Текст книги "The Monster Wheel Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Beyond and to the right, down a short, precipitous canyon, a small patch of beach could be seen, where lights were strung about with a carnival air. And out to sea the aircraft carrier was likewise illuminated—a floating island of light in the vast lonely darkness of the South Atlantic Ocean.

"Looks like a festival," said Illya.

"It is," said Napoleon. "The colorful natives of...what is this island, anyway?...are celebrating the arrival of the ship which bears all that their simple hearts could desire."

"Yes. Two billion dollars in gold."

"Well, that would be all my simple heart could desire."

"You have a point, Napoleon." He smiled slightly. "I wonder if the celebration will extend to drinking themselves into a stupor?"

"It would be handy," Solo agreed, "but knowing Thrush I'm inclined to doubt it. There are only certain specifically designated times when one may drink oneself into a stupor, and they do not include the moment when the biggest con game in the history of the world is in the process of paying off. But don't let it worry you—if the two of us can't take on a whole flock of Thrushes without getting them stinkered first, it's time we turned in our Hero badges and left the game."

"Now, Napoleon, I didn't say it was necessary, I just said it would be convenient. Besides, as long as our luck holds, we can slip in there, plant our little mementos, and slip out again. Then while Thrush is fluttering its feathers we sneak back aboard ship, take the Captain at gunpoint, tell him our whole story, and suggest he contact his headquarters."

"Very good, Illya. You remember the plan I outlined for you last night."

"Quite well. I also remember you didn't say anything about how we get back to the ship, how we capture the Captain, or how we convince him not to order us shot as soon as our gun hands get tired."

"Oh, we'll work that out when the time comes. I always like to leave myself room enough to play around with a plan to suit the situation. Flexibility is the key-word, my boy—flexibility."

"Spare me the lecture. We have some flexing to do right now. With only enough high-explosive here for a couple of those buildings, which ones do we hit?"

"Search me. Let's go take a look while the colorful natives are all down at the dock welcoming the tourists."

Illya shook his head. "Security," he said. "Shameful."

Apparently the natives were indeed all down at the docks. The two U.N.C.L.E. agents found themselves in the shadow of the big radome without so much as a sound from a guard. They had met one guard, but he had hardly had time to make any sound, except for a soft thump as his body hit the ground. And he seemed to have been alone. At any rate, they were here, and unchallenged.

They peered in the window of one of the side buildings, and saw the squatting, buzzing bulks of a pair of sturdy electrical generators, both in operation. A good target for destruction, if they could find no others—but it would be better to cost Thrush as much technical equipment as possible, and generators were easily replaced.

Then they came to the base of the bulging white dome, and to a window in its base construction. They peered in, and up.

A single unshielded light bulb cast a distorted shadow on the inside of the heavy fabric—an intricate shadow of the steel and wire gridwork of a gigantic directional antenna which at the moment was pointed almost directly overhead. But even as they watched it tilted ever so slowly towards the north, as slowly as the minute hand of a clock, or slower.

It took Napoleon a moment to realize what it as. "It's tracking the Monster Wheel," he whispered. "Probably sending up whatever the crew is supposed to be saying for the next eighteen hours."

Illya nodded. "And the whole world will be hearing it. What a shame it can't tell the world it is a hoax."

Napoleon looked at his partner, and a deep and satisfied smile began to spread slowly over his face. "Illya," he said, "you may just have something there. Let's check these other buildings."

One was filled with bunks, all presently unoccupied. But the next was full of ranks of electronic gear, most of it readily recognizable. It included three tape decks, two running at different speeds.

The door was locked, but not seriously; they were inside in a matter of moments. It was Illya who spotted an acetate-sheathed sheet of typing headed EMERGENCY BROADCAST PROCEDURES, but it was Napoleon who located the cabinet where a microphone waited.

"You know," he said, "this is even more fun than hijacking a shipload of gold."

"It may be for you," said the Russian, eyeing the microphone uneasily, "but personally I always get nervous with these things."

"This is not time to get mike fright. You'll have to broadcast in the languages I don't know. Look, I'll go on first, and all you have to do is translate what I say. Then we'll plant our bombs and get out of here."

He scanned the instruction sheet, and quickly made the necessary adjustments. Now it took only the flick of a switch and the touch of a button to replace the recorded voice now coming from the Monster Wheel with their own voices, admittedly coming from the Earth. He paused. "Say, did we ever figure out what island this is?"

Illya shook his head.

Napoleon shrugged. "Okay, I'll identify us as Dauringa Island, then. When Egypt discovers they've been conned, they may decide to use an officially uninhabited island for bombing practice, and I'd prefer it to be one I wasn't on."

He took a deep breath, flicked the switch and pushed the button. The voice coming out of the speaker stopped in the middle of a word, and as replaced by a whistle of feedback that grew rapidly in intensity until he found the knob to kill the monitor. Then he spoke, and saw the needle on the VU meter dancing across the dial.

"Hello, hello," he began tentatively. "This is Dauringa Island, calling the world. Dauringa Island, calling the world."

In a dimly lit room at Cape Kennedy, Alexander Waverly sat up in his chair and listened. An unpleasant electronic shriek had just come out of the speaker which was monitoring the transmission from the Monster Wheel, and then, after a moment's silence, it was replaced by a familiar voice.

"Hello," it said. "Hello. This is Dauringa Island, calling the world."

Waverly leaned back in his chair, and his face folded up on itself in his finest and deepest smile in three weeks. Solo had come through.

The voice continued: "The supposed space station called the Monster Wheel is a hoax. It is nothing more than a gigantic balloon with a radio inside, broadcasting threats which are as empty as itself. Soon it will be destroyed, as final disproof of its claims of strength. Those who were taken in by it are warned to be more careful in the future."

Alexander Waverly leaned back in his chair in the cool dimness of the blockhouse, and surrounded himself with a cloud of aromatic blue pipesmoke, as Illya's voice took over, repeated the message in Russian. Not only complete success in pricking the balloon of threats, but with timing that could not have been better arranged if every step had been centrally coordinated. Napoleon's voice returned in French, followed again by Illya, this time in Chinese. The flashing lights of the automatic sequencer display on the control console across the blockhouse were flashing off the last minute as Napoleon spoke in German and Illya's voice finished the final statement in the language affected by the Monster Wheel itself.

"... esti pli zorga estonte," he concluded, and the carrier wave continued its unmodulated hum for perhaps thirty seconds while the lighted numbers supplied the countdown. As they crossed zero, it simply ceased.

And it was as simple as that, as far as the world was concerned.

Somewhere in the star-crusted, black-floored vault a thousand miles above the night side of the Earth, a metal cylinder had flashed towards a slowly-turning wheel and exploded into a shower of steel shards, each of which continued moving, faster than a rifle bullet relative to the target.

In a fraction of a second, the thin fabric was a tattered rag. The small package of electronic equipment at the hub was punctured three times, and the solar power panels, inoperative in the Earth's shadow, were shattered to powder. A thin cloud of Argon gas puffed out invisibly, and began to disperse as the random motion of its atoms sent them in every direction towards the edges of the universe.

No human eye saw its ending. Only a few radar traces showed any change as the rigid wheel collapsed slightly and began to drift from its orbit as it absorbed a fraction of the kinetic energy of the shrapnel that had pierced it. And a few receiving sets noted the cessation of the signal from the ruined transmitter.

Napoleon and Illya were a few hundred feet above the Thrush island base in a stolen helicopter when the first of their time fuses completed its job and the radome blossomed out in a billow of yellow flame. Within seconds one of the adjoining buildings on the hilltop disappeared in a similar blast, silent for several seconds at their distance. Before the sound of the two explosions reached them they were able to see the light metal structure of the big antenna sagging and crumpling in raging flames as its protective umbrella floated earthward around it.

"Now," said Napoleon, "there will probably be a whole swarm of hornets raging over the island since we set fire to their nest. And obviously the only thing for us to do is go back to the ship."

"Try to sneak back into our comfortable cell and pretend we haven't been outside all evening?"

"I'm afraid not this late. Toujours l'audace, Illya. I think we should continue with our original plan."

"Well, as long as we're heading towards certain death, you won't mind if I check in at home."

"Not at all."

Alexander Waverly was startled slightly when his communications unit signaled him. Nothing less than a Code Seven call should reach him here. He answered, and heard a familiar cool voice murmur from the speaker.

"Agents Kuryakin and Solo reporting in, sir. The voice of the Wheel has been silenced, and we are on our way back to the ship for the gold. You may feel free to destroy the Wheel at your leisure."

The U.N.C.L.E. Chief felt a wave of relief wash over him—not only because he had been saved the time and expense of training two new top agents. But there was no emotion in his voice as he said, "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin. The Wheel has already been destroyed, for that matter, shortly after you gentlemen completed your lecture. If you had been a few minutes later in your broadcast, it would have passed entirely unheard. Will you need any help in securing the ship?"

"Despite my partner's characteristic confidence, sir," came the voice from the far South Atlantic, "I feel some help could definitely be useful. If you could attempt to contact the Egyptian High Command, and have them transmit orders to the Captain of the ship that he cooperate with us, we would have a much better chance of defending the vessel against the forces of Thrush. They are not likely to let two billion dollars in gold slip from their grasp without putting up a certain amount of fight."

"We should be able to establish communication with them, but at this hour it may be difficult to find anyone in authority quickly. Have you any more requests?"

"Just one. Sir, do you know where we are?"

"If you are on or near an island and the Egyptian aircraft carrier, you are at forty-six degrees south, fourteen degrees east. The island is San Juan de la Trine."

"Thank you. Oh, by the way, sir—we were able to save the airplane we came in."

"Very good. Keep me informed."

Kuryakin disconnected, and Waverly signaled his New York office. The operator there answered immediately.

"Get me the highest available official in the Egyptian High Command. I know it's three o'clock in the morning there—wake them up. Call me back as soon as you have the connection."

The Thrush helicopter handled very smoothly under Napoleon's hands as they swooped over the beach and clattered across the half-mile of water separating them from the ship.

He leaned back as Illya put the transceiver away and shouted over the noises of the motor, "Hey, this is fun! No wonder you always want to handle the controls."

"When we get back to New York you can take the qualifying test. Slow down, now—here comes the ship. You'd better set down on the flight deck."

"Right out in the open?"

"Toujours l'audace, as you said a few minutes ago. Besides, they certainly won't be expecting us; they'll think we're somebody important from the island."

"And come running out to greet us with an armed honor guard."

"Besides, frankly, I wouldn't trust you to land this on anything smaller with as little practice as you've had."

"For shame, Illya. Don't you know that I can do anything? It says so in my contract."

"All right, Napoleon, but it says in my contract that I can live forever, and I don't want to make a test case just at the moment. The flight deck."

"The flight deck," Solo agreed resignedly.

The landing was fairly neat after all—they didn't hit hard enough to bounce, and Napoleon feathered the blades like an expert. He threw the engine into idle, and bounded out of the cockpit ahead of his partner, calling loudly for the Captain.

"There has been an explosion on the island," he snapped to the nearest crewman as he imagined an important Thrush would, "and your orders must be overruled for the time being. Bring us your Captain."

Without looking back the two U.N.C.L.E. agents stalked across the wide bare deck towards the control structure. They were almost to the hatch when they heard footsteps trotting up behind them, and a voice said sharply, "What does this mean? My orders were to unload the cargo as quickly as possible and return..."

Napoleon wheeled neatly and faced the Captain over the barrel of a leveled automatic. "Your orders have been overruled," he said simply. "Now you will not unload the cargo. Instead you will order the entire crew to battle stations, and prepare to resist any attempt to take over the ship and its cargo by force."

The Captain froze where he was, one foot raised for another step. Slowly he lowered it to the deck. His face showed recognition of them as his rescued prisoners. "That will be difficult," he said harshly, "since it appears you have already done exactly that."

Napoleon shook his head. "Only for your own good," he said. "In a matter of minutes you will receive orders from Cairo to coöperate with us. But even sooner those men out there"—he gestured towards the island with his free hand—"will receive orders to attack and capture this ship, whatever the cost. If you successfully defend it against them, you will be rewarded as a hero. Right now, since you haven't heard from Cairo, we have taken the liberty of informing you of your superior's decision so that you may abide by it while there is still time."

"But this is entirely beyond regulation," the Captain began in a thoroughly understandable confusion. "That the High Command should so completely change its mind..."

"... is admittedly unlikely, but nevertheless is true," said Illya. "We are saving you from making a most grave mistake, though it is also true we must use force to do so. We will surrender our weapons as soon as the communication arrives from Cairo."

The Captain sighed and spread his arms helplessly. "As you say. I have no choice in the matter."

They stepped apart and let him pass between them, then followed him to the bridge. And there he stopped.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am willing to compromise. I will order the preparations for unloading delayed for a period of ten minutes. If in that time my orders are reversed by higher authority I shall do as you suggest. If not, you may shoot me if you will, but with my dying breath I intend to order the mission completed."

"Half an hour," said Illya.

"Twenty minutes."

"Done," said Napoleon. "And what if the intended recipients of the cargo out there get impatient and try to take it by force?"

"If force is attempted, it will be met with force."

"Good. That's all we ask."

The order was given. A few members of the crew were appraised of the basic situation, and requested not to interfere. They were perfectly willing.

It was a matter of minutes before the radiophone signaled for attention. Illya picked it up.

"What is the meaning of this delay?" it barked angrily. "Proceed with the unloading operations at once!"

"Very sorry, sir," said Illya politely. "The Captain has observed a serious fire in your settlement, and thought it best to suspend operations to allow your men to combat it. There is no great hurry, after all."

"You were ordered to turn your cargo over to us at once," said the voice, rising in pitch. "We have more than sufficient personnel to control the fire and still continue this operation."

"I am sorry, sir. The Captain has ordered the operation suspended."

"Let me speak to the Captain."

"The Captain is otherwise occupied, sir."

The voice became almost incoherent with rage at this, and babbled something about mutiny, piracy, and hanging in irons.

"I'll tell him you said so, sir," said Illya, and switched the receiver off.

"It seems they know all about it," said Napoleon, and his partner nodded.

"I envy them," said the Captain. "Could someone tell me?"

Napoleon took a deep breath. "First, do you know what you're carrying and what it's for?"

"I know what, but not why."

"Before you start the lecture, Napoleon," said Illya, "I think we had best prepare to be attacked. Captain, whoever I just talked to on the ship-to-shore knows that your government will be calling you in a few minutes. Naturally he wants the gold. If he doesn't take it now, he'll never get it. Is this ship fully armed? With anti-submarine devices as well?"

"Yes—fully equipped."

"Order all defenses into operation. Now."

Five more minutes had passed before all stations reported ready. And only one extra minute passed before one of them reported again.

"Sonar—submarine approaching. Bearing three-two-zero degrees, depth ten meters, range twelve thousand meters and closing."

The Captain looked at the pair of U.N.C.L.E. agents for some ten seconds, then bit at his lip and picked up a microphone. "Ready three anti-submarine missiles. Track, and hold fire."

Suddenly two transceivers twittered, and Illya picked his from a shirt pocket. "Kuryakin," he said.

"Mr. Kuryakin, there is monumental confusion at the High Command. They were apparently informed immediately by a monitoring station when the Wheel ceased transmission, but no creative action has come from them yet."

"Can you offer us any other aid? The ship is about to be attacked, and Thrush might be able to marshal more force than we can stand off. It would be easy enough for them to salvage the gold from our hulk."

The ship-to-shore phone buzzed. Napoleon gestured with his automatic, and the Captain picked it up.

"One moment, sir," said Illya softly to his boss.

The same voice they had heard before spoke, but it was no longer angry. It was cold, and hard. "We have a loaded submarine pointed at your ship," it said. "Unless you begin unloading your cargo at once, we will torpedo you and remove it from the sunken wreck."

The Captain's finger hesitated over the push-to-talk switch, and then he picked up another microphone. "Missile Control," he said. "Fire one and two at the established target."

One speaker acknowledged as the other speaker clattered angrily, "Captain, answer us! You have one minute!"

They couldn't see the missiles launched, but suddenly the smooth silence of the sea erupted in a furious boiling blast some two miles away. A moment later a second ball of fire flared at the same spot. And silhouetted in the midst of it, photographed on the retinas of the watchers by the explosive flash of the second warhead, was the black outline of a submarine, half out of the water at an impossible angle. And in that moment they saw it break in half as it began to fall back. Then there was a third flare as the armament of the submarine detonated.

No one moved on the bridge until the three concussion waves shook the windows and the distant surface of the sea subsided.

The Captain squeezed the handset of the ship-to-shore, and said, "Pardon the interruption. You were saying that we had one minute?"

The machine remained silent.

"Mr. Kuryakin! Mr. Kuryakin!" a thin metallic voice whispered in Illya's hand, and he lifted it to his ear and answered.

"What on Earth is going on there?" Waverly's voice demanded.

"We have—ah—just reduced the threat, sir."

"Good. How much remains? We can have a flight of SAC bombers to you in a matter of hours. Four hours, if you can hold out that long."

Napoleon had restored his automatic to its holster sometime during the excitement, and now he spoke to the Captain. "Sir, check with Fire Control."

The intercom sounded over his last word. "Sonar clear, sir. Radar reports two small aircraft approaching."

"Ready anti-aircraft. Engine room —"

"Here, sir."

"Get engines up to full speed as soon as possible. Helm —"

"Here, sir."

"Prepare to put about to a course of three-five-zero. Mr. Kuryakin —"

"Here, sir," said Illya automatically.

"Tell whoever you are in communication with that we will want those bombers to fly escort for us until our own Egyptian forces can take over the position."

Illya spoke to Waverly, and received assurance.

The ship's intercom buzzed. "Communications room. Signal from the High Communications room. Signal from the High Command for Captain in maximum security cipher."

"Read it off."

"Cancel all operations and return to base. Do not, repeat, do not complete delivery of cargo under any circumstances."

"Captain," cut in another voice. "Aircraft approaching at two thousand meters."

"Fire only if we are fired upon."

"Yes, sir."

"Communications—send off the following in clear text. Proceeding home flank speed. Send full protection to relieve American task force as soon as possible."

A shuddering jar shook them as the anti-aircraft cannon began to fire. The engine room telegraph rang, signaling ready, and the helm was put about.

"Damage Control here. Both aircraft fired high-explosive rockets; one hit. Number three battery damaged. Both aircraft destroyed."

"Fire Control report."

"All clear, sir, unless they have big guns on the island."

Napoleon touched Illya's arm and spoke softly. "I think the military might by which we are surrounded will be capable of handling things from here. Unless you're particularly interested in watching naval operations I suggest we get out of the way and go below. Besides, you still haven't guessed my 'W'."

They started out the door from the bridge, and walked calmly past and among the various running figures of sailors on their ways to or from posts, as Illya began, "I've established you're a literary figure and American. So you were the Town Crier of the Air?"

"Too easy," said Napoleon. "Not Alexander Woolcott."

"All right. Did you...whoops!" A short sailor with a bristly moustache ducked between them and scurried off.

"A lot of people are killed in traffic every day," said Illya philosophically. "Now, where were we?"

"Not Alexander Woolcott."

"Right. Now, did you collaborate with..."

The two of them turned a corner, and were gone.

THE END

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posted 2.12.2008, transcribed by Connie