Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

Blackened and smoldering bodies littered the dock. The gunfire had stopped after Clark's few surviving men escaped in a small outboard boat. Borchev walked cautiously through the carnage. Except for two wounded men who had taken refuge behind a forklift, the rest were dead. His entire detachment had been wiped out.

Half crazed with anger, Borchev staggered among the victims, searching, until he came upon the body of Clark. He rolled the CIA agent over on his back and looked down into sightless eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded senselessly. "Who do you work for?"

The answers had died with Clark.

Borchev took the limp body by the belt and dragged it to the edge of the pier. Then he kicked it into the water.

"See how you like it!" he shouted insanely.

Borchev wandered aimlessly amid the massacre for another ten minutes before he regained his balance. He finally realized he had to report to Velikov. The only transmitter had melted inside the lead truck, and he began to run around the waterfront, feverishly hunting for a telephone.

He found a sign on a building identifying a dockworkers' recreation room. He lunged at the door and smashed it open with his shoulder. He fumbled along the wall, found the light switch, and turned it on.

The room was furnished with old stained sofas. There were checkerboards and dominoes and a small refrigerator. Posters of Castro, Che Guevara haughtily smoking a cigar, and a somber Lenin stared down from one wall.

Borchev entered the office of a supervisor and snatched up the telephone on a desk. He dialed several times without getting through. Finally he raised the operator, cursing the retarded efficiency of the Cuban phone system.

The clouds above the eastern hills were beginning to glow orange and the sirens of the city's fire squads were converging on the waterfront when he was finally connected to the Soviet Embassy.

Captain Manuel Pinon stood on the bridge wing of the Russian-built Riga-class patrol frigate and steadied his binoculars. He had been awakened by his first officer soon after the fighting and confl

agration had broken out in the commercial dock area. He could see little through the binoculars because his vessel was moored to the naval dock around a point just below the channel and his vision was blocked by buildings.

"Shouldn't we investigate?" asked his first officer.

"The police and fire crews can handle it," answered Pinon.

"Sounds like gunshots."

"Probably a warehouse blaze that's ignited military supplies. Better we stay clear of the fireboats." He handed the glasses to the first officer. "Keep a watch on it. I'm going back to bed."

Pinon was just about to enter his stateroom when his first officer came running up the passageway.

"Sir, you'd better return to the bridge. Two ships are attempting to leave the harbor."

"Without clearance?"

"Yes, sir."

"Could be they're moving to a new mooring."

The first officer shook his head. "Their heading is taking them into the main channel."

Pinon groaned. "The gods are against me getting any sleep."

The first officer grinned sardonically. "A good Communist does not believe in gods."

"Tell that to my white-haired mother."

On the bridge wing once again, Pinon yawned and peered through the early-morning haze. Two ships under tow were about to enter the Entrada Channel for open seas.

"What in hell--" Pinon refocused the glasses. "Not a flag, not a navigation light showing, no lookouts on the bridge=

"Nor do they respond to our radio signals requesting their intent. Almost looks like they're trying to sneak out."

"Counterrevolutionary scum trying to reach the United States," Pinon growled. "Yes, that must be it.