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, grinning. “She’s an exact replica of a toy seaplane I had as a boy. One of the early radio-controlled ones. That was the prettiest little plane I’d ever seen. Still is, but I can actually climb inside this one.”
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 donned his headphones and started his preflight routine, surprised to find himself still whistling an old hit tune he used to whistle as a boy. Couldn’t remember the name. Theme song from one of his mother’s many movies, he supposed.
“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.”
In a moment she’d climbed into the right-hand seat beside him, and he was pouring her some hot coffee from the thermos his new friend Poole had kindly left in the cockpit.
“All right,” she said, “I know you’re anxious to get out of here, but I’m very glad I caught you. I’ve been with the president and the cabinet in Cayo Hueso. Then a meeting with all the top members of the Cuban Exile Committee. We’ve got a nightmare scenario on our hands.”
“What’s going on?”
“A lot. First, Miami. It’s like Dunkirk in reverse!” she said. “There is not a single vessel to be bought, rented, chartered, or stolen between Key West and Jacksonville! It’s amazing.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, the Cuban community in Miami is getting ready for a big seagoing homecoming parade. They see themselves, flags flying, sailing right into Havana harbor, of course. They think a U.S. invasion is imminent. As soon as this unpleasantness is dispensed with, they think they’ll just go home and it will be back to the good old days. They’re exerting huge pressure on the president and the Congress to invade now.”
“Will you?”
“No comment. Make your own determination. And there’s another little wrinkle we just found out about at 0100 hours this morning. The Cubans have demanded the total evacuation of Guantanamo. They’ve given us thirty hours. The clock started at midnight last night. It’s now, what, 0630 Monday? That gives us a little over twenty- three hours to evacuate thousands of women, children, and civilians.”
“Surely you’re not going to just do it, Consuelo?”
“I’m afraid we have no choice, Alex,” she said, sipping her coffee. “The Cubans have managed to smuggle a weapon inside the base. We don’t know if it’s nuclear or biological, but it’s serious either way. We’re searching, but it could be literally anywhere. Unbelievable. The CO at Gitmo, Joe Nettles, ordered half of the CDC people in Atlanta down. They just arrived. They’re turning the whole place upside down. So far, nothing.”
“You have to assume they won’t find it,” Alex said. “Which is why the Kennedy seems to be steaming at flank speed toward Cuba. She’s on a rescue mission, correct? Massive evacuation.”
“We’ve got to get all those folks out of there. And we will.”
“You don’t think it’s a hoax?”
“Hardly matters. Because there’s only one way to find that out, isn’t there?”
“Right, the bad way. Makes you long for the good old days of Fidel.”
“Doesn’t it? These de Herreras thugs are out of their minds. They’re about to find hell and damnation raining down on their people’s heads and wonder where they miscalculated. They’re counting on that stealth sub to stay
