Clive Cussler - Cyclops

"If I'm not being too forward," he said in genuine surprise, "may I ask what's on your mind?"

"A change in plan," she replied, her voice low and tense. "Our job is only half done."

Kleist paced the deck of the SPUT as Quintana's team of raiders were lifted on board and the Dashers quickly stowed through a large hatch and down a ramp to the cavernous cargo bay. Quintana circled the ship, riding herd until there was no one left in the water. Only then did he climb onto the low deck.

"How did it go?" Kleist asked anxiously.

"As they say on Broadway, a smash hit. The destruction was complete. You can tell Langley the GRU is off the air."

"Nice work," said Kleist. "You'll receive a fat bonus and long vacation. Courtesy of Martin Brogan."

"Pitt deserves a major share of the credit. He led us straight into the parlor before the Russians woke up. He also went on the radio and warned off the space shuttle."

"Unfortunately, there are no brass bands for part-time help," said Kleist vaguely. Then he asked, "And what of General Velikov?"

"Presumed dead and buried in the rubble."

"Any casualties?"

"I lost two men." He paused. "We also lost Raymond LeBaron."

"The President won't be happy when he hears that news."

"More of an accident really. He made a very brave but foolhardy attempt to save Pitt's life and was shot for his effort."

"So the old bastard went out a hero." Kleist stepped to the edge of the deck and peered into the darkness. "And what of Pitt?"

"A slight wound, nothing serious."

"And Mrs. LeBaron?"

"A few days' rest and some cosmetics to cover the bruises, and she'll look as good as new"

Kleist turned briskly. "When did you see them last?"

"When we left the beach. Pitt was carrying her on his Dasher. I kept the speed low so they could keep up."

Quintana couldn't see it, but Kleist's eyes turned fearful, fearful with the sudden realization that something was terribly amiss. "Pitt and Mrs. LeBaron have not come on board."

"They must have," Quintana said uneasily. "I'm the last one in."

"Neither has been accounted for," said Kleist. "They're still out there somewhere. And since Pitt didn't carry the radio receiver on the return trip, we can't guide them home."

Quintana put a hand to his forehead. "My fault. I was responsible."

"Maybe, maybe not. If something went wrong, if his Dasher broke down, Pitt would have called out, and you would have surely heard him."

"We might pick them up on radar," Quintana offered hopefully.

Kleist doubled his fists and rapped them together. "We'd better hurry. It's suicide to drift around here much longer."

He and Quintana hurried down the ramp to the control room. The radar operator was sitting in front of a blank scope. He looked up as the two officers flanked his sides, their faces strained.

"Raise the antenna," ordered Kleist.

"We'll be targeted by every radar unit on the Cuban coast," the operator protested.

"Raise it!" Kleist demanded sharply.

Topside, a section of the deck parted and a directional antenna unfolded and rose on the top of a mast that telescoped nearly fifty feet into the sky. Below, six pairs of eyes watched as the screen glowed into life.

"What are we looking for?" asked the operator.

"Two of our people are missing," answered Quintana.

"They're too small to show on the screen."

"What about computer enhancement?"

"We can try"

"Go for it."

After half a minute, the operator shook his head. "Nothing within two miles."

"Increase the range to five."

"Still nothing."

"Go to ten."

The operator ignored the radar screen and stared intently at the enhanced computer display. "Okay, I have a tiny object that's a possible. Nine miles southwest, bearing two-two-two degrees."

"They must be lost," muttered Kleist.

The radar operator shook his head. "Not unless they're blind or plain stupid. The skies are clear as crystal. Any tenderfoot Boy Scout knows where the North Star lies."

Quintana and Kleist straightened and stared at each other in mute astonishment, unable to fully comprehend what they knew to be true. Kleist was the first to ask the inescapable question.

"Why?" he asked dumbly. "Why would they deliberately go to Cuba?"

<5>THE AMY BIGALOW

November 6, 1989

North Coast of Cuba

<<60>>

Pitt and Jessie evaded a prowling Cuban patrol boat and were within a thousand yards of the Cuban shoreline when the battery on the Dasher died. He pulled the drain plugs, and they swam away as the little sport craft slipped under the sea and sank to the bottom. His combat boots were a tight fit and allowed little water to seep inside, so he left them on, well aware they would be essential once he stepped on shore.

The water felt comfortably warm and the waves remained low. An early morning quarter-moon slipped over the horizon two hours ahead of the sun. With the added light Pitt could easily keep Jessie in view. She coughed as if she had taken in some water but appeared to be treading without effort.

"How's your backstroke?" he asked.

"Good." She sputtered and spit for a moment and said, "I took third in an all-state high school meet."

"What state?"

"Wyoming."

"I didn't know Wyoming had a swimming pool."

"Funny man."

"The tide is running in our favor, so let's get moving before it turns."

"It'll be light soon," she said.

"All the more reason to make shore and find cover."

"What about sharks?"

"They never breakfast before six o'clock," he said impatiently. "Now come on, no more talk."

They set off with the elementary backstroke, arms thrown back, legs thrusting in a whip kick. The incoming tide pushed them along at close to a knot, and they made good time. Jessie was a strong swimmer. She matched Pitt stroke for stroke, staying right alongside him. He marveled at her endurance after all she had been through the past six days and felt pity for the aches and exhaustion he knew she was suffering. But he could not allow her to slack off now, not until they reached shore and found a small measure of safety.

She had not offered a reason for forcing him to turn for Cuba, and Pitt had not asked. He didn't have to be clairvoyant to know she had a definite purpose in mind that went beyond mere insanity. This lady had very definite ideas and the stubbornness to back them up. He could have disarmed her by capsizing the Dasher during a fast turn on the down slope of a wave, and he was also reasonably certain she wouldn't have pulled the trigger if he had refused.

But it was business as usual for Pitt. "In for a penny, in for a pound / It's love that makes the world go round." Only he wasn't in love-- attracted, yes, but not swept away. Curiosity overrode any passionate urge. He could never resist sticking his foot through a door to the unknown. And then there was the lure of the La Dorada treasure. LeBaron's clue was meager, but the statue had to be somewhere in Cuba. The only snag was that he could easily get killed.

Pitt stopped and dove straight down, touching bottom at what he reckoned was ten feet. He reached out and accidentally brushed one of Jessie's legs as he surfaced. She shrieked, thinking she was being attacked by something big with a triangular fin, unseeing eyes, and a mouth that only a dentist could appreciate.

"Quiet!" he rasped. "You'll alert every guard patrol for miles."

"Oh, God, it was you!" she groaned in dazed fright.

"Keep it low," he murmured close to her ear. "Sound carries over water. We'll rest awhile and watch for signs of activity."

There was no answer from her, simply a light touch of her hand on his shoulder in agreement. They treaded water for several minutes, peering into the darkness. The dim moonlight softly illuminated the coastline of Cuba, the narrow strip of white sand and the dark shadows of the growth behind. About two miles to their right they could see lights from cars passing on a road that cut close to the shore. Five miles beyond an incandescent glow revealed a small port city.