Miranda Chase Books 1-3

Chapter 4

4

Miranda turned very slowly; she’d never faced a weapon before.

She could shoot one well enough, though she’d never enjoyed it particularly. Living in a very isolated area as she did between assignments, it was occasionally necessary to put down an injured animal herself. It still made her cry every time. So beautiful and free in life, then—bang!—gone forever. Just like every victim in a plane crash she’d been unable to prevent.

“I said no goddamn photographs. Now give me that thing.” He tipped the weapon slightly to indicate her tablet.

The pumping adrenaline made her even more hyperaware of details than normal. Every bit of grit shifting under the sole of her boots was a moment of individual assessment until she came face-to-face with the tiny black hole at the end of the barrel, which seemed to expand until it filled the world.

Now her heartrate was escalating toward panic and her palm went sweaty holding the tablet.

She glanced over the barrel at the scowling general’s face. This time when her eyes refocused on the tip of the barrel, the black hole had returned to its normal size—small, black, and utterly void of feeling.

Before she could decide on the best course of action, a tall blonde came toward them from the landed helicopter—slightly behind the general’s field of view. She could have blindsided him easily. Instead, she scuffed her boot loudly by kicking a thorny scrub brush.

The general flinched and redirected his aim at the newcomer, which caused the blonde to do little more than arch an eyebrow.

“Now isn’t this just so interesting.” Her accent was thickly Australian. She remained at perfect ease as she circled around to stand close beside Miranda.

The handgun tracked her closely.

“Now general, I don’t want to be telling you your job, but is this really the best course of action? First, if you do manage to shoot me, there will be a whole mess of paperwork just pilin’ up higher than Uluru—that’s the big red rock at the center of Australia, by the by, just in case you’re not from around about there—which is a lot of paperwork. Shooting a civilian is very bad form. Even worse, firing on the IIC of the NTSB Go Team investigating your crash would make your motivations appear maybe a tiny bit suspect to people. People you probably don’t want suspecting things about you. However, far more importantly, me former mates in the SAS—that’s the Australian Special Air Service, not my Brit brethren—would be sorely disappointed if I was to let either of those scenarios happen.” She stood as casually as if she was chatting with a friend.

Miranda inspected her more closely.

She was five-ten and looked remarkably fit. Which would be fitting for the SAS. Australian Special Operations might not be Delta Force, but they were very elite military. Miranda had no idea what she was doing here, but the woman appeared far better prepared to deal with a weapon-bearing general than she herself was.

Her hands—Miranda always noticed hands—were strong and had a wide variety of calluses. The most prominent were on the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Miranda tried flexing her own hand through several positions that different tasks might require, but none of them seemed likely to create such a mark. Unless…

Miranda formed her hand as if she was firing a pistol. Yes, each shot would make the weapon buck against the webbing between thumb and forefinger, which matched the observed data. Just how much did someone have to shoot to create a callus there? Obviously, this woman could answer the question.

“So, mate. I’m asking myself, ‘Holly’—that’s my name, so it’s how I typically address myself—‘Holly, should you break one or both of the general’s hands as you take his weapon?’ For the moment, you may consider that an idle question while you consider the next part. As an extra add-on service, I’d be glad to shoot you with it after I rip it from your bleeding fingers. Just a graze, mind you, so that you could claim you struggled manfully before a Sheila took away your personal weapon and spanked you with it.”

The general’s expressions shifted through a wide range during Holly’s speech. The anger appeared to dissipate, replaced by suspicion and several other emotions that Miranda couldn’t identify. But at Holly’s final threat, the anger had definitely returned.

Miranda looked at her watch.

Her motion had the general returning his aim to her own chest.

Not her best move.

But she saw that they’d already wasted eleven minutes since she should have started her investigation—which would never do. She pushed the barrel aside and stepped into his personal space. He stumbled back.

She’d have to remember this tactic.

He snapped off the safety with a sharp click as if that was somehow more threatening than the black hole at the end of the barrel.

It was.

She began swallowing compulsively.

Maybe this wasn’t her best idea after all.

But, damn it, there had to be limits. She ignored the weapon and followed through with the initial impetus that had sent her forward. Bending down, she photographed an object that she’d spotted when looking down at her watch. It had been partly under the general’s boot.

“What’s that?” He didn’t lower his aim, so it was now pointed where her head had been. Failure to track her as a target? Reverting once more from aggression to confusion. She really didn’t understand people. Or perhaps he was just a pile of inconsistencies, shifting before she could analyze one moment from the next.

Miranda selected a pair of needle-nose pliers from her vest and delicately lifted the disk of metal, shaking it lightly to clear the dirt. Then she held it up in the general’s face, just inches away.

“Hey!” he stumbled back another step, his weapon swinging down to point at the ground.

“This is the dial card for an aircraft’s analog compass.”

The helicopter that had delivered the blonde former SAS soldier and a man who remained in the background took off again, forcing Miranda to shout.

“Normally I would ask myself what force could possibly move such an object so far from its point of impact. However, now that you’ve stepped on it, I must ask if it was bent by the force of the crash and thrown this far. Or, if your interference with the site has misplaced and damaged what may have been a key piece of evidence in my investigation. Now move your vehicle back fifty meters and leave me alone. And tell your pilots to stop flying over my crash site.”

She turned away and carefully bagged the compass dial.

It took her three tries as her hand was still shaking with a fury she was unused to. The fear…had been too familiar; an emotion she’d worked very hard to leave behind. Apparently not.

The fact that the dial face had come from a Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk and had been sitting in the desert for at least fifteen years based on the scaling and edge corrosion was of little relevance to her. It made her point. Besides, she didn’t have one of this generation in her collection—bent or otherwise.

While she bagged it, a staff sergeant ran up with a piece of paper and handed it to the general. It had only three lines and made the two-star nearly apoplectic before he threw it at her.

Holly snatched it in mid-flutter and handed the message to her.

To: Major General Oswald Harrington – NTTR

Extend all access to NTSB agent.

ALL!

There was a code designation for a signature that she didn’t know: CJCSGDN.

She checked. The name tag stitched over the general’s right breast said Harrington, so she’d assume this was addressed to him.

Holly, whoever she was, read the message over Miranda’s shoulder, then Miranda handed it back to the staff sergeant as the general leaned forward until his face was only inches from her own.

“Get one thing straight, Ms. IIC. This crash investigation is top secret, code-word classified.” He’d had eggs, a banana, and strong coffee for breakfast. She could use a cup of tea at the moment.

He turned away and began stalking off toward his other guards, who had watched everything from a distance.

“General?”

“What?” He snarled back at her.

“You didn’t give me the code word.”

He looked around the site for a moment before snapping out, “Amber!” and walked away.

“He totally just made that up,” Holly whispered in her ear.

“Really?” Miranda had just accepted the word at face value.

“Maybe he’s a fan of Jurassic Park,” Holly sounded as if she was ready to giggle.

Miranda had heard of the movie, but never seen it. She could only presume that it had something to do with petrified tree sap. “It doesn’t matter if he made it up on the spot. He is the senior military leader on a military crash, so this investigation is hereafter code-word classified.”

“Sure thing. No worries. I’m Holly.”

“Hi, Holly. Do you know where the rest of my Go Team is?”

The Australian pointed at her own chest.

“No! I mean my team.”

Why weren’t they here yet?