clicked over one more notch. Maybe enough maybe not. If it weren’t,
it didn’t matter what the captain of the ship thought of him. His
career was dead.
The captain snapped his gaze forward, finally spotting the small
craft.
His jaw dropped. Dunway noted the look of horror on his face with sour
satisfaction. It was time the aviators realized that life at twenty
knots could be just as dangerous as life at Mach 1.
Dunway could see the faces now, make out the details of clothing and
expressions. The ship was still turning.
Finally, as it drew closer, the small ship disappeared from view, the
line of sight to it blocked by the massive flight deck. Had it been
enough? Maybe, just barely. If it had been, the ship was just now
scraping down the port side of Jefferson, a tiny gnat against the giant
gray wall of the ship.
He wheeled on the operations specialist maintaining the plot board at
the aft of the bridge. “Reports from lookouts?”
“Port lookout reports that oh, dear, sweet Jesus.” The man’s voice
trailed off. “Sir, we hit them.”
1500 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base “You’ll send the message now.”
Santana glared at Pamela Drake, daring her to defy his order.
“I won’t.” She remained seated, staring up at him. Even if she’d been
standing, he would have towered over her, and she had no intention of
allowing him to feel one iota of superiority. Best to stand her ground
where she was. “You can’t force me to broadcast this report. Not
while I’m being held hostage. Aguillar promised me that I could report
the facts as I saw them. Quite frankly, I’m a bit fed up with being
shuttled around under guard.”
Santana slammed his hand down on the table. “You are not in the United
States, Miss Drake. We agreed to allow you to come here, but you were
informed there would be certain restrictions on your ability to pursue
matters independently. You took advantage of our hospitality, yet
refused to acknowledge those conditions. Is this your idea of
integrity?” He turned angrily away from her, staring out the window.
“I’ll report the story, but not some trumped-up fabrication you’ve
prepared for me. And without access to witnesses, the ability to see
the story developing myself, I have no way of judging the truth of what
you’re telling me. You want your story told, fine. I’ll tell it. But
my own way.”
Santana muttered something to his aide in a quick, staccato voice, the
Spanish too rapid for her to follow. The aide nodded, walked out of
the room, and returned shortly bearing a videotape. He inserted it
into the VCR, turned the power on, then turned back toward Santana.
Santana wheeled on her. He pointed at the television screen. “Perhaps
this will be a sufficiently important story for you to reconsider.” He
gestured at the aide, who punched the play button.
The picture started out grainy, then gradually resolved into a clear
pattern of light and dark. As the cameraman found his focal length,
the dark shape in the middle of the screen became a small boat crammed
with people. It plowed up and down the waves, rolling from side to
side in the gentle swells and threatening to capsize even in the
relatively calm seas. The camera panned to the right and refocused,
and a large aircraft carrier came into view.
The shot was taken from almost sea level, and the ship looked like a
massive, towering gray cliff. The cameraman zoomed in, focusing on the
number on the side of the steel superstructure jutting up from the
flight deck, the island.
Pamela recognized the number immediately. The USS Jefferson. Even if
she hadn’t known that it was on presence patrols in the Caribbean, the
hull number was indelibly ingrained in her memory.
The camera panned back to the small boat. The people in it now were
standing up, gesturing, and Pamela could see their mouths opening as
they screamed. Panic and as the cameraman zoomed back to include both
the aircraft carrier and the small boat in one frame, she understood
the reason why. Jefferson was bearing down on the small boat with all