Nuke Zone

11

Packmeyer was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. They sagged, threatening to snap shut at any second. He took another swig of coffee, trying to concentrate on what the men were saying. It was starting to make sense, such as it was.

What startled him more than anything was not the facts of the situation. He could understand Ukraine’s motivation, and while not sympathizing, could view things from their perspective. The five Turks gathered around the table in front of him would no doubt disagree, but Packmeyer had to admit a grudging admiration for both their technology and their tactics. It might have worked–almost had.

“So where are we now?” he asked again, all too aware of how thick his tongue felt in his mouth, of the slight slurring at the edge of his words.

God, he was tired. After running on adrenaline and coffee for forty-eight hours, he had absolutely no resources left. There was nothing, short of an incoming missile raid on his position, that could get him excited now. Or so he thought. Seconds later, it turned out he was wrong.

“We have sources–and we know you have contact with the American carrier.” The senior military officer shrugged. “However, given our political climate right now, it is not possible for us to contact the carrier directly. You understand.” He spread his hands in a gesture of requesting understanding.

“The carrier’s not likely to want to talk to you anyway,” Packmeyer said, aware that the words were blunt and unpolitical, but beyond caring. “Your mines damned near took out one of their ships, and the carrier has sustained damage as well. They’ve lost men, aircraft–hell, they’re not likely to talk to you at all.”

“We know that. That is why we wish to enlist your assistance,” a second man said.

Mike assessed him carefully. A moderate, he knew from the man’s reputation, one who’d been gaining political power for the last five years.

Some had even mentioned him for the presidency of Turkey, but that had vanished about six months ago as Muslim radicals gained ascendancy. Now, all bets were off.

“You want me to call the carrier for you?” Mike asked.

“Exactly,” the second man said. “From the Naval base.”

“Huh?”

“We are taking you to the mine-control facility,” the second man continued. “There, we will allow you to observe all operations as we stand down the field from tactical activation. You will thus be able to assure the carrier that we have corrected the mistakes made by our predecessors and have assumed a neutral posture. They will not believe it from us–perhaps they may from you.”

“Don’t tell me that Izmir is the only facility you have,” Mike said accusingly, now feeling a slight trickle of anger. How could they think he was so ignorant after all these years in Turkey?

He was a reporter, by God. He knew what went on in this country.

“The other facilities are standing down as well,” the man continued. “There is not time to take you to each one of them immediately, but we will if you require it. Indeed, we would invite a team from the American carrier to inspect each one individually. We will even offer our own vessels as escorts for the Americans as they leave the Black Sea. You see, mistakes have been made–not only by Ukraine, but by our former government as well. We wish to rectify those immediately and return to a civil, supportive relationship with the United States.”

Mike shook his head wearily. In the last forty-eight hours he had gone from being a bureau chief and producer for one of ACN’s main overseas stations to resuming a long-forgotten position as a field reporter. And now this–damn, he was practically an ambassador.

Oddly enough, he felt some of the weariness start to seep out of his bones. It was a responsibility–one that he had to try his best to fulfill. He stood up from the table, feeling his knees and hips creak as he stretched. “Let’s go,” he said simply. “The sooner the better for both countries.”

“If we can believe it, then it represents a major change in our tactical situation,” Lab Rat said. “And I’m inclined to believe that the Turks are sincere about this.”

“Especially if they provide escort,” Batman added. “Frankly, I agree with Commander Busby. If Ukraine was behind this from the start, and Turkey was undergoing a coup d’etat at the same time, it’s easy to see how the political scenario could get totally cluster-fucked. It sounds like they’re on the right track for straightening things out. I wouldn’t mind giving them a hand if we can.”

Tombstone grimaced. “Twenty-four hours ago, I was ready to bomb Izmir to Hell and back. Now you’re telling me to trust the Turks?”

He shook his head. “It’s like Reagan used to say–trust, but verify.”

He turned to Batman. “Get together a team of intelligence officers and specialists–take some engineers if you want. I want a team ready to board a CH-46 within the next thirty minutes to fly to Izmir. We’ll verify for ourselves that the minefields are deactivated, and then accept Turkey’s gracious offer of an escort back through them. How does that sound?”

“Just fine.”

Batman turned to his Chief of Staff and began rapping out a series of orders.

Lab Rat said, “Admiral, how much of this information do you want to release to the press? If I could, I’d suggest we be circumspect about this until we’ve actually verified the status of those minefields. Besides, Mike Packmeyer appears to be an excellent source in place. If we put the media on this right now, we’ll have blown him–and we may need him later.”

Tombstone looked thoughtful. “I’m inclined to agree with you. For now, no details. If anybody asks, the CH-46 is en route to Izmir to render humanitarian assistance. Will that do?”

Lab Rat nodded. “Packmeyer may think he’s become a diplomat–and I guess he has. But there’s nothing to say that he can’t do just as much for his country by remaining exactly what he is–a damned fine reporter.”

An image of Pamela Drake appeared in Tombstone’s mind. Pamela, the one first to every story, the one who had to be there, on scene. She was cooling her heels in the outer waiting room, still in the dark about the latest scenario. She would be furious, he knew, if she knew how much influence Mike Packmeyer was having on the course of events–furious, and first on the air with it, trying to take as much credit as she could for being his initial point of contact on board the carrier. Tombstone shook his head, a grim expression crossing his face.

Well, not this time. Pamela might have been on station on the carrier, but this story wasn’t hers–it was Packmeyer’s. And Tombstone was determined to see that Packmeyer got every bit of credit he was entitled to.

He turned back to Lab Rat. “Slight change in plans–tell Packmeyer that I’ll give him an exclusive. Tell the team to bring him back on board Jefferson on the CH-46 when they return from their inspection tour. I’ll make all the facilities he needs available to him–satellite communications, cell phones–whatever. Tell him he’s got my word on it.”

Lab Rat turned to go. Tombstone stopped him with a gesture.

“One other thing. Tell him he rendered his nation an important service. And it won’t be forgotten. On my word.”

Tombstone turned back to Batman. “We’ve got one other little matter to resolve–the State Department.”

Batman looked grim. “What the hell do we do with Tiltfelt?”

“My problem, not yours, my friend.”

Tombstone clapped him on the shoulder with one hand. “Why don’t you just have your Chief of Staff escort Mr. Bradley Tiltfelt up here? And have him bring Pamela Drake along with him. I think they’ll both be interested in seeing how this plays out.”

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Tiltfelt and Pamela Drake were seated alone in the admiral’s conference room. Pamela reached out, shook the coffeepot, and grimaced. The least they could do was keep it full.

“Outrageous,” Tiltfelt said. He glanced over at her, assessing her mood. “To bomb Ukraine–conduct what they call a surgical strike against a military base–absolutely outrageous in view of the Ukrainians’ gesture of friendship.”

Pamela toyed with the empty coffee cup. “I wouldn’t be so certain about that,” she said noncommittally. “Tombstone usually has a reason for what he does. I may not always agree with him, but I’ve never known him to act foolishly. Not often anyway,” she finished, her eyes narrowing as she thought of Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Flynn. “At least not in tactics.”

“I can see no justification for his conduct,” Tiltfelt said solemnly. “When I return to Washington, my top priority will be to have him relieved of command. A loose cannon in today’s Navy–the world situation is far too delicate for this sort of unilateral activity. The conduct of nations, international relations–they belong in the appropriate hands, not negotiated at gunpoint.”

The hatch opened and Tombstone Magruder stepped into the room. He stopped and surveyed both of them coldly, then stepped forward and took the high-backed chair at the end of the table. “This will constitute my only briefing on this matter–for both of you. There is a helicopter leaving in fifteen minutes. I expect you both to be on it. You will be ferried back to Greece for further transportation to your respective destinations. This is non-negotiable.”

He quelled the question starting on Pamela’s lips with a harsh glare. “You’ve both caused enough damage as it is.”

With that, he turned toward Tiltfelt. “In the very near future, it will become apparent that your decision to lobby in favor of sending this carrier into the Black Sea will have been the most foolish of all possible mistakes. You have two choices at this point. First, you can take your chances as your case is tried in the media, and most probably wind up the scapegoat as the Department of State recognizes the enormity of its mistake. Second, you may decide to take an offensive posture and admit that you were in error. Believe me, the subsequent facts are going to make that quite clear. If you take the second option, you have a chance of retaining your position within the State Department. And as an inducement to do so, I offer you this. I will say that I relied upon your advice in deciding to conduct the strike against Ukraine.”

Bradley Tiltfelt’s mouth fell open. He sputtered for a moment, then said, “That’s absolutely insane. I had no hand in that attack–none at all. What you’re asking is-“

“Your only possible hope,” Tombstone finished coldly. “I’ll know what your choice is by the time you leave this ship. Understood?”

Tiltfelt shook his head angrily.

Tombstone turned to Drake. “Before you disembark, you will file one last story. It will be along the lines of the two choices I have outlined for Mr. Tiltfelt. I will personally review your copy–print only, at this point–prior to your departure. If you choose not to draft a story for my approval at this time, I will have you held on board, incommunicado, until federal agents arrive to charge you with treason.”

“Treason? Just what the hell-?”

“Listen, don’t talk,” Tombstone ordered. “By throwing yourself off that fishing boat, you interfered with Naval operations during a time of conflict. You personally managed to endanger the lives of several men, starting with the pilots who had to pull you out of the drink. In the end, I may be proved to be wrong–but you’ll still spend at least four days incommunicado on board this ship. If there is a story to report, you’ll miss it completely. Got that?”

Oh, she got it. Indeed she did. Pamela’s color rose, her face twisted into a mask of fury. She leaped to her feet, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You can’t do this!”

“I can, and I will. Come, Miss Drake, do you really doubt me?”

The color drained from Pamela’s face as quickly as it had risen. The air seemed to go out of her and, deflated, she sagged back down into her chair. She nodded without looking up at him.

Tombstone turned back to Tiltfelt. “Your decision?”

“Number two.”

Tiltfelt’s voice was low, beaten. The all-pervasive self-confidence that had infused the man since he’d come on board was gone.

He looked like what he was–a political hack, caught in the middle of a scenario he neither understood nor could solve.

Tombstone nodded. “Very well. You have fifteen minutes to pack your belongings. The Chief of Staff will escort you to the flight deck.”

“I’ll file the story,” Pamela said sullenly. She lifted her head finally and glared at him. “But you’ll pay for this Tombstone, I swear you will.”