Cyclops

"Soviet disinformation will see to that."

"May I have a pencil, please?"

Clark obliged and sat back quietly while Pitt made a circle on the map.

"My guess is the ship with the bomb is docked in the Antares Inlet."

Clark's eyebrows raised. "How could you know that?"

"The obvious place for an explosion to cause the most damage. The inlet cuts almost into the heart of the city."

"Good thinking," said Clark. "Two of the suspected ships are docked there. The other is across the bay."

"Give me a rundown on the vessels?"

Clark examined the page of the document pertaining to the ship arrivals. "Two belong to the Soviet Union merchant fleet. The third sails under Panamanian registry and is owned by a corporation run by Cuban anti-Castro exiles."

"The last is a phony front set up by the KGB," said Hagen. "They'll claim the Cuban exiles are an arm of the CIA, making us the villains of the destruction. There won't be a nation in the world who will believe our noninvolvement."

"A sound plan," said Clark. "They'd hardly use one of their own vessels to carry the bomb."

"Yes, but why destroy two ships and their cargoes for no purpose?" asked Pitt.

"I admit it doesn't add up."

"Ships' names and cargoes?"

Clark extracted another page from the document and quoted from it. "The Ozero Zaysan, Soviet cargo ship carrying military supplies and equipment. The Ozero Baykai, a 200,000-ton oil tanker. The bogus Cuban-operated ship is the Amy Bigalow, bulk carrier with a cargo of 25,000 tons of ammonium nitrate."

Pitt stared at the ceiling as if mesmerized. "The oil tanker, is she the one moored across the bay?"

"Yes, at the oil refinery."

"Have any of the cargoes been unloaded?"

Clark shook his head. "There has been no activity around the two cargo carriers, and the tanker still sits low in the water."

Pitt sat down again and gave the other two men in the room a cold, hard stare. "Gentlemen, you've been had."

Clark looked at Pitt in dark speculation. "What are you talking about?"

"You overestimated the Russians' grandstand tactics and underestimated their cunning," said Pitt. "There is no nuclear bomb on any of those ships. For what they plan to do, they don't need one."

<<66>>

Colonel General Viktor Kolchak, chief of the fifteen thousand Soviet military forces and advisers based on Cuban soil, came from behind his desk and embraced Velikov warmly.

"General, you don't know how glad I am to see you alive."

"The feeling is mutual, Colonel General," said Velikov, returning Kolchak's bear hug.

"Sit down, sit down, we have much to discuss. Whoever was behind the destruction of our island surveillance facility will pay. A communication from President Antonov assures me he will not take this outrage sitting down."

"No one agrees more than me," said Velikov. "But we have another urgent matter to discuss."

"Care for a glass of vodka?"

"I can do without," Velikov replied brusquely. "Rum and Cola takes place tomorrow morning at ten-thirty. Are your preparations complete?"

Kolchak poured a small shot of vodka for himself. "Soviet officials and our Cuban friends are discreetly slipping out of the city in small groups. Most of my military forces have already left to begin sham maneuvers forty miles away. By dawn, all personnel, equipment, and important documents will have been quietly evacuated."

"Leave some behind," Velikov said casually.

Kolchak peered over his rimless glasses like a grandmother hearing a four-letter word from a child. "Leave what behind, General?"

Velikov brushed off the derisive look. "Fifty Soviet civilian personnel, wives and families, and two hundred of your military forces."

"Do you know what you're asking?"

"Precisely. We cannot lay blame on the CIA for a hundred thousand deaths without suffering casualties ourselves. Russians dying beside Cubans. We'll reap propaganda rewards that will go far in smoothing the path for our new government."

"I can't bring myself to throw away the lives of two hundred and fifty countrymen."

"Conscience never bothered your father when he cleared German mine fields by marching his men over them."

"That was war."

"Only the enemy has changed," Velikov said coldly. "We have been at war with the United States since 1945. The cost in lives is small compared to increasing our hold in the Western Hemisphere. There is no room for argument, General. You will be expected to do your duty."

"I don't need the KGB lecturing me on my duty to the motherland," Kolchak said without rancor.

Velikov shrugged indifferently. "We all do our part. Getting back to Rum and Cola-- after the explosion your troops will return to the city and assist in medical and relief operations. My people will oversee the orderly transition of government. I'll also arrange for international press coverage showing benevolent Soviet soldiers caring for the injured survivors."

"As a soldier I have to say I find this entire operation abhorrent. I can't believe Comrade Antonov is a party to it."

"His reasons are valid, and I for one do not question them."

Kolchak leaned against the edge of his desk, his shoulders sagging. "I'll have a list made up of those who will stay."

"Thank you, Colonel General."

"I assume all preparations are complete?"

Velikov nodded. "You and I will accompany the Castro brothers to the parade reviewing stand. I will be carrying a pocket transmitter that will detonate the explosives in the primary ship. When Castro begins his usual marathon speech, we will make an unobtrusive exit to a waiting staff car. Once we are safely out of range-- allowing about thirty minutes to drive fifteen miles-- I'll activate the signal and the blast will follow."

"How do we explain our miraculous escape?" Kolchak asked sarcastically.

"First reports will have us dead and missing. Later, we'll be discovered among the injured."

"How badly injured?"

"Just enough to look convincing. Torn uniforms, a little blood, and some artificial wounds covered by bandages."

"Like two hooligans who vandalized the dressing rooms of a theater."

"Hardly the metaphor that comes to mind."

Kolchak turned and sadly looked out the window of his headquarters over the busy city of Havana.

"Impossible to believe that tomorrow at this time," he said in a morbid tone, "all this will be a smoldering, twisted sea of misery and death."

The President worked at his desk late. Nothing was cut-and-dried, black or white. The job of Chief Executive was one compromise after another. His wins over Congress were diluted by tacked-on amendments, his foreign policies picked apart by world leaders until little remained of the original proposals. Now he was trying to save the life of a man who had viewed the United States as his number one enemy for thirty years. He wondered what difference any of it would make two hundred years from now.

Dan Fawcett walked in with a pot of coffee and sandwiches. "The Oval Office never sleeps," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Your favorite, tuna with bacon." He offered the President a plate and then poured the coffee. "Can I help you with anything?"

"No thanks, Dan. Just editing my speech for tomorrow's news conference."

"I can't wait to see the faces of the press corps when you lay the existence of the moon colony on them, and then introduce Steinmetz and his people. I previewed some of the videotapes they brought back of their lunar experiments. They're incredible."

The President set the sandwich aside and thoughtfully sipped the coffee. "The world is upside down."

Fawcett paused in midbite. "Pardon?"

"Think of the terrible incongruity. I'll be informing the world of man's greatest modern achievement at the same time that Havana is being blown off the map."

"Any late word from Brogan since Pitt and Jessie LeBaron popped up at our Special Interests Section?"

"Not in the past hour. He's keeping a vigil at his office too."

"How in the world did they ever manage it?"

"Two hundred miles through a hostile nation. Beats me."

The direct phone line to Langley rang. "Yes."

"Martin Brogan, Mr. President. Havana reports that searchers have not yet detected a positive radioactive reading in any of the ships."

"Did they get on board?"

"Negative. Security is too heavy. They can only drive by the two ships tied to the docks. The other one, an oil tanker, is moored in the bay. They circled it in a small boat."

"What are you telling me, Martin? The bomb was unloaded and hidden in the city?"

"The ships have been under tight surveillance since arriving in the harbor. No cargo has come off."

"Maybe the radiation can't leak through the steel hulls of the ships."

"The experts at Los Alamos assure me it can. The problem is our people in Havana are not professional radiation experts. They're also hamstrung having to use commercial Geiger counters that aren't sensitive enough to measure a light reading."

"Why didn't we get qualified experts with the right equipment in there?" the President demanded.

"It's one thing to send in one man on a diplomatic mission with a small suitcase like your friend Hagen. It's something else to smuggle a team with five hundred pounds of electronic equipment. If we had more time, something might have been arranged. Covert boat landings and parachute drops stand little chance through Cuba's defense screen. Smuggling by ship is the best method, but we're talking at least a month's preparation."

"You make it sound like we're a guy with an unknown disease and no known cure."

"That about sums it up, Mr. President," said Brogan. "About all we can do is sit and wait. . . and watch it happen."

"No, I won't have that. In the name of humanity we have to do something. We can't let all those people die." He paused, feeling a knot growing in his stomach. "God, I can't believe the Russians will actually set off a nuclear bomb in a city. Doesn't Antonov realize he's plunging us deeper into a morass there can be no backing out of?"

"Believe me, Mr. President, our analysts have run every conceivable contingency through computers. There is no easy answer. Asking the Cubans to evacuate the city through our radio networks will accomplish nothing. They'll simply ignore any warnings coming from us.

"There is still hope Ira Hagen can get to Castro in time."

"Do you really think Fidel will take Hagen at face value? Not very likely. He'll think it's only a plot to discredit him. I'm sorry, Mr. President, we have to steel ourselves against the disaster, because there isn't a damned thing we can do about it."

The President wasn't listening anymore. His face reflected grim despair. We put a colony on the moon, he thought, and yet the world's inhabitants still insist on murdering each other for asinine reasons.

"I'm calling a cabinet meeting tomorrow early, before the moon colony announcement," he said in a defeated voice. "We'll have to create a plan to counter Soviet and Cuban accusations of guilt and pick up the pieces as best we can."

<<67>>

Leaving the Swiss embassy was ridiculously easy. A tunnel had been dug twenty years before that dropped over a hundred feet below the streets and sewer pipes, far beneath any shafts Cuban security people might have sunk around the block. The walls were sealed to keep out water, but silent pumps were kept busy draining away the seepage.

Clark led Pitt down a long ladder to the bottom, and then through a passage that ran for nearly two city blocks before ending at a shaft. They climbed up and emerged in a fitting room of a women's dress shop.

The shop had closed six hours earlier and the window displays effectively blocked any view of the interior. Sitting in the storeroom were three exhausted, haggard-looking men who gave barely a sign of recognition to Clark as he entered with Pitt.

"No need to know real names," said Clark. "May I present Manny, Moe, and Jack."

Manny, a huge black with a deeply trenched face, wearing an old faded green shirt and khaki trousers, lit a cigarette and merely glanced at Pitt with world-weary detachment. He looked like a man who had experienced the worst of life and had no illusions left.

Moe was peering through spectacles at a Russian phrase book. He wore the image of an academic-- lost expression, unruly hair, neatly sculptured beard. He silently nodded and gave an offhand smile.

Jack was the stereotype Latin out of a 1930s movie-- flashing eyes, compact build, fireworks teeth, triangular moustache. All he was missing was a bongo drum. He gave the only words of recognition. "Hola, Thomas. Come to pep-talk the troops?"

"Gentlemen, this is. . . ah. . . Sam. He's come up with an angle that throws new light on the search."

"It better be damned well worth it to drag us off the docks," grunted Manny. "We've got little time to waste on asshole theories."

"You're no closer now to finding the bomb than you were twenty-four hours ago," Clark said patiently. "I suggest you listen to what he has to say"

"Screw you," Manny said. "Just when we found a way to slip on board one of the freighters, you call us back."

"You could have searched every inch of those ships and never found a ton-and-a-half nuclear device," said Pitt.

Manny turned his attention to Pitt, eyes traveling from feet to hair, like a linebacker sizing up an opposing halfback. "Okay, smartass, where's our bomb?"

"Three bombs," Pitt corrected, "and none of them nuclear."

There was silence in the room. Everyone but Clark appeared skeptical.

Pitt pulled the map from under his shirt and unfolded it. He borrowed some pins from a mannikin and stuck it on one wall. He was not put off by the indifferent attitude of the group of CIA agents. His eyes showed him these men were alert, precise, and competent. He knew they possessed a remarkable variety of skills and the absolute determination of men who did not take failure lightly.

"The Amy Bigalow is the first link in the holocaust chain. Her cargo of twenty-five thousand tons of ammonium nitrate--"

"That's nothing but fertilizer," said Manny.

"--is also a highly volatile chemical," Pitt continued. "If that amount of ammonium nitrate were to explode, its force would be far greater than the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They were air drops and much of their destructive power was lost in the atmosphere. When the Amy Bigalow blows at ground level, most of her power will sweep through Havana like a hurricane of molten lava. The Ozero Zaysan, whose manifest claims she's carrying military supplies, is probably crammed to the top of her holds with munitions. She'll unleash her destructive horror in a sympathetic explosion with the Amy Bigalow. Next, the Ozero Baykai and her oil will ignite, adding to the devastation. Fuel storage tanks, refineries, chemical plants, any factory with volatile materials, will go up. The conflagration can conceivably last for days."

Outwardly, Manny, Moe, and Jack appeared uncomprehending, the expressions on their faces inscrutable. Inwardly, they were stunned by the unthinkable horror of Pitt's vision of hell.

Moe looked at Clark. "He's on dead center, you know."

"I agree. Langley misread the Soviets' intent. The same results can be achieved without resorting to nuclear terror."

Manny rose and clasped Pitt's shoulders between two great clamshell hands. "Man, I gotta hand it to you. You really know where the crap flows."

Jack spoke up for the first time. "Impossible to unload those ships before the celebration tomorrow."

"But they can be moved," said Pitt.

Manny considered that for a moment. "The freighters might clear the harbor, but I wouldn't bet on getting the tanker under way in time. We'd need a tug just to shove her bows toward the channel."

"Every mile we put between those ships and the harbor means a hundred thousand lives spared," said Pitt.

"Might give us extra time to look for the detonators," said Moe.

"If they can be found before we reach open sea, so much the better."

"And if not," Manny muttered grimly, "we'll all be committin' suicide."

"Save your wife the cost of a funeral," said Jack with a death's-head smile. "There won't be anything left to bury"

Moe looked doubtful. "We're way short of hands."

"How many ship's engineers can you scrape up?" asked Pitt.

Moe nodded across the room. "Manny there used to be a chief engineer. Who else can you name, Manny?"

"Enrico knows his way around an engine room. So does Hector when he's sober."

"That's three," said Pitt. "What about deckhands?"

"Fifteen, seventeen including Moe and Jack," answered Clark.

"That's twenty, and I make twenty-one," said Pitt. "What about harbor pilots?"

"Every one of them bastards is in Castro's pocket," snorted Manny. "We'll have to steer the ships clear ourselves."

"Wait just a damned minute," interjected Moe. "Even if we overpowered the security force guarding the docks, we'd still have the ships' crews to fight."

Pitt turned to Clark. "If your people take care of the guards, I'll eliminate the crews."

"I'll personally lead a combat team," replied Clark. "But I'm curious as to how you intend to accomplish your end of the bargain."

"Already done," Pitt said with a wide grin. "The ships are abandoned. I'll guarantee that the crews have been quietly evacuated to a safe place outside the destruction zone."

"The Soviets might spare the lives of their own people," said Moe. "But they'd hardly give a damn about the foreign crew on the Amy Bigalow."

"Sure, but on the other hand, they couldn't risk a nosy crewman hanging around while the detonating device was placed in position."

Jack thought a moment, then said, "Two and two make four. This guy is sharp."

Manny gazed at Pitt with a newfound respect in his eyes. "You with the company?"

"No, NUMA."

"Second-guessed by an amateur," Manny sighed. "Time to take my pension."

"How many men do you estimate are patrolling the ships?" Clark asked him.

Manny took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose like a honking goose before answering. "About a dozen guarding the Bigalow. Same number around the Zaysan. A small patrol boat is moored next to the oil tanker. Probably no more than six or seven in her crew."

Clark began to pace back and forth as he spoke. "So that's it. Gather up your crews. My team will take out the guards and protect the operation. Manny, you and your men will get the Amy Bigalow under way. Moe, take the Ozero Zaysan. The tugboat is your department, Jack. Just make sure there isn't an alarm when you pirate it. We've got six hours of daylight left. Let's make good use of every minute." He stopped and looked around. "Any questions?"

Moe raised a hand. "After we make open water, what happens to us?"

"Take your ship's motor launch and beat it as fast and as far as you can before the explosions."

No one made a comment. They all knew their chances bordered on hopeless.

I'd like to volunteer to go with Manny," said Pitt. "I'm pretty fair with a helm."

Manny came to his feet and slapped a hand on Pitt's back that knocked the wind from him. "By God, Sam, I think I might learn to like you."

Pitt gave him a heavy stare. "Let's hope we live long enough to find out."

<<68>>

The Amy Bigalow lay moored alongside a long modern wharf that had been built by Soviet engineers. Beyond her, a few hundred yards across the dock channel, the cream-colored hull of the Ozero Zaysan sat dark and deserted. The lights of the city sparkled across the black waters of the harbor. A few clouds drifted down from the mountains, crossing the city and heading out to sea.

The Russian-built command car turned off the Boulevard Desemparados, followed by two heavy military trucks. The convoy moved slowly through the dock area and stopped at the boarding ramp of the Amy Bigalow. A sentry stepped from inside a guard shack and cautiously approached the car.

"Do you have permission to be in this area?" he asked.

Clark, wearing the uniform of a Cuban colonel, gave the sentry an arrogant stare. "Send for the officer of the guard," he ordered sharply. "And say sir when you address an officer."

Recognizing Clark's rank under the yellowish, sodium vapor lights that illuminated the waterfront, the sentry stiffened to attention and saluted. "Right away, sir. I'll call him."

The sentry ran back to the guard shack and picked up a portable transmitter. Clark shifted in his seat uneasily. Deception was vital, strong-arm tactics fatal. If they had stormed the ships with guns blazing, alarms would have sounded throughout the city's military garrisons. Once alerted, and with their backs to the wall, the Russians would have been forced to set off the explosions ahead of schedule.

A captain came through a door of a nearby warehouse, paused a moment to study the parked column, and then walked up to the passenger side of the command car and addressed Clark.

"Captain Roberto Herras," he said, saluting. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Colonel Ernesto Perez," replied Clark. "I've been ordered to relieve you and your men."

Herras looked confused. "My orders were to guard the ships until noon tomorrow."

"They've been changed," Clark said curtly. "Have your men assemble for departure back to their barracks."

"If you don't mind, Colonel, I wish to confirm this with my commanding officer."

"And he'll have to call General Melena, and the general is asleep in bed." Clark stared at him with narrowed, cold eyes. "A letter attesting to your insubordination won't look good when your promotion to major comes due."

"Please, sir, I'm not refusing to obey a superior."

"Then I suggest you accept my authority."

"Yes, Colonel. I-I'm not doubting you. . ." He caved in. "I'll assemble my men."

"You do that."

Ten minutes later Captain Herras had his twenty-four-man security force lined up and ready to move out. The Cubans took the change of guard willingly. They were all happy to be relieved and returned to their barracks for a night's sleep. Herras did not seem to notice that the colonel's men remained hidden inside the darkness of the lead truck.

"This your entire unit?" asked Clark.

"Yes, sir. They're all accounted for."

"Even the men guarding the next ship?"

"Sorry, Colonel. I left sentries at the boarding ramp to make sure no one boarded until your men were dispersed. We can drive by and pick them up as we leave."

"Very well, Captain. The rear truck is empty. Order them to board. You can take my car. I'll have my aide pick it up later at your headquarters."

"That's good of you, sir. Thank you."

Clark had his hand on a tiny .25-caliber silenced automatic that was sitting loose in his pants pocket, but he left it in place. The Cubans were already climbing over the tailgate of the truck under the direction of a sergeant. Clark offered his seat to Herras and casually strolled toward the silent truck containing Pitt and the Cuban seamen.

The vehicles had turned around and were leaving the dock area when a staff car carrying a Russian officer drove up and stopped. He leaned out the window of the rear seat and stared, a suspicious frown on his face.

"What's going on here?"

Clark slowly approached the car and passed around the front end, assuring himself that the only occupants were the Russian and his driver.

"Changing of the guard."

"I know of no such orders."

"They came from General Velikov," said Clark, halting no more than two feet from the rear door. He could now see the Russian was also a colonel.

"I've just come from the general's headquarters to inspect security. Nothing was said about changing the guard." The colonel opened the door as if to get out of the car. "There must be a mistake."

"No mistake," said Clark. He pressed the door shut with his knees and shot the colonel between the eyes. Then he coldly put two bullets in the back of the driver's head.

Minutes later the car was set in gear and rolled into the dark waters between the wharves.

Manny led the way, followed by Pitt and four Cuban merchant seamen. They rushed up the boarding ramp to the main deck of the Amy Bigalow and split up. Pitt climbed the ladder topside while the rest dropped down a companionway to the engine room. The wheelhouse was dark, and Pitt left it that way. He spent the next half hour checking the ship's electronic controls and speaker system with a flashlight until he had every lever and switch firmly planted in his mind.

He picked up the ship's phone and rang the engine room. A full minute went by before Manny answered.

"What in the hell do you want?"

"Just checking in," said Pitt. "Ready when you are."

"You got a long wait, mister."

Before Pitt could reply, Clark stepped into the wheelhouse. "You talking to Manny?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Get him up here, now."

Pitt passed on Clark's brusque command, and received a barrage of four-letter words before ringing off.

Less than a minute later, Manny burst through the door reeking of sweat and oil. "Make it quick," he snapped to Clark. "I got a problem."

"Moe has it even worse."

"I already know. The engines have been shut down."

"Are yours in running shape?"

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"The Soviet crew took sledgehammers to every valve on the Ozero Zaysan," said Clark heavily. "Moe says it would take two weeks to make repairs."

"Jack will have to tow him out to sea with the tug," Pitt said flatly.

Manny spat through the wheelhouse door. "He'll never make it back in time to move the oil tanker. The Russians ain't blind. They'll catch on to the game soon as the sun comes up."

Clark nodded his head in slow understanding. "I fear he's right."

"Where do you stand?" Pitt asked Manny.

"If this tub had diesels, I could start her up in two hours. But she's got steam turbines."

"How much time do you need?"

Manny looked down at the deck, his mind running over the lengthy and complicated procedures. "We're starting with a dead plant. First thing we did was get the emergency diesel generator going and light off the burners in the furnace to heat the fuel oil. The lines have to be drained of condensation, the boilers fired up, and the auxiliaries put on line. Then wait for the steam pressure to rise enough to operate the turbines. We're looking at four hours-- providin' everything goes right."

"Four hours?" Clark felt dazed.

"Then the Any Bigalow can't clear the harbor before daylight," said Pitt.

"That wraps it." There was a tired certainty in Clark's voice.

"No, that doesn't wrap it," said Pitt firmly. "If we get even one ship past the harbor entrance we cut the death toll by a third."

"And we all die," added Clark. "There'll be no escape. Two hours ago I'd have given us a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. Not now, not when your old friend Velikov spots his monstrous plan steaming over the horizon. And lest we forget the Soviet colonel sitting on the bottom of the bay, he'll be missed before long and a regiment will come looking for him."

"And there's that captain of the security guards," said Manny. "He'll wise up damned quick when he catches hell for leaving his duty area without proper orders."

The thump of heavy diesel engines slowly amplified outside and a ship's bell gave off three muted rings.

Pitt peered through the bridge windows. "Jack's coming alongside with the tug."

He turned and faced the lights of the city. They reminded him of a vast jewelry box. He began to think of the multitude of children who went to bed looking forward to the holiday celebrations. He wondered how many of them would never wake up.

"There's still hope," he said at last. Quickly he outlined what he thought would be the best solution for reducing the devastation and saving most of Havana. When he finished, he looked from Manny to Clark. "Well, is it workable?"

"Workable?" Clark was numb. "Myself and three others holding off half the Cuban Army for three hours? It's downright homicidal."

"Manny?"

Manny stared at Pitt, trying to make something of the craggy face that was barely visible from the lights on the wharf. Why would an American throw away his life for people who would shoot him on sight? He knew he'd never find the answer in the darkened wheelhouse of the Amy Bigalow, and he shrugged in slow finality.

"We're wastin' time," he said as he turned and headed back to the ship's engine room.

<<69>>

The long black limousine eased to a quiet stop at the main gate of Castro's hunting lodge in the hills southeast of the city. One of the two flags mounted on the front bumper symbolized the Soviet Union and the other marked the passenger as a high-ranking military officer.

The visitors' house outside the fenced estate was the headquarters for Castro's elite bodyguard force. A man in a tailored uniform but showing no insignia walked slowly up to the car. He looked at the shadowed form of a big Soviet officer sitting in the darkness of the backseat and at the identification that was held out the window.

"Colonel General Kolchak. You do not have to prove yourself to me." He threw a wavelike salute. "Juan Fernandez, chief of Fidel's security."

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"I'm a night owl," said Fernandez. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour?"

"A sudden emergency."

Fernandez waited for further elaboration, but none came. He began to feel uneasy. He knew that only a critical situation could bring the Soviets' highest-ranking military representative out at three-thirty in the morning. He wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"I'm very sorry, sir, but Fidel left strict orders not to be disturbed by anyone."

"I respect President Castro's wishes. However, it's Raul I must speak with. Please tell him I'm here on a matter of extreme urgency that must be dealt with face to face."

Fernandez mulled over the request for a moment and then nodded. "I'll phone up to the lodge and tell his aide you're on your way."

"Thank you."

Fernandez waved to an unseen man in the visitors' house and the electronically operated gate swung open. The limousine drove up a curving road that hugged the hills for about two miles. Finally, it pulled up in front of a large Spanish-style villa that overlooked a panorama of dark hills dotted by distant lights.

The driver's boot crunched on the gravel drive as he stepped around to the passenger's door. He did not open it but stood there for nearly five minutes, casually observing the guards that patrolled the grounds. At last, Raul Castro's chief of staff came yawning through the front door.

"Colonel General, what an unexpected pleasure," he said without enthusiasm. "Please come in. Raul is on his way down."

Without replying, the Soviet officer heaved his bulk from the car and followed the aide over a wide patio and into the foyer of the lodge. He held a handkerchief over his face and snorted into it. His driver came also, keeping a few steps behind. Castro's aide stood aside and gestured toward the trophy room. "Please make yourselves comfortable. I'll order some coffee."

Left alone, the two stood silently with their backs to the open doorway and stared at an army of boar heads mounted on the walls and the dozens of stuffed birds perched around the room.

Raul Castro soon entered in pajamas and silk paisley robe. He halted in midstride as his guests turned and faced him. His brows knitted together in surprise and curiosity.

"Who the devil are you?"

"My name is Ira Hagen, and I bear a most important message from the President of the United States." Hagen paused and nodded at his driver, who doffed her cap, allowing a mass of hair to fall to her shoulders. "May I present Mrs. Jessie LeBaron. She's endured great hardship to deliver a personal reply from the President to your brother regarding his proposed U.S.-Cuban friendship pact."

For a moment the silence in the room was so total that Hagen became conscious of the ticking of an elaborate grandfather clock standing against the far wall. Raul's dark eyes darted from Hagen to Jessie and held.

"Jessie LeBaron is dead," he said in quiet astonishment.

"I survived the crash of the blimp and torture by General Peter Velikov." Her voice was calm and commanding. "We carry documented evidence that he intends to assassinate you and Fidel tomorrow morning during the Education Day celebration."

The directness of the statement, the tone of authority behind it, made an impression on Raul.

He hesitated thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "I'll wake Fidel and ask him to listen to what you have to say."

Velikov watched as a file cabinet from his office was jostled onto a handcart and taken by elevator down to the fireproof basement of the Soviet Embassy. His second-ranking KGB officer entered the disarranged room, brushed some papers from a chair, and sat down.

"Seems a shame to burn all of this," he said tiredly.

"A new and finer building will rise from the ashes," said Velikov with a cunning smile. "Gift of a grateful Cuban government."

The phone buzzed and Velikov quickly answered. "What is it?"

The voice of his secretary replied. "Major Borchev wishes to talk to you."

"Put him on."

"General?"

"Yes, Borchev, what's your problem?"

"The captain in command of waterfront security has left his post along with his men and returned to their base outside the city."

"They left the ships unguarded?"

"Well. . . not exactly."

"Did they or did they not desert their post?"

"He claims he was relieved by a guard force under the command of a Colonel Ernesto Perez."

"I issued no such order."

"I'm aware of that, General. Because if you had, it would have most certainly come to my attention."

"Who is this Perez and what military unit is he assigned to?"

"My staff has checked Cuban military files. They find no record of him."

"I personally sent Colonel Mikoyan to inspect security measures around the ships. Make contact and ask him what in hell is happening down there."

"I've tried to raise him for the past half hour," said Borchev. "He doesn't respond."

Another line buzzed, and Velikov placed Borchev on hold.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"Juan Fernandez. General, I thought you should know that Colonel General Kolchak just arrived for a meeting with Raul Castro."

"Not possible."

"I checked him through the gate myself"

This new development added fuel to Velikov's confusion. A stunned look gripped his face and he expelled his breath in an audible hiss. He had only four hours' sleep in the last thirty-six and his mind was becoming woolly.

"You there, General?" asked Ferndandez anxiously at the silence.

"Yes, yes. Listen to me, Fernandez. Go to the lodge and find out what Castro and Kolchak are doing. Listen in to their conversation and report back to me in two hours."

He didn't wait for an acknowledgment, but punched into Borchev's line. "Major Borchev, form a detachment and go to the dock area. Lead it yourself. Check out this Perez and his relief force and report back to me as soon as you find out anything."

Then Velikov buzzed his secretary. "Get me Colonel General Kolchak's headquarters."

His deputy straightened in the chair and stared at him curiously. He had never seen Velikov in a state of nervousness before.

"Something wrong?"

"I don't know yet," Velikov muttered.

The familiar voice of Colonel General Kolchak suddenly burst from the other end of the phone line. "Velikov, how are things progressing with the GRU and KGB?"

Velikov stood stunned for several moments before recovering. "Where are you?"

"Where am I?" Kolchak repeated. "Trying to clear classified documents and equipment from my headquarters, the same as you. Where did you think I was?"

"I just received a report you were meeting with Raul Castro at the hunting lodge."

"Sorry, I haven't mastered being in two places at the same time," said Kolchak imperturbably. "Sounds to me your intelligence agents are starting to see ghosts."

"Most strange. The report came from a usually reliable source."

"Is Rum and Cola in any danger?"

"No, it is continuing as planned."

"Good. Then I take it the operation is running smoothly."

"Yes," Velikov lied with a fear tainted by uncertainty, "everything is under control."

<<70>>

The tugboat was called the Pisto after a Spanish dish of stewed red peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes. The name was appropriate, as her sides were streaked red with rust and her brass coated with verdigris. Yet, despite the neglect to her outer structure, the big 3,000-horsepower diesel engine that throbbed in her bowels was as bright and glossy as a polished bronze sculpture.

Hands gripping the big teakwood wheel, Jack stared through the moisture-streaked windows at the gigantic mass looming up in the blackness. She was as cold and dark as the other two carriers of death tied to the docks. No navigation lights indicated her presence in the bay, only the patrol boat that circled her 1,100-foot length and 160-foot beam served as a warning for other craft to stay clear.

Jack eased the Pisto abreast of the Ozero Baykai and cautiously edged toward the aft anchor chain. The patrol boat quickly spotted them and came alongside. Three men rushed from the bridge and manned a rapid-fire gun on the bow. Jack rang the engine room for All Stop, an act that was strictly for show as the tug's bow wave was already dying away to a ripple.

A young lieutenant with a beard leaned out of the wheelhouse of the patrol boat and raised a bullhorn.

"This is a restricted area. You don't belong here. Move clear."

Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "I've lost all power to my generators and my diesel just died on me. Can you give me a tow?"

The lieutenant shook his head in exasperation. "This is a military boat. We do not give tows."

"Can I come aboard and use your radio to call my boss? He'll send another tug to tow us clear."

"What's wrong with your emergency battery power?"

"Worn out." Jack made a gesture of helplessness. "No parts for repair. I'm on the waiting list. You know how it is."

The boats were so close now they were almost touching. The lieutenant laid aside the bullhorn and replied in a rasping voice, "I cannot allow that."

"Then I'll have to anchor right here until morning," Jack replied nastily.

The lieutenant angrily threw up his hands in defeat. "Come aboard and make your call."

Jack dropped down a ladder to the deck and jumped across the four-foot gap between the boats. He looked around him with a slow, salty indifference, carefully noting the relaxed attitude of the three-man gun crew, the mate standing by the helm casually lighting a cigar, the tired look on the lieutenant's face. The only man who was missing, he knew, was the engineer below.

The lieutenant came up to him. "Make it quick. You're interfering with a military operation."

"Forgive me," said Jack slavishly, "but it's not my doing."

He reached forward as if wanting to shake hands and pumped two bullets from a silenced automatic into the lieutenant's heart. Then he calmly shot the helmsman.

The trio around the bow gun crumpled and died under a flight of three precisely aimed arrows, fired by Jack's crew with crossbows. The engineer never felt the bullet that struck him in the temple. He fell over the boat's diesel engine, lifeless hands gripping a rag and a wrench.

Jack and his crewmen carried the bodies below and then swiftly opened all drain plugs and sea cocks. They returned to the tug and paid no more attention to the sinking patrol boat as it drifted away on the tide into the darkness.

There was no gangway down, so a pair of grappling hooks were thrown over the tanker's deck railing. Jack and two others clambered up the sides and then hauled up portable acetylene tanks and a cutting torch.

Forty-five minutes later the anchor chains were cut away and the little Pisto, like an ant trying to move an elephant, buried her heavy rope bow fender against the huge stern of the Ozero Baykai. Inch by inch, almost imperceptibly at first, and then yard by yard the tug began nudging the tanker away from the refinery and toward the middle of the bay.

Pitt observed the slothful movement of the Ozero Baykai through a pair of night glasses. Fortunately the ebb tide was working in their favor, pulling the behemoth farther from the core of the city.

He had found a self-contained breathing unit and searched the holds for any sign of a detonating device, but could find nothing. He came to the conclusion it must have been buried somewhere under the ammonium nitrate in one of the middle cargo holds. After nearly two hours, he climbed to the main deck and thankfully breathed in the cool breeze off the sea.

Pitt's watch read 4:30 when the Pisto came about and returned to the docks. She made straight for the munitions ship. Jack backed her in until Moe's men hauled in the tow wire that was unreeled from the great winch on the stern of the tug and made fast to the Ozero Zaysan's aft bollards. The lines were cast off, but just as the Pisto prepared to pull, a military convoy of four trucks came roaring onto the wharf.

Pitt dropped down the gangway and hit the dock at a dead run. He dodged around a loading crane and stopped at the stern line. He heaved the fat, oily rope off the bollard and let it fall in the water. There was no time to cast off the bow line. Heavily armed men were dropping from the trucks and forming into combat teams. He climbed the gangway and engaged the electric winch that lifted it level with the deck to prevent any assault from the wharf.

He snatched up the bridge phone and rang the engine room. "Manny, they're here" was all he said.

"I've got vacuum and enough steam in one boiler to move her."

"Nice work, my friend. You shaved off an hour and a half."

"Then let's haul ass."

Pitt walked over to the ship's telegraph and moved the pointers to Stand By. He threw the helm over so the stern would swing away from the pier first. Then he rang for Dead Slow Astern.

Manny rang back from the engine room and Pitt could feel the engines begin to vibrate beneath his feet.

Clark realized with sudden dismay that his small group of men were greatly outnumbered and any escape route cut off. He also discovered that they were not up against ordinary Cuban soldiers but an elite force of Soviet marines. At best he might gain a few minutes' grace-- enough time for the ships to move clear of the docks.

He reached into a canvas bag hanging from his belt and took out a grenade. He stepped from the shadows and lobbed the grenade into the rear truck. The explosion came like a dull thump, followed by a brilliant flash of flame as the fuel tank burst. The truck seemed to blossom outward, and men were thrown across the dock like fiery bowling pins.

He ran through the dazed and disorganized Russians, leaping over the screaming injured who were rolling around the dock desperately trying to douse their flaming clothing. The next detonations came in rapid succession, echoing across the bay, as he heaved three more grenades under the remaining trucks.

Fresh flame and clouds of smoke billowed above the roofs of the warehouses. The marines frantically abandoned their vehicles and scrambled for their lives out of the holocaust. A few were galvanized into action and began firing into the darkness at anything that vaguely resembled a human form. The ragged fusillade mingled with the sound of shattering glass as the windows of the warehouses were blown away.

Clark's small team of six fighters held their fire. The few shots that came in their direction went over their heads. They waited as Clark mingled in the disorganized melee, unsuspected in his Cuban officer's uniform, cursing in fluent Russian and ordering the marines to regroup and charge up the wharf.

"Form up! Form up!" he shouted excitedly. "They're running away. Move, damn you, before the traitors escape!"

He broke off suddenly as he came face to face with Borchev. The Soviet major's mouth fell open in total incredulity and before he could close it Clark grabbed him by the arm and hurled him over the dock into the water. Fortunately, no one took notice amid the confusion.

"Follow me!" Clark yelled, and began running up the dock where it passed between two warehouses. Individually, and in groups of four or five, the Soviet marines raced after him, crouching and zigzagging in highly trained movements across the wharf, laying down a sheet of fire as they advanced.

They seemed to have overcome the paralyzing shock of surprise and were determined to retaliate against their unseen enemy, never knowing they were escaping from one nightmare and entering another. No one questioned Clark's orders. Without their commander to tell them otherwise, the noncoms exhorted their men to follow the officer in the Cuban uniform who was leading the attack.

When the marines had dodged their way between the warehouses, Clark threw himself flat as though hit. It was the signal for his men to open up. The Soviets were hit from all sides. Many were cut off their feet. They made perfect targets, silhouetted by the blazing pyre of the trucks. Those who survived the scything sweep of death returned the fire. The staccato crash of sound was deafening as shells thudded into wooden walls and human flesh or missed and richocheted, whining into the night.

Clark rolled violently toward the cover of a packing crate, but was struck in the thigh and again by a bullet that passed through both wrists.

Badly battered, but still fighting, the Soviet marines began to pull back. They made a futile attempt to break out of the dock area and reach the safety of a concrete wall running along the main boulevard, but two of Clark's men laid down a hail of fire that stopped them in their tracks.

Clark lay there behind the crate, blood streaming from shattered veins, his life draining away, and he was helpless to stop it. His hands hung like broken tree limbs, and there was no feeling in his fingers. Blackness was already closing in when he dragged himself to the edge of the pier and stared out over the harbor.

The last sight his eyes were to ever see was the outline of the two cargo ships against the lights on the opposite shore. They were swinging clear of the docks and turning toward the harbor entrance.

<<71>>

While the battle was raging on the wharf, the little Pisto took the tow and began pulling the Ozero Zaysarv into the harbor stern first. Struggling mightily, she buried her huge single propeller in the oily water and boiled it into a cauldron of foam.

The 20,000-ton vessel began to move, her formless bulk animated by orange flames as she slipped into open water. Once free of the docks Jack made a wide 180-degree sweep, pivoting the munitions ship until her bow faced the harbor entrance. Then the tow wire was released and winched in.

In the wheelhouse of the Amy Bigalow Pitt gripped the helm and hoped something would give. He tensed, scarcely daring to breathe. The still-fastened bowline came taut and creaked from the tremendous stress placed on it by the backing vessel and stoutly refused to snap. Like a dog straining at a leash, the Amy Bigalow tucked her bow slightly, increasing the tension. The rope held, but the bollard was torn from its dock mountings with a loud crunch of splintered wood.

A tremor ran through the ship and she gradually began to back away into the harbor. Pitt put the wheel over and slowly the bows came around until she had turned broadside to the receding dock. The vibration from the engine smoothed out and soon they were quietly gliding astern with a light wisp of smoke rising from the funnel.

The whole waterfront seemed to be ablaze, the flames from the burning trucks casting an eerie, flickering light inside the wheelhouse. All hands except Manny came up from the engine room and stood by on the bow. Now that he had room to maneuver, Pitt spun the wheel hard to starboard and rang Slow Ahead on the telegraph. Manny answered and the Amy Bigalow lost sternway and began to creep slowly forward.

The stars in the east were beginning to lose their sparkle as the shadowy hull of the Ozero Zaysan drew abeam. Pitt ordered All Stop as the tugboat came about under the bows. The Pisto's crew flung up a light heaving rope that was tied to a graduated series of heavier lines. Pitt watched from the bridge as they were hauled on board. Then the thick tow cable was taken up by a forward winch and made fast.

The same act was repeated on the stern, only this time with the port anchor chain from the dead and drifting Ozero Zaysan. After the chain was winched across, its links were tied to the after bits. The two-way connection was made. The three vessels were now tethered together, with the Amy Bigalow in the middle.

Jack gave a blast on the Pisto's air horn, and the tug began to ease ahead, taking up the slack. Pitt stood on the bridge wing and stared aft. When one of Manny's men signaled that the tow chain on the stern was taut, Pitt gave a slight pull on the steam whistle and swung the telegraph to Full Ahead.

The final step in Pitt's plan had been completed. The oil tanker was left behind, floating nearer the oil storage tanks on the opposite shore of the harbor, but a good mile farther from the more populated center of the city. The other two ships and their deadly cargoes were gathering way in their dash for the open sea, the tugboat adding her power to that of the Amy Bigalow to raise the speed of the marine caravan.

Behind them the great column of smoke and flame spiraled up into the early blue of morning. Clark had bought them enough time for a fighting chance, but he had paid with his life.

Pitt did not look back. His eyes were drawn like a magnet on the beacon from the lighthouse above the gray walls of Morro Castle, that grim fortress guarding the entrance to Havana Harbor. It lay three miles away, but it seemed thirty.

The die was cast. Manny raised power to the other engine and the twin screws thrashed the water. The Amy Bigalow began to pick up speed. Two knots became three. Three became four. She beat toward the channel below the lighthouse like a Clydesdale in a pulling contest.

They were forty minutes away from reaching home free. But the warning was out and the unthinkable was yet to come.

Major Borchev dodged the burning embers that fell and hissed in the water. Floating there under the pilings, he could hear the roar of automatic weapons fire and see the flames leap into the sky. The dirty water between the docks felt tepid and reeked of dead fish and diesel oil. He gagged and vomited up the foul backwash he had swallowed when the strange Cuban colonel shoved him over the side.

He swam for what seemed a mile before he found a ladder and climbed to the top of an abandoned pier. He spat out the disgusting taste and jogged toward the burning convoy.

Blackened and smoldering bodies littered the dock. The gunfire had stopped after Clark's few surviving men escaped in a small outboard boat. Borchev walked cautiously through the carnage. Except for two wounded men who had taken refuge behind a forklift, the rest were dead. His entire detachment had been wiped out.

Half crazed with anger, Borchev staggered among the victims, searching, until he came upon the body of Clark. He rolled the CIA agent over on his back and looked down into sightless eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded senselessly. "Who do you work for?"

The answers had died with Clark.

Borchev took the limp body by the belt and dragged it to the edge of the pier. Then he kicked it into the water.

"See how you like it!" he shouted insanely.

Borchev wandered aimlessly amid the massacre for another ten minutes before he regained his balance. He finally realized he had to report to Velikov. The only transmitter had melted inside the lead truck, and he began to run around the waterfront, feverishly hunting for a telephone.

He found a sign on a building identifying a dockworkers' recreation room. He lunged at the door and smashed it open with his shoulder. He fumbled along the wall, found the light switch, and turned it on. The room was furnished with old stained sofas. There were checkerboards and dominoes and a small refrigerator. Posters of Castro, Che Guevara haughtily smoking a cigar, and a somber Lenin stared down from one wall.

Borchev entered the office of a supervisor and snatched up the telephone on a desk. He dialed several times without getting through. Finally he raised the operator, cursing the retarded efficiency of the Cuban phone system.

The clouds above the eastern hills were beginning to glow orange and the sirens of the city's fire squads were converging on the waterfront when he was finally connected to the Soviet Embassy.

Captain Manuel Pinon stood on the bridge wing of the Russian-built Riga-class patrol frigate and steadied his binoculars. He had been awakened by his first officer soon after the fighting and conflagration had broken out in the commercial dock area. He could see little through the binoculars because his vessel was moored to the naval dock around a point just below the channel and his vision was blocked by buildings.

"Shouldn't we investigate?" asked his first officer.

"The police and fire crews can handle it," answered Pinon.

"Sounds like gunshots."

"Probably a warehouse blaze that's ignited military supplies. Better we stay clear of the fireboats." He handed the glasses to the first officer. "Keep a watch on it. I'm going back to bed."

Pinon was just about to enter his stateroom when his first officer came running up the passageway.

"Sir, you'd better return to the bridge. Two ships are attempting to leave the harbor."

"Without clearance?"

"Yes, sir."

"Could be they're moving to a new mooring."

The first officer shook his head. "Their heading is taking them into the main channel."

Pinon groaned. "The gods are against me getting any sleep."

The first officer grinned sardonically. "A good Communist does not believe in gods."

"Tell that to my white-haired mother."

On the bridge wing once again, Pinon yawned and peered through the early-morning haze. Two ships under tow were about to enter the Entrada Channel for open seas.

"What in hell--" Pinon refocused the glasses. "Not a flag, not a navigation light showing, no lookouts on the bridge=

"Nor do they respond to our radio signals requesting their intent. Almost looks like they're trying to sneak out."

"Counterrevolutionary scum trying to reach the United States," Pinon growled. "Yes, that must be it. Can't be anything else."

"Shall I give the order to cast off and get under way?"

"Yes, immediately. We'll come around across their bows and block their way."

Even as he spoke, the first officer's hand was reaching for the siren switch that whooped the crew to action stations.

Ten minutes later the thirty-year-old ship, retired by the Russian Navy after it had been replaced by a newer, modified class of frigate, drifted broadside across the channel. Her four-inch guns turned and aimed almost point-blank at the rapidly approaching phantom vessels.

Pitt gazed at the blinking signal lamp on the frigate. He was tempted to turn on the radio, but it was agreed upon from the beginning that the convoy would remain silent in case an alert port authority official or security post receiver happened to tune in on the same frequency. Pitt's international Morse code was rusty, but he deciphered the message as "Stop immediately and identify."

He kept a sharp eye on the Pisto. He was aware that any sudden evasive move would have to originate with Jack. Pitt called down to the engine room and alerted Manny to the frigate blocking their course, but the brass telegraph pointers remained locked on Full Ahead.

They were so close now he could see the Cuban naval ensign standing stiffly in the offshore breeze. The vanes on the signal lamp flipped up and down again. "Stop immediately or we will open fire."

Two men appeared on the stern of the Pisto and frantically began reeling out more cable. At the same time the tug lost way, made a sharp turn to starboard, and heaved to. Then Jack stepped out of the wheelhouse and hailed the frigate through a bullhorn.

"Give way, you sea cow's ass. Can't you see I have a tow?"

Pinon ignored the insult. He expected no less from a tug captain. "Your movement is unauthorized. I am sending over a boarding party."

"I'll be damned if I let any candy-ass Navy boy step foot on my ship."

"You'll be dead if you don't," Pinon replied in good humor. He was uncertain now whether this was a mass escape attempt by dissidents, but the strange actions of the tug and unlit ships required an investigation.

He leaned over the bridge railing and ordered the ship's motor cutter and boarding crew to lower away. When he turned back to face the unidentified convoy, he froze in horror.

Too late. In the dusky light he had failed to see that the ship behind the tug was not a dead tow. It was under way and boring down on the frigate at a good eight knots. He stared dazedly for several seconds before his reeling mind took hold.

"Full ahead!" he shrieked. "Guns fire!"

His command was followed by a deafening blast as shells streaked across the narrowing gap, tore into the bow and superstructure of the Amy Bigalow, and exploded in a burst of flame and shattered steel. The port side of the wheelhouse seemed to melt away as if ripped open by a junkyard mangling machine. Glass and debris felt like pellets out of a shotgun. Pitt ducked and kept his grip on the wheel with a determination tied to blind stubbornness. He was lucky to emerge with only a few cuts and a bruised thigh.

The second salvo blew away the chart room and sliced the forward mast in two. The top half fell over the side and was dragged for a hundred feet before the cables parted and it floated clear. The funnel was shattered and turned to scrap, and a shell burst inside the starboard anchor locker, scattering a cloud of salt-rusted links like shrapnel.

There would be no third salvo.

Pinon stood absolutely still, hands tightly clenched on the bridge rail. He stared up at the menacing black bows of the Amy Bigalow as they rose ponderously over the frigate, his face white and his eyes sick with a certainty that his ship was about to die.

The frigate's screws beat the water in a frenzy, but they could not push her out of the way soon enough. There was no question of the Amy Bigalow missing and no doubt as to Pitt's intentions. He was compensating and cutting the angle toward the frigate's midsection. Those of the crew who were topside and could see the approaching disaster gazed numb with horror before finally reacting and throwing themselves over the sides.

The Amy Bigalow's sixty-foot-high stem slashed through the frigate just forward of her rear turret, shredding the plates and penetrating the hull for nearly twenty feet. Pinon's ship might have survived the collision and made shore before settling in the water, but with a terrible screech of grinding steel the bow of the Amy Bigalow rose up from the gaping wound until her barnacled keel was exposed. She hung there for an instant, and then dropped, crushing the frigate in two and pile-driving the stern section out of sight beneath the surface.

Instantly, the sea poured into the amputated stern, sweeping through the twisted bulkheads and flooding the open compartments. As the cataract surged into the doomed frigate's hull she quickly began to settle astern. Her dying agony did not last long. By the time the Ozero Zaysan was towed over the collision site, she was gone, leaving a pitiful few of her crew struggling in the water.

<<72>>

"You walked into a trap?" Velikov's voice came flat and hard over the phone.

Borchev felt uncomfortable. He couldn't very well admit that he was one of the only three survivors out of forty and lacked even a scratch. "An unknown force of at least two hundred Cubans opened fire with heavy equipment before we could evacuate the trucks."

"You certain they were Cubans?"

"Who else could have planned and carried it out? Their commanding officer was wearing a Cuban Army uniform."

"Perez?"

"Can't say. We'll need time to make an identification."

"Might have been a blunder by green troops who opened fire out of stupidity or panic."

"They were far from stupid. I can recognize highly trained combat troops when I see them. They knew we were coming and laid a well prepared ambush."

Velikov's face went completely blank and then quickly reddened. The assault on Cayo Santa Maria passed before his eyes. He could scarcely contain his rage. "What was their objective?"

"A delaying action to take possession of the ships."

Borchev's answer staggered Velikov. He felt as if his body had turned to ice. The questions came spilling out of his mouth. "The Rum and Cola operation ships were seized? Are they still moored to their docks?"

"No, a tugboat towed off the Ozero Zaysan. The Amy Bigalow steamed clear under her own power. I lost sight of them after they rounded the point. A little later I heard what sounded like naval gunfire near the entrance channel."

Velikov had heard the rumble of heavy guns too. He stared at a blank wall with unbelieving eyes, trying to envision the circle of men dogging his intricately planned operations. He refused to believe that intelligence units loyal to Castro had the knowledge and expertise. Only the long arm of the Americans and their Central Intelligence Agency could have destroyed Cayo Santa Maria and wrecked his scheme to terminate the Castro regime. Only one individual could have been responsible for the leak of information.

Dirk Pitt.

A deep look of concentration tensed Velikov's face. The mud was clearing from the water. He knew what he had to do in the little time left.

"Are the ships still in the harbor?" he demanded of Borchev.

"If they were trying to escape to the sea, I'd put them somewhere in the Entrada Channel."

"Find Admiral Chekoldin and tell him I want those ships stopped and headed back to the inner harbor."

"I thought all Soviet naval ships have stood out to sea."

"The admiral and his flagship aren't due to depart until eight o'clock. Don't use the telephone. Convey my request in person and stress the urgency."

Before Borchev could reply, Velikov threw down the receiver and rushed to the main entrance of the embassy, ignoring the busy staff preparing for evacuation. He ran outside to the embassy limousine and shoved aside the chauffeur, who was standing by to drive the Soviet ambassador to safety.

He turned the ignition key and threw the transmission into drive the instant the engine fired. The rear wheels spun and shrieked furiously as the car leaped out of the embassy courtyard into the streets.

Two blocks later Velikov was stopped dead.

A military roadblock barred his way. Two armored cars and a company of Cuban soldiers stretched across the broad boulevard. An officer stepped up to the car and shone a flashlight in the window.

"May I see your identification papers, please?"

"I am General Peter Velikov, attached to the Soviet Military Mission. I'm in a great hurry to reach Colonel General Kolchak's headquarters. Stand aside and let me pass."

The officer studied Velikov's face for a moment as if satisfying himself. He switched off the flashlight and motioned for two of his men to enter the backseat. Then he came around and climbed into the front passenger's seat.

"We've been waiting for you, General," he said in a cold but courteous tone. "Please follow my directions and turn left at the next cross street."

Pitt stood, feet slightly apart, both hands on the helm, his craggy face thrust forward, as he watched the lighthouse at the harbor entrance slip past with terrible slowness. His whole mind and body, every nerve was concentrated on moving the ship as far away from the populated city as possible before the ammonium nitrate was detonated.

The water turned from gray-green to emerald and the ship started to roll slightly as it plowed into the swells marching in from the sea. The Amy Bigalow was taking in water through her ripped bow plates, but she still answered her helm and chased after the tailing wake of the tugboat.

His whole body ached from exhaustion. He drove himself on with sheer willpower. The blood from the cuts he received from the blast of the frigate's guns had hardened into dark red streaks down his face. He was oblivious to the sweat and the clothes sticking to his body.

He closed his eyes for a moment and wished he was back in his hangar apartment with a Bombay gin martini, sitting in a steaming shower. God, he was tired.

A sudden gust of wind blew in through the shattered bridge windows and he opened his eyes again. He studied the shorelines both port and starboard. The hidden gun emplacements around the harbor remained silent and there were still no signs of aircraft or patrol vessels. Despite the battle with the naval frigate no alarm had been given. The confusion and lack of intelligence among the Cuban military security forces were working in their favor.

The still sleeping city lingered behind as if tied to the trailing ship's stern. The sun was up now and the convoy in naked view up and down the coast.

A few more minutes, a few more minutes, he said in his mind over and over.

Velikov was ordered to stop on a quiet corner near Cathedral Square in old Havana. He was led into a shabby building with dusty and cracked windows, past glass cases displaying faded posters of 1940s movie stars staring at the camera while seated at the bar inside.

A one-time watering hole patronized by wealthy American celebrities, Sloppy Joe's was now only a dingy hole in the wall, long forgotten except by an elderly few. Four people were seated off to one side of the tarnished and neglected bar.

The interior was dark and smelled of disinfectant and decay. Velikov didn't recognize his hosts until he was halfway across the unswept floor. Then he stopped short and stared unbelieving, a sudden nausea growing within him.

Jessie LeBaron was sitting between a strange fat man and Raul Castro. The fourth party stared back ominously.

"Good morning, General," said Fidel Castro. "I'm happy you could join us."

<<73>>

Pitt's ears picked up the drone of an aircraft. He released his hold on the wheel and stepped to the door of the bridge wing.

A pair of helicopter gunships were beating along the shore from the north. His gaze swung back to the harbor entrance. A gray warship was charging through the channel at full speed, throwing up a big bow wave. A Soviet destroyer this time, pencil-thin, forward guns trained on the creeping, defenseless death ships. The chase that nobody could win was on.

Jack stepped out onto the deck of the tugboat and looked up at the broken, twisted wreck of the Amy Bigalow's bridge. He marveled that anyone was still alive and manning the helm. He made a gesture to his ear and waited until a hand waved back in understanding. He watched as a crewman hurried to the freighter's stern and gave the same signal to Moe on board the Ozero Zaysan. Then he returned inside and called out on the radio.

"This is Pisto. Do you read? Over."

"Loud and clear," replied Pitt.

"I've got you," Moe added.

"This is as good a time as any to tie your helms and abandon ship," said Jack.

"Good riddance," Moe snorted. "Let these hell buckets go up by themselves."

"We'll leave our engines running at full ahead," said Pitt. "What about the Pisto?"

"I'll man her a few more minutes to make sure the ships don't circle back to shore," replied Jack.

"Better not be late. Castro's boys are coming through the slot."

"I see them," said Jack. "Good luck. Out."

Pitt locked the helm in the Dead Ahead position and called up Manny. The tough chief engineer needed no urging. He and his men were swinging the ship's motor launch out in its davits three minutes later. They scrambled aboard and were beginning to lower it when Pitt jumped over the railing and dropped in.

"Almost left you behind," shouted Manny.

"I radioed the destroyer and told her to stand clear or we'd blow up the munitions ship."

Before Manny could reply, there was an echoing thunderlike rumble. A few seconds later a shell plunged into the sea fifty yards in front of the Pisto.

"They didn't buy your bill of goods," Manny grunted. He started the boat's engine and engaged the gearbox to equal the ship's headway when they hit the water. The falls were cast off and they were thrown broadside into the wash, almost swamping the launch. The Amy Bigalow swept past on her final voyage, deserted and destined for obliteration.

Manny turned and saw that Moe and his crew were lowering the Ozero Zaysan's launch. It smashed into a swell and was thrown against the steel sides with such force that the seams on the starboard side were sprung and the bottom half awash, drowning the engine.

"We've got to help them," said Pitt.

"Right you are," Manny agreed.

Before they could come about, Jack had appraised the situation and yelled through his bullhorn, "Leave them be. I'll pick them up after I cut loose. Look to yourselves and head for shore."

Pitt took the pilot's chair from a crewman who had smashed his fingers in the davit ropes. He sheered the launch toward the tall buildings lining the Malecon waterfront and crammed the throttle against its stop.

Manny was looking back at the tug and the drifting launch that carried Moe's crew. His face went gray as the destroyer fired again and twin columns of water straddled the Pisto. The spray crashed down on her upper works, but she shook off the deluge and plowed on.

Moe turned away with a feeling of dread that he did not show. He knew he would never see his friends alive again.

Pitt was gauging the distance between the retreating ships and the shore. They were still close enough for the explosives to devastate a major share of Havana, he judged grimly, way too close.

"Did President Antonov agree to your plan for my assassination?" Fidel Castro asked.

Velikov stood with arms crossed. He was not offered a chair. He glared back at Castro with cold contempt. "I am a ranking military office of the Soviet Union. I demand to be treated accordingly."

The black, angry eyes of Raul Castro flashed. "This is Cuba. You don't demand anything here. You're nothing but KGB scum."

"Enough, Raul, enough," cautioned Fidel. He looked at Velikov. "Don't toy with us, General. I've studied your documents. Rum and Cola is no longer a secret."

Velikov played out his hand. "I'm fully aware of the operation. Another vicious CIA attempt to undermine the friendship between Cuba and the Soviet Union."

"If that is so, why didn't you warn me?"

"There was no time."

"You found time enough to clear out Russian nationals," Raul snapped. "Why were you running away at this time in the morning?"

A look of arrogance crossed Velikov's face. "I won't bother to answer your questions. Need I remind you I have diplomatic immunity. You have no right to interrogate me."

"How do you intend to set off the explosives?" asked Castro calmly.

Velikov stood silent. The corners of his lips turned up slightly in a smile at the sound of the distant rumble of heavy gunfire. Fidel and Raul exchanged glances, but nothing was said between them.

Jessie shuddered as the tension mounted in the small barroom. For a moment she wished she was a man so she could beat the truth out of the general. She suddenly felt sick and wanted to scream because of the costly time that was drifting away.

"Please tell them what they want to know," she begged. "You can't stand there and allow thousands of children to die for a senseless political cause."

Velikov did not argue. He remained unmoved.

"I'll be happy to take him out back," said Hagen.

"You needn't soil your hands, Mr. Hagen," said Fidel. "I have experts in painful interrogation waiting outside."

"You wouldn't dare," Velikov snapped.

"It is my duty to warn you that if you do not halt the detonation you'll be tortured. Not with simple injections like political prisoners at your mental hospitals in Russia, but unspeakable tortures that will continue day and night. Our finest medical specialists will keep you alive. No nightmare can do justice to your suffering, General. You will scream until you can scream no more. Then, when you are little more than a vegetable without sight, speech, or hearing, you will be transported and dumped in a slum somewhere in North Africa where you will survive or die, and where no one will rescue or pity a crippled beggar living in filth. You will become what you Russians call a nonperson."

Velikov's shell cracked, but very thinly. "You waste your breath. You are dead. I am dead. We are all dead."

"You're mistaken. The ships carrying the munitions and ammonium nitrate have been removed from the harbor by the very people you blame. At this minute agents of the CIA are sailing them out to sea where the explosive force will only kill the fish."

Velikov quickly pressed his slim advantage. "No, Senor Presidente, it is you who are mistaken. The sound of guns you heard a few moments ago came from a Soviet vessel stopping the ships and turning them back inside the harbor. They may explode too early for your celebration speech, but they will still accomplish the end results."

"You're lying," Fidel said uneasily.

"Your reign as the great father of the revolution is over," said Velikov, his voice sly and baiting. "I'll gladly die for the Russian motherland. Will you sacrifice your life for Cuba? Maybe when you were young and had nothing to lose, but you're soft now and too used to having others do your dirty work for you. You've got the good life and you're not about to let it slip away. But it's finished. Tomorrow you'll only be another photograph on a wall and a new president will sit in your place. One whose loyalties extend to the Kremlin."

Velikov stepped back a few paces and took out a small case from his pocket.

Hagen recognized it immediately. "An electronic transmitter. He can send a signal to detonate the explosives from here."

"Oh, God!" Jessie cried despairingly. "Oh, my God, he's going to do it, he's really going to do it."

"Don't bother to call your bodyguards," said Velikov. "They'll never react in time."

Fidel stared at him with cold bleak eyes. "Remember what I said."

Velikov stared back contemptuously. "Can you really picture me screaming in agony in one of your dirty prisons?"

"Give me the transmitter and you will be free to leave Cuba unharmed."

"And return to Moscow a cowardly figure? I think not."

"It's on your head," said Fidel, his expression a curious blend of anger and fear. "You know your fate if you detonate the explosives and live."

"Little chance of that," Velikov sneered. "This building sits less than five hundred yards from the harbor channel. There will be nothing left of us." He paused, his face as hard as a chiseled gargoyle. Then he said, "Goodbye, Senor Presidente."

"You bastard--" Hagen leaped over the table in an incredible display of agility for his huge bulk and was only inches away from Velikov when the Russian pressed the transmitter's Activate switch.

<<74>>

The Amy Bigalow vaporized.

The Ozero Zaysan waited only a fraction of a second longer before blowing herself out of existence. The combined force of the volatile cargoes inside the two ships threw up a mountainous column of fiery debris and smoke that thrust five thousand feet into the tropical sky. A vast vortex opened in the sea as a gigantic geyser of maddened water and steam shot up into the smoke and then burst outward.

The brilliant red-white glare flashed across the water with the blinding intensity of ten suns, followed by a thunderous clap that lashed and flattened the wave tops.

The sight of the gallant little Pisto as the blast flung her two hundred feet into the air like a disintegrating skyrocket was locked forever in Pitt's mind. He watched stunned as her shredded remains along with Jack and his crew splattered into the maelstrom like burning hail.

Moe and his crew in the drifting launch simply vanished off the face of the sea.

The explosive fury blew the two helicopter gunships out of the air. Seagulls within two miles were crushed by the concussion. The propeller from the Ozero Zaysan whirled across the sea and smashed into the control castle of the Soviet destroyer, killing every man on the bridge. Twisted steel plates, rivets, chain links, and deck gear pelted the city, tearing through walls and roofs like cannon shells. Telephone poles and streetlights were lashed and broken off at the tease.

Hundreds of people perished in their beds while still asleep. Many were terribly gashed by flying glass or crushed by pancaked ceilings. Early-morning workers and pedestrians were picked up off their feet and crushed against buildings.

The shock wave struck the city with twice the force of any recorded hurricane, flattening wooden structures near the shore as though they were paper toys, collapsing storefronts, shattering a hundred thousand windows, and hurling parked automobiles into buildings.

Inside the harbor the monstrous Ozero Baykai went up.

At first, flames shot from her hull like blowtorches. Then the whole oil tanker burst open in a giant fireball. A surge of flaming oil swamped the surrounding waterfront structures and launched a chain reaction of explosions from combustible cargoes sitting on the docks. Fiery metal plunged into oil and gas storage tanks on the east side of the harbor. One after another they blew up like a time-sequence fireworks display, spewing gigantic black smoke clouds over the city.

An oil refinery exploded, then a chemical company blew, followed by blasts at a paint company and fertilizer plant. Two nearby freighters, under way and heading for sea, collided, caught fire, and began to blaze. A fiery hunk of steel from the destroyed tanker plummeted into one of ten railroad tank cars containing propane and sent them up like a string of firecrackers.

Another blast. . . then another. . . and another.

Four miles of waterfront were turned into a holocaust. Ashes and soot covered the city like a black snowfall. Few stevedores working the docks survived. Fortunately, the refineries and the chemical plant were nearly abandoned. Loss of life would have been many times higher if it had not been a national holiday.

The worst of the disaster inside the harbor was past, but the nightmare still facing the rest of the city had yet to arrive.

An immense fifty-foot tidal wave rose up out of the vortex and hurtled toward shore. Pitt and the others stared in awe as the green and white mountain roared after them. They sat there waiting, no panic, just staring and waiting for the frail little launch to become a shattered piece of wreckage and the water their tomb.

The seawall along the Malecon was only thirty yards away when the horizontal avalanche engulfed the launch. The crest curled and burst right over them. It tore Manny and three men from their seats, and Pitt watched them sail through the crashing spray like roof shingles in a tornado. The seawall rushed closer but the momentum of the wave lifted the launch over the top and slung it across the wide boulevard.

Pitt clutched the helm with such strength that it was torn away from its mounting and he was swept clear. He thought this was the end, but with a conscious effort of will he took a deep breath and held it as he was pulled under. As if in a dream he could look down through the strangely clear and demoniac water, seeing cars tumbling in crazy gyrations as if thrown by a giant hand.

Buried deep in the boiling turmoil, he felt strangely detached. It struck him as ludicrous that he was about to drown on a city street. His desire for life still clung tenaciously, but he did not struggle senselessly and waste precious oxygen. He went lax and vainly tried to peer through the froth, his mind somehow working with uncanny clarity. He knew that if the wave swept him against a concrete building the rushing tons of water would mash him into the same consistency as a watermelon dropped from an airplane.

His fear would have been heightened if he had seen the launch smash into the second story of an apartment building that housed Soviet technicians. The impact collapsed the hull as if the planking were no stronger than an eggshell. The four-cylinder diesel engine was tossed through a broken window by the cascade and ended up in a stairwell.

Mercifully, Pitt was swept into a narrow side street like a log through a chute. The flood carried everything before it in a great tumbling mass of wreckage. But even as it curled around the buildings strong enough to withstand the onslaught, the wave was already beginning to die. Within seconds the leading edge would reach its high mark and then recede, the retreating torrent sucking human bodies and loose debris back to the sea.

Pitt began to see stars as his brain starved for oxygen. His senses began to shut down one by one. He felt a jarring blow as his shoulder struck a fixed object. He whipped an arm around it, trying to hang on, but he was thrust forward by the force of the wave. He ran into another flat surface, and this time he reached out and clutched it in a death grip, not recognizing it as a sign over a jeweler's shop.

The thinking, feeling equipment of his body slowed and shut down as if its electrical current had switched off. His head was pounding and blackness was covering the stars bursting behind his eyes. He existed only on instinct, and soon even that would desert him.

The wave had reached its outer limit and began to fall in on itself, rushing back to the sea. It was too late for Pitt, he was slipping away from consciousness. His brain somehow managed to send out one last message. An arm clumsily jammed its way between the sign and its support shaft that protruded from the building, and wedged there.

Then his bursting lungs could take no more, and he began to drown.

The great rumble from the explosions echoed away into the hills and sea. There was no sunlight over the city, no real sunlight. It was hidden by a smoke-blackened pall of incredible density. The whole harbor seemed afire-- the docks, ships, storage tanks, and three square miles of oil-coated water were bristling with orange and blue flame that streaked up into the dark canopy.

The dreadfully wounded city began to shake off the shock and stagger to its feet. Sirens began to match the noisy intensity of the crackling fires. The tidal wave had flowed back into the Gulf of Mexico, dragging a great mass of splintered debris and bodies in its wake.

Survivors began to stumble dazed and injured into the streets, like bewildered sheep, shocked at the enormous devastation around them, wondering what had happened. Some wandered in shock, unfeeling of their wounds. Others stared dumbly at the huge piece of the Amy Bigalow's rudder that had crashed through the bus station and mashed four of the vehicles and several people who were waiting to board.

A piece of the Ozero Zaysan's forward mast was found embedded in the center of Havana Stadium's soccer field. A one-ton winch landed in a wing of University Hospital and squashed the only three beds not occupied in a forty-bed ward. It was to be widely talked about as only one of a hundred miracles that happened that day. A great boon to the Catholic Church and a small setback to Marxism.

Rescue parties began to form as firefighters and police converged on the waterfront. Army units were called out along with the militia. There was panic amid the chaos at first. The military forces turned their backs on rescue work and manned island defenses under the mistaken belief the United States was invading. The injured seemed to be everywhere, some screaming in pain, most hobbling or walking away from the flaming harbor.

The earthshaking quake died with the shock waves. The ceiling of Sloppy Joe's had fallen in, but the walls still stood. The barroom was a shambles. Wooden beams, fallen plaster, overturned furniture, and broken bottles lay scattered under a thick cloud of dust. The swinging door had been ripped from its hinges and hung at a crazy angle over Castro's bodyguards, who lay groaning under a small hill of bricks.

Ira Hagen hoisted himself painfully to his feet and shook his head to clear it from the ringing of the concussion. He wiped his eyes to penetrate the dust cloud and clutched a wall for support. He looked up through the now open ceiling and saw pictures still hanging on the walls of the floor above.

His first thought was of Jessie. She was lying partially under the table that still stood in the center of the room. Her body was crumpled in a curled position. Hagen knelt and gently turned her over.

She lay motionless, appearing lifeless under the coating of white plaster dust, but there was no blood or serious wounds. Her eyes were half open and she groaned. Hagen smiled with relief and removed his coat. He folded and placed it under her head.

She reached up and grasped his wrist more tightly than he believed possible and stared up at him.

"Dirk is dead," she whispered.

"He might have survived," said Hagen softly, but there was no optimism in his tone.

"Dirk is dead," she repeated.

"Don't move," he said. "Just lie easy while I check out the Castros."

Then he rose unsteadily and began searching through the fallen debris. The sound of coughing came from his left and he climbed over the rubble until he bumped into the bar.

Raul Castro was hanging on to the raised edge of the bar with both hands, dazed and in shock, hacking the dust from his throat. Blood was trickling from his nose and a nasty cut on his chin.

Hagen marveled at how close everyone had been sitting before the explosions and how scattered they were now. He uprighted a fallen chair and helped Raul to sit down.

"Are you all right, sir?" Hagen asked, genuinely concerned.

Raul nodded weakly. "I'm all right. Fidel? Where is Fidel?"

"Sit tight. I'll find him."

Hagen moved off through the rubble until he found Fidel Castro. The Cuban leader was on his stomach and twisted sideways, shoulders propped up by one arm. Hagen stared in fascination at the scene on the floor.

Castro's eyes were trained on an upturned face only a foot away. General Velikov was spread-eagled on his back, a large beam crushing his legs. The expression on his face was a mixture of defiance and apprehension. He stared up at Castro through eyes bitter with the taste of defeat.

There was not a flicker of emotion in Castro's expression. The plaster dust made him look as though he were sculpted in marble. The rigidity of the face, masklike, the total concentration, was almost inhuman.

"We live, General," he murmured triumphantly. "We both live."

"Not right," Velikov uttered through clenched teeth. "We should all be dead."

"Dirk Pitt and the others somehow got the ships through your naval units and out to sea," explained Hagen. "The destructive force of the explosion was only one-tenth of what it might have been if they remained in the harbor."

"You have failed," said Castro. "Cuba remains Cuba."

"So near and yet--" Velikov shook his head resignedly. "And now for the revenge you vowed to take on me."

"You will die for every one of my countrymen you murdered," Castro promised, in a voice as cold as an open grave. "If it takes a thousand deaths or a hundred thousand. You will suffer them all."

Velikov grinned crookedly. He seemed to have no nerves at all. "Another man, another time, and you will surely be killed, Fidel. I know. I helped create five alternative plans in case this one failed."

<6>EUREKA! THE LA DORADA

November 8, 1989

Washington, D.C.

<<75>>

Martin Brogan walked into the early-morning cabinet meeting late. The President and the men seated around the large kidney-shaped table looked up expectantly.

"The ships were detonated four hours ahead of schedule," he informed them while still standing.

His announcement was greeted with solemn silence. Every man at the table had been told of the unbelievable plan by the Soviets to remove Castro, and the news struck them more as an inevitable tragedy than a shocking catastrophe.

"What are the latest reports on loss of life?" asked Douglas Oates.

"Too early to tell," replied Brogan. "The whole harbor area is in flames. The deaths could conceivably total in the thousands. The devastation, however, is not nearly as severe as we first projected. It appears our agents in Havana seized two of the ships and sailed them out of the harbor before they exploded."

As they listened in contemplative quiet, Brogan read from the initial reports sent from the Special Interests Section in Havana. He recounted the details of the plan to move the ships and the sketchy details of the actual operation. Before he had finished, one of his aides entered and slipped him an updated report. He scanned it silently and then read the first line.

"Fidel and Raul Castro are alive." He paused to gaze at the President. "Your man, Ira Hagen, says he is in direct contact with the Castros and they have requested any assistance we can offer in the way of disaster relief, including medical personnel and supplies, firefighting equipment, food and clothing, and also morgue and embalming experts."

The President looked at General Clayton Metcalf, chairman of the joint Chiefs of Staff. "General?"

"After your call last night, I alerted Air Transport Command. We can begin the airlift as soon as the people and supplies arrive at the airfields and are loaded on board."

"Any approach by American military aircraft had better be coordinated or the Cubans will cut loose with their surface-to-air missiles," pointed out Secretary of Defense Simmons.

"I'll see to it a line of communication is opened with their Foreign Ministry," said Secretary of State Oates.

"Better make it clear to Castro that any relief we send is organized under the umbrella of the Red Cross," added Dan Fawcett. "We don't want to scare him into slamming the door."

"An angle we can't overlook," said the President.

"Almost a crime to take advantage of a terrible disaster," mused Oates. "Still, we can't deny it's a heaven-sent opportunity to cement relations with Cuba and defuse revolutionary fever throughout the Americas."

"I wonder if Castro has ever studied Simon Bolivar?" the President asked no one in particular.

"The Great Liberator of South America is one of Castro's idols," replied Brogan. "Why do you ask?"

"Then perhaps he's finally heeded one of Bolivar's quotations."

"Which quotation is that, Mr. President?"

The President looked from face to face around the table before answering. " " `He who serves a revolution plows the sea.' "

<<76>>

The chaos slowly subsided and the rescue work began as the population of Havana recovered from the shock. Hurricane emergency procedures were put into operation. Army and militia units along with paramedics sifted through the rubble, lifting the bodies of the living into ambulances and the dead into trucks.

The Santa Clara convent, dating from 1643, was taken over as a temporary hospital and quickly filled. The wards and corridors of University Hospital soon overflowed. The elegant old Presidential Palace, now the museum of the revolution, was turned into a morgue.

Injured people walked the streets bleeding, staring vacantly or searching desperately for loved ones. A clock on top of a building in Cathedral Square of old Havana sat frozen at 6:21. Some residents who had fled their homes during the havoc began to drift back. Others who had no homes to return to walked through the streets, picking their way around the bodies, carrying small bundles containing salvaged possessions.

Every fire unit for a hundred miles streamed into the city and vainly fought the fires spreading throughout the waterfront. A tank of chlorine gas exploded, adding its poison to the ravages of the blaze. Twice the hundreds of firefighters had to run for cover when a change of wind whipped the blistering heat in their faces.

Even while the rescue operations were being organized, Fidel Castro launched a purge of disloyal government officials and military officers. Raul personally directed the roundup. Most had abandoned the city, having been forewarned of Rum and Cola by Velikov and the KGB. One by one they were arrested, each one stunned by the news the Castro brothers were still alive. By the hundreds they were transported under heavy guard to a secret prison compound deep in the mountains, never to be seen again.

At two o'clock in the afternoon the first U.S. Air Force heavy cargo plane landed at Havana's international airport. Soon a constant stream of aircraft were arriving. Fidel Castro was on hand to greet the volunteer doctors and nurses. He personally saw to it that Cuban relief committees stood by to receive the supplies and cooperate with the incoming Americans.

By early evening, Coast Guard and firefighting vessels from the port of Miami began to stream over the smoke-filled horizon. Bulldozers, heavy equipment, and oil-fire experts from Texas moved into the fiery wreckage along the harbor and wasted no time in attacking the flames.

Despite past political differences the imagination of the United States and Cuba seemed to leap to the occasion and everyone worked together closely on the specific emergencies to be met.

Admiral Sandecker and Al Giordino stepped off a NUMA jet late in the afternoon. They hitched a ride on a truck, loaded with bed linen and military cots, as far as a distribution depot, where Giordino hot-wired and borrowed an abandoned Fiat.

The false sunset from the flames tinted their faces red through the windshield as they gazed incredulously at the gigantic smoke cloud and great sea of fire.

After nearly an hour of winding their way through the city and being directed by police through complicated detours to avoid streets choked with debris and rescue vehicles, they finally reached the Swiss Embassy.

"We have our job cut out," said Sandecker, staring at the ruined buildings and the wreckage littering the wide boulevard of the Malecon.

Giordino nodded sadly. "He may never be found."

"Still, we owe it to him to try."

"Yes," Giordino said heavily. "We owe Dirk that."

They turned and walked through the battered entrance of the embassy and were directed to the communications room of the Special Interests Section.

The room was jammed with news correspondents, waiting their turn to transmit reports of the disaster. Sandecker shouldered his way through the throng and found a heavyset man dictating to a radio operator. When the man finished, Sandecker tapped him on the arm.

"You Ira Hagen?"

"Yes, I'm Hagen." The hoarse voice matched the tired lines in the face.

"Thought so," said Sandecker. "The President described you in some detail."

Hagen patted his rotund stomach and forced a smile. "I'm not hard to pick out in a crowd." Then he paused and looked at Sandecker strangely. "You say the President--"

"I met with him four hours ago in the White House. My name is James Sandecker and this is Al Giordino. We're with NUMA."

"Yes, Admiral, I know the name. What can I do for you?"

"We're friends of Dirk Pitt and Jessie LeBaron."

Hagen closed his eyes for a second and then gazed at Sandecker steadily. "Mrs. LeBaron is one hell of a woman. Except for a few small cuts and bruises, she came out of the explosion in good shape. She's helping out at an emergency hospital for children in the old cathedral. But if you're looking for Pitt, I'm afraid you're wasting your time. He was at the helm of the Amy Bigalow when she blew up."

Giordino suddenly felt sick at heart. "There's no chance he might have escaped?"

"Of the men who fought off the Russians on the docks while the ships slipped out to sea, only two survived. Every one of the crew on board the ships and tugboat is missing. There's little hope any of them made it clear in time. And if the explosions didn't kill them, they surely must have drowned in the tidal wave."

Giordino clenched his fists in frustration. He turned and faced away so the others couldn't see the tears rimming his eyes.

Sandecker shook his head in sorrow. "We'd like to make a search of the hospitals."

"I hate to sound heartless, Admiral, but you'd do better to look in the morgues."

"We'll do both."

"I'll ask the Swiss to arrange a diplomatic pass so you can move freely about the city."

"Thank you."

Hagen looked at both men, his eyes filled with compassion. "If it's any consolation, your friend Pitt was responsible for saving a hundred thousand lives."

Sandecker stared back, a sudden proud look on his face. "And if you knew Dirk Pitt, Mr. Hagen, you'd have expected no less."

<<77>>

With not much optimism, Sandecker and Giordino began looking for Pitt in the hospitals. They stepped over countless wounded who lay in rows on the floors as nurses administered what aid they could and teams of exhausted doctors labored in the operating rooms. Numerous times they stopped and helped move stretcher cases before continuing the hunt.

They could not find Pitt among the living.

Next they searched through the makeshift morgues, some with trucks waiting in front containing bodies stacked four and five deep. A small army of embalmers worked feverishly to prevent the spread of disease. The dead lay everywhere like cordwood, their faces bare, staring vacantly at the ceilings. Many were too burned and mutilated to identify and were later buried in a mass ceremony in the Colon cemetery.

One harried morgue attendant showed them the remains of a man reported to have been washed in from the sea. It was not Pitt, and they failed to identify Manny because they did not know him.

The early-morning sun rose over the ravaged city. More injured were found and carried to the hospitals, more dead to the morgues. Troops with fixed bayonets walked the streets to prevent looting. Flames still raged in the dock area, but the firefighters were making headway. The vast cloud still bloomed black in the sky, and airline pilots reported that easterly winds had carried it as far as Mexico City.

Sickened by the sights they witnessed that night, Sandecker and Giordino were glad to see daylight again. They drove to within three blocks of Cathedral Plaza and were stopped by wreckage blocking the streets. They walked the rest of the way to the temporary children's hospital to find Jessie.

She was soothing a small girl who was whimpering as a doctor encased a slim brown leg in a cast. Jessie looked up at the admiral and Giordino as they approached. Unconsciously her eyes wandered over their faces, but her weary mind did not recognize them.

"Jessie," said Sandecker softly. "It's Jim Sandecker and Al Giordino."

She looked at them for a few seconds and then it began to register. "Admiral. Al. Oh, thank God you've come." She whispered something in the girl's ear, and then stood and embraced them both, crying uncontrollably.

The doctor nodded at Sandecker. "She's been working like a demon for twenty hours straight. Why don't you see to it she takes a breather."

Each man took an arm and eased her outside. They gently lowered her to a sitting position on the cathedral steps.

Giordino sat down in front of Jessie and looked at her. She was still dressed in combat fatigues. The camouflage pattern was now blotched with bloodstains. Her hair was damp with perspiration and tangled, her eyes red from the pervasive smoke.

"I'm so glad you found me," she said finally. "Did you just arrive?"

"Last night," replied Giordino. "We've been looking for Dirk."

She gazed blankly at the great smoke cloud. "He's gone," she said as if in a trance.

"The bad penny always turns up," Giordino muttered absently.

"They're all gone-- my husband, Dirk, so many others." Her voice died.

"Is there coffee anywhere?" said Sandecker, changing the tack of the conversation. "I think we could all use a cup."

Jessie nodded weakly toward the entrance to the cathedral. "A poor woman whose children are badly injured has been making some for the volunteers."

"I'll get it," said Giordino. He rose and disappeared inside.

Jessie and the admiral sat there for several moments, listening to the sirens and watching the flames leap in the distance.

"When we return to Washington," Sandecker said at last, "if I can help in any way. . ."

"You're most kind, Admiral, but I can manage." She hesitated. "There is one thing. Do you think that Raymond's body might be found and shipped home for burial?"

"I'm sure after all you've done, Castro will cut through any red tape."

"Strange how we became drawn into all this because of the treasure."

"The La Dorada?"

Jessie's eyes stared at a group of figures walking toward them in the distance, but she gave no sign of seeing them. "Men have been beguiled by her for nearly five hundred years, and most have died because of their lust to own her. Stupid. . . stupid to waste lives over a statue."

"She is still considered the greatest treasure of them all."

Jessie closed her eyes tiredly. "Thank heavens it's hidden. Who knows how many men would kill for it."

"Dirk would never climb over someone's bones for money," Sandecker said. "I know him too well. He was in it for the adventure and the challenge of solving a mystery, not for profit."

Jessie did not reply. She opened her eyes and finally took notice of the approaching party. She could not see them clearly. One of them seemed seven feet tall through the yellow haze from the smoke. The others were quite small. They were singing, but she couldn't make out the tune.

Giordino returned with a small board holding three cups. He stopped and stared for a long moment at the group threading their way through the rubble in the plaza.

The figure in the middle wasn't seven feet tall, but a man with a small boy perched on his shoulders. The boy looked frightened and tightly laced his hands around the man's forehead, obscuring the upper part of his face. A young girl was cradled in one muscled arm, while the opposite hand was clutched by a girl no more than five. A string of ten or eleven other children followed close behind. They sounded as if they were singing in halting English. Three dogs trotted alongside and yapped in accompaniment.

Sandecker looked at Giordino curiously. The barrel-chested Italian blinked away the eye-watering smoke and gazed with an intense wondering expression at the strange and pathetic sight.

The man looked like an apparition, exhausted, desperately so. His clothes were in tatters and he walked with a limp. The eyes were sunken and the gaunt face was streaked with dried blood. Yet his jaw was determined, and he led the children in song with a booming voice.

"I must go back to work," said Jessie, struggling to her feet. "Those children will need care."

They were close enough now so that Giordino could make out the song they were singing.

I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy. A Yankee Doodle do or die. . .

Giordino's jaw dropped and his eyes widened in disbelief. He pointed in uncomprehending awe. Then he threw the coffee cups over his shoulder and bounded down the steps of the cathedral like a madman.

"It's him!" he shouted.

A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam. Born on the fourth of July.

"What was that?" Sandecker shouted after him. "What did you say?"

Jessie jumped to her feet, suddenly oblivious to the wrenching fatigue, and ran after Giordino. "He's come back!" she cried.

Then Sandecker took off.

The children stopped in midchorus and huddled around the man, frightened at the sudden appearance of three people shouting and running toward them. They clung to him as life itself. The dogs closed ranks around his legs and began barking louder than ever.

Giordino halted and stood there only two feet away, not sure of what to say that was meaningful. He smiled and smiled in immense delight and relief. At last he found his tongue.

"Welcome back, Lazarus."

Pitt grinned impishly. "Hello, pal. You wouldn't happen to have a dry martini in your pocket?"

<<78>>

Six hours later Pitt was sleeping like a stone in an empty alcove of the cathedral. He had refused to go down until the children were cared for and the dogs fed. Then he insisted that Jessie get some rest too.

They lay a few feet apart on double blankets that served as pads against the hard tile floor. Faithful Giordino sat in a wicker chair at the entrance of the alcove, guarding against invasion of their sleep, shushing an occasional band of children who played too close and too loud.

He stiffened at the sight of Sandecker approaching with a group of uniformed Cubans at his heels. Ira Hagen was among them, looking older and far more tired than when Giordino had last seen him, hardly twenty hours previously. The man next to Hagen and directly behind the admiral, Giordino recognized immediately. He rose to his feet as Sandecker nodded toward the sleeping figures.

"Wake them up," he said quietly.

Jessie struggled up from the depths and moaned. Giordino had to shake her by the shoulder several times to keep her from slipping back again. Still bone-tired and drugged from sleep, she sat up and shook her head to clear the blurriness.

Pitt came awake almost instantly, his mind triggered like an alarm clock. He twisted around and elbowed himself to a sitting position, eyes alert and sweeping the men standing around him in a half circle.

"Dirk," said Sandecker. "This is President Fidel Castro. He was making an inspection tour of the hospitals and was told you and Jessie were here. He'd like to talk to you."

Before Pitt could make a remark, Castro stepped forward, took his hand, and pulled him to his feet with surprising strength. The magnetic brown eyes met with piercing opaline green. Castro wore neat, starched olive fatigues with a commander in chief's shoulder insignia, in contrast to Pitt, who still had on the same ragged and dirty clothes as when he arrived at the cathedral.

"So this is the man who made idiots out of my security police and saved the city," said Castro in Spanish.

Jessie translated, and Pitt made a negative gesture. "I was only one of the luckier men who survived. At least two dozen others died trying to prevent the tragedy."

"If the ships had exploded while still tied to the docks, most of Havana would now be a leveled wasteland. A tomb for myself as well as half a million people. Cuba is grateful and wishes to make you a Hero of the Revolution."

"There goes my standing in the neighborhood," muttered Pitt.

Jessie threw him a distasteful look and didn't translate.

"What did he say?" asked Castro.

Jessie cleared her throat. "Ah. . . he said he is honored to accept."

Castro then asked Pitt to describe the seizing of the ships. "Tell me what you saw," he said politely. "Everything you know that happened. From the beginning."

"Starting with the time we left the Swiss Embassy?" Pitt asked, his eyes narrowed in furtive but shrewd reflection.

"If you wish," answered Castro, comprehending the look.

As Pitt narrated the desperate fight on the docks and the struggle to move the Amy Bigalow and the Ozero Zuysun from the harbor, Castro interrupted with a barrage of questions. The Cuban leader's curiosity was insatiable. The report took almost as long as the actual event.

Pitt related the facts as straight and unemotionally as he could, knowing he could never do justice to the incredible courage of men who selflessly gave their lives for people of another country. He told of Clark's magnificent holding action against overwhelming odds-- how Manny and Moe and their crews struggled in the dark bowels of the ships to get them under way, knowing they could be blown into atoms at any moment. He told how Jack and his crew stayed with the tugboat, towing the death ships out to sea until it was too late to escape. He wished they could all be there to tell their own stories, and he wondered what they might have said. He smiled to himself, knowing how Manny would have turned the air blue with pungent language.

At last Pitt told of being swept into the city by the tidal wave and blacking out, and how he regained consciousness hanging upside down from an overhead jewelry-shop sign. He related how staggering through the debris he heard a little girl crying, and pulled her and a brother from under the wreckage of a collapsed apartment building. After that he seemed to attract lost children like a magnet. Rescue workers added to his collection during the night. When no more could be found alive, a policeman directed Pitt to the children's hospital and relief center, where he was discovered by his friends.

Suddenly Pitt's voice trailed off and he dropped his hands limply to his sides. "That's all there is to tell."

Castro looked at Pitt steadily, his face filled with emotion. He stepped forward and embraced him. "Thank you," he murmured in a broken voice. Then he kissed Jessie on both cheeks and shook Hagen's hand. "Cuba thanks you all. We will not forget."

Pitt looked at Castro slyly. "I wonder if I might ask a favor?"

"You have but to name it," Castro quickly answered.

Pitt hesitated, then he said, "There is this taxi driver named Herberto Figueroa. If I were to find him a restored 'fifty-seven Chevrolet in the States and have it shipped, do you suppose you could arrange for him to take delivery. Herberto and I would both be very grateful."

"But of course. I'll personally see to it he receives your gift."

"There is one more favor," said Pitt.

"Don't push your luck," whispered Sandecker.

"What is it?" Castro asked courteously.

"I wonder if I could borrow a boat with a crane?"

<<79>>

The bodies of Manny and three of his crew were identified. Clark was fished out of the channel by a fishing boat. Their remains were flown back to Washington for burial. Nothing of Jack, Moe, and the rest ever turned up.

The fire was finally under control four days after the death ships were blown out of existence. The final, stubborn blaze would not be extinguished until a week later. Another six weeks would pass before the last of the dead were found. Many were never found at all.

The Cubans were meticulous in their accounting. They eventually compiled a complete list of causalities. The known dead came to 732. The injured totaled 3,769. The missing were calculated at 197.

At the President's urging, Congress passed an emergency aid bill of $45 million to help the Cubans rebuild Havana. The President also, as a gesture of goodwill, lifted the thirty-five-year-old trade embargo. At last Americans could legally smoke good Havana cigars again.

After the Russians were expelled, their only representation in Cuba was a Special Interests Section in the Polish Embassy. The Cuban people shed no tears at their departure.

Castro still remained a Marxist revolutionary at heart, but he was mellowing. After agreeing in principle to the U.S.-Cuban friendship pact, he unhesitantly accepted an invitation to visit with the President at the White House and make an address before Congress, although he did grumble when asked to keep his speech to twenty minutes.

At dawn on the third day after the explosions an old peeling, weather-worn vessel dropped anchor almost in the exact center of the harbor. Fireboats and salvage craft swept past her as though she were a disabled car in the center of a highway. She was a squat workboat, broad and beamy, about sixty feet in length with a small derrick on the stern whose boom extended over the water. Her crew seemed oblivious to the frenzy of activity going on around them.

Most of the flames in the dock area had been extinguished, but firemen were still pouring thousands of gallons of water on the smoldering debris inside the heat-twisted framework of the warehouses. Several blackened oil storage tanks across the harbor sputtered with stubborn flame, and the acrid pall of smoke reeked of burned oil and rubber.

Pitt stood on the bleached deck of the workboat and squinted through the smoky yellow haze at the wreck of the oil tanker. All that remained of the Ozero Baykai was the scorched superstructure on the stern that rose grotesque and distorted above the oily water. He turned his attention to a small compass he held in one hand.

"Is this the spot?" asked Admiral. Sandecker.

"Cross bearings on the landmarks check out," Pitt answered.

Giordino stuck his head out the wheelhouse window. "The magnetometer is going crazy. We're right over a heavy mass of iron."

Jessie was sitting on a hatch. She wore gray shorts and a pale blue blouse and looked like her old luscious self.

She flashed a curious look at Pitt. "You still haven't told me why you think Raymond hid the La Dorada on the bottom of the harbor and how you know exactly where to look."

"I was stupid not catch on immediately," explained Pitt. "The words sound the same, and I misinterpreted them. I thought his last words were `Look on the m-a-i-n s-i-g-h-t.' What he was really trying to say was `Look on the M-a-i-n-a s-i-t-e."

Jessie looked confused. "Maine site?"

"Remember Pearl Harbor, the Alamo, and the Maine. On or about this spot in 1898 the battleship Maine blew up and launched the Spanish-American War."

An edge of excitement began to form inside her. "Raymond threw the statue on top of an old shipwreck?"

"Shipwreck site," Pitt corrected her. "The hulk of the Maine was raised and towed out to sea, where she was sunk with flag flying in 1912."

"But why would Raymond deliberately throw the treasure away?"

"It all goes back to when he and his marine salvage partner, Hans Kronberg, discovered the Cyclops and salvaged the La Dorada. It should have been a triumph for two friends who fought the odds together and stole the most sought-after treasure in history from a possessive sea. And it should have had a happy ending. But the tale turned sour. Raymond LeBaron was in love with Kronberg's wife."

Jessie's face tensed in understanding. "Hilda."

"Yes. Hilda. He had two motives for wanting to get rid of Hans. The treasure and a woman. Somehow he must have talked Hans into making another dive after the La Dorada was raised. Then he cut the lifeline, leaving his friend to die a horrible death. Can you imagine what it must have been like, strangling in agony deep inside a steel crypt like the Cyclops?"

Jessie averted her eyes. "I can't bring myself to believe you."

"You saw Kronberg's body with your own eyes. Hilda was the real key. She outlined most of the sordid story. I only had to fill in a few details."

"Raymond could never commit murder."

"He could and he did. With Hans out of the picture he went one step further. He dodged the Internal Revenue Service-- who can blame him when you remember the federal government collected over eighty percent of income above $150,000 in the late fifties and sidestepped a time-consuming lawsuit from Brazil, which would have rightly claimed the statue as a stolen national treasure. He kept quiet and set a course for Cuba. A shifty man, your lover.

"The problem he now faced was how to dispose of it. Who could afford to pay even a fraction of twenty to fifty million dollars for an art object? He was also afraid that once the word was out the current Cuban dictator, Fulgencio Batista, a racketeer of the first magnitude, would have it seized. And if Batista didn't grab it for himself, the army of Mafia hoods he invited into Cuba after the Second World War would. So Raymond decided to carve up the La Dorada and sell it bit by bit.

"Unfortunately for him, his timing was bad. He sailed his salvage boat into Havana on the same day that Castro and his rebels swarmed into town after toppling Batista's corrupt government. The revolutionary forces immediately closed down the harbors and airports to stop Batista's cronies from fleeing the country with uncountable wealth."

"LeBaron got nothing?" asked Sandecker. "He lost it all?"

"Not entirely. He realized he was trapped and it was only a question of time before the revolutionaries searched his salvage boat and found the La Dorada. His only option was to hack out whatever he could carry and catch the next plane back to the States. Under cover of night he must have slipped his salvage boat into the harbor, hoisted the statue overboard, and dumped it on top of the site where the battleship Maine had blown up seventy years before. Naturally he planned to come back and retrieve it after the chaos died down, but Castro didn't play according to LeBaron's rules. Cuba's honeymoon with the United States soon fell apart and he could never return and raise three tons of priceless treasure under the eyes of Castro's security."

"What piece of the statue did he remove?" Jessie asked.

"According to Hilda, he pried out the ruby heart. Then, after he smuggled it home, he discreetly had it cut, faceted, and sold through brokers. Now he had enough leverage to reach the pinnacle of high finance with Hilda at his side. Raymond LeBaron had arrived in fat city."

For a long moment they were quiet, each with his own thoughts, envisioning a desperate LeBaron throwing the golden woman over the side of his boat thirty years ago.

"The La Dorada," said Sandecker, breaking the silence. "Her weight would have pushed her deep beneath the soft silt of the harbor bottom."

"The admiral has a point," said Giordino. "LeBaron failed to consider that finding her again would be a major operation."

"I admit that bothered me too," said Pitt. "He must have known that after the Army Corps of Engineers stripped and removed the main hull section of the Maine hundreds of tons of wreckage were left embedded in the mud, making her almost impossible to find. The most sophisticated metal detector that money can buy won't pick out one particular object in a junkyard."

"So the statue will lie down there forever," said Sandecker. "Unless someday, someone comes along and dredges up half the harbor until he strikes it."

"Maybe not," Pitt said thoughtfully, his mind seeing something only he could see. "Raymond LeBaron was a canny character. He was also a professional salvage man. I believe he knew exactly what he was doing."

"What are you aiming at?" asked Sandecker.

"He put the statue over the side, all right. But I'm betting he very slowly lowered her feet first so she came down on the bottom standing up."

Giordino stared down at the deck. "Might be," he said slowly. "Might be. How tall is she?"

"About eight feet, including the base."

"Thirty years for three tons to settle in the mud. . ." mused Sandecker. "It's possible a couple of feet of her may still be protruding from the harbor floor."

Pitt smiled distantly. "We'll know as soon as Al and I dive down and run a search pattern."

As if on cue they all became quiet and gazed over the side into the water, oil-slicked and ash-coated, dark and secretive. Somewhere in the sinister green depths La Dorada beckoned.

<<80>>

Pitt stood in full dive gear and watched the bubbles rising from the deep and bursting on the surface. He glanced at his watch, marking the time. Giordino had been down nearly fifty minutes at a depth of forty feet. He went on watching the bubbles and saw them gradually travel in a circle. He knew that Giordino had enough air left for one more 360-degree sweep around the descent line tied to a buoy about thirty yards from the boat.

The small crew of Cubans Sandecker had recruited were very quiet. Pitt looked along the deck and saw them lined up at the rail beside the admiral, staring as though hypnotized at the glitter from the bubbles.

Pitt turned to Jessie, who was standing beside him. She hadn't said a word or moved in the last five minutes, her face tense with deep concentration, her eyes shining with excitement. She was swept up in the anticipation of seeing a legend. Then suddenly she called out. "Look!

A dark form rose from the depths amid a cloud of bubbles, and Giordino's head broke the water near the buoy. He rolled over on his back and paddled easily with his fins until he reached the ladder. He handed up his weight belt and twin air cylinder before climbing to the deck. He pulled off his face mask and spit over the side.

"How did it go?" asked Pitt.

"Okay," Giordino answered. "Here's the situation. I made eight sweeps around the base point where the buoy's descent line is anchored. Visibility is less than three feet. We may have a little luck. The bottom is a mixture of sand and mud, so it's not real soft. The statue may not have sunk over her head."

"Current?"

"About a knot. You can live with it."

"Any obstructions?"

"A few bits and pieces of rusted wreckage protrude from the bottom, so be careful not to snag your distance line."

Sandecker came up behind Pitt and made a final check of his gear. Pitt stepped through an opening in the rail and set the air regulator's mouthpiece between his teeth.

Jessie gave his arm a gentle squeeze through the protective dry suit. "Luck," she said.

He winked at her through the face mask and then took a long step forward. The bright sunlight was diffused by a sudden burst of bubbles as he was engulfed by the green void. He swam out to the buoy and started down the descent line. The yellow nylon braid faded and vanished a few feet below in the opaque murk.

Pitt followed the line cautiously, taking his time. He paused once to clear his ears. Less than a minute later the bottom abruptly seemed to lift up toward him and meet his outstretched hand. He again paused to adjust his buoyancy compensator vest and check his watch for the time, compass for direction, and air pressure gauge. Then he took the distance line Giordino had attached to the descent line by a clip and moved out along the radius.

After swimming about twenty-four feet his hand came in contact with a knot in the line Giordino had tied to measure the outer perimeter of his last sweep. After a short distance, Pitt spied an orange stake standing in the muck that marked the starting point for his circular search pattern. Then he moved out another six-foot increment, held the line taut, and began his sweep, his eyes taking in the three-foot visibility on both sides.

The water was desolate and lifeless and smelled of chemicals. He passed over colonies of dead sea life, crushed by the concussion from the bursting oil tanker, their bodies rolling across the bottom with the tide like leaves under a gentle breeze. He had sweated inside his dry suit under the sun on the boat, and he was sweating inside it now forty feet below the surface. He could hear the sounds of the rescue boats racing back and forth across the harbor, the roar of their exhaust and cavitation of their propellers magnified by the density of the water.

Yard by yard he scanned the barren harbor until he completed a full circle. He moved the marker out and started another sweep in the opposite direction.

Divers often experience great loneliness when swimming over an underwater desert with nothing to see beyond a hand's reach. The real world with people, less than fifty feet away on the surface, ceases to exist. They experience a careless abandon and an indifference toward the unknown. Their perception becomes distorted and they began to fantasize.

Pitt felt none of those things, except maybe a touch of a fantasy. He was drunk with the hunt and so absorbed in seeing the treasured statue in his mind, gleaming gold and brilliant green, that he almost missed a vague form looming up through the mist on his right.

Rapidly kicking his fins, he swam toward it. The object was round and indistinct and partly buried. The two feet that protruded from the silt were coated with slime and strands of sea growth that waved with the current.

A hundred times Pitt had wondered how he'd feel, how he would react when he confronted the golden woman. What he really felt was fear, fear that it was only a false alarm and the search might never end.

Slowly, apprehensively, he wiped away the slimy growth with his gloved hands. Tiny particles of vegetation and silt billowed in a brown swirl, obscuring the thing. He waited under an eerie silence until the cloud melted into the watery gloom.

He moved closer, floating just above the bottom, until his face was only a few inches away from the mysterious object. He stared through his face mask, his mouth suddenly going dry, his heart pounding like a calypso drum.

With a look of timeless melancholy, a pair of emerald-green eyes stared back at him.

Pitt had found La Dorada.

January 4, 1990

Washington, D.C.

<<81>>

The President's announcement of the Jersey Colony and the exploits of Eli Steinmetz and his moon team electrified the nation and caused a worldwide sensation.

Every evening for a week television viewers were treated to spectacular scenes of the lunar landscape never viewed during the brief Apollo landings. The struggle of the men to survive while constructing a livable habitat was also shown in dramatic detail.

Steinmetz and the others became the heroes of the hour. They were feted across the country, interviewed on countless television talk shows, and given the traditional ticker tape parade in New York.

The cheers for the moon colonists' triumph had the ring of old-fashioned patriotism, but the impact went deeper, broader. Now there was something tangible beyond the short, showy flights above the earth's atmosphere, a permanence in space, solid proof that man could live a life far from his home planet.

The President looked buoyant at a private dinner party he hosted in honor of the "inner core" and the colonists. His mood was far different from the first time he had confronted the men who conceived and launched the moon base. He held out a glass of champagne to Hudson, who was staring absently through the roomful of people as though it were silent and empty.

"Your mind lost in space, Leo?"

Hudson's eyes fixed on the President for a moment, and then he nodded. "My apologies. A nasty habit of mine, tuning out at parties."

"I'll bet you're hatching plans for a new settlement on the moon."

Hudson smiled wryly. "Actually, I was thinking of Mars."

"So the Jersey Colony is not the end."

"There will never be an end, only the beginning of another beginning."

"Congress will ride with the mood of the country and vote funding to expand the colony. But an outpost on Mars-- you're talking heavy money."

"If we don't do it now, the next generation will."

"Got a name for the project?"

Hudson shook his head. "Haven't given it much thought."

"I've often wondered," the President said, "where you came up with `Jersey Colony.' "

"You didn't guess?"

"There's the state of New Jersey, the isle of Jersey off the French coast, Jersey sweaters. . ."

"It's also a breed of cow."

"A what?"

"The nursery rhyme, `Hey diddle diddle,/The cat and the fiddle,/ The cow jumped over the moon.

The President looked blank for a moment, and then he broke out laughing. When he recovered he said, "My God, there's irony for you. Man's greatest achievement was named after a Mother Goose cow."

"She's truly exquisite," said Jessie.

"Yes, gorgeous," agreed Pitt. "You never tire of looking at her."

They gazed in rapt fascination at the La Dorada, which now stood in the East Building central court of Washington's National Gallery. The burnished golden body and the polished emerald head gleamed under the sun's rays that shone through the great skylight. The dramatic effect was awesome. Her unknown Indian sculptor had portrayed her with compelling beauty and grace. She stood in a relaxed posture, one leg in front of the other, arms slightly bent at the elbows with hands extended outward from the sides.

Her rose quartz pedestal sat atop a five-foot-high solid block of Brazilian rosewood. The missing heart had been replaced by one crafted out of crimson glass that almost matched the splendor of the original ruby.

Throngs of people stared in wonder at the dazzling sight. A line stretched outside the gallery by the mall for nearly a quarter of a mile. La Dorada even surpassed the attendance record for the King Tut artifacts.

Every dignitary in the capital appeared to pay homage. The President and his wife escorted Hilda Kronberg-LeBaron to the preopening viewing. She sat in her wheelchair, a content old lady with sparkling eyes who smiled and smiled as the President honored the two men in her past with a short dedication speech. When he lifted her out of her chair so she could touch the statue, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

"Strange," Jessie murmured, "when you think about how it all began with the shipwreck of the Cyclops and ended on the shipwreck of the Maine."

"Only for us," Pitt said distantly. "For her it began four hundred years ago in a Brazilian jungle."

"Hard to imagine such a thing of beauty has caused so many deaths."

He wasn't listening and didn't reply.

She flashed a curious look at him. He was staring intently at the statue, his mind lost in another time, another place.

"Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure," she quoted.

He slowly turned and looked at her, his eyes refocusing on the present. The spell was broken. "I'm sorry," he said.

Jessie couldn't help smiling. "When are you going to give it a try?"

"Try?"

"Rush off to search for La Dorada's lost city?"

"No need to rush," Pitt replied, suddenly laughing. "It's not going anywhere."