The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [118]
He could only hope that their replacements would avoid the fate that had befallen the waxen wings the Daedalus class’s mythological namesake had created.
THIRTY-THREE
Monday, December 1, 2155
San Francisco, Earth
NASH MCEVOY’S TWO ESCORTS from Starfleet Security led him past the cordoned-off crowd of noisy protestors outside the building, then outfitted him with a chipped ID lanyard before conducting him through the plushly carpeted halls deep in the interior of Starfleet Headquarters.
During the subsequent quiet procession into the building’s labyrinthine core, McEvoy rejoiced that it was he, and not Gannet Brooks, who had received yesterday afternoon’s cryptic summons from Starfleet’s Admiral Gregory Logan Black. He was all but certain that the war-toughened Ms. Brooks would simply have told the admiral to go climb his thumb while wrapping herself tightly in the self-righteous sanctity of journalistic freedom.
McEvoy, however, liked to think that he was more a creature of the real world than were many of the journalists in his employ—particularly some of the younger ones. But that didn’t mean he liked being called on the carpet, even by someone he’d known for as long as he’d known Greg Black.
Once he was seated in the padded chair before Admiral Black’s desk, McEvoy wasted no time getting down to cases with the blue-uniformed, brown-haired man with the close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard who sat behind it.
“Meaning no disrespect, Admiral,” he began, a sardonic smile fixed on his face, “but what the hell gives you the right to drag a member of the press corps in here like he’s been called into the principal’s office?”
Black displayed a wounded expression. “How does sending you an invitation at home last night and dispatching a driver to your office this morning constitute ‘dragging’ you anywhere?”
McEvoy’s glasses slid forward on the bridge of his nose. He pushed them back into place. “Suppose I’d said no?”
“Well, I’m glad we didn’t have to find out,” Black said as he sat down behind his desk for a moment. After rummaging through a bottom drawer for a moment, he emerged with a silver flask and a pair of glass tumblers. “Scotch, Mac?”
“It’s just like when we were back in college,” McEvoy said, glancing down at his wrist chronometer. Hell of a way to start a Monday, war or no war. “My God, it’s not even lunchtime yet.”
Black shrugged, grinning. “So what? Want one?”
The war must have been going badly indeed if some of the admirals were already drinking this early in the day. He hoped this was merely a “Monday” thing.
“Sure,” McEvoy said, doing his best to maintain an outwardly dour demeanor. He wasn’t about to let a little liquor and conviviality with an old friend spoil his bad mood.
Once the tumblers were generously filled and distributed, McEvoy said, “Tell me what you want, Greg. This is gonna take way too long if you were expecting to soften me up first by getting me drunk.”
The admiral took a long, slow swallow from his glass, then set it down on a desktop that was otherwise empty but for the presence of a small computer terminal.
“All right, Mac. I want you to... tamp down your war coverage a bit, from both Brooks and Naquase.”
McEvoy swallowed half the contents of his glass and let the caustic amber liquid burn on its way down.
“You’ve got to be joking, Greg.”
Black shook his head, his eyes blazing with something that didn’t appear to have originated from a bottle. “I’m as serious as a heart attack. Now, I’m going to trust you to keep what I’m going to say next off the record.”
McEvoy didn’t feel exactly sanguine about that, though he could see the value in making the gesture. “All right. At least, I’ll agree to warn you before I go back on the record.”
Black nodded. “Fair enough. I trust you saw that crowd out there.”
“What crowd?” McEvoy deadpanned.