Hellfire

SIXTEEN

Drake, along with the admiral and his chief of staff, stood next to the island, watching the COD launch. It wasn’t until the COD was off the catapult and making her turn away from the carrier that the noise abated enough for them to talk.

“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.

“All right. Here we go. Look sharp, everybody.” The crew chief plastered a smile on his face then pulled back the side door to the helicopter. Sunlight poured in.

He jumped down to the deck and Pamela could see through the window that he was talking with the Russians. Everything appeared to be agreeable, and he returned to the open hatch almost immediately and motioned to them to begin disembarking. Drake waited her turn, chaffing at the delays. Finally, her line reached the hatch. She jumped down the two feet to the deck, blinking in the sudden sunlight. The sailors rendered a sharp salute as she walked down the double lines, and she nodded politely in return. Surely they didn’t expect a civilian to return their salutes, did they?

The chief was waiting for her at the end of the line, and a Russian stepped forward to greet her. “Welcome, Miss Drake. I am your escort. Please, allow me to conduct you to the briefing room.” He offered her his arm in a courtly gesture out of place on the flight deck of a warship. For a moment, she debated asserting her independence, her liberation, and her general disdain for such courtesies. Then, thinking better of it, she laid her hand in the crook of his elbow and said, “Thank you very much.” She glanced behind and saw her cameraman stifle a grin, and thought, Honey, not vinegar. Now let’s see what we catch.

The flight deck looked pretty much like flight decks everywhere. The air had a slightly different odor to it, probably a combination of fuel burning and cooking. It was not unpleasant, just different. The vast expanse of non-skid, the deliberate, measured steps of the flight deck technician, the glints of sun off of steel fuselages — all were familiar, even to the heat radiating up through Pamela’s boots. Form follows function, she supposed.

They entered the ship just as they would an American aircraft carrier through a hatch in the island. From there, she followed her escort down two decks, twisting through a maze of passageways until they ended up in a large compartment. A large buffet table was spread out before them, the food carefully arranged and beautifully presented.

I wonder how much it cost to fly all this out. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. Murmuring thanks to her escort, Pamela sampled the caviar and then the salmon. Both melted in her mouth like butter.

The clatter in the passageway told her that her fellow reporters were arriving. They soon swarmed in, laughing and talking, shaking off the adrenaline buzz from the flight over. Pamela selected two chairs and dropped her gear on them, assigning Jeff to guard them.

There was a flurry near the door and every military person in the room snapped to attention. A Russian command was barked out, and they relaxed, although not by much. Parting the reporters with his sheer presence, a large, very senior Russian officer made his way to the front of room, managing to smile and look serious at the same time. He stopped to shake a few hands along the way, including Pamela’s, murmured a greeting in Russian, and then stepped to the podium in front.

“Welcome to my ship,” he said, permitting himself a brief smile. “My English is so weak. If you need translation, ask, okay?” He surveyed the crowd to make sure he’d been understood, then nodded. “Well, we wish for happier circumstances,” he said, his expression becoming somber. “It is a tragedy, yes? Not only for conflict between America and Russia, but especially for the loss of souls on Montego Bay.” To the surprise of the audience, he crossed himself, going from right to left in the Greek Orthodox style. He continued with “We will show you everything — everything. We will tell you what we think it means. You can decide for yourself. You can decide, and tell the world.” He paused momentarily to survey them, meeting each one’s gaze directly. “After, there will be no question that we are not at fault.”

He motioned to a junior officer standing behind him, and stepped aside to yield the podium. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am the public information officer and will be conducting the initial briefing. Later, the admiral will be available to answer all of your questions. I think you’ll find us all remarkably forthcoming.” His English was smooth and unaccented. Seeing the brief looks of surprise on their faces, he smiled quickly. “Ph.D. in economics, Harvard,” he said by way of explanation.

“First slide,” he said, looking to the back of the room. The overhead lights were doused and a brightly colored graphic flashed onto the white screen at the front of the room.

Slick, very slick. Not like anything I’ve seen from them before — I wonder if it’s just him or indicative of a broader trend in the Russian navy. Drake jotted down a note then transferred her gaze to the slide in front of her.

The symbology was all too familiar. No matter what they used in their own combat systems, the Russians had translated everything into American terminology to make it easier for their viewers to understand. And, judging from the slides, this would be a very simple, yet complete explanation.

The first slide showed both Russian and American battle groups, with a line drawn between them showing the distance between the two. As the officer spoke, he clicked the display into motion, and the two groups of ships crept slowly toward each other. When they were separated by approximately ten miles, the Russian group changed course to widen the distance between them. In the top, left-hand part of the display, a symbol crept onto the screen. It was labeled “Montego Bay.”

“As you can see, we were observing the carrier’s right-of-way as she was conducting flight operations. We had plans to launch ourselves, but decided it would be more prudent if we waited until we were farther away. Our own plans were postponed in order to ensure the safety of both groups.” He looked at them to make sure they got the point.

Then he pointed at the Montego Bay symbol with his laser pointer. “And you’ll notice she is also opening the distance, but in the opposite direction. I believe she intended to cut behind the aircraft carrier, retracing her steps slightly in order to maneuver around the carrier.” He fell silent for a moment, and the seconds ticked by as the symbols marched inevitably toward their destinies.

He clicked another key, and said, “I am slowing the action now so that you can observe exactly what happened. The first evidence of problems came when we detected an American fire control radar targeting our vessel.” As he spoke, a notation to that effect appeared on a screen. The action stopped. “As you can see, we are at a safe distance at this point and increasing the distance between us. There was nothing to provoke a hostile action from the aircraft carrier.”

The contacts began moving again, and the scale of the display expanded. “At this point, our lookout observed a beam of light coming from somewhere near the carrier. You may confirm this when you return to Jefferson.”

“I can try,” Drake said, letting her tone of voice imply that she was not all that confident of the results.

“There are some limitations to your First Amendment freedom of speech, are there not?” he observed. He let that sink in for a moment, and continued with “At any rate, I am sure our information can be confirmed by other sources. There are many commercial satellites observing this area as well. The light was most distinctive and not likely to be mistaken for anything other than what it was — a laser.”

“A laser?” Drake asked. “Were they testing a new weapons systems? What can you tell us about it?”

“We do suspect it is a new weapon system, possibly with an anti-satellite kill capability,” the admiral answered, interrupting the public information officer. “More than that, we cannot say. To do so would reveal our own sources of information.”

“Spies?” another reporter asked.

The admiral shook his head. “If you must know, the magazine Scientific American. That and Popular Mechanics contain a great deal of useful information.” He winked and shook a finger at them, looking remarkably like a Santa Claus. “I am divulging state secrets by telling you this.”

“If we can assume for a moment that it was indeed a laser, perhaps we can continue,” the public information officer said. He clicked his controller again, and the picture changed, zooming in on the three ships. “I have eliminated the escorts for clarity’s sake. This is the point at which the Americans launched their weapon. This occurred approximately ninety seconds after we were targeted by the fire control radar. The missile appeared to be headed in our direction, as you can see.” He fell silent while the missile symbol inched its way across the screen, apparently headed directly for the Russian amphibious transport. “Immediately following the launch of the missile, we retaliated.” The graphics showed a missile launching from his ship, targeted on the American vessel. “As you can see, there is little doubt of the sequence of events.”

The room was utterly silent. It might be blue and red symbols projected onto a white screen, but every person in the room understood that they were about to watch the death of more than two hundred people.

As they watched, the American missile changed course slightly. It continued on, and then broke radically away from the Russian ship. “Dear god,” Drake heard someone murmur. “No.”

This isn’t real time. It already happened. There’s nothing you can do about it. Despite reminding herself of the unreality of it, Pamela felt a cold fear and an urgent need to do something, anything, surge through her. It was like a bad dream, running from a monster and feeling like you were running through molasses.

Without fanfare, without additional graphics, the symbol for the American missile intercepted the symbol for Montego Bay. There was silence.

The Russian missile continued on, then disintegrated when it was halfway between the American ship and the Russian ship. “One of your Tomcats,” the public information officer observed. “A very difficult target, yet he hit it. Under different circumstances, we would convey our compliments to the pilot.”

“So you’re saying it was an American missile that hit Montego Bay and a Tomcat took your own missile out,” Pamela said. “But all the reports so far say that Montego Bay was hit from your side. How do explain the missile coming in on the right side when the carrier was to her left?”

“Missiles are very versatile, Miss Drake,” he said. “Right or left — it makes no difference. With the re-targeting capability of some missiles, they can loiter overhead for hours, waiting for the perfect target angle. Based on the trajectory, it appears that there was a flaw in the American missile guidance system. It went into re-attack mode, and found Montego Bay.”

“What sort of programming error?” someone behind Drake demanded.

The public information officer looked to the admiral, who shrugged. “It is speculation only, but the laser — perhaps it interfered with the missile. Such has been known to happen.”

“And your own experiments?” Drake asked.

The admiral smiled briefly. “You’ll understand if I do not answer in detail. But yes, it is well known that lasers and missiles do not mix. There can be mutual interference of this sort.”

“I’m passing out briefing packages,” the public information officer continued, after a nod from the admiral. “In those, you’ll find all the supporting data, including printouts of all of the critical moments you have just seen in this presentation. Flight schedules, watch schedules — it is all there. We understand that your intelligence people will no doubt want copies of all of this and we encourage you to provide them. Once you have studied the data, you’ll understand that there cannot be any other interpretation of what happened. The American cruiser committed a hostile act by targeting our ship with their fire control radar. When we responded, the cruiser launched the missile that hit the Montego Bay. America must take the responsibility for this unnecessary waste of life.”

Silence, as the reporters digested the information. Pamela glanced around the room and could see the war taking place inside each one of them.

Yes, they were reporters, dedicated to uncovering facts and breaking news. They saw themselves as hardheaded and unemotional, and above the political machinations of governments. Yet the vast majority of the reporters in that room were American by birth, American by education, and uniquely American in outlook. At some level, perhaps below conscious thought, they were fiercely protective of their country, and deeply resented the Russian’s conclusion that the Americans were at fault. But even as they dealt with that resentment, they had to face the facts. If they did not report the truth, the four European journalists would. And by not reporting it, they would be subjected to allegations of a cover-up.

“I will answer some questions,” the admiral said, stepping forward. “I remind you, if you need a translation, ask. I will do the same if I do not understand your question.”

“Admiral, could you compare to status of the Russian and American laser defense systems? Do you think the Americans have moved too quickly, taking chances they shouldn’t that resulted in this tragedy?” one reporter asked.

The admiral appeared to consider this for a moment. “The development, I cannot tell you. But moving too fast — yes, I think that is the case. My own people assure me that there is much benchmark testing and simulation prior to an actual firing. We have devoted a great deal of time and effort to studying the problem, and we are not yet ready to test our system at sea. Now, you may have heard that our engineers are simply not as good as the American engineers. This is not true. But we’re taking reasonable precautions to make sure that our system is dependable and controllable prior to deploying it at sea.

“Furthermore,” he continued, his accent growing stronger, “there are many who have doubts about your system. Some believe deployment will destabilize the entire balance of power between your country and mine. Again, we have not undertaken this of our own, but simply respond to America’s actions.”

Drake could hear the sincerity in his voice. The questions around her became more insisted, more probing. More and more often, the admiral sidestepped the question, citing security reasons. After ten minutes, the public information officer stepped to the podium and said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And thank you, Admiral. Now, if you’ll follow your escort, there is time for a brief tour of our combat center and the flight deck before your return here for a meal and to meet some of our people. If you have any questions or any needs, please do not hesitate to ask.”

The reporters, acting on reflex at the familiar cue, gathered up their gear. The Russian escorts promptly rounded up their charges and eased them out of the room, half of the group heading for Combat, the other half to the flight deck.

Pamela’s own escort approached her and said, “Miss Drake, I suspect you have seen many combat centers and many flight decks. The admiral would like to provide a private tour for you — an exclusive, if you will.” The public information officer appeared behind him, nodding. “If you would come this way.”

“Thank you. Come on, Jeff,” she said, motioning to her cameraman, who fell into step behind her. The public information officer held up one hand.

“No pictures without my express approval. Agreed?”

“Of course. We’re used to covering military operations, Commander. We understand the game rules.”

He smiled. “Not everyone does. Your Miss Winston, for instance. This is why you were selected, and not the others.”

Does everybody in the world know about Cary Winston? What is he trying to tell me by letting me know they know about her?

Drake decided that discretion was the better part of valor. She smiled. “She is very young. With time, she may be all right.”

“Perhaps. But she will not be here.”

The two Russian officers led the way toward the stern of the ship, descending another two decks. Pamela followed, dividing her attention between the passageways and the complaints of Jeff behind her as he maneuvered his gear through tight openings.

Surprisingly, the passageways looked very much like they did on America’s carrier. The markings on the bulkheads were in Cyrillic rather than English letters and the compartment numbering scheme appeared to be slightly different. But there was the familiar sense of too many people crammed into too-small spaces and the odd combination smell of fuel and cooking that she’d noticed on the deck. They passed a few sailors, who pressed themselves against the bulkhead in order to let them pass, even though there was more than enough room. A few murmured polite greetings. All averted their eyes.

Finally, when Drake sensed that they must be near the stern, they went up three decks. They were just below the flight deck, and the motion of the ship was more pronounced than it had been amidships.

The public information officer tapped out the security code on a cipher lock, then stepped back to allow them to precede him into the room. Pamela walked in, and saw that the bulkhead was crammed with consoles. In the center of the room, a large, spotless steel-and-white setup extended through the ceiling overhead.

“A laser,” she said softly. She turned to face him, her excitement visible. “This is your system, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Tested extensively but not yet ready for live targets.” He held up one hand as the cameraman fumbled with his gear. “I’m sorry. No pictures. Not yet.”

“May I get a closer look?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

She walked slowly around it, trying to memorize the details. There was a large, clear cylinder in the center, with a maze of wires and connections at either end. Steel struts marked with calibration figures ringed it, holding it so perfectly in alignment that it looked unnatural.

In truth, there was not much to see. It looked remarkably similar to the one on board Jefferson. But she studied anyway, trying to memorize the details, counting the struts and supports with one part of her mind as the other worked out the wording she would use to describe it to her audience. “We are on the record?” she asked to confirm their status. “You know that term?”

“Yes. And I hope,” he continued, with what was apparently a burst of candor, “that you will tell the Americans that we are quite far along in our own program. Should they decide to deploy their laser system, we will not be far behind. Not far behind at all. However, I think that world opinion may have something to say about both systems. When the testing alone results in the deaths of innocent civilians, how much more dangerous would full-scale deployment be?”

“A very good question,” she said. “And one that deserves an answer.”

He smiled at her now, his expression relieved. “And the answers, as you must suspect, must come from your own people. We have shown you our system. Now ask them to show you theirs.”

“I don’t think they will.” She shrugged. “You must know that I’m not in their good graces right now. Not after what Winston did.”

“Yes, of course. That is the reason you are here. I think there can be little doubt that your network is willing to report stories that are not entirely flattering to your country.”

“An understatement, but thank you for the compliment. It took a good deal of pressure for the admiral to allow me to come over here from the carrier, you know. They have tried to silence us, but it isn’t working.”

The Russian nodded sympathetically. “I must tell you, Miss Drake. I think the story you’re after is not the one you’ll eventually find. There has been a serious tragedy here, one that could have been avoided by honest communications between all parties. The responsibility for this lies with your — with the Americans.”

“Please go on.” Drake kept her expression neutral.

“Let me ask you this first,” the Russian said. “Why exactly are the Americans here?”

“Routine operations, as I understand it.”

The Russian looked her over carefully, as though trying to see into her mind. “And you believe that?”

“Well, I’m fairly familiar with normal carrier operations, and so far I have had no reason to doubt it. Should I?”

He laughed aloud. “Now I am certain that the story you will get is not the one you’re expecting. Miss Drake, that battle group is not here on routine operations. They are testing an advanced weaponry system, one called theater ballistic missile defense, or TBMD. There are no laser communications, no oceanographic experiments. We are conducting a test of a new weapon, yes. And your Americans are conducting their own tests to counter it.” He watched her closely for a moment, observing her reaction, then nodded in satisfaction. “I thought so. They did not tell you, did they?”

“What exactly does this TBMD do?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“It uses lasers to conduct a soft kill on a missile. It scrambles the electronics in the guidance system. Once that happens, it goes off course. Without guidance, the propulsion will cut out, and once inertia is overcome, it simply falls into the ocean.”

“This all sounds very routine, then,” Drake said, as though bored. “Surely this isn’t the first time that you have conducted tests and the Americans have conducted tests of their countermeasures? It’s very interesting, but not astounding.”

“There’s more. The Americans were not testing countermeasures. They were testing a laser system as well.”

Drake didn’t have to fake the surprise on her face. Yes, it all made sense. She had known from the beginning that Coyote and Tombstone were not being honest about Jefferson’s mission, and the Russian’s report just confirmed it. And knowing that she did not know the truth, they had sent her here anyway, to find out how much the Russians knew. Surely they had known that the Russians would tell her what they suspected. They must have been counting on it, in fact. All that talk about a new weapon system, the radar she was to look for — just a cover story to sidetrack her. In reality, she should have been looking for that evidence on board Jefferson instead of on the Russian ship.

“What are your plans now?” she said, operating on automatic. “The search and rescue will continue, surely.”

The Russian shrugged. “Your captain had it right. If there were more survivors from Montego Bay, we would have found them by now. We will continue to search for a few more days, but our hopes are dwindling quickly. I would be surprised if we find anything.”

“Our sympathies to their families, of course,” Drake murmured. Her mind was racing furiously as she tried to shape the new story in her mind. How much of it would she tell? How much secrecy was vital to national security, and how much was simply reflective of government secrecy?

“The reason I am showing you all this,” the Russian continued after a moment, “is that you must find some way to convince the Americans how very serious the situation is. They tested their system, they caused the sinking of a civilian ship, then they tried to blame it on us. We view this as an act of aggression, an attempt to rally world opinion against us. We cannot allow this to continue. Unless there is a prompt admission of guilt and a complete apology — there were fifteen Russians on board Montego Bay—we will be forced to act to protect our own interests and to demonstrate the efficacy of our own system. It has been suggested that the USS Jefferson might be a suitable target.”

“You’d attack the Jefferson?” Drake asked, her voice astonished. “Isn’t that a little out of proportion?” She saw the look on his face, and waved her hand impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, the civilian ship and fifteen Russians. It’s a tragedy — it bleeds, it leads in the news. But you’re talking about attacking an American ship of war! Tell me why this makes sense!”

The Russian general regarded her gravely. “Talk to others on the staff here, Miss Drake. I think you will see that America committed two acts of aggression. First, by deploying this system despite the protests of the rest of the world. And second, by targeting our ship with fire control radar. You may not understand it, not as we do, but we consider ourselves already at war. You would be wise to remember that and to convey it to the battle group commander, Admiral Grant.”

Drake spent the next five hours interviewing other members of the Russian staff, but as far as she was concerned, she got what she came for in the first interview. Later, as her helo lifted off to return to Jefferson, she stared back at the Russian ship. The real task now was sorting out the Russian manipulation from the American manipulation. For just a second, she wondered if Winston didn’t have it right.