by Ted Bell
“A ghost in a machine.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I believe.”
“So who’s going to take out the ghost, Brick?”
“Commander Hawke and I, sir. CIA will assist under the aegis of our joint Red Banner unit. We are already in the planning stages. I’ll brief you when we’re ready to go. Black ops, off the grid, untraceable. Complete plausible deniability should Commander Hawke, his team, or any of our special forces be killed or captured during the incursion.”
The president said, “How do plan to get in and out of Iran, Commander? Their air defenses are significant.”
“Always only three ways in, sir. Air, land, or sea. I plan to sail in harm’s way,” Hawke smiled. “I’m going to sail my yacht, Blackhawke, into the Persian Gulf and knock on the bugger’s front door.”
“How do you intend to do that without waking up the big bad Iranians?”
“A little idea Director Kelly and I cooked up at dinner last night. I wonder if the White House operators could help me place a call to King Abdullah in Saudi Arabia?”
“Why in hell do you want to call the king of Saudi Arabia?”
“Old friend of mine, Mr. President. We’ve had numerous business oil dealings together in the past. I intend to tell him that I’ve acquired an interest in ocean yacht racing due to the purchase of my first sailing ship. And that I’m particularly interested in a race against His Majesty’s own sailing yacht, Kingdom. My yacht, Blackhawke, will just happen to be in the Persian Gulf soon. She’s en route now. With your permission, I’d like to tell him that it would be very helpful to the White House if the king were to agree to a race on a date to be determined by Director Kelly and myself.”
The president laughed out loud.
“I’m beginning to like you, Commander Hawke. A yacht race in the Persian Gulf with the king of Saudi Arabia. It’s obvious that you’re a very creative individual in matters of clandestine ops.”
“Element of surprise, Mr. President,” Hawke said with a smile, “whatever it takes.”
“I’ll have my secretary, Betsey Hall, get the operators to work on tracking King Abdullah down. Probably in Dallas. He spends a lot of time there with his doctors.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Operation Ghostbusters,” McCloskey said with a smile. “That’s the code name for this damn thing. I’ll also put in a call to Abdullah first thing tomorrow, back up your request for a race. He owes me a couple of favors, shouldn’t be a problem. Go get these bastards. They’ve murdered enough innocent civilians. And thank you, Commander Hawke. I read your entire dossier last evening. Very impressive. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
“One should always strive to be on the side of the angels and the big battalions, Mr. President,” Hawke said.
The meeting was over.
Forty-seven
Gloucestershire
Hawke sipped his Gosling’s rum, neat. His gaze drifted down the grassy hillside to the lazy Thames and the idyllic scene below. The grounds of Brixden House were lovely in this light. He and Ambrose were perched on an old bench. It was very pleasant there, in the shade of a heart-stopping camellia in full blossom against a garden wall. Below, his son, Alexei, and Nell Spooner were driving a pony cart along the narrow path that ran along the banks of the river. It was late afternoon, and the sun cast flecks of gold on the water.
Sunlight, filtered through the trees, mottled the ground and gave a soft serenity to the world that Hawke had nearly forgotten. The world was still and always would be a beautiful place, despite the ugliness and death he dealt with on a near constant basis.
He looked at Congreve and said, “Lovely here, isn’t it, old boy?”
“Indeed. I was just thinking the same.”
“You’re very lucky, you know.”
“We both are, Alex.”
“Yes, I suppose we are.”
“How long are you going to be away this time? Or is the duration as hush-hush as the destination?”
“At least a fortnight, perhaps longer. The new Blackhawke is currently being provisioned, taking on ammunition, and armed. That could take another week and I have to be there.”
“For the life of me, Alex, I simply cannot understand your hesitation to leave Alexei here at Brixden House with Diana and me. The place is crawling with security, as you well know. There’s scarcely a safer place for him, really.”
“It does make sense, I agree.”
“Well, then?”
“I’m afraid, Ambrose. Not just for Alexei’s safety or, God knows, Nell’s. But also for yours and Diana’s as well. I can’t put you in danger.”
“Diana and me? Why? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Because you can’t tell me.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to tell me what you’ve done. No secrets. But you can tell me what you’re afraid might happen, surely?”
Hawke considered for a moment and said, “On this last absence of mine, I didn’t mention where I was. But I will say I took dead aim at the criminal element responsible for the threats to Alexei’s life.”
“Were you successful?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Then the threats have been eliminated.”
“That certainly was my intention. A lot of monstrously evil people died because of my actions.”
“Splendid.”
“But, and this is the difficult part, I may have merely upped the ante.”
“Meaning?”
“Take a look at this,” Hawke said, handing Congreve a folded piece of tissue-thin blue paper. It was the printout of an encrypted e-mail Hawke had received that morning from Concasseur at the British Embassy in Moscow.
Congreve read it aloud.
“We have destroyed the hive but the bees are still buzzing. Monitoring Internet chatter, surviving members throughout Russia and Eastern Europe. A gauntlet has been thrown down. No idea who was responsible, but determined to find out. Threats of reprisal are serious, indeed. We may have overplayed our hand. Keep your head down and your eyes open. Yours, I.C.”
“I.C.?”
“Ian Concasseur. My man in Moscow.”
“Dear God.”
“These people will stop at nothing, Ambrose. I won’t put you and Diana at risk protecting my son. I can’t.”
“So what will you do?”
“I think the safest place in England is Buckingham Palace.”
“I don’t disagree. But is that even remotely possible?”
“Her Royal Majesty has indicated to me that it is.”
“Then by all means take her up on it, Alex. After all, you saved her life last year at—”
“Yes, yes.”
“If that’s your decision, so be it.”
“It is. Take a look at this.”
He handed Congreve another folded message, printed on the same tissue paper.
I am become death, the Destroyer of Worlds.
I’m waiting . . .
“Where on earth did this come from?” Congreve said.
“It appeared on my computer screen last night. Right after I’d shut the whole damn thing down. In other words, the computer was powered down when this appeared. I saved it and printed it.”
“It’s from the—machine, isn’t it? This bloody phantom, Alex.”
“I believe it is, Ambrose. The damn thing knows I’m coming after it.”
“Impossible. But how?”
“How? How does it do anything? Make sane men commit suicide, sink cruise ships, send UFOs streaking over Alaska at the speed of light? It knows, Ambrose, it knows absolutely everything. And it’s capable of absolutely anything.”
“You’ve been in tight spots before, God knows. But I can’t recall a time when you’ve ha
d quite so many balls in the air at one time.”
“Yes. And the problem with having so many balls in the air is that you can be damn sure a couple of them belong to you.”
“It’s a bad business, Alex. I don’t like it one bit.”
“Listen closely, old boy. You’re one of a rapidly decreasing number of people who don’t seem to want me dead. Please don’t accept any phantom phone calls, Ambrose. I may need you and I can’t have you turning into a hypnotic zombie while I’m away. Share this with Diana. Don’t answer the phone. Have someone screen every call coming into the house and hang up immediately if it’s remotely suspicious.”
“Will do.”
“Remember that old-time radio program? Who knows? The Phantom knows . . .”
“It’s not funny, Alex.”
“Do you really think I don’t know that?”
Nell Spooner, looking round at the high-ceilinged room full of exquisite gilded and silk brocade furniture, massive pictures, and lovely sculpture, thought, So this is Buckingham Palace. What a lark. Her life had changed so dramatically, it almost seemed perfectly normal that she would be sitting with her young charge and his father, waiting to be received by the Queen.
Almost perfectly normal.
Alexei, seated upon her lap, was fidgety. He wanted to be off running about, sprinting down the long, sun-splashed corridors and the wide marble staircases of the Royal Family’s private apartments. She wanted to be doing that, too, to be honest. She was terribly nervous. Alex had tried to soothe her nerves on the drive into the city from Hawkesmoor. Hadn’t worked. Her throat was dry, her stomach filled with butterflies, and her knees weak with—not fear, but something akin to it. Anxiety.
Until, that is, the moment that the Queen’s private secretary ushered them into her presence.
Her Royal Majesty’s eyes simply lit up at the sight of Alex Hawke. She greeted him as if he were a long-lost son returned to the fold at last. Alex clearly adored her, and they chatted happily for a few moments while Nell simply stood back and observed.
The Queen was wearing a suit of robin’s egg blue with a beautiful sapphire brooch at the shoulder. And she exuded genuine warmth that was almost palpable and utterly natural behavior. Right down to the celebrated leather purse she was seldom photographed without. Alex had explained she used it as a signal to staff. If she shifts it from one arm to the other, she’s ready to leave. If she sets it on the floor, she finds the conversation boring and wants to escape. But if it dangles happily from the crook of her left arm, she is happy and relaxed. That’s precisely where it was now.
Alex said, “Your Majesty, may I present Nell Spooner. Nell is on loan to me from her position at MI5. She’s Alexei’s guardian angel, ma’am. She’s already saved his life twice.”
“Lovely to meet you, my dear,” the Queen said, extending her hand.
“A great honor, Your Majesty,” Nell said, taking it lightly into her own.
Nell took a deep breath. She had executed her small curtsy perfectly and even remembered the proper form of address.
The Queen looked at Alexei, who smiled shyly, clutching his teddy bear.
“And you must be Alexei?” the Queen said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alexei said.
“And who is this delightful bear you’ve brought along? Is he your friend?”
“His name is Teddy and he wants to be your friend, too,” Alexei said and offered Her Majesty his stuffed bear.
“Do you know, Alexei,” she said, hugging the bear, “that I first met your handsome father when he was precisely your age? Well, it’s quite true. The most adorable little boy. He often came to stay with me at Balmoral, my home in Scotland. And he was almost, although not quite, as much the beautiful, cheery, free-spirited soul as you are.”
“Your Majesty, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your generosity in these trying circumstances,” Hawke said.
“Nonsense. Nothing generous about it,” the Queen said. “I’m delighted to have the laughter of children around me at any time. Besides, it is the very least I can do for you considering what you did for my family, Alex.”
“I should be back in a fortnight, Your Majesty, but I will see to it that HM government is kept informed.”
Queen Elizabeth smiled acknowledgment and said, “Miss Spooner, I do hope you are intending to stay on. I did tell Alex that I felt it would be better for the child if he had that continuity in his life. After all, he might find this all a bit overwhelming without your comforting presence.”
“Very kind, Your Majesty. Thank you very much indeed. I would be delighted to stay with him.”
Alex bent to pick Alexei up in his arms, tossed him about a foot into the air, then caught and kissed him on both cheeks, eliciting much laughter and delight.
“All right, then, Alexei. I think you’ll be very well taken care of while Daddy’s away, won’t you? And you must promise to be a very, very good boy until I come back. Will you?”
“Yes, Daddy. Very good.”
And with that Alex Hawke bid farewell to the Queen and, with a good deal of emotion, reluctantly left his little boy behind, sitting happily in the Royal lap, chattering away as was his wont.
Nell followed him out of the Queen’s reception room to say good-bye.
“Come back to us, Alex; we need you, you know. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
Hawke pulled her toward him and kissed her hard on the mouth, oblivious to shocked palace staff and onlookers passing by.
“Listen,” Hawke said with a grin, “I don’t want to die either, believe me. But I will tell you one thing. If I have to, I’m damned well going to die last.”
He smiled over his shoulder and started down the palace’s wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Knowing that Alexei and Nell would be safe within the walls of Buckingham Palace, with its extraordinarily layered security, gave him the peace of mind he knew he would need for whatever lay ahead.
Driving home alone to his home in the Cotswolds, he had plenty of time to think about the immediate future. He was in the midst of assembling his assault team. Saffari’s heavily armed and well-fortified complex stood high on a bluff and was surrounded by walls some thirty feet high and ten feet thick. Challenging, to say the least. His number two, as always, would be Stokely Jones, a pillar of strength he could always rely on. Then Brock, who often tried his patience but was a good man under fire, a warrior through and through.
It was to be a Red Banner operation, augmented by U.S. Navy SEALs, which meant he had executive sanction from the American president and the use of whatever U.S. human resources and military support he required, all under the strictest secrecy for obvious political reasons. His assault team would be composed of two squads of Navy SEALs under the command of Captain Stony Stollenwork. Stollenwork, a member of the elite team that choppered into Pakistan to take out Osama bin Laden, was one of the SEALs’ most decorated special-ops officers.
The SEAL forces would be complemented by Red Banner’s own highly trained spec-ops forces and weapons specialists, not a few of whom were crew members aboard the new Blackhawke. Should the new yacht engage in battle at sea, these would be the crewmen responsible for war fighting: the sonar and radar as well as the offensive weaponry and the defense of the vessel.
Hawke had designated the two combat forces as the Blue Team (SEALs) and the Red Team (Red Banner).
Looks can be deceiving. The over three-hundred-foot-long yacht looked for all the world like a rich man’s plaything. It was anything but. It was a warship from stem to stern and had been designed from the very beginning to take Hawke and his assault teams into trouble spots, whenever and wherever in the world they were needed.
Blackhawke had been designed with a completely covert section, two lower decks partitioned off, comprising roughly one-third of the ship’s stern. The entry
hatchways in the bulkheads to this concealed section carried DANGER/RADIATION/NO ENTRY signs, forbidding in appearance. Beyond them lay an area as large as a good-sized hangar, the centerpiece being the tender/gunship Nighthawke, which was mounted in a sling and winched aboard on a traveling gantry when not deployed.
On the uppermost level, the designers had allocated space for ammunition, firearms, explosives, assault kit and gear—any and all military equipment that would require instant access in the event of conflict. This level also comprised the fighting men’s living and sleeping quarters, toilets, showers, the kitchen, refrigerated food storage and adjacent mess, plus HVAC equipment to maintain comfort for the combatants in any weather. There was a large assembly station from which men could gather prior to an assault or sea battle.
The lower level also provided space for the operational situation room and the sophisticated electronic equipment necessary for both defensive and offensive countermeasures. Adjacent was the battle communications center, where the combat officers would fight the ship.
One of the unique features of the vessel had stemmed from Hawke’s desire to arm the vessel in the manner of pirate ships of old. He wanted broadside cannons along the length of the hull, both port and starboard. But they must be concealed until the very moment of battle. Like his ancestor, John Black Hawke, he wanted his man-of-war to sail into the melee, throw a handle that dropped the exterior panels, expose the multiple muzzles, and then roll the long black barrels out for a vicious broadside.
This meant a concealed space running the length of both sides of the ship, just inside the hull, where the gun crews could easily reach their emplacements, load, and fire. Loaders racing from the ammunition hold would run fore and aft, resupplying the gunners with fresh ammo as needed.
But what kind of cannon? Ultimately he’d decided on the MK44 40mm automatic light cannon, a weapon capable of firing two hundred rounds per minute. It was a “chain gun,” which meant very few moving parts. Two distinct rounds could be fired by these guns at the flick of a switch from the fire control system, an armor-piercing round or a high-explosive round. These twenty-first-century weapons would provide Blackhawke with the ability to loose a devastating and withering broadside against any aggressor on land or at sea.
