Ted Bell - Hawke

Admiral Howell looked around the table, sucking down great volumes of smoke, waiting for a response.

“Find that sub, sink it, then invade the island, kill the bad guys, and put a decent, honest man in the president’s office,” General Moore said. Howell smiled.

“That’s better. Thanks, Charley. The commander in chief gave us a job to do, and by God we’re going to do it. He asked me if the Atlantic Fleet was ready. I said if anybody in Havana even sneezed in the wrong direction, my boys could send that country back to the Stone Age in about twelve minutes. Hell, I’ve got nine fighter squadrons right here on Big John! I’d just as soon take the goddamn Geneva Convention and shove it up Cuba’s sorry ass. Now let’s talk about that, goddammit.”

Alex relaxed and took his mind somewhere else.

Doesn’t work well with others.

That’s what he’d told Conch. It was true. His idea of Hell was sitting in a room with any group that considered itself a committee. His grandfather had a saying: “Search every park in every city of the world and you will never, ever, see a statue of a committee.”

As the meeting droned on, Alex stifled a yawn behind his fist and noticed a new sensation. Hunger. The food on American carriers was famously good. He hadn’t eaten since the accident. After a dinner in the officers’ mess, he’d try to get a good night’s sleep in his little VOQ cabin. He’d take off at first light and resume his search for Vicky.

Tate was on his feet now, doing profiles on the new leadership of Cuba. Alex glanced up now and then, feigning interest. He looked up at the young face of the new president, Batista. Hawke wondered if he were the only one to find this ironic bit of history amusing.

He couldn’t listen to Tate any longer. He pushed back his chair, starting to rise, and prepared to duck out of the meeting. But the face up on the screen now stopped him cold. He collapsed back into his chair, his eyes riveted on the image. A feeling swept over him, a feeling that everything inside him was shifting, starting to come loose. His eyes were burning and he massaged them with his fingertips, willing himself to control these sudden, swirling emotions.

Tate droned on, and soon had moved to a new character. Hawke, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, didn’t hear a word he said.

“Excuse me,” Hawke said, interrupting Tate mid-sentence. “I’m terribly sorry. I missed something. Could you possibly go back to the prior slide? Who was that man again?”

Tate couldn’t resist an eye-rolling sigh as he hit the clicker and reversed the carousel to the previous slide.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” Hawke said. “But who is this man again?”

“As I said, this is the man behind the military coup,” Tate replied, a falsely patient expression on his face. “Formerly Castro’s most trusted aide de camp. His name is General Manso de Herreras. Why? Do you have some information about him?”

“Yes, I do,” said Alex Hawke, getting to his feet and gathering up his materials. He nodded to Admiral Howell and said, “Please excuse me, Admiral, I’m afraid I need to make an urgent phone call.”

Howell nodded and Alex walked quickly to the door. The aide saluted and pushed the door open.

“Excuse me, Commander,” Tate said, as Alex was halfway out the door. “But if you have any information regarding this man, I’d like to know what it is.”

“I’m sure you would. But it’s strictly personal. It’s none of your bloody business, Mr. Tate,” Alex said over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around before he walked out.

“Question,” Tate said, sometime late in the evening, after the orderlies had cleared the dinner dishes and the men were sitting or standing around the officers’ dining quarters in small groups. A blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling. There was the usual hubbub of conversation as great quantities of port wine and Irish whiskey went round and round the admiral’s table.

All very grand, Alex thought, the way the Americans entertained aboard their carriers. He’d been studiously avoiding the raucous chatter, preferring to nurse his vintage Sandeman port alone. He was thinking of turning in when Tate pulled up a chair next to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes?” Alex said, barely glancing up.

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

“Let’s just say I don’t like the cut of your jib, Mr. Tate.”

“Not that I give a shit. The point is, I have a job to do down here. For some reason, everyone in Washington thinks you can help. So. Why were you so interested in this Manso de Herreras this afternoon?”

“I think we covered that bit earlier, Mr. Tate,” Alex said, staring into the man’s bloodshot eyes, “when I said it was none of your bloody business. Now, piss off.”

“Ah, but it is my business, isn’t it?” Tate said, leaning in so that Alex could smell the scent of sweat and liquor pouring off the man. “Manso is the central figure in this little Caribbean drama. You clearly know more about him than you’re letting on.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Alex said, looking up and glaring at the man.

“I’m calling you what you are, Mr. Hawke. A pompous aristobrit who’d rather keep his little secrets than assist his country’s most valued ally in what has become a very, very dangerous state of international affairs.”

Alex smiled, took a sip of his port, and turned to face Tate.

“Aristobrit? That’s a good one, Mr. Tate. Do you duel?”

“Sorry?”

“Duel? Pistols at dawn? The Code Duello? An ancient custom for settling disagreements between gentlemen, which is probably why you’re unfamiliar with it. Duels, unfortunately, seem to have fallen out of favor at about the same rate as gentlemen.”

“I don’t follow you,” Tate said.

“Ah, hardly surprising. Let me help,” Hawke said. Slowly setting his port glass down on the white linen tablecloth, he whipped his fist around and backhanded Tate hard across his right ear. Hard enough to snap the man’s head back. Tate sat stunned, rubbing his bright red ear. His eyes blazed with hate, but Alex was amused to see that, in the revelry surrounding them, their small tкte-а-tкte had gone completely unnoticed.

“That’s how it works,” Alex said, smiling. “You’ve been insulted. Dishonored. Do you now wish to avenge your honor?”

“You pompous shit, I’ll—”

“Good. Now we have a duel,” Hawke said, smiling pleasantly. He saw a fist headed his way and said, “No, no, not here, Mr. Tate. Bad form.”

Alex’s hand shot out and caught Tate’s forearm mid-air, stopping the man’s fist just short of his own temple.

“I’ll kill you for this, you fucking English bastard,” Tate said.

“Not here, old boy,” Alex said. “This is the part where we step outside.”

Still keeping the man’s arm locked down on the table, Hawke reached under the table and used his free hand to grip Tate’s testicles in a cruel vise. Tate winced and withdrew his arm.

“Good boy,” Alex said, smiling. “As I say, it’s customary to step outside to settle these affairs. May I suggest we leave these gentlemen to their port and finish this unpleasantness up on the flight deck? I don’t think either of us will need a second, do you, old boy?”

“Shouldn’t take me that long to kick your ass,” Tate growled.

Hawke smiled, amused at the man’s obvious confusion over the term “second.”

“Good,” Alex said. “Shall we go? I’m quite sure we shan’t be missed, old boy.”

“Don’t call me old boy,” Tate hissed, rising from the table.

“Sorry, old boy,” Alex said, getting out of his chair and motioning Tate toward the door.