Minutes later the car was set in gear and rolled into the dark waters between the wharves.
Manny led the way, followed by Pitt and four Cuban merchant seamen. They rushed up the boarding ramp to the main deck of the Amy Bigalow and split up. Pitt climbed the ladder topside while the rest dropped down a companionway to the engine room. The wheelhouse was dark, and Pitt left it that way. He spent the next half hour checking the ship's electronic controls and speaker system with a flashlight until he had every lever and switch firmly planted in his mind.
He picked up the ship's phone and rang the engine room. A full minute went by before Manny answered.
"What in the hell do you want?"
"Just checking in," said Pitt. "Ready when you are."
"You got a long wait, mister."
Before Pitt could reply, Clark stepped into the wheelhouse. "You talking to Manny?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Get him up here, now."
Pitt passed on Clark's brusque command, and received a barrage of four-letter words before ringing off.
Less than a minute later, Manny burst through the door reeking of sweat and oil. "Make it quick," he snapped to Clark. "I got a problem."
"Moe has it even worse."
"I already know. The engines have been shut down."
"Are yours in running shape?"
"Why wouldn't they be?"
"The Soviet crew took sledgehammers to every valve on the Ozero Zaysan," said Clark heavily. "Moe says it would take two weeks to make repairs."
"Jack will have to tow him out to sea with the tug," Pitt said flatly.
Manny spat through the wheelhouse door. "He'll never make it back in time to move the oil tanker. The Russians ain't blind. They'll catch on to the game soon as the sun comes up."
Clark nodded his head in slow understanding. "I fear he's right."
"Where do you stand?" Pitt asked Manny.
"If this tub had diesels, I could start her up in two hours. But she's got steam turbines."
"How much time do you need?"
Manny looked down at the deck, his mind running over the lengthy and complicated procedures. "We're starting with a dead plant. First thing we did was get the emergency diesel generator going and light off the burners in the furnace to heat the fuel oil. The lines have to be drained of condensation, the boilers fired up, and the auxiliaries put on line. Then wait for the steam pressure to rise enough to operate the turbines. We're looking at four hours-- providin' everything goes right."
"Four hours?" Clark felt dazed.
"Then the Any Bigalow can't clear the harbor before daylight," said Pitt.
"That wraps it." There was a tired certainty in Clark's voice.
"No, that doesn't wrap it," said Pitt firmly. "If we get even one ship past the harbor entrance we cut the death toll by a third."
"And we all die," added Clark. "There'll be no escape. Two hours ago I'd have given us a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. Not now, not when your old friend Velikov spots his monstrous plan steaming over the horizon. And lest we forget the Soviet colonel sitting on the bottom of the bay, he'll be missed before long and a regiment will come looking for him."
"And there's that captain of the security guards," said Manny. "He'll wise up damned quick when he catches hell for leaving his duty area without proper orders."
The thump of heavy diesel engines slowly amplified outside and a ship's bell gave off three muted rings.
Pitt peered through the bridge windows. "Jack's coming alongside with the tug."
He turned and faced the lights of the city. They reminded him of a vast jewelry box. He began to think of the multitude of children who went to bed looking forward to the holiday celebrations. He wondered how many of them would never wake up.
"There's still hope," he said at last. Quickly he outlined what he thought would be the best solution for reducing the devastation and saving most of Havana. When he finished, he looked from Manny to Clark. "Well, is it workable?"
"Workable?" Clark was numb. "Myself and three others holding off half the Cuban Army for three hours? It's downright homicidal."
"Manny?"
Manny stared at Pitt, trying to make something of the craggy face that was barely visible from the lights on the wharf. Why would an American throw away his life for people who would shoot him on sight? He knew he'd never find the answer in the darkened wheelhouse of the Amy Bigalow, and he shrugged in slow finality.
"We're wastin' time," he said as he turned and headed back to the ship's engine room.
<<69>>
The long black limousine eased to a quiet stop at the main gate of Castro's hunting lodge in the hills southeast of the city. One of the two flags mounted on the front bumper symbolized the Soviet Union and the other marked the passenger as a high-ranking military officer.
The visitors' house outside the fenced estate was the headquarters for Castro's elite bodyguard force. A man in a tailored uniform but showing no insignia walked slowly up to the car. He looked at the shadowed form of a big Soviet officer sitting in the darkness of the backseat and at the identification that was held out the window.
"Colonel General Kolchak. You do not have to prove yourself to me." He threw a wavelike salute. "Juan Fernandez, chief of Fidel's security."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"I'm a night owl," said Fernandez. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour?"
"A sudden emergency."
Fernandez waited for further elaboration, but none came. He began to feel uneasy. He knew that only a critical situation could bring the Soviets' highest-ranking military representative out at three-thirty in the morning. He wasn't sure how to deal with it.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but Fidel left strict orders not to be disturbed by anyone."
"I respect President Castro's wishes. However, it's Raul I must speak with. Please tell him I'm here on a matter of extreme urgency that must be dealt with face to face."
Fernandez mulled over the request for a moment and then nodded. "I'll phone up to the lodge and tell his aide you're on your way."
"Thank you."
Fernandez waved to an unseen man in the visitors' house and the electronically operated gate swung open. The limousine drove up a curving road that hugged the hills for about two miles. Finally, it pulled up in front of a large Spanish-style villa that overlooked a panorama of dark hills dotted by distant lights.
The driver's boot crunched on the gravel drive as he stepped around to the passenger's door. He did not open it but stood there for nearly five minutes, casually observing the guards that patrolled the grounds. At last, Raul Castro's chief of staff came yawning through the front door.
"Colonel General, what an unexpected pleasure," he said without enthusiasm. "Please come in. Raul is on his way down."
Without replying, the Soviet officer heaved his bulk from the car and followed the aide over a wide patio and into the foyer of the lodge. He held a handkerchief over his face and snorted into it. His driver came also, keeping a few steps behind. Castro's aide stood aside and gestured toward the trophy room. "Please make yourselves comfortable. I'll order some coffee."
Left alone, the two stood silently with their backs to the open doorway and stared at an army of boar heads mounted on the walls and the dozens of stuffed birds perched around the room.
Raul Castro soon entered in pajamas and silk paisley robe. He halted in midstride as his guests turned and faced him. His brows knitted together in surprise and curiosity.