[Magazine 1967-­12] - The Pillars of Salt Affair - Пронзини Билл - Страница 28

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Solo knew that if they missed on that first try, there would be no opportunity for a second effort.

"All right," he said to the crewmen. "Get ready to drop the sling."

The crewmen hoisted the sling, poising at the door. Solo went to the microphone and lifted it from the wall. "Mac?"

"Yes?"

"All set?"

"All set."

Solo took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

"Let's go," he said.

FOUR

Illya Kuryakin lay looking up at the U.N.C.L.E. plane circling above him. He heard the droning sound of the jet engines, but there was another, somehow louder, sound that came from upstream, at the western end of the lake. He was able to identify that sound instantly... Rushing water.

He looked there, across the shimmering white. At first, he saw nothing. The rumbling hiss of the water seemed to grow louder. Then he saw a fleck of foaming color that seemed to gain size, moving rapidly nearer.

The pain in his chest had climbed into a raging inferno. He saw numbly that the front of his mackinaw was covered with blood. Nausea bit into the back of his throat, and he felt his eyes becoming heavy. A warm lethargy took hold of his mind, pulling him downward, pulling him .

He tried to concentrate on Mr. Waverly's voice, talking to him through the communicator he held clenched tightly to his ear. But the words seemed to low together, melt into a buttery monotone of soothing sound. He felt himself beginning to relax, allowing the warm feeling in his mind to spread, to...

"Illya!"

The sharp tone of Napoleon Solo's voice snapped him out of it. "Yes, Napoleon?" he said weakly into the communicator, biting his lip against the fire in his chest.

"We're dropping the sling now," Solo said. "We've only got time for one pass, and we've got to make it fast. You'll have to grab onto the sling if we miss the scoop. Are you all right?"

"Fine," Illya said. He tried to make his voice light, but it didn't come off.

There was silence for a moment. Then Solo said, "We've dropped the sling. Can you see it?"

Illya looked up into the sky. He saw at first only a bright, yellowish haze. He shook his head. His eyes focused. He saw the U.N.C.L.E. jet circle, banking above, and then come in from the east, flying low. He saw the grappling sling, suspended on the plow-steel cables. It floated some twenty feet above the surface of the lake, almost directly below the plane. The wind didn't have much effect, due to heavy weights strategically placed on the cables.

"I see it," Illya said.

"Are we in a direct line-above you?"

"Yes," Illya said. "Maybe three hundred yards."

He heard the sound of the water again. It seemed to be almost on top of him. He forced himself not to turn and look there. He kept his eyes on the U.N.C.L.E. jet and the grappling sling.

He was aware of Solo's voice, speaking to the pilot of the jet. "Cut it down, Mac. All the way. We're almost above him. Steady, now."

"Hurry," Illya said. It was all he could say.

The jet flew right above him. He saw the billowing white nylon of the sling, skimming across the top of the surface toward him. With every ounce of strength and will power left in his body, he forced himself to rise onto his hands and knees. The roar of the jet overhead and of the approaching rush of water was a cacophony of maniacal sound in his ears.

The square of nylon on the grappling sling seemed to be coming at him at tremendous speed. He steadied his body, fighting off the urge to duck away. He felt the warm taste of blood in his mouth, and he knew, without feeling, that he had bitten through his lip.

The impact of the nylon almost knocked him over. But he threw his body forward, pain screaming like a living thing in his chest, hands clutching wildly at the nylon. He caught onto the edge of it, lost his grip, and then caught on again. He rolled his body forward, into a ball, the way he had been taught during training for just such an emergency.

There was a sudden jerk, and he knew the drawstrings had been yanked upward, knew that he was safely onto the sling. The nylon pulled free from his hands, closing over him, shutting out the sky.

It had seemed, in that last instant, that he felt a few drops of cold, wet spray on his face. His last impression was of being lifted, swaying, and then he closed his eyes and allowed the warm, welcome lethargy to cover his entire body.

Inside the U.N.C.L.E. jet, Napoleon Solo yelled into his communicator, "We got him! It's all right! We got him!"

From the other end, he thought he heard what might have been a relieved sigh. But Alexander Waverly, in his usual non-emotional manner, said only, "Very good, Mr. Solo. Carry on."

Solo was grinning. "Yes, sir," he said.

He picked up the jet's microphone. "Mac," he said. "Did you hear?"

"I heard," McDuffee said, and from the sound of his voice Solo knew that he, too, was smiling. "That was too close. It's a good thing we didn't need another minute."

"Mac," Solo said, "remind me to recommend you and your crew for promotions. You're the best pilot we've got—bar none."

"True," McDuffee said dryly, and signed off.

Solo went to the jump door, watching the two crewmen using the pulleys to haul the grappling sling into the jet. When they had gotten it inside and loosened the drawstrings, Solo knelt and pulled the nylon aside.

Illya Kuryakin, bloody, was unconscious. Solo bent forward, listening to his friend's breathing. It sounded normal.

Solo closed his eyes, and then opened them again slowly. "Get the first aid kit," he said to one of the crewmen. "We'll have to stop the bleeding, and bandage him until we get back to base."

"Will he be all right, sir?" one of the crewmen asked.

"Yes," Solo said. "He's going to be fine."

He stood then, feeling a mixture of relief, full and complete, and of overwhelming fatigue that had seeped into every portion of his being. He noticed, frowning, that a weakness had set into his legs, and that his hands had begun to tremble.

Solo started to take a step forward. And collapsed. One of the crewmen caught him before he hit the floor.

FIVE

Alexander Waverly said, "I am not quite sure whether I should commend you for your efforts in thwarting the latest of the THRUSH plots, or reprimand you for taking insane chances." He was standing alongside Napoleon Solo's hospital bed.

"You could always compromise," Illya Kuryakin said blandly from his hospital bed. "After all, to err is human."

"Indeed," Waverly said.

"Look at it this way," Solo said. "You won't have either of us to contend with for some time. That should influence your decision."

"It is debatable whether or not that is a blessing," Waverly told him.

"Well," Illya said, "blessing or not, I for one can certainly use the vacation."

"Complete rest," Solo agreed. "Peace and quiet. Ah, sometimes I think this job has its advantages after all."

Waverly looked at his two top agents with what was, for him, some fondness. But his countenance remained stern.

Napoleon Solo: One long, but not too serious, gash on his right leg. Minor frostbite. Pneumonia, though mild, which one of the attending physicians said was the variety known as walking pneumonia, and which he had had for several days. The cold he had contracted in Oregon had, apparently, been the source of the malady. Also, he was suffering from fatigue and a nervous condition brought about by exposure to the THRUSH nerve gas. Diagnosis: Minimum one month's rest.

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