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He’d finally come face-to-face with the one unendurable truth that had ruled his entire life. It was so simple.
His father was never coming back.
He’d been waiting—
three knocks three knocks three knocks
—waiting for his father to return all his life. But his father was never coming back to save him. His father was dead. His mother was dead. He’d watched them die. Heard them die. At the hands of the deadly faceless spider who had haunted his dreams.
Only now, he’d seen the face of the spider.
He had locked on to those cold, dead eyes, and he knew. No more hiding, no more ru
A man who could cry havoc, let loose his dogs of war, and conquer the spider. Find the spider and kill it, as slowly and as mercilessly as—
He splashed some cold water on his face and looked at his watch. Bloody hell, it was six-fifteen. The flight ops guys were going to be merciless up on the flight deck. They’d probably all turn out, just to see the little Kittyhawke attempt a takeoff. After the humiliation of two failed landings, he was determined to resurrect his once-sterling reputation.
He figured if he ran her up to full power and popped the brake, he could be wheels up in less than fifty feet. That would give the bastards a shock.
Just thinking about climbing into the cockpit of his little plane brought a huge smile to his face. He pulled on his faded green jumpsuit, zipped it up, grabbed his duffel, and ran all the way up five flights to the deck. When he swung open the heavy steel door and stepped out onto the sunlit flight deck, he felt as if he were stepping through the gates of Heaven itself.
The sky was pure and gold and blue. The ocean heaved gently, rolling the vast deck maybe five feet side to side. He noticed a destroyer had pulled up about a thousand yards off their port beam. Then, off the Ke
The massive wake of the Ke
He wound his way through the covey of F-14s to where his own plane was parked. Seeing the LSO on the fantail, in his yellow and black bumblebee costume, Alex waved a friendly hello and got one back.
There was a young purple-coated “deckie” just climbing down from Kittyhawke’s portside wing. The boy stepped down off the pontoon, smiling, as Hawke approached.
“All fueled and ready, sir,” he said brightly. He was a red-haired, freckle-faced kid, not even twenty, Hawke saw.
“Thank you,” Hawke said, opening the hatch in the fuselage where he stowed his duffel. “Looks like a brilliant morning for flying!”
“Oh, yes, sir, Commander,” the boy replied. “Especially in that airplane. I couldn’t help taking a peek inside, sir. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Hawke said. “What’s your name?”
“Poole, sir. Richard Poole.”
“I’m Hawke. Alex Hawke.”
“I know all about you, sir. Your exploits over Baghdad are well known aboard this ship. But I’ve never seen anything quite like Kittyhawke, sir. First, I thought she was a converted Spitfire or an old experimental Grumman, but I see she’s not. Who on earth designed her?”
“I did,” Hawke said, gri
The sailor laughed. “She’s designed after a toy?” he asked.
“Yes, she is,” Hawke said, and stepped up onto the pontoon. “And she goes like stink, too. Same engine as the old Supermarine Spitfire Mark XVI. Packard-built Merlin 266.”
“Man alive, that’s one gorgeous machine, sir. So, who’s the babe on the side there?” the boy asked, pointing at the smiling blonde painted just below the cockpit window.
“Why, that’s my mother, as a matter of fact,” Alex said with a big wide grin. “A pretty famous American movie star, actually, before she married my father.”
“Wow,” the boy said. “What was her name?”
“Catherine Caldwell,” Hawke said. “She was from New Orleans. Everyone called her Kitty. Ever see the old film Southern Belle?”
“With Gary Cooper!”
“Right. That was Coop and my mother’s last film together,” Hawke said, climbing up into the cockpit and pulling the door closed. “She was nominated for the Academy Award. I was in England, but I saw her on the telly.”
“Awesome!” the sailor said, gazing at the painted beauty on the fuselage.
“Awesome,” Hawke agreed. “I was a very lucky boy to have had such a wonderful mother.” He slid his Perspex window closed.
Time to fly.
47
Hawke do
“Good morning, Commander,” he heard the air boss say in his phones. “You’re late.”
“Morning, sir, sorry about that,” Hawke said, busily flipping switches. The big engine coughed a few times, then roared to life. Hawke craned his head around, testing his flaps, rudder, and ailerons.
“Doesn’t matter, Commander. We’ve got an E2-C Hawkeye on final, vectoring in from Key West. The pilot asked me to hold you until they landed. Somebody from Washington aboard, I guess. Has an urgent need to talk to you, so sit tight.”
“Roger that,” Hawke said. “Permission to taxi out to the staging ramp and wait there?” Whatever Washington wanted, he wasn’t going to give up his slot. He’d listen to whoever and whatever for five minutes, but then he was out of here.
“Roger, Kittyhawke, taxi to the hold.”
“Kittyhawke, taxi and hold, roger.”
Hawke throttled up and steered his little plane out to the staging area where a few F-14s were parked. Most of the squadrons of Tomcats and Hornets appeared to be long gone.
He heard a howl to his left and looked out to see the E2-C dropping in just off the fantail. The aircraft was in the classic “Turkey” attitude, so nicknamed because “everything is hanging down.” The Hawkeye, an ungainly beast at best, provides the battle group with electronic surveillance and has responsibility for intercepting enemy transmissions. It carries more than six tons of equipment and is prop-driven.
Probably a bastard to land, Hawke thought, watching the pilot’s final approach.
The Hawkeye flared up perfectly, snagged the third wire, and lurched to a stop. Instantly, swarms of green and purple coated deckies surrounded it. One of them wheeled a set of steps up to the airplane’s portside and opened a hatch. A tall figure in a jumpsuit and helmet emerged, jumped down from the plane, and headed immediately toward Kittyhawke. Alex recognized that walk. It was Conch, all right.
She walked around the tail of Alex’s plane and stood looking up at him for a few moments before she removed the helmet and shook her hair out. As if he didn’t know who she was. He slid open his window and stuck his head out.
“Hi, Conch!” he said, smiling. “Imagine meeting you here!”
“Hi, yourself, sailor,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite a girl aboard for a cup of hot java?”
“Absolutely,” Alex said, reaching over to open the small door on the starboard side. “Come on around! Watch the prop wash, Conch, this isn’t any little F-14, you know.”