The president nodded his approval. “I like it. It also shows that we’re not admitting culpability. Okay, let’s make that happen.” He turned back to the adviser. “Any other issues?”
“Just one,” the security adviser said. “It is not too soon to be thinking about our position if we are at fault. Will there be reparations? Exactly how will we handle it? I don’t think I have to tell you that the international repercussions will be severe and far-reaching.”
“You’re correct,” the president said.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll get my people started on—”
The president cut him off. “You are correct that you don’t need to tell me about the international repercussions. For the record, sir, I have every confidence in our people, our training, and our equipment. We were not at fault in this. I don’t know how, but I intend to find out.” He turned to the general, and saw the merest trace of a grim smile on the man’s face. “And pass that on to your people. This isn’t a witch hunt. It’s more like Ghostbusters. Okay, back here in ten minutes.” He gestured at the half-finished sandwich. “I’m going to choke that down, and I’ll meet you both in the situation room. Anybody hungry? Speak up if you are. It looks like it’s going to be long night.”
The ten minutes stretched into fifteen. Solar flare activity, the general said, had disrupted all communications. It took some time to get a clear line to Jefferson, and he’d had to resynch several times. In the end, he’d spoken to both the skipper and the admiral.
“It’s just as you thought, sir,” he said. “The admiral swears there’s no way they’re responsible. Yes, there was an anti-missile missile in the air, and yes, it overflew the Montego Bay. But there’s no way it hit the Montego Bay, Mr. President. No way at all.”
“The Russians aren’t agreeing with that, of course,” the security adviser said briskly. “They claim their data shows intentional targeting of the cruise ship.”
“And do they have any explanation for why we would target an American-flagged ship?” the president demanded.
The national security adviser shook his head. “No. They hinted that they believe their ship was the real target, and malfunctions in our own targeting resulted in the incident. But for some reason, they’re not screaming that at the top of their lungs — just whispering it.”
“Why, I wonder?” the president mused. “Any ideas?”
Both men shook their heads. “I didn’t think so,” the president said.
The lighting in the situation room was slightly dimmed, a condition the president found conducive to better briefs. He closed his eyes now, letting the facts tumble through his mind. None of it made any sense, none of it. Why would anyone nail an innocent cruise liner? There was no upside to that.
Unless she’s not an innocent cruise liner. Could there be something going on at JCS and NSA that I don’t know about? Possible, I suppose. If there was, that would make sense. It’s the only thing that does. So then the question is — why are they blowing smoke up my ass? Or do they really not know?
The president reached a decision. He opened his eyes and said, “I want everything we can get our hands on shipped to NSA for full analysis. General, order all forces to set DEFCON three. I want the Russians to know we’re serious.”
“But the escalation…,” the security adviser began, his tone incredulous. “Mr. President, if you do this, the Russians will go to a heightened state of readiness as well. This is how it starts, each side making a point, saving face until it all gets out of hand. We can’t risk it, sir. Not until we successfully test the system.”
The president fixed him with a cold glare. “It’s not open for discussion. Now do it.”
Drake was just rounding the corner when she saw Tombstone farther down the passageway. He was facing her, towering over Winston, who was blocking his way. Behind her, Jeff waited, his camera pointed at the deck.
“Why are you here?” Winston pressed as she stepped forward toward the former admiral. “Everyone knows you’re the expert in the naval conflicts, Admiral. Are you here to give Admiral Grant advice? Or to get an expert opinion on the cause of this disaster?”
“No comment,” Tombstone said, and stepped to the right. Winston matched his move, still blocking his way.
Drake could see Tombstone’s face go cold and hard. Even his normally impassive expression was frightening.
“I said, no comment.” Tombstone’s voice held impatience and irritation, although Pamela knew him well enough to know that one of his icy rages was coming on. Even she quailed before those.
Time to break this up. She started down the passageway. Tombstone looked up at her, and she thought she saw a trace of relief on his face. Drake planted one hand firmly in the middle of Winston’s collar, clamped her fingers down, and jerked back and to the right. Winston let out a howl of protest and tried to kick Drake. Drake held her at arm’s length, fury lending her strength. “Thank you for your time, Admiral Magruder. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Tombstone regarded the two of them with something that looked like amusement. “Thank you, Miss Drake,” he replied formally.
Just then, the door to the admiral’s mess opened and Admiral Coyote Grant and Captain Jack Phillips walked out. Both were in a towering rage. They immediately spotted Pamela, who was still holding Winston against the bulkhead. Phillips nudged Coyote, who sighed. “Let her go, Pamela,” Coyote said wearily. “I wish you’d done that a couple of hours ago.”
“Believe me, so do I.” She released Winston, who started to attack Drake. The cameraman caught the younger reporter by her elbow and shook his head warningly.
“Admiral, Captain — I had no part in this. I didn’t even know she left the room. I tried to head off the report but they’d already run with it. My apologies.”
There was no reaction from either man, and Drake knew the damage was already done. No doubt they had spent the morning fielding calls from their superiors, who would want to know why in the hell someone would make such a stupid comment to a reporter. Winston’s impromptu update would have far more international repercussions than she could ever have guessed.
“There will be a briefing for all media at ten o’clock,” Phillips said finally. “The dirty shirt mess. Which is, by the way, now where all the media will eat.”
“I see.” To be evicted from the flag mess was no great hardship, but it was a precursor of things to come. “And the flag mess?”
“Off limits,” Coyote said immediately. “As is this passageway. As is the bridge, Combat, and the flight deck, unless you’re accompanied by the public affairs officer.”
“You’re gagging us,” Drake said, disbelievingly. She had known it would be bad, but not this bad.
“Of course not,” Coyote said promptly. “We’re simply trying to make more use of your valuable time. After all, there are many areas of the ship you would not normally visit that we’ll arrange access to. The bakery, for instance. What a fascinating story, those bakers working through the night every night to produce all the ship’s baked goods. Cinnamon rolls, bread, pizza crust — it’s really quite impressive. And has there ever been a really good profile on garbage disposal at sea?” He turned to Phillips, as though directing the question at him.
Phillips tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “No, Admiral, I don’t believe there has been. But what an excellent idea.”