Operation Norfolk

by Randy Wayne White

  It sounded like people outside … like men running but trying not to be heard … the foot-thud of men getting farther and farther away, not closer.

  He finally realized that the rest of Con Ye Cwong’s gang of Norfolk drug runners were trying to flee, to escape.

  The vigilante quickly reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of TH3 incendiary grenades. There might be more men, more drugs upstairs, and he didn’t want any of these bastards or their narcotic poison to escape destruction.

  But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the men outside escape, because they were, in all likelihood, the leaders. And the leaders in these kinds of low-life gangs were almost always the last to fight and the first to run.

  Hawker drew the pins from both grenades, holding the safety arms until he was ready, then lobbed both canisters toward the far walls of the old mansion. Then he ran for cover, back toward the kitchen.

  The grenades, armed with 750 grams each of thermite, exploded with a searing white flash of streaming white smoke rays. The thermite burned at more than 3,600 degrees Fahrenheit, and the vigilante could feel the terrible heat on his back as he ran, knowing the house would soon be entirely consumed by flames.

  Outside now, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The temperature had fallen and a bitter autumn wind blew off the Chesapeake, through the bare trees. His clothes were still wet, clammy with sweat and salt water, and the wind stung as he ran into the yard, his Smith & Wesson holstered now but the assault rifle waist-high and ready. Behind him, the spreading fire cast an eerie orange glow on the windows of the mansion. Ahead of him, he could see dim figures on the dock—men in a hurry.

  When he heard the diesel rumble of engines starting, first one, then another, he knew immediately what it was. The survivors of Cwong’s Norfolk connection were trying to escape by sea, probably figuring it was the local cops or maybe the FBI who had hit them and that the roads weren’t safe. They were probably going to take the big cruiser far enough down or up the coast until they figured it was safe, then maybe run it in close enough so they could either swim to shore or hop out onto some private dock. For tickets, they had probably gathered all the cash they could find—a hell of a bundle, in all likelihood—hoping to buy their way out.

  Hawker took off running, running as hard as he could in the darkness, the bushes and broken limbs tearing at him. He still had about a hundred yards to reach the dock when he saw one of the men throw off the bow line and fall backward as the man at the controls jammed the big cruiser into gear, trying to speed away.

  The big diesel engines screamed, and the boat veered crazily because the stern line was still cleated to the dock. But the cleat on the boat finally gave away with a tremendous bang, and then the cruiser was on its way, throwing a huge white wake, taking wind-froth over the bow, running with no lights toward the darkness of open water.

  Hawker stopped, raised the Colt Commando, and held it on full fire, peppering the yacht with slugs from more than two hundred yards away. If the slugs hit, Hawker couldn’t tell, because the boat didn’t slow or serve for even an instant.

  Damn it!

  They were getting away. The core of Cwong’s Norfolk gang was probably inside the cabin, probably still sweating, but able to smile a little bit now, knowing they had made it even if most of their men hadn’t. And the vigilante knew they wouldn’t give a good goddamn.

  Hawker’s mind raced, thinking what he might do. Maybe he would make an anonymous call to the Coast Guard, telling them a suspicious boat carrying a ton of cash money was headed south from Norfolk. The money was a sure thing. After all, it was their only hope of escape once they abandoned the boat.

  But what good would calling the Coast Guard do? At best it might get the men arrested, just so some high-priced asshole attorney could get them off.

  No, that wouldn’t work … wouldn’t do any good at all.

  And then James Hawker remembered.

  He went running down the dock. He stopped for a moment and fished the little waterproof transmitter from his pack, then lifted the safety shield and flipped the toggle switch.

  The warehouse full of drugs, far back in the trees, made a whoofing sound, then exploded in a fiery orange ball, throwing flames and sparks high into the night sky.

  Debris began to fall, chunks of cement and roof screaming down like meteors, crashing to earth, diving into the water. And Hawker realized he should have waited until he was a hell of a lot farther away to detonate the damn thing.

  He swung down into the icy water, taking the waves chest-high and losing his breath at first, as he waded toward shore. Twice, chunks of debris came way too damn close to hitting him, to killing him. Keeping one eye on the sky, the other on the rolling waves, he headed into shallow water, then immediately began to run.

  Down the beach a ways he found it, the HEAT disposal missile and launching tube hidden in the bushes. Hawker slid out of his gear and lifted the thing, thinking once again that anything this light, this portable, shouldn’t be trusted to do what it was intended to do.

  But Hawker had used the HEAT before. He knew what it could do.

  He snapped off the caps fore and aft, broke the plastic trigger guard, and touched the safety switch, arming the rocket.

  Then he turned toward the rolling Chesapeake, squinting into the darkness. Where in the hell had the cruiser gotten to? He could no longer see it … could no longer see even the pale-white haze of its distant wake.

  Hawker listened carefully—strained to listen, actually—while trying to ignore the steady wash and draw of waves. Then, for just a moment, he heard the faint grumble of engines carried on the cold wind, coming from somewhere southeast.

  He leveled the launching tube, raised it slightly, then squeezed the trigger. There was a stunning whoosh as the rocket left the tube, throwing a snakelike trail of smoke and flame. It zigzagged crazily out to sea, gradually getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared altogether. And then there was nothing, only silence.

  Hawker lowered the tube, perplexed. What the hell had happened? It was a heat-seeking missile, and the engines of the yacht certainly put out heat—

  Thu-BOOM!

  Far out on the horizon, maybe three miles away, there was a terrific explosion. The vigilante looked up in time to see the yacht illuminated in a corona of white light, its bow thrown high up out of the water, listing so far to starboard that, in that moment, he could see the whole top of the boat as if he were above it, and it would certainly roll over. Then there were only yellow flames, and he could see nothing else.

  But the men aboard were dead—dead or dying, no doubt about that.

  James Hawker picked up the caps of the spent rocket launcher and put them in the pack, which he now settled on his back. Then he walked quickly to his car, stored his gear in the trunk, and pulled onto the side road that would lead to the main road that would take him back to Norfolk. Driving carefully, relaxed now but shivering in the cold wool clothes, he did fifty miles an hour, just under the speed limit.

  Hawker always obeyed traffic laws. Speeding was for pimply-faced teenagers and men-children who had never grown up and for adults who lived under the illusion that driving fast was, in some frustrated way, a method of expressing their virility. Speeding is just like anger, Hawker thought, getting pissed off and wanting to fight with absolutely nothing to be gained.

  Anger was for amateurs.

  James Hawker was no amateur.

  six

  Hawker was back in his hotel room, a big two-room suite with a balcony that looked out over the cold, twinkling lights of Norfolk and the dark sea beyond. He took a long, hot shower, steaming up the whole bathroom. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist, feeling warm for the first time in about a year, it seemed.

  He had gotten way too used to the sun and the heat and the balmy wind living down there on that stilthouse on the water in Everglades City, Florida. He had to toughen up, he knew that. It was way too easy down there in the
land of sun and fun to end up a chubby, smiling beach bum, going through the female tourists and drinking margaritas.

  Hawker got a bottle of beer from the refrigerator in the tiny kitchenette. Bud in a bottle. He stepped down into the sunken living room and studied the dial of the phone as he settled back onto a couch covered with oversized pillows. He asked the hotel operator to get him a number in Chicago. The bottle of beer was half empty when the operator rang him back, informing him that his party was on the line.

  His party was Jacob Montgomery Hayes, his closest friend and multimillionaire associate who, when Hawker was first starting out as a vigilante, had provided financial backing and guidance. Now Hayes just provided guidance, using his staff and endless list of social and political connections to help Hawker in his work.

  Hawker had his own money now, earned not through hard work but through blind luck. He paid his own way now.

  Hayes seemed happy to hear from him, but his conversation was guarded, and he started off by saying “So how’s the weather in your part of the country, James?” This was their standard code line, and meant that Hayes’s electronic equipment was reading more than the normal amount of resistance on the phone line—meant, in other words, that someone was listening in or taping the conversation.

  Who in the hell could it be? A nosy hotel operator? Cwong’s organization? But how could they already know who he was and where he was staying? Or maybe the CIA—that was the most likely possibility. Those boys didn’t let anyone stray far from their sight.

  Hawker acknowledged Hayes’s message by answering “I don’t know anything about the weather, but the beer’s cold,” then continued, “I met our friends a little earlier this evening.”

  Hayes was interested. “Oh? And how did it go, James?”

  “They seemed real surprised to see me.”

  “I’ll bet. I hope they weren’t too rude.”

  Hawker was smiling. “At first, maybe just a little rude. But I did my best to settle them down. You know me when I really turn on the charm.”

  “A regular Valentino,” Hayes said. “Will you be going back to visit them again?”

  “Really no reason to go back. I think we got things pretty well straightened out.”

  “Oh?”

  Hawker said, “I don’t think our friends would have another word to say to me. That’s how completely we went over that matter we discussed. In fact, I don’t think they’ll have much to say for a long time to come.”

  Now Hayes was smiling, Hawker could tell. “Well, that is good news. Did the competition show up?” Hayes meant the police.

  Hawker said, “Not a sign of the competition. In fact, I’m thinking about pulling out tomorrow. Not much more for me to do here.”

  “Fine,” said Hayes. “Did I tell you our friends in Washington were trying to get in touch? They have a message for you.”

  “I’ll give them a call,” Hawker said.

  “Great. They seem to be very worried about the lack of exercise you’ve been getting lately.”

  “About what?” Hawker wondered why his old friend was chuckling. What in the hell was he talking about?

  “Your lack of exercise,” Hayes repeated. “They’re very concerned about that. But I’ll let them tell you all about it. You remember the number, don’t you?”

  Hawker still couldn’t figure out what was going on. He had expected Hayes to mention the name of a town where Hawker should strike Cwong’s gang next. This business about exercise made no sense. He said, “Yeah, sure, I remember the number. I’ll give them a call right now.”

  Jacob Montgomery Hayes was still chuckling as the vigilante hung up. Next Hawker called his CIA connection by private scrambler number; a few minutes later a message arrived by government courier, and he discovered why Hayes had been laughing.

  The message read: Upon completion of contractual work in Norfolk, please take the fastest public conveyance to Coronado, California, to commence special SEAL training course.

  Hawker sat back on the couch’s plush cushions and finished his bottle of beer.

  SEAL training.

  That would get him back in shape, all right—if he survived it.

  Not to mention get him ready to hit Cwong and Cwong’s military stronghold on that island in the Solomons.…

  Every morning they got him up at 4:30 A.M., had that damn bugler playing reveille over the PA system in the balmy California darkness, and then had that asshole CPO come charging through the barracks banging the garbage-can lid, telling them to get it done. “Piss, shit, and saddle up, boys.” Just like in some John Wayne movie.

  Hawker spent the first three days hating it and the next three too exhausted to even think. What in the hell was he doing out in the state of hot tubs taking orders from kids ten years younger than himself?

  Getting in shape for the toughest mission of his career, that’s what he was doing. He kept telling himself that’s what it was all about as he willed himself through the hellish days of training. Every morning it was the same thing. He and seven other trainees—he guessed they were either CIA or maybe some special U.S. antiterrorist group; no one ever talked about why he was there—were herded into inflatable boats, where they shivered in the cold and dark as navy bosuns ran them two miles out into the sea before turning the boats eastward and pointing back toward the light haze of Coronado. “Enjoy your swim, sirs,” the bastards would say. “Breakfast will be ready by the time you get back.”

  The first time it took Hawker and his group an hour and thirty minutes to get back, to come dragging their asses up onto the beach after fighting their way through the surf. The next day, though, they did it a little faster, then a little faster after that, and now, after eight days, they had their time down to under an hour, all of them swimming in formation.

  But the morning swim wasn’t the end of it—not by a long shot. After breakfast they did a warm-up jog of three miles. And if everyone didn’t do it in under twenty-seven minutes, it was back onto the track for another quick mile. Then they did the obstacle course—the toughest damn obstacle course the vigilante had ever seen. It included a rope swing over jagged rocks as well as a white-water swim. Then it was lunch, and two hours of intensive hands-on explosives training—sometimes working underwater in the big dive tank.

  After that it was back into running shoes, shorts, and navy sweatshirts, and onto the beach. “Got some telephone poles to move,” the asshole CPO would holler happily. Then, in four-man teams, they’d grab a telephone pole, two men on each side, and do double-time a half mile down the beach, then switch hands and jog a half mile back.

  The vigilante thought about quitting more than once, kept telling himself there was no reason to put himself through this crap. He told himself he had taken on tougher people than North Vietnam’s Con Ye Cwong before and always had come out on top. He told himself he was wasting time, that every day he lingered, Cwong and his gang were getting stronger, growing richer, ruining more lives.

  But he didn’t quit. And for one reason, and one reason only. He had been ordered to Coronado by the organization that had retained him to destroy Cwong. And he didn’t doubt that the CIA was right when his control officer insisted he needed more training to have a chance of taking Cwong’s island. For another thing, the asshole CPO who woke him and the others up every morning clanging that damn garbage-can lid had just plain pissed him off. He seemed to look on Hawker and his group as a bunch of incompetent middle-aged suburbanites. Sneered at them. Laughed at them, like a man might laugh at a group of doddering old resthome cronies. And after the first three days when the hellish SEAL program made Hawker feel like some doddering old man, the vigilante decided he’d die before letting the navy CPO get the better of him.

  After fifteen days of it—fifteen days of brutal physical and mental training, fifteen days of crawling into his Quonset hut bunk too tired to even talk, fifteen days of no beer but good navy food—Hawker stood looking in the mirror of the barracks head and saw that his f
ace was lean from the weight he had lost—about eight pounds—and that his eyes no longer had that dull, sleepy South Florida beach bum look. Now they looked alive, lethally so. And his big hands were steady as rocks when he held them out.

  He wasn’t in the best shape of his life—but he was in the best shape he’d been in for maybe ten years. Plus he’d learned a few of the basic tricks of underwater demolition and had been brought up to date on some of the newest and most effective covert methods of operation.

  Hawker was thinking all this as he stood looking at himself in the mirror of the empty barracks when, from behind, he heard the echo of rubber-soled shoes on the tile floor.

  The vigilante turned to see Chief Stevenson, the CPO who had been riding him and his group since their arrival in Coronado. Stevenson was maybe twenty-five, a lean, lanky young man who looked more like an Aspen ski instructor than the navy SEAL he was. Like Hawker, Stevenson wore the dark-blue cotton shorts and gray sweatshirt and field cap that was the PT uniform. The vigilante turned when he saw Stevenson, turned and smiled because he wasn’t about to let the younger man know what an asshole he thought he was.

  In return, he expected Stevenson to sneer. Stevenson had spent the last two weeks sneering at him, treating him like some raw eighteen-year-old boot. Stevenson was a good sneerer—he would bunch his big boney fingers into fists, shove the fists on his hips, crinkle his broad Marine Corps nose, push his head forward, and make a face like he smelled something bad.

  Only now Stevenson didn’t sneer. Instead he pushed his cap back on his head with a long index finger, smiled, and said, “Mr. Hawker?”

  The vigilante tried not to show how surprised he was, but he couldn’t help it. Mr. Hawker. Why was this kid suddenly being so polite?

  Hawker said, “Am I late for something, Chief?” even though he knew he wasn’t late for anything. It was chow time, and the vigilante had decided to skip lunch in order to get his weight down even more.

  Stevenson was smiling now, looking oddly sheepish, almost shy. “You’re not late for anything, Mr. Hawker,” he said. “But the brass called me about fifteen minutes ago, said your training was through here. Said you’d be shipping out tonight. I just wanted to catch you before you got away and …” The big SEAL paused, not quite sure how to continue. Then he said, “I just wanted to apologize for being such a jerk.”