Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“‘Unusual,’ Tyndall Base? Like what?”

“Like a . . . waggle. It’s wings waggling.”

Miller heard a chuckle on the other end. “No, I didn’t see a waggle.”

“Roger that, Chase One. Out.”

Quail 4’s pilot had heard the exchange and tried to laugh it off. “Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

Miller patted him on the shoulder. He knew how tedious it was to man a station like this. “Just keep an eye on it,” he said, “both of you. If you see anything like that again, you let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” they both replied, but Miller didn’t think he’d be hearing from them again during the flight, and he didn’t expect to see anything strange in the postflight telemetry data, either.

Miami

Brian Washburn winked at the barista who took his coffee order. The pretty, twenty-something blonde turned red and grinned at the special attention, a response he was used to. It was the “Washburn charm” the newspapers had attributed to his winning election twice as Florida’s governor.

Now that he was back in the private sector, he took care to cultivate the persona of a regular Joe, despite the wealth that the Washburn Industries conglomerate had given him. Nothing could better help him connect with voters than showing that he was willing to do his own daily errands and rub elbows with the ordinary people at the local coffee shop. It was his best chance of ever sitting at the desk inside the Oval Office.

Every time he had to stand inside this grubby little place, he stewed about the man who had defeated him in the primary and then chosen James Sandecker as his running mate just because he needed Sandecker’s reputation in the Navy and at NUMA to distract from his own lack of military experience. Washburn was forced to influence the political sphere with his money instead of standing front and center at the podium where he deserved to be.

He didn’t betray any of that discontent when his name was called by the barista. He gave her a warm smile and took his coffee outside and around the side of the building, where he climbed into the backseat of a black Cadillac Escalade. Two blocks away, the driver let him out at the oceanfront high-rise where his company was headquartered. His cell phone rang as soon as he reached the privacy of his palatial penthouse office. The screen showed the contact listing for his attorney.

“What is it, Bill?” Washburn answered as he tossed the unfinished coffee in the trash and picked up the china cup of rare St. Helena coffee that his assistant had brewed for him. “I don’t have much time before my first meeting with the board.”

“This isn’t William Derkins,” an unfamiliar voice said. “But I do have some information that you will be interested in.”

Washburn was startled and looked at the phone’s display again. It was definitely showing the number for Bill’s personal cell, and only a handful of close friends and advisers had Washburn’s number.

He went to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the Atlantic and took a sip of his coffee. “How did you get Bill’s phone?”

“I didn’t. It’s a technique called spoofing. I won’t bore you with the details. You wouldn’t understand them anyway. This was the only way I knew you’d take my call. Sit down.”

“What?”

“You’re going to want to sit down to hear what I have to tell you.”

Washburn laughed. “How do you know I’m not sitting already?”

“Because you’re standing next to your window.”

Washburn froze with the cup halfway to his lips. He scanned the water for any sign of surveillance, but the array of boats dotting the water below him were too far away to make out details. He moved away from the window until he couldn’t be seen from the water.

“Okay,” he said, playing along, “I’m sitting now.”

“No, you’re not. You’re standing by your extremely expensive pot of coffee, flown at a cost of a hundred dollars a pound from the island where Napoleon was exiled. I hear it’s quite rich, no pun intended.”

Now Washburn was truly alarmed. He was in the tallest building on Miami’s coast, so there was no way anyone had a view from the outside this far into his office. He looked around the office wildly, searching for the hidden spy gear.

“How did you plant a camera in my office?”

“I didn’t. I see everything.”

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Doctor for now. If everything goes well, we may meet in person in a few days. Now, take a seat at your computer. I have something to show you.”

“What if I call the police?”