Hawke (38 page)

Time to fly.

Hawke donned his headphones and started his preflight routine, surprised to find himself still whistling an old hit tune he used to whistle as a boy. Couldn’t remember the name. Theme song from one of his mother’s many movies, he supposed.

“Good morning, Commander,” he heard the air boss say in his phones. “You’re late.”

“Morning, sir, sorry about that,” Hawke said, busily flipping switches. The big engine coughed a few times, then roared to life. Hawke craned his head around, testing his flaps, rudder, and ailerons.

“Doesn’t matter, Commander. We’ve got an E2-C Hawkeye on final, vectoring in from Key West. The pilot asked me to hold you until they landed. Somebody from Washington aboard, I guess. Has an urgent need to talk to you, so sit tight.”

“Roger that,” Hawke said. “Permission to taxi out to the staging ramp and wait there?” Whatever Washington wanted, he wasn’t going to give up his slot. He’d listen to whoever and whatever for five minutes, but then he was out of here.

“Roger,
Kittyhawke,
taxi to the hold.”

“Kittyhawke,
taxi and hold, roger.”

Hawke throttled up and steered his little plane out to the staging area where a few F-14s were parked. Most of the squadrons of Tomcats and Hornets appeared to be long gone.

He heard a howl to his left and looked out to see the E2-C dropping in just off the fantail. The aircraft was in the classic “Turkey” attitude, so nicknamed because “everything is hanging down.” The Hawkeye, an ungainly beast at best, provides the battle group with electronic surveillance and has responsibility for intercepting enemy transmissions. It carries more than six tons of equipment and is prop-driven.

Probably a bastard to land, Hawke thought, watching the pilot’s final approach.

The Hawkeye flared up perfectly, snagged the third wire, and lurched to a stop. Instantly, swarms of green and purple coated deckies surrounded it. One of them wheeled a set of steps up to the airplane’s portside and opened a hatch. A tall figure in a jumpsuit and helmet emerged, jumped down from the plane, and headed immediately toward
Kittyhawke
. Alex recognized that walk. It was Conch, all right.

She walked around the tail of Alex’s plane and stood looking up at him for a few moments before she removed the helmet and shook her hair out. As if he didn’t know who she was. He slid open his window and stuck his head out.

“Hi, Conch!” he said, smiling. “Imagine meeting you here!”

“Hi, yourself, sailor,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite a girl aboard for a cup of hot java?”

“Absolutely,” Alex said, reaching over to open the small door on the starboard side. “Come on around! Watch the prop wash, Conch, this isn’t any little F-14, you know.”

In a moment she’d climbed into the right-hand seat beside him, and he was pouring her some hot coffee from the thermos his new friend Poole had kindly left in the cockpit.

“All right,” she said, “I know you’re anxious to get out of here, but I’m very glad I caught you. I’ve been with the president and the cabinet in
Cayo Hueso.
Then a meeting with all the top members of the Cuban Exile Committee. We’ve got a nightmare scenario on our hands.”

“What’s going on?”

“A lot. First, Miami. It’s like Dunkirk in reverse!” she said. “There is not a single vessel to be bought, rented, chartered, or stolen between Key West and Jacksonville! It’s amazing.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, the Cuban community in Miami is getting ready for a big seagoing homecoming parade. They see themselves, flags flying, sailing right into Havana harbor, of course. They think a U.S. invasion is imminent. As soon as this unpleasantness is dispensed with, they think they’ll just go home and it will be back to the good old days. They’re exerting huge pressure on the president and the Congress to invade now.”

“Will you?”

“No comment. Make your own determination. And there’s another little wrinkle we just found out about at 0100 hours this morning. The Cubans have demanded the total evacuation of Guantánamo. They’ve given us thirty hours. The clock started at midnight last night. It’s now, what, 0630 Monday? That gives us a little over twenty-three hours to evacuate thousands of women, children, and civilians.”

“Surely you’re not going to just do it, Consuelo?”

“I’m afraid we have no choice, Alex,” she said, sipping her coffee. “The Cubans have managed to smuggle a weapon inside the base. We don’t know if it’s nuclear or biological, but it’s serious either way. We’re searching, but it could be literally anywhere. Unbelievable. The CO at Gitmo, Joe Nettles, ordered half of the CDC people in Atlanta down. They just arrived. They’re turning the whole place upside down. So far, nothing.”

“You have to assume they won’t find it,” Alex said. “Which is why the
Kennedy
seems to be steaming at flank speed toward Cuba. She’s on a rescue mission, correct? Massive evacuation.”

“We’ve got to get all those folks out of there. And we will.”

“You don’t think it’s a hoax?”

“Hardly matters. Because there’s only one way to find that out, isn’t there?”

“Right, the bad way. Makes you long for the good old days of Fidel.”

“Doesn’t it? These de Herreras thugs are out of their minds. They’re about to find hell and damnation raining down on their people’s heads and wonder where they miscalculated. They’re counting on that stealth sub to stay our hand but—”

“I want to help, Conch. Anything. I have a…personal stake in this matter.”

“Personal?”

“Let’s just say I have an old score to settle with this new dictator.”

“Tell me, Alex. I’m your friend, and I need to know.”

“Manso de Herreras and his two brothers murdered both of my parents one week after my seventh birthday. I saw them do it.”

For the first time since he’d known her, Conch was speechless. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Alex,” she finally said.

“Well. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yes. I know you will.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’ve been dealing with it for over thirty years, haven’t you, darling?”

“Yes. By not dealing with it.”

“How horrible for you. I always knew something horrible had happened, Alex. Deep and hurtful. There were rumors, of course. I just never had the courage to bring it up.”

“Well, I must say I’m finding the ancient notion of revenge enormously satisfying so far.”

“My poor dear boy.”

“So, in the spirit of moving on, what’s next on your geopolitical agenda?”

“Well, a lot. The Cuban rebels’ new command and control center is on an island off Manzanillo. The one called
Telaraña.
Our first target. Soon as we’ve got everyone safely out of Gitmo, we turn that base into fine powder. The sub, now named the
José Martí
by the way, has returned to
Telaraña
from the Exumas. God knows what it was doing over there.”

“My hunch would be a shakedown cruise with some Cuban Navy officers aboard?”

“Good guess. Anyway, we’ve got visual surveillance twenty-four hours a day.
Telaraña
now has its very own little spy satellite. This time, they were stupid enough to bring the sub in on the surface. Problem will be finding that thing underwater.”

“How can I help, Conch?”

“The president sent me here to coordinate State and my task force with Admiral Howell and the Atlantic Fleet. I have an idea. How’s this sound? We use
Blackhawke
as a decoy to get close enough to shore to insert two SEAL recon teams. Your yacht would arouse a lot less suspicion than one of our destroyers.”

“Bad idea, Conch. They’ll have patrol boats out obviously. They know me and they know who
Blackhawke
belongs to. I’m on their current hit list. Let me think about it. I may come up with a better idea.”

“I’ll be in contact. You’ll get faxes of all the latest sat photos. Last item on my agenda. This is for you.”

She handed him a small manila envelope with his name scrawled in black crayon on the outside.

“Nothing ticking inside,” Conch said. “We checked. No anthrax powder either. It was blind-dropped yesterday at the American desk of the Swiss consulate in Havana, addressed to you. They flew it up to me at Key West.”

“Strange.”

“You’ve got a flair for understatement, Alex. Okey-dokey, big boy, I’ve got to run. These military types don’t like to be kept waiting,” she said, and she flung an arm around his neck and give him a peck on the cheek. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the wing.

“ ’Bye, Conch,” Alex said.

“You need anything, I’m your girl. Anything.”

“Thanks, Conch.”

“De nada
. Every time we say good-bye? I deal with it.”

She shut the door, and jumped down to the deck. Alex watched her walk away.

“Kittyhawke,
you copy?” said the air boss in his phones.

“Copy,” Alex said.

“Hey, listen, Commander, I hate like hell to bother you. But, if you’re all through necking down there, you might wanna consider getting your little toy airplane the hell off my flight deck. I’ve got the entire Black Aces Squadron lined up two miles out dead astern. They had to get up real early this morning and they’re probably coming home a little cranky. Might get fussy if anybody’s in their way.”

“Roger that,
Kittyhawke
taxi to position and hold for takeoff.”

“I’m going to miss you,
Kittyhawke
. You brought a little excitement and romance into my otherwise drab and mundane existence.”

“I’ll miss you, too, sir,” Alex said, and, shoving his throttles forward, taxied into position for takeoff. He kept looking at the envelope lying on the seat where Conch had left it.

Brakes full on, he ran his engine up to full power and waited for takeoff clearance. His curiosity finally got the best of him. He ripped open the envelope and shook it.

Vicky’s gold locket fell out and landed in his lap.

“Kittyhawke,
you’re cleared for takeoff.”

“Kittyhawke
is rolling,” Hawke said, staring at the locket.

Vicky was alive.

During the short, uneventful flight down to the Exumas, Alex had raised Sutherland on the radio. By the time he’d landed on the mirrored surface of the bay and taxied up to
Blackhawke
’s stern ramp, he knew most of what had occurred on Staniel Cay the day before.

The news was staggering.

At first hearing, Ross’s recount of the raid on
Finca de las Palmas
had been simply unbelievable. Alex had been incredulous, then shocked, then exhilarated by what they’d done. Only hours ago, he’d stared at the face of one of the three men who’d killed his parents. Now he learned that one of those men had already been captured and was, this very morning, being arraigned for murder in Nassau.

Hawke also had learned that, while the sunrise raid on
Finca de las Palmas
had been a success, there had been casualties. Two of Quick’s squad had suffered minor injuries. Ambrose had been hit, but not badly hurt. Most seriously wounded was the man who’d led the raid, Stokely.

As soon as
Kittyhawke
was safely secured, Hawke raced up to
Blackhawke’
s sickbay. Stokely was sitting up in bed, haranguing the doctor, when Hawke walked in. Clearly, Dr. Elke Nilsson was not accustomed to being admonished. A blond, blue-eyed Dane, she had signed on two years earlier, when
Blackhawke
spent one month in Copenhagen harbor on special assignment for the British government.

Alex and Ambrose had successfully broken up a Serbian diamond smuggling ring, flipping witnesses and suspects until they’d climbed the slippery ladder all the way to Milosevic himself. Slobo was a very busy boy. Alex, unfortunately, had gotten a pair of souvenirs of the exploit, courtesy of a Serb gunman.

Dr. Nilsson had come aboard to treat Alex, successfully extracting two bullets embedded in his right buttock, and she’d been hired on the spot. The fact that the new ship’s doctor bore a startling resemblance to her twin sister, the reigning Miss Denmark, had no bearing on Hawke’s decision. He vetted her qualifications very carefully after hiring her.

Fortunately, she’d not yet learned enough colloquial English to understand the torrent of undeleted expletives that Stoke was hurling in her direction. The term “booty,” for instance, had not yet entered her lexicon.

“Stoke,” Hawke said, “what’s the problem?” For a man who’d taken a bullet the day before, Stokely looked to be in remarkably fine fettle.

“Problem?” Stoke said. “I’ll tell you what the goddamn problem is. Got her little booty parked on that chair right over there! The hell kind of doctor is she, anyway? Goddamn—”

Alex pulled up a chair by Stoke’s bed and sat down.

“Calm down, Stoke,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, hell, first she tells me how lucky I am the bullet didn’t hit nothing important. Nothing important? Hell, everything
I got
is important! Flesh, bones, arteries, all that shit. Not important, my ass.”

“Stoke, she’s just doing her job,” Alex said, smiling at Dr. Nilsson. She had her arms folded across her chest and had gone quite red in the face. At the moment, she was puffing at a charming little banglet of blond hair that kept falling across her face.

“Yeah, okay, then she tells me it ain’t nothing to worry about. ’Course it ain’t, for her ass! Ain’t
her
goddamn chest got shot, it’s mine! She got a helluva lot more chest to worry about than I do, don’t she? She—”

“Dr. Nilsson,” Alex said, interrupting Stokely, “I’m sure he didn’t mean…uh…perhaps you could leave us alone for—” He didn’t finish because the Danish doctor flung Stokely’s chart at the wall and stormed out of the room.

“Great,” Alex said. “See what you’ve done? Now I’m going to have to go find some way to apologize for you.”

“How you doin’, boss?” Stoke said, a wide grin on his face. “You heard all what happened? Five of the best, my brother!”

“I heard all about it from Ross,” Alex said, slapping Stoke’s palm smartly. “Unbelievable, Stoke.”

“Listen up, my man!” Stoke said. “We kicked us some serious ass yesterday. Serious ass.”

“I can never thank you enough, Stoke. I mean I—”

“Hell, ain’t me you should be thanking, boss. It’s your little buddy Ambrose. That man gets all the credit for this here collar. He been working that case for thirty years, you know. Never told you, did he?”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Alex asked.

“Been working on the case for thirty years. Ambrose.”

“Good Lord,” Hawke said, feeling all the breath go out of him. “I had no idea that Ambrose…none. I can’t imagine that he would…”

It was the first time Stoke had ever seen Alex Hawke speechless.

“Way he works, I guess. Low profile. Him and Ross flew over to Nassau and found some old retired cop who’d kept his file. Had the original police drawings of the three perps. Ambrose took ’em and blew the thing wide open.”

“Absolutely amazing,” Alex said, still stunned.

“Yeah, pretty good cop after all, ain’t he?” Stoke said, swinging his massive legs over the side of the bed. “Now, go sweet-talk your damn doctor and get her to leave my ass alone. I feel great. And I got a lot of shit to do, boss, got to fill out police reports and all that.”

“Stoke, lie down a minute and listen to me. I’m thankful you’re all right. Ever since I was told you were hurt, I’ve—Stoke, listen. I’m going to need your help. Now. You’re the only one who can help me.”

“All right, now you gonna get all serious and stuff. Go ’head then. Tell the old Stoke what on your mind.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but Vicky is alive.”

“What? What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“All I know right now is that somehow, incredible as it seems, Vicky is alive. She’s a hostage, but she’s alive.”

“Hostage of who?”

“The new Cuban government. She’s being held on an island called
Telaraña,
just off the southwestern coast of Cuba. It’s a heavily fortified military base.”

“How you know all this, boss?”

“I just listened to this cassette,” Alex said, handing the cassette and a Sony Walkman to Stokely. “It was delivered along with Vicky’s locket to the Swiss embassy in Havana. You should listen to it, too. She quotes the headline from yesterday’s Miami papers. Vicky is alive, believe me.”

Stoke donned the earphones and listened for a few moments.

“Holy shit, she really is alive,” Stoke said. “That’s wonderful. Now what the hell they want Vicky for, boss?”

“The general believes he can coerce me to intercede on his behalf in Washington. Ridiculous, but there you have it. Unbelievably, Vicky is still alive. But not for long unless we can get her out of there, Stoke. Two big problems. One, she made it plain that any rescue attempt would result in her death along with all the hostages.”

“Just like them goddamn Colombians. I dealt with ’em up in the Medellín mountains. Always say they goin’ shoot the hostages first. And generally do. But we snatched a few live ones, boss.”

“How long does it take to put a hostage rescue plan like that in operation, Stoke?”

“Shit, boss, all depends,” Stoke said. “At a military installation? Five days, minimum. You got to recon the place down to the inch. Know where your hostage is located. Know where the windows are, what kind, how thick the doors and walls are, all that entry and egress kinda shit. You got to intercept all the communication going in and out, so you know who’s who, where they are, and what the hell is what.”

“Stoke,” Alex said, looking at his watch, “I said there were two problems. Here’s problem two, and it’s a big one. At some point, in less than twenty hours from now, the Americans are going to launch fighter squadrons from the
John F. Kennedy
. Fighters and cruise missiles from the Atlantic Fleet are going to bomb that rebel compound, and anything else they fancy, into oblivion.”

“Jesus Christ. Twenty hours?”

“Maybe less. Now, I know your old Navy unit used to be pretty good at this kind of thing. SEAL Team Six, I mean.”

“Good? Shit. They the best-trained, deadliest, most capable group of warriors in America’s history. Hop and pop, stuff and snuff. Snatch and grab.”

“Stoke, if ever I needed anybody like that, it’s now. How in hell are we going to get Vicky out of there? Could the team you and Quick put together yesterday possibly—”

“No way. Not something like this. No way.”

“So, who? Who in God’s name can help us?”

“Well, bossman, that’s a real good question. Real good. I ain’t sayin’ it can’t be done, all I’m sayin’ is—”

Stoke clasped his hands behind his head and lay back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Alex could almost hear the wheels spinning. A minute later, he sat bolt upright in bed, a big grin on his face.

“Thunder and Lightnin’!” he said.

“What’s that?”

“The sons of beaches, that’s who. Navy SEALs. They were my two Team Six platoon leaders, now semiretired,” Stoke said. “Mr. Thunder and Mr. Lightning. That’s what we called them two headbangers. Call one Thunder ’cause he good at blowing things up. Call the other Lightnin’ because you dead and he’s gone before you know what hit you. Man is one cold-blooded assassin. If anybody on this planet can get Vicky out of there alive, they the ones.”

“Where are they?” Alex asked, leaning forward, hope showing in his eyes for the first time since he’d heard Vicky’s voice on the tape.

“Martinique,” Stoke said. “They run their operations out of a base camp on the cape by St. Marin. Where the St. Lucia Channel meets the Atlantic.”

“Operations?” Hawke asked eagerly. “What kind of operations?”

“Well, secret shit, you know? Black ops. They all mercenaries now. Soldiers of fortune. Go anywhere in the world, blowin’ shit up for people who don’t want their name in the papers. Got their own patched-up old C-130. Flyin’ in, snatchin’ and grabbin’, killing terrorists. All that good stuff.”

“Hostage rescue?” Hawke asked.

“Best freelance hostage rescue team in the world. Bar none.”

“How many of them?”

“Their team size varies all the time. That business, folks tend to come and go. Like a SEAL platoon, two squads, seven guys each. They got a platoon standing by, generally. Last time I talked to them, they had about fifteen or so commandos down there. Constant training.”

“All ex-SEALs?”

“Nope. Got a couple of Viet Montagnards. Three or four frogs, ex–Foreign Legion desert warfare types, couple of real badass Gurkhas from Nepal, and the rest former SEALs, some seriously bad dudes, boss.”

“Can you set something up, Stoke? Now?”

“Depends on if we catch ’em at home, boss. They on business trips mostly. Frequent fliers, frequent drinkers, frequent headbands.”

“Stoke, they’re our only hope.”

“Soon as that little Danish pastry doctor lets my ass out of this sickbay, I’ll get on it.”

“You’re out and on it, Stoke,” Hawke said. “Head up to the bridge and try to raise these guys on the sat phone. We can fly down there as soon as
Kittyhawke’
s been refueled.”

“Thunder and Lightnin’, boss, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Stoke said, throwing back the covers, and literally leaping out of bed. “Boom! Crash! Bang!”

Alex found Ambrose on deck just outside the man’s personal cabin. He was standing at the portside rail, watching the gulls dive, and puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. He was wearing a monogrammed navy silk bathrobe with red piping and mismatched red and blue leather slippers.

His hair was standing straight up as if he’d just climbed out of bed, which in fact he had.

Hawke crept silently across the teak decks and joined his friend at the varnished mahogany rail.

He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, which made him jump almost a foot in the air. “Hullo, old thing,” Hawke said.

“Good Lord! Alex!” Ambrose exclaimed.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me land a little while ago?”

“Well, I, er, just woke up and—” He pulled two wads of yellow beeswax from his ears. “I, er, use these at night. My own snoring, you see, is so dreadfully loud that it wakes me up.”

“Aha,” Alex said. “I just came from seeing Stoke down in sickbay. I can’t tell you how I feel about what you and Stokely did. It’s just too—”

“You’re not upset?”

“Good God, no! Ambrose, listen to me. There are simply no words in my mind to describe what’s in my heart. To say that I am deeply and profoundly grateful is so woefully inadequate, I can’t even say it.”

“Since we never discussed the matter, I mean, well, frankly I always felt a little guilty about—”

“There is no vocabulary, Ambrose, that can convey enough to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a police officer, Alex. Just doing my duty. The truth is you solved the case yourself, whether you realize it or not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! It was all your hard work that—”

“The photograph you spotted, Alex. The old Polaroid. It was the critical piece of inductive information that made all the other pieces of the puzzle fit.”