Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

"The Soviets might spare the lives of their own people," said Moe. "But they'd hardly give a damn about the foreign crew on the Amy Bigalow."

"Sure, but on the other hand, they couldn't risk a nosy crewman hanging around while the detonating device was placed in position."

Jack thought a moment, then said, "Two and two make four. This guy is sharp."

Manny gazed at Pitt with a newfound respect in his eyes. "You with the company?"

"No, NUMA."

"Second-guessed by an amateur," Manny sighed. "Time to take my pension."

"How many men do you estimate are patrolling the ships?" Clark asked him.

Manny took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose like a honking goose before answering.

"About a dozen guarding the Bigalow. Same number around the Zaysan. A small patrol boat is moored next to the oil tanker. Probably no more than six or seven in her crew."

Clark began to pace back and forth as he spoke. "So that's it. Gather up your crews. My team will take out the guards and protect the operation. Manny, you and your men will get the Amy Bigalow under way. Moe, take the Ozero Zaysan. The tugboat is your department, Jack. Just make sure there isn't an alarm when you pirate it. We've got six hours of daylight left. Let's make good use of every minute." He stopped and looked around. "Any questions?"

Moe raised a hand. "After we make open water, what happens to us?"

"Take your ship's motor launch and beat it as fast and as far as you can before the explosions."

No one made a comment. They all knew their chances bordered on hopeless.

I'd like to volunteer to go with Manny," said Pitt. "I'm pretty fair with a helm."

Manny came to his feet and slapped a hand on Pitt's back that knocked the wind from him. "By God, Sam, I think I might learn to like you."

Pitt gave him a heavy stare. "Let's hope we live long enough to find out."

The Amy Bigalow lay moored alongside a long modern wharf that had been built by Soviet engineers.

Beyond her, a few hundred yards across the dock channel, the cream-colored hull of the Ozero Zaysan sat dark and deserted. The lights of the city sparkled across the black waters of the harbor. A few clouds drifted down from the mountains, crossing the city and heading out to sea.

The Russian-built command car turned off the Boulevard Desemparados, followed by two heavy military trucks. The convoy moved slowly through the dock area and stopped at the boarding ramp of the Amy Bigalow. A sentry stepped from inside a guard shack and cautiously approached the car.

"Do you have permission to be in this area?" he asked.

Clark, wearing the uniform of a Cuban colonel, gave the sentry an arrogant stare. "Send for the officer of the guard," he ordered sharply. "And say sir when you address an officer."

Recognizing Clark's rank under the yellowish, sodium vapor lights that illuminated the waterfront, the sentry stiffened to attention and saluted. "Right away, sir. I'll call him."

The sentry ran back to the guard shack and picked up a portable transmitter. Clark shifted in his seat uneasily. Deception was vital, strong-arm tactics fatal. If they had stormed the ships with guns blazing, alarms would have sounded throughout the city's military garrisons. Once alerted, and with their backs to the wall, the Russians would have been forced to set off the explosions ahead of schedule.

A captain came through a door of a nearby warehouse, paused a moment to study the parked column, and then walked up to the passenger side of the command car and addressed Clark.

"Captain Roberto Herras," he said, saluting. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Colonel Ernesto Perez," replied Clark. "I've been ordered to relieve you and your men."

Herras looked confused. "My orders were to guard the ships until noon tomorrow."

"They've been changed," Clark said curtly. "Have your men assemble for departure back to their barracks."

"If you don't mind, Colonel, I wish to confirm this with my commanding officer."