Hawke

by Ted Bell

  “Mr. Tate, with all due respect, excuse me all to hell,” Admiral Howell said. “But it’s getting a little windy in here. Any damn fool can come up with the problem. I want the goddamn solution! Everybody’s insights into Cuban and Panamanian politics are goddamn fascinating. But this is not the time for it. Now, I am a mission-oriented kind of fella. The president wants action now, not fucking discourse. Do I make myself clear?”

  Alex breathed deeply and closed his eyes. Thank God, Howell was seizing control of this bloody thing. He had been on the verge of making some excuse and walking out. He could barely tolerate these saber-rattling ego fests when he was at his best. Today, with Vicky’s loss spiking every thought, his tolerance was at zero.

  Admiral Howell looked around the table, sucking down great volumes of smoke, waiting for a response.

  “Find that sub, sink it, then invade the island, kill the bad guys, and put a decent, honest man in the president’s office,” General Moore said. Howell smiled.

  “That’s better. Thanks, Charley. The commander in chief gave us a job to do, and by God we’re going to do it. He asked me if the Atlantic Fleet was ready. I said if anybody in Havana even sneezed in the wrong direction, my boys could send that country back to the Stone Age in about twelve minutes. Hell, I’ve got nine fighter squadrons right here on Big John! I’d just as soon take the goddamn Geneva Convention and shove it up Cuba’s sorry ass. Now let’s talk about that, goddammit.”

  Alex relaxed and took his mind somewhere else.

  Doesn’t work well with others.

  That’s what he’d told Conch. It was true. His idea of Hell was sitting in a room with any group that considered itself a committee. His grandfather had a saying: “Search every park in every city of the world and you will never, ever, see a statue of a committee.”

  As the meeting droned on, Alex stifled a yawn behind his fist and noticed a new sensation. Hunger. The food on American carriers was famously good. He hadn’t eaten since the accident. After a dinner in the officers’ mess, he’d try to get a good night’s sleep in his little VOQ cabin. He’d take off at first light and resume his search for Vicky.

  Tate was on his feet now, doing profiles on the new leadership of Cuba. Alex glanced up now and then, feigning interest. He looked up at the young face of the new president, Batista. Hawke wondered if he were the only one to find this ironic bit of history amusing.

  He couldn’t listen to Tate any longer. He pushed back his chair, starting to rise, and prepared to duck out of the meeting. But the face up on the screen now stopped him cold. He collapsed back into his chair, his eyes riveted on the image. A feeling swept over him, a feeling that everything inside him was shifting, starting to come loose. His eyes were burning and he massaged them with his fingertips, willing himself to control these sudden, swirling emotions.

  Tate droned on, and soon had moved to a new character. Hawke, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, didn’t hear a word he said.

  “Excuse me,” Hawke said, interrupting Tate mid-sentence. “I’m terribly sorry. I missed something. Could you possibly go back to the prior slide? Who was that man again?”

  Tate couldn’t resist an eye-rolling sigh as he hit the clicker and reversed the carousel to the previous slide.

  “I’m frightfully sorry,” Hawke said. “But who is this man again?”

  “As I said, this is the man behind the military coup,” Tate replied, a falsely patient expression on his face. “Formerly Castro’s most trusted aide de camp. His name is General Manso de Herreras. Why? Do you have some information about him?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Alex Hawke, getting to his feet and gathering up his materials. He nodded to Admiral Howell and said, “Please excuse me, Admiral, I’m afraid I need to make an urgent phone call.”

  Howell nodded and Alex walked quickly to the door. The aide saluted and pushed the door open.

  “Excuse me, Commander,” Tate said, as Alex was halfway out the door. “But if you have any information regarding this man, I’d like to know what it is.”

  “I’m sure you would. But it’s strictly personal. It’s none of your bloody business, Mr. Tate,” Alex said over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around before he walked out.

  “Question,” Tate said, sometime late in the evening, after the orderlies had cleared the dinner dishes and the men were sitting or standing around the officers’ dining quarters in small groups. A blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling. There was the usual hubbub of conversation as great quantities of port wine and Irish whiskey went round and round the admiral’s table.

  All very grand, Alex thought, the way the Americans entertained aboard their carriers. He’d been studiously avoiding the raucous chatter, preferring to nurse his vintage Sandeman port alone. He was thinking of turning in when Tate pulled up a chair next to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Yes?” Alex said, barely glancing up.

  “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t like the cut of your jib, Mr. Tate.”

  “Not that I give a shit. The point is, I have a job to do down here. For some reason, everyone in Washington thinks you can help. So. Why were you so interested in this Manso de Herreras this afternoon?”

  “I think we covered that bit earlier, Mr. Tate,” Alex said, staring into the man’s bloodshot eyes, “when I said it was none of your bloody business. Now, piss off.”

  “Ah, but it is my business, isn’t it?” Tate said, leaning in so that Alex could smell the scent of sweat and liquor pouring off the man. “Manso is the central figure in this little Caribbean drama. You clearly know more about him than you’re letting on.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Alex said, looking up and glaring at the man.

  “I’m calling you what you are, Mr. Hawke. A pompous aristobrit who’d rather keep his little secrets than assist his country’s most valued ally in what has become a very, very dangerous state of international affairs.”

  Alex smiled, took a sip of his port, and turned to face Tate.

  “Aristobrit? That’s a good one, Mr. Tate. Do you duel?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Duel? Pistols at dawn? The Code Duello? An ancient custom for settling disagreements between gentlemen, which is probably why you’re unfamiliar with it. Duels, unfortunately, seem to have fallen out of favor at about the same rate as gentlemen.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Tate said.

  “Ah, hardly surprising. Let me help,” Hawke said. Slowly setting his port glass down on the white linen tablecloth, he whipped his fist around and backhanded Tate hard across his right ear. Hard enough to snap the man’s head back. Tate sat stunned, rubbing his bright red ear. His eyes blazed with hate, but Alex was amused to see that, in the revelry surrounding them, their small tête-à-tête had gone completely unnoticed.

  “That’s how it works,” Alex said, smiling. “You’ve been insulted. Dishonored. Do you now wish to avenge your honor?”

  “You pompous shit, I’ll—”

  “Good. Now we have a duel,” Hawke said, smiling pleasantly. He saw a fist headed his way and said, “No, no, not here, Mr. Tate. Bad form.”

  Alex’s hand shot out and caught Tate’s forearm mid-air, stopping the man’s fist just short of his own temple.

  “I’ll kill you for this, you fucking English bastard,” Tate said.

  “Not here, old boy,” Alex said. “This is the part where we step outside.”

  Still keeping the man’s arm locked down on the table, Hawke reached under the table and used his free hand to grip Tate’s testicles in a cruel vise. Tate winced and withdrew his arm.

  “Good boy,” Alex said, smiling. “As I say, it’s customary to step outside to settle these affairs. May I suggest we leave these gentlemen to their port and finish this unpleasantness up on the flight deck? I don’t think either of us will need a second, do you, old boy?”

  “Shouldn’t take me that long to
kick your ass,” Tate growled.

  Hawke smiled, amused at the man’s obvious confusion over the term “second.”

  “Good,” Alex said. “Shall we go? I’m quite sure we shan’t be missed, old boy.”

  “Don’t call me old boy,” Tate hissed, rising from the table.

  “Sorry, old boy,” Alex said, getting out of his chair and motioning Tate toward the door.

  “Swords at dawn are out of the question, I suppose,” he said. “More’s the pity.” He put his arm around Tate’s shoulder and moved him through the boisterous crowd toward the exit. “It will just have to be the manly art of fisticuffs on the poop deck, old boy.”

  “I’ll meet you up there,” Tate said. “I’ve got to use the head.”

  “A votre servis, monsieur. I’ll be waiting out on the fantail,” Hawke said, and whistling a cheerful tune, he strolled off down the long companionway, up three flights of steps, and out into the salty air.

  He found a place to sit, a small stepladder used by decides to reach the fuel ports on the F-14.

  “Hello, Hawke,” a tall man said, coming toward him out of the covey of bedded-down Tomcats.

  Alex looked up, not recognizing the voice or the silhouette.

  “David Balfour,” the man said. “We were bunkmates in that hellhole hospital in Kuwait.”

  “Balfour?” Alex said. “Is that you? Good God, I thought you were dead!”

  43

  Stokely, barely able to keep his butt planted in his seat a third of the way back in the old bus, watched Ambrose Congreve bouncing around behind the big steering wheel and thought he’d bust a gut.

  Man had on a tweed jacket with a little white hanky hanging out the top pocket, some kind of damn flannel trousers, and shiny brown shoes with little tassels dangling on the front of them. Best part, man had on uptown bright yellow socks, and his feet were flying back and forth mashing the clutch and brake pedals!

  Stoke, like most everyone else on the bus, was dressed completely in black. All were wearing Kevlar vests. But not Ambrose. Had on a nice old gray woolly vest with leather buttons! Man was something else. Man on a mission, though, you had to give him that. Pipe jammed between his teeth, tearing up the deeply rutted sandy road twisting through the scrubby palm trees. Grinding gears, mashing on the brakes, flying over the hills.

  Damn Mario Andretti of schoolbus drivers!

  Just then the bus got airborne at the top of a big hill and Stokely caught his first glimpse of the ocean. Which meant they were getting close.

  Everybody on the team was quiet, holding on to keep from flying around inside the bus. In situations like this, Stoke knew, each man was thinking about his immediate future. Hell, he was too. Nobody really knew what they were up against. No time to even send a recon team ahead. Could be real easy. Could easily be real hard. When they went bad—like that time in Panama—well, best not be thinking about that.

  Stoke checked his gear and ammo. In addition to the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun hanging from a shoulder strap, he had his custom Beretta 92-SF in his thigh holster, along with ten clips of ammo. A hundred rounds of hollow-point HydraShok hot loads that could literally blow a guy’s head off.

  Lots of other goodies were hanging from his webbed belt. Dagger, flash-bang grenades, and thunder-strips to disorient the bad guys. And a secure Motorola walkie-talkie with a voice-activated lip mike and earpieces so he could communicate with Ross and Quick.

  He also had fifty feet of nylon climbing rope with a rubber-coated grapnel hook at one end.

  He was pumped. Man. It had been a long time.

  Stoke, Ambrose, and Ross, with the help of Amen Lillywhite, had quickly roughed out a plan. Amen had used a stick to scratch a diagram of the target house in the dirt parking lot outside the club. Ground floor, second floor, top floor. Big wide center stairway leading upstairs right from the front door. Hallways on either side leading to the rear.

  Target’s bedroom was on the top floor front, guard’s dormitories at the back of the first floor. A solid stone wall around the entire perimeter, ten feet high. Two ways in and out of the property. A guarded iron gate at the front. Two big wooden gates on the north side.

  It was a basic snatch.

  Surprise. Confusion. Overwhelming firepower. Float like a pissed-off butterfly. Sting like a badass bee. In other words, your basic SEAL behavior.

  Ambrose saying the target must be taken alive.

  Stoke saying that these things were entirely up to the target. Ambrose giving him a look. Not sayin’ more, which was good.

  The bus crested a hill, banged down hard, and Amen, sitting up front, said, “This’d be a fine place to stop, Mr. Congreve. This piney wood right here goes on down to the wall at the back of the house.”

  Ambrose mashed the brakes and the bus skidded to a stop at the edge of the pine forest. He pulled up the hand brake and turned around in his seat.

  “This is where we disembark, gentlemen,” Ambrose said. He pushed the handle that opened the door. “Check your weapons and ammunition. Stay low and stay silent. We will descend this hill in single file and regroup at the wall to the rear of the house. Mr. Jones will lead us in from there.”

  Mr. Jones? Nobody ever called him that. Still, man sounds like he knows what he’s doing, Stoke thought. That was good. Rest of these guys, well, he wasn’t used to working with amateurs. This Tommy Quick, of course, now he was a comfort. Had his Remington 700 sniper rifle with a bigass Star-Tron Mark scope on it. Guy was the best sniper in the whole U.S. Army. He could definitely come in handy. Still, this was definitely not your split-second-timing SEAL-type deal.

  Hell, hadn’t even had time to recon the place before going in. This would be a first, going in blind. Gain experience, that much was for sure.

  “Lock and load, ladies,” Stoke said, getting out of his seat and making his way to the front of the bus. He’d made sure the whole team was equipped with basically the same gear he had, minus the three walkie-talkies. “We going in to get this bad boy, truss him up like a Christmas turkey, and deliver his ass on a platter.”

  They moved swiftly down through the pines, their footsteps deadened by a thick carpet of pine needles. Stoke took the lead, Congreve was safely in the middle, and Sutherland, the trailman, brought up the rear. It took less than five minutes to reach the ten-foot stone wall that rimmed the perimeter of Don Carlo’s estate.

  Stoke held up his closed fist and the little band huddled around him. It was still pretty dark, but not for long. They had to move quickly. Stoke divided them into two squads. A Squad, led by Tom Quick, would go around the north side of the property. B Squad, led by Stoke, with Ross, Ambrose, and Amen right behind him, would go south.

  Stoke would take out any guards at the front gate.

  “Test, test, test,” Stoke said into the tiny lip mike that he, Ross, and Quick were now wearing. “Everybody copy?”

  “Loud and clear,” Ross said.

  “Ditto,” Quick said. “Five by five.”

  Stoke looked at his watch and said, “A Squad, go!” Quick and his five men took off in a low, crouched run.

  Stoke watched them disappear around the curved wall and then started with his team around the south side. Halfway, they came to a set of heavy wooden gates. He held up his hand and motioned for Amen to come forward.

  “What’s this for?” Stoke whispered to Amen, pointing at the gates.

  “Way he gets his cars in and out,” Amen said. “Two big Jeeps.” Stoke pondered that a minute. Besides the bus, Stoke had only seen three or four cars on the whole island. All beat-up little taxis.

  “Good,” he said. “How much farther around to the guardhouse?”

  “Another hundred yards, mebbe,” Amen said under his breath.

  “Tap me on the shoulder just before we get within sight of it, you understand?” Amen nodded.

  “Hey, Ambrose,” Stoke said, “you cool back there?”

  “Never cooler,” Ambrose said, smiling. Had to give the man c
redit, he wasn’t lying. Seemed like the man had balls, after all.

  Stoke hand-signaled his little team and they began to move forward behind him. Just when they had the ocean in sight, Amen tapped him on the shoulder, and Stoke dropped to his knees. The team came to a halt behind him. He pulled the Beretta from his thigh holster and fitted a silencer on the barrel. Then he crawled forward on knees and elbows, the pistol out in front of him.

  Two minutes later, he was back.

  “No sign of a guard in the window I can see,” he whispered. “Just a blue TV light flickering. First time I ever seen a damn TV satellite dish on a guardhouse.”

  “Probably asleep, though,” Amen whispered in his ear. “I’ll go check. Guards all know me. If he’s awake, I’ll just hand him these. I do it all the time. Keeps peace in the family.” He pulled a pint of Jamaican rum and a big hand-rolled spliff of marijuana out of his pants pocket.

  “My brother,” Stoke whispered to Amen. “You good, you very good.”

  Two minutes later, Amen came crabbing back along the wall, smiling his ass off. Stoke could already pick up the sweet smell of ganja drifting around from the guardhouse.

  “What up?” Stoke asked Amen.

  “One guy only in there,” Amen said. “Usually, they two. Awake. Got headphones on, listenin’ to his Marley tunes, watchin’ TV. Gave me a big smile.”

  “Weapon?”

  “Always keeps a machine gun layin’ cross his lap.”

  “Quick?” Stoke said.

  “Copy,” he heard in his headphones.

  “You guys in position?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Okay,” Stoke said to his team. “Nobody move. I’ll be right back.” He took off in a low crouch.

  The guardhouse had three windows. One facing the ocean, two on either side. Long as he stayed low and quiet, no way the guy could pick him up. In seconds, Stoke was crouched just below the north-facing window. A cloud of pungent smoke floated out above his head. Beretta in his hand, he suddenly popped up and looked in the window, not four feet from the guy.