Nuke Zone

8

I’ve lost it–I know I have. For the first time in years, I’m in the right place and there’s nothing to report. This is it–Istanbul–I can feel it!

But there’s nothing happening.

Pamela Drake stared out at the horizon, so frustrated she could spit.

It was an article of faith that her instinct was infallible, all-knowing, and at least twenty-four hours ahead of any other reporter’s. It had never failed her, not in any part of the world. From the Aleutian Islands to the South China Sea, from Norway to the tip of India, Pamela Drake had been there. Been there first, been there in the middle, and reported via ACN the best stories of any news network in the world.

But after four days in Istanbul, rumors were starting to fly that the famed Pamela Drake was merely a reporter who got lucky sometimes.

Sometimes. As if that were even close to the truth. She’d been right every time, been there before all of them. But did they remember?

More importantly, did her editor?

She shook her head, the unfairness of it raging through her. All they remembered was the last story. What have you done for me lately?

Where is the story this week?

There was never any recognition of the fact that she’d been right every single other time in the past. Screw up once and you’re history. That was how it was, and she knew it.

But it was here, of that she was certain. She leaned on the quay wall and stared out at the sea, silently demanding that something happen.

Something, anything–hell, at this point she’d settle for two fishing boats colliding.

The story was here. She could feel it in the way the small hairs on the back of her neck prickled, in the uneasy tightness in her gut. Whether or not it was hers alone now was the problem. Every network kept track of her movements, she knew. They had their spies, their scouts in the major airlines as well as in her own bureau, no doubt. As soon as Pamela landed and established a presence in a particular theater, everyone played catchup. Regardless of whether or not they knew what the story was, regardless of how absurd her destination seemed, everybody followed.

She grimaced. That was the problem with Istanbul right now–everybody else was also here. If a story did break, she’d just be one among the masses chasing after it. Someone might even scoop her. No, that would be entirely unacceptable. No, it wouldn’t happen here, and it had never happened.

But where the hell was everybody?

The line to an old song ran through her head–something about giving a war and nobody coming. “I wonder if I should call the Navy and tell them they’re missing something,” she said aloud.

The cameraman turned toward her with a weary, bored expression on his face. “What?”

She wheeled to face him down. “The story. There’s one here, you know.”

The cameraman nodded. “You’ve been telling me that. But where is it?”

She glared at him. “I don’t know. But it’ll be here soon. We just don’t know where to look right this second.”

The cameraman’s face suddenly took on a degree of animation. He pointed out at the horizon behind her and said, “Maybe we should try out there.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. There’s something happening out there, and I don’t know what it is yet.”

The cameraman began shaking his head violently from side to side, fumbling with the camera bag at his side without ever taking his eyes off the horizon. “No, I mean it’s there–right there.”

He pointed again at the horizon, taking his eyes off it to dig out a new lens.

Pamela whirled and stared at the horizon. It was there–the pieces were starting to fall into place.

Right at the boundary between water and sky, a dark gray smudge broke the clean line of the ocean. She recognized it immediately, having seen it too many times from too many different angles not to. It was the USS Jefferson, steaming toward them with helicopters and aircraft arrayed overhead like an honor escort. “I told you.”

“Dammit, set up for the feed.”

She moved in front of him, positioning for the sun and the favorable angle while still making sure that the camera could catch the shape of the aircraft carrier in the background.

“I don’t like this, Tombstone. I don’t like it one little bit.”

Batman stared out at the calm, glassy water as the massive carrier plowed through the smooth seas. “Constrained waters–that’s no place for an aircraft carrier.”

“I agree. You know I do.”

Tombstone stared off in the sky, looking for the martial stack of aircraft orbiting. “That’s one of the reasons we’ve got so much in the air right now.”

“A hell of a lot it’s going to do in these waters. And still don’t see any justification for putting us at risk by pulling into port in Ukraine. Hell, we can make do with two cats–that’s why we’ve got three.”

Stoney sighed. The order from the Department of Defense had been ambiguous at best, downright unclear at worst. Jefferson had been directed to sail into the Black Sea for possible repair in Ukraine “pending further determination.”

How many strings had Tiltfelt pulled?

Enough, evidently. From what he’d heard on CNN and the other networks, Congress was slavering over the possibility of having a stronghold at Russia’s back door.

“Let’s look at the bright side,” Tombstone said finally. “At least we’re not ordered to make port there. I think Uncle Thomas is going to be playing this close to the chest–get us in theater, within striking range of Turkey, and wait to see what falls out from this little incident on board. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

His uncle, Tombstone knew, would be irrevocably opposed to pulling Jefferson into any foreign port right now. The prospect of making a transit through the Strait of Bosphorus and being confined to the Black Sea was not much better, but at least the Black Sea offered some elbow room. Once they were through the Strait, he’d feel better anyway.

“What I really don’t understand,” Batman said, pointing to mainland Turkey just starting to come into view off their starboard bow, “is why we’re so convinced Turkey will let us through here. Isn’t this whole area mined?”

“Of course it is. It’s sort of a test, I suppose. Turkey is still claiming that they weren’t behind the EMP attack, and the thinking is that if they let us sail through the Strait unmolested, then they probably weren’t. Or at least possibly weren’t. Or at least–oh, hell, I don’t know. I don’t like it any better than you do.”

Both of the Naval aviators stared out at the calm waves, waiting for the first sign of trouble.

“How fast can this tug go?” Pamela demanded. “Forty knots?”

The owner of the boat shrugged, and pointed at the sea. “Maybe twenty. As calm as the seas are today, we won’t have the swells to contend with. But why the worry about speed?”

Pamela took two steps closer, bringing herself well within his personal range. She could feel his interest in her grow, see the sudden hungry look in his eyes. “I’ve got a plan. I need to borrow your boat–rent it, really. Could use you along, if you’re interested.”

She let an alluring smile play across her face.

The man reached out one hand and laid it on her shoulder, stroking gently. “I might be.”

“Work first.”

Pamela explained her plan to him. The man’s face went through a cycle from lust to surprise to childish glee. He started nodding vigorously. “Come on. Let’s see how fast I can get her going.”

“Man, I’m hungry,” AWI Harness moaned. “Come on, guys–didn’t anybody bring something to eat?”

Rabies and his copilot exchanged a snide, knowing look. Harness could be the best antisubmarine technician in the Navy–neither of them had any doubt that he was–but he could be a real pain in the ass on a mission.

“Didn’t you eat before you left home?” Rabies inquired innocently. “I know I told you to.”

“After last time, sir, I thought it might be better to go light on lunch,” Harness replied stiffly. “You know, just in case you wanted to start down and take another real close look at those waves again.”

Rabies burst out laughing. “Harness, you’re such a pussy.”

“I resent that remark,” the TACCO said from the backseat. “Last time I checked, he wasn’t allowed in our heads.”

Lieutenant Sara Andrews was one of the first female TACCOs to fly in an S-3 Viking. “Besides, even if he were–he’d still get hungry.”

“Thanks–-I think,” Harness muttered. “Come on, what happened to the team concept here?”

“Oh, all right.”

Rabies fumbled around in a flight suit pocket and drew out a candy bar. “Here.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Rabies could hear Harness peeling off the paper, the muffling little noises barely audible over the ICS.

Wait for it, wait for it–now. “Oh, by the way, Harness,” Rabies said casually. “It doesn’t bother you that I keep that in the same package I have your full piddle pack, does it? I don’t know why the hell I forgot to take it out after the last mission–it’s been, what–three days?”

The copilot and TACCO howled. Rabies burst into song. He could hear just what he’d expected to hear from the backseat–Harness gagging.

The S-3 Viking was flying lazy, low-level circles around the aircraft carrier as she approached the Strait. Once Jefferson commenced her transit, the Viking would dart ahead to the Black Sea and orbit there, waiting for the ship to arrive. The technicalities of maneuvering by aircraft over international waterways were complicated, and Rabies wasn’t sure exactly why the rules were the way they were. All he knew was how the mission had been briefed by Intel, with a JAG officer sitting right next to him.

“Look! To starboard.”

Rabies glanced over as the copilot craned his head back to see. “I don’t believe it.”

Rabies threw the S-3 into a hard, starboard turn, descending rapidly to two thousand feet. From that altitude, the sight that had so intrigued the copilot was readily visible. The clear, calm waters of the Mediterranean were a massive barrier of odd acoustics and soggy bottom. Detection by sonar, including sonobuoys, was problematic at best. On the worst day, S-3 could virtually hit a submarine with a sonobuoy and not hear it acoustically.

There was, however, one advantage to the shallow waters on a calm day–visibility was excellent. As more than one Mediterranean sailor could testify, being submerged wasn’t a blanket of invisibility in the Mediterranean, not on a day like this.

Living proof of that theory was making a slow transit through the water below them.

Sara whistled softly. “He must be fifty feet down,” she said, quiet wonder in her voice. “I’d heard the stories–but it sure is something to see it yourself. Wait, I can almost–what about it, Rabies, can you see what type it is?”

“Let’s get a little closer and see if we can figure it out.”

Rabies tipped the S-3’s blunt nose down and executed a steep descent toward the waves. The dark shadow under the water abruptly started to turn to port.

“He hears us–I’m sure of it,” Rabies said over the ICS.

“But what kind of submarine?”

Rabies and the copilot studied the sleek underwater form, trying to make out the class identifiers. Both had done several tours in the Mediterranean, and the variety of diesel submarines located in its shallow waters were familiar to them. Both were expecting to see a Turkish Kilo, or perhaps one of the myriad German varieties that populated these waters.

Either one of them would have been cause for worry, the Turkish Kilo particularly. With the current state of affairs between the United States and Turkey, neither Rabies nor the copilot would be inclined to believe the Turkish submarine had friendly intentions, lurking as it was in the trail of the American aircraft carrier.

When Rabies finally made out the silhouette of the submarine, he sucked in a hard breath. He’d been prepared to worry over a Turkish Kilo, but what he saw bothered him even more. Not because of the capabilities of the submarine, though that was cause for concern as well. No, what this classification meant this close on the trail of the aircraft carrier was about to throw a wrench into every bit of tactical planning that had gone on to date. He turned to the copilot. “You’d best get Homeplate on the circuit. That there is a Juliet–an old Russian ship-killer. She’s capable of over-the-horizon linking with surveillance aircraft, and she’s too damned close to our carrier.”

“A Juliet?” The copilot leaned forward as though getting closer to the glass would improve his vision. “You’re right–Juliet, no doubt about it.”

During the Cold War, the old Type II Juliet-class diesel submarine was a mainstay of the Soviet Union. It alternated anticarrier operations in the Mediterranean with other SSG duties with the then-new Echo II nuclear submarine.

In the last decades, the Juliets had been increasingly reluctant to stray far from home port. Age and poor maintenance had rendered them virtually unseaworthy. For this one to be here in the Mediterranean, lurking outside the entrance to the Black Sea, must have required a major maintenance and resupply evolution. “Turkey doesn’t have any Juliets,” Rabies said over the ICS. “Do they? Anybody know different, you speak up.”

“No.”

Harness’s voice was crisp and clear. “They were sold to several nations around the world, but the only countries who still have operational ones are Ukraine and Russia.”

“Then what in the hell is this boat doing out here?” Rabies demanded.

“From her position on the stern, it looks like she’s herding us, like a sheepdog.”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Sara said. “Hold on, Homeplate’s talking.”

They all listened as the directions came from the aircraft carrier.

Hunter 701 was to maintain close contact on the Juliet, pinning it down inside a barrier of sonobuoys including active sonobuoys that would hold it even if it went sinker. In addition, two SH60-B helos were being vectored off the aircraft carrier for coordinated antisubmarine operations with the S3. The S3 was to maintain tactical control of the situation. Weapons free was authorized if the Juliet approached within three thousand yards of the carrier.

“Weapons free,” Rabies said quietly. “Oh, deep holy shit. Weapons free.”

“There it is. Get closer.” Pamela’s voice was harsh and demanding.

Her cameraman glanced at her uneasily and then stepped away from her as though to distance himself from what he suspected she was about to do.

An uneasy murmuring arose from the crew. The cameraman held up one hand as though to quell protests, listened, and then turned back to her.

“They don’t want to get very close to the carrier. It is not good seamanship, they say. The carrier, it is so heavily laden, it cannot maneuver to avoid them should they run into problems.”

“We’re not going that close. Circle around to the other side.” Pamela had spotted the rescue helicopter making lazy orbits on the starboard side of the carrier.

“We’ll pass astern,” the captain said.

“Fine, fine–just hurry up and do it.” Pamela kicked at the gunwales of the battered fishing boat. The engine roared to life, a good deal more steady and satisfying than she would have thought possible, given the outward condition of the boat. The boat picked up speed, traced a parallel course to the carrier, then pitched and bobbed as it steamed over the massive vessel’s wake.

Finally, as the waves died down on the leeward side of the ship,

Pamela saw the helicopter again. She waved her arms at it, trying to attract the pilot’s attention. There was no indication that it saw her, although she was certain the helo’s crew members were checking out every one on deck on the vessels near the carrier.

Frustrated, she reached down at her sides, grabbed the edges of her white pullover, and yanked it over her head. Stunned silence, followed by a low chorus of appreciative wolf whistles, greeted her as her head popped out of the sweater. She put her hands on her hips, glared at the fishing boat’s crew members, then turned back to the helo.

Raising her right hand holding the sweater, she began vigorously waving the new signal flag at the helicopter. She saw it stop in midair, change course, and vector toward them.

She grinned, thinking how horrified Tombstone would be if he knew his stories about the predilections of sailors on watch on both ships and helicopters had inspired her.

She waited until the helicopter was almost directly overhead, certain that its crew was watching her. She turned to the cameraman. “Have them come to a dead stop. Then you get the hell out of here. Explain it to the crew if the captain doesn’t. If he doesn’t clear the area at his best possible speed, there’s a good chance his boat will be impounded when he returns to shore. He needs to get lost–and you make him understand it. Now give me your camera.”

“What?”

The cameraman started to say something else, but his words were lost.

“The camera,” she repeated. She reached out and snatched it from his hands, silently thanking the powers that looked down on reporters that he’d had the foresight to bring the waterproof camera. Field offices had been bitching about the extra cost for combat undersea-hardened equipment for years, but it always paid off in the end.

She slung the camera strap around her neck, then looped her belt over it to hold it close to her body. Then she stepped up onto the gunwales, balanced carefully for a moment, and executed a perfect racing dive into the calm waters.

The chill in the water took her breath away immediately, but she stroked determinedly underwater, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the churning screws of the fishing boat. Finally, when she could stand the oxygen deprivation no longer, she clawed her way gasping and coughing to the surface. She treaded water, still feeling the chill seep into her bones, and scanned the ocean around her.

The fishing vessel had evidently taken her advice. It was rapidly leaving the area, its wake from powerful twin three-bladed propellers churning up the water in a rooster tail behind it. Pamela treaded water, watching the helo now closing in on her, hoping and praying the United States Navy was as chivalrous as it claimed to be.

“Look at that crazy bitch!” The helicopter pilot followed that comment with a string of obscenities. The woman in the water had gone from being a pleasant, welcome source of free entertainment to being part of his job. “Get Mother on the circuit–we’ve got a problem here.”

The carrier’s reaction was immediate and predictable. The helicopter was equipped for sea-air rescue, which was why it was assigned as the angel helo during flight operations. The pilot was ordered to execute a standard SAR mission on the woman in the water.

“Now this is something different,” the rescue diver murmured as he shrugged into his harness. He looked at the other flight crew member standing by the winch. “Course, it’s all business with me. You know that.”

The other man eyed him sternly. “You start copping feels on the way up, you’re gonna hear about it later. Who knows who the hell that crazy bitch is?”

The diver affected an offended look. “Who, me? You think I’d do that just because some broad takes off her shirt and dives into the water just to meet me? Hell, all the trouble she’s gone to–I don’t want to disappoint her.”

But his serious face belied the smart-ass comments. Both men were completely focused on their mission. Too much could go wrong during any sea-air rescue, as well they knew. Sometimes the downdraft from the helicopter overwhelmed a struggling swimmer, or an unexpected cramp took the victim beneath the waves before the rescue crew could get to him.

That meant hours of heartbreaking searches underwater, trying desperately to recover a body–hopefully, within the first few minutes, when there was a chance of reviving the victim.

Four minutes later, the Seahawk now stable and hovering directly overhead, the flight crew lowered the rescue diver to the water.

The downdraft from the helicopter was strong, flattening out the water around her and trying to drive her head underwater. She fought back, treading water furiously. She was a strong swimmer, but nothing had really prepared her for the force of the downdraft. With it coming as it did immediately after the shock of cold water, she could already feel her strength leaching away.

Pamela kicked off her shoes, and felt a small increase in buoyancy at the loss of the weight. As the helicopter lowered itself, extruding the winch that tethered the rescue diver to it, she breathed a sigh of relief.

A few more minutes–certainly she could hold out that long.

Two minutes later, the rescue diver released himself from the winch and dropped ten feet into the ocean below. She saw him pause for a minute, get his bearings, then proceed over to her with strong, certain strokes.

Moments later, he was by her side.

“You speak English?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He fiddled with the harness, pulling it toward her and linking it around her body. Finally, with that done, he said, “What the hell did you do that for? Don’t you know how much trouble you just caused us? I wouldn’t be surprised if the admiral chewed you out himself.”

Despite the cold, despite the biting sensation of the harness cutting into her ribs, Pamela smiled. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

“It’s who?” Tombstone roared. The denial was almost automatic, but he realized as soon as he asked that he’d known all along it might be her.

Pamela Drake. What would she not do to get a story? Who else would she put in danger besides herself?

“Get her dried off–find her something to wear,” Batman said. “Then I want to see her.”

His voice was cold. He glanced over at Tombstone. “My helo, Admiral, unless you have other wishes?”

Tombstone shook his head wearily. “No, I don’t think so. Not after this week. About the last thing in the world I want to do is see Miss Pamela Drake of ACN.”

Yuri loitered to within fifty miles of the aircraft carrier. Although the carrier was out of sight, he was receiving data relay from surveillance aircraft and had a clear picture of it on his radar scope when tuned out to maximum range. He and his wingman were careful to stay at least minimally in compliance with the keep-away zone–not precisely, of course. They were exercising their own freedom of navigation by declining to remain outside the three-hundred-mile zone. Still and all, it was a good compromise distance–close enough to assert their right to independent operations, yet not so close as to provoke the American carrier.

Listening to the encrypted radio transmissions, he followed the progress of the submarine toward the battle group. Two helicopters had it pinned down now, and at his last report, the submarine commander had tersely stated that he was breaking off further communications to concentrate on evasion. Not such a difficult problem when you considered the wildly erratic sound characteristics of the Mediterranean. The fellow had been stupid to have been sighted at all, and Yuri thought that he at least partially deserved the harassment he was now getting from the helicopters.

He was less sanguine about his own role in the conflict now rapidly developing. He wondered for perhaps the millionth time what his reaction would have been had he known he was actually launching a nuclear weapon.

Pride, perhaps, for having been selected for such an essential mission?

Or would he have–could he have–found the courage to refuse to fly?

Not likely. It would have completely ended his career, as well as most probably his life. Besides, even if he’d been willing to sacrifice his own life for his principles, he still had a substantial number of relatives on the ground in Ukraine. It was one thing to risk your own life–another to risk that of your babushka.

And since the attack on La Salle and the bomb on board the carrier, Yuri now had no choice. He was committed. At any point in time, if Ukraine wanted to resolve the conflict with the Americans, they had only to turn him over as the ultimate scapegoat. Certainly, there would be questions about how the nuclear weapon had found itself on his wing to start with, but he had a feeling that an ever-widening conspiracy would be discovered that would undoubtedly encompass the ground crew responsible for the on-load. People would die–junior people, the ones who had no say in their own destiny.

The bond between Bradley Tiltfelt and Pamela Drake was immediate and obvious. As she walked into the conference room, hair still damp, clad in a utilitarian set of coveralls, Bradley Tiltfelt stood and offered a small, courtly bow. “We’re delighted to see you survived your ordeal in such admirable fashion,” he offered genially. His eyes stayed locked on hers, although it was obvious to Tombstone that his mind was wandering over the taut curves under the rough coverall fabric.

Pamela slipped into a chair without asking. She waved a lazy hand at the men still standing and said, “Now that I’m here, don’t you think we ought to talk?”

Batman exploded. “Jesus, woman, just who in the fuck do you think you are? You diverted my SAR helo with your little stunt. If we’d had an actual in-flight emergency, you could have cost lives–useful lives–men and women that are out here protecting their country. And for what?”

Bradley Tiltfelt held up a placating hand. “Now, now, Admiral–that kind of attitude gets us nowhere.”

He pointed at Pamela Drake. “Had you been cooperative with the press to begin with, and acknowledged the American public’s right to know, this young woman would not have been pushed to such dangerous lengths to exercise her First Amendment rights.”

“Rights.” Tombstone filled the word with disgust. “Her rights end where my right to keep my pilots safe begins.”

Bradley edged a little closer to Pamela. “I understand completely,” he told her. “You see what I deal with every day.”

Pamela appeared to barely hear him. She was staring at Tombstone, the familiar glare and fire surfacing behind her brilliant green eyes. Her mouth twisted into something that might have been a frown–but uglier.

“You think you can sail an American aircraft carrier into the Black Sea and not have the press asking questions? Or the American people?”

She leaned forward in her chair, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Just remember who you work for, Admiral.”

Tombstone drew up straight and stiff. “I work for the president of the United States, serving American national security interests. You work for a paycheck. Don’t ever confuse our two roles, Miss. Drake–not ever.”

“I think there’s a way we can work out a compromise,” Tiltfelt continued smoothly, as though Tombstone had not spoken. “Since Miss Drake is already here, and will undoubtedly be followed by hordes of requests for information, it’s in our interest to cooperate.”

He shot a hasty look at Tombstone, wincing a little at the anger he saw there. “Not, of course, in any way that might compromise safety or security. But a background briefing, perhaps the chance to observe certain operations–surely that wouldn’t hurt, Admiral?”

Pamela turned to Tiltfelt and focused the full force of her smile on the State Department representative, the storm clouds clearing instantly from her face. “I think it would be helpful to have the broader perspective as well, sir. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

She offered her hand. “I’m Pamela Drake, ACN.”

Tiltfelt preened. “Bradley Tiltfelt, at your service madame.”

He followed that with a brief recitation of his history in the State Department and his current assignment, concluding with; “I’m a great fan, Miss Drake. The reports you made from the Alutians–absolutely stunning.”

A look of consternation crossed his face. “On this same ship, I believe.”

Pamela smiled warmly at him, then turned a frigid look on Tombstone. “There were difficulties on that assignment as well, Director Tiltfelt.”

She moved her chair closer to his until their knees were almost touching. “Now how exactly do you spell your last name?”

Tiltfelt preened again.

“This is going to shit, Tombstone,” Batman said gloomily. “I can’t believe she’s here–dammit, why is it that everywhere we go, she turns up?”

Tombstone sighed heavily. “You know the answer to that. Two answers, actually. First, she doesn’t mind embarrassing me whenever possible. I should have known this would happen when I broke off our engagement.”

Batman scowled. “A woman scorned–that’s it?”

Tombstone paused and looked reflective. “Not completely. There’s one other reason. Pamela Drake is very, very good at what she does. In her own field, she is as exceptionally capable as you are.”

He held up a hand to forestall objections. “Now, no false protestations of modesty–you know what I mean. As much as we may hate it, the fact is Pamela’s here and she’s a force to be dealt with. And regardless of what we think of her, we must never forget that–that she’s very, very good. You copy?”

“Roger.” Batman slumped down in his chair as if drained of energy. “But I don’t have to like it.”

“Nobody said you did.” Tombstone’s face was a sober, graven mask. “We just have to live with it.”

“Got a visual on that MiG,” Thor said laconically over the radio. “Dirty wings–but he’s staying almost outside the exclusion area. Any orders?”

“Just fly the mission as briefed,” the TAO on the carrier responded. “VID and escort–if he makes a move into us, you know what happens at two hundred miles.”

“Roger, copy.”

Thor put the agile Hornet into a tight turn, falling into killing position behind the MiG.

In a contest between the two aircraft, the outcome might be in doubt, he admitted to himself finally. The MiG was a sleek, sharp-looking bird, with performance characteristics that almost matched the Hornet. Flown by a sharp pilot, it would be a bitch to take on.

A harsh, shrieking noise inside the cockpit captured his attention.

He frowned, looking over at the ESM warning gear. “What the hell-?”

He flipped a switch to silence the alarm and called the carrier. “You get that? I’m getting downlink indications from that MiG. Is he talking to that submarine?”

There was a moment of silence on the radio. Then the TAO came back. “Maybe. Right now we’ve got his playmate pinned down, so I doubt if he’s getting any response. But this is bad shit, Thor. If he’s passing targeting information to the submarine, you need to be ready to take him out.”

Thor moved the Hornet back slightly from the MiG and climbed, settling into his favorite killing position on the MiG’s tail. The MiG gave no sign of noticing.

“What the hell is he thinking?” Thor wondered.

Yuri shifted uncomfortably in the cockpit, nervous about the American Hornet on his ass. It was something he was expecting, something he was equipped to deal with, but that didn’t make him any more comfortable.

If anything went wrong with the timing of his countermeasures, he could kiss his MiG–and his ass–good-bye. The Hornet was a formidable opponent, much more dangerous than the heavier and slower-turning Tomcat.

He glanced down at his radar scope and saw the distance-line indicator spooling down the numbers. Just before he reached the two-hundred-mile mark from the carrier, he turned back. It would be close, just as the mission was briefed. He only hoped the American’s range indicator was just as good.

Mike Packmeyer leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. His skin felt oily, as though he’d been too long without a shower, and the small muscles in the back of his neck were starting to complain from the tension.

Nothing unusual–it was always like this when a story was starting to roll off the wires. Hell, this wasn’t even a story yet–just a rumor. He stared at the phone, wondering if it could divulge any answers. After ten years in Istanbul, he had enough contacts to be able to track down almost any story. But this one was a little bit different.

The telephone call he’d just received outlined detailed preparations that Turkey was making for military mobilization. It puzzled him, since he hadn’t seen this sort of reaction before the attack on the USS La Salle.

Puzzled him, and worried him. Usually the people on the ground had at least some warning before an international situation went to shit, but there had been no such warning during the previous attack.

Why was Turkey spinning up now, after the attack?

Were they planning another strike?

Or was there something else brewing in the tumultuous region that he hadn’t yet tumbled to.

He sighed, felt a sharp stab in his gut, and wondered if his ulcer was kicking up again. It was almost a badge of honor, a medical complaint suffered by most front-line journalists. He kept a stash of medication in his upper right-hand drawer just to cope with this hazard of the profession.

Who could he call?

He ran over in his mind a list of contacts. Then he shook his head. No, if there were really something in the offing, he would need more than mere rumors. He needed some actual facts.

And where the hell was Drake?

That was another factor that worked against the story, incredible as that might be. If something significant were happening, Drake would be around–she always was. But he’d had no word from either her or her assigned cameraman in the last eight hours.

Another piece of the puzzle that bothered him.

Maybe it was just possible that Miss Drake’s luck was finally changing. Mike smiled gleefully, picturing the look on her face when she realized she’d missed the beginning of a major assault from Turkey on United States forces. Sure, there’d be an element of personal danger–there was for all of them, even people like Packmeyer, who’d been in the region for over a decade. But that wouldn’t have stopped her–it never had before.

No, if this were really a breaking story, Pamela would have been here.

Been here and been in the middle of it.

Then again…

Newsmen believe in the concept of luck almost religiously. It was an article of faith that each reporter carried his own particular type of luck with him, something that followed him or her around until the day the reporter committed some egregious sin and pissed off the powers that be. For a moment, he wondered if Pamela’s had finally started to evaporate. It would be a shock to her, one that most of her colleagues would watch with undisguised glee. They’d been scooped too many times, made to look like shirkers in too many parts of the world, not to view her downfall with some small degree of relish and personal pleasure.

Well, this might just be the story that Miss Drake missed. Funny, he didn’t feel bad about it at all. Not at all.

The telephone rang, piercing his pleasant reverie. He frowned and stared at it–his private number–then snatched it off the cradle.

“Packmeyer,” he snapped.

“Mike?” Pamela’s dulcet tones were unmistakable.

“Where the hell are you?”

Inwardly, he sighed. It looked like Pamela’s luck hadn’t left her after all. She was undoubtedly calling to report some of the rumors he’d just received from other sources.

“You’re not going to believe this–I’m on board the USS Jefferson. The carrier is headed through the Bosphorus Strait, as you’ve undoubtedly heard by now, probably en route to the Black Sea for offensive operations.”

Tersely, Pamela outlined her dramatic dive into the sea and subsequent rescue by the American helicopter. She concluded with: “I’m getting background information, some access–Mike, you can take this for gospel. I don’t know what’s going on yet–not yet–but the Jefferson is a part of it.”

After five minutes, Packmeyer hung up the phone, his mood darkening.

Whatever thoughts he’d had about Pamela Drake’s luck disappearing had just been dispelled.