That was the part that General Lizzy Gray just might hate.
But if she approached her role as Taz, rather than “The Taser”—and checked her anger at the door—maybe. Just maybe…
Before Taz even had a chance to glance over for Jeremy’s reaction, Miranda had gone into the kitchen and begun straightening the mugs in the cupboard.
“I still don’t know what I think.” She looked down at Jeremy lying on the blanket. “Incredibly lucky? Like maybe she just gave me a chance to finally have a life.”
Jeremy’s nod confirmed the feeling for himself as well.
“I have to remember to thank her; I didn’t do that properly. But I think I’d be foolish to look any further.” Because at no moment in Taz’s life had there been one that felt as good as this.
As she rose enough to remove her own jeans, Taz felt General Martinez’s challenge coin tucked in its little pocket. She pulled it out as she set her jeans aside, and looked at it carefully.
He’d made it a simple design. Plain, uncolored bronze. One side simply read, General Jorge Jesus Martinez. The other was a waving American flag. He’d been a patriot in every way that mattered, and the coin was a simple statement of that fact.
But there was nothing else there.
There was no…heart to it.
It was the coin of a warrior and nothing more.
She turned it over again and again as Jeremy watched her silently, but she couldn’t find anything else there.
Not even any sign of herself.
With a quick turn and flick, she heaved the coin high and hard.
It arced through the dawn light, plunging down, until it disappeared into the dark waters off the point of Miranda’s island.
Then she tugged off her shirt, and once more straddled Jeremy.
“What are you thinking?” Because she didn’t want to think about the past anymore.
The first rays of sun washed over them from a cleft in the distant Cascade Mountains.
“I think seventy-two hours.”
“What about seventy-two hours?”
He turned his watch so that she could read it. “Seventy-two hours and no minutes. That’s how long ago I met you for the second time. Up on Hurricane Ridge at sunrise three days ago.”
“So our record now is way better than twenty-eight hours and nineteen minutes?”
“Way better,” he slipped his hands onto her bare waist.
“So, maybe I should stick around at least seventy-two more. You know, just to keep you people out of trouble.”
“I’d like that,” Jeremy was looking at her eyes, not her chest. “I’d like that a lot.”
As Taz lay down upon him she decided that she’d like that a lot too.
77
Miranda sat alone, curled up on the library couch with the Storm at Sea quilt pulled over her.
She’d watched Jeremy and Taz walking together south across the island until they were out of sight.
After tucking the quilt more warmly around her feet, Miranda let the dawn fill the room while she thought about how she felt.
Taz was a good addition to the team.
Miranda had taken to heart Andi’s maxim: being wicked smart about aircraft doesn’t mean that you get to know everything. Then, she’d added a corollary of her own: what didn’t she wish to become an expert at?
Dealing with people like Zhang Ru.
When Taz had proven that she understood people like him, and could even handle Jeremy’s new outermost Causal Sphere concept, it became an easy decision.
All she’d ever cared about was the crash.
And now that her team was in place, almost as neatly as Mike’s playing cards, she could finally see the metaphors.
Jeremy, Holly, and Andi helped her see different aspects of the crash itself.
The others had tried to explain how Mike was like the A-10 Thunderbolt II—the close-air-support specialist. But she still liked the Mooney. He was good with people, just like her Mooney.
And Taz? Taz was the world-class fighter jet. Perhaps needing a little tempering by Jeremy, but she flew high and fast, and knew where to attack.
Herself and her F-86 Sabrejet?
Miranda pulled the quilt up under her chin and let her eyes drift closed.
She wasn’t like Taz, even if they were both fighter jets. But just maybe she was like the Sabrejet anyway.
It was the first of the swept-wing fighters; the most successful military jet in history by almost every measure. And everyone insisted that she was the best crash investigator in the NTSB.
Even though neither of them were a weapon of war, they each, in their own way did do one thing incredibly well.
They both, in their own way, really flew.
Havoc (excerpt)
If you enjoyed that, be sure you don’t miss the next title in the Miranda Chase series!
Havoc (excerpt)
Seattle-to-Sydney Direct
600 miles southwest of Hawaii
39,000 feet
Seat 57A
* * *
Holly did not appreciate the irony of the moment.
Not even a little.
She’d been sitting one row from the very rear of the Airbus A330-900neo jet. If she didn’t hack off her legs to get away from the muscle spasms soon, it would be a Christmas miracle—too bad it was October.
Tall people were not meant to sit in economy on fourteen-hour non-stops. But National Transportation Safety Board investigators also knew better than to sit in the front of airplanes.
Statistically, the rear rows of modern jet liners were marginally enough safer that she couldn’t quite bring herself to sit forward, no matter how safe airplane travel in general had become. Far and away the safest form of transport—except when it wasn’t.
And her job as a crash investigator was all about when it wasn’t.
The very tail of all wide-body jets had a motion that seemed disconnected from the rest of the aircraft, and, at the moment, the vibration was almost as annoying as her legs.
Only six hours into fourteen, for a flight she didn’t want to make. It was lucky for whoever wasn’t there that the seat beside her remained empty; it was best that her need to vent her frustrations to someone, anyone, had no ready target.
Hell, at the moment she’d even vent to Mike, though their parting at the airport hadn’t gone smoothly.
Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? And Mike had even insisted on driving her to SeaTac for her flight. As if he somehow knew how hard this trip was going to be for her—despite her not telling anyone anything about why she was going. Of course it was Mike, so he knew even without being told.
Which was almost as annoying as how comforting his presence had been on the drive.
But the last thing she wanted was her past touching any part of her present.
It was a completely rank horror-show that she herself had been given no choice.
Then at the curb he’d gotten all clingy, like he was going to miss more than having her in his bed most nights. Like he…owned?...some piece of her?
So not her.
She’d already been with him longer than anyone before in her life. Maybe it was time they were done—just to avoid his getting too attached. Soon, maybe he’d be wanting more than she was willing to give.
The period of the vibration shifted.
Rather than the slightly annoying slow sway of the airplane’s butt—like riding in a big old 1970s station wagon that desperately needed new shocks—it took up a distinct rhythm.
One that accelerated fast.
With a periodicity that, in all her experience, should never happen to any airplane.
She opened her left-side window shade to glare out. Her eyes ached as they adjusted from the dim you-should-be-sleeping-now interior to the glaring dawn over the Central Pacific.
There was the source just at the edge of her view—the Number One engine was shaking visibly.
Shaking hard.
&
nbsp; It didn’t explode or shatter like an uncontained turbine failure. Those happened in milliseconds; things occurred fast when meter-wide titanium fans shattered at thirteen thousand rpm.
This engine was swaying side-to-side on its mount.
She’d never seen that before. Or read about one doing that. Or even heard of such an event. Holly barely had time to wonder if Miranda ever had.
Three seconds later it broke free of the left wing.
Shit! There was an event she could go a lifetime without witnessing herself.
Just as the engine mount’s shear bolts were designed to do, rather than letting the engine destroy the wing, they sheared.
The suddenly disconnected Rolls-Royce Trent 7000 turbine— unburdened from doing its half of dragging the two-hundred-and-fifty-ton twinjet across the ocean—shot forward, then climbed up and over the wing. As it passed safely above the wing, the engine did finally fail. It shattered spectacularly, before disappearing aft faster than she could track.
Holly cringed and dug her fingers into the arm rests, but no metal pinged off the main fuselage.
She held a deep breath for maximum blood oxygenation before exhaling with the abrupt hull decompression.
But there wasn’t one.
No oxygen mask suddenly dangled inches from her face.
Apparently the hull was still intact. The engine failure was directed downward from the inverted engine’s top, pummeling the wing with a single loud bang. The well sound-insulated plane muffled it to little more than the noise of retracting landing gear.
Holly’s fingers ached as she released the padded armrests, even though it had only been seconds.
She tried to remember the last aircraft she’d heard of suffering a complete breakaway engine loss, but she wasn’t Miranda Chase. Her team’s IIC—Investigator-in-Charge—carried the entire encyclopedia of aircraft accidents around in her head. It was only one small part of what made Miranda the best IIC in the entire National Transportation Safety Board.
Herself, not so much.
Holly took a slow deep breath before she dared to look again.
The engine was definitely gone.
She focused on recalling her military training to remain calm in a crisis—because crisis was just the normal state of operations.
Then she looked down and lost the bit of calm that she’d mustered.
That was definitely the vast emptiness of the world’s largest ocean seven long miles below.
She looked over her shoulder at the two flight attendants. Still chatting quietly in their seats.
A glance up the long aisle revealed that most people were asleep, except for a few diehards watching movies. It was seven a.m. back in the flight’s origin city of Seattle—after a one a.m. departure; sensible people were asleep just the way any airlines wished their passengers to be. Always. She was surprised they didn’t just drug the coffee and be done with it.
The aisles were empty, and there was no splash of light from any other open window shade revealing the pile-driver sunrise pounding in her window.
She knew that from the angle of the cockpit it would be impossible for the pilots to check the engine visually. However, their instruments would certainly be reporting the loss with several catastrophic tones. Trained pilots would now be ensuring the integrity of the Number Two Engine.
But someone should be coming out to look out a window that could actually see the engine. Or at least a flight attendant should have been asked by the pilots to inspect it for them if they were too busy with alarms.
She would count to ten.
Holly made it to five before she punched the call button.
One of the flight attendants behind her, a male, reluctantly unbuckled and came up to her seat.
“You really should keep the shade down, miss. Others are all catchin’ a bit of shut-eye.” While she enjoyed the Aussie accent—it was a real relief after spending the last year in the US—she had other priorities.
“I didn’t want to alarm anyone, but you just lost an engine.” She kept her voice down and her tone even.
The attendant hadn’t started out looking friendly and now was looking less so. “I’m sure the pilots have everything well in hand.”
Holly grabbed the attendant’s pretty two-tone tie by the back strap, used her thumb to slide the knot tighter to make sure she had his full attention, then dragged him across the empty seat beside her and her lap to mash his face up against the window.
His choked-off squeak of alarm sounded ridiculous coming from a guy, especially an Aussie.
“We’ve lost a bloody engine, mate. See?” She thumped his face against the plastic a few times to make her point.
“Don’t move!”
Holly looked up and into the muzzle of a Glock 19, the new Gen5 which she’d been meaning to check out. An air marshal must have been sitting in row 55 directly in front of her. He now knelt on his seat and had aimed his sidearm at her over the seat back.
Her former training as an operator in the Australian Special Air Service Regiment kicked in.
The air marshal held it one-handed, and with his finger outside the trigger guard. He was making it too easy.
Keeping one hand firmly on the flight attendant’s tie, she swung her other hand up from where the marshal wouldn’t be able to see it over the seatback. Catching the barrel in the Y-shape between her extended thumb and hand, she grabbed on and rotated it upward away from her face, forcing his finger to slip completely off the trigger guard and below the weapon.
If he’d been doing a two-handed hold, she’d need a different, more difficult technique, but he didn’t even get that right.
Continuing the motion, she peeled the gun completely out of his hand.
Then Holly tossed it in the air just enough to flip her hold from barrel to handgrip and jammed the barrel up his nose.
Her finger was inside the trigger guard.
“You! By law, air marshals are required to flash their badge and give a warning before wielding a sidearm. So you’re in serious trouble there, mate. Now sit down and behave unless you want your brains to finish the flight with a free upgrade to First Class.”
He made a tiny nod of acknowledgement—about as big as could be made with a 9mm pistol rammed up one nostril.
She hit the magazine release, dropping it on the back of the flight attendant still pinned across her knees. He flinched and gagged a bit.
Racking the slide back against the edge of her folded tray table, Holly saw no round in the chamber. He hadn’t been a real threat at all. She pulled the trigger on the empty chamber, tugged down the paired slide release levers midway down the barrel, nudged the slide against the tray table again, and, with a quick shake, the gun fell into pieces.
The air marshal started to move, but not the right motion to turn and sit.
She dropped the rest of the parts on her temporary tray table built from the choking flight attendant’s back—she eased up his tie a bit—and grabbed the air marshal’s windpipe with her free hand. Holly pinched hard enough that he wouldn’t make a sound that could alarm other passengers.
“And if you reach for your bloody baton, you wanker, I’m going to use your own handcuffs on you and leave you face down in the thunder box.” Not an airline toilet in the world didn’t reek after the first six hours of a flight.
She shoved him away, gathered up the Glock parts from the flight attendant’s back, then hauled him off her lap.
“You! Call the bloody cockpit and tell them they’ve lost the Number One engine.” She glanced out the window and saw it was even worse than she’d expected. “And that the wing isn’t looking so pearla either.”
***
First Officer Quint Dermott slid into the empty seat next to the golden-blonde staring out the window. She was a serious treat. If she had the face to go with that hair and body, she’d be a stunner.
If this was an airport bar, he think some thoughts. But they’d just carked a bloody engine in the middle of t
he Pacific Ocean. If the flight attendant hadn’t been freaking, he sure as hell wouldn’t be here—it was hard to spook one that much.
“I’m the copilot. What seems to be the issue here?”
“Well, mate. I’d say you’re the one having a serious issue.” She didn’t bother turning to face him as she spoke. Her Strine was so broad it was like being home.
“Fair dinkum?” Quint could have a good time calming this passenger down, not that she looked upset. Long blondes with legs to match and who spoke like they were from the heart of the Outback, was something he hadn’t run into in far too long. Maybe never a Sheila of this quality. Too bad he had to hustle back to the cockpit.
Twice he’d been blocked from the left side of the aircraft by some doddering fool getting out of the seat, so he’d just hustled down the right side without getting the outside view he wanted to check the engine’s status. They’d hit the fire bottle, but there were no readings at all which they should have from even a crippled engine.
She waved out the window.
This wasn’t the best angle to see the engine but it was better than nothing. He leaned in. Close enough to see the wing out her window and feel—his heart skip the next three beats.
An ES—Engine Separation. Shit! No wonder there were no readings coming back to the cockpit.
“I’m seeing some serious flexion at rib number nine,” her accent slid away as she continued at a volume barely louder than a cozy whisper in his ear. “Directly above the engine pylon is where it seems to be doing the worst of it. You’re already getting enough buckling in top panels eleven through fifteen that I think the rear spar is FUBAR as well.”
“Uh, where?”
She pointed.
He leaned in again. He was a pilot not a mechanic, so how in the world would he know which skin panel was which? But practically lying in her lap, he could see what she was talking about. There was a crinkle in the aluminum skin directly above where the engine had been. Like a fist had punched down on it from above—a damn big fist. Fucked Up Beyond All Recovery was a depressingly accurate assessment.
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