Arsenal

SEVEN

Pamela Drake glanced at the clock mounted on the cinderblock wall on the other side of the room. The minute hand quivered just millimeters away from the twelve. Good morning, she decided, not good afternoon. That would make her report sound all the more timely.

And timely it was. That they were here on a Cuban naval base had pissed her off at first. She’d blasted off at Aguillar, certain that he’d lied to her about getting the real story.

But his explanation had satisfied her and not even surprised the cynical part of her mind that always doubted the sincerity of any military organization. That the Cuban navy part of it, at least had cordial relationships with both Leyta and Aguillar made sense.

She ran her fingers one last time through the shining cap of brown hair that topped the face more Americans knew than that of the vice president. She took a deep breath, concentrated on centering herself, the normal routine for appearing on camera. Finally, as the minute hand clicked over to the upright position, she nodded at the cameraman.

“Good morning. This is Pamela Drake, reporting from Cuba for ACN.

This is a live report from the westernmost Cuban naval base. In keeping with my agreement with my host, I will not divulge any further details other than to say that the location of this particular installation is well known to the United States government.

“This morning, at approximately four a.m the American government sparked another round in the increasingly escalating tensions between Cuba and the United States. For the past two weeks, the presence of an American battle group allegedly conducting routine operations off the coast almost within the territorial waters of our neighbor has caused increasing concern on the part of the Cuban government. This day, those concerns were made real.

“As you know, American citizens are not allowed to visit Cuba.” She gave a small, rueful smile. “Restrictions on our First Amendment rights have never prevented ACN from being the first to bring you every story around the globe.

That dedication to our basic constitutional guarantees of freedom led to the American aggression this morning that almost killed me.”

Pamela paused for a moment, and repressed an involuntary shudder that threatened to work its way up from the base of her spine to her shoulders. There was no need to show fear with her command of her voice, every member of her watching audience was already experiencing it. She’d survived; that was enough. She took a deep breath and continued.

“I have no doubt that the American military establishment will try to deny their involvement in this incident. This murder, I should say.

However, I will not let that happen. I was there. I saw it. An innocent fishing boat, transporting freedom fighters to a clandestine meeting, was intentionally destroyed by an American missile. Whether or not the United States knew I was on board one of those ships, I refuse to speculate. However, you may draw your own conclusions.

“During a time when the American government has decided its national interests required a formation of a Trilateral Commission, extensive participation in a new world order, and recognition of the impact economies in other nations have on our own, it is particularly disturbing that we ignore our neighbors to the south. The circumstances are made worse by the fact that there are opposing opinions about the proper relationship between Cuba and America. The American government claims that political uncertainty may lead to the loss of investment capital if trade relations are opened with Cuba, and may be taken by the world community as a movement of support for this dictatorship. The U.S. appears solely concerned with dollars these freedom fighters, these men and women, risk their lives. If we can spend fifteen years in a war to try to support democracy on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, how can we rationalize failing to support these people in their struggle against Castro?”

She paused again, to let her audience absorb the argument. She would have to repeat it several times, she knew.

While television was the most compellingly immediate news medium in the world, its listeners were not always particularly attentive. Many of them wanted the story wrapped up in sound bites, in a sentence or two of intelligent commentary that would form their political views both at home and at the polls. She thought for a moment, then decided to go with it.

“I call on the American government to aid and support these precious freedom fighters, who are the Cuban equivalent of our constitutional founding fathers.” She gestured off camera toward a group of people her viewers could not see.

“I wish that I could show you their faces as I see them.

Proud, determined, reflecting the knowledge that they know they risk their lives every day for the freedom of their country. How many of us can say the same?

“Instead of supporting these people, our government this morning embarked on a determined campaign to destroy them. This is unconscionable, and we should not stand for it.

Cuba is a great and historic nation, and her people are deserving of our support and our friendship.” She continued to stare at the camera as she recited her normal sign-off, then relaxed only after she saw the telltale red light over the video camera blink out. “How was it?”

Santana stepped away from his watchful position near her cameraman.

“Beautiful.”

Batman slammed his hand down on the conference table, making most of his staff members jump. “Damn it, one of these days, I’m going to break her ever-loving neck!” He glared at the assembled officers, although they had nothing to do with his current mood.

The staff, hastily summoned from their other duties to watch the breaking news story, were equally horrified. That Pamela Drake had once been Admiral Magruder’s fiancee was no secret. Everyone in the tight-knit aviation community, as well as most officers outside of it, knew, and had followed the affair with interest. Their breakup over the Spratly Islands affair and Tombstone’s subsequent marriage to Tomboy had secretly delighted more than one. Tombstone needed to be kept inside the family, and that included his love life.

Batman sighed and leaned back in his high-backed chair.

He let the tension drain out of him as he stared at the still, watching faces around him. “Okay. She’s done it. So now what happens? You’d better believe we’re going to be besieged by requests for visits and briefings.” He pointed one finger at the public affairs officer. “Get it sorted out.

Now.”

“Admiral, I,” Bird Dog began.

Batman wheeled on him. “You keep your mouth shut, mister. You’ve done more than enough so far this cruise.”

He let the rage flood back, and focused on the lieutenant commander in front of him. “What in all hell’s bells gave you the idea of executing an aggressive decoy tactic? I’d bet my stars that Gator was trying to talk you out of it the entire time. Is that right?”

Bird Dog nodded, relieved that at least his RIO wouldn’t suffer his own public execution. After all, Gator had tried to stop him. He just hadn’t listened. As he hadn’t so many times before. “Gator had nothing to do with it. Admiral.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t just punch out and make you explain why you showed back up at the carrier without a canopy and a RIO,” Batman muttered. “Hell, I know I would have. Damned harebrained idea like that.” He intensified his scowl.

Bird Dog wilted visibly in his seat. Batman let it go on two beats longer, then said, “You’re grounded. You couldn’t expect anything else, not after this incident. There’ll be a full JAG investigation, at the very least.”

Or a court-martial. Batman let the words remain unspoken.

“Yes, sir.” Bird Dog started to say something else, then decided that anything he could or would say at this point would only dig his grave deeper.

“Now, for the rest of it. I’m tempted to say let’s get our story straight, but we don’t have any story. We simply tell the truth, that’s all. At this point, I’m inclined to simply treat Bird Dog’s little escapade here as part of an overall plan of operational deception. You all know the reason why. That, of course, remains top secret.” He turned back to the PAO again. “Figuring out how to put this all in one neat package is your job. Tell the truth as much of it as we dare but steer away from anything that could compromise the safety of that pilot. You got it?”

The PAO nodded. “Aye, aye. Admiral. I’ll have the executive briefing on your desk in one hour.”

“Make it thirty minutes.” Batman suddenly felt fatigue flood his body.

The next few hours-hell, the next few days were going to be an unmitigated public circus. He’d rather be taking five night traps in a row in a gale-force wind than face the media storm that was about to erupt. Had erupted, he corrected as he glanced back at the television set. ACN commentators were already clamoring for attention, asking pointed questions that were really snide comments on the ability of the U.S. military to control its forces.

“Nobody talks on this nobody but me and the PAO,” Batman said grimly.

“Everybody understand? I mean no cellular calls home, no talking to anybody.”

Around the large conference table, heads bobbed.

Submerged in his own misery. Bird Dog barely heard the words. He remembered Thor all too well, and the possibility that he’d done something to endanger the man’s life was all but intolerable. Pilots supported each other, worked as a team, not as loose cannons with their own agendas. Maybe Gator was right. He was rusty and dangerous in the air.

“There’s nothing more I can tell you, Jim,” she said. She was on live feed to the noonday news, answering questions from the ACN anchor back in New York. She glanced at something pointedly off camera, then turned back to face the anchor she could not see. “I’m informed that we’ve spent too long in this location. We’ll have to leave. To stay any longer would compromise my safety, and, quite frankly” the rueful grin appeared again”I’ve had enough of that for one day. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more details.”

“Thank you, Pamela,” the anchor said sanctimoniously.

“Do make sure that you” The rest of his words were cut off as Pamela signaled to the cameraman to terminate the feed. Headquarters had a tendency to try to micromanage every breaking story. And while the missile attack on the fishing boat might not be the big story she was sure she’d eventually report, it would do for the time being.

She turned to Santana and asked, “Where are we now?”

It had been dark, the sun at least thirty minutes from rising when they’d come ashore. There’d been a ride in a truck, bumping along concealed in the back of a deuce-and a-half army vehicle, then a hurried trot into this building. She’d tried to look around when they arrived, but her hosts had kept her moving too quickly for her to absorb more than the vaguest details of the area around her, which was shrouded in predawn gloom. “I’d like to know.” She made her voice insistent.

“You agreed to be covered by our operational security rules,” Santana said shortly. He turned away from her and walked toward the door, moving quickly. “One of our first rules is that people know only what they need to know. If you are captured or when you are returned to the United States you will not be able to divulge this location if you don’t know it.”

“I’ve been here since six a.m” she snapped. “Trapped in one building with no windows. Do you think it would compromise your ‘operational security’ if you gave me something to eat?”

Santana stopped at the door and gestured to an aide. “Get her some food. Keep her here.” He shot one look at her, a small expression of minor annoyance, then left the room, banging the door shut behind him.

Pamela heard a bolt slide home as he left.

She turned back to the other freedom fighter her guard, she now realized. She forced her face to relax and produced a friendly smile.

“Any choices on the menu? I’m a pretty fair cook, if you’ve got the raw ingredients. I’ll bet you’re hungry now, too.”

The guard stared impassively at her, no expression of understanding on his face.

“You do speak English, don’t you?” she pressed. She took two steps toward him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody if you commit a fatal sin by having some lunch with me.” She smiled prettily. “I do so hate to eat alone.”

Something in the guard’s expression softened. While it would have been pressing it to call it a friendly look, at least it was a change from the cold, impassive face he’d shown before. “I promise, I won’t even ask you any questions about all this,” she continued, waving her hand at the surrounding area. “Not a word. It’s just that I’m a long way from home, and I’m not used to people trying to blow me up before breakfast.”

The guard nodded finally. “We have American MREs,” he announced, a note of pride in his voice. “Very nourishing.”

Pamela groaned inwardly, but maintained the agreeable expression on her face. It wasn’t this fellow’s fault, not at all. He couldn’t know how many times she’d eaten MREs and the C-rats that were their predecessors while in pursuit of a story in some exotic locale. And as for the incident this morning well, it had shaken her, but she’d had worse times. Like in Beirut. Like in Bosnia. Sure, physical peril always produced a sense of danger once it was past, coupled with a renewed realization of one’s own mortality, but this certainly wasn’t as terrifying as her experiences in Bosnia had been. There, pinned down by a sniper, she’d had to wait until the UN forces cleared the area.

She and her cameraman had subsisted on the ubiquitous MREs then, mixing the instant drink mix with water they’d collected in their helmets.

She shuddered at the thought.

“MREs? Why, that would be very nice.” She reached out to accept the gray vinyl plastic bag the man handed to her.

“Do you have a knife?” she asked. Seeing his expression, she continued quickly, “To open the bag, of course. Here, I can let you do it for me.”

The man grunted, then ripped through the heavy container with his knife. He tendered the open MRE back to her.

She paused for a moment to study the writing on the outside of the plastic, then groaned. Egg and ham omelet.

Her least favorite of all the varieties, almost as bad as the pork patties in the old C-rats. Only the small bottle of hot sauce included in each MRE made the omelet palatable.

Still, as she dug into the main entree with her fork, she reflected that it was better than being shot at. Barely.

Just as she was holding up a package of dried crackers for her guard to open, a bloodcurdling scream from the next room echoed in the air. She jumped and dropped the package. The guard bent over to pick it up.

For a moment, she fantasized about slamming her hand down on the back of his neck, stunning him, and somehow escaping the building. No, that was wrong. These were her friends, weren’t they? Her sources, at least. Whatever was happening in the next room was not a glimpse into her own future.

She hoped.

Thor lost consciousness abruptly, the tail end of his scream still fading in the room as he slumped down in the wooden chair. The ropes held him semi-upright.

“Very attractive,” Santana noted. He walked around the chair studying the pilot from all angles. “Yet you still have no answers.” He stooped down in front of the pilot and stared at Thor’s crotch. The pilot’s flight suit had been peeled off and lay in a crumpled pile at his feet.

“I believe the electrical lead to the left testicle is coming loose,” Santana said finally. He stood up and walked back over to the table.

“Have the Libyans check it.”

“TAO reports small gunboats approaching the carrier,” the operations officer told Batman. “None of the larger vessels, though. I suppose that’s a blessing.”

“Don’t discount those small boats. It doesn’t take a military genius to figure out that they caused us some real problems.” Batman’s voice was tired.

The TAO frowned. “A twenty-four-foot attack vessel versus an aircraft carrier?”

Batman shook his head. “Don’t think of it in terms of tonnage. Think of it in the big picture. What happens if we run over those boats? We simply lend credibility to Drake’s story, that’s all. Worse, there are some ways they can hurt us slow us down, at least. What if they get in our way? We have to avoid them, don’t we? Especially given this morning’s events. Add the fact that they can carry Stingers on board, and we’ve got a real problem.”

“How much trouble is one Stinger? They’ve got a range of less than two miles.” The TAO frowned.

“Maybe, maybe not. Remember the speculation on the TWA downing, that it was done by a longer-range Stinger, an improved version of the one we’re familiar with. Those little puppies are manufactured all over the world now, and who’s to say there haven’t been some radical improvements in them? Besides, what can you tell me about our hangar doors right now?”

The question caught the TAO off guard. “The hangar doors?” He shrugged. “Not much, I guess. They’re open right now, I imagine. I have them open in this heat.”

“Exactly my point. What’s one Stinger shot into the hangar bay going to do to us? How many aircraft will be set on fire and I assume it’s still crowded down there before we get it put out? How much fuel will go up in flames? And how many missiles are down there? Any? I know that they’re not supposed to be, but” “I get your point.” The operations officer looked thoughtful. “We may need to shut the doors anytime small boats come around.”

“Then we end up with heat exhaustion. The temperature in that space is gonna climb like a bat out of hell.” Batman looked grim. “Not many good choices, are there?”

There were, he thought as he watched the operations officer stride out of the room, hardly any good choices left in the world at all. Not down here, not for the USS Jefferson, And not for one Admiral Edward Everett Wayne, in command of Carrier Group Fourteen.

Leyta looked skeptical. “You’re sure about this?”

Santana nodded. “Completely. I’ve got four people who saw that aircraft returning to the carrier, and there were no empty spots on its wings. It hadn’t fired a weapon.”

“How could they tell? In foul weather, at some distance?”

Leyta looked doubtful.

“They could tell.” The quiet confidence in the man’s voice lent weight to his statement. “The background you don’t want to know, but they could tell.”

Leyta tossed the folder he’d been studying across the desk, wincing as it collided with a pencil holder and spilled its contents all over the floor. “It’s almost like the way we fight a war, isn’t it? Tossing things around, wondering what they’ll knock over? Never really any planning? So now what?”

Santana bent over and started to gather pencils up from the floor, leaving the report facedown where it lay. “It depends. We can continue to blame it on the Americans or we can use it against the current regime. Either option poses problems.” He looked up at Leyta and lifted one quizzical eyebrow.

“Starting with dividing our own movement,” Leyta said, finishing the other man’s thought. “Regardless of how much we disagree about methodology, Aguillar and I want the same thing a free Cuba. He just wants it to be free under the United States’ protection and I want it to be a part of the world. No more insularity; no more being a farm plantation for the United States, either. A free Cuba, our Cuba. What we always dreamed it could be.” He paused for a moment, staring down at the report on the floor without seeing it.

“But you don’t care about that, do you? Not really.”

Santana shrugged. “You might be surprised what I care about. If I had to pick sides, I’d be on yours, not Aguillar’s.

Although in this scenario ” Again, the shrug that resigned all their fates to an indifferent god. “I’m not really sure what’s the right course. Maybe we wait. The Libyans are only a means to an end securing our freedom with superior firepower. Outside of that, it makes very little difference to me who runs the government. As long as it’s not Castro.”

“We wait,” Leyta echoed. It was something they were good at they’d been doing it for decades, if not centuries.

“Although I may drop a hint to look into the details of this in a couple of important places. You know the type I mean.”

“I don’t need to. You do what you think is best, my friend.”

“I saw the same report you did.

Admiral,” Tombstone Magruder said, his voice cold and emotionless. “I have no information other than that.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff studied him carefully. “You understand, I find that hard to believe.” He left the rest of the thought unsaid because of your relationship with Pamela.

Tombstone stiffened. “Miss Drake no longer clears her stories through me. Not that she ever did. The only control I ever had over them was when she was on my aircraft carrier and I had to transmit her reports.”

And that went over really well, he remembered quite clearly. The illustrious Miss Pamela Drake had not taken kindly to having her precious copy edited or redacted. While Tombstone had found it necessary to do that on occasion to protect the security of the operation, he’d never enjoyed it. Particularly not the aftermath.

“And I certainly had nothing to do with her being in Cuba,” he continued as a new thought struck him.

“No one said you did. But with your prior relationship, and with you now in command of the Southern Forces, it does look suspicious. You understand that.”

Tombstone nodded, feeling his throat tighten. What was the chairman leading up to? Had there been a decision to relieve him of command because of events far beyond his control, simply based on his prior relationship with a reporter? Was that fair? And, he finally asked himself, would he really care? To his surprise, he did. As tempting as it might be to chuck his entire naval career and not a bad one at that, finishing up with two stars on his collar and simply relax into his marriage with Tomboy, start off on a new civilian career, he couldn’t do it.

Part of it, he admitted, was the sheer headiness of command. As commander. Southern Forces, he had operational control of everything south of the Equator. That included the massively burgeoning continent of South America and liaison with all the foreign navies there. It was an opportunity to build on shaky relationships that were barely in their infancy, to create peace instead of making war, for once. It seemed like a fitting capstone to his career thus far, which had consisted mainly of fighting first the Soviet Bear and then the Chinese Mongoose that had sought to dominate entire parts of the world.

Am I power-hungry? He considered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. Yes, it was true that all the ruffles and flourishes that went with his current position were easy to get used to. And he was eternally grateful for the fact that his uncle had found him a posting in an operational force and not consigned him to a desk in the Pentagon. An expensive, highly polished desk, but a desk nonetheless.

If you couldn’t fly and he was far too senior for that then the next best thing was command of operational forces. And at his current pay rate, even command of a carrier battle group was beyond his reach.

“If the chairman lacks confidence in my abilities,” Tombstone began, finally having reached his decision.

The chairman cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be asked that enough times in the media.

But never here. I’m just trying to prepare you for what’s ahead.”

“A public hanging?” Tombstone’s voice was harsh. “I have that to look forward to?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” A speculative gleam lit the chairman’s eyes.

“There might be another option.”

“And what would that be?” Tombstone asked.

“Send you back to sea.” The chairman’s face threatened to smile, but never really got quite that far.

“Back to sea!” Tombstone’s heart thudded as he considered it. But how? And why? “You mean as a” For the second time in as many minutes, the chairman cut him off. “I mean that we might form up a two-carrier battle group to resolve this matter. Or, given the way Senator Williams is talking, a carrier and an Arsenal ship battle force not just a battle group. Seems to me that that rates more than one star in command.” He waited for his astonishing proposal to sink in.

For one of the few times in his life. Tombstone was at a loss for words. To go back to seaGod, yes. He’d give anything to simply be around the aircraft that had been his life for the first twenty-five years of his career, to roam the flight deck again, listening to the hard thunder of finely honed jet engines and the squealing rake of catapult wires across the deck. “How probable is that?” he asked finally, not daring to ask the other questions hammering in his head.

The chairman leaned back in his chair. “From where I sit, very probable. You know the commander of the carrier group, don’t you?”

Tombstone almost laughed. “Yes, Admiral Wayne is an old friend.” And you damned well know that, you sneaky old bastard. But why be so coy about it?

“How do you think he’ll feel about it?” the chairman asked. “Because what we’ll want on this, quite frankly, is a positive spin. I don’t need any disgruntled admirals squabbling over seniority arguments, not if we’re going to rehabilitate you and resolve the situation at the same time.”

“Batman won’t be a problem,” Tombstone said. But, for a moment, he wondered. How eager would he himself have been to have an old shipmate turn up to take over tactical command of this scenario? “He’d stay as CARGRU commander.”

“Of course.” The chairman stood up abruptly. “Give it some thought.

What’s best for you; what’s best for this country of ours.”

“I will, sir.”

“Get back to me tomorrow. I should have more information then,” the chairman said in dismissal.

Santana walked across the open, muddy field. The thick black dirt clumped on his boots, moist and lumpy. Ahead of him, the partially constructed missile launcher was completely exposed, its sheltering shield of canvas pulled back.

He walked around the installation, two aides trailing in his wake.

From the daily reports he’d been receiving, he would have expected it to be much more complete much more looking like it was about to be operational. His gaze wandered to the long metal boxes arrayed next to the crane.

An impressive achievement, to be sure, but without the launchers they would be nothing.

“When?” he asked. He saw his two aides glance at each other uneasily before the more senior of them spoke.

“Two weeks, I believe. According to our Libyan technical advisors.”

Santana restrained the urge to spit in the dirt. “When have they been right about anything? Not the schedule, not the American operations, not anything.” He stopped abruptly, gazing at the stacked weapons, his eyes caressing them.

“The only thing they have managed to do correctly is deliver the weapons, and even those are worthless without the launchers.”

“Sir, the American battle group perhaps if we ignore them, they will leave us alone?”

Santana whirled on him. “You would allow them to continue to invade our territorial waters? To mock our very sovereignty?”

“No,” the aide said in a shaky voice, “not at all. However, I have an idea that might prevent further intrusions into our airspace. And I think you might find it particularly appealing, under the circumstances,” he continued, his voice gaining strength. “May I explain?”

Santana bit back angry words and nodded abruptly. The aide was the son of one of his oldest friends, and showed occasional signs of astute operational thought. It would not do to let his own temper prevent him from hearing what must be best for his mission, not at all.

“Continue.”

Ten minutes later, Santana’s earlier rage had vanished as quickly as the mist had over the water. “A fine plan, my friend,” he said, and clapped the man on the shoulder. “I think that will work just fine.”

“A week from tomorrow?” Bird Dog said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “That’s quick.”

The ACOS Ops glared up at him from his seat at the desk.

“You want to drag this out? I thought you hated being behind a desk instead of in a cockpit.”

Bird Dog swallowed hard. “Of course I want to get it over with. It’s just that” The ACOS cut him off. He spoke, his voice softer than it had been before. “Listen, son, it’s never easy going to a FNAEBa Fleet Naval Aviator Evaluation Board. I went once myself made a couple of bad passes at the boat back when they were starting to downsize, and a guy who didn’t like me decided he might try to railroad me. It was painful, but nothing you can’t survive. The basic question they’re asking is whether or not you’re safe in the air.” He stopped, and looked quizzically up at Bird Dog. “Are you?”

Bird Dog nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m a damned hot stick. It’s just that the other day …” His voice disappeared to nothing.

“You weren’t thinking,” the ACOS finished. “You just pulled a damned foolish stunt, and now you’re going to a FNAEB board. Okay, stand up and take it like a man.

Maybe it will make you think twice next time you get a wild hair up your ass.”

And maybe there won’t be a next time. Bird Dog added silently. The FNAEB had the power to revoke his designation as a naval aviator, leaving him permanently grounded.

Would he stay in the Navy if it came to that? Of course not absent the sheer joy of flying the F-14 Tomcat, the rigors of military life held no real attraction for him. Then there was Callie … ah, Callie.

He’d spend more time with her, maybe start a second career no, he decided, none of that would make up for losing his designation as a naval aviator. To know that he would never again fly the screaming Tomcat at Mach 1 plus, buzzing around the superstructure of an Aegis cruiser to annoy the captain, chasing MiGs through skies so blue they looked translucent, or screaming over the tops of waves with the spray flashing to steam in his afterburner fire. No, nothing was worth losing that nothing.

“I’ll be ready, sir. And thank you.

The ACOS nodded abruptly. “Get out of here. And be readythat’s all I can tell you.”

The night sounds of Cuba drifted in the front door, finally reaching Pamela Drake in the back room of the building.

The air was still warm, heavy and humid, scented with the exotic blooms and heavy vegetation around the base.

“How much longer?” she demanded of her guard. “I came here to report a story. I can’t do that stuck in one room.”

The guard shrugged. ‘We sea.” He eyed her carefully.

“You stay here,” he continued, evidently the entire extent of his English language abilities.

Pamela sighed and resumed pacing around the room.

Something to kick, she decided. No, maybe a scream. How did one say “rape” in Spanish? Surely that would bring someone with enough power to resolve this situation, she fumed.

Forty feet away, Mendiria was asking the same questions.

“You can’t keep her here forever.” He touched his mustache, smoothing the stiff bristles down against his face. They sprang back up as soon as he released them, producing a bushy caterpillar on his upper lip.

“And why not?” Santana demanded. “We have control over everything she releases from here. And when she cooperates …” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “She travels without notifying her own authorities, no doubt. If something happens to her, who will be able to say that we are at fault? An illegal entry into our country, during a time of so much turmoil? The guerrilla sone cannot trust them. They are, as the Americans say, unpredictable.” He smiled, too-large white teeth catching the light from the bare lightbulb overhead.

“But what is the point?” the Libyan persisted. “I see no advantage to us. The longer she remains here, the sooner she will figure out she does not have freedom to travel where she wishes. Her interest in supporting us will burn away as the sea mist in the morning sun. There is no gain to us.”

Santana leaned forward across the table, resting his elbows on the rough wooden surface. He reached over, grasped the other man by the wrist, and pulled him toward him. The Libyan resisted slightly, but stopped with his brass button of his uniform rubbing against the edge of the table.

“No advantage? Think! The Americans understand this sort of situation now, after Desert Storm. There are Americans here, as you well know.

They come whether as news reporters or tourists, illegally sneaking into our country, still they come. You understand the implications from a tactical sense, at least?”

“I see no advantage,” Mendiria repeated. “Simply more victims if” He stopped abruptly and considered the matter. A slow smile, as large as the one on the face of his colleague, crossed his face. “Hostages.”

Santana nodded. “Exactly. If it comes to that. Do you really think that they will target their smart bombs on this facility, knowing that their star television reporter is being held here against her will?

Especially one so attractive as Miss Pamela Drake? While she might not have planned aiding our cause in this way, she will be instrumental in safeguarding us against cruise missiles.”

Mendiria sighed. “I was wrong to doubt you. My apologies. On the surface it seemed” Santana cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “It is nothing between friends. We have lived close to America for a long time now. Perhaps we understand them a bit better, yes?

But you agree?”

The Libyan nodded vigorously.

“There she is. Admiral,” the S-3 pilot said over the ICS.

“Just where she’s supposed to be.”

Tombstone clicked a brief acknowledgment. Two thousand feet below them, as they entered the starboard marshal pattern, the USS Jefferson plowed through the seas like an implacable weapon.

He wondered if the Cubans knew just how much trouble they were in with Jefferson off their shore.