Hawke

Then, into the mike, he said, “Come up there? Goddammit, Bobby! Why the hell would I do that?”

“Something weird going on out here. I don’t know what it is. Off our port beam. Long white thing in the water. Like a trail. Headed in our direction. Looks like it’s coming right at us.”

Red was just sober enough to understand this instantly.

“Honey, something crazy’s going on,” he said to his wife. “Lemme check it out. Hold on.”

He dropped the phone and ran to the portside window. A trail of white, maybe a hundred yards away. He had time enough to say just one word.

“Shit.”

The Soviet Mark III torpedo was traveling at a depth of thirteen feet. It was ru

It took only seconds for the torpedo to reach its target. It hit the Reel Thing dead amidships.

Red, Bobby, and the Reel Thing vanished. They had been atomized.

In Fort Lauderdale, Red’s wife hung up the phone, having heard a fragment of loud noise and then silence. She shook her head, thinking of how much fun Red and Bobby had on these little getaways. Then she rolled over and went back to sleep.

The fire caused by the explosion was climbing into the blackness of the night sky. It was visible for four miles.

Less than a mile away, a man with his eyes glued to the periscope lens of the Josй Martн witnessed the destruction with grim satisfaction.

Commander Nikita Zukov of the Josй Martн removed his eyes from the rubber eyepiece of the periscope and allowed a wry smile to cross his face.

A fishing boat. He’d just sunk a stupid fishing boat.

He shook his head and flipped up the handles on either side of the periscope. There was a hiss of hydraulics as the tube slid into the deck. Then he turned to face his new crew of would-be submarine officers.

“Direct hit,” he said nonchalantly in Spanish. “Target destroyed.”

The Cuban officers standing around him in the dim red glow of the sub’s control room burst into applause. They brought the scope back up and each took a turn at the eyepiece, watching the orange sky lit by fiery debris falling into the black sea. They were laughing, shouting “bravo,” and clapping each other on the back.

Zukov stood back and watched them in disbelief. The former cold warrior could not decide if he was amused or humiliated by this scene and what had just precipitated it.

His first kill. After a brilliant twenty-year career. His first kill was a fifty-foot sport-fishing boat festooned with outriggers and fishing rods, instead of cruise missiles and eight-inch guns. With a crew of perhaps two men aboard.

The communications officer monitoring all radio transmissions a

Good.

Two American fisherman. Aboard a rich man’s fiberglass toy. Nothing to write home to Moscow about, but it was perhaps a start. First blood, at any rate.

Two figures stepped out of the shadows. It was Admiral de Herreras and the Russian Golgolkin, who’d stood silently by while the officers celebrated.

“May I have a look?” de Herreras said.

Zukov stepped back and let him use the periscope. The admiral studied the flaming debris pool for a moment, then swiveled the eyepiece ninety degrees left and stopped, grunting with satisfaction.

“Comrade Golgolkin, have a look. Is that it?”

Golgolkin put his eyes to the rubber cups, sweat stinging his eyes. His hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t seem to focus the blurry image.

“Is that it,” the admiral shrieked, “or is it not?”

Golgolkin nodded yes and stepped away from the periscope.

“So. Our next target, Commander Zukov,” de Herreras said, gri

Zukov put his eyes to the scope and focused. It was beyond ridiculous. Impossible. A large private yacht, huge, over two hundred feet. Brightly lit. With a massive British flag fluttering in the breeze at her stern. Zukov took a deep breath, remembering Manso’s admonition on the beach early that morning.

“It’s not possible, Admiral,” Zukov said.

“Why not? Comrade Golgolkin here has just informed me that Blackhawke is the ship of the man who betrayed us to the Americans. My sources in Washington say he’s aboard. I wish to destroy him.”

“A small fishing boat is one thing. Accidents happen. But this. The loss of life. It would be considered an act of war by the British, Admiral! A huge international incident! Surely you don’t want to—”

“I am the fucking chief of naval operations, let me remind you! Are you refusing a direct order, Commander?”

“Sir, in good conscience I ca

The Cuban admiral unfastened the leather holster that held his sidearm and raised the pistol. It was a silver-plated Smith & Wesson .357 magnum.

“I asked you a question, Commander. Are you refusing a direct order?”

“I am.”

The explosion was instant and deafening inside the cramped control room. A fine red mist erupted from the back of the Russian commander’s skull as brains and bone spattered all over the periscope. He swayed on his feet for a second, then collapsed in a heap on the deck. All of the men, both Russian and Cuban, looked on in horror.

“I am a firm believer in summary justice,” the admiral said. “The man was a traitor. I am now in command of this vessel and I want that boat sunk. Is that clearly understood?”

No one said a word. The silence was as deafening as the gunshot. The already fetid air reeked of cordite and the coppery smell of blood. The Cuban admiral stepped over the body and stared hard at the shocked faces of his crew.

Golgolkin leaned back against the bulkhead and breathed a sigh of relief. Only an hour earlier, he had slipped into Zukov’s quarters and rifled through his orders. Zukov had orders to kill him once the mission was completed. Now that Zukov was dead, perhaps he was safe. He stepped back into the shadows, removed a silver flask from his pocket, and drained it.

“I want someone to take a bearing on this target and sink it,” the admiral said, his face turning bright red. “Now!” he bellowed.

No one moved or spoke. After an endless minute, an officer who had been standing by the ballast control panel stepped forward. He moved slowly through the reddish smoky light, eyes riveted on the Cuban with the pistol in his hand. He dropped to his knees beside the fallen captain.

There, kneeling beside his oldest and dearest friend, he looked up at the glowering admiral with tears of rage in his eyes.

“I am the boat’s executive officer, Comrade Admiral,” he said in Spanish. “Vladimir Kosokov, second in command. This man you have murdered was my boyhood friend in Cuba. I have been his XO in the Soviet Navy for ten years.”

“Very well. I order you to sink that vessel!” the admiral roared.

“In my cabin are orders given me by Commander Zukov. They come directly from General Manso de Herreras. They are explicit, Admiral. They say that if anything should happen to Zukov, I am to assume command, offload you at Staniel Cay and return the submarine immediately to base.”

The Cuban regarded him in shocked silence. His own brother! Manso would pay for this humiliation.

“Fine. You can die beside your traitorous friend.”

“I would be honored. But I must warn you. This is the most advanced submarine on earth. And I am the only one aboard now capable of getting it safely home. And the only one who knows the codes for fire control sequencing of all weapons. Kill me, and you render the submarine useless. And condemn every man on this vessel, Russian or Cuban, to certain death.”