The Moby Dick Affair Read online

  During the next fifteen minutes, booted feet passed the chest often. The guards going off duty all took the elevator. At last, when darkness and silence claimed the castle proper again, Solo risked lifting the chest lid.

  Illya followed him out. Solo's knees popped like silenced pistols as he straightened up.

  "The stone's back in place," he whispered. "Grab the ax handle, Illya."

  The other U.N.C.L.E. agent craned up, gave the handle a tug. There was a grinding whine as the partition once more swung aside. Unfortunately there was no indicator beside the call button to show whether the elevator was in use. Solo thumbed the button.

  He heard a whine inside the shaft, a sigh of power as the cage reached their floor. The metal door slid aside—

  Revealing a pair of startled THRUSH guards just drawing their guns.

  FOUR

  ONE OF THE occupants of the elevator was the guard with the scar on his ear. An expression of suspicion satisfied flashed over his thick-featured face. With a flick of his thumb he snapped the setting of his pistol to rapid fire, and began to blaze away point blank.

  The two U.N.C.L.E. agents had lunged back out of the way, one to either side of the open doors. The guard's pistol stuttered, tracer rounds penciling white dashes through the gloom. Solo slammed against the wall, righted himself. He ripped the camera loose from around his neck and flung it like a baseball.

  The camera whizzed full speed into the forehead of the second guard, who was just aiming. The man yelped, sagged. Off balance, he fell against the elevator control panel. The doors started to shut.

  Seeing that his potential victims were unarmed, the scar-eared guard stopped firing. Backs pressed to opposite walls of the cul-de-sac, Solo and Illya looked at each other. Both understood that if the guards retreated into the elevator and got away, alarms would surely be sounded. Solo watched the guard warily.

  The man was toying with them. He sidled forward so that he stood with his backbone against one elevator door, his boot braced against the other to keep the doors from shutting.

  "I had a feeling there was some thing wrong about you two," the guard said. "I told my section chief you hadn't left the castle. The fool wouldn't believe me."

  Crouched against the wall, Solo shrugged. "Obviously we've under estimated THRUSH again."

  The guard laughed. "As always. Now, if you will be so kind as to accompany me—"

  Solo said to his companion across the narrow corridor, "We'd better do what the man says. Climb over that chest and come on. But be careful."

  From the corner of his eye, Solo noted the distance to the weapon he hoped to use. He advanced into the center of the corridor. Illya shrugged as if to agree that the odds were indeed too heavily weighted against them. Illya had been crouching behind the chest in which they'd hidden. The shortest way out was to step up on the chest and down on the other side.

  Illya performed the first half of this maneuver, a hangdog expression of defeat on his face. He poised to jump down on the other side. Suddenly his legs flew out from under him in a perfect pratfall that landed him with a thump on his gluteus maximus.

  The moment Illya started this distraction routine, Solo moved.

  He leaped to the nearest suit of armor on its pedestal, shouted, "One side, Illya," and at the same time got behind the pedestal, which was equipped with castors. A powerful shove, and Solo had the suit of armor rolling full speed at the elevator.

  Illya dodged out of the way. The reactions of the guards were slow. Trying to do something useful for a change, the guard Solo had smacked with the camera lurched forward, jostling his companion. Both guards fired simultaneously. Their aims were off because of the accidental collision.

  Ducked low, Solo was right behind the suit of armor as it rolled like a juggernaut into the opening of the elevator. The guards were knocked backward. The scar-eared one jammed his arm forward around the suit of armor wedged into the doorway. He was trying to get off a shot. Illya darted in, caught the out-thrust forearm and brought up his knee.

  There was a splintery crack of bone. The guard shrieked, dropped his gun.

  Solo gave a yank on the upraised mailed fist of the armor suit. Down it squeaked with surprising speed. The iron fingers hammered the top of the second guard's head. The man's jaw flopped open. His trigger finger jerked automatically. A spray of white tracer slugs screamed past Solo, as the agent reached around the armor and gut-punched his adversary with vicious accuracy.

  The man staggered.

  Solo's next neck-chop flattened the man cold. Solo looked back over his shoulder.

  Illya's head appeared under the upraised arm of the suit of armor. Grinning with a humor he obviously didn't feel, Illya knocked his knuckles against the armored chest. It gave off a hollow ring like an empty oil drum being pounded.

  "Stout fellow," Illya said. "We should recommend him to Waverly as a recruit."

  "Some other time. Help me drag these birds behind that chest. The THRUSH people know we're still inside their gates. We've got to get moving." Quickly he outlined his plan.

  The two U.N.C.L.E. operatives dumped the guards, plus their cameras and gadget bags, behind the heavy chest. First, however, Solo took a small, flat plastic box from under his collection of potato chip sacks.

  Gingerly he laid the plastic box on the chest corner.

  "If we find anything down below, there are enough explosive gelcaps in there to take it out of action," he said.

  Illya was busy peeling off the uniform blouse of the scar-eared guard. "And us right along with it?"

  Solo said nothing about that disturbing possibility. They were inside the THRUSH headquarters, and how they escaped was secondary.

  Quickly Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin finished their job, leaving the dazed guards in their boxer shorts and singlets behind the chest. A quick jab of an ampoule with a self-contained needle into the right bicep of each Thrushman insured their slumber for the next four hours.

  Clad in the regalia of members of the Castle Sykedon guard staff, Solo and Illya freed the wedged suit of armor from the elevator and let the doors slide shut.

  For a tense quarter of a minute Solo watched the indicator board above the door. The car remained stationary.

  "We might make it," he said softly. "No one's hanging on the button to call the car. Now, what floor do we want?"

  He turned to the control board. At the top of the board were buttons labeled C-1, C-2 and C-3. An amber bulb glowed next to the C-1 legend, indicating the car's current position.

  Illya ran a finger down the board. Below the three levels for the castle, six more floors were indicated by numerals in descending order. There were three more buttons at the board's bottom, marked P-3, 2 and 1. Solo indicated the lowermost button.

  "P for submarine pen, do you suppose?" He gave a punch. The car whined and dropped.

  Silence, interrupted only by the motorized murmur of the elevator cables. The amber lights glowed in sequence down the board.

  Solo took a firmer grip on the gun which he'd lifted from the guard. Illya wiped his upper lip.

  "I don't like the feel of this, Napoleon. It's all too easy."

  Solo felt his uniform pocket to make certain he'd brought the plastic box of explosive gelcaps. The light for level P-2 went out. The one for P-1 lit. With a gentle whir, the cage stopped and the doors opened.

  Illya Kuryakin thumbed the Door Open stud, held it. Both U.N.C.L.E. agents gaped.

  High over their heads soared an arched ceiling carved and blasted from the green-shot gray stone of the Cornish cliffs. This roof was braced in strategic places by towering steel beams of a bright rust-red finish. The footings of the steel super-structure were set in thick concrete which stretched away before them, forming a huge T shaped platform.

  As they edged out of the elevator, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were in a position approximately at the center of the crossbar of the T. Ahead, like a pier, the stem of the T stretched out into a huge natural basin filled wi
th quietly lapping dark water. On their left alongside this pier, moored down with a dozen foot-thick lines, rode the most bizarre seacraft they had ever seen.

  "I think," Napoleon Solo softly said, "we've discovered the white whale."

  The incredible low-slung metal craft was painted a very light shade of gray. Only in barest outline did it resemble a conventional submarine. Its length was three to four times that of an ordinary sub. Its conning tower was little more than a streamlined blister rising about a foot or so above the dorsal surface.

  Along the sides of the craft, from bow to stern, rows of large, oval viewports ran just above the waterline. The ports were made of dark green glass or some similar material, opaque and reflecting the shaded lights dangling from the rocky ceiling of the pen.

  Catwalks and ladderways crisscrossed above them. Empty. The entire place was lifeless, soundless except for the whispering splash of water against the hull of the monster submarine. Far down past the sub's bow they saw a tall arched opening in the cave wall. The opening was barred by a thick steel grill which rose from the water. Beyond the grill, darkness. Solo was sure the far end of that black channel opened at sea.

  He slipped the plastic box from his pocket. "Care to try a little harpooning?"

  "I can think of more relaxing diversions," Illya replied under his breath. "Napoleon, this is too pat. They surely know we haven't left the castle—"

  "I agree. But we've come this far and the odds are bad against getting out, so we should take the sub out of action while we can. Come on."

  The agents walked quickly down the stone quay. Their borrowed boots clacked. Solo stuffed the gun in his leather belt, carefully opened the plastic box and removed one of the explosive gelcaps from its bed of special cushioning material. They were now at a point on the quay midway between bow and stern of the sub. Illya pointed at the dorsal blister.

  "That hatch doesn't look secure," he said. "Shall we go aboard before we blow her?"

  Solo shrugged, juggling the cap delicately in his palm. "With this much fat in the fire, a little more won't hurt."

  They jumped across to the hull of the sub.

  Illya Kuryakin knelt, slipped his fingers under the hatch, lifted. A moment later he pulled his head back from the hatch interior.

  "There's a ladder down into some Sort of control room."

  Solo signed for him to go ahead. Illya disappeared. Solo put a leg over, handicapped because he could only use his right hand. In his left he carried the highly sensitive capsule of explosive.

  The gloom of the ladderway closed around him. Illya landed below with a light thump. Solo sent his right foot down to the next rung of the ladder. Suddenly he felt his sole skid, heard Illya's warning a fraction late: "Watch out for that third rung. There's a smear of oil or grease on—"

  Solo's right foot slid off the rung. He grabbed for a rung above to check his fall. He was jerked up short. The violent pull made the fingers of his left hand open. The explosive capsule popped out into a high arc.

  Hanging from the ladder, green with fear, Solo watched the capsule drop.

  "Illya, catch it!" he choked out, watching the little football-shaped pill drop end over end, down and down with a kind of horrific slow-motion movement.

  Illya jerked his head up, saw the falling capsule, extended his hands. The capsule sailed past his finger tips. Solo braced for the shattering explosion. He heard another thump, looked down.

  Illya was lying on his spine, having tumbled himself underneath the capsule once he missed it. He'd shot up his right hand to catch the pellet just in time.

  Solo felt his heart slow down from its frantic thudding pace. He dangled from the ladder, got his feet back on solid steel, completed his climb to the deck.

  Tall panels of instruments covered the walls of the chamber, which was perhaps twenty feet long and half as wide. A highly futuristic-looking periscope device hung from over their heads. The instruments and dials equipment were baffling, indicating an advanced state of the art.

  "Here," Illya said, cheeks slicked with sweat, "you hold the baby." He handed over the gelcap.

  Solo jerked a thumb at the forward bulkhead. "Let's explore that way. I'm curious to see the rest of this floating nightmare."

  "We shall be very happy to give you a guided tour, Mr. Solo. Welcome aboard."

  The sepulchral voice drove fear like needles into Solo's belly. The voice echoed from all around them, issuing from several concealed stereo speakers. Abruptly, tiny lights on the instrument consoles began to flicker.

  Underfoot Solo felt a tingling. The air filled with a low, powerful hum. Illya's eyes rounded with recognition:

  "I recognize that voice, Napoleon. It belongs to Commander Ahab."

  Even as Illya spoke, a section of bulkhead slid aside to reveal a forty-inch television screen on which glowed a picture whose sharp blacks and crisp whites indicated a live pickup. The screen showed a man with a spade beard seated in a sleekly modern chair. The man wore some kind of dark velveteen lounging coat. Behind him was an oval viewport against which water lapped gently.

  Commander Victor Ahab looked out from the screen and said cheerfully, "We are delighted to have both you gentlemen aboard our vessel. The craft carries a THRUSH registration number, of course, but I prefer the name Moby Dick. A harmless little conceit. Incidentally, I am speaking to you from my personal command post forward. You will be brought here presently. First, however, I would appreciate it, Mr. Solo—so nice to meet you at long last—if you would hand the explosive device you are carrying to the crew member who is just now coming to take it from you.,,

  The aft bulkhead opened with a whirring of motorized latches. A burly THRUSH seaman in a trim black blouse and trousers entered. Overhead, men ran on the deck- plates of the sub. The atmosphere of tension heightened.

  Three other seamen followed the first into the compartment. Lights came on behind concealed brackets. The seaman in the lead watched Solo's right hand and kept his distance.

  "No bravado, please, Solo," Commander Ahab boomed from the screen. "You could toss the pill and blow us all up, but you would be a member of the party. Escape is impossible. There is a powerful magnet under the deck on which you are standing. Special metal plates are built into the soles of the boots you so rudely stole from one of my men. This clever little device gives us perfect control of our crew. Submarines tend to grow unstable after long undersea voyages. Well, Solo? Why do you hesitate. Run!"

  Captain Ahab's voice was thick with derision. Solo slashed his free hand across his brow to clear the sweat from his eyes. He made an effort to move his right leg, then his left.

  His boots were locked tight to the floor.

  Still he clutched the explosive capsule, hesitating.

  "The pseudo-heroics of you U.N.C.L.E. people nauseate me," Ahab said, scowling.

  Illya's lips were white. "Still, Commander, we can destroy you if we choose."

  Ahab reached off screen. He picked up what appeared to be a canned sardine, tipped his head back and ingested the morsel in a gulp. "Ah, Kuryakin, of course you can. But I do not believe you will. First, there is your natural instinct for self-preservation. Second, and more important, I am sure both you and Mr. Solo are intensely curious as to why we allowed you to penetrate this project base to this point.

  "After all, we were reasonably certain as to who you were the moment you passed the Castle entrance booth. We have been monitoring you with concealed audio and video pickups every step of the way. We deliberately cleared the sub pen of personnel so that you would come aboard. Don't you wonder why?"

  He made a flashy gesture to emphasize his rhetorical question, went on: "Of course you do! And the only way in which you can both find out is for you, Mr. Solo, to put down that wretched bomb and join me in my quarters."

  Solo's fingers were slippery with perspiration. One toss of the explosive cap and that would be it. But Ahab had damnably piqued his curiosity.

  Swallowing, hoping blindly that someh
ow he and Illya would eventually be able to negotiate a way out of this trap, Solo closed thumb and index finger around the gelcap and extended his arm to the nearest seaman.

  "You win, Ahab. Your magnets and your psychology are too much."

  The seaman slid his palm under Napoleon Solo's hand. Solo opened his fingers. The gelcap dropped. The other THRUSH sailors in the chamber exhaled with relief.

  Solo felt the tingling stop beneath his feet. He discovered he could move his legs. Overhead feet pounded again. Men bawled orders.

  "Naturally we are superior to you, Mr. Solo," Ahab said, jovial now. "For too many years, THRUSH has operated from a position of weakness. But we were bound to succeed. Our secret—THRUSH's secret, if you will—is simply this." Commander Ahab beetled his brows in a caricature of confidence. "We're only number two, Mr. Solo. We try harder."

  Commander Ahab barked a command. Seamen swarmed around the pair of U.N.C.L.E. agents and marched them to the forward bulkhead. They were led through complex instrument control rooms jammed with other THRUSH sailors, who had been lurking quietly aboard while the trap was sprung.

  By the time they were ushered into Commander Ahab's personal quarters at the bow of the monster submarine, a rumble of power through the hull told Illya and Solo that their fortunes had just taken another dive.

  The Moby Dick was putting out to sea.

  ACT Ill

  A DROWNING DAY FOR LONDON TOWN

  COMMANDER VICTOR Ahab poised the ladle over the gleaming solid silver tureen.

  "More lobster Newburg, Mr. Solo?"

  Napoleon Solo suppressed a shudder. He was seated opposite Commander Ahab at a good-sized dining table in the latter's quarters. To his right, Illya slouched in a chair, most of his food left untasted.

  Solo felt wretched. He and Illya had been jammed into small cells overnight, unable to talk to each other, alone with their thoughts while the atomic engines of the Moby Dick thrummed all around them. Solo had finally managed to drift off to sleep around five in the morning. He was wakened forty- five minutes later by a siren he was sure Ahab had turned on for the sole purpose of fraying his nerves even more.