“She was regional. This is the big league.”
“And I think she’s ready for it.” Carter’s gaze softened slightly. “You’ve done enough for female reporters, Drake. However you got your start, you’ve carved out a broad path for the women coming up behind you — no pun intended. You’ve made it so that a kid like Cary has a shot based on her ability. Now, the outside package does matter, but it’s the same for men as well. It’s part of on-camera presence. The important thing is that she didn’t have to screw anybody to get this job, and that’s in part thanks to you.”
“Great.”
“So,” Carter continued, ignoring the mutinous expression on his star reporter’s face, “I expect you to show her the ropes. Sure, you may have to step on her a couple of times. I heard what happened out there. There’s no way she’s got the people skills yet to get in some of the places that you can. I don’t expect you to share your entire contact book with her, either. She’ll have to develop her own. But at least give her a shot, Drake. You know that if she ever pushed it to the breaking point, we’d take you over her without a second thought. She’s not a threat to you.”
“I’m not afraid of her,” Drake said. She picked up the two videocassettes. “I’ll take a look. See what’s she’s got. Then I’ll decide.”
Just then, Winston knocked once, then stepped into the room. She strolled over to Carter’s desk and handed him a computer printout. Then turning to include Pamela, she said, “It’s your ship. The Jefferson. The Russians just shot up a cruise liner right next to her.”
“Let’s roll,” Carter snapped, still staring at the printout as he spoke. “Drake, you’re on it. Take your own camera people and whoever else you want. Marcia, arranged transportation. Jim, get on the phone and get the usual clearances. I want a presence on that ship within the next twelve hours, people. So move!”
Around him, people sprang into action, following a well-practiced drill. Marcia, Carter’s personal assistant, picked up the telephone and speed dialed ACN’s travel department. “Party of two?” she asked, looking at her boss.
Carter didn’t answer immediately and Drake felt her heart sinking. No, not right now. Not on this one. “Carter, I can—” she started.
“No. Three. Drake, one camera, and Winston. Might as well hit the deck running, Cary.”
Drake groaned silently, but turned to face Winston with a calm, professional expression. “Get moving. Pants, comfortable shoes, personal items for two weeks. Two bags, no more. On-camera outfits, a dress if you want — you won’t need it, but take one anyway.” She pointed at Winston’s high-heeled shoes. “One pair, no more. Now move. I’ll meet you at the airport in three hours,” she continued, mentally running through the flight schedules in her mind. “Marcia will have us take a direct flight to San Diego, and from there we’ll try to get Navy transport. We may have to continue on to Hawaii and fly out from there, but that’ll get us out with the State Department and the military.”
Winston’s jaw was hanging open. She recovered and began scribbling notes on her notepad. “So we’re going to—”
“Two hours,” Drake said. “At the airport. That’s all you need to know right now.”
Carter regarded her with a slight smile. “If you ever call me high-handed again, I want you to think about this little incident.”
“Who the hell do you think I learned it from?” Drake snapped.
SEVEN
Ambassador Wexler was having a hard time concentrating on the debate raging across the floor of the general assembly of the United Nations. The gist of it was a conflict that seemed to involve most of the eastern part of Africa. The differences that divided the factions went deeper than religion or race, although in public those were the most hotly contended issues. But the real problem lay far deeper.
For more centuries than most nations could count, the continent had been primarily tribal in nature. Ancient societies had grown and flourished around leaders who could unify factions, and a sense of identity that came with a strong tribal system provided a real source of stability. But the transition from a strongly decentralized government to the form of unified nation government that was necessary to conduct business in the modern age had proved troublesome for the continent. As a result, other nations had imposed their wills on her, along with their governments and their cultures, without looking beneath the surface of the “heathen” culture.
Other nations’ answers were not the right answers for Africa, no more then America’s answers were right for Russia. The peoples of each region had to find their own way, their own expression of community line that reflected the culture from which they had grown.
The ambassador had a sense, watching the debate raging around her, that points were being made by either side in ways that she only vaguely understood. Water rights, land, yes — those she understood. But she could tell from the reaction of other African nations that she was missing many of the subtleties.
Well, no doubt the State Department analysts would be over in the morning to fill her in on their interpretation. There were some good people there, people who had lived and worked in the countries they studied, and she valued them for their ability to provide some context to the arguments, insight into what was really going on.
But the problem with State was that sometimes they identified a little too strongly with their areas of expertise. They were ready to send in the troops — American troops — as a universal solution. And military force wasn’t, not really. Peace came from within, not imposed from outside.
If there ever really were such a thing as peace. There were days when she suspected that war was simply an innate part of human nature, one that could never be successfully repressed for long. She shook her head, marveling at the reasons people found to kill each other. But then again, an outsider looking into the United States would probably find some of her hot spots equally baffling.
There would be no votes called on the arguments presented today. She shifted in her chair, careful to keep her expression neutral. She had no clear sense of what the United States stand should be on any of the issues addressed, and she didn’t want to inadvertently signal a position that didn’t exist.
Her aide, Brad, appeared by her side. He crouched down next to her and passed her a hastily written note. “President wants you in DC ASAP,” it said. She lifted one eyebrow while her mind ran across the various possibilities. Nothing immediately sprang to mind. The world seemed oddly quiet at the moment, at least as far as America’s concerns went.
Brad shook his head. He was only the messenger boy on this one. “No details. He just wants you there.”
ASAP. And just what does that mean? Leave the floor during the debate, giving the impression that America isn’t concerned?
She glanced up at the clock, and saw that only five more minutes remained in this session. She flashed five fingers at Brad, who nodded. He would get back to the office and let the White House know, and five minutes seemed a small delay under the circumstances.
As the debate built to a climax, with all parties realizing that time was limited, and trying to get in the last word, she knew it had been the right decision.
The president was alone in the Oval Office. As alone as a president ever is, of course. Secret Service agents were stationed outside his door, not entirely comfortable with being excluded, but reassured because they were on home ground. The senior agent had worked for three presidents, and understood well that at times the constant surveillance and company, even though quiet and unobtrusive, could drive a man crazy. Every president that he had served with had moments when he simply insisted that he’d be alone, even if just for a few minutes. So the president was granted his privacy and, behind the closed doors, was luxuriating in it.