and wide over this end of the airport. It would be a long and tedious task.

  “Tell Mike and his hot blonde to do it.”

  “Okay,” and Miranda went over to do precisely that.

  Holly headed for the wreck itself. Maybe if she just screwed Mike, Miranda would leave it alone.

  13

  Elayne stood at the beginning edge with a fistful of orange flags. Over at the wreck, which she still hadn’t gotten close enough to, everyone except her and Mike was gathered.

  “Why are you stuck with this job? Can you not assign it to someone else?”

  “Nope. Once Miranda assigns a task, that’s pretty much it.”

  “Why her?” She and Miranda were the same height, but that’s where all similarities ended. This Miranda was dressed like a fieldworker. She did nothing to take care of herself. No makeup, her hair looked as if it hadn’t even been brushed at all today. She needed highlights, a new wardrobe, and lessons in how not to look drab just standing still.

  “It’s her team. That’s Miranda Chase, the NTSB’s best investigator. I guarantee that she’ll figure out what happened to your plane.”

  Which was the last thing Elayne wanted. She’d heard Miranda’s report that she’d looked at the shape of the debris field and concluded that there’d been an explosion on board. Even if no one else had heard, it was the last line of investigation that this team should be allowed to pursue.

  And she was powerless to stop it.

  Maybe if they hurried through the current task, she could return to the aircraft in time. She jammed a flag’s wire stem next to a piece of debris by her feet and hurried toward the next one.

  “No, wait. That won’t do, Ms. Kasprak.”

  “Why not?” She didn’t mean to snap at him, but she was in a hurry.

  “We’re still identifying the outermost edge of the debris perimeter. We’ll then sweep the area again for relevant pieces. For now, we’ll walk side by side, but five paces apart. I can promise you that somehow Miranda will know if we miss so much as a wingnut or stray coffee cup.” Mike’s smile was a charming one.

  Out of options, Elayne cast one last look at the others as they delved into the center of the wreckage where the Mi-28NM Havoc had once been tied down. Out of reach for now.

  This was going to take longer than she planned, but she had to be sure that nothing important remained and she had a role to play until she was.

  “Tell me about her,” she addressed Mike as the edge of the debris led them away from the plane.

  Mike seemed only too happy to do so.

  Elayne listened with one ear. She promised herself—if that drab little woman discovered anything of importance, Elayne wouldn’t hesitate to break her neck.

  14

  “Why here?” Major Jon Swift had caught up with them as they reached the center of the wreckage.

  Miranda considered if there was any deeper meaning to this being the center. They were actually in the forward third of the fuselage, but because the crew section had been flipped forward, it was roughly the geographic center of the wreck from the tail to the far end of the flipped crew section.

  No. No relevance.

  “Observe the burn marks on the cargo deck.” Everyone looked down at where she pointed.

  The burn marks had formed a near perfect bullseye. The center of the area was punched downward like a shallow crater. Scorch marks radiated outward in all directions from that point.

  “The center of the blast,” Holly was the only one looking out at the debris field. Even Jeremy didn’t see the correlation of the expanded debris field pointing directly to this spot.

  “You found it,” Jon whispered. “You’ve been here, what, under three hours? Most of that was walking the debris perimeter. And you found the point of origin in five hundred meters of wreckage.”

  “Not necessarily. All we know is that an explosion happened here.” Miranda began scanning for further evidence.

  Jon came to stand close beside her. His patient silence made her explain what she was looking at.

  “Look at the side panels of the fuselage.” They lay on the ground, still attached at the cargo deck level, but otherwise lying out flat to leave the deck open to the sky. “They’ve certainly been blown outward to either side from this point. The weapons mounted on this helicopter exploded and destroyed the airplane.”

  The panels lay on the runway to either side of the aircraft and did indeed demonstrate curvature consistent with an interior blast.

  She moved to the edge of the cargo deck to look down at one. “That’s odd.”

  “What’s odd?” Jon followed her.

  She waited, but he must not see it. She would have liked the confirmation, as the pattern was subtle.

  Then he held his hands out in front of him, as if to look through them. He held one with the fingers spread as widely as possible
and his palm toward where the blast had punched a starburst pattern of marks into the hull plates.

  He spread his other hand wide, and began turning it one way and then the other as if dissatisfied with its positioning.

  She reached out and took his probing hand in hers. She pushed the fingers together so that they were all pointing the same way. She then shifted it so that it was below his splayed hand and pointing toward what had been the top of the fuselage.

  “You’re right,” he breathed softly. “I see that now. But I don’t understand what I’m looking at.”

  “The explosion created a radial burn pattern as represented by this hand,” she tapped the back of his splayed fingers. “But there was a fire first. We can just see the upward burn marks of a fire. A hot one. That’s what this hand is mimicking.”

  He looked at her from uncomfortably close by. Why was it uncomfortable? They’d been this close a half dozen times over the last few hours. Because he was looking directly at her from so close?

  Would a woman, a normal woman… Would Holly look him straight in the eye?

  Yes.

  But Miranda couldn’t quite bring herself to do that. Instead she turned back to gaze at the long panel section that had once connected the cargo deck to the base of the crew module.

  Would a fire weaken the hull’s connection to the crew module? Not significantly. At least not very quickly. Not as fast as it would cause the helicopter’s explosives to detonate.

  An explosion here should have blown the side outward, then the crew module would have collapsed down into the fuselage rather than being flipped end-over-end out of the way.

  “What are you thinking?” Jon still squatted beside her.

  “That there are other forces at work here.”

  “No argument from me.”

  She didn’t know how to interpret his tone.

  15

  “Are you seeing this?” Holly whispered to Jeremy.

  “Seeing what?”