Текст книги "The Monster Wheel Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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"Under the circumstances, I guess we can probably get away with it just once. But I hope they won't consider it a black mark against our records."

"I hope they haven't sealed the door."

The loudspeaker brayed again, and its metallic voice was all around them. "Open level two," it barked. "They are making a break for surface passage Delta on level one."

"You guessed!" said Napoleon bitterly as they skidded to a stop at the doors, and found them immovable.

Illya shook his head and pulled something out of his pocket. "I think the time is past for subtlety," he said. "I'll blow it."

Napoleon fell back, shifting his attention to the hall behind him. He snapped the rifle's control over to semi-auto and pointed it down the corridor.

Seconds later a gray-helmeted head poked around the corner. The rifle spat flame, and the head disappeared. Part of the shoulder was still visible, however, and it fell to the floor. Napoleon hugged the wall, and pulled his stomach in as far as it would go.

A shot from a concealed marksman slapped into the door near him, and he pulled in a little further. Apparently they were only shooting wildly in hopes of connecting. He glanced at the impact spot and saw the remains of the bullet. It was only slightly damaged—a small hypodermic dart. That must be Alpha ammunition—probably some knockout juice. Not that it mattered much—if it connected, it might as well be a bullet as far as they were concerned. Better a bullet, in fact; with a slight wound he could keep going, but this would put him out of the fight entirely with only a scratch.

Illya called from behind him, "It's going! Down!" and he dropped flat, hands over his ears, feet towards the door, body limp.

The blast threw him a few feet and knocked all the wind out of him, and the concussion made his head ache—it was actually too loud to have been heard. At least it would discourage their attackers from coming around the corner for the next minute or two, and give them some head start up the tunnel.

Napoleon was on his feet again in a moment, and past the shattered ruin of the door a moment later with Illya hot behind him.

A faint glow of starlight scarcely warned them as they approached the end of the tunnel, but then there was a cool sea breeze on their faces, sloping lava under their feet, and a glittering sheet of stars across the whole sky above them. And then they were off, bounding downhill, careless of the uneven ground and treacherous rocks.

Finally the protective shade of the forest was around them, and they slowed, panting for breath.

"Okay, trusted guide, you got us out of there. Now can you find where we left the scuba gear?"

"No trouble, kemosabe," said Illya. "Follow me."

It wasn't quite that easy. In a matter of five minutes feet could be heard crashing through the brush after them, and their progress to the beach was impeded from time to time by the necessity of pulling into a small invisible ball under a bush while the unfriendly natives went stomping past.

Between guard platoons they were able to work their way gradually downhill towards the sound of the surf, and eventually the trees parted before them and black sand spread down to the curling breakers, foam white under the stars.

Illya held out a restraining hand. "Let's follow under the trees," he said. "They probably have infrareds."

Napoleon nodded. "I knew there was something important we left home."

"Next time we'll remember. You can carry it instead of that rocket pistol."

They started down along the beach, paying attention to the woods on their right.

The stars near the eastern horizon were dimmer against a soft gray sky than they had been against the bottomless velvet of night when Illya stopped and pointed. "Over there somewhere," he said.

Flame spat out of the darkness of the trees, and a bullet snapped the air between them. They were flat on the ground by the time the sound reached them. Illya wriggled across the distance between them and whispered, "I was about to say, our gear is stowed over there."

"About where the other end of the target range is located?"

"Just about."

Napoleon sighed, and fished out his U.N.C.L.E. Special. "Now I know why they taught us to put these things together in the dark. Let's see—shoulder stock...silencer...flash shield.... The telescopic sight won't do any good here; I can't see him anyway. There we are." He rested his assembled weapon on his forearm, and directed it towards the trees. After a few seconds he said, "Come on, fella—shoot again so I'll know where you are."

But he didn't. Half a minute passed.

"Maybe he changed his mind," said Napoleon, consideringly. "Illya, old man, why don't you stand up and see?"

"If it's all the same to you," said his partner, "I'd rather wait as close to the ground as I can. Would it be all right if I just waved something?"

"Fine, but don't just lie there. My hand's getting tired."

It was another half minute before he heard an answer. "Here's a piece of driftwood with my shirt over it. Ready?"

"Any time you are."

Illya raised the stick cautiously. A rifle cracked in the brush and the shirt jumped. The U.N.C.L.E. Special coughed twice, and a listening silence returned to the jungle beach. The two intruders joined it in listening, and heard nothing. After a bit Illya raised the shirt again, and drew no response.

"Either you got him, and he'll be no further trouble, or you missed him and he's waiting for us to expose ourselves," said Illya helpfully.

"Okay—let's go see."

Napoleon gathered his feet under him, took a deep breath, and broke for the trees. He ran zig-zag, in a half-crouch, his automatic ready in his fist. No fire came at him, and then he was flat on the ground again, under cover. A few seconds later Illya joined him.

Together they crept cautiously through the sparse growth towards the spot where they had left their cache. Illya recognized the tree, and Napoleon spotted the gray-uniformed body lying a few feet away.

"Another point for our side," he said, checking the Thrush over and clipping off an insignia. Section Three was always interested in details of Thrush uniforms.

Meanwhile, Illya was poking his stick into the soft earth, looking for their bundle. He found it quickly, and was brushing the dirt and loam off it when his partner returned.

The two slipped into the wet-suits and scuba gear quickly, and sealed their automatics back in the rubber pouches which would protect them from the highly corrosive sea water and the pressures at one hundred feet.

Then they were ready. Illya flipped on his pocket transceiver and sent the simply coded signal which would turn on the lights in their minisub, then tucked the silver cylinder in his pouch and sealed it. Then they headed into the surf.

Napoleon had set his mask over his face and taken the mouthpiece in his teeth when a spout of silver spray shot up a foot from him. Illya surface-dived in four feet of water and caught an out-going wave. Solo was right behind him.

Legs straight, kicking from the hips, the two men drove for deeper water. Somewhere out and down there was their only passage home. Solo had a wrist compass built into his suit, and by it he steered them through the inky water on a course due east. The depth gauge beside it crept downward—sixty feet...seventy feet...They hugged the coral-crusted bottom and squinted ahead for the lights of the sub.

Something bubbled faintly behind them, and he turned his head. A green glow filtered down along the slanting bottom, weaving as it approached. Napoleon snapped his fingers twice, and the muffled clicks caught his partner's attention. He gestured with his light, and saw Illya react as he saw the signs of their pursuers.

Napoleon directed his light at his free hand and began finger-spelling. Go to sub. Wait five minutes. Illya nodded and swam off down the slope again. In a moment he was lost in the darkness.

Napoleon snapped off the light and wriggled around, opening the zipper on the front of his suit and letting the sea water flow in around him, and found the lump tucked in his waistband. His secret weapon. He hadn't had a chance yet to use it with his unbelieving partner as witness, and it was a little frustrating. But the job came first, especially if it was a question of survival. Illya had the pictures, and he had the rocket pistol. And now was the time to use it.

He relaxed consciously, and slowed his breathing. No sense making a lot of bubbles that would attract the enemy's attention before it was inevitable, if indeed it was. The rocket pistol made very little flash underwater, and the direction of its bubble-exhaust would be practically impossible to trace under these conditions.

As the light approached, its green color grew more yellow and he could begin to see three swimming figures against and about it. He lay very still, holding to a clump of coral and steadying himself.

They were about thirty feet away as he pulled the cocking lever forward and down and raised the pistol.

The first shot made quite a roar for something so small. It sounded something like a torpedo being launched, as it was; and it had a similar effect on one of the swimmers—he stopped swimming and began thrashing about.

If he had started bleeding immediately, his associates might have got an idea of what was happening. But the one with the light directed it at the bottom, scanning for a stingray or sea urchin which might have given the victim a dangerous sting. And while he was looking, he too was stung.

The light, released from his grip, drifted slowly down to rest on a branch of coral. The third Thrush looked about wildly, and saw a dark cloud beginning to ooze from the small tear in the suit of his friend. He couldn't have guessed what was attacking them, but he knew enough to head for the surface.

As the range opened, Napoleon's next two shots tore the water on either side of the fleeing diver, and his third was spent before reaching him. It was a split-second decision whether to follow him and prevent his alarm from getting to the land.

His knowledge of the abilities of their minisub made his decision for him. If they had scuba guards ready, Thrush must have reasoned that underwater would have been the only possible access to this island. Therefore, they would have a full-sized submarine which would probably be prowling the off-shore waters within minutes, whether their frogmen came back or not. And the U.N.C.L.E. sub could probably swim faster, diver deeper, stay down longer, and come up drier than anything Thrush could muster on such short notice. With his other hand he let the hammer-lever up gently.

He retrieved the dropped underwater light, and started back down the long slope into darkness.

It was less than a minute before the lights of the minisub began to be visible ahead of him. He extinguished the light he carried, and swam directly to the porthole and looked in.

There was Illya, lounging in the pilot's seat, feet up on the control panel, looking at his wristwatch. Napoleon tapped on the glass, and waved. Illya looked up and gestured over his shoulder towards the hatch. Napoleon nodded and swam up around the bulge of the hull to where the circle of white marked the entrance to the airlock.

Fifteen seconds later he was inside, and with practiced touch hit the buttons sealing the hatch and starting the electromagnetic pumps that replaced the sea water with air. He'd only been underwater some six or seven minutes—surface pressure would be safe for him.

Illya was still in the same position as Solo came out of the lock into the control sphere, but he spoke as the dripping suit slipped to the floor. "Steam is up, Captain. Fasten your seat belts and we'll be off."

"Excellent," said Napoleon, climbing into his contour couch and hooking the nylon straps about himself. "Head for home, James—it's been a long, tiring night!"

Section IV: "Is There No Way Of Stopping It?"

Chapter 13: "The Highest Con In The History Of The World."

Alexander Waverly leaned back in his chair and stared at the smoke rising from the other end of his pipe. He nodded slowly, as if considering something he didn't like. After some time he spoke, and his voice was tired.

"Of course it had to be Thrush. But none of our sources indicated they had any actual space potential beyond orbiting small single units. Something this large..."

A pneumatic tube coughed near his elbow and he reached for the message cylinder. A sheet of yellow paper was rolled up inside it. He unrolled it in silence and gave it a glance which committed every word to memory. He leaned forward and handed it across to Napoleon Solo.

"Report from Section Five," he said. "Complete analysis of that scrap of material you brought back with you."

Napoleon looked over the paper, and Illya read over his shoulder. "Hundred and fifty pounds per cubic foot, very high reflectivity, low tensile strength .. ."

"Seems kind of flimsy to build a spacesuit out of," said Illya.

"That's what Section Five thinks," said his partner. "Too thin, too light. No radiation protection at all. And the backing is not one that could be laminated onto a sturdier spacesuit—wouldn't be practical."

He stared at the report for a while, then set it resignedly on the table. Finally he looked up at Waverly. "So we can't do anything to the Monster Wheel anyway," he said. "We know where the base is. There were enough plans and other materials lying about to prove the Monster Wheel was launched from there. We could simply let the government know what we've found, and have a flight of bombers level the island."

Waverly shook his head slowly, and his face was worn. "They wouldn't be able to." He leaned forward and rested both hands on the table. "There is absolutely no reason to destroy that base. They have done nothing legally or morally wrong. The Monster Wheel has made no aggressive moves, and there is no law in the world against launching a space station without a license." He smiled slightly. "I seem to be repeating this statement twice a day."

"Are the voice broadcasts continuing?"

"Yes—regularly. Nothing new in the material, though. The view is always wonderful, the radiation level is quite acceptable, the life support systems are functioning perfectly, no trouble with micrometeorites. Nothing about observations of ground installations in any countries; nothing about solar fluctuations; nothing about any astrophysical observations. In short, nothing at all of value to us. And they still refuse to acknowledge any ground transmissions."

Napoleon Solo thought, and looked at his partner as he did so. A bell was ringing insistently somewhere in the back of his brain, reminding him of something he had seen but not noticed during those few busy hours inside the Thrush base on Dauringa Island. No—it was something he hadn't seen, and had not missed...until now.

And an idea began to grow in his mind—an idea so unbelievable, so completely unthinkable that it just might actually be true. Before it was fully formed he spoke to Illya. His voice was low and even, but it shook just slightly.

"Illya," he said, "you got a good look at a lot of material while you were taking pictures. Did you see anything there remotely relating to life support systems—water recycling, atmospheric maintenance, waste disposal, food supplies and preparation, or the like?" He paused briefly, then without waiting for an answer he continued, "For that matter, did you see anything in your travels resembling any interior plan of that space station?"

Illya's brows drew together and his eyes darkened slowly. He considered for several seconds before he answered. "I...don't think so. There were plans of all types for rocket vehicles, and a few sketches of the Wheel, and a number of circuit diagrams...and that's all I can remember."

Napoleon nodded, and his heart began to pound a little faster. He faced his superior squarely, and a slightly mad smile began to appear as he addressed him. "Mr. Waverly, does Rameses still insist that the Monster Wheel is actually Egyptian property?"

Waverly looked closely at his best agent, and said, "You have an idea, Mr. Solo." It was not a question, but an acknowledgment. "Yes, your Egyptian friend, under full interrogation, played back for us the directions he was given when he was sent after—ah—that navigator."

"Schneider," said Illya.

"Yes. Herr Schneider," said Waverly. "His commander told him that the matter of this particular rocket launching was of the utmost importance to both their national security and their rightful place among the nations of the world." He turned to his desk and began to rummage in some papers. "The transcript of the interrogation has apparently been filed somewhere. Does your idea require it?"

Napoleon shook his head slowly, and stopped smiling. "No, it doesn't. The only thing that remains to be known is the present state of Egypt's national treasury."

"Easily found. What are you looking for?"

"A very large recent withdrawal."

Illya made a slight sound, and Waverly turned back from his desk to face Napoleon. He turned very slowly and deliberately, and when he had completed the turn he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward on them. Then he said, "Yesterday afternoon the African section reported that, from analysis of a number of rumors, they estimated a probability of eighty percent that a ship carrying a large but unspecified sum of gold bullion sailed from Port Said three days ago, destination unknown. The 'large but unspecified' was figured to be on the order of possibly one or two billion dollars."

"Billion?" said Illya softly.

"Billion," said Waverly.

The sort of reverent hush that always follows the mention of astronomically huge sums of money was broken by another cough of the pneumatic tube. This time its contents were handed to Illya.

"Section Five's reports on the circuit diagrams you photographed. Short-wave transmitters, receivers, frequency multipliers of various sorts.

"Nothing else?" asked the Russian. "No radar, no observation devices of any kind?"

"None."

"Well, Napoleon, what does this do to your theory?"

"Illya, it is positively necessary to it."

"Mr. Solo, perhaps you would like to expound your theory for our benefit. Frankly, I think I may be getting an idea of what you are driving at, and I must say I consider it to be highly improbable."

"But..."

"Its improbability is only outweighed," continued Waverly imperturbably, "by the greater improbability of Thrush actually being capable of building a real space station and selling it to Egypt."

"Wait," said Illya, a terrible idea dawning upon him. "That couldn't just be a balloon up there."

"Why," said Napoleon softly, "not?"

He went on: "Look. They simply could not have put up a real one. All our information says they didn't have the capability; there was no time to build it without being seen; there are no arrangements for any life support systems; and if Thrush had a real space station, they wouldn't sell it—they'd keep it! Now, when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Picture a balloon—like the Echo satellite, but shaped into a wheel the same way a Mickey Mouse balloon is made. It could have been launched in a single missile complete with a cylinder of compressed gas to inflate it to half a pound per square inch and a few hundred pounds of electronics gear." He was talking faster now as more pieces of the idea began falling into place.

"Even if they had the capability of constructing a full working space station, it couldn't have been put into orbit all at once. Lots of ships would have had to go back and forth from the surface to the construction orbit, and it would have taken time. It couldn't possibly have avoided observation before it was finished. But did anyone even see the shuttle ships the crew was supposed to have been sent up on?

"The radio signals—all they prove is that there's a transmitter of some kind up there. A powerful one, probably powered by solar cells. The receivers could be coupled to recording tape units which could play back anything through the transmitter. And anything could be sent up from earth on a tight beam with some kind of coded signal, to start the recorders. The signals we thought were telemetry could have been handled the same way. Nobody has to be there—nothing has to be there but a shiny shell that looks like a space station from a distance of a thousand miles, and something to make noises that sound like a space station. And that's all there really is!"

Waverly nodded. "And they sold it to Egypt, probably promising their own crews occupancy on receipt of payment in cash. And that payment is on its way at this very moment."

"And Egypt has paid an incredible amount of gold for a bright, shiny balloon," said Illya slowly. "It's a con game. It's actually all a confidence game."

"Yes," said Napoleon seriously. "The highest con in the history of the world. And what can we do about it?"

"If the Wheel cannot actually shoot back," said Illya, "it would be a simple matter to destroy it. There couldn't be any international recriminations—no nation has officially claimed it, and Egypt most certainly wouldn't once it was proved a fraud."

"There is only one flaw in that idea, Mr. Kuryakin," said Waverly. "This theory just might conceivably be wrong. And if we fired something at the Wheel, we would have about half an hour to contemplate the magnitude of our folly before thermonuclear missiles reduced selected portions of the United States of America to a seething mass of radioactive slag."

Napoleon sat silent. After a pause Waverly continued thoughtfully: "No, I am afraid our only hope is to try to convince the Egyptians somehow to withhold payment. This will leave Thrush out by a fairly large investment. They will probably attempt to use the Wheel to threaten for a while, but eventually it will prove a toothless tiger.

"But we must move quickly. If Thrush collects the money, two billion could be sufficient to enable them to put up a real space station, actually capable of doing everything the Monster Wheel claims. And that Wheel, gentlemen, would not be sold to any national power. With it Thrush could—dare I say it—rule the world.

"Your job will be to stop that shipment of gold. We can find its current position and get you to it—I leave to you the mechanical problems of hijacking the ship. Meanwhile I will be working through diplomatic channels with the Egyptian government to justify your—ah—emergency activities.

"Will you be rested up and ready to leave again tomorrow morning? Probably a small twin-jet would be the best transportation."

"I think we can manage it. Illya?"

"Of course. Long vacations leave me bored."

"Very good. I think we shall also ship Rameses home now, full of the information we have garnered and well primed with your theory, Mr. Solo. His report may help convince the government there of the wisdom of following the course of action we advise."

"But the Wheel itself?"

"I shall present your case to our own government. In their position, I don't feel I would take the chance, but it is possible some method may be devised to test the defenses of the Wheel without bringing fire from the heavens down upon our heads. If such can be managed, it would probably serve to sway the Egyptian government where nothing else would."

"In the meantime?"

"We each have our jobs to do. Nothing can be done in the meantime except doing our best to shorten the meantime."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, and the Russian spoke first. "Well, I've never hijacked a shipload of gold before."

"When I was a boy," said Napoleon, "I wanted to be a pirate. And now here I am. Too bad we have to give it back afterwards...."

Chapter 14: "We'll Have To Ditch!"

The first answer came in before they left the next morning. Diplomatic communications with the Egyptian High Command had a net result of slightly less than zero—not only did they refuse to comment on the suggestion that the space station known as the Monster Wheel was of Egyptian origin, they were politely insulting about the very idea.

Waverly looked at the teletype flimsy he had been handed, and shook his head. Their sources within the governments of both the United States and Egypt would continue to work at getting the message through, but as long as the individuals responsible refused to admit their connection with the Wheel, they could not be approached with information as to its true nature.

He tossed the piece of yellow paper on his desk and reached for the intercom. "Is the airplane ready yet?"

"Fueling is almost completed, sir," came the answer. "Ready for takeoff in about twenty minutes."

"Very good. Put Mr. Solo on, please."

It was a minute or two before Napoleon answered. "Solo on, sir."

"Mr. Solo, it looks as if you will have your chance to play pirate. The Egyptian government has refused to look at our theories, and has denied hotly the existence of the ship you are being sent to stop."

"Well, if we pirate a nonexistent ship, we can't very well be hanged in chains, can we?"

"Your gibbets will be as unreal as the ship, Mr. Solo—no more so. You will be expected to exercise due care in your actions, and attempt to avoid the possibility of legal prosecution, which could reflect badly on both your government and your employer.

"The target ship has been located for us—its predicted coördinates will be transmitted to you by secure teletype in a few minutes. Have you decided upon a plan of approach yet?"

"We'd thought of flying over them and threatening to drop a bomb on them if they didn't heave to and surrender. Then we thought of anti-aircraft guns and shifted over to using a submarine and threatening a torpedo if they didn't etcetera."

"Scarcely an original idea, Mr. Solo, but practical under most circumstances. Unfortunately, the target ship is an aircraft carrier of the Egyptian navy, and is equipped not only with anti-aircraft armament, but effective anti-submarine devices as well. I presume you have discarded your first two ideas?"

"If we hadn't before, we would now. But we came up with another old idea, which depends more on us personally than an open display of power would. It has the advantage that it is less likely to be answered with force. And we couldn't take on an aircraft carrier barehanded."

"It is a valuable attribute. Describe it."

"Well, the fact that the target is an aircraft carrier might affect the plan.... Hmm." There was silence on the other end of the circuit for a few seconds. "Yes, it does, but not much. How does this strike you, sir? We have a predated flight plan set up with NATO Air Control—you can arrange that—which takes us over the ship. Then..."

The windswept surface of the South Atlantic Ocean was a featureless blue forty thousand feet below the little twin-jet, and the sky was a lighter blue all about and above it. Only the quivering needles on the instrument panel indicated that the plane was actually moving at a fair fraction of the speed of sound. The two occupants of the pressurized cabin looked at each other and grinned.

The craft was equipped with only standard charts, and had no unusual electronic or navigational gear. Yet its passengers intended to find a single ship somewhere in the vast waste of water south of the Equator across sixty degrees of longitude—one twelfth of the surface of the earth.

The ship they were seeking had been spotted a day earlier, and they were not counting on the accuracy of their information to bring them together, with only an accurate compass and a chronometer. There are few radio beacons in this part of the world, and the seat of the pants has not been entirely supplanted by inertial guidance devices. But the course they were flying should cross the path of a certain officially nonexistent aircraft carrier shortly after 1600 GMT.

The whole plan they had devised back in New York hung on one single factor: the humanitarian instincts of the captain of that aircraft carrier. If he was coldly practical, they stood a good chance of never seeing land again. But if he had a shred of conscience and humanity, it could well be his downfall—and his country's salvation.

They would find out soon. Only some ten minutes separated their plane from the estimated position of their target. And it was time for the first step of the plan to go into effect. Napoleon nodded to his partner, who picked up the microphone of their air-to-ground radio, snapped the switch on the emergency channel, and began transmission.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday," he called. "Private aircraft Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig calling Mayday. Developing fuel leak, and we will have to ditch in about ten minutes. Are there any ships in the vicinity?"

There was no answer. According to the last reports before their takeoff, there would be no ships within four hundred miles of this point—with one exception. The receiver hummed the mindless music of the ether, and no answering voice came with offers of hope for the crippled plane.

Illya called again. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. Private aircraft Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig calling Mayday. We're losing fuel fast, and the engine may blow any minute. Is there anyone within range who can get help to us?"

This time there was an answer. It was faint, but it was clear, and it could only have come from one place. "Hello Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig," it said. "What is your position? Over."

"This is Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig. We're about twenty-one-thirty west, twelve degrees south. Who and where are you? Over."

"Correct your course to one-twenty and you should spot us in a minute or two. Can you steer? Can you glide? Over."

"Hello, life-saver. Yes, we can steer. Hydraulic system is still okay. Glide ratio is low, but we're at forty thousand feet. Coming about now to a course of one-twenty—one-two-zero—degrees."

During this conversation, Napoleon worked busily at the emergency lever which dumped the fuel in one of their tanks. The system would also allow a small amount of fuel to be squirted along the metal skin of the wing towards the port engine at the proper moment, giving the vivid impression of an engine fire.