appreciate the danger they’re in. The precision guided munitions
flashed into view, barely discernible gray-white streaks on the
horizon, then became clearly visible almost before her terror could
reach its peak.
They moved too quickly for the eye to follow, streaking in over the
gently rolling terrain to find their targets.
Two thousand meters away, the world exploded. One moment there was
only the demanding keen of the missiles, the next a cacophony of noise
and flame and fire. The earth blew up, shooting gouts of dirt and
foliage into mushroom clouds of debris speckled with fire and metal.
Shrapnel shot out at all angles, slamming into the structures and
vehicles around the missile sites.
The compression wave from the explosion caught her first, even before
the noise had a chance to deafen her. It slammed her against the
concrete, smashing the back of her head against the rough-laid
surface.
She felt consciousness fade, and wavered on the edge of sanity. The
microphone dropped from her hand unnoticed, and she paused for a
minute, held against the building by the shock wave before sliding down
to join it in a graceful heap.
Consciousness returned sometime later. She opened her eyes slowly,
feeling raw and scratched, barely able to make sense of the images her
eyes were transmitting to her brain.
Around her, the world was silent. The green fields, the awkward and
ungainly missile launchers, were gone. In their place, huge craters
spattered the landscape, and a thick dust made the air almost
unbreathable.
She groaned, tried to shove herself up on her knees with one hand.
There was a sharp pain in her ribs, followed by the realization that
every part of her body was dull and aching. She let it overwhelm her
for a moment, then shoved it away, grim determination flooding her.
Along with it came a strange euphoria, a gratitude that she’d
survived.
Life seemed sweet. Precious even, in a way it never had before.
The men scattered around her were starting to move as well, their
groans and involuntary yelps of pain echoing her own. She felt along
the ground, searching for her microphone, then looked for the
substitute cameraman. She found him finally, still unconscious, his
body wrapped around the old equipment protectively. She crawled to
him, grabbed him by the shoulder, and shook.
“Get up.”
The man moaned, then his eyes fluttered. He stared off into the
distance until finally his eyes focused on her.
“Que?”
“Get up,” she repeated. “We’ve got work to do.”
Ten minutes later, after gulping down tepid water from a canteen, she
was ready. Her hair was pushed back out of her eyes, but she could
feel it springing around her head in an unruly mess. She’d avoided
looking in a mirror. It didn’t matter, not now. If there were streaks
of dirt and blood on her face, so much the better.
She waited until she was relatively certain that the cameraman was
functioning enough to depress the transmit button on his equipment,
then stared steadily at the camera.
“This is Pamela Drake of ACN, reporting live from the western coast of
Cuba. The United States has just completed a missile strike against
this naval base not one mile from where I am standing.” She gestured
behind her, hoping the cameraman had enough sense to pan the damage.
She saw him move, squint, refocus, and smiled. She let the time pass,
waiting a few beats too long to increase the tension. Finally, she cut
her hand down sharply and he snapped the camera back to frame her.
“This is the area from which I made my last live report. As you can
see, the effect of the missiles has been devastating. The structures
that were here before, which I postulated were missile sites a fact
that was never denied by the present authorities in power are
destroyed.
I have no word on casualties, but it seems” All at once her voice
failed. I could have been one of them. Not minutes ago, it was . .
.
“Casualties are yet to be determined,” she finished finally. She
stared at the camera, letting her image speak for itself.
1630 Local (+5 GMT) USS Arsenal Twenty Miles North of Cuba Captain