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?”
