After she hung up the phone, Miranda returned to her sorting of crumpled bits of aircraft.
“Miranda,” Susan called out.
“Yes?” She didn’t stop.
“Was that General Nason on the phone?” Susan took a guess as they’d spoken a surprising number of times in the last twelve hours.
“Yes.”
“And he wants the team somewhere else?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Brunei.” She looked as if it caused her physical pain to say that.
“When?”
“Not for a while. Three hours.”
Susan sighed and turned to the captain. “It appears that we have a request from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs to move this team to Brunei for a meeting. What transport can you spare?”
“A C-2 Greyhound or a Seahawk could have you there in time. Spare? Christ, you people are going to make me nuts. I’m short on C-2s because they’re moving bo
