"Who else could have planned and carried it out? Their commanding officer was wearing a Cuban Army uniform."
"Perez?"
"Can't say. We'll need time to make an identification."
"Might have been a blunder by green troops who opened fire out of stupidity or panic."
"They were far from stupid. I can recognize highly trained combat troops when I see them. They knew we were coming and laid a well prepared ambush."
Velikov's face went completely blank and then quickly reddened. The assault on Cayo Santa Maria passed before his eyes. He could scarcely contain his rage. "What was their objective?"
"A delaying action to take possession of the ships."
Borchev's answer staggered Velikov. He felt as if his body had turned to ice. The questions came spilling out of his mouth. "The Rum and Cola operation ships were seized? Are they still moored to their docks?"
"No, a tugboat towed off the Ozero Zaysan. The Amy Bigalow steamed clear under her own power. I lost sight of them after they rounded the point. A little later I heard what sounded like naval gunfire near the entrance channel."
Velikov had heard the rumble of heavy guns too. He stared at a blank wall with unbelieving eyes, trying to envision the circle of men dogging his intricately planned operations. He refused to believe that intelligence units loyal to Castro had the knowledge and expertise. Only the long arm of the Americans and their Central Intelligence Agency could have destroyed Cayo Santa Maria and wrecked his scheme to terminate the Castro regime. Only one individual could have been responsible for the leak of information.
Dirk Pitt.
A deep look of concentration tensed Velikov's face. The mud was clearing from the water. He knew what he had to do in the little time left.
"Are the ships still in the harbor?" he demanded of Borchev.
"If they were trying to escape to the sea, I'd put them somewhere in the Entrada Channel."
"Find Admiral Chekoldin and tell him I want those ships stopped and headed back to the inner harbor."
"I thought all Soviet naval ships have stood out to sea."
"The admiral and his flagship aren't due to depart until eight o'clock. Don't use the telephone. Convey my request in person and stress the urgency."
Before Borchev could reply, Velikov threw down the receiver and rushed to the main entrance of the embassy, ignoring the busy staff preparing for evacuation. He ran outside to the embassy limousine and shoved aside the chauffeur, who was standing by to drive the Soviet ambassador to safety.
He turned the ignition key and threw the transmission into drive the instant the engine fired. The rear wheels spun and shrieked furiously as the car leaped out of the embassy courtyard into the streets.
Two blocks later Velikov was stopped dead.
A military roadblock barred his way. Two armored cars and a company of Cuban soldiers stretched across the broad boulevard. An officer stepped
up to the car and shone a flashlight in the window.
"May I see your identification papers, please?"
"I am General Peter Velikov, attached to the Soviet Military Mission. I'm in a great hurry to reach Colonel General Kolchak's headquarters. Stand aside and let me pass."
The officer studied Velikov's face for a moment as if satisfying himself. He switched off the flashlight and motioned for two of his men to enter the backseat. Then he came around and climbed into the front passenger's seat.
"We've been waiting for you, General," he said in a cold but courteous tone. "Please follow my directions and turn left at the next cross street."
Pitt stood, feet slightly apart, both hands on the helm, his craggy face thrust forward, as he watched the lighthouse at the harbor entrance slip past with terrible slowness. His whole mind and body, every nerve was concentrated on moving the ship as far away from the populated city as possible before the ammonium nitrate was detonated.
The water turned from gray-green to emerald and the ship started to roll slightly as it plowed into the swells marching in from the sea. The Amy Bigalow was taking in water through her ripped bow plates, but she still answered her helm and chased after the tailing wake of the tugboat.
His whole body ached from exhaustion. He drove himself on with sheer willpower. The blood from the cuts he received from the blast of the frigate's guns had hardened into dark red streaks down his face. He was oblivious to the sweat and the clothes sticking to his body.
He closed his eyes for a moment and wished he was back in his hangar apartment with a Bombay gin martini, sitting in a steaming shower. God, he was tired.