Cyclops

"Before your speech, I hope."

"Of course."

"Aren't you tempting fate, waiting until the last moment?"

"He'll take me up on it," said Fidel through a cloud of smoke. "Make no mistake. My gift of those three Soviet cosmonauts should have shown him my good intentions."

Raul scowled. "Could be he has already sent us his reply."

Fide I turned and glared at him. "That is news to me."

"I didn't come to you because it was only a blind guess," said Raul nervously. "But I suspect the President used Raymond LeBaron's airship to smuggle in an envoy behind the back of Soviet intelligence."

"Good Christ, wasn't it destroyed by one of our patrol helicopters?"

"A stupid blunder," confessed Raul. "There were no survivors."

Fidel's face mirrored confusion. "Then why is the State Department accusing us of imprisoning Mrs. LeBaron and her crew?"

"I've no idea."

"Why am I kept in the dark on these matters?"

"The report was sent but not read, like so many others. You have become a difficult man to reach, big brother. Your attention to detail is not what it used to be."

Fidel furiously reeled in the line and undid the harness to the fighting chair. "Tell the captain to turn the boat toward the harbor."

"What do you intend to do?"

Fidel cut a wide smile around the cigar. "Go duck hunting."

"Now? Today?"

"As soon as we get to shore I'm going to hole up at my country retreat outside Havana, and you're coming with me. We'll remain secluded, taking no calls and meeting with no one until Education Day."

"Do you think that wise, leaving the President hanging, shutting ourselves off from the Soviet internal threat?"

"What harm can it do? The wheels of American foreign relations turn like the wheels of an ox cart. With his envoy dead, he can only stare at a wall and wait for my next exchange. As for the Russians, the opportunity isn't ripe for them to make their move." He lightly punched Raul on the shoulder. "Cheer up, little brother. What could possibly happen in the next five days that you end I can't control?"

Raul vaguely wondered too. He also wondered how he could feel as chilled as a tomb under a blazing Caribbean sun.

Shortly after midnight, General Velikov stood stiffly beside his desk as the elevator doors spread and Lyev Maisky strode into the study.

Velikov greeted him coolly. "Comrade Maisky. An unexpected pleasure."

"Comrade General."

"Can I offer you any refreshments?"

"This damnable humidity is a curse," replied Maisky, wiping a hand over his brow and studying the sweat on his fingers. "I could use a glass of iced vodka."

Velikov picked up a phone and issued a curt order. Then he gestured toward a chair. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Maisky fell wearily into a soft leather chair and yawned from jet lag. "I'm sorry you weren't warned of my coming, General, but Comrade Polevoi thought it best not to risk interception and decoding of your new instructions by the U.S. National Security Agency's listening facilities."

Velikov raised his eyebrow in a practiced motion and gave Maisky a wary stare. "New instructions?"

"Yes, a most complicated operation."

"I hope the chief of the KGB isn't ordering me to postpone the Castro assassination project."

"Not at all. In fact, I've been asked to tell you the ships with the required cargoes for the job will arrive in Havana Harbor half a day ahead of schedule."

Velikov nodded gratefully. "We can use the extra time."

"Have you encountered any problems?" asked Maisky.

"Everything is running smoothly."

"Everything?" Maisky repeated. "Comrade Polevoi was not happy about the escape of one of your prisoners."

"He need not worry. A fisherman found the missing man's body in his nets. The secret of this installation is still secure."

"And what of the others? You must know the State Department is demanding their release from Cuban officials."

"A crude bluff," Velikov replied. "The CIA hasn't a shred of proof the intruders are still alive. The fact that Washington is demanding their release from the Cubans instead of us proves they're shooting in the dark."

"The question is, What are they shooting at?" Maisky paused and removed a platinum cigarette holder from his breast pocket. He lit a long, unfiltered cigarette and exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling. "Nothing must delay Rum and Cola."

"Castro will speak as promised."

"Can you be sure he won't suddenly change his mind?"

"If history repeats itself, we're on firm ground. El jefe maximo, the big boss, hasn't turned down a chance to make a speech yet."

"Barring accident, sickness, or hurricane."

"Some things are beyond human control, but I don't intend to fail."

A uniformed guard appeared with a chilled bottle of vodka and a glass resting in a bed of ice. "Only one glass, General? You're not joining me?"

"Perhaps a brandy later."

Velikov waited patiently until Maisky had consumed a third of the bottle. Then he took the leap.

"May I ask the deputy of the First Chief Directorate to enlighten me on this new operation?"

"Of course," Maisky said sociably. "You are to use whatever electronic capability under your command to force the United States space shuttle down in Cuban territory."

"Did I hear you correctly?" asked Velikov, stunned.

"Your orders, which come from Comrade President Antonov, are to break into the computerized guidance control sensors of the space shuttle Gettysburg between its earth reentry and approach to Cape Canaveral and direct it to land on our military airfield at Santa Clara."

Frowning, baffled, Velikov openly stared at Maisky as if the KGB deputy were mad. "If I may say so, that's the craziest scheme the directorate has ever conceived."

"Nevertheless, it has all been worked out by our space scientists," Maisky said airily. He rested his foot on a large accountant's-type briefcase. "The data are all here for programming your computers and training your staff."

"My people are communications engineers." Velikov looked totally lost and sounded the same way. "They don't know anything about space dynamics."

"They don't have to. The computers will do it for them. What is most important is that your equipment here on the island have the capability to override the Houston Space Control Center and take command of the shuttle."

"When is this act supposed to take place?"

"According to NASA, the Gettysburg begins her earth reentry roughly twenty-nine hours from now."

Velikov simply nodded his head. The shock had quickly melted away and he regained total control, calm, mind clicking, the complete professional. "Of course, I'll give you every cooperation, but I don't mind saying it will take more than an ordinary miracle to accomplish the unbelievable."

Maisky downed another glass of vodka and dismissed Velikov's pessimism with a wave of the hand. "Faith, General, not in miracles, but in the brains of Soviet scientists and engineers. That's what will put America's most advanced spacecraft on the runway in Cuba."

Giordino stared dubiously at the plate sitting on his lap. "First they feed us slop and now it's sirloin steak and eggs. I don't trust these bastards. They probably spiced it with arsenic."

"A cheap shot to build us up before they tear us down again," said Gunn, ravenously digging into the meat. "But I'm going to ignore it."

"This is the third day the goon in room six has left us alone. Something smells."

"You'd prefer having another rib broken?" Gunn muttered between mouthfuls.

Giordino probed the eggs with his fork, gave in, and tried them. "They're probably fattening us up for the kill."

"I hope to God they've laid off Jessie too."

"Sadists like Gly get turned on beating women."

"Have you ever wondered why Velikov is never present during Gly's punch parties?"

"Typical of the Russians to let a foreigner do their dirty work, or maybe he can't stand the sight of blood. How should I know?"

Suddenly the door was flung open and Foss Gly stepped into the cell. The thick, protruding lips parted in a smile, and the pupils of his eyes were deep, black, and empty.

"Enjoying your dinner, gentlemen?"

"You forgot the wine," Giordino said contemptuously. "And I like my steak medium rare."

Gly stepped closer and, before Giordino could guess his intentions, swung his fist in a vicious backhand against Giordino's rib cage.

Giordino gasped, and his entire body jerked in a convulsive spasm. His face went ashen, and yet, incredibly, he gave a lopsided grin, blood rolling through the hairs of his stubbled chin from where his teeth had bitten his lower lip.

Gunn rose up from his cot on one arm and heaved his plate of food at Gly's head, the eggs spattering the side of the torturer's face, the half-eaten meat scoring a bull's-eye across the mouth.

"A stupid reaction," Gly said, his voice a furious whisper. "One you'll regret." He reached down, grabbed Gunn's shattered ankle, and gave it a sickening twist.

Gunn clenched his fists, eyes glazed in pain, but uttered no sound. Gly stepped back and studied him, seemingly fascinated. "You're tough, very tough, for a little man."

"Crawl back in your hole, slime," Giordino gasped, still catching his breath.

"Stubborn, stubborn," Gly sighed wearily. For a quick second his eyes took on a pensive look, then the black emptiness returned, as cold and evil as if chiseled on a statue. "Ali, yes, you distracted me. I came to deliver news of your friend Dirk Pitt."

"What about him?"

"He tried to escape and was drowned."

"You're lying," said Gunn.

"A Bahamian fisherman found him. The American consulate has already identified the body, or what was left after the sharks were finished with it." Then Gly wiped the egg from his face, removed the steak from Giordino's plate, dropped it on the floor, and ground his boot in it. "Bon appetit, gentlemen."

He walked from the cell and locked the door behind him.

Giordino and Gunn looked at each other in long silence, a sudden realization growing within them. Then their faces lit up with broad grins that quickly turned into laughter.

"He did it!" Giordino cried, his elation overcoming his pain. "Dirk made it home free!"

<<51>>

The glamour experiments on the space station Columbus centered on the manufacture of exotic medicines, the growth of pure crystals for computer semiconductor chips, and gamma ray observation. But the bread-and-butter activity of the forty-ton settlement on the fringe of the last frontier was the repair and service of satellites.

Jack Sherman, commander of the station, was in the cylinder-shaped maintenance module helping a team of engineers jockey a satellite into a repair cradle when a voice came through the central speaker. "You available, Jack?"

"I'm here."

"Can you come to the command module?"

"What's up?"

"We've got some joker breaking into our communications channel."

"Pipe it down here."

"Better you should come up."

"Give me a couple of minutes."

The satellite secured and the airlock closed, Sherman peeled off his pressure suit and slipped his boots into a pair of slotted rails. Then he walked in a sliding motion through the weightless environment to the brain center of the station.

His chief communications and electronics engineer simply nodded at his approach. "Listen to this." He spoke into a microphone mounted in a control panel. "Please identify yourself again."

There was a slight pause and then "Columbus, this is Jersey Colony. We request permission to dock at your station."

The engineer turned and looked up at Sherman. "What do you think? Must be some weirdo on earth."

Sherman leaned over the panel. "Jersey Colony, or whatever you call yourself, this is a closed NASA channel. You are interfering with space communications procedures. Please break off."

"No way," came the strange voice. "Our lunar transfer vehicle will rendezvous with you in two hours. Please advise us on docking procedures."

"Lunar what?" Sherman's face tightened in anger. "Houston Control, do you copy?"

"We copy," came a voice from the Houston Space Control Center.

"What do you make of it?"

"We're trying to get a fix on it, Columbus. Please stand by."

"I don't know who you are, fella," snapped Sherman, "but you're in deep trouble."

"The name is Eli Steinmetz. Please have medical assistance standing by. I have two injured men onboard."

Sherman pounded a fist on the back of the engineer's chair. "This is crazy."

"Who am I communicating with?" asked Steinmetz.

"This is Jack Sherman, commander of the Columbus."

"Sorry about the abrupt intrusion, Sherman, but I thought you'd been informed of our arrival."

Before Sherman could reply, Houston Control returned. "Columbus, his signals are not coming from earth, repeat, not coming from earth. They originate in space beyond you."

"All right, you guys, what's the gag?"

The voice of NASA's director of Flight Operations broke in. "No gag. Jack, this is Irwin Mitchell. Prepare your crew to receive Steinmetz and his colonists."

"What colonists?"

"About time someone from the `inner core' showed up," said Steinmetz. "For a minute there, I thought we'd have to crash the front gate."

"Sorry, Eli. The President thought it best to keep things quiet until you reached Columbus."

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Sherman demanded in exasperation.

"Eli will explain when you meet him," answered Mitchell. Then he addressed Steinmetz. "How are the wounded?"

"Resting comfortably, but one will require major surgery. A bullet is lodged near the base of the brain."

"You heard, Jack," said Mitchell. "Alert the crew of the shuttle. They may have to advance their departure."

"I'll take care of it," Sherman said. His voice settled and the tone was calm, but he was far too intelligent not to be bewildered. "Just where in hell does this. . . this Jersey Colony come from?"

"Would you believe the moon?" Mitchell replied.

"No," said Sherman flatly. "I damned well wouldn't."

The Theodore Roosevelt Room in the West Wing of the White House was once called the Fish Room because it contained aquariums and fishing trophies of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Under Richard Nixon it was furnished in Queen Anne and Chippendale style and used for staff meetings and occasional press conferences.

The walls and carpet were in light and dark shades of terra-cotta. A painting of the Declaration of Independence hung on the east wall over a carved wooden mantel. Sternly surveying the room from the south wall, Teddy Roosevelt sat astride a horse in a portrait painted in Paris by Tade Styka. The President preferred this intimate room over the more formal Cabinet Room for important discussions partly because there were no windows.

He sat at the head of the conference table and scribbled on a note pad. On his left sat Secretary of Defense Jess Simmons. Next to him came CIA Director Martin Brogan, Dan Fawcett, and Leonard Hudson. Douglas Oates, the Secretary of State, sat immediately to his right, followed by National Security Adviser Alan Mercier and Air Force General Allan Post, who headed up the military space program.

Hudson had spent over an hour briefing the President's men on the history of the Jersey Colony. At first they sat there stunned and silent. Then the excitement set in and they fired a barrage of questions that Hudson fielded until the President ordered lunch served in the room.

The utter astonishment gave way to enthusiastic compliments for Hudson and his "inner core," which slowly faded to grim reality at the report on the conflict with the Soviet cosmonauts.

"Once the Jersey colonists return safely to Cape Canaveral," said the President, "perhaps I can appease Antonov by offering to share some of the immense data accumulated by Steinmetz and his team."

"Why should we give away anything?" demanded Simmons. "They've stolen enough of our technology as it is."

"No denying their thievery," replied the President. "But if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't allow them to get away with killing fourteen of our astronauts."

"I'm on your side, Mr. President," said Secretary of State Oates. "But if the shoe was indeed on your foot, what course of retribution could you take?"

"Simple," said General Post. "If I were Antonov, I'd order the Columbus blasted out of the sky."

"An abhorrent thought, but one we have to take seriously," said Brogan. "The Soviet leaders must feel they have a divine right to destroy the station and everyone on board."

"Or the shuttle and its crew," Post added.

The President stared at the general. "Can Columbus and Gettysburg be shielded?"

Post gave a slight shake of his head. "Our X-ray laser defense system won't be operational for another fourteen months. While in space, both the station and the shuttle are vulnerable to the Soviet Union's Cosmos 1400 killer satellites. We can provide solid protection for the Gettysburg only after she passes through earth's atmosphere."

The President turned to Brogan. "How do you see it, Martin?"

"I don't think they'll target Columbus. They'd be leaving themselves wide open for us to retaliate against their new Salyut 10 station. I say they'll try for the shuttle."

An icy silence settled over the Roosevelt Room as every man present struggled with his own thoughts. Then Hudson's face took on an enlightened expression, and he rapped his pen against the table surface.

"We've overlooked something," he said in a level tone.

"Like what?" asked Fawcett.

"The true purpose behind their attack on Jersey Colony."

Brogan took the lead. "To save face by destroying all trace of our breakthrough in space."

"Not destroy but steal," Hudson said fervently. "Murdering the colonists wasn't an eye-for-an-eye punishment. Jess Simmons hit on it. To the Kremlin's way of thinking it was vital to seize the base intact in order to help themselves to the technology, the data, and the results of billions of dollars and twenty-five years of work. That was their goal. Revenge was secondary."

"He makes a valid point," said Oates. "Except that with the colonists on their way to earth, Jersey Colony is up for grabs."

"By using our lunar transfer vehicle we can have another crew on site within two weeks," said Hudson.

"The two cosmonauts who are sitting in Selenos 8," Simmons said. "What's to stop them from simply walking in and taking over the abandoned colony?"

"I'm sorry," Hudson answered. "I forgot to mention that Steinmetz transported the five dead Russians back to the lunar larder and loaded them on board. Then he forced the surviving crew to lift off and return to earth by threatening to scatter them over the moon's surface with the last rocket in his launcher."

"The sheriff cleaning up the town," Brogan said admiringly. "I can't wait to meet this guy."

"Not without cost," said Hudson quietly. "Steinmetz is bringing back two seriously wounded men and one body."

"What is the name of the dead man?" asked the President.

"Dr. Kurt Perry, a brilliant biochemist."

The President nodded at Fawcett. "Let's see that he receives a proper ceremony."

There was a slight pause, and then Post brought the discussion back on track. "Okay, if the Soviets didn't get Jersey colony, what are they left with?"

"The. Gettysburg," Hudson answered. "The Russians still have a chance at pirating a treasure trove of scientific data."

"By snatching the shuttle out of the air?" Simmons stated sarcastically. "News to me they have Buck Rogers on their side."

"They don't need him," Hudson retorted. "It's technically possible to program a deviation into the flight guidance systems. The computers can be fooled into sending the wrong signal to the drive elevons, the thrusters, and other equipment to control the Gettysburg. There are a thousand different way to nudge the shuttle off its course a few degrees. Depending on the distance from touchdown, it could be thrown off as far as a thousand miles from the Kennedy spaceport at Cape Canaveral."

"But the pilots can override the automated system and land on manual control," protested Post.

"Not if they're conned into thinking Houston Control is monitoring their return flight path."

"Is this possible?" asked the President incredulously.

Alan Mercier nodded. "Providing the Soviets have local transmitters with the capacity to overpower the shuttle's internal electronics and jam all signals from Houston Control."

The President exchanged grim looks with Brogan.

"Cayo Santa Maria," Brogan muttered miserably.

"An island north of Cuba containing a powerful transmission and listening facility with the necessary muscle to do the job," the President explained to the others.

"Maybe they haven't caught on that our colonists have left the moon," Fawcett said hopefully.

"They know," replied Hudson. "Once their eavesdropping satellites were aimed toward Jersey Colony, they've monitored every one of our transmissions."

"We'll have to come up with a plan to neutralize the island's equipment," suggested Post.

Brogan smiled. "Just so happens there is an operation in the works."

Post smiled back. "If you're scheming what I'm thinking, all I'd like to know is when."

"There is talk-- purely a rumor, mind you-- that Cuban military forces are going to launch an attack-and-destroy mission sometime after midnight tonight."

"And the departure time of the shuttle for home?" asked Alan Mercier.

"0500 tomorrow," Post answered.

"That settles it," said the President. "Inform the commander of Columbus to hold Gettysburg on the docking platform until we can guarantee its safe return."

Everyone around the table seemed satisfied for the moment, except Hudson. He had the look of a boy who had just lost his puppy to the county dogcatcher.

"I just wish," he muttered to no one in particular, "it was all that easy."

<<52>>

Velikov and Maisky stood on a balcony three levels above the electronic listening center and looked down on a small army of men and women who manned the sophisticated electronic receiving equipment. Twenty-four hours a day, giant antennas on Cuba intercepted United States civilian telephone calls and military radio signals, relaying them to Cayo Santa Maria, where they were fed into the computers for decoding and analysis.

"A truly superb job, General," said Maisky. "The reports on your installation have been far too modest."

"A day doesn't go by when we don't continue the expansion," Velikov said proudly. "Besides the business end of the complex there is a well-supplied dining room and a physical conditioning center with exercise equipment and a sauna. We even have an entertainment room and a barber shop."

Maisky's gaze rose to two screens, each ten by fifteen feet, on different walls. The left screen contained computer-generated displays while the right showed various data and intricate graphs.

"Have your people discovered the status of the moon colonists yet?"

The general nodded and picked up a telephone. He spoke a few words into the receiver while looking down on the busy equipment floor. A staff member at a console looked up and waved a hand. Then the two screens went dark for a brief instant and returned to life with a new data display.

"A complete rundown," said Velikov, pointing to the right screen. "We can monitor almost everything that is transmitted between their astronauts and Houston Control. As you can see, the moon colonists' lunar transporter docked three hours ago at the space station."

Maisky was fascinated as his eyes traveled over the display information. He could not bring himself to accept the fact that American intelligence undoubtedly knew as much if not more about Soviet space efforts.

"Do they transmit in code?" he asked.

"Occasionally, if it is a military mission, but NASA usually talks to their astronauts quite openly."

"As you can see on the data display, the Houston Ground Control Center has ordered the Gettysburg to postpone its scheduled departure for tomorrow morning."

"I don't like the look of that."

"I see nothing suspicious. The President probably wants time to mount a massive propaganda campaign to announce another American space triumph."

"Or they may be wise to our intentions." Maisky then became quiet, lost in thought. His eyes had a worried look, and he clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.

Velikov looked at him with amusement. "If this in any way upsets your plans, I could break in on Houston Control's frequency and issue a false command."

"You can do that?"

"I can."

"Simulate an order for the shuttle to depart the space station for reentry?"

"Yes."

"And deceive the commanders of the station and the shuttle into believing they're hearing a familiar voice?"

"They'll never detect the difference. Our computerized synthesizers have more than enough taped transmissions to perfectly imitate voice, accent, and verbal mannerisms of at least twenty different officials of NASA."

"What's to stop Houston Control from countermanding the order?"

"I can scramble their transmissions until it's too late for them to stop the shuttle. Then, if the instructions you gave us from our space scientists are correct, we'll override the craft's flight systems and bring her down at Santa Clara."

Maisky looked at Velikov long and steadily. Then he said, "Do it."

The President was dead asleep when the phone beside his bed softly chimed. He rolled over and read the luminous dial on his wristwatch. Ten minutes after one in the morning. Then he answered. "Go ahead."

The voice that replied was Dan Fawcett's. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. President, but something has come up that I thought you'd want to know about."

"I'm listening. What is it?"

"I've just received a call from Irwin Mitchell at NASA. He said the Gettysburg has cast off from Columbus and is orbiting in preparation for reentry."

The President sat bolt upright, waking his wife beside him. "Who gave the order?" he demanded.

"Mitchell can't say. All communication between Houston and the space station is down because of some strange interference."

"Then how has he confirmed the shuttle's departure?"

"General Fisher has been tracking and monitoring Columbus at the Space Operations Center in Colorado Springs since Steinmetz left Jersey Colony. The sensitive cameras at the center caught the movement when Gettysburg left the station's dock. He called me as soon as he was informed."

The President pounded the mattress in dismay. "Damn!"

"I took the liberty of alerting Jess Simmons. He's already scrambled two Air Force tactical squadrons into the air to fly escort and protect the shuttle as soon as she drops through the atmosphere."

"How much time do we have before the Gettysburg lands?"

"From initial descent preparation to touchdown, about two hours."

"The Russians are behind this."

"The general consensus," acknowledged Fawcett. "We can't be sure yet, but all indications point to Cuba as the source of Houston's radio interference problem."

"When does Brogan's special team hit Cayo Santa Maria?"

"0200 hours."

"Who's leading them in?"

"One moment while I look up the name in yesterday's CIA report." Fawcett left the line for no more than thirty seconds before he returned. "The mission is being directed by Marine Colonel Ramon Kleist."

"I know the name. Kleist was a Congressional Medal of Honor winner."

"Here's something else."

"What?"

"Kleist's men are being guided by Dirk Pitt."

The President sighed almost sadly. "He's already given too much. Is his presence absolutely required?"

"It was Pitt or nobody," said Fawcett.

"Can they destroy the jamming center in time?"

"In all honesty, I'd have to say it's a toss-up."

"Tell Jess Simmons to stand by in the War Room," said the President solemnly. "If anything goes wrong, I fear the only alternative left for us to keep the Gettysburg and her valuable cargo out of Soviet hands is to shoot her down. Do you read me, Dan?"

"Yes, sir," Fawcett said, his face suddenly white. "I'll give him your message."

<<53>>

"All stop." Ordered Kleist. He rechecked the readings on the Navstar satellite instrument and tapped a pair of dividers on a flattened chart. "We're seven miles due east of Cayo Santa Maria. This is close as we dare move the SPUT."

Major Quintana, wearing mottled gray and black battle dress, stared at the yellow mark on the chart. "Should take us about forty minutes to swing around to the south and land from the Cuban side."

"The wind is calm and the sea is only running at two feet. Another blessing is no moon. It's pitch black topside."

"Good as well as bad news," said Quintana heavily. "Makes us tough to spot, but we won't be able to see any wandering guards either. Our main problem, as I see it, is not having an exact fix on the compound. We could land miles from it."

Kleist turned and stared at a tall, commanding figure leaning against a bulkhead. He was dressed in the same night battle fatigues as Quintana. The piercing green eyes met Kleist's stare.

"You still can't pinpoint the location?"

Pitt straightened, smiled his congenial indifferent smile, and said simply, "No."

"You're not very encouraging," Quintana said nastily.

"Maybe, but at least I'm honest."

Kleist spoke with forbearance. "We regret, Mr. Pitt, that visual conditions were not ideal during your escape. But we'd be grateful if you were a bit more specific."

Pitt's smile faded. "Look, I landed in the middle of a hurricane and left in the middle of the night. Both events took place on the opposite side of the island from where we're supposed to land. I didn't measure distances, nor did I sprinkle breadcrumbs along my trail. The land was flat, no hills or streams for landmarks. Just palm trees, brush, and sand. The antenna was a half mile west of the village. The compound, a good mile beyond. Once we strike the road the compound will be to the left. That's the best I can offer."

Quintana gave a resigned nod. "Under the circumstances we can't ask for more than that."

A crewman dressed sloppily in cutaway jeans and T-shirt stepped through the hatchway into the control room. He silently handed a decoded communication to Kleist and left.

"Better not be a last-minute cancellation," Pitt said sharply.

"Far from it," Kleist muttered. "More like a new twist."

He studied the message a second time, a frown crossing his normally impassive face. He handed it to Quintana, who stared at the wording and then tightened his lips in annoyance before passing the paper to Pitt. It read:

SPACE SHUTTLE GETTYSBURG HAS DEPARTED STATION AND ORBITING IN PREPARATION FOR REENTRY ALL CONTACT LOST. YOUR TARGET'S ELECTRONICS HAVE PENETRATED GUIDANCE COMPUTERS AND TAKEN COMMAND. EXPECT COURSE DEVIATION TO SET CRAFT DOWN IN CUBA AT 0340. SPEED CRITICAL. DIRE CRISIS IF COMPOUND NOT DESTROYED IN TIME. LUCK.

"Nice of them to warn us at the last minute," said Pitt grimly. "0340 is less than two hours away."

Quintana looked at Kleist severely. "Can the Soviets actually do this thing and get away with it?"

Kleist wasn't listening. His gaze returned to the chart and he made a little pencil line that marked a course to the southern shore of Cayo Santa Maria. "Where approximately do you put the antenna?"

Pitt took the pencil and made a tiny dot on the sperm-shaped island at the base of the tail. "A wild guess at best."

"All right. We'll equip you with a small waterproof radio sender and receiver. I'll convert the position on the chart and program it into the Navstar computer, then maintain a fix on your signal and guide you in."

"You won't be the only one who can put a fix on us."

"A small gamble, but one that will save valuable time. You should be able to blow the antenna and cut off their radio command of the Gettysburg much faster than fighting your way inside the compound and destroying its brain center."

"Makes sense."

"Since you agree," said Kleist quietly, "I suggest you gentlemen shove off."

The special-purpose underwater transporter looked nothing like any submarine Pitt had ever seen. The craft was slightly over three hundred feet long and shaped like a chisel turned sideways. The horizontal wedgelike bow tapered quickly to an almost square hull that ended abruptly at a boxed-off stern. Her upper deck was completely smooth without any projections.

No man stood at her helm. She was totally automated with nuclear power that turned twin propellers or, when required, soundless pumps that took in water from the forward momentum and thrust it silently through vents along the sides.

The SPUT was specifically designed for the CIA to support covert arms smuggling, undercover agent infiltration, and hit-and-run raids. She could travel as deep as eight hundred feet at fifty knots, but also had the capability of running onto a beach, spreading her bows, and disgorging a two-hundred-man landing force with several vehicles.

The ship broke the surface, her flat deck only two feet above the black water. Quintana's team of Cuban exiles scrambled from the hatches and quickly began lifting the water Dashers that were passed up from below.

Pitt had ridden a Dasher at a resort in Mexico. A water-propulsion vehicle, it was manufactured in France for seaside recreation. Called the sports car of the sea, the sleek little machine had the look of two torpedoes attached side by side. The operator lay back with each leg stretched out in one of the twin hulls and controlled the movement with an automobile-type steering wheel. Power came from a high-performance battery that could propel the craft by means of water jets over smooth seas at twenty knots for three hours before recharging.

After Pitt proposed using them to cruise under the Cuban radar network, Kleist hurriedly negotiated a special purchase from the factory and arranged to have them flown by Air Force transport to San Salvador within fifteen hours.

The early morning air was warm and a light rain squall passed over. As each man slipped into his Dasher, he was shoved across the wet deck, over the low freeboard, and into the sea. Shaded blue lights had been mounted in the sterns so each man could follow the one in front.

Pitt took a few moments and stared into the darkness toward Cayo Santa Maria, desperately hoping he wasn't too late to save his friends. An early gull wheeled crying over his head, invisible in the murky sky.

Quintana gripped him by the arm. "You're next." He paused and stared through the gloom. "What in hell is that?"

Pitt held up a wooden shaft in one hand. "A baseball bat."

"What do you need that for? You were issued an AK-74."

"It's a gift for a friend."

Quintana shook his head in bewilderment. "Let's get going. You'll lead off. I'll bring up the rear and catch stragglers."

Pitt nodded and eased into his Dasher and adjusted a tiny receiver in one ear. Just before the SPUT crew pushed him over the side Colonel Kleist bent down and shook Pitt's hand. "Get them to the target," he said tensely.

Pitt gave him a sober grin. "I aim to."

Then his Dasher was in the water. He adjusted the power lever to half speed and eased clear of the ship. There was no use in turning to check if the others were following. He couldn't have seen them anyway. The only light came from the stars, and they were too dim to sparkle the water.

He increased speed and studied the luminescent dial of the compass strapped to one wrist. He maintained a heading of due east until Kleist's voice came through his earpiece "Bear 270 degrees."

Pitt made the correction and kept on the course for ten miles, keeping a few knots below the Dasher's full speed to allow the men behind to close up if they strayed out of line. He was certain the sensitive underwater sensors would pick up the raiding party's approach, but he counted on the Russians to dismiss the readings on their recording instruments as a school of fish.

A long way off to the south toward Cuba, a good four miles perhaps, a searchlight from a patrol boat blazed on and swept the water like a scythe, cutting the night, searching for intruding vessels. The faroff glow dimly lit them up, but they were two small and low in the water to be seen at that distance.

Pitt received a new bearing from Kleist, and altered course to the north. The night was as dark as a crypt, and he could only hope the other thirty men were hugging his stern. The Dasher's twin bows dipped into a series of rising waves, tossing spray into his face, and he tasted the strong saltiness of the sea.

The slight turbulence from the Dasher's passage through the water caused flecks of sparkling phosphorus that briefly flashed like an armada of fireflies before dying in his wake. Pitt was finally beginning to relax a bit when Kleist's voice came through his ear again "I put you about two hundred yards from shore."

Pitt slowed his little boat and eased ahead cautiously. Then he stopped, drifting with the current. He waited, eyes strained against the dark, tense and listening. Five minutes went by, and Cayo Santa Maria's outline vaguely loomed ahead, black and ominous. The surf was nearly nonexistent on the inside waters of the island, and its soft lapping on the beach was the only sound he could hear.

He gently pressed the power pedal and went forward dead slow, ready to turn hard and speed out to sea if they were detected. Seconds later, the Dasher bumped noiselessly into the sand. Immediately Pitt stepped out and dragged the light craft across the beach and into the underbrush beneath a line of palm trees. Then he waited until Quintana and his men rose up like wraiths and silently grouped around him in a tight knot, indistinct blurs in the gloom, thankful to a man their feet were on solid land again.

As insurance against Murphy's law, Quintana took precious time to account for every man and briefly check his equipment. Finally satisfied, he turned to Pitt. "After you, amigo."

Pitt took a reading from the compass, and then led the way inland on a slight angle to his left. He held the baseball bat out in front of him like a blind man with a cane. Less than two hundred feet from the staging area, the end of the bat met with the electrified fence. He stopped abruptly and the man in his rear bumped into him.

"Easy!" Pitt hissed. "Pass it on, we're at the fence."

Two men with shovels came forward and attacked the soft sand. In no time they had excavated a hole that was large enough to push a small burro through.

Pitt crawled under first. For a moment he was uncertain which way he should go. He hesitated, sniffing at the wind. Then, suddenly, he knew exactly where he was.

"We screwed up," he murmured to Quintana. "The compound is only a few hundred yards to our left. The antenna is a good mile in the opposite direction."

"How can you tell?"

"Use your nose. You can smell exhaust fumes from the diesel engines that run the generators."

Quintana inhaled deeply. "You're right. A breeze is carrying it from the northwest."

"So much for a quick solution. It'll take your men a good half hour to reach the antenna and set the charges."

"Then we'll go for the compound."

"Safer to play both ends against the middle. Send your strongest runners to blow the antenna and the rest of us will try for the electronics center."

Quintana took less than a second to make up his mind. He went through the ranks and quickly selected five men. He returned with a small, indistinct figure whose head hardly reached Pitt's shoulders.

"This is Sergeant Lopez. He'll need directions to the antenna."

Pitt stripped the compass off his wrist and handed it to the sergeant. Lopez didn't speak English and Quintana had to translate. The little sergeant was a quick study. He repeated Pitt's instructions flawlessly in Spanish. Then Lopez flashed a smile, gave a curt order to his men, and vanished into the night.

Pitt and the rest of Quintana's force took off at a run. The weather began to deteriorate. Clouds blanketed the stars, and the raindrops that splattered against the palm fronds made a strange drumming sound. They wound through trees gracefully curved from the fury of hurricane winds. Every few yards someone stumbled and fell but was helped up by others. Soon their breathing came more heavily and the sweat flowed down their bodies and soaked their battle fatigues. Pitt set a fast pace, driven on by desperate anticipation of finding Jessie, Giordino, and Gunn still alive. His mind remained remote from the discomfort and growing exhaustion by envisioning the agonies Foss Gly must have inflicted on them. His ugly thoughts were interrupted when he stepped out of the underbrush onto the road.

He turned left toward the compound, making no attempt at stealth or concealment, using the flat surface to make time. The feel of the land felt more familiar to Pitt now. He slowed to a walk and whispered for Quintana. When he felt a hand on one shoulder, he gestured at a dim light barely visible through the trees. "The guardhouse at the gate."

Quintana slapped Pitt's back in acknowledgment and gave instructions in Spanish to the next man in line, who slipped away toward the light.

Pitt didn't have to ask. He knew the security guards manning the gate had only another two minutes to live.

He skirted the wall and crept into the culvert, vastly relieved to find the bars still bent as he had left them. They scrambled through and wormed their way to the air vent above the compound's motor pool. This was as far as Pitt was supposed to go. Kleist's firm instructions were for him to guide Quintana's force to the air vent and go no further. He was to step out of the way, return alone to the landing beach, and wait for the others to withdraw.

Kleist should have guessed that when Pitt offered no argument the orders were not about to be carried out, but the colonel had too many problems on his mind to become suspicious. And good old Pitt, quite naturally, had been the very model of cooperation when he laid out a diagram of the entry into the compound.

Before Quintana could reach out and stop him, Pitt dropped through the vent onto the support girder over the parked vehicles and disappeared like a shadow down the exit shaft to the cells far below.

<<54>>

Dave Jurgens, flight commander of the Gettysburg, was mildly disturbed. He shared the elation with everyone in the space station at the unexpected arrival of Steinmetz and his men from the moon. And he found nothing amiss in the sudden orders to carry the colonists to earth as soon as their scientific cargo could be loaded into the shuttle's payload bay.

What disturbed him was the abrupt demand by Houston Control to make a night landing at Cape Canaveral. His request to wait a few hours until the sun rose was met with a cold refusal. He was given no reason why NASA officials had suddenly reversed their strict policy of daylight touchdowns for the first time in nearly thirty years.

He looked over at his copilot, Carl Burkhart, a twenty-year veteran of the space program. "We won't have much of a view of the Florida swamps on this approach."

"You see one alligator, you've seen them all," the laconic Burkhart replied.

"Our passengers all tucked in?"

"Like corn in a bin."

"Computers programmed for reentry?"

"Set and ticking."

Jurgens briefly scanned the three TV screens in the center of the main panel. One gave the status on all the mechanical systems, while the other two gave data on trajectory and guidance control. He and Burkhart began to run through the de-orbit and entry procedure checklist.

"Ready when you are, Houston."

"Okay, Don," replied ground control. "You are go for de-orbit burn."

"Out of sight, out of mind," said Jurgens. "Is that it?"

"We don't read, come again."

"When I left earth, my name was Dave.'

"Sorry about that, Dave."

"Who's on the line?" asked Jurgens, his curiosity aroused.

"Merv Foley. You don't recognize my resonant vowel sounds?"

"After all our scintillating conversations, you've forgotten my name. For shame."

"A slip of the tongue," said the familiar voice of Foley. "Shall we cut the small talk and get back to procedures."

"Whatever you say, Houston." Jurgens briefly pressed his intercom switch. "Ready to head home, Mr. Steinmetz?"

"We're all looking forward to the trip," Steinmetz answered.

In the Spartan living quarters below the flight deck and cockpit the shuttle specialists and Jersey colonists were packed together in every foot of available space. Behind them the sixty-foot-long payload bay was loaded two-thirds full with data records, geological specimens, cases containing the results of more than a thousand medical and chemical experiments-- the bonanza accumulated by the colonists that would take scientists two decades to fully analyze. The bay also carried the body of Dr. Kurt Perry.

The Gettysburg was traveling through space backward and upside down at over 15,000 knots per hour. The small reaction-control jets were fired and joggled the craft over from orbit as thrusters pitched it to a nose-high attitude so the insulated belly could absorb the reentry friction of the atmosphere. Over Australia, two secondary engines burned briefly to slow the shuttle's orbit speed from twenty-five times the speed of sound. Thirty minutes later, they hit the atmosphere shortly before Hawaii.

As the atmosphere grew denser, the heat turned the Gettysburg's belly a vivid orange. The thrusters lost their effectiveness and the elevons and the rudder began to clutch the heavier air. The computers controlled the entire flight. Jurgens and Burkhart had little to do except monitor the TV data and systems indicators.

Suddenly a warning tone sounded in their headsets and a master alarm light came on. Jurgens quickly reacted by punching a computer keyboard to call up details of the problem while Burkhart notified ground control.

"Houston, we have a warning light."

"We read nothing here, Gettysburg. All systems look great."

"Something is going on, Houston," persisted Burkhart.

"Can only be computer error."

"Negative. All three navigation and guidance computers agree."

"I have it," said Jurgens. "We're showing a course error."

The cool voice at the Johnson Space Center returned. "Disregard, Dave. You're right on the beam. Do you copy?"

"I copy, Foley, but bear with me while I go to the backup computer."

"If it will make you happy. But all systems are go."

Jurgens quickly punched a request for navigation data from the backup computer. Less than thirty seconds later he hailed Houston.

"Merv, something's fishy. Even the backup shows us coming down four hundred miles south and fifty east of Canaveral."

"Trust me, Dave," Foley said in a bored tone. "All tracking stations show you on course."

Jurgens looked out his side window and saw only blackness below. He switched off his radio and turned to Burkhart. "I don't give a damn what Houston says. We're off our approach course. There's nothing but water under us when we should be seeing lights over the Baja California peninsula."

"Beats me," said Burkhart, shifting restlessly in his seat. "What's the plan?"

"We'll stand by to take over manual control. If I didn't know better, I'd swear Houston was setting us down in Cuba."

"She's coming in like a kite on a string," said Maisky, his expression wolfish.

Velikov nodded. "Three more minutes and the Gettysburg will be past the point of no return."

"No return?" Maisky repeated.

"To bank and still glide to the runway at the Kennedy Space Center."

Maisky rubbed the palms of his hands together in nervous anticipation. "An American space shuttle in Soviet hands. This has to be the intelligence coup of the century."

"Washington will scream like a village of raped virgins, demanding we return it."

"They'll get their billion-dollar super-machine back. But not before our space engineers have explored and photographed every square inch of her."

"And then there's the wealth of information from their moon colonists," Velikov reminded him.

"An incredible feat, General. The Order of Lenin will be in this for you."

"We're not out of the woods yet, Comrade Maisky. We cannot predict the President's reaction."

Maisky shrugged. "His hands are tied if we offer to negotiate. Our only problem as I see it is the Cubans."

"Not to worry. Colonel General Kolchak has placed a screen of fifteen hundred Soviet troops around the runway at Santa Clara. And, since our advisers are in command of Cuba's aircraft defenses, the shuttle has a clear path to land."

"Then she's as good as in our hands."

Velikov nodded. "I think you can safely say that."

The President sat in a bathrobe behind his desk in the Oval Office, chin lowered, elbows on the arms of his chair. His face was tired and drawn.

He looked up abruptly and said, "Is it certain, Houston can't make contact with the Gettysburg?"

Martin Brogan nodded. "That's the word from Irwin Mitchell at NASA. Their signals are being drowned out by outside interference."

"Is Jess Simmons standing by at the Pentagon?"

"We have him on a direct line," answered Dan Fawcett.

The President hesitated, and when he spoke it was in a whisper. "Then you'd better tell him to order the pilots in those fighters to stand by."

Fawcett nodded gravely and picked up the phone. "Any word from your people, Martin?"

"The latest is they've landed on the beach," Brogan said helplessly. "Beyond that, nothing."

The President felt weighted with despair. "My God, we're trapped in limbo."

One of four phones rang and Fawcett snatched it up. "Yes, yes, he's here. Yes, I'll tell him." He replaced the receiver in its cradle, his expression grim. "That was Irwin Mitchell. The Gettysburg has deviated too far south to reach Cape Canaveral."

"She might still make a water landing," said Brogan without enthusiasm.

"Providing she can be warned in time," added Fawcett.

The President shook his head. "No good. Her landing speed is over two hundred miles an hour. She'd tear herself to pieces."

The others stood silent, searching for the right words. The President swiveled in his chair and faced the window, sick at heart.

After a few moments he turned to the men standing expectantly around his desk. "God help me for signing a death warrant on all those brave men."

<<55>>

Pitt dropped out of the exit shaft and hit the corridor at a dead run. He twisted the handle and threw open the door to the cell that housed Giordino and Gunn with such a force that he nearly tore it from the hinges.

The tiny room was empty.

The noise betrayed him. A guard rushed around the corner from a side passage and stared at Pitt in astonishment. That split-second hesitation cost him. Even as he was lifting the barrel of his weapon, the baseball bat caught him on the side of the head. Pitt had grabbed the unfortunate guard around the waist and was dragging him into a convenient cell before he hit the floor. Pitt threw him on a bed and looked down into the face of the young Russian who had escorted him to Velikov's study. The boy was breathing normally, and Pitt figured the damage was no more than a concussion.

"You're lucky, kid. I never shoot anyone under the age of twenty-one."

Quintana was just coming out of the exit shaft as Pitt locked the guard in the cell and took off running again. He did not bother to be careful of concealing his presence. He would have welcomed the chance to bash the head of another guard. He reached the door to Jessie's cell and kicked it open.

She was missing too.

Dread swept through him like a wave. He plunged on through the corridors until he came to room six. There was nothing inside but the stench of torture.

Dread was replaced by cold, ungovernable rage. Pitt became someone else, a man without conscience or moral code, no longer in control of his emotions, a man for whom danger was merely a force to be ignored. Fear of dying had totally ceased to exist.

Quintana hurried up to Pitt and clutched his arm. "Damn you, get back to the beach! You know the orders=

He got no further. Pitt shoved the stubby barrel of the AK-74 into Quintana's gut and slowly pushed him back and against a wall. Quintana had stood face to face with death many times before this moment, but staring at the ice-- cold expression on the craggy face, seeing the pure look of murderous indifference in the green eyes, he knew he had one foot in a coffin.

Pitt did not speak. He pulled back the gun, raised the baseball bat to his shoulder, and pushed his way through Quintana's men. Suddenly he halted in his tracks and turned back. "The elevator is this way," he said quietly.

Quintana motioned his men to follow. Pitt took a fast head count. There were twenty-five, including himself. He hurried toward the elevator that rose to the upper levels. No more guards appeared in their way. The passages were deserted. With the prisoners dead, Pitt reasoned, Velikov probably saw no purpose in stationing more than one guard in the lower storage area.

They reached the elevator and he was about to push the Up button when the motors began to hum. He motioned everyone against the wall. They waited, listening to the elevator stop at a level above, hearing a murmur of voices and soft laughter. They stood frozen and watched the interior light shine through the crack between the doors as it descended.

It was all over in ten seconds. The doors opened and two technicians in white coats stepped outside and died without the slightest whisper of a sound from knives thrust into their hearts. Pitt was amazed at the efficiency of the act. None of the Cubans wore the slightest expression of remorse in their eyes.

"Decision time," said Pitt. "The elevator can hold only ten men."

"Only fourteen minutes until the space shuttle lands," Quintana said urgently. "We've got to find and cut off the compound's power source."

"There are four levels above us. Velikov's study is on the top. So are the living quarters. Take your pick of the other three."

"Like drawing to an inside straight."

"What else," Pitt said quickly. "We're also bunched-up fish in a barrel. My advice is to split up into three groups and take each level. You'll cover more territory faster."

"Sounds good," Quintana hastily agreed. "We've come this far without a greeting. They won't be expecting visitors to pop up on the inside at the same time in different areas."

"I'll go with the first eight men to level two and send the elevator down for the next team, who will hit level three, and so on."

"Fair enough." Quintana wasted no time arguing. He hurriedly selected eight men and ordered them into the elevator with Pitt. Just before the doors closed he snapped, "You stay alive, damn you!"

The ride up seemed endless. None of the men looked into the eyes of the others. A few dabbed at the sweat trickling down their faces. Some scratched at imagined itches. All had a finger poised on a trigger.

At last the elevator settled to a stop and the door parted. The Cubans poured out into an operations room staffed by nearly twenty Soviet GRU officers and four women who were also in uniform. Most died behind their desks in a hail of gunfire, dying in dazed disbelief. In a few seconds the office resembled a charnel house with blood and tissue sprayed everywhere.

Pitt took no time to see more. He punched the Level I button on the panel and rose alone in the elevator to Velikov's study. Pressing his back against the front wall, weapon in the raised position, he stole one quick glance around the opening doors. The sight inside the study struck him with a mixed force of elation and savage anger.

Seven GRU officers were sitting in a semicircle, watching in rapt fascination as Foss Gly performed his sadistic act. They seemed oblivious to the muted thump of gunfire from the level below, their senses deadened, Pitt concluded, by the emptied contents of several wine bottles.

Rudi Gunn lay off to one side, his face nearly battered into pulp, trying desperately out of some burning pride to hold up his head in contempt. One officer held a small automatic pistol on a bleeding Al Giordino who was tied in a metal chair. The brawny little Italian sagged forward with his head almost on his knees, shaking it slowly from side to side as if to clear his vision and rid himself of the pain. One of the men lifted his leg and kicked Giordino in the side, knocking him and the chair sideways to the floor. Raymond LeBaron sat beside and slightly behind Gly. The once dynamic financier had the look of a man who was worn to a shadow, his spirit torn from his body. The eyes were sightless, the face expressionless. Gly had pressured and twisted him into a decaying vegetable.

Jessie LeBaron knelt in the center of the room, staring at Gly in defiance. Her hair had been crudely lopped short. She clutched a blanket around her shoulders. Ugly red welts and dark bruises covered her exposed legs and arms. She looked to be beyond suffering, her mind deadened to any further pain. Despite her pitiful appearance she was incredibly beautiful, with a serenity and poise that were remarkable.

Foss and the other men turned at the arrival of the elevator, but seeing that it was apparently empty, they turned back to their sport.

Just as the doors began to close Pitt stepped into the room with an almost inhuman icy calm, his AK-74 held at eye level, the muzzle erupting fire.

His first carefully aimed shots took the man who had kicked Giordino onto the floor. The second blast struck the chest of the bemedaled officer seated next to Gunn, pitching him backward into a bookcase. The third and fourth bursts swept away three men sitting in a tight group. He was swinging the gun barrel in an arc, lining up on Foss Gly, but the massively built turncoat reacted more quickly than the others.

Gly yanked Jessie to her feet 'and held her in front of him as a shield. Pitt delayed just long enough for the seventh Russian, who was sitting almost at his elbows, to unholster an automatic pistol and snap off a wild shot.

The bullet struck the breech of Pitt's gun, shattered it, and then ricocheted into the ceiling. Pitt raised the useless weapon and sprang at the same moment he saw the muzzle flash from the second shot. Everything seemed to slow down. Even the frightened expression on the Russian's face as he squeezed the trigger for the third time, but the blast never came. The frame of the AK-74 sliced the air and caved the side of his head in.

At first Pitt thought the second bullet had missed, but then he felt the blood dripping down his neck from the nick taken out of his left ear. He stood there rooted, his fury still burning as Gly rudely shoved Jessie sprawling on the carpet.

A satanic grin spread across Gly's evil face along with an expression of unholy expectation. "You came back."

"Very perceptive-- for a cretin, that is."

"I promised you would die slowly when we met again," said Gly menacingly. "Have you forgotten?"

"No, I didn't forget," said Pitt. "I even remembered to bring a big club."

Pitt had no doubts that Gly meant to crush the life out of him with his massive hands. And he knew that his only real advantage, besides the bat, was a total lack of fear. Gly was used to seeing his victims helpless and naked, intimidated by his brute strength. Pitt's lips matched the satanic grin, and he began to stalk Gly, observing with cold satisfaction the look of confusion in his opponent's eyes.

Pitt went into a baseball crouch and swung the bat, aiming for a low pitch, and struck Gly in the knee. The blow smashed Gly's kneecap and he grunted in pain but didn't go down. He recovered in the blink of an eye and lurched at Pitt, receiving a blow in the ribs that knocked the breath from his body with an agonized gasp. For a moment he stood still warily watching Pitt, feeling the broken ribs, sucking painful intakes of air.

Pitt stepped back and lowered the bat. "Does the name Brian Shaw do anything for you?" he asked calmly.

The twisted look of hate slowly changed to puzzlement. "The British agent? You knew him?"

"Six months ago, I saved his life on a tugboat in the Saint Lawrence River. Remember? You were crushing him to death when I came up from behind and brained you with a wrench."

Pitt relished the savage glare in Gly's eyes.

"That was you?"

"A final thought to take with you," Pitt said, smiling fiendishly.

"The confession of a dead man." There was no contempt, no insolence in Gly's voice, just simple belief.

Without another word the two men began circling each other like a pair of wolves, Pitt with the bat raised, Gly dragging his injured leg. An eerie quiet settled over the room. Gunn struggled through a sea of pain to reach the fallen automatic pistol, but Gly caught the movement out of the corner of one eye and kicked the gun aside. Still tied to the chair, Giordino struggled weakly against his bonds in helpless frustration, while Jessie lay rigid, staring in morbid fascination.

Pitt took a step forward and was in the act of swinging when one foot slipped in the blood of a slain Russian. The bat should have caught Gly on the side of his head, but the arc was thrown off by six inches. On reflex Gly threw up his arm and absorbed the impact with king-size biceps.

The wooden shaft quivered in Pitt's hands as if he had struck it against a car bumper. Gly lashed out with his free hand, grabbed the end of the bat, and heaved like a weightlifter. Pitt gripped the handle for dear life as he was lifted into the air like a small child and slung halfway across the room against a wall of bookshelves, where he crashed to the floor amid an avalanche of leather-bound volumes.

Sadly, despairingly, Jessie and the others knew Pitt could never shake off the jarring collision with the wall. Even Gly relaxed and took his time about approaching the body on the floor, triumph fairly glowing on his gargoyle face, lips spread in sharkish anticipation of the extermination to come.

Then Gly stopped and stared incredulous as Pitt rose up from under a mountain of books like a quarterback who had been sacked, dazed, and slightly disoriented but ready for the next play. What Pitt knew, and no one else 'realized, was that the books had cushioned his impact. He hurt like hell but suffered no crippling damage to flesh and bone. Lifting the bat he moved to meet the advancing iron man, and rammed the blunt end with all his strength into the sneering face.

But he misjudged the giant's unholy strength. Gly side-stepped and met the bat with his fist, knocking it aside and taking advantage of Pitt's forward momentum to clench iron arms around his back. Pitt twisted violently and brought his knee up into Gly's groin, a savage blow that would have doubled over any other man. But not Gly. He gave a slight gasp, blinked, and then increased the pressure in a vicious bear hug that would crush the life out of Pitt.

Gly stared unblinking into Pitt's eyes from a distance of four inches. There wasn't the slightest display of physical exertion on his face. The only expression was the sneer that was locked in place. He lifted Pitt from his feet and kept squeezing, anticipating the contorted terror that would spread across his victim's face just before the end.

The air was choked off from Pitt's lungs and he gasped for breath. The room began to blur as the pain inside his chest ruptured into flaming agony. He could hear Jessie screaming, Giordino shouting something, but he couldn't distinguish the words. Through the pain his mind remained curiously sharp and clear. He refused to accept death and coldly devised a simple way to cheat it.

One arm was free, while the other, the one still clutching the baseball bat, was caught in Gly's relentless grip. The black curtain was beginning to drop over his eyes for the last time, and he realized death was only seconds away when he performed his last desperate act.

He brought up his hand until it was even with Gly's face and thrust the full length of the thumb into one eye, driving inward through the skull and twisting deeply into the brain.

Shock wiped the sneer off Gly's face, the shock of atrocious pain and unbelief. The dark features contorted in an anguished mask, and he instinctively released his arms from around Pitt and threw his hands up to his eye, filling the air with a horrible scream.

In spite of the terrible injury, Gly remained on his feet, thrashing around the room like a crazed animal. Pitt could not believe the monster was still alive, he almost believed Gly was indestructible until a deafening roar drowned the agonized cries.

Once, twice, three times, calmly and quite coldly, Jessie pulled the trigger on the fallen automatic pistol and shot Foss Gly in the groin. The shells thudded into him, and he staggered backward a few steps, then stood grotesquely for a few moments as if held by puppet strings. Finally he collapsed and crashed to the floor like a falling tree. The one eye was still open, black and as evil in death as it had been in life.

<<56>>

Major Gus Hollyman was flying scared. A career Air Force pilot with almost three hundred hours of flight time, he was suffering acute pangs of doubt, and doubt was one of a pilot's worst enemies. Lack of confidence in himself, his aircraft, or the men on the ground could prove deadly.

He couldn't bring himself to believe his mission to shoot down the space shuttle Gettysburg was anything more than a crazy exercise dreamed up by some egghead general with a fetish for far-out war games. A simulation, he told himself for the tenth time, it had to be a simulation that would terminate at the last minute.

Hollyman stared up at the stars through the canopy of the F-15E night attack fighter and wondered if he could actually obey an order to destroy the space shuttle and all those on board.

His eyes dropped to the instruments that glowed on the panel in front of him. His altitude was just over 50,000 feet. He would have less than three minutes to close on the rapidly descending space shuttle and lock in before firing a radar-guided Modoc missile. He automatically went through the procedure in his mind, hoping it would get no further than a mental event.

"Anything yet?" he asked his radar observer, a gum-chewing lieutenant named Regis Murphy.

"Still out of range," replied Murphy. "The last update from the space center in Colorado puts her altitude at twenty-six miles, speed approximately six thousand and slowing. She should reach our sector in five minutes, forty seconds, at a speed of twelve hundred."

Hollyman turned and scanned the black sky behind, spotting the faint exhaust glow of the two aircraft following his tail. "Do you copy, Fox Two?"

"Roger, Fox Leader."

"Fox Three?"

"We copy."

A cloud of oppression seemed to fill Hollyman's cockpit. None of this was right. He hadn't dedicated his life to defending his country, hadn't spent years in intensive training, simply to blast an unarmed aircraft carrying innocent scientists out of the air. Something was horribly wrong.

"Colorado Control, this is Fox Leader."

"Go ahead, Fox Leader."

"I request permission to terminate exercise, over."

There was a long pause. Then "Major Hollyman, this is General Allan Post. Do you read me?"

So this was the egghead general, Hollyman mused. "Yes, General, I read you."

"This is not an exercise. I repeat, this is not an exercise."

Hollyman did not mince words. "Do you realize what you're asking me to do, sir?"

"I'm not asking, Major. I'm giving you a direct order to bring down the Gettysburg before she lands in Cuba."

There had been no time for a full briefing when Hollyman was ordered to scramble his flight into the air. He was stunned and bewildered at Post's sudden revelation. "Forgive me for asking, General, but are you acting by higher command? Over."

"Is a directive straight from your Commander in Chief in the White House good enough for you?"

"Yes, sir," he said slowly. "I guess it is."

God, Hollyman thought despairingly, there was no getting around it.

"Altitude twenty-two miles, nine minutes to touchdown." Burkhart was reading off the instruments for Jurgens. "We've got lights off to our right."

"What's going down, Houston?" asked Jurgens, his face set in a frown. "Where in hell are you putting us?"

"Stay cool," replied the impassive voice of Flight Director Foley. "You're lined up just fine. Just sit tight and we'll bring you in."

"Radar and navigation indicators say we're touching down in the middle of Cuba. Please cross-check."

"No need, Gettysburg, you're on final approach."

"Houston, I'm not getting through to you. I repeat, where are you setting us down?"

There was no reply.

"Listen to me," said Jurgens in near desperation. "I'm going to full manual."

"Negative, Dave. Remain in auto. All systems are committed to the landing site."

Jurgens clenched his fists in futility. "Why?" he demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

There was no reply.

Jurgens looked over at Burkhart. "Move the speed brakes back to zero percent. We're going on TAEM.* I want to keep this ship in the air as long as I can until we get some straight answers."

-------------------------------------

*Terminal-area energy management, a process for conserving speed and altitude.

"You're only prolonging the inevitable by a couple of minutes," said Burkhart.

"We can't just sit here and accept this."

"It's out of our hands," Burkhart replied miserably. "We've no place else to go."

The real Merv Foley sat at a console in the Houston control center in helpless rage. His face, the color of chalk, showed an expression of incredulity. He pounded a fist against the edge of the console.

"We're losing them," he muttered hopelessly.

Irwin Mitchell of the "inner core" stood directly behind him. "Our communications people are doing the best they can to get through."

"Too damned late!" Foley burst out. "They're on final approach." He turned and grabbed Mitchell by the arm. "For Christ's sake, Irv, beg the President to let them land. Give the shuttle to the Russians, let them take whatever they can get out of it. But in the name of God don't let those men die."

Mitchell stared up dully at the data display screens. "Better this way," he said, his voice vague.

"The moon colonists-- those are your people. After all they've achieved, the years of struggling just to stay alive in a murderous environment, you can't simply write them off this close to home."

"You don't know those men. They'd never allow the results of their efforts to be given away to a hostile government. If I was up there and Eli Steinmetz was down here, he wouldn't hesitate to blow the Gettysburg to ashes."

Foley looked at Mitchell for a long moment. Then he turned away and buried his head in his hands, stricken with grief.

<<57>>

Jessie lifted her head and gazed at Pitt, the coffee-brown eyes misted, teardrops rolling past the bruises on her cheeks. She was shuddering now, shuddering from the death around her and immense relief. Pitt unashamedly embraced her, saying nothing, and gently removed the gun from her hand. Then he released her, quickly cut Giordino's bonds, gave Gunn a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, and stepped up to the huge wall map.

He rapped his knuckles against it, gauging the thickness. Then he moved back and lashed out with his foot at the center of the Indian Ocean. The hidden panel gave way, swung on its hinges, and smashed against the wall.

"I'll be back," he said, and disappeared into a passageway.

The interior was well lit and carpeted. He rushed incautiously, the gun held out in front of him. The passage was air-conditioned and cool, but the sweat was flowing through his pores more heavily than ever before. He rubbed a sleeve over his forehead, blocking his view for a brief moment, and almost died.

At that exact moment he reached a cross passage, and like a scene from an old Mack Sennett silent movie he collided with two guards who were walking around the corner.

Pitt crashed through them, knocking them to the sides, then whirled and dropped to the floor. The advantage of surprise was on his side. The guards hadn't expected to meet a foe so close to General Velikov's study. Pitt did. The automatic in his hand spat four times before the startled guards had a chance to trigger their rifles. He leaped to his feet while they were still falling.

For two seconds, perhaps three-- it seemed an hour-- he stared at the inert figures, curiously unaffected by their death but stunned that it all happened so fast. Mentally and emotionally he was exhausted, physically he felt reasonably fit. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air until his mind struggled through the haze, and he turned it to figuring which passage ran toward the electronic center of the compound.

The side passages had concrete floors, so he stuck with the one with the carpet and forged ahead. He had run only fifty feet when his brain cells finally came back on line and he cursed his sluggishness for not thinking to snatch one of the guard's rifles. He pulled out the clip of the automatic. It was empty, only one shell remained in the chamber. He wrote off the mistake and kept going.

It was then he saw a backwash of light ahead and heard voices. He slowed and ghosted up to a portal and peered out with the wariness of a mouse peeking from a knothole for a cat.

Six feet away was a railing on a balcony overlooking a vast room crammed with banks of computers and consoles stretched in neat rows beneath two large data display screens. At least ten technicians and engineers sat and calmly monitored the array of electronics while another five or six stood in agitated conversation.

The few uniformed guards who were present were crouched at one end of the room, their rifles aimed at a heavy steel door. A barrage of gunfire was coming from the other side, and Pitt knew Quintana and his men were about to break through. Now he was really sorry he hadn't taken the guns from the dead guards. He was about to turn and run back for them when a thunderous roar engulfed the room, followed by a great shower of dust and debris as the shattered door twisted crazily and burst into jagged fragments.

Before the cloud settled, the Cubans charged through the opening, guns blazing. The first three inside the room went down from the fire of the guards. Then the Russians seemed to melt away before the murderous onslaught. The din inside the concrete-walled room was deafening, but even so, above it all Pitt could hear the screams of the wounded. Most of the technicians hid under their consoles. Those who resisted were unmercifully shot down.

Pitt moved out along the balcony, keeping his back flattened against the wall. He saw two men standing about thirty feet away, staring in rapt horror at the carnage below. He recognized one of them as General Velikov and began edging closer, stalking his prey. He had only moved a short distance when Velikov pulled back from the balcony railing and turned. He looked at Pitt blankly for an instant, and his eyes widened in recognition, and then incredibly he smiled. The man seemed to have no nerves at all.

Pitt raised the automatic and took deliberate aim.

Velikov moved with the swiftness of a cat, jerking the other man in front of him, a fraction of a second before the hammer fell on the cartridge.

The bullet caught Lyev Maisky in the chest. The deputy chief of the KGB stiffened in shock and stood there staring in petrified astonishment before staggering backward and tumbling over the railing to the floor below.

Pitt unconsciously pulled the trigger again, but the gun was empty. In a futile gesture he threw it at Velikov, who easily deflected it with an arm.

Velikov nodded, his face revealing more curiosity than fear. "You're an amazing man, Mr. Pitt."

Before Pitt could reply or take a step, the general lurched sideways through an open door and slammed it shut. Pitt threw himself against the door, but he was too late. The lock was on the inside and Velikov had snapped the latch. There would be no kicking this one in. The heavy bolt was firmly embedded in a metal frame. He raised his fist to punch the door, thought better of it, swung around and ran down a stairway to the floor below.

He crossed the room through the confusion, stepping over the bodies until he reached Quintana, who was emptying the magazine of his AK-74 into a bank of computers.

"Forget that!" Pitt shouted in Quintana's ear. He gestured to the radio console. "If your men haven't destroyed the antenna, let me try to make contact with the shuttle."

Quintana lowered his rifle and looked at him. "The controls are in Russian. Can you operate it?"

"Never know till I try," said Pitt. He sat at the radio console and quickly studied the confusing sea of lights and switches labeled in the Cyrillic alphabet.

Quintana leaned over Pitt's shoulder. "You'll never find the right frequency in time."

"You Catholic?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Then call up the saint who guides lost souls and pray this thing is already set on the shuttle's frequency."

Pitt placed the tiny headset over one ear and kept pressing switches until he received a tone. Then he adjusted the microphone and pressed what he guessed and fervently hoped was the Transmit switch.

"Hello, Gettysburg, do you read me? Over." Then he pushed what he was sure was the Receive switch.

Nothing.

He tried a second, and a third. "Gettysburg, do you read? Over."

He pushed a fourth switch. "Gettysburg. Gettysburg, please respond," Pitt implored. "Do you read me? Over."

Silence, and then "This is Gettysburg. Who the hell are you? Over."

The sudden reply, so clear and distinct, surprised Pitt, and he took nearly three seconds to answer.

"Not that it matters, the name is Dirk Pitt. For the love of God, Gettysburg, sheer off. I repeat, sheer off. You are on a glide path for Cuba."

"So what else is new?" said Jurgens. "I can only keep this bird in the air a few more minutes and must make a touchdown attempt at the nearest landing strip. We've run out of options."

Pitt did not reply immediately. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Suddenly something clicked in his mind.

"Gettysburg, can you possibly make Miami?"

"Negative. Over."

"Try for the Key West Naval Air Station. It lies at the tip of the Keys."

"We copy. Our computers show it one hundred ten miles north and slightly east of us. Very doubtful. Over."

"Better to pile it up in the water than hand it to the Russians."

"That's easy for you to say. We've got over a dozen people on board. Over."

Pitt wrestled with his conscience for a moment, struggling whether or not to play God. Then he said urgently, "Gettysburg, go for it! Go for the Keys."

He couldn't have known it but Jurgens was about to make the same decision. "Why not? What have we got to lose but a billion-dollar airplane and our lives. Keep your fingers crossed."

"When I go off the air you should be able to reestablish communications with Houston," said Pitt. "Good luck, Gettysburg. Come home safe. Out."

Pitt sat there, drained. There was a strange silence in the devastated room, a silence only intensified by the low moans of the wounded. He looked up at Quintana and smiled thinly. His part in the act was over, he thought vaguely, all that was left was to gather up his friends and return home.

But then his mind recalled the La Dorada.

<<58>>

The Gettysburg made a fat target as she glided quietly through the night. There was no glow from the exhaust pods of her dead engines, but she was lit from bow to tail by flashing navigation lights. She was only a quarter of a mile ahead and slightly below Hollyman's attack fighter. He knew now that nothing could save the shuttle and the men inside. Her fiery end was only seconds away.

Hollyman went through the mechanical motions of planning his attack. The visual displays on his forward panel and windshield showed the necessary speed and navigation data along with the status and firing cues of his missile delivery systems. A digital computer automatically tracked the space shuttle, and he had little to do except press a button.

"Colorado Control, I am locked on target."

"Roger, Fox Leader. Four minutes to touchdown. Begin your attack."

Hollyman was torn by indecision. He felt such a wave of revulsion that he was temporarily incapable of movement, his mind sick with the realization of the terrible act he was about to commit. He had nurtured a forlorn hope the whole thing was some horrible mistake and the Gettysburg, like a condemned convict about to be executed in an old movie, would be saved by a last-minute reprieve from the President.

Hollyman's distinguished career in the Air Force was finished. Despite the fact he was carrying out orders, he would forever be branded as the man who blasted the Gettysburg and her crew out of the sky. He experienced a fear and an anger he had never known before.

He could not accept his lot as hard luck, or that fate chose him to play executioner. He softly cursed the politicians who made the military decisions, and who had brought him to this moment.

"Repeat, Fox Leader. Your transmission was garbled."

"Nothing, Control. It was nothing."

"What is your delay?" asked General Post. "Begin your attack immediately."

Hollyman's fingers hovered over the fire button. "God forgive me," he whispered.

Suddenly the digits on his tracking display began to change. He studied them briefly, drawn by curiosity. Then he stared at the space shuttle. It appeared to be rolling.

"Colorado Control!" he shouted into his microphone. "This is Fox Leader. Gettysburg has broken off her approach heading. Do you copy? Gettysburg is banking left and turning north."

"We copy, Fox Leader," replied Post, relief evident in his voice. "We have the course change on our tracking display. Take up position and stay with shuttle. Those guys are going to need all the moral support they can get."

"With pleasure," said Hollyman gleefully. "With pleasure."

A pall of silence hung over the Johnson Space Center control room. Unaware of the near-fatal drama played out by the Air Force, the ground team of four controllers and a growing crowd of NASA scientists and administrators hung in a purgatory of gloom. Their tracking network displayed the sudden turn to the north by the shuttle, but it could have merely indicated a roll or an S-turn in preparation for landing.

Then with startling abruptness, Jurgens' voice cracked the silence. "Houston, this is Gettysburg. Do you read? Over."

The control room erupted in a pandemonium of cheering and applause. Merv Foley reacted swiftly and replied. "Roger, Gettysburg. Welcome back to the fold."

"Am I talking to the real Merv Foley?"

"If there are two of us, I hope they catch the other guy quick before he signs our names to a lot of checks."

"You're Foley, all right."

"What is your status, Dave? Over."

"Are you tracking?"

"All systems have been go except communications and guidance control since you departed the space station."

"Then you know our altitude is 44,000 feet, speed 1,100. We're going to try for a touchdown at Key West Naval Air Station, over.

Foley looked up at Irwin Mitchell, his face strained.

Mitchell nodded and lightly tapped Foley's shoulder. "Let's pull out all the stops and bring those guys home."

"She's a good four hundred miles outside the cross-range," said Foley dejectedly. "We've got a hundred-ton aircraft with a descent rate of 10,000 feet a minute on a glide slope seven times steeper than a commercial airliner's. We'll never do it."

"Never say never," Mitchell replied. "Now tell them we're getting on it. And try to sound cheerful."

"Cheerful?" Foley took a few seconds to brace himself, and then he pressed the Transmit switch. "Okay, Dave, we're going to work on the problem and get you to Key West. Are you on TAEM? Over."

"Affirmative. We're pulling every trick in the book to conserve altitude. Our normal pattern approach will have to be deleted to extend our reach, over."

"Understood. All air and sea rescue units in the area are being alerted."

"Might not be a bad idea to let the Navy know we're dropping in for breakfast."

"Will do," Foley said. "Stand by."

He punched in tracking data on the display screen of his console. The Gettysburg was dropping past 39,500 feet, and she still had eighty miles to go.

Mitchell walked over, his eyes staring at the trajectory display on the giant wall screen. He adjusted his headset and called Jurgens.

"Dave, this is Irwin Mitchell. Go back to auto. Do you copy? Over."

"I copy, Irv, but I don't like it."

"Better the computers handle this stage of the approach. You can go back to manual ten miles from touchdown."

"Roger, out."

Foley looked up at Mitchell expectantly. "How close?" was all he asked.

Mitchell took a deep breath. "Paper thin."

"They can do it?"

"If the wind doesn't get temperamental, they stand a hairline chance. But if it veers into a five-knot crosswind, they buy the farm."

There was no fear in the cockpit of the Gettysburg. There was no time for it. Jurgens followed the descent trajectory on the computer display screens very closely. He flexed his fingers like a piano player before a concert, anxiously awaiting the moment he took over manual control for the final landing maneuvers.

"We've got an escort," said Burkhart.

For the first time, Jurgens turned his eyes from the instruments and gazed out the windows. He could just make out an F-15 fighter flying alongside about two hundred yards away. As he watched, the pilot switched on his navigation lights and waggled his wings. Two other aircraft in formation followed suit. Jurgens reset his radio to a military frequency.

"Where did you guys come from?"

"Just cruising the neighborhood for girls and spotted your flying machine," answered Hollyman. "Anything we can do to assist? Over."

"Got a towrope? Over."

"Fresh out."

"Thanks for hanging around, out."

Jurgens felt a small measure of comfort. If they fell short of Key West and had to ditch, at least the fighters could stand by and guide rescuers to their position. He turned his attention back to the flight indicators and idly wondered why Houston hadn't put him in communication with the Key West Naval Air Station.

"What in hell do you mean Key West is shut down?" Mitchell shouted at a white-faced engineer standing at his side, who was holding a phone. Without waiting for an answer, Mitchell grabbed the receiver. "Who am I talking to?" he demanded.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Redfern."

"Are you fully aware of the seriousness of this situation?"

"It has been explained, sir, but there is nothing we can do. A fuel tanker crashed into our power lines earlier this evening and blacked out the field."

"What about your emergency generators?"

"The diesel-engine power source ran fine for about six hours and then failed from a mechanical problem. They're working on it now and should have it back in service in an hour."

"That's too damned late," Mitchell snapped. "The Gettysburg is two minutes away. How can you guide them in on the final approach?"

"We can't," answered the commander. "All our equipment is shut down."

"Then line the runway with car and truck headlights, anything that will illuminate the surface."

"We'll do our best, sir, but with only four men on flight line duty this time of the morning it won't be much. I'm sorry."

"You're not the only one who's sorry" Mitchell grunted, and slammed down the phone.

"We should have the runway on visual by now," said Burkhart uneasily. "I see the city lights of Key West but no sign of the air station."

For the first time, a faint gleam of sweat appeared on Jurgens' brow. "Damned odd we haven't heard from their control tower."

At that moment, Mitchell's strained voice broke in. "Gettysburg, Key West station has a power outage. They are making an effort to light the runway with vehicles. We are directing your approach from the east to land on a westerly heading. Your runway is seven thousand feet. If you overshoot you wind up in a recreation park. Do you copy? Over."

"Roger, Control. We copy."

"We show you at 11,300 feet, Dave. Speed 410. One minute, ten seconds and six miles to touchdown. You are go for full manual, over."

"Roger, going to manual."

"Do you have the runway on visual?"

"Nothing yet."

"Excuse the interruption, Gettysburg." It was Hollyman cutting in on the NASA frequency. "But I think my boys and I can play Rudolph to your sleigh. We'll go ahead and light the way, over."

"Much obliged, little buddy," said Jurgens gratefully.

He watched as the F-15s accelerated past, dropped their noses, and pointed them toward Key West. They fell into line as if playing follow the leader and switched on their landing lights. At first the brilliant rays only reflected on water, and then they lit up a salt flat before sweeping up the naval air station runway.

The effort of concentration showed on Jurgens' face. The shuttle went right where he aimed it, but it was never meant to soar through the air like a paper glider. Burkhart read out the airspeed and altitude so Jurgens could center his attention on flying.

"Gettysburg, you are three hundred feet under minimum," said Foley.

"If I pull up another inch, she'll stall."

The runway seemed to take forever to grow larger. The shuttle was only four miles out, but it looked like a hundred. Jurgens believed he could make it. He had to make it. Every brain cell in his skull willed the Gettysburg to hang in the air.

"Speed 320, altitude 1,600, three miles to runway," reported Burkhart. His voice had a trace of hoarseness.

Jurgens could see the flashing lights from the fire and rescue equipment now. The fighters were hovering above him, shining their landing lights on the concrete ribbon 1.5 miles long by 200 feet wide.

The shuttle was eating up her glide slope. Jurgens flared her out as much as he dared. The landing lights glinted on the shoreline no more than ninety feet below. He held on to the last possible second before he pushed the switch and deployed the landing gear. Normal landing procedure required the wheels to touch 2,760 feet down the runway, but Jurgens held his breath, hoping against hope that they would even reach the concrete.

The salt flat flashed past under the blinding beams and was lost in the darkness behind. Burkhart gripped his seat rests and droned off the diminishing numbers.

"Speed 205. Main gear at ten feet. . . five feet. . . three feet. . . two feet. . . one, contact."

The four huge tires of the main landing gear thumped on the hard surface and protested at the sudden friction with a puff of smoke. A later measurement would show that Jurgens touched the shuttle down only forty-seven feet from the end of the runway. Jurgens gently pitched the bow down until the nose wheel made contact and then pushed both brake pedals. He rolled the spacecraft to a stop with a thousand feet to spare.

"They made it!" Hollyman whooped over his radio.

"Gettysburg to Houston Control," said Jurgens with an audible sigh. "The wheels have stopped."

"Magnificent! Magnificent!" shouted Foley.

"Congratulations, Dave," added Mitchell. "Nobody could have done it better."

Burkhart looked over at Jurgens and said nothing, simply gave a thumbs-up sign.

Jurgens sat there, his adrenaline still flowing, basking in his triumph over the odds. His weary mind began to wander and he found himself wondering who Dirk Pitt was. Then he pressed the intercom switch.

"Mr. Steinmetz."

"Yes, Commander?"

"Welcome back to earth. We're home."

<<59>>

Pitt tool one quick comprehensive look as he stepped back into Velikov's study. Everyone was kneeling, clustered around Raymond LeBaron, who was stretched out on the floor. Jessie was holding his hand and murmuring to him. Gunn looked up at Pitt's approach and shook his head.

"What happened?" Pitt asked blankly.

"He jumped to his feet to help you and caught the bullet that cut your ear," Giordino replied.

Before kneeling, Pitt stared down a moment at the mortally wounded millionaire. The clothing that covered the upper abdomen bloomed in a spreading stain of crimson. The eyes still had life and were focused on Jessie's face. His breath came in rapid and shallow pants. He tried to raise his head and say something to her, but the effort was too great and he fell back.

Slowly Pitt sank on one knee beside Jessie. She turned and looked at him with tears trickling down her discolored cheeks. He stared back at her briefly without speaking. He could think of nothing to say to her, his mind was played out.

"Raymond tried to save you," she said huskily. "I knew they could never completely turn him inside out. In the end he came back."

LeBaron coughed, a strange rasping kind of cough. He gazed up at Jessie, his eyes dulled, face white and drained of blood. "Take care of Hilda," he whispered. "I leave everything in your hands."

Before he could say more, the room trembled as the rumble of explosives came from deep below. Quintana's team had begun destroying the electronic equipment inside the compound. They would have to leave soon, and there would be no taking Raymond LeBaron with them.

Pitt thought of all the newspaper stories and magazine articles glorifying the dying man on the carpet as a steel-blooded power merchant who could make or break executive officers of giant corporations or high-level politicians in government, a wizard at manipulating the financial markets of the world, a vindictive and cold man whose trail was littered with the bones of competing businesses he had crushed and their thousands of employees who were cast out on the streets. Pitt had read all that, but all he saw was a dying old man, a paradox of human frailty, who had stolen his best friend's wife and then killed him for a fortune in treasure. Pitt could feel no pity for such a man, no flicker of emotion.

Now the slender thread holding LeBaron on to life was about to break. He leaned over and placed his lips close to the old power broker's ear.

"La Dorada," Pitt whispered. "What did you do with her?"

LeBaron looked up, and his eyes glistened for an instant as his clouding mind took a final look at the past. His voice was faint as he summoned up the strength to answer. The words came almost as he died.

"What did he say?" asked Giordino.

"I'm not sure," replied Pitt, his expression bewildered. "It sounded like `Look on the main sight.' "

To the Cubans across the bay on the main island the detonations sounded like distant thunder and they paid no attention. No spouting volcano of red and orange lit the horizon, no fiery column of flame reaching hundreds of feet through the black sky attracted their curiosity. The sounds came strangely muffled as the compound was destroyed from within. Even the belated destruction of the great antenna went without notice.

Pitt helped Jessie to the staging area on the beach, followed by Giordino and Gunn, who was carried on a stretcher by the Cubans. Quintana joined them and dropped all caution as he shined a pencil thin flashlight in Pitt's face.

"You'd better get a patch on that ear."

"I'll survive until we reach the SPUT."

"I had to leave two men behind, buried where they'll never be found. But there are still more going out than came in. Some of you will have to double up on the water Dashers. Dirk, you carry Mrs. LeBaron. Mr. Gunn can ride with me. Sergeant Lopez can--"

"The sergeant can ride alone," Pitt interrupted.

"Alone?"

"We left a man behind too," said Pitt.

Quintana quickly swept the narrow beam at the others. "Raymond LaBaron?"

"He won't be coming."

Quintana gave a slight shrug, bowed his head at Jessie, and said simply, "I'm sorry" Then he turned away and began assembling his men for the trip back to the mother ship.

Pitt held Jessie close to him and spoke gently. "He asked you to take care of his first wife, Hilda, who still lives."

He couldn't see the surprise on her face, but he could feel her body tense.

"How did you know?" she asked incredulously.

"I met and talked with her a few days ago."

She seemed to accept that and did not ask him how he came to be at the rest home. "Raymond and I went through the ceremony and played out our roles as man and wife, but he could never completely give up or divorce Hilda."

"A man who loved two women."

"In different, special ways. A tiger in business, a lamb on the home front, Raymond was lost when Hilda's mind and body began to deteriorate. He desperately needed a woman to lean on. He used his influence to fake her death and place her in a rest home under a former married name."

"Your cue to walk on the scene." He did not like being cold, but he was not sorry.

"I was already part of his life," she said without hurt. "I was one of the senior editors of the Prosperteer. Raymond and I had carried on an affair for years. We felt comfortable together. His proposal bordered on a business proposition, a staged marriage of convenience, but it soon grew into more, much more. Do you believe that?"

"I've no talent for rendering verdicts," Pitt replied quietly.

Quintana detached himself from the shadows and touched Pitt's arm. "We're moving out. I'll take the radio receiver and lead off." He moved close to Jessie and his voice softened. "Another hour and you'll be safe. Do you think you can hold on a little longer?"

"I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern."

The Dashers were dragged across the beach and set in the water. At Quintana's command everyone mounted and set off across the black water. This time Pitt brought up the rear as Quintana, headset in place, homed in on the SPUT from headings transmitted by Colonel Kleist.

They left an island of dead in their wake. The huge compound was reduced to great broken slabs of concrete that crumbled inward. The vast array of electronic equipment and the ornate furnishings smoldered like the dying core of a volcano deep beneath the sunbleached coral sand. The giant antenna lay in a thousand twisted pieces, shattered beyond any possible repair. Within hours hundreds of Russian soldiers, led by agents of the GRU, would be crawling over the ruins, searching and sifting the sands for incriminating evidence of the forces responsible for the destruction. But the only bits and pieces their probing investigation would turn up pointed directly to the cunning mind of Fidel Castro and not the CIA.

Pitt kept his eyes locked on the shaded blue light of the Dasher straight in front of him. They were going against the tide now and the tiny craft nosed into the wave troughs and bounced over the crests like a roller coaster. Jessie's added weight slowed their speed, and he kept the accelerator pressed against its stop to keep from falling behind.

They had only traveled about a mile when Pitt felt one of Jessie's hands loosen from his waist.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

His answer was the feel of a cold gun muzzle against his chest just beneath the armpit. He dipped his head very slowly and looked down under his arm. There was indeed the black outline of an automatic pistol pressed into his rib cage, a 9-millimeter Makarov, and the hand that held it was rock steady.

"If I'm not being too forward," he said in genuine surprise, "may I ask what's on your mind?"

"A change in plan," she replied, her voice low and tense. "Our job is only half done."

Kleist paced the deck of the SPUT as Quintana's team of raiders were lifted on board and the Dashers quickly stowed through a large hatch and down a ramp to the cavernous cargo bay. Quintana circled the ship, riding herd until there was no one left in the water. Only then did he climb onto the low deck.

"How did it go?" Kleist asked anxiously.

"As they say on Broadway, a smash hit. The destruction was complete. You can tell Langley the GRU is off the air."

"Nice work," said Kleist. "You'll receive a fat bonus and long vacation. Courtesy of Martin Brogan."

"Pitt deserves a major share of the credit. He led us straight into the parlor before the Russians woke up. He also went on the radio and warned off the space shuttle."

"Unfortunately, there are no brass bands for part-time help," said Kleist vaguely. Then he asked, "And what of General Velikov?"

"Presumed dead and buried in the rubble."

"Any casualties?"

"I lost two men." He paused. "We also lost Raymond LeBaron."

"The President won't be happy when he hears that news."

"More of an accident really. He made a very brave but foolhardy attempt to save Pitt's life and was shot for his effort."

"So the old bastard went out a hero." Kleist stepped to the edge of the deck and peered into the darkness. "And what of Pitt?"

"A slight wound, nothing serious."

"And Mrs. LeBaron?"

"A few days' rest and some cosmetics to cover the bruises, and she'll look as good as new"

Kleist turned briskly. "When did you see them last?"

"When we left the beach. Pitt was carrying her on his Dasher. I kept the speed low so they could keep up."

Quintana couldn't see it, but Kleist's eyes turned fearful, fearful with the sudden realization that something was terribly amiss. "Pitt and Mrs. LeBaron have not come on board."

"They must have," Quintana said uneasily. "I'm the last one in."

"Neither has been accounted for," said Kleist. "They're still out there somewhere. And since Pitt didn't carry the radio receiver on the return trip, we can't guide them home."

Quintana put a hand to his forehead. "My fault. I was responsible."

"Maybe, maybe not. If something went wrong, if his Dasher broke down, Pitt would have called out, and you would have surely heard him."

"We might pick them up on radar," Quintana offered hopefully.

Kleist doubled his fists and rapped them together. "We'd better hurry. It's suicide to drift around here much longer."

He and Quintana hurried down the ramp to the control room. The radar operator was sitting in front of a blank scope. He looked up as the two officers flanked his sides, their faces strained.

"Raise the antenna," ordered Kleist.

"We'll be targeted by every radar unit on the Cuban coast," the operator protested.

"Raise it!" Kleist demanded sharply.

Topside, a section of the deck parted and a directional antenna unfolded and rose on the top of a mast that telescoped nearly fifty feet into the sky. Below, six pairs of eyes watched as the screen glowed into life.

"What are we looking for?" asked the operator.

"Two of our people are missing," answered Quintana.

"They're too small to show on the screen."

"What about computer enhancement?"

"We can try"

"Go for it."

After half a minute, the operator shook his head. "Nothing within two miles."

"Increase the range to five."

"Still nothing."

"Go to ten."

The operator ignored the radar screen and stared intently at the enhanced computer display. "Okay, I have a tiny object that's a possible. Nine miles southwest, bearing two-two-two degrees."

"They must be lost," muttered Kleist.

The radar operator shook his head. "Not unless they're blind or plain stupid. The skies are clear as crystal. Any tenderfoot Boy Scout knows where the North Star lies."

Quintana and Kleist straightened and stared at each other in mute astonishment, unable to fully comprehend what they knew to be true. Kleist was the first to ask the inescapable question.

"Why?" he asked dumbly. "Why would they deliberately go to Cuba?"

<5>THE AMY BIGALOW

November 6, 1989

North Coast of Cuba

<<60>>

Pitt and Jessie evaded a prowling Cuban patrol boat and were within a thousand yards of the Cuban shoreline when the battery on the Dasher died. He pulled the drain plugs, and they swam away as the little sport craft slipped under the sea and sank to the bottom. His combat boots were a tight fit and allowed little water to seep inside, so he left them on, well aware they would be essential once he stepped on shore.

The water felt comfortably warm and the waves remained low. An early morning quarter-moon slipped over the horizon two hours ahead of the sun. With the added light Pitt could easily keep Jessie in view. She coughed as if she had taken in some water but appeared to be treading without effort.

"How's your backstroke?" he asked.

"Good." She sputtered and spit for a moment and said, "I took third in an all-state high school meet."

"What state?"

"Wyoming."

"I didn't know Wyoming had a swimming pool."

"Funny man."

"The tide is running in our favor, so let's get moving before it turns."

"It'll be light soon," she said.

"All the more reason to make shore and find cover."

"What about sharks?"

"They never breakfast before six o'clock," he said impatiently. "Now come on, no more talk."

They set off with the elementary backstroke, arms thrown back, legs thrusting in a whip kick. The incoming tide pushed them along at close to a knot, and they made good time. Jessie was a strong swimmer. She matched Pitt stroke for stroke, staying right alongside him. He marveled at her endurance after all she had been through the past six days and felt pity for the aches and exhaustion he knew she was suffering. But he could not allow her to slack off now, not until they reached shore and found a small measure of safety.

She had not offered a reason for forcing him to turn for Cuba, and Pitt had not asked. He didn't have to be clairvoyant to know she had a definite purpose in mind that went beyond mere insanity. This lady had very definite ideas and the stubbornness to back them up. He could have disarmed her by capsizing the Dasher during a fast turn on the down slope of a wave, and he was also reasonably certain she wouldn't have pulled the trigger if he had refused.

But it was business as usual for Pitt. "In for a penny, in for a pound / It's love that makes the world go round." Only he wasn't in love-- attracted, yes, but not swept away. Curiosity overrode any passionate urge. He could never resist sticking his foot through a door to the unknown. And then there was the lure of the La Dorada treasure. LeBaron's clue was meager, but the statue had to be somewhere in Cuba. The only snag was that he could easily get killed.

Pitt stopped and dove straight down, touching bottom at what he reckoned was ten feet. He reached out and accidentally brushed one of Jessie's legs as he surfaced. She shrieked, thinking she was being attacked by something big with a triangular fin, unseeing eyes, and a mouth that only a dentist could appreciate.

"Quiet!" he rasped. "You'll alert every guard patrol for miles."

"Oh, God, it was you!" she groaned in dazed fright.

"Keep it low," he murmured close to her ear. "Sound carries over water. We'll rest awhile and watch for signs of activity."

There was no answer from her, simply a light touch of her hand on his shoulder in agreement. They treaded water for several minutes, peering into the darkness. The dim moonlight softly illuminated the coastline of Cuba, the narrow strip of white sand and the dark shadows of the growth behind. About two miles to their right they could see lights from cars passing on a road that cut close to the shore. Five miles beyond an incandescent glow revealed a small port city.

Pitt could not detect any indication of movement. He gestured forward and began swimming again, using a breaststroke this time so he could keep his eyes trained ahead. Heights and shapes, angles and contours became nebulous silhouettes as they moved closer. After fifty yards he extended his feet downward and touched sand. He stood and the water came up to his chest.

"You can stand," he said softly.

There was a momentary pause, then she whispered tiredly, "Thank heavens, my arms feel like lead."

"As soon as we reach the shallows you lie still and take it easy. I'm going to scout around."

"Please be careful."

"Not to worry," he said, breaking into a wide grin. "I'm getting the hang of it. This is the second enemy beach I've landed on tonight."

"Are you ever serious?"

"When the occasion demands. Like now, for instance. Give me the gun."

She hesitated. "I think I lost it."

"You think?"

"When we went in the water--"

"You dropped it."

"I dropped it," she repeated in innocent regret.

"You don't know what a joy it's been working with you," Pitt said in abject exasperation.

They swam the remaining distance in silence until the low surf diminished and it was only a few inches deep. He motioned for Jessie to stay put. For the next minute Pitt lay rigid and unmoving, then abruptly, without a word, he leaped to his feet, ran across the sand, and vanished into the shadows.

Jessie fought to keep from nodding off. Her whole body was going numb from exhaustion, and she gratefully became aware that the pain from the bruises caused by Foss Gly's hands were fading away. The soothing lap of the water against her lightly clad body relaxed her like a sedative.

And then she froze, fingers digging into the wet sand, her heart catching in her throat.

One of the bushes had moved. Ten, maybe twelve yards away, a dark mass detached itself from the surrounding shadows and advanced along the beach just above the tideline.

It was not Pitt.

The pale light from the moon revealed a figure in a uniform carrying a rifle. She lay paralyzed, acutely aware of her naked helplessness. She pressed her body into the sand and slid backward slowly into deeper water, an inch at a time.

Jessie shrank in a vain attempt to make herself smaller as the beam from a flashlight suddenly speared the dark and played on the beach above the waterline. The Cuban sentry swept the light back and forth as he walked toward her, intently examining the ground. With a fearful certainty Jessie realized that he was following footprints. She felt a sudden anger at Pitt for leaving her alone, and for leaving a trail that led straight to her.

The Cuban approached within ten yards and would have seen the upper outline of her shape if he had only turned a fraction in her direction. The beam stopped its sweep and held steady, probing at the impressions left by Pitt on his dash across the beach. The guard swung to his right and crouched, aiming the flashlight into the bordering undergrowth. Then, inexplicably, he spun around to his left and the beam caught Jessie full in its glare. The light blinded her.

For a second the Cuban stood startled, then his free hand lifted the barrel of the automatic rifle that was slung over his shoulder and he pointed the muzzle directly at Jessie. Too terrified to speak, she clamped her eyes closed as if the mere act would shut out the horror and impact of the bullets.

She heard a faint thud, followed by a convulsive grunt. The bullets never came. There was only a strange silence, and then she sensed the light had gone out. She opened her eyes and stared vaguely at a pair of legs that stood ankle deep in the water, straddling her head, and through them she saw the inert body of the Cuban sentry stretched out on the sand.

Pitt leaned down and gently hoisted Jessie to her feet. He smoothed back her dripping hair and said, "It seems I can't turn my back for a minute without you getting into trouble."

"I thought I was dead," she said, as her heartbeat gradually slowed.

"You must have thought the same thing at least a dozen times since we left Key West."

"Fear of death takes a while to get used to."

Pitt picked up the Cuban's flashlight, hooded it in his hand, and began stripping off the uniform. "Fortunately he's a short little rascal, about your size. Your feet will probably swim in his boots, but better too large than too small."

"Is he dead?"

"Just a small dent in the skull from a rock. He'll come around in a few hours."

She wrinkled her nose as she caught the thrown fatigue uniform. "I don't think he ever bathed."

"Launder it in the sea and put it on wet," he said briskly. "And be quick about it. This is no time to play fashionable rich bitch. The sentry at the next post will wonder why he hasn't shown up. His relief and sergeant of the guard are bound to come along pretty soon."

Five minutes later Jessie stood dripping in the uniform of a Cuban armed forces patrol guard. Pitt was right, the boots were two sizes too big. She lifted her damp hair and neatly tucked it under the cap. She turned and stared at Pitt as he emerged from the trees and bushes carrying the Cuban's rifle and a palm frond.

"What did you do with him?" she asked.

"Stashed him a ways inland under a bush." Pitt's voice betrayed a sense of urgency. He pointed at a tiny beam of light about a quarter of mile down the beach. "They're coming. No time for a volleyball game. Get a move on."

He roughly pushed her toward the trees and followed, walking backward brushing away their footprints with the palm frond. After nearly seventy yards, he dropped the frond and they hurried through the jungle growth, putting as much distance between them and the beach as possible before daylight.

They had covered five miles when the eastern sky began to brighten from black to orange. A sugarcane field rose up out of the fading darkness, and they skirted its border until it ended beside a paved two-lane highway. No headlights played on the asphalt in either direction. They walked along the shoulder, ducking into the brush whenever a car or truck approached. Pitt noticed that Jessie's steps were beginning to falter and her breathing was coming in rapid gasps. He halted, placed his handkerchief over the lens of the flashlight, and shone it in her face. He didn't require the credentials of a sports physician to see that she was done in. He put his arm around her waist and pushed on until they reached the steep sides of a small ravine.

"Catch your breath, I'll be right back."

Pitt dropped down the slope into a dry creek bed that threaded a jagged course around a low hill littered with large boulders and scrub pine. It passed under the highway through a concrete pipe three feet in diameter and spread into a fenced pasture on the other side. He scrambled back up to the road, silently took Jessie's hand, and led her stumbling and sliding to the gravelly bottom of the ravine. He flicked the beam of the flashlight inside the drainpipe.

"The only vacant room in town," he said in a voice as cheerful as he could make it under the circumstances.

It was no penthouse suite, but the curved bottom of the pipe held a good two inches of soft sand, and it was a safer haven than Pitt could have hoped for. Any pursuing guards who eventually came on their trail and followed it to the highway would assume the landing party met a prearranged ride.

Somehow they managed to find a comfortable position in the cramped darkness. Pitt set the gun and flashlight within easy reach and finally relaxed.

"Okay, lady," he said, his words echoing through the drainpipe. "I think the time has come for you to tell me what in hell we're doing here."

But Jessie didn't answer.

Oblivious to her clammy, ill-fitting uniform, oblivious even to aching feet and sore joints, she was curled in a fetal position sound asleep.

<<61>>

"Dead? All dead?" Kremlin boss Antonov repeated angrily. "The entire facility destroyed and no survivors, none at all?"

Polevoi nodded heavily. "The captain of the submarine that detected the explosions and the colonel in command of the security forces sent ashore to investigate reported that they found no one alive. They retrieved the body of my chief deputy, Lyev Maisky, but General Velikov has yet to be found."

"Were secret codes and documents missing?"

Polevoi was not about to put his head on the block and take responsibility for an intelligence disaster. As it was, he stood within a hair of losing his lofty position and quickly becoming a forgotten bureaucrat in charge of a labor camp

"All classified data were destroyed by General Velikov's staff before they died fighting."

Antonov accepted the lie. "The CIA," he said, brooding. "They're behind this foul provocation."

"I don't think we can make the CIA the scapegoat on this one. The preliminary evidence points to a Cuban operation."

"Impossible," Antonov snapped. "Our friends in Castro's military would have warned us well in advance of any ambitious plan to attack the island. Besides, a daring and imaginative operation of this magnitude goes far beyond any Latin brain."

"Perhaps, but our best intelligence minds do not believe the CIA was remotely aware of our communications center on Cayo Santa Maria. We haven't uncovered the slightest indication of surveillance. The CIA is good, but its people are not gods. They could not have possibly planned, rehearsed, and carried out the raid in the few short hours from the time the shuttle left the space station until it suddenly veered off our programmed flight path to Cuba."

"We lost the shuttle too?"

"Our monitoring of the Johnson Space Center revealed that it landed safely in Key West."

"With the American moon colonists," he added flatly.

"They were on board, yes."

For seconds, too furious to react, Antonov sat there, his lips taut, unblinking eyes staring into nothingness. "How did they do it?" he growled at last. "How did they save their precious space shuttle at the last minute?"

"Fool's luck," said Polevoi, again relying on the Communist dogma of casting blame elsewhere. "Their asses were saved by the devious interference of the Castros."

Antonov's eyes suddenly focused on Polevoi. "As you've so often reminded me, Comrade Director, the Castro brothers can't go to the toilet without the KGB knowing how many squares of paper they use. You tell me how they suddenly crawled in bed with the President of the United States without your agents becoming aware of it."

Polevoi had unwittingly dug himself into a hole and now he shrewdly climbed out of it by switching the course of the briefing. "Operation Rum and Cola is still in progress. We may have been cheated out of the space shuttle and a rich source of scientific data, but it is an acceptable loss compared to gaining total mastery of Cuba."

Antonov considered Polevoi's words, and swallowed the bait. "I have my doubts. Without Velikov to direct the operation its chances for success are cut in half."

"The general is no longer crucial to Rum and Cola. The plan is ninety percent complete. The ships will enter Havana Harbor tomorrow evening, and Castro's speech is set for the following morning. General Velikov performed admirably in laying the groundwork. Rumors of a new CIA plot to assassinate Castro have already been spread throughout the Western world, and we have prepared evidence showing American involvement. All that's left to do is push a button."

"Our people in Havana and Santiago are alerted?"

"They're prepared to move in and form a new government as soon as the assassination is confirmed."

"And the next leader?"

"Alicia Cordero."

Antonov's mouth hung half open. "A woman, you're telling me? We're naming a woman to rule Cuba after Fidel Castro's death?"

"The perfect choice," said Polevoi firmly. "She is secretary of the Central Committee and secretary of the Council of State. Most important, she is a close confidante of Fidel and is idolized by the people for the success of her family economic programs and fiery oratory. She has a charm and charisma that matches Fidel's. Her loyalty to the Soviet Union is unquestionable, and she will have the total backing of the Cuban military."

"Who work for us."

"Who belong to us," Polevoi corrected.

"So we are committed."

"Yes, Comrade President."

"And then?" Antonov prompted.

"Nicaragua, Peru, Chile, and yes, Argentina," said Polevoi, warming to his subject. "No more messy revolutions, no more bloody guerrilla movements. We infiltrate their governments and subtly erode from within, careful to arouse no hostility from the United States. When they finally wake up it will be too late. South and Central America will be solid extensions of the Soviet Union."

"And not the party?" Antonov asked reproachfully. "Are you forgetting the glory of our Communist heritage, Polevoi?"

"The party is the base to build upon. But we cannot continue to be chained to an archaic Marxist philosophy that has taken a hundred years to prove unworkable. The twenty-first century is only a decade away. The day of cold realism is now. I quote you, Comrade President, when you said, `I envision a new era of socialism that will wipe the hated scourge of capitalism from the earth.' Cuba is the first step in fulfilling your dream of a world society dominated by the Kremlin."

"And Fidel Castro is the barrier in our path."

"Yes," said Polevoi with a sinister smile. "But only for another forty-eight hours."

Air Force One lifted off from Andrews Air Force Base and turned south over the historic hills of Virginia. The early morning sky was clear and blue with only a few scattered thunderclouds. The Air Force colonel, who had piloted the Boeing jet under three Presidents, leveled off at 34,000 feet and gave the arrival time at Cape Canaveral over the cabin intercom.

"Breakfast, gentlemen?" asked the President, motioning toward a small dining compartment recently modified into the plane. His wife had hung a Tiffany lampshade over an art deco table, lending an informal, relaxed atmosphere. "Our galley can provide champagne if anyone wishes to celebrate."

"I wouldn't mind a hot cup of black coffee," said Martin Brogan. He sat down and removed a file from his briefcase before sliding it under the table.

Dan Fawcett pulled up a chair beside him, while Douglas Oates sat opposite, next to the President. A white-coated Air Force sergeant served guava juice, the President's favorite, and coffee. Each man gave his order and relaxed, waiting for the President to launch the conversation.

"Well," he said, smiling, "we've got a lot to get through before we land at the Cape and congratulate everyone. So let's get started. Dan, fill us in on the status of the Gettysburg and the moon colonists."

"I've been on the phone all morning with NASA officials," said Fawcett, excitement evident in his tone. "As we all know, Dave Jurgens put the spacecraft down in Key West by the skin of his teeth. A remarkable job of flying. The naval air station has been closed to all air and car traffic. The gates and fences are under heavy Marine guard. The President has ordered a temporary news blackout on the situation until he can announce the existence of our new moon base."

"The reporters must be screaming like wounded vultures," said Oates, "demanding to know why the shuttle made an unscheduled arrival so far off course."

"That goes without saying."

"When do you plan to make the announcement?" asked Brogan.

"In two days," replied the President. "We need time to sort out the immense implications and debrief Steinmetz and his people before we throw them to the news media."

"If we delay any longer," added Fawcett, "someone in the White House press corps is bound to hit on a leak."

"Where are the moon colonists now?"

"Undergoing tests at the Kennedy Space Center medical facility," answered Fawcett. "They were flown out of Key West along with Jurgens' crew shortly after the Gettysburg touched down."

Brogan looked at Oates. "Any word from the Kremlin?"

"Only silence so far."

"Be interesting to see how they react to having their nationals shot down for a change."

"Antonov is a wily old bear," said the President. "He'll reject a propaganda blitz accusing us of murdering his cosmonauts in favor of secret talks where he'll demand restitution in the form of shared scientific data."

"Will you give it to him?"

"The President is morally bound to comply," said Oates.

Brogan looked appalled, and so did Fawcett.

"This is not a political matter," Brogan said in a low voice. "There is nothing in the book that says we have to throw away secrets vital to our national defense."

"We're cast as the villains this time around, not the Russians," protested Oates. "We're within inches of a SALT IV agreement to halt all future nuclear missile placement. If the President ignored Antonov's claims, the Soviet negotiators would take one of their famous walks only hours before signing the treaty."

"You may be right," said Fawcett. "But everyone connected with the Jersey Colony didn't struggle for two decades just to give it all away to the Kremlin."

The President had followed this exchange without interrupting. Now he held up a hand. "Gentlemen, I am not about to sell out the store. But there is an enormous wealth of information we can share with the Russians and the rest of the world in the interests of humanity. Medical findings, geological and astronomical data must be freely passed around. However, you may rest easy. I'm not about to compromise our space and defense programs. That area will remain firmly in our hands. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence descended on the dining compartment as the steward delivered three steaming plates of eggs, ham, and hotcakes. He refilled the coffee cups. As soon as he returned to the galley, the President sighed deeply and looked at the table in front of Brogan.

"You're not eating, Martin?"

"I usually skip breakfast. Lunch is my big meal."

"You don't know what you're missing. These hotcakes are light as a feather."

"No, thanks. I'll just stick with coffee."

"While the rest of us dig in, why don't you brief us on the Cayo Santa Maria operation."

Brogan took a sip from his cup, opened the file, and condensed the contents in a few concise statements. "A special combat team under the command of Colonel Ramon Kleist and led by Major Angelo Quintana landed on the island at 0200 hours this morning. By 0430 the Soviet radio jamming and listening facility, including its antenna, was destroyed and all personnel terminated. The timing was most fortunate, as the final radio transmission warned off the Gettysburg only minutes before it would have landed on Cuban soil."

"Who gave the warning?" interrupted Fawcett.

Brogan stared across the table and smiled. "He gave his name as Dirk Pitt."

"My God, the man is everywhere," the President exclaimed.

"Jessie LeBaron and two of Admiral Sandecker's NUMA people were rescued," Brogan continued. "Raymond LeBaron was killed."

"Is that confirmed?" asked the President, his expression turned solemn.

"Yes, sir, it was confirmed."

"A great pity. He deserved recognition for his contribution to the Jersey Colony."

"Still, the mission was a great success," Brogan said quietly. "Major Quintana recovered a wealth of intelligence material, including the Soviets' latest codes. It arrived only an hour ago. Analysts at Langley are sifting through it now."

"Congratulations are in order," said the President. "Your people performed an incredible feat."

"You may not be so hasty with praise, Mr. President, after you hear the full story."

"Okay, Martin, let's have it."

"Dirk Pitt and Jessie LeBaron. . ." Brogan paused and gave a dejected shrug of his shoulders. "They didn't return to the mother ship with Major Quintana and his men."

"Were they killed on the island along with Raymond LeBaron?"

"No, sir. They departed with the others, but veered away and headed for Cuba."

"Cuba," the President repeated in a soft voice. He looked across the table at Oates and Fawcett, who stared back incredulously. "Good lord, Jessie is still trying to deliver our reply to the proposed U.S.-Cuban pact."

"Is it possible she can somehow make contact with Castro?" asked Fawcett.

Brogan shook his head doubtfully. "The island is teeming with security forces, police and militia units who check every mile of road. They'd be arrested inside an hour, assuming they get past patrols on the beach."

"Maybe Pitt will get lucky," Fawcett muttered hopefully.

"No," said the President gravely, his features shrouded with concern. "The man has used up whatever luck he had."

In a small office at the CIA headquarters at Langley, Bob Thornburg, chief documents analyst, sat with his feet crossed on his desk and read through a pile of material that had been flown in from San Salvador. He puffed a veil of blue pipe smoke and translated the Russian typing.

He quickly scanned three folders and picked up a fourth. The title intrigued him. The phrasing was peculiarly American. It was a covert action named after a mixed drink. He quickly glanced through to the end and sat there a moment, stunned. Then he set the pipe in an ashtray, removed his feet from the desktop, and read the contents of the folder more carefully, picking it apart sentence by sentence and making notes on a yellow legal pad.

Nearly two hours later, Thornburg picked up his phone and dialed an internal number. A woman answered, and he asked for the deputy director.

"Eileen, this is Bob Thornburg. Is Henry available?"

"He's on another line."

"Have him ring me first chance, this is urgent."

"I'll tell him."

Thornburg assembled his notes and was restudying the folder for the fifth time when the chime of his phone interrupted him. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

"Bob, this is Henry. What have you got?"

"Can we meet right away? I've just been going over part of the intelligence data from the Cayo Santa Maria operation."

"Something of value?"

"Let's say it's a blockbuster."

"Can you give me a hint?"

"Concerns Fidel Castro."

"What no good is he up to now?"

"He's going to die the day after tomorrow."

<<62>>

As soon as Pitt woke up he looked at his watch. The time was 12:18. He felt refreshed, in good spirits, even optimistic.

When he reflected on it, Pitt found his cheerful outlook grimly amusing. His future was not exactly bright. He had no Cuban currency or identification papers. He was in a Communist country without even one friendly contact or an excuse for being there. And he was wearing the wrong uniform. He would be lucky if he made it through the day without getting shot as a spy.

He reached over and gently shook Jessie by the shoulder. Then he crawled from the drainage pipe, warily surveyed the area, and began doing stretching exercises to relieve his stiff muscles.

Jessie opened her eyes and woke up slowly, languidly, from a deep luxurious sleep, gradually fitting her world into perspective. Uncurling and extending her arms and legs like a cat, she moaned softly at the pain, but was thankful it spurred her mind into motion.

She thought of silly things at first-- who to invite to her next party, planning a menu with her chef, reminding the gardener to trim the hedges bordering the walks-- and then memories of her husband began passing in front of her inner eye. She wondered how a woman could work and live with a man for twenty years and still not come to grips with his inner moods. Yet she more than anyone saw Raymond LeBaron simply as a human being no worse or no better than other men, and with a mind that could radiate compassion, pettiness, brilliance, or ruthlessness almost on cue to suit the moment.

She closed her eyes tightly to shut out his death. Think of someone or something else, she told herself. Think of how to survive the next few days. Think of. . . Dirk Pitt.

Who was he, she wondered. What kind of man? She looked at him through the drainpipe as he bent and flexed his body and for the first time since meeting him felt a sexual attraction toward him. It was ridiculous, she reasoned, she was older by at least fifteen years. And besides, he had not shown any interest in her as a desirable woman, never once cast a suggestive insinuation or made a flirtatious overture. She decided Pitt was an enigma, the type of man who intrigued women, incited them to wanton behavior, but could never be owned or beguiled by their feminine ploys.

Jessie was snapped back to reality as Pitt leaned into the pipe and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

She looked away nervously. "Battered but ready to meet the day" "Sorry about not having breakfast ready," he said, his voice hollow through the pipe. "The room service leaves much to be desired hereabouts."

"I'd sell my soul for a cup of coffee."

"According to a road sign I spotted a few hundred yards up the road, we're ten kilometers from the next town."

"What time is it?"

"Twenty minutes to one."

"The day is half gone," she said, rolling to her hands and knees, and beginning to crawl toward the light. "We have to get moving."

"Stay where you are."

"Why?"

He didn't answer, but returned and sat down beside her. He gently took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth.

Jessie's eyes widened, and then she returned his kiss hungrily. After a long moment, he pulled back. She waited expectantly, but he made no further move, just sat there and stared into her eyes.

"I want you," she said.

"Yes."

"Now."

He drew her to him, pressing against her body, and kissed her again. Then he broke away from her. "First things first."

She gave him a hurt, curious look. "Like what things?"

"Like why did you hijack me to Cuba?"

"You have a strange sense of timing."

"I don't usually conduct foreplay in a drainpipe either."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"And if I don't tell you?"

He laughed. "We shake hands and part company."

For a few seconds she lay against the side of the pipe, considering how far she would get without him. Probably no farther than the next town, the first suspicious policeman or security guard. Pitt seemed an incredibly resourceful man. He had proven that several times over. There was no avoiding the hard fact that she needed him more than he needed her.

She tried to find the right words to explain, an introduction that made some kind of sense. Finally she gave up and blurted it out. "The President sent me to meet with Fidel Castro."

His deep green eyes examined her with honest curiosity. "That's a good start. I'd like to hear the rest."

Jessie took a deep breath and continued.

She revealed Fidel Castro's genuine offer of a pact and his bizarre manner of sending it past the watchful eyes of Soviet intelligence.

She told of her secret meeting with the President after the unexpected return of the Prosperteer and his request for her to convey his reply by retracing her husband's flight in the blimp, a guise Castro would have recognized.

She admitted the deception in recruiting Pitt, Giordino, and Gunn, and she asked Pitt's forgiveness for a plan gone wrong by the surprise attack from the Cuban helicopter.

And last, she described General Velikov's narrowing suspicion of the true purpose behind the botched attempt to reach Castro and his demand for answers through Foss Gly's torture methods.

Pitt listened to the whole story without comment.

His response was the part she dreaded. She feared what he would say or do now that he had discovered how he had been used, lied to, and misled, battered bloody and nearly killed on several occasions for a mission he knew nothing about. She felt he had every right to strangle her.

She could think of nothing further to say except "I'm sorry."

Pitt did not strangle her. He held out his hand. She grasped it, and he pulled her toward him. "So you conned me all up and down the line," he said.

God, those green eyes, she thought. She wanted to dive into them. "I can't blame you for being angry."

He embraced her for several moments silently.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to say something?" she asked timidly. "Aren't you even mad?"

He unbuttoned the shirt of the uniform and lightly touched her breasts. "Lucky for you I'm not one to harbor a grudge."

Then they made love as the traffic rumbled over the highway above.

Jessie felt incredibly calm. The warm feeling had stayed with her for the last hour as they walked openly along the road's shoulder. It spread like an anesthetic, deadening her fear and sharpening her confidence. Pitt had accepted her story and agreed to help her reach Castro. And now she walked along beside him as he led her through the backcountry of Cuba as though he owned it, feeling secure and warm in the afterglow of their intimacy.

Pitt scrounged some mangoes, a pineapple, and two half-ripened tomatoes. They ate as they walked. Several vehicles, mostly trucks loaded with sugarcane and cirtrus fruits, passed them. Once in a while a military transport carrying militia swept by. Jessie would tense and look down at her tightly laced boots nervously while Pitt lifted his rifle in the air and shouted "Saludos amigos!"

"A good thing they can't hear you clearly," she said.

"Why is that?" he asked in mock indignation.

"Your Spanish is awful."

"It always got me by at the dog races in Tijuana."

"It won't do here. You'd better let me do the talking."

"You think your Spanish is better than mine?"

"I can speak it like a native. I can also converse fluently in Russian, French, and German."

"I'm continually amazed at your talents," Pitt said sincerely. "Did Velikov know you spoke Russian?"

"We'd have all been dead if he had."

Pitt started to say something and suddenly gestured ahead. They were rounding a curve, and he pointed at a car parked by the highway. The hood was up and someone was leaning over the fender, his head and shoulders lost in the engine compartment.

Jessie hesitated, but Pitt took her by the hand and tugged her along. "You handle this," he said softly. "Don't be frightened. We're both in military uniform, and mine belongs to an elite assault force."

"What should I say?"

"Play along. This may be a chance to get a ride."

Before she could protest, the driver heard their feet on the gravel and turned at their approach. He was a short man in his fifties with thick black hair and dark skin. He was shirtless and wore only shorts and sandals. Military uniforms were so common in Cuba he scarcely gave them any notice. He flashed a broad smile. "Hola."

"Having motor trouble?" Jessie asked in Spanish.

"Third time this month." He gave a helpless shrug. "She just stopped."

"Do you know the problem?"

He held up a short length of wire that had rotted apart in three different places and was barely hanging together by its insulation. "Runs from the coil to the distributor."

"You should have replaced it with a new one."

He looked at her suspiciously. "Parts for old cars like this one are impossible to find. You must know that."

Jessie caught her mistake and, smiling sweetly, quickly played on Latin machismo. "I'm only a woman. What would I know about mechanics?"

"Ah," he said, smiling graciously, "but a very pretty woman."

Pitt paid little attention to the conversation. He was walking around the car, examining its lines. He leaned over the front end and studied the engine for a moment. Then he straightened and stepped back.

"A fifty-seven Chevy," he said admiringly in English. "One damned fine automobile. Ask him if he has a knife and some tape."

Jessie's mouth dropped open in shock.

The driver looked at him uncertainly, unsure of what to do. Then he asked in broken English, "You no speak Spanish?"

"Faith and what's the matter?" Pitt boomed. "Haven't you ever laid eyes on an Irishman before?"

"Why an Irelander wearing a Cuban uniform?"

"Major Paddy O'Hara, Irish Republican Army, on assignment as an adviser to your militia."

The Cuban's face lit up like a camera flash, and Pitt was pleased to see that the man was duly impressed.

"Herberto Figueroa," he said, offering his hand. "I learn English many years ago when the Americans were here."

Pitt took it and nodded at Jessie. "Corporal Maria Lopez, my aide and guide. She also interprets my fractured Spanish."

Figueroa dipped his head and noticed Jessie's wedding ring. "Senora Lopez.'' He tilted his head to Pitt. "She understand English?" pronouncing it "chee unnarstan Englaise?"

"A little," Pitt answered. "Now then, if you can give me a knife and some tape, I think I can get you going again."

"Sure, sure," said Figueroa. He pulled a pocketknife from the glove compartment and found a small roll of friction tape in a toolbox in the trunk.

Pitt reached down into the engine, cut a few excess lengths of wire from the spark plug leads, and spliced the ends back together. Then he did the same with the extra pieces until he had a wire that stretched from the coil to the distributor.

"Okay, give her a try."

Figueroa turned the ignition key and the big 283-cubic-inch V-8 coughed once, twice, and settled into a throaty roar.

"Magnifico!" shouted Figueroa happily. "Can I give you a ride?"

"How far you going?"

"Havana. I live there. My sister's husband died in Nuevitas. I went to help her with the funeral. Now I'm on my way home."

Pitt nodded to Jessie. This was their lucky day. He tried to picture the shape of Cuba, and he rightly calculated that Havana was very nearly two hundred miles to the northeast as the crow flies, more like three hundred by road.

He held the front seat forward as Jessie climbed in the rear. "We're grateful to you, Herberto. My staff car developed an oil leak and the engine froze up about two miles back. We were traveling to a training camp east of Havana. If you can drop us off at the Ministry of Defense, I'll see that you get paid for your trouble."

Jessie's jaw dropped and she stared at Pitt with a classic expression of distaste. He knew that in her mind she was calling him a cocky bastard.

"Your bad luck is my good luck," said Figueroa, happy at the prospect of picking up a few extra pesos.

Figueroa spun gravel on the shoulder as he quickly moved onto the asphalt, shifting through the gears until the Chevy was spinning along at a respectable seventy miles an hour. The engine sounded smooth, but the body rattled in a dozen places and the exhaust fumes leaked through the rusted floorboards.

Pitt stared at Jessie's face in the rearview mirror. She seemed uncomfortable and out of her element. A limousine was more to her liking. Pitt positively enjoyed himself. For the moment, his love of old cars overcame any thoughts of danger.

"How many miles do you have on her?" he asked.

"Over six hundred and eighty thousand kilometers," Figueroa answered.

"She's still got good power."

"If the Yankees ever dropped their trade embargo, I might be able to buy new parts and keep her going. But she can't last forever."

"Do you have any trouble at the checkpoints?"

"I'm always waved on through."

"You must have influence. What do you do in Havana?"

Figueroa laughed. "I'm a cabdriver."

Pitt did not try to suppress a smile. This was even better than he had hoped. He sat back and relaxed, enjoying the scenery like a tourist. He tried to apply his mind to LeBaron's cryptic direction to the treasure of La Dorada, but his thinking was clouded with remorse.

He knew that at some time, somewhere along the road he might have to take what little money Figueroa carried and steal his cab. Pitt hoped he would not have to kill the friendly little man in the bargain.

<<63>>

The President returned to the White House from the Kennedy Space Center late in the evening and went directly to the Oval Office. After secretly meeting with Steinmetz and the moon colonists and hearing the enthusiastic reports of their explorations, he felt exhilarated. Sleep was forgotten as he walked into his office alone, inspired to plan a new range of space goals.

He sat down behind the big desk and opened a lower drawer. He lifted out a walnut humidor and removed a large cigar. He peeled off the cellophane, stared a moment at the dark brown, tightly wrapped leafy cover, and inhaled the heady aroma. It was a Montecristo, the finest cigar Cuba made, and banned from American import by the trade embargo on Cuban goods.

The President relied on an old trusted school pal to smuggle him a box every two months from Canada. Even his wife and closest aides were unaware of his cache. He clipped one end and exactingly lit the other, wondering as he always did what kind of uproar the public would raise if they discovered his clandestine and slightly illegal indulgence.

Tonight he did not give a damn. He was riding high. The economy was holding, and Congress had finally got around to passing tough budget cuts and a flat-tax law. The international scene had entered a cooling-off period, however temporary, and his popularity polls showed him up five percentage points. And now he was about to make a political profit on his predecessors' foresight, just as Nixon did after the success of the Apollo program. The stunning success of the moon colony would be the high-water mark of his administration.

His next goal was to enhance his image on Latin American affairs. Castro had cracked open the door with his offer of a treaty. Now, if the President could slip his foot over the threshold before it slammed shut again, he might have a fighting chance to neutralize Marxist influence in the Americas.

The prospects appeared gloomy at the moment. It was most likely that Pitt and Jessie LeBaron had been either shot or arrested. If they had not, then it was only a matter of hours before the inevitable happened. The only course of action was to slip someone else into Cuba to make contact with Castro.

His intercom buzzed. "Yes?"

"Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. President," said a White House operator, "but Mr. Brogan is calling and he says it is urgent he speak with you."

"It's quite all right. Please put him on."

There was a slight click and Martin Brogan said, "Did I catch you in bed?"

"No, I'm still up. What's on your mind that couldn't wait until tomorrow's briefing?"

"I'm still at Andrews Field. My deputy was waiting for me with a translated document that was taken from Cayo Santa Maria. It contains some pretty hot material."

"Can you fill me in?"

"The Russians are going to knock off Castro the day after tomorrow.

The operation is code-named `Rum and Cola.' It details the complete takeover of the Cuban government by Soviet agents."

The President watched the blue smoke from the Havana cigar curl toward the ceiling. "They're making their move sooner than we figured," he said thoughtfully. "How do they intend to eliminate Castro?"

"The wild part of the plan," said Brogan. "The GRU arm of the KGB intends to blitz the city along with him."

"Havana?"

"A damned good chunk of it."

"Jesus Christ, you're talking a nuclear bomb."

"I've got to be honest and say the document does not state the exact means, but it's quite clear that some kind of explosive device is being smuggled into the harbor by ship that can level four square miles."

Depression settled around the President and dampened his high spirits. "Does the document give the name of the ship?"

"It mentions three ships but none by name."

"And when is the blast supposed to be set off?"

"During an Education Day celebration. The Russians are counting on Castro making an unscheduled appearance and giving his usual two-hour harangue."

"I can't believe Antonov is a party to such horror. Why not send in a local team of hit men and gun Castro down? What's to be gained by taking a hundred thousand innocent victims with him?"

"Castro is a cult figure to the Cubans," explained Brogan. "A cartoon Communist to us maybe, but a revered god to them. A simple assassination will ignite an overwhelming ground swell of resentment against the Soviet-backed parties who replace him. But a major disaster-- that would give the new leaders a rallying cry and a cause to incite the people to close ranks behind a new government, particularly if it was proven the United States was the culprit, specifically the CIA."

"I still can't conceive of such a monstrous scheme."

"I assure you, Mr. President, everything is spelled out in black and white." Brogan paused to scan a page of the document. "Odd thing, it's vague about the details of the explosion, but very specific in listing the step-by-step propaganda campaign to blame us. It even lists the names of the Soviet cohorts and the positions they are to move into after they seize control. You may be interested to learn that Alicia Cordero is to be the new President."

"God help us. She's twice the fanatic Fidel is."

"In any case, the Soviets win and we lose."

The President laid the cigar in an ashtray and closed his eyes. The problems never end, he mused. One begets another. The triumphs of office do not last very long. The pressure and the frustrations never let up.

"Can our Navy stop those ships?" he asked.

"According to the schedule, two of them have already docked in Havana," answered Brogan. "The third should be entering the harbor any hour. I had the same idea but we're an inch early and a mile late."

"We must have the names of those ships."

"I've already got my people checking on all shipping arrivals in Havana Harbor. They should have identification within the hour."

"Of all the times for Castro to hide out," the President said in exasperation.

"We found him."

"Where?"

"At his country retreat. He's cut off all contact with the outside world. Even his closest advisers and the Soviet bigwigs can't reach him."

"Who do we have on our team who can meet him face to face?"

Brogan grunted. "No one."

"There must be somebody we can send in."

"If Castro was in a communicative mood, I can think of at least ten people on our payroll who could get through the front gate. But not as things stand now."

The President toyed with the cigar, fumbling for inspiration. "How many Cubans can you trust in Havana who work the docks and have maritime experience?"

"I'd have to check."

"Guess."

"Off the top of my head, maybe fifteen or twenty."

"All right," the President said. "Round them up. Have them get on board those ships somehow and find which one is carrying the bomb."

"Someone who knows what he's doing will have to defuse it."

"We'll cross that bridge when we learn where it's hidden."

"A day and a half isn't much time," Brogan said glumly. "Better we concentrate on sorting out the mess afterward."

"You'd better get the show moving. Keep me informed every two hours. Turn everyone you've got in the Cuban department loose on this thing."

"What about warning Castro?"

"My job. I'll handle it."

"Good luck, Mr. President."

"Same to you, Martin."

The President hung up. His cigar had gone out. He refit it, then picked up the phone again and placed a call to Ira Hagen.

<<64>>

The guard was young, no more than sixteen, eager and dedicated to Fidel Castro and committed to revolutionary vigilance. He glowed with self-importance and official arrogance as he swaggered to the car window, rifle slung tightly over one shoulder, and demanded to see identification papers.

"It had to happen," Pitt muttered under his breath.

The guards at the first three checkpoints had lazily waved Figueroa through when he flashed his taxi driver's permit. They were campesinos who chose the routine of a military career over a dead-end life of working in the fields or factories. And like soldiers in every army of the world, they found sentry duty tedious, eventually losing all suspicions except when their superiors arrived for an inspection.

Figueroa handed the youngster his permit.

"This only covers the Havana city borders. What are you doing in the country?"

"My brother-in-law died," Figueroa said patiently. "I went to his funeral."

The guard bent down and looked through the driver's open window. "Who are these others?"

"Are you blind?" Figueroa snapped. "They're military like you."

"We have orders to be on the watch for a man wearing a stolen militia uniform. He is suspected of being an imperialist spy who landed on a beach one hundred miles east of here."

"Because she is wearing a militia uniform," said Figueroa, pointing to Jessie in the backseat, "you think the Yankee imperialists are sending women to invade us?"

"I want to see their identification papers," the guard persisted.

Jessie rolled down the rear window and leaned out. "This is Major O'Hara of the Irish Republican Army, on assignment as an adviser. I'm Corporal Lopez, his aide. Enough of this nonsense. Pass us through."

The guard kept his eyes on Pitt. "If he's a major, why isn't he showing his rank?"

For the first time it occurred to Figueroa that there was no insignia on Pitt's uniform. He stared at Pitt, a doubtful frown spreading across his face.

Pitt sat there without taking part in the exchange. Then he slowly turned and gazed into the guard's eyes and gave him a friendly smile. When he spoke his voice was soft, but it carried total authority.

"Get this man's name and rank. I wish to have him commended for his attention to duty. General Raul Castro has often said Cuba needs men of this caliber."

Jessie translated and watched with relief as the guard stood erect and smiled.

Then Pitt's tone turned glacial, and so did his eyes. "Now tell him to stand clear or I'll arrange to have him sent as a volunteer to Afghanistan."

The young guard seemed to shrink perceptibly as Jessie repeated Pitt's words in Spanish. He stood lost, undecided what to do as a long black car pulled up and stopped behind the old cab. Pitt recognized it as a Zil, a seven-seater luxury limousine built in Russia for high-ranking government and military officials.

The Zil's driver honked his horn impatiently, and the guard seemed frozen with indecision. He turned and stared pleadingly at another guard, but his partner was occupied with traffic traveling in the other direction. The limousine's driver honked again and shouted out his side window.

"Move that car aside and let us pass!"

Then Figueroa got into the act and began yelling at the Russians. "Stupid Russo, shut up and take a bath! I can smell you from here!"

The Soviet driver pushed open his door, leaped from behind the wheel, and shoved the guard aside. He was built like a bowling pin, huge, beefy body and small head. His rank indicated that he was a sergeant. He stared at Figueroa through eyes burning with malice.

"Idiot," he snarled. "Move this wreck."

Figueroa shook his fist in the Russian's face. "I'll go when my countryman tells me to."

"Please, please," Jessie pleaded, shaking Figueroa's shoulder "We don't want any trouble."

"Discretion isn't a Cuban virtue," Pitt murmured. He cradled the assault rifle in his arms with the muzzle pointed at the Russian and eased the door open.

Jessie turned and peered cautiously through the rear window at the limousine, just in time to see a Soviet officer, followed by two armed bodyguards, climb from the backseat and gaze with an amused smile at the shouting match taking place beside the taxicab. Jessie's mouth dropped open and she gasped.

General Velikov, looking tired and haggard, and wearing a badly fitted borrowed uniform, approached from the rear of the Chevrolet as Pitt slid out of his seat and stepped around the front end before Jessie could warn him.

Velikov's attention was focused on his driver and Figueroa, and he paid scant notice to what appeared to be another Cuban soldier emerging from the other side of the car. The argument was heating up as he came alongside.

"What is the problem?" he asked in fluent Spanish.

His answer did not come from his driver, but from a totally unexpected source.

"Nothing we can't settle like gentlemen," Pitt said acidly in English.

Velikov stared at Pitt for a long moment, the amused smile dying on his lips, his face as expressionless as ever. The only sign of astonished recognition was a sudden hardness of the flat cold eyes.

"We are survivors, are we not, Mr. Pitt?" he replied.

"Lucky. I'd say we were lucky," Pitt answered in a steady voice.

"I congratulate you on your escape from the island. How did you manage it?"

"A makeshift boat. And you?"

"A helicopter concealed near the installation. Fortunately, your friends failed to discover it."

"An oversight."

Velikov glanced out of the corner of his eye, noting with irritation the relaxed stance of his bodyguards. "Why have you come to Cuba?"

Pitt's hand tightened around the rifle's grip, muzzle pointing in the sky just above Velikov's head, finger poised on the trigger. "Why bother to ask when you've established the fact I'm a habitual liar?"

"I also know you only lie if there is a purpose. You didn't come to Cuba to drink rum and lie in the sun."

"What now, General?"

"Look around you, Mr. Pitt. You're hardly in a position of strength. The Cubans do not take kindly to spies. You would be wise to lay down your gun and place yourself under my protection."

"No, thank you. I've been under your protection. His name was Foss Gly. You remember him. He got high by pounding his fists on flesh. I'm happy to report he's no longer in the pain business. One of his victims shot him where it hurts most."

"My men can kill you where you stand."

"It's obvious they don't understand English and haven't got any idea of what's being said between us. Don't try to alert them. This is what's known as a Mexican standoff. You so much as pick your nose and I'll put a bullet up the opposite nostril."

Pitt glanced around him. Both the Cuban checkpoint guard and the Soviet driver were listening dumbly to the English conversation. Jessie was crouched down in the backseat of the Chevy, only the top of the fatigue cap showing above the side window. Velikov's guards stood lax, their eyes and minds turning to the landscape, automatic pistols snapped securely in their holsters.

"Get in the car, General. You'll be riding with us."

Velikov stared coldly at Pitt. "And if I refuse?"

Pitt stared back with grim conviction. "You die first. Then your bodyguards. After them, the Cuban sentries. I'm prepared to kill. They're not. Now, if you please. . ."

The Soviet bodyguards stood rooted and looked on in rapt amazement as Velikov silently followed Pitt's gesture and entered the front passenger's seat. He turned briefly and gazed curiously at Jessie.

"Mrs. LeBaron?"

"Yes, General."

"You're with this madman?" I am.'

"But why?"

Figueroa opened his mouth to interrupt, but Pitt roughly shouldered the Soviet driver aside, firmly gripped the friendly Cuban's arm, and pulled him from the car.

"This is as far as you go, amigo. Tell the authorities we abducted you and hijacked your taxi." Then he passed his rifle to Jessie through the open window and angled his long frame behind the wheel. "If the general so much as twitches, shoot him through the head."

Jessie nodded and placed the gun barrel against the base of Velikov's skull.

Pitt shifted the Chevy into first gear and accelerated smoothly as if he was on a Sunday drive, watching the figures at the checkpoint through the rearview mirror. He was gratified to see that they milled around in confusion, not sure of what to do. Then Velikov's driver and bodyguards finally woke up to what was happening, ran to the black limousine, and took up the chase.

Pitt skidded to a stop and took the gun from Jessie. He fired several shots at a pair of telephone wires where they ran through insulators at the top of a pole. The car was burning rubber on the asphalt before the parted ends of the wire dropped to the ground.

"That should buy us half an hour," he said.

"The limousine is only a hundred yards behind and gaining." Jessie's voice was high-pitched and apprehensive.

"You'll never shake them" said Velikov calmly. "My driver is an expert at high speeds, and the car is powered by a seven-liter 425-horsepower engine."

For all of Pitt's offhandedness and casual speech there was an icy competence and an unmistakable air about him of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

He offered Velikov a reckless smile and said, "The Russians haven't built a car that can take a 'fifty-seven Chevy."

As if to hammer home the point he mashed the gas pedal to the floor and the tired old car seemed to reach into the depths of her worn parts for a burst of power she hadn't known in thirty years. The big roaring lump of iron could still go. She gathered speed and ate up the highway, the steady roar of her squat V-8 meant business.

Pitt's entire mind was concentrated on his driving and on studying the road two, even three turns ahead. The Zil clung tenaciously to the smokescreen that poured from the Chevy's tailpipe. He threw the car around a series of hairpin turns as they climbed through forested hills. He was skirting the fine edge of disaster. The brakes were awful and did little but smell and smoke when Pitt stood on them. Their lining was gone and metal ground against metal inside the drums.

At ninety miles an hour a front-wheel wobble set in with eyeball-rattling proportions. The steering wheel shuddered in Pitt's hands. The shock absorbers were long gone and the Chevy sponged around the bends, leaning precariously, tires screeching like wild turkeys.

Velikov sat stiff as wood, his eyes trained straight ahead, one hand gripping the door handle with white knuckles as if ready to eject before the inevitable crash.

Jessie was frankly terrified, closing her eyes as the car drifted and swayed wildly along the road. She braced her knees on the back of the front seat to keep from being thrown from side to side and steadied the rifle aimed at Velikov's lower hairline.

If Pitt was aware of the considerable anguish he was causing his passengers, he gave no sign of it. A half-hour head start was the most he could hope for before the Cuban sentries made contact with their superiors and reported the kidnapping of the Soviet general. A helicopter would be the first sign the Cuban military was closing in and preparing a trap. When and how far ahead they would set up a roadblock was a matter of pure conjecture. A tank or a small fleet of armored cars suddenly appearing around a hidden curve and the ride would be over. Only Velikov's presence forestalled a massacre.

The driver of the Zil was no lightweight. He gained on Pitt in the turns, but dropped back in the straights as the burning acceleration of the old Chevy took hold. Out of the corner of one eye Pitt caught a small sign indicating they were approaching the port city of Cardenas. Houses and small roadside businesses began to hug the highway and the traffic increased.

He glanced at the speedometer. The wavering needle hovered around 85. He backed off until it dropped to 70, keeping the Zil at bay as he weaved in and out of the traffic, one hand heavy on the horn. A policeman made a futile attempt to wave him to the curb as he careened around the Plaza Colon and a high bronze statue of Columbus. Luckily the streets were broad and he had little trouble staying clear of pedestrians and other vehicles.

The city lay just inland of a shallow, circular bay, and as long as he kept the sea on his right he figured he was still heading toward Havana. Somehow he managed to stay on the main road, and less than ten minutes later the car was flying from the major portion of the city and entering the countryside again.

During the high-speed run through the streets the Zil had closed to within fifty yards. One of the bodyguards leaned out the window and fired his pistol.

"They're shooting at us," Jessie announced in the tone of someone who was emotionally washed out.

"He's not aiming at us," Pitt replied. "They're trying for our tires."

"You're as good as caught," said Velikov. Those were the first words he had uttered in fifty miles. "Give it up. You can't get away."

"I'll quit when I'm dead." Pitt's cool composure was staggering.

It was not the answer Velikov was expecting. If all Americans were like Pitt, he thought, the Soviet Union was in for a rough time. Velikov prided himself on his skills in manipulating men, but this was clearly one man he would never dent.

They soared over a dip in the road and landed heavily on the other side. The muffler was torn away and the sudden thunder of exhaust was startling, almost shattering in its unexpected fury of sound. Their eyes began to water from the fumes, and the interior of the car became a steam bath under the combined onslaught of the heat from the engine and humid climate outside. The floorboards were almost hot enough to melt the soles of Pitt's boots. Between the noise and the heat, he felt as though he were working overtime in a boiler room.

The Chevy was becoming a mechanical bedlam. The teeth on the transmission were ground down to their nubs, and they howled in protest at the high revolutions. Strange knocking sounds began to emanate from the engine's bowels. But she was still vicious, and with that old deep-throated Chevy sound, she barreled along almost as if she knew this would be her last ride.

Pitt had carefully slowed ever so slightly and allowed the Russian driver to pull up within three car lengths. Pitt swung the Chevy back and forth across the road to throw off the bodyguard's aim. He eased his, foot off the accelerator a hair until the Zil had come within twenty feet of the Chevy's rear bumper.

Then Pitt stood on the brakes.

The sergeant driving the Zil was good, but he wasn't that good. He snapped the steering wheel to the left and almost swung clear. But there was no time and even less distance. The Zil crashed into the rear of the Chevy with a scream of steel and an eruption of glass, crushing the radiator against the engine as the tail end whipped around in a corkscrew motion.

The Zil, madly out of control, and now nothing but three tons of metal bent on its own destruction, sideswiped a tree and caromed across the road to smash into an empty, broken-down bus at a speed of eighty miles an hour. Orange flame burst from the car as it flipped crazily end over end for over a hundred yards before coming to rest on its roof, all four tires still spinning. The Russians were trapped inside and had no hope of escape as the orange flames transformed into a thick cloud of black smoke.

The faithful, battered Chevy was still running on little but mechanical guts. Steam and oil were streaming from under the hood, second gear was gone along with the brakes, and the twisted rear bumper was dragging on the road, throwing out a spray of sparks.

The plume of smoke would draw the searchers. The net was closing. The next mile, the next curve in the highway, might reveal a roadblock. Pitt was sure a helicopter would appear any minute over the treetops bordering the road. Now was the time to ditch the car. It was senseless to play on his luck any longer. Like a bandit running from a posse, the time had come to trade horses.

He slowed down to fifty as he approached the outskirts of the city of Matanzas. He spotted a fertilizer plant and turned into the parking lot. Stopping the dying Chevy under a large tree, he looked around, and not seeing anyone, killed the engine. The crackling of burning metal and hissing steam replaced the ear-blasting drone of the exhaust.

"What's your next scheme?" asked Jessie. She was coming back on balance now. "You do have another scheme up your sleeve, I hope."

"The Artful Dodger has nothing on me," said Pitt with a reassuring grin. "Sit tight. If our friend the general hiccups, kill him."

He walked through the parking lot. It was a weekday and it was filled with the workers' cars. The stench from the plant had a sickening smell about it that filled the air for miles. He stood near the main gate as a stream of trucks loaded with ammonium sulphate, potassium chloride, and animal manure rumbled into the plant and trucks carrying the processed fertilizer in paper bags drove out. He had an idea and strolled casually down the dirt road that led to the highway. He waited for about fifteen minutes until a Russian-built truck filled with raw manure turned in and headed for the plant. He stood in the middle of the road and waved it to a stop.

The driver was alone. He looked down from the cab questioningly. Pitt motioned him out and pointed vigorously under the truck. Curious, the driver stepped to the ground and crouched down next to Pitt, who was staring intently at the drive shaft. Seeing nothing wrong, the driver turned just as Pitt chopped him on the back of the neck.

The driver went limp and Pitt caught him over a shoulder. He heaved the unconscious Cuban into the truck's cab and quickly climbed in. The engine was running and he shifted it into gear and drove toward the tree that shielded the Chevy from the air.

"Everyone climb aboard," he said, jumping down from the cab.

Jessie shrank back in disgust. "God, what's in there?"

"The polite word is manure."

"You expect me to wallow in filth?" demanded Velikov.

"Not only wallow," Pitt replied, "you're going to bury yourselves in it." He took the assault rifle from Jessie and prodded the general none too gently in the kidneys. "Up you go, General. You've probably rubbed many a KGB victim in slime. Now it's your turn."

Velikov shot Pitt a malignant look, and then climbed into the back of the truck. Jessie reluctantly followed as Pitt began stripping off the driver's clothes. They were several sizes too small and he had to leave the shirt unbuttoned and the pants fly unzipped to get into them. He quickly slipped his combat fatigues on the Cuban and dragged him up into the back with the others. He handed the rifle back to Jessie. She needed no instructions and placed the muzzle against Velikov's head. He found a shovel in a rack beside the cab and began to cover them.

Jessie gagged and fought to keep from retching. "I don't think I can take this."

"Be thankful it came from horses and cattle and not the city sewer."

"That's easy for you to say, you're driving."

When they were all invisible but could still breathe, Pitt returned to the cab and drove the truck back to the highway. He paused before turning as a flight of three military helicopters whirled overhead and a transport convoy of armed troops sped in the direction of the wrecked Zil.

Pitt waited and then turned left onto the highway. He was about to enter the city limits of Matanzas when he came to a roadblock manned by an armored car and nearly fifty soldiers, all looking very grim and purposeful.

He stopped and held out the papers he had taken off the driver. His scheme worked even better than he had imagined. The guards never came near the obnoxious-smelling truck. They waved him through, glad to see him on his way and happy to breathe fresh air again.

An hour and a half later the sun had fallen in the west and the lights of Havana twinkled to life. Pitt arrived in the city and drove up the Via Blanca. Except for the truck's aroma, he felt safely anonymous in the noisy, bustling, rush-hour traffic. He also felt more secure entering the city during the evening.

With no passport and no money his only option was to make contact with the American mission at the Swiss Embassy. They could take Jessie off his hands and keep him hidden until his passport and entry papers were sent by diplomatic courier from Washington. Once he became an official tourist, he could search for the riddle of the La Dorada treasure.

Velikov presented no problem. Alive, the general was a dangerous menace. He would go on murdering and torturing. Dead, he was only a memory. Pitt decided to kill him with one quick shot in a deserted alley. Anyone curious enough to investigate would simply chalk the blast up to a backfire from the truck.

He turned into a narrow road between a row of deserted warehouses near the dock area and stopped the truck. He left the engine running and stepped to the rear of the truck. As he climbed over the tailgate, he saw Jessie's head and arms protruding from the load of manure. Blood was seeping from a small gash in her temple and her right eye was swelling and turning purple. The only signs of Velikov and the Cuban driver were hollowed-out indentations where Pitt had buried them.

They were gone.

He eased her out of the muck and brushed it away from her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered open and focused on him, and after a moment she slowly shook her head from side to side. "I'm sorry, I messed things up."

"What happened?" he asked.

"The driver came to and attacked me. I didn't yell to you for help because I was afraid we might arouse suspicion and be stopped by police. We wrestled for the gun and it was lost over the side of the truck. Then the general grabbed my arms and the driver beat me until I passed out." Something suddenly occurred to her and she looked around wildly. "Where are they?"

"Must have jumped from the truck," he answered. "Can you remember where or how long ago it took place?"

The effort of concentration showed on her face. "I think it was about the time we were coming into the city. I recall hearing the sound of heavy traffic."

"Less than twenty minutes ago."

He helped her to the side of the truck bed and gently lowered her to the ground. "Best if we leave the truck here and catch a cab."

"I can't go anywhere smelling like this," she said in surprise. "And look at you. You look ridiculous. Your whole front end is open."

Pitt shrugged. "Oh, well, I won't be arrested for indecent exposure. I still have my shorts on."

"We can't catch a cab," she said in exasperation. "We don't have any Cuban pesos."

"The American mission at the Swiss Embassy will take care of it. Do you know where they're located?"

"It's called the Special Interests Section. Cuba has the same setup in Washington. The building faces the water on a boulevard called the Malecon."

"We'll hide out until it gets dark. Maybe we can find a water faucet and clean you up. Velikov will launch a full-scale search of the city for us. They'll probably watch the embassy, so we'll have to figure a way to sneak in. You feel strong enough to start walking?"

"You know something," she said with a pained smile, "I'm getting awfully tired of you asking that question."

<<65>>

Ira Hagen stepped off the aircraft and entered the terminal of Jose Marti Airport. He had prepared himself for a hassle with the immigration officials, but they simply glanced at his diplomatic passport and passed him through with a minimum of formality. As he walked to the baggage claim, a man in a seersucker suit hailed him.

"Mr. Hagen?"

"I'm Hagen."

"Tom Clark, chief of the Special Interests Section. I was alerted to your arrival by Douglas Oates himself"

Hagen measured Clark. The diplomat was an athletic thirty-five or so, with a tan face, Errol Flynn moustache, thinning red hair neatly combed forward to hide the spreading bare front, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken more than once. He pumped Hagen's hand heartily a good seven times.

"I don't suppose you greet many Americans down here," said Hagen.

"Very few since President Reagan placed the island off limits to tourists and businessmen."

"I assume you've been apprised of the reason for my visit."

"Better we wait and discuss it in the car," said Clark, nodding toward an unobtrusive fat woman sitting nearby with a small suitcase on her lap.

Hagen didn't need a blueprint to recognize a stakeout with a disguised receiver that recorded their every word.

After close to an hour, Hagen's suitcase was finally cleared and they made for Clark's car, a Lincoln sedan with a driver. A light rain was falling, but Clark was prepared with an umbrella. The driver placed the suitcase in the trunk and they set off toward the Swiss Embassy, where the U.S. Special Interests Section was housed.

Hagen had honeymooned in Cuba several years before the revolution and he found that Havana looked much the same as he remembered it. The pastel colors of the stucco buildings gracing the palm-lined avenues seemed faded but little changed. It was a nostalgic trip. The streets were teeming with 1950s automobiles, makes that stirred old memories-- Kaisers, Studebakers, Packards, Hudsons, and even one or two Edsels. They mingled with the newer Fiats from Italy and Ladas from Russia.

The city thrived, but not with the passions of the Batista years. The beggars, prostitutes, and slums were gone, replaced with an austere shabbiness that was the hallmark of Communist countries. Marxism was a wart on the rectum of mankind, Hagen decided.

He turned to Clark. "How long have you been in the diplomatic service?"

"Never," Clark answered. "I'm with the company."

"CIA."

Clark nodded. "If you prefer."

"That line about Douglas Oates?"

"For the benefit of the airport eavesdropper. I was informed of your mission by Martin Brogan."

"Where do you stand on finding and disarming the device?"

Clark smiled darkly. "You can call it a bomb. No doubt a low-yield bomb, but having enough punch to level half of Havana and start a firestorm that will incinerate every flimsy house and but in the suburbs. And no, we haven't found it. We've got an undercover team of twenty men probing the dock areas and the three ships in question. Nothing has turned up. They might as well be looking for a shoe in a swamp. The celebration ceremonies and parade are less than eighteen hours away. It would take an army of two thousand searchers to find the bomb in time. And to make matters worse, our tiny force is handicapped by having to work around Cuban and Russian security measures. As things look, I'd have to say the detonation is inevitable."

"If I can get through to Castro and give him the President's warning--"

"Castro won't talk to anybody," said Clark. "Our most trusted officials in the Cuban government-- we own five who hold top-level positions-- can't make contact. I hate to say it, but your job is more hopeless than mine."

"Are you going to evacuate your people?"

There was a look of deep sadness in Clark's eyes. "No. We're all going to stay on this thing to the end."

Hagen was silent as the driver turned off the Malecon and through the entrance of what had once been the United States Embassy but was now officially occupied by the Swiss. Two guards in Swiss Army uniforms swung open the high iron gate.

Suddenly, with no warning, a taxicab whipped directly behind the limousine and followed it through the gate before the startled guards could react and push it closed. The cab was still rolling when a woman in a militia uniform and a man clad in rags jumped out. The guards quickly recovered and came running over as the stranger confronted them, crouching in a part-boxing, part judo stance. They stopped, fumbling for their holstered automatic pistols. The delay was enough for the woman to yank open a rear door to the Lincoln and climb in.

"Are you American or Swiss?" she demanded.

"American," replied Clark, as stunned by the disgusting aroma that hung on her as by her abrupt appearance. "What do you want?"

Her answer was entirely unexpected. She began to laugh hysterically. "American or Swiss. My God, I sound like I'm asking for cheese."

The chauffeur finally woke up to the intrusion, leaped from the car, and grabbed her around the waist.

"Wait!" ordered Hagen, seeing that the woman's face was badly bruised. "What's going on?"

"I'm an American," she blurted after gaining a measure of control. "My name is Jessie LeBaron. Please help me."

"Good lord," Hagen muttered. "You're not Raymond LeBaron's wife?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." She motioned wildly at the struggle that was erupting in the driveway of the embassy. "Stop them. He's Dirk Pitt, special projects director for NUMA."

"I'll handle it," said Clark. By the time he was able to intercede, Pitt had flattened one guard and was wrestling with the other. The Cuban cab driver danced about wildly waving his arms and shouting for his fare. Several plainclothes policemen also added to the confusion by appearing from nowhere on the street side of the closed gate and demanding that Pitt and Jessie be turned over to them. Clark ignored the police, stopped the fight, and paid off the driver. Then he led Pitt over to the Lincoln.

"Where in hell did you come from?" Hagen asked. "The President thought you were either dead or arrested=

"Not now!" Clark interrupted. "We'd better get out of sight before the police forget the sanctity of the embassy and turn ugly."

He quickly hustled everyone inside and through a corridor to the American section of the building. Pitt was shown to a spare room where he could take a shower and shave. One of the staff who was about his size lent him some casual clothes. Jessie's uniform was burned in the trash, and she thankfully bathed off the stench of the manure. A Swiss Embassy doctor gave her a thorough examination and treated her cuts and bruises. He arranged for a hearty meal and ordered her to rest for a few hours before being interviewed by Special Interests Section officials.

Pitt was escorted to a small conference room. As he entered, Hagen and Clark rose and formally introduced themselves. They offered him a chair and everyone got comfortable around a heavy-legged table hand-carved from pine.

"We haven't time for lengthy explanations," said Clark without preamble. "Two days ago, my superiors at Langley briefed me about your planned covert raid on Cayo Santa Maria. They confided in me so I would be prepared if it failed and there was fallout here in Havana. I was not told of its success until Mr. Hagen--"

"Ira," Hagen cut in.

"Until Ira just now showed me a top-secret document taken from the island installation. He also has a directive from Martin Brogan and the President asking me to be on the lookout for you and Mrs. LeBaron. I was ordered to notify them immediately in the event you were caught and arrested."

"Or executed," Pitt added.

"That too," acknowledged Clark.

"Then you also know why Jessie and I cut out and came to Cuba."

"Yes. She carries an urgent message from the President to Castro."

Pitt relaxed and slouched in his chair. "Fine. My part in the affair is finished. I'd appreciate it if you could arrange to fly me back to Washington after I've had a few days to take care of some personal business."

Clark and Hagen exchanged stares, but neither could look Pitt square in the eyes.

"Sorry to screw up your plans," said Clark. "But we have a crisis on our hands, and your experience with ships might prove helpful."

"I'd be no good to you. I'm washed out."

"Can we take a few minutes and tell you what we're dealing with here?"

"I'm willing to listen."

Clark nodded, satisfied. "Okay, Ira has come direct from the President. He's better qualified to explain the situation than I am." He turned to Hagen. "You've got the floor."

Hagen took off his coat, removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket, and wiped his perspiring forehead. "The situation is this, Dirk. Do you mind if I call you Dirk?"

"It's my name."

Hagen was an expert judge of men, and he liked what he saw. This guy didn't seem the type who could be conned. There was also a look about him that suggested trust. Hagen laid the cards on the table and spelled out the Russian plot to murder the Castros and assume control of Cuba. He waded through the details in concise terms, explaining how the nuclear explosive was smuggled into the harbor and the projected time of its detonation.

When Hagen finished, Clark outlined the operation to find the bomb. There was no time to bring in a highly trained nuclear-device search team, nor would the Cubans allow them to step foot in the city. He had only twenty men with the most primitive radiation-detection equipment. He had the horrifying responsibility of leading the search, and it didn't require much imagination for him to get across the futility of his substandard efforts. Finally he paused.

"Do you follow me, Dirk?"

"Yes. . ." Pitt said slowly. "I follow. Thank you."

"Any questions?"

"Several, but one is uppermost in my mind. What happens to all of us if this thing isn't found and disarmed?"

"I think you know the answer," said Clark.

"Okay, but I want to hear it from you."

Clark's face took on the look of a mourner at a funeral. "We all die," he said simply.

"Will you help us?" asked Hagen.

Pitt looked at Clark. "How much time is left?"

"Roughly sixteen hours."

Pitt rose from his chair and began pacing the floor, his instincts beginning to sift through the maze of information. After a minute of silence as Hagen and Clark watched him expectantly, he suddenly leaned across the table and said, "I need a map of the dock area."

One of Clark's staff quickly produced one.

Pitt smoothed it out on the table and peered at it. "You say you can't alert the Cubans?" he asked as he studied the docking facilities of the bay.

"No," Hagen replied. "Their government is riddled with Soviet agents. If we were to warn them, they'd ignore it and squelch our search operation."

"What about Castro?"

Penetrating his security and warning him is my job," said Hagen.

"And the United States receives the blame."