by John Oram
“That,” said Sorensen, “is not my story. You can speak freely, Mr. Solo. And we shall need Viggo’s help.”
Once more Solo outlined the events which had led them to this Jutland farm. Viggo listened quietly but with growing excitement. At the end he slapped his knee with a report like a cannon and exclaimed, “Of course! The tunnel!”
Knud asked anxiously, “It is still in order?”
“You shall see.” He turned to the others. “When the Germans were here we, too, wanted to see what they were doing. So we made ourselves a tunnel right into the factory. When we had found out what we wanted, we placed a few charges and boom—no more factory. But the tunnel was unharmed. It is there yet.”
“Good!” Knud stood up and drained the last of his punch. “Let’s take a look.”
The farmer shrugged into a heavy sheepskin coat. He went to a bureau, unlocked a drawer and took out a Mauser 9mm automatic and three full clips of ammunition. He put the clips in his left-hand coat pocket and the gun in the right. He looked as happy as a boy going out on his first date.
They stopped in the yard for Sorensen to pick up the scattergun in the truck. Then Viggo led the way into a long, spotlessly clean shed sweet with the breath of the dairy cows standing in their stalls.
At the far end of the shed a square slab was let into the concrete floor. It was so beautifully fitted that the cracks were barely perceptible. Viggo pressed his hand against a tool rack on the wall and the slab swung downward silently, as if counterbalanced. They saw against the blackness of the cavity the first rungs of a steel ladder. Cold air blew up damply.
Viggo produced a flashlight. “I will go first,” he said, “to make sure all is well. There are twenty rungs and then you will be on firm ground. You can stand upright. We built well.” He was climbing onto the ladder as he spoke. They watched the torchlight go bobbing down and then become stationary.
Sorensen motioned to Solo. “You and your friends go now. I must come last to close the hatch after us.”
The air at the bottom of the ladder smelled dank but it was breathable. Viggo said, “As far as I can see, nobody has been along here. The cotton we left is unbroken.” He directed the flashlight beam upwards and they could see threads stretched at waist and breast height from wall to wall.
He went on, “Again I shall lead the way. Tread softly and do not speak, for the tunnel conducts sound easily. And keep your guns ready, for we do not know what we may find at the other end.”
Illya took the modified Luger from its shoulder holster and clipped on the butt extension and the magazine that converted it into a sub-machine gun. Solo did the same. Karen slid a shell into the breech of her Walther 7.65mm pistol and gave the barrel a good-luck kiss. Sorensen checked the loads in his shotgun and snapped it shut. Then they moved off cautiously, following the beam of Viggo’s torch into the blackness.
After only a few yards the tunnel decreased in height so that they were reduced to crawling on hands and knees. The irregular sides bore in on them to such an extent that at times jagged projections caught and tore at their clothes. It seemed that they had crawled an agonizing mile when suddenly the torch beam snapped off and a warning hiss from Viggo brought them to a stop.
His whispered instruction passed back down the line: “Stay where you are. I am going ahead to investigate.”
Waiting motionless in the darkness, they could hear the distant high-pitched whine of some kind of motor and feel a regular pulsation through the ground beneath their hands and feet.
A second whisper came: “All clear.” They crawled forward painfully, sometimes bumping into each other in the blackness. The whining sound grew louder and more piercing.
At last the tunnel widened and they could stand erect, every muscle aching with the effort. Groping ahead, Solo’s hands came in contact with a solid wall of rock. He heard Sorensen mutter, “Give me your pencil flashlight.”
The little white beam danced over the rock face and came to rest on a metal shutter. Sorensen’s hand appeared in the circle of light, reaching for a small handle. The torch beam cut out. Very slowly Sorensen began to draw back the shutter.
The first thin thread of light became a sliver, then widened to an inch. The glare stabbed painfully at their eyes, grown used to the darkness. They had to look away. The engine whine was now deafening. It cut into their eardrums like a surgeon’s scalpel. The walls of the tunnel seemed to be rocking with the sound.
Solo put his hands over his ears and peered through the opening. The brilliant light caught his face at unnatural angles, giving it the look of something seen in a nightmare. His expression did nothing to temper the illusion. He turned and beckoned to the others to join him.
Sorensen pulled the shutter an inch wider. They crowded together, staring incredulously.
They were looking into a vast workshop that seemed to be lit by a hundred arc lamps. In the center of the floor was a giant circular craft of some dully gleaming metal. It appeared to consist of two thick discs placed one above the other and each of at least a hundred feet in diameter. Centered above, like the boss of a shield, was a squat, dome-shaped conning tower or cabin with narrow, lateral ports. A metal ladder led to an open hatch in the lower disc, through which they could see a lighted interior. From somewhere in the base of the strange craft thick power cables snaked toward a grotesquely shaped generator that was obviously the source of the nerve-shattering sound.
As they watched, Solo and Illya saw two men emerge from the open hatch. Despite the shapeless overalls and the helmet that obscured much of his head, there was no mistaking the soldierly figure of Major Garbridge. His companion, similarly clad, was a stranger. The two men descended the ladder and stood waiting.
A few seconds later a tractor laden with cylindrical objects approached from the far end of the shop and pulled up beside the monster craft. In comparison, it looked like a child’s toy.
Solo attracted the fascinated Sorensen’s attention by tugging at his sleeve. He made signs to indicate that they should get back into the tunnel.
When they were sufficiently out of range of the generator to make speech audible, he asked, “Ever seen hydrogen bombs?”
“No,” Sorensen said.
“Then go back and take another peek. What that tractor is carrying ain’t knaidlach!”
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER THE CHARNEL-HOUSE atmosphere of the tunnel the air in the cow barn tasted like wine. They blinked in the daylight. Solo looked at his watch and held it to his ear to check that it was still ticking. It seemed incredible that the time was still only early afternoon.
Viggo led the way back to the farmhouse. They all looked like scarecrows, but Else scarcely raised an eyebrow. She brought drinks, and said to Viggo in Danish, “Our guests will need a shower and dry clothes.” Womanly curiosity seemed not to be her strong point.
Sorensen said, “Well, we have seen it. The saucers exist. What to do now?”
“They not only exist; they’re operational,” Illya said. “They wouldn’t be loading that baby down there with bombs if they hadn’t ironed out the bugs. We’ve got to move fast.”
Sorensen said again, “How? What to do?”
Viggo suggested, “A few grenades through the tunnel grille?”
Illya laughed. “They’d have as much effect on that great machine as stroking it with a powder puff.”
Solo poured himself a glass of lager. He lifted it to eye level and watched the streams of bubbles rushing up through the golden liquid. “Explosives are out,” he said slowly. “The hydrogen bombs would be armed before they loaded them into the bays. If they went up—goodbye, Jutland! We don’t dare take any chances. Besides, we want that machine intact. If we wrecked it now, Mr. Waverly would never forgive us. You know how he likes new toys, Illya.”
He studied the bubbles thoughtfully. Then he went on, “I figure we have at least until sunset. They won’t take that thing out in daylight.” He looked at the others. “Incidentally, how do you sup
pose they get it out of the workshop?”
Viggo said, “That, I think I can explain. In your country I believe you keep the big missiles in deep silos. The sliding roof is camouflaged to look like the rest of the land. When the Germans were here, they hid and launched their rockets so. And these people are using the old workshops, much enlarged. No doubt the saucer goes out through the top of the hill.”
Solo nodded. “You’re probably right. How many men did you see in the place?”
Illya said, “Apart from Garbridge and the fellow with him, there was the tractor driver and the gang of six waiting to unload the bombs. Two others were working around the generator. That makes eleven. There may have been others inside the saucer.”
“I wonder who the man was with Garbridge,” Karen said.
“That was undoubtedly Sonder,” Viggo replied. “Both Knud and I recognized him immediately.”
Solo finished his drink and took out the black transmitter. “I think it’s time to get reinforcements,” he announced. He turned the dial and called, “Come in, Paramount.”
Gütte’s voice answered perkily: “Glaedelig Jul, Napoleon.”
“And a good New Year to you,” he grinned. “Now, if you’ve finished with the pleasantries, see if you can get Mr. Jorgensen to rustle up a few pounds of marzipan with pencils, a crate of pineapples and a jar of London fog.”
“Can do. How soon, and where?”
“In an hour, if you can. Hang on.” He turned to Viggo. “Who do you know near Silkeborg who can be trusted?”
Viggo said, “One of the old group has a farm just outside. He’s safe.”
“Good!” Solo spoke again into the transmitter. “Gütte, put the stuff into a jet and have it dropped. I’m putting somebody on to you now to give you the bearings.” He handed the little black instrument to the farmer.
There was a rapid exchange in Danish; then Viggo told Solo, “The stuff will be dropped within the hour. I’ll go now to collect it. Don’t worry about my friend. He does not talk.”
He put on his sheepskin coat, waved a hand and went out. A few seconds later they heard a car engine start up.
Karen said, “Marzipan, pencils, pineapples and London fog. The plastic explosive, fuses and grenades I can understand. But why the ‘fog’?”
Solo poured another Ceres, held up the glass and pointed to the dancing bubbles.
“When your house is infested with rats,” he said, “what’s the quickest way of getting rid of them?”
The clock in the living room was striking four when they heard the sound of the car returning. Viggo stamped in, giving the thumbs-up sign.
“No trouble?” Solo asked.
“Nothing. The drop was perfect—right on target. And the roads are clear. I met nobody.”
“Good! Then let’s get down to cases. The main problem is to put the factory out of business for keeps and, if possible, capture the saucer intact. If we can get. Sonder and Garbridge alive, so much the better. But whatever happens they mustn’t get away—particularly the gallant major. What happens to the proletariat doesn’t matter. They’re not important. Understood?”
They nodded.
“Fine! Then here’s the plan. I’ll go into the tunnel with the ‘fog’. You, Illya, will go with Viggo, Knud and Karen in the truck. Park it out of sight somewhere at a safe distance and leave Karen with it as general watchdog. Then the rest of you make your way to the mine entrance and set your charges along the fence and at the blockhouse.”
He looked at his wristwatch. “I should be able to get to the workshop end of the tunnel by six o’clock. I’ll open the shutter and start spraying at exactly six-oh-five. Set your fuses to detonate at the same time. Then go in and start the rat hunt. Clear?”
“Like crystal,” Viggo said. He chuckled. “I shall enjoy the feel of plastique in my hands again. It will be like the old days.”
Karen said, “You are a bloodthirsty old ruffian, Herr Jacobsen. It must be the beard.”
Illya and Sorensen went out to the car and returned with two heavy cases. Illya grumbled, “Gütte’s sent enough grenades for an army corps. She must think we’re going up against the Viet Cong.”
Viggo produced haversacks from a cupboard and they began to stow the supplies with infinite care. Solo took from one of the cases a long, slim metal canister fitted with a short length of rubber hose that ended in a nozzle. It looked like a streamlined fire extinguisher. He attached a body harness and strapped it on his back. When the packing had been completed and the haversacks distributed, he said, “Synchronize your watches. Our timing is going to be vital.”
Viggo could not resist a last touch of the dramatic. He brought out a bottle of akvavit, poured small glasses of the colorless, potent spirit, and handed them round.
“To the destruction of our enemies!” he intoned.
“But be very sure there are no slip-ups,” Illya said mordantly.
They went out into the darkness.
Solo stood in the doorway, watching them load into the truck and drive off. Then he closed the door and made his way toward the cow barn.
His progress along the tunnel was more difficult this time. The canister on his back was heavy and cumbersome, and he had to move with extreme caution to avoid the clink of metal on stone. But at last he reached the rock face. The whine of the generator had stopped, but that was a mixed blessing. It meant that the slightest sound might be heard in the workshop on the other side of the barrier.
Solo looked at the luminous dial of his watch. The hands showed 5:55. Very slowly and carefully he unstrapped the body harness and lowered the cylinder to the ground in front of him. Then he switched on his pencil flashlight and made sure of the position of the panel.
He looked at his watch again. 5:57.
The truck, with exhaust muffled and no lights showing, trundled down the road. Sorensen, crouched over the steering wheel, suddenly gave a grunt of satisfaction and swung off the pavement on to the grass verge. The truck jolted along over frozen hillocks and came to rest in the shelter of a clump of trees and high bushes. Knud sighed and sat back.
“So far, so good,” he said. “We should be safe here. It is about one kilometer to the gates of the mine. From here we must walk.”
He climbed down from his seat, slung two haversacks over his shoulder and tucked his scattergun into the crook of his arm. The others joined him and he said, “I think, now, that Viggo should lead the way, since this is his territory. Do you agree, Illya?”
“Fine,” Illya said. “Karen, you stay here on guard. You have your gun and your transmitter?”
“Of course.”
“Then good luck.”
They moved off in Indian file, Viggo leading and Sorensen bringing up the rear. As they walked they smeared blacking over their faces. After only a few paces Karen could no longer see or hear them. She huddled against the lee side of the truck, wishing miserably that the cutting Arctic wind would abate. She thought with longing of the bottle of akvavit on Viggo’s table. A snort or two, she felt, would have kept her warm and relieved the monotony of waiting.
The men kept to the cover of the undergrowth along the side of the road. There was no moon and they dared not risk using a flashlight, but the hard ground made the going fairly easy.
Eventually Viggo stopped and pointed to a light gleaming yellow some two hundred yards away on the far side of the road.
“The blockhouse,” he whispered.
They moved on again silently. The light grew bigger, more distinct. They could see that it came from the one high window in the building. There was no sign of movement anywhere along the road.
They went a few more paces. Then Viggo suddenly froze. “Look!”
“The guard,” Illya whispered. “I’ll take him. You two split up and plant your charges along the fence.”
He got down on his belly and began to wriggle over the frozen grass like a snake.
The guard never lived to finish his quiet smoke. A karate chop across t
he back of his neck felled him before he could utter a sound. Illya dragged the body a few yards away from the building and then swiftly went about the business of setting his charges.
At exactly three minutes past six Solo opened the shutter. He had put on dark glasses to protect himself against the intense glare of the lights in the workshop.
The giant saucer was still on its ramp. The hatch in the lower disc was open, but the ladder had gone. The tractor was standing by, empty. The driver was leaning against its side, chatting with four workmen clad in white overalls. Another group of men stood by the generator. The armored cables had been removed.
Neither Garbridge nor Sonder was in evidence. Solo wondered whether they were inside the saucer. That was a chance he had to take.
At six-five he clipped a respirator over his nose and mouth, slid the rubber hose through the shutter opening and pushed down the lever on the top of the cylinder.
A jet of gas under high pressure screamed into the workshop. The men below looked up, startled. Then their faces cracked in idiotic grins and they began to laugh. It was not natural laughter; the sound had a hysterical quality that after a second became terrifying. They could neither stop nor control it. Their limbs began to twitch. They ran about aimlessly, without direction, as if blind, all the time cackling and hooting with insane mirth.
Sonder and two other men ran from the interior of the saucer and stopped by the hatch, staring incredulously. Then the gas caught them.
One by one, the men sank exhausted to the floor of the workshop and lay there, arms and limbs jerking like the limbs of marionettes. After awhile they were still.
“Sleep tight, babies,” Solo said. He opened the shutter to its fullest extent, wriggled through with some difficulty, and dropped into the room.
At exactly five minutes after six Illya pressed the plunger. Sound smashed at his ears, there was a sheet of flame, and the blockhouse disintegrated like a bursting orange. Debris spattered down, a jagged fragment of concrete missing his head only by inches. Answering explosions on either side told him that Viggo and Knud had taken care of the electrified fence.
