The Moby Dick Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  He'd been given no soap, no chance to shave. His skin felt grubby. His beard was sprouting. Commander Ahab, by contrast, was freshly tonsured, smartly attired in a white naval dress uniform with a cluster of gaudy THRUSH ribbons on the left bosom. He presided cheerfully over the breakfast table to which the U.N.C.L.E. agents had been led by guards.

  "I don't think our friends care for our hospitality." said the fourth guest at the table.

  "Alas, no, Cleo my sweet," said Commander Ahab, attacking a lobster claw with stainless steel crackers.

  Miss Cleo St. Cloud looked quite attractive in tight-fitting gold lamé slacks and blouse. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder and watching the captives with amusement.

  Cleo sat with her back toward the sharp angle formed by the bow-plates of the gigantic sub. Looking past her shining blonde head, Solo could see two of those large, dark green viewports which revealed the churning darkness of the ocean. It was morning, but the sub was evidently so far down that sunlight could not penetrate.

  "Surely you will have a spot of breakfast juice at least, Mr. Kuryakin?" Ahab asked.

  Illya cocked a sour eye at a pitcher of clam broth. "I eat nothing but peanut butter and jelly in the morning, thanks all the same."

  Cleo exhaled smoke. "I'd eat hearty, darlings. Especially you, Mr. Solo. Ahab has a little task in store for you this morning."

  Ahab got up, wiping his lips with an oversized white napkin. He went to a chart table and consulted a large map.

  "That's quite correct, Mr. Solo. We should be reaching our rendezvous point within ten minutes." He turned, rubbing his pudgy hands together. "And then—the beginning of the end for the enemies of THRUSH."

  Pushing his chair back, Solo stood up, stretched. A seaman stationed near the bulkhead lifted his short-muzzled power rifle to firing position. Irritably, Solo waved him away, walked to the forward viewports. A pearl-gray fish of unusual size nosed up on the other side. It regarded Solo with a sorrowful eye, then flicked its tail and shot out of sight.

  Solo said: "I don't want any fried shrimp, stewed oysters or diced eel, Ahab. But I would like some in formation."

  Commander Ahab stroked his beard. "I suppose that would be in order. Appreciating the totality of our plan will heighten your feeling of dismay as we carry it out. Very well. Ask."

  "First of all—" Solo gestured to the foaming sea outside "—where are we?"

  "Somewhere under the North Atlantic. Exactly where needn't trouble you. Next question?" said Commander Ahab.

  "What's the reason behind this elaborate floating cigar?"

  Ahab chortled. "Floating cigar indeed! The Moby Dick has been in construction for better than three years. It is a mobile operations base from which we shall put to use certain principles of oceanographic knowledge discovered and applied by various members of the THRUSH research wing.

  "Poor Dr. Shelley, by the way, apparently had done some research along parallel lines, and had also collected scraps of data which made him suspect that we were going in the same general direction. Our preliminary tests couldn't be carried out in complete secrecy, you know. We did disturb the ocean here and there. At any rate, we have perfected a means to quickly and drastically alter major ocean currents. When explosive charges are placed at the proper depths and positions on the ocean floor, and exploded simultaneously, the result is the instantaneous creation of tidal waves of staggering size and destructive power.

  "The one we sent in a vain at tempt to rescue Naglesmith—he was supposed to rendezvous with the Moby Dick, you see—was an infant compared to the one we are preparing now."

  Ahab's manner was easy and conversational but his eyes were full of the bright, fanatic glitter of the dedicated THRUSH officer determined to attack civilization at its foundations, and destroy it.

  Ahab crossed the plush ivory carpet to the chart table, returning with the oceanographic map he had consulted earlier. He pointed to a number of bright red crosses on the map.

  "Here, here and here our divers will plant charges necessary to create a tidal wave of such immense proportions that it can easily sweep up the Thames River and destroy all of London and the countryside round about for a radius of fifty miles. Once the charges are set, we shall sail back to England and detonate them. When London is inundated and all its inhabitants drowned, THRUSH Central will hand a letter of ultimatum to all the major governments of the world. The letter will demand immediate surrender. This time we shall achieve our goal."

  Ahab smiled good-humoredly. He was about to continue when Illya sat up. The thrumming had stopped.

  Rather excitedly, Cleo St. Cloud leaned forward. "The engines are out."

  "And the divers will be starting down. Well, Mr. Solo, now comes your moments of glory."

  Once more Ahab tapped the chart. This time he indicated a cross that was not scarlet, but black.

  "This is the reason we allowed you and Mr. Kuryakin to come aboard the Moby Dick. This mark. Just here, a charge must be placed—a key charge—at such a depth that the man who places it will very likely perish. Congratulations, Mr. Solo!" Ahab rolled up the chart and gestured. "You have been chosen! My men are standing by with your diving suit and the explosive package."

  Solo scowled. "I didn't raise my hand, teacher."

  Still grinning merrily, Ahab snapped his fingers. The seaman turned down a rheostat, plunging the chamber into semi-darkness. The only illumination was a faint phosphorescent gleam cast by the sea water lapping at the viewports.

  Cleo St. Cloud picked up a small, silvered pencil-like affair. She touched a stud which started a purple bulb in the tip to winking at half-second intervals.

  "Miss St. Cloud has ways of overcoming your reluctance, Mr. Solo," Ahab said. "That is why I invited her along for the voyage. Guard! Hold Mr. Kuryakin near the door so that he does not interfere."

  The guard leaped forward, jammed his power-rifle into Illya's shoulder blades and jerked his head to indicate that Illya should follow. Illya tossed his napkin aside, hesitated as though ready to start swinging. Solo blinked once, very fast. Illya caught the signal, contained his anger. Solo had called the shot. They would try to ride it out a bit longer.

  Illya accompanied the guard. Ahab walked around in front of Solo. "Please." He indicated an easy chair. "Be so good as to sit down."

  "All of a sudden, Ahab, I'm not feeling very polite."

  Ahab's face flushed. With surprising power, he jabbed his fingers hard at Solo's chest while Cleo, sneaking around from behind, shoved the chair forward so that it struck Solo's legs from behind. He sat down abruptly.

  Iron bands snapped out from the body of the chair to pinion his arms and legs. He writhed, heard Ahab chuckling. The purple light floated near in the gloom.

  Somewhere out beyond the blinking purple pinpoint, Cleo St. Cloud murmured, "Relax, Mr. Solo. Just let yourself relax. All we're going to do is relax you to the point where you'll be willing to follow Victor's orders through a headset."

  "Your act is lousy, dear," Solo said. But he didn't feel confident. He remembered the glazed, mindless look on Illya's face in the Golder's Green lab. He braced for an ordeal.

  "Cleo won't fail me," Ahab said out of the dark. "Not if she wants to see London again."

  Solo's arms ached from the constriction of the steel bands. His forehead and cheeks felt clammy.

  The tiny purple bulb seemed to swell in size, sending out star-like rays. Solo realized the starry effect was the result of his eyes watering. Already he was having trouble concentrating on anything except the blinking light.

  Soothingly Cleo's voice reached him:

  "Mr. Solo—may I call you some thing a little less formal? Napoleon. That's better. You're quite a charming man. You would do well as a member of the THRUSH team. Pity you're not with us. Still, the two of us can be friends, can't we? Nothing but trust between us, Napoleon my dear.

  "Once you trust me, you'll realize that all this is for the best. You'll feel so much better if you relax an
d quit wrenching around in your chair that way. Victor told you the mission was dangerous, didn't he? Of course it is. But it needn't be fatal. No, not at all. Provided you obey instructions carefully, you have an excellent chance of coming out alive.

  "Naturally you won't be able to obey instructions, if you continue to fight against us. You must stop fighting. You must let your muscles relax. That's the first of the important steps, my sweet Napoleon. Relax. Then sleep. Relax and sleep—"

  Somewhere, faintly, another voice drifted. "Give her the raspberry, Napoleon."

  Illya had hardly uttered the words when Solo heard a thud, a groan, a slumping sound.

  "Don't let him interrupt us again," Ahab snarled.

  Solo was growing drowsy. He wanted to say something to Cleo St. Cloud. Something smart; needling. Anything to show her that his mind was his own, unresponsive.

  That purple light—how restful it was. Going off, then coming alight with a soft blaze, like a flower blooming in silence.

  His upper arms tingled. Vaguely he sensed that Cleo St. Cloud was talking to him. Actually she hadn't stopped. It was like living in a house beside a waterfall. After five years the splash no longer bothered you. He'd been listening to Cleo for at least ten––

  On and off went the purple light, blossoming, blossoming. On and off, on and off—

  "Yes, Napoleon my dear, yes, that's it. Relax and sleep, relax and deep—"

  A dim corner of his mind rebelled.

  The purple light was soothing. But they were going to send him out into the ocean's depth to plant a bomb that would help create a tidal wave to destroy London, England. Desperately his mind tried to erect a wall against the soothing-syrup of her voice.

  How many human beings in London? he asked himself with the small, still-alert part of his mind. Four million? Five? He wasn't sure. He tried to think of them as all dead. One by one he began to count macabre bodies floating over a fence.

  One dead.

  Two dead.

  Ten dead.

  Hundreds, thousands, millions dead if he let her win—

  Blink blink blink went the purple light, so softly, so subtly, so treacherously.

  A guttural male voice: "Is he responding?" Doggedly Solo counted corpses in his mind.

  "Sssh! I think so. He's difficult. A minute longer. Then I'll have him."

  He heard the rustle of her gold slacks as she eased nearer. Cool fingers tested the pulse of his left wrist. The purple light was inches from his eyes, on and off, on and off—

  "Relax, dear sweet Napoleon. Relax, let your mind and your body respond only to me. Relax and respond to me—"

  He'd run out of mental steam trying to count the dead bodies that would haunt him if he failed. His whole brain felt like a sponge, soaking up soothing sounds and purple lights. She had him. The whispering witch had him. He was about to go under, he—

  Suddenly there was an absence of pressure.

  She had taken her fingers from his wrist.

  In the dark Napoleon Solo gambled.

  He curled the fingers of his right hand under and jammed his nails into his palm as hard as he could. digging, digging—

  Pain lanced along his nerves. He stared straight into the purple light, head lolling to one side, eyes barely open, mere slits.

  Abruptly the purple light snapped out.

  Footsteps moved. A man's voice. a woman's, then both, whispering together in a guarded conversation he could not hear. Sweat trickled coldly down into his collar. He kept scratching his right palm to jolt himself with fresh waves of stinging pain.

  There was a whine, a snap of a switch going down. Solo didn't dare move. He tried to open his eyelids a fraction more, turned his pupils toward the sound of Ahab's heavy breathing. Amplified, a flat male voice said, "Yes, Commander?"

  "Stand by with the diving gear. Mr. Solo is under control and ready to go."

  Sitting heavy-lidded, Napoleon Solo stared at the carpet.

  Briskly, Cleo said, "Mr. Solo, you will obey Commander Ahab's instructions and only Commander Ahab's, whether delivered in person or via a microphone and head set receiver. You will do this starting the moment I count three and clap my hands twice. Furthermore, you will be agreeable. You won't struggle or try to fight or escape." She paused. "Very well, Mr. Solo. One. Two. Three."

  Sound of palms cracking together once, twice. Solo affected a silly smile and opened his eyes.

  "I'm hungry," he said with a cheerful grin.

  Commander Ahab bustled up, touched the chair's back. The steel bands retracted with spanging sounds.

  "Sorry, no time for that now, Mr. Solo. We must get you into your gear and on your way."

  Tractably Solo allowed himself to be led toward the entrance to the chamber. Illya Kuryakin slumped against the wall, the ugly purple bruise on his forehead showing where he had been clubbed. As Solo passed, Illya gave him a searching look. Solo raised his right hand and wriggled his fingers in the air.

  "Hello there."

  Illya looked ill as Solo stepped through the hatch.

  Moments later Solo was shoved down a ladder into a large, steel-walled room where half a dozen THRUSH seamen manhandled him into a cumbersome diving suit. A diving helmet was lowered and dogged down. The inside of the suit smelled vaguely of fish. Solo's field of vision was restricted. THRUSH sailors crisscrossed it, carrying air hoses.

  His head was jarred as the seamen jerked the helmet one way, then another, attaching the hoses. Ahab appeared. He had a combination earphone-mike on his head, the mike a tiny black sphere at the end of a curving piece of stainless steel which swept around from his ear to just in front of his lips. Ahab held up a small, flat, shallow package with a metal clip attached.

  "Explosive. Very powerful, Mr. Solo." Ahab's words crackled through the diving Suit headset. "I will fasten it securely to your belt, thus."

  The package was clipped in place.

  "Attached to the package is a special trigger-release weight. You will have no trouble feeling the stud which activates the weight. I will tell you when to press the stud. You will be going down quite a long distance, and when you reach the proper level, we will give you further instructions.

  "Follow them to the letter, Mr. Solo. The placement of this particular charge is extremely critical. An error of even a few feet could upset calculations. We trust the pressure to which you descend will not prove fatal, but if it does—ah, well, you have given your life to a good cause."

  That's one cause, Solo thought as he grunted a monosyllabic reply, that won't get any help this trip.

  He'd fooled them.

  His right hand, inside the suit's glove, still stung. But he had managed to hold out against Cleo St. Cloud. He hoped Illya could take care of himself, escape somehow. Illya would be going it alone now. Solo knew, as he was shoved forward to an open hatch, that his trip would probably be one way.

  He was going to place the explosive packet in the wrong location if it killed him. As it very likely would.

  The THRUSH seamen pushed him into an oval chamber, then sealed its inner hatch. Water began to rise, foaming dark around his boots. Solo turned clumsily, noting that his air hoses were paying out through the otherwise sealed hatch running out through specially gasketed steel ring brackets.

  The water rose past his faceplate. Evidently activated by the agitation of the sea water pouring in, a powerful lamp flashed on at the top of his helmet. The outer hatchway opened.

  "Forward, Mr. Solo!" Ahab said in the headset. "Over the threshold and down to Davey Jones." Ahab's voice carried a malicious edge.

  Manfully Solo moved ahead. Once away from the steel hull of the Moby Dick he dropped at a slow but steady rate. Out of the deepening watery gloom something long, bullet-shaped, and finned flashed at him. Solo slung himself to one side.

  The monster fish flashed on by, snapping its mouth shut on a disturbing display of sharp teeth. The gloom of the deeps closed around him again, shading off from purplish green to total black.
/>
  The beam of his head lamp revealed little. He had distressing visions of fanged fish hovering nearby, waiting to make a snack of him. He began whistling Minnie the Mermaid, hoping Ahab was listening.

  Sure enough, he was: "The pitiful dupe! He's whistling a bawdy sea song. Cleo my dear, you gave an inspired performance."

  All this was aside, not meant for Solo, who was surrounded by watery darkness and beginning to find it difficult to maintain a mood of levity. He was troubled by fear of what would happen if he failed; fear of the tremendous psychological advantage the tidal wave technique would give to THRUSH; fear, at the last, of his own death, down here in the primordial ghostliness of the sea, alone, powerless, small.

  Then he began to understand Ahab's earlier remarks about the riskiness of this mission. Inside his suit, seeming to issue from behind him, he heard slight tearing sound. Slight, but loud in his ears as a butcher knife slashing canvas.

  Immediately the air he was breathing seemed thinner, malodorous. He began to breathe more loudly than before. His lungs hurt.

  "Solo!" Ahab said. "The pressure indicator is behaving oddly."

  "Air—beginning to smell bad coming into the suit," he said in a flat voice.

  Over the headset Solo heard someone in the sub say that he was nearly to demolition depth. He also caught a snatch of a sentence ending with the words pop like a balloon.

  His ears had developed a ringing. Pale blue spots danced behind his eyes. Was the crushing pressure slowly ripping through the multi layered suit? He was still descending, but through total blackness, except where the headlamp speared.

  The soles of his diving boots crunched against something solid. Solo bent his head downward. The spotlight illuminated a dark, wetly green rock shelf on which he had come to rest. Ahab spoke again:

  "Mr. Solo, can you hear me?"

  Solo grunted that he could.

  "Very well. Listen carefully. You will turn to your right. Repeat, to your right. Tell me what you have executed a ninety-degree right turn."