by Ted Bell
“I’ve got a contact, sir,” Hawke heard in his headphones.
“Go ahead, Sparky, what have you got?” Hawke said.
“Radar showing four fighter aircraft approaching our stern out of the east-southeast, sir, altitude thirty-five hundred feet, speed Mach 1.14, range nine miles and closing . . .”
“Four bogies?” Hawke said.
“Four total, roger. Three bogies now breaking formation and shedding altitude,” the gun commander said. “Looks like they may intend to get on our stern quarter, sir. Lead airplane now climbing new course south-southwest and . . . uh, climbing through forty thousand . . . and . . . diving now . . . he’s on us.”
“Take them out, gentlemen,” Hawke said, climbing down from the turret and getting the hell out of their way. He dropped nimbly down to the deck and headed back up to the bridge where he naturally belonged when in combat.
The turret behind him instantly rotated forty-five degrees as the Gun Dish locked in on the single approaching Cuban fighter. Hawke, headed aft, could actually feel the deck shudder beneath him as the crew fired a burst from the 23mm cannons. Looking back over his shoulder as he made his way up the steps to the bridge, he saw the muzzles spouting flame as they recoiled in anger.
Hawke was racing upward, taking the steps two at a time, when he saw the solitary Su-35 diving on them. The single-seater fighter had a brown-and-grey camouflage paint scheme and Cuban flags on her fuselage and wings; her two thrust-vectoring turbofan engines were screaming as she maintained her descent and opened fire on Blackhawke.
As he bolted up the last few steps, Hawke saw the Cuban fighter’s single 30mm nose cannon blazing away at his bow turret, rounds zinging off the steel, a multitude of geysers erupting in the stormy seas around the boat.
As he watched, he saw the forward turret swiveling, her guns locking in on the approaching enemy airplane as the antiaircraft crew opened fire with a vengeance, throwing thousands of frag rounds in the face of the oncoming fighter.
When Alex pushed inside the bridge, a loud cheer went up from his officers. Not for him, but celebrating the sight of the flaming, disintegrating carcass of the Russian-built Su-35, just missing the bow and trailing a flame of burning jet fuel before impacting the hard and unforgiving sea.
Hawke took a quick look at his navigator’s air combat radar display and said, “It looks like that guy’s three friends are no longer all that sure they want to mess with us at the moment . . . The other three bogies now peeling off and appear to be hightailing it back to sunny Cuba, land of enchantment.”
“I’d say round one goes to us, Commander,” the ship’s new skipper, Geneva King, said. “Now comes the hard part.”
CHAPTER 66
Hawkesmoor
Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong. He’d never forget it. The two crooners were singing that lovely old duet “Gone Fishin’,” from the 1940s. Pelham Grenville would later recall that, when he first heard explosive gunfire erupt beyond the kitchen windows, it was playing softly on his old radio. And Satchmo was singing . . .
“You gone fishin’, you ain’t got no ambition . . .”
It had just gone midnight. He was perched on his stool in the butler’s pantry, finishing the needlepoint Christmas belt for Alexei, singing right along with the two crooners:
Gone fishin’ by a shady, wady pool
I’m wishin’ I could be that kinda fool
And then it started. Bombs. Explosions. A terrific fusillade of gunshots ringing out in the night as, outside on the lawn, the heavily armed Scotland Yard Royalty Protection officers defended the house. They were up against a sudden and devastating ground attack. Pelham shook off the shock and moved.
He dropped his needlework and ran for the main hall. The exchange of gunfire rapidly grew in intensity and volume out on the lawns. His sense of terror grew. It was quickly turning into a pitched battle with the Scotland Yard and MI6 defenders; and it was edging nearer to the house now, much closer than when he’d first heard the single shots ring out. He raced into the darkened main hall and switched off all belowstairs illumination, his mind suddenly reeling at what he next heard.
Was that noise coming from upstairs?
Distant echoes of gunfire could be heard from somewhere inside the house! The intruders must be inside now! Had someone gotten in through a blown-out window up there? Had an exterior door been breached in another wing? Racing up the winding marble staircase, Pelham called out to Inspector Walker and Archie Carstairs. Pelham shouted, “Walker! Carstairs! They’ve gotten inside the house! Shooting over in the west wing and getting closer. Turn around! Go grab Alexei from his bed and head for the roof. NOW!”
He continued to shout at the top of his lungs over and over as he climbed. Perhaps Tristan and Archie had been firing upstairs, probably shooting from their windows overlooking the entrance to the main house. But now he heard shouting and gunfire in the Great Hall below. No more doubts; gunmen were in the house now. He almost made it to the top floor.
“Is Alexei all right?” Pelham cried out to Detective Walker. The boy’s room was to the left of the stairs. When they emerged, Walker cradling the boy in his arms, Alexei appeared to be unhurt.
Walker said, “Yes! He’s fine, but we’ve not a second to lose. Russian paratroopers with mortars, a bloody invasion. We counted a dozen or more on the south lawn—they’re about to breach the main entrance to the house—every second counts!”
There then came that rumble and explosion, the deep roar of it rolling up the staircase, the mammoth oak doors blown off their hinges, gunfire on the night wind howling inside. And that sound was soon overwhelmed by the horrific chatter of automatic weapons being fired indiscriminately into the dark chambers of the massive old seventeenth-century pile. More shots on the first floor, ricocheting off the marble floors, ripping up art and centuries of priceless old masterpieces of furniture and woodwork and portraits of Hawke ancestors.
There was not a second to grieve. This legendary country seat of the Hawke family had been through fire, pestilence, and war, time and time again down the centuries; and yet here it still stood. And it would survive this invasion, too. Somehow. But a dozen or more armed foreign invaders, intent on murdering the heir to the Hawke throne in the sanctity of his home?
Not if he had anything to say about it.
Pelham’s white-hot anger at the enormity of this outrage mounted second by second. He was filled with a strange energy, almost a felt force, that inhabited his very being. He would deny them their young and innocent prey or he himself would most certainly die trying.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Pelham eyed a towering mahogany armoire standing on the landing of the third floor.
The ancient piece of furniture was almost twelve feet high and as broad and as heavy as two grand pianos. But, if you could somehow manage to just tip it forward enough, it would go careening down the three flights of marble steps all the way to the ground floor, killing or gravely injuring anyone in its path and . . . perhaps even stalling the assault long enough for them to reach the . . .
“They’ve breached the front entrance!” Pelham shouted to the two guardians. “They’re coming up the staircase. Detective Walker, you’ve got to get Alexei up to the roof now! Archie, come down here and help me topple this wooden behemoth and we’ll send those who dare ascend a little present. It might buy us a few minutes . . .”
In an instant the brawny bodyguard was beside him and throwing all his might and muscle against the thing. It creaked loudly and then started to pitch forward an inch or so. Pelham, with his newfound power, also put his shoulder into the thing at the critical moment, and it leaned over well past the recovery point. Over and down it went, like a runaway freight train careening down a steep mountain slope.
He and Archie could hear the screams of men ascending the staircase being crushed as they saw it coming. They tried vainly to get out of the way of the mahogany hurtling toward them.
Pelham and Archie then turned and r
aced up stairs to the topmost floor. There they found the opened door and narrow stairway leading up to the roof. Pelham called out to the inspector.
“Have you got him, Inspector Walker?” Pelham cried out. “Are you out there?”
But there was no answer.
DETECTIVE TRISTAN WALKER SWUNG OPEN the heavy iron door onto the roof. The yellow moon, scudded with dark clouds, was nearly full and he could see the dark silhouette of Hawke’s black helicopter waiting for them amid the maze of chimneys. He held Alexei in one arm and gripped his automatic weapon in his right hand, scanning the skies for more descending paratroopers as he and his young charge raced across the rooftops toward salvation.
All was still across the vast black sea of ancient tarpaper and towering brick chimneys, some dating back hundreds of years.
Tristan was nearly halfway to the helo when a black figure jumped out from behind a tower of ancient brick and fired at him twice, point blank, then turned and ran for the chopper. Walker had been completely spun around when one of the rounds found his left shoulder, missing Alexei by an inch or so. His upper arm erupted in pain, and he saw his blood had spattered the boy.
He ignored the burning wound and set the child down on the tarpapered roof. Then he bent down and said, calmly, “Wait here for a moment, Alexei. Don’t move, all right? We’re going to be fine. Pelham and Archie will be here to get you in a second. That bad man wants to destroy our helicopter. I’ve got to stop him . . .”
“He shot you . . .” Alexei said through tears.
“Mosquito bite,” Walker said, kissing the top of his head. “Happens all the time.” Then he turned and ran toward the escaping Russian militiaman, firing as he ran.
A moment later, Pelham, having heard the gunfire on the roof, was on his knees with his arms around the boy. He was shocked by the amount of glistening blood on Alexei’s face and in his hair and feared for the worst.
“Are you hurt, Alexei?” he said, fear pumping madly inside his poor old heart.
“No, sir, not me. Inspector Walker is. He ran over there, where the helicopter is.”
“I’ll take him, Pelham,” Archie said, bending down to gather the boy up in his arms. “Chopper’s over that way. Let’s go!”
They ran through the chimney forest, startled at the chatter of an automatic weapon nearby. They saw the detective now, hiding behind a large pipe and firing his machine gun. At that moment they saw another man, dressed in black from head to toe, dart out from behind the helicopter. He was running soundlessly, racing toward Walker from his blind side, his gun up, unseen . . .
The Russian raised his gun to fire and . . . suddenly screamed and twisted, then collapsed to the roof, still and silent. Pelham saw that Archie had fired his pistol, dropping the assailant on the run. Now, the bodyguard called to them as he raced to the aid of his wounded comrade, Walker, crouched in the shadow of the waiting chopper. Pelham was right on his heels.
“Let’s go, Pelham,” Walker cried. “They’ll reach the roof at any second!”
Archie had started the chopper’s motor.
Pelham took Alexei’s hand and they raced toward their only hope of escape. Its large blades beginning to rotate slowly beneath the unblinking white stare of the cold and oblivious moon.
CHAPTER 67
Isla de Pinos
The wind had increased dramatically. The big ship was pitching and yawing in heavy seas, towering waves of green water crashing over her bow and superstructure. A hard, slanting rain hammered the bridge, so hard you could hear the thrumming through the steel bulkhead above. Every now and then a jagged spear of lightning would crack nearby, lighting up the night outside the forward bridge windows, illuminating the rain so brilliantly that it looked like a solid wall. One they somehow penetrated as the ship steamed on toward the mouth of the island harbor.
Hawke looked at the Chelsea barometer up on the bulkhead and was shocked to see how quickly and how far the thin red needle had fallen. Masses of dark purple thunderheads were stacking up on the southern horizon, and the sky was now the color of a nasty bruise. Cuba was directly in the path, soon to get slammed by Hurricane Annabel.
Unless, as sometimes happened, the storm changed its mind. Veered west-northwest for the Keys and the Gulf of Mexico. But that was a very big maybe.
Hawke remained on the bridge, watching for any early skirmishes at the outset of the coming battle. The relatively moonless night and increasing dark clouds provided good cover for combat operations tonight. But the approaching tempest was putting severe pressure on the mission timetable. In his head, Hawke now advanced every aspect of his battle plan and made mental notes to keep his crew abreast of these critical changes as they happened. He was one of the few naval officers ever to graduate from Dartmouth Naval College who could hold an entire battle plan within his mind.
Everything was now dictated by the changing course and speed of the storm bearing down on them.
When the real battle commenced, former SEAL snipers with IR scopes in full camo, having taken concealed positions on the ship’s highest deck, would take out any uninvited waterborne guests who happened to make the serious mistake of getting too close to the bizarre yacht they’d declared war against.
Or, onshore, his navy snipers would handle enemy soldiers advancing on the Stokeland Raiders’ defensive position once they were safely ashore. And, finally, they were tasked with taking out all the enemy searchlight towers looming over the harbor compound to enable Stokely’s guys to breach the perimeter and attack their targets.
For now, the boat proceeding at dead slow, all calm aboard. Minutes passed . . .
The peace was soon shattered by the sonar-radar operator’s warning booming over the PA system. Two thirty-foot Cuban coast guard high-speed patrol boats made a fatal error as the strange vessel steamed into their harbor. Despite Blackhawke’s stern radio warning to their skippers to give the big yacht a wide berth, and come no closer than a thousand yards, the Cubans chose to come charging out into the harbor, engage, and open fire; each with two deck-mounted .50-cal. machine guns.
Hawke endured this pestilence of bee stings for as long as he could before giving the four turret commanders the “Engage. Fire at will” order to silence all that infernal buzzing. Suddenly, Blackhawke’s fore and aft 23mm cannons opened up, all four turrets swinging around, blazing away in tandem. The fire had a horrific effect on the lightly armored patrol boats and their crews; the barrage of incoming rounds was causing serious damage to the two enemy vessels. But, either bravely, foolishly, or both, on they came.
“Enemy vessels closing to within one thousand yards, Skipper,” said the voice on the PA system heard throughout the bridge deck. Hawke acknowledged as he spotted the approaching enemy blips on the nearest radar screen.
“Enough of their crap,” Commander Hawke told his gun crews. “Attention, two and three. Send those two bastards to the bottom where they belong.”
Gun turrets two and three immediately whirled and tracked and locked onto the two closing targets. Both turrets belched fire as two deadly antiship missiles were launched. The perfect twins arced into the deep black sky en route to their targets. Leaving a billowing plume of orange and white smoke trailing in their wakes, the pair of Hellfires raced upward, reached the apogee, and dove, screaming downward. They closed on the two zigzagging Cuban attack vessels, both captains now effecting desperate evasive maneuvers and hoping to escape.
But any hopes the Cubans had of avoiding catastrophe were instantly dashed. Two missiles struck each boat simultaneously, instantly turning both vessels into twin balls of hellish fire and death. Black smoke and flame rose up some fifty feet into the air while spilled fuel oil raged on the roiling surface of blackest water.
“On we go,” Hawke said.
THE BATTLE WAS JOINED. THE yacht Blackhawke had just made a spectacular and very noisy announcement of her arrival in port. And she had plainly demonstrated her further intentions as she stormed deeper into the enemy harbor, all
guns blazing. A half-dozen Cuban navy patrol boats buzzed around her, but the fire from their deck-mounted machine guns had negligible effect and they were dispatched to the bottom forthwith.
Commander Hawke was back on the bridge and his blood was up. Captain King was standing at the helm, watching him bark orders, as she witnessed what was for her a miraculous transformation: the kind and courteous man she’d only recently come to know had been replaced by a modern gladiator with an air of utter invincibility. Steel true. Blade straight. The cowardly saboteurs ashore would soon begin to feel his true heat.
Come on out you bastards, come out and fight.
Hawke glanced up at the mission clock above his head, the minutes relentlessly ticking down. It was now 2 A.M., Zulu time. The entire assault team had by now completed an exhaustive review of the strategic war plan for the third and final time.
They knew the Cuban and Russian guard unit’s rotation schedules down to the second and they knew it by heart. They knew the exact height of the concertina fences and the gauge of the steel-reinforced gates. They knew the exact height of the guard towers and the aspect ratios of their varying fields of fire; they knew the number of guard dogs patrolling behind those fences. They knew down to the last cubic foot the interior volume of the three large buildings where they would set their own explosive charges. And they knew exactly how long those fuses needed to be to ensure their timely and healthy departure.
This was, after all, going to be a hit-and-run operation. There would be no hanging around later to mop up and take prisoners. When this one was over, the Stokeland Raiders would just pick up their toys and go home. But right now, as Stoke told his guys, it was nut-cuttin’ time.
It was time for Alex Hawke to make one final appraisal of the troops before they went ashore. He left the bridge and headed aft, then down four decks to the stern of the vessel. There, in the aftermost part of the ship, grand de luxe had given way to the austere. Here was the true home of Stokely Jones Jr. and his Raiders. Their no-nonsense assault team accommodations, their mess, their weapons storage, machine maintenance shops, military communications post, and their combat satellite uplink. All were in a state of high readiness.