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.”
39
“Well, I will say one thing,” Hawke said. “That has to be the shortest speech Castro ever gave.”
They had gathered in the ship’s darkened screening room, scattered about on large, overstuffed leather chairs, to watch the tape originally broadcast on the Cuban National Television station.
“Please rewind it and replay with the sound turned down a little,” Hawke said. “And if you’d be so kind as to give me a simultaneous translation, Ambrose? Needn’t be word for word.”
Castro appeared on the screen. He was seated at a small table, staring into the camera. He looked ten years older than his recent pictures, haggard and worn. There were deep black circles under his eyes, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
As Castro started speaking, Ambrose said, “He begins by expressing his enormous gratitude for the sacrifices the heroic Cuban people have made during the time of the struggle. He goes on to say that he knows it has been difficult for them, but that it was in service of a great cause. He says that the revolution, while it has been a great political success, has not been a great economic success.”
“Fairly mild understatement,” Hawke said.
“He alludes now to his health. Everyone knows of his recent illnesses. He says he has the will but doesn’t have the energy to continue. He says he’s stepping aside for health reasons and—he starts to say something else, and they cut him off.”
“Health reasons meaning someone off camera has a bloody pistol aimed at his head,” Hawke interjected.
“No doubt,” Ambrose agreed. “A chap from the American State Department called. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed. I spoke with him for a few moments. According to him, it’s a full-blown military coup, all right.”
“Who’s this lovely ponytailed fellow we’re seeing now?”
Ambrose took a deep breath. Whether he was prepared to admit it or not, Alex Hawke was finally confronting his demons face-to-face.
“This is General Manso de Herreras, Alex,” Ambrose said. “Castro’s right-hand man. Former minister of state security. Apparently he’s just promoted himself to general. He’s now head of all the armed forces.”
“Man look just like a woman,” Stoke blurted out in the dark. “Man look like he wearing makeup.”
“What does the general have to say for himself?” Hawke asked, leaning forward in his chair and staring intently at the face on the screen. He’d seen something there, Ambrose quietly observed.
“General de Herreras says he is deeply honored that el comandante has elevated him to the great responsibilities of military chief and has placed such trust in him.”
“Bullshit,” Stoke said.
“Indeed,” Ambrose continued. “He is proud to be part of a new leadership that will bring Cuba forward to her
