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

There was another crack from the gun. The shot missed. Illya was aware of that, and aware at the same time that he was completely at the mercy of Dr. Sagine. The initial shock wore off, and his mind was alert again.

He tried to raise himself into a sitting position, couldn't with the lack of feeling in his chest, and leaned onto his side with a lunging effort. He saw the THRUSH scientist approaching him, shouting unintelligible words that were lost in the breath of wind blowing across the surface of the lake. He steadied his right arm and squeezed off two wild shots, unable to aim properly from the huddled position he lay in.

But the fact that he had managed to fire at all accomplished a purpose. Dr. Sagine stopped, uncertain. He realized Illya Kuryakin was not dead, and realized as well the foolishness of walking into the muzzle of the special held in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's right hand. He turned and began to run again.

Illya Kuryakin emptied the special after the running man, but at the widening range none of the shots were remotely close. The figure of Dr. Sagine began to grow smaller as he raced toward the rocky shore in the distance.

Illya reached under him, fingers clawing at his pocket. The communicator had gone dead, but maybe it was from Waverly's end. If his own was...The first sharp pain slashed across his chest then, squeezing tears from his eyes. He clamped his teeth down tightly together, pulling the communicator free. Maybe there was still time. If an U.N.C.L.E. jet or helicopter were in the area, it was possible they might be able to spot Dr. Sagine before he could lose himself in the rocks.

Illya nipped out the antenna, pulling the communicator to his lips. "Kuryakin here," he said, and his voice mirrored the rising pain in his chest.

THREE

Solo was pacing nervously up and down the tail section of the U.N.C.L.E. jet when he heard Illya's voice come over Channel D.

His heart jumped. He started to speak into his communicator, but Waverly was already acknowledging. "Mr. Kuryakin, this is Waverly. Listen carefully. Return to your helicopter at once. Do you understand? Return to your helicopter and lift off at once."

"Negative," Illya said. "Sagine's getting away. He shot me. He's..."

"Shot you?" Waverly cut in. "Are you badly hurt? Are you able to return to your helicopter?"

"Negative," Illya said again. He began to cough, and the rest of his words were flecked with the rasps. "Shot in the chest. Don't think I can move. But I'll be all right until you can send someone down for me. Sagine is..."

"Sagine is unimportant," Waverly said tersely. "He won't get far. You are of primary concern at the moment."

"Told you, I'm all right," Illya said.

"You are not all right, Mr. Kuryakin. The chemical antidote has been introduced into the Colorado River. I was attempting to tell you that when my mike went out of order. In another six to eight minutes, the antidote will reach Lake Mead, decrystallizing the salt."

"What?" Illya said.

Solo couldn't wait any longer. "Illya, this is Solo," he said into the communicator.

"Napoleon! What are you..."

"I'm in one of the Squadron B jets," Solo said. "We're on our way to you. We have a grappling sling ready."

"Grappling sling? But there's not enough time for that!"

"Just hold on," Solo said. "We've got time."

"I don't even see you yet," Illya said, and Solo knew he was scanning the sky.

Solo caught up one of the jet's microphones hanging on the wall. "Mac, this is Solo. How much longer?"

"Lake Mead, dead ahead," McDuffee said from the cockpit. "Two minutes."

"Can you see what point the chemical change has reached?"

"Hang tight," McDuffee said. "I'm taking her down."

Solo felt the jet begin to nose dive. He had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, but not all of it was due to the sudden drop in altitude. The jet leveled again.

"I see it now," McDuffee said. "Man, that's some sight. It's moving forward like a wave."

"Where, Mac? Where is it?"

"A couple of miles behind us, now," McDuffee said. "We're over Lake Mead, approaching the position."

The communicator in Solo's hand crackled. "I can see you now!" Illya's voice yelled. "You're coming right at me!"

"Mac, hold her steady," Solo said in the jet's microphone "We're on target."

"I can see the helicopter now," McDuffee said.

"What's your altitude?"

"Seven-fifty."

"Take her down to five hundred."

The jet dipped.

"Do you see Illya?" Solo asked.

"Not yet," McDuffee said. "There's a man running across the surface to the left, toward the shore. But I... Wait! I see him now! Two hundred yards from the helicopter!"

"All right," Solo said. He was aware that perspiration covered his body. He rubbed wetness from his forehead. "Get set, Mac. I'll give you the word when we're ready."

"Roger," McDuffee said. "I'll start circling."

"Mr. Solo, this is Waverly," the U.N.C.L.E. chief's voice said over the communicator. "How much time have you?"

"Plenty of time," Solo lied.

"Can you see me?" Illya said. His voice seemed to have gotten fainter. He was still coughing.

"We can see you," Solo answered. A thought struck him. "Illya, you're not going to pass out?"

"No, I don't think so," Illya said feebly. "But my chest is on fire."

"Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Sign off for now. You have work to do. I will maintain contact."

"Yes, sir," Solo said. "When we're set, I'll come on again."

He put the communicator in his pocket, looking at the two crewmen. "Ready with the grappling sling?"

"Ready, sir," one of the crewmen said.

"Get the door open."

The crewmen unlatched the jump door on the left side of the plane. Cold wind howled through the opening, chilling the sweat on Solo's body. He shivered, looking out. Below him, he saw the white salt surface of the lake, and then, as they passed in a tight circle, the still form of Illya Kuryakin, lying prone there.

Solo looked at the grappling sling they had set up on a succession of steel pulleys in front of the jump door. It was a series of plowsteel cables, running through the pulleys, and attached to a ten-foot square piece of reinforced plastic nylon. Above the nylon, fastened onto the cables, were sliding metal hooks, manipulated by drawstrings from inside the jet. Running through the square of nylon at the edges, and affixed to the bottom of the hooks, was a thick, elasticized fiber cord.

When the victim to be rescued was safely onto the nylon square, the drawstrings were pulled upward, lifting the hooks and pulling the nylon closed at the top, somewhat like a fish net, so that there was no chance of the victim falling from the sling while the cables and pulleys hauled him into the plane.

This enabled rescue to be successfully made of unconscious individuals, as well as conscious ones. The entire unit, had been developed and perfected by U.N.C.L.E.

It was, in itself, foolproof. However, if the lowered sling, due to wind conditions or other elements, were to miss its target on the first pass, the plane would have to circle and make a second, or third, attempt. The operation required precise timing, and offered little margin for error, especially in a spot such as the one they were faced with now.