Hawke: A Novel

by Ted Bell

  “You’ll find a fairly complete set of construction and elevation plans for most of the buildings,” Hawke added. “Courtesy of the CIA construction crew.”

  “Bloody good!” Fitz said. “And here are satellite photos of the whole installation, some taken as recently as yesterday. We can feed these into the ModelMaker downstairs and have a Styrofoam 3-D mock-up of the entire compound in half an hour.”

  The look of hope in the Irishman’s eyes did not go unnoticed. “You’re sounding somewhat encouraged, Mr. McCoy,” Hawke said.

  “Aye. We’ve moved beyond the hopeless stage, yes,” Fitz said. “We still don’t know where your hostage is. The way we operate, we clear the room. Four through the door, instantly separate the bad guys from the good guys and eliminate them. We can hardly go building to building, clearing rooms till we find the right one.”

  “One second,” Boomer said. He’d been studying the thermals. Thermal imaging picked up any source of heat, men, or machinery, and turned it into recognizable shapes and forms.

  “Okay,” Boomer said. “Watch. We overlay these thermal transparencies on this series of sat photos. Now. See this large rectangular building? About two clicks from the sub pen? Watch this. Every twelve hours, a large vehicle, that’s it right there, pulls up outside. Looks like maybe twenty guys climb out, enter the building, and then another twenty guys come outside and climb in the back.”

  “Looks like a guard change to me,” Stoke said. “Where there’s guards, there’s hostages.”

  “Definite guard change,” Fitz agreed. “Gotta be where the hostages are held.”

  “Okay. That’s a start. Now, these are all barracks,” Boomer said, pointing to neat rows of buildings in a compound about half a mile from the hostage site. “Soldiers there will definitely come running when they hear the fire and grenades as we enter the target building. We have a serious need for speed.”

  “Yeah,” Stoke said. “Hop and Pop.”

  “Fitz’s specialty,” Boomer said. “Here’s the primary radar dome, and look at all these cute little sammy and scud site missile launchers.”

  “The sub pen looks like it’s still under construction,” Fitz said. “See all the crap still on the ground? Bulldozers? Steel beams and rods. Tell me about the sub, Commander. Building looks big enough to accommodate three fooking subs.”

  Hawke did. When he described the Borzoi sub with its delta-wing design, retractable conning tower, and forty missile silos, both men’s eyes widened with excitement. The idea that this might be more than just another hostage extraction clearly got their attention.

  “Can we take out that sub?” Fitz asked.

  “Well, it is destroying private property,” Hawke said. “But then again, the world would be a hell of a lot safer place without it. And, since the Atlantic Fleet is at this very moment preparing to neutralize or destroy it, the Americans might just look the other way. Let’s take it out.”

  “Good lad. We’ll see what we can do. I’m wondering about this large structure here,” Fitz said. “The one nearest the beach. It’s clearly much older than anything else. Looks like a small finca that’s had a lot of wings added over the years.”

  “It belongs to General Manso de Herreras,” Hawke said. “American intelligence has him as the guy who took Castro down. You can hear his voice on the tape. I’ve got video footage of him as well.”

  “How and why did he abduct the hostage?” Fitz asked, looking at the photo of Vicky.

  “How, I don’t know,” Hawke replied. “Why is easy. An attempt to get me to use my influence in Washington. Affect U.S. policy toward his new government. Ridiculous, but true. I’m going to kill him, by the way. When I find him.”

  “Sorry?” Fitz said.

  “Thirty years ago, Manso de Herreras and his two brothers murdered my parents. Stokely captured one of the brothers just yesterday and had the bastard arrested for murder. Head of the Cuban Navy, as it happens.”

  “That’ll tend to piss the other two off,” Fitz said.

  “So,” Boomer said, eyeing Hawke carefully. “It’s not just a simple hostage snatch, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Hawke said. “Somehow, I’m going to get inside this finca here and kill the two remaining brothers. That’s my problem, not yours.”

  The Indian nodded his head. “I understand,” he said.

  “Which leaves me with one question,” Fitz said. “Namely, how do we get two squads in and out of there? Look at this place! We got radar here and here, we got fooking SAM sites under every bush, we got two, maybe three fooking thousand troops in these barracks. I mean—”

  “HAHO,” Boomer said. “Night time.”

  “Yeah, just what I was thinkin’, Boomer,” Stokely said. “HAHO.”

  Seeing Hawke’s puzzled expression, Fitz said, “A jump. High Altitude–High Opening. The plane is flying at thirty thousand feet, fifteen miles from the target. It’s night. Nobody hears us, nobody sees us.”

  “We use flat chutes as parasails,” Boomer said. “We use minibottles of oxygen to keep from blacking out. We’ve got lights on our helmets, compasses and altimeters on our wrists. We do a long, controlled glide into the LZ. Done much jumping, Commander?”

  “The logic of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane has always escaped me,” Hawke said. “But I did a tour with SBS. Jumping was a big part of our training.”

  Stoke looked at the two ex-SEALs, grinning. “What’d I tell y’all? Ain’t nobody got bigger stones than my man Hawke here, huh? Balls to the wall!”

  “SBS? No shit,” Boomer said. “Tough outfit.”

  SBS was the British Special Boat Squadron, whose rigorous training was known throughout the special warfare world as even tougher than the SEALs’. In Boomer’s eyes, Hawke had just become an official member of the brotherhood.

  “Right, one more thing and then we’re done talking,” Fitz said. He got up and handed Hawke the transcript of Vicky’s message. He’d used a red pencil to circle four words in the second paragraph.

  Hawke stared at it, trying to make some sense of the thing.

  “I’ve listened to countless hours of these kinds of tapes,” Fitz said. Depending on the hostage’s state of mind, they tend to use words only a loved one would understand. Or send clues that would be helpful in a rescue situation.”

  “Yes?” Hawke said.

  “I’m wondering,” Fitz said, lighting another cigarette. “Would Vicky ever use a word like ‘uppermost’ or ‘herein’ in her general conversation?”

  “Never,” Hawke said, looking at the paper. “I think I see where you’re going.”

  He studied the section in question, reading it aloud:

  “—so herein you’ll find me, alive and well but uppermost in my mind is that in whatever time is so far left to me is getting my backside nestled next to yours again—”

  “Herein, uppermost, backside,” Hawke said. “She’d never talk like that. Rather cute, however, the backside reference.”

  “So ‘herein’ is her location,” Fitz said, spreading out the plan of the hostage building they’d identified. “ ‘Uppermost’ has got to be this top floor. Far left side of the building is here, obviously, and this is the very backside or rear of the structure.”

  He put his finger on the floor plan. “That’s her room, gents, right there.”

  “We got it!” Stoke exclaimed. “Vicky, you something else, gal.”

  “Right, then,” Fitz said. “Why don’t you two guys go get some hot java or chow or take a walk? Visit the Fort Whupass Museum gift shop. Boomer and I have some serious bone-crunching brainstorming to do and no time to do it. Be back here in one hour. That suit you lads?”

  Stoke could see Alex about to protest and said, “One hour.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  When they were outside the door he turned to Hawke and said, “Sorry, boss. I know you want to be in there. But this here one hour is why Thunder and Lightning get the big bucks. Trust me.”

&nbs
p; “I’ve got a good feeling about these guys, Stoke,” Hawke said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, boss.”

  “Least I can do is buy you a little souvenir from the gift shop,” Hawke said, disappearing down the stairway and into the tunnel leading to the Emerald City.

  51

  Rita Gomez was sitting in her kitchen crying when the front door bell rang.

  The small pewter urn containing her late husband was sitting on top of the refrigerator where the kids couldn’t see it. Gomer’s will had stated he wished to be cremated, and the CO’s wife, Ginny, had made sure he got his wish. Twelve hours after his death in “No Man’s Land.”

  When Rita had climbed up on the footstool to place it there, she’d seen about two years’ worth of dust coating the fridge top. Dust to dust. That’s what she thought, stepping down from the stool.

  On the walk home from the small service at St. Mary’s, Amber and Tiffany kept demanding to know what she was carrying. Except for her two noisy daughters, the whole neighborhood seemed eerily quiet.

  “What’s in there, Mommy, what’s in there?” they said over and over, skipping along the sidewalk beside her.

  She couldn’t bring herself to say, “Daddy.”

  The service had been small but painfully long. A few members of Gomer’s platoon sat in the first few pews just behind Rita and the two little girls. Angel, Rita’s hairdresser and best friend, was there. There was an organist. Some desultory flowers on either side of the urn. A few sputtering candles that expired halfway through the service.

  Gomer’s best friend, Chief Petty Officer Sparky Rollins, made a brave attempt to eulogize Gomer, saying that he had been a man who had “died the way he lived, on the edge, living life to the fullest.”

  It was about as kind a description of her husband’s death as anyone was going to come up with, Rita thought, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden seat. She was fanning herself with a church bulletin. Gomer would have leaned over and whispered that it was hot as Hades in here.

  Father Menendez, who’d been counseling Gomer without any obvious success these last few months, gave a lengthy benediction and sermon, none of which Rita could remember. Something about a troubled soul now at peace. Not all warriors die a hero’s death, he said, some are lost in a battle for the soul.

  Anyway it was over, but somehow she couldn’t stop crying. The handsome young sailor was gone. There’d been so much hope in her heart that rainy day inside the little chapel in Miami. He seemed like such a fine young man, standing so straight beside her in his brand-new uniform.

  And then when they’d had their kids, she’d felt like all of her dreams were coming true. But something went wrong. It wasn’t just the drinking, although that was certainly part of it. It started back when Gomer’s mom first got sick in Havana. When he couldn’t get any medicine for her, and heard her screams on the phone. Finally watching her die in such pain. That’s when it started going seriously downhill. That’s when he started to—the front doorbell rang again.

  “Sorry,” Rita called out, hurrying through the tiny living room. “I’m coming.”

  She wiped away her tears on her apron and pulled the door open.

  It was the commanding officer’s wife, Ginny Nettles, standing there with a big casserole dish in her hands.

  “I’m so sorry about your husband, Rita,” Ginny said. “It’s just awful. May I come in?”

  “Oh. Of course,” Rita said, standing aside for her and then following her inside. She was slightly stunned at having the base commander’s wife appear at her door. She had been to the Nettleses’ house for a birthday party and to play bridge a few times, of course, and said hello to Ginny at the Exchange or the beauty parlor, but still.

  “I made this for you last night,” Ginny said, placing the casserole on the kitchen counter. “Shepherd’s pie. Now, of course, it looks like you won’t be needing it.”

  “What do you mean?” Rita said, thoroughly confused now.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Ginny said. “Oh—that’s right. You’ve been at St. Mary’s all morning. Well, it’s the most amazing thing. We’re all being evacuated.”

  “What?” Rita said. “I don’t understand. We’re being—”

  Ginny had walked into the living room and was bending over the TV, looking for a button. The kids had been watching Josie and the Pussycats before going out to play in the back. Josie was still on.

  “Do you mind if I put on CNN?” Ginny asked. “I’ve been glued to it all morning. We’re all over the news.”

  “No, of course not,” Rita said, feeling completely disoriented. She dug the remote out from under a cushion and switched channels to CNN. There was that big blue banner running across the screen that said “Special Report.” In Rita’s experience that always meant “Especially Bad News.” Both women sat down on the worn sofa and saw images of Guantánamo that seemed completely alien.

  Men in bright yellow environmental suits were pouring from the rear of C-130s out at Leeward Point field. There were strange vehicles manned by similarly dressed men patrolling the streets, and bomb squad teams who looked like Martians. Somehow, life at Gitmo had turned upside down in the last two hours and Rita Gomez had missed the whole thing.

  One of the famous old CNN guys from the Gulf War was standing under a palm tree outside the Gitmo HQ building with a microphone. Rita tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but she kept glancing over her shoulder at Gomer sitting up there on top of the fridge.

  “In many cases,” the reporter was saying, “bacon was frying on the stove and the Monday wash was on the line when the order came to evacuate dependent women and children. Already, security guards protect empty houses and patrol now-quiet neighborhoods only yesterday filled with children’s noisy play.”

  “What is—what in the world is going on, Ginny?” Rita asked, feeling suddenly frightened.

  “Shhh, just listen.”

  “The plans for the evacuation were announced and effected immediately. The base was divided into areas, and responsibility for notification and transportation to the awaiting ships and aircraft was given to the various commands.”

  “Why are they wearing those suits?” Rita asked, but Ginny ignored her, intent upon the broadcast.

  “The Navy Exchange is still open,” the CNN guy continued, “but it stands deserted. A battalion of Marines arrived during the early-morning hours, and their general attitude is one of calm watchfulness. Guantánamo is a changed place this morning. The base golf course is dotted with the temporary tents pitched by Marines who now bivouac on the fairways and greens.”

  “Oh, my God,” Rita said.

  “Along with the Marines, bomb squads, scientists, and doctors from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, all in their protective clothing, find no relief from the hot Cuban sun. No one will officially confirm why they’re here, but rumors are rampant.”

  Ginny hit the mute button and turned to Rita. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’ve always seemed one of the few base wives who were nice because of who I was, not because of who my husband was.”

  “Tell me, Ginny. The girls and I’ve been over at church since seven. We’ve missed the whole thing. Why in the world are we being evacuated?”

  “There’s some kind of bomb hidden on the base. Joe says it’s either a nuclear or a biological weapon. Some kind of new laboratory-created bacteria, they’re guessing most likely. The ‘poor man’s atomic bomb,’ he called it. They haven’t been able to find it to defuse it or whatever they do. So, we’re all clearing out. Women and children, I mean. And civil servants, of course.”

  “My God,” Rita said. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “The new Cuban government,” Ginny said. “They’re nuts, Joe says. Certifiable looney-toons. Listen, I’ve got to run. We’ve only got a couple of hours before we have to be at the boarding stations. You’re only allowed to pack one suitcase for each family member.”

  “Okay
,” Rita said, her mind racing. She glanced back at the top of the fridge. There was a family member up there. Did Gomer still count for a suitcase?

  “If you’ve got a dog, you’re supposed to tie him up in the backyard. And leave the keys to the house on the dining table.”

  “We don’t have a dog.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. This is a terrible time for you,” Ginny said. “Listen, you get the kids packed and ready to go. Then drive over to my house and we’ll go—”

  “We don’t have a car. The MPs have it impounded.”

  “Oh. Yes, that’s right. I forgot. Well, listen, Rita, I’ll pick you and the girls up here then. If you could be out front with your luggage?”

  “Okay,” Rita said, looking around at the bravely decorated little rooms she and Gomer and the girls had called home for so long. She couldn’t stop herself from noticing just how dry the dried flowers looked. God, how she’d tried to make this house a home.

  “Can you be ready in an hour? The streets are a mess. Packed all the way to Wharf Bravo. That’s where the JFK is berthed.”

  “Sure. We, uh—whatever you say. I would think your husband would, you know, fly you and Cindy out? Something?”

  “That’s what he wanted us to do. I said no way. I think the commanding officer’s wife’s place is shoulder to shoulder with the sailors’ families aboard the Kennedy.”

  “We’ll be ready, Ginny. Right out front on the sidewalk.”

  Rita followed Ginny out to her car. The sun was broiling now and she shielded her eyes, waving good-bye as Ginny pulled away from the curb. Just as she was about to turn and go back inside, another car pulled up by the mailbox. One of those gray Navy cars.

  Two men, one in civilian clothes and the other in Army fatigues, climbed out of the front, then the back door swung open and one of the yellow-suit guys climbed out.

  “Are you Mrs. Gomez?” one of the civilian guys asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We’d like to talk to you for a minute. Is it possible to step inside out of the sun?”