The die was cast。 Manny raised power to the other engine and the twin screws thrashed the water。 The Amy Bigalow began to pick up speed。 Two knots became three。 Three became four。 She beat toward the channel below the lighthouse like a Clydesdale in a pulling contest。
They were forty minutes away from reaching home free。 But the warning was out and the unthinkable was yet to e。
Major Borchev dodged the burning embers that fell and hissed in the water。 Floating there under the pilings； he could hear the roar of automatic weapons fire and see the flames leap into the sky。 The dirty water between the docks felt tepid and reeked of dead fish and diesel oil。 He gagged and vomited up the foul backwash he had swallowed when the strange Cuban colonel shoved him over the side。
He swam for what seemed a mile before he found a ladder and climbed to the top of an abandoned pier。 He spat out the disgusting taste and jogged toward the burning convoy。
Blackened and smoldering bodies littered the dock。 The gunfire had stopped after Clark's few surviving men escaped in a small outboard boat。 Borchev walked cautiously through the carnage。 Except for two wounded men who had taken refuge behind a forklift； the rest were dead。 His entire detachment had been wiped out。
Half crazed with anger； Borchev staggered among the victims； searching； until he came upon the body of Clark。 He rolled the CIA agent over on his back and looked down into sightless eyes。
〃Who are you？〃 he demanded senselessly。 〃Who do you work for？〃
The answers had died with Clark。
Borchev took the limp body by the belt and dragged it to the edge of the pier。 Then he kicked it into the water。
〃See how you like it！〃 he shouted insanely。
Borchev wandered aimlessly amid the massacre for another ten minutes before he regained his balance。 He finally realized he had to report to Velikov。 The only transmitter had melted inside the lead truck； and he began to run around the waterfront； feverishly hunting for a telephone。
He found a sign on a building identifying a dockworkers' recreation room。 He lunged at the door and smashed it open with his shoulder。 He fumbled along the wall； found the light switch； and turned it on。 The room was furnished with old stained sofas。 There were checkerboards and dominoes and a small refrigerator。 Posters of Castro； Che Guevara haughtily smoking a cigar； and a somber Lenin stared down from one wall。
Borchev entered the office of a supervisor and snatched up the telephone on a desk。 He dialed several times without getting through。 Finally he raised the operator； cursing the retarded efficiency of the Cuban phone system。
The clouds above the eastern hills were beginning to glow orange and the sirens of the city's fire squads were converging on the waterfront when he was finally connected to the Soviet Embassy。
Captain Manuel Pinon stood on the bridge wing of the Russian…built Riga…class patrol frigate and steadied his binoculars。 He had been awakened by his first officer soon after the fighting and conflagration had broken out in the mercial dock area。 He could see little through the binoculars because his vessel was moored to the naval dock around a point just below the channel and his vision was blocked by buildings。
〃Shouldn't we investigate？〃 asked his first officer。
〃The police and fire crews can handle it；〃 answered Pinon。
〃Sounds like gunshots。〃
〃Probably a warehouse blaze that's ignited military supplies。 Better we stay clear of the fireboats。〃 He handed the glasses to the first officer。 〃Keep a watch on it。 I'm going back to bed。〃
Pinon was just about to enter his stateroom when his first officer came running up the passageway。
〃Sir； you'd better return to the bridge。 Two ships are attempting to leave the harbor。〃
〃Without clearance？〃
〃Yes； sir。〃
〃Could be they're moving to a new mooring。〃
The first officer shook his head。 〃Their heading is taking them into the main channel。〃
Pinon groaned。 〃The gods are against me getting any sleep。〃
The first officer grinned sardonically。 〃A good munist does not believe in gods。〃
〃Tell that to my white…haired mother。〃
On the bridge wing once again； Pinon yawned and peered through the early…morning haze。 Two ships under tow were about to enter the Entrada Channel for open seas。
〃What in hell〃 Pinon refocused the glasses。 〃Not a flag； not a navigation light showing； no lookouts on the bridge=
〃Nor do they respond to our radio signals requesting their intent。 Almost looks like they're trying to sneak out。〃
〃Counterrevolutionary scum trying to reach the United States；〃 Pinon growled。 〃Yes； that must be it。 Can't be anything else。〃
〃Shall I give the order to cast off and get under way？〃
〃Yes； immediately。 We'll e around across their bows and block their way。〃
Even as he spoke； the first officer's hand was reaching for the siren switch that whooped the crew to action stations。
Ten minutes later the thirty…year…old ship； retired by the Russian Navy after it had been replaced by a newer； modified class of frigate； drifted broadside across the channel。 Her four…inch guns turned and aimed almost point…blank at the rapidly approaching phantom vessels。
Pitt gazed at the blinking signal lamp on the frigate。 He was tempted to turn on the radio； but it was agreed upon from the beginning that the convoy would remain silent in case an alert port authority official or security post receiver happened to tune in on the same frequency。 Pitt's international Morse code was rusty； but he deciphered the message as 〃Stop immediately and identify。〃
He kept a sharp eye on the Pisto。 He was aware that any sudden evasive move would have to originate with Jack。 Pitt called down to the engine room and alerted Manny to the frigate blocking their course； but the brass telegraph pointers remained locked on Full Ahead。
They were so close now he could see the Cuban naval ensign standing stiffly in the offshore breeze。 The vanes on the signal lamp flipped up and down again。 〃Stop immediately or we will open fire。〃
Two men appeared on the stern of the Pisto and frantically began reeling out more cable。 At the same time the tug lost way； made a sharp turn to starboard； and heaved to。 Then Jack stepped out of the wheelhouse and hailed the frigate through a bullhorn。
〃Give way； you sea cow's ass。 Can't you see I have a tow？〃
Pinon ignored the insult。 He expected no less from a tug captain。 〃Your movement is unauthorized。 I am sending over a boarding party。〃
〃I'll be damned if I let any candy…ass Navy boy step foot on my ship。〃
〃You'll be dead if you don't；〃 Pinon replied in good humor。 He was uncertain now whether this was a mass escape attempt by dissidents； but the strange actions of the tug and unlit ships required an investigation。
He leaned over the bridge railing and ordered the ship's motor cutter and boarding crew to lower away。 When he turned back to face the unidentified convoy； he froze in horror。
Too late。 In the dusky light he had failed to see that the ship behind the tug was not a dead tow。 It was under way and boring down on the frigate at a good eight knots。 He stared dazedly for several seconds before his reeling mind took hold。
〃Full ahead！〃 he shrieked。 〃Guns fire！〃
His mand was followed by a deafening blast as shells streaked across the narrowing gap； tore into the bow and superstructure of the Amy Bigalow； and exploded in a burst of flame and shattered steel。 The port side of the wheelhouse seemed to melt away as if ripped open by a junkyard mangling machine。 Glass and debris felt like pellets out of a shotgun。 Pitt ducked and kept his grip on the wheel with a determination tied to blind stubbornness。 He was lucky to emerge with only a few cuts and a bruised thigh。
The second salvo blew away the chart room and sliced the forward mast in two。 The top half fell over the side and was dragged for a hundred feet before the cables parted and it floated clear。 The funnel was shattered and turned to scrap； and a shell burst inside the starboard anchor locker； scattering a cloud of salt…rusted links like shrapnel。
There would be no third salvo。
Pinon stood absolutely still； hands tightly clenched on the bridge rail。 He stared up at the menacing black bows of the Amy Bigalow as they rose ponderously over the frigate； his face white and his eyes sick with a certainty that his ship was about to die。
The frigate's screws beat the water in a frenzy； but they could not push her out of the way soon enough。 There was no question of the Amy Bigalow missing and no doubt as to Pitt's intentions。 He was pensating and cutting the angle toward the frigate's midsection。 Those of the crew who were topside and could see the approaching disaster gazed numb with horror before finally reacting and throwing themselves over the sides。
The Amy Bigalow's sixty…foot…high stem slashed through the frigate just forward of her rear turret； shredding the plates and penetrating the hull for nearly twenty feet。 Pinon's ship might have survived the collision and made shore before settling in the water； but with a ter