a canopy and a RIO,” Batman muttered. “Hell, I know I would have. Damned harebrained idea like that.” He intensified his scowl.
Bird Dog wilted visibly in his seat. Batman let it go on two beats longer, then said, “You’re grounded. You couldn’t expect anything else, not after this incident. There’ll be a full JAG investigation, at the very least.”
Or a court-martial. Batman let the words remain unspoken.
“Yes, sir.” Bird Dog started to say something else, then decided that anything he could or would say at this point would only dig his grave deeper.
“Now, for the rest of it. I’m tempted to say let’s get our story straight, but we don’t have any story. We simply tell the truth, that’s all. At this point, I’m inclined to simply treat Bird Dog’s little escapade here as part of an overall plan of operational deception. You all know the reason why. That, of course, remains top secret.” He turned back to the PAO again. “Figuring out how to put this all in one neat package is your job. Tell the truth as much of it as we dare but steer away from anything that could compromise the safety of that pilot. You got it?”
The PAO nodded. “Aye, aye. Admiral. I’ll have the executive briefing on your desk in one hour.”
“Make it thirty minutes.” Batman suddenly felt fatigue flood his body.
The next few hours-hell, the next few days were going to be an unmitigated public circus. He’d rather be taking five night traps in a row in a gale-force wind than face the media storm that was about to erupt. Had erupted, he corrected as he glanced back at the television set. ACN commentators were already clamoring for attention, asking pointed questions that were really snide comments on the ability of the U.S. military to control its forces.
“Nobody talks on this nobody but me and the PAO,” Batman said grimly.
“Everybody understand? I mean no cellular calls home, no talking to anybody.”
Around the large conference table, heads bobbed.
Submerged in his own misery. Bird Dog barely heard the words. He remembered Thor all too well, and the possibility that he’d done something to endanger the man’s life was all but intolerable. Pilots supported each other, worked as a team, not as loose cannons with their own agendas. Maybe Gator was right. He was rusty and dangerous in the air.
“There’s nothing more I can tell you, Jim,” she said. She was on live feed to the noonday news, answering questions from the ACN anchor back in New York. She glanced at something pointedly off camera, then turned back to face the anchor she could not see. “I’m informed that we’ve spent too long in this location. We’ll have to leave. To stay any longer would compromise my safety, and, quite frankly” the rueful grin appeared again”I’ve had enough of that for one day. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more details.”
“Thank you, Pamela,” the anchor said sanctimoniously.
“Do make sure that you” The rest of his words were cut off as Pamela signaled to the cameraman to terminate the feed. Headquarters had a tendency to try to micromanage every breaking story. And while the missile attack on the fishing boat might not be the big story she was sure she’d eventually report, it would do for the time being.
She turned to Santana and asked, “Where are we now?”
It had been dark, the sun at least thirty minutes from rising when they’d come ashore. There’d been a ride in a truck, bumping along concealed in the back of a deuce-and a-half army vehicle, then a hurried trot into this building. She’d tried to look around when they arrived, but her hosts had kept her moving too quickly for her to absorb more than the vaguest details of the area around her, which was shrouded in predawn gloom. “I’d like to know.” She made her voice insistent.
“You agreed to be covered by our operational security rules,” Santana said shortly. He turned away from her and walked toward the door, moving quickly. “One of our first rules is that people know only what they need to know. If you are captured or when you are returned to the United States you will not be able to divulge this location if you don’t know it.”
“I’ve been here since six a.m” she snapped. “Trapped in one building with no windows. Do you think it would compromise your ‘operational security’ if you gave me something to eat?”
Santana stopped at the door and gestured to an aide. “Get her some food. Keep her here.” He shot one look at her, a small expression of minor annoyance, then left the room, banging the door shut behind him.
Pamela heard a bolt slide home as he left.
She turned back to the other freedom fighter her guard, she now realized. She forced her face to relax and produced a friendly smile.
“Any choices on the menu? I’m a pretty fair cook, if you’ve got the raw ingredients. I’ll bet you’re hungry now, too.”
The guard stared impassively at her, no expression of understanding on his face.
“You do speak English, don’t you?” she pressed. She took two steps toward him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody if you commit a fatal sin by having some lunch with me.” She smiled prettily. “I do so hate to eat alone.”
Something in the guard’s expression softened. While it would have been pressing it to call it a friendly look, at least it was a change from the cold, impassive face he’d shown before. “I promise, I won’t even ask you any questions about all this,” she continued, waving her hand at the surrounding area. “Not a word. It’s just that I’m a long way from home, and I’m not used to people trying to blow me up before breakfast.”
The guard nodded finally. “We have American MREs,” he announced, a note of pride in his voice. “Very nourishing.”
Pamela groaned inwardly, but maintained the agreeable expression on her face. It wasn’t this fellow’s fault, not at all. He couldn’t know how many times she’d eaten MREs and the C-rats that were their predecessors while in pursuit of a story in some exotic locale. And as for the incident this morning well, it had shaken her, but she’d had worse times. Like in Beirut. Like in Bosnia. Sure, physical peril always produced a sense of danger once it was past, coupled with a renewed realization of one’s own mortality, but this certainly wasn’t as terrifying as her experiences in Bosnia had been. There, pinned down by a sniper, she’d had to wait until the UN forces cleared the area.
She and her cameraman had subsisted on the ubiquitous MREs then, mixing the instant drink mix with water they’d collected in their helmets.
She shuddered at the thought.
“MREs? Why, that would be very nice.” She reached out to accept the gray vinyl plastic bag the man handed to her.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked. Seeing his expression, she continued quickly, “To open the bag, of course. Here, I can let you do it for me.”
The man grunted, then ripped through the heavy container with his knife. He tendered the open MRE back to her.
She paused for a moment to study the writing on the outside of the plastic, then groaned. Egg and ham omelet.
Her least favorite of all the varieties, almost as bad as the pork patties in the old C-rats. Only the small bottle of hot sauce included in each MRE made the omelet palatable.
Still, as she dug into the main entree with her fork, she reflected that it was better than being shot at. Barely.
Just as she was holding up a package of dried crackers for her guard to open, a bloodcurdling scream from the next room echoed in the air. She jumped and dropped the package. The guard bent over to pick it up.
For a moment, she fantasized about slamming her hand down on the back of his neck, stunning him, and somehow escaping the building. No, that was wrong. These were her friends, weren’t they? Her sources, at least. Whatever was happening in the next room was not a glimpse into her own future.
She hoped.
Thor lost consciousness abruptly, the tail end of his scream still fading in the room as he slumped down in the wooden chair. The ropes held him semi-upright.
“Very attractive,” Santana noted. He walked around the chair studying the pilot from all angles. “Yet you still have no answers.” He stooped down in front of the pilot and stared at Thor’s crotch. The pilot’s flight suit had been peeled off and lay in a crumpled pile at his feet.
