Текст книги "The Monster Wheel Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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The voice continued in the same language. Suzie looked puzzled. "That sounds like Italian," she said, "but I don't understand it."

"It's Esperanto," said Illya. "An artificial language—the best-known of many. It's spoken and understood all over the world."

"What's he saying?"

"He started by identifying himself as 'Space-Station One,' and this as the first report to Earth, saying the crew had arrived on the shuttle ships safely, and all systems there were functioning perfectly. Now he's talking about the view. He says they're crossing the dawn line over Nepal, and only the peaks of the Himalayas are touched with the sunlight, so they stand out like signal fires against the darkness that still lies in the valleys..."

Waverly touched another button and the voice stopped. "The Wheel has maintained voice transmission approximately two-thirds of the time since. It has all been recorded, and has been subjected to intensive analysis by Section Four. There has been no indication in any of the material of any specific national origin."

He leaned back and fumbled for his pipe. Napoleon, Illya and Suzie sat erect, staring at the projection of the Monster Wheel. Finally Napoleon spoke:

"Do you think the mysterious rocket launching site we're after could be involved in this problem too?"

"There's an ancient saying in my country," said Illya, "to the effect that when you have two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that will fit nowhere else, they may fit together."

"Ancient saying?"

"Comparatively ancient."

Waverly returned to the conversation, having completed his own project, which was now smoldering between his teeth. He took it out, and replaced it with a statement:

"That monstrous wheel represents possibly the greatest threat to the security of the entire world in history. Whoever controls it can control any spot on the surface of the planet except for a few thousand square miles at the poles. From such a stable platform, every major operation can be studied with relatively simple telescopes, and thermonuclear missiles can be placed with a maximum of accuracy and a minimal expenditure of energy. And as long as we don't know who controls it, we remain unable to strike back."

"Couldn't we send a missile up to the Wheel?" asked Suzie.

"They could track it and destroy it at their leisure—and destroy as well its launching site and the nation that launched it."

The two agents considered this for a while. Illya finally spoke: "That seems to leave us with only one choice."

Napoleon nodded. "Find their launching site."

"Exactly," said Waverly. He glanced at Suzie. "And I'm afraid I must insist you do it alone. I understand your personal involvement in this operation, Miss Danz, but this is a job for professional personnel." He turned back to the two men.

"Section Three has filed an interrogation report on your Egyptian trophy. He stood up quite well as far as we dared go with him—gave only his name and nationality, and insisted that his rights under international law were being violated. He was right, of course—they were. We confronted him with the photos we have of the Monster Wheel, though, and they seemed to catch him off balance.

Waverly paused to inspect his pipe, which seemed to have gone out. He took his time puffing its dormant embers back into life, and then spoke again. "He claimed it belonged to his own nation."

"To Egypt!" said three voices simultaneously.

"To Egypt. The interrogators pointed out to him that this was obviously ridiculous, but he continued to insist for a few exchanges, then suddenly shut up. He said if his government hadn't seen fit to announce it to the world, he would respect their judgment. And they could get nothing more out of him.

"Also, Mr. Schneider has recovered rather well from the drugs he was given in Australia. And we are now in possession of the coordinates of the mysterious island."

"Have we identified it?" asked Illya.

"Yes, we have. Few charts bother to list it, since it is tiny, uninhabited, has no natural fresh water, and is far off the main trade routes. It is a volcanic island, with a single peak at two thousand and some feet above sea level. The last reported activity of the volcano was in 1872. It is now officially considered extinct. The island itself is moderately jungled, and is roughly two miles from east to west, three miles north to south.

"A photo-reconnaissance aircraft has been ordered over the island—more than one would probably arouse the suspicions of anyone who might be there and equipped to observe it. The results of the mission will be in our hands by tomorrow afternoon, and a topographical map will be prepared for your use.

"Friday you will depart by jet to our branch office in Colombo, Ceylon, where you will board a special ship. You will be put over the side in a miniature submarine some two hundred miles from the island, and will proceed to infiltrate whatever operation may be centered there. Obtain as much information as you can regarding the nature and especially the source of supply for the operation, and get out again. You will then be picked up by the same ship at the spot you left it. All details beyond these will be left to your own discretions."

"Fine," said Napoleon crisply. "We'll want camouflage suits, some basic guerilla equipment and survival gear. Also two scuba outfits. And if at all possible, a map of underwater contours around the island. We'll want to sink the sub in fifty or a hundred feet of water, where it'll be safe while we're ashore."

"Section Five will get to work on the map tonight. Incidentally, you should plan to spend tomorrow down in the Research Department. Mr. Simpson will want to check you out on the new submarine."

"That shouldn't be necessary, sir, unless it's a radical departure from the old one."

"It is. Top submerged speed of forty knots plus, depth capability in excess of five thousand feet, and totally noiseless."

"Five thousand feet? Why weren't we using that on the H-bomb that got lost off Spain last spring?"

"Too much publicity attendant, and the fact that it was still in the final stages of construction at the time. It has now been extensively tested, although this will be its first real use in the field."

"A top speed of forty knots, and completely noiseless?" asked Illya. "How is that accomplished?"

Waverly held up a patient hand. "These technical matters are outside my bailiwick," he said, "and it is past midnight. I suggest you take up your questions with Mr. Simpson tomorrow."

"Just one more question...."

"Yes?"

"The name of the island."

"Oh, of course. The only two charts it appears on call it Dauringa Island. No reason for the name—probably some obscure navigator who first sighted it."

"Dauringa Island," mused Napoleon. "A peaceful enough name. Palm trees waving in a gentle tropical breeze. But somehow I have the feeling it will not live up to the travel posters."

Illya nodded. "It may even look peaceful on the surface, Napoleon—but not deep down inside, where it really counts."

Section III: "Round And Round Went The Monster Wheel..."

Chapter 9: "This is Your Submarine—Keep It Clean."

The research and development section of U.N.C.L.E. in New York is in the very lowest level of the building, which extends nearly as far down into the solid bedrock of Manhattan Island as it does up into the polluted air. This level includes the target range, the main emergency generator plant, and the docks which open onto the river.

In the great echoing vault of the construction area, the lights hung far overhead and shed their cold light over half an acre of heavy machinery, machinists, and their products.

One product rested, fat and shining, in a cradle on the floor at one side of the room. It was a dull gray teardrop about fifteen feet through at its widest and some thirty feet long. At the center of the rounded end was a small porthole, with a ring of lights around it. All the surfaces were flush with the metal, leaving the curve unbroken. Here and there on the hull were small areas of different textures which could be recognized as transducers, as well as a number of screened openings and small access hatches. Just above the porthole was a large screened opening—an intake scoop of some kind.

About halfway from the fattest part to the rounded nose a ring of small openings girdled the entire object. And partway back towards the tapering tail, on the top, a three-foot circle showed where an access hatch was located. A ladder led up the side of the cradle to the hatch, which was closed.

Napoleon Solo stood at the nose of the thing, hands cupped around his face, peering through the porthole into the darkened interior. Illya stood behind him, with a thin dark man in a white lab smock, who was speaking.

"Some years ago, experiments were being made by medical researchers in the design of blood-pumps for a new design of artificial heart. They were interested in a pump that would not break down under years of constant use. In the course of their tests they discovered that a powerful enough electromagnetic field could affect the blood directly, and move it through tubes without the use of motors or impellers of any kind. Since sea water is electrically quite similar to blood, it was reasoned that the same electromagnetic flux could be used to move it. Stewart Way, of Westinghouse, developed the basic principle just this summer at Santa Barbara."

Napoleon took his face away from the porthole and wiped the fog of his breath off it with his sleeve. "So that's why the submarine is noiseless. No motor—no moving parts—just an electrical field to pump sea water. That means it's jet-propelled."

"Like a squid," said Illya. "It takes in sea water and squirts it out again."

"Exactly," said the inventor. "That is the reason for naming it the Squid. It is a prototype of what will someday be called the Squid class of submarines." He cleared his throat and smiled shyly. "More modest than calling it the Simpson class."

"Does it squirt ink too?" asked Napoleon.

"We thought that would be unnecessary. Most undersea combat is carried out by sound rather than by sight."

"Have you worked out a way of making it invisible to sonar, then?" asked Illya.

Simpson nodded. "More or less. The propulsion system itself does a great deal to help that."

Napoleon had wandered around to the pointed end of the submarine, and was looking around, slightly puzzled. "Where's the jet?" he asked. "This end looks solid to me."

"It is. The jets are up here," said the man in the lab coat, pointing to the ring around the nose of the teardrop.

Illya looked at them closely. "I thought those were maneuvering jets. They seem to point straight out to the sides."

"They do," said Simpson. "The electromagnetic impeller drives the water out through this ring at right angles to the direction of travel."

Napoleon wandered back in time to hear this, and held up his hand for a moment. "Right angles, huh? Then what makes the thing go forward?"

"It's called the Coanda effect. Don't ask me why it works—I'm an engineer, not a scientist."

"But you built it; you should understand it."

"I didn't exactly build it myself—an analogue computer designed the hull from the Coanda equations, the outer hull was built by the construction unit there, the inner pressure hull was built in France, the control systems were prepared by our electronics department, the power system came from General Atomics, and a specialist work crew put them all together here."

Napoleon pondered this for a moment, then finally asked, "But what do you have to do with the submarine, then?"

Simpson smiled and shrugged a little. "Well...I'm not sure. All I know is that they didn't build things like this before I came here."

"Oh," said Napoleon, nodding firmly as though he now understood the whole operation.

"Anyway," Simpson continued, "basically, the vortex flow created by the jet of water—or air; the design works on airplanes, too—follows the curve of the side. It goes around the bulge, and trails off towards the tail. The flow all comes together at the tip, and pushes the whole thing in the opposite direction. As it starts to move, the flow bends more backward, and the water that flows past is pulled in with the jets, adding to the volume of the flow."

Illya shook his head. "It seems that would waste a lot of the energy in turbulence. Wouldn't it be simpler and more efficient just to direct the flow out the rear in the traditional manner?"

"Simplicity is not always the same as efficiency. This particular design is roughly 65% more efficient than the same amount of energy directed out the stern. Dr. Coanda's equations indicate a theoretical limit of approximately twice the efficiency, but we don't have the double efficiency yet.

"Incidentally, because of the nature of the flow, there is very little turbulence. Instead of wasting energy as in cavitation, as most submarines do, the flow is directed around the vehicle and used for additional propulsive energy. The mass of water that you would ordinarily have to butt your way through is pulled aside by the Coanda jets.

"This gives you a shell of moving water, inside which your submarine floats. And because of the pressure differential in the flow, as long as you are moving, sonar will be refracted around you rather than bouncing off. You will, in effect, be invisible. Of course, when you slow down or stop, the pressures will equalize and you will reappear. Any more questions?"

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents looked up at the Coanda Squid. It rested in its cradle like a finless bomb, with the distant blue-white tubes of the overhead fluorescents casting distorted highlights on its bulging surface. Solo remembered something his partner had once said: "Personally, I believe color television to be impossible too. But since it does exist, I will act as if I believed in it."

He said so. Illya glanced at him, and smiled wryly. The last time he had said that they had been faced with another device, for which no published equations existed, and which was to be used against them—and the rest of the world—by their enemies. This submarine, on the other hand, did have sound, recognized scientific principles behind it. But then, so did color television.

"Napoleon," he said, "you have simply got to learn to move with the times. So many marvels are constantly being invented, you should learn to accept them."

"Illya, you know I just have a naturally inquisitive mind. Besides, I like to know how things work before I trust my life to them."

Illya nodded. "Let's take a look inside."

They ducked under the cradle, and opened the lower hatch. As they did so, Simpson pointed out the door hinge. "The bearing here is lubricated by the sea water itself," he said. "It reacts with the material to form a smooth film. The greater the pressure, the more efficient the lubrication. One at a time in the airlock, please. You may find it a little crowded with three in the pressure hull, but there will be enough room to see."

Napoleon followed him, and found a metal tube which appeared to run the whole height of the submarine, to the matching hatch on the top. There were hand grips along the sides, and partway up he found another hatch open on the forward side of the tube. He pulled himself up and through this, and found himself in one side of a sphere. The walls were lined with gear, with three bunks folded up against one side. A small partition shielded a chemical toilet, and next to the bunks a tiny sink and an electric stove made a compact but efficient galley.

Two control seats, contoured and equipped with safety harnesses, bracketed the inner orifice of the porthole. Both panel layouts seemed identical, with sonar display screens, and matching controls. The sub was apparently maneuvered like an airplane—the wheels and pedals looked the same, and Napoleon recognized rate-of-climb, turn-and-bank, and similar aerial indicators.

Illya joined them, and after a quick look over the living facilities went straight to the control board. He fitted himself into the righthand seat and tried out the wheel, reached experimentally for the controls, and nodded satisfaction when he found them all comfortably within an arm radius.

Napoleon climbed up to the other seat, and found it a good fit. Simpson stood between them. "Is everything satisfactory?" he asked.

"So far," said Illya. "What's our cruising range, and how long is the oxygen supply?"

"Range of this model is only about a thousand miles. The tanks carry air for nine days for two people, six days for three. This is considering eight hours of sleeping per day, no smoking, and no prolonged violent exertion. You will, of course, be completely checked out on the control systems. Any questions before we start?"

"Yes," said Illya. "The bearings in the doors are lubricated only by sea water; the electromagnetic pumping system will work only on sea water. In other words, this would be useless in fresh water."

Simpson thought quite a while. "Well..." he said at last, "you're right. It will work perfectly only in one particular environment, even though it is a large environment. But in case of emergency, this gauge here"—he pointed—"reads the salinity of the water. Should it drop towards the red zone, you are coming into an area of fresh water, such as might be caused by the outflow of the mouth of a large river, or an undersea spring. It also trips a buzzer, which can be turned off by this button below the gauge, as warning. Until we develop some more radical departures, you will have to be content with this.

"Incidentally, should it become necessary, you do have small auxiliary motors to pump the water out the propulsion vents in a more conventional manner, but I'm afraid they do make a small amount of noise. Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"Ah—I notice the speed indicator has three sets of calibrations on it: knots, kilometers per hour, and miles per day. Why?"

"Well, I put knots there because this is, after all, a ship of sorts. Kilometers per hour is the international standard measure of speed. And I added miles per hour because that's what I think in. Also, this way you won't have to do conversions in your head."

"What about me?" asked Illya. "I'm Russian. For me you should have a speed meter calibrated in versts per hour."

Simpson shrugged. "It's only three cents more for an extra meter face, after all."

Illya grinned at Napoleon, who shared his little joke, and appreciated the technician's comeback. Without further comment, they went on to discuss the inertial guidance system, which handled most of the navigation for the Squid.

Their checkout occupied the rest of the day, including a break for lunch, which was prepared from the freeze-dried concentrates in the Squid's stores and cooked up on the electric stove. By the time the clock on the instrument panel read 2200 GMT, which Napoleon's electric wrist watch translated as 5:00 P.M. they had learned a good deal about the internal functioning of the sub.

The following day they took it out into the East River (which is actually a salt-water tidal estuary rather than a true fresh-water river, which would have interfered with the operation of the Squid) and with Simpson guiding them they cruised submerged through the murky waters of the Upper Bay, and then east past Coney Island and Rockaway Point. Both Napoleon and Illya spent a pleasurable afternoon handling the sub, and leaving and entering the airlock in scuba gear while submerged.

When they returned, wet and exhausted, to the secret harbor under U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters that evening, a message from Waverly awaited them.

After briefly refreshing themselves, they reported to the familiar office on the topmost level. Their superior looked up from his work to greet them and inquire about their progress. The necessary amenities disposed of, he continued, "Something new has come up on your current assignment. I have the tape somewhere around here of the latest broadcast from the Monster Wheel—but if you don't understand Esperanto I can tell you roughly what it said:

"First let me explain that there has recently been some discussion—on a very high level, of course, and terribly secret—of attempting to fire a missile at the Wheel. Sometime this morning, apparently, the Wheel began voice transmission again. Without addressing anyone in particular, it stated in so many words that any missile approaching with twenty kilometers would be considered hostile, and the nation that had launched it would be bombarded with thermonuclear devices from space."

He paused while his two top agents looked at each other, and raised two pairs of eyebrows slightly. Then he continued, a slight tone of annoyance creeping into his voice. "They concluded by saying that they had made no threats to any nation, and had broken no laws, but they would defend themselves if attacked. And of course as far as that goes they are correct. There's no law in the world against launching a space station without a license. Nor is there any that says you must identify your space stations. But every one of the governments represented by the United Network Command is biting its collective fingernails and urging me to do something about this menace in the sky."

He snorted and leaned back in his chair. "You understand my position. All I can do is make the situation clear to you, and urge your greatest efficiency and most careful work. And this is unnecessary, because you work at peak efficiency most of the time anyway. If you didn't, you wouldn't be in the positions you now occupy."

"Exactly," said Napoleon. "We'd be sitting behind a nice safe desk somewhere."

Waverly's face wrinkled into a wry smile. "There are times, Mr. Solo, when I would gladly trade this nice safe desk of mine for a good simple field assignment. Out there, at least, you are allowed to shoot back when you are attacked. Here there is no protection, and no retaliation." He shook his head. "But to return to the subject. I would like to accelerate the operation by a day, if possible. How would you feel about taking off for Ceylon tomorrow, instead of Friday? It will give you a day less to practice with the submarine, but Simpson's reports on your work have been most satisfactory. How do you feel?"

They nodded simultaneously, and Napoleon spoke. "If you have the aerial survey maps, and the underwater contour maps we'll need, we can take off any time."

"They are ready, and will be here in my office for you tomorrow morning. You can spend the day making your final preparations. The jet leaves Kennedy International at four P.M. It's not a regular commercial flight, but a cargo plane. The submarine will accompany you disguised as several automobiles."

"I suppose it's too late to make one change in the submarine," said Illya slowly. "Not a major one—more a design revision than anything else."

They looked at him questioningly.

"Gray is such a drab color. How much more appropriate if it could be painted yellow."

"Appropriate? And why yellow?"

"Oh, never mind," said Illya. "It was just an idea...."

Chapter 10: "Island Ho!"

After lunch the Captain conducted Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin below decks and unlocked the doors in the "D" hold. The harsh incandescents overhead cast black shadows and sharp highlights around the small chamber, and left a pool of inky blackness under the Squid, which hung in a double canvas sling a few feet above the floor.

The ship in which they had left Colombo some three days ago was a disreputable-looking freighter, flying the Liberian flag, but owned and operated, sometimes at a profit, by the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. It usually worked as a real freighter, but was maintained as a cover for a number of unusual operations, for which it was specially outfitted. "D" hold was only one of the many special features of the ship. Only her captain was privy to all the surprises contained by her hull, and his U.N.C.L.E. rank was not much lower than Solo's own.

Down in the damp darkness of the hold, the mini-sub swung gently in her canvas cradle, awaiting the kiss of the salt water that would bring her to life. Inside her dull gray body rested maps, supplies and equipment that would direct and sustain two valuable men for an indefinite period of time—underwater, and ashore in a hostile land.

The ship's engines were idling now, and the time had come for parting. Napoleon and Illya slipped through the hatch in the underside of the Squid, with a last look around at the dim interior of the hold—the smell of rust, the patches of moss on the walls, and the bearded captain standing near the door, awaiting their signal.

And then they were inside. The slight pressure change on his eardrums told Napoleon that the outer hatch had been sealed, and a moment later Illya's blond head appeared in the airlock.

"Welcome aboard, Captain Kuryakin," he said formally.

"Thank you, Captain Solo," said the Russian agent, as he slipped into his padded control seat and fastened the safety straps.

At the same time, Napoleon lifted a small microphone from a clip below the board, thumbed the button on the side, and said, "Hello, Mother Ship. Squid is ready to go."

A speaker next to the mike-slip hissed to life. "Hello, Squid. Your signal clear. All set." The lights outside the little sub blinked out, and a moment later, as Illya touched a button, their own headlights blazed to life. "'D' hold sealed," said the speaker. "Open 'er up."

Faintly through the double hull of the submarine Napoleon could hear a low rumble of heavy machinery. Leaning forward, his head next to Illya's, he peered out through their little porthole into the vast hollow of the hold.

The floor was bubbling up, blue and sparkling, beneath them. The deck plates were drawing back into the bulkheads, and the sea, carrying the hot equatorial afternoon sunlight around the bulk of the ship, surged up under their plastic craft. It stopped a few feet below the porthole, and the speaker hissed again.

"Pressure in 'D' hold equalized. Bleed air."

Smoothly now the level began to rise. Illya turned off their headlights again as a bright line of surface crawled upwards across the window, and the Squid began to quiver as the water took her weight. She rocked slightly as she floated free of the cradle sling, and meters sprang to life as Napoleon closed the switches that began the powerful electromotive forces driving sea water out through the Coanda ring. The two agents felt a gentle surge as the Squid slipped out of her sling, and Napoleon slid a lever slowly forward. Tanks of ballast began to flood, and the walls of the hold seemed to move upward around them. Then the hull of the ship was suddenly floating above them, and the blue-green light flooded into their pressure sphere. Napoleon thumbed the microphone button again.

"Squid away," he said. "We'll see you right here in a few days."

"A-Okay, Squid," said the metallic voice under the control panel. "Stay out of trouble, and write if you get work."

"So long, Mother Ship."

"Back to radio silence, now," said Illya to Napoleon, a tone of caution in his voice.

"Squid out," said Napoleon, and replaced the microphone.

On two of his display screens, a long oval blob indicated the freighter, already two hundred yards behind them and a hundred feet above. The Squid continued to sink, aiming for a cruising depth of a thousand feet. Soon the inside lights were switched on, as the illumination from outside dropped through the spectrum past blue and green and finally out of the visual range altogether.

They leveled off some two-tenths of a mile below the sparkling waves, secure in the knowledge of more than two miles between them and the bottom, and Illya set the course at 195˚. An automatic sonar watch would alert them if anything as large as themselves showed on their screens, or if an uncharted sea-mount should loom nearby. Napoleon leaned back for a nap. The chairs were comfortable, and they would probably have no place to sleep tonight.

"You ought to get some sleep too," he told Illya. "We have five hours to go before we come up on that island, and it's going to be a busy night."

"In a few minutes. You go ahead and I'll join you. I want to check our drift rate. The South Equatorial Current goes west at a knot and a half around here, and I don't want to miss our island by nine miles."

Napoleon woke up some time later to the smell of food. He looked first at his board, and saw they were still under way, at reduced speed, but the bottom was rising gradually. There was something showing on the edge of his scope, and he extended the range to its limits, regardless of lost definition.

Some ten miles ahead of them the bottom rose past their present depth and broke the surface over a space of two or three miles. He leaned back in his contour seat and declaimed in a properly nautical tone, "Island ho! Dead ahead at ten miles."

"You just noticed it?" asked Illya dryly. "We'll be grounding at the hundred-foot level in another twenty minutes. I thought we should have a bit of hot nourishing supper before we go ashore. Accommodations there are likely to be limited."

"A good thought. What have you whipped up in your modern all-electronic miracle kitchen?"

"I don't know. There's no name on the package—just a description of the contents in unappetizing technical terms. But it's well-balanced for a maximum of nutrition and a minimum of bulk, and it smells edible."

"That's all I ask. This salt air always gives me an appetite." Napoleon slipped out of his chair and accepted the tray Illya handed him.

They ate and drank, and filled their canteens from the fresh water supply. Then the depth alarm began to sound softly, and they returned to the control panels. In a few minutes a rocky bottom jagged with coral showed in their headlights, and the Squid settled gently to rest. A panel of switches were clicked over, and meters fell back against their stop pins as the electromagnetic fields collapsed and died.

A few fish swam idly past, attracted by the light. One or two paused to stare through the porthole at the strange exhibit within, then passed on like idle tourists at an aquarium.