[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair - Edmonds I. G. (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полные версии txt) 📗

"We would break the tail off," Patterson objected.

"Well, we'll break our own tails off if we don't!" the fiery little man from U.N.C.L.E. retorted.

Patterson had no answer to that one.

"Let's try it," Solo said, the deep lines of his face mirrored his bone weariness. The terrific struggle to hang on to the plane's controls had brought him close to the point of collapse.

"Well, you never know what you can do until you try it," Patterson said. His weary voice held little confidence.

TWO

They circled one more time and then headed directly in toward the storm-battled island. The atoll was a circular stand of coral built on the rim of an extinct undersea volcano to make a thin rim of tiny islands circling a small lagoon. The water in the lagoon, partially protected by the encircling reef, was not lashed to the terrible fury of the open sea.

They came in less than one hundred twenty-five feet above the sea. The boiling foam started striking the bottom of the plane as they descended lower.

They came over the south strip of islands at fifty feet. It was uninhabited and completely treeless. In the darkness Solo got just a glimpse of coral sand reflecting the starlight coming down through the open eye above them.

The larger island was looming up fast across the lagoon.

"Now!" Solo cried.

Both he and Patterson pulled back on the wheel, desperately trying to lift the nose of the plane. All the others braced themselves for the coming crash. Illya threw himself on the flight deck, pressing his back and the back of his head against the rear of the pilot's seat. He shoved his legs hard against the fuselage to brace himself.

The tail of the plane struck the lagoon. The crashing surf splashed higher than the plane. They were blinded by the foaming water striking the windshield. The tail dragged on the coral, sending a terrible vibration through the dying airplane. The two men in the pilot and co-pilot's seat struggled to hold back on the stick, still fighting to keep the planes' nose up.

It was losing speed fast. One wing tip struck the huge bole of a coconut tree. They spun around. The other wing dug into the sand. The plane heaved up as if trying to fly again. It settled and the broken trunk of a palm, ripped by the typhoon, ripped through the fuselage.

Its splintered end sliced through Patterson's body. It rammed past Napoleon Solo and smashed into the instrument panel.

The plane hung there, rocking, each metal joint creaking in a dying agony.

Outside there was a glaring flash of light and fire burst through a tearing hold in the wing as one of the wing gas tanks exploded.

"We've got to get out!" Solo gasped. "Illya! Are you okay?"

"Yes," Kuryakin said shakily. "We've got one dead man, but the rest seem to be okay."

"I'm trapped," Solo said. "This broken palm trunk has me wedged in. Can you—"

Illya grabbed the palm trunk and heaved as Solo pushed with all his strength. It would not budge. Outside on the wing the flaming gas fire was eating closer to the cockpit.

Illya straightened up. "We're not doing any good. Just a minute, I'll get some help. I—"

"Hey!" one of the airmen cried from the back of the plane. "Somebody's coming! There's people on the island!"

"I'll get help!" Illya repeated to Solo. "I'll be right back."

Kuryakin turned and ran to the waist door of the plane. In the flickering light of the fire he could see several people running through the downed palms toward the wreck. One of the latter was a woman.

"Hurry!" Illya shouted to them. "We've got some men trapped in here!"

The first to clamber into the plane was a giant Polynesian man wearing only a native lava-lave loin cloth. Illya grabbed his arm.

"This way!" he gasped. "There's a man trapped in the cockpit. We must get him out now, before the flames—"

The big Polynesian grunted. He grabbed the smaller man about the waist and threw him from the plane. Illya hit the wet coral sand, sprawling flat and just missing the bole of an uprooted palm.

He jerked himself up. "Hey!" he shouted. "I—"

"Stop! Stop, Mr. Solo!"

The cold feminine voice caused Illya to jerk around. He stared open-mouthed into the deadly hole of a .38 automatic held in the hand of Lupe de Rosa.

"Grab him!" she ordered.

A native in European dress sprang forward to grab Illya's arms. He tried to struggle, but in his weakened condition they handled him easily.

"Napoleon! Napoleon!" he shouted. "We're in the hands of THRUSH! We crashed on a THRUSH controlled island!"

The European smashed him in the face. Illya sagged. They let him drop. He fell face down in the sand.

Inside the cockpit, Napoleon heard Illya's warning cry. He knew it was impossible to extricate himself in time. The tree trunk was pressed so tightly across his chest that he couldn't even get to his gun in its shoulder holster.

He reached out and rubbed his hand over the bloody body of the dead man in the pilot's seat. He streaked the blood across his own temple and sagged his head against the trunk. He closed his eyes.

The big Polynesian came into the cockpit. He looked at the smashed body of the pilot and grunted. He looked at Solo and reached for Napoleon's wrist. He felt the pulse and grunted again.

He wrapped his huge arms about the entrapping tree trunk and heaved. The bole shivered and moved just a fraction of an inch. The giant relaxed, took a deep breath and grasped the tree trunk again.

Outside the blazing fire was moving rapidly up the plane's wing. Solo could feel the heat, scorching against his head.

But as the big Polynesian grasped the log for a final heave to free Solo, a voice with a Middle-Eastern accent said from behind them:

"Leave him! It's not worth the trouble."

"Him still alive!" the Polynesian said.

"He won't be long!" the newcomer said and laughed. "Let the fire take care of him."

The Polynesian straightened up. "You big boss," he said.

"I sure as hell am and don't you ever forget it. Come on. Let him burn!"

ACT X: THE THRUSH OUTPOST

When Illya Kuryakin regained consciousness, he found himself strapped in a chair inside a small room jammed with electronic gear. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the angry face of Lupe de Rosa. The first thing he heard was her bitter voice: "Kill him! He has caused me nothing but trouble!"

"That's what I like in my girl friends," Illya mumbled. "Quiet, shy, lovable—"

She hit him hard across the mouth. A trickle of blood ran down from a cut where her blow drove his lip against his teeth.

She whirled on a tall man with a middle-Eastern accent.

"Where is the other one?" she snapped.

"Miss de Rosa!" he said in a harsh voice. "You may be the chief scientist for this project, but I am in charge of this station! I am responsible to THRUSH headquarters for its security. Not you. I will stay out of your technical business. You will stay out of my security affairs!"

"If you had done your work properly here, it would not have been necessary for me to come!" she snapped. "These storms lost energy because this station did not operate correctly. We must have three points of electronic focus to build up these typhoons to the point where their own energy will carry them forward. Your station here did not reach full energy capacity!"

"That was not my fault," he said defensively. "The equipment you sent was defective."