houses and then tall conifers atop the surrounding ridge to three sides. To the fourth side, beyond the harbor mouth, was a splendid view of the icy peak of Mt. Rainier; the dormant volcano soared fourteen thousand feet above all of the surrounding area. The tickling smell of roses blooming outside the just-cracked window floated on the damply cool June air.
Miranda had woken hours ago. Actually, she’d finally given up after a few hours of not really sleeping at all.
Even leaning sideways close toward her parents’ picture—the only way she used to be able to tolerate a hug was one-armed and sideways—didn’t help.
Normally it did, because the image was so familiar. Her parents in their garden by the house on Spieden Island. Behind them the one-third-sized replica of the enigmatic Kryptos sculpture at the CIA she’d spent so many hours trying to decrypt with her father. Her mother in her big gardening hat. And herself, carefully not in any photograph, safe behind the camera.
Tonight, all it did was make her miss them all the more.
Twenty-four years ago next month they’d gone down when TWA 800 had exploded over the Atlantic Ocean. Through all the Kübler-Ross phases of grieving, even the anger phase, she’d never stopped missing them.
Unable to sleep, she had sat up in bed and fired up her laptop.
The discussion at dinner had circled around a variety of topics. But one had kept coming back. Once during the fried chicken taquitos appetizer, twice during the main course—two bean enchiladas for her, a monstrous plate of shrimp-and-steak fajitas for Holly, and carne asada burritos for the boys—and yet again over flan and deep-fried ice cream.
Their workspace.
Her personal airplane hangar at the south end of Tacoma Narrows Airport wasn’t really up to the task of high-security military plane-crash investigations any more than their Western Pacific Region offices at the NTSB.
After two hours of lying awake and organizing her thoughts, she’d decided it was time to make some changes. Windows, with one-way glass, cut into the walls.
A bigger workbench for Jeremy and a small desk for herself that he would be forbidden to encroach on. But she wasn’t comfortable having to say that to him, or to the others. Then she spotted the answer. A lovely, hand-carved teak rolltop desk that she could lock “for security’s sake” without having to tell the others not to use it. It was only a little underhanded and she decided that she was okay with that.
When she was done with the furniture and fittings, she focused on ordering interior walls, heating, high security… It had taken her much of the night, but she was pleased with the results.
She’d finally lain down and gone to sleep at three. The house at Gig Harbor was even quieter than her own island residence. It was rare to not hear the waves at home, and the gulls here apparently slept very soundly.
Now it was four a.m. and the stars were just dimming in the east beyond Holly’s big bay windows. Miranda’s phone vibrated again with a re-call rather than a message. She slipped out of bed and raced into the bathroom to avoid disturbing Holly, then closed the door on herself before answering.
“Miranda, we’ve got a bad crash in Colorado. Are you available for a launch?”
“Good morning, Jill.” Miranda had been practicing what Mike called “appropriate human interaction.” It was supposed to make things easier, or so he said. She wasn’t convinced yet.
Jill sighed. “It’s too early in the morning for this; I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“It’s four a.m. here. It is seven a.m. in Washington, DC, where you are.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Still haven’t had my coffee. Are you available for a launch?”
And for all her efforts in appropriate human interaction, they’d ended up exactly where they’d started. “Yes,” seemed to be the simplest way forward. Holly had, as usual, been right: their empty queue hadn’t lasted for long.
“The military has put a high priority on it. They’ve asked me to forward you through to the military liaison for transport.” Jill’s mumble of “I really need some coff—” was cut off by the military liaison clicking in and Jill hanging up.
Miranda liked this version of Jill much better. Normally her conversations were rife with incomplete sentences and laughter when Miranda asked for the rest of the thought. Barely awake, Jill was just business.
“This is Major Swift.” She hadn’t expected him as the liaison, though perhaps she should have. He was an officer of the Air Force’s Accident Investigation Bureau