The Copenhagen Affair - Oram John (лучшие бесплатные книги .txt) 📗

“That,” said Sorensen, “is not my story. You can speak freely, Mr. Solo. And we shall need Viggo’s help.”

Once more Solo outlined the events which had led them to this Jutland farm. Viggo listened quietly but with growing excitement. At the end he slapped his knee with a report like a cannon and exclaimed, “Of course! The tunnel!”

Knud asked anxiously, “It is still in order?”

“You shall see.” He turned to the others. “When the Germans were here we, too, wanted to see what they were doing. So we made ourselves a tunnel right into the factory. When we had found out what we wanted, we placed a few charges and boom—no more factory. But the tunnel was unharmed. It is there yet.”

“Good!” Knud stood up and drained the last of his punch. “Let’s take a look.”

The farmer shrugged into a heavy sheepskin coat. He went to a bureau, unlocked a drawer and took out a Mauser 9mm automatic and three full clips of ammunition. He put the clips in his left-hand coat pocket and the gun in the right. He looked as happy as a boy going out on his first date.

They stopped in the yard for Sorensen to pick up the scattergun in the truck. Then Viggo led the way into a long, spotlessly clean shed sweet with the breath of the dairy cows standing in their stalls.

At the far end of the shed a square slab was let into the concrete floor. It was so beautifully fitted that the cracks were barely perceptible. Viggo pressed his hand against a tool rack on the wall and the slab swung downward silently, as if counterbalanced. They saw against the blackness of the cavity the first rungs of a steel ladder. Cold air blew up damply.

Viggo produced a flashlight. “I will go first,” he said, “to make sure all is well. There are twenty rungs and then you will be on firm ground. You can stand upright. We built well.” He was climbing onto the ladder as he spoke. They watched the torchlight go bobbing down and then become stationary.

Sorensen motioned to Solo. “You and your friends go now. I must come last to close the hatch after us.”

The air at the bottom of the ladder smelled dank but it was breathable. Viggo said, “As far as I can see, nobody has been along here. The cotton we left is unbroken.” He directed the flashlight beam upwards and they could see threads stretched at waist and breast height from wall to wall.

He went on, “Again I shall lead the way. Tread softly and do not speak, for the tunnel conducts sound easily. And keep your guns ready, for we do not know what we may find at the other end.”

Illya took the modified Luger from its shoulder holster and clipped on the butt extension and the magazine that converted it into a sub-machine gun. Solo did the same. Karen slid a shell into the breech of her Walther 7.65mm pistol and gave the barrel a good-luck kiss. Sorensen checked the loads in his shotgun and snapped it shut. Then they moved off cautiously, following the beam of Viggo’s torch into the blackness.

After only a few yards the tunnel decreased in height so that they were reduced to crawling on hands and knees. The irregular sides bore in on them to such an extent that at times jagged projections caught and tore at their clothes. It seemed that they had crawled an agonizing mile when suddenly the torch beam snapped off and a warning hiss from Viggo brought them to a stop.

His whispered instruction passed back down the line: “Stay where you are. I am going ahead to investigate.”

Waiting motionless in the darkness, they could hear the distant high-pitched whine of some kind of motor and feel a regular pulsation through the ground beneath their hands and feet.

A second whisper came: “All clear.” They crawled forward painfully, sometimes bumping into each other in the blackness. The whining sound grew louder and more piercing.

At last the tunnel widened and they could stand erect, every muscle aching with the effort. Groping ahead, Solo’s hands came in contact with a solid wall of rock. He heard Sorensen mutter, “Give me your pencil flashlight.”

The little white beam danced over the rock face and came to rest on a metal shutter. Sorensen’s hand appeared in the circle of light, reaching for a small handle. The torch beam cut out. Very slowly Sorensen began to draw back the shutter.

The first thin thread of light became a sliver, then widened to an inch. The glare stabbed painfully at their eyes, grown used to the darkness. They had to look away. The engine whine was now deafening. It cut into their eardrums like a surgeon’s scalpel. The walls of the tunnel seemed to be rocking with the sound.

Solo put his hands over his ears and peered through the opening. The brilliant light caught his face at unnatural angles, giving it the look of something seen in a nightmare. His expression did nothing to temper the illusion. He turned and beckoned to the others to join him.

Sorensen pulled the shutter an inch wider. They crowded together, staring incredulously.

They were looking into a vast workshop that seemed to be lit by a hundred arc lamps. In the center of the floor was a giant circular craft of some dully gleaming metal. It appeared to consist of two thick discs placed one above the other and each of at least a hundred feet in diameter. Centered above, like the boss of a shield, was a squat, dome-shaped conning tower or cabin with narrow, lateral ports. A metal ladder led to an open hatch in the lower disc, through which they could see a lighted interior. From somewhere in the base of the strange craft thick power cables snaked toward a grotesquely shaped generator that was obviously the source of the nerve-shattering sound.

As they watched, Solo and Illya saw two men emerge from the open hatch. Despite the shapeless overalls and the helmet that obscured much of his head, there was no mistaking the soldierly figure of Major Garbridge. His companion, similarly clad, was a stranger. The two men descended the ladder and stood waiting.

A few seconds later a tractor laden with cylindrical objects approached from the far end of the shop and pulled up beside the monster craft. In comparison, it looked like a child’s toy.

Solo attracted the fascinated Sorensen’s attention by tugging at his sleeve. He made signs to indicate that they should get back into the tunnel.

When they were sufficiently out of range of the generator to make speech audible, he asked, “Ever seen hydrogen bombs?”

“No,” Sorensen said.

“Then go back and take another peek. What that tractor is carrying ain’t knaidlach!”

CHAPTER NINE

AFTER THE CHARNEL-HOUSE atmosphere of the tunnel the air in the cow barn tasted like wine. They blinked in the daylight. Solo looked at his watch and held it to his ear to check that it was still ticking. It seemed incredible that the time was still only early afternoon.

Viggo led the way back to the farmhouse. They all looked like scarecrows, but Else scarcely raised an eyebrow. She brought drinks, and said to Viggo in Danish, “Our guests will need a shower and dry clothes.” Womanly curiosity seemed not to be her strong point.

Sorensen said, “Well, we have seen it. The saucers exist. What to do now?”

“They not only exist; they’re operational,” Illya said. “They wouldn’t be loading that baby down there with bombs if they hadn’t ironed out the bugs. We’ve got to move fast.”

Sorensen said again, “How? What to do?”

Viggo suggested, “A few grenades through the tunnel grille?”

Illya laughed. “They’d have as much effect on that great machine as stroking it with a powder puff.”

Solo poured himself a glass of lager. He lifted it to eye level and watched the streams of bubbles rushing up through the golden liquid. “Explosives are out,” he said slowly. “The hydrogen bombs would be armed before they loaded them into the bays. If they went up—goodbye, Jutland! We don’t dare take any chances. Besides, we want that machine intact. If we wrecked it now, Mr. Waverly would never forgive us. You know how he likes new toys, Illya.”