Clive Cussler - Cyclops

"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.