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.
9
With his feet parked on the corner of his desk, Packmeyer leaned back in his chair and lifted his butt off the seat cushion. He stretched, feeling the tight muscles around his lower spine resist. It was a routine of his, a daily exercise to try to combat the inevitable backaches and joint problems he acquired as a result of his sedentary job. With the phone plastered to his ear, he started tracking down the story.
As he waited for a mid-grade career employee at the embassy to take him off hold, his second line rang. His private line, the one number that he gave to important sources. It was indicative of his relationship with the embassy that no one inside the United States government had that particular telephone number. He replaced the receiver on his public line, cutting off the bland music that had been serenading him for the last ten minutes while the attache got around to answering his call. He picked up the private line: “Packmeyer.”
“Mike, it’s me. You recognize the voice?”
The man spoke fluent English, the edges of his vowels tinged with a clipped British accent.
“Of course I do. What’s happening?” Packmeyer came right to the point, knowing that if this particular source were calling him, then time was at a premium.
“No names. And deep background?not even a hint where you got this information. Agreed?”
“Of course.”
A heavy sigh. Then, more slowly now that the preliminary conditions of their conversation were established, the man continued. “Everything’s going to shit. By this afternoon, a radical Shiite sect will be making a statement condemning United States interference in this area of the world and promising retaliation and vengeance for the damage done to Turkey’s international reputation. Mike, they’re absolutely serious about this?not a one of them believes that a Turkish platform actually fired that missile.”
Packmeyer snorted. “And you believe them?”
Both men had a long history with the Turkish government, and his contact should have known better than to believe any public pronouncements.
His contact. A strange way to identify the cultural attache of the Russian embassy. But then again, Chemenko was an odd sort of cultural attache. A real one wouldn’t have been armed at all times.
“Yes, yes?I know. But this time, I do believe them. Every source I’ve got?and I’ve got sources you wouldn’t even dream of?has called me in a cold sweat over this entire incident. It’s not just disinformation this time?this is for real. Mike, someone’s trying to implicate Turkey in this, and they don’t like it one bit. There’s no way the moderates will be able to hold the Shiites in check this time.”
Packmeyer let out a low whistle. “What have they got planned besides the statement?”
“That’s the reason I’m calling. They’re going to be seeking out U.S. targets in Turkey for retaliation. It’s all dressed up in fancy diplomatic language, but that’s the gist of it.”
“ACN?” Mike felt a sudden cold tingle of fear. The ACN bureau had generally positive relationships with most of the Turkish political entities, but there was always that chance…
“An epitome of American capitalism,” the voice over the phone continued dryly. “At least that’s the line. You take some special precautions, at least for the next couple of weeks until this shakes out. I wouldn’t put it past them to-“
The window glass in Mike’s office shattered, showering him with a spray of sharp shards. He yelped, dropped the phone, and dove out of his chair and onto the far side of his desk. The receiver dangled in front of him. He snatched it up and plastered it to his ear. “Are you still there?” he asked, his voice shaky as adrenaline flooded his system.
“What’s going on?”
“Some asshole just shot out my window. Dammit, are they-?”
He cut his question off in mid-sentence. The telephone line was dead.
Still crouching down, Mike darted across to his office door and crept out into the main newsroom. Most of the reporters were already sheltered behind desks, and a few still clutched telephones in their hands. He felt a moment of pride?under fire, they were still doing their jobs. Pamela Drake wasn’t the only one who had guts around here.
“Gather around!” He was pleased to find that his voice was steady. “Everybody, over here.”
The resulting editorial conference looked as much like a children’s game as a business meeting, but there was nothing entertaining about it at all. All the reporters, even the administrative staff, all refused to cut and run, refused to be driven off the story by a terrorist attack.
Finally, Mike convinced them to take at least some elementary precautions.
In the distance he could hear sirens wailing, tires screeching as local law enforcement officials pulled up in front of the building. He scuttled over to the door and let himself out into a hallway before standing again.
The exchange was brief and foreboding. The officers appeared oddly unconcerned about the attack on ACN. While they promised more frequent patrols in the area and a full investigation, Packmeyer was convinced that they either knew about the attack, or were already certain that they knew who had conducted it.
After they left, he rejoined his staff. Many of them had already moved computer monitors and keyboards down to the floor and were busy typing, cross-legged in front of their monitors, their keyboards resting across their knees. Phones littered the narrow passages between desks as investigative reporters started stories.
Mike went back to his office to put in a few calls of his own.
A half hour later, he had as many questions as answers. All across the country, particularly along the coast, Turkish military troops were mobilizing, going to their scheduled strike-launching points. But there was no pattern to it?units were deployed to the north as often as they were deployed to the coast. In particular, the mine-control facility at Izmir was in a heightened state of alert. Yet despite his best efforts, he could not get the slightest lead on any possible targeting information.
Indeed, his sources sounded puzzled, confused?in some cases actually angry that they knew so little.
Finally, as he hung up the phone after talking to his last source,
Mike Packmeyer sat back to think.
Random violence against U.S. businesses and institutions?no, that wouldn’t be enough. He shook his head, certain that the Turkish national mentality would hardly deem that as fitting vengeance for their grievances.
There would be something larger, more spectacular.
The aircraft carrier. Of course. A perfect target. And now, en route to the Black Sea and transiting the Strait of Bosphorus, it was a perfect target. Most nations knew that the Strait was heavily mined, the weapons inert and harmless until they received an underwater radioactivation signal from the facility at Izmir.
Publicly, the purpose of the mines was to prevent a Russian sortie from the Black Sea with the Black Sea fleet, but most agreed that, like any trapdoor, this one worked two ways. The mines in the Bosphorus Strait could be used to keep the Russians in?or the United States out.
That was the easy answer, the most likely U.S. target. But Mike still had to unravel the actual causes behind the initial attack on the United States and Turkey’s reactions. Why, for instance, were amphibious forces loading
