“The rebels’ base of operations is called
Telaraña,”
Weinberg said. “Tab two contains precisely detailed building-by-building layouts of the entire compound.”
“How’d we come by that?” one of the admirals asked.
“Easy,” Tate interrupted. “They recruit local labor, we supply it. We have at least three members of the construction crew on our payroll. The diagrams in your books are the product of their latest intelligence. Two, maybe three days old.”
“Let’s move on,” Admiral Howell said.
“That large white structure you see at the mouth of the river,” Weinberg continued, “is a submarine pen. Its dimensions tell me that it is precisely wide enough to accommodate the extraordinary beam of a Borzoi. Commander Hawke, would you like to speak to this?”
“Certainly,” Alex said. “Six months ago, the Cuban rebels bought an extremely sophisticated Borzoi-class submarine from a pair of ex-Russian submarine officers, now arms dealers. Two Borzoi submarines were completed in late 1991 using purloined stealth technology. Borzoi utilizes a radical delta wing design, twin hulls forming a V-shape, twenty silos on each hull. It has a retractable conning tower for minimum drag whilst submerged. Fastest sub on earth, by a factor of three, biggest payload, virtually invisible to existing methods of detection.”
“Don’t tell me this thing can fly, too,” Howell said.
“Pretty fair description of what she does underwater,” Alex replied.
“Christ. Have they taken delivery?” Tate asked.
“I believe they have, yes,” Alex said.
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps,
did you say?” the CIA man said, coating the word with gelatinous sarcasm.
“Yes, Mr. Tate, I said perhaps,” Alex said. Before this was over, he and Mr. Tate were going to have a very private conversation.
Seeing the tension, Admiral Howell coughed into his fist, and Weinberg tapped the map with his pointer.
“We know they’ve built a sub pen, and we know they’ve purchased a Borzoi boomer,” Weinberg said. “What we don’t know is whether or not they’ve actually taken delivery.”
“From the tone and manner of their opening salvo,” Admiral Howell said, “ordering us out of Gitmo, I’d guess these boys were packing some serious heat. In all likelihood, the sub has been delivered.”
“Perhaps,” Alex said, looking at Tate, “you are right, Admiral. This little package might confirm your supposition. If I may?” The admiral nodded.
Alex pushed his chair back, got up, and walked around the table to Howell, handing him the small package.
“Audio cassette,” Alex said.
“Of what, Commander?” the admiral asked.
“Admiral, my yacht is equipped with underwater towed array sonar. Since we frequent ports and coastlines where neither your Navy nor mine is welcome, we record everything we hear. If it’s sufficiently interesting, we courier it to Washington or London. My radioman handed me that cassette this afternoon just before I took off. Your lads should give a listen to it. My man thinks our SONUS picked up the signature sound of a Russian Mark III torpedo’s screws. But you fellows are the experts.”
“Thank you,” Howell said, and instantly an aide was at his side. He took the package and left the room.
“Commander,” the admiral said, “when and where did your boy pick this up?”
“At 0220 hours, sir,” Alex said. “It was recorded while we were lying at anchor one mile due west of Staniel Cay.”
“What the hell would the sub be shooting at in the Exumas?”
“No idea, sir. A small American sport-fishing boat suffered a catastrophic explosion and sank at precisely the same time. I heard the explosion two miles away. Upon reaching the bridge I observed a fiery debris field. Why they’d waste a torpedo on such a target is beyond me. But I’m almost positive they sank that fishing boat.”
“Shakedown cruise,” the admiral said. “The Exumas aren’t that far from the southeast coast of Cuba. Target practice. Tell your boy we appreciate his vigilance, Commander Hawke.”
Hawke nodded.
“To continue,” Weinberg said, “our mission objective is clear. We must neutralize or destroy that submarine and its missiles.”
“I vote for destroy,” Admiral Howell said, and everyone around the table chuckled. Weinberg smiled and resumed.
“If I know the president, Admiral, that submarine has an extremely short life expectancy,” Weinberg said. “The president and his cabinet are meeting in Key West as we speak, formulating a precise response. There is a lot of pressure to invade coming from the Pentagon. I have my own opinions on that, however—”
“What is your opinion?” The question came from the lantern-jawed man two seats to Alex’s left. General Charley Moore, U.S. Marines. There was no question about General Moore’s opinion, Alex could see in the hard set of the cold blue eyes.
“This isn’t Panama, General Moore,” Weinberg said. “When we went in to extract Noriega, the Panamanians were dancing in the streets.”
“That is correct,” Moore said, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “Hell, I put four of my boys on every street corner of every intersection in Panama City. The neighborhood women adopted every last one of ’em. Fed ’em so damn much, I had to put an ad in the newspaper begging them to stop. My troops were all outgrowing their uniforms!”
“That will not be a problem in Cuba, General Moore,” Weinberg said, allowing himself a small smile. “I would like to say that the Cuban people are a nation of sheep. But that would be incorrect. They are a nation of ostriches. The state has them so thoroughly terrorized that—”
“Yes, but here’s the real problem,” Tate interjected. “In Cuba, you’ve got—”
“Mr. Tate, with all due respect, excuse me all to hell,” Admiral Howell said. “But it’s getting a little windy in here. Any damn fool can come up with the problem. I want the goddamn solution! Everybody’s insights into Cuban and Panamanian politics are goddamn fascinating. But this is not the time for it. Now, I am a mission-oriented kind of fella. The president wants action now, not fucking
discourse
. Do I make myself clear?”
Alex breathed deeply and closed his eyes. Thank God, Howell was seizing control of this bloody thing. He had been on the verge of making some excuse and walking out. He could barely tolerate these saber-rattling ego fests when he was at his best. Today, with Vicky’s loss spiking every thought, his tolerance was at zero.
Admiral Howell looked around the table, sucking down great volumes of smoke, waiting for a response.
“Find that sub, sink it, then invade the island, kill the bad guys, and put a decent, honest man in the president’s office,” General Moore said. Howell smiled.
“That’s better. Thanks, Charley. The commander in chief gave us a job to do, and by God we’re going to do it. He asked me if the Atlantic Fleet was ready. I said if anybody in Havana even sneezed in the wrong direction, my boys could send that country back to the Stone Age in about twelve minutes. Hell, I’ve got nine fighter squadrons right here on Big John! I’d just as soon take the goddamn Geneva Convention and shove it up Cuba’s sorry ass. Now let’s talk about that, goddammit.”
Alex relaxed and took his mind somewhere else.
Doesn’t work well with others.
That’s what he’d told Conch. It was true. His idea of Hell was sitting in a room with any group that considered itself a committee. His grandfather had a saying: “Search every park in every city of the world and you will never, ever, see a statue of a committee.”
As the meeting droned on, Alex stifled a yawn behind his fist and noticed a new sensation. Hunger. The food on American carriers was famously good. He hadn’t eaten since the accident. After a dinner in the officers’ mess, he’d try to get a good night’s sleep in his little VOQ cabin. He’d take off at first light and resume his search for Vicky.
Tate was on his feet now, doing profiles on the new leadership of Cuba. Alex glanced up now and then, feigning interest. He looked up at the young face of the new president, Batista. Hawke wondered if he were the only one to find this ironic bit of history amusing.
He couldn’t listen to Tate any longer. He pushed back his chair, starting to rise, and prepared to duck out of the meeting. But the face up on the screen now stopped him cold. He collapsed back into his chair, his eyes riveted on the image. A feeling swept over him, a feeling that everything inside him was shifting, starting to come loose. His eyes were burning and he massaged them with his fingertips, willing himself to control these sudden, swirling emotions.
Tate droned on, and soon had moved to a new character. Hawke, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, didn’t hear a word he said.
“Excuse me,” Hawke said, interrupting Tate mid-sentence. “I’m terribly sorry. I missed something. Could you possibly go back to the prior slide? Who was that man again?”
Tate couldn’t resist an eye-rolling sigh as he hit the clicker and reversed the carousel to the previous slide.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” Hawke said. “But who is this man again?”
“As I said, this is the man behind the military coup,” Tate replied, a falsely patient expression on his face. “Formerly Castro’s most trusted aide de camp. His name is General Manso de Herreras. Why? Do you have some information about him?”
“Yes, I do,” said Alex Hawke, getting to his feet and gathering up his materials. He nodded to Admiral Howell and said, “Please excuse me, Admiral, I’m afraid I need to make an urgent phone call.”
Howell nodded and Alex walked quickly to the door. The aide saluted and pushed the door open.
“Excuse me, Commander,” Tate said, as Alex was halfway out the door. “But if you have any information regarding this man, I’d like to know what it is.”
“I’m sure you would. But it’s strictly personal. It’s none of your bloody business, Mr. Tate,” Alex said over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around before he walked out.
“Question,” Tate said, sometime late in the evening, after the orderlies had cleared the dinner dishes and the men were sitting or standing around the officers’ dining quarters in small groups. A blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling. There was the usual hubbub of conversation as great quantities of port wine and Irish whiskey went round and round the admiral’s table.
All very grand, Alex thought, the way the Americans entertained aboard their carriers. He’d been studiously avoiding the raucous chatter, preferring to nurse his vintage Sandeman port alone. He was thinking of turning in when Tate pulled up a chair next to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Yes?” Alex said, barely glancing up.
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like the cut of your jib, Mr. Tate.”
“Not that I give a shit. The point is, I have a job to do down here. For some reason, everyone in Washington thinks you can help. So. Why were you so interested in this Manso de Herreras this afternoon?”
“I think we covered that bit earlier, Mr. Tate,” Alex said, staring into the man’s bloodshot eyes, “when I said it was none of your bloody business. Now, piss off.”
“Ah, but it is my business, isn’t it?” Tate said, leaning in so that Alex could smell the scent of sweat and liquor pouring off the man.
“Manso is the central figure in this little Caribbean drama. You clearly know more about him than you’re letting on.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Alex said, looking up and glaring at the man.
“I’m calling you what you are, Mr. Hawke. A pompous aristobrit who’d rather keep his little secrets than assist his country’s most valued ally in what has become a very, very dangerous state of international affairs.”
Alex smiled, took a sip of his port, and turned to face Tate.
“Aristobrit? That’s a good one, Mr. Tate. Do you duel?”
“Sorry?”
“Duel? Pistols at dawn? The Code Duello? An ancient custom for settling disagreements between gentlemen, which is probably why you’re unfamiliar with it. Duels, unfortunately, seem to have fallen out of favor at about the same rate as gentlemen.”
“I don’t follow you,” Tate said.
“Ah, hardly surprising. Let me help,” Hawke said. Slowly setting his port glass down on the white linen tablecloth, he whipped his fist around and backhanded Tate hard across his right ear. Hard enough to snap the man’s head back. Tate sat stunned, rubbing his bright red ear. His eyes blazed with hate, but Alex was amused to see that, in the revelry surrounding them, their small tête-à-tête had gone completely unnoticed.
“That’s how it works,” Alex said, smiling. “You’ve been insulted. Dishonored. Do you now wish to avenge your honor?”
“You pompous shit, I’ll—”
“Good. Now we have a duel,” Hawke said, smiling pleasantly. He saw a fist headed his way and said, “No, no, not here, Mr. Tate. Bad form.”
Alex’s hand shot out and caught Tate’s forearm mid-air, stopping the man’s fist just short of his own temple.
“I’ll kill you for this, you fucking English bastard,” Tate said.
“Not here, old boy,” Alex said. “This is the part where we step outside.”