[Magazine 1967-­11] - The Volacano Box Affair - Davis Robert Hart (читать полностью книгу без регистрации .txt) 📗

Napoleon whispered the rest of his instructions, then braced his legs for a leap the moment the wind shifted. Dacian lay inert, eyes glazed and barely comprehending. Napoleon realized it didn't matter how the scientist came out of this ordeal, dead or alive; his spirit had been broken, and Napoleon had rescued him as much for humanitarian as for strategic reasons.

"What if the wind doesn't shift again?" April asked, thrusting her nose into the fairly stiff prevailing wind that carried the smoke of the blossoming volcano away from them.

"Then we pray that the earth under Singapore is made of green cheese."

Suddenly one of the guards shouted and pointed at the northern sky, and other guards joined in the commotion. Kae Soong came running to a vantage point on the hill and peered across a valley. Napoleon craned his neck to see, but the smoke and steam obscured his view.

"It's a chopper," April said.

"Huh?"

"I hear a helicopter. And I don't think it's one of theirs."

THREE

ILLYA KURYAKIN hovered over a ridge half a mile north of Bukit Timah. The problems were manifold. The only approach to the hill, on the ground, was from the north ridge. All other ground lay below the summit, putting him at an impossible disadvantage since he wouldn't be able to see the device's scaffolding and would be an easy target for marksmen commanding the heights. Air attack was out of the question, because he couldn't get close enough to use his weapons effectively without risking ground fire that would knock him out of the sky.

So it would have to be the north ridge, but that's precisely where the pall of steam and smoke was being blown. Visibility from that approach was almost zero, meaning he'd have to make his way practically to the scaffolding itself to destroy it. It was certain he'd have, as Waverly put it, a welcoming committee long before he got that close.

If only they'd let him blast the summit indiscriminately!

But that might be a fatal mistake. U.N.C.L.E. had to learn with certainty whether THRUSH had the formula for the chief component of the device, and the only way that could be done was either to capture a THRUSH agent or rescue Dr. Dacian.

Illya Kuryakin had no idea whether Dacian was dead or alive, but he was haunted by the realization that the scientist, along with Napoleon Solo and April Dancer, were alive and being held hostage on the summit of Bukit Timah. So he had no choice but to try threading the needle—destroying the volcano box, capturing a THRUSH agent, seeking and rescuing his friends if they were there at all— and keeping himself alive in the bargain.

He shrugged, as if the mission was so ridiculous it had to succeed.

Then Illya set the helicopter down on a granite plateau and stepped out, keeping the rotors whirling against the likelihood of a fast getaway. He was quickly enveloped in a sweetish, yet acrid and dense steam. Just as serious, a series of whizzes and pings told him he was being shot at. He wasn't worried about small-arms fire damaging him or the helicopter at this range, but he knew now he wouldn't even have the element of surprise to assist him.

Illya reached into the cockpit and dragged out a metal tube about a yard long and a trigger mechanism that looked vaguely like a snub-nosed machine-pistol. Then he pulled out a canister and a weapon that looked very much like a snub-nosed machine-pistol—and in fact it was.

Then he dived for a clump of greenery as bullets whistled un comfortably near. He realized he'd underestimated their fire power. Somebody over there had a .50 caliber machinegun. He feared for the helicopter, but a slight shift of wind sent billows of smoke over his position. Now they were at an equal disadvantage—they couldn't see him and he couldn't see them.

Illya took the tube and trigger mechanism and fitted them together. They formed a one-man bazooka. He reached into the canister and withdrew a small but potent rocket and fitted it into the chamber. Then, slinging his machine-pistol over his shoulder and carrying the bazooka in one hand and the canister in the other, he scampered over the ridge until he was about seven hundred yards away.

He still could see nothing through the pall, but waited for a shift of wind which might momentarily reveal the layout and enable him to draw a bead accurately.

Everything seemed now to depend on a shift of the wind. Perversely, an hour went by before he got his chance, and when he did, he blew it. It wasn't so much a shift as simply a cessation. The steam rose straight up, disclosing the scaffolding directly behind some trees a hundred yards in front of the device. Illya could see a gun emplacement off to one side, and beyond it some helicopters and huts. He might have focused his aim on those, but the scaffolding was of primary importance, and he didn't know how much time he had left or whether the wind would ever give him another chance.

He set the crosshairs of the telescopic sight between the trunks of two trees and hoped to squeeze his shot between them. But as his finger closed around the trigger the wind started up again and rolled the steam towards him.

He pulled the shot off hastily and the ground was rocked with one, then a second explosion. The first was Illya's bazooka, defoliating the clump of trees.

The second was Illya's helicopter. They'd hit the fuel tank.

As the wreckage rained about him he wondered what it would be like to be carried off to heaven on waves of molten lava.

Then he got angry and rushed another hundred yards closer to the target under the obscurity of the smoke. He loaded another charge into the bazooka and waited.

When the wind finally shifted, blowing the steam back over the camp site, Illya was greeted by a hail of machinegun fire that sent him rolling off into some brush. They had him pinned down and he couldn't poke his head up without getting it shot off.

FOUR

AT THE SHIFT of the wind Napoleon Solo and April Dancer moved as if launched by catapult. The steam curled over them like a gigantic white hand as they charged the guard with heads lowered. Napoleon's skull rammed his throat while April's struck his solar plexus.

The guard slammed against a tree, his head smacking violently against it, and he crumpled to earth soundlessly. April, hands behind her back, stooped and picked up the sub-machinegun and held it precariously, aiming it where she thought trouble might come from.

Napoleon Solo rushed for the generator hut, which was unguarded as Soong had sent all available manpower to the north side of the hill to try to get Illya Kuryakin.

The reed door of the hut gave easily, and Napoleon saw the throbbing generator, painted bright orange, at his feet. He turned his back to it and held his bonds away from his body, then started backing towards the whirring rubber fan belt. Delicately he placed the cords around his wrists against the belt, then pressed them harder and harder until the rubber whined on the cord.

The smell of burning fiber added its pungency to the foul odors coming from the volcano rig. Ten seconds passed, and then the cord frayed and snapped so suddenly Napoleon almost thrust his hands into the generator itself.

Hands free, he rushed outside, took the gun from April and ran back to the generator with her. He cut her bonds the same way, then ordered her to drag Dacian to a safe place. As she rushed out, Napoleon Solo trained his gun on the cables leading to the rig and fired.

The cables snapped and the hot ends, closest to the generator, began writhing like electric eels. He moved to the door and, trying to shield himself from ricocheting bullets, fired at the generator itself, cutting the fan belt and sending slugs into the machine's vital elements. It sputtered, faltered, and whirled to a stop, cutting off the electricity to Dacian's device.