Hawke

by Ted Bell

  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.

  Dr. Nilsson had come aboard to treat Alex, successfully extracting two bullets embedded in his right buttock, and she’d been hired on the spot. The fact that the new ship’s doctor bore a startling resemblance to her twin sister, the reigning Miss Denmark, had no bearing on Hawke s decision. He vetted her qualifications very carefully after hiring her.

  Fortunately, she’d not yet learned enough colloquial English to understand the torrent of undeleted expletives that Stoke was hurling in her direction. The term “booty,” for instance, had not yet entered her lexicon.

  “Stoke,” Hawke said, “what’s the problem?” For a man who’d taken a bullet the day before, Stokely looked to be in remarkably fine fettle.

  “Problem?” Stoke said. “I’ll tell you what the goddamn problem is. Got her little booty parked on that chair right over there! The hell kind of doctor is she, anyway? Goddamn—”

  Alex pulled up a chair by Stokes bed and sat down.

  “Calm down, Stoke,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, hell, first she tells me how lucky I am the bullet didn’t hit nothing important. Nothing important? Hell, everything I got is important! Flesh, bones, arteries, all that shit. Not important, my ass.”

  “Stoke, she’s just doing her job,” Alex said, smiling at Dr. Nilsson. She had her arms folded across her chest and had gone quite red in the face. At the moment, she was puffing at a charming little banglet of blond hair that kept falling across her face.

  “Yeah, okay, then she tells me it ain’t nothing to worry about. ’Course it ain’t, for her ass! Ain’t her goddamn chest got shot, it’s mine! She got a helluva lot more chest to worry about than I do, don’t she? She—”

  “Dr. Nilsson,” Alex said, interrupting Stokely, “I’m sure he didn’t mean ... uh ... perhaps you could leave us alone for—” He didn’t finish because the Danish doctor flung Stokely’s chart at the wall and stormed out of the room.

  “Great,” Alex said. “See what you’ve done? Now I’m going to have to go find some way to apologize for you.”

  “How you doin’, boss?” Stoke said, a wide grin on his face. “You heard all what happened? Five of the best, my brother!”

  “I heard all about it from Ross,” Alex said, slapping Stoke’s palm smartly. “Unbelievable, Stoke.”

  “Listen up, my man!” Stoke said. “We kicked us some serious ass yesterday. Serious ass.”

  “I can never thank you enough, Stoke. I mean I—”

  “Hell, ain’t me you should be thanking, boss. It’s your little buddy Ambrose. That man gets all the credit for this here collar. He been working that case for thirty years, you know. Never told you, did he?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Alex asked.

  “Been working on the case for thirty years. Ambrose.”

  “Good Lord,” Hawke said, feeling all the breath go out of him. “I had no idea that Ambrose ... none. I can’t imagine that he would ...”

  It was the first time Stoke had ever seen Alex Hawke speechless.

  “Way he works, I guess. Low profile. Him and Ross flew over to Nassau and found some old retired cop who’d kept his file. Had the original police drawings of the three perps. Ambrose took ’em and blew the thing wide open.”

  “Absolutely amazing,” Alex said, still stunned.

  “Yeah, pretty good cop after all, ain’t he?” Stoke said, swinging his massive legs over the side of the bed. “Now, go sweet-talk your damn doctor and get her to leave my ass alone. I feel great. And I got a lot of shit to do, boss, got to fill out police reports and all that.”

  “Stoke, lie down a minute and listen to me. I’m thankful you’re all right. Ever since I was told you were hurt, I’ve—Stoke, listen. I’m going to need your help. Now. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  “All right, now you gonna get all serious and stuff. Go ’head then. Tell the old Stoke what on your mind.”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but Vicky is alive.”

  “What? What the hell you talkin’ about?”

  “All I know right now is that somehow, incredible as it seems, Vicky is alive. She’s a hostage, but she’s alive.”

  “Hostage of who?”

  “The new Cuban government. She’s being held on an island called Telaraña, just off the southwestern coast of Cuba. It’s a heavily fortified military base.”

  “How you know all this, boss?”

  “I just listened to this cassette,” Alex said, handing the cassette and a Sony Walkman to Stokely. “It was delivered along with Vicky’s locket to the Swiss embassy in Havana. You should listen to it, too. She quotes the headline from yesterday’s Miami papers. Vicky is alive, believe me.”

  Stoke donned the earphones and listened for a few moments.

  “Holy shit, she really is alive,” Stoke said. “That’s wonderful. Now what the hell they want Vicky for, boss?”

  “The general believes he can coerce me to intercede on his behalf in Washington. Ridiculous, but there you have it. Unbelievably, Vicky is still alive. But not for long unless we can get her out of there, Stoke. Two big problems. One, she made it plain that any rescue attempt would result in her death along with all the hostages.”

  “Just like them goddamn Colombians. I dealt with ’em up in the Medellin mountains. Always say they goin’ shoot the hostages first. And generally do. But we snatched a few live ones, boss.”

  “How long does it take to put a hostage rescue plan like that in operation, Stoke?”

  “Shit, boss, all depends,” Stoke said. “At a military installation? Five days, minimum. You got to recon the place down to the inch. Know where your hostage is located. Know where the windows are, what kind, how thick the doors and walls are, all that entry and egress kinda shit. You got to intercept all the communication going in and out, so you know who’s who, where they are, and what the hell is what.”

  “Stoke,” Alex said, looking at his watch, “I said there were two problems. Here’s problem two, and it’s a big one. At some point, in less than twenty hours from now, the Americans are going to launch fighter squadrons from the John F. Kennedy. Fighters and cruise missiles from the Atlantic Fleet are going to bomb that rebel compound, and anything else they fancy, into oblivion.”

  “Jesus Christ. Twenty hours?”

  “Maybe less. Now, I know your old Navy unit used to be pretty good at this kind of thing. SEAL Team Six, I mean.”

  “Good? Shit. They the best-trained, deadliest, most capable group of warriors in America’s history. Hop and pop, stuff” and snuff. Snatch and grab.”

  “Stoke, if ever I needed anybody like that, it’s now. How in hell are we going to get Vicky out of there? Could the team you and Quick put together yesterday possibly—”

  “No way. Not something like this. No way.”

  “So, who? Who in God’s name can help us?”

  “Well, bossman, that’s a real good question. Real good. I ain’t sayin’ it can’t be done, all I’m sayin’ is—”

  Stoke clasped his hands behind his head and lay back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Alex could almost hear the wheels spinning. A minute later, he sat bolt upright in bed, a big grin on his face.

  “Thunder and Lightnin’!” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The sons of beaches, that’s who. Navy SEALs. They were my two Team Six platoon leaders, now semiretired,” Stoke said. “Mr. Thunder and Mr. Lightning. That’s what we called them two head-bangers. Call one Thunder ’cause he good at blowing things up. Call the other Lightnin’ because you dead and he’s gone before you know what hit you. Man is one cold-blooded assassin. If anybody on this planet can get Vicky out of there ali
ve, they the ones.”

  “Where are they?” Alex asked, leaning forward, hope showing in his eyes for the first time since he’d heard Vicky’s voice on the tape.

  “Martinique,” Stoke said. “They run their operations out of a base camp on the cape by St. Marin. Where the St. Lucia Channel meets the Atlantic.”

  “Operations?” Hawke asked eagerly. “What kind of operations?”

  “Well, secret shit, you know? Black ops. They all mercenaries now. Soldiers of fortune. Go anywhere in the world, blowin’ shit up for people who don’t want their name in the papers. Got their own patched-up old C-130. Flyin’ in, snatchin’ and grabbin’, killing terrorists. All that good stuff.”

  “Hostage rescue?” Hawke asked.

  “Best freelance hostage rescue team in the world. Bar none.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Their team size varies all the time. That business, folks tend to come and go. Like a SEAL platoon, two squads, seven guys each. They got a platoon standing by, generally. Last time I talked to them, they had about fifteen or so commandos down there. Constant training.”

  “All ex-SEALs?”

  “Nope. Got a couple of Viet Montagnards. Three or four frogs, ex-Foreign Legion desert warfare types, couple of real badass Gurkhas from Nepal, and the rest former SEALs, some seriously bad dudes, boss.”

  “Can you set something up, Stoke? Now?”

  “Depends on if we catch ’em at home, boss. They on business trips mostly. Frequent fliers, frequent drinkers, frequent headbangers.”

  “Stoke, they’re our only hope.”

  “Soon as that little Danish pastry doctor lets my ass out of this sickbay, I’ll get on it.”

  “You’re out and on it, Stoke,” Hawke said. “Head up to the bridge and try to raise these guys on the sat phone. We can fly down there as soon as Kittyhawke’s been refueled.”

  “Thunder and Lightnin, boss, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Stoke said, throwing back the covers, and literally leaping out of bed. “Boom! Crash! Bang!”

  Alex found Ambrose on deck just outside the man’s personal cabin. He was standing at the portside ran, watching the gulls dive, and puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. He was wearing a monogrammed navy silk bathrobe with red piping and mismatched red and blue leather slippers.

  His hair was standing straight up as if he’d just climbed out of bed, which in fact he had.

  Hawke crept silently across the teak decks and joined his friend at the varnished mahogany rail.

  He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, which made him jump almost a foot in the air. “Hullo, old thing,” Hawke said.

  “Good Lord! Alex!” Ambrose exclaimed.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me land a little while ago?”

  “Well, I, er, just woke up and—” He pulled two wads of yellow beeswax from his ears. “I, er, use these at night. My own snoring, you see, is so dreadfully loud that it wakes me up.”

  “Aha,” Alex said. “I just came from seeing Stoke down in sickbay. I can’t tell you how I feel about what you and Stokely did. It’s just too—”

  “You’re not upset?”

  “Good God, no! Ambrose, listen to me. There are simply no words in my mind to describe what’s in my heart. To say that I am deeply and profoundly grateful is so woefully inadequate, I can’t even say it.”

  “Since we never discussed the matter, I mean, well, frankly I always felt a little guilty about—”

  “There is no vocabulary, Ambrose, that can convey enough to thank you for what you’ve done.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a police officer, Alex. Just doing my duty. The truth is you solved the case yourself, whether you realize it or not.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! It was all your hard work that—”

  “The photograph you spotted, Alex. The old Polaroid. It was the critical piece of inductive information that made all the other pieces of the puzzle fit.”

  “I couldn’t see it. You did.”

  “You saw it, Alex. Your mind just wasn’t ready for it yet.”

  “Yes. I’ve had some kind of a—breakthrough. I’ve never felt better. Hard to describe the feeling. Clarity, perhaps.”

  Alex put his hands on both of Ambrose’s shoulders and squeezed. Congreve saw tears threatening, but Alex blinked them back and smiled.

  “Ambrose, time is short and I’ve some incredible news to tell you. But first, how are you? Ross said you were hit?”

  “Oh, good Lord, I’m fine. Just a wee bruise over my heart is all. Ouch, yes, right there. I’d be dead, certainly, had not Stokely made me wear his perfectly hideous vest. Most unattractive.”

  Hawke laughed, and said, “Ambrose, Vicky is alive.”

  “What!” Ambrose exploded. “You can’t mean it! I mean to say, how on earth—”

  “Don’t ask me how, I don’t know. Nor have I time to speculate. All I know is that she’s alive and being held hostage by the Cubans. By General Manso de Herreras.”

  “The brother of Admiral Carlos de Herreras, the man I arrested.”

  “Exactly,” Alex said. Taking his friend by the arm, Hawke said, “Come for a quick stroll around the decks, and I’ll tell you my immediate plans. God willing, I’m off again within the hour.”

  Alex recounted the whole thing: his meeting aboard the JFK, his conversation with the secretary of state, Vicky’s cassette, and his most recent chat with Stokely. They reached the stern, and both settled into the comfortable banquette.

  “Thunder and Lightning?” Ambrose said, relighting his pipe. “I certainly like the sound of that.”

  “Let’s hope they live up to their celestial billing, old boy.”

  “Yes,” Ambrose said. “We should drink a toast.” Picking up the nearest phone, he said, “Congreve here, sorry to trouble you. I’d like two very spicy Bloody Marys, please? Fine. That will be all, thank you.”

  “I’d love to join you,” Alex said, “but Stokely and I are taking off” for Martinique as soon as Kittyhawke’s tanks are topped off and we’ve loaded all of Stoke’s SEAL equipment.”

  “I’m very glad for you, Alex,” Ambrose said. “You’ve made a great leap forward, you know, coming to grips with the past. And, of course, it’s splendid news about Vicky. If anyone can save her, you two can.”

  “We’ll get her out,” Hawke said, his jaw set. “I’m going to make a copy of the treasure map in case I need a bargaining chip for Señor de Herreras.”

  “I must say, Alex, I’ve never in my life seen you happier.”

  “I admit I’ve never felt quite this way before. I always imagined I was a fairly happy-go-lucky sort of fellow. But now—look, here comes Sniper!”

  The steward had arrived with Ambrose’s cocktail order, and the parrot was perched on the man’s shoulder. Upon seeing Alex, the big bird immediately flew to its owner’s outstretched forearm.

  “Good fellow. Look at you, Sniper, you’ve grown fat. What have they been feeding you?”

  “I saw him eat an entire tin of Beluga last evening,” Ambrose said.

  “Well, he deserves it. Don’t you, Sniper? Speaking of which, I think you deserve something as well, Constable.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You’ve had enough excitement for one voyage. While Stokely and I are gone, I want you and Sutherland to go somewhere and relax. Perhaps play a little golf. I know how you love it and I feel guilty keeping you cooped up on the boat for so long.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Alex,” Ambrose said. “I’ve enjoyed every second of it! Bloody marvelous expedition. One of our best!”

  “I insist, old thing. There must be someplace here in these islands with a golf course worthy of your mighty swing and delicate touch around the greens.”

  “Well, in that case, there is one course that Sutherland and I have been looking into. On the odd chance that we might have a little free time, of course.”

  “Well, there you have it. Pack up yo
ur bags and sticks and go enjoy yourselves. It will do you a world of good. Send me the bill.”

  “Very generous, Alex, I must say.”

  “Nonsense. What’s the name of the course, by the way? The Lyford Cay Club in Nassau, I imagine.”

  “No, no. A lovely old course down in the Dominican Republic, actually. Blessed with a rather poetic name. It’s called Dientes de Perro.”

  “Translation?” Alex asked, getting up and stretching his legs.

  “I’ll send you a postcard.”

  “Well, keep your head down, old boy. Godspeed.”

  Ambrose watched his friend saunter away, the parrot bobbing on his shoulder. The tune Hawke was whistling floated back to Ambrose. It had to be thirty years old, but he recognized the lovely melody instantly.

  It was the famous theme song from Lady Catherine Hawke’s last film, Southern Belle, the marvelous story of Abigail Lee, a beautiful woman who is killed defending her Low Country South Carolina plantation against a marauding Union army. Coming back from the dead as a ghost, she bedevils and haunts the rapacious Union general who now occupies her beloved ancestral Barnwell Island home.

  In a most surprising way, Ambrose thought, sipping his Bloody Mary, Alex Hawke seemed to be coming back from the dead, too. For the first time since he’d met the boy, long ago on Greybeard Island, he could actually say that Alexander Hawke was on the road to peace.

  49

  Alex banked hard left, and Kittyhawke slipped down through vast canyons of sunlit clouds.

  “Is that it, Stoke?” he asked.

  There was a narrow slash in the undulating green canopy of trees below. A couple of hundred yards wide and about half a mile long, this gash in the jungle was definitely not on the chart of Martinique spread across Hawke’s knees.

  Stoke cocked his head toward the window and said, “That’s it, all right, Bossman. Home of Thunder and Lightning itself. That hangar down there, covered with vines and shit, is where they keep the C-130. Big black mother.”

  Alex came around and lined up on the end of the jungle runway, lowered his flaps and got his retractable wheels down. No tower, no air boss scrutinizing his approach and the runway wasn’t even bobbing up and down. Easy peas, as they used to say during his Dartmouth days.