Cyclops dp-8

by Clive Cussler

  "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 vo
latile 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 darkne
ss 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.