Raider

by M. L. Buchman

  Andi slapped the arm aside.

  Holly had anticipated that, momentarily catching the letter in her teeth as she put the other hand on Andi’s forehead. Then she took the letter with her free hand as if nothing had happened.

  Jon barely managed to jump clear as Andi dove to the ground and knocked Holly down with a sweep kick.

  A kick that would have flattened him and left him on the hardpan to groan for a while did no such thing to Holly.

  She did some kind of neat tuck-and-roll that he couldn’t follow and returned to her feet suddenly close enough to Jeremy to lean an elbow casually on his shoulder as she read aloud.

  “This is Captain Andrea—”

  “Andi.”

  “—Wu, formerly a pilot with the 160th Night Stalkers.” Holly stopped reading and looked at Andi over the top of the letter. “Seriously hot shit, girl. Goodonya!” She held up her hand to receive a high five.

  Andi didn’t slap it.

  Holly kept her smile and returned to reading. “I heard your latest launch is for a rotorcraft, so I sent her along. She’s about halfway through Academy training, and already knows far more than most of her instructors. Her skills remind me of you. Terence.” Holly folded it up, then returned it to Andi. “From Terence Graham, that’s a seriously off-tap recommendation.”

  Holly could play causal all she wanted, but Jon knew better.

  Captain Andrea Wu was a former pilot for the best helicopter regiment fielded by any military. He had enough friends in special operations to know just what that meant. She hadn’t been a good pilot, she’d been a superstar—because that was the only kind of pilot the 160th even considered inviting to try out. She was at least as elite as Holly’s own entry into the SASR.

  “I’m Holly Harper—structural. That’s Jeremy Trahn—systems and team geek. This useless sack of shit is Mike Munroe—I mean he really cares about human factors. What kind of guy does that, anyway? He is great in bed, but he’s mine for now, so stay away.”

  Jon hoped that Miranda didn’t think of him that way.

  “And her?” Holly finished the introductions with a hook of her thumb toward the approaching Miranda. “She’s the boss lady.”

  Andi blinked in surprise. She must have thought Holly was in charge.

  Of course she often acted that way to everyone except Miranda.

  8

  Andi could feel the gears grinding in her head. So the Tall Blonde Bitch Australian wasn’t the one in charge.

  Andi had felt herself all poised to despise the team leader—except Holly wasn’t. Holly, Jeremy, Mike. She repeated that a few times to drill their names in. And Major Jon Swift.

  Andi focused once more on the pilot “boss lady.” She had pulled on a pocketed vest, heavily filled with tools, and was tapping each one as if double-checking what was where. Everyone waited patiently even though it took a long thirty seconds.

  Andi glanced aloft. Even the vultures circling high on the evening thermals baking off the salt pan airfield appeared to be waiting.

  The last thing the pilot did was hang her badge around her neck, then make sure it was face out.

  Miranda Chase, NTSB.

  Jesus!

  Something like every second case study they read in the Academy was written by one Miranda Chase. Her name was both a blessing and a curse among students. The former because of the sheer amount of knowledge to be gained from close study of a Chase report, and the latter for their consistently long, highly detailed summaries.

  Though none of the reports Andi had studied were of military incidents. Yet here was an entire team acting as if Groom Lake was old hat. A base she’d personally never had the clearance to stand on before, despite being a pilot for Special Operations Forces.

  Miranda was standing silently looking up at Major Swift once more. Even though she didn’t repeat her question, it was easy to hear it: Now where’s the stupid crash?

  “Hello, Miranda.”

  Miranda Chase didn’t react.

  “That’s a nice new plane. Where did you borrow it?”

  Still no reaction.

  Now Holly and Mike were smiling, but Andi couldn’t quite tell why. Amused?

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” Major Swift wasn’t being so swift at reading the freeze out.

  Andi knew from her own experience that being a woman, especially a small one—Miranda stood only two inches taller than Andi herself—in this man’s army really pushed a girl toward being a ball buster.

  “Twenty-two days and seven hours,” Miranda finally replied without checking her watch. “Which isn’t actually accurate. We’ve seen each other in video calls four times during that period, so it has been only three days and eleven hours since we last saw each other.”

  “I meant in person.”

  “That’s not what you said.” Then Miranda twitched away from Holly as if she’d just been pinched. “What? Oh. Oh! Yes. Hello, Jon. It is good to see you.” Her speech sounded completely rote, then she stepped into Jon’s arms.

  Andi could only gape in surprise. Two seconds ago Miranda had acted as if she didn’t care whether the major lived or died.

  He embraced her. And even though she didn’t embrace him back, she did look content to be there. He didn’t appear surprised by the one-sided greeting; he’d just kept pushing until he got even that.

  Andi checked in with Holly, but all she got back was a nod saying this weirdness was somehow normal.

  “They just delivered my new plane,” Miranda said as soon as Jon released her. She waved a hand toward the silent hangar where the plane had been tucked out of sight. “I was shopping for a plane that could move everyone quickly. Then—”

  “You know that if you came over to AIB, they’d put a C-21A Learjet at your disposal.”

  Andi had always been proud of her ability to adapt quickly to changing situations. Another thing she’d lost along with the ability to serve. She checked her feet but they were acting like they were in balance.

  Was it just her brain that was feeling so out of whack?

  Her watch’s second hand voted a clear yes.

  Shit!

  There was a grim silence. Didn’t the guy even notice the instant scowl his statement had earned him from the others?

  Majorly not swift.

  Miranda didn’t scowl. Instead, she once more became completely deadpan and waited him out.

  When Major Swift didn’t speak up, she picked up in midsentence as if there’d never been a break or the offer to use a nine-million-dollar jet as her own.

  “—Textron Aviation offered me a trade. They asked me to consult on the design and all safety procedures for their next series of Cessna jet aircraft. They already have a superior safety record, but they’re working on removing pilot error—the cause of all three incidents involving their jet aircraft since 2005.”

  “They gave you a four-and-a-half-million-dollar plane?” Major Swift sounded aghast.

  “Five point three as outfitted—extended-range tanks, and the latest avionics suite. They offered to get me my choice of Thales or Collins helmets, but I wanted to fly it initially with the equipment any other Citation pilot would have.”

  Andi had always liked the Thales helmet and its inside-the-visor display. But the Collins Aerospace helmet was seriously next gen. She’d have loved the chance to use one again—not that she ever would. The helmet was four hundred thousand dollars of tech, had to be custom-built for each pilot, and was primarily used on the F-35 Lightning II fighter jets…and on the other aircraft she couldn’t bear to think about. It should be strictly military issue, yet Textron Cessna had been willing to go through all the hoops to give Miranda Chase one?

  Unsure what to think, Andi checked her watch.

  Straight up Yes. Wild!

  Miranda barely paused for a breath, as if she was in a hurry to not be interrupted again.

  “And we’ve already discussed several times that I will never leave the NTSB for the AIB. I do not understand w
hy you keep bringing it up. Besides, a C-21A Learjet is a wholly unacceptable solution. You already know that its takeoff roll is far longer than my runway.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think about the ground roll. I guess so,” Major Un-Swift had the wherewithal to wince.

  “The C-21’s is nearly half as long as my entire island.”

  “You own an island?” Andi couldn’t imagine such a thing. Of course, she’d also never met anyone who’d “shopped” for a five-million-dollar plane…or been given one.

  “She does, mate,” Holly smiled at her. “Never, ever underestimate our Miranda.” The last seemed aimed at Major Jon Swift even though Holly was still facing her.

  Her wink confirmed that. Maybe Holly wasn’t the holy terror that her first impression gave.

  Andi glanced at her watch’s second hand.

  Bottom half of the minute.

  No.

  Holly was still a total bitch.

  9

  Miranda looked away from Jon. She enjoyed sleeping with him and working a crash together, but he was always so exhausting.

  Despite careful study, she still didn’t understand how his mental processes functioned. Not connecting the length of her runway and the C-21’s minimum ground roll distance was just another example of the problem.

  Did he expect her to clear her entire island and regrade it just for a plane she didn’t want from an organization she had no intention of joining? That would require unwanted workers on her island from logging and grading companies. And the wild game that still inhabited Spieden Island left over from its brief time as a stocked, big-game hunting park would be horribly displaced. She’d never do such a thing to them and he should understand that without her having to explain it.

  Or must she? The Sika and fallow deer, the mouflon sheep, and the dozens of remaining game bird varieties made her island unique in Washington State’s San Juan Islands, perhaps anywhere.

  She glanced at Holly, who tipped her wrist slightly as if to say, “Can we get a move on?”

  She was right.

  If Jon needed such basic responsibilities of habitat ownership explained, it would have to be done later. Even if such incomplete questions felt like steel wool being scrubbed across the inside of her forehead.

  They’d been sexual partners for two hundred and fifty-two days, on the occasions when their schedules allowed.

  But it didn’t make him any less exhausting.

  The flight had already been taxing. Short, just two and a half hours, but the plane was still unfamiliar. Earlier in the year, she’d managed two, nonconsecutive weeks’ vacation from the NTSB to get certified. The first week was to obtain her type rating. The second week had been spent with Cessna’s engineers and senior test pilots, discussing and flying each of their seven other current models for comparison—though there wasn’t any point in certifying in those types.

  She was a long way from fully integrating the knowledge of her own M2 plane, never mind the other models.

  The new investigator, Andi, had been sent by Terence, which explained his earlier text message: Sending you a present. She never understood his sense of teasing.

  She’d expected a manual of detailed specs on some Russian plane or a translated Chinese crash investigation. Instead he’d sent her a Night Stalker—a vastly superior asset.

  But Miranda trusted Terence implicitly, so she felt no need to question Andi further—not that she’d know what to ask. That was Mike’s department.

  Terence had been her first trainer. He’d helped her figure out ways to advantageously leverage her Autism Spectrum Disorder for flight investigations. Finally, with a few adjustments, her ASD had been seen as an asset rather than a liability.

  And she liked Andi’s long, multi-colored hair. It gave Miranda something to focus on so that she didn’t have to look at the woman’s face. That was soothing.

  Miranda heard it before she saw it: the distinct, two-blade whoop-whoop of a Huey UH-1 Iroquois. She waited for it to resolve into more than a dark dot approaching from the northeast before fully labeling it. Yes, it was a UH-1N Twin Huey in Air Force gray.

  Since Jon wasn’t being forthcoming regarding the crash, she hoped that whoever was approaching would be taking them to the site. Her vest was ready.

  It was good to have the whole team present from the start. It saved repetition of information. Yes, the M2 would serve nicely.

  The change of the pilot’s mindset based on the plane model was an interesting set of variables.

  Her F-86 Sabrejet was still sufficiently primitive that the pilot had to be highly trained. Instrument and night flights were terribly challenging due to the sheer volume of information that had to be processed. It was a single-pilot fighter jet designed for the daytime aerial dogfights of the Korean War. The escalation of information during aerial combat must have been overwhelming.

  She appreciated Mike’s earlier question regarding the piloting difference of the Sabrejet versus the Citation. It had enabled her to articulate that a modern passenger jet pilot was a technician first and foremost.

  “Mike?”

  “Yes, Miranda?”

  “I have a theory based on your earlier question,” she had to raise her voice and turn her back on the dust kicked up by the landing helo. “I’m thinking that one of Cessna’s problems is that their flight controls are still designed by pilots. Despite the fact that the modern non-military pilot is much more of a technician now.”

  Mike looked up to study the sky.

  She’d noted his habit of staring directionlessly aloft enough times in her personal notebook to understand that’s what he did when he was thinking. She still couldn’t help but look as well, though she was no longer surprised that there were no answers writ large across the section of sky he was inspecting.

  “I think you’re on to something. Maybe that’s the problem I was having on the flight down. I’m a VFR pilot. I’m still at the level where I can fly IFR if I have to, but I’m expecting a Visual Flight Rules experience rather than an instrument rules one. The Citation M2 is closer to what Jeremy does for fun—a high-stakes video game—than the flying that I do. When you made a midcourse correction on the way here, you didn’t touch the controls, instead you altered the setting on the autopilot’s heading and it made the turn. But we still need pilots. Don’t we?”

  Miranda considered. “When systems fail? Yes. But we also need the technician to solve the problem. The piloting skills must be there for the unexpected, but the technician is all that’s needed for the expected, and for most types of systems failures. There’s a split in the thinking there that we’ll need to pursue.”

  At Mike’s nod of agreement, she pulled out her new, third, slim notebook “M2” and made a note of the concept. It was the only good way she’d found to switch topics. Otherwise she’d be worrying at that conundrum until—

  “Hello, Miranda.”

  She closed her thoughts on the M2, tucked away the notebook, and turned.

  “Thomas” stitched on the lapel. The bright star of a general on the collar points. Miranda looked a little higher for just a moment and recognized the face of Colonel Helen Thomas.

  “You got older.”

  Helen grimaced a down-frown.

  Miranda knew that emoji.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. But it was true. In the year since they’d last met, Colonel Helen Thomas clearly had been promoted to General Helen Thomas, had deeper lines about her mouth, and a definite shift from brown to gray in her hair.

  “It’s been a hard year,” Helen said softly.

  “Yes,” Miranda tried to be agreeable.

  The last time she’d met a general in the NTTR, he’d pulled a gun on her and tried to have her arrested multiple times. Though the attempt to bomb her crew out of existence hadn’t been his doing—it had only seemed that way.

  “Being made general can be hard.” She assessed that as being the most neutral topic.

  General Thomas didn’t look any
happier.

  Miranda kept an eye on her sidearm, but Helen didn’t reach for it.

  “I took over Groom Lake when General Harrington was arrested. I was going to resign, to go back to my family. But my children left for college and my husband, sick of my career, left me for a blackjack dealer at Circus Circus.”

  “I’ve never liked circuses.” She could always feel the animals’ sadness.

  Helen smiled, “Me either.”

  “I didn’t know circuses had blackjack.”

  “This one does.”

  “It can’t be a very good circus then. Not if they also need blackjack to appease their audiences.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Miranda debated briefly if that was worth noting down, but couldn’t imagine any future relevance for the exception to the rule about circuses and blackjack—if it was a rule. No, she discarded the concept as truly irrelevant. Which she knew in itself was progress.

  Using a lesson Mike had taught her, she reached over her own shoulder and patted herself on the back, whispering to herself, Good job.

  As she did, she felt the reflective six-inch letters NTSB stitched across the back of her vest.

  The crash.

  She had already introduced herself to Helen last year. Repeating her name and that she was the investigator-in-charge assigned to this project Miranda now recognized as redundant. Instead, she would keep it simple.

  “We’re ready.”

  Except she wasn’t.

  10

  There is no crash.

  General Thomas’ words still rang around inside Miranda’s head but found no logical place to land.

  “We asked you here to act as independent observers for a critical test flight.”

  Jon had wished them all luck. It turned out that whatever his duties were at Groom Lake, they didn’t involve the non-crash NTSB launch that had brought the rest of her team here.

  It would have helped if Jon had explained that he didn’t know anything about the crash.