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"What was your impression of him?"
"He reads the Wall Street Journal."
"That all?"
"He speaks better English than I do. His nails are clean and trimmed. And if he's read half the books and magazines in his library he knows more about the United States and its taxpayers than half the politicians in Washington."
"You're probably the only Westerner running around loose who's ever seen him face to face."
"It was no treat, believe me."
Quintana thoughtfully scraped one toe in the sand. "Leaving such a vital installation so lightly guarded is an open invitation for infiltration."
"Not if Velikov knows you're coming," said Pitt.
"Okay, the Cuban radar network and the Russian spy satellites can spot every plane and boat within fifty miles. An air drop or a landing from the sea would be impossible. But an underwater approach could squeeze under their detection grids with ease." Quintana paused and grinned. "In your case the vessel was too tiny to show up on a radarscope."
"My inventory of oceangoing yachts was marginal," Pitt said lightly. Then he turned serious. "You've overlooked something."
"Overlooked what?"
"Velikov's brain. You said he was a shrewd operator. He didn't build a fortress bristling with landmines and concrete bunkers for one simple reason-- he didn't have to. You and Colonel Kleist are bleeding optimists if you think a submarine or your SPUD, or whatever you call it, can penetrate his security net."
Quintana's eyebrows narrowed. "Go on."
"Underwater sensors," explained Pitt. "Velikov must have ringed the island with sensors on the sea floor that can detect the movement of a submarine's hull against a water mass and the cavitation of its propellers."
"Our SPUT was designed to slip through such a system."
"Not if Velikov's marine engineers bunched the sensing units a hundred yards apart. Nothing but a school of fish could swim past. I saw the trucks in the compound's garage. With ten minutes' warning Velikov could put a security force on the beach that would slaughter your men before they stepped foot out of the surf. I suggest you and Kleist reprogram your electronic war games."
Quintana subsided into silence. His precisely conceived landing plan began to crack and shatter before his eyes. "Our computers should have thought of that," he said bitterly.
"They don't create what they're not taught," Pitt replied philosophically.
"You realize, of course, this means we have to scrub the mission. Without the element of surprise there isn't the slightest hope of destroying the installation and rescuing Mrs. LeBaron and the others."
"I disagree."
"You think you're smarter than our mission computers?"
"I escaped Cayo Santa Maria without detection. I can get your people in the same way."
"With a fleet of bathtubs?" Quintana said sarcastically.
"A more modern variation comes to mind."
Quintana looked at Pitt in deep speculation. "You've got an idea that might turn the trick?"
"I most certainly have."
"And still meet the timetable?"
"Yes.
"And succeed?"
"You feel safer if I underwrote an insurance policy?"
