"I do ― but thanks for reminding me."
I turned to Yuri. "I'll think about it, okay? No promises but I'll think about it."
"I can fly an F14," Yuri said unexpectedly.
"Off a carrier?" Tombstone demanded.
Yuri appeared to be about to elaborate, then shook his head slowly. "Only once. And I have never landed."
"Not good enough then. I'll think about the E2, that's all."
A sudden banging on my door distracted all three of us. I saw Tombstone jump; I wondered how long that startled reaction would stick with him.
"Admiral? Admiral Wayne?" The voice was all too familiar. I had taken the precaution of locking the door prior to starting the conference, but I was afraid that might not even be enough given who was on the other side of it.
Tombstone let out a low, involuntary groan. Yuri looked puzzled.
"Admiral, I know you are in there. I've got to see you immediately." The voice would brook no denial.
"In my stateroom," I said quietly to Tombstone. "Go ahead and take a shower ― you'll find a spare flight suit in there. Might be a little short on you, but it's better than that filth you're wearing. You too," I said, taking in Yuri with a gesture. "Scoot ― go hide."
Yuri's head swiveled back and forth between me and the door. "Who is it?" he asked quietly.
I looked at Tombstone, then grimaced. "A reporter ― Pamela Drake, ACN."
Yuri's face lit up. "I have seen her," he breathed. "May I meet her?"
Tombstone shot me a look of disgust, and I shrugged. Such are the consequences of exporting democracy and international news reporting around the globe. "Maybe. But not now. And I know Admiral Magruder sure as hell doesn't want to talk to her. Go on, both of you ― in my cabin until I get rid of her."
Tombstone and Yuri walked to the back of my room and slipped into the large bedroom just off it. The door shut, and I heard by the small click that Tombstone had locked it.
I went to the door of my office, unlocked it, and opened it suddenly. Pamela, who'd been about to knock on the door again, stumbled in. She recovered herself, placed her hands on her hips, and glared at me. "Where is he?" she asked.
"Where's who?" I tried for an innocent smile, knowing it wasn't coming off.
"You know who," she snapped. "Tombstone. He's on this ship ― I heard the 1MC announcement."
"Oh, that." I swore silently, wishing I'd remembered to tell the bridge to lay off the formalities. "That wasn't Tombstone ― it was someone else."
"Who?" Pamela demanded. As I fumbled for a quick answer, an expression of satisfaction crossed her face. "Yes, it was. Don't bother lying to me, Admiral. I know he's here."
"Even if he were, I'm under no obligation to put you in touch with him," I said stiffly. I hate being caught short fumbling for a lie. "I haven't even seen him myself yet. And you will recall, Ms. Drake, that you've agreed to limit your movements around the ship to those I have allowed for you. We clear on that?"
Pamela glanced around the room, and her smile broadened. "Oh boy, this is going to be a hell of a story," she said softly. "Admiral, you've got to let me talk to him. I know he's here."
"He's not," I answered roughly.
"You don't lie very well, Admiral." She pointed at the couch on which Bird Dog and Tombstone had been sitting. I turned, and one look at it told me where I'd made my mistake.
The soft, cream-colored fabric was coated with mud, dirt, and leaves. There were two large filthy patches on it, and a third slightly cleaner spot where Yuri himself had sat. I groaned despite myself.
"Listen, Pamela, for old time's sake ― can't you give the man a break?"
She crossed over to my sitting area, plopped her butt down on the one clean chair ― mine ― and smiled. "If you tell me what's going on and give me an exclusive, I promise to hold up on reporting it. How about that?"
"I could have you thrown in the brig," I offered, now goaded past the point of tolerance. Damn it, why did everybody on this ship feel like they were allowed to give me orders?
"Which worked so well the time that Tombstone tried it," she shot back acidly.
About that she'd been right. Although the confrontation in the Mediterranean had eventually escalated to just that contingency, the resulting furor that Tombstone had faced over tossing Pamela in the brig had only been mitigated by the criminal charges brought against her for interfering with military operations. Both sides counted it a draw, but the controversy that had raged made both sides bitter.
"Or just send you back to the mainland," I continued as though she hadn't spoken. "In fact, I'm inclined to do just that. Ambassador Wexler and Ambassador Than are planning on leaving tonight."
Pamela sucked in a quick breath. "Oh, really?"
"Yes." Although they didn't know it themselves yet. Damn it, the last thing I needed was for them to hear it from her. "At least, I'm pretty certain they will be," I amended, trying to give myself an out.
Pamela settled back in the chair, looking less and less inclined to leave my quarters voluntarily. "Well, perhaps I'll go with them. Or perhaps I won't. It depends on where the story is, and right now I don't know. I will ― by then I'll know."
That wasn't bragging, just plain fact. Pamela had a worldwide reputation for being able to sniff out the story at any locale. She operated on intuition and guts, showing up on scene before any other reporter and getting in the middle of the action faster than even the military forces. I pretty much knew what her choice would be, if things went as I thought they would. She'd want to be on Jefferson, trying to get the inside scoop on the attack.
Somewhere in the background, I heard the splashy sound of a shower starting. Pamela's eyes lit up. "And who is in your shower, Admiral?" she asked gently. "Could it be who I think it is?"
She was on her feet in a flash, heading for my bedroom door. I stood and tried to head her off, but she slipped past me.
She tried the knob, and discovered it was locked. She pounded on the door and hollered, "Tombstone! I know you're in there, damn it!"
I grabbed her around the waist and jerked her back. "You will not invade my private quarters," I said angrily. "Of everything you've pulled, Pamela, this is about the-"
The door slowly opened, and a clean, freshly flight-suited figure stepped out. It was Yuri.
He tendered one hand to Pamela Drake, and said in a voice approaching awe, "I'm Yuri Kursk. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Drake."
I heard Pamela suck in a hard, harsh breath, then transform her face instantly into a winning and sweet expression of welcome. "And a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kursk," she purred. She took him gently by the elbow, drawing him over to the corner of my room. "We've met before, haven't we? Or at least in passing."
"Met" was probably too strong a word. Pamela had finagled herself on board Jefferson during the last Mediterranean conflict, just before Yuri had planted a bomb outside Tombstone's quarters. I wondered what particular version of double-talk enabled her to come up with that interpretation.
"I am a great fan of yours," Yuri began, damn his hide. He was obviously completely taken with her, something I had suspected from the first moment he'd mentioned her name. "Perhaps we could talk."
"I'd like that very much," Pamela said, her teeth delicately nibbling on her lower lip. The smile was genuine now, warm and welcoming. "Could we go somewhere private? My stateroom perhaps?"
"No, you don't," I said. I grabbed Yuri by his elbow and snatched him back from her. "You're not to talk to her ― not about any of this. You don't understand what you're getting into, man. She could worm military information out of the Devil himself."