The Dawgstar

By cj petterson

THE DAWGSTAR is a suspense/thriller with a touch of romance.

Protagonist MIRABEL CAMPBELL is a geneticist and amateur astronomer who wished for more adventure in her life. Someone should have told her to be careful what you wish for, because the mysterious twinkle she spots in the night sky catapults her into the treacherous world of international intrigue.   

Mirabel is a little flawed—she's no longer a svelte twenty-something, hasn't been in a real relationship for a long time, and is a bit of a nerd. She's also sassy, clever, loyal, and determined to find who killed her friend and to stop the ticking of her personal doomsday clock.

ROBERT O'SULLIVAN, aka "Sully," is an exciting hero, a ruggedly handsome CIA agent with a bit of an Irish lilt in his words. The CIA thinks what Mirabel saw is a nanosatellite that the government is secretly testing. Worried her sighting could go public, Sully is sent to investigate. He draws the assignment because Mirabel is his ex-wife, the woman he still loves. On the flip side, Sully's a bit of a bad boy and a liar—all part of the job he says.

NIGEL SAINT JOHN is an international assassin hired by SOUJIRO ITOH to eliminate the perceived threats to his plan to exact revenge on the North Korean regime. Unbeknownst to everyone, Saint John serves two employers, one more anonymous than the other.

SOUJIRO ITOH is a sociopath with a twisted sense of justice. He wants the U.S. government to include in a proposed arms treaty with North Korea a requirement that the Pyongyang government apologize for wrongs done to Japanese citizens that date back to World War II. Itoh also has launched a secret nanosatellite, a bioweapon with which he threatens destruction of one of the world's most important food crops if his demands are not met.

MIIKO ITOH is a drug-addled ninja under the control of her brother, Soujiro Itoh. Soujiro uses her to help carry out his devious plans, including miscellaneous assassinations.

Brought together by a common peril, Mirabel and Sully rekindle their love in the midst of international, political gangsterism and 21st Century technology, where a sociopath's money can hire an assassin, turn friends into traitors, and threaten the world with a bioweapon.         

Sensuality level: Behind closed doors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Pens Publishing
• Release date: Apr 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736914601

cj petterson

cj petterson is the pen name of Marilyn A. Johnston. Marilyn’s been a medical secretary, a legal secretary, a real estate saleswoman, a civil court clerk, a purchasing agent, a corporate news editor, an automotive market research manager, and—the career that is most important to her—a mother and grandmother. When asked what she likes to do, she says she likes all things creative…a little writing, a little poetry, a little art, a little gardening, and a little remodeling of her home when the mood strikes and money is available. Marilyn’s motto is “Keep on keeping on and learn something new every day.” Born in Texas, raised in Michigan, she now lives on the Gulf Coast of Alabama. As cj petterson, she challenges herself to write in different genres—mystery, romance, suspense, paranormal—and her short stories have been published in several anthologies. She is the author of the suspense/thriller (with a touch of romance) novel DEATH ON THE YAMPA, and yet another romantic suspense/thriller is also in process.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I am not going to die. I am not going to die. Mirabel squeezed her eyes shut as the plane’s wheels lifted off the tarmac of the small landing strip on the outskirts of Mendocito, California. Her throat worked, but she couldn’t swallow her fear of leaving the ground with nothing but a thin slice of sheet metal beneath her.

Nothing personal, she said. I mean, your Cherokee is beautiful, but couldn’t you get something bigger than a four-seater?

Dan stripped his headphones off one ear. Sure, but first we’d have to drive two hours to the rental agency in Sacramento.

If I wasn’t such a procrastinator, I’d have driven all the way to Las Vegas. She rubbed her fingers across a deep crease she felt between her eyebrows. Didn’t you, uh, make some kind of unplanned landing not long ago? she asked, her voice straining over the thunder of the engine.

He patted her hand. The engine’s been completely overhauled since then. It’s mint. Relax. It’ll be a smooth flight. You won’t have to hike out of the desert. I promise.

Mirabel watched the ground fade away and gulped down a wave of nausea rising at the same rate as the plane. She dropped a wintergreen antacid button on her tongue and mumbled, I’ll hold you to that, as the plane leveled off. She released her grip on the seat belt, flexed her long fingers, and watched the blood return to warm her white knuckles. Besides, who’ll take care of my cat if I don’t come back?

You don’t have a cat.

I’m planning to get one. She watched Dan’s eyes slide from her auburn curls to her white camp shirt then down to her khaki shorts and hiking boots. What? Did I spill something? She brushed at the front of her shirt.

No. Just curious. You going to hike Red Rock Canyon? he said.

There’s an idea, but no; I’m flying comfortable.

Okay, you don’t play the tables, so what’s a scientist like you going to do for fun in the gambling capital of the U.S.?

The pitch of the Cherokee’s engine vibrated in her eardrums, and she had to lean forward to catch his words. Not much this go-round. I’m going to deliver my final report on genome research to the International Research Conference Saturday morning, then there’s an amateur astronomers’ convention I want to visit. I’m hoping someone can ID a new night-sky twinkle I spotted a few nights ago. After that, maybe I’ll see a show. I might even drop a few coins in the slots.

Sounds too thrilling for words.

Mirabel chuckled. Try to contain yourself. It’s Vegas, and when you hook up with your old pal Sully, you won’t be bored, I’m sure.

You got that right. Why don’t you join us? Put a little excitement in your life.

Research is exciting. She watched the corners of his mouth curve down. Okay, sometimes it’s exciting, but I like my life just the way it is, thank you very much. Unlike some people I know, she said and nudged him, pipettes don’t give me any grief.

She slumped down in her seat as the drone of the motor filled her head and made conversation problematic. Mom was right, she thought. People are like cats; they tend to get weird when they stay alone too long. I’m living proof of that. She jerked up with a gasp when the engine hesitated and then coughed out a billow of smoke.

Dan touched a knob, and the engine evened out to its reassuring loud hum. He leaned back in his seat and grinned at her.

Tension drained out of her shoulders. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you and Sully get together. The men shared a special friendship she envied. Twenty-five years divided the two, yet they were so close they sometimes finished each other’s sentences, filled in punch lines with over-the-top laughter.

When she’d divorced Sully, she worried that she’d chased Dan away, too, but that hadn’t happened. She examined Dan’s profile. High cheekbones, strong chin, coppery hair shot-through with silver and cut military short. Handsome in a weathered way. A true and faithful friend is a treasure above all others, she thought and couldn’t remember what famous person said that.

Hey, Dan said. You over there with that Mona Lisa smile. What’re you thinking?

Just wondering if I should alert the local constabulary that you and Sully will be together and on the loose Saturday night. Do me a favor. Don’t call me for bail money.

Used to be you were right in the thick of things. He sent a concerned look her way.

She shook her head and looked away. To be honest, she thought, I do miss Sully. He was fun to be with. Maybe I just miss people., After I divorced that Irish whirligig, I let my social life spin down to zip, nada. Not that Mendocito even has a social scene

Dan interrupted her reverie. You can’t hide away for the rest of your life, you know. One day, you’ll take a look around, and whoosh! Everybody will be gone...passed you by.

If you’re referring to Sully, he didn’t pass me by. I divorced him, remember?

Yes, and then you buried yourself in your work.

Don’t you start—

An explosion and a burst of dark smoke shocked Mirabel into open-mouthed silence. She watched the propeller spin to a halt. What happened? What just happened? she yelled.

Sounded like the engine blew, Dan answered calmly. He knocked his fingertip against the circles of glass on the instrument panel. The needles clung to zero on the dead gauges. He pushed and pulled on the knobs as he worked to restart the engine while the plane slowed and started to nose down.

Mirabel pointed a trembling finger toward the immobile prop blades. You...you said you rehabbed the engine, she stammered. You said it was in mint condition.

It is...was. Why don’t you push your seat back and tighten that belt. He sounded calm, as if he had just told her to get ready for a bit of air turbulence, and then called, Mayday! Mayday! into the mic. This is November Six Niner Seven Alpha, heading— He stopped and tapped his earpiece at the same time Mirabel fixated on smoke seeping from the instrument panel. Radio’s dead, he said and peeled off his headphones.

The plane was losing altitude fast. As Dan worked to deadstick the Cherokee down, he talked to Mirabel, explained what he was doing when he twisted the trim control knob. I’m turning the plane into a glider. Keep us from going in nose down. The plane wobbled, wanted to roll. Dan wrestled with the stick to keep the wings horizontal. His legs pumped the left and right rudders.

We’re not going to make it, are we? she said in a breathy voice. Oh, God, please. I’m not ready.

There’s a bit of wind. Our best chance is to come in straight, not crab in sideways, he said, scanning the array of gauges with unmoving needles in their faces.

She nodded as though she understood what he meant. Good thing I have on clean underwear. Her laugh caught in her throat like a sob.

He turned off the fuel and electrical systems then jammed his door ajar. He squeezed her hand for a brief second. Wish us luck.

Luck, she rasped and breathed a silent prayer as the desert floor rose in what seemed like horrific slow motion to meet them.

The tires blew when the wheels hit the ground. Mirabel gurgled out a scream when something snapped with a loud crack, and the plane lurched.

There go the struts, Dan yelled as he wrangled with the stick.

A wing and the tail section splintered off the fuselage. One propeller blade sheared off; the other dug its own grave. Sand battered her window as the prop plowed a ragged furrow in the sand. Mirabel crossed her arms over her face.

The impact buried the plane’s nose in the sand. The windshield shattered. The glass in the doors popped out.

Her body slammed forward against the seatbelt. Air whooshed out of her lungs, then she submarined under the belt she hadn’t tightened.

The plane shuddered to a stop. Smoke plumed out of the engine. The acrid smell of overheated engine oil stung her nostrils. She clawed open the seatbelt buckle and pounded her shoulder against her door. Wedged shut in the crush of metal, it wouldn’t budge. When no fire erupted, she fell back in the seat. A low whimper escaped her throat as relief swept over her.

We made it, she said and turned to Dan.

His head lolled forward. A drool of foamy blood spilled over his lip, terminating in a widening red stain on the military-press creases in his ice-blue shirt. Like the horns of a bull, the control stick yoke was buried in his chest.

Dan! No, no, no, no, no. She tore the cellphone off her belt, stabbed her finger across a string of buttons then hurled the chunk of dead electronics to the floor. saw the shard of metal impaled in her left thigh just below the hem of her hiking shorts. It was too soon for pain, but she knew it was coming. Mirabel gritted her teeth and with a sound that was half moan, half scream, yanked the strip of molding out of the flesh. Her body quivered as pain rushed in, and grayish muscle tissue filled the hole left by the stake. Blood oozed from the edges of the wound, while the bulging muscle acted like a plug and stemmed the flow. Oh, God. She started to pant. Breathe. Breathe.

When the pain ebbed a notch, her fingers struggled with Dan’s seatbelt until it fell away. A growl escaped her throat as she pushed forward against the control stick that refused to budge. Desert winds drove superheated air into the cockpit. She wiped her sweaty hands on her shirt and tried again.

Dan halted her with a touch. Stop...please, he whispered. Toolkit backpack. Take yoke off.

She dragged the backpack around, found a screwdriver then worked to fit the tip into the screw heads on the yoke. Some had sheared off, and she didn’t have the strength to ratchet out the others. I can’t get it off, she wailed, but Dan was out again. Mirabel flung the tool to the floor then held onto his arm with both hands, watching him breathe. Each shallow, barely perceptible breath sent red bubbles drooling out of the corner of his mouth.

Hang on, Dan. Please. You’ve got to hang on.

CHAPTER 2

Mirabel fell back in her seat and, for the first time, looked at the devastation around them. The cabin was a tangle of scrambled wires, metal, and glass—horrifying and awesome at the same time. How did we end up in a pile of plane wreckage baking in the desert sun?

It’d been two short days before that she’d asked her old friend Dan Harbin to fly her to Las Vegas. She wanted extra time to work on her presentation for the conference, and Dan was willing to fly on short notice.

Well, Miz Campbell, the retired Navy captain had said, as long as you pop for the gas, I’m happy to be in the air. And a weekend in Lost Wages is long overdue.

Thanks, she’d said and sealed the deal with the prerequisite handshake. As she tilted up on her toes to kiss him, she murmured, And that’s Doctor Campbell to you, you old jet jockey.

Dan chuckled. Actually, this is perfect. I planned to meet Sully at the Bellagio on Saturday, and now I get my trip paid for. He fended off her slap at his shoulder. Just kidding, just kidding. I don’t want your money. Just having you along for the ride will be payment enough.

You are such a BS-er.

When Dan had turned over the engine that morning, he’d said the weather was perfect for flying—good visibility, almost no wind. Yet, two hours later, they were sitting in a pile of hot metal, half buried in sand. So much for not having to hike out of the desert, she thought.

Mirabel rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands until she saw stars then took a shuddering breath. Dan, come on. Wake up and tell me what to do. She began to pant. I can’t sit here and watch you die.

Her hands scrubbed unseen debris out of her hair then pounded against the cabin ceiling and the dead gauges on the IP. Her voice lifted in a scream, made harsh with fear. I have to get out! Let me out! She pushed against the door that wouldn’t open. Her heart raced up into her throat, choking her. She squeezed her eyes shut and rocked. Her chest hiccupped with stuttering breaths. I want out, she mewled. The sound of her own voice forced her eyes open. She realized she was in the midst of a panic attack.

Think, Mirabel. Think. She dragged air into her lungs. In for two, out for two. In for four, out for four. In for six, out for six. Her breathing evened out. When her pounding heart slowed, she gasped, Okay. I’m okay. I can do this. Do what? She studied the destroyed equipment. Check the supplies. I need to check the supplies.

She scanned the cabin, searching until she spied a small, tan backpack with two strips of crisscrossing red tape on it wedged under Dan’s seat. She wriggled it loose, fingered through the contents: Gauze, antiseptic salve, a handful of sterile pads and bandages, a pocket-sized Swiss Army knife, scissors, tweezers, and a small bottle of aspirin. Then she spied a single thermal blanket folded into a four-inch square still in its vacuum-sealed plastic baggie.

Biting into an edge, she tore open the packet and gathered the silvery folds of the wafer-thin sheet around Dan. A half dozen water canteens and three flares littered the floor and back seat. She reached around, hefted the canteens, and looked inside each. Two were empty, one nearly so. Three, maybe four days if we’re really stingy. But she knew that was more a prayer than a guess and also knew food would have to be the snacks she’d packed in her overnighter.

She patted her fingertip around the hole in her throbbing thigh. The bulging muscle was still doing a good job of stemming the flow of blood. She slathered a gob of antiseptic salve across the top of the wound, gritted her teeth against the sting, and wrapped her leg in layers of gauze.

You okay? Dan mumbled.

’Bout time you woke up. She sniffled and swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. I’m okay, doing good. How about you?

Hurting some. His voice was strained, tight with pain. Water?

She held the canteen out in front of him then pulled it back. There are bubbles in the blood on your mouth. You’re bleeding inside. Could be some broken ribs have punctured a lung. I don’t think I’m supposed to give you a drink. She moistened a piece of gauze and squeezed the cloth, sending water droplets into his open mouth, then cleaned the blood from his lips and chin.

Thanks. He looked down at the blanket. Hotter’n hell. Need outta this.

She pulled aside the thermal. Didn’t want you to go into shock.

Good you found first aid. What kind of supplies?

Three flares, two-and-a-half canteens of water, two oranges, some Hershey bars that are turning into syrup as we speak, and a bag of Fritos. She looked at the water canteens then tossed the salty snacks through a broken window. Scratch the Fritos.

She touched the yoke lightly. How do we get this thing off you?

He shook his head in slow motion.

Don’t say that! She braced her good leg against the gauges on the IP and pushed.

He touched her arm. Wait rescue.

Doesn’t this plane have one of those electronic beacon things?

He sidled a look at her. Transponder quit.

Look, over there, she pointed to a hazy, jagged ridge of hills in the distance. That’s not so far. I can go for help.

No, he mouthed silently. The words that followed sounded wispy and uneven. Don’t trust desert. Fatal mistake. What you see...not always close...real.

She looked away, not wanting him to see the fear in her eyes. What, then?

Signal.

How long will one of those flares burn?

He shook his head. SOS in sand. Clothes, rags, pieces of plane, what you find. His chest rattled with each shallow breath. Make a... he faded out again.

She stroked his arm, his cheek. Okay. I’ll make a signal. Don’t go anywhere. She watched him struggle for breaths for a few minutes then crawled through the space vacated by a window and balanced on one leg in the shade of the uplifted wing. Except for some cactus and dry scrub brush, the desert around the plane was naked. Heat hot enough to blister a bare foot radiated through her boot.

Mirabel reached back into the plane and tugged out her two luggage pieces and overnight case from behind her seat. She added Dan’s small bag to the cluster then dumped the contents of all of them. After pulling her broad-brimmed hat out of the pile and jamming it down onto her dark auburn curls, she dropped her overnight case as the starting point then laid out the clothing in a meandering SOS. Every move raised a sweat that the wind dried in an instant, leaving a layer of grit on her skin. The soaring temperature sucked the breath out of her lungs and brought her to a gasping halt every few minutes. A wave of nausea hit, and her sweaty brow felt cold to the touch.

I’m about to kill myself with heat exhaustion. Get out of the sun, dummy.

She set Dan’s weekender case like a punctuation mark at the end of the distress signal and staggered back under the shadow of the wing. She took a measured sip of water and leaned heavily against the fuselage to keep from collapsing in the sand. She let a good half hour pass before she left the shade to scoop handfuls of sand onto the edges of the clothing. The SOS anchored in place, she surveyed her work. Not good, she thought. The pale summer fabrics were a colorless scribble in a colorless desert.

Mirabel crawled back into the plane and touched Dan’s shoulder on her way into the back seat. Don’t look, she said even though she knew he was unconscious. I’m really sorry. I have to cut up your new seats. She hacked at the back seats with the stubby blade of the Swiss Army knife. This stuff will put up a lot of smoke in a fire.

She tossed pieces and strips of black vinyl out of the shattered window. Clumps of seat cushion foam and cotton batting followed. She took another sip of water and ran a hand over Dan’s shoulder again on her way back out of the plane.

A squat, misshapen pyramid rose out of the debris as she added clothes to the pile and finished with her new bras and silk panties on top. Mirabel quickly retrieved the lingerie. I paid way too much money for this stuff. She sighed. Won’t do me any good if I’m dead, she thought. Work your magic, ladies, she said and rearranged the pieces gently over the top of the pile. There’s not a man I know who can pass up a black lace 36D.

She stabbed one of the flares into the sand next to the would-be pyre then stood on the rise of a sandy mogul and surveyed her work. She used the bottom of her shirt to wipe away the salty sting of tears and sweat that blurred her eyes and retreated into the cockpit.

Her shoulder braced against the seat, she hung her hat over a knob and watched Dan breathe for several minutes. I made two signals. He didn’t respond. She laid her head back and closed her eyes.

A rhythm of pain in her leg roused her, and for a brief moment of panic, she didn’t know where she was. She eased up one edge of the gauze to relieve the pressure of the bandage against her swollen leg. Then she thumbed off the top of the aspirin bottle and dropped a white pellet in her hand. Ignoring the canteen on the floor, she chewed the dry, bitter tablet.

Dan opened his eyes, dulled and shot through with red streaks. Sorry, kid.

Not your fault, she said and shoved the aspirin bottle into a pocket. Stuff happens. I made two signals, the SOS in the sand and another one to set on fire.

Sully’s going to kick my tail— he said and gasped for a shallow breath of air, when he finds out—he wheezed again—I crashed with you in the plane.

Mirabel shook her head and smiled. My ex-husband is not entitled to keep tabs on me.

A shallow dimple dented his cheek. Right.

Unless you told him, he doesn’t even know we’re together, she said. And I won’t tell him if you won’t.

Deal.

You okay while I start the signal fire?

He shook his head. Dark soon. Rescue won’t fly... His words trailed off. Mornin’.

She fed him slices of orange, slid pieces of melting chocolate onto his tongue, and wet his mouth with droplets of water.

Gourmet cook, he said.

Finger food is my specialty. Her eyes swept the cockpit. What happened?

Odds all wrong, he said. Too many...things quit. Should’ve known.

Known what? she thought. Shhh. We’ll figure it out when we get home.

His brows pinched together, and he let go a shallow cough. More red bubbles appeared on his lips.

When he dozed off, her mind ticked off the things that had gone wrong—engine, radio, transponder. He was right. A lot of things had gone wrong, one right after the other.

What went right was you, Danny boy. We’d be dead if you weren’t such good pilot. She stroked his arm. We’ll have to have a big party when we get back. Invite the whole town.

When the only things visible were twinkles of light in a navy blue sky, Mirabel laid her head on his shoulder and stared into the heavens. Her fingers laced through his, she fell into an exhausted sleep, serenaded by the night songs of the desert.

Mirabel woke when daybreak was still a painful inflammation on the horizon. Distorted by its refracting light, the sun hovered like blood-red oval above the sand. Sometime during the night, she’d left Dan’s shoulder and was huddled next to the door, her head angled against the seatback. Her aching muscles had acquired new sources of pain. Dan’s eyes were still closed, so she rearranged herself and leaned back. Let him sleep, she thought and nodded off. The sun was a white-hot circle when she opened her eyes again. It took several seconds before she was awake enough to realize Dan wasn’t breathing.

Oh, Dan. She caressed his face then rubbed his arm with both hands as if trying to warm him back to life. Why didn’t you wake me? Tears washed down her cheeks. I’m so sorry. I should have been awake. She held tightly to his hand and sobbed while the sun’s form disintegrated into a glare that sent the temperature screaming upwards.

When her hiccupping sobs halted, she wiped her gritty face with both palms and checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Afraid to stay and afraid to leave, Mirabel began to shiver in the sweltering heat. She knew the rules for a crash. Dan repeated them before each time they flew. Stay with the plane. Searchers can see a plane. A hiker is but another invisible grain of sand.

I have to go, she said. "If the radio quit before you got off the mayday, no one knows where we are. They don’t even know we’ve