There was confusion at various checkpoints over who was going where. Ginny and Rita were headed for the Kennedy, berthed at Wharf Bravo, and Ginny knew how to get there. But there were also evacuation vessels at Northwest Pier Lima, Northwest Pier Victor, and Southwest Pier Lima. There were no directional signs, adding to the disorder and confusion.
At Wharf Bravo, there was a sense of barely controlled chaos on the pier. In the massive shadow of the famous warship, endless rivers of women, children, and the elderly were streaming up various gangplanks. Rita watched them disappearing with agonizing slowness into the many cavernous mouths in the Kennedy’s hull. Twice, various officers recognized the CO’s wife and tried to move them up in the line. Ginny refused both times, and it took another hour before they were out of the broiling sun and inside the Kennedy.
Seated behind a long table were six officers checking the evacuees’ identification before admitting them aboard. At either end of the table were Marines armed with machine guns. The six officers checked every piece of identification carefully, Rita noticed, even Ginny Nettles’s.
Little Cindy presented herself alongside her mother and handed the officer a pink plastic wallet. It matched the pink plastic suitcase she was carrying.
“Okay,” the officer said, opening the wallet. “Let’s see who you are, young lady.”
“Lucinda Nettles,” Cindy said. “My daddy is Admiral Nettles. Do you know him?”
“I certainly do,” the officer said, smiling. “Thank you, Lucinda. Next in line?”
“I hope it’s all right if I brought an extra suitcase,” Cindy said. “I had to because of my best friend.”
“Sweetheart,” Ginny said, bending down. “This nice officer is in a hurry. There are lots of people behind us. Let’s move along, darling.”
“Want to see him?” Cindy asked the officer, putting her suitcase on the table.
“Maybe later,” the officer said. “After we’ve—”
But Cindy had already popped the latches of her bright pink suitcase. A large white bear that had been crammed inside her extra bag exploded out onto the table.
“What’s his name?” the officer asked, with a smile of forced amusement.
“Mr. Teddy,” she said, hugging him tightly. “He’s my very best friend in the whole wide world!”
“Welcome to the Kennedy, Teddy,” the officer said with a smile.
Everyone got a big chuckle over that one.
52
All was still inside Archangel, the C-130 Hercules turboprop transport plane owned and operated by the elite counterterrorist group known in international special warfare circles as Thunder and Lightning.
Archangel had been built by Lockheed in the early fifties and was one of many C-130s still flying in every part of the world.
It was a black, moonless night, and as the big plane lumbered along at thirty thousand feet, she was nearly invisible.
The airplane’s entire fuselage and wings were painted matte black. There were no lights winking on her wingtips, none showing at her tail or nose. Even the lights in the cockpit were a muted shade of red, barely visible from the outside.
The route of flight had taken them north out over the islands of Trinidad and Tobago, then Archangel veered northwest out over the Caribbean Sea. She’d skirt the southern coasts of the Dominican Republic and Jamaica, then vector due north toward the southwest coast of Cuba.
Most of the guys were sitting along rows of canvas sling chairs that lined the fuselage interior or resting atop greasy pallets on the floor. Everyone was dressed in dark camouflage tigerstripes, wearing nothing reflective, faces blacked out with camo warpaint. Thunder and Lightning would be invisible when they floated down from the heavens toward their objective.
In addition to the two C-130 pilots up front and the jumpmaster, there was a platoon of commandos aboard. The platoon consisted of two seven-man squads. Fitz McCoy would lead Alpha squad. Bravo was under the command of Charlie Rainwater, known to his men as Boomer.
They’d been airborne for over an hour. Hawke was checking and rechecking his weapons and ammo. In a coin toss on the runway, he had been assigned to McCoy’s squad, while Stoke would tag along with his old XO, Boomer. Since Hawke was easily the least experienced member of the counterterrorist team, he’d promised Fitz he’d stay right by his side.
In what seemed like no time at all, the green light came on, and the jumpmaster was pointing at Fitz’s squad.
Fitz, sitting next to Hawke, took a long drag on his cigarette and said, “Saddle up, Commander. We’ll dip on down to twenty thousand feet now, reduce our airspeed, and then we go.”
“Five minutes!” the captain said over the intercom.
Hawke nodded. He was thinking about his last jump. He didn’t particularly want to think about it, but it kept popping up. He felt the plane dropping and cinched up the straps crossing his chest. In addition to his chute, he was carrying a lot of gear. Still, he was probably the lightest man going out.
He had an MP5, the HK 9mm submachine gun favored by SEALs, and a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol, both fitted with what the Yanks called hush puppies or silencers. He also had stun grenades and Willy-Peters hanging like grape clusters from his web belt. Willy-Peters were white phosphorus grenades, lethal and terrifying to an enemy when used.
“Two minutes!” The huge ramp began to lower and the cavernous interior was suddenly filled with a roaring wind. “Ramp open and locked,” the jumpmaster said.
Hawke eyed the jump/caution light. It was glowing crimson. He rechecked his Draeger for the third time. Since they’d be jumping into the sea and swimming ashore, all the men were equipped with Draegers. These German-made oxygen-rebreathing units produced no bubbles and made no sound. That made them ideal for secret insertions like this one. Hawke was feeling especially grateful for his tour with the SBS unit of the Royal Marines. He’d trained with all of this gear before.
Most of it, anyway.
Weight was a big problem in the thin air of high-altitude jumps. Many of these men would be going out the door with a hundred pounds or more strapped to their bodies. Two men were going out, carrying two IBS boats complete with motors. In SEAL lingo, IBS stood for Inflatable Boat, Small. Once they’d exfiltrated, each one was capable of carrying a seven-man squad, plus, in an extraction, a few hostages.
The jump alarm bell signaled one minute to drop.
Hawke used that minute to turn everything over in his mind once more. In the plan, worked out over the course of the afternoon, the two IBS boats would rendezvous with Nighthawke, the seventy-foot-long offshore powerboat carried aboard Blackhawke. The jet black oceangoing speedboat, two-time winner of the Miami–Nassau race, was capable of speeds in excess of one hundred knots per hour.
Nighthawke’s huge cockpit and hold below could easily accommodate twenty people. In the likely event of trouble, Hawke had instructed Tom Quick to mount a fifty-caliber machine gun on the stern deck.
If the IBS boats could make it safely to the designated rendezvous, Nighthawke could easily outrun the fastest Cuban pursuit craft. And deliver the two teams safely to the mother ship, Blackhawke, which would be cruising innocently twenty miles offshore. That was the plan anyway and—Hawke’s musings were interrupted—the jump light! It flashed from crimson to green.
The jumpmaster pointed at Fitz and said, “Good hunting, Fitz. Go!”
Hawke stood and followed his squad to the rear. One by one the five men in front of him strolled down the oily ramp of the C-130 and dove off into the blackness of the nighttime sky. It was Hawke’s turn. He hesitated a second and instantly felt Fitz’s hand on his shoulder.