Ted Bell - Hawke

“Well, a lot. The Cuban rebels’ new command and control center is on an island off Manzanillo. The one called Telaraсa. 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 Josй Martн by the way, has returned to Telaraсa 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. Telaraсa 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 gave 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 Stokes 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.”