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"Who's leading them in?"
"One moment while I look up the name in yesterday's CIA report." Fawcett left the line for no more than thirty seconds before he returned. "The mission is being directed by Marine Colonel Ramon Kleist."
"I know the name. Kleist was a Congressional Medal of Honor winner."
"Here's something else."
"What?"
"Kleist's men are being guided by Dirk Pitt."
The President sighed almost sadly. "He's already given too much. Is his presence absolutely required?"
"It was Pitt or nobody," said Fawcett.
"Can they destroy the jamming center in time?"
"In all honesty, I'd have to say it's a toss-up."
"Tell Jess Simmons to stand by in the War Room," said the President solemnly. "If anything goes wrong, I fear the only alternative left for us to keep the Gettysburg and her valuable cargo out of Soviet hands is to shoot her down. Do you read me, Dan?"
"Yes, sir," Fawcett said, his face suddenly white. "I'll give him your message."
"All stop." Ordered Kleist. He rechecked the readings on the Navstar satellite instrument and tapped a pair of dividers on a flattened chart. "We're seven miles due east of Cayo Santa Maria. This is close as we dare move the SPUT."
Major Quintana, wearing mottled gray and black battle dress, stared at the yellow mark on the chart.
"Should take us about forty minutes to swing around to the south and land from the Cuban side."
"The wind is calm and the sea is only running at two feet. Another blessing is no moon. It's pitch black topside."
"Good as well as bad news," said Quintana heavily. "Makes us tough to spot, but we won't be able to see any wandering guards either. Our main problem, as I see it, is not having an exact fix on the compound. We could land miles from it."
Kleist turned and stared at a tall, commanding figure leaning against a bulkhead. He was dressed in the same night battle fatigues as Quintana. The piercing green eyes met Kleist's stare.
"You still can't pinpoint the location?"
Pitt straightened, smiled his congenial indifferent smile, and said simply, "No."
"You're not very encouraging," Quintana said nastily.
"Maybe, but at least I'm honest."
Kleist spoke with forbearance. "We regret, Mr. Pitt, that visual conditions were not ideal during your escape. But we'd be grateful if you were a bit more specific."
Pitt's smile faded. "Look, I landed in the middle of a hurricane and left in the middle of the night. Both events took place on the opposite side of the island from where we're supposed to land. I didn't measure distances, nor did I sprinkle breadcrumbs along my trail. The land was flat, no hills or streams for landmarks. Just palm trees, brush, and sand. The antenna was a half mile west of the village. The compound, a good mile beyond. Once we strike the road the compound will be to the left. That's the best I can offer."
Quintana gave a resigned nod. "Under the circumstances we can't ask for more than that."
A crewman dressed sloppily in cutaway jeans and T-shirt stepped through the hatchway into the control room. He silently handed a decoded communication to Kleist and left.
"Better not be a last-minute cancellation," Pitt said sharply.
"Far from it," Kleist muttered. "More like a new twist."
He studied the message a second time, a frown crossing his normally impassive face. He handed it to Quintana, who stared at the wording and then tightened his lips in annoyance before passing the paper to Pitt. It read:
