[Magazine 1967-­12] - The Pillars of Salt Affair - Пронзини Билл (электронные книги без регистрации TXT) 📗

Solo let out the clutch. Tires screamed, smoking, and the jeep shot forward. He hunched over the wheel, the crack of revolvers, sounding behind him. He heard a bullet thunk somewhere in the rear of the jeep, others buzzing overhead, and then he was out of the warehouse and onto the dirt road, careering down the winding mountainside.

He drove as fast as he dared, one hand wrapped on the wheel, the other changing gears rapidly, sliding the jeep in and out of the turns. He had made it. It would take them several minutes to change the tires on the remaining jeeps. By that time he would have several miles on them.

Solo knew just about where he was. The river lying below him was the Colorado; one of the mountain peaks in the distance, the highest, was Pike's Peak. That meant he was in the Colorado Rockies, probably near the source of the Colorado River. Rocky Mountain National Park. There would be a ranger station down there somewhere. If he could reach that...

He had gone more than ten miles, losing altitude rapidly, the Colorado River looming larger ahead of him as he neared the canyon through which it flowed, when the jeep began to sputter, its speed diminishing.

At first, Solo could not understand the loss of speed. He geared down. The engine coughed again. Then Solo's gaze held on the dashboard, and he knew immediately, with a sense of burning frustration, what had happened.

The bullet that he had heard lodge in the rear of the jeep must have hit the gas tank. The needle on the fuel gauge read empty.

THREE

Napoleon Solo did not know what to do. If he tried to go down the road the rest of the way on foot, THRUSH would have him in a matter of minutes. There was nothing but mountain, granite bluffs, to his left, and nothing but the canyon to his right. And on top of that, he was unarmed.

The engine on the jeep died. Solo brought it to a halt, angling it across the road. That would slow them somewhat, but not nearly long enough. He clambered out and stood staring down into the canyon.

Could he hide? No, that was out. How long could he stay hidden? THRUSH would have patrols on the road and in the area. No, he couldn't hide, he couldn't go down the road on foot, he...

He saw the railroad tracks then. Hope surged inside him. The tracks lay on the side of the canyon wall, almost a hundred feet down. They were abandoned, partially hidden by rocks and dirt, and that was why he hadn't seen them at first. Part of the tracks had begun to sag, crumbling away to leave nothing but thin ledges in the already narrow bed.

The tracks had to lead somewhere, Solo knew. Even abandoned, they still had to tie in to a main rail line. All he had to do was follow them, keeping hidden from the THRUSH pursuers.

The canyon wall, dropping away to the floor and the river below, was steep and irregular. It would be precarious, climbing down, but Solo knew it was the only way. He could detect eroded holes in the granite that, if he were extremely careful, would yield foot and handholds.

He started down. It was late afternoon, and although the sun was out, the wind carried the chill of snow. There would be a flurry tonight, perhaps even a storm. If he were caught unprotected at night here in the Rockies, he would freeze to death before morning.

Cold sweat stuck Solo's clothes to his body as he worked his way down the canyon wall. Foothold, hands digging into the slippery granite, another foothold, all with tortuous slowness. Once, his foot slipped, and he almost lost his grip. His body dangled for a split instant above the tracks and the nothingness beyond. Then his clutching hands and feet caught, held, and he closed his eyes, not daring to look down.

He reached the tracks after what seemed like an eternity. He stood leaning against the wall of rock, feet planted solidly on the track bed, dragging the chill air into his lungs. Which way? he thought. Left or right?

He looked to the left. The tracks ran along the canyon wall and then curved out of sight. He could see where much of the tracks had been torn away by erosion and falling rocks.

He looked to the right. The tracks were sloped slightly downward until they, too, disappeared around the curve of the canyon. They looked passable as far as he could see. He went to the right. He walked carefully, watching his feet. The last thing he wanted was an inadvertent slip on one of the rocks there, and a possible slide.

Solo rounded the curve of the tracks along the wall, ears straining. He thought he heard the whine of jeep engines above him. He stopped, hugging the granite.

He saw the trestle.

The tracks dropped sharply some fifty feet, then veered to the left, following the line of the canyon face. The distance across the canyon itself at this point was fairly narrow, and it was here that the trestle spanned the two walls. It was supported by rusted steel that had been sunk and anchored into the granite on both sides. A sagging, wooden snow shed covered the length of the trestle.

Solo could see that the tracks began to drop steeply on the opposite wall. They led down out of the mountains, all right. Just as he had thought. He started down the tracks toward the trestle.

Solo heard the helicopter then. A cold ball of ice knotted his stomach. He stopped, looking upward. It was moving out over the trestle from the granite behind him. He saw two men inside.

It was the helicopter he had seen inside the warehouse at the THRUSH fortress. Solo had forgotten about it. He should have known they would send it up to search for him. He leaned back against the canyon wall. Maybe they wouldn't see him.

The helicopter, hovering above the canyon, rotor blades whirring, started to rise, banking to his left, away from him. They hadn't seen him. His relief was short-lived. The chopper halted its climb, sat motionless in the air like a giant hummingbird for an instant, and then started back.

Solo saw one of the men inside leaning out, and sunlight flashed off something metallic. Machine gun. They'd seen him, all right. And they were moving in for the kill.

Solo was trapped, and he knew it. He was the proverbial sitting duck, a naked target against the granite wall. There was no place to hide. No place...Then suddenly he thought of the trestle!

If he could reach it, get inside, they couldn't get at him with the machine gun. But what good would it do? They could hover up there for hours, keep him trapped inside until more members of THRUSH reached him along the tracks.

Maybe I should just stay here and get it over with now, Solo thought helplessly. No, he couldn't think that way. As long as there was a chance, no matter how slim, he had to take it. The fate of the world was at stake.

The helicopter was coming closer. He saw the man with the machine gun leaning out. The chopper was close enough so that Napoleon Solo could see the man's face. He was one of the three men who had run him and Illya off the road in Teclaxican, one of the men responsible for his friend's death.

Solo gritted his teeth, turned, and began to run toward the trestle, his feet skidding on the rocky surface, unmindful of the danger of falling now with an even greater danger overhead.

The man in the helicopter fired a short burst from the machine gun. Solo heard the bullets chunk into the granite where he had been standing, spraying chips of rock at his back.

Solo stumbled in his light, staggering, and then regained his balance. More bullets from the chattering Thompson gun overhead nipped at his heels, splattered into the granite. Miraculously none hit him.

He reached the trestle and ducked into the cover of the snow shed, leaning against one of the wooden walls, fighting for breath. He could hear the copter whirring over the shed.

Solo wiped sweat from his eyes and looked downward. His heart jumped into his throat. If he had taken another ten steps in his blind flight he would have fallen to his death on the canyon floor below.