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"Who is in command of our assault team?" asked Antonov.

  "Major Grigory Leuchenko. An expert on guerrilla warfare. The major won many victories against the rebels in Afghanistan. I can personally vouch for his qualities as a loyal and outstanding soldier."

  Antonov nodded thoughtfully. "A good choice, General. He should find the lunar surface little different from that of Afghanistan."

  "There is no question that Major Leuchenko will conduct a successful operation."

  "You forget the American astronauts, General," said Kornilov.

  "What about them?"

  "The photographs demonstrate they have weapons too. I pray they are not fanatics who will wage a strong fight to protect their facility."

  Yasenin smiled indulgently. "Pray, Sergei? Pray to whom? Certainly not to any God. He won't help the Americans once Leuchenko and his men begin their attack. The outcome is a foregone conclusion. Scientists cannot stand up against professional soldiers trained to kill."

  "Do not underrate them. That's all I have to say."

  "Enough!" Antonov said loudly. "I'll hear no more of this defeatist talk. Major Leuchenko has the double advantage of surprise and superior weaponry. Less than sixty hours from now the first real battle for space will begin. And I do not expect the Soviet Union to lose it."

  In Moscow, Vladimir Polevoi sat at his desk in the KGB center on Dzerzhinski Square, reading a report from General Velikov. He did not glance up as Lyev Maisky strode into the room and sat down without an invitation. Maisky's face was common, blank and one-dimensional like his personality. He was Polevoi's deputy head of the First Chief Directorate, the foreign operations arm of the KGB. Maisky's relations with Polevoi were restrained, but they complemented each other.

  Finally, Polevoi's eyes bored through Maisky. "I'd like an explanation."

  "The LeBarons' presence was unforeseen," Maisky said tersely.

  "Mrs. LeBaron and her crew of treasure hunters, perhaps, but certainly not her husband. Why did Velikov take him from the Cubans?"

  "The general thought Raymond LeBaron might be a useful pawn in negotiations with the U.S. State Department after the Castros were removed."

  "His good intentions have made for a dangerous game," said Polevoi.

  "Velikov assures me that LeBaron is kept under strict security and fed false information."

  "Still, there is always a small chance LeBaron might discover the true function of Cayo Santa Maria."

  "Then he would simply be erased."

  "And Jessie LeBaron?"

  "My personal thoughts are that she and her friends will prove useful dupes in laying the blame for our projected disaster on the CIA's doorstep."

  "Has Velikov or our resident agents in Washington uncovered any plans by American intelligence to infiltrate the island?"

  "Negative," Maisky answered. "A check on the blimp's crew showed none have current ties with the CIA or the military."

  "I want no screw-ups," said Polevoi firmly. "We're too close to success. You pass my words on to Velikov."

  "He shall be instructed."

  There was a knock on the door and Polevoi's secretary entered. Without a word she handed him a paper and left the room.

  Sudden anger reddened Polevoi's face. "Damn! Speak of a threat, and it becomes a reality."

  "Sir?"

  "A priority signal from Velikov. One of the prisoners has escaped."

  Maisky made a nervous movement with his hands. "It is impossible. There are no boats on Cayo Santa Maria, and if he is foolish enough to swim, he'll either drown or be eaten by sharks. Whoever it is won't get far."

  "His name is Dirk Pitt, and according to Velikov he's the most dangerous of the lot."

  "Dangerous or not--"

  Polevoi waved him to silence and began pacing the carpet, his face reflecting deep agitation. "We cannot afford the unexpected. The deadline for our Cuban adventure must be moved up a week."

  Maisky shook his head in disagreement. "The ships would never reach Havana in time. Also, we can't change the dates of the celebration. Fidel and every high-ranking member of his government will be on hand for the speechmaking. The wheels of the explosion are set in motion. Nothing can be done to alter the timing. Rum and Cola must either be called off or continue as scheduled."

  Polevoi clasped and unclasped his hands in an agony of indecision. "Rum and Cola, a stupid name for an operation of such magnitude."

  "Another reason to push on. Our disinformation program has already begun spreading rumors of a CIA plot to launch devastation in Cuba. The phrase `Rum and Cola' is patently American. No foreign government would suspect it as being hatched in Moscow."

  Polevoi shrugged in assent. "Very well, but I don't want to think about the consequences if this Pitt fellow by some miracle survives and makes it back to the United States."

  "He is already dead," Maisky announced boldly. "I am sure of it."

  <<38>>

  The President leaned into Daniel Fawcett's office and waved. "Don't get up. Just wanted you to know I'm going upstairs for a quiet lunch with my wife."

  "Don't forget we have a meeting with the intelligence chiefs and Doug Oates in forty-five minutes," Fawcett reminded him.

  "I promise to be on time."

  The President turned and took the elevator to his living quarters on the second floor of the White House. Ira Hagen was waiting for him in the Lincoln suite.

  "You look tired, Ira."

  Hagen smiled. "I'm behind on my sack time."

  "How do we stand?"

  "I've accounted for the identities of all nine members of the `inner core.' Seven are pinpointed. Only Leonard Hudson and Gunnar Eriksen remain outside the net."

  "You haven't picked up their trail from the shopping center?"

  Hagen hesitated. "Nothing that panned out."

  "The Soviet moon station was launched eight hours ago," said the President. "I can't delay any longer. Orders will go out this afternoon to round up as many of the `inner core' as we can."

  "Army or FBI?"

  "Neither. An old buddy in the Marine Corps has the honors. I've already supplied him with your list of names and locations." The President paused and stared at Hagen. "You said you accounted for the identities of all nine men, Ira, but your report only gave eight names.

  Hagen seemed reluctant, but he reached inside his coat and withdrew a sheet of folded paper. "I was saving the last man until I could be absolutely certain. A voice analyzer confirmed my suspicions."

  The President took the paper from Hagen's hand, unfolded it, and read the single hand-printed name. He removed his glasses and wearily wiped the lenses as if he didn't trust his eyes. Then he slipped the paper into his pocket.

  "I suppose I knew all along but couldn't bring myself to believe his complicity."

  "Do not judge harshly, Vince. These men are patriots, not traitors. Their only crime is silence. Take the case of Hudson and Eriksen. Pretending to be dead all these years. Think of the agony that must have caused their friends and families. The nation can never compensate them for their sacrifices or fully comprehend the rewards of their accomplishment."

  "Are you lecturing me, Ira?"

  "Yes, sir, I am."

  The President suddenly became aware of Hagen's inner struggle. He understood that his friend's heart wasn't in the final confrontation. Hagen's loyalty was balanced on a razor's edge.

  "You're holding out on me, Ira."

  "I won't lie to you, Vince."

  "You know where Hudson and Eriksen are hiding."

  "Let's say I have a damned solid hunch."

  "Can I trust you to bring them in?"

  "Yes."

  "You're a good scout, Ira."

  "Where do you want them delivered, and when?"

  "Camp David," the President replied. "Eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

  "We'll be there."

  "I can't include you, Ira."

  "The decent thing to do on your part, Vince. Call it a repayment of sorts. You owe it
to me to be in on the finish."

  The President considered that. "You're right. It's the very least I can do."

  Martin Brogan, director of the CIA, Sam Emmett of the FBI, and Secretary of State Douglas Oates came to their feet as the President entered the conference room with Dan Fawcett on his heels.

  "Please be seated, gentlemen," the President said, smiling.

  There were a few minutes of small talk until Alan Mercier, the national security adviser, entered. "Sorry for being late," he said, quickly sliding into a chair. "I haven't even had time to think of a good excuse."

  "An honest man," Brogan said, laughing. "How disgusting."

  The President poised a pen above a note pad. "Where do we stand on the Cuban pact?" he asked, looking at Oates.

  "Until we can open a secret dialogue with Castro, it's pretty much on the back burner."

  "Is there a remote possibility Jessie LeBaron might have gotten through with our latest reply?"

  Brogan shook his head. "I feel it's very doubtful she made contact. Our sources have had no word since the blimp was shot down. The consensus is she's dead."

  "Any word at all from the Castros?"

  "None."

  "What do you hear from the Kremlin?"

  "The internal struggle going on between Castro and Antonov is about to break out in the open," said Mercier. "Our people inside the Cuban war ministry say that Castro is going to pull his troops out of Afghanistan."

  "That clinches it," said Fawcett. "Antonov won't stand idle and allow that to happen."

  Emmett leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "It all goes back to four years ago when Castro begged off making even a token payment on the ten billion dollars owned to the Soviet Union on loans constantly `rolled over' since the nineteen-sixties. He painted himself into an economic corner and had to knuckle under when Antonov demanded he send troops to fight in Afghanistan. Not simply a few small companies, but nearly twenty thousand men."

  "What estimate does the CIA have of casualties?" asked the President, turning to Brogan.

  "Our figures show approximately sixteen hundred dead, two thousand wounded, and over five hundred missing."

  "Good lord, that's better than twenty percent."

  "Another reason the Cuban people detest the Russians," Brogan continued. "Castro is like a drowning man, sinking between a leaking rowboat whose crew is pointing a gun at him and a luxury yacht whose passengers are waving champagne bottles. If we throw him the rope, the crew in the Kremlin will blast him."

  "Actually, they're planning on blasting him anyway," Emmett added.

  "Do we have any idea how or when the assassination will take place?" asked the President.

  Brogan shifted in his chair uneasily. "Our sources have been unable to turn up a timetable."

  "Their security on the subject is as tight as anything I've ever seen," said Mercier. "Our computers have failed to decode any data from our space listening systems tuned to the operation. Only a few bits and pieces that fail to give us a concrete fix on their plans."

  "Do you know who is in charge of it?" the President persisted.

  "General Peter Velikov, GRU, considered something of a wizard at third-world government infiltration and manipulation. He was the architect of the Nigerian overthrow two years ago. Fortunately, the Marxist government he set up didn't last."

  "Is he operating out of Havana?"

  "He's secretive as hell," replied Brogan. "The perfect image of the man who isn't there. Velikov hasn't been seen in public in the past four years. We're dead certain he's directing the show from a hidden location."

  The President's eyes seemed to darken. "All we have here is vague theory that the Kremlin plans to assassinate Fidel and Raul Castro, fix the blame on us, then take over the government using Cuban stooges who receive their orders straight from Moscow. Come now, gentlemen, I can't act on what-ifs. I need facts."

  "It's a projection based on known facts," Brogan explained heavily. "We have the names of the Cubans who are on the Soviet payroll and waiting on the sidelines to assume power. Our information fully supports the Kremlin's intent to murder the Castros. The CIA makes the perfect scapegoat because the Cuban people have not forgotten the Bay of Pigs or the agency's fumbling plots to assassinate Fidel by the Mafia during the Kennedy administration. I assure you, Mr. President, I have given this every priority. Sixty agents on every level in and out of Cuba are concentrating on penetrating Velikov's wall of secrecy."

  "And yet we can't reach Castro for an open dialogue to help each other."

  "No, sir," said Oates. "He's resisting any contact through official channels."

  "Doesn't he realize his time may be running out?" asked the President.

  "He's wandering in a vacuum," Oates replied. "On one hand he feels secure in knowing the great mass of Cubans idolize him. Few national leaders can command the awe and affection he enjoys from his people. And yet on the other, he cannot fully comprehend the dead seriousness of the Soviet threat on his life and government."

  "So what you're telling me," said the President gravely, "is that unless we can make an intelligence breakthrough or get someone into Castro's hideout who can make him listen to reason, we can only sit back and watch Cuba sink under total Soviet domination."

  "Yes, Mr. President," said Brogan. "That is exactly what we're telling you."

  <<39>>

  Hagen was doing some browsing. He wandered through the mall of the shopping center, casually eyeing the merchandise in the stores. The smell of roasted peanuts reminded him that he was hungry. He stopped at a gaily painted wagon and bought a bag of roasted cashews.

  Resting his feet for a few minutes, Hagen sat on a couch in an appliance store and watched an entire wall of twenty television sets all tuned to the same channel. The pictures showed an hour-old rerun of the space shuttle Gettysburg as it lifted off from California. Over three hundred people had been launched into space since the shuttle's first flight in 1981, and except for the news media, nobody paid much attention anymore.

  Hagen wandered up and down, pausing to gawk through a large window at a disk jockey spinning records for a radio station that was located in the mall. He rubbed shoulders with the crowds of female shoppers, but he concentrated on the occasional man. Most seemed to be on their lunch break, probing the counters and racks, usually buying the first thing they saw, in contrast to the women, who preferred to keep searching in the forlorn hope they could find something better at a cheaper price.

  He spotted two men eating submarine sandwiches at a fast-food restaurant. They were not carrying any purchase bags, nor were they dressed like store clerks. They wore the same casual style as Dr. Mooney at the Pattenden Lab.

  Hagen followed them into a large department store. They took the escalator down to the basement, passed through the shopping area, and entered a rear hallway marked with a sign that read "Employees Only."

  A warning bell went off inside Hagen's head. He returned to a counter stacked with bed sheets, removed his coat, and stuck a pencil behind one ear. Then he waited until the clerk was busy with a customer before picking up a pile of sheets and heading back into the hallway.

  Three doors led to stock rooms, two to restrooms, and one was marked "Danger-High Voltage." He yanked open the latter door and rushed inside. A startled security guard sitting at a desk looked up. "Hey, you're not supposed to be--"

  That was as far as he got before Hagen threw the sheets in his face and judo-chopped him on the side of the neck. There were two security guards behind a second door, and Hagen put them both down in less than four seconds. He crouched and whipped around in anticipation of another threat.

  A hundred pairs of eyes stared at him in blank astonishment.

  Hagen was confronted by a room that seemed to stretch into infinity. From wall to wall it was filled with people, offices, computer and communications equipment. For a long second, he stood stunned by the vastness of it all. Then he took a step forward and grabbed a terrifi
ed secretary by the arms and lifted her out of a chair.

  "Leonard Hudson!" he snapped. "Where can I find him?"

  Fear shone from her eyes like twin spotlights. She tilted her head to the right. "Th-the office w-with the blue d-door," she stammered.

  "Thank you very much," he said with a broad smile.

  Hagen released the girl and walked swiftly through the hushed complex. His face was twisted with malevolence, as if daring anyone to stop him.

  No one made the slightest attempt. The growing crowd of people parted like the Red Sea as he passed down a main aisle.

  When he came to the blue door, Hagen stopped and turned around, surveying the brain trust and communications center of the Jersey Colony program. He had to admire Hudson. It was an imaginative cover. Excavated during the construction of the shopping center, it would have attracted little or no suspicion. The scientists, engineers, and secretaries could come and go amid the shoppers, and their cars simply melted into hundreds of others in the parking lot. The radio station was also a work of genius. Who would suspect they were transmitting and receiving messages from the moon while broadcasting Top 40 records to the surrounding college community.

  Hagen pushed inside the door and entered what seemed to be a studio control booth.

  Hudson and Eriksen sat with their backs to him, staring up at a large video monitor that reflected the face and shaven head of a man who stopped speaking in midsentence and then said, "Who is that man behind you?"

  Hudson made a cursory glance over his shoulder. "Hello, Ira." The voice mirrored the eyes. Hagen could almost hear the cracking of ice cubes. "I wondered when you'd show up."

  "Come in," said Eriksen in an equally frigid tone. "You're just in time to talk to our man on the moon."

  <<40>>

  Pitt had cleared Cuban waters and was well into the main shipping lane of the Bahama Channel. But his luck was running out. The only ships that came within sight failed to spot him. A large tanker flying the Panamanian flag steamed by no more than a mile away. He stood as high as he dared without tipping over the tub and waved his shirt, but his little vessel went unnoticed by the crew.