sea. He gazed around the table, sizing up his team.
Alex knew him and liked him. Born in Hyco, Texas, the CINCATFLT had been first in his class at Annapolis, a Rhodes scholar, a fine athlete, and still a young man for his exalted rank. He was in his prime and clearly at the top of his game.
“I’m Admiral George Blaine Howell. I’d like to welcome each and every one of you aboard my flagship. We’re a little proud of the Kennedy, and we hope your stay aboard her will be both comfortable and productive.” His eyes stopped when they reached Hawke, and he was clearly surprised to see him. Alex saw something you generally didn’t expect in the eyes of the military. Sympathy.
“Commander Hawke. Good to see you again. We regret the tragic events of yesterday and especially appreciate your taking this sad time to be with us.”
There were murmurs and head nods around the table.
“Glad to be aboard, sir,” Hawke said. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting.”
“A few of us were up on the bridge,” Tate said. “You gave us all quite a thrilling air show.”
Hawke looked up at the man across the table and glared at him, waiting for him to look away. He finally did.
“You’re welcome to try your hand at a carrier landing anytime, Mr. Tate,” Admiral Howell said. “I’m sure you’d find it quite exciting. Now, let’s cut the bullshit and get down to business.”
Howell opened the silver cigarette case in front of him, popped an unfiltered Camel in his mouth, and lit it. A steady stream of smoke escaped his lips as he started to speak.
“Everyone knows why we’re here. These sons of bitches in Havana. A military coup in Cuba. Goddamn hoodlums, from what I hear. Drug dealers. Murderers. We don’t know if Castro is dead or alive. Doesn’t really matter much to me. One way or another we’re going in there. “
The admiral had reduced one cigarette to ash in less than a minute, and lit another.
“Thanks to Commander Hawke’s efforts, we now know that we are confronting a rogue state quite possibly in possession of the most sophisticated and deadly nuclear submarine ever to roam the oceans. Somebody needs a clear and direct threat to American national security, this is it. The president has instructed this task force to negate that threat with a preemptive strike.”
He paused, letting his eyes roam the table. “Since I’m in charge of this task force, that, gentlemen, with your help, is exactly what I intend to do. The U.S. Navy is going to find that submarine. We’re going take it away from the Cuban rebels. Or we’re going to sink it.”
He looked around the table and said, “Last time we went into Cuba, it was a total ratfuck, dicked up in spades. We actually learn from history. Sometimes. So. Anybody got any bright ideas?”
“If I may, Admiral?” Weinberg said, getting to his feet.
“Of course,” Howell replied as Weinberg walked over to a huge map of Cuba on the wall opposite Hawke. He picked up a laser pointer and flicked it on, aiming at Havana.
Alex settled back in his chair and tried to assume an air of composed, if not rapt, attention. It was now officially a “meeting.” There were few things on earth Alex detested more than meetings. Within his own companies, meetings were strictly limited to ten minutes. Anyone who could not say a definitive yes or no to any question was forbidden to attend.
“Number one,” Weinberg said, “we have to keep talking to these people, no matter how threatening, how belligerent they become. We keep them talking long enough to form and implement our strategy.”
“Who does the talking on our side?” Admiral Howell asked.
“The president has suggested the secretary of state. Her Cuban heritage makes her ideal. Anyone disagree?” Weinberg asked. Howell nodded his approval. There was no dissent.
“Good,” Weinberg said, “then she will be the gatekeeper for all information and intelligence we generate. She will lead our negotiations with the new regime. The secretary has asked me to apologize for her late arrival. She’s coming from an emergency meeting with the president on Key West.”
“That’s one, what’s number two?” the admiral asked, a wreath of smoke now encircling his head.
“Well. If you’ll open your briefing books,” Weinberg said, “you’ll see that tab one contains a series of photographs taken by our U-2s and Predators over the last week or so. The photos are of an island here, off the coast of Manzanillo, on the southeast coast of Cuba. Please take a minute to study them.”
“Never anything brief about a briefing book,” Admiral Howell muttered, turning the pages, skipping ahead.
As the men leafed through their books, Hawke opened his case and withdrew a small package containing an audio cassette. The radioman aboard Blackhawke had handed it to him as he boarded his seaplane. He assured Hawke it would be interesting.
“The rebels’ base of operations is called Telarana,” Weinberg said. “Tab two contains precisely detailed building-by-building layouts of the entire compound.”
“How’d we come by that?” one of the admirals asked.
“Easy,” Tate interrupted. “They recruit local labor, we supply it. We have at least three members of the construction crew on our payroll. The diagrams in your books are the product of their latest intelligence. Two, maybe three days old.”
“Let’s move on,” Admiral Howell said.
“That large white structure you see at the mouth of the river,” Weinberg continued, “is a submarine pen. Its dimensions tell me that it is precisely wide enough to accommodate the extraordinary beam of a Borzoi. Commander Hawke, would you like to speak to this?”
“Certainly,” Alex said. “Six months ago, the Cuban rebels bought an extremely sophisticated Borzoi-class submarine from a pair of ex-Russian submarine officers, now arms dealers. Two Borzoi submarines were completed in late 1991 using purloined stealth technology. Borzoi utilizes a radical delta wing design, twin hulls forming a V- shape, twenty silos on each hull. It has a retractable conning tower for minimum drag whilst submerged. Fastest sub on earth, by a factor of three, biggest payload, virtually invisible to existing methods of detection.”
“Don’t tell me this thing can fly, too,” Howell said.
“Pretty fair description of what she does underwater,” Alex replied.
“Christ. Have they taken delivery?” Tate asked.
“I believe they have, yes,” Alex said.
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, did you say?” the CIA man said, coating the word with gelatinous sarcasm.
“Yes, Mr. Tate, I said perhaps,” Alex said. Before this was over, he and Mr. Tate were going to have a very private conversation.
Seeing the tension, Admiral Howell coughed into his fist, and Weinberg tapped the map with his pointer.
“We know they’ve built a sub pen, and we know they’ve purchased a Borzoi boomer,” Weinberg said. “What we don’t know is whether or not they’ve actually taken delivery.”
“From the tone and manner of their opening salvo,” Admiral Howell said, “ordering us out of Gitmo, I’d guess these boys were packing some serious heat. In all likelihood, the sub has been delivered.”
“Perhaps,” Alex said, looking at Tate, “you are right, Admiral. This little package might confirm your supposition. If I may?” The admiral nodded.
Alex pushed his chair back, got up, and walked around the table to Howell, handing him the small package.
“Audio cassette,” Alex said.
“Of what, Commander?” the admiral asked.
“Admiral, my yacht is equipped with underwater towed array sonar. Since we frequent ports and coastlines where neither your Navy nor mine is welcome, we record everything we hear. If it’s sufficiently interesting, we courier it to Washington or London. My radioman handed me that cassette this afternoon just before I took off. Your lads should give a listen to it. My man thinks our SONUS picked up the signature sound of a Russian Mark III torpedo’s screws. But you fellows are the experts.”
“Thank you,” Howell said, and instantly an aide was at his side. He took the package and left the room.
“Commander,” the admiral said, “when and where did your boy pick this up?”
“At 0220 hours, sir,” Alex said. “It was recorded while we were lying at anchor one mile due west of Staniel
