Drone: an NTSB / military technothriller (Miranda Chase Book 1)

by M. L. Buchman

  27

  Drake could only stare at the small woman. “You clearly saw something on that screen.”

  “Yes sir. And I’d appreciate a wider area view of those images, especially the visible light one.”

  He was halfway through dialing Colonel Gray before he caught himself. She’d shifted this to her own agenda with all the agility of a seasoned political warrior. Something that Drake hated about his job. Too much partisan politics, not enough solution-driven thinking.

  “So what did you see?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it, sir.”

  He hung up the phone and stared at her.

  The woman stared back without even blinking.

  “You care to explain that? Is this some NTSB rule I don’t know about?”

  “No sir. It’s your rule.”

  “My rule?”

  “Well, the US military’s. While Groom Lake is not a SCIF—a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—”

  “I know what a goddamn SCIF is.” He was fast losing his sense of humor.

  “While Groom Lake is not a SCIF,” she continued as if she was lecturing a fifth grader, “it has many of the attributes. It is a highly secure facility. Obviously it breaks the tenet of compartmentalizing information securely from interception or monitoring, as you’ve proven with the satellite images—”

  “That I didn’t authorize or know about,” and he was going to cut Patrick a brand-new asshole over that one.

  “Be that as it may. I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you, sir.”

  “You think I don’t know what goes on in my own damn testing facility?” Unable to help himself, he pushed to his feet and began pacing behind his desk. He’d never shaken all the miles he’d trooped first at West Point and then up and down every hellhole on the planet since. The desk always felt like a trap to him. He could feel the weight of the forty-thousand people crawling through the Pentagon building like ants, each one mining away their tiny bit of information. Gray and Patrick over at the NRO, the National Security Advisor, even the other chiefs of staff. That bastard vice admiral he’d just sliced a new asshole into in front of his captains and—

  “CJCSGDN,” the woman said quietly.

  “What’s that?”

  “To answer your question: No sir. I don’t.”

  “Which question? You don’t what?” He stopped close by her chair and glared down at the NTSB investigator.

  “I don’t think that you do know what goes on at your ‘own damn testing facility’.”

  “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

  “Five distinct points come to mind.”

  “Oh, do enlighten me.” Drake vacillated between kicking her ass out and having her arrested. Instead he waved a hand for her to continue.

  “First, it was you who chose to send me to the NTTR with such high priority.”

  “I just called Duffy and told him to send his best and do it damned fast.”

  That appeared to surprise the woman.

  “You’re thinking he doesn’t like you? You’re right. But you don’t have to like someone to know their skills. For a political appointee, he’s actually a good administrator.”

  She looked thoughtful about that for a long moment, then moved on. “Second, there’s something wrong with this crash. Something that’s worrying you enough to send an NTSB team to assist in what should be a straightforward military investigation. An investigation that the military is not proceeding with, I might add.”

  Not a chance Drake was going to tell anyone why he’d hit the panic switch on this. Certainly not this woman. As to why there were no military investigators out there, he hadn’t wanted someone else’s team in there uncovering the worst—not that he’d be admitting that either.

  “Third, I just realized that you, CJCSGDN—Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Drake Nason, are the one who sent the order to General Harrington to cooperate with me. That implies that you didn’t expect him to and felt it necessary to force the point.”

  “So much for hiding that truth.” When she looked at him quizzically, he waved for her to continue as he crossed back to his chair and sat.

  “Fourth, you are unaware that this investigation has been code-word classified.”

  “It’s been what?” He shoved back to his feet and turned the wrong way to get around the desk again. He slammed his shin into the heavy oak of the open drawer. “Ow! Shit!”

  “And fifth, you are unaware of the CIA’s own interest in this crash.”

  That, and the screaming pain in his barked shin, had him dropping back into his chair once more.

  28

  “Let’s go! We gotta get outta here. Pronto!”

  “Hey, Don. What’s up? It’s only three o’clock, we’ve still got tons to do.” Mike couldn’t think of a single thing, but he was sure Holly would find some dirty job for him. Maybe he shouldn’t argue.

  “We’re going, right now,” Don grabbed Mike’s arm and spun him toward the parked helicopter that had delivered them this morning.

  Mike didn’t need to check with Holly about what to do when he saw Don’s hand slide around the handle of his not-a-rifle rifle.

  “Just me?” Christ he hoped not.

  “All three of you. Now!”

  “Okay.” He’d have to tell the nuns at St. Bernardine’s that prayer worked! If he was ever dumb enough to revisit that particular slice of hell. “Give us a couple more minutes.”

  “Now!” Then Don relented, showing he was human and hopefully not a firing squad. “Incoming wargames. They were supposed to stay over in Coyote A, that’s a section of the NTTR. But some tactical shit has shifted or something and we’ve been ordered to clear out for safety’s sake. So unless you want your ass shot up, and I’m not talkin’ about by me, get moving.”

  “Holly! Jeremy! Emergency evacuation!” He yelled even though they were right there. Mike was halfway to the helo when he remembered his knapsack and sample bags. He doubled back for them even though Don was yelling at him.

  Don could only shoot him.

  Who knew what Holly would do if he left anything behind?

  Just like this morning, Jeremy had climbed into the copilot’s seat beside the Camo Dude pilot, clutching his oversized gear bag to his chest. He and Holly were in the back of the tiny helicopter with all of their gear pinning their feet in place.

  The pilot was starting the helo, which respond with a high whine, and then a slow whoop of the rotor turning around the first time.

  Don and the other CD on the ground were racing away in their Chevy Suburban, as fast as if there really was a fire—a great dust plume marked their escape route.

  “Wargames, huh?” Holly twisted to look out her window, then she lay her body on him to look out the other. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  It would be hard to, even with her lying against him. Holly still wore her vest and there were three different sizes of pliers, a multi-bit screwdriver, and a couple of pens that felt as if they’d been honed to a knife point. She was one very fit and nicely shaped soldier, and he’d always been a fan of trim and athletic. Of course he was also a big fan of tall and curvy. But he had a strict policy to never sleep with women who hated him.

  “Do you see anything?” she asked in a whisper.

  He turned and got a face full of surprisingly soft ponytail. “Not much.”

  Holly dropped back into her seat.

  Once his vision cleared of the images she’d managed to plant in his head—despite all her sharp points—he looked out the window, but had no idea what he was seeking.

  They weren’t even off the ground yet.

  Glancing back, he could see the whole spread of the wreck. In the gap between the upright T-56 engine and a mangled wing strut, he could still see the salt-white smudge of Groom Lake without a single alien or exotic aircraft sighting despite two days of keeping a lookout.

  “Hey,” Holly leaned forward to shout to the pilot. “I left a bag at
the wreck. Can you hang on? I’ll be real quick, but it’s awfully important.”

  “Forget it, lady.”

  “But it could cost me my job.”

  In answer, he lifted them off. Apparently the rotors weren’t fully up to speed as they more jostled along the ground than left it. Guy must be seriously spooked to make that mistake.

  Holly dropped back into her seat. Except she was smiling this time.

  “What did you leave?” Mike leaned in to whisper and tried not to notice how close he was to her. In the little helicopter, they started out with the shoulders touching, leaning close enough to whisper over the loud engine noise practically put him in her lap.

  “Is all your data synced?” Holly of course never directly answered a question. Then out of some foreign and wildly unusual thoughtfulness, she actually did. “Not a thing. Just checking.”

  Her answer didn’t make him any wiser about what she was checking.

  He pulled out his tablet and synced the last update back to Holly’s computer. “It is now.”

  “I just hope that Jeremy is more consistent than you are.”

  He reached forward to tap Jeremy on the shoulder, but Holly slapped his hand down hard enough to really hurt.

  “Hey! I use that on occasion.”

  “Yeah, and we know exactly what for.”

  “I get the ladies to do that for me. What ladies do that for you?” It was crass, but something had to put Holly in her place.

  “Boyos, mate. And they do plenty of good things for me.”

  She tapped in some commands, then pulled a sim card out of her tablet. Taking her big knife, she jabbed it into the rubber heel of her boot. Keeping it pried open, she slipped the sim into the gap. When she withdrew the knife, the rubber closed seamlessly. She slid the big knife back into its thigh sheath.

  “Why?” Mike mouthed it, suddenly afraid to speak aloud.

  “Look casual, but keep an eye out your side,” he could feel her breath on his ear. It tickled. They were finally aloft and moving away from the wreck.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “You really suck at being a big help. You know that, right?”

  Holly winked at him, just before she shouted, “Go to hell, Mike Munroe!” Then she landed a painful punch on his arm at the same moment the pilot and Jeremy twisted around in surprise.

  “Ow! Goddamn it, Harper!”

  But Holly had crossed her arms under those nice breasts covered in sharp objects and turned to glare out the window. He could practically feel her laugh.

  And…she now had a perfect reason for them each to look out opposite sides of the helo.

  “Well, fuck you too, Harper.” He put in all the bravado he could muster, then he turned to glare out the other side. He wished he’d thought of something else to say. By now the sexy Alejandra in Denver would be so steamed at being stood up—and that he’d not thought to call her last night from Creech Air Base—that he’d never get her back. And he certainly didn’t want any of that from Holly Harper. Not even if she was offering. Which she wasn’t.

  Nothing to do but watch the goddamn Nevada desert.

  29

  “Well, Harvey. You did very well in the simulator.”

  “Thank you, general.” Harvey bit his tongue to not ask the next question. How fucking soon could he get aloft with the real Casper drone?

  The conference room was perched in a corner of the hangar’s mezzanine. Harvey recognized the protective measures: no walls in direct contact with the hangar’s walls. The air conditioning unit built into the room would pump air straight into the hangar, but also wouldn’t allow any sonic monitoring along the ventilation path. The one door into the room was doubled, one swinging out and the other inward. Everything isolated.

  Inside the room were a stand-alone computer, a big wall screen, and a small table. Six people could fit in the room, but there were only the three of them: himself, Harrington, and Helen at the keyboard.

  General Harrington nodded to his assistant.

  Helen took a deep breath.

  Harvey could picture exactly what that would do to her rib cage and breasts, but she was in lt. colonel mode, so he just left that image in his imagination. She punched up an image of a submarine. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

  “Narco-submarines are becoming increasing sophisticated. Fiberglass hulls to avoid sonar.” Helen flashed up various images as she spoke. “Running submerged during daytime, only surfacing at night. Radar allows them to submerge again even if we get near them at night. They can easily carry ten tons of cocaine, with a street value over a billion dollars. If they invest five million in building a single-use submarine, what do they care. They’re very hard to track. Even if we come close, they hear our planes or ships and they submerge out of reach. The MQ-45 can arrive almost silently and approach faster than they can submerge.”

  She left up the final image of a beached fifty-foot sub painted in a mottled camouflage that would look like waves and sun reflections off the sea. A group of Coast Guard stood around the sub, but there was no matching pile of cocaine bricks. They’d gotten away with the cargo before the Coast Guard arrived.

  “And you’d like me to see if I can find some.” Cruising low over the Pacific at Mach 2. How low would he have to fly to kick up a rooster-tail plume of water behind him? That would be fun to find out.

  “Yes. You can make two roundtrips from here down the coast to Colombia and back. We’ll have a refueling drone waiting off Baja.”

  Flown by some poor sap just like Harvey had been just forty-eight hours ago—dreaming of real flying with no hope for the future. And now the future was here and it looked awesome!

  The general leaned in. “We haven’t tried this type of mission before. We aren’t even sure if your side-scanning radar can pick them up. We estimate there are over a hundred a year working along the coast. Our record capture was thirteen of them in a single year. They can now run fully submerged; they even vent their diesel exhaust out the bottom of the hull to help cool it and decrease their heat signature. And if we get alongside them, they scuttle the boat and the evidence goes to the bottom of the sea.”

  “So what am I supposed to do if I see one?”

  The general leaned back and Helen smiled softly. “I believe we call that pilot’s discretion.”

  30

  “What the hell did you tell the CIA?”

  Miranda wondered what it was with generals and this project. She hadn’t met that many of them over the years, maybe they were all angry by the time they reached this rank.

  That didn’t seem likely.

  Perhaps it was just this incident.

  “The same thing you’ve told me?” General Nason growled when she didn’t answer.

  “Code-word classified is a rather self-explanatory term in my experience. I told them nothing. One of the departmental directors seemed rather upset about that. The director himself appeared more amused.”

  “Amused, how could you tell?”

  “He appeared to be teasing one of his division directors as he kept his hand on her shoulder.”

  “On her shoulder?”

  “A Ms. Clarissa Reese, Director of Special Projects. It appeared that he was in an intimate relationship with her; I’m not the best judge of such matters but the indicators were there.” Miranda considered that for a moment. Is that how Mike viewed people, the same way she viewed a crash?

  The general blinked in surprise. “Clark Winston is sleeping with one of his directors?”

  “Yes, I would say the indicators were definitely there.” Perhaps it would be worth discussing this novel thought with Mike and receive his input. It still didn’t explain either general’s anger. She had no prior experience to compare General Harrington’s sidearm being aimed at her in juxtaposition with General Nason’s angry glare. Yet all three people were undeniably angered by the crashed C-130.

  “Well, you didn’t
talk to them, that’s something at least. And what asshole classified a plane crash?”

  “I might ask why you assigned me to the investigation without knowing its sensitivity.”

  “Just answer the damned question, lady.”

  “You will wish to speak with General Harrington. Until you do so, I haven’t slept in over forty-eight hours and that started in a very different time zone. If you’ll excuse me.” Again, she assumed permission rather than asking it and rose to go.

  “Sit your ass back down, woman.”

  “Am I under arrest?” That would be a new experience; one that she’d rather not investigate. “Or is this some other form of incarceration without my permission such as the CIA attempted.”

  “Just,” the general scrubbed at his face, then sighed. “Sit down for a minute. Please.” The last looked as if it pained him enough that she sat.

  He punched a button on his phone. “Get me General Harrington on the line.”

  While they waited, he slouched back in his chair and glared at her over steepled fingers.

  “General Harrington isn’t available, sir,” a woman’s voice chimed in over the intercom.

  “Well, find him before I send in the 1st Armored out of Fort Bliss to roust his ass!” He punched the intercom off and went back to glaring at her across the desk.

  Miranda tried to pretend it was her father’s neutral expression as he waited for her to solve the latest code puzzle that he posed. By the time she was ten, he no longer offered even the simplest clues. Not, “consider a dice cipher” (one of her first, where the letter was based on the number and orientation of the dice face) or “have you thought about the Playfair cipher” (with its missing letter and substitution matrix).

  When she’d still been actively working on the Kryptos ciphers, she had prepared her mind by pretending her father still sat across from her and worked her way through the various types of ciphers he’d taught her from the simplest substitution system on up.

  Today, having seen Kryptos without him beside her, all it did was make her sad.