“I understand. But think about the positive side of it. You’d become known as someone who contributed to world peace, you know. It could stand in good stead if you ever have a political career after the navy. That wouldn’t be entirely bad, both in your country and in mine.”
If I get home. She was certain that he did not want anyone in the United States studying his picture. Particularly not anyone who might be associated with the CIA. Or the State Department.
“Very kind,” he murmured. “But I think not.”
“Let me get to it,” her cameraman said. He hoisted his camera to his shoulder. A red light came on. He moved slowly around the laser, shooting from every angle. As she watched, she could see the lens refocus slightly as he picked up the consoles along the bulkhead on one pass, the laser on the next. He moved in a slow, surefooted way, the camera remarkably steady. Then he shot from above, and from below, carefully traversing the entire length of the laser. She noticed that the PIO found reasons to move around the compartment, evading the camera’s eye.
“That’ll do it for now,” the cameraman said finally. “Stills now. Color and black and white, you think?”
“Yep. Let’s get everything we can,” she answered. She moved over to stand behind the laser column and let her hands rest easily on it. “This okay?”
He studied his light meter for a moment, the shook his head. “Won’t do. Hold on, I’ll fix it.” He dipped into his bag and extracted a small, powerful strobe. He mounted it high on the bulkhead with some temporary double-sided tape, and then ran the cord to his other hand. “Ready.”
She pasted a bright smile on her face, then held her arms out to give some perspective to the length of the laser. “Serious face now,” he ordered. He was in charge at this moment, not her. Drake obligingly assumed a serious expression. A suspicion started to grow in her mind and she could feel it reflected in her face.
“Good, good — look down, now. Like you’re studying it. The look you used in Cuba, you know. That made some good shots, really good. That time when you were outside worked best, I thought.” He was chatting now, unusual for him since his normal mode of communication was grunted commands and terse orders. She didn’t have to ask. Now she was certain.
She tensed, ready. “Okay, here we go,” he said. She dropped her hand down low on the laser, ready to move.
He glanced back at the political officer and said, “Now!” Her fingers shot into her pocket and she grabbed the fake crystal. At that moment, the light mounted on the bulkhead flashed in blinding light, so bright it seemed to burn through her closed eyelids and scorch her skin.
Intent on watching her, the information officer let out a sharp yelp. He spat out a few words that had to be curses. Then the light flashed again, and again, the strobe bursts coming so close together that it seemed to be one continuous blast of light.
Drake moved quickly, her nimble fingers flying over the laser, popping the catch, extracting the crystal, and slipping the other one into its place. Metal against metal as it slid home, a grating noise. She coughed to cover the noise.
She need not have bothered. Moving quickly, her cameraman jammed a cloth over the information officer’s face. He went down almost immediately, dead weight. The cameraman lowered him easily to the floor. Then, extracting a roll of duct tape from his pack, he quickly bound the other man hand and foot, then slapped a strip of tape across his mouth. He dragged him into a corner and propped him up against a wall.
Drake watched, stunned. She could not believe what she was seeing. Who was this commando that looked like her cameraman?
He glanced up at her. “You okay?” She nodded dumbly. “Then let’s get moving. We’ll lock the hatch behind us and head for the flight deck. You remember the way?”
“I think so.”
“Between the two of us, we can find it. Now move!”
He detached the light from the bulkhead and slipped it into his bag, then led the way out of the compartment. He waited until she had left, then pulled the door shut and spun the lock dial. He tried it and saw that it was locked. “Act confident.”
They strode down the passageway, acting as though they had every right in the world to be wandering around a Russian warship unescorted. Pamela greeted the few sailors who met her gaze as they made their way back to a ladder they both remembered. They went up and emerged onto the flight deck.
As soon as they stepped into view, their helicopter’s rotors started turning. They moved across the deck purposefully, not running, but not loitering either. With any luck at all, it would take the Russians a few moments to tumble to what was happening.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Drake said, fastening her harness. She was surprised to see her fingers starting to shake. “The faster, the better.”
Pamela Drake was no stranger to fear, but this was entirely different. There was nothing she could do, nowhere to run. The helo’s top speed wouldn’t have kept a fighter aircraft airborne, and the pilot couldn’t even use that, for fear of generating suspicion.
So she was obliged to sit in the back and say nothing, sweating inside the harness that held her in her seat, the crystal, in her hand, in her front pocket. The forced inactivity made everything worse.
“Seahawk One, Home Plate,” a voice said over her headset. She was tuned into the tactical chatter on the net. “Condition red — Russian cruiser has activated targeting radar. Be advised that all indications are that they are about to launch on you.”
“They’re what?” the pilot shouted in disbelief. “They can’t do that.”
“That’s what we told them, Seahawk. But they seem to believe that you have something in your possession that belongs to them. Understand, we’re transmitting on an unsecure circuit so they can hear your response. Now is the time to come clean, Seahawk. Tell us what’s going on so we can make arrangements to work this out.”
“Pamela, what the hell?” the pilot said.
“What?” she snapped. “You think I have something to do with this?”
The pilot made no response.
“Seahawk, hit the deck,” a voice snapped. She recognized it as that of Tombstone Magruder.
“Roger,” the pilot said even as he shoved the collective forward and headed for the surface of the ocean.
“What’s going on?” Pamela asked, fear making her regret her earlier denial.
“We’ve got a chance down here. Keep one hand on your harness release latch, the other on your seat. If you see the side door open, get the hell out of Dodge. You got that?”
“Jump out of the helicopter?”
“Unless you want to be a welcoming committee of one for a missile, yes,” the pilot said dryly. “You may not have noticed but we’re a little short on countermeasures or electronics. This is a commercial helicopter, lady — not a military one. And short of simply trying to get lost in the haze — which, I might add, is a zero probability event — discretion is the better part of valor. I’ll keep us as low as I can, but you be ready to move.”
Pamela stared at the ocean, which had seemed closer just moments before. Now it looked dangerously distant. How far was it, anyway? Fifty feet? Thirty feet? She had no idea. Her fingers were already moving over her harness, making sure she could get it off quickly.
“Seahawk, incoming!” the circuit shouted.
“Now!” The pilot shoved the collective forward, dropping them down until the skids seemed like they must be cutting through the waves. He slammed the hatch open. “Go now!”
The brief maneuver had taken them measurably closer to the water. Pamela bolted out of her seat, stepped forward, and, without bothering to consider what might wait for her below, jumped. She cleared the skids by two feet, and the fall seemed to take no time at all. She plunged into the ocean, the impact driving the breath out of her lungs, as did the cold current below the surface.