The Man From Uncle 02 - The Doomsday Affair - Whittington Harry (читать книги онлайн без .txt) 📗

Solo strode to the fireplace in the corner, knelt and looked again at the heavy metal plate which blocked off the chimney. He smiled slightly. It was as he'd hoped: the chimney itself was constructed of brick, so it had been impossible to secure the plate any more firmly than by the use of bolts. And bolts, unlike welding, could be removed comparatively easily.

It took him less than half an hour to get the metal plate out of the way. By the time he finished he was covered with soot that had probably been there for fifty years or more—since whenever the old mansion had been turned into an exclusive private sanitarium, and this room into isolation quarters. Looking into the chimney, he found that it led both downward and upward. Apparently the level he was on wasn't yet the lowest one at Broadmoor; he'd suspected that, from his use of the directional sound pickup at the air conditioning grate. There had been the muffled sound of engines somewhere below…

He took one last look around the room, at Illya and Barbry, both asleep. Then he shoved the sound-directional detector into the chimney ahead of him and worked his way into it.

Bracing feet and shoulders against the rough walls of the chimney, he inched his way downward into darkness. Loosened soot and dirt cascaded around him; he had to move doubly carefully to avoid stirring so much of it that he'd be unable to breathe. Twice he gulped in lungfuls of mostly soot, and barely managed to keep from breaking out into coughing fits. Then the soot would sink into the darkness beneath him and he would . breathe in tortured gasps of comparatively clean air.

The passage was apparently the main chimney for this part of the building; Solo passed several branches which apparently led to other sealed-off fireplaces. At one point light entered the shaft, and as Solo reached that place he saw another branch leading to another fireplace, this one not sealed off. No sound came from the room; apparently it was unused. From what he could see from the passageway it seemed to be just a storeroom. He went on, still downward toward the machine-sounds, which were growing steadily louder.

At last he reached the bottom. The sounds had by now become a deep drumming which filled the shaft with almost physical waves of sound. There was light here, bright light—another unsealed opening. Solo approached it cautiously, as silently as possible even though he knew any sound he made would almost certainly be lost amid the engine-noise below.

Then his feet touched a bed of soft ashes, and he sank into them nearly up to his knees. There was a semi-brittle crust to the ashpile, as though it had lain undisturbed for scores of years. Except for where his feet sank into them, the ashes remained undisturbed.

It was a large burning area, Solo saw—apparently it had been used originally as the main incinerator for the building. Now, with the ashes settled to a depth of only a few feet, the unused incinerator formed a small, shadowed room with an opening about three feet square through which brilliant white light lanced sharply. Solo paused, then knelt slowly, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the light before he risked a look outside.

When he did, he stared out into a hangar-sized area, blindingly white with lights. He couldn't even guess how far below ground this massive room was, but he knew it must be deep inside the mountain. Electronic controls, computers, switches and testing equipment were banked along the white walls. He moved his gaze slowly until he had passed over the radiation-suited figures to the heart of the immense plant—the place where the separately gathered components had now been assembled into a small but obviously functional atomic device.

He stared at the assembled device, his eyes wide.

As he watched, an abrupt whistle blew through the huge arena scooped from the earth. The white-suited, helmeted engineers and scientists at work in the chamber where the atomic device had been assembled stopped working and lined up to exit the glass enclosed room within the larger plant.

Solo held his breath as the first man stepped through the double set of exit doors. Outside the chamber, they pulled off their helmets.

The impact was like a sharp karate blow in the face to Solo. One's mind could reel under the incredulous truth being revealed to him.

Abruptly, he remembered why the name of Broad-moor Rest had seemed so familiar to him from U.N.C. L.E. briefings. Again and again over the past two years, reports had come in from parts of the United States, Russia, France, Germany, records of scientists, engineers, physicists—all in, sensitive missile work, each suffering mental breakdown, going to one sanitarium or another, but all, he now realized, eventually ending up here at Broadmoor Rest. Though the briefings had mentioned this place often enough to impress its title on his mind, there had been no concentrated reading of the names and professions of the men arriving here in an almost constant stream in the past twenty-four months.

He shook his head. Though often repeated, the idea of mentally ill men and their arrival at Broadmoor had not been noted in any context that would give it meaning—not until now. Those men had certainly been subjected to unnatural pressures, tensions and strains. Many of them crumpled under it, and it didn't add up to anything except the increased tempo of life in the atomic age. Men's minds and nerves snapped; they needed hos-pitalization and treatment—Broadmoor Rest had been internationally respected as one of the best. These men had earned the best possible care; who would suspect they came here not because they were ill at all, but because they had sold out their governments, their families, their careers for the quick fortunes dangled before them by Thrush?

Because here they were.

Every face revealed to Solo by the removal of a helmet was familiar to him from the photos in the U.N.C. L.E. briefings. Every reputation was known to him, along with the facts of mental or nervous breakdown. Wolgang von Shisnagg, from the western zone of Ger-many, Kurt Helmeric, Pierre Curie de David—the whole long list of the brilliant engineers, scientists.

He slumped there for a long time, hidden in the darkness of the abandoned incinerator shaft, watching the Who's Who of missle scientists pass by him. It took some moments for him to recover, he who had few illusions left concerning every man and his price…

VI

The changing of the shift continued. For a long time Solo remained where he was, watching the faces of those men who had sold out to Thrush.

The pattern was clear enough now—as well as the time. Early morning—doomsday!

He stirred, seeing how easily the mission would be accomplished. A plane would land on that strip out there, the bomb brought carefully up by lift—and flown to its target from well within the protective radar and early warning ring!

He slowly made his way back up the narrow shaft. Going up to the next level was a matter of muscle and patience: lift a foot, brace it and lift the other one without slipping or losing balance.

He stopped for a moment, exhausted, bracing himself as comfortably as he could in the dark chimney shaft. He placed the ear-plug against his ear, turning the barrel of the sound-detector upward in the passage, toward first one, then another branch of the chimney's interior complex.

He stayed some moments, listening. The aluminum cones picked up the sounds of persistent voices from above him, far to his left. The sounds were faint, but unlike any other throughout the entire complex at this early hour.

He inched toward that sound, using his elbows, his knees, his feet to worm himself forward. The sounds in the ear-plug increased until he was able to distinguish words, and different male voices speaking.