Cyclops

by Clive Cussler

  Pitt was offered a chair at one end of the table, but declined. His rear end did not feel up to sitting just yet. Every eye in the room stared at him, and he began to feel like an inmate at the zoo on a Sunday afternoon.

  Brogan gave him a relaxed smile. "Please tell us everything you've heard and observed from the beginning. Your account will be recorded and transcribed. Afterward, we'll go for questions and answers. All right with you?"

  The beer came. Pitt took a long pull, relaxed, and then started relating the events from the takeoff in Key West to elatedly seeing the submarine rise out of the water a few yards from his sinking tub. He left out nothing and took his time, going into every detail, no matter how minor, he could recall. It took him nearly an hour and a half, but they listened attentively without question or interruption. When he finally finished, he gently eased his aching body into a chair and calmly watched everyone check over their notes.

  Brogan declared a short break while aerial photographs of Cayo Santa Maria, files on Velikov and Gly, and the copies of the transcription were brought in. After forty minutes of study, Brogan kicked off the questioning.

  "You carried weapons in the blimp. Why?"

  "Projections of the Cyclops' wreck site indicated it lay in Cuban waters. It seemed appropriate to carry a bulletproof shield and a missile launcher for protective insurance."

  "You realize, of course, your unwarranted attack on the Cuban patrol helicopter was a breach of government policy." This from a man Pitt remembered as working for the State Department.

  "I followed a higher law," said Pitt with a sardonic grin.

  "And what law, may I ask, is that?"

  "Comes from the Old West, something they called self-preservation. The Cubans fired first, about a thousand rounds, I would judge, before Al Giordino blew it away."

  Brogan smiled. He could see Pitt was a man after his own heart. "Our main concern here is with your description of the Russians' installation on the island. You say the island is unguarded."

  "Above ground the only guards I saw were stationed at the gate of the compound. None were patrolling the roads or the beaches. The only security measure was an electrified fence."

  "That explains why infrared photography hasn't detected any signs of human activity," said an analyst eyeballing the photos.

  "Unlike the Russians to step out of character," mused another CIA official. "They almost always give away a secret base by going overboard on security."

  "Not this time," said Pitt. "They've gone to opposite extremes and it's paid off for them. General Velikov stated that it was the most sensitive military installation outside the Soviet Union. And I gather that no one in your agency was aware of it until now."

  "I admit, we may have been taken in," said Brogan. "Providing what you've described to us is true."

  Pitt gave Brogan a cold stare. Then he painfully rose from his chair and started for the door. "All right, have it your way. I lied. Thanks for the beer."

  "May I ask where you're going?"

  "To call a press conference," Pitt said, addressing Brogan directly. "I'm wasting precious time for your benefit. The sooner I announce my escape and demand the release of the LeBarons, Giordino, and Gunn, the sooner Velikov will be forced to halt their torture and execution."

  There was a shocked quiet. None of the people at the conference table could believe Pitt was walking out, none except Sandecker. He sat there and smiled like the owner of a winning ball club. "You'd better pull your act together, Martin. You've just been presented with a top-of-the-line intelligence coup, and if no one in this room can recognize it, I suggest you all find another line of work."

  Brogan may have been a brusque egotist, but he was no fool. He quickly rose and stopped Pitt at the doorway. "Forgive an old Irishman who's been burned more times than he can count. Thirty years in this business and you just naturally become a doubting Thomas. Please help us to fit the puzzle together. Then we'll discuss what's to be done for your friends and the LeBarons."

  "It'll cost you another beer," Pitt said.

  Brogan and the others laughed then. The ice was broken, and the questioning was resumed from all sides of the table.

  "Is this Velikov?" asked an analyst, holding up a photograph.

  "Yes, General Peter Velikov. His American-accented English was letter perfect. I almost forgot, he had my dossier, including a personality profile."

  Sandecker looked at Brogan. "Sounds like Sam Emmett has a mole in his FBI records department."

  Brogan smiled sarcastically. "Sam won't be happy to learn of it."

  "We could write a book on Velikov's exploits," said a heavy man facing Pitt. "At a later time I'd like you to give me a profile of his mannerisms."

  "Glad to," said Pitt.

  "And this is the interrogator with the heavy hand, Foss Gly?"

  Pitt nodded at the second photograph. "He's a good ten years older than the face in the picture, but that's him."

  "An American mercenary, born in Arizona," said the analyst. "You say you two met before?"

  "Yes, during the Empress of Ireland project in search of the North American Treaty. I think you may recall it."

  Brogan nodded. "Indeed I do."

  "Getting back to the layout of the installation," said the woman. "Levels of the compound?"

  "According to the elevator indicator, five, all underground."

  "Idea as to extent?"

  "All I saw was my cell, the hallway, Velikov's office, and a motor pool. Oh, yes, and the entry to the upper living quarters, which was decorated like a Spanish castle."

  "Wall thickness?"

  "About two feet."

  "Quality of construction?"

  "Good. No leakage or noticeable cracking of the concrete."

  "Type of vehicles in the motor pool?"

  "Two military trucks. The rest construction-- a bulldozer, a back hoe, and a cherry picker."

  The woman looked up from her notes. "Excuse me. The last one?" "Cherry picker," Pitt explained. "A special truck with a telescoping platform to work at heights. You see them used by tree trimmers and telephone linemen."

  "Approximate dimensions of the antenna dish?"

  "Difficult to measure in the dark. Approximately three hundred yards long by two hundred yards wide.

  It lifts into position by hydraulic arms camouflaged as palm trees."

  "Solid or grid?"

  "Grid."

  "Circuitry, junction boxes, relays?"

  "Didn't see any, which doesn't mean they weren't there."

  Brogan had followed the questions without intruding. Now he held up a hand and stared at a studious-looking man seated halfway down the table. "What do you make of it, Charlie?"

  "Not enough technical detail to pinpoint an exact purpose. But there are three possibilities. One is that it's a listening station capable of intercepting telephone, radio, and radar signals across the United States.

  Two, a powerful jamming facility, just sitting there waiting for a crucial moment, like a nuclear first strike when it is suddenly activated, scrambling all our vital military and commercial communications. The third prospect is that it might have the capability to transmit and feed false information throughout our communications systems. Most worrisome, the size and elaborate antenna design suggests the ability to perform the functions of all three."

  The muscles in Brogan's face went taut. The fact that such a supersecret spy operation had been constructed less than two hundred miles from the shores of the United States did not exactly thrill the chief of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  "If worse comes to worse, what are we looking at?"

  "What I'm afraid we're looking at," answered Charlie, "is an electronically advanced and powerful facility capable of intercepting radio or phone communications and then using time-lag technology to allow a new-generation computerized synthesizer to imitate the callers' voices and alter the conversation.

  You'd be amazed how your words can be manipulated over a telep
hone to another party without your detecting the change. As a matter of fact, the National Security Agency has the same type of equipment on board a ship."

  "So the Russians have caught up with us," said Brogan.

  "Their technology is probably cruder than ours, but it seems they've gone a step further and expanded it on a grander scale."

  The woman intelligence official looked at Pitt. "You said the island is supplied by submarine."

  "So Raymond LeBaron informed me," said Pitt. "And what little I saw of the shoreline didn't include a docking area."

  Sandecker played with one of his cigars but didn't light it. He pointed one end at Brogan. "Appears the Soviets have gone to unusual lengths to throw your Cuban surveillance off the track, Martin."

  "The fear of exposure came out during the interrogation," said Pitt. "Velikov insisted we were agents on your payroll."

  "Can't really blame the bastard," said Brogan. "Your entrance must have shocked the hell out of him."

  "Mr. Pitt, could you describe the people at the dinner party when you entered?" asked a scholarly-looking man in an argyle sweater.

  "Roughly I'd say there were sixteen women and two dozen men

  "You did say women?"

  "I did."

  "What type?" asked the only woman in the room.

  Pitt had to ask. "Define type."

  "You know," she answered seriously. "Wives, nice single ladies, or hookers?"

  "Definitely not hookers. Most were in uniform, probably part of Velikov's staff. The ones wearing wedding rings appeared to be wives of the Cuban civilians and military officers who were present."

  "What in hell is Velikov thinking?" Brogan asked no one in particular. "Cubans and their wives at a top-secret installation? None of this makes any sense."

  Sandecker stared pensively at the tabletop. "Makes sense to me, if Velikov is using Cayo Santa Maria for something besides electronic espionage."

  "What are you hinting at, Jim?" asked Brogan.

  "The island would make a perfect base of operations for the overthrow of the Castro government."

  Brogan looked at him in astonishment. "How do you know about that?"

  "The President briefed me," Sandecker replied loftily.

  "I see." But it was clear Brogan didn't see.

  "Look, I realize this is all highly important," said Pitt, "but every minute we spend speculating puts Jessie, Al, and Rudi that much closer to death. I expect you people to pull out all the stops to save them.

  You can begin by notifying the Russians that you're aware of their captivity because of my rescue."

  Pitt's demand was met with an odd quiet. Nobody except Sandecker looked at him. The CIA people, especially, avoided his eyes.

  "Forgive me," said Brogan stonily. "I don't think that would be a smart move."

  Sandecker's eyes suddenly flashed with anger. "Watch what you say, Martin. I know there's a Machiavellian plot jelling in your mind. But take warning, my friend. You've got me to deal with, and I'm not about to let my friends be literally thrown to the sharks."

  "We're looking at a high-stakes game," said Brogan. "Keeping Velikov in the dark may prove most advantageous."

  "And sacrifice several lives for an intelligence gamble?" said Pitt bitterly. "No way."

  "Please bear with me a moment," Brogan pleaded. "I'll agree to leak a story saying we know the LeBarons and your NUMA people are alive. Next, we'll accuse the Cubans of imprisoning them in Havana."

  "How can Velikov be expected to fall for something he knows is crap?"

  "I don't expect him to fall for it. He's no cretin. He'll smell a rat and wonder how much we know about his island. And that's all he can do-- wonder. We'll also muddy the waters by claiming our knowledge comes from photographic evidence showing your inflatable boat washed up on the main island of Cuba.

  That should take the pressure off our captives and keep Velikov guessing. The piece de resistance will be the discovery of Pitt's body by a Bahamian fisherman."

  "What in hell are you proposing?" Sandecker demanded.

  "I haven't thought it through yet," Brogan admitted. "But the basic idea is to sneak Pitt back on the island."

  As soon as Pitt's debriefing had concluded, Brogan returned to his office and picked up the phone. His call went through the usual batting order of buffers before the President came on.

  "Please make it quick, Martin. I'm about to leave for Camp David." "We've just finished interrogating Dirk Pitt."

  "Could he fill in any pieces?"

  "Pitt gave us the intelligence breakthrough we discussed."

  "Velikov's headquarters?"

  "He led us straight to the mother lode."

  "Nice work. Now your people can launch an infiltration operation." "I think a more permanent solution would be in order."

  "You mean offset its threat by exposing its existence to the world press?"

  "No. I mean go in and destroy it."

  <<43>>

  The president had a light breakfast after reaching Camp David. The weather was unseasonably warm, there was Indian summer in the air, and he was dressed in cotton slacks and short-sleeved sweater.

  He sat in a large wing chair with several file folders in his lap and studied the personal histories of the

  "inner core." After reading the last file he closed his eyes, pondering his options, wondering what he would say to the men who were waiting in the camp's main dining room.

  Hagen entered the study and stood quietly until the President opened his eyes.

  "Ready when you are, Vince."

  The President slowly pushed himself from the chair. "Might as well get on with it then."

  They were waiting around the long dining table as the President had arranged. No guards were present, none were required. These were honorable men who had no intent to commit crime. They respectfully rose to their feet as he entered the room, but he waved them down.

  Eight were present and accounted for-- General Fisher, Booth, Mitchell, and Busche sat on one side of the table opposite Eriksen, Senator Porter, and Dan Fawcett. Hudson was seated by himself at the far end. Only Raymond LeBaron was missing.

  They were dressed casually, sitting comfortably like golfers in a clubhouse, relaxed, supremely confident and showing no signs of tension.

  "Good morning, Mr. President," greeted Senator Porter cheerfully. "To what do we owe the honor of this mysterious summons?"

  The President cleared his throat. "You all know why I've brought you here. So we don't have to play games."

  "You don't want to congratulate us?" asked Clyde Booth sarcastically.

  "Tributes may or may not be offered," said the President coldly. "That will depend."

  "Depend on what?" Gunnar Eriksen demanded rudely.

  "I believe what the President is fishing for," said Hudson, "is our blessing for allowing the Russians to claim a share of the moon."

  "That and a confession of mass murder."

  The tables were turned. They just sat there, eyes with the look of fish in a freezer, staring at the President.

  Senator Porter, a fast thinker, launched his attack first. "Execution gangland style or Arsenic and Old Lace poison in the tea? If I may ask, Mr. President, what in hell are you talking about?"

  "A small matter of nine dead Soviet cosmonauts."

  "Those lost during the early Soyuz missions?" asked Dan Fawcett.

  "No," answered the President. "The nine Russians who were killed on the Selenos lunar probes."

  Hudson gripped the edge of the table and stared as if he had been electrocuted. "The Selenos spacecraft were unmanned."

  "The Russians wanted the world to think so, but in reality they each carried three men. We have one of the crews on ice in the Walter Reed hospital morgue, if you care to examine the remains."

  No one would have thought it to look at them. They considered themselves moral-minded citizens doing a job for their country. The last thing any of them expected to see in a mirror was the reflecti
on of a cold-blooded killer. To say that the President had his audience in the palm of his hand would be an understatement.

  Hagen sat fascinated. This was all news to him.

  "If you'll bear with me," the President continued, "I'll indulge in mixing facts with speculation. To begin with, you and your moon colonists have accomplished an incredible achievement. I compliment you on your perseverance and genius, as will the world in the coming weeks. However, you have unwittingly made a terrible error that could easily stain your accomplishment.

  "In your zeal to wave the Stars and Stripes you have ignored the international space law treaty governing activities on the moon, which was ratified by the United States, the Soviet Union, and three other countries in 1984. Then you took it upon yourselves to claim the moon as a sovereign possession and, figuratively speaking, posted `Trespassers Will Be Shot' signs. Only you backed it up by somehow destroying three Soviet lunar probes. One of them, Selenos 4, managed to return to earth, where it orbited for eighteen months before control was reestablished. Soviet space engineers attempted to bring it down in the steppes of Kazakhstan, but the craft was damaged and it fell near Cuba instead.

  "Under the guise of a treasure hunt, you sent Raymond LeBaron to find it before the Russians. Telltale marks of damage inflicted by your colonists had to be obliterated. But the Cubans beat you both to the downed craft and retrieved it. You weren't aware of that until now, and the Russians still don't know.

  Unless. . ."

  The President hung on the word. "Unless Raymond LeBaron has spilled his knowledge of the Jersey Colony under torture. I have it on good authority he was captured by the Cubans and turned over to Soviet military intelligence, the GRU."

  "Raymond won't talk," Hudson said wrathfully.

  "He may not have to," the President replied. "A few hours ago intelligence analysts, whom I asked to reexamine Soviet space signals received during Selenos 4's reentry orbits, have discovered that its data on the lunar surface were transmitted to a ground tracking station on the island of Socotra, near Yemen.

  Do you comprehend the consequences, gentlemen?"

  "We comprehend what you're driving at." It was General Fisher who spoke, his voice reflective. "The Soviets may have visual proof of the Jersey Colony."