Cuba (28 page)

Hornets that would be over the Ospreys carrying

HARM’S. HARM stood for high-speed

antiradiation missile. Enemy radars were the

targets of HARM’S, which rode the beams right into the

dishes. HARM’S even had memories, so if an

enemy operator turned off his radar after a HARM

was launched, the missile would still fly to the memorized

location.

“If the Cubans turn on the SAM radars,

open fireea”…Jake told his guardian angels.

“Don’t wait until their missiles are in the

air.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jake had heard nothing from Washington waffling on the

assertion that the

Colon

was in international waters, so

as far as he was concerned, that fact was a given. The

Cubans had no right to fire on ships or planes

in international waters. If they did, Jake

Grafton would shoot back. Of course, if the

Cubans shot first, they would probably kill a

planeload or two of Americans, Jake

Grafton included. The crews of the EA-6But

Prowlers and Hornets were well aware of that

reality.

As he sat in the Osprey Jake Grafton

wondered if the enlisted marines in the other two

planes understood the risks involved in this mission.

He suspected they didn’t know, and in truth

probably didn’t want to. Their job was to obey

their officers; if the officers led them into action,

fretting about the odds wasn’t going to do any good at

all.

That thought led straight to another: Did he understand the

risks?

“You okay, Admiral?”

That was Toad.

Jake Grafton nodded, smiled. A friend like

Tarkingtoh was a rare thing indeed. He hadn’t asked

Toad if he wanted to risk his life on this

mission; the commander would have been insulted if he had.

The warm noisy darkness inside the plane seemed

comforting, somehow, as if the plane were a loud, safe

womb. After takeoff Jake sat for five minutes

with his eyes closed, savoring the flying sensations,

recharging his batteries. Then he made his way

toward the cockpit and squatted behind the pilots,

both of whom were wearing night-vision goggles. From this

vantage point Jake could see the computer displays

on the instrument panel. The flight engineer handed him

a helmet, already plugged in, so that he could talk

to the pilots and listen to the radio.

He heard the Prowler and Hornets checking in, the

F-14’s, the S-3 tankers.

He heard Rita call twenty miles to go to the

mission coordinator in the E-2 Hawkeye.

She had the Osprey flying at a thousand feet above

the water, inbound at 250 knots.

“Visibility is five or six milesea”…she

told Jake over the

intercom. “Some rain showers around. Wind out

of the west northwest.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll do it like we plannedea”…she continued, making

sure Jake, the copilot, and her crew chief

all understood what was to happen. “I’ll hover into the

wind, then back down toward the ship, put the ramp

over the fantail.”

“Ten milesea”…the copilot sang out.

Jake took off the aircraft helmet and donned

a marine tactical helmet, which contained a small

radio that broadcast on one of four tactical

frequencies. Repeaters in the Ospreys picked

up the low-powered helmet transmissions and

rebroadcast them so that everyone on the tactical

net could hear, including the mission coordinator in

the E-2, the people aboard the carrier, and the pilots

of the airborne planes.

Jake pulled on a set of night-vision goggles

and looked forward, through the Ospfey windscreen. The

night was gone, banished. He could see the stranded

freighter, still several miles away, see the surf

breaking on the rocks, the containers stacked on

deck, the empty sea in all directions. He

looked toward the nearest land, an island just over

three miles away; he could just make out the

line of breaking surf.

The Osprey was slowing: Rita rotated the engine

nacelles toward the vertical position as she

transitioned from wing-borne cruising flight to pure

helicopter operation. Computers monitored her

control inputs and gradually increased the

effectiveness of the rotor swashplates as

flaperons, elevators and rudders lost their

effectiveness due to the decreasing airspeed. The

transition from wing-borne to rotor-borne flight was

smooth, seamless, a technological miracle, and

Jake Grafton appreciated it as such.

Jake Grafton kept his eyes on the ship. No

people in sight. The bow of the ship was on the rocks. The

ship had a small forecastle superstructure, with the

main superstructure and bridge on the stern of the

ship. The ship’s cargo

was in holds amidships, with extra containers stacked

between the bridge and forecastle. The ship had two

large cranes, one forward, one aft. She had a

single stack, and probablygiven her sizeonly one

screw.

Jake could see that the containers on the deck were

jumbled about, several obviously open and empty.

Others, a whole bunch, seemed to be

missing.

Now Rita swung into the wind, away from the

Colon.

The ramp at the back of the aircraft was open, with

Toad and the crew chief waiting there. Jake

Grafton walked aft to join them.

The crew chief gave Rita directions on the

ICS, back fifty feet, down ten, as she

watched her progress on a small television

screen that had been rigged hi the cockpit for this

mission.

Lower, closer to the ship … and the ramp touched the

deck.

“Go, go, goea”…the crew chief shouted.

Jake spoke into his voice-activated boom

mike: “Let’s go!”

The fixed deck of the stranded freighter felt strange

after a half hour hi the moving Osprey: The wash

from the mighty, 38-foot rotors was a

mini-hurricane here on the fantail, a mixture

of charged air and sea spray, dirt, and trash from the

deck and containers.

Jake and Toad crouched on the deck as the

Osprey moved away. The ramp had been against the

deck for no more than fifteen seconds.

Jake spoke into his lip mike, made sure the

mission coordinator could hear him. Gripping an

M-16 in the ready position, Toad led them

forward along the main deck. Jake Grafton

carried a video camera, which was running, and two

35-mm cameras. The video and one of the still

cameras were loaded with infrared film, the other

35-mm contained regular film and was equipped with a

flash attachment.

First stop was the main deck, where he inspected the

containers mere. Many had doors hanging open, some still

had the doors closed, but all the containers were

empty. Although he wasn’t sure how many containers

were supposed to be there, the area around the main hatches

was remarkably clear. The hatches themselves were not

properly installed. One hatch was ajar.

No people about. None. The ship seemed totally

deserted and firmly aground. Jake could feel no

motion.

He used a flashlight to look into the hold. This

section of the hold didn’t seem to be full. Many

of the containers were open.

Filming with the video camera, pausing now and then

to shoot still photos, the two men searched

until they found a ladder that led down into the hold.

Toad waited by the hatchway, his M-16 at the

ready.

Jake went down the ladder into the dark bay.

He had his night-vision goggles off now; in total

darkness they were useless. He snapped on the

flashlight, looked around, fingered the pistol in the

holster on his hip.

This hold was half-empty, with the packing material that

had been wrapped around the warheads strewn everywhere.

The place was knee-deep in trash. The containers that

were there were obviously empty.

Jake didn’t stay but a minute or so, then he

climbed back up the ladder.

“Let’s check the bridgeea”…he said to Toad over

the tactical radio.

They went aft along the main deck and climbed an

outside ladder to the bridge, which stretched from one

side of the ship to the other.

“They’ve cleaned her outea”…Toad remarked over the

tac net.

“Yeahea”…Jake replied, and kept climbing.

On the bridge Jake again removed the nightjvision

goggles and used a flashlight. He wanted to see

whatever was there in natural light.

What he found were bloodstains. A lot of blood

had been spilled here on the bridge; pools of

congealed, sticky

black blood lay on the deck. People had walked in

it, tracking the stuff all over.

“Not everyone was on the payrollea”…Jake muttered,

and quickly completed his search. He aimed the video

camera at the stains, then snapped a couple

photos with the regular camera using the flash.

Toad used a flashlight to search for the log book and

ship’s documents. “The safe is open and

emptyea”…he told Jake Grafton. He came

over to watch the admiral work the cameras.

“Where in hell are the warheads”…”…Toad asked

aloud.

“The Americans are aboard the

Colon,

Colonel.”

The man shook Santana awake. He held a

candle, which flickered in the tropical breeze coming

through the screen.

Santana sat up and tossed the sheet aside.

He consulted his watch.

He got out of bed, walked out onto the porch of the

small house and searched the night sea with

binoculars. Nothing.

He lowered the binoculars, stood listening.

Yes, he could hear engine sounds, very faint… jet

engines, the whopping of rotors….

“How long have they been aboard?”

“I don’t know, sir. With this wind it is hard

to hear helicopter noises. When I heard the

voices on the radio, I came to wake you.”

“Admiral, look at this.”…Toad came over to where

Jake was standing, showed him the screen of a small

battery-operated computer. “I’m picking up

radio transmissions, even when we are not using the

tactical net. Something on the ship is

broadcasting.”

Jake Grafton pulled his mike down to his

lips. “Hawkeye, this is Cool Hand. Has

anyone been picking up radio transmissions from the

target?”

“Cool Hand, Hawkeye. They started about a

minute ago, sir, when you went up on the bridge.

We have them now.”

“What kind of transmissions?”

“Amazingly, sir, I’m receiving clear channel

radio. I’m actually hearing you talk on

this other frequency.”

“What the hell? …”

Oh, sweet Jesus!

“This damned ship is wired to blow. The bastards are

listening to us right now. We gotta get offff”…With that

he gave Toad a push toward the door of the

bridge. Toad ran. Jake Grafton was right

behind him.

Colonel Santana couldn’t see anything through the

binoculars, but he heard those American voices

coming through the radio speaker. The microphones were on

the bridge.

“Any time, Tomasea”…he said.

Tomas keyed the radio transmit button three

times. A flower of red and yellow fire blossomed

in the darkness.

Santana aimed the binoculars and focused them as the

last of the explosions faded. He could see the

flicker of flames as they spread aboard

Nuestra Sefiora de Colon,

These Americans! So predictable! Santana

chuckled as he watched.

“Into the oceanea”…Jake shouted.

Toad vaulted over the rail into the blackness. As

he fell he wondered if there were rocks

or salt water below.

Toad Tarkington and Jake Grafton were in

midair when the bridge exploded behind them. Jake

felt the thermal pulse and the first concussion.

Then the dark, cool water closed over his head and

he went completely under.

As he began to rise toward the surface, he felt

more explosions from inside the ship. The concussions

reached him through the water like spent punches from a

prizefighter.

STEPHEN COONTS

When he got his head above water, flames

illuminated the night.

Above the noise of the explosions and flames, he could

hear Tarkington cursing.

After Rita pulled them out of the ocean and flew them

back to the carrier, Toad Tarkington and Jake

Grafton were checked in sick bay, then they showered

and tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

Toad gave up on sleeptoo much adrenaline.

He lay in his bunk thinking about leaping over the

bridge rail without knowing whether rocks or water

lay beneath, and he shivered. The shock of the impact with the

water had been almost a deliverance.

He turned on the light and looked at the photos

of Rita and Tyler he had taped to the bulkhead.

Really stupid, Toad-man, really stupid.

Grafton must have checked the location of the rocks,

knew where he could jump and where he couldn’t, and you

never once thought to look.