Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

Baugh peered at the image. There was something happening on the shore in front of the prison — a group of men were clearly occupied. Inmates, it seemed, at least judging from the universal orange uniforms. And guards in green. But it was all a blur in the hazy afternoon light, the images of the people merging and blending with each other like ghosts.

“Mr. Rama, can you sharpen the image?”

“Yes, sir. I’m working on it.”

The image jumped around a little bit. Whatever this group of men were doing, it didn’t look ordinary. There were a bunch of people, prisoners surrounded by guards in a tight group.

“Jesus, Mr. Rama, did you see that?” Baugh couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Or was it his imagination?

“I did, sir.”

“Play it back in slo-mo. On screen two.”

The recording jumped back a minute and then crawled forward on a second screen.

“There! Stop it!”

Good God, it looked like a decapitation. But it couldn’t be — could it? “Mr. Rama, can you tell me what you think is going on?”

“Sir, I’m not sure. It looked... violent.”

“A decapitation, maybe? Play it again.”

They went through it, frame by frame. The men were moving about, fast. A man seemed to be brought up to a blurry object or wall — and then, with a jerking motion, his head appeared to separate from his shoulders, even as a man near him swung his arm around. It was too blurry to see what kind of weapon the second man might be holding — everything was still shimmering and hazy — but Baugh saw the head separate from the body and tumble to the ground: that much at least was clear.

“It could be a decapitation, sir.”

“You saw the head come off, right?”

“I believe so, sir. A little hard to tell.”

Baugh felt his blood pounding. What the hell was going on? The Cubans were long known for torture. But decapitations... that was more like ISIS. Could this be some sort of terrorist alliance, right here, ninety miles from the U.S.? They’d better get some serious IMINT on this, satellite and whatever. Christ almighty, it could be another Cuban Missile Crisis.

Baugh took a deep breath. “Is there anything you can do to get a better image?”

“I am doing everything possible, sir.”

Rama worked the controls and called in another officer. The image continued to focus and blur, jiggle, zoom in and out — but nothing made it better. The haze and heat shimmer overwhelmed the image. They had to get closer.

“Double the watch,” Baugh ordered. “I want OS Atcitty up here on the double, along with First Lieutenant Darby.”

The orders were given.

“Mr. Rama, turn off AIS and all transponders. Initiate radio silence.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Okay, now paint ’em with hi-def radar.”

There was a hesitation. “Sir, that may be construed as provocative,” said the XO.

“Carry out the order.”

The high-definition radar showed nothing more than a green smudge on the beach, worse than the visual. They were still too far away, and the heat waves were throwing back return. There was no immediate response.

Atcitty arrived on the bridge and gave the CO a smart salute. A moment later Darby, Baugh’s chief of staff and overall right hand, followed.

“Look at this, Mr. Darby.”

Darby, leaning his plump form forward, stared at the screen where the activity was taking place.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“There’s a big crowd, it looks like. Bunched up. Moving around. Prisoners in orange, guards in dark green. But it’s just too blurry. I can hardly make out individual people.”

“Could it be... an execution ground?”

Darby stared. “Could be, sir. Or maybe a riot. I mean, it looks like they’re fighting.”

Baugh turned to the helmsman. “Mr. Peterman, rudder ten degrees to port, maintain present speed.”

“Sir, our turning radius will take us inside the territorial limit.”

“Make it so, Mr. Peterman.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a silence on the bridge. Baugh turned to the XO, who was staring at him. Baugh flashed him a reassuring smile. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Rama. We painted them with radar. No response. Someone’s asleep at the helm. They won’t even notice.”

“Aye, sir.”

The ten-degree rudder would give them a turn of two-mile radius, bring them within eight miles of shore. Baugh turned to the operation specialist. “Ms. Atcitty, prepare to launch a surveillance drone at closest approach. Mr. Peterman, continue turning the ship through two hundred and seventy degrees. When a heading of zero-zero-zero is achieved, accelerate to forty knots and exit Cuban waters.”

More shocked silence.

“I gave an order!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Baugh felt the cutter begin to turn. He understood the hesitation of his staff, but he also knew they didn’t have his experience. There were times when standard procedures didn’t apply; when unusual, even heroic, measures had to be taken. Something terrible was happening on the shore in front of the prison, and by sheer chance they had hit right on it. It might well be part of a complicated military strategy, of which the feet were an early component. If so, Washington had to be informed. They couldn’t wait for sat imagery; that might take hours, if not days. He needed to document this right now. The cutter was fast — damn fast — and if the Cubans gave chase, she could outrun almost any tin-can Cuban warship.

The Chickering continued its slow turn. The activity on the beach continued, and Baugh swore he saw another decapitation, but it was too fast and blurry to be sure. But slowly, slowly, the picture grew clearer as they edged closer to land. As the cutter came parallel to the shore on the starboard side, still turning, Baugh said: “Ms. Atcitty, launch drone.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” She relayed the order and a moment later said, “Drone launched.”

Baugh heard a buzzing sound and saw the drone — a helicopter type — shooting out over the water, staying low, heading toward shore. By now the cutter’s bow was swinging northward.

“Sir,” said the operation specialist, “if we accelerate to forty knots, we will put ourselves out of the drone’s range. It won’t be able to return to the ship.”

“Destroy it over water, then, after transmission of footage is complete.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The bow was swinging through the compass, nearing true north.

“Increase speed to forty knots,” Baugh said as the boat stabilized on its new heading.

A warning sound went off, and a moment later the cutter surged forward as the massive 4,800-horsepower twin jet diesels powered up.

The XO suddenly said, “Sir, I’ve got a Cuban warship at two zero nine at thirteen nautical miles, proceeding at twenty knots — diverting to intercept us and increasing speed.”

“What the hell?”

“My guess is she was returning to Mariel from a routine patrol. Our bad luck, sir, that she happened on us.”

“Stay the course, increase speed to max. We’ll be out of territorial waters in four minutes.”

“Sir, we’re being painted with fire control radar!”

“General quarters, battle stations!” Baugh barked out. “Evasive maneuvers. Jamming. Prepare to launch chaff!”

All hell broke loose on the bridge — organized, focused hell. The general alarm went off. Baugh could just see the Cuban warship now, a wavering dot on the horizon at 265 degrees off the port bow. It had been coming in from the northwest and their radar hadn’t picked it up — was it employing Russian stealth technology?

The Chickering was now moving at forty-five knots, close to full speed. They’d be back in international waters in two minutes. The son of a bitch wasn’t actually going to fire on them, was he?