Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

"Which quotation is that, Mr. President?"

The President looked from face to face around the table before answering. " " `He who serves a revolution plows the sea.' "

The chaos slowly subsided and the rescue work began as the population of Havana recovered from the shock. Hurricane emergency procedures were put into operation. Army and militia units along with paramedics sifted through the rubble, lifting the bodies of the living into ambulances and the dead into trucks.

The Santa Clara convent, dating from 1643, was taken over as a temporary hospital and quickly filled.

The wards and corridors of University Hospital soon overflowed. The elegant old Presidential Palace, now the museum of the revolution, was turned into a morgue.

Injured people walked the streets bleeding, staring vacantly or searching desperately for loved ones. A clock on top of a building in Cathedral Square of old Havana sat frozen at 6:21. Some residents who had fled their homes during the havoc began to drift back. Others who had no homes to return to walked through the streets, picking their way around the bodies, carrying small bundles containing salvaged possessions.

Every fire unit for a hundred miles streamed into the city and vainly fought the fires spreading throughout the waterfront. A tank of chlorine gas exploded, adding its poison to the ravages of the blaze.

Twice the hundreds of firefighters had to run for cover when a change of wind whipped the blistering heat in their faces.

Even while the rescue operations were being organized, Fidel Castro launched a purge of disloyal government officials and military officers. Raul personally directed the roundup. Most had abandoned the city, having been forewarned of Rum and Cola by Velikov and the KGB. One by one they were arrested, each one stunned by the news the Castro brothers were still alive. By the hundreds they were transported under heavy guard to a secret prison compound deep in the mountains, never to be seen again.

At two o'clock in the afternoon the first U.S. Air Force heavy cargo plane landed at Havana's international airport. Soon a constant stream of aircraft were arriving. Fidel Castro was on hand to greet the volunteer doctors and nurses. He personally saw to it that Cuban relief committees stood by to receive the supplies and cooperate with the incoming Americans.

By early evening, Coast Guard and firefighting vessels from the port of Miami began to stream over the smoke-filled horizon. Bulldozers, heavy equipment, and oil-fire experts from Texas moved into the fiery wreckage along the harbor and wasted no time in attacking the flames.

Despite past political differences the imagination of the United States and Cuba seemed to leap to the occasion and everyone worked together closely on the specific emergencies to be met.

Admiral Sandecker and Al Giordino stepped off a NUMA jet late in the afternoon. They hitched a ride on a truck, loaded with bed linen and military cots, as far as a distribution depot, where Giordino hot-wired and borrowed an abandoned Fiat.

The false sunset from the flames tinted their faces red through the windshield as they gazed incredulously at the gigantic smoke cloud and great sea of fire.

After nearly an hour of winding their way through the city and being directed by police through complicated detours to avoid streets choked with debris and rescue vehicles, they finally reached the Swiss Embassy.

"We have our job cut out," said Sandecker, staring at the ruined buildings and the wreckage littering the wide boulevard of the Malecon.

Giordino nodded sadly. "He may never be found."

"Still, we owe it to him to try."

"Yes," Giordino said heavily. "We owe Dirk that."

They turned and walked through the battered entrance of the embassy and were directed to the communications room of the Special Interests Section.

The room was jammed with news correspondents, waiting their turn to transmit reports of the disaster.

Sandecker shouldered his way through the throng and found a heavyset man dictating to a radio operator. When the man finished, Sandecker tapped him on the arm.

"You Ira Hagen?"

"Yes, I'm Hagen." The hoarse voice matched the tired lines in the face.

"Thought so," said Sandecker. "The President described you in some detail."

Hagen patted his rotund stomach and forced a smile. "I'm not hard to pick out in a crowd." Then he paused and looked at Sandecker strangely. "You say the President--"

"I met with him four hours ago in the White House. My name is James Sandecker and this is Al Giordino. We're with NUMA."

"Yes, Admiral, I know the name. What can I do for you?"

"We're friends of Dirk Pitt and Jessie LeBaron."