CARRIER 10: ARSENAL By: Keith Douglass

supporting us will burn away as the sea mist in the morning sun. There

is no gain to us.”

Santana leaned forward across the table, resting his elbows on the

rough wooden surface. He reached over, grasped the other man by the

wrist, and pulled him toward him. The Libyan resisted slightly, but

stopped with his brass button of his uniform rubbing against the edge

of the table.

“No advantage? Think! The Americans understand this sort of situation

now, after Desert Storm. There are Americans here, as you well know.

They come whether as news reporters or tourists, illegally sneaking

into our country, still they come. You understand the implications

from a tactical sense, at least?”

“I see no advantage,” Mendiria repeated. “Simply more victims if” He

stopped abruptly and considered the matter. A slow smile, as large as

the one on the face of his colleague, crossed his face. “Hostages.”

Santana nodded. “Exactly. If it comes to that. Do you really think

that they will target their smart bombs on this facility, knowing that

their star television reporter is being held here against her will?

Especially one so attractive as Miss Pamela Drake? While she might not

have planned aiding our cause in this way, she will be instrumental in

safeguarding us against cruise missiles.”

Mendiria sighed. “I was wrong to doubt you. My apologies. On the

surface it seemed” Santana cut him off with a sharp gesture of his

hand. “It is nothing between friends. We have lived close to America

for a long time now. Perhaps we understand them a bit better, yes?

But you agree?”

The Libyan nodded vigorously.

2300 Local (+5 GMT) Viking 791

“There she is. Admiral,” the S-3 pilot said over the ICS.

“Just where she’s supposed to be.”

Tombstone clicked a brief acknowledgment. Two thousand feet below

them, as they entered the starboard marshal pattern, the USS Jefferson

plowed through the seas like an implacable weapon.

He wondered if the Cubans knew just how much trouble they were in with

Jefferson off their shore.

EIGHT Saturday, 29 June 1200 Local (+5 GMT) ACN Newsroom Computers atop

the two rows of desks arrayed in the traditional horseshoe pattern

beeped in sequence. The muted chirrup traveled from left to right,

sounding at each computer terminal in turn until it leaped from the

last desk in the semicircle, leaped past the long, now vacant anchor

desk centered in front of the arc, leaped to the producer’s console in

the glass-walled control room the bridge.

The alert immediately began making its rounds again, the circulating

sound designed to jar even the most preoccupied reporter into

attention. Flashing letters danced across the top of each monitor

screen, identifying the incoming message as a breaking news bulletin

from the Associated Press.

Only a few of the workstations were occupied at this hour. The two

o’clock news program was a cut-in, and the anchors had already done

their five live minutes of reading the news and fled the scene. So had

the production crew, leaving the message alert to echo forlornly inside

the dark, empty bridge. The instant the live portion gave way to the

taped news rerun, giving them fifteen minutes of “free” time, nearly

everyone ran for coffee, snacks, the bathroom.

Only a few of the writers remained in the quiet, soundproofed newsroom,

working on scripts for the next show, getting on the telephone to

finish gathering information for their assigned stories, using their

terminals to check facts.

The computer beeped insistently, demanding that the operator attend to

the incoming message traffic. Electronic transmission had long ago

replaced the old yellow teletypes that chattered away in newsrooms.

“Will you look at this?” the reporter whistled quietly, hitting the

keys which scrolled the full text of the bulletin down his screen.

“But I guess we should have expected it.”

He looked over at the producer who’d just walked in and motioned her

over. “We’re going into Cuba. And you won’t believe who’s going to do

the shooting.”

1525 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson “Who the hell told the press?”

Batman stormed. The conference room was deadly silent.

“All right, all right, I know it wasn’t anyone here.” He turned to the

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