Quintana detached himself from the shadows and touched Pitt's arm. "We're moving out. I'll take the radio receiver and lead off." He moved close to Jessie and his voice softened. "Another hour and you'll be safe. Do you think you can hold on a little longer?"
"I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern."
The Dashers were dragged across the beach and set in the water. At Quintana's command everyone mounted and set off across the black water. This time Pitt brought up the rear as Quintana, headset in place, homed in on the SPUT from headings transmitted by Colonel Kleist.
They left an island of dead in their wake. The huge compound was reduced to great broken slabs of concrete that crumbled inward. The vast array of electronic equipment and the ornate furnishings smoldered like the dying core of a volcano deep beneath the sunbleached coral sand. The giant antenna lay in a thousand twisted pieces, shattered beyond any possible repair. Within hours hundreds of Russian soldiers, led by agents of the GRU, would be crawling over the ruins, searching and sifting the sands for incriminating evidence of the forces responsible for the destruction. But the only bits and pieces their probing investigation would turn up pointed directly to the cunning mind of Fidel Castro and not the CIA.
Pitt kept his eyes locked on the shaded blue light of the Dasher straight in front of him. They were going against the tide now and the tiny craft nosed into the wave troughs and bounced over the crests like a roller coaster. Jessie's added weight slowed their speed, and he kept the accelerator pressed against its stop to keep from falling behind.
They had only traveled about a mile when Pitt felt one of Jessie's hands loosen from his waist.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
His answer was the feel of a cold gun muzzle against his chest just beneath the armpit. He dipped his head very slowly and looked down under his arm. There was indeed the black outline of an automatic pistol pressed into his rib cage, a 9-millimeter Makarov, and the hand that held it was rock steady.
"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."