Cyclops dp-8

by Clive Cussler

  "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.
<
br />   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.