[Magazine 1966-­10] - The Moby Dick Affair - Davis Robert Hart (книги бесплатно без .txt) 📗

Relays had switched him to Mr. Waverly. Illya reported what was likely to happen at four-thirty in the afternoon.

An official Whitehall limousine sped out of the fog ten minutes later. It carried him to No. 10 Downing Street. From that address at shortly past eleven issued the order that all resources were to be mobilized to put into effect a defense Program left over from the days when the exodus of a city's population seemed feasible in the face of nuclear attack.

By noon bayonet-armed troops were on the streets and outward traffic was flowing sluggishly. Citizens milled in panic at the tube entrances. Nearly everyone had heard the Prime Minister's emergency broadcast alluding to a situation of grave emergency which required orderly but instant evacuation.

For two hours now the evacuation had been in progress. Thirty-nine gigantic TV monitors positioned on the floor of the Program Room showed London's various main traffic arteries. Each road was hopelessly clogged with motionless traffic. Eleven additional monitors relayed pictures from other main points around London. A riot was in progress outside the Parliament Building, for example. The rioters were panic-stricken students who had no idea why they were rioting, or what they were protesting.

The Prime Minister himself had decided to put the evacuation plan into operation. He had digested the facts presented by his aides: only a third of the population, perhaps less, could be gotten out before the THRUSH tidal wave struck at half after the hour of four. Hardly satisfactory, but better than nothing. The Prime Minister had ordered the evacuation. And it had been a bad choice.

As Illya watched with growing horror, scenes of chaos and confusion multiplied on the monitors. Up to this point the behavior of London's population had been generally both exemplary and amazing. But now, with all roads jammed and horns blasting everywhere, and still no word from the government as to the reason for the exodus, sporadic riots of serious proportions were breaking out. Many led by howling teenagers.

"It will be less than a third surviving," Illya breathed.

Mr. Waverly heard him, said, "Very likely. Our only hope is to locate the underwater craft."

Every hunter-killer sub unit in the North Atlantic, every available NATO vessel, had joined the search, with no results thus far. Illya studied the huge clock beyond the glass. It was suspended by modernistic stainless steel rods from the arched ceiling. The hands. moved again, inexorable.

Illya thought of Solo. For the tenth time in an hour he reached out, jerked an olive-green phone off its prongs. Mr. Waverly watched, strain showing around the corners of his eyes.

Illya had difficulty hearing. There was a constant buzz of communications traffic in the booth. He said into the phone:

"Kuryakin here. You'll have to speak up."

"U.N.C.L.E. station three-a-one," replied a clipped voice. "We are getting feedback from our corps of agents covering the city. But so far we have nothing positive."

"How many private airfields can there be around London?" Illya barked.

"Enough to make investigation difficult, Kuryakin. Air traffic is at its peak, what with evacuation helicopters taking off everywhere. We also have no reliable way of monitoring flights. The THRUSH airplane you referred to may already be up, and the field which it used abandoned. Our agents are having trouble reaching outlying sections of the city at all. Reports are coming in, but it's taking time. The streets are a madhouse."

Illya's face wrenched. "I'm not interested in excuses—"

The duty officer interrupted:

"Excuse me, Kuryakin, but please remember yourself. We have no direct evidence that the THRUSH detonation signal will be given from the aircraft. And we have other assignments at a time like this, you know. Records to remove. Personnel to evacuate. Liaison with the government. I realize the life of Mr. Solo is important to you, but in time of crisis, well—"

He did not finish. Mr. Waverly extended a hand toward the phone, his expression asking, Need help? Illya shook his head. The duty officer finished: "Look, Kuryakin, I'll signal you the moment we learn anything."

"Yes. Thank you. My—apologies for blowing up."

Mr. Waverly said, "Anything promising, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya struck his fist against the arm of the chair. "No aircraft. No airfield. Nothing."

"At least," said Mr. Waverly quietly, "if the worst happens and Mr. Solo is not heard from again, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that his quick work made it possible for one of you to escape, and get this evacuation started."

Gloomily Illya Kuryakin turned to look at his superior.

"Yes, sir," he said. "You're correct in one way. But in another, it's not nearly enough."

To their right the sharp voice of the Minister of Defense called for sound from one of the TV monitors. Rumbling booms filled the booth, mingled with agonized screams.

A mob near the Abbey had started flinging homemade fire cocktails at the British armor. The armor commanders responded with warning blasts fired at the sky.

"Tell those jackasses to hold their fire," the Defense Minister shouted.

But somehow communications with the armored unit had broken down. The cannons continued to roar.

Illya stared numb. He swung his gaze down the line of monitors. Everywhere he saw mobs, chaos, fear.

The madness was spreading.

And again the clock hands moved.

Perhaps, Illya thought, Napoleon was better off dead.

ACT IV

THE HOUR OF THE HARPOON

AT THAT EXACT moment Napoleon Solo was seated in a lime-green lounge chair of infinite cost and luxury. Across from him, on a wide cove seat of identical color, Commander Ahab was relaxing with a whiskey and soda, craning for a view out the window. The jet was flying an erratic pattern at 33,000 feet. Thin clouds prevented all but an occasional flash of the city far below.

On Ahab's right hand, Cleo St. Cloud sat with her shoes kicked off. She was admiring her gold- painted toenails in an offhand way, as if she were part of a scheme to butcher millions of people nearly every day of the week.

Solo's neck was clammy with perspiration. The tightly-zipped flyer's coverall was steamy. He'd found himself dressed in this garment upon awakening around noon.

"Wish we could see a bit more," Ahab commented. "Of course it may clear by signal time."

Cleo St. Cloud sniffed. "I hope some silly RAF pilot doesn't bang into us, Victor."

Ahab said, "Yes, there are quite a few planes up. Poor nitwits. Trying to evacuate the entire city of London." He glanced across at Solo. "That must be Kuryakin's work, eh?"

Solo simply shrugged.

Ever since he wakened in a plain-walled room, his mind had been clicking frantically, hunting for a way to stop the devastation that would descend upon London in a roaring, gigantic wall of water.

Commander Ahab and his cohorts had managed to elude discovery because of the unique location of their airfield. It consisted of the top three floors of a grimy warehouse covering an entire city block. Long out of business, the warehouse displayed boards where window glass had once let in sunlight.

The floors of the top two stories had been removed, providing a chamber the size of a hangar. Into this Solo was led shortly after waking up. He boarded the aircraft, a stub-winged plane with a cluster of jetpods aft and a rotor-like arrangement on top, just behind the cock pit.

From the window of the lushly appointed interior, Napoleon Solo watched the motorized roof of the ancient building roll back. Commander Ahab, already aboard, discoursed on the marvels of THRUSH, particularly the development of a vertical takeoff aircraft no larger than the conventional business or private jet.