Patriot

CHAPTER 60

The yacht Blackhawke was now under constant twenty-four-hour guard at Naval Air Station Key West.

The impending Cuban mission, code-named Operation Rumdum, was now an official CIA/MI6 combined combat operation. It was felt this hurriedly put together spec op had but two possible outcomes: it could either avert war with Russia; or it could initiate the commencement of worldwide nuclear hostilities. A black cloak of secrecy surrounded Rumdum. Hawke, his crew, and the land-side support teams were all operating under a strict code of silence.

Blackhawke, no longer deemed a private yacht and now officially considered an active U.S. warship by the Pentagon, had departed the Port of Miami forty-eight hours earlier. She’d been provided with a protective navy destroyer escort for the short voyage. She was now moored down south at NAS Key West on Boca Chica Key.

Located just four miles east of downtown Key West, the naval air station had originally been built to combat piracy in the Caribbean. It was now located on a small, low-lying island covered in thick mangroves. A giant white sphere, the massive radar station, loomed up out of the thickets, along with other white, low-lying buildings.

Primarily a state-of-the-art training facility for air-to-air combat fighter pilots of all military services, the base also supported operational and readiness requirements for the Department of Defense and Homeland Security (Coast Guard) and was host to several tenant commands, including Strike Fighter Squadron 106, Fighter Squadron Composite 111, and the U.S. Army Special Forces Underwater Operations School.

Strike Fighter 106 command was now on full alert. Should the new warship encounter an unforeseeable degree of hostility en route, or when engaging in combat operations, pilots would be aloft in under five minutes.

Blackhawke was taking on stores and ammunition for the naval assault operation now under way. She was undergoing a complete combat-readiness refit. Certain modifications to her hull, superstructure, and armaments, and minor glitches in her defensive radar systems were now either fixed or being repaired. In addition, her offensive and defensive air missile systems were receiving a substantial upgrade. This, in order to defend her against attacking enemy fighter aircraft or land-based SAM systems surrounding the enemy objective. And eliminate threats from enemy installations.

What no one had witnessed, at 3 A.M. that morning, was an unmarked black truck with blacked-out windows arriving at the gangway ramp leading from the docks up to the ship’s main deck. Sixteen hand-picked commandos, the baddest of the bad, emerged from the vehicle quickly and in single file boarded the boat. In less than thirty seconds all the men in black had disappeared inside Blackhawke and the black truck sped away under cover of darkness.

Three veteran crew members from Hawke’s “yacht” had been assigned to prevent any incursion from the sea, above or below the surface. One of them, an ex-SEAL Team 5 UDT demolition expert, named Scott McBain, patrolled underwater in the one-man sub. Scottie’s job was to prevent swimmers or enemy minisubs from attaching explosive devices to her hull.

The other young crewman who’d pulled sentry duty was Lieutenant Sam Kennard, a plainclothes counterterrorist warrior with long brown hair, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, zipping around the harbor surrounding Blackhawke on a Jet Ski like an off-duty sailor after a few beers.

U.S. Navy security personnel ashore were also heavily involved in preparations. Some would be on board and on duty for the duration of the big yacht’s brief layover at Key West. Teams of armed and uniformed U.S. Marines patrolled the docks and secured the land-side approaches. The main gate to the air station, and all other entrances, had been secured. While Hawke’s boat was moored at NAS, no one was allowed within a thousand yards of her docks without official government ID and signed documents stating their reason for being there.

At noon on the day before they would sail their boat into harm’s way, Alex Hawke, his son, Harry Brock, and Stokely Jones were en route from the ship to the Key West International Airport. A second government vehicle trailed right behind them. Inside were Alexei’s new protector, Tristan Walker, and Archie Carstairs, the new bodyguard.

Stoke was at the wheel of a blacked-out U.S. Secret Service Chevy Suburban, armored, with blacked-out windows. Brock was up front with him, cuddling Alexei’s beloved dog, Harry (named after him, maybe?), and staring out the window at the endless mangrove swamps.

Alexei and his father sat in the rear; the dog Harry was in the way back. Alexei had jumped out of bed very excited about a ride in his dad’s new airplane, and Hawke wanted it that way. He knew his son was being extraordinarily brave about not having his dad around to protect him right now, and only the prospect of a great adventure had kept his spirits as high as they were.

At home in England, dear old Pelham Grenville would make the little boy feel loved and safe again.

“Alexei, are you listening to me, son?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“What did I tell you to do the minute you get back home to England and Hawkesmoor?”

“Find Pelham. Tell him I missed him. Hug him.”

“No. Those are the next things you do. The first is to show Tristan our house. Show him where everything is. Your room. His room, Archie’s room, Pelham’s room, things like that. The kitchen. The attic. The gardens and the big lake. It’s his home, too, now. His and Archie’s. They’re both your new friends now, am I right?”

“Archie is my best friend. And I’m his best friend, too. He’s funny. He showed me a comic book about him when he was just a kid. His best friend’s name was, Jughead!”

“He is funny. Well. Good. We’re all clear on that subject, are we, sonny?”

“The kid’s all over this, boss,” Stoke said, “nothing to worry about.”

Harry Brock, in his own little world and hoping to see an alligator cross the road, looked over at Stoke and said, “Does anyone else beside me think this new Scotland Yard babysitter, Tristan, is secretly gay?”

“Shut up, Harry,” Stoke said. “Seriously, man, stuff a sock in it.” Glowering angrily, he added, “There’s a little kid sitting back there, remember?”

Hawke had already leaned forward, grabbed a handful of Harry’s left shoulder, squeezed, and said, very softly, “One more stupid remark like that, especially in front of my very young and very impressionable son, and I will stop this car and make you get out of this car, out of my life. Do you understand, Harry? Say no if you don’t. Right now.”

“Sorry,” Brock said. “Jesus, I didn’t mean anything by it. I like gay people.”

“Says it like he means it, doesn’t he, boss? Man doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘sorry.’”

“There are countless words Mr. Brock doesn’t know the meaning of, Stoke. But if he says even one of them, stop the car.”

“Aw, shit,” Harry said.

“Watch it, Brock; you’re only one more word shy of a long walk under a hot sun on a bad road.”

That shut him up for about five minutes. As they neared the town of Key West, Harry lowered his window and said, “You know it’s hot outside when you stick your hand outside and it’s hot.”

“Shut up, Harry,” Stoke said.

They rode the rest of the way to the Key West Airport in silence.