Carmichael said.
“Aye, aye, Admiral.” A small smile tugged at the corners of
Tombstone’s lips for the second time in the last ten minutes. “I’ll be
there, sir.”
“Oh, and Tombstone,” Admiral Carmichael said before breaking the
connection, “since we’re going to be working together, why don’t you drop
the ‘sir’ and ‘Admiral’ business when we’re in private? My friends call me
Ben. Big Ben, if you want the whole nickname,” he added unnecessarily.
“Thank you, sir–Ben,” Tombstone said carefully. “I’ll see you
tomorrow.” Two clicks on his circuit were his only reply. Tombstone
turned away from the patch panel in the communications center, all traces
of amusement gone from his face as he carefully resettled his public
facade. He turned toward the doorway and saw Pamela Drake standing there,
an amused smile on her face.
“Can’t ever miss the chance to go flying, can you?” she asked, a trace
of bitterness in her voice. “It’s still the boys and their toys, isn’t
it?”
“I don’t deserve that, Miss Drake,” Tombstone said formally. “And
just what the hell are you doing in communications, anyway?”
She held out a single sheet of typed paper. “Your memo granting us
access to certain areas to transmit our releases. Or did you forget?”
“It damned well doesn’t include eavesdropping on my private
conversations,” he snapped. “As of this moment, you’re barred from any
further access here.”
She walked over to him slowly, an insolent sway in her hips. “Oh,
really?” she asked archly. “You seem to forget that we’re still on U.S.
soil, Admiral, and I have an absolute right to return to the mainland
anytime I wish. And isn’t it going to be a fascinating story that I file
from Juneau that ALASKCOM and Third Fleet are pulling a blanket of secrecy
over problems in the Aleutian Islands. That they’re holding secret
meetings on a ship to decide what to do, and that nobody is bothering to
tell the American public what is going on in their own territory. And that
civilian ships in the vicinity of USS Jefferson seem to keep disappearing
suddenly, with no explanation in sight. Now what kind of lead story do you
think that will make?” She smiled.
“Damn it, Pamela, you can’t do this.” His face took on a look of icy
rage. “Push me too far, and I’ll have you jailed for espionage,” he said,
regretting the words the moment they left his mouth.
“Oh, really?” Her smile broadened. “And the rest of my fellow
journalists as well? Or don’t you think they’d notice if I disappeared
suddenly, and was held incommunicado.”
Tombstone sighed. Whatever lingering fantasies he’d had about Pamela
were fast disappearing. “Okay, tell me,” he said finally. “What will it
take to keep you quiet?”
Pamela strolled around the small room, carefully observing the
equipment. She glanced up at the overhead, then wrapped her arms around
herself. “Claustrophobic, isn’t it?” she said, apropos of nothing in
particular. “Being on land too long always makes me feel that way. Not
like being on an aircraft carrier, or an amphibious ship.” She looked at
him meaningfully.
“You can’t be serious. It’s not even my ship, Pamela. Not that I’d
take you on board if it were, but USS Coronado is under Admiral
Carmichael’s command, not mine. I have no say in who goes on board, and
how. What you’re asking is impossible, never mind that it’s entirely
unreasonable.”
She walked forward, stopping only one pace in front of him. She was
so close he could smell the unique mixture of sharp, spicy perfume and
female that had always driven him insane with desire. Involuntarily, one
hand wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, caress the taut line of
her jaw, trace its way down her neck to- Stop it, he told himself sharply.
Whatever Pamela had been to him before, it was evident that more had
changed than he’d thought with their broken engagement.
“I suggest you see what you can do, then, Admiral,” she said harshly,
something ugly in her voice. “Because whatever you’re up to, you and
Admiral Carmichael, I damn well don’t intend to be left out of it.”
1615 Local
Tomcat 201