[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair - Edmonds I. G. (книги регистрация онлайн .TXT) 📗

He started to circle, seeking tracks in the wet sand to show him where the THRUSH men took their prisoners. He found the tracks leading up the beach. He was afraid to walk along the sand for fear he would be spotted. He took the difficult way, climbing over the broken, uprooted trees.

As he went he carefully checked his protective devices. The .38 special was still in his shoulder holster. In his pockets he carried several of the standard U.N.C.L.E. defensive equipment. The pen-communicator. A chewing gum that was actually a power explosive. A ring with a secret needle for dispensing knockout drops. Mints which developed a blinding smokescreen when dropped in water. A tie pin hiding a bulb of tear gas.

Each of them at one time or another had saved his life in a tight spot. Right then he had no idea what he could do or how he could use them, but he took comfort in their presence.

He continued to follow the trail until it branched. One line, with the most footprints led back toward the lagoon. The second, showing only the marks of three people.

Solo hesitated, knowing that he was throwing away any chance of success if he chose the wrong track. He got down on his hands and knees. The wet sand held the impression well, but he was unable to determine if either of the footprints belonged to Kuryakin. However, one definitely was a woman's print.

He got up, making a decision to follow it. He continued for several hundred yards and after climbing over a jumbled mass of uprooted trees, he came to a hill or large mound.

He stopped, suddenly suspicious. Such a formation was decidedly unusual on a normally flat coral island. Once it apparently had been covered with brush and vines. The storm had ripped these away. Under the torn areas he could see the marks of a concrete structure under the carefully arranged soil. He circled it, seeking some kind of an entrance. He found it at the north end. Once it had been carefully screened by vines, but the typhoon had ripped them away.

"They must have taken Illya and the Air Force prisoners in there," he told himself.

He sat down on an uprooted palm. He was bone weary. His arms and legs ached from the struggle to keep the plane in the air. His skin burned.

Solo permitted himself only the briefest rest. Then he took a deep breath and tried to whip his flagging brain into action. A dozen wild plans turned over in his mind. He discarded every one as being impossible and wearily started over again.

He knew he could not expect to force the opening into the underground shelter. There was an excellent possibility he could blow an opening in the door with his explosive "chewing gum." Kneaded and fused with its almost microscopic cap, the U.N.C.L.E. developed super-explosive no bigger than a wad of gum packed the power of several sticks of dynamite.

However, he had no way of knowing what was immediately beyond the door. He would be sacrificing his element of surprise, his most precious asset, for little advantage.

He decided that his greatest chance of success lay in drawing the THRUSH men from the shelter where he could ambush as many as possible.

Once his decision was made, Napoleon Solo worked rapidly. He carefully prepared two wads of the gum explosive and stuck them to ends of sticks. These he carefully laid on the sand beside him. Then he took a third and attached it to a small splinter of wood.

He raised up slowly from his hiding place behind a tangled pile of storm riven trees. There seemed no guards about the outside of the THRUSH outpost.

He crept quickly to the side of the mound covering the structure. He pushed a hole in the wet sand, using a piece of stick. He adjusted the tiny automatic fuse, no bigger than a BB shot, for a five-minute time lag and hurried back to his protected spot.

He did not expect the explosion to break an opening. It wasn't designed for that. He was sure that this place had some connection with the THRUSH storm generating system. If so, that meant there would have to be considerable electronic equipment inside. He wanted to create a shock wave to throw the equipment off register. This, he hoped, would bring the operators rushing out to find the cause.

When they did, they would be met by a devastating bomb made by more gum explosive stuck to the wooden stick. He hoped under the confusion of this blast to get inside. Then if his suspicions were true about the function of the bunker-type building, the third gum bomb would effectively destroy the interior.

It seemed an effective plan. The only thing that worried him was the whereabouts of the prisoners. He was sure that they were also in the bunker. An explosion to rip up the storm generating equipment could injure or even kill them. He hoped there was some way to avoid that, but if not, then he knew Illya Kuryakin would understand.

The lives of millions were more important than the lives of a few. Every U.N.C.L.E. agent knew this. As military men, the Air Forces prisoners would understand as well.

Napoleon Solo looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It had been but a single minute since he placed the charge. This surprised him. It seemed an age. He shook the watch to make sure it was running.

Then, as he looked up, he saw something move in the darkness behind him. He whirled. There was a rustling of the broken palms for the utter stillness of the typhoon eye was starting to break with some wind as the wall of clouds moved closer to the atoll with the passing of the eye. A few drops of rain were starting to fall.

Napoleon looked anxiously at the sky, hoping the full fury of the returning storm would hold off until he completed his mission.

If he could destroy the outpost, he would consider himself paid for. After that, if he came out of it alive, he had plenty to live for. If not—well, it had been a good life while it lasted. He couldn't complain.

He turned back to watch for the explosion, sure that what he had seen was a wind-blown palm. Then out of the corner of his eye he caught another suspicious movement. This time it was too definite to be his imagination.

He whirled, jerking his hand toward his shoulder holster. He was just a fraction of a second late. His assailant swung at his head with a piece of wooden pole. Solo ducked, but his legs bumped against the mass of uprooted trees. It threw him off balance and he took the savage blow on the shoulder. It knocked him to his knees. He glimpsed the flash of brown skin as his unknown attacker tried to hit again.

This time the tree trunks interferred with his assailant. Napoleon ducked another blow and managed to get the gun out. He got his first good look at his attacker. He started with surprise. It was a girl—a native in a sarong she wore as beautifully as if she came from a technicolored Hollywood film.

TWO

She hesitated in the face of his gun.

"Don't move!" Solo said.

She stood staring at him. The rising wind whipped her hair. He couldn't see her face too clearly in the darkness. Suddenly she leaped back, jumping over two entwined broken trees. She dropped out of sight.

Napoleon Solo heard her move. She seemed to be circling, seeking a chance to attack him again. Suddenly he started. He wondered why his usually sharp mind had not noticed the most peculiar thing about her before.

This was how quietly she fought him. Had she been attached to THRUSH she would surely have called for help.

"Where are you?" he called softly. "Don't be afraid. I am not one of them. I am their enemy who came by the vakalele."

The rustling noise ceased.

"Don't you understand?" he said. "If I was one of them, I would have shouted for help. I am their enemy and your friend."

This argument was telling. She realized the same as he that a THRUSH agent would have yelled. He would not have fought in silence as they both did, each afraid of alerting the enemy inside the bunker.