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  Cyclops

  ( Dirk Pitt - 8 )

  Clive Cussler

  A FATAL OCEAN TREASURE HUNT . . .

  A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ON A SECRET MISSION . . .

  AN INTERNATIONAL STANDOFF ON THE SURFACE OF THE MOON . . .

  When DIRK PITT® intercepts a rogue blimp on a deadly course, authorities find four dead men aboard. None of them, however, is the wealthy American financier who set out aboard the antique airship on an ocean treasure hunt in the Bermuda Triangle. He and his crew have disappeared, and the dead men are discovered to be Soviet cosmonauts. Meanwhile, the President of the United States is informed that a covert group of U.S. industrialists successfully placed a secret colony on the moon nearly three decades previously. Now, a Soviet mission is poised to land on the moon, and what they find there may lead to nuclear war. Threatened in space, the Russians are about to strike a savage blow in Cuba. From the cold ocean depths to a Cuban torture chamber to the CIA headquarters at Langley, Pitt is racing to defuse an international conspiracy that threatens to shatter the earth.

  From Publishers Weekly

  Written in the bestselling style of Pacific Vortex! and Deep Six, and with the indestructible Dirk Pitt as its hero, this latest Cussler suspense caper features, and ingeniously connects, a maverick American colony on the Moon, a fabulous sunken treasure sought by an unscrupulous, blimp-owning financier, and two cunningly devised Soviet schemes, one to steal U.S. space secrets, the other to replace Fidel Castro with a Kremlin puppet, no matter what the cost in human lives. The nonstop action involves murder and torture as well as superpower politicking, and Pitt extricates himself from one desperate situation after another, even finding time for a little romance. The writing is brittle, but the reader is not likely to worry about that in a story whose plot resembles a box of exploding fireworks and poses some interesting questions regarding both Cuba and the militarization of space.

  Cyclops (Dirk Pitt #8)

  by Clive Cussler

  PROLOGUE

  March 9, 1918

  Caribbean Sea

  The Cyclops had less than one hour to live. In forty-eight minutes she would become a mass tomb for her 309 passengers and crew-- a tragedy unforeseen and unheralded by ominous premonitions, mocked by an empty sea and a diamond-clear sky. Even the seagulls that had haunted her wake for the past week darted and soared in languid indifference, their keen instincts dulled by the mild weather.

  There was a slight breeze from the southeast that barely curled the American flag on her stern. At three-thirty in the morning, most of the off-duty crewmen and passengers were asleep. A few, unable to drift off under the oppressive heat of the trade winds, stood around on the upper deck, leaning over the railing and watching the ship's bow hiss and lift over the high rolling swells. The main surge of the sea seemed to be moving beneath the smooth surface, while massive forces were building in the depths below.

  Inside the Cyclops' wheelhouse, Lieutenant John Church stared vacantly through one of the large circular ports. He had the midnight to 4 A.M. dog watch, and it was all he could do to stay awake. He vaguely noticed the increasing height of the waves, but as long as they remained wide-spaced and their slopes gentle he saw no reason to reduce speed.

  Nudged by a friendly current, the heavily loaded collier was plodding along at only nine knots. Her machinery was badly in need of overhaul and even now she was steaming on just her port engine. Shortly after departing Rio de Janeiro, the starboard engine broke down and the chief engineer reported it could not be repaired until they reached port in Baltimore.

  Lieutenant Church had worked his way up through the ranks to commissioned officer. He was a thin, prematurely gray-haired man a few months shy of thirty. He had been assigned to many different ships and had sailed around the world four times. But the Cyclops was the strangest vessel he'd ever encountered during his twelve years in the Navy. This was his first voyage on the eight-year-old vessel and it was not without its odd events.

  Since leaving home port, a seaman who fell overboard was battered into pulp by the port propeller. Next came a collision with the cruiser Raleigh that caused minor damage to both ships. The brig was filled with five prisoners. One of them, convicted in the brutal murder of a shipmate, was being transported to the naval prison at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Outside the entrance to Rio Harbor, the ship came within a hair of running onto a reef, and when the executive officer accused the captain of endangering the ship by altering course, he was placed under arrest and confined to quarters. Finally, there was a malcontent crew, a problem-plagued starboard engine, and a captain who was drinking himself into oblivion. When Church summed up the luckless incidents, he felt as if he were standing watch over a disaster waiting to happen.

  His gloomy reverie was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. He turned and stiffened as the captain came through the door of the wheelhouse.

  Lieutenant Commander George Worley was a character straight out of Treasure Island. All that was missing was an eye patch and a pegleg. He was a bull of a man. His neck was almost nonexistent, his massive head seemed to erupt from his shoulders. The hands that hung at his sides were the largest Church had ever seen. They were as long and thick as a volume out of an encyclopedia. Never a stickler for Navy regulations, Worley's uniform aboard ship usually consisted of bedroom slippers, derby hat, and long john underwear. Church had never seen the captain in a dress uniform except when the Cyclops was in port and Worley went ashore on official business.

  With merely a grunt of a greeting, Worley walked over and rapped the barometer with a beefy knuckle. He studied the needle and nodded.

  "Not too bad," he said with a slight German accent. "Looks good for the next twenty-four hours. With luck it'll be a smooth sail, at least until we catch hell passing Cape Hatteras."

  "Every ship catches hell off Cape Hatteras," said Church flatly.

  Worley walked into the chart room and peered at the penciled line showing the Cyclops' course and approximate position.

  "Alter course five degrees north," he said as he returned to the wheelhouse. "We'll skirt the Great Bahama Bank."

  "We're already twenty miles west of the main channel," said Church.

  "I have my reasons for avoiding the shipping lanes," Worley responded gruffly.

  Church simply nodded at the helmsman, and the Cyclops came around. The slight alteration brought the swells running against her port bow and her motion changed. She began to roll heavily.

  "I don't much care for the look of the sea," said Church. "The waves are getting a bit steep."

  "Not uncommon in these waters," replied Worley. "We're nearing the area where the North Equatorial Current meets the Gulf Stream. I've seen the surface as flat as a desert dry lake, other times I've seen waves twenty feet high, nice easy rollers that slide under the keel."

  Church started to say something, but paused, listening. The sound of metal scraping against metal rasped through the wheelhouse. Worley acted as though he hadn't heard anything, but Church walked to the rear bulkhead and looked out over the long cargo deck of the Cyclops.

  She was a large ship for her day, with an overall length of 542 feet and a 65-foot beam. Built in Philadelphia in 1910, she operated with the Naval Auxiliary Service, Atlantic Fleet. Her seven cavernous holds could handle 10,500 tons of coal, but this trip she was carrying 11,000 tons of manganese. Her hull was settled deep in the water a good foot over her Plimsoll mark. To Church's mind the ship was dangerously overloaded.

  Staring astern, Church could see the twenty-four coaling derricks looming through the darkness, their giant clamshell buckets secured for rough weather. He could also make out something else.

  The deck amidships appeared to be lifting and dropping in unison with the swel
ls as they passed under the keel.

  "My God," he muttered, "the hull is bending with the sea."

  Worley didn't bother to look. "Nothing to concern yourself over, son. She's used to a little stress."

  "I've never seen a ship twist like this," Church persisted.

  Worley dropped into a large wicker chair he kept on the bridge and propped his feet on the binnacle. "Son, no need to worry about the old Cyclops. She'll be sailing the seas long after you and me are gone."

  Church's apprehension was not soothed by the captain's unconcern. If anything, his sense of foreboding deepened.

  After Church turned over the next watch to a fellow officer, he left the bridge and stopped by the radio room to have a cup of coffee with the operator on duty. Sparks, as every wireless man aboard every ship at sea was called, looked up as he entered.

  "Mornin', Lieutenant."

  "Any interesting news from nearby vessels?"

  Sparks lifted his headset from one ear. "Sorry?"

  Church repeated the question.

  "Only a couple of radiomen on a pair of merchant ships exchanging chess moves."

  "You should join in to avoid the monotony."

  "Checkers is my game," said Sparks.

  "How close are those two merchantmen?"

  "Their signals are pretty weak. . . probably a good hundred miles away."

  Church straddled a chair and leaned his arms and chin on the backrest. "Give them a call and ask what sort of sea they're encountering."

  Sparks gave a helpless shrug. "I can't."

  "Your transmitter acting up?"

  "She's fit as a sixteen-year-old Havana whore."

  "I don't understand."

  "Captain Worley's orders," answered Sparks. "When we left Rio, he called me to his quarters and said not to transmit any messages without his direct order before we dock in Baltimore."

  "He give a reason?"

  "No, sir."

  "Damned odd."

  "My hunch is it has something to do with that bigwig we took on as a passenger in Rio."

  "The consul general?"

  "I received my orders right after he came on board= Sparks broke off and pressed the headset to his ears. Then he began scribbling an incoming message on a pad of paper. After a few moments he turned, his face grim.

  "A distress signal."

  Church stood up. "What position?"

  "Twenty miles southeast of the Anguilla Cays."

  Church mentally calculated. "That puts them about fifty miles off our bow. What else?"

  "Name of vessel, Crogan Castle. Prow stove in. Superstructure heavily damaged. Taking on water. Require immediate assistance."

  "Prow stove in?" Church repeated in a puzzled tone. "From what?"

  "They didn't say, Lieutenant."

  Church started for the door. "I'll inform the captain. Tell the Crogan Castle we're coming at full steam."

  Sparks's face took on a pained look. "Please, sir, I can't."

  "Do it!" Church commanded. "I'll take full responsibility.'

  He turned and ran down the alleyway and up the ladder to the wheelhouse. Worley was still sitting in the wicker chair, swaying with the roll of the ship. His spectacles were dipped low on his nose and he was reading a dog-eared Liberty magazine.

  "Sparks has picked up an SOS," Church announced. "Less than fifty miles away. I ordered him to acknowledge the call and say we were altering course to assist."

  Worley's eyes went wide and he launched himself out of the chair and clutched a startled Church by the upper arms. "Are you crazy?" he roared. "Who in hell gave you the authority to countermand my orders?"

  Pain erupted in Church's arms. The viselike pressure from those huge hands felt as if it were squeezing his biceps into pulp. "Good God, Captain, we can't ignore another vessel in distress."

  "We damn well can if I say so!"

  Church was stunned at Worley's outburst. He could see the reddened, unfocused eyes and smell the breath reeking of whisky. "A basic rule of the sea," Church persisted. "We must render assistance."

  "Are they sinking?"

  "The message said `taking on water.' "

  Worley shoved Church away. "The hell you say. Let the bastards man the pumps until their ass is saved by any ship but the Cyclops."

  The helmsman and the duty officer looked on in amazed silence as Church and Worley faced each other with unblinking eyes, the atmosphere in the wheelhouse charged with tension. Any rift that was between them in the past weeks was hurled wide open.

  The duty officer made a move as if to intervene. Worley twisted his head and snarled, "Keep to your business and mind the helm."

  Church rubbed his bruised arms and glared at the captain. "I protest your refusal to respond to an SOS and I insist it be entered in the ship's log."

  "I warn you

  "I also wish it noted that you ordered the radio operator not to transmit."

  "You're out of bounds, mister." Worley spoke coldly, his lips compressed in a tight line, his face bathed in sweat. "Consider yourself under arrest and confined to quarters."

  "You arrest any more of your officers," Church snapped, his anger out of control, "and you'll have to run this jinx ship by yourself."

  Suddenly, before Worley could reply, the Cyclops lurched downward into a deep trough between the swells. From instinct, honed by years at sea, everyone in the wheelhouse automatically grabbed at the nearest secure object to keep his footing. The hull plates groaned under the stress and they could hear several cracking noises.

  "Mother of God," muttered the helmsman, his voice edged with panic.

  "Shut up!" Worley growled as the Cyclops righted herself. "She's seen worse seas than this."

  A sickening realization struck Church. "The Crogan Castle, the ship that sent the distress signal, said her prow was stove in and her superstructure damaged."

  Worley stared at him. "So what?"

  "Don't you see, she must have been struck by a giant, rogue wave."

  "You talk like a crazy man. Go to your cabin, mister. I don't want to see your face until we reach port."

  Church hesitated, his fists clenched. Then slowly his hands relaxed as he realized any further argument with Worley was a waste of breath. He turned without a word and left the wheelhouse.

  He stepped onto the deck and stared out over the bow. The sea appeared deceptively mild. The waves had diminished to ten feet and no water was coming over the deck. He made his way aft and saw that the steam lines that ran the winches and auxiliary equipment were scraping against the bulwarks as the ship rose and fell with the long, slow swells.

  Then Church went below and checked two of the ore holds, probing his flashlight at the heavy shorings and stanchions installed to keep the manganese cargo from shifting. They groaned and creaked under the stress, but they seemed firm and secure. He could not see any sign of trickling grit from the ship's motion.

  Still, he felt uneasy, and he was tired. It took all his willpower to keep from heading to the snug confines of his bunk and gratefully closing his eyes to the grim set of problems surrounding the ship. One more inspection tour down to the engine room to see if any water was reported rising in the bilges. A trip that proved negative, seeming to confirm Worley's faith in the Cyclops.

  As he was walking down a passageway toward the wardroom for a cup of coffee a cabin door opened and the American consul general to Brazil, Alfred Gottschalk, hesitated on the threshold, talking to someone inside. Church peered over Gottschalk's shoulder and saw the ship's doctor bent over a man lying in a bunk. The patient's face looked tired and yellow-skinned, a youngish face that belied the thick forest of white hair above. The eyes were open and reflected fear mingled with suffering and hardship, eyes that had seen too much. The scene was only one more strange element to be added to the voyage of the Cyclops.

  As officer of the deck before the ship departed Rio de Janeiro, Church had observed a motor caravan arrive on the dock. The consul general had stepped out of a chauff
eur-driven town car and directed the loading of his steamer trunks and suitcases. Then he looked up, taking in every detail of the Cyclops from her ungainly straight-up-and-down bow to the graceful curve of her champagne-glass stern. Despite his short, rotund, and almost comical frame, he radiated that indefinable air of someone accustomed to the upper rungs of authority. He wore his silver-yellow hair cropped excessively short, Prussian style. His narrow eyebrows very nearly matched his clipped moustache.

  The second vehicle in the caravan was an ambulance. Church watched as a figure on a stretcher was lifted out and carried on board, but he failed to discern any features because of heavy mosquito netting that covered the face. Though the person on the stretcher was obviously part of his entourage, Gottschalk took little notice, turning his attention instead to the chain-drive Mack truck that brought up the rear.

  He gazed anxiously as a large oblong crate was hoisted in the air by one of the ship's loading booms and swung into the forward cargo compartment. As if on cue, Worley appeared and personally supervised the battening down of the hatch. Then he greeted Gottschalk and escorted him to his quarters. Almost immediately, the mooring lines were cast off and the ship got under way and was heading out to sea through the harbor entrance.

  Gottschalk turned and noticed Church standing in the passageway. He stepped from the cabin and closed the door behind him, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Something I can help you with, Lieutenant. . ."

  "Church, sir. I was just finishing an inspection of the ship and heading for the wardroom for a cup of coffee. Would you care to join me?"

  A faint expression of relief passed over the consul general's face and he smiled. "Might as well. I can never sleep more than a few hours at a stretch. Drives my wife crazy."

  "She remain in Rio this trip?"

  "No, I sent her on ahead to our home in Maryland. I terminated my assignment in Brazil. I hope to spend the rest of my State Department service in Washington."

  Gottschalk appeared unduly nervous to Church. His eyes darted up and down the passageway, and he constantly dabbed a linen handkerchief at his small mouth. He took Church by the arm.