Patriot

CHAPTER 50

Blackhawke’s new skipper, Geneva King, had already downloaded a real-time satellite photo of the explosion by the time the three of them reached the bridge. A pretty woman turned and smiled at them. The ship’s new captain was a very attractive American woman, with dark red hair and bright green eyes. Tall, rather stunning in her white uniform, she stood watching the sat photos spit out of the printer.

Suddenly, seeing Stokely Jones appear in the elevator with his son, Hawke strode across the sunlit bridge deck to gather the little boy up into his arms. To Alexei’s enormous delight, his father lifted him up and placed him astride his shoulders.

“And you, sir, must be Tristan Walker, unless I’m very much mistaken,” Hawke said, extending his hand to the stranger he’d heard so many good things about.

“I am, indeed, sir,” he said. “It’s a very great honor to meet you, sir.”

“Well,” Hawke said, looking a bit anxious, “here we are. So. How are you and Alexei getting on, Tristan?”

“Very well, I would say. Would you agree, Alexei?”

“I miss Spooner, Papa,” he said, burying his face from sight in his father’s curly black hair.

Tristan’s eyes softened ever so briefly with compassion for the bereft child now in his care. He placed his hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “I’m sure you do, Alexei. We all miss Nell terribly at the Yard. Nell Spooner, in addition to being the sweetest soul alive, was a magnificent woman, a courageous woman in every way. One of my closest friends.”

Alex set his son back down on the deck as he said, “Alexei, I want you to shake hands with the inspector and tell him how much you appreciate his coming along to help watch after you. Will you do that for me?”

“I suppose so, Daddy.”

The little boy raised his hand, his eyes cast downward at his feet.

“Look a man straight in the eye when you shake his hand, son. Just like I’ve taught you. Firm grip.”

“Awfully glad to meet you, sir,” Alexei said, every bit as manfully as his father could wish as he put out his hand.

Stokely approached, holding sat photos in his hand. He held one up for Hawke’s inspection.

“Any news on whatever the hell happened?” Hawke said, taking the picture in his hand.

“That smoke we saw in the distance on the way over here? Big explosion at Florida Power & Light. The primary Miami-Dade station.”

“Bad?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Look at this sat shot taken earlier, before the thing blew sky high.”

“It’s a massive complex. The whole thing went up?”

“Evaporated. That’s before; this shot is another satellite pass after the event.”

“Jesus Christ. Obliterated. Cause?”

“Brock has been on the phone with CIA Miami. At first they thought it was electrical, because all the main transformers blew. Now, it’s different. They’re starting to say it’s terrorists. Some FP&L employees were shot by intruders just prior to the explosion.”

“How bad, Stoke?”

“Bad. All Miami is down, all Dade County. South to the Keys, north to Fort Lauderdale. The whole damn grid has gone dark, boss. And it’ll take months to get it all back up and running. I hate to think of the chaos we’re in for, months of darkness and no power. A nightmare for people. Big trouble. Big damn trouble, I’ll tell you that for sure.”

“Harry?” Hawke said, looking over at him.

“It’s bad. Nobody saw this one coming. No threats. No Internet chatter, nothing. Clear out of the blue.”

“Any early ideas?”

“The usual suspects. We’re looking at ISIS, Cuba, AQ, homegrown terrorists, but…”

“But what?”

“The explosives. It was an instant controlled blast, judging from the force parameters and the look of it. But… my guys on-site can’t find any trace of C-4, Semtex, Demex, or any satchel charges. Nothing. We don’t know where to start looking at this point.”

Stoke spoke up. “Harry, I think it’s about time you showed him the pictures you took with your iPhone when we boarded that Russian spy boat.”

“Okay. First, here’s the military sat shot taken of Miami Beach very early this morning. Right before all hell broke loose. The angle from above and the composition looked vaguely familiar to me. I knew I’d seen this aerial view before. And guess what. I had. Aboard that Russian ship, believe it or not. Here’s my iPhone shot.”

Harry handed his cell to Hawke. The small screen displayed the scene down in the hold of the spy ship.

“Right,” Hawke said. “You showed me some of these when you returned to the CG cutter. Didn’t make a whole lot of sense at the time. You shot this down in the aft hold?”

“I did. In the ‘billiard room’ as we called it. The whole space was filled with pool-table-sized platforms, each one with a different model American city. They all looked sorta alike at first glance. But this one? That’s Miami, all right. Including the central FP&L power station right there. Only now, it looks like this.”

Hawke looked at the second, postattack photo.

“Remarkable. Scorched earth.”

“There’s nothing left but twisted steel. At least a square mile of blackened earth,” Stoke said.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it,” Brock said, nodding his head. “What possible kind of explosive could cause that much destruction and not leave a trace?”

“I was just thinking about that,” Hawke said, looking away and clearly concentrating.

“Stoke,” Hawke said finally, “you mentioned something about another locked compartment down there.”

“Yes, boss. Way in the back. Nothing much there. A couple of cases of German vodka, some of the bottles opened and half empty.”

Hawke looked over at him. “I don’t recall you saying anything about any vodka.”

“Well, it just didn’t seem all that important, boss,” Stoke replied, troubled by the look in Hawke’s eyes.

“I did grab a couple of bottles as souvenirs,” Brock jumped in.

“You did?” Hawke said, his eyes lighting up.

“Sure did.”

“Tell me you didn’t drink that stuff, Harry,” Hawke said sharply.

“Me? No. I only drink scotch. That stuff’s rotgut, right? Jet fuel, that’s all I know.”

“Something like that,” Hawke replied, his mind suddenly racing, putting two and two together.

“Where are those vodka bottles? Right now?”

“In my apartment. Over in Coconut Grove.”

Hawke, excited, took hold of Brock’s shoulder.

“Call CIA Miami, Harry. Now. Tell them about the vodka you found when you searched the Russian ship. Tell them this is all somehow related to the power station bombing. National security priority. Tell them I said so. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And tell them not to let any agents go anywhere near those two bottles. I want the bomb squad to remove them. Under no circumstances should they break the seals of the metal screw tops until they’ve spoken directly to me. Do you understand the urgency in my voice, Harry?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I do.”

“Get them on the phone. Now.”

“A bomb squad, boss?” Stoke said. “For a couple of bottles of vodka?”

“Not exactly vodka,” Hawke replied, watching Brock make the call and listening to every word he said.