Cyclops dp-8

by Clive Cussler

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

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

  "Our people in Havana and Santiago are alerted?"

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

  "And the next leader?"

  "Alicia Cordero."

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

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

  "Who work for us."

  "Who belong to us," Polevoi corrected.

  "So we are committed."

  "Yes, Comrade President."

  "And then?" Antonov prompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "That goes without saying."

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

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

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

  "Where are the moon colonists now?"

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

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

  "Only silence so far."

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

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

  "Will you give it to him?"

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

  Brogan looked appalled, and so did Fawcett.

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

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

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

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

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

  "You're not eating, Martin?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Who gave the warning?" interrupted Fawcett.

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

  "My God, the man is everywhere," the President excla
imed.

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

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

  "Yes, sir, it was confirmed."

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

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

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

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

  "Okay, Martin, let's have it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "He's on another line."

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

  "I'll tell him."

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

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

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

  "Something of value?"

  "Let's say it's a blockbuster."

  "Can you give me a hint?"

  "Concerns Fidel Castro."

  "What no good is he up to now?"

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

  <<62>>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "What time is it?"

  "Twenty minutes to one."

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

  "Stay where you are."

  "Why?"

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

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

  "I want you," she said.

  "Yes."

  "Now."

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

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

  "Like why did you hijack me to Cuba?"

  "You have a strange sense of timing."

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

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Everything."

  "And if I don't tell you?"

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

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

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

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

  Jessie took a deep breath and continued.

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

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

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

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

  Pitt listened to the whole story without comment.

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

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

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

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

  He embraced her for several moments silently.

  "Well?"

  "Well what?"

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

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

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

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