Patriot

CHAPTER 65

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.

“I’ve got a contact, sir,” Hawke heard in his headphones.

“Go ahead, Sparky, what have you got?” Hawke said.

“Radar showing four fighter aircraft approaching our stern out of the east-southeast, sir, altitude thirty-five hundred feet, speed Mach 1.14, range nine miles and closing…”

“Four bogies?” Hawke said.

“Four total, roger. Three bogies now breaking formation and shedding altitude,” the gun commander said. “Looks like they may intend to get on our stern quarter, sir. Lead airplane now climbing new course south-southwest and… uh, climbing through forty thousand… and… diving now… he’s on us.”

“Take them out, gentlemen,” Hawke said, climbing down from the turret and getting the hell out of their way. He dropped nimbly down to the deck and headed back up to the bridge where he naturally belonged when in combat.

The turret behind him instantly rotated forty-five degrees as the Gun Dish locked in on the single approaching Cuban fighter. Hawke, headed aft, could actually feel the deck shudder beneath him as the crew fired a burst from the 23mm cannons. Looking back over his shoulder as he made his way up the steps to the bridge, he saw the muzzles spouting flame as they recoiled in anger.

Hawke was racing upward, taking the steps two at a time, when he saw the solitary Su-35 diving on them. The single-seater fighter had a brown-and-grey camouflage paint scheme and Cuban flags on her fuselage and wings; her two thrust-vectoring turbofan engines were screaming as she maintained her descent and opened fire on Blackhawke.

As he bolted up the last few steps, Hawke saw the Cuban fighter’s single 30mm nose cannon blazing away at his bow turret, rounds zinging off the steel, a multitude of geysers erupting in the stormy seas around the boat.

As he watched, he saw the forward turret swiveling, her guns locking in on the approaching enemy airplane as the antiaircraft crew opened fire with a vengeance, throwing thousands of frag rounds in the face of the oncoming fighter.

When Alex pushed inside the bridge, a loud cheer went up from his officers. Not for him, but celebrating the sight of the flaming, disintegrating carcass of the Russian-built Su-35, just missing the bow and trailing a flame of burning jet fuel before impacting the hard and unforgiving sea.

Hawke took a quick look at his navigator’s air combat radar display and said, “It looks like that guy’s three friends are no longer all that sure they want to mess with us at the moment… The other three bogies now peeling off and appear to be hightailing it back to sunny Cuba, land of enchantment.”

“I’d say round one goes to us, Commander,” the ship’s new skipper, Geneva King, said. “Now comes the hard part.”