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."
>
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 darkness 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.
He picked up the ship's phone and rang the engine room. A full minute went by before Manny answered.
"What in the hell do you want?"
"Just checking in," said Pitt. "Ready when you are."
"You got a long wait, mister."
Before Pitt could reply, Clark stepped into the wheelhouse. "You talking to Manny?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Get him up here, now."
Pitt passed on Clark's brusque command, and received a barrage of four-letter words before ringing off.
Less than a minute later, Manny burst through the door reeking of sweat and oil. "Make it quick," he snapped to Clark. "I got a problem."
"Moe has it even worse."
"I already know. The engines have been shut down."
"Are yours in running shape?"
"Why wouldn't they be?"
"The Soviet crew took sledgehammers to every valve on the Ozero Zaysan," said Clark heavily. "Moe says it would take two weeks to make repairs."
"Jack will have to tow him out to sea with the tug," Pitt said flatly.
Manny spat through the wheelhouse door. "He'll never make it back in time to move the oil tanker.
The Russians ain't blind. They'll catch on to the game soon as the sun comes up."
Clark nodded his head in slow understanding. "I fear he's right."
"Where do you stand?" Pitt asked Manny.
"If this tub had diesels, I could start her up in two hours. But she's got steam turbines."
"How much time do you need?"
Manny looked down at the deck, his mind running over the lengthy and complicated procedures.
"We're starting with a dead plant. First thing we did was get the emergency diesel generator going and light off the burners in the furnace to heat the fuel oil. The lines have to be drained of condensation, the boilers fired up, and the auxiliaries put on line. Then wait for the steam pressure to rise enough to operate the turbines. We're looking at four hours-- providin' everything goes right."
"Four hours?" Clark felt dazed.
"Then the Any Bigalow can't clear the harbor before daylight," said Pitt.
"That wraps it." There was a tired
certainty in Clark's voice.
"No, that doesn't wrap it," said Pitt firmly. "If we get even one ship past the harbor entrance we cut the death toll by a third."
"And we all die," added Clark. "There'll be no escape. Two hours ago I'd have given us a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. Not now, not when your old friend Velikov spots his monstrous plan steaming over the horizon. And lest we forget the Soviet colonel sitting on the bottom of the bay, he'll be missed before long and a regiment will come looking for him."
"And there's that captain of the security guards," said Manny. "He'll wise up damned quick when he catches hell for leaving his duty area without proper orders."
The thump of heavy diesel engines slowly amplified outside and a ship's bell gave off three muted rings.
Pitt peered through the bridge windows. "Jack's coming alongside with the tug."
He turned and faced the lights of the city. They reminded him of a vast jewelry box. He began to think of the multitude of children who went to bed looking forward to the holiday celebrations. He wondered how many of them would never wake up.
"There's still hope," he said at last. Quickly he outlined what he thought would be the best solution for reducing the devastation and saving most of Havana. When he finished, he looked from Manny to Clark.
"Well, is it workable?"
"Workable?" Clark was numb. "Myself and three others holding off half the Cuban Army for three hours? It's downright homicidal."
"Manny?"
Manny stared at Pitt, trying to make something of the craggy face that was barely visible from the lights on the wharf. Why would an American throw away his life for people who would shoot him on sight? He knew he'd never find the answer in the darkened wheelhouse of the Amy Bigalow, and he shrugged in slow finality.
"We're wastin' time," he said as he turned and headed back to the ship's engine room.
>
The long black limousine eased to a quiet stop at the main gate of Castro's hunting lodge in the hills southeast of the city. One of the two flags mounted on the front bumper symbolized the Soviet Union and the other marked the passenger as a high-ranking military officer.
The visitors' house outside the fenced estate was the headquarters for Castro's elite bodyguard force.
A man in a tailored uniform but showing no insignia walked slowly up to the car. He looked at the shadowed form of a big Soviet officer sitting in the darkness of the backseat and at the identification that was held out the window.
"Colonel General Kolchak. You do not have to prove yourself to me." He threw a wavelike salute.
"Juan Fernandez, chief of Fidel's security."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"I'm a night owl," said Fernandez. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour?"
"A sudden emergency."
Fernandez waited for further elaboration, but none came. He began to feel uneasy. He knew that only a critical situation could bring the Soviets' highest-ranking military representative out at three-thirty in the morning. He wasn't sure how to deal with it.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but Fidel left strict orders not to be disturbed by anyone."
"I respect President Castro's wishes. However, it's Raul I must speak with. Please tell him I'm here on a matter of extreme urgency that must be dealt with face to face."
Fernandez mulled over the request for a moment and then nodded. "I'll phone up to the lodge and tell his aide you're on your way."
"Thank you."
Fernandez waved to an unseen man in the visitors' house and the electronically operated gate swung open. The limousine drove up a curving road that hugged the hills for about two miles. Finally, it pulled up in front of a large Spanish-style villa that overlooked a panorama of dark hills dotted by distant lights.
The driver's boot crunched on the gravel drive as he stepped around to the passenger's door. He did not open it but stood there for nearly five minutes, casually observing the guards that patrolled the grounds. At last, Raul Castro's chief of staff came yawning through the front door.
"Colonel General, what an unexpected pleasure," he said without enthusiasm. "Please come in. Raul is on his way down."
Without replying, the Soviet officer heaved his bulk from the car and followed the aide over a wide patio and into the foyer of the lodge. He held a handkerchief over his face and snorted into it. His driver came also, keeping a few steps behind. Castro's aide stood aside and gestured toward the trophy room.
"Please make yourselves comfortable. I'll order some coffee."
Left alone, the two stood silently with their backs to the open doorway and stared at an army of boar heads mounted on the walls and the dozens of stuffed birds perched around the room.
Raul Castro soon entered in pajamas and silk paisley robe. He halted in midstride as his guests turned and faced him. His brows knitted together in surprise and curiosity.
"Who the devil are you?"
"My name is Ira Hagen, and I bear a most important message from the President of the United States."
Hagen paused and nodded at his driver, who doffed her cap, allowing a mass of hair to fall to her shoulders. "May I present Mrs. Jessie LeBaron. She's endured great hardship to deliver a personal reply from the President to your brother regarding his proposed U.S.-Cuban friendship pact."
For a moment the silence in the room was so total that Hagen became conscious of the ticking of an elaborate grandfather clock standing against the far wall. Raul's dark eyes darted from Hagen to Jessie and held.
"Jessie LeBaron is dead," he said in quiet astonishment.
"I survived the crash of the blimp and torture by General Peter Velikov." Her voice was calm and commanding. "We carry documented evidence that he intends to assassinate you and Fidel tomorrow morning during the Education Day celebration."
The directness of the statement, the tone of authority behind it, made an impression on Raul.
He hesitated thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "I'll wake Fidel and ask him to listen to what you have to say."
Velikov watched as a file cabinet from his office was jostled onto a handcart and taken by elevator down to the fireproof basement of the Soviet Embassy. His second-ranking KGB officer entered the disarranged room, brushed some papers from a chair, and sat down.
"Seems a shame to burn all of this," he said tiredly.
"A new and finer building will rise from the ashes," said Velikov with a cunning smile. "Gift of a grateful Cuban government."
The phone buzzed and Velikov quickly answered. "What is it?"
The voice of his secretary replied. "Major Borchev wishes to talk to you."
"Put him on."
"General?"
"Yes, Borchev, what's your problem?"
"The captain in command of waterfront security has left his post along with his men and returned to their base outside the city."
"They left the ships unguarded?"
"Well. . . not exactly."
"Did they or did they not desert their post?"
"He claims he was relieved by a guard force under the command of a Colonel Ernesto Perez."
"I issued no such order."
"I'm aware of that, General. Because if you had, it would have most certainly come to my attention."
"Who is this Perez and what military unit is he assigned to?"
"My staff has checked Cuban military files. They find no record of him."
"I personally sent Colonel Mikoyan to inspect security measures around the ships. Make contact and ask him what in hell is happening down there."
"I've tried to raise him for the past half hour," said Borchev. "He doesn't respond."
Another line buzzed, and Velikov placed Borchev on hold.
"What is it?" he snapped.
"Juan Fernandez. General, I thought you should know that Colonel General Kolchak just arrived for a meeting with Raul Castro."
"Not possible."
"I checked him through the gate myself"
This new development
added fuel to Velikov's confusion. A stunned look gripped his face and he expelled his breath in an audible hiss. He had only four hours' sleep in the last thirty-six and his mind was becoming woolly.
"You there, General?" asked Ferndandez anxiously at the silence.
"Yes, yes. Listen to me, Fernandez. Go to the lodge and find out what Castro and Kolchak are doing.
Listen in to their conversation and report back to me in two hours."
He didn't wait for an acknowledgment, but punched into Borchev's line. "Major Borchev, form a detachment and go to the dock area. Lead it yourself. Check out this Perez and his relief force and report back to me as soon as you find out anything."
Then Velikov buzzed his secretary. "Get me Colonel General Kolchak's headquarters."
His deputy straightened in the chair and stared at him curiously. He had never seen Velikov in a state of nervousness before.
"Something wrong?"
"I don't know yet," Velikov muttered.
The familiar voice of Colonel General Kolchak suddenly burst from the other end of the phone line.
"Velikov, how are things progressing with the GRU and KGB?"
Velikov stood stunned for several moments before recovering. "Where are you?"
"Where am I?" Kolchak repeated. "Trying to clear classified documents and equipment from my headquarters, the same as you. Where did you think I was?"
"I just received a report you were meeting with Raul Castro at the hunting lodge."
"Sorry, I haven't mastered being in two places at the same time," said Kolchak imperturbably. "Sounds to me your intelligence agents are starting to see ghosts."
"Most strange. The report came from a usually reliable source."
"Is Rum and Cola in any danger?"
"No, it is continuing as planned."
"Good. Then I take it the operation is running smoothly."
"Yes," Velikov lied with a fear tainted by uncertainty, "everything is under control."
>
The tugboat was called the Pisto after a Spanish dish of stewed red peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes.
The name was appropriate, as her sides were streaked red with rust and her brass coated with verdigris.