it. “Pilot?” Sikes said, stepping close to her and whispering. The
question wasn’t necessary he knew which one she meant.
Pamela pointed impatiently. “The Marine Corps pilot. I saw him
yesterday I think they’re keeping him over there.”
Five hundred yards away, a small building blazed with lights. It was
surrounded by another fence, and a mongrel looking dog roamed
restlessly inside of it.
Good thing we’re downwind, Sikes thought. It’s sheer luck that he
wasn’t alerted by our motion. If he’d caught our scent, he’d be
barking his damned head off.
The SEALs held a hasty huddle. The SEAL team to the east thought they
were heading to Major Thor’s rescue, but clearly the Cubans had screwed
that plan up. And since his team was already here, they had very few
options. Come back with both hostages or don’t come back at all.
While the admiral hadn’t said it, that had been the secret resolve of
each member of the team.
“So we go get him,” Huerta said finally, settling the matter. “Dogs,
lights no big deal.” He looked toward Sikes as though seeking
permission a courtesy, both men knew, but one that was appreciated.
“You two head back toward the coast with Miss Drake. Sikes and I will
go after the jarhead. That work?”
Sikes nodded. As much as he hated splitting up the team, it was the
only course of action that made sense. They could not risk Miss
Drake’s life no matter how much he despised what she’d done by taking
her on the rescue mission.
“No way.” The objection came from the expected quarter.
Although her voice was still a low whisper, Pamela Drake was livid.
“There’s a good chance we won’t make it,” Sikes said calmly. He
already knew it was futile to argue. He motioned to Garcia to key up
his communications equipment.
“I think maybe I have more faith in you than you do.” The reporter
regarded him solemnly, no trace of mockery or sarcasm on her face.
“Call the other team,” Sikes said finally. “Abort their mission.
We’ll grab the pilot and scoot.”
“When SEALs go out to get someone, that someone generally gets
gotten.
So let’s gowe’re wasting time.”
She pointed at the dog. “That’s your first problem. Somehow, I don’t
think I’m going to want to be up close and personal for your
solution.”
0415 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson “They should be back on the beach by
now,” Batman said.
“This timetable is tight too tight, maybe.” He thought about the many
SEAL operations he’d participated in, how the damnedest sure bets could
go wrong at the worst possible time. The risk factor was enormously
greater than that of a combat air patrol in an F-14.
“They designed the schedule. Admiral. I’m sure it’s something they
can live with.” Lab Rat’s voice sounded a good deal more convinced
then he himself felt. “Anyway, there’s nothing that we” “Commander?”
An enlisted technician looked up from his bank of electronic monitoring
equipment. “I think you’d better see this.”
Lab Rat darted over to the console, checked the screen in front of the
technician. “Oh, shit.”
Batman joined him behind the technician. He studied the array of
figures and scrolling information, incomprehensible to someone not
inculcated into the arcane traditions of Intelligence. “What is it?”
Lab Rat shook his head. “Missile launch indications.
They’re getting ready. We should see thermal blooms any second, once
the preliminaries are out of the way.”
“Damn it all to hell!” Batman slammed his hand down on the console.
“We need another two hours to get them back aboard. Launching a
diversionary small-scale strike with men on the ground is one thing,
but I don’t want them there for the main attack. But if we’re going to
prevent a strike on the continental U.S we’ll have to move it up.
Damn the Cubans damn them!” He glared at Lab Rat for a moment, then
the anger drained out of his face. “They’re not going to make it, are
they?”
Lab Rat shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. Admiral.
I just don’t know.”
Tuesday, 02 July 0430 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson The flight deck was
a maelstrom of noise, heat, and wind.