the inevitability and imponderability of an avalanche. In a battle
between two ships for right-of-way, tonnage always wins, and there was
no doubt in her mind as to the outcome of this encounter.
As she watched, the distance between the two ships gradually
decreased.
The Jefferson’s aspect changed, becoming slightly more bow-on to her,
but still Pamela could see that there was no way it could miss the
other ship. She imagined the panic that must be taking place on
Jefferson, as frantic in its own style as the terror of the people in
the small boat. To die, or to be responsible for others’ deaths?
She knew which was worse.
It was like watching the O. J. Simpson car chase, with the white Bronco
rolling slowly down vacant interstates. Minutes passed, and if it had
not been for the impending tragedy, it would have been almost as
boring.
Finally, the inevitable. Jefferson’s clean-cut bow rolled over the
midsection of the small boat, cutting it cleanly in half. The damage
drove the small ship underwater immediately, dumping the horde of
passengers into the sea. She could see a few of them churning up, tiny
white flecks next to the skin of the ship; then those too
disappeared.
It was over just seconds after it began.
The aide punched the stop button, freezing the video on the last
scene.
There was no evidence of the encounter in the curling water around
Jefferson’s hull, in the gentle arc of the bow waves that rolled off
her steel sides.
“You wish to see it again?” Santana asked. The aide began to rewind
the tape.
She shook her head. “When did this happen?” she asked, grasping for
details to avoid acknowledging the horror of what she’d just seen.
“Where?”
“Just north of our coast. And the time? About two hours ago, I
think.
Maybe more.” He regarded her sardonically, evil cruelty in his look.
“Is that timely enough to be newsworthy for you. Miss Drake? I assure
you, there is no other network in the world that will have firsthand
coverage of this event. And the United States Navy’s own message
traffic will support the occurrence of the actual event. If you would
like to wait for that, for some other network to attend a stateside
briefing and scoop you on this matter, we will be glad to oblige. We
had just thought . . .” He let his voice trail off delicately.
“No. I want it. It’s something it’s something the American public
needs to see.” Already the words were taking shape in her mind, the
damning indictment of Tombstone’s old ship callously running down a
group of people seeking freedom. She would get three minutes, maybe
even four the lead story, at any rate. Excerpts from the videotape,
along with her narrated coverage, would be replayed hourly at the top
of the hour until some other critical world event bumped it off the
schedule.
Some small part of her mind kept insisting there was more to the story
than this. The American ship must have tried to avoid the small boat;
she’d seen that from the way the angle on the bow changed in the course
of those few minutes. Tried, but hadn’t been able to.
She knew from Tombstone’s long discourses on operations at sea that
small craft were difficult to detect, even harder sometimes to pick out
from the ocean by visual observation. That was why the rules of the
road gave the larger, less maneuverable ship the right-of-way in most
circumstances.
The truth, but a rotten story. Atrocities sell better than
tragedies.
She’d learned that lesson years ago in Bosnia, in Desert Storm, in a
thousand other combat venues around the world. No, even if she didn’t
report it this way, her competitors would. And their ratings would
outstrip hers in a New York minute.
“Who took this video?” she said suddenly. Santana smiled. Her gut
churned as she considered the full implications of the matter. Not
only had Jefferson plowed over the ship, but Santana had been somewhere
within observation range, watching, and doing nothing to warn either
the carrier or the small boat containing his countrymen of the