1300 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base She was getting tired of being
tossed into rickety jeeps and ferried about to obscure locations and
even more fed up with the Cuban demands that she broadcast what they
wanted when they wanted. This was not the way reporting was supposed
to be, not at all. Where was her journalistic integrity, her
independence, her right to seek out the story that her audience
deserved? Not here not under these circumstances. The First Amendment
and freedom of speech simply had no application in Cuba.
As the jeep jolted over the potholed, muddy road, an unwelcome thought
intruded itself into her indignation.
Maybe there was a reason that Cuba was off-limits for American
citizens. Maybe the United States government, and even the State
Department, knew just a tiny bit more about the situation in this
country than she and her cohorts did. Was it possible? Had she made a
mistake?
No. The day she permitted the State Department to determine where and
when she might go anywhere in the world was the day she might as well
turn to narrating documentaries instead of broadcasting combat
reports.
She gritted her teeth, partially out of determination but more to keep
from biting her tongue as the jeep swerved on the road to avoid a tank,
and concentrated on the story. She turned to her companion. “Where to
this time? Are more SEALs invading? Or do you have some other
facility you want to make sure the Americans avoid bombing? I’d give
that last reason some rethinking, if I were you. It didn’t seem like
it did much good last time.”
And so it hadn’t. Even though they’d known she was present at the last
missile site, the Americans hadn’t been deterred from launching their
precision strike weapons at it.
She felt an odd rush of loneliness, of abandonment. Even amongst the
cynical, hard-bitten reporters, there had been an unspoken article of
faith that they were Americans, that if they really got into trouble,
the Marines would come and get them not launch weapons at them.
But wasn’t that a reciprocal obligation? If it were, she’d violated it
sorely by broadcasting photos of the SEALs coming ashore. She supposed
she couldn’t blame them if they were less than eager to come to her
assistance now, since she’d almost gotten some of them killed. In a
strange way, it hurt.
“Nothing quite that important this time. Miss Drake. Or maybe more
so. You’ll have to judge for yourself,” Colonel Santana said
cryptically. “It depends on what you define as important. This might
meet that criterion.”
Pamela’s breath caught in her throat. “The actual missile sites?” she
said softly. “It is, isn’t it?” For a moment, the glimmering ethical
reflections she’d had a few moments earlier were blasted into oblivion
by the all-encompassing drive to get the story. She’d been thwarted
once, twice, but not this time, she vowed. Oh, no, this time she would
send the story home, all wrapped up in a neat, succinct package for her
viewers, telling them what happened, why it happened, and how they, the
viewers, ought to feel about it. She could do that. She’d done it too
many times already not to be able to.
“Why the big hurry now?” she said suddenly, still feeling the rush of
euphoria from the prospect of this story.
“Something’s not making sense about this.”
He glanced at her, annoyed. “It-would make perfect sense to you if you
were Cuban.”
Why don’t you try explaining it to me? she wheedled.
“That’s why I came here, you know to tell your story, not the one the
American military establishment wants told.
Why waste this opportunity to build support for your cause?”
“Mine is not a cause!” he said, his voice harsh. “Causes are what
rabble-rousers have. I represent the legitimate, elected government of
the nation state of Cuba. That is what Aguillar and even Leyta and his
rabble seem to forget. They are nothing more than troublemakers, and
have no concept of what the Cuban people really want or need. We
do.”
“You certainly won a landslide victory at each of the last elections,”
she said carefully, “with a record voter turnout that the United States