Cyclops dp-8

by Clive Cussler

  "How did it go?" Kleist asked anxiously.

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

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

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

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

  "Presumed dead and buried in the rubble."

  "Any casualties?"

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

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

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

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

  "A slight wound, nothing serious."

  "And Mrs. LeBaron?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Raise the antenna," ordered Kleist.

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

  "Raise it!" Kleist demanded sharply.

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

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

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

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

  "What about computer enhancement?"

  "We can try"

  "Go for it."

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

  "Increase the range to five."

  "Still nothing."

  "Go to ten."

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

  "They must be lost," muttered Kleist.

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

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

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

  <5>THE AMY BIGALOW

  November 6, 1989

  North Coast of Cuba

  <<60>>

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

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

  "How's your backstroke?" he asked.

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

  "What state?"

  "Wyoming."

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

  "Funny man."

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

  "It'll be light soon," she said.

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

  "What about sharks?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "You can stand," he said softly.

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

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

  "Please be careful."

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

  "Are you ever serious?"

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

  She hesitated. "I think I lost it."

  "You think?"

  "When we went in the water--"

  "You dropped it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was not Pitt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Is he dead?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But Jessie didn't answer.

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

  <<61>>

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

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

  "Were secret codes and documents missing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "We lost the shuttle too?"

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

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

  "They were on board, yes."

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

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

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

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