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62
“There’sno question about your numbers?”
“That’s the third time you’ve asked me, Miranda. That’s not like you.”
It wasn’t, but she didn’t know what to do about it. “You accounted for the nine-degree cross angle of the landing strip on an aircraft carrier?”
“Miranda, I didn’t like the numbers either, none of us did. I even tried to factor in diffractions off adjacent thermal layers. Particle scattering, volcanic dust from last year’s blast in Tonga, pollen counts. Nothing changed the numbers more than a few tenths of a degree. What I sent you is the only window that fits all of the criteria that you and Holly gathered. I even called the aircraft carrier and had the captain retake several of the images after Holly headed your way, but the numbers didn’t change.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
There was a long silence. She knew the President and Taz were there, but neither spoke.
Then a woman’s voice spoke so softly that Miranda would have missed it if there was even a single seagull calling overhead at the moment, “May I make a suggestion?”
“Yes, Rose, please do. Personally, I’m stumped.” She’d never heard Roy admit that before.
Rose. Rose Ramson. Taz had mentioned her yesterday when they’d started the DC crash investigation. Was she also an advisor to the President?
“I would suggest getting the Chinese general out of there as fast as convenient. I believe that Admiral Stanislaw mentioned a Commander Piazza. She has a reputation for efficiency in such situations.”
“Then?” Miranda asked.
“Then,” Roy said heavily, “we’ll figure out what the hell happens next.”
