Текст книги "[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair "

Автор книги: I. G. Edmonds

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The Synthetic Storm Affair

By I.G. Edmonds

May 1967

Volume 3, Issue 4

Deadly beyond belief was the secret THRUSH had learned—how to goad Nature herself into a frenzy that could ravage the world as Illya and Solo sought the perverted madman who could summon the very hurricane of hell to do his bidding.

The Atoll of a Thousand Deaths, men called it. From it maddened nature would unleash a storm which would engulf all mankind, unless Solo and Illya could get there before it was too late—and still stay alive!

ACT I: A STORMY FUTURE

ACT II: THE STRANGE STORM

ACT III: THE STORM GIRL

ACT IV: VANISHING LADY

ACT V: "SO LONG, LUPE!"

ACT VI: WATERLOO?

ACT VII: GIRL IN THE DARK

ACT VIII: INTO THE STORM

ACT IX: THE CRASH

ACT X: THE THRUSH OUTPOST

ACT XI: THE PASSING STORM

ACT I: A STORMY FUTURE

It had been a most trying business, that Stolen Steamer Affair, and Napoleon Solo, felt that he had earned a good rest. And what better way to spend a vacation in Rio than in the company of an extremely beautiful woman?

Solo surveyed himself in the full length mirror in his suite in Rio de Janeiro. Slender, medium height, with dark hair and a cleft chin, he admitted that he wasn't exactly a Dracula in appearance. But he also wondered what there was about him that beat the time of two Hollywood movie stars for the company of luscious Lula LaAmour.

Lula, along with the other Hollywood types, was in Rio to film an extravaganza called "Rompin' in Rio." Napoleon had only asked her for a date from force of habit he had when meeting any lovely unattached young woman.

It surprised him when she accepted instead of taking up invitations from the handsome actors. Movie stars aren't easy to date. But although he thought her crazy, he was grateful for her idiocy. Lula was the new Marilyn Monroe. A latter-day version of Jean Harlow. The reincarnated spirit of original vampire, Theda Bara.

Napoleon Solo adjusted the carnation in his evening clothes lapel and thought with genuine pleasure of the envy his entrance with the film queen would elicit from his colleagues, Illya Kuryakin and Mark Slate. He even hoped that April Dancer, the Girl from U.N.C.L.E., would be a bit jealous.

Solo grinned at his image. "We know how Don Juan must have felt, eh, old chap?" he said.

He looked at his watch. It was almost time to pick up Lula. He started for the door and stopped when he remembered that he had not called Illya Kuryakin, to let the other U.N.C.L.E. agent know that he would not be available that evening for anything less than a four-alarm emergency.

But as he walked over to pick up the telephone, it rang. He picked it up.

"Harmon," he said, using the name he was registered under.

"Mr. Harmon?" Napoleon recognized the slightly Spanish accent of the hotel desk clerk. "I have a message for you from New York. The gentleman who called said it was most urgent."

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. sighed. He had an unhappy vision of the technicolored image of Lula LaAmour vanishing as a curtain marked "business" drew across the screen.

"Yes?" he said wearily, "What is the message?"

"The caller said to inform you that the closing market in New York is decidedly unsteady."

"Thank you," Napoleon said with ill grace.

He dropped the telephone into its cradle and considered the cryptic message. He understood it. U.N.C.L.E. headquarters wanted him to call it. Thoughtfully he took a silver fountain pen from his pocket and twisted the cap. A tiny antenna shot up six inches.

"Central Control." He said into the ultra-miniature transmitter built into the fake pen.

The electronic wizardry of the tiny communications set bridged the distance to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York with face-to-face clarity.

"Mr. Solo?" a slightly English accented voice said from the set.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Waverly," Solo replied to his chief's brief question.

"What is her name, Mr. Solo?" the U.N.C.L.E. chief said.

"Whose name, sir?" Napoleon answered.

"The lady whose escort for the evening I am stealing."

"You won't believe me, but is Lula LaAmour."

"The—er—buxom actress?"

"Buxom only in the right places, sir."

"Well, her type can always find a substitute escort, fortunately."

"But my type can't find a substitute for her type!"

"Fortunately, Mr. Solo," Alexander Waverly went on. "I never let my emotions interfere with business. Do you, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon Solo sighed.

"No, sir, I do not," Solo said sadly, "but only because you will not let me."

"An excellent observation, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "I need you on a matter of the gravest concern. I also need Mr. Kuryakin. I suppose he has one of these actresses dated for the evening?"

"No, sir," Solo said. "He is having dinner with April Dancer."

"Then I will have three of my operatives upset for the price of two."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon said.

"I assure you, Mr. Solo, that this is a matter of the utmost importance or I would not interrupt your well earned vacation. It is so urgent that every second counts. Every second! The lives of thousands now and millions later depend upon prompt and decisive action."

"Yes, sir," Solo replied crisply. "What is the problem?"

"There is registered at the Quitandinha Hotel a man named Senor Pablo de Santos-Lopez. This man is a world reknown meteorologist and has been working in South Argentina on a revolutionary method of breaking up storms. We have a tip that this man's life is in extreme danger. Protect him at all costs."

"Yes, sir," Solo said. "Is THRUSH involved?"

"Yes," Waverly replied. "We are not sure just how, but THRUSH agents are showing an extraordinary interest in Dr. Santos-Lopez. We believe they intend to kidnap him."

"I see, sir," Solo said. "If Santos-Lopez can really break up storms, it would be an important war weapon."

"This man has been very secretive about his experiments," Waverly said. "But it stands to reason that if a man can break a storm, he may be in a fair way to discover how to start one!"

"That would really be something," Napoleon said. His face grew grave at the implications. "I believe I've read that typhoons carry the destructive fury of a thousand atomic bombs."

"That is correct, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "A weapon like that in the hands of THRUSH could be disastrous. I do not know that there is such a weapon, mind you, but it is a chance we cannot afford to take. You see now how grave the situation is."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon Solo replied. "Illya and I will get on it at once. Is there any evidence of a direct contact between this meteorologist and THRUSH?"

"There was a conference between this man and a THRUSH agent in Buenos Aires three days ago," Waverly said. "Apparently it was not a satisfactory one. Santos-Lopez left the city under an assumed name and came to Rio. He is registered at the hotel as Senor Diego de Vega. He seems afraid, according to my information."

"We will contact him immediately," Solo said.

"Good!" Waverly said, "And Mr. Solo—"

"Yes, sir?"

"I know the producer of Miss Lula LaAmour's films. I will arrange with him to get you an autographed picture of the lady. A sort of consolation prize, shall we say!"

Solo broke off the connection ruefully. Although there was a certain amount of chagrin at losing his date with the lovely movie star, years of working with the great crime-fighting organization known as U.N.C.L.E., had made Napoleon something of a philosopher.

TWO

With Waverly the job came first, last and always. The dedicated man in the driver's seat in New York made that plain to all of them. They also knew that he demanded the same devotion to duty of himself that he asked of them.

Solo slipped into his coat and walked across the hall to Illya Kuryakin's room. He found his partner just putting on his coat. Illya was a slightly smaller man than Solo and his blond hair contrasted with Solo's dark head. The blond hair had a perpetual unruliness about it that somehow matched the look in Illya Kuryakin's eyes. His pale blue eyes stared out of his Slavic face with a hint of sadness when he caught the expression on Napoleon Solo's face.

Don't tell me," he said plaintively. "Mr. Waverly called. Mr. Waverly said in effect that vacations are for bums. And he said—"

"A man's life is in extreme danger," Napoleon broke in. Waverly said there wasn't a second to lose."

"Have you arranged for wheels or is it within walking distance?" Illya said crisply, his manner changing to grim efficiency.

"A cab will be in front of the hotel in three minutes."

"I can make it to the lobby in two minutes flat," Illya said. "That leaves me one minute to take care of an essential matter."

He picked up the room phone and dialed room service.

"I want a hot dog," he said. "That's right. Put one on a silver platter. Deliver it to room three hundred four, occupied by a Miss April Dancer. Tell her that the 'dinner'—provided through the courtesy of Mr. Alexander Waverly—is a substitute for the pheasant under glass with caviar and champagne promised her by one Illya Kuryakin."

He grinned at Solo as he jammed down the phone. "Come on, Napoleon," he said. "Adventure calls again!"

"It's okay for you to take this lightly," Solo said with a grimace. "A date with a girl married to her job like April could not possibly be more than just a friendly evening. But Lula and I might have made some beautiful music together."

"Sure!" Illya retorted. "She would have sung you right into the movies yourself. You could dodge ersatz bullets instead of real ones."

"I don't know but what I wouldn't like that to this," Napoleon said gloomily. "There was a tone in Waverly's voice that indicated this was going to be one tough case."

"What is it?" Kuryakin asked as they hurried down the hall to the elevator.

"He hinted that THRUSH was on the track of a method to control storms. Can you imagine the havoc they could raise if they could hit us with a hurricane or typhoon at will?"

Illya Kuryakin whistled softly. He face grew more grave.

"A hurricane can do more damage to a town than a bombing," he said slowly.

"Mr. Waverly said the average typhoon packs the explosive force of a thousand atom bombs," Napoleon Solo said.

"And worse," Illya added, "the storm travels over a wide track. A directed hurricane could strike Miami in Florida and devastate the entire Atlantic coast all the way to Canada!"

"Not only the coast but inland for a hundred miles," Napoleon said hurriedly. "Imagine not one storm, but a series hitting the East Coast, the West Coast and the Gulf States simultaneously! Millions would die. The country would be paralyzed. The effect would be greater than any possible nuclear bombing by intercontinental ballistic missiles."

"It this thing is true—and Waverly should know—then THRUSH has come up with the most devastatingly terrible weapon the world has ever known."

"It looks like that is what we're faced with."

"What's our lead, if any?" Illya asked.

"A world famed meteorologist named Campos-Lopez seems to be the key to this thing. THRUSH is after him. He is staying her in Rio incognito. We are going to see him now."

At the meteorologist's hotel, a frigidly polite desk clerk informed them that the hotel never gave any information about its guests. Napoleon Solo flashed his U.N.C.L.E. identification card and the clerk's manner changed abruptly.

"I am sorry, sir," he said. "The gentleman you inquire about is registered here as Senor Diego de Vega of Argentina. He left early this morning and has not returned. I have no idea where he went."

"I see," Solo said. "It is very important that we contact him as soon as possible. If he—"

"But wait, sir! Yes, it is he! Senor de Vega is just getting out of the cab outside."

"Yes, I see him." Illya Kuryakin said. "The gray-haired man paying the cabbie."

"Come on," Napoleon said, striding rapidly across the lobby.

Illya Kuryakin frowned slightly as if hit by an uneasy hunch. His hand reached up and touched the small automatic in the shoulder holster under his coat. He missed the super U.N.C.L.E. gun, but it was much too large to carry under the coat.

Solo went out the revolving doors just ahead of his companion.

"Dr. Campos-Lopez?" he said, extending his hand to the stooped gray-haired man who was just turning away from the cab driver.

The meteorologist jumped back against the cab. His hand jerked down to his coat pocket. Napoleon stopped short as he faced the ugly muzzle of a small gun in the hands of the frightened man.

"Don't come near me!" Dr. Campos-Lopez cried.

"Doctor! We are your friends," Napoleon said soothingly. "We are from U.N.C.L.E."

"I have no friends!" the man cried in a choked voice. "Keep away from me. Take your hands away from your pocket! Don't try to pull a gun on me. I'll kill you if you make a false move!"

"Please, doctor—" Napoleon began.

"Don't move! I'll shoot!" the frightened man warned.

The meteorologist had not seen Illya. Kuryakin moved to the side. He looked around and caught Solo's eye. Napoleon gave a short negative shake of his head. His orders from Waverly was to protect Campos-Lopez, but not to force himself upon the scientist.

The frightened man reached back and pulled open the cab door.

"Take me to the airport!" he said hurriedly. "I'll not wait for the baggage."

He slammed the door, still holding the gun on Napoleon Solo. The uneasy cab driver jerked the car, clashing the gears as he went off.

"Shall I follow him?" Illya asked.

"Yes!" Napoleon said. "Do the best you can, but don't force yourself on him. I'll contact the South American bureau of U.N.C.L.E. and get a Spanish-speaking agent to pick him up at the airport. He—"

"Napoleon!" Illya's sharp cry cut in on Solo's words.

The man from U.N.C.L.E. whirled to see a car dart from a side street just as the fleeing cab turned the first corner away from the hotel.

There was a sudden blaze of gunfire straight into the cab. The horrified men saw the cab careen wildly and plunge into a thick hedge. They started to run toward the wreck. The killers' car spun around in the road. Its headlights flashed full on the two men from U.N.C.L.E.

They split, each diving for the opposite side of the road to divide their attackers' aim.

Napoleon hit the ground, snaking his body around under the doubtful protection of a small evergreen. Across the street Illya Kuryakin took refuge behind a small rock wall. A spray of sub-machine gun bullets smashed into the rocks. Illya ducked, sprawling flat to save himself.

THREE

Across the street Napoleon Solo raised up on his knees and started shooting. He kept his aim low, hitting for the car's tires. The first bullet caught the left rear wheel.

The car swerved as the tire exploded. It plunged straight at the low wall hiding Kuryakin. Solo leaped to his feet, caught in a sudden clutch of fear as the out-of-control vehicle aimed straight at his companion.

Solo caught just the briefest glimpse of Kuryakin as Illya threw himself to one side. The car struck the stone wall, ripping the mortar loose and plunging halfway through before it came to a halt.

"Illya!" Napoleon cried running across the road. "Are you—"

"Look out, Napoleon!"

Solo could not see the cause of Kuryakin's frantic cry, but he knew his companion too well to disregard the warning. He dropped flat, hugging the street curb for what little protection he could get from it.

A gun cracked from the back of the wreck. The slug slammed into the concrete, inches from Napoleon's head. It glanced off at a screaming angle after bringing blood to the man from U.N.C.L.E.'s cheek with a chip of pavement.

Napoleon shifted slightly in order not to present the same target twice. The shot came from the back of the wrecked car. He half raised and fired through the broken rear glass.

A bright red stab of muzzle blast showed him his mistake. The next shot came from under the wrecked car instead of inside it as he thought. The shot came so close it scraped cloth from the shoulder of Napoleon's coat.

He shot back, aiming for the spot where he saw the muzzle flash. The bullet struck metal and clanged like a bell. Napoleon, realizing their adversary had pulled back, ducked half doubled up and make a dash to the right.

The killer's gun barked again, but his fleeing quarry ducked behind the remnants of the stone wall. Napoleon moved stealthily forward, his gun ready, seeking a target.

He saw a shadow move on the opposite side of the wreck. He raised the gun, but before he could pull the trigger he heard Illya yell again. Once again he couldn't see the new danger, but he flattened against the wall.

Then he heard the roar of a car's engine and headlights cut through the darkness, throwing him into a bright glare of light. He caught just the briefest glimpse of a man's silhouette. He was leaning out the passenger's side of the car. He was holding a sub-machine gun in his hand.

ACT II: THE STRANGE STORM

It was impossible to scramble over the wrecked wall. He would run directly into the other killer's line of fire! In that moment of desperation Napoleon Solo realized that he had only two alternatives. He could crouch there and die—or he could attack!

Either one seemed like suicide, but it was better to go down swinging! He leaped to his feet, bent almost double and charged straight toward the flaring headlights.

The killer cursed loudly and tried to lean far enough out the door to bring the gun to bear on the charging man.

But as he leaned out he presented a target of his own. Solo's gun spat at him, but the jar of running spoiled his aim.

Behind the other wreck the first killer got rattled and started to shoot at Napoleon's running back. The bullet passed over Solo's head with a deadly whine and smashed into the windshield of a car facing the man from U.N.C.L.E.

The driver screamed a frantic curse and shouted for the gunman to stop before he killed the wrong targets. He shoved the car in gear and tried to ram Napoleon. But as the car started Solo leaped on the hood. He shoved his gun through the shattered windshield. The gunman frantically tried to swing his gun around.

The driver twisted the steering wheel frantically. The car swerved, throwing Napoleon on the grass. A burst of fire ripped from the killer's tommy gun, but it flashed up toward the sky as the man was thrown back by a straight shot from Illya Kuryakin's gun.

Solo twisted around. As Illya raised up to fire the shot that saved Solo's life, he made a perfect target for the first killer still crouched behind the wrecked car.

As Solo twisted he saw the man rise up. He shot from the ground, without aiming for he realized in that split second of danger that Illya's life hung by a mere thread.

He missed! He shot too fast, but there was no alternative.

The bullet struck the edge of the shattered windshield. The spray of splintered glass showered the crouching gunman. He jumped and his aim was spoiled. The bullet intended for Kuryakin smashed into the ground at the U.N.C.L.E. agent's feet.

Solo whirled as the driver of the stalled car grabbed for the machine gun dropped by his dead companion. As the man raised up, Solo's bullet caught him between the eyes. Napoleon whirled, but it was all over. He saw Illya walking rapidly toward the slumped figure of the other THRUSH agent.

After they made sure neither of the THRUSH men were playing 'possum but were really dead, Solo said crisply, "Keep me covered just in case there's another group following them."

Illya nodded silently. He went over and switched off the car lights so they wouldn't present as good a target if another attack was made by THRUSH.

While Solo hurried over to the wrecked taxi to see what had happened to Santos-Lopez, Illya stared at the dead men. For perhaps the thousandth time in his life he wondered about them and the strange organization they served.

THRUSH! An organization so strange no one knew even what its initials stood for. Only one thing was clear about THRUSH. This was that was composed of a group of men willing and able to use criminal means to affect a dream of world conquest.

Apparently the organization was based in and received support from a certain European country, but it had never been determined that the country's government was behind the organization. Because it operated world-wide, only a world-wide crime fighting group like U.N.C.L.E. could effectively block this super-evil group.

Kuryakin took a deep breath as he considered their narrow escape. Each tangle with THRUSH was more difficult than the last. He wondered, staring at the dead men, where it all would lead.

The blare of a police siren broke his thoughts. He went down to the street to identify himself and make a report to the police. The tough manner of the police changed instantly when Illya flashed his U.N.C.L.E. identification.

He turned as Napoleon Solo came up. The man from U.N.C.L.E.'s face was grim. Illya did not have to ask him what Santos-Lopez's condition was. Solo's face told him.

"Chalk up another for THRUSH," Illya said bitterly.

"We did the best we could," Solo said slowly. "Unfortunately time was so short we had to approach Santos-Lopez direct. We should have arranged an interview with him through some third party he trusted. He would have trusted us then."

"What do we do now?" Illya asked. "This thing isn't over by any means."

"No, I'm afraid this storm expert's death only complicates what promises to be a bitter battle. I've got to report to Waverly that we failed. Why don't you help the police as much as you can? I'll call New York."

Solo walked over to the broken wall, where he could not be heard by the others. He pulled out his pen-communicator and twisted the cap to extend the aerial. His low spoken call letters were amplified and transmitted instantly to a room high in an office building in New York.

In this office a leathery faced man of indeterminate middle age leaned back in a high backed chair and thoughtfully regarded the steel and glass spire of the United Nations building visible through his window. He was thoughtfully rubbing the bowl of an unlighted briar pipe as he looked at the giant building which represented a large share of the world's hope for tomorrow.

A light flared on a small console recessed in the large mahogany desk in front of him. He turned so quickly he dropped the pipe on the thick rug. In his haste he didn't bother to pick it up. He snapped on a circuit to hear Napoleon Solo's voice identifying himself.

"Mr. Waverly? Come in, please," Solo said from South America

TWO

Alexander Waverly, Section I member and operations chief for U.N.C.L.E., hesitated just a moment to compose himself. He was a human being with a human's worries and doubts, but he tried never to present any face but a composed, confident one to his agents. His personal troubles and uncertainties remained his personal property.

He shared them with no one—not even the five other men who share with him the terrible responsibility for direction of the giant United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

It took him but a second to compose himself and shove back his anxiety over this latest and most terrible of THRUSH's threats to the world.

"Yes, Mr. Solo," he said quietly. "Go ahead, please."

In South America the quiet, decisive voice had a soothing effect on Napoleon Solo. Regardless how tough a situation might be, he never failed to feel better about it after hearing Alexander Waverly's quiet, confident voice.

"I'm afraid we have to report a failure, sir," he said.

"What happened?" Waverly asked.

Napoleon gave him a brief but accurate sketch of what they encountered.

"Unfortunate," Waverly said slowly. "But unavoidable, I can see now. Since I called you I received a special report on Dr. Santos-Lopez from our Section IV. Just a moment."

Waverly picked up a yellow teletype sheet marked with the call code of U.N.C.L.E.'s section IV Enforcement and Communications.

"It says that Dr. Santos-Lopez was extremely suspicious of anyone," Waverly said. "Under the circumstances I doubt that we could have made direct contact with him."

"Shall we remain here and see if we can get his reports on his storm breaking experiments?" Solo asked.

"No," Waverly said. "Our South American offices will be put on that job. I want you—"

He broke off as a brilliant red light flashed on his desk console.

"One moment, Mr. Solo. Stand by. I have an emergency call."

Mr. Waverly punched in a new circuit. A hidden speaker went into action with: "Section III on report."

"Go ahead, Section III," Waverly said. "Switch to Code Line A, since I will retransmit your report to Mr. Solo on the field band."

"Yes, sir," Section III, Enforcement and Intelligence replied. "News service reports from South America are that the laboratory of Dr. Santos-Lopez was destroyed two hours ago by fire. Another fire of unknown origin broke out in the hotel where he had been staying. It destroyed his baggage."

"Thank you," Mr. Waverly said, cutting the connection to Section III. "Did you get that report, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes, sir. I'd say it is futile to try and find any reports that Dr. Santos-Lopez might have left about his storm destroying work."

"It would seem so," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said slowly. "However, I doubt that he was far enough advanced to provide us a sure kill for any storm generating system THRUSH is working on. That threat is our immediate concern. So you and Mr. Kuryakin report to me here just as quickly as you can get here."

"Yes, sir," Solo said. "There is a regular airline flight leaving here in-"

He glanced down at his watch. "—In forty-five minutes. We can make that quicker than we can charter a special flight."

"I am sure you can," Waverly said. He picked up another piece of paper from his desk. "But there is another flight, the Inter-Hemisphere Airlines, leaving in forty minutes. I have already arranged through Section II for the blocking of two seats on it for you and Mr. Kuryakin. That cuts five minutes from your departure time. I consider five seconds wasted a tragedy. Five minutes compounds the tragedy sixty times. So you will forgive my presumptuousness in arranging a different schedule for you."

"Yes, sir," Solo said, sighing. It was impossible to get ahead of Waverly, he thought wryly.

"Excellent," Waverly said. "We have received new evidence that clearly indicates that my original presumption was correct. THRUSH is experimenting with the creation of synthetic storms—and they are succeeding! Therefore you can see why every second—every second—Mr. Solo—endangers the lives of thousands of people!"

"We'll be on the plane, sir," Napoleon said.

"I'll be expecting you," Waverly replied crisply as he cut the connection.

A police escort got them to the airport with only one of Mr. Waverly's precious seconds to spare. There wasn't even time for them to check out of their hotel. Illya asked the chief of their police escort to inform April Dancer of their sudden departure and to request the girl from U.N.C.L.E. to take care of such details for them.

The two U.N.C.L.E. operatives were the last passengers aboard. Every other seat was taken.

"Sit down here, Illya," Solo said. "I'll take the next one."

But Kuryakin had seen the girl sitting in the window seat farther up the aisle.

"No!" he said, to Solo's surprise. "Age before beauty. You sit here."

He went up the aisle to the other empty seat. Napoleon saw the girl then and his face twisted, wryly.

Solo slipped into the other empty seat, opposite a sour-faced old man. Up the aisle he could see Illya talking with the lovely girl. From what little he could see of her, she seemed to what Alexander Waverly would describe as buxom in the—er—right places.

He sighed and leaned back in his seat. Between Illya's aggressiveness and Alexander Waverly's impatience, Solo wondered how he would ever get any romance in his life!

THREE

About thirty minutes after were airborne, the stewardess lowered the lights. The old man beside Napoleon Solo started to snore loudly. Deep breathing showed that others in the plane were also sleeping. Solo found it impossible to doze off himself. He kept thinking of THRUSH's new weapon.

He had more than the usual experience with hurricanes and typhoons. He knew that if THRUSH could harness their fantastic fury, U.N.C.L.E.'s great enemy now possessed a weapon capable of doing more damage than any weapon ever conceived.

Napoleon was thinking of the terrible devastation he'd seen only a few months ago when a typhoon hit southern Japan. Not a house remained standing in a hundred mile area.

As Napoleon recalled it, more than 2,000 people died and losses ran into the millions.

What frightened him was the thought of THRUSH-guided typhoons striking the U.S. coast in areas unused to storms of such frightful nature. Florida was constantly ripped by hurricanes. The people there knew how to batten down the hatches and ride out the blow. But what would happen if a typhoon suddenly struck the coast of Southern California, with its lath and plaster houses? Or Honolulu or Seattle or San Francisco? The destruction would be frightful.

Suddenly his thoughts were shattered by a sickening heave of the flying plane. His head flopped forward. But for the seat belt he would have been thrown across the aisle.

The plane shuddered. It was almost as if a giant hand had pushed against it and the four-motored jet was struggling to fly through the obstruction. Solo had the awful feeling that they had stopped dead in the air.

Then the left wing dipped. He was thrown heavily against the arm rest. The old man beside him neglected to fasten his seat belt. He was thrown over on top of Napoleon.

The plane fell a hundred feet and pulled up with a sickening thud. It rose like an elevator and then dropped again, snapping the necks of the frightened passengers.

Outside, a wild fury of rain beat on the windows. A vivid crack of lightning flashed through the sky, throwing a weird blue light inside the passenger compartment of the beleagured plane. The stewardess switched on the lights to help calm the passengers.

She came down the aisle, obviously a frightened young woman but one bravely trying to hide her fear. The bucking of the plane in the super turbulent air almost threw her off her feet with each sickening heave. But she braced herself, grasping each seat back as she passed in an attempt to keep her balance.