Ten minutes later the thirty-year-old ship, retired by the Russian Navy after it had been replaced by a newer, modified class of frigate, drifted broadside across the channel. Her four-inch guns turned and aimed almost point-blank at the rapidly approaching phantom vessels.
Pitt gazed at the blinking signal lamp on the frigate. He was tempted to turn on the radio, but it was agreed upon from the beginning that the convoy would remain silent in case an alert port authority official or security post receiver happened to tune in on the same frequency. Pitt's international Morse code was rusty, but he deciphered the message as "Stop immediately and identify."
He kept a sharp eye on the Pisto. He was aware that any sudden evasive move would have to originate with Jack. Pitt called down to the engine room and alerted Manny to the frigate blocking their course, but the brass telegraph pointers remained locked on Full Ahead.
They were so close now he could see the Cuban naval ensign standing stiffly in the offshore breeze.
The vanes on the signal lamp flipped up and down again. "Stop immediately or we will open fire."
Two men appeared on the stern of the Pisto and frantically began reeling out more cable. At the same time the tug lost way, made a sharp turn to starboard, and heaved to. Then Jack stepped out of the wheelhouse and hailed the frigate through a bullhorn.
"Give way, you sea cow's ass. Can't you see I have a tow?"
Pinon ignored the insult. He expected no less from a tug captain. "Your movement is unauthorized. I am sending over a boarding party."
"I'll be damned if I let any candy-ass Navy boy step foot on my ship."
"You'll be dead if you don't," Pinon replied in good humor. He was uncertain now whether this was a mass escape attempt by dissidents, but the strange actions of the tug and unlit ships required an investigation.
He leaned over the bridge railing and ordered the ship's motor cutter and boarding crew to lower away. When he turned back to face the unidentified convoy, he froze in horror.
Too late. In the dusky light he had failed to see that the ship behind the tug was not a dead tow. It was under way and boring down on the frigate at a good eight knots. He stared dazedly for several seconds before his reeling mind took hold.
"Full ahead!" he shrieked. "Guns fire!"
His command was followed by a deafening blast as shells streaked across the narrowing gap, tore into the bow and superstructure of the Amy Bigalow, and exploded in a burst of flame and shattered steel.
The port side of the wheelhouse seemed to melt away as if ripped open by a junkyard mangling machine.
Glass and debris felt like pellets out of a shotgun. Pitt ducked and kept his grip on the wheel with a determination tied to blind stubbornness. He was lucky to emerge with only a few cuts and a bruised thigh.
The second salvo blew away the chart room and sliced the forward mast in two. The top half fell over the side and was dragged for a hundred feet before the cables parted and it floated clear. The funnel was shattered and turned to scrap, and a shell burst inside the starboard anchor locker, scattering a cloud of salt-rusted links like shrapnel.
There would be no third salvo.
Pinon stood absolutely still, hands tightly clenched on the bridge rail. He stared up at the menacing black bows of the Amy Bigalow as they rose ponderously over the frigate, his face white and his eyes sick with a certainty that his ship was about to die.
The frigate's screws beat the water in a frenzy, but they could not push her out of the way soon enough. There was no question of the Amy Bigalow missing and no doubt as to Pitt's intentions. He was compensating and cutting the angle toward the frigate's midsection. Those of the crew who were topside and could see the approaching disaster gazed numb with horror before finally reacting and throwing themselves over the sides.
The Amy Bigalow's sixty-foot-high stem slashed through the frigate just forward of her rear turret, shredding the plates and penetrating the hull for nearly twenty feet. Pinon's ship might have survived the collision and made shore before settling in the water, but with a terrible screech of grinding steel the bow of the Amy Bigalow rose up from the gaping wound until her barnacled keel was exposed. She hung there for an instant, and then dropped, crushing the frigate in two and pile-driving the stern section out of sight beneath the surface.
Instantly, the sea poured into the amputated stern, sweeping through the twisted bulkheads and flooding the open compartments. As the cataract surged into the doomed frigate's hull she quickly began to settle astern. Her dying agony did not last long. By the time the Ozero Zaysan was towed over the collision site, she was gone, leaving a pitiful few of her crew struggling in the water.
>
"You walked into a trap?" Velikov's voice came flat and hard over the phone.
Borchev felt uncomfortable. He couldn't very well admit that he was one of the only three survivors out of forty and lacked even a scratch. "An unknown force of at least two hundred Cubans opened fire with heavy equipment before we could evacuate the trucks."
"You certain they were Cubans?"
"Who else could have planned and carried it out? Their commanding officer was wearing a Cuban Army uniform."
"Perez?"
"Can't say. We'll need time to make an identification."
"Might have been a blunder by green troops who opened fire out of stupidity or panic."
"They were far from stupid. I can recognize highly trained combat troops when I see them. They knew we were coming and laid a well prepared ambush."
Velikov's face went completely blank and then quickly reddened. The assault on Cayo Santa Maria passed before his eyes. He could scarcely contain his rage. "What was their objective?"
"A delaying action to take possession of the ships."
Borchev's answer staggered Velikov. He felt as if his body had turned to ice. The questions came spilling out of his mouth. "The Rum and Cola operation ships were seized? Are they still moored to their docks?"
"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."
>
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.
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 hav
e 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."