“It’s always in the same place. Regan’s Beach. That’s a small bit of private pierage just below Thomond Bridge.”
“That’s in Limerick?”
“That’s right!”
Kuryakin attended to his instrument again. “Did you get that, sir? About the boat. It’s the obvious answer.”
“Yes. If only we’d known earlier. Never mind; we’ve no time for recriminations. You and Mr. Solo get along to Thomond Bridge as fast as you can. I’ll meet you there.”
“Which is all very well,” Kuryakin murmured, as he pocketed his instrument again, “but there are people outside who don’t want us to leave just yet. Keep your eye on the opposition, dear. I’m going to have a word with Napoleon.”
He reached the outer doors, went down cautiously on his chest and drew one of them open to peer out. He saw Solo suddenly bob up from the back of the truck with a rifle, snap off a shot over the cab and then drop again. Hard on the heels of that shot came the crashing retort of a shotgun and the thin wail of flying lead bouncing off the truck.
“Napoleon!” he called. “There’s nobody home. They’ve gone off in a boat, and we have to get out of here.”
“I’ll vote for that,” Solo shouted back, “but how do you convince the shotgunners over there? There’s two of them, and they have a system. One reloads while the other one fires. I don’t know where the third character is, but I’m expecting him any time. Do we have any gas grenades? The breeze is in our favor right now.”
“Sorry, I’m all out, but you give me an idea. Keep ’em ducking!”
Kuryakin slid away from the door and went back to the laboratory on the run. Sarah squinted back over her shoulder as he entered, then brought her head back just in time to see a flicker of movement from the other corner of the building opposite. Swinging the rifle, she snapped off a shot and another large man plunged forward into sight, dropping his weapon and losing all further interest in the proceedings. She felt suddenly weak. She had actually shot a man! Then she rallied, twisted her head around again in curiosity.
“What are you going to do now, Illya?” she demanded, seeing him take a couple of reagent-bottles from a rack and approach the window where she crouched.
“Elementary chemistry,” he said, pulling out the two stoppers and bringing them close to each other. Where the invisible vapors met, she saw thick white fumes form instantly.
“Ammonia and hydrochloric acid!”
“Right! Now, give me room to swing.” He hefted a bottle, tapping the stopper firmly into place, swung and threw the bottle through the window and onto the footpath where it led past the next building. It struck and shattered very satisfactorily and he repeated the drill with the second, but this one hit and bounced, perversely, without breaking. Scowling, he reached for his pistol, and then ducked as a shower of buckshot stammered about the window. Up again, he took careful aim, fired, and the bottle shattered. As if by magic, a great boiling cloud of white smoke materialized just beyond the far bottle and drifted down to the corner.
“That should do it!” he said crisply. “Come on, let’s get out of here while it lasts.”
Seconds later, with Solo still on guard in the rear, the little truck roared around and away and back through the ruined gate, heading for Limerick. There was a thin sprinkling of traffic on the road by now, so they slowed at the first handy moment to let Solo climb back into the cab, to preserve the appearances, and went on as fast as was wise in the circumstances.
Kuryakin relinquished the wheel to Solo and drew out his communicator again, his expression much more serious than usual. Valuable time had been wasted, and if the mad Irishman had in fact taken to the water it might be difficult to follow him effectively. He spoke to Waverly, brought him up to date on events, then listened, and nodded a time or two, made some comments of his own. He didn’t seem happy.
“What’s the weather report, Illya?.” Solo asked, once the conference was complete.
“Princess is away. There should be something ready for us by the time we reach the docks. Mr. Waverly’s fixing that now.”
“Do you suppose he’s going to dump his stuff in the sea?”
“Not here, not yet. The idea seems to be to strike at Britain and France. And that will suit Thrush fine, of course.”
Solo nodded. It made sense, and from what he remembered of the prevailing sea currents, O’Rourke didn’t have too far to go. Once around the southwest tip of the country he would be in the right drift. And that was no more than a hundred and fifty miles. Not far, for a fast cabin-cruiser.
“Is there any way of stopping the damned stuff, Illya?”
“One way, yes. It’s mentioned in the notes. If the ferment is caught in its first stages, and smothered with an oily film, it inhibits the whole progress of the reaction.”
“High temperature breaks down the molecular reaction, too,” she added, and Solo snorted.
“Now all we need is some way to bring the whole Irish Sea to a slow boil. That should be simple!”
“I was only trying to help!” she snapped
FIVE
“Talk About Burning Your Boats After You!”
WAVERLY WAVED them to a screeching halt a few yards short of Thomond Bridge approach. His craggy face was grim. He spoke briefly and to the point.
“I’ve secured a converted Naval motor-launch for you. It’s fast, but stripped down completely and devoid of cover. It’s fueled, and with reserve, but you’d better minimize your equipment, to save weight. You may have a long run. I’ll describe Princess for you—”
“No need!” Sarah interrupted. “I’m going along with them, and I know that boat like I know my own name!”
“Indeed!” The old man gave her a quick and searching look, then made a brief smile. “Very well, my dear; you should be worth your weight, at that. Off you go then; you’ve no time to lose!”
They had already planned, roughly, what equipment they would need, and it took only seconds to modify that and grab the bare essentials. Sarah scampered on ahead, down the cobbled ramp, leaving the men to follow with a rifle each, spare rounds, and the long-range communicator, which Kuryakin hung around his neck. The powerful engines were already rumbling softly as they cast off and dropped into the stem-sheets.
The launch had indeed been stripped down since its Service days. All that remained of the cabin-cockpit superstructure was a three-piece perspex windscreen that served to break the breeze for whoever stood at the wheel—as Sarah stood now, with the throttle by her right hand and her feet planted on a narrow bridge that ran from one side to the other over the open well where the powerful engine roared. There was a narrow catwalk all around, with a few stout stanchions and a rope rail to cling to, and nothing else. As she thrust the throttle hard over the launch sat down in the water, lifted her bows to shake off the spray and began to shudder strongly.
“Bumpy ride!” Solo shouted across the whipping breeze to his companion. “Not my idea of a pleasure cruise!” Kuryakin had his feet on the engine, his rump on the catwalk and one hand hanging onto the, rope rail. His straw-blond hair flattened in the wind as he nodded.
“This is only the river. Wait until we get out to seat” Solo looked back at the wide wake they were cutting, and felt suddenly very weary, the long hours of ceaseless activity beginning to catch up on him. His thoughts slid into a jumble of confused snatches and highlights.
He had always imagined Ireland as a dream country, all green and quiet and beautiful, a land jogging through history at a placid pace, content to laugh in the sun and take things easy. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had got the wrong impression. He dredged up odd fragments of beauty. The castle itself. The view over the wide Shannon estuary. Sarah—He looked at her now, squinting into the howling wind. She stood with her feet apart and firmly planted on the boards, her hands holding the wheel, her golden hair streaming back in the breeze.
It was hard to believe that she was a laboratory technician and as gadget-crazy as old Illya over th
ere. Tough as whip-cord too, in her own wild way. She was positively enjoying herself now.
And Bridget—He frowned as he cast his mind back to her. Crooked as sin—or simply misled by the over-powering personality of her uncle? There was evidence to show that she was just as clever, in her own way, as the rest of the O’Rourke breed, and it doesn’t take much to divert a brilliant mind one way or the other, if you catch it young enough. Perhaps the shock of her uncle’s treachery would give her that little push to set her back on the right road? It would be a pity to see such a lovely girl go to waste.
All at once the launch heaved, leaped, and hit the water with a violent thump. He tightened his grip on the rope rail. Illya had been right about the sea. They were running now in a sharp swell, white foam crests rising and falling on all sides, the launch booming and plunging as it ran up the watery slopes and leaped and crashed back into the hollows. At the high point of each bounding leap they could just catch sight of land, away to port.
“We’re passing Kerry Head.” Sarah called, waving. Solo stood up by her side, clinging desperately to rope and windshield.
“You ever done this before?” he demanded, yelling against the wind.
“Not as fast as this. Good job there’s not much sea, or we wouldn’t be able to keep it up!” She ducked as the bows smacked into a wave and sent a whipping shower of spray over them all.
He squinted ahead and sighed. Not much hope of finding one cabin cruiser in all this watery waste. But they roared on just the same. In a while she told them they were rounding Blasket Island and heading south across Dingle Bay. Both men were drenched by now, but she was as lively as ever, her face rosily flushed in the breeze. They plunged and surged on, the little launch bucking and rolling in and out of the running wave-crests. All at once she let out a wild hail and pointed forward.
“Tell me what you see, right ahead of us there!”
Solo peered, blinked away a faceful of spray and peered again. It was a long way ahead, just visible as they rode the waves. Black and green, with a yellow him to the superstructure, and a slim mast with a yellow and green pennant. As he described it she nodded, shaking the hair out of her eyes.
“That’s the Princess all right, and we’re catching up on her!”
The two men braced themselves on either side of her, clutching the frail windshield and staring ahead. The cruiser drew steadily closer. They could see a moving figure now on its upper deck. The view was jumpy as their craft lifted and fell over the running sea.
“Look there!” Kuryakin extended his arm to point. “They’ve ditched something over the side. There it goes!”
Solo saw a tiny yellow object bob into view for a moment, then vanish again. He fixed his eye on it. Yellow?
“It’s one of those plastic containers with the stuff in it!” he shouted. “There! It’s floating!”
“What do we do now?” Sarah demanded.
“Head for it. Run up alongside it as close as you can!” He peered frantically around the launch, saw a boathook tucked away down there alongside the engine and dropped down to rake it out. The roaring eased by degrees to a throb and the launch began to wallow and roll heavily as she steered and eased the speed still more. The bobbing yellow thing came close, standing up out of the water like a diseased finger. It bobbed close enough to be reached and edged still closer with the hook. Then Kuryakin leaned hazardously over and seized it, heaved hard, and it came up and inboard. Solo scowled at it.
“Why would they throw it away like that?” he growled. “Why was it standing up in the water like that?” Illya countered. “Heavy end down! Let’s see!” He hoisted, reversing the canister. And they saw. Sarah had spoken of an insert in one end, and there it was. Solo looked, then met his colleague’s bleak gray eyes understanding.
“Explosive charge, and it’s ticking away, Illya!”
“Right. We’ll have to get it out. Hang on to the canister while I check.”
Solo seized the yellow thing between his knees and looked up to see Sarah staring down. “Full speed ahead!” he ordered. “And if you know any good prayers, this would be the time to try them.”
The engine roared into fury again and Solo felt everything grow fuzzy as the vibration transmitted itself through his backbone where it was wedged up against the engine casing. He clung tight, watching Illya’s head stooped low over the mechanism, watching those clever hands touching and testing, then they seized a firm hold, shoulders stiffened with effort, and the deadly insert began to move, to spin. Illya rotated it hurriedly. It came right out, a shiny little cylinder of chrome. He clutched it, heaved and sent it in a glittering curve through the air, to splash into the water far back behind the launch. Then he crossed his hands and stared down at the watch on his wrist.
“Seven minutes since they ditched it,” he muttered.
They waited, both men staring back there. There came a crash like a hammer blow on the bottom of the launch, a dull boom coming immediately after, and back there the running waves suddenly threw up a spout thirty feet high.
“Ten minute delay switch,” Illya said quietly. “And they have two more left!”
Solo laid down the yellow canister gently alongside the bellowing engine and stood, taking up the rifle he had put aside. He peered ahead as he came up by Sarah’s side. Once again they were coming up on the cruiser fast. He tried to get a firm footing, and raised the rifle.
“If they ditch another,” he told her, head straight for it, fast as you can. I’ll see if I can discourage that kind of thing, though.” He saw a moving shape on the cruiser, took careful aim, cursing the swaying launch, and fired—once, twice, three times. The moving figure dropped flat.
“There goes the second one!” Illya called, and Sarah began to swing the wheel. Solo hung on, watching that prone figure, saw it rise and scuttle. He snapped off another two shots but knew that it was worse than hopeless to try and hit anything at this range in these conditions. He put the rifle down and searched the waters for the deadly canister.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know!” Sarah wailed. “I’ve lost it! Over there somewhere!”
They all stared frantically, covering the white-flecked waste with urgent eyes. There it was! She spun the wheel again, the launch heeling hard over to spin about and roar up to it. More urgent prodding and struggling with the boathook as it bobbed close, then again Illya strained over and grabbed, and heaved, and sat with it between his knees, hoisted it over, and began to twist savagely. It resisted his efforts.
“Napoleon! Give me a hand here. They put this one in tight!” Solo stooped and got a grip on it along with Illya. “Okay? Now—heave!” The stubby black cover gave reluctantly, began to spin. Illya waved him back, rotated it with rapid blows of his palms, pulled it free and threw it all in one mighty heave. It arched away, hit the water, and the explosion came in the same second as the splash.
Sarah hit the throttle again, and this time both men stood up beside her with rifles, to watch and wait until that cruiser came close enough for a shot. But the desperate men ahead had seen the weak point of their strategy and took steps to remedy it.
“There goes the third one,” Solo growled, “and we’ll never get to it in time! Give it the gun, Sarah—we’ve got to try!”
He glued his eyes on that bobbing yellow thing and counted the ticking seconds in his mind. The launch howled through the water, splashing foam and bouncing from wave to wave. The deadly thing drew close and she checked speed, swinging the stern around in a hard sweep. Kuryakin crouched by the side, glancing from his watch to the canister, tensing himself. The yellow finger waved, surged close, and then the launch heeled in the trough of a wave, tossing him back off balance. They heard the thing bump against the side and then there was an almighty crash, a shock-wave of sound that nearly deafened them. The launch shuddered and reared up, rolled over and fell soggily back.
Solo, thrown clear by the explosion, caught a breath as he went under, and down, a
nd struggled back to the surface, to blow and stare around, and then strike out for the launch. As he laid hands on it, Sarah’s sleek head bobbed up beside him. He hauled himself up, saw Illya’s head show on the far side. He turned, extended his arm, heaved Sarah spluttering inboard, and saw Illya go in scrambling haste to the forward end, to grab and free a gallon can of fuel from its stowage clip. Dazed for the moment, he stared in bewilderment, then caught on. The launch was settling by the stern now, and it was an uphill struggle to the bows.
“You take that side!” Illya panted. “Dribble it out carefully; we can’t afford to waste any.” Solo nodded, heaved a can out of its clamps, and leaned over as he unscrewed the cap. There was no need to explain more as he saw the surface. It was blood-red for the most part, shot here and there with writhing threads of sickly pink, and it seethed, bubbling and spreading even as he watched it.
He leaned over, his stomach heaving at the sight of it, and sloshed fuel-oil from the can in a thick stream to trap the far edge. The oil-stink came up strongly, but the stuff seemed to spread and cling to the ferment. He sloshed more, treating it liberally, coating that evil red-pink stuff, seeing it bubble. A thin finger of it broke away towards the bows and he scrambled hurriedly to douse it. Snatching a side glance, he saw that the stem of the launch was now under water—water spotted with patches of furiously-bubbling red. Sarah was up to her chin in it.
“I’m going to duck down and take the top off the fuel tank,” she called, and went under with a swirl of bubbles. He kept on sloshing oil until the can hung empty in his hand and the air was thick with the smell of it. But there was the satisfaction of knowing that the red stuff had ceased to bubble and spread in his vicinity.
Down by the stern there were still a few spotty bits, and he started to move that way, but halted as there came gulping bubbles and then Sarah bobbed up, blowing like a seal. Around her the oil from below burst out in concentric rings, seizing on the patches of pink as if hungry for them.
He lifted another can and scrambled over to Illya’s side to lend a hand. Five busy minutes later they were able to relax and gather in the up-tilted bows of the stricken launch, surveying the scene. For yards around the heaving sea was covered with oil-slick, and great masses of lumpy stuff like hideous porridge floated and surged sluggishly in the waves. But it was all quite definitely lifeless and still.
Man From U.N.C.L.E. 05 - The Mad Scientist Affair Page 12
