that you be reelected next month, and I don’t want this incident to keep that from happening.” The general stood abruptly. “If I hear anything else, Mr. President, I’ll let you know immediately.”
“Thank you.” The president stood and walked the general to the door. “And I will take your take on this to the security council. I appreciate your candor.”
After the general had gone, the president turned to his chief of staff and said, “Mike, get Sarah Wexler on the secure line. No, better yet — get her down here. Within the next couple of hours if possible.”
When Hank Carter stormed into the ACN newsroom, he made his presence felt immediately. Carter was one of the two old-style journalists who’d successfully made the transition to the twin paradigms of computers and international coverage. At heart, he was the stereotype of a hard-drinking, cigar-smoking, out-of-shape, cynical reporter turning out tight, elegant prose on a manual typewriter. But Carter had decided that was not who he wanted to be, and thus he wasn’t. In his early fifties, he was trim, muscular, and in excellent shape. There was not an ounce of fat on his lean body.
Carter was slightly taller than average, but his build made him look well over six feet tall. His hair was steel gray and close-cut, and tended to spike even without gel or mousse. His face with smooth, deeply tanned, with only a few lines around his eyes. He glowed with good health. His eyebrows were heavy and deep, hanging over a set of piercing gray eyes. The rest of his features were strong, jutting planes and acute angles, with an unexpectedly full and generous mouth.
Carter was originally from Alabama, and he retained the smooth vowels and consonants of his youth. Whether or not it was an act Drake had never been able to figure out, but she’d seen more than one person underestimate him based solely on his accent. She had never made that mistake herself, and she considered warning Winston against it, but then thought better. Carter had been a prime force in Winston’s hiring, and not just for her looks.
When Drake had been informed of his decision, she had immediately assumed that he had hired her for appearance only.
Now Carter’s Southern accent dropped away as he responded: “I’m going to forget you said that, Drake.” His eyes were cold, a Northern Sea during winter. She could almost see the ice creep over the rest of his face, and could hear it in his voice. “Of all people to assume that — what, are you having flashbacks to your own first days here?”
“That’s not why I was hired,” Drake said, her voice level.
Carter drove his point home. “No, it wasn’t. You were hired because my bosses could see the way things were headed. We had no women on the staff, not in the on-air department. In order to make sure we stayed in step with the times, we had to have a female presence on the front lines. And we picked you to be that person.” His gaze never waivered as he delivered this brutal assessment.
“So you say.” Drake was just as implacable.
Carter conceded gracefully, his point made. “But whatever the original reasons, they hardly matter now, do they? When it comes to delivering a headline story, you beat the pants off of everyone — male, female, everyone. You’re a pro, Drake. One of the best, as you well know. If you weren’t, you’d never get away with half the shit you pull in the field.”
“I deliver the story. That’s what matters, right?”
Carter sighed. “At least half the time, you’re
“I don’t start these wars.”
“And it doesn’t matter,” Carter said, ignoring her protest. “Because our audience bit, and they bit big. They love you. All they see is this stunning woman caught up in the middle of things. They don’t think about whether or not you violate any sort of journalistic ethics by getting involved with these people. All they do is identify with you. The men in our audience see somebody they need to go rescue, and they’re cheering on the rest of the world as they do that. The women identify with you even more, like your life is some sort of action-adventure romance story.” He held up one hand to forestall protest. “I’m not blaming you. The people love that — they love you. And that means an increased market share.”
“So why did you hire her?” Drake asked. There was too much truth in what he said.
“Because she’s good,” Carter said, gazing at her steadily. “If you want, take a look at her tapes.” He fished around the bookcase behind him and produced two videocassettes. “One hard news, one human interest. She did the research, put the whole thing together. You look at them and then come back and bitch about my decision.”
“She was regional. This is the big league.”
“And I think she’s ready for it.” Carter’s gaze softened slightly. “You’ve done enough for female reporters, Drake. However you got your start, you’ve carved out a broad path for the women coming up behind you — no pun intended. You’ve made it so that a kid like Cary has a shot based on her ability. Now, the outside package does matter, but it’s the same for men as well. It’s part of on-camera presence. The important thing is that she didn’t have to screw anybody to get this job, and that’s in part thanks to you.”
“Great.”
“So,” Carter continued, ignoring the mutinous expression on his star reporter’s face, “I expect you to show her the ropes. Sure, you may have to step on her a couple of times. I heard what happened out there. There’s no way she’s got the people skills yet to get in some of the places that you can. I don’t expect you to share your entire contact book with her, either. She’ll have to develop her own. But at least give her a shot, Drake. You know that if she ever pushed it to the breaking point, we’d take you over her without a second thought. She’s not a threat to you.”
“I’m not afraid of her,” Drake said. She picked up the two videocassettes. “I’ll take a look. See what’s she’s got. Then I’ll decide.”
Just then, Winston knocked once, then stepped into the room. She strolled over to Carter’s desk and handed him a computer printout. Then turning to include Pamela, she said, “It’s your ship. The
“Let’s roll,” Carter snapped, still staring at the printout as he spoke. “Drake, you’re on it. Take your own camera people and whoever else you want. Marcia, arranged transportation. Jim, get on the phone and get the usual clearances. I want a presence on that ship within the next twelve hours, people. So move!”
Around him, people sprang into action, following a well-practiced drill. Marcia, Carter’s personal assistant, picked up the telephone and speed dialed ACN’s travel department. “Party of two?” she asked, looking at her boss.
Carter didn’t answer immediately and Drake felt her heart sinking.
“No. Three. Drake, one camera, and Winston. Might as well hit the deck running, Cary.”
Drake groaned silently, but turned to face Winston with a calm, professional expression. “Get moving. Pants, comfortable shoes, personal items for two weeks. Two bags, no more. On-camera outfits, a dress if you want — you won’t need it, but take one anyway.” She pointed at Winston’s high-heeled shoes. “One pair, no more. Now move. I’ll meet you at the airport in three hours,” she continued, mentally running through the flight schedules in her mind. “Marcia will have us take a direct flight to San Diego, and from there we’ll try to get Navy transport. We may have to continue on to Hawaii and fly out from there, but that’ll get us out with the State Department and the military.”
Winston’s jaw was hanging open. She recovered and began scribbling notes on her notepad. “So we’re going to—”
“Two hours,” Drake said. “At the airport. That’s all you need to know right now.”
Carter regarded her with a slight smile. “If you ever call me high-handed again, I want you to think about this little incident.”
