by Ted Bell
But what then for poor Halter?
Ambrose put the spurs to his steed, having decided not to even think about what those monsters in the black SS uniforms might do to his friend before they killed him.
CHAPTER 64
Aboard Blackhawke
Hawke couldn’t sleep.
He was tossing and turning again, chasing sleep. A bad habit of his that only made the nightmare worse. He cursed aloud, rolled over, and squinted one-eyed at the little red Hermès travel clock he always packed when traveling. Just gone five. He turned over on his back, placed his hands behind his head, and tried the meditative breathing exercise: three in, three out. A little trick his darling Nell Spooner had taught him once when he first began battling insomnia.
He pressed a button on the overhead. A flatscreen monitor that mirrored the instrument panel up at the ship’s helm station slid down. He tapped the touchscreen and it flared into life. He angled it toward him for a closer look. All systems looked good: propulsion, weaponry, ship’s comms, air and sea defenses.
The big boat was currently making twenty-two knots over the bottom, holding true on a corrected course of 188 degrees, SSE. To the casual observer, or even the not-so-casual one, she was on a line drive for the southwest coast of Cuba.
Hawke stared at the dim bulbs glowing softly in the overhead. He turned his thoughts to the impending sea battle. The owner’s stateroom was dark. Faint pink light was showing through the large oval port lights on the eastern side of the cabin. Far below and aft, the engines were throbbing away, a deep, rumbling rhythm present as always. He tried an old trick, trying to put his body’s machinery in sync with his big diesel engines.
Breathe in . . . hold . . . exhale. Breathe in . . . hold . . . exhale. Breathe in . . . hold—hold on.
Someone was rapping at the door.
Hawke got up, grabbed his navy blue dressing gown off the bedpost, and went to see who the hell it was. He pulled the door open.
It was Stokely. He said, “Hey, it’s me.”
“Stoke, right? Thought I recognized you.”
“I come in?”
“Yeah, what’s up, man? Have a seat.”
“I know it’s early. I know how much you hate somebody waking you up when it’s still dark. But this is important.”
“Come on, Stoke, no worries. I was already awake, man. Never can sleep on the eve of battle. Sit down over there by my desk and I’ll get us some coffee.”
Hawke walked over to the small bar where a Nespresso coffeemaker stood. “Coffee?”
“You got a Diet Coke in the fridge somewhere? Don’t bother, man, I know where the damn fridge is.”
Hawke sipped his coffee and stepped into his all stainless-steel head. He stared at his bleary blue eyes in the mirror over the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. It was beginning. He could tell by the look on Stoke’s face that whatever it was he had to say, it was serious business.
He went back into his stateroom and dropped down into the upholstered chair opposite his old friend. “Tell me this is good news, Stoke.”
“It’s just news, bossman. I’ll leave it to you to decide.”
“Fair and balanced.”
“I was up on the bridge, talking to the skipper about what she could expect in the way of, uh, excitement when we get near the island later on today. Death-from-above kind of conversation, you know how that goes. Geneva King is one cool dude, though. Not her first rodeo.”
“Why I hired her. Decorated naval combat veteran, first in her class at Annapolis. So what’s up?”
Stoke could tell the boss had gone into full attack mode now, had the bone in his teeth again and didn’t want to waste any damn words.
“Brick Kelly called the boat earlier. Comms guy tossed it to me. Brick said you needed your sleep, he could tell me what he had to say. Here’s what went down in Cuba last night. Two Puerto Rican CIA guys, posing undercover as construction workers on ‘Spy Island,’ inspected the three big waterfront warehouses on the port. They got caught, unfortunately, and there was gunfire exchanged. One guy didn’t make it. Head shot. The other guy managed to get outside with a couple of bullets in his shoulder, dove into the harbor, hid under the dock for a while, and then swam to safety. When Brick called me, he put the guy who’d made it out on the line.”
“And?”
“I talked to him. Guy said they found vodka. I mean, cases of that damn vodka in the warehouses. It was that German vodka, the one Harry took off the Russian spy ship. Stuff was stacked up to the rafters in those warehouses. CIA guy said he estimated the total count at over ten thousand cases, twelve per. So over a hundred thousand bottles with those Feuerwasser labels. I made the CIA guy describe them in detail.”
“Warehouses full of vodka.”
“What the man said.”
“Logistics operation,” Hawke said. “Okay, this is good stuff. That Russian spy ship offloaded its shipment at Isla de Pinos. The enemy is obviously going to be mounting all sabotage attacks on the eastern U.S. from that port. Meaning there are more attacks already in the works. Hell, they’ve got enough firewater ninety miles from America to take down the whole state of Florida. But here’s where it gets really good. We can now tie the power grid sabotage in Miami right back to Cuba, Stoke. That’s very good news. Because that means we’ll have conclusive evidence of Russian complicity in an unprovoked attack on U.S. soil.”
“Which means?”
“It means Putin can’t weasel out of this one. We pin the Miami sabotage directly on Putin and he goes from offense to defense overnight.”
“Putin. He’s everywhere we look. Getting in people’s shit.”
“Yeah. Which is good because it’ll make it easy for me to find him when I go looking.”
“What do we do about all that hooch in the harbor at Isla de Pinos? Stuff is dangerous to deal with, man.”
“Destroy all three warehouses,” Hawke said. “Need to figure out a sensible way to do that. By that, I mean without blowing up Cuba and the state of Florida. I’m glad you got that former navy UDT explosives team guy along for the ride. What’s the kid’s name again?”
“Gator Luttier.”
“Yeah, Luttier. We’re going to need Mr. Luttier to level that installation in a controlled detonation. Do me a favor, Stoke. Go aft to crew quarters. Wake up Gator and the SEAL team captain. Tell him you and I need a little powwow with both of them at 0800. In the ship’s wardroom. Got it?”
“I guess it was good news.”
“You bet, Stoke. Thanks. Anything else?”
“Two things. Ambrose has decided to go trekking in Siberia. And—”
“Wait—What did you just say?”
“Brick says Ambrose is in Siberia. He and that Cambridge pal of yours, Halter. Two of them didn’t bother to tell anybody at the CIA or MI6. Just took off. Trying to find some secret KGB base out in the middle of nowhere, Brick says.”
“What the hell, Stoke? Ambrose is in no shape to do anything like that. Siberia? I can’t believe he wouldn’t talk to me first. I would never have let him go.”
“Probably why he didn’t talk to you first.”
“Damn it to hell. He’ll get himself killed. Does his wife know about this?”
“I couldn’t say, boss.”
“All right. I’ll call her. What else?”
“Big storm brewing. On a collision course with us, blowing up from south of Jamaica. Could be the first hurricane of the season. Tropical storm Annabel. This rain and wind we’ve seen the last six hours is the leading edge. NOAA Key West is watching it for us. They’re saying it may veer northwest and head for the Gulf of Mexico, but nobody’s calling it yet.”
“We’ll deal with it. We always do. You and Gator better be on top of this explosive situation. Dig huge holes in the floors of the warehouses and let all that stuff run into the ground before they light any fuses. I don’t know. Whatever.”
“On it,” Stoke said, realizing the boss had just solved a huge probl
em for him.
HAWKE HAD THE PHONE IN his hand, putting through a call to Lady Mars. He’d try to assure her about Ambrose although he felt like he could use a little assurance himself. What the hell had gotten into Ambrose? Whatever it was, it was likely to get him killed and—Hawke had to do something and do it fast—the call was going through.
“Hullo?”
“Diana, it’s me, Alex.”
“Oh, God, Alex, I’ve been so terrified. Thank you for calling. I didn’t know where to turn.”
“Where is he, Diana?”
“Russia, I guess. I’ve no idea. Three days ago he left for Russia with a knapsack slung over his shoulder and a lilt in his step. Your friend the professor told him about some kind of secret KGB base in Siberia. Next thing I knew, he was gone. The two of them.”
“Did he say why? What did he think he was going to do about it?”
“He said they were training a non-Russian army there. Foreign troops and weapons to give Putin plausible deniability for his imminent invasion of sovereign NATO countries. He and Halter planned to expose the whole thing before war started.”
“Ambrose planned to stop an entire army? God save us all.”
“That was his idea when he walked out the door seventy-two hours ago, Alex. Off to save the world, he said.”
“Good Lord, Diana.”
“Can you help him, Alex? You have to do something!”
“I’ll do whatever I can, I promise you. I’ll start our people looking right away.”
“Move heaven and earth if you have to. If I lose him . . . sorry . . . I . . . I’ve lost everything.”
“So have I. You have my private number. Call me the second you hear from him. Try not to worry, he’s incredibly resourceful.”
CHAPTER 65
Off the coast of Cuba
The ship’s wardroom, where Blackhawke’s officers normally met for briefings and dining, had been turned into the ship’s “war room” for the duration of the Cuban mission. There was a round carbon-fiber table in the center; various rectangular liquid crystal maps, embedded in the crystal clear surface, could be accessed using touchscreen technology. All nine screens were multilayered with real-time radar, weather radar, thermal imaging, live sat passes, almost every aspect you needed to fight the boat in a combat situation.
At eight A.M., Hawke entered the room to find everyone already standing around the table, poring over various maps and layers, whiteboarding a final battle plan for the impending attack. Ship’s officers, the sonar/radar officer, fire control, and other key Blackhawke personnel were there. And the Stokeland Raiders were represented, not just Stoke himself, and the incorrigible Harry Brock, but also a few new leaders who’d emerged, younger guys with names like Gator and Fat and 12-Gauge.
Chatter around the table ceased as they all turned to greet the ship’s owner. He looked well rested and his white smile was full of positive energy and determination. Hawke wished everyone a good morning and got right down to business. When he asked them who wanted to go first, they all looked at each other, waiting for the other guy to go.
“Okay, I’ll go,” Hawke said. “Number one. You cartography guys figure out where the Russian combat-ops blockhouse is located yet?”
“It’s here,” Brock said, touching his finger to the central map screen and highlighting a mountain location on Isla de Pinos. “On this hilltop in the jungle overlooking the port operations. Two stories, concrete block bunker-type building. Cuban army patrols, twenty-four seven. Defenses include SAM missile emplacements hidden here, here, and here, in the jungly terrain above and below the bunker. The only viable ground approaches are trails located here . . . and here. Overgrown jungle trails that haven’t been used in decades. All you need is a good machete from the looks of them. Element of surprise, whichever trail we go up.”
Hawke looked at Harry. “Those trails look too good to be true. You’d better assume they are booby-trapped or mined, Mr. Brock.”
“You’re right. Hadn’t considered that.”
“You found the bunker, you take it out, Mr. Brock. How many troops do you need to go up the hill?”
“Me and Gator could maybe handle it. Just give us a couple of M60 heavy machine guns and some jiffy-bang Semtex explosive charges. I don’t anticipate a lot of resistance.”
“Nothing’s easy, Harry, you should know that by now. Stoke? What do you say to Mr. Brock’s plan?”
“Yeah. I looked at it. Gator Luttier over there and Harry ought to be able to handle it. We can spare ’em.”
Hawke said, “What else?”
Stoke said, “Our primary commando force will have its hands full dealing with perimeter defenses containing the three explosives stockpiles. That, and the port-side defenses. Guards, concertina wire fences with machine gun towers and searchlights all over the damn place, boss. Look at these thermals and sat images during yesterday’s guard changes on the fence line. See these troops marching here, and over here? Black uniforms. They ain’t Cuban militiamen, that’s for damn sure.”
“Russian Spetsnaz forces,” Hawke observed.
“Yeah,” Stoke agreed. “Storm troopers. The toughest of the tough. Up to you, boss. We’ve got two primary objectives. Destroy the combat-ops bunker. And meanwhile take out those three vodka warehouses. Mr. Brock’s got the bunker. I’d like to go in there with the six-man SEAL squad and eliminate the threat of the explosives. Everybody else is a shooter.”
Hawke nodded approval. “Do me a favor, Stoke, when you breach those warehouses. Get at least one intact case of that explosive safely back here to the boat for analysis.”
“One case of joy juice coming right up.”
“All right. You men know what we have to do, so go do it. I’ll stay right here on board and keep the chili warm down in the galley,” Hawke said with a smile.
Everyone laughed because everybody knew the owner would have more than enough to keep him busy just fighting the harbor air and shore defenses. A drone would be launched from the foredeck of Blackhawke once they entered the harbor. That would give them a solid picture of what they were up against. Resistance, it went without saying, would be heavy. The Cubans had the might of battle-tested Russian forces behind them.
On land. And from the sky, MiG 35s.
Pentagon sat shots downloaded the evening before had revealed an airstrip with perhaps an additional squadron of older Russian Sukhoi Su-35 fighter jets. Those fighters, Hawke anticipated, could be airborne seconds after Cuban radar saw the big boat make a drastic course correction and veer to the east, headed on new course as straight as a frozen rope, directly toward the mouth of the harbor.
Hawke left them to it and made his way down to the primary gun deck and some fresh tropical air. Dark clouds, swollen with rain, towered up in the south. He looked out across a sea of whitecaps marching away to the horizon. The wind whipped his foul-weather jacket around him. He was about to go to war. And the sky all around him had an eerie greenish cast that spelled trouble.
There were a lot of logistical issues remaining, and time, such as it was, was running short. Hawke immediately decided to visit each of the four onboard 23mm cannon turrets. Two were located on the foredeck and two aft. These formidable weapons systems, in addition to the ship’s SAM launchers, would be the principal defenders of the boat when the shooting started.
HAWKE’S FIRST STOP WAS A visit with the commander of all four turrets. His home was the forward-most turret on the foredeck. In peacetime, all four of the boat’s gun turrets were concealed under specially designed bulkheads, which gave the ship the profile and pacific appearance of a gentleman’s megayacht, not a lethal warship. In combat configuration, it was another picture altogether, bristling with armament.
Now that all four of Blackhawke’s turrets had been exposed, even Hawke was impressed at the sight of the big guns. Ironically enough, they were Russian-designed cannons. He’d recently had them installed while they were in port in Key West. He was extremely curious to see how the
powerful guns performed in battle today, as each turret represented one of the four cornerstones of Blackhawke’s defense measures.
The ZSU23-4 23mm antiaircraft liquid-cooled guns were capable of acquiring, tracking, and engaging low-flying aircraft and featured a folding radar dish that could be retracted to the chassis. The cannons were also capable of firing at land and sea targets while under way in rough seas. This was because of a highly sophisticated integrated gun/radar stabilization system.
Each main turret was also equipped with a day/night camera and a laser rangefinder. Mounted above the radar/sensor pod was a layer of six fire-and-forget surface-to-air missiles, to complement each of the four main cannons in combat situations. Each gun crew consisted of a gun commander, gunner, and radar operator, all stationed inside the turret, afforded a comforting degree of protection by the 8.9mm thickness of the turret’s steel armor.
Blackhawke now presented a formidable naval foe. But, still, for her owner, the big question remained unanswered as the boat neared the coastline of Cuba. Would Blackhawke now prove her worth in combat? And when he attacked the heavily defended harbor of Isla de Pinos, could she simultaneously fight a threefold attack from the air, land, and sea?
And another unknown. Hawke was carefully keeping a weather eye on meteorological events now approaching Cuba from the south. The strong hurricane was unleashing its early fury on the coast of the island at the moment. The eye of the storm would provide a window for his assault. As soon as it passed over the mainland and headed out over warm water, the boat would be making its escape. Would that weather, too, become a factor?
He would find out soon enough.
Hawke was still up forward talking with the young commander of the number one gun crew when the war started. He looked at his watch and noted the time to be used later. It was now 1830 hours, Zulu time.
The number three turret radar operator was first to disturb the false calm.
