"Dinner will be served at six-thirty," I said finally, not giving either one of them a chance to table the matter for discussion. "I do hope that you, Ambassador" ― I nodded to Sarah Wexler ― "and you as well," I added, nodding to Than, "will be able to join me in my cabin for a private meal. Your staffs, of course, are welcome to dine with mine here in the Flag Mess."
"What a kind offer," Ambassador Wexler murmured. She cast a sly glance at me. "Of course, if there are matters that you and I must discuss privately, Admiral-"
"I would be pleased to accept as well," Than broke in smoothly. "An opportunity to get better acquainted with Madame Wexler."
"Fine," I said, trying to sound like a hearty and well-intentioned host. In reality, I'd just as soon have slit the little bastard's throat and thrown him overboard, but again ― my options were limited.
Just then there was a clatter at the door leading into the mess. The Chief of Staff stepped in, looking agitated. It's not something I'd often seen from him. "Admiral," he began, and then was interrupted by people crowding into the mess behind him. I took one look at the cameras, the microphones, and the tape recorders now filling my Flag Mess, and started to roar.
Ambassador Wexler saved me. She stepped in front of me, between the Chief of Staff and myself, and said, "A press pool?" She turned back to Than, her face frowning prettily. "There was no discussion of a press pool. Was there?"
Than said nothing. He merely motioned for the rest of the people to come into my Flag Mess.
"Because since there wasn't," Sarah Wexler continued, her voice turning hard and cold, "I think we'd both agree that this would be an unreasonable imposition on Admiral Wayne's resources. These things must be coordinated in advance, you understand. Not simply arranged without consultation."
I recognized those words for what they were ― diplomatese for sneaking around behind someone else's back. Sarah Wexler was pissed, almost as much as I was, but for different reasons. I stepped back and let her handle it.
"Admiral! Admiral Wayne?" A familiar voice, one that cut through my anger to knot my stomach back into a complicated tangle. I felt my heart sink as I realized who it was. The one voice I had never, ever wanted to hear on my carrier again.
Pamela Drake stepped out from the pack of reporters. Her hair was cut short now, a bright, shining brown cap above the delicately featured face. The brilliant green eyes were blazing now, alive with excitement and sheer joy at the frustration she knew she was causing me. She walked forward, nodded politely to Ambassador Wexler and Ambassador Than, then extended her hand. "So nice to see you again, Admiral."
Faced with the choice of being publicly rude or following Sarah Wexler's diplomatic lead, I took her hand gingerly. "It's been quite some time, Ms. Drake," I murmured, hoping that would be sufficiently neutral an expression to avoid offending her.
Pamela's smile broadened. "Oh indeed it has, Admiral," She said softly, "Far too long, I think." She stepped forward, hooked her arm in mine, and led me off to a corner before I could even react. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "The admiral and I are old friends. We have so very much to catch up on."
"Of course, my dear," Sarah Wexler murmured. She turned back to Than and began to speak the doublespeak of confrontation and innuendo that was her natural language at the United Nations.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded of Pamela. "How did you get out here? Don't tell me you've got them bamboozled like you used to do to Tombstone?"
"Bamboozled? Really, Admiral." A look of annoyance shot across her face. "Tombstone is a big boy ― he makes his own choices." Something in her voice told me that she had not forgotten those choices, not a single one of them.
"Besides, it's a free world," she continued, tossing her head. "If ACN gets me a billet with the Vietnamese news pool, what business is it of yours? I was the perfect choice, you know. After all," she said, her eyes gleaming maliciously, "I spent an awful lot of time on Jefferson. An awful lot."
I groaned inwardly, and cast a glance over at Sarah Wexler, hoping that she was going to be able to work something out with Than about this press deal. The last thing I needed was Pamela Drake on board my ship, the last thing of all. Her very presence had a way of making the most well-planned and smoothly coordinated evolutions disentegrate into a series of sound bites and confrontations, all featuring star reporter Pamela Drake as the winning party. On those rare occasions when she didn't get her way, that portion of the film was simply cut from the story. News at eleven.
"My usual stateroom?" Pamela asked. "As I remember, the last time I was on board, Tombstone had me in there under armed guard. I hope that won't be necessary this time."
I took a deep breath. "Listen, Pamela. I don't know how or where you wangled your way out here, but while you're on my ship, you follow the same rules as everybody else. No poking around in spaces you're not supposed to be in, no going off on your own and quizzing my crew. I'll make photo opportunities available to you, as well as access to some of my sailors ― if you can give me a good reason why I should ― but other than that, you're under the same restrictions as everybody else. Fuck with me on this, Pamela, and I'll have your ass off my boat so fast you won't know what hit you."
A look of outrage was beginning to spread over her face, and I continued before she could start to protest. "Remember, I'm not Tombstone. You might have had him pussy-whipped about some things, or maybe it was just out of respect for your prior relationship. Whatever the reason, he cut you some slack on occasion ― and you abused that trust, Pamela. Don't think I'll forget that."
"I'm here to do a job, Admiral," she said coldly. "That's all."
I looked at her levelly, ashamed that I was enjoying having gotten to her. "So am I, Ms. Drake. So am I."
9
Gator had been unconscious for a hell of a long time. I checked his breathing again, then his pulse, though I don't know what I would have done if either wasn't right. And I wasn't sure exactly how many breaths a minute he was supposed to be taking. As long as the chest was moving up and down, I had to be satisfied.
The dark was absolute now. They'd moved a heavy wooden barrier across the entrance, and must have put canvas on top of that, because there were no stray slivers of light creeping past it as there had been yesterday. It looked bad for the Gator and Bird Dog, I had to admit it.
The underground facility was dark and dank, and I had the feeling of being buried alive. I knew from seeing it in the daylight that the ceilings were a good seven feet tall, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it with the lights out. There were small pools of water on the floor, and a steady ominous dripping sound somewhere in the back.
I found Gator a relatively dry spot to lie on, and tried to make him as comfortable as I could. But there was no way to check and see how bad they'd hurt him ― they'd even taken away my flashlight during the interrogation. Interrogation ― that's what they'd called it. Back where I'm from, we call it something else ― beating the shit out of a guy.
Gator had already been hurt when we'd punched out of our aircraft, but at least the drugs had worn off. I'd been glad about that at first ― and that was my first mistake.
They'd let us wait for twelve hours, just about ignoring us except for shackling our feet together. Not that we could have gotten far anyway. Gator was in bad shape, still half asleep from the drugs, and I wasn't about to take off without him.
Finally, just as Gator started coming to pretty good, answering my questions and sounding just about like his old self, they came for us.