[Magazine 1966-­10] - The Moby Dick Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 22

"Shoot me," the pilot replied. "I refuse to obey your orders."

Distraught and sobbing, Cleo squealed again as Solo caught her wrist, dragged her forward to where the pilot could see her from the corner of his eye.

"This is Miss St. Cloud." Solo's lips were peeled back in an ungentlemanly expression. "She's Commander Ahab's little friend. Your commander grows very angry and does nasty things to people who damage his possessions."

The dart struck. The pilot's right cheek showed a muscular tic. Apparently he knew of Ahab's potential for wrath. Solo pressed on:

"Commander Ahab will do something very nasty to you, my friend, if I shoot Miss St. Cloud through the head. Which is exactly what I'm going to do unless this plane starts losing altitude."

Fear, uncertainty glittered in the pilot's eyes. Struggling, Cleo St. Cloud burst out, "It's a rotten bluff. Don't listen! An U.N.C.L.E. agent would never kill a woman—"

Wiggling his left hand around her head and down over her mouth, Solo managed to silence her. Cleo began gnawing on his fingers with considerable savagery. Solo tried to ignore this minor distraction and concentrated on the pilot. The man's cheeks were filmed with sweat as he tried to weigh his duty to THRUSH against his personal well-being, should his decision turn out to be responsible for the girl's sudden demise.

Solo had to keep the man from thinking too much. So he shouted at him: "Start this plane down right away or she gets it! Bam, bam!"

That jarred the man's nerve sufficiently. He took a deep breath, grasped the control wheel more firmly, inched it forward. The nose of the sleek jet began to drop into the tattered cloud. Solo took time to gulp a deep breath of air.

It was his only respite. With a horrendous jerk, the nose of the plane came up again. The pilot goggled. He hadn't moved the controls. Then understanding dawned. He tittered.

"Override controls in the rear," he said. "I forgot them. Commander Ahab is flying the plane. I can do nothing."

Desperately, Napoleon whirled around. He shoved Cleo St. Cloud out of the way, rolled back the cockpit door. A bullet chopped wood paneling out of the wall inches from his face as he dodged back. One glimpse had been enough.

The galleyman, not Ahab, was flying the plane. He was using a set of controls which were mounted to a pedestal that had apparently sprung up through the floor near the cove seat. Crouched beside him was Hadkins, the other THRUSH agent with the bowler. Hadkins' gun was trained on the cockpit. He had fired a moment ago.

The pilot yelled in terror. Solo craned around the door's edge once more, triggered a shot. Hadkins uttered a low shriek, spilled over' on his side. The galleyman, alone, turned white with fright as he held onto the auxiliary control wheel mounted in the pedestal. The air craft had leveled out but was bumping along somewhat erratically.

And where was Commander Ahab? Napoleon Solo couldn't see him anywhere in the rear compartment.

The galleyman kept one hand on the controls and reached for Hadkins' fallen gun with the other. Solo stepped through the cockpit door, wigwagged his gun muzzle.

"Both hands on the controls, please," he said.

The galleyman lifted his right hand back and fastened it on the auxiliary wheel.

Quickly Solo glided down the aisle. He stopped opposite the cove lounge seat. He kicked the top of the console with his heel. The lid snapped back. Then Solo moved to his right one pace. He jammed the muzzle of his gun down on the bright blue button and pushed.

Somewhere on the surface of the North Sea Solo imagined a tremendous mushroom gout of water, flame, thunder and spray as the THRUSH submarine blew up. "So long, Moby Dick," he breathed.

"A foolish gesture," said a voice in the rear. "Don't lift the gun!"

Solo kept the muzzle down hard on the blue button. Commander Ahab had thrown back the curtain surrounding the galley where he'd been hiding. He menaced Solo with a pistol. White straps crisscrossed his chest. He wore a parachute pack over his hastily-donned overcoat. His cheeks puffed in and out with rage.

"You have cost us billions of dollars, Mr. Solo. Billions!" Spittle streaked out with the words. "But your cheap little act of bravado cost you a moment's advantage—and that is what will lose the game for you and win it for us."

Ahab lashed out with his right foot. His toe hit some kind of electric control plate set low in the galley's outer door. Four explosive bolts popped. The door fell off and disappeared, tumbling down the sky.

Wind howled into the cabin as Ahab screamed, "There is another detonation device somewhere in London, Mr. Solo. It's in a place you could not possibly find in the time left. But I will reach it. I must, for THRUSH, even though I will drown with the rest of them. Good- by, Solo. I won't kill you because I want you to be alive at four-thirty for the last trick. Mine—"

Ahab whirled and plunged through the door.

Solo darted around the terrified galleyman, battered by the wind pouring into the cabin. He hung precariously in the galley's open door, looking below. A white circle bloomed just above heavy clouds, sank swiftly into them. He heard a brittle laugh, whirled.

Cleo St. Cloud stood in the aisle, clutching her midsection. A random patch of gray light from one of the windows caught her gold wristwatch and made it glitter. Her makeup was smeared. Rather blearily, she laughed again.

"I haven't got a parachute, Solo," she said. "But I wouldn't be any good playing prisoner the rest of my life, anyway. We all carry these, you know." She lifted her watch hand, tapped the crystal which flew back to reveal a small empty compartment "One pill each. I just took mine."

Raging, Solo ran forward, grabbed her arm. "Where is Ahab's detonator located in London?"

Cleo St. Cloud's face was rapidly draining of color. She wasn't faking. She had taken something.

"Good luck, dear man from U.N.C.L.E. You'll never find it—"

"But you know where it is?"

"Of course I do. Of course I know where—"

She clutched her midriff, choking. She fell onto one knee, gave Solo a last, twisted smile and flopped over.

The pilot was standing up in the cockpit, peering out, bewildered. The galleyman had raised his hands in the air. Apparently he didn't mind capture. With a start Solo remembered that no one was flying the aircraft. It began a sickening nosedive just at that moment. Walking forward, he aimed his pistol at the pilot. Solo's face looked haggard, skull-like. He pointed the pistol right between the pilot's feverishly watering eyes and said:

"Land this plane. And get on the radio and call London airport. There'll be a lot of traffic on the bands if they're trying to evacuate. But you get through. When you do, I'll give you a relay frequency. We're going to contact a man named Waverly. We're going to get an emergency medical team to stand by at the airport, no matter what effort it costs."

Solo's voice was ragged, spilling out the plan even as he thought of it. "If any one of those things fail to happen because you caused trouble, you will be dead. Are you clear on all that?"

A sickening whine of jets as the plane continued its downward plunge. For one awful moment, fanaticism flared in the pilot's eyes. Then self-interest burned it out.

"Yes, sir."

He stumbled back to his seat.

The plane slowly pulled out of its dive. Kneeling, Solo placed his cheek next to Cleo St. Cloud's lips.

Warmth. He felt thin warmth. He was fighting the race of poison through her bloodstream.