Hawke

“You lost sight of her?”

“I saw her go under. I swam for her. She came up once more and called out something, but by then she was too far away.”

“And then?”

“I watched her go under. She never came back up.”

“My baby is gone?”

“I had Bahamas Air-Sea Rescue and my own men on the scene within fifteen minutes. We continued the search for eight hours without any—without any sign of her, sir.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve ordered the search to resume at first light, Senator. I’m going back out in my own plane as well.”

“I’m certain you’re doing all you can, Mr. Hawke. I appreciate your efforts on my daughter’s behalf. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m going to hang up the phone.”

“Senator, I ca

“Vicky was a very powerful swimmer, Mr. Hawke. All-American at Tulane. She swam all the way across Lake Pontchartrain when she was thirteen years old. She knew what she was doing. The idea that a current might be too strong would never occur to her.”

“But I should have—”

“My daughter would not have wanted you or anyone else to die needlessly. If there’d been a prayer of you reaching her, I’m sure you …”

“I couldn’t, sir. I couldn’t.”

“Son, listen to me. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, but if my daughter cared for you, you must be a good man. Vicky grew up in this old tumbledown place. It was just the two of us. Her momma died in childbirth.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“That was a long time ago. There’s a big live oak out at the end of our drive. Sits on top of the levee and you can see clear to the other side of the Mississippi from the topmost branches.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Victoria loved that old tree. Called it the Trinity Oak because it had three big old branches. She’d spend all day up on the highest branch, reading her books, writing her poetry. It’s where she felt closest to God.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not a religious man, Mr. Hawke. But my daughter was. So, I want you to find my little girl. I want to lay her down to rest in her sacred place, that little churchyard that is in the shade of old Trinity.”

“I’ll do everything I can to find her, sir,” Hawke said.

“I believe you will. Goodbye, Mr. Hawke. And don’t drink any more damn whiskey. I find too much of it only makes things worse.”

“Yes, sir. Good-bye, Senator.”

Hawke hung up the phone. He couldn’t bear the scent of her, the sight of her things, a second longer. He rose and wandered back to his own stateroom where he collapsed upon the bed. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make Vicky’s face go away. He could see her perfectly. Her beautiful auburn hair was matted to her forehead. But she wasn’t above him. She was below him. About fifteen feet down in the green water, her arms and legs spread out. Not moving. Drifting and—

Sometime later, there was a squawk from Sniper on his perch, followed by a knock at the door. “Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Stokely, boss,” said the muffled voice outside.

“What do you want?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Hawke said, and sat up, drying his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Why not?” he said, opening the door. He padded back to his bed, leaning his head back against a large white pillow.

“How you feelin’?” Stoke asked, pulling up a chair.

“Ask me something else.”

“I don’t mean to bother you. You hurt. You on the bench. You sidelined. Ambrose sent me down here to check on you. Man thinks you should eat something.”

“He sent you down here to tell me that?”

“No, boss. He wants you to come up to the bridge. The radio guy or whatever picked up something on the satellite TV. News show off the Cuban television. Ambrose taped it and wants you to see it.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. What is it? A fucking cricket match?”

“Naw, it ain’t no crickets. It’s Castro. He’s on the Cuban TV station. Something going down in Cuba. Ambrose said you need to see it is all I’m sayin’. I wouldn’t have bothered you for nothing but—”

WHOOOMPH!

The sound of an explosion, muffled and distant but still enormous, reverberated throughout Hawke’s stateroom. The crystal decanters and glassware on the bar tinkled but didn’t fall.

“Holy Christ, now what?” Hawke said, and picked up the direct line to the bridge.

“What the hell was that, Captain?” Hawke asked when Blackhawke’s skipper picked up.

“We’re looking at it now, sir,” the captain said. “An explosion about two miles off our port beam. We had them on radar. They were headed northwest at about twenty knots. Small yacht, fifty feet or so.”

“No SOS prior?” Hawke asked.

“No, sir. They just blew sky high. I’ve ordered the launch lowered. The second officer is on with the Coast Guard now, apprising them of the situation. I’m sending Quick and the launch over to look for survivors. Not much hope by the looks of it, I’m afraid.”

“I’m coming right up.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Come on, Stoke,” Hawke said.

When Hawke reached the bridge, he could still see the fire two miles distant. Congreve and the captain were both standing just outside the wheelhouse on the starboard bridge wing with their binoculars trained on the scene. Alex and Stokely stepped out onto the small bridge deck. The smell of burning fuel had already drifted toward them.

“Sorry to bother you, Alex,” Ambrose said, handing him the binoculars. “But I had no choice. A military coup in Cuba, apparently. Now this poor fellow out there seems to have blown himself up.”

“A Cuban coup. Is that good news or bad news?” Hawke said, raising the glasses to his eyes. There was nothing left of the yacht but flotsam and jetsam floating in a spreading pool of burning fuel.

“I’d say a rogue military government with a ballistic submarine was bad news,” Ambrose said.

“Is Castro dead?”

“No. I don’t believe so. Not yet anyway. I taped the broadcast. Whenever you’re ready.”

“What do you think happened to that yacht, Cap?” Hawke asked, still looking through the binoculars.

“Hard to say, sir. The most likely scenario is an electrical fire in the engine room. Raged out of control and both fuel tanks exploded.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Poor chaps never knew what hit them. Jesus Christ. Welcome to life aboard the yachts of the rich and famous. It’s been one bloody rotten day in Paradise, gentlemen.”

“Indeed it has, sir,” the captain said. “On behalf of the entire crew, we are all terribly, terribly sorry about your tragic loss, sir.”

“Thank you,” Alex said. “Please convey my gratitude to the crew for all they’ve done to help. If you could have my seaplane ready, I’m going back out at first light, Captain.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the captain said, and returned to the bridge. Alex stood with his hands on the rail, gazing out at the distant fire on the black sea. There was a sharp line of pink and gold on the far horizon.

“Come look at the tape, Alex,” Ambrose said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Then the doctor wants to give you something to help you sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep until I find her, Ambrose.”