Patriot

CHAPTER 69

Hawke shifted the Zeiss lenses down to the black coastline of Spy Island and entertained a thought: When the next war starts, it will start here — here in a forgotten backwater on a forgotten island in the Caribbean Sea.

He dropped the binocs. Something troublesome on the helm radar screen above caught his eye. An unwelcome blip had strayed from his comfort zone, shifting onto a parallel heading and—

“Hard to port, engines all ahead flank,” he said sharply to the helmsman. The man reacted instantly.

“Hard to port, all ahead flank, aye,” came Lieutenant Des Fitzgerald’s reply. The big boat heeled hard over and carved a tight turn in the rough seas, over onto a new, southerly course. Misdirection was what was called for now, confuse enemy radar as to your true intentions.

“Hard to starboard, Lieutenant. Come to new heading three-two-zero, maintain flank speed…”

“Three-two-zero, maintain flank, aye.”

Again the boat heeled, this time to starboard.

Hawke looked up at the digital mission clock. He wanted to see if it was concurrent with the Hawke mission clock ticking down in his head: Stoke and the two SDV teams would be nearing the abandoned ramp about now and — his reverie was unpleasantly interrupted by Sparky, the ship’s radar/sonar officer.

“Helm, Sonar, new contact bearing three-nine-five… range, 36.3 miles… uh… screw signature indicates she’s a Russian Thunder class missile frigate, sir.”

“Sonar, Helm,” Hawke replied. “What’s her bearing?”

“Sorry, sir… contact bearing three-one-niner… we’ve been tracking her ever since she steamed out of Havana and made a major course correction… she’s headed this way…”

“Roger. She’ll attempt a blockade outside the harbor mouth, attempt to trap us inside… what’s her armament, Sonar?” Hawke said.

“Thunder class frigate carries four C802 missiles, two 30mm cannons, and two 23mm cannons…”

“Christ. What’s her speed, Sonar?” Hawke said, immediately heading aft to the sonar station just off the bridge.

“Flank speed classified. She’s fast enough though… Engine turns for thirty-nine knots… she’s got boost gas turbines…”

“ETA at Isla de Pinos?”

“Roger, if she maintains current speed and course… 0230, sir.”

“Forty-two minutes,” Hawke said, looking over at Geneva. “Helm, maintain current heading,” Hawke said. “We’re going in. We’ll find out who blinks first on the way out.”

“Maintain current heading, aye,” Captain King said. Having relieved Fitzgerald, she was back at the helm. It was not Geneva’s first taste of battle and Hawke was glad to note that she seemed preternaturally calm and wholly in command. A very good sign, Hawke thought, adding, Let’s just hope it stays that way.

Stoke was first ashore.

Cradling his M16, he waded through knee-deep seawater and then up the gradual incline of the wide concrete ramp. Redcoat squad was right behind him. The old 1950s concrete in the harbor was intact, but barely. Great chunks had fallen off into the sea. Russian construction in Cuba was notoriously shoddy. Cheap sand-based concrete was a mainstay of the era, and many of the old Soviet-era apartment complexes surrounding Havana had simply fallen down after the Russians packed up and went home.

Brock and Fat, with the balance of the Bluecoat headbangers right behind them, were slogging the ramp up to solid ground. The weather had ramped up, too, as the eye of the storm approached. Tall palm trees everywhere were bent almost double, their fronds whipping back and forth and clacking loudly in the gusts. The increasingly ferocious wind and driving rain made it difficult for anybody to see anything.

Stoke could barely make out Brock ten feet away, doing a last-minute weapons check along with his guys from Bravo.

Flipping down his IR night-vision goggles, Stoke checked out the guard towers in what he’d taken to calling the “warehouse district,” and the fenced perimeter surrounding the naval base camp. Or as much of it as he could see in this crappy weather. He kept on looking, hoping to find a weak spot he’d missed looking at charts and diagrams in the Blackhawke war room.

Originally, he’d thought the best way inside was to breach the main gate, storm it, and get it the hell over with. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He could plainly see how closely the dense jungle encroached on the base fence line. Yeah, okay. Maybe he could do a feint. A small noisy squad at the front gate… meanwhile, the bulk of the Raiders are disappearing into the jungle… wire cutters at three locations opening big holes for a lightning assault from the landward side.

Yeah. That was maybe the way to do it.

Surprise, surprise.

Quiet. You had to figure those guys in the towers were busy watching the smoke and fire rising from the two big patrol boats Blackhawke had most recently taken out of service. Had to be pissed about that, not to mention seeing one of their fighter planes being blown out of the sky right in front of their eyes. The other three fighters had gone to lunch. So far, anyway, things weren’t exactly going their way. But there was a long way to go before it was over.

Stoke, Brock, and two badass machine gunners packing M60s from Redcoat, were all sitting beneath a row of blown-out windows in an abandoned warehouse. From their position, the men looked directly down on the main gate. Redcoat and Bluecoat teams were making their way through the jungle at the rear of the perimeter. Stoke was awaiting the signal letting him know the Raiders had successfully punched a big hole in the wire fencing and were ready to attack.

“Mr. Brock, a word?” Stoke said, imitating one of Hawke’s mannerisms just to stick it to Harry. The ex-marine came knee-crawling over, lifting up the face shield used to keep the driving rain out of his eyes.

“What’s up?” Brock said, keeping his head down. Searchlights were now playing their beams all over the façade of the old building.

“This is where we part ways, little buddy. You and Gator know what the drill is.”

“Bet yo’ ass.”

“Seriously?”

“Something Gator says. I think it’s funny.”

Stoke tended to ignore the typical insolence but not this time. He put a big hand on Brock’s shoulder, turned him around so they were face-to-face, looked down, and said:

“Harry, listen up, damn it. I’m communicating this to you at the request of the bossman, okay? As soon as you and Gator have taken out that mountain bunker, you get your ass back down here to the waterfront, you understand? The boss is apprehensive about the intel we got from those two Cuban CIA undercover guys. Most especially, the number of armed Russian troops defending the warehouse complex. He’s apprehensive? Hawke? That means I’m double apprehensive. You hear me on the radio looking for your white ass — you get it in gear. Capiche?”

Brock nodded his head, sullen, but with respect.

“Something happens, some good reason you guys can’t make it, we rendezvous at the ramp at exactly 0400. Don’t miss the boat, Harry. You know that ‘no man left behind’ tradition? Yeah, well. I just might make an exception in the case of your sorry ass.”

Brock laughed it off and motioned to Gator. He and Gator got on pretty good now. Neither of them really gave two shits and that gave them a kind of bond. They weren’t exactly good old boys but they liked to think of themselves that way. Country, not city. Each of them would be toting a big M60 heavy machine gun and satchels of Semtex. It was a helluva lot of firepower for two guys and Stoke just hoped it was enough.

Harry said something stupid in farewell, but Stoke couldn’t hear over the loud hiss of the rain and sporadic gunfire around the town. Brock and his sidekick slipped out into the rain and through the maze of falling-down brick buildings and rusted out trucks and burnt-out Russian jeeps from another war, another time.

Stoke checked his steel Rolex. In four minutes, he was going to open fire on the two towers to either side of the gate and pray for the best while expecting the worst.

Harry’s objective was thirty minutes away. Up the jungle trail to the command-and-control ops center situated on a hilltop halfway up the mountain. Give him another ten, max, to eliminate any opposition protecting the bunker and missile sites, another fifteen to come down from the hills through the jungle, five to reach the warehouse area if he didn’t face any opposition. The thump-thump of the big M60s told him Stoke was going in.

Roughly half an hour, forty-five minutes, say.

The weather was shit. Winds had increased, and rain was coming down in sheets now. But it was just as bad for the bad guys as it was for the good guys.