"Have your people discovered the status of the moon colonists yet?"
The general nodded and picked up a telephone. He spoke a few words into the receiver while looking down on the busy equipment floor. A staff member at a console looked up and waved a hand. Then the two screens went dark for a brief instant and returned to life with a new data display.
"A complete rundown," said Velikov, pointing to the right screen. "We can monitor almost everything that is transmitted between their astronauts and Houston Control. As you can see, the moon colonists'
lunar transporter docked three hours ago at the space station."
Maisky was fascinated as his eyes traveled over the display information. He could not bring himself to accept the fact that American intelligence undoubtedly knew as much if not more about Soviet space efforts.
"Do they transmit in code?" he asked.
"Occasionally, if it is a military mission, but NASA usually talks to their astronauts quite openly."
"As you can see on the data display, the Houston Ground Control Center has ordered the Gettysburg to postpone its scheduled departure for tomorrow morning."
"I don't like the look of that."
"I see nothing suspicious. The President probably wants time to mount a massive propaganda campaign to announce another American space triumph."
"Or they may be wise to our intentions." Maisky then became quiet, lost in thought. His eyes had a worried look, and he clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
Velikov looked at him with amusement. "If this in any way upsets your plans, I could break in on Houston Control's frequency and issue a false command."
"You can do that?"
"I can."
"Simulate an order for the shuttle to depart the space station for reentry?"
"Yes."
"And deceive the commanders of the station and the shuttle into believing they're hearing a familiar voice?"
"They'll never detect the difference. Our computerized synthesizers have more than enough taped transmissions to perfectly imitate voice, accent, and verbal mannerisms of at least twenty different officials of NASA."
"What's to stop Houston Control from countermanding the order?"
"I can scramble their transmissions until it's too late for them to stop the shuttle. Then, if the instructions you gave us from our space scientists are correct, we'll override the craft's flight systems and bring her down at Santa Clara."
Maisky looked at Velikov long and steadily. Then he said, "Do it."
The President was dead asleep when the phone beside his bed softly chimed. He rolled over and read the luminous dial on his wristwatch. Ten minutes after one in the morning. Then he answered. "Go ahead."
The voice that replied was Dan Fawcett's. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. President, but something has come up that I thought you'd want to know about."
"I'm listening. What is it?"
"I've just received a call from Irwin Mitchell at NASA. He said the Gettysburg has cast off from Columbus and is orbiting in preparation for reentry."
The President sat bolt upright, waking his wife beside him. "Who gave the order?" he demanded.
"Mitchell can't say. All communication between Houston and the space station is down because of some strange interference."
"Then how has he confirmed the shuttle's departure?"
"General Fisher has been tracking and monitoring Columbus at the Space Operations Center in Colorado Springs since Steinmetz left Jersey Colony. The sensitive cameras at the center caught the movement when Gettysburg left the station's dock. He called me as soon as he was informed."
The President pounded the mattress in dismay. "Damn!"
"I took the liberty of alerting Jess Simmons. He's already scrambled two Air Force tactical squadrons into the air to fly escort and protect the shuttle as soon as she drops through the atmosphere."
"How much time do we have before the Gettysburg lands?"
"From initial descent preparation to touchdown, about two hours."
"The Russians are behind this."
"The general consensus," acknowledged Fawcett. "We can't be sure yet, but all indications point to Cuba as the source of Houston's radio interference problem."
"When does Brogan's special team hit Cayo Santa Maria?"
"0200 hours."
"Who's leading them in?"
"One moment while I look up the name in yesterday's CIA report." Fawcett left the line for no more than thirty seconds before he returned. "The mission is being directed by Marine Colonel Ramon Kleist."
"I know the name. Kleist was a Congressional Medal of Honor winner."
"Here's something else."
"What?"
"Kleist's men are being guided by Dirk Pitt."
The President sighed almost sadly. "He's already given too much. Is his presence absolutely required?"
"It was Pitt or nobody," said Fawcett.
"Can they destroy the jamming center in time?"
"In all honesty, I'd have to say it's a toss-up."
"Tell Jess Simmons to stand by in the War Room," said the President solemnly. "If anything goes wrong, I fear the only alternative left for us to keep the Gettysburg and her valuable cargo out of Soviet hands is to shoot her down. Do you read me, Dan?"
"Yes, sir," Fawcett said, his face suddenly white. "I'll give him your message."
>
"All stop." Ordered Kleist. He rechecked the readings on the Navstar satellite instrument and tapped a pair of dividers on a flattened chart. "We're seven miles due east of Cayo Santa Maria. This is close as we dare move the SPUT."
Major Quintana, wearing mottled gray and black battle dress, stared at the yellow mark on the chart.
"Should take us about forty minutes to swing around to the south and land from the Cuban side."
"The wind is calm and the sea is only running at two feet. Another blessing is no moon. It's pitch black topside."
"Good as well as bad news," said Quintana heavily. "Makes us tough to spot, but we won't be able to see any wandering guards either. Our main problem, as I see it, is not having an exact fix on the compound. We could land miles from it."
Kleist turned and stared at a tall, commanding figure leaning against a bulkhead. He was dressed in the same night battle fatigues as Quintana. The piercing green eyes met Kleist's stare.
"You still can't pinpoint the location?"
Pitt straightened, smiled his congenial indifferent smile, and said simply, "No."
"You're not very encouraging," Quintana said nastily.
"Maybe, but at least I'm honest."
Kleist spoke with forbearance. "We regret, Mr. Pitt, that visual conditions were not ideal during your escape. But we'd be grateful if you were a bit more specific."
Pitt's smile faded. "Look, I landed in the middle of a hurricane and left in the middle of the night. Both events took place on the opposite side of the island from where we're supposed to land. I didn't measure distances, nor did I sprinkle breadcrumbs along my trail. The land was flat, no hills or streams for landmarks. Just palm trees, brush, and sand. The antenna was a half mile west of the village. The compound, a good mile beyond. Once we strike the road the compound will be to the left. That's the best I can offer."
Quintana gave a resigned nod. "Under the circumstances we can't ask for more than that."
A crewman dressed sloppily in cutaway jeans and T-shirt stepped through the hatchway into the control room. He silently handed a decoded communication to Kleist and left.
"Better not be a last-minute cancellation," Pitt said sharply.
"Far from it," Kleist muttered. "More like a new twist."
He studied the message a second time, a frown crossing his normally impassive face. He handed it to Quintana, who stared at the wording and then tightened his lips in annoyance before passing the paper to Pitt. It read:
SPACE SHUTTLE GETTYSBURG HAS DEPARTED STATION AND ORBITING IN
PREPARATION FOR REENTRY ALL CONTACT LOST
. YOUR TARGET'S ELECTRONICS
HAVE PENETRATED GUIDANCE COMPUTERS AND TAKEN COMMAND. EXPECT
COURSE DEVIATION TO SET CRAFT DOWN IN CUBA AT 0340. SPEED CRITICAL. DIRE
CRISIS IF COMPOUND NOT DESTROYED IN TIME. LUCK.
"Nice of them to warn us at the last minute," said Pitt grimly. "0340 is less than two hours away."
Quintana looked at Kleist severely. "Can the Soviets actually do this thing and get away with it?"
Kleist wasn't listening. His gaze returned to the chart and he made a little pencil line that marked a course to the southern shore of Cayo Santa Maria. "Where approximately do you put the antenna?"
Pitt took the pencil and made a tiny dot on the sperm-shaped island at the base of the tail. "A wild guess at best."
"All right. We'll equip you with a small waterproof radio sender and receiver. I'll convert the position on the chart and program it into the Navstar computer, then maintain a fix on your signal and guide you in."
"You won't be the only one who can put a fix on us."
"A small gamble, but one that will save valuable time. You should be able to blow the antenna and cut off their radio command of the Gettysburg much faster than fighting your way inside the compound and destroying its brain center."
"Makes sense."
"Since you agree," said Kleist quietly, "I suggest you gentlemen shove off."
The special-purpose underwater transporter looked nothing like any submarine Pitt had ever seen. The craft was slightly over three hundred feet long and shaped like a chisel turned sideways. The horizontal wedgelike bow tapered quickly to an almost square hull that ended abruptly at a boxed-off stern. Her upper deck was completely smooth without any projections.
No man stood at her helm. She was totally automated with nuclear power that turned twin propellers or, when required, soundless pumps that took in water from the forward momentum and thrust it silently through vents along the sides.
The SPUT was specifically designed for the CIA to support covert arms smuggling, undercover agent infiltration, and hit-and-run raids. She could travel as deep as eight hundred feet at fifty knots, but also had the capability of running onto a beach, spreading her bows, and disgorging a two-hundred-man landing force with several vehicles.
The ship broke the surface, her flat deck only two feet above the black water. Quintana's team of Cuban exiles scrambled from the hatches and quickly began lifting the water Dashers that were passed up from below.
Pitt had ridden a Dasher at a resort in Mexico. A water-propulsion vehicle, it was manufactured in France for seaside recreation. Called the sports car of the sea, the sleek little machine had the look of two torpedoes attached side by side. The operator lay back with each leg stretched out in one of the twin hulls and controlled the movement with an automobile-type steering wheel. Power came from a high-performance battery that could propel the craft by means of water jets over smooth seas at twenty knots for three hours before recharging.
After Pitt proposed using them to cruise under the Cuban radar network, Kleist hurriedly negotiated a special purchase from the factory and arranged to have them flown by Air Force transport to San Salvador within fifteen hours.
The early morning air was warm and a light rain squall passed over. As each man slipped into his Dasher, he was shoved across the wet deck, over the low freeboard, and into the sea. Shaded blue lights had been mounted in the sterns so each man could follow the one in front.
Pitt took a few moments and stared into the darkness toward Cayo Santa Maria, desperately hoping he wasn't too late to save his friends. An early gull wheeled crying over his head, invisible in the murky sky.
Quintana gripped him by the arm. "You're next." He paused and stared through the gloom. "What in hell is that?"
Pitt held up a wooden shaft in one hand. "A baseball bat."
"What do you need that for? You were issued an AK-74."
"It's a gift for a friend."
Quintana shook his head in bewilderment. "Let's get going. You'll lead off. I'll bring up the rear and catch stragglers."
Pitt nodded and eased into his Dasher and adjusted a tiny receiver in one ear. Just before the SPUT
crew pushed him over the side Colonel Kleist bent down and shook Pitt's hand. "Get them to the target,"
he said tensely.
Pitt gave him a sober grin. "I aim to."
Then his Dasher was in the water. He adjusted the power lever to half speed and eased clear of the ship. There was no use in turning to check if the others were following. He couldn't have seen them anyway. The only light came from the stars, and they were too dim to sparkle the water.
He increased speed and studied the luminescent dial of the compass strapped to one wrist. He maintained a heading of due east until Kleist's voice came through his earpiece "Bear 270 degrees."
Pitt made the correction and kept on the course for ten miles, keeping a few knots below the Dasher's full speed to allow the men behind to close up if they strayed out of line. He was certain the sensitive underwater sensors would pick up the raiding party's approach, but he counted on the Russians to dismiss the readings on their recording instruments as a school of fish.
A long way off to the south toward Cuba, a good four miles perhaps, a searchlight from a patrol boat blazed on and swept the water like a scythe, cutting the night, searching for intruding vessels. The faroff glow dimly lit them up, but they were two small and low in the water to be seen at that distance.
Pitt received a new bearing from Kleist, and altered course to the north. The night was as dark as a crypt, and he could only hope the other thirty men were hugging his stern. The Dasher's twin bows dipped into a series of rising waves, tossing spray into his face, and he tasted the strong saltiness of the sea.
The slight turbulence from the Dasher's passage through the water caused flecks of sparkling phosphorus that briefly flashed like an armada of fireflies before dying in his wake. Pitt was finally beginning to relax a bit when Kleist's voice came through his ear again "I put you about two hundred yards from shore."
Pitt slowed his little boat and eased ahead cautiously. Then he stopped, drifting with the current. He waited, eyes strained against the dark, tense and listening. Five minutes went by, and Cayo Santa Maria's outline vaguely loomed ahead, black and ominous. The surf was nearly nonexistent on the inside waters of the island, and its soft lapping on the beach was the only sound he could hear.
He gently pressed the power pedal and went forward dead slow, ready to turn hard and speed out to sea if they were detected. Seconds later, the Dasher bumped noiselessly into the sand. Immediately Pitt stepped out and dragged the light craft across the beach and into the underbrush beneath a line of palm trees. Then he waited until Quintana and his men rose up like wraiths and silently grouped around him in a tight knot, indistinct blurs in the gloom, thankful to a man their feet were on solid land again.
As insurance against Murphy's law, Quintana took precious time to account for every man and briefly check his equipment. Finally satisfied, he turned to Pitt. "After you, amigo."
Pitt took a reading from the compass, and then led the way inland on a slight angle to his left. He held the baseball bat out in front of him like a blind man with a cane. Less than two hundred feet from the staging area, the end of the bat met with the electrified fence. He stopped abruptly and the man in his rear bumped into him.
"Easy!" Pitt hissed. "Pass it on, we're at the fence."
Two men with shovels came forward and attacked the soft sand. In no time they had excavated a hole that was large enough to push a small burro through.
Pitt crawled under first. For a moment he was uncertain which way he should go. He hesitated, sniffing at the wind. Then, suddenly, he knew exactly where he was.
"We screwed up," he murmured to Quintana. "The compound is only a few hundred yards to our left.
The antenna is a good mile in the opposite direction."
"How can you tell?"
"Use yo
ur nose. You can smell exhaust fumes from the diesel engines that run the generators."
Quintana inhaled deeply. "You're right. A breeze is carrying it from the northwest."
"So much for a quick solution. It'll take your men a good half hour to reach the antenna and set the charges."
"Then we'll go for the compound."
"Safer to play both ends against the middle. Send your strongest runners to blow the antenna and the rest of us will try for the electronics center."
Quintana took less than a second to make up his mind. He went through the ranks and quickly selected five men. He returned with a small, indistinct figure whose head hardly reached Pitt's shoulders.
"This is Sergeant Lopez. He'll need directions to the antenna."
Pitt stripped the compass off his wrist and handed it to the sergeant. Lopez didn't speak English and Quintana had to translate. The little sergeant was a quick study. He repeated Pitt's instructions flawlessly in Spanish. Then Lopez flashed a smile, gave a curt order to his men, and vanished into the night.
Pitt and the rest of Quintana's force took off at a run. The weather began to deteriorate. Clouds blanketed the stars, and the raindrops that splattered against the palm fronds made a strange drumming sound. They wound through trees gracefully curved from the fury of hurricane winds. Every few yards someone stumbled and fell but was helped up by others. Soon their breathing came more heavily and the sweat flowed down their bodies and soaked their battle fatigues. Pitt set a fast pace, driven on by desperate anticipation of finding Jessie, Giordino, and Gunn still alive. His mind remained remote from the discomfort and growing exhaustion by envisioning the agonies Foss Gly must have inflicted on them. His ugly thoughts were interrupted when he stepped out of the underbrush onto the road.
He turned left toward the compound, making no attempt at stealth or concealment, using the flat surface to make time. The feel of the land felt more familiar to Pitt now. He slowed to a walk and whispered for Quintana. When he felt a hand on one shoulder, he gestured at a dim light barely visible through the trees. "The guardhouse at the gate."