Hellfire

God knows you’ve probably been shot at more times than I have.”

The cameraman seemed slightly taken back. “A few times,” he muttered, obviously a bit embarrassed. “It’s a challenge, you know.”

“I know.” Lab Rat studied him for a moment longer, then turned back to Drake. “He’ll be fine.”

And just what does he see in my cameraman? What is it that I haven’t noticed? If I had to, I’d say he’s a good guy. We’ve been in some rough situations, and he’s never backed down, but I wouldn’t have thought he was the type to volunteer for something like this. Not as much trouble as I have getting him up in the morning.

The cameraman was shifting uncomfortably now. He evidently sensed the question in Drake’s stare. He muttered a few words, then stopped.

“What was that?” she asked.

He sighed, now aggravated. “I know what you think of me. Especially after that stunt Winston pulled. I shouldn’t have let her do it. I should have come to get you. But it was just like — I don’t know, you’re always ordering me around and acting like I don’t exist sometimes.”

Suddenly, with blinding clarity, Drake understood. She had treated him like a piece of equipment, like furniture to be moved around to suit her taste. All those times when he had captured pictures at some personal risk to himself, when he came back with the story against all odds — she hadn’t really thought of him as part of the team, had she? He was just like — well, invisible.

He could have spoken up, one part of her mind argued. Told me off sometime.

No, he couldn’t. Nobody does that to Pamela Drake. Not and gets away with it. What would you have done if he had objected? You would have shit-canned him and got another cameraman, wouldn’t you?

Maybe. Or maybe not. I like to think I know a professional when I see one.

Then start treating him like one.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. But for now it would have to do. She would find a way to make it up to him when they got back.

He was staring at the tile, scuffing his toe, looking for all the world like a ten-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Doesn’t matter. I just want everybody to know I can do my part.” Finally, he looked a bit better. “I’m an American, too, you know.”

“Have you thought about how to manage it?” Lab Rat asked, neatly cutting off the therapy session unfolding in front him.

The cameraman nodded. “I know exactly how I’m going to do it.”

“How?” Drake asked.

He shook his head, and grinned. “Can’t tell you. If you know it’s coming, you won’t look surprised and that will spoil everything.”

“But surely we should go over this,” Lab Rat said, tension creeping into his voice. “Two minds are better than one, you know.”

“I know. And I’ll tell you. But she,” he said, indicating Drake, “has to stay out of it. That’s the rule. If you tell her, I don’t go through with it.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Drake said hotly, her earlier regret for her conduct swept away in her impatience. “I’m not going unless I know what you’re going to do.”

Lab Rat held up one hand to cut the argument off. “Do you trust my judgment?”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, then. He’s going to tell me and I’ll decide if it’ll work. Then I will give you a go or no go. That’ll have to be good enough,” he finished.

Damn! They’re double-teaming me. She gritted her teeth and glared at the two of them. “Okay. But when we get back—”

“If we get back,” her cameraman corrected, “then I’ll owe you an apology.”

“Okay, okay,” Lab Rat said. “If we can break up the mutual apology club here, we need to go over this again. Drake, it’s going to take some neat sleight of hand to pull this off. You,” he continued, pointing at the cameraman, “watch, to make sure you can buy us enough time for this. Now, do it again.”

Again Drake practiced the motion of slipping back the housing, slipping her hand in, and quickly swapping the crystal for the fake in her hand. She did it again and again, every movement critiqued and analyzed by Lab Rat and her cameraman, until they were convinced she had it. By the time they were finished, the muscles in her arm were trembling with exhaustion.

“That will have to do it,” Lab Rat said finally. He didn’t sound entirely satisfied, more resigned than anything. “Okay, get a good night’s sleep. Come back here before your helo leaves and pick up the substitute. I’ll be standing there when you get back to take the real thing off your hands.” He turned away from them, dismissing them.

On the way back to her stateroom, Pamela couldn’t help thinking about her cameraman’s choice of word. If. He said if we get back. What does he know that I don’t?

The cameraman stayed behind to explain his plan to Lab Rat.

Admiral Kurashov

1500 local (GMT-9)

This time, as they approached the Russian ship, it looked ominous. Perhaps it had been the company of the other news helicopters waiting for their turn to land. Perhaps it had been the warm welcome, or her anger against the Americans, that had obscured the real situation. Now, flying in toward what she had come to think of as the enemy, with her Trojan horse in her pocket, Drake shivered.

The deck looked oddly silent. Perhaps the difference in circumstances, but she wasn’t so sure. The sailors looked more — well — military, the uniforms more severe, their expressions more forbidding. The aircraft and helicopters were lined up and tied down with a precision that bordered on obsessive.

In the center of the deck stood a lone plane captain, his hands held above his head. Everyone else was well away from the center, clustered around the edges.

“I don’t see our welcoming committee,” the pilot said, his voice betraying uneasiness. “You sure we’re expected?”

“Absolutely.” Drake tried to inject a note of confidence into her voice. “We’re getting an exclusive on this one.”

“Yes, well. In my line of business, an exclusive isn’t always such a good deal,” the pilot said. Drake saw him glance over at his co-pilot, and they exchanged a nod. “If it’s all the same with you, we’ll stay with our aircraft.”

“You mean our getaway car?” Drake answered.

“Yeah. Maybe.” The pilot fell silent except for some muttered self-encouragement as he approached the deck. He concentrated on his landing and brought them down as gently as he had before. As he opened his shutdown checklist, he turned back to look at her. Penetrating blue eyes stared out at her from under the decorated flight helmet. “You should know we don’t fly suicide missions unless we’re volunteers.”

“Who said anything about a suicide mission?” she snapped. Beside her, the cameraman grunted.

“We never fly a mission that’s not briefed. I mean completely briefed. Especially Intell. You get my drift?” His mouth hardened into a thin line.

So Lab Rat told him. That figures. It comes right down to it, that’s the way they do it.

Drake wilted slightly under his glare. “I got it. And thanks.”

He shook his head, dismissing her gratitude. “We all do our part, lady. So get in there and get back out. I want a nice quiet ride home, you hear? No cops and robbers.”

Drake forced a grin. “Got it. Back in thirty mikes.”

His eyebrows shot up at her use of military slang. “Don’t get carried away with it. Be safe. If things fall apart, abort the mission.”

“I know, I know. Lab Rat gave me the same lecture.” She gathered up her gear, unfastened her harness, and got up to leave. Unexpectedly, the pilot stuck out his hand. “Names Dixon. Mike Dixon.” He shook her hand solidly, and then shook hands with the cameraman. “Now go on, get out of here. The sooner you start, the sooner you’re back.”