by Simon Latter
The U.N.C.L.E. team — except Sama Paru and Randy Kovac, who were well out to sea in the submarine — made their plans, which included taking several of the younger passengers joy-riding in the launch. Lars Carlson shed his wig and sunglasses. Count Kazan, recovering with each hour, acted the gracious, wealthy host. They all swam and frolicked in the sea within sight of the beaches.
Clusters of gorgeous-looking girls waved to them, but didn't swim out from the sands. Obviously, they were as much guards as ornamental local colour, and already had fixed the steel-mesh net below the water so that no propeller-driven craft could pass without being smashed up.
April, Mark and Lars took it in turns to swim under water. But only one at a time left their guests, so the fun and games were not interrupted, and the cutting shears passed from one to the other until the whole mesh had been severed, sinking to the sea bed.
Lars raised the sun awning on the launch, adding colour and covering from shore-based binoculars his own activities of preparing certain weapons and assault aids. Kazan kept their guests amused on the inflatable raft, even serving drinks and providing paper sunshades to protect the lady visitors' fair skins. There were all the outward and visible signs of wealth and leisure combined for the delight of everyone.
This also helped April and Mark to relax in preparation for the action ahead. Mark got rid of his whiskers fairly painlessly, but Lars's idea of a hair-trim was the "chop- chop-ouch!" variety. Mark emerged half-scalped — the massacre being covered by a jaunty red-bobble cap. It so changed his appearance that the passenger-guests failed at first to recognize him.
Several miles east of them, beyond the anchored Island Traveller, the Dx5 submarine cruised the sea depths at low speed, stopping every now and then as it overran the tide-rise. They hoped to be directly under the towering slope of Taramao Point at the same time as Island Traveller slipped into harbour. Already the shadows were lengthening over the Point when the launch returned to the ship; which immediately started engines, upped anchor, and swung shoreward.
Sidano put her astern before actually entering harbour. One of the stern hatchways opened. Two coracles were lowered into the water, April Dancer and Mark Slate slid down the guide-ropes into the tiny craft, carrying special oars made that afternoon by Island Traveller's chippy — who had also given them expert tuition in coracle handling.
Opposite the beach — dark material draped over her white hull, paint daubed on bright metal — the launch sidled in on the tide, its drift corrected by Kazan with one expertly-wielded oar over the stern. In the cave, the submarine surfaced very slowly. Two rubber-suited figures emerged onto the hull. One swung into the sea, carrying a grappling anchor to one of the rocks, then returned to the submarine. Sama Paru whispered: "Ready?" Randy Kovac nodded. Both men snapped on headgear and visors, slid into the velvet-dark sea, and began silently to swim to the rock-face.
As Island Traveller tied up, the cargo-dock lights and the ship's own deck lights came on almost together. Their reflection sheened the water, flared against the harbour arms, casting inky-purple shadow over the two coracles paddling to shallow water.
At last April and Mark lifted the tiny craft clear of the water and on to the sand, then crept on thick-soled overshoes up the shadow of the wall. "There are no stone fish," the seamen had said. "Only the usual risk in stepping from an incoming tide when the deadly barbs may rise from the moving sand. But above the water-line — no."
They reached a fencing laced with barbed wire. Light from the harbour, to the left of it, showed four guards between the fence and a round hut in comparative shadow away to their right. Mark whispered in April's ear. She nodded, then shedding the overshoes, sped wraith-like to the hut and was lost in its shadow.
Mark removed his own overshoes, trod quietly, to a vantage point of shadow midway, then deliberately kicked sand. The four figures turned like puppets at the sound.
"Hullo!" said Mark softly. "Can you direct me to Fifth Avenue? I'm Father Christmas looking for a present to happen to."
They rushed towards him, then halted after the first impetus of surprise. Three of them hung back to push the fourth guard forward. He held a rifle awkwardly, not aimed but with one hand around the stock, the barrel pointing away from his side.
"I'm sure you haven't got a licence for that," said Mark. "Sorry, fellas." His sleep guns fired with hissing spats at four targets outlined against the distant lights.
He had leapt among them even before they crumpled, ripping away the rifle, hurling it into the sea. It was a silly, unthinking trick, for it made a loud splash. Mark dropped to the sand — waited, breath held. No more guards. Empty space from here to the beach backdrop. A cluster of huts beyond the fence. An opening between, leading to the harbour, from whence came the chug of the winches lifting cargo.
Mark dragged the unconscious guards into deep shadow, then raced to the hut. It was much larger than he expected. Round, with a conical roof, laced with palm and other foliage over cane sticks.
April came close, whispered. "Steel. It's all steel. The jungle stuff is fake top-dressing. Come back here."
Around the far side she lifted a portion of cane and palm leaf, disclosing a large opening the size of a letter-box. They peered through it. The area around the opening vibrated slightly. Air was sucked past their cheeks. A restricted view showed men — native islanders wearing a type of sarong-like mini-kilt of coloured cloth. Some had coloured bangles on their right arms, none on the left. Some wore necklaces of sharks' teeth or shells. The youngest had no such adornment. All were grouped, squatting on their haunches in a semi-circle, around an imposing-looking man with white hair, gnarled hands, high-veined arms, yet a smoothly boyish face.
He was speaking quietly, soothingly, his dark eyes gentle, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light thrown from one electric globe. Two gaps in his teeth gave him an even more boyish air — almost mischievous. Several of his listeners appeared to be either asleep or entranced by his words.
"Air-conditioned," April whispered. "Vents around the top. This is no native hovel. Surely that's Kuala?"
Mark nodded. "Chief 'Boy' Kuala himself. He's practising Y-Shan-U. Well, it's one way of keeping up their spirits!"
"Hypnotism?" she queried. "Trance states? Will it do them harm if we break it up?"
"Let's try." Mark put his mouth into one end of the slot, called softly "Y-Shan-U" a number of times, while April kept watch.
"He's heard you. He's coming over! " she said suddenly.
Mark bobbed his head down, to see "Boy" Kuala coming close.
"Who calls?" said Kuala.
"I come from the High Priest of Y-Shan-U. He is on the island boat. The great Chas says listen to me. I have come to save your people. You will help me?"
April said: "I'll say he will! He's laughing like a liberated general."
"Listen, Chief Kuala — listen. Tell your men to stand well back from the door. We're going to use explosive. You understand? Boom-boom!"
"My dear chap," said Chief Kuala, "have you no modern explosives? A couple of boom-booms will bring all the guards on you."
April giggled joyously. "Not to worry, Chiefie Boy. We have all mod-cons." She showed Mark the door area cut below an inspection flap. They worked swiftly to pack the quite simple lock with explosive. In two minutes the charge was ready. They packed sand around it, ripped the self-ignitor and stood well back. The lock blew with a flat-sounding "splat". The sand absorbed the vapour. Chief Kuala pushed open the door. Light flared out.
"Wow! Switch off the light — if you can!" April warned.
They shook hands as if just greeting him off a plane. It was all rather unreal, so calmly did Chief Kuala accept their presence. Mark whispered to April: "This makes it easier than we expected. Will you get all the info we need while I go reccy the other hut and link up with Kazan?"
She nodded. "I'll meet you over by the backdrop — that group of palms."
Mark soon found the same type of inspection flap a
nd lock in the new hut. But this one's occupants were all women, one older than the others, but even she was glowingly handsome. The rest were young and more lovely than the alleged pearl-diving girls had been. All wore native dress, as if they were part of a Bali-Bali film. Mark quickly made contact, his appearance causing considerable surprise and excitement.
The older woman said: "I am Bayee, the wife of Kuala. How is it you come here?"
Mark explained quickly, then told them how he would blow the lock, how they should turn out the light, and at once run to the deep shadow by the palm trees. All went as he intended. Except the exodus.
Lars Carlson and Count Kazan were coming along the beach from their landing point, wearing only swimming trunks and carrying clothes and assault gear in waterproof packs. The girls took them for guards, or at least as belonging to their enemy factions.
Although a ladies' man, not even Kazan could cope with this rush of them. Lars didn't like to use his strength against women, so they toppled him too. Mark leapt to help them. He daren't yell loudly, and warned Bayee not to do so. He could only struggle through the press of lovely, writhing bodies, whispering fiercely: "We're friends, friends! Get back, get back to the trees!"
Mark had an armful of young girl, his face in the tummy of another, when April's cold voice said: "Of all the sex crazy louts! Get up, you over-sexed slob! We've work to do! Hear me, Mark?"
The arrival of Chief Kuala and commands from Bayee soon calmed the girls. They all moved to the shadow of trees.
"They have suffered much at the hands of Mareet's men," said Kuala. "You must forgive them."
"A pleasure," said Lars, grinning hugely. "A lovely welcome — ya?"
April groaned. "I give up! Do I have men or boys with me on this operation? Get yourselves dressed and your gear ready. We're going in behind this tropical facade and, with the chiefs help, we're going to isolate and destroy all the THRUSH cell on the island."
The check contact came when Sama Paru and Randy Kovac were on a ledge midway between sea and cave. Sama listened carefully, then spoke very softly and briefly to give their position and estimated time it might take for them to reach the valley. He relayed the information into Randy Kovac's ear.
"April and the other three have made contact with the real chief. He and his wife are going with our agents because once the islanders see that Kuala is alive, they will flock to him. That is — all those islanders who have been forced to work for Mareet and, through him, for THRUSH. So every islander left is an enrolled THRUSH member, and we attack accordingly."
"How do we know?" said Randy.
"We say, Y-Shan-U. If they answer, Y-Shan-U, they are Kuala's people. The others just won't answer. They dare not use the words because their own spirits will strike them dumb."
"Lot of mumbo-jumbo." said Randy.
Sama said sharply: "No more than some of our Western mumbo-jumbo. Who are we to judge? Anyway, that's the drill. April, Mark, Kazan and Lars are now behind the false shore-line. April says to thank you for some inspired desk work."
Randy beamed. "What is there?"
"A production-line, no less! A whole row of what look like native long houses but is really a factory. Boat-making one end — then tara processing plant, then laboratory and offices, then an entrance into the headland." Sama pointed upward. "The chief says it is hollowed out into passages and caves. Natives who caused trouble were forced to work up here, stripping bark and digging out the dust."
"What dust?"
"I don't think the chief knows for sure, but the THRUSH scientists use it in their process of curing the tara plant. Our job is to destroy the whole package. No ifs or huts. Got it?"
Randy nodded. "Will I have to kill?"
Sama stared at him. Starlight made Randy's face white. Or was it starlight?
"You will know," he said. "Every agent has to learn it. We're in a war — an undeclared war. We're in the selective-kill business — not the overkill. So you will know whether it's him or you. But if you don't — it will be you who dies. It's quite simple really. Let's go!"
Easy to reach now. A large cave, smooth floor. A telescopic gantry, motor-driven pulleys attached, could extend way out over the rock-face to lower a load on to the water. Plenty of bars embedded in rock for hand-holds. A loading platform next to an endless-belt loader. Two coracles still on the lifting claws.
The cave narrowed to a long, low room. Store racks one side filled with two-inch-wide lathes of bark, each piece smoothed, polished. Little flat-car, trollies the length of the bark sat on wooden rails, shiny with use. A winching machine to pull the trollies up. A braking shoe to hold them steady on the down trip. Tub-shaped trollies interspersed in the line. From a passage to the right, a sound of thudding, not rhythmic, uneven, almost laborious. Occasionally a clink of metal against metal.
Sama Paru made signs. They wrecked the winching machine with two well-placed near-silent explosive packs, then jammed the trollies before severing the cables in many places. Sama moved, beckoning, treading as if on eggshells into the passage. At a bend, he halted, hand raised warningly. They peered around.
A cavern of orange light and flickering shadows — yellowish dust wreathing. A tangy, soda-like smell, not unpleasant. But all else was.
Three guards, one with a gun, two with whips. White men — big, craggy-rough. And about a score of islanders — digging, digging, digging. As one slowed, so the whip lashed down.
Sama Paru's eyes glittered. Randy Kovac's belly froze, but he nodded in understanding.
Sama stood at the entrance.
"Y-Shan-U!" he cried.
The guard with the gun whirled, barrel levelling. Sama shot him between the eyes.
The thudding ceased, shovels clattered down. A score of sobbing voices chanted: "Y-Shan-U! Y-Shan-U!"
"Drop the whips," Sama called.
One man was slow. "Who the hell are you? You'll die for this!"
Sama's attention was on this man. Randy saw the other guard's gun sliding up from its holster. The barrel was clear when Randy fired. The man was flung back, staggered, fell. Two islanders grabbed shovels and hammered his head in fury.
The third guard leapt, clasped an islander in front of him as he drew his gun, fired over the man's shoulder. The bullet spanged dust from the passage floor. Sama's sleep gun was now clear. So was Randy's. He had reacted lightning fast. Both fired together. One dart hit the islander. The other hit the guard in the shoulder. It threw his gun-arm off-target.
Sama yelled to the islanders: "Come!" and hustled Randy along the passage. At the end, Randy was sick.
Sama ignored him and silenced the jabbering islanders.
"One," he said, holding up a finger. "One who speaks as I speak. Understand?"
A short, bow-legged man came forward, sweat pouring, dust-caked, but grinning widely, like a gaping pea-pod. "I am very good speaker. Much schoolman, with the books and the pens. You not American?"
"European — you savvy?"
"Ah yes. France, Germany, Holland, England — on the map I see."
"What is your name?"
"Hiho."
"Okay, Hiho — you speak. I listen. Tell me what is from here to the valley?"
Hiho was quick. He understood what was needed. Then Sama said: "You stay here. We send for you when it is safe."
"No, please!" Hiho jabbered at his companions. Several ran back into the cavern, returning with armfuls of shovels and the two whips.
Sama shrugged. "It's your war as well as ours. Let's go get 'em!"
The story wasn't difficult to piece together. April Dancer, Mark Slate and their European colleagues had experienced this THRUSH pattern of divide and rule many times before. Sometimes it was a society or organization founded by sincere do-gooders that THRUSH infiltrated — first by buying in, then by appointing their own men to key positions. At times they worked with speed, at others they moved slowly. The end was the same. THRUSH had a "front" behind which they could prepare their current project.
> On this occasion, it happened to be an island in the sun. Small, unimportant historically or economically, with a population much inter-married, simple, and mainly unambitious. A happy people, though not without their family squabbles, not caring for political or other dogmas, and following their own patterns of tribal religions and traditional loyalties to one Chief, who acted as High Priest, Prime Minister, Judge and benign Father-figure.
Numbers of missionaries, visiting Westerners, social workers, had all left their mark in superficial ways, but nothing had really changed the pattern of the centuries. The islanders still lived in their long houses, still interbred and intermarried. Their harbour was rebuilt. A Palaga company set up a warehouse and several stores. The islanders learned about money, but it didn't affect them very much until the school was built and George Lodori became their first resident teacher. Education changed the children and the younger parents. An increase of tourism sharpened their commercial interest. The tiny radio station had been a nine-day wonder, but not until a few youngsters were trained to operate it did the islanders grasp even a part of its importance.
April Dancer could not assess the actual date when THRUSH first became active on Taradata, but there was no doubt that George Lodori was their first contact. Chief Kuala remembered how Lodori had come back from a holiday on the mainland a changed man — and had a lot of money too. Perhaps he'd always been a THRUSH supporter? Perhaps that was the time they bought him? It didn't really matter. THRUSH was now on the island via a key person in the community. Perhaps Lodori had sold them an idea, himself unaware of its potential when linked to THRUSH aims? That too had happened before to inventors, designers, creators of new processes, instruments and machines.
The build-up progressed by careful stages. Lodori was completely trusted by Chief Kuala. The project of exporting the traditional small boats of Taradata launched. THRUSH paid high prices for these early boats. The islanders had never seen so much money for what seemed to them such very easy work. And slowly their way of life was transformed. Machinery was brought in. Younger men were taught to use it. The chief's young cousin Tom-Tom was made overseer of this part of the work, given power and money. With true nepotism he gathered his own family around him, giving them the well-paid jobs. And THRUSH policy became implemented more and more.
