“You might not be able to,” he said, and the last card was finally played face up on the table. “Not unless your dues are paid. You don’t know the rules as well as you ought to.”
Oh, but I know the rules all too well. And you’re exactly right. They do allow us to be removed and prevent us from exercising our veto power if our dues are not paid.
“Thank you for the warning,” she said finally. “And your candor.” However much she might dislike what he had to say, she’d rather hear it now than on the floor. Unpleasant truths were still truths, and at least she now had time to prepare her response.
My response. Like what? Not my problem. The president and Congress have to deal with this one.
He unfolded himself from the chair, rising to loom over her. “I wish the news could be better. If you can find out what happened with that cruise liner, it might make things easier.”
“If I knew that, none of this would be necessary.” She walked him to the door, letting the conversation slide into polite chitchat. After he’d gone, she retreated to her office. She leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes, and let her mind roam free. What in the world could she possibly do?
She spent perhaps fifteen minutes examining the alternatives, and then picked up the phone. She dialed the number herself. When the president’s chief of staff came on the line, she said, “I have to talk to him. Now.”
Pamela Drake was delighted to learn that Cary Winston was truly ugly when she was angry. Something in the way her face flushed and changed coloration sufficiently to make her appear brittle and artificial. The darker skin color contrasted badly with her blond hair and turned her blue eyes from open and winning to feral and hungry. It was a shocking transformation.
Pamela noted that Jeff was staring at her with a tart expression of professional doubt. He caught Pamela’s glance and shook his head almost imperceptibly. No, Winston would not come across well on the camera. No amount of filtering or soft lens could mask the character now shining out of her face.
It wasn’t that a reporter had to be good-looking. At least, not anymore. Drake knew that now and, looking back over the last few days, felt a surge of quiet pride at her own conduct. Winston might be fifteen years her junior, but she was a century behind Drake in the things that really mattered.
“You can’t get away with this,” Winston stormed. “I won’t let you. The world has a right to know.”
“Not on my ship,” Coyote said coldly.
“Freedom of the press,” Winston began.
“Don’t you talk to me about freedom of the press,” Coyote shouted, pushed beyond all endurance. “It’s your type the causes most of the problems of the world, Winston.”
“You think you can do whatever you want to out here,” Winston snapped, the color rising even more in her face. “But you can’t. I won’t let you.”
Coyote took a step forward. “Why you little—” He cut himself off and stood rigid for a moment. Then he seemed to relax and regain that hard veneer of command. “You are quite mistaken,” he said almost conversationally. “I’m not barring the press at all. Miss Drake is welcome to stay, along with anyone else she is willing to vouch for.
“You, however, are a danger. Not only to my people and my battle group, but to your colleagues as well. God forbid that they should all be tainted by your reputation.”
Just then, Lab Rat’s errant lieutenant stormed into the room waving a piece of paper. “Sir, look at this! I think it was our missile that—”
“Shut up,” Lab Rat snapped, his voice as angry as Drake had ever heard it.
The lieutenant saw Winston then, and his face turned pale. “I thought she left on the COD! Sir, I wouldn’t—” The lieutenant shut up before he could do any more harm.
“Miss Winston was just leaving,” Coyote said, now fully in control of himself. “Now if you will all excuse me?”
The master at arms took Winston by the elbow. “Ma’am?” She struggled briefly and he jerked her out of the office.
Coyote waited until she was gone. “Okay, what have you got?”
“The initial analysis of the electromagnetic spectrum during the attack on Montego Bay,” the lieutenant said, his voice shaking as he realized the magnitude of his error. “Admiral, it looks like it could have been our missile that hit her.”
“Are you certain?” Coyote asked, his voice cold.
Lab Rat took the reports from the lieutenant. “No, Admiral.” He shot the lieutenant a stern look. “We are not certain, not until I have a chance to review the underlying data. You never get reports at this stage of the game. There are too many factors that go into validated conclusions.”
“Conclusions may not matter,” Drake said, with a perceptible trace of despair in her voice. “Not with Winston. As soon as she gets back to ACN, she’ll be broadcasting an update based on what she heard. Oh, sure, there will be some disclaimers. But the damage will be done. Admiral, it might be advisable for you to have your own update ready to go. Beat her back to the ground, if you will.”
“Or we could just have her arrested when she lands,” Coyote said. “Not a bad idea.”
“A very bad idea,” Drake said, now on solid ground. “Sir, the second you have her put into custody you will have just insured that every news organization in the world will run that as their top story. Winston will be a hero. She won’t be reporting the story anymore. She will be the story. And every civil rights organization in the country will get behind her.”
Coyote looked like he was about to argue, but Lab Rat broke in. “You’re right, of course, Miss Drake,” he said. He turned to the admiral. “We should have our own story ready to go. Our own twist on it.” He glanced up at the clock. “And we have about ninety minutes to get it figured out and on tape before she lands.”
There was an odd silence in the room as the officers contemplated the possibility that Pamela Drake was on their side. They looked everywhere except at her, trying to figure out some way around it. Many of them, she suspected, would warmly welcome the idea of arresting Cary Winston. But if she knew anything about the First Amendment and about the news media, it was that arresting Winston would be like pouring gasoline on fire. The results would be immediate, and deadly.
“Work it out,” Coyote said. “Twenty minutes — then brief me. Get moving, people. This is a different sort of war, but it is war nonetheless. Now move.”
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There was another moment of silence, and then Drake said briskly, “Well, you heard the man. Let’s get to work.”
The ambassador for Great Britain had not been wrong in his estimation. By the time Wexler finally finished briefing the president and obtaining his guidance, it was common knowledge within the corridors and foyers that the United States would be on the firing line that afternoon.
The president’s guidance had been less than helpful. Do what you can, he had said. She’d try to extract promises or commitments to pay the dues, but he was having none of it. Never had she known him to be so evasive and noncommittal.
As the delegates and ambassadors and their staff meandered into the assembly room, she watched carefully, assessing their positions based on which aisles each chose to walk down, whom they greeted along the way, and whether or not they looked over to meet her eyes. Her heart sank as she counted up the votes. Even those smaller nations she thought might remember benefiting from American intervention were questionable. Bangladesh, of course — she would not expect them to stand up against India. But Israel? And Turkey? American assistance in cash, trade, and military commitments played a large role in their economies. Could they forget that so easily? Certainly the present administration had been a supporter, if not always a strong one, of Israel. And Turkey had been the largest recipient of American foreign aid for decades. The American bases there were valuable additions to their economy.