Hawke: A Novel (37 page)

He’d just have to walk this last part, that’s all. He felt woozy, but he could do it if he could just get his legs to move. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t even
feel
his legs in fact. He reached down to where he thought they were and—

Oh, God. They weren’t there. Just blood. And some other stuff. What? Bones? Guts? Jesus. He was, what, cut in half? He was—

He felt something humming in his hand. He lifted his arm and looked at his hand. His cell phone! He still had his goddamn cell phone in his hand. He put it to his ear. He could call for help. He was going to make it. He—

“Hello, honey?” Rita said in his ear. It was Rita!

“Yeah, baby,” Gomer said.

“You all right? I’m worried about you. It’s real late. I know you’ve been drinking, but you come on home now and come to bed like a good boy.”

“I can’t, uh…honey, I can’t move my…we were going to be so rich and…uh…”

“You still there? You don’t sound so good, baby.”

“Well, I’m not…all that good. I wanted…see…I’ve been meaning to tell you about the teddy bear.”

“The teddy bear?”

“Yeah. The teddy bear’s got…a tummy bug and—”

“Honey, just come on home, okay? You’re not making a whole lot of sense here, okay? Mommy will make it all better.”

“I wish I could, you know. I just really…really wish I could.”

“Baby? Baby? Are you there?”

“I wish—”

“Baby? Baby?”

Alex was dreaming.

Sound asleep in the top bunk of his tiny berth, he was dreaming of his old dog Scoundrel.

They’d taken a small picnic supper to the edge of the sea. Scoundrel was plunging again and again into the waves, retrieving the red rubber ball. But now some terrible black storm appeared to be howling in from the sea, sweeping the little red ball farther and farther from the shore.

Scoundrel was at the water’s edge, the waves lapping around his forepaws. He was mewling and barking, watching the red ball disappear over the horizon. The dog barked loudly, loud enough to wake Alex, who rolled over in his berth, clutching his pillow, mumbling something in his sleep.

He was so far down, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, come up.

Quiet, Scoundrel. Quiet.

But there really
was
a voice calling him to come and come quickly.

Someone really
was
grabbing him, a rough hand on his shoulder, calling his name loudly in his ear. Shaking him, telling him to wake up, wake up now, even though he knew it was still nighttime. He could hear the waves slapping against the hull of the ship, see the blue moonlight streaming through the porthole onto his bedcovers, and hear the faint sounds of activity up on deck.

“Rise and shine, Commander, wake up!” the steward was saying. “It’s 0600 hours, sir! You were meant to be airborne at this time! Sir!”

“What? What?” Alex said, sitting up. Scoundrel had been replaced by a sea of black dots, swimming before his eyes.

“0600, sir, you filed a flight plan for an 0600 hours departure. Flight ops has been calling, wondering where you are. We’re getting ready to receive four squadrons. They’d like to get you out first. And this fax came in for you, sir, middle of the night. We didn’t want to disturb you.” He handed Alex a sealed envelope.

“Tell flight ops I’m on my way,” Hawke said, and the aide slipped out into the brightly lit corridor.

He ripped open the envelope, pulled out the single piece of paper, and read it.

Alex shoqok his head and tried to clear it. He stuck the fax into his pocket. He’d radio
Blackhawke
soon as he was airborne. His hand went immediately to his throbbing forehead. He remembered instantly. He’d fallen prey to the demonic whiskey gods once more. They’d had their way with him and now he must pay. Coffee. That was it. Coffee.

He rang for a steward who, since this was Officers’ Country, appeared instantly.

“Yes, sir?” the boy said as Alex, yawning, opened the door, still trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“May I please have a pot of hot coffee?”

“Certainly,” the cherubic young ensign replied. “How would you like it, sir?”

“Black. No cream, no sugar.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The steward nodded and was gone.

Bloody hell, he thought. What a night. There was the single malt before dinner. Make that the double single malts. Then there was, of course, the claret, all the fine claret, with the perfectly cooked rack of lamb. Then there was the port wine. Ah, yes, the port.

An old Royal Navy expression his grandfather had used popped into his brain. He seemed to recall repeating it countless times last evening, to the evident amusement of the Americans.

“The port stands by you, sir,” he’d said.

Which translated: “Don’t hog the bottle, mister, I’m thirsty.”

He had a dim memory of endless oceans of Black Bush whiskey and port wine, pounding against breakwaters he’d spent a hellish lifetime erecting in his mind. Elaborately constructed seawalls had been smashed to bits and ancient feelings had come pouring through. Along with them, he now remembered, came the long-buried memories.

God in Heaven, he thought, rolling his long legs over the side of the bunk and dropping to the floor. He’d had some kind of a breakthrough. The ghosts had come, yes, but it seemed he’d got the best of them.

The evening’s events were all slowly coming back. What else? Ah. Something about challenging that noxious prick Tate to a duel. But the cove never showed. Hardly surprising.

Alex had found a perch on the fantail and waited, watching the billowing clouds drift past the moon, feeling the slow soothing roll of the deck. Feeling everything inside him shift, rearrange, and shift again.

Then Balfour had appeared. An American fighter pilot who’d become one of his closest friends during the Gulf War. During the course of their recuperation in a Kuwait hospital, he and Balfour had formed a close friendship. Then Balfour had taken a turn for the worse, and one day he wasn’t there.

Sitting there on the
Kennedy’
s fantail in the moonlight, Hawke had found himself doing something he’d never in his life done before. Opening his heart to another man.

God knows how long they sat there. He unleashed a flood of happy memories of his parents and those wondrous early years on Greybeard Island when the world was still a magical place. He spoke of Ambrose, and how his dear friend had tried to help him. And Vicky, of course, how he’d loved her and how he’d lost her.

Finally, exhausted, and miraculously unburdened, he stopped talking and just gazed at the stars, taking the peace and serenity they offered.

It was then that he realized he’d completely forgotten why he’d been sitting there on deck in the first place. Oh, yes, waiting for that insufferable man to come topside and have it out. He must have finally given up, said good night to David Balfour, and somehow made his way back down to his cabin. At least, that seemed to be the case, because it was morning and here he was!

Now, he straightened and touched his toes twenty times. Ouch. He dropped to the deck and did thirty very slow push-ups. His muscles were screaming, and his head was pounding. It had been a very long time since he’d experienced a hangover of this magnitude. Definitely Force Ten.

He stepped inside the tiny head and stood bracing himself, both hands on either side of the little stainless basin. He’d gotten himself bloody well drunk, he had. First time in recent memory. Not tipsy. Tanked. Snockered. He felt goddamn awful. He looked at his bleary, watery eyes in the mirror and was flabbergasted to see a faint smile there, lurking under the two-day beard he’d been meaning to shave off.

A
real
smile.

Actually, he didn’t feel as bloody awful as by rights he ought to feel. Eventually, the sorrow over Vicky’s loss would somehow be locked up in the strongbox of his heart. He’d locked up sorrow before, and, somehow, he would again. But this new feeling welling up inside had caught him entirely by surprise.

Strange, he thought, looking in the mirror again. He felt, what was the word? Light. He felt light. Exquisitely light.

No, a little better than that. Buoyant.

Alex knew himself well enough to know he was hardly the deep, introspective type. In his world, just as there was right and there was wrong, there were two distinct types of humanity. Those who float and those who dive deep. Alex, all his life, had happily tended to float. Diving was dangerous. And so this seeming sea change he sensed inside himself was all the more surprising and perplexing.

Shaving, he pondered the new experience of diving deep. What had happened? Vicky’s death had affected him profoundly. But that wasn’t the catalyst for these entirely new feelings.

No, it was seeing the face of the spider. That huge face up there on the screen in the wardroom; that’s what had triggered it. He’d been painfully aware that every man in the wardroom was staring at him, but he didn’t give a good goddamn. Some vague excuse, some innocuous justification, and he could have moved on. He could not do it.

He’d finally come face-to-face with the one unendurable truth that had ruled his entire life. It was so simple.

His father was never coming back.

He’d been waiting—

—waiting for his father to return all his life. But his father was never coming back to save him. His father was dead. His mother was dead. He’d watched them die. Heard them die. At the hands of the deadly faceless spider who had haunted his dreams.

Only now, he’d seen the face of the spider.

He had locked on to those cold, dead eyes, and he knew. No more hiding, no more running away from the spider. Now, the spider would be running from him. The spider wasn’t all-powerful after all. The terrified little boy locked in the dreadful closet was now a wrathful man bent upon a singular and terrible vengeance.

A man who could cry havoc, let loose his dogs of war, and conquer the spider. Find the spider and kill it, as slowly and as mercilessly as—

He splashed some cold water on his face and looked at his watch. Bloody hell, it was six-fifteen. The flight ops guys were going to be merciless up on the flight deck. They’d probably all turn out, just to see the little
Kittyhawke
attempt a takeoff. After the humiliation of two failed landings, he was determined to resurrect his once-sterling reputation.

He figured if he ran her up to full power and popped the brake, he could be wheels up in less than fifty feet. That would give the bastards a shock.

Just thinking about climbing into the cockpit of his little plane brought a huge smile to his face. He pulled on his faded green jumpsuit, zipped it up, grabbed his duffel, and ran all the way up five flights to the deck. When he swung open the heavy steel door and stepped out onto the sunlit flight deck, he felt as if he were stepping through the gates of Heaven itself.

The sky was pure and gold and blue. The ocean heaved gently, rolling the vast deck maybe five feet side to side. He noticed a destroyer had pulled up about a thousand yards off their port beam. Then, off the
Kennedy’
s stern he saw many, many more, destroyers, battleships, light cruisers, and in the far distance, the hulking black silhouette of yet another carrier and her battle group. Huge Sea King helicopters were circling overhead.

The massive wake of the
Kennedy
showed she was executing a hard tack westward, as were all the other ships of the Atlantic Fleet. West toward Cuba, no doubt.

He wound his way through the covey of F-14s to where his own plane was parked. Seeing the LSO on the fantail, in his yellow and black bumblebee costume, Alex waved a friendly hello and got one back.

There was a young purple-coated “deckie” just climbing down from
Kittyhawke
’s portside wing. The boy stepped down off the pontoon, smiling, as Hawke approached.

“All fueled and ready, sir,” he said brightly. He was a red-haired, freckle-faced kid, not even twenty, Hawke 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.