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Miranda stepped off the C-21A Learjet and into the crash scene.
Every time it was a visceral shock, like when she finally got home to the island after a hard investigation. This—so different from the rest of her life—was where she belonged.
Most airplane crash sites were curiously serene places by the time the NTSB investigation team arrived. The plane was done crashing. The people were already evacuated. The area was often cordoned off or so obscurely remote that there were few gawkers. She’d always enjoyed the peace of approaching a wreck in a slow, logical fashion.
She and her team could approach it, study the weather, the environment, the debris field, and finally the crash itself with an orderly, rational methodology.
Plovers and boobies dodged around the black great frigatebi
