Hellfire

SIX

For once, the president heard about a military disaster from his joint chiefs of staff rather than CNN. It was an unusual situation, one that allowed him several moments to gather his thoughts and formulate a response without a camera staring him in the face. His first reaction was to use the secure hotline to grant the president of Russia the same breathing space before CNN picked up the story. Surely there was some explanation other than a Russian fighter firing on a defenseless American cruise ship. But as he reached for the hotline, a pointed little cough from the chairman, JCS, brought him up short.

“What?” the president demanded.

“Mr. President, that would be premature.” The chairman, a man noted for his bluntness, had nevertheless proved to be an excellent chairman. No, he was not a political creature, just an old artillery man who had come up through the ranks the hard way.

“And you believe this because…?” the president said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Because I believe we’ll find those bastards are at fault.”

The president took his hand off the hotline and leaned back in his chair. Reflexively, he started to interlace his hands behind his head, but he immediately felt a surge of inchoate discomfort at having his midsection unprotected while the chairman was in the room. He dropped his arms back down and rested his hands on the desk, annoyed at his own reaction.

Just why the hell did the chairman make him so nervous? Yes, he had picked the man, and had kept him in the position after his last term. And he’d come to rely even more on the general’s advice during the last two years. And yes, if he was reelected — not that that seemed improbable, but one never knew — he would ask this man to continue on, or at least to give him some advice on a successor.

Despite all that, there was something in the chairman’s bearing and the way he spoke and the way he carried himself that made any other man just a bit uneasy about exposing his midsection too much. Because no matter how civilized he was, how immaculate his uniform or courteous his bearing, you never, ever had any doubt that the chairman could kill you in a New York minute. Not that he would, of course. And still, as uneasy as the general’s deadly air made the president, it was the one thing that he really liked about the general as well. You always knew where you stood with him.

“Regardless of whether they are or not,” the president said carefully, “we will have to talk to them sooner or later. Taking the offensive”—the chairman was always big on taking the offensive—“means we get to select the terrain. Right?” There was a shade more of an actual question in the president’s voice than he would have liked, but the chairman ignored it. When it came to matters of military tactics, the chairman had few compunctions about treating the president as though he were the junior captain he had been when he left the Army.

“Too soon, sir,” the general said shortly. “We’re still at the deception stage. Sure, shots have been fired, but the fog of war is too pervasive right now. We know what’s happened, but they don’t know we know. Sir, lay low for now. See if they make the first move. After all, it looks like they’re the ones who attacked. They ought to be the ones calling us. We stay in our fortress, don’t come outside. Not yet.”

“I see,” the president said. “Very well, then — what do I tell the media when they start calling? And call they will, you can be sure of that.”

“Nothing. You tell them nothing.” The general was very firm on the point.

The president sighed and shook his head. “That won’t work long. It just won’t.”

“It doesn’t have to work for long, Mr. President. Not long at all. Buy yourself some time to get that gal up in New York to find out what’s going on from her perspective. Never ask the Russians a question you don’t know the answer to.”

Gal. I wonder if I will tell Sarah Wexler that the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff calls her a “gal.” If I do, I think I’ll make sure I’m out of arm’s reach. Then again, I get the feeling that may be about the highest compliment he ever pays a woman.

“What you need, Mr. President, is time.”

“Time to find out what happened, I suppose.”

To his surprise, the general shook his head. “No, sir. Enough time to get reelected.”

Now, that was a puzzler! Who would’ve ever thought the general gave a damn about the election? I don’t even know what party he is. Or how he votes.

But it’s not like I really care.

“Thank you, sir,” the president said slowly, in the unusual position of being enormously flattered by the compliment he’d been paid. Heady stuff for the young Army captain who was now president of the most powerful nation on the earth.

“I want what is best for this country,” the general said bluntly. “Right now, that means you sitting in that chair.”

“This has the potential to cut both ways, though,” the president said, his mind racing. His national security council — he had to have them in on this. “We run the risk of looking soft on this. And that’s the one thing I can’t have happen.”

“I realize that, sir. And you’ll have people who can better advise you on that point. But I consider it critical that you be reelected next month, and I don’t want this incident to keep that from happening.” The general stood abruptly. “If I hear anything else, Mr. President, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Thank you.” The president stood and walked the general to the door. “And I will take your take on this to the security council. I appreciate your candor.”

After the general had gone, the president turned to his chief of staff and said, “Mike, get Sarah Wexler on the secure line. No, better yet — get her down here. Within the next couple of hours if possible.”

When Hank Carter stormed into the ACN newsroom, he made his presence felt immediately. Carter was one of the two old-style journalists who’d successfully made the transition to the twin paradigms of computers and international coverage. At heart, he was the stereotype of a hard-drinking, cigar-smoking, out-of-shape, cynical reporter turning out tight, elegant prose on a manual typewriter. But Carter had decided that was not who he wanted to be, and thus he wasn’t. In his early fifties, he was trim, muscular, and in excellent shape. There was not an ounce of fat on his lean body.

Carter was slightly taller than average, but his build made him look well over six feet tall. His hair was steel gray and close-cut, and tended to spike even without gel or mousse. His face with smooth, deeply tanned, with only a few lines around his eyes. He glowed with good health. His eyebrows were heavy and deep, hanging over a set of piercing gray eyes. The rest of his features were strong, jutting planes and acute angles, with an unexpectedly full and generous mouth.

Carter was originally from Alabama, and he retained the smooth vowels and consonants of his youth. Whether or not it was an act Drake had never been able to figure out, but she’d seen more than one person underestimate him based solely on his accent. She had never made that mistake herself, and she considered warning Winston against it, but then thought better. Carter had been a prime force in Winston’s hiring, and not just for her looks.

When Drake had been informed of his decision, she had immediately assumed that he had hired her for appearance only.

Now Carter’s Southern accent dropped away as he responded: “I’m going to forget you said that, Drake.” His eyes were cold, a Northern Sea during winter. She could almost see the ice creep over the rest of his face, and could hear it in his voice. “Of all people to assume that — what, are you having flashbacks to your own first days here?”

“That’s not why I was hired,” Drake said, her voice level.

Carter drove his point home. “No, it wasn’t. You were hired because my bosses could see the way things were headed. We had no women on the staff, not in the on-air department. In order to make sure we stayed in step with the times, we had to have a female presence on the front lines. And we picked you to be that person.” His gaze never waivered as he delivered this brutal assessment.

“So you say.” Drake was just as implacable.

Carter conceded gracefully, his point made. “But whatever the original reasons, they hardly matter now, do they? When it comes to delivering a headline story, you beat the pants off of everyone — male, female, everyone. You’re a pro, Drake. One of the best, as you well know. If you weren’t, you’d never get away with half the shit you pull in the field.”

“I deliver the story. That’s what matters, right?”

Carter sighed. “At least half the time, you’re part of the story. Cuba, Greece, Turkey,” he ticked off the different conflicts on his fingers. In Cuba, she’d been held hostage as a human shield by renegade militia forces. In Greece, she’d been personally involved with the leader of the rebel forces. And in Turkey, she’d forced the United States Navy to conduct an at-sea rescue in order to get on board the carrier to get the story. That little incident had almost resulted in charges being filed against her, but ACN’s massive legal team, coupled with a not insignificant legal budget, had finally bailed her out.

“I don’t start these wars.”

“And it doesn’t matter,” Carter said, ignoring her protest. “Because our audience bit, and they bit big. They love you. All they see is this stunning woman caught up in the middle of things. They don’t think about whether or not you violate any sort of journalistic ethics by getting involved with these people. All they do is identify with you. The men in our audience see somebody they need to go rescue, and they’re cheering on the rest of the world as they do that. The women identify with you even more, like your life is some sort of action-adventure romance story.” He held up one hand to forestall protest. “I’m not blaming you. The people love that — they love you. And that means an increased market share.”

“So why did you hire her?” Drake asked. There was too much truth in what he said.

“Because she’s good,” Carter said, gazing at her steadily. “If you want, take a look at her tapes.” He fished around the bookcase behind him and produced two videocassettes. “One hard news, one human interest. She did the research, put the whole thing together. You look at them and then come back and bitch about my decision.”

“She was regional. This is the big league.”

“And I think she’s ready for it.” Carter’s gaze softened slightly. “You’ve done enough for female reporters, Drake. However you got your start, you’ve carved out a broad path for the women coming up behind you — no pun intended. You’ve made it so that a kid like Cary has a shot based on her ability. Now, the outside package does matter, but it’s the same for men as well. It’s part of on-camera presence. The important thing is that she didn’t have to screw anybody to get this job, and that’s in part thanks to you.”

“Great.”

“So,” Carter continued, ignoring the mutinous expression on his star reporter’s face, “I expect you to show her the ropes. Sure, you may have to step on her a couple of times. I heard what happened out there. There’s no way she’s got the people skills yet to get in some of the places that you can. I don’t expect you to share your entire contact book with her, either. She’ll have to develop her own. But at least give her a shot, Drake. You know that if she ever pushed it to the breaking point, we’d take you over her without a second thought. She’s not a threat to you.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” Drake said. She picked up the two videocassettes. “I’ll take a look. See what’s she’s got. Then I’ll decide.”

Just then, Winston knocked once, then stepped into the room. She strolled over to Carter’s desk and handed him a computer printout. Then turning to include Pamela, she said, “It’s your ship. The Jefferson. The Russians just shot up a cruise liner right next to her.”

“Let’s roll,” Carter snapped, still staring at the printout as he spoke. “Drake, you’re on it. Take your own camera people and whoever else you want. Marcia, arranged transportation. Jim, get on the phone and get the usual clearances. I want a presence on that ship within the next twelve hours, people. So move!”

Around him, people sprang into action, following a well-practiced drill. Marcia, Carter’s personal assistant, picked up the telephone and speed dialed ACN’s travel department. “Party of two?” she asked, looking at her boss.

Carter didn’t answer immediately and Drake felt her heart sinking. No, not right now. Not on this one. “Carter, I can—” she started.

“No. Three. Drake, one camera, and Winston. Might as well hit the deck running, Cary.”

Drake groaned silently, but turned to face Winston with a calm, professional expression. “Get moving. Pants, comfortable shoes, personal items for two weeks. Two bags, no more. On-camera outfits, a dress if you want — you won’t need it, but take one anyway.” She pointed at Winston’s high-heeled shoes. “One pair, no more. Now move. I’ll meet you at the airport in three hours,” she continued, mentally running through the flight schedules in her mind. “Marcia will have us take a direct flight to San Diego, and from there we’ll try to get Navy transport. We may have to continue on to Hawaii and fly out from there, but that’ll get us out with the State Department and the military.”

Winston’s jaw was hanging open. She recovered and began scribbling notes on her notepad. “So we’re going to—”

“Two hours,” Drake said. “At the airport. That’s all you need to know right now.”

Carter regarded her with a slight smile. “If you ever call me high-handed again, I want you to think about this little incident.”

“Who the hell do you think I learned it from?” Drake snapped.