Now, Levchenko thought, Castro was on the verge of cutting ties with Moscow and directing communism in the West. The Stealth hijacking, now exposed, could destroy him.

Levchenko stood to go to the communications room, then stopped when he remembered what else Castro had said. It all tied together for Levchenko. The Cuban president had lashed out vociferously against the United States, saying, "We can survive and overcome any challenge by the imperialist Americans, be it blockade, invasion, or full-fledged war. If the Yankee troops invade or try to occupy Cuba, we will be on our own, forgotten by our Soviet benefactors, but we will prevail."

Levchenko walked out of the office and headed toward the communications center. He replayed Castro's speech in his mind. The Cuban dictator, a fervent Stalin purist in Levchenko's estimation, was going to present some difficult problems.

The KGB director, developing a strategy to protect himself, entered the sophisticated message center. He walked to one of two direct lines to KGB headquarters, dismissed the communications officer brusquely, then sat down and lighted a cigarette before he initiated the voice-scrambled call.

Chapter Twenty

THE GENERAL ABELARDO ALVAREZ

The Soviet Foxtrot-class submarine, crewed by Cuban sailors and a KGB political officer, moved slowly through the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. The diesel-electric — powered attack submarine, quieter than her nuclear-powered counterparts, slipped through the water using freshly charged batteries.

Three and a half hours had passed since the General Abelardo Alvarez had submerged 280 kilometers northwest of Havana. The captain, Ricardo Esteban, had ascended to periscope depth twice during that time to receive messages informing him that President Castro had declared war on the United States.

The grizzled captain, three months from retirement, had been astounded. He had been thoroughly briefed about the war contingency but never dreamed it would happen. He told himself to remain calm, but he could not quell the thought that Castro must be senile, or crazy. The United States, the submarine skipper knew, could crush Cuba like an eggshell.

The KGB officer, a veteran submariner, showed little emotion when the message had been transmitted. Esteban, who privately had no desire to engage the Americans, knew that the Soviet political officer would label him a coward and traitor if he did not attack American targets of opportunity.

The General Abelardo Alvarez, freshly painted in dark gray, carried three Soviet-manufactured antiship torpedoes. The devastating weapons, fired from the bow tubes, had the power to sink an aircraft carrier. The reconditioned torpedoes, stowed aboard the Alvarez less than a month earlier, had replaced older, less powerful weapons.

Esteban, dripping with perspiration, hovered over the chart table. He was sure that the Soviet officer could sense his trepidation.

"Captain," the sonar operator said in a loud whisper, "I have a contact, bearing three-four-zero. Two propellers, turning at high speed."

Esteban turned white, glancing nervously at the KGB officer. "Right twenty degrees." The Alvarez, creeping along at two and a half knots, eased around to place the torpedo tubes on the unknown ship.

"The contact is big," the intent Cuban sonarman reported. "Very big, captain… wait — I have more propellers to the… a contact in front of the large ship."

The political officer, openly irritated, stepped forward to the sonar station. "Range, what's the goddamn range!"

The sonar operator hunkered down and pressed his earphones tightly to his head. "Twenty kilometers, possibly less, comrade."

"Stand by forward tubes," the Soviet officer ordered, aggressively taking command. "Come to periscope depth."

Esteban, openly embarrassed, shrugged his shoulders and retreated against the bulkhead.

The control room talker, apprehension in his eyes, turned to the Soviet officer. "Forward tubes ready to fire, comrade."

The KGB officer, ignoring the report, watched the depth gauge. "Bearing and distance," the Russian commanded in a harsh tone. "Give me bearing and distance at one-minute intervals."

"Three-three-seven," the perspiring sonarman reported, keeping his eyes forward. "Eighteen kilometers, comrade."

The tension in the control room mounted as the range of the contact closed. The Cuban sailors, who went to sea only three to four weeks a year, had never even fired a torpedo. The military budget did not allow firing weapons for training purposes.

The Alvarez, rigged for silent running, moved only fast enough to maintain depth control. The propeller, driven by the silent batteries, turned very slowly.

"Bearing three-three-five," the Cuban sonar specialist said in a hushed whisper. "Fourteen kilometers."

"Up periscope," the grim-faced Russian ordered.