proceeded leapfrog fashion through the dark and shadows, blending in
with the night when they could, taking cover when they couldn’t.
The security guard was almost painfully easy to avoid.
The cement building was locked from the outside by a heavy padlock.
Nothing fancy, nothing complicated, but effective. They made a quick
circuit of the building, verifying that there were no windows in it,
then turned back to the problem of the lock. A shot from a pistol
would have destroyed it, but even their silencers would have been
easily detectable in the quiet Cuban night.
Garcia produced the snips that had dealt with the fence around the
compound and fitted them experimentally around the lock’s shaft. He
bore down, squeezing the blades together, but made little impression on
the metal. Huerta watched patiently for a few moments, then gently
shoved him aside.
He took the handles to the snips in his two massive paws, his hands
enveloping them completely. Sikes watched in awe as Huerta bore down,
knots of muscles and blood vessels popping out at odd angles all over
his hands and arms. The metal blades whined slightly as they bit into
the steel, complained, and suddenly met with a sharp click.
Huerta twisted the rest of the lock off the door and tossed it to
Garcia. Sikes shook his head, then put his hand on the doorknob.
It is always difficult to tell how hostages will react, even more so
when they are members of the media. There is a well-known phenomenon,
the Stockholm Syndrome, in which hostages begin identifying with their
captors, to the extent of even resisting rescue. Sikes wondered if
such would be the case with Miss Drake.
He shook his head. No, no way. Their biggest problem would be getting
her out without letting her catch it all on film. These reporters just
who the hell did they think they were? A spur of anger cut through his
concentration, distracting him. She was here by her own actions, but
her willful disobedience of her nation’s embargo on Cuba was now
endangering his life and that of his men, plus the team on the other
side of the island headed for the downed pilot.
Was it worth it? No, she probably wasn’t but the pilot sure as hell
was.
He shoved the door open quietly and stepped into the room, still a
ghost. It was stark, furnished only with a bed and linen. A door off
to the right appeared to lead to a bathroom.
Pamela Drake was asleep. She was lying on her stomach, her head
cushioned in one elbow, the pillow partially shielding her eyes. It
also covered her ear, making it unlikely that she’d heard them enter
the room. He motioned the other men in, out of immediate line of
sight, then quietly shut the door so that it would appear normal from
the outside. The only problem would be if the sentry came close enough
to observe that the lock was now missing from the door. Given his
brief observation of the man’s performance, he doubted that was a
probability.
Crossing the room in a few steps, Sikes knelt quietly by the bed. He
shook the mattress slightly, trying to rouse her without bringing her
to full consciousness. Many times he’d found that actually touching
sleeping hostages had startled them so much that they’d screamed, thus
bringing unwanted attention to the rescue operation.
Pamela moaned and rolled over onto her back, and her eyelids
fluttered.
He shook the bed again.
Her eyelids slammed upward and she rolled to the right, freezing as she
saw the man kneeling next to her bed. He felt her eyes travel over his
uniform quickly, noting the lack of insignia.
“SEALs?” she finally whispered.
He nodded grudging approval of her quiet voice and quick grasp of the
situation. Whatever else she was, this woman was no dummy. Time for
you to go home, ma’am.”
Pamela sat up in bed, gathering the sheet around her defensively.
“What makes you think I want to go home?”
Sikes rocked back on his heels. “The admiral thought” “Tombstone, was
it?” Her voice was sharp and slightly louder. “Coming to rescue the