Hellfire

EIGHTEEN

Drake looked at the hastily constructed mock-up. Where the Russian laser had been all sleek lines and gleaming metal, this training model was composed of cardboard and tinfoil. It was a caricature of the deadly system she had seen.

“Over here,” Lab Rat said, tapping on one end, “is the emitter. The crystal on the other end collects the light, focuses it into a coherent beam, and shoots it out. Everything else is just alignment and targeting. It’s actually pretty simple.”

“It’s actually pretty ugly,” Pamela observed.

Don’t let my chief hear you say that. He’d be heartbroken.” Lab Rat shot her one of his rare grins, and she was surprised to see how it transformed his face.

Commander Busby had been one of the most underestimated officers on board Jefferson. Physically, he was unimpressive, and his slight build encouraged people to dismiss him. But as she had learned in the past, there was nothing small about the intellect housed in that unimpressive body.

Perhaps to compensate for his physical shortcomings, Commander Busby had always adopted a stern, cool manner with her. Even after she had tumbled to the fact that he was deserving of a good deal of respect, she had never managed to penetrate his reserve. Long after the others had forgiven her for her conduct, Lab Rat remembered.

She studied him with renewed respect. He holds a grudge, does he? But what about? I haven’t offended him in particular, have I? No, no more than anyone else. Maybe it’s because we’re both in the same business — gathering information and getting it to the people who need it. But in my case, the people who need it are just average citizens. I wonder if you resent that, that your very best work will never be seen by anyone other than high-ranking officials and military personnel?

“As you can see,” Lab Rat continued, apparently oblivious to her scrutiny — but not, she suspected, as oblivious as he would like her to think—“getting the crystal out will be fairly easy. Once you have access and a little time, it should be a piece of cake.” He shot her a sharp look, as though confirming that she understood these two qualifications.

“Access shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “Based on what they showed me last time, I was right up next to it. It’s the opportunity I’m worried about. I’m not sure about putting my cameraman in this position.”

“We could substitute one of our people,” Lab Rat offered.

She shook her head. “No, we’ve been over that again and again. Even if I can get one of your stiffs to relax enough to look like a civilian, the haircut would give him away immediately. They’ve seen my cameraman — they know what he looks like. And there’s no way any of you could ever pass for him.”

Her cameraman spoke up then, an annoyed tone in his voice. “What am I, chopped liver? I already told you I would do it, didn’t I?”

Lab Rat turned his cool, analytical gaze on the cameraman. He studied him for a moment, his face expressionless. “Yes, my apologies. You did say you would do it, and I have no reason to doubt your capabilities. God knows you’ve probably been shot at more times than I have.”

The cameraman seemed slightly taken back. “A few times,” he muttered, obviously a bit embarrassed. “It’s a challenge, you know.”

“I know.” Lab Rat studied him for a moment longer, then turned back to Drake. “He’ll be fine.”

And just what does he see in my cameraman? What is it that I haven’t noticed? If I had to, I’d say he’s a good guy. We’ve been in some rough situations, and he’s never backed down, but I wouldn’t have thought he was the type to volunteer for something like this. Not as much trouble as I have getting him up in the morning.

The cameraman was shifting uncomfortably now. He evidently sensed the question in Drake’s stare. He muttered a few words, then stopped.

“What was that?” she asked.

He sighed, now aggravated. “I know what you think of me. Especially after that stunt Winston pulled. I shouldn’t have let her do it. I should have come to get you. But it was just like — I don’t know, you’re always ordering me around and acting like I don’t exist sometimes.”

Suddenly, with blinding clarity, Drake understood. She had treated him like a piece of equipment, like furniture to be moved around to suit her taste. All those times when he had captured pictures at some personal risk to himself, when he came back with the story against all odds — she hadn’t really thought of him as part of the team, had she? He was just like — well, invisible.

He could have spoken up, one part of her mind argued. Told me off sometime.

No, he couldn’t. Nobody does that to Pamela Drake. Not and gets away with it. What would you have done if he had objected? You would have shit-canned him and got another cameraman, wouldn’t you?

Maybe. Or maybe not. I like to think I know a professional when I see one.

Then start treating him like one.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. But for now it would have to do. She would find a way to make it up to him when they got back.

He was staring at the tile, scuffing his toe, looking for all the world like a ten-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Doesn’t matter. I just want everybody to know I can do my part.” Finally, he looked a bit better. “I’m an American, too, you know.”

“Have you thought about how to manage it?” Lab Rat asked, neatly cutting off the therapy session unfolding in front him.

The cameraman nodded. “I know exactly how I’m going to do it.”

“How?” Drake asked.

He shook his head, and grinned. “Can’t tell you. If you know it’s coming, you won’t look surprised and that will spoil everything.”

“But surely we should go over this,” Lab Rat said, tension creeping into his voice. “Two minds are better than one, you know.”

“I know. And I’ll tell you. But she,” he said, indicating Drake, “has to stay out of it. That’s the rule. If you tell her, I don’t go through with it.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Drake said hotly, her earlier regret for her conduct swept away in her impatience. “I’m not going unless I know what you’re going to do.”

Lab Rat held up one hand to cut the argument off. “Do you trust my judgment?”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, then. He’s going to tell me and I’ll decide if it’ll work. Then I will give you a go or no go. That’ll have to be good enough,” he finished.

Damn! They’re double-teaming me. She gritted her teeth and glared at the two of them. “Okay. But when we get back—”

“If we get back,” her cameraman corrected, “then I’ll owe you an apology.”

“Okay, okay,” Lab Rat said. “If we can break up the mutual apology club here, we need to go over this again. Drake, it’s going to take some neat sleight of hand to pull this off. You,” he continued, pointing at the cameraman, “watch, to make sure you can buy us enough time for this. Now, do it again.”

Again Drake practiced the motion of slipping back the housing, slipping her hand in, and quickly swapping the crystal for the fake in her hand. She did it again and again, every movement critiqued and analyzed by Lab Rat and her cameraman, until they were convinced she had it. By the time they were finished, the muscles in her arm were trembling with exhaustion.

“That will have to do it,” Lab Rat said finally. He didn’t sound entirely satisfied, more resigned than anything. “Okay, get a good night’s sleep. Come back here before your helo leaves and pick up the substitute. I’ll be standing there when you get back to take the real thing off your hands.” He turned away from them, dismissing them.

On the way back to her stateroom, Pamela couldn’t help thinking about her cameraman’s choice of word. If. He said if we get back. What does he know that I don’t?

The cameraman stayed behind to explain his plan to Lab Rat.

This time, as they approached the Russian ship, it looked ominous. Perhaps it had been the company of the other news helicopters waiting for their turn to land. Perhaps it had been the warm welcome, or her anger against the Americans, that had obscured the real situation. Now, flying in toward what she had come to think of as the enemy, with her Trojan horse in her pocket, Drake shivered.

The deck looked oddly silent. Perhaps the difference in circumstances, but she wasn’t so sure. The sailors looked more — well — military, the uniforms more severe, their expressions more forbidding. The aircraft and helicopters were lined up and tied down with a precision that bordered on obsessive.

In the center of the deck stood a lone plane captain, his hands held above his head. Everyone else was well away from the center, clustered around the edges.

“I don’t see our welcoming committee,” the pilot said, his voice betraying uneasiness. “You sure we’re expected?”

“Absolutely.” Drake tried to inject a note of confidence into her voice. “We’re getting an exclusive on this one.”

“Yes, well. In my line of business, an exclusive isn’t always such a good deal,” the pilot said. Drake saw him glance over at his co-pilot, and they exchanged a nod. “If it’s all the same with you, we’ll stay with our aircraft.”

“You mean our getaway car?” Drake answered.

“Yeah. Maybe.” The pilot fell silent except for some muttered self-encouragement as he approached the deck. He concentrated on his landing and brought them down as gently as he had before. As he opened his shutdown checklist, he turned back to look at her. Penetrating blue eyes stared out at her from under the decorated flight helmet. “You should know we don’t fly suicide missions unless we’re volunteers.”

“Who said anything about a suicide mission?” she snapped. Beside her, the cameraman grunted.

“We never fly a mission that’s not briefed. I mean completely briefed. Especially Intell. You get my drift?” His mouth hardened into a thin line.

So Lab Rat told him. That figures. It comes right down to it, that’s the way they do it.

Drake wilted slightly under his glare. “I got it. And thanks.”

He shook his head, dismissing her gratitude. “We all do our part, lady. So get in there and get back out. I want a nice quiet ride home, you hear? No cops and robbers.”

Drake forced a grin. “Got it. Back in thirty mikes.”

His eyebrows shot up at her use of military slang. “Don’t get carried away with it. Be safe. If things fall apart, abort the mission.”

“I know, I know. Lab Rat gave me the same lecture.” She gathered up her gear, unfastened her harness, and got up to leave. Unexpectedly, the pilot stuck out his hand. “Names Dixon. Mike Dixon.” He shook her hand solidly, and then shook hands with the cameraman. “Now go on, get out of here. The sooner you start, the sooner you’re back.”

The helicopter was shut down, but just barely. Drake knew from prior experience that he could be turning and at rotation speed in a matter of moments. She waved a casual goodbye and turned to face her Russian escort.

The public information officer was waiting for them. Although his face was professionally pleasant, there was none of the warm friendliness that she’d seen before. Were they suspicious? Maybe. But if they knew her, they knew enough to know that she would go after any story anywhere anytime. She was hoping her reputation would help her pull this off.

“Welcome back, Miss Drake,” the public information officer said. “We’re flattered at your interest in our ship.”

He’s not cool with this. Ill at ease.

“Thank you. It’s nice to be back,” she said casually. “I appreciate your hospitality. Perhaps if we can go inside, I can fill you in on what’s happened so far.”

The two officers glanced at each other, then the public information officer nodded. Not for the first time, Drake wondered who he really was.

He led the way back into the ship, and via a different route, to what was obviously a senior officers’ mess. “A bit more privacy here,” he explained when he saw her glance around. “I suspect not everyone should hear what you have to say.”

Drake nodded. “You may have noticed that my last report got a lot of attention. High-level, too. The military and the politicians are crawling all over my boss’s back. And this whole thing about the lasers — well, I don’t have to tell you it’s a political hot potato.”

“So I have heard,” the information officer responded. “I imagine that at some level, politicians are all the same.”

“You got that right. Anyway, like I said, it’s caused a real stir. From what I can tell, there’s a lot of people rethinking their position. This laser stuff — yes, it sounds fine. But not if it puts us in another Cold War arms race, you know? The people that are in power now, they remember that. It wasn’t so long ago that we were practicing air raid drills and building bomb shelters. And nowadays, when you’ve got laser-guided missiles and such, everybody feels pretty defenseless. I think, with a little pushing, that this can all go away and we can get down to the business of disarmament.”

“And what would be your interest in this matter, Miss Drake?” he asked. “Simply that it is news?”

Drake looked down, feigning embarrassment. “There’s that, of course. As you probably know, I’ve been around for a while. I’ve seen a lot of the world, and a lot of what happens when nations go to war.” She looked up, and forced a fierce gleam in her eyes. “You may laugh, but what I’ve seen makes me believe that disarmament must start now. And start with us. The world is too small anymore. There’s no room for nuclear weapons, not now that we know what they can do. The ozone layer, the potential for fallout — just look at Chernobyl. You people know better than I do what happens when nuclear power goes wrong.”

“And what happened to your journalistic neutrality?” he asked.

“Who can be neutral in something like this?” she shot back. “When there’s a chance that I can do something that will help stop this madness? No,” she said, shaking her head, “maybe at one time I was. But now, after everything I’ve seen — well, it has to stop. And if reporting the stories the way they really are helps that, then all the better.”

“An admirable sentiment,” he murmured politely, and Drake could see that he wanted to believe her. “My family lived north of Chernobyl. Any shift in the wind and they would have been seriously at risk. But what can we do for you now?”

“The main thing we’re missing right now is a hammer,” she said bluntly. “Half the people I talk to don’t believe your laser can possibly work. The other half are spread out across the spectrum. I need to crush this insane American superiority complex, show them that we’re not the only nation in the world that can build a system that works. I’d like to get another look at the laser, and this time take some pictures. Any technical data you can release—” She held up one hand to forestall comment. “I’m not asking for military secrets. But if there’s anything I can show them to prove that your laser works as advertised, maybe they’ll believe we’re headed for another Cold War arms race. Please,” she put a note of pleading in her voice, “can’t we just stop this madness?”

For some reason, Rodney King’s anguished and oft-parodied plea ran through her mind: Can’t we all just get along?

The two officers looked uncertain now, as though they believed her but were not entirely sure of what to say. Or what they could say. Finally, the public information officer spoke. “I’ll have to confer with the admiral, of course. But there’s great merit in your arguments. We, too, would like a peaceful world.” He stood, and smoothed out his tunic as he did. “Please wait here. We can provide refreshments while I talk to the admiral.”

Intell. He’s got to be — and a lot more senior than he lets on.

“Some coffee?” her escort asked. “Or perhaps a sandwich?”

“Tea would be fine,” Pamela murmured, remembering the last cup of coffee she had on board a Russian ship.

“A sandwich sounds great,” her cameraman said enthusiastically. He let his bags slump onto the couch and came forward eagerly.

A few minutes stretched into half an hour. They were fed, given freshly brewed tea, and the escort made polite conversation. She shifted the talk away from her to his family. He had a wife and two boys. His mother lived with them. Like most officers, he was worried about providing for his family, but was fiercely proud of the work he did.

Finally, the PIO returned, with the admiral following him. He stepped aside and allowed the admiral to approach Pamela.

The admiral studied her from under his bushy eyebrows. He was of a different generation than the other two officers, one who remembered the glories of the Soviet Union and the uncertainties of the Cold War. Her proposal would be tempting to him, but he would be even more deeply suspicious of her then the younger officers. “We provide you data. And you may take pictures,” he said abruptly. “Some information we cannot tell. Pictures, basic information — yes. Take it to your people, the ones who do not believe that Russia is capable of this. Show them that if they continue this madness, we will match everything they do.”

Unable to resist, Drake asked, “Admiral, you have been remarkably candid with us. How do you view the American development of this weapon?”

He glared at her. “It is an act of aggression,” he snapped. “The United States seeks to disrupt the balance that has kept the world stable. Once her missile shield is in place, what is to prevent her from attacking us first?”

“There are those who would say the U.S. will never fire the first shot,” Drake said.

The admiral snorted. “The United States has used nuclear weapons before. Japan, yes? Russia has never done this. Only the United States. And I will—”

The PIO stepped forward smoothly, catching the admiral’s attention. “The admiral has given me explicit instructions on what you may and may not see, Miss Drake. We hope that it will be sufficient to contribute to your efforts for peace. If you would come this way.”

Arrogant — so arrogant. You would never see an American officer cutting off an admiral that way. She glanced back at the older man, and saw him deflate, a balloon from which the air had been let out. Just who is this guy anyway?

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly just a little bit sorry for the admiral. He was a warrior, a military man, yet this weasely little politician had him under his thumb. He had not gone to confer with the admiral — he’d gone to the admiral as an equal.

“This way,” the PIO said. He led them down the same passageways as before — or, at least Pamela thought he did. Some of it looked familiar, but she knew all too well how easy it was to get lost in the passageways on a large ship. She glanced back at her cameraman and saw him nod slightly. He was keeping track of where they were going, too.

And does he have a plan for getting us out of here? What am I supposed to do, drop some bread crumbs along the way?

They arrived at a hatch that they’d seen before, or at least it looked like the same one. She glanced at the marking above it and was relieved to see the numbers matched what she remembered. This time, however, a radiation trefoil had been added to the door.

Seeing her glance at it, the PIO smiled grimly. “Nothing to worry about. If you like, I can get you a dosimeter.”

“How much radiation is there?” she asked.

“It’s about like being on the beach on a sunny day.” He waited patiently for her to make up her mind. Finally, she nodded.

He clicked in the numbers on the cipher lock and shoved the door open. There was no one inside the compartment. He stepped aside to let Pamela and her cameraman go in first, then followed. He turned and secured the door behind them.

It was just as she remembered it, sleek and deadly. The bright blue crystal at one end was dull. Lab Rat had explained that when the laser was operated, the crystal would glow. If it were in operation, she wouldn’t be able to touch it.

“We’ll shoot video from all angles,” she said. “That way, we can cut in whichever views we need. And then some stills, both with me and without me.” She glanced over at her cameraman. “Want to shoot an intro in front of it?”

“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “Be great if we could get the admiral in, too. You mind asking him?” asked the PIO.

The officer paled a bit. “I do not think that would be possible. And as for me, I would prefer not to be in any photographs. I really have nothing to do with it other than providing briefings for visitors such as you.”

That confirms it. A PIO who doesn’t want his picture in the paper. Either they’re a lot more shy than their American counterparts, or he’s got other reasons for not wanting his face in the limelight, and I’m betting on the latter.

But then again, Pamela, you’re not exactly what you appear to be either, are you?

She nodded sympatheticly. “Cause problems with your mates, would it?”

“They might think I was being — well — self-promoting, I think.” He gave her a chuckle that sounded remarkably genuine. “And I’m not really sure how my wife would react to it. We’re out at sea for a couple of months, then she sees a picture of me with a — well — I do hope I won’t offend, Miss Drake, but my wife has a wide jealous streak.”

Good move. Flattering me, are you? But you’re a bit too young for me, sonny.

“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.

For a moment, there was peace. Bubbles drifted past her, and the silence underwater was pure and clean after the noise inside the helicopter.

Almost immediately, her lungs started to hurt. She kicked hard, grabbing water with cupped hands and forcing herself back up to the surface.

The emergency inflation ring — where was it? Her already chilled fingers reached down the lanyard and yanked. Immediately, the gas canister expanded the life jacket around her. That done, she looked around for the helicopter. It was far above her, continuing to ascend. As she watched, there was a flash of silver in the air, heading straight for the helicopter. Then the explosion — deafening at this range, orange and yellow flames shooting through black smoke, an immediate vaporization of the aircraft. She let out an involuntary scream, and resisted the impulse to dive back into the cool, deep silence of the sea.

“Pamela! Over here.” She barely heard the pilot’s voice over the noise of the explosion. He was swimming toward her, cutting clean, short strokes through the sea, dragging a package behind him. Ten feet to his right, the co-pilot executed a smooth breast stroke. Once they got to her, they hooked a line on their air vests through a loop on hers, securing the three of them together. Then the pilot activated the auto-inflation lanyard of the package he’d been towing. There was a sharp hissing sound, and the package unfolded immediately and began assuming the shape of a life raft.

“What happened?” Pamela asked. It was a stupid question — what had happened was obvious. But the pilot knew what she meant.

“Once you were clear, I hauled back on the collective so she’d gain altitude and jammed the throttle open. Then we bailed down. We weren’t much higher than you were, but it was still a long way down.”

Drake choked as a small wave slapped her in the face. “We had a raft?”

“Complete emergency survival gear is required by both the FAA and the Navy for flights over water. I never thought we’d use it, though.”

“There they are,” the co-pilot said, speaking for the first time. He pointed to the horizon. Three small black specks just barely above the surface of the ocean were heading for them. “That’s our ride home.”

“If they can get here,” the pilot said. There was a sudden blast of noise from overhead and two Forgers streaked by. “It looks like the Russians may have some thoughts about that.”

“They wouldn’t strafe us,” Pamela said. “Tell me they wouldn’t.”

Neither man answered her. She knew a moment of despair, then looked back at the helos.

Surely the Jefferson wouldn’t — no, they wouldn’t. Overhead, she saw Tomcats and Hornets forming a protective bubble around the rescue helicopters. Whatever else was going on, the cavalry had arrived.

Lab Rat raced across the flight deck as soon as the rescue helo touched down. Before the rotors had even come to a complete halt, he was standing by her hatch, waiting, a look of anticipation on his face. For a moment, Pamela felt a flash of irritation. Clearly, he had no concern about their helo, about the Russian missile shot, or about her own condition after jumping out of the helo. All he could think about was the government in her pocket.

Drake fumed. The plane captain finally approached, tapped Lab Rat politely on the shoulder, and motioned for him to move away. Lab Rat moved back just far enough to give the plane captain access to the hatch. Then, undaunted, Lab Rat leaped into the small passenger compartment as soon as the hatch was open.

Without a word, he held out his hand. As she fished around in her pocket, a smile broke out on his face. Finally, she withdrew the crystal and placed it carefully in his hand.

“Thanks,” he shouted as he leaped out of the helicopter. “You have no idea what this means. None at all.”

Oh, yes, I do. It’s my ticket back into the inner circle.

Later, after she had been checked out by medical, had a long, hot shower, and changed into fresh clothes, she felt the weariness hit. It came on so suddenly she staggered, then stretched out on her rack. Waves of blackness swarmed over her, forcing her eyes shut. She was already dreaming when she heard a rap on the door.

For a moment, she considered pretending she wasn’t there. Or shouting at them to go away. But that seemed like so very much trouble. Before she could decide what to do, the doorknob turned and the door opened. Tombstone stood framed as a dark figure against the red lights out in the passageway.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

With a groan, she shoved herself up on an elbow. Thank god she was still fully dressed. “Sure, OK. I’m not promising I can stay awake, though.”

He pulled the metal chair away from the drop-down desk, turned it backwards, and straddled it. He crossed his arms on the back and rested his chin on his hands. “It’s official. You’re no longer in purgatory. You did a good thing today, Pamela. A very good thing.”

“Thanks. I could have done without the part about the missile, though.”

“Oh, I think that will play out all right, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was unable to suppress a jaw-cracking yawn.

“You’ll see.” Tombstone fell silent, and Drake couldn’t summon up the energy to engage in polite conversation. She felt herself drifting off, even sitting. She heard Tombstone stand up, the chair scraping across the tile.

“I’ll go now. I just wanted to pass on my thanks. I know you’ll hear it from the rest of the Navy later on — maybe not so much in public, because a lot of this will still be classified. But we remember who our friends are. You know how that works.”

Suddenly, everything was all right. Tombstone, the Navy, her career — everything was just fine. She smiled up at him, then said, “We’ll talk later when I’m awake. And thanks for coming by. That means a lot to me.” She was asleep before the door shut behind him.