exactly,” Nicci said. “Sounds like you’re still catching lots of Court TV,” she joked. Jenna’s favorite channel after the Weather Channel.
“Not as much as I used to,” Jenna responded with a smile.
“Yup, sharing your bed cuts down on all that quality TV time,” Nicci said playfully.
“I didn’t say anything about anyone in my bed.”
“Didn’t have to. Last few days you’ve been lit up like a Christmas tree.”
Jenna laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
“As a naked man in Times Square.”
Jenna furrowed her brow, returning to the subject at hand. “So who murdered GreenSpirit?”
“No one knows, or if they do, they’re not saying,” Nicci said. “There have been all kinds of leaks saying the crime scene isn’t producing anything useful, which is bizarre because there was blood all over the place. All the attention is back on Lilton or someone associated with him.”
“I don’t find that credible,” Jenna said. “Lilton wouldn’t get involved with a freakin’ murder. The speculation alone will probably sink his campaign.”
Chris Randall came back from the front of the plane and spoke to the TV crew. The rotund cameraman and blue-jeaned soundwoman sprang up and grabbed their gear, which was near at hand. They moved over to the jet’s windows as Chris sat next to Jenna.
“I asked if we could get a look at the supertanker before we begin our—”
“If you look out the left side of the plane,” the pilot’s voice cut off Chris, “you’ll see the hijacked tanker, about three miles away.”
The glare of light on water was almost blinding, but Jenna could make out the dark shape of the Dick Cheney. Beside her, the camera’s lens was almost touching the window.
“We can’t go any closer because they’ve got a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher,” Chris said.
“Ouch.” Jenna smiled.
“Ouch is right,” Nicci agreed. “No flybys today.”
Chris Randall had a classic, deeply resonant broadcaster’s voice and a head full of closely cropped black curls. Jenna thought he bore a resemblance to Barack Obama—a bulked-up younger version with darker skin. Chris looked like kind of a tough guy who’d been tamed, which, given his background as an Army Ranger in Afghanistan and Iraq, probably wasn’t far off the mark.
“So I guess we’re safe,” Chris said, “even if we can’t see squat.”
“What’s that?” Jenna blurted out, pointing to a thin, gray-blue streak bursting out of the glare and rocketing toward the Gulfstream.
“Holy shit,” Chris yelled. “That’s a—”
Chris was cut off once again as the Gulfstream went into a screaming dive. The correspondent, Jenna, and Nicci tumbled wildly off the couch, rolling toward the closed door of the cockpit. Behind them, the camera crew careered into the wall as gear scattered everywhere. Jenna smashed into Chris’s back as the aircraft gained speed and banked hard to the right. The g-forces grew so intense as they plummeted toward the vast Indian Ocean that Jenna couldn’t have pried herself off Chris if she’d tried.
Heart-pounding seconds later the plane shuddered like it was about to rip apart, then leveled. The pilot’s voice filled the cabin again, so calmly that it was as if nothing of note had taken place: “We were just targeted by a rocket fired from the tanker. We were out of range, but I took evasive action anyway.
“Anders, would you please check on the passengers and come up front,” the pilot asked.
Jenna saw the blond flight attendant uncurling from the gold-colored carpet next to her seat, where the sudden maneuver had left him scrunched up like a crumpled ball of paper. The young man got to his feet and asked in a shaky voice if everyone was okay.
“Fine,” said Alicia airily, already back to typing. She’d been belted into her seat.
Jenna stood on rubbery legs. “I’m okay,” she said. The cameraman grunted that he was all right while he checked his camera. The soundwoman forced a smile. Nicci and Chris appeared to have weathered the tumble, too. The producer dusted herself off, swearing when she saw a big coffee splotch on her khaki shorts.
“Sorry,” Jenna said. Her empty cup lay on the gold carpet, which was now marred by a brown splatter pattern.
The weather producer shook her head. “What am I complaining about? Christ, I’m alive.”
Chris smiled. “I haven’t been fired on like that since Fallujah.”
“I’ve never been fired on,” Jenna replied.
Alicia spoke without looking up from her laptop. “Try West Bank, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Chechnya, Gaza…”—peck-peck-peck—“… Afghanistan, Yemen, El Salvador, and Nicaragua.”
Queen of the bang-bang, thought Jenna.
“That rocket couldn’t have hit us,” the producer continued. “It fell into the ocean at least