The Monster Wheel Affair - McDaniel David - Страница 28

"Your job will be to stop that shipment of gold. We can find its current position and get you to it—I leave to you the mechanical problems of hijacking the ship. Meanwhile I will be working through diplomatic channels with the Egyptian government to justify your—ah—emergency activities.

"Will you be rested up and ready to leave again tomorrow morning? Probably a small twin-jet would be the best transportation."

"I think we can manage it. Illya?"

"Of course. Long vacations leave me bored."

"Very good. I think we shall also ship Rameses home now, full of the information we have garnered and well primed with your theory, Mr. Solo. His report may help convince the government there of the wisdom of following the course of action we advise."

"But the Wheel itself?"

"I shall present your case to our own government. In their position, I don't feel I would take the chance, but it is possible some method may be devised to test the defenses of the Wheel without bringing fire from the heavens down upon our heads. If such can be managed, it would probably serve to sway the Egyptian government where nothing else would."

"In the meantime?"

"We each have our jobs to do. Nothing can be done in the meantime except doing our best to shorten the meantime."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, and the Russian spoke first. "Well, I've never hijacked a shipload of gold before."

"When I was a boy," said Napoleon, "I wanted to be a pirate. And now here I am. Too bad we have to give it back afterwards...."

Chapter 14: "We'll Have To Ditch!"

The first answer came in before they left the next morning. Diplomatic communications with the Egyptian High Command had a net result of slightly less than zero—not only did they refuse to comment on the suggestion that the space station known as the Monster Wheel was of Egyptian origin, they were politely insulting about the very idea.

Waverly looked at the teletype flimsy he had been handed, and shook his head. Their sources within the governments of both the United States and Egypt would continue to work at getting the message through, but as long as the individuals responsible refused to admit their connection with the Wheel, they could not be approached with information as to its true nature.

He tossed the piece of yellow paper on his desk and reached for the intercom. "Is the airplane ready yet?"

"Fueling is almost completed, sir," came the answer. "Ready for takeoff in about twenty minutes."

"Very good. Put Mr. Solo on, please."

It was a minute or two before Napoleon answered. "Solo on, sir."

"Mr. Solo, it looks as if you will have your chance to play pirate. The Egyptian government has refused to look at our theories, and has denied hotly the existence of the ship you are being sent to stop."

"Well, if we pirate a nonexistent ship, we can't very well be hanged in chains, can we?"

"Your gibbets will be as unreal as the ship, Mr. Solo—no more so. You will be expected to exercise due care in your actions, and attempt to avoid the possibility of legal prosecution, which could reflect badly on both your government and your employer.

"The target ship has been located for us—its predicted coordinates will be transmitted to you by secure teletype in a few minutes. Have you decided upon a plan of approach yet?"

"We'd thought of flying over them and threatening to drop a bomb on them if they didn't heave to and surrender. Then we thought of anti-aircraft guns and shifted over to using a submarine and threatening a torpedo if they didn't etcetera."

"Scarcely an original idea, Mr. Solo, but practical under most circumstances. Unfortunately, the target ship is an aircraft carrier of the Egyptian navy, and is equipped not only with anti-aircraft armament, but effective anti-submarine devices as well. I presume you have discarded your first two ideas?"

"If we hadn't before, we would now. But we came up with another old idea, which depends more on us personally than an open display of power would. It has the advantage that it is less likely to be answered with force. And we couldn't take on an aircraft carrier barehanded."

"It is a valuable attribute. Describe it."

"Well, the fact that the target is an aircraft carrier might affect the plan.... Hmm." There was silence on the other end of the circuit for a few seconds. "Yes, it does, but not much. How does this strike you, sir? We have a predated flight plan set up with NATO Air Control—you can arrange that—which takes us over the ship. Then..."

The windswept surface of the South Atlantic Ocean was a featureless blue forty thousand feet below the little twin-jet, and the sky was a lighter blue all about and above it. Only the quivering needles on the instrument panel indicated that the plane was actually moving at a fair fraction of the speed of sound. The two occupants of the pressurized cabin looked at each other and grinned.

The craft was equipped with only standard charts, and had no unusual electronic or navigational gear. Yet its passengers intended to find a single ship somewhere in the vast waste of water south of the Equator across sixty degrees of longitude—one twelfth of the surface of the earth.

The ship they were seeking had been spotted a day earlier, and they were not counting on the accuracy of their information to bring them together, with only an accurate compass and a chronometer. There are few radio beacons in this part of the world, and the seat of the pants has not been entirely supplanted by inertial guidance devices. But the course they were flying should cross the path of a certain officially nonexistent aircraft carrier shortly after 1600 GMT.

The whole plan they had devised back in New York hung on one single factor: the humanitarian instincts of the captain of that aircraft carrier. If he was coldly practical, they stood a good chance of never seeing land again. But if he had a shred of conscience and humanity, it could well be his downfall—and his country's salvation.

They would find out soon. Only some ten minutes separated their plane from the estimated position of their target. And it was time for the first step of the plan to go into effect. Napoleon nodded to his partner, who picked up the microphone of their air-to-ground radio, snapped the switch on the emergency channel, and began transmission.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday," he called. "Private aircraft Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig calling Mayday. Developing fuel leak, and we will have to ditch in about ten minutes. Are there any ships in the vicinity?"

There was no answer. According to the last reports before their takeoff, there would be no ships within four hundred miles of this point—with one exception. The receiver hummed the mindless music of the ether, and no answering voice came with offers of hope for the crippled plane.

Illya called again. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. Private aircraft Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig calling Mayday. We're losing fuel fast, and the engine may blow any minute. Is there anyone within range who can get help to us?"

This time there was an answer. It was faint, but it was clear, and it could only have come from one place. "Hello Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig," it said. "What is your position? Over."

"This is Nan Eight-Zero-Three Love Jig. We're about twenty-one-thirty west, twelve degrees south. Who and where are you? Over."

"Correct your course to one-twenty and you should spot us in a minute or two. Can you steer? Can you glide? Over."