Crooked River(29)

“Make it so, Mr. Peterman.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a silence on the bridge. Baugh turned to the XO, who was staring at him. Baugh flashed him a reassuring smile. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Rama. We painted them with radar. No response. Someone’s asleep at the helm. They won’t even notice.”

“Aye, sir.”

The ten-degree rudder would give them a turn of two-mile radius, bring them within eight miles of shore. Baugh turned to the operation specialist. “Ms. Atcitty, prepare to launch a surveillance drone at closest approach. Mr. Peterman, continue turning the ship through two hundred and seventy degrees. When a heading of zero-zero-zero is achieved, accelerate to forty knots and exit Cuban waters.”

More shocked silence.

“I gave an order!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Baugh felt the cutter begin to turn. He understood the hesitation of his staff, but he also knew they didn’t have his experience. There were times when standard procedures didn’t apply; when unusual, even heroic, measures had to be taken. Something terrible was happening on the shore in front of the prison, and by sheer chance they had hit right on it. It might well be part of a complicated military strategy, of which the feet were an early component. If so, Washington had to be informed. They couldn’t wait for sat imagery; that might take hours, if not days. He needed to document this right now. The cutter was fast—damn fast—and if the Cubans gave chase, she could outrun almost any tin-can Cuban warship.

The Chickering continued its slow turn. The activity on the beach continued, and Baugh swore he saw another decapitation, but it was too fast and blurry to be sure. But slowly, slowly, the picture grew clearer as they edged closer to land. As the cutter came parallel to the shore on the starboard side, still turning, Baugh said: “Ms. Atcitty, launch drone.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” She relayed the order and a moment later said, “Drone launched.”

Baugh heard a buzzing sound and saw the drone—a helicopter type—shooting out over the water, staying low, heading toward shore. By now the cutter’s bow was swinging northward.

“Sir,” said the operation specialist, “if we accelerate to forty knots, we will put ourselves out of the drone’s range. It won’t be able to return to the ship.”

“Destroy it over water, then, after transmission of footage is complete.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The bow was swinging through the compass, nearing true north.

“Increase speed to forty knots,” Baugh said as the boat stabilized on its new heading.

A warning sound went off, and a moment later the cutter surged forward as the massive 4,800-horsepower twin jet diesels powered up.

The XO suddenly said, “Sir, I’ve got a Cuban warship at two zero nine at thirteen nautical miles, proceeding at twenty knots—diverting to intercept us and increasing speed.”

“What the hell?”

“My guess is she was returning to Mariel from a routine patrol. Our bad luck, sir, that she happened on us.”

“Stay the course, increase speed to max. We’ll be out of territorial waters in four minutes.”

“Sir, we’re being painted with fire control radar!”

“General quarters, battle stations!” Baugh barked out. “Evasive maneuvers. Jamming. Prepare to launch chaff!”

All hell broke loose on the bridge—organized, focused hell. The general alarm went off. Baugh could just see the Cuban warship now, a wavering dot on the horizon at 265 degrees off the port bow. It had been coming in from the northwest and their radar hadn’t picked it up—was it employing Russian stealth technology?

The Chickering was now moving at forty-five knots, close to full speed. They’d be back in international waters in two minutes. The son of a bitch wasn’t actually going to fire on them, was he?

“It’s a fast Komar-class missile boat,” said the XO, peering into the scope.

“How fast?”

“Top speed rated at forty-four knots, but this one’s moving at thirty.”

“Armaments?”

“Two twenty-five-millimeter guns, two Styx anti-ship missiles.”

At Baugh’s shoulder, Lieutenant Darby swallowed loudly and painfully upon hearing this.

The Chickering was weaving now, executing evasive maneuvers. Baugh gripped the console rails. The Cuban missile boat was a lot smaller than their cutter, but it had those damn Styx missiles. Christ, one of those would obliterate his ship and no amount of chaff could chase it away. But the Chickering couldn’t fire first, especially while in Cuban waters.

“Still painting us with fire control, sir.”

One minute. If they were going to launch a missile, it would be now. He hoped to God this was a bluff.

He heard a small explosion behind him and almost jumped out of his skin, then swung around. He spied a puff of smoke in the sky several miles to the rear. “What the hell was that?”

“Drone self-destructed, sir,” said the OS.

“We’re out,” said the XO. “In international waters. Still painting us.”

“Maintain evasive maneuvers.”

But the Cuban boat was not pursuing. It slowed and began to turn, resuming its heading toward Mariel Harbor.

“Radar illumination ceased, sir.”