The other man eyed him sternly. “You start copping feels on the way up, you’re gonna hear about it later. Who knows who the hell that crazy bitch is?”
The diver affected an offended look. “Who, me? You think I’d do that just because some broad takes off her shirt and dives into the water just to meet me? Hell, all the trouble she’s gone toI don’t want to disappoint her.”
But his serious face belied the smart-ass comments. Both men were completely focused on their mission. Too much could go wrong during any sea-air rescue, as well they knew. Sometimes the downdraft from the helicopter overwhelmed a struggling swimmer, or an unexpected cramp took the victim beneath the waves before the rescue crew could get to him.
That meant hours of heartbreaking searches underwater, trying desperately to recover a bodyhopefully, within the first few minutes, when there was a chance of reviving the victim.
Four minutes later, the Seahawk now stable and hovering directly overhead, the flight crew lowered the rescue diver to the water.
1410 Local
The downdraft from the helicopter was strong, flattening out the water around her and trying to drive her head underwater. She fought back, treading water furiously. She was a strong swimmer, but nothing had really prepared her for the force of the downdraft. With it coming as it did immediately after the shock of cold water, she could already feel her strength leaching away.
Pamela kicked off her shoes, and felt a small increase in buoyancy at the loss of the weight. As the helicopter lowered itself, extruding the winch that tethered the rescue diver to it, she breathed a sigh of relief.
A few more minutescertainly she could hold out that long.
Two minutes later, the rescue diver released himself from the winch and dropped ten feet into the ocean below. She saw him pause for a minute, get his bearings, then proceed over to her with strong, certain strokes.
Moments later, he was by her side.
“You speak English?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He fiddled with the harness, pulling it toward her and linking it around her body. Finally, with that done, he said, “What the hell did you do that for? Don’t you know how much trouble you just caused us? I wouldn’t be surprised if the admiral chewed you out himself.”
Despite the cold, despite the biting sensation of the harness cutting into her ribs, Pamela smiled. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”
1420 Local
Admiral’s Conference Room
USS Jefferson
“It’s who?” Tombstone roared. The denial was almost automatic, but he realized as soon as he asked that he’d known all along it might be her.
Pamela Drake. What would she not do to get a story? Who else would she put in danger besides herself?
“Get her dried offfind her something to wear,” Batman said. “Then I want to see her.”
His voice was cold. He glanced over at Tombstone. “My helo, Admiral, unless you have other wishes?”
Tombstone shook his head wearily. “No, I don’t think so. Not after this week. About the last thing in the world I want to do is see Miss Pamela Drake of ACN.”
1500 Local
MiG 31
Yuri loitered to within fifty miles of the aircraft carrier. Although the carrier was out of sight, he was receiving data relay from surveillance aircraft and had a clear picture of it on his radar scope when tuned out to maximum range. He and his wingman were careful to stay at least minimally in compliance with the keep-away zonenot precisely, of course. They were exercising their own freedom of navigation by declining to remain outside the three-hundred-mile zone. Still and all, it was a good compromise distanceclose enough to assert their right to independent operations, yet not so close as to provoke the American carrier.
Listening to the encrypted radio transmissions, he followed the progress of the submarine toward the battle group. Two helicopters had it pinned down now, and at his last report, the submarine commander had tersely stated that he was breaking off further communications to concentrate on evasion. Not such a difficult problem when you considered the wildly erratic sound characteristics of the Mediterranean. The fellow had been stupid to have been sighted at all, and Yuri thought that he at least partially deserved the harassment he was now getting from the helicopters.
He was less sanguine about his own role in the conflict now rapidly developing. He wondered for perhaps the millionth time what his reaction would have been had he known he was actually launching a nuclear weapon.
Pride, perhaps, for having been selected for such an essential mission?
Or would he havecould he havefound the courage to refuse to fly?
Not likely. It would have completely ended his career, as well as most probably his life. Besides, even if he’d been willing to sacrifice his own life for his principles, he still had a substantial number of relatives on the ground in Ukraine. It was one thing to risk your own lifeanother to risk that of your babushka.
And since the attack on La Salle and the bomb on board the carrier, Yuri now had no choice. He was committed. At any point in time, if Ukraine wanted to resolve the conflict with the Americans, they had only to turn him over as the ultimate scapegoat. Certainly, there would be questions about how the nuclear weapon had found itself on his wing to start with, but he had a feeling that an ever-widening conspiracy would be discovered that would undoubtedly encompass the ground crew responsible for the on-load. People would diejunior people, the ones who had no say in their own destiny.
1530 Local
Admiral’s Conference Room
USS Jefferson
The bond between Bradley Tiltfelt and Pamela Drake was immediate and obvious. As she walked into the conference room, hair still damp, clad in a utilitarian set of coveralls, Bradley Tiltfelt stood and offered a small, courtly bow. “We’re delighted to see you survived your ordeal in such admirable fashion,” he offered genially. His eyes stayed locked on hers, although it was obvious to Tombstone that his mind was wandering over the taut curves under the rough coverall fabric.
Pamela slipped into a chair without asking. She waved a lazy hand at the men still standing and said, “Now that I’m here, don’t you think we ought to talk?”
Batman exploded. “Jesus, woman, just who in the fuck do you think you are? You diverted my SAR helo with your little stunt. If we’d had an actual in-flight emergency, you could have cost livesuseful livesmen and women that are out here protecting their country. And for what?”
Bradley Tiltfelt held up a placating hand. “Now, now, Admiralthat kind of attitude gets us nowhere.”
He pointed at Pamela Drake. “Had you been cooperative with the press to begin with, and acknowledged the American public’s right to know, this young woman would not have been pushed to such dangerous lengths to exercise her First Amendment rights.”
“Rights.” Tombstone filled the word with disgust. “Her rights end where my right to keep my pilots safe begins.”
Bradley edged a little closer to Pamela. “I understand completely,” he told her. “You see what I deal with every day.”
Pamela appeared to barely hear him. She was staring at Tombstone, the familiar glare and fire surfacing behind her brilliant green eyes. Her mouth twisted into something that might have been a frownbut uglier.
“You think you can sail an American aircraft carrier into the Black Sea and not have the press asking questions? Or the American people?”
She leaned forward in her chair, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Just remember who you work for, Admiral.”
Tombstone drew up straight and stiff. “I work for the president of the United States, serving American national security interests. You work for a paycheck. Don’t ever confuse our two roles, Miss. Drakenot ever.”
“I think there’s a way we can work out a compromise,” Tiltfelt continued smoothly, as though Tombstone had not spoken. “Since Miss Drake is already here, and will undoubtedly be followed by ho
rdes of requests for information, it’s in our interest to cooperate.”
He shot a hasty look at Tombstone, wincing a little at the anger he saw there. “Not, of course, in any way that might compromise safety or security. But a background briefing, perhaps the chance to observe certain operationssurely that wouldn’t hurt, Admiral?”
Pamela turned to Tiltfelt and focused the full force of her smile on the State Department representative, the storm clouds clearing instantly from her face. “I think it would be helpful to have the broader perspective as well, sir. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”
She offered her hand. “I’m Pamela Drake, ACN.”
Tiltfelt preened. “Bradley Tiltfelt, at your service madame.”
He followed that with a brief recitation of his history in the State Department and his current assignment, concluding with; “I’m a great fan, Miss Drake. The reports you made from the Alutiansabsolutely stunning.”
A look of consternation crossed his face. “On this same ship, I believe.”
Pamela smiled warmly at him, then turned a frigid look on Tombstone. “There were difficulties on that assignment as well, Director Tiltfelt.”
She moved her chair closer to his until their knees were almost touching. “Now how exactly do you spell your last name?”
Tiltfelt preened again.
“This is going to shit, Tombstone,” Batman said gloomily. “I can’t believe she’s heredammit, why is it that everywhere we go, she turns up?”
Tombstone sighed heavily. “You know the answer to that. Two answers, actually. First, she doesn’t mind embarrassing me whenever possible. I should have known this would happen when I broke off our engagement.”
Batman scowled. “A woman scornedthat’s it?”
Tombstone paused and looked reflective. “Not completely. There’s one other reason. Pamela Drake is very, very good at what she does. In her own field, she is as exceptionally capable as you are.”
He held up a hand to forestall objections. “Now, no false protestations of modestyyou know what I mean. As much as we may hate it, the fact is Pamela’s here and she’s a force to be dealt with. And regardless of what we think of her, we must never forget thatthat she’s very, very good. You copy?”
“Roger.” Batman slumped down in his chair as if drained of energy. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“Nobody said you did.” Tombstone’s face was a sober, graven mask. “We just have to live with it.”
1545 Local
Hornet 301
“Got a visual on that MiG,” Thor said laconically over the radio. “Dirty wingsbut he’s staying almost outside the exclusion area. Any orders?”
“Just fly the mission as briefed,” the TAO on the carrier responded. “VID and escortif he makes a move into us, you know what happens at two hundred miles.”
“Roger, copy.”
Thor put the agile Hornet into a tight turn, falling into killing position behind the MiG.
In a contest between the two aircraft, the outcome might be in doubt, he admitted to himself finally. The MiG was a sleek, sharp-looking bird, with performance characteristics that almost matched the Hornet. Flown by a sharp pilot, it would be a bitch to take on.
A harsh, shrieking noise inside the cockpit captured his attention.
He frowned, looking over at the ESM warning gear. “What the hell-?”
He flipped a switch to silence the alarm and called the carrier. “You get that? I’m getting downlink indications from that MiG. Is he talking to that submarine?”
There was a moment of silence on the radio. Then the TAO came back. “Maybe. Right now we’ve got his playmate pinned down, so I doubt if he’s getting any response. But this is bad shit, Thor. If he’s passing targeting information to the submarine, you need to be ready to take him out.”
Thor moved the Hornet back slightly from the MiG and climbed, settling into his favorite killing position on the MiG’s tail. The MiG gave no sign of noticing.
“What the hell is he thinking?” Thor wondered.
1550 Local
MiG 31
Yuri shifted uncomfortably in the cockpit, nervous about the American Hornet on his ass. It was something he was expecting, something he was equipped to deal with, but that didn’t make him any more comfortable.
If anything went wrong with the timing of his countermeasures, he could kiss his MiGand his assgood-bye. The Hornet was a formidable opponent, much more dangerous than the heavier and slower-turning Tomcat.
He glanced down at his radar scope and saw the distance-line indicator spooling down the numbers. Just before he reached the two-hundred-mile mark from the carrier, he turned back. It would be close, just as the mission was briefed. He only hoped the American’s range indicator was just as good.
1630 Local
ACN Bureau
Istanbul, Turkey
Mike Packmeyer leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. His skin felt oily, as though he’d been too long without a shower, and the small muscles in the back of his neck were starting to complain from the tension.
Nothing unusualit was always like this when a story was starting to roll off the wires. Hell, this wasn’t even a story yetjust a rumor. He stared at the phone, wondering if it could divulge any answers. After ten years in Istanbul, he had enough contacts to be able to track down almost any story. But this one was a little bit different.
The telephone call he’d just received outlined detailed preparations that Turkey was making for military mobilization. It puzzled him, since he hadn’t seen this sort of reaction before the attack on the USS La Salle.
Puzzled him, and worried him. Usually the people on the ground had at least some warning before an international situation went to shit, but there had been no such warning during the previous attack.
Why was Turkey spinning up now, after the attack?
Were they planning another strike?
Or was there something else brewing in the tumultuous region that he hadn’t yet tumbled to.
He sighed, felt a sharp stab in his gut, and wondered if his ulcer was kicking up again. It was almost a badge of honor, a medical complaint suffered by most front-line journalists. He kept a stash of medication in his upper right-hand drawer just to cope with this hazard of the profession.
Who could he call?
He ran over in his mind a list of contacts. Then he shook his head. No, if there were really something in the offing, he would need more than mere rumors. He needed some actual facts.
And where the hell was Drake?
That was another factor that worked against the story, incredible as that might be. If something significant were happening, Drake would be aroundshe always was. But he’d had no word from either her or her assigned cameraman in the last eight hours.
Another piece of the puzzle that bothered him.
Maybe it was just possible that Miss Drake’s luck was finally changing. Mike smiled gleefully, picturing the look on her face when she realized she’d missed the beginning of a major assault from Turkey on United States forces. Sure, there’d be an element of personal dangerthere was for all of them, even people like Packmeyer, who’d been in the region for over a decade. But that wouldn’t have stopped herit never had before.
No, if this were really a breaking story, Pamela would have been here.
Been here and been in the middle of it.
Then again…
Newsmen believe in the concept of luck almost religiously. It was an article of faith that each reporter carried his own particular type of luck with him, something that followed him or her around until the day the reporter committed some egregious sin and pissed off the powers that be. For a moment, he wondered if Pamela’s had finally started to evaporate. It would be a shock to her, one that most of her colleagues would watch with undisguised glee. They’d been scooped too many times, made to look like shirkers in too many parts of the world, not to view her downfall wit
h some small degree of relish and personal pleasure.
Well, this might just be the story that Miss Drake missed. Funny, he didn’t feel bad about it at all. Not at all.
The telephone rang, piercing his pleasant reverie. He frowned and stared at ithis private numberthen snatched it off the cradle.
“Packmeyer,” he snapped.
“Mike?” Pamela’s dulcet tones were unmistakable.
“Where the hell are you?”
Inwardly, he sighed. It looked like Pamela’s luck hadn’t left her after all. She was undoubtedly calling to report some of the rumors he’d just received from other sources.
“You’re not going to believe thisI’m on board the USS Jefferson. The carrier is headed through the Bosphorus Strait, as you’ve undoubtedly heard by now, probably en route to the Black Sea for offensive operations.”
Tersely, Pamela outlined her dramatic dive into the sea and subsequent rescue by the American helicopter. She concluded with: “I’m getting background information, some accessMike, you can take this for gospel. I don’t know what’s going on yetnot yetbut the Jefferson is a part of it.”
After five minutes, Packmeyer hung up the phone, his mood darkening.
Whatever thoughts he’d had about Pamela Drake’s luck disappearing had just been dispelled.
9
Sunday, 9 September
0700 Local
ACN Headquarters
Istanbul, Turkey
With his feet parked on the corner of his desk, Packmeyer leaned back in his chair and lifted his butt off the seat cushion. He stretched, feeling the tight muscles around his lower spine resist. It was a routine of his, a daily exercise to try to combat the inevitable backaches and joint problems he acquired as a result of his sedentary job. With the phone plastered to his ear, he started tracking down the story.
As he waited for a mid-grade career employee at the embassy to take him off hold, his second line rang. His private line, the one number that he gave to important sources. It was indicative of his relationship with the embassy that no one inside the United States government had that particular telephone number. He replaced the receiver on his public line, cutting off the bland music that had been serenading him for the last ten minutes while the attache got around to answering his call. He picked up the private line: “Packmeyer.”
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