She paused again, to let her audience absorb the argument. She would have to repeat it several times, she knew.
While television was the most compellingly immediate news medium in the world, its listeners were not always particularly attentive. Many of them wanted the story wrapped up in sound bites, in a sentence or two of intelligent commentary that would form their political views both at home and at the polls. She thought for a moment, then decided to go with it.
“I call on the American government to aid and support these precious freedom fighters, who are the Cuban equivalent of our constitutional founding fathers.” She gestured off camera toward a group of people her viewers could not see.
“I wish that I could show you their faces as I see them.
Proud, determined, reflecting the knowledge that they know they risk their lives every day for the freedom of their country. How many of us can say the same?
“Instead of supporting these people, our government this morning embarked on a determined campaign to destroy them. This is unconscionable, and we should not stand for it.
Cuba is a great and historic nation, and her people are deserving of our support and our friendship.” She continued to stare at the camera as she recited her normal sign-off, then relaxed only after she saw the telltale red light over the video camera blink out. “How was it?”
Santana stepped away from his watchful position near her cameraman.
“Beautiful.”
1220 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
Batman slammed his hand down on the conference table, making most of his staff members jump. “Damn it, one of these days, I’m going to break her ever-loving neck!” He glared at the assembled officers, although they had nothing to do with his current mood.
The staff, hastily summoned from their other duties to watch the breaking news story, were equally horrified. That Pamela Drake had once been Admiral Magruder’s fiancee was no secret. Everyone in the tight-knit aviation community, as well as most officers outside of it, knew, and had followed the affair with interest. Their breakup over the Spratly Islands affair and Tombstone’s subsequent marriage to Tomboy had secretly delighted more than one. Tombstone needed to be kept inside the family, and that included his love life.
Batman sighed and leaned back in his high-backed chair.
He let the tension drain out of him as he stared at the still, watching faces around him. “Okay. She’s done it. So now what happens? You’d better believe we’re going to be besieged by requests for visits and briefings.” He pointed one finger at the public affairs officer. “Get it sorted out.
Now.”
“Admiral, I,” Bird Dog began.
Batman wheeled on him. “You keep your mouth shut, mister. You’ve done more than enough so far this cruise.”
He let the rage flood back, and focused on the lieutenant commander in front of him. “What in all hell’s bells gave you the idea of executing an aggressive decoy tactic? I’d bet my stars that Gator was trying to talk you out of it the entire time. Is that right?”
Bird Dog nodded, relieved that at least his RIO wouldn’t suffer his own public execution. After all, Gator had tried to stop him. He just hadn’t listened. As he hadn’t so many times before. “Gator had nothing to do with it. Admiral.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t just punch out and make you explain why you showed back up at the carrier without a canopy and a RIO,” Batman muttered. “Hell, I know I would have. Damned harebrained idea like that.” He intensified his scowl.
Bird Dog wilted visibly in his seat. Batman let it go on two beats longer, then said, “You’re grounded. You couldn’t expect anything else, not after this incident. There’ll be a full JAG investigation, at the very least.”
Or a court-martial. Batman let the words remain unspoken.
“Yes, sir.” Bird Dog started to say something else, then decided that anything he could or would say at this point would only dig his grave deeper.
“Now, for the rest of it. I’m tempted to say let’s get our story straight, but we don’t have any story. We simply tell the truth, that’s all. At this point, I’m inclined to simply treat Bird Dog’s little escapade here as part of an overall plan of operational deception. You all know the reason why. That, of course, remains top secret.” He turned back to the PAO again. “Figuring out how to put this all in one neat package is your job. Tell the truth as much of it as we dare but steer away from anything that could compromise the safety of that pilot. You got it?”
The PAO nodded. “Aye, aye. Admiral. I’ll have the executive briefing on your desk in one hour.”
“Make it thirty minutes.” Batman suddenly felt fatigue flood his body.
The next few hours-hell, the next few days were going to be an unmitigated public circus. He’d rather be taking five night traps in a row in a gale-force wind than face the media storm that was about to erupt. Had erupted, he corrected as he glanced back at the television set. ACN commentators were already clamoring for attention, asking pointed questions that were really snide comments on the ability of the U.S. military to control its forces.
“Nobody talks on this nobody but me and the PAO,” Batman said grimly.
“Everybody understand? I mean no cellular calls home, no talking to anybody.”
Around the large conference table, heads bobbed.
Submerged in his own misery. Bird Dog barely heard the words. He remembered Thor all too well, and the possibility that he’d done something to endanger the man’s life was all but intolerable. Pilots supported each other, worked as a team, not as loose cannons with their own agendas. Maybe Gator was right. He was rusty and dangerous in the air.
1230 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
“There’s nothing more I can tell you, Jim,” she said. She was on live feed to the noonday news, answering questions from the ACN anchor back in New York. She glanced at something pointedly off camera, then turned back to face the anchor she could not see. “I’m informed that we’ve spent too long in this location. We’ll have to leave. To stay any longer would compromise my safety, and, quite frankly” the rueful grin appeared again”I’ve had enough of that for one day. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more details.”
“Thank you, Pamela,” the anchor said sanctimoniously.
“Do make sure that you” The rest of his words were cut off as Pamela signaled to the cameraman to terminate the feed. Headquarters had a tendency to try to micromanage every breaking story. And while the missile attack on the fishing boat might not be the big story she was sure she’d eventually report, it would do for the time being.
She turned to Santana and asked, “Where are we now?”
It had been dark, the sun at least thirty minutes from rising when they’d come ashore. There’d been a ride in a truck, bumping along concealed in the back of a deuce-and a-half army vehicle, then a hurried trot into this building. She’d tried to look around when they arrived, but her hosts had kept her moving too quickly for her to absorb more than the vaguest details of the area around her, which was shrouded in predawn gloom. “I’d like to know.” She made her voice insistent.
“You agreed to be covered by our operational security rules,” Santana said shortly. He turned away from her and walked toward the door, moving quickly. “One of our first rules is that people know only what they need to know. If you are captured or when you are returned to the United States you will not be able to divulge this location if you don’t know it.”
“I’ve been here since six a.m” she snapped. “Trapped in one building with no windows. Do you think it would compromise your ‘operational security’ if you gave me something to eat?”
Santana stopped at the door and gestured to an aide. “Get her some food. Keep her here.” He shot one look at her, a small expression of minor annoyance, then left the room, banging the door shut behind him.
Pamela heard a bolt slide home as he left.
She turned back
to the other freedom fighter her guard, she now realized. She forced her face to relax and produced a friendly smile.
“Any choices on the menu? I’m a pretty fair cook, if you’ve got the raw ingredients. I’ll bet you’re hungry now, too.”
The guard stared impassively at her, no expression of understanding on his face.
“You do speak English, don’t you?” she pressed. She took two steps toward him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody if you commit a fatal sin by having some lunch with me.” She smiled prettily. “I do so hate to eat alone.”
Something in the guard’s expression softened. While it would have been pressing it to call it a friendly look, at least it was a change from the cold, impassive face he’d shown before. “I promise, I won’t even ask you any questions about all this,” she continued, waving her hand at the surrounding area. “Not a word. It’s just that I’m a long way from home, and I’m not used to people trying to blow me up before breakfast.”
The guard nodded finally. “We have American MREs,” he announced, a note of pride in his voice. “Very nourishing.”
Pamela groaned inwardly, but maintained the agreeable expression on her face. It wasn’t this fellow’s fault, not at all. He couldn’t know how many times she’d eaten MREs and the C-rats that were their predecessors while in pursuit of a story in some exotic locale. And as for the incident this morning well, it had shaken her, but she’d had worse times. Like in Beirut. Like in Bosnia. Sure, physical peril always produced a sense of danger once it was past, coupled with a renewed realization of one’s own mortality, but this certainly wasn’t as terrifying as her experiences in Bosnia had been. There, pinned down by a sniper, she’d had to wait until the UN forces cleared the area.
She and her cameraman had subsisted on the ubiquitous MREs then, mixing the instant drink mix with water they’d collected in their helmets.
She shuddered at the thought.
“MREs? Why, that would be very nice.” She reached out to accept the gray vinyl plastic bag the man handed to her.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked. Seeing his expression, she continued quickly, “To open the bag, of course. Here, I can let you do it for me.”
The man grunted, then ripped through the heavy container with his knife. He tendered the open MRE back to her.
She paused for a moment to study the writing on the outside of the plastic, then groaned. Egg and ham omelet.
Her least favorite of all the varieties, almost as bad as the pork patties in the old C-rats. Only the small bottle of hot sauce included in each MRE made the omelet palatable.
Still, as she dug into the main entree with her fork, she reflected that it was better than being shot at. Barely.
Just as she was holding up a package of dried crackers for her guard to open, a bloodcurdling scream from the next room echoed in the air. She jumped and dropped the package. The guard bent over to pick it up.
For a moment, she fantasized about slamming her hand down on the back of his neck, stunning him, and somehow escaping the building. No, that was wrong. These were her friends, weren’t they? Her sources, at least. Whatever was happening in the next room was not a glimpse into her own future.
She hoped.
Thor lost consciousness abruptly, the tail end of his scream still fading in the room as he slumped down in the wooden chair. The ropes held him semi-upright.
“Very attractive,” Santana noted. He walked around the chair studying the pilot from all angles. “Yet you still have no answers.” He stooped down in front of the pilot and stared at Thor’s crotch. The pilot’s flight suit had been peeled off and lay in a crumpled pile at his feet.
“I believe the electrical lead to the left testicle is coming loose,” Santana said finally. He stood up and walked back over to the table.
“Have the Libyans check it.”
1245 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
“TAO reports small gunboats approaching the carrier,” the operations officer told Batman. “None of the larger vessels, though. I suppose that’s a blessing.”
“Don’t discount those small boats. It doesn’t take a military genius to figure out that they caused us some real problems.” Batman’s voice was tired.
The TAO frowned. “A twenty-four-foot attack vessel versus an aircraft carrier?”
Batman shook his head. “Don’t think of it in terms of tonnage. Think of it in the big picture. What happens if we run over those boats? We simply lend credibility to Drake’s story, that’s all. Worse, there are some ways they can hurt us slow us down, at least. What if they get in our way? We have to avoid them, don’t we? Especially given this morning’s events. Add the fact that they can carry Stingers on board, and we’ve got a real problem.”
“How much trouble is one Stinger? They’ve got a range of less than two miles.” The TAO frowned.
“Maybe, maybe not. Remember the speculation on the TWA downing, that it was done by a longer-range Stinger, an improved version of the one we’re familiar with. Those little puppies are manufactured all over the world now, and who’s to say there haven’t been some radical improvements in them? Besides, what can you tell me about our hangar doors right now?”
The question caught the TAO off guard. “The hangar doors?” He shrugged. “Not much, I guess. They’re open right now, I imagine. I have them open in this heat.”
“Exactly my point. What’s one Stinger shot into the hangar bay going to do to us? How many aircraft will be set on fire and I assume it’s still crowded down there before we get it put out? How much fuel will go up in flames? And how many missiles are down there? Any? I know that they’re not supposed to be, but” “I get your point.” The operations officer looked thoughtful. “We may need to shut the doors anytime small boats come around.”
“Then we end up with heat exhaustion. The temperature in that space is gonna climb like a bat out of hell.” Batman looked grim. “Not many good choices, are there?”
There were, he thought as he watched the operations officer stride out of the room, hardly any good choices left in the world at all. Not down here, not for the USS Jefferson, And not for one Admiral Edward Everett Wayne, in command of Carrier Group Fourteen.
1400 Local (+5 GMT)
Fuentes Naval Base
Leyta looked skeptical. “You’re sure about this?”
Santana nodded. “Completely. I’ve got four people who saw that aircraft returning to the carrier, and there were no empty spots on its wings. It hadn’t fired a weapon.”
“How could they tell? In foul weather, at some distance?”
Leyta looked doubtful.
“They could tell.” The quiet confidence in the man’s voice lent weight to his statement. “The background you don’t want to know, but they could tell.”
Leyta tossed the folder he’d been studying across the desk, wincing as it collided with a pencil holder and spilled its contents all over the floor. “It’s almost like the way we fight a war, isn’t it? Tossing things around, wondering what they’ll knock over? Never really any planning? So now what?”
Santana bent over and started to gather pencils up from the floor, leaving the report facedown where it lay. “It depends. We can continue to blame it on the Americans or we can use it against the current regime. Either option poses problems.” He looked up at Leyta and lifted one quizzical eyebrow.
“Starting with dividing our own movement,” Leyta said, finishing the other man’s thought. “Regardless of how much we disagree about methodology, Aguillar and I want the same thing a free Cuba. He just wants it to be free under the United States’ protection and I want it to be a part of the world. No more insularity; no more being a farm plantation for the United States, either. A free Cuba, our Cuba. What we always dreamed it could be.” He paused for a moment, staring down at the report on the floor without seeing it.
“But you don’t care about that, do you? Not really.”
Santana shrugged. “You might be surprise
d what I care about. If I had to pick sides, I’d be on yours, not Aguillar’s.
Although in this scenario ” Again, the shrug that resigned all their fates to an indifferent god. “I’m not really sure what’s the right course. Maybe we wait. The Libyans are only a means to an end securing our freedom with superior firepower. Outside of that, it makes very little difference to me who runs the government. As long as it’s not Castro.”
“We wait,” Leyta echoed. It was something they were good at they’d been doing it for decades, if not centuries.
“Although I may drop a hint to look into the details of this in a couple of important places. You know the type I mean.”
“I don’t need to. You do what you think is best, my friend.”
1420 Local (+5 GMT)
The Pentagon
“I saw the same report you did.
Admiral,” Tombstone Magruder said, his voice cold and emotionless. “I have no information other than that.”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff studied him carefully. “You understand, I find that hard to believe.” He left the rest of the thought unsaid because of your relationship with Pamela.
Tombstone stiffened. “Miss Drake no longer clears her stories through me. Not that she ever did. The only control I ever had over them was when she was on my aircraft carrier and I had to transmit her reports.”
And that went over really well, he remembered quite clearly. The illustrious Miss Pamela Drake had not taken kindly to having her precious copy edited or redacted. While Tombstone had found it necessary to do that on occasion to protect the security of the operation, he’d never enjoyed it. Particularly not the aftermath.
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