Clive Cussler - Cyclops

"If we delay any longer," added Fawcett, "someone in the White House press corps is bound to hit on a leak."

"Where are the moon colonists now?"

"Undergoing tests at the Kennedy Space Center medical facility," answered Fawcett. "They were flown out of Key West along with Jurgens' crew shortly after the Gettysburg touched down."

Brogan looked at Oates. "Any word from the Kremlin?"

"Only silence so far."

"Be interesting to see how they react to having their nationals shot down for a change."

"Antonov is a wily old bear," said the President. "He'll reject a propaganda blitz accusing us of murdering his cosmonauts in favor of secret talks where he'll demand restitution in the form of shared scientific data."

"Will you give it to him?"

"The President is morally bound to comply," said Oates.

Brogan looked appalled, and so did Fawcett.

"This is not a political matter," Brogan said in a low voice. "There is nothing in the book that says we have to throw away secrets vital to our national defense."

"We're cast as the villains this time around, not the Russians," protested Oates. "We're within inches of a SALT IV agreement to halt all future nuclear missile placement. If the President ignored Antonov's claims, the Soviet negotiators would take one of their famous walks only hours before signing the treaty."

"You may be right," said Fawcett. "But everyone connected with the Jersey Colony didn't struggle for two decades just to give it all away to the Kremlin."

The President had followed this exchange without interrupting. Now he held up a hand. "Gentlemen, I am not about to sell out the store. But there is an enormous wealth of information we can share with the Russians and the rest of the world in the interests of humanity. Medical findings, geological and astronomical data must be freely passed around. However, you may rest easy. I'm not about to compromise our space and defense programs. That area will remain firmly in our hands. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence descended on the dining compartment as the steward delivered three steaming plates of eggs, ham, and hotcakes. He refilled the coffee cups. As soon as he returned to the galley, the President sighed deeply and looked at the table in front of Brogan.

"You're not eating, Martin?"

"I usually skip breakfast. Lunch is my big meal."

"You don't know what you're missing. These hotcakes are light as a feather."

"No, thanks. I'll just stick with coffee."

"While the rest of us dig in, why don't you brief us on the Cayo Santa Maria operation."

Brogan took a sip from his cup, opened the file, and condensed the contents in a few concise statements. "A special combat team under the command of Colonel Ramon Kleist and led by Major Angelo Quintana landed on the island at 0200 hours this morning. By 0430 the Soviet radio jamming and listening facility, including its antenna, was destroyed and all personnel terminated. The timing was most fortunate, as the final radio transmission warned off the Gettysburg only minutes before it would have landed on Cuban soil."

"Who gave the warning?" interrupted Fawcett.

Brogan stared across the table and smiled. "He gave his name as Dirk Pitt."

"My God, the man is everywhere," the President exclaimed.

"Jessie LeBaron and two of Admiral Sandecker's NUMA people were rescued," Brogan continued. "Raymond LeBaron was killed."

"Is that confirmed?" asked the President, his expression turned solemn.

"Yes, sir, it was confirmed."

"A great pity. He deserved recognition for his contribution to the Jersey Colony."

"Still, the mission was a great success," Brogan said quietly. "Major Quintana recovered a wealth of intelligence material, including the Soviets' latest codes. It arrived only an hour ago. Analysts at Langley are sifting through it now."

"Congratulations are in order," said the President. "Your people performed an incredible feat."

"You may not be so hasty with praise, Mr. President, after you hear the full story."

"Okay, Martin, let's have it."

"Dirk Pitt and Jessie LeBaron. . ." Brogan paused and gave a dejected shrug of his shoulders. "They didn't return to the mother ship with Major Quintana and his men."

"Were they killed on the island along with Raymond LeBaron?"

"No, sir. They departed with the others, but veered away and headed for Cuba."

"Cuba," the President repeated in a soft voice. He looked across the table at Oates and Fawcett, who stared back incredulously. "Good lord, Jessie is still trying to deliver our reply to the proposed U.S.-Cuban pact."

"Is it possible she can somehow make contact with Castro?" asked Fawcett.

Brogan shook his head doubtfully. "The island is teeming with security forces, police and militia units who check every mile of road. They'd be arrested inside an hour, assuming they get past patrols on the beach."

"Maybe Pitt will get lucky," Fawcett muttered hopefully.

"No," said the President gravely, his features shrouded with concern. "The man has used up whatever luck he had."

In a small office at the CIA headquarters at Langley, Bob Thornburg, chief documents analyst, sat with his feet crossed on his desk and read through a pile of material that had been flown in from San Salvador. He puffed a veil of blue pipe smoke and translated the Russian typing.

He quickly scanned three folders and picked up a fourth. The title intrigued him. The phrasing was peculiarly American. It was a covert action named after a mixed drink. He quickly glanced through to the end and sat there a moment, stunned. Then he set the pipe in an ashtray, removed his feet from the desktop, and read the contents of the folder more carefully, picking it apart sentence by sentence and making notes on a yellow legal pad.

Nearly two hours later, Thornburg picked up his phone and dialed an internal number. A woman answered, and he asked for the deputy director.

"Eileen, this is Bob Thornburg. Is Henry available?"

"He's on another line."

"Have him ring me first chance, this is urgent."

"I'll tell him."

Thornburg assembled his notes and was restudying the folder for the fifth time when the chime of his phone interrupted him. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

"Bob, this is Henry. What have you got?"

"Can we meet right away? I've just been going over part of the intelligence data from the Cayo Santa Maria operation."

"Something of value?"

"Let's say it's a blockbuster."

"Can you give me a hint?"

"Concerns Fidel Castro."

"What no good is he up to now?"

"He's going to die the day after tomorrow."

<<62>>

As soon as Pitt woke up he looked at his watch. The time was 12:18. He felt refreshed, in good spirits, even optimistic.

When he reflected on it, Pitt found his cheerful outlook grimly amusing. His future was not exactly bright. He had no Cuban currency or identification papers. He was in a Communist country without even one friendly contact or an excuse for being there. And he was wearing the wrong uniform. He would be lucky if he made it through the day without getting shot as a spy.

He reached over and gently shook Jessie by the shoulder. Then he crawled from the drainage pipe, warily surveyed the area, and began doing stretching exercises to relieve his stiff muscles.

Jessie opened her eyes and woke up slowly, languidly, from a deep luxurious sleep, gradually fitting her world into perspective. Uncurling and extending her arms and legs like a cat, she moaned softly at the pain, but was thankful it spurred her mind into motion.

She thought of silly things at first-- who to invite to her next party, planning a menu with her chef, reminding the gardener to trim the hedges bordering the walks-- and then memories of her husband began passing in front of her inner eye. She wondered how a woman could work and live with a man for twenty years and still not come to grips with his inner moods. Yet she more than anyone saw Raymond LeBaron simply as a human being no worse or no better than other men, and with a mind that could radiate compassion, pettiness, brilliance, or ruthlessness almost on cue to suit the moment.