Hawke (43 page)

Hawke barely heard the whump of the two deadly 9mm whispers in the dark.

“Two deceased tangos,” he heard Froggy say in his headset.

Then Fitz turned to Hawke. “The Frogman is our medic,” he said, “on the off chance anybody gets hurt. He’s also the platoon’s best shooter, which is saying something, believe me.”

Fitz then held up his hand and motioned the squad forward. The
Finca Telaraña
lay ahead, sleeping in the darkness. They would leave it in peace for a while. Alpha’s first stop would be the large building at the rear of the compound where Hawke believed they’d find Vicky.

If she was still alive.

Hawke was breathing hard.

They’d covered the last thousand yards of thick jungle at a dead run. With all his gear, cradling the HK MP5 submachine gun, it had been an effort. It wasn’t that he didn’t keep himself in very good shape. The fact was, of the whole team, he alone was unaccustomed to twenty-mile jungle runs every other day.

Alpha squad had encountered a total of six sentries. All six had been dispatched quietly and efficiently. Four by squeezed-off head shots they never saw coming. Two had their throats slit from behind before they could sound a warning. So far, there was no sign of alarm anywhere within the compound.

So far, in other words, so good. Everything was proceeding according to plan. An entirely dangerous state of affairs, as Hawke knew from long experience.

They were all crouched at the base of a towering banyan tree when he pulled up, wheezing a bit. Fitz was studying a crayon drawing he’d made of the compound. A tiny red penlight moved over the surface of the map he’d created based on the sat photo analysis. The men huddled close around him, peering at the drawing.

“We’re here,” he said. “Fifty feet from the sand road. The target building stands there, in a large clearing five hundred yards in that direction. It appears to be surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. The last two days of thermals indicate a pair of perimeter guards walking the fenceline. Cosmo, got your clippers?”

“Aye, sir,” said one of the Gurkhas. Perhaps one of the smallest, and easily the toughest, men on the squad.

“Go make us a nice large hole, lad,” Fitz said, pointing the penlight at an X marked on the map. “Right, I believe, there.” He spit one dead cigarette out of his mouth and stuck another one in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t light it.

“Don’t smoke ’em if you got ’em,” Fitz whispered. “These woods could be crawling with tangos.”

The little commando instantly slithered into the underbrush and was gone. Fitz looked at his men. “It should come as no surprise that the fence may have electronic sensors. If it does, we’ll all know soon enough. Get ready to blow through the hole if all the fooking bells and whistles go off.”

Hawke saw all the men flick their HK MP5 machine guns to full fire.

“Bravo?” Fitz said into his mike.

“Set,” Hawke heard Boomer say.

“We’re cutting wire. Give us two minutes.”

“I’ve got Cosmo in my NV,” Boomer said. “We just waxed two guards and are moving along the fenceline toward him now.”

The two squads would rejoin at the predesignated fence opening. Once through, Alpha would go left to the western side of the building, Bravo would go right to the eastern entrance. This would be the hard part, the hundred yards of open ground they’d have to cover once inside the fence.

“You see any other tangos outside or inside the building, Boom?”

“Negative. Building is dark.”

“Could be a trap.”

“I don’t smell one, Fitz.”

“Good enough for me,” Fitz said quietly. In the Mekong, Boomer could smell VC traps literally a couple of klicks away.

The men waited in tense silence for the sound of alarms and the harsh glare of floodlights. For Hawke, it was the most agonizing minute of the mission. If they were detected early, the guards would surely kill Vicky before he had any chance of reaching her.

“Okay, we got us a hole here you could drive a half-tonner through, Chief,” they all heard Cosmo say in their phones.

“Bravo, go,” Fitz said, at the same time raising his hand and motioning Alpha squad forward.

Three minutes later, Hawke and the rest of Alpha emerged from the jungle at the fenceline. He saw Cosmo, Boomer, and his men already there. Boomer smiled at him.

“Fun and games, sir?” Boomer whispered.

“Just like the good old days,” Hawke replied.

The three-story rectangular building was dark, just like Boomer had said. There was a dirt road leading around to the rear. Three or four vehicles were parked in the front, two half-ton trucks and a couple of WWII vintage Jeeps.

“Somebody check those vehicles for keys on the way in,” Fitz said. “We may just need them. No keys, be ready to hot-wire. Alex?”

“Right here,” Hawke said, sliding forward to crouch next to Fitz. Fitz pulled out his drawing of the building.

“If we got her code correctly, top floor, backside left, Vicky’s room should be right here. Last door on the right at the top of the stairs. We go four-through-the-door and clear the room. You, Froggy, and Cosmo come in on our heels. Clear?”

“Damn it, Fitz, I’m the only one who knows her on sight. I told you before, I should be in the front four.”

Fitz regarded him for a hard second. He saw he was unlikely to change Hawke’s mind.

“Christ,” he said. “All right, it’s your ass. We go in low. Acquire and shoot. No fancy head shots. We’re firing heavy loads. A hit anywhere will take the tango down.”

“Aye,” Hawke said, a grin spreading across his face. He’d known he’d get his way.

Fitz looked at his digital watch. “Twenty seconds,” he said. The men all pulled their black balaclava hoods down over their faces.

“We blow the east and west doors simultaneously. Clear the stairways and get to the top floor fast. Smoke grenades, stun grenades, and frags. Good hunting, lads. Let’s go hop and pop!”

Fourteen men snaked single file through Cosmo’s tear in the fence. A hundred yards to go and the large building was still dark, save a yellow light burning over each entrance. Alpha went left; Bravo went right. Anybody looking out a window would spot them immediately. Alex was in a low sprint right behind Fitz. He was expecting the sound of automatic weapons fire at any second.

It didn’t happen.

When they reached the entrance, every man stood aside as Cosmo placed a small explosive-packed battering ram against the heavy wooden door. No door could withstand its impact.

At the opposite end of the building, Bravo squad was preparing the same dramatic entrance. Everybody strapped his night-vision gear on. It would give them a huge advantage over the tangos inside.

“Blow their goddamn doors off!” Fitz said into his lip mike, and, with a loud bang, the two wooden doors at each end of the building breached inward.

Alpha squad was inside the building instantly, hurling flash-bang and smoke grenades into the dimly lit interior. The distinctive sound of AK-47s, the tangos’ automatic weapons, erupted as the opaque white fog of the smoke grenades began filling the room. Stun grenades were popping at the rear of the room. The white fog was rolling his way, but Alex saw a set of stone steps leading up just in time.

“Fitz!” Hawke cried, spraying his HK at four figures advancing toward him. “Stairs on the right! I’m going up.” The four tangos who’d been there a second ago had crumpled to the floor under the withering fire of Hawke’s 9mm submachine gun.

The firefight was intense now. Hawke knew the hostage guards on the top floor would be dazed but already awake. He took the steps three at a time.

“Top of the stairs, Hawke,” he heard Fitz say, and then the muffled
brrrrp
of Fitz’s HK submachine gun was exploding inches from his right ear. Lead from the tangos above was whistling by his head.

“Down!” Fitz shouted, and Hawke went prone on the steps, putting the sights of his own HK on a mass of figures at the top of the steps. Fitz propped his gun on Hawke’s shoulder and emptied a whole mag, obliterating the rush of tangos down the stairs.

“Behind us!” Fitz shouted as he reloaded. “Coming up the steps!” Concrete and other debris was raining down on them as rounds tore up the wall and the stairs above them.

Hawke’s submachine gun had gotten trapped under his body. He reached behind him and grabbed a frag grenade off his web belt, pulled the pin, and let it bounce down the stone steps.

“Adios, muchachos!”
he shouted. The tangos saw the grenade coming and started to retreat in a jumble back down the steps. By then Hawke had his Sig Sauer 9mm pistol on them and was firing into them. The heavy loads were incredibly effective. Men just crumpled at the bottom of the steps. Then the frag exploded and nobody was moving.

“Let’s move!” Fitz said, and he and Hawke scrambled up two more flights of stairs to the top floor, firing heavily at anything that moved. The heavy fire was returned, and huge chunks of concrete and tile exploded from the walls just above Hawke’s head. He saw two twinkling yellow muzzle flames in the smoke and emptied his mag in that direction. The firing stopped.

There was smoke up here, too, which was good. It meant Froggy or Cosmo had already made it this far and detonated smoke grenades. At the other end of the hallway, he saw shadowy figures. The loud exchange of automatic weapons fire meant Bravo squad was hard at work. As long as Vicky was alive, he didn’t care who found her. He saw Fitz in the haze, motioning him forward.

Mounting the final step, he saw that Fitz was standing in front of a plain door and that Froggy and Cosmo were there, too, crouched on one knee.

There was shouting coming from behind the door. He heard Vicky cry out. He didn’t wait for Fitz’s command, he just lashed out at the door with all the strength he had in his right leg. The door splintered inward.

Hawke, Fitz, Cosmo, and Froggy were through the door low, firing even as they rolled across the floor to either side of the door. Three men, one woman, Hawke made out, as he dove for the floor.

“It’s her!” Hawke yelled, “She’s on the bed! Vicky, don’t move!”

A gaunt, hollow-eyed man with long greasy hair bent over the bed holding Vicky by the throat with one hand, a gun in the other. Another man, fat and sweating, stood bare-chested at the foot of the bed, desperately trying to fasten his trousers, his plans rudely interrupted. Hawke recognized the two Russians instantly. Rasputin now had the .45 at Vicky’s temple, while the fat man, Golgolkin, had pulled his little automatic out of his pocket.

When he heard Alex call Vicky’s name, Rasputin turned and aimed his .45 directly at Hawke’s head. Alex, in the act of getting to his feet, fired so quickly that he’d pumped half a dozen shots into the skeletal man before he knew he’d squeezed the trigger.

He saw the heavy loads blow Rasputin against the wall, several dark stains beginning to bloom on his chest and abdomen. He was already going white, gone. He collapsed behind the bed as Alex turned his weapon on the fat one, the one named Golgolkin, and emptied it into his naked, sweating torso. He’d taken the two Russians out, just as he’d promised Gloria.

“Vicky, get on the floor!” Alex shouted as Golgolkin crumpled, dead before he hit the floor.

His clip expended, Alex ejected it, pulled a spare from the mag-holder strapped to his forearm, and slammed it into the grip of his Sig.

“Alex! Watch out!” he heard Fitz cry. He whirled as the bathroom door flew open and a tall, skinny boy dressed only in his jockeys opened up with an AK-47. The staccato noise of the weapon lasted but a second. Froggy, still on the floor, his Beretta in a two-handed grip, had put a small neat hole right between the boy’s eyes.

Alex climbed to his feet. Three down. He whirled around looking for someone else to shoot.

He saw two other bodies lying at Fitz’s feet. Somehow, he’d missed all that. He looked at the bed. Vicky was gone. He ripped the bed away from the wall and saw her, half-hidden by the first Russian Alex had killed. She’d done just as he said and rolled to the floor.

He bent down and pulled her up into his arms. Her hair and face were matted with blood but he soon determined it wasn’t her own.

“Alex—” she started, but he cut her off. Her eyes were wide, naked with fear, but there was definitely recognition.

“No time,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“No, but I can run,” Vicky said with a feeble smile.

As he helped her to her feet, Fitz’s voice was in his headphones.

“Hostage is clear,” Fitz said. “Alive and well. How about it, Bravo?”

“Clear,” he heard Boomer say.

“Anybody down?”

“Nobody but bad guys,” Stoke said.

“Yeah, same,” Boomer echoed.

“Then let’s fooking get out of here,” Fitz said.

Having cleared two rooms, Stoke, Boomer, and the two Gurkha Bravo guys burst into a third. It had only one guard.

When Stoke kicked the door open, they saw the guard had dropped his AK-47 on the floor and was standing flat against the far wall with his hands in the air, red-eyed and white-faced with fear.

“I think you can handle this one alone, Skipper,” Boomer said to Stoke. He and the two commandos moved farther down the hall where the firing was heaviest. Stokely moved into the room, sweeping his HK back and forth until he reached the terrified young guard.

“What the hell wrong with you, boy?” Stoke said, sending the guard’s AK-47 rattling across the floor with a kick of his boot. “Big old black man scare you so much you ain’t even going to put up a fight?”

“I—I have orders to execute him,
señor,”
the guard said in trembling but perfect English. “If there is any rescue attempt. But I do not want to do it. They say they kill me if I don’t do it!”

“Execute who?” Stoke asked, looking around the room.

“Him,” the guard said, pointing at the bed.

At first, Stoke thought the bed was empty.

Then he saw some movement under the sheets and saw whoever it was had pulled the sheets up over his head. Stoke walked over and ripped the sheets off. It was just an old guy wearing some ugly-ass pajamas.

“Get out the damn bed, my brother, you free at last,” Stoke said, prodding him gently with the muzzle of his HK.

“Fuck you,” the old guy said.

“Fuck me? I come and rescue your damn ass and all you got to say—hey, hold the phone, I know you! You goddamn Fidel, ain’t you? Hell, you Fidel Castro! Man, you world famous!”

“Go away,” the old guy said. “Leave me to die in peace.”

“Peace? You call this peace? Hand grenades going off, submachine guns firing all over the place? You deaf or something? Now get out that bed.”

“Where is my son?” Fidel said. “They promised he would not be harmed. No one will tell me.”

“Where’s his son, asshole?” Stoke asked the guard.

“They took him last night. To Havana.”

“Alive?” Castro asked, staring at the guard.

“Sí, Comandante
. He was alive when they put him in the truck. I swear it.”

“Hey,
Comandante,
get out the bed and put these damn pants on,” Stoke said, throwing him a pair he’d found draped over a chair.

“Why?” Castro said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why? Look at you! A badass revolutionary like you wearin’ them funky pajamas? Why is ’cause I’m gonna save your sorry ass whether you like it or not, that’s why. I leave you lyin’ here like this, they just gonna shoot you.”

“So?”

“So, you a Communist, ain’t you? Man, you on the endangered species list! You right at the top! I ain’t goin’ to let a bunch of dipshit drug dealers murder an old coot like you in cold blood. I’m a New York City policeman! Now, get your damn pants on and let’s get out of here!”

Castro climbed out of bed muttering and started pulling the trousers on.

“You, too, dickhead,” he said to the guard.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. You see anybody else in here?”

“No,
señor,
but—”

“Shut the fuck up, okay? Now both of you listen up. Pablo, you go out first, then the living legend, and then me. Pablo, you stay tight, right in front of the
comandante,
got that? Shield his ass. You don’t do it, you try and run, and I’m going to blow your ass off anyway. Okay, Pablo?
Comandante?
Let’s go!”

There were three Cuban soldiers just emerging from the haze at the top of the stairwell when they came out of the door. Pablo froze and then Stokely shoved Castro to the floor, told Pablo to hit the deck, and unleashed his MP-5. Before the tangos could register what was happening they had crumpled to the floor, shredded with lead.

“HydraShok loads,” he informed Fidel and Pablo. “Some serious shit, ain’t they? Come on,
Comandante,
get your ass up. We gettin’ out of here!”

The firing at the other end of the building had diminished considerably. Stoke was just stepping over the dead soldiers heaped at the top of the steps when he heard Fitz on the radio tell Boomer they had the hostage and were clearing out of the building.

Stoke didn’t see anything moving out front when the three of them stepped outside into the courtyard. Clouds still blanketed the stars, but he could sense it was getting lighter out. The closest vehicle was a beat-up old Jeep he’d checked on the way in. Keys were in the ignition.

“Get in that damn Jeep and drive, Pablo,” he told the guard, shoving him toward the driver’s side. He held Castro’s arm, escorted him around to the Jeep’s other side, and helped him get in. Then he handed the old man his 9mm pistol. Castro looked down at the weapon in his lap with an expression of mild surprise.

“Now listen up,
Comandante,
I don’t know what’s going on down here in this whacked-out fucking country of yours. But I do know there’s an eight-foot hole in that fence right over there. About five hundred yards past it is a jungle road looks like it might lead somewhere.”

“Sí!
I know it,” the guard said. “It leads to my village of Santa Marta!”

“Good,” Stoke said. “Excellent. Pablo, this old fella is looking shaky. You take him on home to your momma and get some hot chicken soup in him, okay? Perk his ass right up. You got that? Now you two get your sorry damn asses out of here before the real shooting war starts!”

He looked at Castro and leaned in close to him.

“I’m goin’ to tell you something now,
Comandante,
all right? Just between you and me, know what I’m sayin’, my brother? The truth?”

Castro nodded, just sitting there, looking up at him like what the fuck.

“This Communism thing?” Stoke said, looking at him, dead serious.

“Yes?”

“It sucks. Try something else.”

The Jeep roared off, and Stoke climbed up into the big half-ton truck parked a few yards away. No keys. He’d have to hot-wire it. Just as he bent to do it, the windshield of the truck exploded, showering him with a thousand fragments. He lifted his head and saw more green fatigues than he could count coming at a run down the road from the barracks area.

Shit.

The wires sparked, and the truck roared to life. He jammed it into reverse and backed up all the way to the doorway Alpha squad had entered. By the time he got there, he saw Hawke and Fitz emerge with Vicky supported between them. She looked okay. Hollow-eyed, but okay. Shit, she was breathing, wasn’t she?

“Everybody in the back of the truck!” Stoke shouted, leaping from the vehicle. “We got the whole Cuban Army coming down the road!”

Hawke lowered the tailgate and helped Vicky climb inside, giving her a quick hug. “God only knows how you got here, Vicky,” he said. “But I am going to get you out.”

“What…took you so long…Alex?” Vicky whispered, trying to smile.

Fitz’s commandos, some of them obviously wounded, started streaming through the door. Fitz did a head count as he helped them up into the back of the truck. He obviously wasn’t going anywhere until every one of his men had walked or been carried through that doorway.

“Okay, Stoke,” he said. “All accounted for. Hit the beach! Hawke and I will ride on the running boards and give you cover fire. Froggy, you guys grab a few RPGs and cover us out our rear. Go!”

Enemy rounds were sizzling all around them, a few starting to rip into the canvas top of the half-tonner when Stoke took off. Hawke, on the driver’s side, and Fitz, on the passenger side, each held on to the big rearview mirrors with one hand and fired their HKs at the rapidly advancing troops with the other. The Frogman and two guys in the back of the truck were hanging out over the tailgate firing rocket-propelled grenades at the first wave of green fatigues coming through the fence.

The RPGs slowed the wave of hostile troops down some but it looked like hundreds of them were coming. It was going to be close, Stoke thought, as he fishtailed the big truck in an effort to get the hell out of there.

He held up his arm to look at his watch. He was surprised to see it soaked with blood. A piece of windshield must have caused a deep gash in his forearm. His bloody watch told him they were forty minutes into the mission. They’d been in the building seventeen minutes. If they were going to reach the inflatables and make the appointed offshore rendezvous with
Nighthawke
before the whole Cuban Navy showed up, he had to get moving.

The banging of gunfire and the
whoosh
of RPGs behind him was now constant. It occurred to him that, except for his momma, just about every single person on earth he cared about was riding in this truck. Whatever it takes, he said to himself.

He told Hawke and Fitz to hold on and mashed the accelerator. The most direct route would take them through the heart of the tango compound, just west of the big
finca
that jutted out into the sea.

That’s when he saw the huge Soviet helicopter gunship come up over the trees. Soviet choppers made everybody else’s choppers look candyass. Big old black bulbous things with glass bubbles and turrets and shit. Scary-looking. Its rotor wash was kicking up a furious sand-storm.

Still, Stoke saw the bug-eyed monster’s twin six-barreled miniguns open up and start winking at him. Then he saw it fire two missiles.

“Christ, Stoke! Dodge those things!” Hawke said, firing his HK at the oncoming chopper. Stoke swerved violently right to avoid the incoming missiles and it was all Hawke and Fitz could do just to hang on.

The two missiles exploded about thirty yards to the left of the truck, causing a massive crater. The concussion alone lifted the truck up onto two wheels. It teetered, then finally banged back down again and Stoke got it moving and swerving right. This was bad. Even Stoke knew nine-millimeter rounds were literally useless against armored Soviet helicopters.

“We can’t take this thing out with the HKs!” Hawke said. “We need RPG launchers up here now!” He shouted in Stoke’s window as the chopper roared overhead. “Have someone pass them up!”

Stoke started zigzagging in earnest now, hearing the whine of the big chopper’s jet turbines as it careened around for another pass.

“No! Belay that order!” Fitz shouted in Stoke’s other window. “We’ll never get a clean RPG shot hanging out here one-handed! Stoke, can you execute a one-eighty in this thing?”

“Hang a U-ey?” Stoke said, swerving to avoid a looming palm tree. “I think I can manage that!”

“Do it!” Fitz screamed. “And come to a dead stop. I want to give Froggy a shot out the back at this fucking chopper. He’s the only one of us with the slightest chance to bring it down!”

“Hold on back there, folks!” Stoke shouted over his shoulder. “We’re going to flip this half-ton heap around backasswards!”

Stoke yanked down hard left on the wheel, locking it, and sent the big truck into a hard drift through 180 degrees. When it had completely reversed directions, he yanked up on the emergency brake. The truck skidded to a stop, throwing up a huge spray of sand.

He was amazed to see that during this maneuver, Fitz had somehow climbed through the window of the cab and was now scrambling over the bench seat into the rear of the truck. He was yelling at Froggy and the two other RPG guys to get ready.

The monster chopper had completed carving its turn and was skimming back over the treetops. It was probably surprising to the pilots to find themselves now approaching from the rear. But the ticking of bullets puncturing the hood and fenders wasn’t exactly soothing to those inside.

“Froggy, you remember where the sweet spot is on these birds?” Fitz was shouting at the back of the truck. “It’s an Mi-38 Heckle!”

“Mais certainement,
ze Heckle’s thorax,” Froggy said, getting to his feet. “Right below his gullet.” He unhooked the tailgate, let it fall, and stood up on it, spreading his stance and lining up the RPG tube, right down the throat of the big black bird. He shifted his feet for better balance. The tailgate was sticky with the blood of his wounded comrades.

“Oh, shit! Don’t let him get too close, Froggy!” Fitz shouted, watching the chopper roar toward them at treetop level. Soviet choppers were designed to get hammered and not even change course. There was one small vulnerable spot, though, and Froggy had his eye on it.

“Settle…settle,” Froggy said, the tube on his shoulder, ignoring Fitz and all the lead flying toward him, steady as a rock. He was actually calm at such moments. He knew he was probably going to get shot, and since there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it, he always focused on whatever weapon was in his hand at the moment.

The RPG had a maximum range of 1,000 feet or so. It was designed solely for land warfare. Firing one upwards was enormously dangerous, even suicidal as a few Sammies had learned in Somalia, shooting at U.S. choppers. Froggy, who had been there, knew he was forced to bide his time. The miniguns on the bird were spitting lead, kicking up sand all around the back of the truck. Closing—closing—now!