Before the cloud settled, the Cubans charged through the opening, guns blazing. The first three inside the room went down from the fire of the guards. Then the Russians seemed to melt away before the murderous onslaught. The din inside the concrete-walled room was deafening, but even so, above it all Pitt could hear the screams of the wounded. Most of the technicians hid under their consoles. Those who resisted were unmercifully shot down.
Pitt moved out along the balcony, keeping his back flattened against the wall. He saw two men standing about thirty feet away, staring in rapt horror at the carnage below. He recognized one of them as General Velikov and began edging closer, stalking his prey. He had only moved a short distance when Velikov pulled back from the balcony railing and turned. He looked at Pitt blankly for an instant, and his eyes widened in recognition, and then incredibly he smiled. The man seemed to have no nerves at all.
Pitt raised the automatic and took deliberate aim.
Velikov moved with the swiftness of a cat, jerking the other man in front of him, a fraction of a second before the hammer fell on the cartridge.
The bullet caught Lyev Maisky in the chest. The deputy chief of the KGB stiffened in shock and stood there staring in petrified astonishment before staggering backward and tumbling over the railing to the floor below.
Pitt unconsciously pulled the trigger again, but the gun was empty. In a futile gesture he threw it at Velikov, who easily deflected it with an arm.
Velikov nodded, his face revealing more curiosity
than fear. "You're an amazing man, Mr. Pitt."
Before Pitt could reply or take a step, the general lurched sideways through an open door and slammed it shut. Pitt threw himself against the door, but he was too late. The lock was on the inside and Velikov had snapped the latch. There would be no kicking this one in. The heavy bolt was firmly embedded in a metal frame. He raised his fist to punch the door, thought better of it, swung around and ran down a stairway to the floor below.
He crossed the room through the confusion, stepping over the bodies until he reached Quintana, who was emptying the magazine of his AK-74 into a bank of computers.
"Forget that!" Pitt shouted in Quintana's ear. He gestured to the radio console. "If your men haven't destroyed the antenna, let me try to make contact with the shuttle."
Quintana lowered his rifle and looked at him. "The controls are in Russian. Can you operate it?"
"Never know till I try," said Pitt. He sat at the radio console and quickly studied the confusing sea of lights and switches labeled in the Cyrillic alphabet.
Quintana leaned over Pitt's shoulder. "You'll never find the right frequency in time."
"You Catholic?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Then call up the saint who guides lost souls and pray this thing is already set on the shuttle's frequency."
Pitt placed the tiny headset over one ear and kept pressing switches until he received a tone. Then he adjusted the microphone and pressed what he guessed and fervently hoped was the Transmit switch.
"Hello, Gettysburg, do you read me? Over." Then he pushed what he was sure was the Receive switch.
Nothing.
He tried a second, and a third. "Gettysburg, do you read? Over."
He pushed a fourth switch. "Gettysburg. Gettysburg, please respond," Pitt implored. "Do you read me? Over."
Silence, and then "This is Gettysburg. Who the hell are you? Over."
The sudden reply, so clear and distinct, surprised Pitt, and he took nearly three seconds to answer.
"Not that it matters, the name is Dirk Pitt. For the love of God, Gettysburg, sheer off. I repeat, sheer off. You are on a glide path for Cuba."
"So what else is new?" said Jurgens. "I can only keep this bird in the air a few more minutes and must make a touchdown attempt at the nearest landing strip. We've run out of options."
Pitt did not reply immediately. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Suddenly something clicked in his mind.
"Gettysburg, can you possibly make Miami?"
"Negative. Over."
"Try for the Key West Naval Air Station. It lies at the tip of the Keys."