Krystal Scent (Krystal Vibration Series Book 2) Read online

  Upon Karen’s arrival at runway fourteen, she switched to frequency 135.025.

  Karen said, “Pittsburgh Tower, Piper Apache, November Two Two One Three Papa, holding short One Four, ready for takeoff.”

  Pittsburgh Tower responded, “One Three Papa, Pittsburgh Tower, winds 144 at 6, gust 9, runway One Four cleared for takeoff.”

  Karen said, “copy winds, rolling, One Three Papa.”

  She quickly reached a speed of 90 knots, lifted off, easily exceeded the 10:1 slope and retracted her wheels.

  Pittsburgh Tower immediately advised Karen to contact Pittsburgh Departure at 119.35. Within five minutes she was communicating with Pittsburgh Center and was on her way home.

  CHAPTER 5

  Karen’s arc toward Virginia, circumventing the encroaching squall, took her over Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. She looked down, and her mind was immediately filled with her college professor’s voice as he recounted the tragic events of John Brown’s October 16th, 1859 raid and Robert E. Lee’s counterattack that killed two of John Brown’s sons.

  She could see Dr. Howard’s lips quivering, hear his deep baritone voice crack, and see the tears running down his face. She remembered the somber faces of the students in the graduate class. She reached for the ankh around her neck, a gift from Sharon.

  Karen kept looking through her Piper’s starboard window. She could see the darkening skies and the wall of approaching rain. She again looked down at the landmarks that pointed her toward her landing strip at Swan Nest Pond.

  Her headset crackled. “One Three Papa, Center. Karen, this is John. You’d better IFR to Dulles.”

  Startled, Karen cleared her throat and said, “You’re on duty now at Washington/Leesburg? I thought you did nights there.”

  “One of the guys called in sick, and they brought me in. You’re not going to beat the storm. The winds are clocking at sixty. It’ll hit you like a locomotive either just before or just as you land.”

  “I’m dropping down now and increasing speed.”

  “Confirmed. But Karen, listen to me. Even if you do touchdown before the squall line reaches Swan Nest, you’ll get flipped. Or the gusts will lift you back up and slam you down, destroying your Piper and probably killing you. Go into Dulles. I’ve already alerted them of your arrival.”

  “John, you worry too much. I think I can make it,” Karen said, smiling.

  “Karen, I’m serious. Twenty-five percent of all crashes are because of loss of control by pilots during crosswind landings, you know that. And if you say you think you can, you probably won’t. You know that, too.”

  Karen was silent.

  John Lancaster had known Karen since seventh grade. He knew that once she had set her mind to something, there was no turning back.

  “Okay, Karen. I’ll say a little prayer for you. I suggest you do the same. You’ll be crabbing or slide-slipping all the way down. If you crab, you’ll have to kick it over before touching down. Your timing has to be perfect or you’ll flip. You’ll have to cross-control. Remember, if you run out of rudder or ailerons, you’ll have to go around.”

  “Thanks, John. Maybe I’ll make the news.”

  “You will if you’re not careful. Just don’t get distracted. And bail out if it gets too hairy. Good luck.”

  Karen signed off and double-checked all her settings. She was down to 1,500 feet. It started to drizzle ahead of the squall. Her airstrip at Swan Nest Pond ran north-northeast. The wind began to stiffen.

  Her Apache’s Pilot Operating Handbook stated that she could withstand 15-knot crosswinds. She had to get on the ground quickly. UNICOM confirmed the sixty-mile-per-hour winds John mentioned.

  Something hit her starboard window. She looked at the hillside in the distance. The trees were losing their leaves. She had only a few minutes before the leading edge of the squall would hit her. She set her jaw.

  I have to line up the center of the runway with my spot on the cowling. I can’t let it move.

  She had to use her ailerons to keep her Piper from wavering from side to side and the rudders to prevent the nose from gyrating around the middle line. The runway center-line reflectors were barely picking up the sunlight that was almost completely blocked by the dense cloud cover.

  Karen remembered what John had said, “You’ll have to cross-control.”

  She looked at her VSI. She decreased her speed to 60 knots. She looked at her True Speed Indicator. The rain was beginning to clog the intake.

  Her altitude was at 100 feet and dropping fast. The beginning of the runway was only 200 yards away. Her forward slip was way out on final. She had to be aggressive. She had to change the amount of rudder and ailerons to compensate for the crosswinds. She breathed in a couple of deep breaths through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.

  I have to stay ahead of the Apache. Adjust to the feel of her. My Cessna would never have made it this far.

  She knew the wind would change as she neared touchdown. She would have to react quickly.

  When Karen first acquired her license, she practiced in crosswinds with her Cessna at the Swan Nest Pond strip. And again with the Apache. She would watch the weather, take off in crosswinds and then approach the runway, crab toward touchdown, adjusting the speed, propeller angle, rudder, and ailerons but then go around for another practice. And again. And again.

  She was now only twenty feet from the ground. She was stair-treading on the rudder and twisting the yoke back and forth, flipping the ailerons. She could feel the wind trying to push her Apache off center. She kept the point on the cowling close to the middle of the landing strip. Her eyes were wide and alert.

  The wind was getting stronger. She was crabbing. She was almost out of rudder. She looked at her speed. She had to touch down in the next few seconds or she’d run out of runway.

  She glanced out the right window. Trees were falling in her direction. Her distraction caused her to release the rudder slightly. She drifted to the east. She pressed the pedal to the floor.

  She could hear John’s voice, “Don’t get distracted. Remember, if you run out of rudder or ailerons, you’ll have to go around.”

  She didn’t want to land at Dulles. She wanted to be home, in her kitchen, in her living room, in her bed. She didn’t want to go through the nonsense of taxiing to the apron where she could secure her Piper. The whole process at Dulles would take almost two hours.

  She was within inches of the grass staining her wheels. She was almost completely sideways. Her POH warned her not attempt such a maneuver. But the handbook of operations for pilots of a Piper Apache assumed the engine was a 150. She was flying a 180. The POH didn’t address her modification.

  She held her breath as she fought the rudder and ailerons. Her left wing was up and the starboard was dipped into the increasing, west wind. The nose was barely hovering over the center line.

  Just then a gust picked up the Geronimo and was about to slam it into the ground. Karen reacted with the speed of a martial arts defender or a soccer player avoiding a tackler, jumping and connecting with the ball midair. Her arm muscles were bulging and her calves were beginning to cramp.

  She just had to set her down. But then she had to get to the tie-down position and at least secure the tail to the ground using the east/west parking position.

  The right tire touched first and she quickly maneuvered the left to the ground and then the nose. She slammed on the brakes, sliding across the wet grass.

  “Can’t hydroplane,” she said, pressing her lips together.

  She kept the rudder and ailerons set to counter the crosswinds and turned into the storm.

  The Piper came to a swift stop. The wind was rocking the plane. She set the brakes. The aircraft began bouncing.

  Karen left the engines running and bolted from the cockpit and found the braided nylon tail line attached to her multi-pin anchors she had driven into the ground for her Cessna. She secured the rope to the tie-down/tail skid using an anti-slip bowline knot and leaving a l
ittle slack. She then ran to the wings and did the same.

  Soaking wet, she quickly climbed back into the cockpit and fought to keep the plane on the ground. Seconds passed and then minutes. The trees around the property were taking a beating. Some fell, others just lost their leaves.

  The rain was leaking into the plane through the door. Karen couldn’t see through the front window. Debris was hammering the glass and the fuselage. The plane rose up. The wings waffled.

  CHAPTER 6

  As quickly as it had arrived, the storm departed. The downpour slowed to a shower and then dissolved into sprinkles. The beams from the western sun skimmed the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains and flooded Karen’s cockpit. She turned off the engines, unfastened her seatbelt, leaned forward, placed her head on the Piper’s control wheel, and closed her eyes.

  She could hear her father’s voice in her head, “I bet you won’t do that again.”

  “I won’t,” Karen said.

  With her right hand, she began the flow that turned off all the power to her instrumentation. She verified the three greens on her landing gear indicators, turned off the master power switch, exited the cockpit, walked down the wing, and jumped down to the soggy runway.

  She unloaded her belongings and walked around her Swan Nest Pond cabin. She stopped dead in her tracks. To the east, she could see that the storm had morphed into a funnel cloud that was heading straight for Dulles.

  I had an angel on my shoulder today.

  She continued to the front porch. The pine stairs didn’t even give a slight creak as she climbed them. She stopped and looked down. They appeared rustic, worn, used. They might be the originals. It was difficult to tell. She unlocked the door and took a deep breath. The smell of pine filled her nostrils. The pine floors, pine walls, and the pine mantel over the fireplace were a welcome sight. She stood for a few moments and scrutinized her reconstructed lodge. Every detail seemed perfectly replicated.

  She had stayed at Swan Nest Pond a couple of times as it was being refurbished by the government but not since it had been completed. But this time there was something new. She could hear a faint buzzing. Her eyes narrowed.

  She left her suitcase by the door, set her purse on the kitchen counter, and walked to the center of the living room. She closed her eyes and slowly rotated in a circle. She then grabbed a chair and dragged it to the center of the room. She climbed atop it, reached up, carefully took hold of the crossbeam, and chinned herself.

  There it was—a small transmitting device. She left it and proceeded to inspect all the rooms. She looked up, around doorways, beneath furniture, into lamps, behind paintings and anywhere else she thought she could faintly hear the electronic sound of private invasion. There were seven bugs.

  She grabbed her battery-powered FM radio/alarm clock from the bedroom, tuned it to a silent frequency on the high end of the dial, and began moving around the cabin—waiting for the high-pitched feedback sound.

  Seven.

  The one that disturbed her most was the bug behind the headboard in her bedroom. Her face reddened.

  They sure want to hear everything—sick bastards.

  She went to her bag and took out a bottle of cola, opened the pantry door and looked for a plastic bag, poured in some soda, sealed it, duck-taped it above the device behind the bed’s headboard, set a pail on the floor, and pricked a small hole in the bottom of the plastic container so the liquid would slowly drip onto the mechanism.

  The corrosive action of the chemicals in the soft drink would only take a day or so to short out the electronics. Whoever was eavesdropping would hear the bug slowly malfunction: clear reception, then periodic interference, then intermittent transmission, then complete failure.

  She wasn’t concerned about conversations during trysts; she wasn’t planning on any bedroom partners. But if her cell rang, or just in case she talked in her sleep...

  Her cellphone sounded. Karen looked at the screen. It was Sharon.

  “You okay? I was watching the news.”

  “I made it just in time,” Karen said, glancing at the headboard.

  “Any damage to the plane?”

  “No. I had enough time to tie it down.”

  “I can’t believe you attempted that. You’re a little crazy you know.”

  “And you’re alive because of it.”

  “I know. Well, I’m glad you’re okay. I have to go.”

  “Your date there?”

  “Karen…”

  “I know, sorry. Have a good time. Talk to you soon.”

  Karen hung up thinking that the U.S. government, whoever they were, had listened to the conversation.

  Nothing critical, though.

  She returned to the kitchen and opened the cupboards. They were packed with all types of food, snacks and condiments.

  Not exactly my taste, but they made an effort.

  She looked in the refrigerator for something to drink.

  Chardonnay? Definitely not my preference.

  She decided against a glass of wine and filled the teapot. She lit a burner on the propane-gas stove and set the container atop the flame. She walked back to the front door, locked it, and grabbed her suitcase and her purse.

  She walked back to the bedroom and drew her Smith and Wesson out of her bag and double-checked that it was loaded. She carried it to the bathroom, set it on the sink, took off her clothes and started the shower. It took a few minutes for the water to reach temperature. She stepped into the stall.

  The rainwater spout pushed the water gently over her shoulders. The hot water cascaded over her body. The warmth on her previously-knotted calves felt cathartic. She thought about the electronic devices.

  I’ll go into town and talk to the locksmith about changing the locks.

  Karen stepped out of the shower, and as soon as she dried her hair, she donned a nightgown, took hold of her weapon, and walked back to the kitchen to make some tea. She let the Chamomile steep for three minutes and then threw the bag away.

  With the teacup in one hand and her pistol in the other, she walked out to the porch and sat down in her favorite rocking chair. It used to sit on her grandmother’s front porch in the Berkshires.

  Karen propped up and crossed her bare feet on the wooden railing. She always enjoyed the security of the rocker and the solitude of a Swan Nest evening.

  She set her Smith & Wesson, Double-Action revolver on her lap, loosely cupped the mug in her hands, and breathed in the tea’s fragrance.

  Down the path to the pond, Karen could see two swans walk into the water and swim toward the far shore. The frogs began to croak, and the crickets began rubbing their legs together. She could see the silhouettes of three ducks floating near the mouth of the mountain stream that flowed into the pool.

  The fowl abruptly flapped their wings and scurried across the water. Karen grabbed her gun. She had developed the behavior of a secret agent—a paranoia that had kept her alive during the Labyrinth incident and would hopefully keep her safe in whatever direction she chose her career to go.

  She watched and listened. She could neither see nor hear anything except the sounds of the natural environment of Swan Nest Pond.

  Karen stayed in the chair until she began falling asleep. She rose from the rocker and walked into the cabin, locked the door, and walked straight to the bedroom. She checked her computer email and calendar.

  She was supposed to go to the old Krystal Vision offices to see what she could do to bring the company back to life. But, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted that even though the government had repaired the building from the result of the fire and had installed all new safety systems including a new elevator with myriad safety devices. So, it was actually better than it was.

  But, probably bugs there, too.

  Her news feed jumped up on her desktop: Twister confirmed setting down on a Dulles Airport apron outside Cerna Dynamics. Seven private planes damaged.

  “That’s where I usually park when I use Dulles. That cou
ld have been mine—with me in it.”

  Karen turned off the computer, slipped into bed and looked over at a book on the nightstand her sister had given her. It wasn’t Karen’s type of novel. The cover had a dark-haired, buxom female in a skin-revealing blouse being bent backward by a man.

  She’d keep it for a couple of weeks and then return it. She had stood it up and the cover was facing her. The male was extremely attractive, rugged-looking, outdoorsy, strong, and confident.

  I guess it wouldn’t hurt to read it, for Sharon.

  She reached for it.

  ***

  Karen quickly shut off the offensive alarm. She had not really read much of Sharon’s book. She looked at it again.

  How can she read those types of stories?

  She quickly dressed, grabbed a couple pieces of dry toast and left in her Jaguar for the District.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ft. Meade—USA

  At Ft. Meade, about twenty-five miles northeast of Washington, D.C., in the headquarters of the NSA, a hardcopy memo was delivered to Sam Waters, the head of The Operations Directorate. Waters’ division in the National Security Agency was responsible for SIGINT, intelligence collection and processing via signals. The NSOC functions 24/7 to monitor foreign Signals Intelligence in an effort to remain apprised of all U.S. national security threats and at the same time, keep a watchful eye and ear on the staging of world events of a non-coercive nature.

  Waters read the memo, and a scowl clouded over his face. He pressed the intercom button and said, “Call the team together. I want to meet in ten minutes.”

  Noëlle immediately contacted the four members of the Operations Directorate Executive Assessment Team. Before the time was expired, they were all seated in Sam Waters’ office, ready to hear what their boss had to say.

  With his omnipresent raspy voice, Waters began: “We intercepted this today from French Interior. Two nights ago, a substantial amount of enriched uranium was stolen from the Sehali plant in Pakistan. The Taliban, working with The Commander Nazir Group broke into the plant in the middle of the night, killed a guard and made off with enough enriched-uranium cakes to make sixteen nuclear bombs.