Hellfire

TWENTY-THREE

Pamela had just returned from the shower and was toweling off her wet hair when she heard the announcement over the 1MC. The ship had been at flight quarters for a couple of hours, but that was no big deal. After all, this was an aircraft carrier.

But the bongs from the ship’s bell startled her. She glanced at her clock to see if they were chiming the hour for some reason, but it wasn’t time for bells. The carrier had never used bells for hours regularly anyway.

And the bongs continued, on and on and on. She counted, stopping at eight.

Who the hell? Only top officials, up to and including the president, rated eight bells. She shoved her hair into some semblance of a style, grabbed her tape recorder and her sunglasses, and headed for the flight deck. Her cameraman was smart — Jeff would meet her there. He knew what eight bells meant.

There was a crowd of people heading for the flight deck and she went with the flow, up the ladders and then out the hatch into the bright sunshine. To her surprise, several hundred sailors already stood in formation in their white uniforms. The captain, executive officer, and the admiral stood at a microphone stand in front of them.

As she watched, the helicopter hatch opened. Two lines of sideboys formed up, all immaculate in dress whites. Bells, sideboys — who exactly was this?

Seconds later, she knew. Six men in dark jumpsuits wearing sunglasses and caps emerged, fanning out around the sideboys. They checked the crowd carefully, then one of them turned back to the helicopter.

A familiar figure — tall, dark hair with silver along the edges, and bright blue eyes — emerged. He seemed at home on the flight deck, entirely comfortable with the military honors being rendered, and returned the salutes tendered snappily.

The president. What was he doing here, so soon after the election? Shouldn’t he be in Washington, attending parties? Then the scene became surreal in the extreme. The president walked toward Coyote and Captain Phillips, returned their salutes, and then accepted a small box and a padded certificate holder from the admiral. He looked around, as though puzzled.

An awards ceremony, then. So why wasn’t it announced? And who was it for? A number of names came immediately to her mind, and she swore silently about the public affairs officer’s failure to notify her about the ceremony. No, it wasn’t hard news, but it was good human interest stuff.

Her cameraman had arrived and stood by her side. He was already rolling as the president emerged from his helicopter.

The admiral saw them, and to her amazement, the admiral and a president began walking toward her. She had a brief, irrational impulse to curtsy, which she suppressed immediately.

“Ms. Drake,” the president said. “How are you feeling now?”

“Fine, Mr. President. None of us suffered any injuries.”

“Well, fine. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Ms. Drake.” The president’s expression was somber. Pamela felt a flash of anger. Tombstone had promised she was out of purgatory. If the president thought he was going to get good press for this ceremony, he had another think coming.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. President. Of course, the freedom of the press has always been something you’ve supported. If you intend to reinstate the admiral’s policy of barring the press from significant events, then I’m afraid I will have to—”

“Ms. Drake, I think you want to shut up right now,” Coyote said, a huge grin breaking out on his face. “The bad news is not that we’re going to get rid of you. It’s that for once in your life, perhaps the first and final time, you are the last one to know something.”

“What?” Pamela searched for words, unable to figure out why both the president and the admiral were grinning at her. Then the admiral stepped to her side, offered her his arm, and said, “You are the guest of honor at this little ceremony, Ms. Drake. And I would be honored to escort you to the podium.”

She turned to her cameraman and was not surprised to see him laughing at her, still taping. “You knew,” she said accusingly.

“Listen to the admiral, Drake,” Jeff said.

Five minutes later, Pamela Drake was sporting a defense metal on her lapel. And trying desperately to figure out how she was going to explain it to her boss.