Patriot

CHAPTER 72

Hawke saw the explosions ashore before he heard them. Saw the spouting geysers of fire and plumes of smoke rising above the warehouse district of the tiny harbor town. The attack on Spy Island had begun in earnest. He left the helm and went out onto the rainswept port bridge wing for a better view, standing in the lee of a bulkhead, which shielded him from the brunt of the raging storm.

He raised the heavy Zeiss binoculars and surveyed the small waterfront village.

The confined harbor was now the scene of sustained heavy machine-gun fire and the bright orange-white flash of rigged explosives being triggered by Stokely’s demolitioneers throughout strategic locations within the warehouse district. The explosion of the Cuban’s motor pool alone, full as it was of jeeps, troop trucks, fuel, and oil, created a blast that leveled several smaller buildings nearby.

There were already a few skirmishes outside the main entrance to the enemy complex, but the main firefight seemed to be centered in the areas near the main gate.

Hawke could now see heavy fire coming from the six guard towers and a constant barrage of fire emanating from every window on the second story of a burnt-out warehouse. The building was adjacent to the complex’s main gate. Had Redcoat already taken up positions inside? He questioned the wisdom of that. The battle plan had called for both Redcoat and Bluecoat squads to storm the main gate and pour into the compound as a unified force.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Hawke wondered aloud. And then he immediately reassured himself. If anyone out there knew what he was doing, it was Stokely Jones Jr. And the men who composed the Stokeland Raiders.

Despite the impending danger of the heavily armed Russian missile frigate now lying in wait for Blackhawke outside the harbor, naval resistance inside the breakwaters was negligible. Two or three more undergunned Cuban patrol boats had been sent out to harass him, mostly with their deck-mounted .50-cal. machine guns and carbine fire from crewmen aboard.

Hawke’s fire control officer had swiftly ordered the Blackhawke commanders and gunners inside the fore and aft turrets to dispatch these and any other hostile craft coming within three hundred yards with 23mm cannon fire. Within minutes of one another, all three enemy boats had been sent to the bottom of the harbor. Hawke had an eye out for more, seeing two rows of them still moored at the docks. So far, at least, none had ventured forth.

“Blackhawke, Blackhawke, this is Redcoat One, over.”

It was Stoke calling. Hawke grabbed the radio and depressed the transmit button.

“Redcoat One, Redcoat One, Blackhawke, what’s your situation, Stoke, over.”

“Perimeter shows greater strength than earlier intel reports indicated. Bravo Squad now breaching the perimeter on the jungle side. Good thing we didn’t wade ashore like they wanted in D.C. Russians got pressure-plate mines everywhere and several rows of underwater obstacles and barriers in the tidal areas. That main gate? Gone. But now I’m looking at two three-ton, fifteen-foot-high interlocking solid steel plates. We’re responding to enemy fire while we try to figure a way to take the gates out, over.”

“Redcoat One, the ship’s fire control officer tells me he now has a missile lock on those gates. You have anyone on the ground out there? Or in the immediate vicinity?”

“Negative, Blackhawke, light ’em up and launch when ready, over.”

Stokely had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when the whole world outside lit up like day for night. A brilliant flash, a deafening roar, and a hole where the steel gates had once stood. The smart missile Hawke had launched from the ship had just saved Stoke and his Redcoats a whole lot of trouble.

“Target destroyed; Redcoat One is on the move, over.”

“Roger that, Redcoat. Status of Bluecoat?”

“Flanking action. Bluecoat is now penetrating far side of the perimeter, entering troops from the jungle.”

“Understood, Stoke. I’m bringing the boat closer inshore right now. Moving into position just offshore of the courthouse location. I’m going in to provide enfilade fire. Raking fire with the machine guns and enable the 23mm cannons to soften up the interior defensive fortifications… over. Give me an all clear when we can safely commence fire.”

“Yeah, uh, roger that, Blackhawke to commence fire on my signal,” Stoke said. “Over.”

“Affirmative, Stoke, keep your head down. Blackhawke out.”

Stoke handed his radio over to Fat Jesse and turned to the rest of his guys, now engaged in a fierce firefight with the two nearest machine-gun towers. He had two casualties, the wounded men now being patched up the medical corpsman. One of them was a kid named 12-Gauge who would lead the demo squad.

“Redcoat’s on the move and the front door’s wide now open, Raiders, let’s move out!” Stoke cried out.

Stoke, with fat hard on his heels, was first through the blown gates. They sprinted across open ground littered with battle debris, headed for the first of the three warehouses. All were standing side by side on the town square, their backs to the water. The biggest one was the old courthouse building. The two floors of that structure were now being used as a warehouse. That’s where, according to that CIA intel, the bulk of the explosives were stored. And, two thousand cases of high-test vodka.

They got good cover from the M60s, his two primary machine gunners laying down thunderous suppression fire both on the ground and up at two more towers that continued to harass his guys’ movements below.

After sprinting across a hundred yards of open ground, Stoke and Fat ducked into an open doorway and returned the favor. They poured concentrated fire up into the towers. So far, they’d encountered sentries guarding the warehouses in the town square where the explosives were stored. Two were dispatched with head shots from Fat’s lethal sniper rifle fired from the window.

Stoke had used his assault knife to slit the throat of one man from behind before he could sound a warning. Stoke crouched down inside the door with his radio. It was tough to hear over the sound of the pounding fire of the M60 in Fat’s hands now.

“Bluecoat, Bluecoat, this is Redcoat One, what’s your situation, over.”

“Still cutting wire back here. Give us five.” Stoke could hear the distinctive sounds of AK-47s in the background.

“You got it, Redcoat One, over,” said the wounded ex — Army Ranger known as 12-Gauge, a kid who’d deeply impressed Stoke in all the shipboard briefings. Stoke had finally made the decision to give him leadership of the demo squad when they were splashing around down in the well.

The two squads would soon rejoin forces at the courthouse, the largest of the three designated primary targets.

Blackhawke moved slowly, closer inshore. From the port-side bridge wing, Hawke monitored the developing battle. The ship was returning small-arms fire from locations along the breakwater and out on some of the jetties and piers. Hawke’s immediate objective was taking out the guard towers, which were still giving Stoke and his Raiders so much trouble.

He picked up the radio.

“Fire Control, forget this incoming fire from shore. New targets are Towers One, Two, and Three in the area where Redcoat squad now engaging enemy forces in the town square… lock on and take them out, over.”

“Roger that, sir. Acquiring targets… lock one, lock two, lock three… and… three missiles armed and…

“Stoke! Take cover! Incoming!”

And in that instant, Hawke had been staggered, nearly losing his footing and falling to the deck. The boat had just been rocked by an explosion just off her aft beam. Hawke had to grab the bridge wing’s handrails just to keep from pitching overboard. He looked back and saw multiple eruptions of incoming fire around the stern — hell, all of a sudden the relatively peaceful harbor was beginning to resemble the Battle of Midway… was it possibly fire from the Russian missile frigate approaching through the harbor mouth?

He ducked inside the bridge.

“What the hell is that?” he called out to the radar station. “We taking fire from that big Russian boat out there?”

“Negative, Skipper,” the kid said. “Fire from the mountain, sir!”

“I thought we took out that damn bunker up there,” Hawke replied, looking at the black smoke still rising up from that location.

“We did. Fire is coming from the jungle area directly above those earlier targets. Gun on the move. Moving along a path just inside the tree line up near the summit. It must be very well camouflaged sir, to avoid detection by spy sats. Or us.”

“What the hell is it, firing rounds like that?”

“Those are 105 Howitzer rounds, believe it or not, sir. World War Two vintage. Must be mounted on some kind of tracked vehicle moving around inside the jungle canopy up there.”

Hawke grabbed a radio.

“Brock! This is Blackhawke, do you copy?”

“Blackhawke, Sergeant Luttier, over.”

“New objective, Gator, a 105 Howitzer cannon on our butts. He’s about to sink the damn boat. Do you guys see this bastard from your position?”

“Just getting ready to move, sir. Brock’s hurt. I’m patching him up now. We’ll find that bad boy up there, sir.”

“You think you two can take him out?”

“Bet yo’ ass,” Gator said and he was solid gone, over and out.

Hawke stood there with the dead radio in his hand, mystified.

“Did that soldier just say, ‘Bet your ass’ to me?” Hawke said, looking over at Geneva on duty at the helm.

“That’s a big aye-aye, Skipper,” she replied, smiling.

Everyone else on the bridge wisely kept their mouths shut.