Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 7 - Cuba

by Cuba (lit)

  planeload or two of Americans, Jake

  Grafton included. The crews of the EA-6But

  Prowlers and Hornets were well aware of that

  reality.

  As he sat in the Osprey Jake Grafton

  wondered if the enlisted marines in the other two

  planes understood the risks involved in this mission.

  He suspected they didn't know, and in truth

  probably didn't want to. Their job was to obey

  their officers; if the officers led them into action,

  fretting about the odds wasn't going to do any good at

  all.

  That thought led straight to another: Did he understand the

  risks?

  "You okay, Admiral?"

  That was Toad.

  Jake Grafton nodded, smiled. A friend like

  Tarkingtoh was a rare thing indeed. He hadn't asked

  Toad if he wanted to risk his life on this

  mission; the commander would have been insulted if he had.

  The warm noisy darkness inside the plane seemed

  comforting, somehow, as if the plane were a loud, safe

  womb. After takeoff Jake sat for five minutes

  with his eyes closed, savoring the flying sensations,

  recharging his batteries. Then he made his way

  toward the cockpit and squatted behind the pilots,

  both of whom were wearing night-vision goggles. From this

  vantage point Jake could see the computer displays

  on the instrument panel. The flight engineer handed him

  a helmet, already plugged in, so that he could talk

  to the pilots and listen to the radio.

  He heard the Prowler and Hornets checking in, the

  F-14's, the S-3 tankers.

  He heard Rita call twenty miles to go to the

  mission coordinator in the E-2 Hawkeye.

  She had the Osprey flying at a thousand feet above

  the water, inbound at 250 knots.

  "Visibility is five or six milesea"...she

  told Jake over the

  intercom. "Some rain showers around. Wind out

  of the west northwest."

  "Okay."

  "We'll do it like we plannedea"...she continued, making

  sure Jake, the copilot, and her crew chief

  all understood what was to happen. "I'll hover into the

  wind, then back down toward the ship, put the ramp

  over the fantail."

  "Ten milesea"...the copilot sang out.

  Jake took off the aircraft helmet and donned

  a marine tactical helmet, which contained a small

  radio that broadcast on one of four tactical

  frequencies. Repeaters in the Ospreys picked

  up the low-powered helmet transmissions and

  rebroadcast them so that everyone on the tactical

  net could hear, including the mission coordinator in

  the E-2, the people aboard the carrier, and the pilots

  of the airborne planes.

  Jake pulled on a set of night-vision goggles

  and looked forward, through the Ospfey windscreen. The

  night was gone, banished. He could see the stranded

  freighter, still several miles away, see the surf

  breaking on the rocks, the containers stacked on

  deck, the empty sea in all directions. He

  looked toward the nearest land, an island just over

  three miles away; he could just make out the

  line of breaking surf.

  The Osprey was slowing: Rita rotated the engine

  nacelles toward the vertical position as she

  transitioned from wing-borne cruising flight to pure

  helicopter operation. Computers monitored her

  control inputs and gradually increased the

  effectiveness of the rotor swashplates as

  flaperons, elevators and rudders lost their

  effectiveness due to the decreasing airspeed. The

  transition from wing-borne to rotor-borne flight was

  smooth, seamless, a technological miracle, and

  Jake Grafton appreciated it as such.

  Jake Grafton kept his eyes on the ship. No

  people in sight. The bow of the ship was on the rocks. The

  ship had a small forecastle superstructure, with the

  main superstructure and bridge on the stern of the

  ship. The ship's cargo

  was in holds amidships, with extra containers stacked

  between the bridge and forecastle. The ship had two

  large cranes, one forward, one aft. She had a

  single stack, and probablygiven her sizeonly one

  screw.

  Jake could see that the containers on the deck were

  jumbled about, several obviously open and empty.

  Others, a whole bunch, seemed to be

  missing.

  Now Rita swung into the wind, away from the

  Colon.

  The ramp at the back of the aircraft was open, with

  Toad and the crew chief waiting there. Jake

  Grafton walked aft to join them.

  The crew chief gave Rita directions on the

  ICS, back fifty feet, down ten, as she

  watched her progress on a small television

  screen that had been rigged hi the cockpit for this

  mission.

  Lower, closer to the ship ... and the ramp touched the

  deck.

  "Go, go, goea"...the crew chief shouted.

  Jake spoke into his voice-activated boom

  mike: "Let's go!"

  The fixed deck of the stranded freighter felt strange

  after a half hour hi the moving Osprey: The wash

  from the mighty, 38-foot rotors was a

  mini-hurricane here on the fantail, a mixture

  of charged air and sea spray, dirt, and trash from the

  deck and containers.

  Jake and Toad crouched on the deck as the

  Osprey moved away. The ramp had been against the

  deck for no more than fifteen seconds.

  Jake spoke into his lip mike, made sure the

  mission coordinator could hear him. Gripping an

  M-16 in the ready position, Toad led them

  forward along the main deck. Jake Grafton

  carried a video camera, which was running, and two

  35-mm cameras. The video and one of the still

  cameras were loaded with infrared film, the other

  35-mm contained regular film and was equipped with a

  flash attachment.

  First stop was the main deck, where he inspected the

  containers mere. Many had doors hanging open, some still

  had the doors closed, but all the containers were

  empty. Although he wasn't sure how many containers

  were supposed to be there, the area around the main hatches

  was remarkably clear. The hatches themselves were not

  properly installed. One hatch was ajar.

  No people about. None. The ship seemed totally

  deserted and firmly aground. Jake could feel no

  motion.

  He used a flashlight to look into the hold. This

  section of the hold didn't seem to be full. Many

  of the containers were open.

  Filming with the video camera, pausing now and then

  to shoot still photos, the two men searched

  until they found a ladder that led down into the hold.

  Toad waited by the hatchway, his M-16 at the

  ready.

  Jake went down the ladder into the dark bay.

  He had his night-vision goggles off now; in total

  darkness they were useless. He snapped on the

  flashlight, looked around, fingered the pistol in the

  ho
lster on his hip.

  This hold was half-empty, with the packing material that

  had been wrapped around the warheads strewn everywhere.

  The place was knee-deep in trash. The containers that

  were there were obviously empty.

  Jake didn't stay but a minute or so, then he

  climbed back up the ladder.

  "Let's check the bridgeea"...he said to Toad over

  the tactical radio.

  They went aft along the main deck and climbed an

  outside ladder to the bridge, which stretched from one

  side of the ship to the other.

  "They've cleaned her outea"...Toad remarked over the

  tac net.

  "Yeahea"...Jake replied, and kept climbing.

  On the bridge Jake again removed the nightjvision

  goggles and used a flashlight. He wanted to see

  whatever was there in natural light.

  What he found were bloodstains. A lot of blood

  had been spilled here on the bridge; pools of

  congealed, sticky

  black blood lay on the deck. People had walked in

  it, tracking the stuff all over.

  "Not everyone was on the payrollea"...Jake muttered,

  and quickly completed his search. He aimed the video

  camera at the stains, then snapped a couple

  photos with the regular camera using the flash.

  Toad used a flashlight to search for the log book and

  ship's documents. "The safe is open and

  emptyea"...he told Jake Grafton. He came

  over to watch the admiral work the cameras.

  "Where in hell are the warheads"..."...Toad asked

  aloud.

  "The Americans are aboard the

  Colon,

  Colonel."

  The man shook Santana awake. He held a

  candle, which flickered in the tropical breeze coming

  through the screen.

  Santana sat up and tossed the sheet aside.

  He consulted his watch.

  He got out of bed, walked out onto the porch of the

  small house and searched the night sea with

  binoculars. Nothing.

  He lowered the binoculars, stood listening.

  Yes, he could hear engine sounds, very faint... jet

  engines, the whopping of rotors....

  "How long have they been aboard?"

  "I don't know, sir. With this wind it is hard

  to hear helicopter noises. When I heard the

  voices on the radio, I came to wake you."

  "Admiral, look at this."...Toad came over to where

  Jake was standing, showed him the screen of a small

  battery-operated computer. "I'm picking up

  radio transmissions, even when we are not using the

  tactical net. Something on the ship is

  broadcasting."

  Jake Grafton pulled his mike down to his

  lips. "Hawkeye, this is Cool Hand. Has

  anyone been picking up radio transmissions from the

  target?"

  "Cool Hand, Hawkeye. They started about a

  minute ago, sir, when you went up on the bridge.

  We have them now."

  "What kind of transmissions?"

  "Amazingly, sir, I'm receiving clear channel

  radio. I'm actually hearing you talk on

  this other frequency."

  "What the hell? ..."

  Oh, sweet Jesus!

  "This damned ship is wired to blow. The bastards are

  listening to us right now. We gotta get offff"...With that

  he gave Toad a push toward the door of the

  bridge. Toad ran. Jake Grafton was right

  behind him.

  Colonel Santana couldn't see anything through the

  binoculars, but he heard those American voices

  coming through the radio speaker. The microphones were on

  the bridge.

  "Any time, Tomasea"...he said.

  Tomas keyed the radio transmit button three

  times. A flower of red and yellow fire blossomed

  in the darkness.

  Santana aimed the binoculars and focused them as the

  last of the explosions faded. He could see the

  flicker of flames as they spread aboard

  Nuestra Sefiora de Colon,

  These Americans! So predictable! Santana

  chuckled as he watched.

  "Into the oceanea"...Jake shouted.

  Toad vaulted over the rail into the blackness. As

  he fell he wondered if there were rocks

  or salt water below.

  Toad Tarkington and Jake Grafton were in

  midair when the bridge exploded behind them. Jake

  felt the thermal pulse and the first concussion.

  Then the dark, cool water closed over his head and

  he went completely under.

  As he began to rise toward the surface, he felt

  more explosions from inside the ship. The concussions

  reached him through the water like spent punches from a

  prizefighter.

  STEPHEN COONTS

  When he got his head above water, flames

  illuminated the night.

  Above the noise of the explosions and flames, he could

  hear Tarkington cursing.

  After Rita pulled them out of the ocean and flew them

  back to the carrier, Toad Tarkington and Jake

  Grafton were checked in sick bay, then they showered

  and tried to snatch a few hours' sleep.

  Toad gave up on sleeptoo much adrenaline.

  He lay in his bunk thinking about leaping over the

  bridge rail without knowing whether rocks or water

  lay beneath, and he shivered. The shock of the impact with the

  water had been almost a deliverance.

  He turned on the light and looked at the photos

  of Rita and Tyler he had taped to the bulkhead.

  Really stupid, Toad-man, really stupid.

  Grafton must have checked the location of the rocks,

  knew where he could jump and where he couldn't, and you

  never once thought to look.

  He got up, dressed, and headed for the computers, where

  he typed out a classified E-mail for the people at the

  National Security Agency. After breakfast he was

  ready to brief Jake Grafton and Gil

  Pascal.

  "Before she was stranded,

  Nuestra Senora de Colon

  went into this little Cuban port at the west end of

  Bahia de Nipe. She was there for six hours, then

  she steamed out and went on the rocks where we found her.

  If you look at this satellite photo you can see

  a boat nearby, probably taking the crew off after

  she piled up. The folks at NSA in Fort

  Meade say they can see ropes from the ship to this boat

  that the crewmen could slide down."

  Toad Tarkington stood back so Jake

  Grafton and Gil Pascal could study the

  satellite photos that he had pinned

  to a bulletin board in the mission planning

  spaces.

  "Where are the weapons now"..."...Gil Pascal asked.

  "In this fish warehouse."...Toad pointed at the

  photo with the tip of a pencil. "Right here."

  "It's an easy SEAL targetea"...the Chief of

  Staff commented.

  "Too easyea"...Jake Grafton said, then

  regretted it.

  "When did the freighter reach this port?"

  "Noon, three days ago."

  "And they spent the afternoon off-loading it?"

  "Yes. It went onto the rocks that night."

  "Too easy."...ationow he was sure. />
  "What do you mean?"

  "These people aren't stupid. They know about satellite

  reconnaissance; they knew we would see them

  off-loading the ship in this port; they wanted us to see

  that. The question is, Why did they go to all the trouble of

  putting on a show for us? What are they hiding?"

  Toad flipped through die satellite photos,

  looking at date-time groups. "Here is the ship coming

  into the bay, there it is against the pier at Antilla,

  here it iseabbing offloaded, here is an IR photo

  of it going out to the rocks after dark, here is an IR

  shot of the freighter and the boat that probably

  took the crew off."

  "Radar images?"

  Toad had a handful of those too.

  "I want to know where this ship was between the time the

  destroyer left it and the time it showed up in this Cuban

  port."

  "NSA is still working on that stuff. Perhaps in a few

  hours, sirea"...Toad said.

  "Call me."

  "The weapons weren't on the shipea"...the national

  security adviser told the president in the Oval

  Office. "The ship was empty when it went on the

  rocks. Apparently the Cubans

  booby-trapped itthe thing exploded a few minutes

  after the admiral went aboard to inspect it."

  "Casualties?"

  "None; sir. We were lucky. If the admiral

  had taken more people with him, I can't say the results

  would have been the same."

  "So where are the weapons?"

  "NSA thinks they are in a warehouse on the

  waterfront in the center of the town of Antilla.

  They are studying the satellite sensor data now."

  "Shitff"...sd the president.

  William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini

  ate dinner in the main restaurant of the largest

  casino on the Malecon. The fact that 99 percent

  of the Cubans on the island didn't eat this well was

  on Chance's mind as he watched the waiter caret

  come and go amid the tables filled with European

  diners. Plenty amid poverty, an old Cuban

  story so common as to be unremarkable.

  Carmellini merely played with his food; he was too

  tense to enjoy eating, had too much on his mind.

  Chance tried to concentrate on a superb string

  quartet playing classical music in the corner

  of the room.

  To the best of his knowledge, he and Carmellini had not been

  followed on their expeditions around the capital, although

  he knew very well that a really first-class

  surveillance would be impossible to detect. With enough

  men, enough radios and automobiles, the subjects