“Call the ball, Kittyhawke,” squawked the irritated voice of the air boss in his headphones.
Calling the ball.
That’s what the U.S. Navy carrier pilots called it.
If the ball showed green, you were coming in too high. Red, too low. A line of white lights was what you wanted to see.
He watched the lights at the after deck flash green, then red, then green as his little plane bucked the thirty-mile-an-hour headwind. On final approach, what you were mostly worried about was a stall, and Alex was definitely worried. His jumpsuit was wet with the sweat of his adrenaline boost.
He’d already had two unsuccessful attempted landings.
A stall now would be catastrophic.
His headphones squawked again.
“You’ve got to land here, son,” the air boss said. “This is where the hot chow is.”
The carrier had turned into the prevailing wind. It was traveling at flank speed to give maximum wind over the deck, helping pilots to reduce their landing speeds. From experience, Alex knew that wind, wave, air, and skill must be in total sync for him to get home.
Alex had lined up once more, approaching the fantail of the heaving 1,000-foot steel runway of the U.S. aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy from astern. The 82,000-ton Kennedy, or “Big John” as she was called in the service, had a four-and-a-half-acre deck. Because of the heavy rolling swells, the huge flight deck was lazily rolling ten degrees side to side, but it was rising and falling with the wave action, causing twenty-to thirty-foot surges of the deck.
A carrier landing like this in his old Royal Navy Tomcat was one thing. All those thousands of pounds of thrust gave you a lot of control. A lot of options. Too low? Pull up. Too high, nose her down. Miss the wire? Power out at full throttle. His little seaplane was a different matter entirely. He’d already been waved off twice. The landing signal officer he’d been arguing with on the radio had finally told him to please just go home.
He’d considered just landing alongside the carrier and letting them send a launch to pick him up. The giant swells took that idea out of his consideration set fairly quickly. There was no going home, either. The cold front had moved in solidly and the conditions had worsened to the point where flying back to the Exumas was not an option. He told the LSO he was coming back around. His earphones crackled again.
“Kittyhawke, you’re three-quarters of a mile out. Call the ball.”
“Roger. Got the ball,” Hawke said.
He felt the little plane shudder as he lined up on his target. Wheels down, full flaps, tailhook down, prop pitch into full low, adjusting his trim tabs to get Kittyhawke into proper trim. His fuel was at total rich mix for maximum power recovery. He knew he’d have to dump the plane down hard to have any chance of his tailhook catching the wire. There were four arrester wires on the deck. Catching one of them would be his only chance of stopping short of the water at the other end of the carrier.
“Kittyhawke, you’re way below glide path. Pull up!”
“Roger,” Hawke said. “No problem.”
In fact, it was a problem. He didn’t think there was any power left in the old Packard-Merlin engine. He was pitching and yawing and the headwind was killing him. Somehow, he had to get his nose up. This was his last shot. He hauled back on the stick. What the hell. He was going in one way or the other.
He’d gotten his nose up a little but the deck was still rising, lifted by the enormous swells. Christ. Fall, damn it, fall! Sweat stung his eyes. It was going to be very, very close.
At the last second, he saw the deck pause majestically and finally begin its long slow fall. He’d timed the swell perfectly. That’s the only thing that saved him. The deck began to drop at precisely the right instant. He cleared by maybe a couple of feet and he banged the little plane down hard. It bounced and jarred him and he said a little prayer, instantly realizing he had another problem. He might just bounce right over all of the four arrester wires.
In his old Tomcat jet fighter, he’d had sufficient power for a bolter. Go to full throttle in a touch-and-go and power out if you miss the last wire.
He didn’t have that option in Kittyhawke.
Then he felt the wheels hit the deck again. In a second, he was thrown forward against the restraints of the seat harness as Kittyhawke wrenched to a violent and welcome stop. Second-best feeling in the world, he thought, smiling at the old carrier pilot’s expression. He’d hooked the fourth and last of the arrester wires.
“Throttle back, son, you’re not going to make this boat go any faster,” the air boss said in his headphones. Embarrassed, Alex realized he was still at maximum power. He eased his throttle down to idle.
“Bingo,” the air boss said, from his control station just above the navigation bridge up on deck 010. “Welcome to the Kennedy, Kittyhawke, We were beginning to wonder.”
“Third time’s the charm,” Hawke said, a lot more coolly than he felt. He taxied over to the nesting place that a green-jacketed crewman was now waving him into.
“Yeah,” the air boss said. “Just a walk in the park, Kittyhawke.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Hawke reached over and shut down his engine. There were a couple of wheezing gulps from the old Merlin and then it died quietly.
Climbing out of the plane, he saw the red-jacketed “crash salvage” personnel sitting on their white fire-control tractors. They were all staring at him, shaking their heads and smiling, a few actually applauding. The purple-coated “decides” and green-coated “maintainers” were all smiling and looking his way, too.
He could hardly blame them. Clearly, the entire landing ops crew were happy to have this particular landing experience behind them. So was he.
He kissed the forehead of the little bathing beauty he’d had painted on his fuselage and jumped from the pontoon down to the deck. He looked up at the carrier’s massive superstructure. From the keel to the masthead at the top, it was as tall as a twenty-three-story building. He then cast his eyes along the row of F-14A Tomcats lining the deck. He saw the legendary logo on their tails. The Black Aces squadron seemed to be in final prep for a night exercise.
Downtown Havana, Hawke thought. And if not tonight, probably sooner rather than later.
Walking across the broad flight deck, he realized that it had been a long time since he’d been aboard a carrier. Since those balmy days in the Persian Gulf in fact. He sucked a draught of the sharp sea air down deep into his lungs. It felt good. Finally, after a remorseful day of endless crisscrossing miles of empty sea, something finally felt good.
Twenty minutes later, he’d tossed his duffel bag into a small cabin in the visiting officers’ quarters, changed from his flight suit to khakis, and was now in the wake of a bustling admiral’s aide escorting him down a long corridor through “officers’ country” to the commanding officer’s wardroom.
The first face he saw when he entered the room was Tate’s, the unpleasant CIA chap he’d encountered at the State Department. Tate’s thin, bloodless lips curled into something slightly resembling a smile and Hawke nodded in his general direction.
But he was relieved to see the face of Jeffrey Weinberg, the deputy secretary of defense, among the eager military and civilians ranged around the big square mahogany table. Alex imagined Cuba on a silver platter in the center of the table. Ranged round the platter, the long knives of the Pentagon. The bomb baby-sitter certainly had his work cut out for him.
Hawke had never seen so many ribbons, decorations, or so much brass on so many puffed-up navy blue and khaki chests in his life. And he was a man who’d seen a lot of both.
There were two empty chairs. One had a small blue flag in front of it. Hawke took the other one and collapsed into it.
“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” he mumbled, opening the big black three-ring binder in front of him. As he did, the door to the wardroom opened and an aide stood back as the commander in chief, Atlantic Fleet, ramrod straight, marched into the room.
He was a tall man, at least six-five, with keen gray eyes set wide in a deeply lined face, and snow white hair cut very short in the classic Navy “whitewalls” fashion. He was leathery, tough, and weathered from a lifetime at sea. He gazed around the table, sizing up his team.
Alex knew him and liked him. Born in Hyco, Texas, the CINCAT-FLT had been first in his class at Annapolis, a Rhodes scholar, a fine athlete, and still a young man for his exalted rank. He was in his prime and clearly at the top of his game.
“I’m Admiral George Blaine Howell. I’d like to welcome each and every one of you aboard my flagship. We’re a little proud of the Kennedy, and we hope your stay aboard her will be both comfortable and productive.” His eyes stopped when they reached Hawke, and he was clearly surprised to see him. Alex saw something you generally didn’t expect in the eyes of the military. Sympathy.
“Commander Hawke. Good to see you again. We regret the tragic events of yesterday and especially appreciate your taking this sad time to be with us.”
There were murmurs and head nods around the table.
“Glad to be aboard, sir,” Hawke said. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting.”
“A few of us were up on the bridge,” Tate said. “You gave us all quite a thrilling air show.”
Hawke looked up at the man across the table and glared at him, waiting for him to look away. He finally did.
“You’re welcome to try your hand at a carrier landing anytime, Mr. Tate,” Admiral Howell said. “I’m sure you’d find it quite exciting. Now, let’s cut the bullshit and get down to business.”
Howell opened the silver cigarette case in front of him, popped an unfiltered Camel in his mouth, and lit it. A steady stream of smoke escaped his lips as he started to speak.
“Everyone knows why we’re here. These sons of bitches in Havana. A military coup in Cuba. Goddamn hoodlums, from what I hear. Drug dealers. Murderers. We don’t know if Castro is dead or alive. Doesn’t really matter much to me. One way or another we’re going in there.”
The admiral had reduced one cigarette to ash in less than a minute, and lit another.
“Thanks to Commander Hawke’s efforts, we now know that we are confronting a rogue state quite possibly in possession of the most sophisticated and deadly nuclear submarine ever to roam the oceans. Somebody needs a clear and direct threat to American national security, this is it. The president has instructed this task force to negate that threat with a preemptive strike.”
He paused, letting his eyes roam the table. “Since I’m in charge of this task force, that, gentlemen, with your help, is exactly what I intend to do. The U.S. Navy is going to find that submarine. We’re going to take it away from the Cuban rebels. Or we’re going to sink it.”
He looked around the table and said, “Last time we went into Cuba, it was a total ratfuck, dicked up in spades. We actually learn from history. Sometimes. So. Anybody got any bright ideas?”
“If I may, Admiral?” Weinberg said, getting to his feet.
“Of course,” Howell replied as Weinberg walked over to a huge map of Cuba on the wall opposite Hawke. He picked up a laser pointer and flicked it on, aiming at Havana.
Alex settled back in his chair and tried to assume an air of composed, if not rapt, attention. It was now officially a “meeting.” There were few things on earth Alex detested more than meetings. Within his own companies, meetings were strictly limited to ten minutes. Anyone who could not say a definitive yes or no to any question was forbidden to attend.
“Number one,” Weinberg said, “we have to keep talking to these people, no matter how threatening, how belligerent they become. We keep them talking long enough to form and implement our strategy.”
“Who does the talking on our side?” Admiral Howell asked.
“The president has suggested the secretary of state. Her Cuban heritage makes her ideal. Anyone disagree?” Weinberg asked. Howell nodded his approval. There was no dissent.
“Good,” Weinberg said, “then she will be the gatekeeper for all information and intelligence we generate. She will lead our negotiations with the new regime. The secretary has asked me to apologize for her late arrival. She’s coming from an emergency meeting with the president on Key West.”
“That’s one, what’s number two?” the admiral asked, a wreath of smoke now encircling his head.
“Well. If you’ll open your briefing books,” Weinberg said, “you’ll see that tab one contains a series of photographs taken by our U-2s and Predators over the last week or so. The photos are of an island here, off the coast of Manzanillo, on the southeast coast of Cuba. Please take a minute to study them.”
“Never anything brief about a briefing book,” Admiral Howell muttered, turning the pages, skipping ahead.
As the men leafed through their books, Hawke opened his case and withdrew a small package containing an audio cassette. The radioman aboard Blackhawke had handed it to him as he boarded his seaplane. He assured Hawke it would be interesting.
“The rebels’ base of operations is called Telaraсa,” Weinberg said. “Tab two contains precisely detailed building-by-building layouts of the entire compound.”
“How’d we come by that?” one of the admirals asked.
“Easy,” Tate interrupted. “They recruit local labor, we supply it. We have at least three members of the construction crew on our payroll. The diagrams in your books are the product of their latest intelligence. Two, maybe three days old.”
“Let’s move on,” Admiral Howell said.
“That large white structure you see at the mouth of the river,” Weinberg continued, “is a submarine pen. Its dimensions tell me that it is precisely wide enough to accommodate the extraordinary beam of a Borzoi. Commander Hawke, would you like to speak to this?”
“Certainly,” Alex said. “Six months ago, the Cuban rebels bought an extremely sophisticated Borzoi-class submarine from a pair of ex-Russian submarine officers, now arms dealers. Two Borzoi submarines were completed in late 1991 using purloined stealth technology. Borzoi utilizes a radical delta wing design, twin hulls forming a V-shape, twenty silos on each hull. It has a retractable conning tower for minimum drag whilst submerged. Fastest sub on earth, by a factor of three, biggest payload, virtually invisible to existing methods of detection.”
“Don’t tell me this thing can fly, too,” Howell said.
“Pretty fair description of what she does underwater,” Alex replied.
“Christ. Have they taken delivery?” Tate asked.
“I believe they have, yes,” Alex said.
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, did you say?” the CIA man said, coating the word with gelatinous sarcasm.
“Yes, Mr. Tate, I said perhaps,” Alex said. Before this was over, he and Mr. Tate were going to have a very private conversation.
Seeing the tension, Admiral Howell coughed into his fist, and Weinberg tapped the map with his pointer.
“We know they’ve built a sub pen, and we know they’ve purchased a Borzoi boomer,” Weinberg said. “What we don’t know is whether or not they’ve actually taken delivery.”
“From the tone and manner of their opening salvo,” Admiral Howell said, “ordering us out of Gitmo, I’d guess these boys were packing some serious heat. In all likelihood, the sub has been delivered.”
“Perhaps,” Alex said, looking at Tate, “you are right, Admiral. This little package might confirm your supposition. If I may?” The admiral nodded.
Alex pushed his chair back, got up, and walked around the table to Howell, handing him the small package.
“Audio cassette,” Alex said.
“Of what, Commander?” the admiral asked.
“Admiral, my yacht is equipped with underwater towed array sonar. Since we frequent ports and coastlines where neither your Navy nor mine is welcome, we record everything we hear. If it’s sufficiently interesting, we courier it to Washington or London. My radioman handed me that cassette this afternoon just before I took off. Your lads should give a listen to it. My man thinks our SONUS picked up the signature sound of a Russian Mark III torpedo’s screws. But you fellows are the experts.”
“Thank you,” Howell said, and instantly an aide was at his side. He took the package and left the room.
“Commander,” the admiral said, “when and where did your boy pick this up?”
“At 0220 hours, sir,” Alex said. “It was recorded while we were lying at anchor one mile due west of Staniel Cay.”
“What the hell would the sub be shooting at in the Exumas?”
“No idea, sir. A small American sport-fishing boat suffered a catastrophic explosion and sank at precisely the same time. I heard the explosion two miles away. Upon reaching the bridge I observed a fiery debris field. Why they’d waste a torpedo on such a target is beyond me. But I’m almost positive they sank that fishing boat.”
“Shakedown cruise,” the admiral said. “The Exumas aren’t that far from the southeast coast of Cuba. Target practice. Tell your boy we appreciate his vigilance, Commander Hawke.”
Hawke nodded.
“To continue,” Weinberg said, “our mission objective is dear. We must neutralize or destroy that submarine and its missiles.”
“I vote for destroy,” Admiral Howell said, and everyone around the table chuckled. Weinberg smiled and resumed.
“If I know the president, Admiral, that submarine has an extremely short life expectancy,” Weinberg said. “The president and his cabinet are meeting in Key West as we speak, formulating a precise response. There is a lot of pressure to invade coming from the Pentagon. I have my own opinions on that, however—”
“What is your opinion?” The question came from the lantern-jawed man two seats to Alex’s left. General Charley Moore, U.S. Marines. There was no question about General Moore’s opinion, Alex could see in the hard set of the cold blue eyes.
“This isn’t Panama, General Moore,” Weinberg said. “When we went in to extract Noriega, the Panamanians were dancing in the streets.”
“That is correct,” Moore said, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “Hell, I put four of my boys on every street corner of every intersection in Panama City. The neighborhood women adopted every last one of ’em. Fed ’em so damn much, I had to put an ad in the newspaper begging them to stop. My troops were all outgrowing their uniforms!”
“That will not be a problem in Cuba, General Moore,” Weinberg said, allowing himself a small smile. “I would like to say that the Cuban people are a nation of sheep. But that would be incorrect. They are a nation of ostriches. The state has them so thoroughly terrorized that—”
“Yes, but here’s the real problem,” Tate interjected. “In Cuba, you’ve got—”
“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 tкte-а-tкte 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!”