Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

"Form up! Form up!" he shouted excitedly. "They're running away. Move, damn you, before the traitors escape!"

He broke off suddenly as he came face to face with Borchev. The Soviet major's mouth fell open in total incredulity and before he could close it Clark grabbed him by the arm and hurled him over the dock into the water. Fortunately, no one took notice amid the confusion.

"Follow me!" Clark yelled, and began running up the dock where it passed between two warehouses.

Individually, and in groups of four or five, the Soviet marines raced after him, crouching and zigzagging in highly trained movements across the wharf, laying down a sheet of fire as they advanced.

They seemed to have overcome the paralyzing shock of surprise and were determined to retaliate against their unseen enemy, never knowing they were escap

ing from one nightmare and entering another.

No one questioned Clark's orders. Without their commander to tell them otherwise, the noncoms exhorted their men to follow the officer in the Cuban uniform who was leading the attack.

When the marines had dodged their way between the warehouses, Clark threw himself flat as though hit. It was the signal for his men to open up. The Soviets were hit from all sides. Many were cut off their feet. They made perfect targets, silhouetted by the blazing pyre of the trucks. Those who survived the scything sweep of death returned the fire. The staccato crash of sound was deafening as shells thudded into wooden walls and human flesh or missed and richocheted, whining into the night.

Clark rolled violently toward the cover of a packing crate, but was struck in the thigh and again by a bullet that passed through both wrists.

Badly battered, but still fighting, the Soviet marines began to pull back. They made a futile attempt to break out of the dock area and reach the safety of a concrete wall running along the main boulevard, but two of Clark's men laid down a hail of fire that stopped them in their tracks.

Clark lay there behind the crate, blood streaming from shattered veins, his life draining away, and he was helpless to stop it. His hands hung like broken tree limbs, and there was no feeling in his fingers.

Blackness was already closing in when he dragged himself to the edge of the pier and stared out over the harbor.

The last sight his eyes were to ever see was the outline of the two cargo ships against the lights on the opposite shore. They were swinging clear of the docks and turning toward the harbor entrance.

While the battle was raging on the wharf, the little Pisto took the tow and began pulling the Ozero Zaysarv into the harbor stern first. Struggling mightily, she buried her huge single propeller in the oily water and boiled it into a cauldron of foam.

The 20,000-ton vessel began to move, her formless bulk animated by orange flames as she slipped into open water. Once free of the docks Jack made a wide 180-degree sweep, pivoting the munitions ship until her bow faced the harbor entrance. Then the tow wire was released and winched in.

In the wheelhouse of the Amy Bigalow Pitt gripped the helm and hoped something would give. He tensed, scarcely daring to breathe. The still-fastened bowline came taut and creaked from the tremendous stress placed on it by the backing vessel and stoutly refused to snap. Like a dog straining at a leash, the Amy Bigalow tucked her bow slightly, increasing the tension. The rope held, but the bollard was torn from its dock mountings with a loud crunch of splintered wood.

A tremor ran through the ship and she gradually began to back away into the harbor. Pitt put the wheel over and slowly the bows came around until she had turned broadside to the receding dock. The vibration from the engine smoothed out and soon they were quietly gliding astern with a light wisp of smoke rising from the funnel.

The whole waterfront seemed to be ablaze, the flames from the burning trucks casting an eerie, flickering light inside the wheelhouse. All hands except Manny came up from the engine room and stood by on the bow. Now that he had room to maneuver, Pitt spun the wheel hard to starboard and rang Slow Ahead on the telegraph. Manny answered and the Amy Bigalow lost sternway and began to creep slowly forward.

The stars in the east were beginning to lose their sparkle as the shadowy hull of the Ozero Zaysan drew abeam. Pitt ordered All Stop as the tugboat came about under the bows. The Pisto's crew flung up a light heaving rope that was tied to a graduated series of heavier lines. Pitt watched from the bridge as they were hauled on board. Then the thick tow cable was taken up by a forward winch and made fast.

The same act was repeated on the stern, only this time with the port anchor chain from the dead and drifting Ozero Zaysan. After the chain was winched across, its links were tied to the after bits. The two-way connection was made. The three vessels were now tethered together, with the Amy Bigalow in the middle.

Jack gave a blast on the Pisto's air horn, and the tug began to ease ahead, taking up the slack. Pitt stood on the bridge wing and stared aft. When one of Manny's men signaled that the tow chain on the stern was taut, Pitt gave a slight pull on the steam whistle and swung the telegraph to Full Ahead.

The final step in Pitt's plan had been completed. The oil tanker was left behind, floating nearer the oil storage tanks on the opposite shore of the harbor, but a good mile farther from the more populated center of the city. The other two ships and their deadly cargoes were gathering way in their dash for the open sea, the tugboat adding her power to that of the Amy Bigalow to raise the speed of the marine caravan.

Behind them the great column of smoke and flame spiraled up into the early blue of morning. Clark had bought them enough time for a fighting chance, but he had paid with his life.

Pitt did not look back. His eyes were drawn like a magnet on the beacon from the lighthouse above the gray walls of Morro Castle, that grim fortress guarding the entrance to Havana Harbor. It lay three miles away, but it seemed thirty.

The die was cast. Manny raised power to the other engine and the twin screws thrashed the water.

The Amy Bigalow began to pick up speed. Two knots became three. Three became four. She beat toward the channel below the lighthouse like a Clydesdale in a pulling contest.

They were forty minutes away from reaching home free. But the warning was out and the unthinkable was yet to come.

Major Borchev dodged the burning embers that fell and hissed in the water. Floating there under the pilings, he could hear the roar of automatic weapons fire and see the flames leap into the sky. The dirty water between the docks felt tepid and reeked of dead fish and diesel oil. He gagged and vomited up the foul backwash he had swallowed when the strange Cuban colonel shoved him over the side.

He swam for what seemed a mile before he found a ladder and climbed to the top of an abandoned pier. He spat out the disgusting taste and jogged toward the burning convoy.