“That’s it, then,” Coyote said. “Now at least we can concentrate on figuring out what happened.” He turned to head back into the ship, then stopped. “You know you’re still restricted,” he said, his back still to Pamela. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with this, but I can’t take any chances right now. If their laser system is fully operational, then we’re at a real disadvantage.”
“Yes, Admiral. I understand. But I’ve got an idea,” she answered. And a way to redeem myself.
“Right.” The admiral undogged the hatch and pulled it open.
“Seriously. Just listen for a second. If it’s insane, I’ll spend the rest of my time happily pumping out human interest stories for my hometown newspaper. But if it’s not, it might make a difference.”
She studied the face of the men around her. Distrust, anger, even hatred. She wasn’t sure she could blame them. “You need to know what’s going on over there. And, to be frank, we owe you one. We’ve already done some damage. Now, let us do some good.” She held up one hand to forestall comment. “I’m not asking you to trust me. That would be too much. But you know the Russians have issued an open invitation for the international press to come on board and see what they have to say about the incident. Just let me go over there — see what they have to say. I might hear or see something that could make a difference.”
All the officers turned toward Coyote. He was silent for a long moment then said, “Even with the restrictions we have put on you here, you’re bound to have overheard things that the Russians would find very interesting. How do I know you’re not going to pass information to them that would be very dangerous to us?”
“Our business is gathering information, not spying,” she said coldly. “Yes, there are two sides to every story, and we try to tell both. But even though we’re an international news agency, I am an American. I’m not going to slant the story, but if I happen to overhear something that might be useful to you, I can include it in the story. Just like Winston did. But this time, it would cut the other way.”
There was a longer moment of silence, then Coyote turned to Tombstone. “What you think?”
Tombstone studied her, as if trying to see if there was any difference between the woman in front of him now and the woman he had been engaged to marry. Evidently what he saw reassured him. He turned to Coyote and said, “I’m inclined to let her have a shot at it. Miss Drake,” he said, turning back to her, “you are a royal pain in the ass. But you are our pain in the ass. Not theirs.” Transferring his gaze back to Coyote, Tombstone continued, “I suggest you get Lab Rat to brief her on what we’re looking for. That way if she stumbles across something, it may have significance for her that it wouldn’t otherwise.”
“Right,” Coyote said. “Well, Drake, you’ve got your shot at it. Don’t blow it.”
The helicopters began arriving shortly after dawn. Many of them were rated for nighttime flights and could easily have arrived at the Russian transport within a few hours of the announcement. The Russians, however, saw no need to incur the risks inherent in nighttime operations simply to satisfy the world’s curiosity a few hours earlier. They insisted that no one would be permitted on board until after first light. As a result, by the time the sun was rising, there had been two near misses between helicopters waiting just over the horizon to approach.
The Russian swore quietly as he surveyed the radar screen. At last count, there had been eight helicopters inbound, and the latest news from shore indicated that two more had just taken off. The flight deck was going to be far more crowded then he liked, but that couldn’t be helped. They’d said they would accommodate everyone who wished to visit, and accommodate the reporters they would.
One helicopter was approaching from the direction of the American battle group. It was ACN, with the inestimable Miss Pamela Drake. He’d seen her work before, and followed her reports on the United States Navy. A team of analysts studied every one of her reports in fact, alert for any possible inadvertent disclosure of classified data. Most reporters assigned to military units tripped up sooner or later, and valuable technical details filtered into their reports. He’d watched with grim amusement as American efforts to insist on prerecorded reports were shot down. America’s vaunted freedom of the press was one of Russia’s most viable intelligence resources.
But today he wasn’t going to let the reporters turn the tables on him. He wasn’t intending to brief any classified details, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a mistake. He made a mental note to remind everyone to be cautious about providing any information. Everything had to be cleared by the public affairs office, everything. The political officers were controlling the release of information, and the entire evolution had to be carefully stage-managed. The sailors to whom the reporters would talk would be intelligence officers posing as average sailors. The tours of the ship would be conducted through tortuous routes, with some passageways blocked off and every turn intended to disorient the reporters. Every moment would be carefully crafted to give the illusion of complete and open access to all areas of the ship. That could not have been further from the truth.
“Bring the ACN helicopter in first,” the Russian said, acting on impulse. “This one.” He jabbed a finger at the helicopter coming from the Jefferson.
“Yes, sir, and what about the other ACN helos?” the air traffic controller answered. Two more ACN helicopters were awaiting permission to land, carrying additional reporters and technical crews.
“Bring them in order with the rest,” he said. Perhaps Miss Drake would take note of the fact that she would be the first one on board.
Drake leaned forward to stare down at the flight deck as the helicopter hovered, then slid slowly sideways, transitioning from forward flight to hovering over the steel deck. The downdraft from the rotors beat against the deck and ricocheted back up, introduced a roiling into the helicopter’s stability. But the Seahawk pilot was an expert and carefully maneuvered the helicopter directly above the landing spot before lowering her gently down. She touched down with barely a jolt.
Even before the rotors began slowing, a group of Russian sailors formed up as an honor guard on either side of the hatch. They didn’t wear hats, but other than that they were attired in their best dress uniform. The wind from the downdraft whipped their neckerchiefs and jumpers around, making them flutter.
“I’d appreciated it if they could have waited a couple of minutes,” Drake’s pilot grumbled. “Just what I need, a bunch of Russians to worry about during shutdown.” He sighed and glanced over at his co-pilot. “Let’s get this over with fast. You start.” The two ran through the checklist in record time, and finally powered down the rotors. The noise level began dropping immediately, and the Russian sailors seemed more at ease. Finally, the crew chief unbuckled from his seat and stood, facing the passengers. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Just like we briefed. Everybody follow me and stay close. This isn’t our ship, people. What you don’t know can get you killed.”
Drake unbuckled her harness and stood, stretching as she did. It had been a short flight, but the constant pounding vibration seemed to resonate in her bones still. Jeff groaned as he slung his gear over his shoulder, clearly feeling some of the same discomfort. Around them, the other passengers stretched as well.