to eat alone.”
Something in the guard’s expression softened. While it would have been
pressing it to call it a friendly look, at least it was a change from
the cold, impassive face he’d shown before. “I promise, I won’t even
ask you any questions about all this,” she continued, waving her hand
at the surrounding area. “Not a word. It’s just that I’m a long way
from home, and I’m not used to people trying to blow me up before
breakfast.”
The guard nodded finally. “We have American MREs,” he announced, a
note of pride in his voice. “Very nourishing.”
Pamela groaned inwardly, but maintained the agreeable expression on her
face. It wasn’t this fellow’s fault, not at all. He couldn’t know how
many times she’d eaten MREs and the C-rats that were their predecessors
while in pursuit of a story in some exotic locale. And as for the
incident this morning well, it had shaken her, but she’d had worse
times. Like in Beirut. Like in Bosnia. Sure, physical peril always
produced a sense of danger once it was past, coupled with a renewed
realization of one’s own mortality, but this certainly wasn’t as
terrifying as her experiences in Bosnia had been. There, pinned down
by a sniper, she’d had to wait until the UN forces cleared the area.
She and her cameraman had subsisted on the ubiquitous MREs then, mixing
the instant drink mix with water they’d collected in their helmets.
She shuddered at the thought.
“MREs? Why, that would be very nice.” She reached out to accept the
gray vinyl plastic bag the man handed to her.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked. Seeing his expression, she
continued quickly, “To open the bag, of course. Here, I can let you do
it for me.”
The man grunted, then ripped through the heavy container with his
knife. He tendered the open MRE back to her.
She paused for a moment to study the writing on the outside of the
plastic, then groaned. Egg and ham omelet.
Her least favorite of all the varieties, almost as bad as the pork
patties in the old C-rats. Only the small bottle of hot sauce included
in each MRE made the omelet palatable.
Still, as she dug into the main entree with her fork, she reflected
that it was better than being shot at. Barely.
Just as she was holding up a package of dried crackers for her guard to
open, a bloodcurdling scream from the next room echoed in the air. She
jumped and dropped the package. The guard bent over to pick it up.
For a moment, she fantasized about slamming her hand down on the back
of his neck, stunning him, and somehow escaping the building. No, that
was wrong. These were her friends, weren’t they? Her sources, at
least. Whatever was happening in the next room was not a glimpse into
her own future.
She hoped.
Thor lost consciousness abruptly, the tail end of his scream still
fading in the room as he slumped down in the wooden chair. The ropes
held him semi-upright.
“Very attractive,” Santana noted. He walked around the chair studying
the pilot from all angles. “Yet you still have no answers.” He
stooped down in front of the pilot and stared at Thor’s crotch. The
pilot’s flight suit had been peeled off and lay in a crumpled pile at
his feet.
“I believe the electrical lead to the left testicle is coming loose,”
Santana said finally. He stood up and walked back over to the table.
“Have the Libyans check it.”
1245 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson “TAO reports small gunboats
approaching the carrier,” the operations officer told Batman. “None of
the larger vessels, though. I suppose that’s a blessing.”
“Don’t discount those small boats. It doesn’t take a military genius
to figure out that they caused us some real problems.” Batman’s voice
was tired.
The TAO frowned. “A twenty-four-foot attack vessel versus an aircraft
carrier?”
Batman shook his head. “Don’t think of it in terms of tonnage. Think
of it in the big picture. What happens if we run over those boats? We
simply lend credibility to Drake’s story, that’s all. Worse, there are