Hellfire

TWELVE

Captain Jack Phillips stood silently just inside the black curtain that protected the bridge from white light from the corridor, waiting for his eyes to adapt to the night. Around him, the quietly reassuring sounds of a normal watch. He knew he didn’t have to be up here. It wasn’t achieving anything except making the OOD nervous. But, under the circumstances, what did they expect? The major incidents at sea in two days — and how nice and sterile that sounded, the attack on the COD, calling the destruction of Montego Bay and the loss of a Hornet “incidents”—and paranoia was running rampant among the officers on board. And it wasn’t like he spent every hour up here, although he suspected that those times that he was away the XO and the senior department heads were covering the bridge. No, it was just that in some way he felt his presence on the bridge prevented anything bad from happening and was an encouragement to the rest of them.

It wasn’t, of course. Leaving them alone to stand their watches in their usual ways would show that he had complete faith and trust in his officers of the deck. And he did, of course. Otherwise they wouldn’t be OODs on his ship. It was just that — well — hell, under the circumstances, any CO would have spent a lot of time on the bridge.

But you’re not just any CO, are you? Maybe you’re more like everyone else than you like to think.

Maybe so. There was such a crushing sense of responsibility, commanding an aircraft carrier. And right now, right as things stood, he needed to be on the bridge. Had to be.

The Russian task group remained twenty miles to the east, carefully pacing the American carrier and her escorts. For a battle group supposedly on independent operations, she was spending an awful lot of time following the Jefferson around. Not that he could blame them. They’d probably claim that Jeff was following them.

So far, the coordinated search-and-rescue operations had gone fairly well. No further incidents, not even a near miss. It was bound to play well with the international community that this was a joint effort. It wouldn’t make up for what happened earlier, but it was a historic effort, almost on par with seeing the Russian ships listed as friendly forces during Desert Storm.

Two helos were just returning from three hours of searching the ocean below them. There had been no signs, not even floating debris or an oil slick. And of everything that had happened, that just didn’t make sense. They should have found something by now. The ocean wasn’t so rough that it would have destroyed all the evidence. And it would be another five days at least before they could call off the search. They couldn’t, no way, quit before the Russians did.

“Still nothing, sir?” he heard someone say quietly behind him. One of the new female officers, he supposed. Maybe that little redheaded one. Good sign that she was up here during her off-duty hours, keeping an eye on things, just like he was.

“No. And I doubt there will be. If we were going to find anything out there, we would have found it by now,” he said, without turning around. “But we can’t quit before the Russians do, you know. Not when it might be our fault. Until we know for sure—” He turned around to give the little redhead the benefit of his years of experience at sea, and saw Cary Winston standing behind him. Her mouth was slightly open, her finger on the play button of a recorder. And just as he was realizing he had stepped on his dick in the biggest possible way in front of the worst possible person, she said, “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the insight.”

“That was off the record,” he snapped.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. You didn’t say we were.”

“You ambushed me.”

“I simply asked a question. And you answered.”

“Dammit, you can’t do this!”

She held up a small tape recorder. The reels were still spinning. Phillips snapped his mouth shut.

“I think what the captain meant to say,” a confident voice said behind him, “was that we’re currently engaged in some complicated search-and-rescue maneuvers. To ensure that there are no distractions and to maintain the safety of both the bridge watch and our aviators, the bridge is closed to all visitors. Thank you for your cooperation.” The slim, regal form of Phillips’s public affairs officer stepped forward. Lieutenant Commander Brian Frank walked toward them until Winston had no choice but to back up or be run over. Frank held his arms out to corral her and herded her toward the exit.

As they disappeared behind the black curtain, Phillips heard Frank saying, “I believe you heard in the briefing that it is customary to ask permission to enter the bridge, particularly during night operations.”

Surely she couldn’t use what he’d said! This was intolerable, the reporters and news media invading his ship like termites. If they could surprise him on the bridge like this, they might as well be in his stateroom hiding in the head, reporting on what he sang in the shower.

A few minutes later, Frank reappeared. He let out a sigh of frustration and said, “Sorry, sir. I think I put the kibosh on it. They do know better than to pull that crap. At least, the experienced ones do.”

“No more reporters on the bridge. Or in any other area of the ship, other than their staterooms, the passageway, and mess.” Phillips spoke firmly, keeping his temper under control. “You’ll hold a daily press briefing for them. Twice a day, if you think it’s necessary. Any request for interviews with anyone on this ship must go through me. Except, of course, the admiral and his staff, and I’ll talk to him about dealing with his people. I’m going to put a stop to this right now.”

“Captain, I have to say, that’s not the best way to handle this.”

“And what is?” Phillips exploded. “They can’t get away with this, Frank. I can’t have them taking every comment somebody makes out of context and making a big deal out of it. Under the circumstances, we have to be careful.”

“Yes, sir, of course. But in the long run, it’s better to have them on our side, working with us. That way you can present a balanced picture in the press.”

“Stage a crucifixion, is more like it.”

But Frank shook his head, a determined look on his face. “No, sir, I have to disagree. These people have a job to do, just like we do. Okay, something went wrong out here. There’s no way you can keep that quiet. And if you alienate them, you’ll just convince them that we’re covering something up. Because that’s the first thing that occurs to me immediately, that there’s a cover-up. And there’s nothing like a cover-up or a gag order from the senior officers to get them hot on the trail. We need to work with them, not against them.”

“No more reporters on the bridge,” Phillips said stubbornly. “Or on the flight deck. And no more special tours of CDC or other operational areas.”

“Captain, perhaps if we could work out some way that—”

“You’ve got your orders, mister.” Phillips turned his back on his public affairs officer and stared out at the sea. Behind him, he heard Frank say, “Aye-aye, Captain.” There was a soft rustle as Frank parted the black curtains to leave the bridge.

Around him, the rest of the bridge watch team was deadly silent. They had all overheard the exchange — couldn’t help but, with the confined spaces — and were being very very careful not to piss the captain off.

Phillips strode to the right forward corner and climbed into his captain’s chair. It was elevated so he could see out over the flight deck, and the corner afforded him some degree of privacy if he wished it. Those who could gravitated toward the left side of the bridge, leaving him alone. Gradually, the normal comments and orders of the watch team began flowing around him again.

Phillips stared out at the ocean, thinking. First the collision and now this. How was he supposed to make it through this without falling on his sword, much less causing an international incident? It was like if they said anything, they would be admitting they were at fault or were trying to hide something. Everybody who worked in search and rescue knew that if they were going to find something, they would have found it by now. There was no point, other than political appearances, in continuing.

But like too many things, this was one instance where the truth simply could not be told. To the rest of the world, they had to maintain an optimistic front, continue to search, wasting man hours and fuel on what was surely a pipe dream. But it wasn’t something you could say out loud.

The moon was almost full and seemed unusually bright tonight. The reflected light shone down on the waves, illuminating the shadows between the troughs and casting a silvery glow over the ocean. It should have been quiet, peaceful, calm. But to Jack Phillips, it was anything but.

The cameraman could feel Winston’s barely suppressed glee. He tried to ignore it. It wasn’t really his job, was it? A cameraman shot when he was told to, got the best visuals he could, and tried to fit them to the story. It wasn’t up to him to decide what the story was, or how to tell it.

Was it?

Winston should have known better. It was her first time on a ship — hell, her first time covering a major story — and now she was playing with the big boys. From what he’d seen so far, she didn’t understand that the rules had changed.

And where was Drake? How come she hadn’t taken the kid under her wing, set her straight on the way things were? Drake would have never pulled anything like that on the bridge. First off, she would not have ignored the requirement to ask permission to come on the bridge. And if Winston had done that, everyone would have known she was there. But instead they had crept on like thieves waiting to ambush somebody. And he’d let it happen, knowing it was wrong.

Even if Drake had sneaked onto the bridge and gotten Jack Phillips’s comment, she would never, ever use it. Because even if what he said was true, even though no one had said the magic words “off the record,” she would have known that to use that comment would be to permanently close off that source of information. And the truth was that although the stories changed, the players didn’t.

This captain, for instance. If he played his cards right, he’d end up commander of a battle group, then maybe even higher than that. There’d be another time, another place, when he’d be at the center of the story. And if Winston used this ambush quote now, she could forget about ever being able to talk to him again. It was a question of long-term benefit vs. short-term.

It wasn’t just about Winston’s career, either. What she’d done reflected on all of them, ACN and all the networks. All of them. If she screwed the pooch on this one, they would all take the heat for it.

“Can you get an uplink?” she asked.

“Probably. The conditions look pretty clear.”

“Good. Let’s do it, then. Just a short update segment.”

Jeff shifted uneasily. “What does Drake think about it?” he asked tentatively, knowing that Drake had no idea this was going on.

“There’s no need to bother her about this,” Winston said levelly. “It’s just an update. Besides, it’s not like they’ll go live with it. If Control doesn’t like it, they’ll kill it.”

Well, she was right about that. There were other controls in place other than the good sense of a reporter. Still, he felt pretty uneasy with the idea of doing this without Drake knowing. They might be having their own pissing contest, but when it came down to it, they were all on the same side, weren’t they?

“Come on,” she said. She led the way down the passageway to a sponson, an open-air enclosed area low on the ship. “Power up.”

Jeff positioned the satellite dish, clamped it down, and waited for the tone. It came quickly, indicating he had a solid lock on the satellite. “Don’t know how long this will last. You’d better get it first take.”

“In five, four…” He counted down the remaining three numbers with his fingers, and pointed at her. Winston instantly aimed an expression of measured intensity at the camera.

“This is Cary Winston, on board the USS Jefferson. We have just learned that the situation is by no means as straightforward as was originally briefed. The captain of this carrier has just admitted that the attack on the Montego Bay might have been the result of a mistake on the American battle group’s part, not the Russians. This has a profound impact on the search-and-rescue efforts under way. Despite the public face of confidence that there are more observers to be found, the captain of the Jefferson expressed great doubts about the wisdom of continuing the search. He said,” she consulted her notes, “that if anyone was out here, they would have found them by now. Continuing the search now is merely a political maneuver, since the United States cannot justify terminating search efforts before the Russians do, particularly when the United States may be at fault.” Winston paused for a moment to let her damning words sink in. “This concern over politics may lead some to wonder just how sincere the rescue efforts are. If survivors are found, will they tell a story markedly at odds with the official United States Navy version of what happened?” She shook her head, looking grave. “At this point, it is a question of whether politics can be put aside long enough to save lives. Cary Winston, on board the USS Jefferson.”

She held her earnest expression a few seconds longer, until she saw the red transmit light blink off on the camera, and then relaxed. “How did I sound?”

“Pretty good.” Jeff was feeling even more uneasy, but she seemed to take the words as high praise. She smiled happily.

“That ought to shake things up a bit. Okay, let’s get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” Looking satisfied with herself, Winston led the way back into the ship and headed toward the stateroom she shared with Drake. Jeff watched her go, a sick feeling starting in his gut.

“Ouch!” Winston’s voice snapped Drake awake. Unused to maneuvering in cramped quarters in the dark, her roommate had stumbled over a chair on the way to her bed.

“What are you doing?” Drake demanded, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Just went to the bathroom,” Winston said. But the younger reporter’s voice was far too awake for that. Drake snapped on the small reading lamp over her bed. Its illumination revealed that Winston was fully dressed, not in a bathrobe, and carrying her recorder and notebook.

“Where have you been!” Drake was fully awake now and swinging her feet out onto the cold tile floor. “I told you, no solos.”

“I wasn’t alone. Jeff was with me.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“So be more specific next time. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some sleep.” Winston quickly shucked her clothes, flinging them over the chair she’d run into, and climbed into the top bunk.

Drake stood, and as the younger woman settled down in her rack, she grabbed her by her nightshirt and pulled her to the edge of the bed. “Who did you talk to?”

Winston let out a yelp of protest. “Just getting some background information and update on the rescue attempts.”

Drake took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. When she spoke, her voice was a model of murderous reasonability. “I am going to give you one more chance. Level with me now or I’ll see you get your young ass packed off this ship as fast as possible.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Want to bet?”

There was a long moment of silence, then Winston spoke sullenly. “We went up to the bridge to watch the helicopters coming back. And while we were up there, I talked to the captain.”

“And exactly what did the captain say?” Drake asked, horror starting to build.

“He said if there was anyone alive, they would have been found by now and there was no point in continuing the search.” Drake could hear the satisfaction in Winston’s voice.

“You can’t use that,” Drake said. “He didn’t know you were there, did he?”

“I just asked him a question.”

She would talk to Jeff, find out exactly what had happened. There was no way Philips would have said something like that to a reporter, no way at all. She had to have tricked him somehow, and Drake would find out the details. “Well, you can forget about using it,” she said firmly. “Not unless the captain specifically okays it. That’s taking him out of context.”

“I think we’ll let Control decide that,” Winston said, letting out a huge yawn. “You’re not the content editor.”

“You already sent it?” Drake couldn’t believe it.

“Yep. It was breaking news, so we sent it as an update.”

Drake grabbed her cell phone, pulled on her clothes, and headed for the passageway.

“Where are you going?” Winston asked, her voice for the first time showing a trace of fear.

“To try to undo the damage you’ve done.”

Alone on the sponson, Drake called ACN Control. She knew the editor on duty well, and he would put a stop to this once he understood how things were. When she got through to him, he said, after listening to her story, “Too late. I already ran it at the top-of-the-hour update.”

“You didn’t.” Drake swore silently.

“Yes, I did. Pretty good work for a new kid, isn’t it? Although, I have to say, it makes your evening update look pretty silly, Pamela. I have you standing there saying everything is going well and everybody’s trying hard, and then the kid brings in the quote from the captain saying they’re just going through the motions. If you were in my seat, which one would you run with? I have to say, it makes you look pretty stupid.”

“I don’t care about that.” Although, of course, she did. But there were other issues at stake here. “Then pull the spot. She ambushed him. We’ll never get another useful word out of him if you run it.”

“You’re a reporter, Drake,” the producer snapped. “Or have you been covering the Navy for too many years? If you’re willing to live with just what they tell you instead of going after the story, then it’s time we had someone like Winston out there. Now, unless you’ve got something useful for me, I’m a little busy right now.”

Drake charged back to her stateroom, her mind working furiously. She had no doubt that there were going to be major repercussions from this. The producer might understand what news was, but he had not a clue what it was like to work on board a ship, to try to get the story where every part of the story was classified. And when the captain and the admiral saw the story playing on ACN, she and every other reporter on board would be lucky if they were allowed to read press releases, much less report a story.