by Ted Bell
Just a mile off his rock-strewn beach and the gentle white of the soft sand farther along, wavelets ebbed and flowed, undisturbed, relentless. McPhee raised his eyes to the horizon. Farther out to sea, near the limits of his vision, all was calm. Black and huge, the sea was rolling and swelling heavily beneath pinpricks of starlight splayed across the dome of midnight blue. A perfect sea of tranquility. Dee-da-da-dee-da-da-dee-dee . . . words as music.
The music of worlds and the magisterial wonder of creation.
All was undisturbed here save the darting and swooping petrels, terns, and sometimes the distant foghorn. Colin let his eyes drift, his hunger for sight and sound strong, unabated.
McPhee saw the black snout first.
It rose up from the deep and appeared at an odd angle so acute he felt his heart leap within his chest. When, after an eternity, the great beast finally reached its apogee and crashed into the sea, it sent a great wave rolling ashore, an infant tsunami.
The dark now gave way to dawn, and with it came a menacing black vision. Not a whale, no. But it was a leviathan, of sorts, a monster.
Oh, he’d seen them before. The slender stalks. The prying eyes. He recognized that black profile, all right. The enemy. He sensed that packs of these monsters were stalking his waters. They’d been reported off Denmark and Norway, too. But he could scarcely accept the terrible sight of one emerging from the depths so close to home, so close to the wee plot where his tiny cottage stood hard by the sea.
A SUBMARINE. RUSSIAN, MOST LIKELY. That is, if you believed the papers and pub talk over to Portree Bay. One had been spied in the harbor last month. The navy came and it was gone. What they wanted, what they were doing here on this night, Colin could not imagine. But he was willing to find out.
This was the very first time he’d seen one of the sinister giants completely surfaced. He ducked back among the large boulders and squeezed between two adjacent rocks that provided good cover. He arranged his body so that he was reasonably comfortable. He had a clear view of the submarine. Although its black skin was lifeless and dull, Colin could hear faint creakings of steel and silvery pings, traveling across the water from somewhere deep inside the great hulking hull.
He zipped up his wind cheater and waited and watched. The first fiery red rays from the eastern rim fired shots across the bow of the death machine. Darkness fled, but not before he saw silhouettes emerging up onto the deck at the foot of the tower. He counted six men, then more, moving forward toward the bow, carrying large rectangular objects.
He heard a splash. Then, another.
Rafts.
The Russians were coming!
He stood frozen, watching the crews of the two rubber rafts pulling at their oars in tandem. Well-trained seamen who rowed with a will. He had a notion to turn and run, but the notion quickly faded when he saw how quickly the submariners were approaching. And how exposed he would be going up the cliff.
Six men in each raft, the first less than a hundred yards away now, and the twelve men were starting to look not so much like fresh-faced young sailors as masked creatures from the deep. Fifty yards now. Twenty.
No, they looked like giant aliens who’d made good their escape from a video game. They were wearing some kind of black body armor that reminded him of Arthurian knights and they all had big, strange-looking weapons, for one thing, and they—
—better run, Colin! the tiny author voice in his mind was saying.
Notice they didn’t arrive in Portree Bay harbor with flags flying and bands playing, boy. No, they’re coming ashore here before dawn because they don’t want anyone to see them—and McPhee was nearly struck dumb. He’d simply gone for a walk and—
—it was already too late to run.
He stood inside his shaking boots, rooted to the sandy soil, peering through a narrow slit in the two rocks as the first flat-bottomed inflatable slid up over the smooth round pebbles and onto the sand.
Six men climbed out and stormed ashore through knee-deep water as the other raft beached and discharged its passengers. Five of the first arrivals huddled with the men from the second wave, securing their watercraft and pointing up to the steps climbing the cliff.
The sixth man strode up onto the beach proper to secure his beachhead with a line and a stake.
Colin’s legs had gone painfully numb from the awkward, cramped position. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. And, in so doing, unfortunately dislodged a large stone. A millisecond later, a shout! A brilliant white light burst into life from atop the sub’s conning tower. The strong white beam was playing over the large boulders to either side of the wooden steps. The stairway to heaven, Colin liked to say.
McPhee squeezed shut his eyes because he’d read somewhere that the eyes were always a dead giveaway, even if one were a mile away, down at the lonesome end of a dark and lonely country road.
But eventually the spotlight came to a stop and he found himself the star of this little seaside drama.
He didn’t wait to be told to come out. His leg was in too much pain. He turned sideways and pushed through between the bulging walls of rock to either side until he was free. The blinding light stayed on him and he didn’t see the approach of two submariners who grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back.
A third man, perhaps the leader, addressed him. Who was he, what was he doing here, where did he come from, he said. Made him feel like the usual suspect in this case, even though he was just a lonely man out for a walk, someone encountered by chance, someone completely innocent of any wrongdoing.
“I live up there,” McPhee said, pointing to the glowing windows in the cabin at the top of the steps. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down here to get some air. I’ll be on my way, if that’s all right with you gents.”
Naturally enough, it wasn’t all right. After a silence, McPhee said: “My name’s Colin, and what might yours be?”
“I am Ivan Isakov, captain, Russian Baltic Fleet.”
“What can I do for you, Captain?”
“I want you to have a look at something if you don’t mind,” the Russian said in strongly accented English. He reached inside a waterproof rubber pouch slung from his shoulder. The burly captain had thick black hair combed straight back, pomaded, and heavy black brows framing his dark sunken eyes. Someone who lived beneath the sea, his skin had a deathly white pallor.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Colin asked. An innocent enough question for this ghost.
“We are looking for someone.”
He stared beyond the Russian to the far horizon. There, fat cumulus clouds hurried away, pink and purple galleons, setting sail for foreign shores. The sight stirred him deeply, so deep was his grounded place in nature. The true mystery of life, a wise man had once said, is that there is no mystery.
“Who?” was all he could think to say to the ghost.
“None of your bloody business,” the captain said, almost barking at him.
He then pulled out a colored and heavily annotated naval military map, an image taken from a satellite no doubt, laminated, and folded in half. Opening it, he pointed to the harbor town of Portree Bay. “We are here, yes?”
“Close enough.”
“I want to go here,” Isakov said, moving his index finger a few inches north. Colin flinched at the sight of the map. The circled location was the old shooting estate where his father still worked. Where Colin and his family had all lived for most of his life. His mother had died and was buried there. Colin had been raised there. Been married there. Would be buried there, beside his wife.
He said: “Nobody home, I’m afraid. It’s just an old hunting lodge. The only time anyone is ever there these days is a brief window in the fall. Grouse, you see. Ring-necked pheasant. They come to shoot.”
“So do I.”
Captain Isakov had a small, nickel-plated automatic. He shoved the muzzle up into the soft flesh beneath Colin’s chin. It was painful, but he tried not to flinch. There were times when a man h
ad to show bravery, and this was one of them.
“What do you want to know?” Colin said, beginning to see his denouement at last.
“Do you have a truck?” the captain said. “Or an automobile?”
“Yes. A truck. And an old motorcycle or two in the barn behind the house.”
“Good. Give me the keys. All of them.”
“I don’t have them. They’re up there. In a china bowl up on the mantel. Hidden behind a picture of my late wife.”
Isakov had no time for sentiment. “Tell me, Colin. What is the best route to this lodge? The fastest route. Show me on the map.”
“That would be the road just here. You see? The Old Hollows highway. It follows the coast. Here is the first turning. And the next. Can’t miss it.”
Colin prayed the Russian would not catch the lie in his eyes. The coast road he was indicating was twice as long as the inland route. But he needed time. He needed to warn his father. To find him and warn him that the Russians were coming.
“Thank you for your assistance, Colin. Most kind. I am looking for a man named Hawke. Do you know him?”
“Yes. Of course. He’s my neighbor. He taught me to shoot upland game.”
“Is he there now? Hawke? For the shooting?”
“Lord Hawke hasn’t been here for years. No one has.”
“You’re lying. Someone has. A helicopter landed there. Just recently. You didn’t see it? Didn’t hear it?”
“No.”
“Well, no matter. Thank you for your time, Colin,” the smiling Russian said, looking deep into the young man’s eyes. “And I wish you sweet dreams, my boy.”
Colin felt a slight increase of upward pressure from the cold steel muzzle under his chin. And then, in that smallest fraction of a second, just before he finally came to understand the truth, how the great mystery of his life would end, he could swear he heard heaven sigh.
CHAPTER 72
Isla de Pinos
Hawke saw the explosions ashore before he heard them. Saw the spouting geysers of fire and plumes of smoke rising above the warehouse district of the tiny harbor town. The attack on Spy Island had begun in earnest. He left the helm and went out onto the rainswept port bridge wing for a better view, standing in the lee of a bulkhead, which shielded him from the brunt of the raging storm.
He raised the heavy Zeiss binoculars and surveyed the small waterfront village.
The confined harbor was now the scene of sustained heavy machine-gun fire and the bright orange-white flash of rigged explosives being triggered by Stokely’s demolitioneers throughout strategic locations within the warehouse district. The explosion of the Cuban’s motor pool alone, full as it was of jeeps, troop trucks, fuel, and oil, created a blast that leveled several smaller buildings nearby.
There were already a few skirmishes outside the main entrance to the enemy complex, but the main firefight seemed to be centered in the areas near the main gate.
Hawke could now see heavy fire coming from the six guard towers and a constant barrage of fire emanating from every window on the second story of a burnt-out warehouse. The building was adjacent to the complex’s main gate. Had Redcoat already taken up positions inside? He questioned the wisdom of that. The battle plan had called for both Redcoat and Bluecoat squads to storm the main gate and pour into the compound as a unified force.
“What the hell is going on over there?” Hawke wondered aloud. And then he immediately reassured himself. If anyone out there knew what he was doing, it was Stokely Jones Jr. And the men who composed the Stokeland Raiders.
Despite the impending danger of the heavily armed Russian missile frigate now lying in wait for Blackhawke outside the harbor, naval resistance inside the breakwaters was negligible. Two or three more undergunned Cuban patrol boats had been sent out to harass him, mostly with their deck-mounted .50-cal. machine guns and carbine fire from crewmen aboard.
Hawke’s fire control officer had swiftly ordered the Blackhawke commanders and gunners inside the fore and aft turrets to dispatch these and any other hostile craft coming within three hundred yards with 23mm cannon fire. Within minutes of one another, all three enemy boats had been sent to the bottom of the harbor. Hawke had an eye out for more, seeing two rows of them still moored at the docks. So far, at least, none had ventured forth.
“Blackhawke, Blackhawke, this is Redcoat One, over.”
It was Stoke calling. Hawke grabbed the radio and depressed the transmit button.
“Redcoat One, Redcoat One, Blackhawke, what’s your situation, Stoke, over.”
“Perimeter shows greater strength than earlier intel reports indicated. Bravo Squad now breaching the perimeter on the jungle side. Good thing we didn’t wade ashore like they wanted in D.C. Russians got pressure-plate mines everywhere and several rows of underwater obstacles and barriers in the tidal areas. That main gate? Gone. But now I’m looking at two three-ton, fifteen-foot-high interlocking solid steel plates. We’re responding to enemy fire while we try to figure a way to take the gates out, over.”
“Redcoat One, the ship’s fire control officer tells me he now has a missile lock on those gates. You have anyone on the ground out there? Or in the immediate vicinity?”
“Negative, Blackhawke, light ’em up and launch when ready, over.”
Stokely had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when the whole world outside lit up like day for night. A brilliant flash, a deafening roar, and a hole where the steel gates had once stood. The smart missile Hawke had launched from the ship had just saved Stoke and his Redcoats a whole lot of trouble.
“Target destroyed; Redcoat One is on the move, over.”
“Roger that, Redcoat. Status of Bluecoat?”
“Flanking action. Bluecoat is now penetrating far side of the perimeter, entering troops from the jungle.”
“Understood, Stoke. I’m bringing the boat closer inshore right now. Moving into position just offshore of the courthouse location. I’m going in to provide enfilade fire. Raking fire with the machine guns and enable the 23mm cannons to soften up the interior defensive fortifications . . . over. Give me an all clear when we can safely commence fire.”
“Yeah, uh, roger that, Blackhawke to commence fire on my signal,” Stoke said. “Over.”
“Affirmative, Stoke, keep your head down. Blackhawke out.”
Stoke handed his radio over to Fat Jesse and turned to the rest of his guys, now engaged in a fierce firefight with the two nearest machine-gun towers. He had two casualties, the wounded men now being patched up the medical corpsman. One of them was a kid named 12-Gauge who would lead the demo squad.
“Redcoat’s on the move and the front door’s wide now open, Raiders, let’s move out!” Stoke cried out.
STOKE, WITH FAT HARD ON his heels, was first through the blown gates. They sprinted across open ground littered with battle debris, headed for the first of the three warehouses. All were standing side by side on the town square, their backs to the water. The biggest one was the old courthouse building. The two floors of that structure were now being used as a warehouse. That’s where, according to that CIA intel, the bulk of the explosives were stored. And, two thousand cases of high-test vodka.
They got good cover from the M60s, his two primary machine gunners laying down thunderous suppression fire both on the ground and up at two more towers that continued to harass his guys’ movements below.
After sprinting across a hundred yards of open ground, Stoke and Fat ducked into an open doorway and returned the favor. They poured concentrated fire up into the towers. So far, they’d encountered sentries guarding the warehouses in the town square where the explosives were stored. Two were dispatched with head shots from Fat’s lethal sniper rifle fired from the window.
Stoke had used his assault knife to slit the throat of one man from behind before he could sound a warning. Stoke crouched down inside the door with his radio. It was tough to hear over the sound of the pounding fire of the M60 in Fat’s hands now.
“Bluecoat, Bluecoat, this is Redcoat One, what’s your situation, over.”
“Still cutting wire back here. Give us five.” Stoke could hear the distinctive sounds of AK-47s in the background.
“You got it, Redcoat One, over,” said the wounded ex–Army Ranger known as 12-Gauge, a kid who’d deeply impressed Stoke in all the shipboard briefings. Stoke had finally made the decision to give him leadership of the demo squad when they were splashing around down in the well.
The two squads would soon rejoin forces at the courthouse, the largest of the three designated primary targets.
BLACKHAWKE MOVED SLOWLY, CLOSER INSHORE. From the port-side bridge wing, Hawke monitored the developing battle. The ship was returning small-arms fire from locations along the breakwater and out on some of the jetties and piers. Hawke’s immediate objective was taking out the guard towers, which were still giving Stoke and his Raiders so much trouble.
He picked up the radio.
“Fire Control, forget this incoming fire from shore. New targets are Towers One, Two, and Three in the area where Redcoat squad now engaging enemy forces in the town square . . . lock on and take them out, over.”
“Roger that, sir. Acquiring targets . . . lock one, lock two, lock three . . . and . . . three missiles armed and . . .
“Stoke! Take cover! Incoming!”
And in that instant, Hawke had been staggered, nearly losing his footing and falling to the deck. The boat had just been rocked by an explosion just off her aft beam. Hawke had to grab the bridge wing’s handrails just to keep from pitching overboard. He looked back and saw multiple eruptions of incoming fire around the stern—hell, all of a sudden the relatively peaceful harbor was beginning to resemble the Battle of Midway . . . was it possibly fire from the Russian missile frigate approaching through the harbor mouth?
He ducked inside the bridge.