Hawke: A Novel

by Ted Bell

  Strange, he thought, looking in the mirror again. He felt, what was the word? Light. He felt light. Exquisitely light.

  No, a little better than that. Buoyant.

  Alex knew himself well enough to know he was hardly the deep, introspective type. In his world, just as there was right and there was wrong, there were two distinct types of humanity. Those who float and those who dive deep. Alex, all his life, had happily tended to float. Diving was dangerous. And so this seeming sea change he sensed inside himself was all the more surprising and perplexing.

  Shaving, he pondered the new experience of diving deep. What had happened? Vicky’s death had affected him profoundly. But that wasn’t the catalyst for these entirely new feelings.

  No, it was seeing the face of the spider. That huge face up there on the screen in the wardroom; that’s what had triggered it. He’d been painfully aware that every man in the wardroom was staring at him, but he didn’t give a good goddamn. Some vague excuse, some innocuous justification, and he could have moved on. He could not do it.

  He’d finally come face-to-face with the one unendurable truth that had ruled his entire life. It was so simple.

  His father was never coming back.

  He’d been waiting—

  three knocks three knocks three knocks

  —waiting for his father to return all his life. But his father was never coming back to save him. His father was dead. His mother was dead. He’d watched them die. Heard them die. At the hands of the deadly faceless spider who had haunted his dreams.

  Only now, he’d seen the face of the spider.

  He had locked on to those cold, dead eyes, and he knew. No more hiding, no more running away from the spider. Now, the spider would be running from him. The spider wasn’t all-powerful after all. The terrified little boy locked in the dreadful closet was now a wrathful man bent upon a singular and terrible vengeance.

  A man who could cry havoc, let loose his dogs of war, and conquer the spider. Find the spider and kill it, as slowly and as mercilessly as—

  He splashed some cold water on his face and looked at his watch. Bloody hell, it was six-fifteen. The flight ops guys were going to be merciless up on the flight deck. They’d probably all turn out, just to see the little Kittyhawke attempt a takeoff. After the humiliation of two failed landings, he was determined to resurrect his once-sterling reputation.

  He figured if he ran her up to full power and popped the brake, he could be wheels up in less than fifty feet. That would give the bastards a shock.

  Just thinking about climbing into the cockpit of his little plane brought a huge smile to his face. He pulled on his faded green jumpsuit, zipped it up, grabbed his duffel, and ran all the way up five flights to the deck. When he swung open the heavy steel door and stepped out onto the sunlit flight deck, he felt as if he were stepping through the gates of Heaven itself.

  The sky was pure and gold and blue. The ocean heaved gently, rolling the vast deck maybe five feet side to side. He noticed a destroyer had pulled up about a thousand yards off their port beam. Then, off the Kennedy’s stern he saw many, many more, destroyers, battleships, light cruisers, and in the far distance, the hulking black silhouette of yet another carrier and her battle group. Huge Sea King helicopters were circling overhead.

  The massive wake of the Kennedy showed she was executing a hard tack westward, as were all the other ships of the Atlantic Fleet. West toward Cuba, no doubt.

  He wound his way through the covey of F-14s to where his own plane was parked. Seeing the LSO on the fantail, in his yellow and black bumblebee costume, Alex waved a friendly hello and got one back.

  There was a young purple-coated “deckie” just climbing down from Kittyhawke’s portside wing. The boy stepped down off the pontoon, smiling, as Hawke approached.

  “All fueled and ready, sir,” he said brightly. He was a red-haired, freckle-faced kid, not even twenty, Hawke saw.

  “Thank you,” Hawke said, opening the hatch in the fuselage where he stowed his duffel. “Looks like a brilliant morning for flying!”

  “Oh, yes, sir, Commander,” the boy replied. “Especially in that airplane. I couldn’t help taking a peek inside, sir. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Hawke said. “What’s your name?”

  “Poole, sir. Richard Poole.”

  “I’m Hawke. Alex Hawke.”

  “I know all about you, sir. Your exploits over Baghdad are well known aboard this ship. But I’ve never seen anything quite like Kittyhawke, sir. First, I thought she was a converted Spitfire or an old experimental Grumman, but I see she’s not. Who on earth designed her?”

  “I did,” Hawke said, grinning. “She’s an exact replica of a toy seaplane I had as a boy. One of the early radio-controlled ones. That was the prettiest little plane I’d ever seen. Still is, but I can actually climb inside this one.”

  The sailor laughed. “She’s designed after a toy?” he asked.

  “Yes, she is,” Hawke said, and stepped up onto the pontoon. “And she goes like stink, too. Same engine as the old Supermarine Spitfire Mark XVI. Packard-built Merlin 266.”

  “Man alive, that’s one gorgeous machine, sir. So, who’s the babe on the side there?” the boy asked, pointing at the smiling blonde painted just below the cockpit window.

  “Why, that’s my mother, as a matter of fact,” Alex said with a big wide grin. “A pretty famous American movie star, actually, before she married my father.”

  “Wow,” the boy said. “What was her name?”

  “Catherine Caldwell,” Hawke said. “She was from New Orleans. Everyone called her Kitty. Ever see the old film Southern Belle?”

  “With Gary Cooper!”

  “Right. That was Coop and my mother’s last film together,” Hawke said, climbing up into the cockpit and pulling the door closed. “She was nominated for the Academy Award. I was in England, but I saw her on the telly.”

  “Awesome!” the sailor said, gazing at the painted beauty on the fuselage.

  “Awesome,” Hawke agreed. “I was a very lucky boy to have had such a wonderful mother.” He slid his Perspex window closed.

  Time to fly.

  47

  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 s
eat 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.

  48

  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.