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.”
