Hawke

The flat chute opened beautifully.

He began a controlled descent of lazy spirals in the blackness. It reminded him of why he’d enjoyed some of his jump training at SBS. Checking his compass and altimeter, he determined that he was descending through ten thousand feet, about five miles from splashdown in the two-hundred-square-yard patch of ocean designated LZ Liberty. Boomer’s Bravo squad was going into LZ Nautilus a quarter of a mile away.

Alpha squad’s primary mission was to locate the hostage. Bravo was going to create an explosive “diversion” of sorts when the time came for both squads to link up and go in for the snatch and grab.

Five minutes later, Alex could make out the black humped outline of the island called Telaraсa and the southwest coast of Cuba beyond it. He saw phosphorescent white rollers gently breaking along the island’s beaches. He estimated he had about a fifteen-minute glide remaining, so he just hung in his harness and enjoyed the view.

He was so relaxed he was startled to hear canopies fluttering all around him and the sound of men splashing down just under him. He pulled the cord that inflated his BCD vest, a buoyancy compensator device, then initiated a series of S turns to eat up speed and waited for his boots to get wet. Five seconds later, he flared up and hit the water.

He saw black faces bobbing all around him, white teeth smiling at him. He heard a whoosh as the IBS partially inflated. One man would stay offshore with the rubberized inflatable. His main problem would be staying out of the path of the Cuban patrol boat.

“You’re a bit late,” one of the faces said.

“Sorry, Fitz,” Alex said. “Minor equipment problem.”

“I noticed. Good recovery,” Fitz said. “We got lucky. We just missed landing on the fooking roof of a Cuban patrol boat. He’s gone round that point now, but he’ll be back.”

Fitz did a quick head count. Every man in Alpha had made it to the LZ. It was time to don the Draeger oxygen rebreathers and start swimming. They were a half mile from shore. Hawke could see breakers on the white sand and a dark stand of palm trees Fitz had designated as their next rendezvous point.

Before he pulled the swim mask down over his face he did a full 360.

Finca Telaraсa, General Manso de Herreras’s massive, grandiose home, sat on a spit of land jutting into the sea. It was a dark, hulking structure, bathed in the pale blue light of a scattering of stars. Hawke said a silent prayer that two men from his distant past were sleeping somewhere inside. But the finca was not their first objective. First they would launch a surprise raid on the building where Vicky was being held.

“Go,” Fitz said simply, and all eight men dove under the surface and started kicking for shore.

Little more than half a mile to the west, Boomer and his Bravo team were just entering the narrow shoals of the La Costa river. The flashing red and green navigational lights at either end of the jetties were unseen by the squad, which was swimming at a depth of twelve feet.

This is where the Draeger rebreathers were critical. Not a single bubble revealed the presence of seven powerful swimmers moving up the black cha

Hawke emerged from the surf and saw two of his men sprinting for cover into the stand of palms. There was still no moon, but the ambient light of stars and white sand made him feel all too vulnerable. He flicked his HK to full fire and headed for the trees, knees pumping.

He found Fitz and the team already gathered and sorting out their weapons and gear. Each man was being given a Motorola headset and lip mike. There would be instant and silent communication among all the men in Alpha. Fitz’s squad would also monitor Boomer’s transmissions and vice versa. That way, the two teams would know each other’s every move.

Hawke noticed Fitz was wearing a big smile. He had a cigarette hanging from the left side of his mouth, unlit.

“What is it, Fitz?” he whispered. “You seem altogether too jolly.”

“I just had a happy thought on the swim in,” Fitz said. “Does anyone know today’s date?”

“May first!” one of the squad members said. It sounded like Froggy.

“May Day in Commieland!” another commando said.

“Fooking right it is.” Fitz beamed. “Which means our little buddies have been partying all day and all night. It’s 0230 hours. I should think most of them would be snug in their little beds by now.”

“With all ze Stoli and rich Cubano cigars,” Froggy said, “zey might be a little sluggish waking up, maisnon?”

“A bit like Washington crossing the Delaware on Christmas Eve, surprising the British at Trenton,” Hawke said, smiling. “Bloody bastard.”

“May Day,” Fitz said with a grin. “Christmastime for Commies.”

“Bravo, you copy?” Fitz said into his mike.

“Copy,” Boomer said.

“Anything?”

“Just came up to take a look. Halfway up the river.”

“Tangos?”

“Six or seven, guarding the entrance, don’t look like they’re expecting company. No problem.”

“Twenty minutes to hostage site rendezvous, Boomer. Go.”

Tangos, or T’s, Hawke knew, was SEAL-speak for terrorists. It’s what they labeled all bad guys around the world. He felt his adrenaline surge. It had been a while since he’d found himself in a foreign locale, surrounded by so many men who would like to do him serious harm.

“Froggy,” Fitz said, “get your NV gear on and see if they’ve got pickets out here.”

“Aye, aye,” Froggy said. Hawke watched the wide little Frenchman strap the night-vision equipment on his head and then slip out of the stand of trees. He darted across the beach, staying low, for about two hundred yards. Then he checked up and ducked behind some large scrub palms and bushes.

“Two tangos in a parked ATV,” Froggy said. “Shucking and jiving, mon ami.”

“Have you got a head shot? A clear plink?”

“Aye on both.”

“Make that hush puppy bark softly and wax ’em, Froggy,” Fitz said. “We’re moving up right behind you.”

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 Telaraсa 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.

53

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.