Ted Bell - Hawke

One of his own guys was shooting at him! Friendly fire? No such luck, pal. Court-martial time for somebody!

He was going eighty when he hit the wire fence. It slowed him down a little, and he took a lot of goddamn fence with him and he musta hit one leg of the tower by mistake because it looked like it was starting to topple over, but goddammit, he was headed for the promised land now!

He took a quick look over his shoulder. There was the guy on the tower, only now he was pinwheeling in the air, headed for the ground. He saw that all the Humvees had stopped short of the fenceline. Of course. You’d have to be crazy to drive across a goddamn minefield on a rainy night, right? He was peering over the top of the steering wheel, wondering if the mines would be like little bumps that he could steer around, when he felt his pecker humming.

He jammed one hand down inside his jeans and pulled out his cell phone, put it to his ear. Damn, it was hard to drive with one hand but what else were you supposed to do?

“Roach Motel,” he said, realizing that his mind was totally clear but that he was screaming.

“Any vacancies?”

“No. No fucking vacancies for thirty hours.”

“Muchas gracias, amigo. Viva Cuba!” the guy said.

Then there was a click in his ear and then a much louder noise, some kind of explosion, and he felt the entire Humvee lift into the air, seeming to break in half as it rose. Then it was falling end-over-end and he seemed to be upside down and there was this terrible ripping pain in both legs, hurt so bad he couldn’t believe it and then—

He opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back in a ditch full of water. Rain was still falling hard, stinging his face. Stuff was on fire all around him. Shit, his own T-shirt was on fire! He scooped a handful of muddy water from the ditch and put it out. Had to get moving. Had to deliver the RC and get his money. He could even see the Cuban towers now, they all had their spotlights trained on him. He’d been so close!

He’d just have to walk this last part, that’s all. He felt woozy, but he could do it if he could just get his legs to move. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t even feel his legs in fact. He reached down to where he thought they were and—

Oh, God. They weren’t there. Just blood. And some other stuff. What? Bones? Guts? Jesus. He was, what, cut in half? He was—

He felt something humming in his hand. He lifted his arm and looked at his hand. His cell phone! He still had his goddamn cell phone in his hand. He put it to his ear. He could call for help. He was going to make it. He—

“Hello, honey?” Rita said in his ear. It was Rita!

“Yeah, baby,” Gomez said.

“You all right? I’m worried about you. It’s real late. I know you’ve been drinking, but you come on home now and come to bed like a good boy.”

“I can’t, uh … honey, I can’t move my … we were going to be so rich and … uh …”

“You still there? You don’t sound so good, baby.”

“Well, I’m not … all that good. I wanted … see … I’ve been . meaning to tell you about the teddy bear.”

“The teddy bear?”

“Yeah. The teddy bear’s got … a tummy bug and—”

“Honey, just come on home, okay? You’re not making a whole lot of sense here, okay? Mommy will make it all better.”

“I wish I could, you know. I just really … really wish I could.”

“Baby? Baby? Are you there?”

“I wish—”

“Baby? Baby?”

Alex was dreaming.

Sound asleep in the top bunk of his tiny berth, he was dreaming of his old dog Scoundrel.

They’d taken a small picnic supper to the edge of the sea. Scoundrel was plunging again and again into the waves, retrieving the red rubber ball. But now some terrible black storm appeared to be howling in from the sea, sweeping the little red ball farther and farther from the shore.

Scoundrel was at the water’s edge, the waves lapping around his forepaws. He was mewling and barking, watching the red ball disappear over the horizon. The dog barked loudly, loud enough to wake Alex, who rolled over in his berth, clutching his pillow, mumbling something in his sleep.

He was so far down, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, come up.

Quiet, Scoundrel. Quiet.

But there really was a voice calling him to come and come quickly.

Someone really was grabbing him, a rough hand on his shoulder, calling his name loudly in his ear. Shaking him, telling him to wake up, wake up now, even though he knew it was still nighttime. He could hear the waves slapping against the hull of the ship, see the blue moonlight streaming through the porthole onto his bedcovers, and hear the faint sounds of activity up on deck.

“Rise and shine, Commander, wake up!” the steward was saying. “It’s 0600 hours, sir! You were meant to be airborne at this time! Sir!”

“What? What?” Alex said, sitting up. Scoundrel had been replaced by a sea of black dots, swimming before his eyes.

“0600, sir, you filed a flight plan for an 0600 hours departure. Flight ops has been calling, wondering where you are. We’re getting ready to receive four squadrons. They’d like to get you out first. And this fax came in for you, sir, middle of the night. We didn’t want to disturb you.” He handed Alex a sealed envelope.

“Tell flight ops I’m on my way,” Hawke said, and the aide slipped out into the brightly lit corridor.

He ripped open the envelope, pulled out the single piece of paper, and read it.

Alex,

Events here require your presence. Urgent. Please contact as soon as you receive this message.

Best,

Sutherland and Congreve

Alex shook his head and tried to clear it. He stuck the fax into his pocket. He’d radio Blackhawke soon as he was airborne. His hand went immediately to his throbbing forehead. He remembered instantly. He’d fallen prey to the demonic whiskey gods once more. They’d had their way with him and now he must pay. Coffee. That was it. Coffee.

He rang for a steward who, since this was Officers’ Country, appeared instantly.

“Yes, sir?” the boy said as Alex, yawning, opened the door, still trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“May I please have a pot of hot coffee?”

“Certainly,” the cherubic young ensign replied. “How would you like it, sir?”

“Black. No cream, no sugar.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The steward nodded and was gone.

Bloody hell, he thought. What a night. There was the single malt before dinner. Make that the double single malts. Then there was, of course, the claret, all the fine claret, with the perfectly cooked rack of lamb. Then there was the port wine. Ah, yes, the port.

An old Royal Navy expression his grandfather had used popped into his brain. He seemed to recall repeating it countless times last evening, to the evident amusement of the Americans.

“The port stands by you, sir,” he’d said.

Which translated: “Don’t hog the bottle, mister, I’m thirsty.”

He had a dim memory of endless oceans of Black Bush whiskey and port wine, pounding against breakwaters he’d spent a hellish lifetime erecting in his mind. Elaborately constructed seawalls had been smashed to bits and ancient feelings had come pouring through. Along with them, he now remembered, came the long-buried memories.

God in Heaven, he thought, rolling his long legs over the side of the bunk and dropping to the floor. He’d had some kind of a breakthrough. The ghosts had come, yes, but it seemed he’d got the best of them.

The evening’s events were all slowly coming back. What else? Ah. Something about challenging that noxious prick Tate to a duel. But the cove never showed. Hardly surprising.