Clive Cussler - Cyclops

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.