Hellfire

her liberation, and her general disdain for such courtesies. Then, thinking better of it, she laid her hand in the crook of his elbow and said, “Thank you very much.” She glanced behind and saw her cameraman stifle a grin, and thought, Honey, not vinegar. Now let’s see what we catch.

The flight deck looked pretty much like flight decks everywhere. The air had a slightly different odor to it, probably a combination of fuel burning and cooking. It was not unpleasant, just different. The vast expanse of non- skid, the deliberate, measured steps of the flight deck technician, the glints of sun off of steel fuselages — all were familiar, even to the heat radiating up through Pamela’s boots. Form follows function, she supposed.

They entered the ship just as they would an American aircraft carrier through a hatch in the island. From there, she followed her escort down two decks, twisting through a maze of passageways until they ended up in a large compartment. A large buffet table was spread out before them, the food carefully arranged and beautifully presented.

I wonder how much it cost to fly all this out. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. Murmuring thanks to her escort, Pamela sampled the caviar and then the salmon. Both melted in her mouth like butter.

The clatter in the passageway told her that her fellow reporters were arriving. They soon swarmed in, laughing and talking, shaking off the adrenaline buzz from the flight over. Pamela selected two chairs and dropped her gear on them, assigning Jeff to guard them.

There was a flurry near the door and every military person in the room snapped to attention. A Russian command was barked out, and they relaxed, although not by much. Parting the reporters with his sheer presence, a large, very senior Russian officer made his way to the front of room, managing to smile and look serious at the same time. He stopped to shake a few hands along the way, including Pamela’s, murmured a greeting in Russian, and then stepped to the podium in front.

“Welcome to my ship,” he said, permitting himself a brief smile. “My English is so weak. If you need translation, ask, okay?” He surveyed the crowd to make sure he’d been understood, then nodded. “Well, we wish for happier circumstances,” he said, his expression becoming somber. “It is a tragedy, yes? Not only for conflict between America and Russia, but especially for the loss of souls on Montego Bay.” To the surprise of the audience, he crossed himself, going from right to left in the Greek Orthodox style. He continued with “We will show you everything — everything. We will tell you what we think it means. You can decide for yourself. You can decide, and tell the world.” He paused momentarily to survey them, meeting each one’s gaze directly. “After, there will be no question that we are not at fault.”

He motioned to a junior officer standing behind him, and stepped aside to yield the podium. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am the public information officer and will be conducting the initial briefing. Later, the admiral will be available to answer all of your questions. I think you’ll find us all remarkably forthcoming.” His English was smooth and unaccented. Seeing the brief looks of surprise on their faces, he smiled quickly. “Ph.D. in economics, Harvard,” he said by way of explanation.

“First slide,” he said, looking to the back of the room. The overhead lights were doused and a brightly colored graphic flashed onto the white screen at the front of the room.

Slick, very slick. Not like anything I’ve seen from them before — I wonder if it’s just him or indicative of a broader trend in the Russian navy. Drake jotted down a note then transferred her gaze to the slide in front of her.

The symbology was all too familiar. No matter what they used in their own combat systems, the Russians had translated everything into American terminology to make it easier for their viewers to understand. And, judging from the slides, this would be a very simple, yet complete explanation.

The first slide showed both Russian and American battle groups, with a line drawn between them showing the distance between the two. As the officer spoke, he clicked the display into motion, and the two groups of ships crept slowly toward each other. When they were separated by approximately ten miles, the Russian group changed course to widen the distance between them. In the top, left-hand part of the display, a symbol crept onto the screen. It was labeled “Montego Bay.”

“As you can see, we were observing the carrier’s right-of-way as she was conducting flight operations. We had plans to launch ourselves, but decided it would be more prudent if we waited until we were farther away. Our own plans were postponed in order to ensure the safety of both groups.” He looked at them to make sure they got the point.

Then he pointed at the Montego Bay symbol with his laser pointer. “And you’ll notice she is also opening the distance, but in the opposite direction. I believe she intended to cut behind the aircraft carrier, retracing her steps slightly in order to maneuver around the carrier.” He fell silent for a moment, and the seconds ticked by as the symbols marched inevitably toward their destinies.

He clicked another key, and said, “I am slowing the action now so that you can observe exactly what happened. The first evidence of problems came when we detected an American fire control radar targeting our vessel.” As he spoke, a notation to that effect appeared on a screen. The action stopped. “As you can see, we are at a safe distance at this point and increasing the distance between us. There was nothing to provoke a hostile action from the aircraft carrier.”

The contacts began moving again, and the scale of the display expanded. “At this point, our lookout observed a beam of light coming from somewhere near the carrier. You may confirm this when you return to Jefferson.”

“I can try,” Drake said, letting her tone of voice imply that she was not all that confident of the results.

“There are some limitations to your First Amendment freedom of speech, are there not?” he observed. He let that sink in for a moment, and continued with “At any rate, I am sure our information can be confirmed by other sources. There are many commercial satellites observing this area as well. The light was most distinctive and not likely to be mistaken for anything other than what it was — a laser.”

“A laser?” Drake asked. “Were they testing a new weapons systems? What can you tell us about it?”

“We do suspect it is a new weapon system, possibly with an anti-satellite kill capability,” the admiral answered, interrupting the public information officer. “More than that, we cannot say. To do so would reveal our own sources of information.”

“Spies?” another reporter asked.

The admiral shook his head. “If you must know, the magazine Scientific American. That and Popular Mechanics contain a great deal of useful information.” He winked and shook a finger at them, looking remarkably like a Santa Claus. “I am divulging state secrets by telling you this.”

“If we can assume for a moment that it was indeed a laser, perhaps we can continue,” the public information officer said. He clicked his controller again, and the picture changed, zooming in on the three ships. “I have eliminated the escorts for clarity’s sake. This is the point at which the Americans launched their weapon. This occurred approximately ninety seconds after we were targeted by the fire control radar. The missile appeared to be headed in our direction, as you can see.” He fell silent while the missile symbol inched its way across the screen, apparently headed directly for the Russian amphibious transport. “Immediately following the launch of the missile, we retaliated.” The graphics showed a missile launching from his ship, targeted on the American vessel. “As you can see, there is little doubt of the sequence of events.”

The room was utterly silent. It might be blue and red symbols projected onto a white screen, but every person in the room understood that they were about to watch the death of more than two hundred people.

As they watched, the American missile changed course slightly. It continued on, and then broke radically away from the Russian ship. “Dear god,” Drake heard someone murmur. “No.”

This isn’t real time. It already happened. There’s nothing you can do about it. Despite reminding herself of the unreality of it, Pamela felt a cold fear and an urgent need to do something, anything, surge through her. It was like a bad dream, running from a monster and feeling like you were running through molasses.

Without fanfare, without additional graphics, the symbol for the American missile intercepted the symbol for Montego Bay. There was silence.

The Russian missile continued on, then disintegrated when it was halfway between the American ship and the Russian ship. “One of your Tomcats,” the public information officer observed. “A very difficult target, yet he hit it. Under different circumstances, we would convey our compliments to the pilot.”

“So you’re saying it was an American missile that hit Montego Bay and a Tomcat