Hawke donned his headphones and started his preflight routine, surprised to find himself still whistling an old hit tune he used to whistle as a boy. Couldn’t remember the name. Theme song from one of his mother’s many movies, he supposed.
“Good morning, Commander,” he heard the air boss say in his phones. “You’re late.”
“Morning, sir, sorry about that,” Hawke said, busily flipping switches. The big engine coughed a few times, then roared to life. Hawke craned his head around, testing his flaps, rudder, and ailerons.
“Doesn’t matter, Commander. We’ve got an E2-C Hawkeye on final, vectoring in from Key West. The pilot asked me to hold you until they landed. Somebody from Washington aboard, I guess. Has an urgent need to talk to you, so sit tight.”
“Roger that,” Hawke said. “Permission to taxi out to the staging ramp and wait there?” Whatever Washington wanted, he wasn’t going to give up his slot. He’d listen to whoever and whatever for five minutes, but then he was out of here.
“Roger, Kittyhawke, taxi to the hold.”
“Kittyhawke, taxi and hold, roger.”
Hawke throttled up and steered his little plane out to the staging area where a few F-14s were parked. Most of the squadrons of Tomcats and Hornets appeared to be long gone.
He heard a howl to his left and looked out to see the E2-C dropping in just off the fantail. The aircraft was in the classic “Turkey” attitude, so nicknamed because “everything is hanging down.” The Hawkeye, an ungainly beast at best, provides the battle group with electronic surveillance and has responsibility for intercepting enemy transmissions. It carries more than six tons of equipment and is prop-driven.
Probably a bastard to land, Hawke thought, watching the pilot’s final approach.
The Hawkeye flared up perfectly, snagged the third wire, and lurched to a stop. Instantly, swarms of green and purple coated deckies surrounded it. One of them wheeled a set of steps up to the airplane’s portside and opened a hatch. A tall figure in a jumpsuit and helmet emerged, jumped down from the plane, and headed immediately toward Kittyhawke. Alex recognized that walk. It was Conch, all right.
She walked around the tail of Alex’s plane and stood looking up at him for a few moments before she removed the helmet and shook her hair out. As if he didn’t know who she was. He slid open his window and stuck his head out.
“Hi, Conch!” he said, smiling. “Imagine meeting you here!”
“Hi, yourself, sailor,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite a girl aboard for a cup of hot java?”
“Absolutely,” Alex said, reaching over to open the small door on the starboard side. “Come on around! Watch the prop wash, Conch, this isn’t any little F-14, you know.”
In a moment she’d climbed into the right-hand seat beside him, and he was pouring her some hot coffee from the thermos his new friend Poole had kindly left in the cockpit.
“All right,” she said, “I know you’re anxious to get out of here, but I’m very glad I caught you. I’ve been with the president and the cabinet in Cayo Hueso. Then a meeting with all the top members of the Cuban Exile Committee. We’ve got a nightmare scenario on our hands.”
“What’s going on?”
“A lot. First, Miami. It’s like Dunkirk in reverse!” she said. “There is not a single vessel to be bought, rented, chartered, or stolen between Key West and Jacksonville! It’s amazing.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, the Cuban community in Miami is getting ready for a big seagoing homecoming parade. They see themselves, flags flying, sailing right into Havana harbor, of course. They think a U.S. invasion is imminent. As soon as this unpleasantness is dispensed with, they think they’ll just go home and it will be back to the good old days. They’re exerting huge pressure on the president and the Congress to invade now.”
“Will you?”
“No comment. Make your own determination. And there’s another little wrinkle we just found out about at 0100 hours this morning. The Cubans have demanded the total evacuation of Guantanamo. They’ve given us thirty hours. The clock started at midnight last night. It’s now, what, 0630 Monday? That gives us a little over twenty-three hours to evacuate thousands of women, children, and civilians.”
“Surely you’re not going to just do it, Consuelo?”
“I’m afraid we have no choice, Alex,” she said, sipping her coffee. “The Cubans have managed to smuggle a weapon inside the base. We don’t know if it’s nuclear or biological, but it’s serious either way. We’re searching, but it could be literally anywhere. Unbelievable. The CO at Gitmo, Joe Nettles, ordered half of the CDC people in Atlanta down. They just arrived. They’re turning the whole place upside down. So far, nothing.”
“You have to assume they won’t find it,” Alex said. “Which is why the Kennedy seems to be steaming at flank speed toward Cuba. She’s on a rescue mission, correct? Massive evacuation.”
“We’ve got to get all those folks out of there. And we will.”
“You don’t think it’s a hoax?”
“Hardly matters. Because there’s only one way to find that out, isn’t there?”
“Right, the bad way. Makes you long for the good old days of Fidel.”
“Doesn’t it? These de Herreras thugs are out of their minds. They’re about to find hell and damnation raining down on their people’s heads and wonder where they miscalculated. They’re counting on that stealth sub to stay our hand but—”
“I want to help, Conch. Anything. I have a … personal stake in this matter.”
“Personal?”
“Let’s just say I have an old score to settle with this new dictator.”
“Tell me, Alex. I’m your friend, and I need to know.”
“Manso de Herreras and his two brothers murdered both of my parents one week after my seventh birthday. I saw them do it.”
For the first time since he’d known her, Conch was speechless. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Alex,” she finally said.
“Well. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes. I know you will.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’ve been dealing with it for over thirty years, haven’t you, darling?”
“Yes. By not dealing with it.”
“How horrible for you. I always knew something horrible had happened, Alex. Deep and hurtful. There were rumors, of course. I just never had the courage to bring it up.”
“Well, I must say I’m finding the ancient notion of revenge enormously satisfying so far.”
“My poor dear boy.”
“So, in the spirit of moving on, what’s next on your geopolitical agenda?”
“Well, a lot. The Cuban rebels’ new command and control center is on an island off Manzanillo. The one called Telaraсa. Our first target. Soon as we’ve got everyone safely out of Gitmo, we turn that base into fine powder. The sub, now named the Josй Martн by the way, has returned to Telaraсa from the Exumas. God knows what it was doing over there.”
“My hunch would be a shakedown cruise with some Cuban Navy officers aboard?”
“Good guess. Anyway, we’ve got visual surveillance twenty-four hours a day. Telaraсa now has its very own little spy satellite. This time, they were stupid enough to bring the sub in on the surface. Problem will be finding that thing underwater.”
“How can I help, Conch?”
“The president sent me here to coordinate State and my task force with Admiral Howell and the Atlantic Fleet. I have an idea. How’s this sound? We use Blackhawke as a decoy to get close enough to shore to insert two SEAL recon teams. Your yacht would arouse a lot less suspicion than one of our destroyers.”
“Bad idea, Conch. They’ll have patrol boats out obviously. They know me and they know who Blackhawke belongs to. I’m on their current hit list. Let me think about it. I may come up with a better idea.”
“I’ll be in contact. You’ll get faxes of all the latest sat photos. Last item on my agenda. This is for you.”
She handed him a small manila envelope with his name scrawled in black crayon on the outside.
“Nothing ticking inside,” Conch said. “We checked. No anthrax powder either. It was blind-dropped yesterday at the American desk of the Swiss consulate in Havana, addressed to you. They flew it up to me at Key West.”
“Strange.”
“You’ve got a flair for understatement, Alex. Okey-dokey, big boy, I’ve got to run. These military types don’t like to be kept waiting,” she said, and she flung an arm around his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the wing.
“ ’Bye, Conch,” Alex said.
“You need anything, I’m your girl. Anything.”
“Thanks, Conch.”
“De nada. Every time we say good-bye? I deal with it.”
She shut the door, and jumped down to the deck. Alex watched her walk away.
“Kittyhawke, you copy?” said the air boss in his phones.
“Copy,” Alex said.
“Hey, listen, Commander, I hate like hell to bother you. But, if you’re all through necking down there, you might wanna consider getting your little toy airplane the hell off my flight deck. I’ve got the entire Black Aces Squadron lined up two miles out dead astern. They had to get up real early this morning and they’re probably coming home a little cranky. Might get fussy if anybody’s in their way.”
“Roger that, Kittyhawke taxi to position and hold for takeoff.”
“I’m going to miss you, Kittyhawke. You brought a little excitement and romance into my otherwise drab and mundane existence.”
“I’ll miss you, too, sir,” Alex said, and, shoving his throttles forward, taxied into position for takeoff. He kept looking at the envelope lying on the seat where Conch had left it.
Brakes full on, he ran his engine up to full power and waited for takeoff clearance. His curiosity finally got the best of him. He ripped open the envelope and shook it.
Vicky’s gold locket fell out and landed in his lap.
“Kittyhawke, you’re cleared for takeoff.”
“Kittyhawke is rolling,” Hawke said, staring at the locket.
Vicky was alive.