Pulp Fiction | The Synthetic Storm Affair (May 1967)

by Unknown

  When Colonel Davis replied in the affirmative, Napoleon asked, "Would your defense patrols intercept any such undersea craft?"

  "No," the army defense chief said. "Not unless it penetrated within the three mile territorial limits of Hawaii. We would mark its position and aerial patrols and antisubmarine units of the Navy would keep close watch over it just in case it might be a defense threat."

  "Was one reported out around Maui yesterday?"

  "There was," the colonel said.

  "I see," Napoleon said. "Was the sea calm enough that a light seaplane might have landed on the water and made contact with this submarine?"

  "Oh, entirely possible," the defense chief said. "Our patrols observed no such action, but when they arrived the submarine was submerged and departing."

  "Do you have any indication of the sub's identity?"

  "No," the colonel said. "These things happen all the time, both here, along the U.S. Pacific Coast and on the Atlantic. Foreign countries do it to test our defenses. We do the same thing in Asia and Europe. That is not unusual. However, if someone from Hawaii joined the sub, then that is not usual. We would be very much interested in a report of that to our counter-intelligence."

  "As soon as I have anything definite, colonel," Napoleon sad, "I'll certainly make a full report. Thanks for your help."

  He hung up and turned to Illya. "Well, wise guy, you are right for once. She swam off—in a tin fish!"

  "To join the Waterloo, more than likely," Illya said. "Am I permitted to venture a small guess?"

  "Don't waste time telling me she is probably going to the Waterloo to help solve the problem of why storm generation is not as successful in the Pacific as it was in the Atlantic," Napoleon said. "I'm smart too."

  "While you're being so smart," Illya said with a sour grin, "go on and tell me how you intend to keep this Waterloo ship from being the Waterloo of us both?"

  "I intend to depend on your brilliance," Napoleon said with a grin of his own. "You are the difference, you know. And that is an order directly from Waverly himself!"

  "I wish I could," Illya said. "Never have I felt so useless on any case. We are getting absolutely nowhere, Napoleon."

  "Don't I know it!" Solo said with a worried frown creasing his forehead. "I was talking to Waverly just a half hour ago. He reports there is excitement all through the THRUSH organization. Harmon reports it from Europe. April Dancer sent a similar report from South America. Mark Slate had the same story from Southeast Asia. Waverly believes THRUSH has definite hope that the girl will solve the problem. They believe it so strongly that they have alerted their cells worldwide to be ready to step in when these monstrous storms spread their destruction!"

  "I don't know what we are doing wasting more time here," Illya said. "We've got to find a new lead. I think—"

  He broke off when the phone rang. Napoleon, who was nearest, picked up the instrument. Illya, tensely watching his partner's face, saw Napoleon start.

  "What is it?" Illya asked eagerly.

  "A typhoon has been spotted outside the usual belt!" Solo said hurriedly. Then into the phone he said, "How is the storm reacting?"

  He listened for a few seconds and said, "We certainly would! We'll be there as soon as a taxi can get us there!"

  He jammed down the phone. "The storm acts as though it's crippled!" he said to Illya. "It builds up fury and then seems to lose its punch and then builds up again. It is sort of pulsing!"

  "This could be it!" Illya said, his face flushing with excitement. "What are we going to do?"

  "We are going to ride one of the typhoon-tracker planes out and see for ourselves!"

  "Typhoon trackers? Those are the boys who deliberately fly into these cyclones to measure wind velocity and direction, isn't it?"

  "That's right," Napoleon said. "We're going to go straight into that storm and we're not coming out without its secrets!"

  ACT VIII: INTO THE STORM

  An hour later Solo and Kuryakin were in a weather reconnaissance plane of the U.S. Air Force, heading into the deep Pacific out of Honolulu.

  Another weather reconnaissance plane was already in the area which was east of Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands. The two men listened to the reports coming back.

  "It is a small storm," the report said. "It covers about two hundred and fifty miles in radius. We managed to penetrate into the eye. It covers an area of about fifteen miles. There is a wall of clouds circling about the eye which holds the worst turbulence I have ever encountered. I am estimating the wind speed at close to two hundred knots—and that is some wind. The hail, rain and lightning is awful. There are times when I didn't think we would make it. Under no circumstances do I recommend you to try a penetration yourself."

  The pilot called Napoleon Solo on the intercom.

  "We are under your orders," he said. "We were told to do as you wished. Shall we try to penetrate the storm or not?"

  Napoleon hesitated.

  "What do you recommend?" he asked.

  "It is getting close to night," he said. "I don't know what we could find out inside the eye that the other weather plane didn't get."

  "Can you get him on the radio?" Solo asked. "Ask if he saw any indication of a ship in the eye."

  "No," the answer came back across the intervening miles. "The ocean inside the eye is lashed to an awful fury. A fish would get seasick in that wild water. I don't see how any ship could keep afloat if trapped in there."

  Illya Kuryakin nodded.

  "You remember, Napoleon," he said. "When we were in the eye of that Atlantic hurricane, the trapped sea water inside the eye was boiling while the air above was perfectly still."

  "What about on the fringes outside the circular area of the storm itself?" Solo asked. "Can you get any radar return that shows a ship or submarine might be anywhere along the fringes?"

  "No," the reply came back, "but the only reading we can get is the side we are on. There could be a ship on the other side, but our radar will not penetrate the entire storm area. We get a bounce-back off the clouds, you know."

  "Okay," Napoleon said, making a fast decision. "The plane out there now must come back. Its fuel is getting low. I think we should go on, even though it is getting dark. We won't try to penetrate the storm itself. But I want to circle as much of the total storm area as possible. I'm sure the Waterloo is somewhere in the area."

  "And if it isn't?" Illya asked.

  "Then this is a real storm and not one of THRUSH's hellish experiments," Napoleon said grimly. "That will mean returning to Hawaii and starting all over again."

  "There isn't time to start again," Illya said. "Time is running out on us, Napoleon."

  "I know it," Solo said grimly. "Those world-wide reports of THRUSH activity shows they expect the climax to come very soon. It makes me shudder, Illya, when I think of the millions of lives that may be lost."

  "It makes me shudder even more," Illya said soberly, "when I think how little we have to go on to save those lives."

  "All we can do is keep trying—trying right up to the end."

  The plane droned on across the wide Pacific. The sun dropped lower. Clouds started to thicken on the horizon. The slanting light of the dropping sun set them ablaze with fiery color.

  The turbulence of the air increased as they started to circle the fringes of the storm.

  The plane flew on, its weather radar beam scanning storm and sea. An hour passed. It was twilight, with only a few minutes of visibility left. The radar was still seeking some sign of the Waterloo.

  It had grown too dark to see anything on the water by human eyesight. Napoleon and Illya left their scanners' positions and went forward to watch the radar screen over the operator's shoulder.

  They watched the blips come and go on the greenly glowing screen. Once they thought they saw something, but it proved to be a whale. Another time the radar scope picked up an object, but they were never able to identify it.

  Then the operator pointed out a new blip e
choing from the water.

  "Probably that whale again," he said.

  "He's in for a tough swim if he doesn't get away from that storm," Illya said, recalling the wild froth whipped up inside the eye.

  "No," the operator said. "Most of the sea agitation is along the surface. If you drop in a submarine, say, a hundred or so feet below the water, you would never know there was a storm overhead."

  Napoleon and Solo looked at each other. "Then that sub which picked up the girl could have gone under the storm to make the rendezvous with the Waterloo," Illya said.

  "I think this is it," Solo said grimly.

  Napoleon Solo nodded. He called the pilot on the intercom. "I'd like to go down as low as possible and investigate this whale."

  "It's going to be rougher down there," the pilot warned. "Hold on tight."

  The huge four-motored weather plane circled, losing altitude. True to the pilot's prediction, it became increasingly rough as the plane descended.

  "What is the 'whale' doing?" Illya asked. To him the glowing radar screen was a mystery.

  "I've lost him," the operator said. "You see, radar beams reflect off clouds and rain masses. "We can't see anything behind them."

  "I thought the Air Force uses radar to bomb through clouds," Solo said.

  "Yes, but we're weather observers," the operator replied. "If we used beams that would go right through clouds like X-ray, it would do us no good. We are trying to find out about clouds and their shapes."

  "I see," Solo said and he sounded discouraged. "Do you—"

  "Wait! I've got something! It just came out of that rain squall mass here on the top of the scope. It's—yes, it's a boat of some kind. Just a minute. I can give you its length. It's about sixty-five feet long and— Hey, maybe that isn't a whale after all. It's making contact with the boat!"

  Solo's heart leaped. "It is the sub that picked up Rosa," he said to Illya. "This is it, my friend!"

  "What are we going to do? I'm for calling Waverly and getting the U.S. Navy submarines to sink both the Waterloo and the sub."

  "And get them in international difficulties?" Solo asked. "We have no positive proof that the Waterloo is engaged in directing storms. All we have are suspicions. We could never get any official action on the basis of what we have."

  "Then it is up to us to take unofficial action," Kuryakin said. "I don't think it would be any breach of international maritime law to go down for a close look at the ship. We could claim we thought it might be in danger from the storm."

  "That sounds good to me," Napoleon said. "Solo to pilot, over! Can we go down for a close look at those ships?"

  "Roger," the pilot said. "Hold on tight. It is going to be some roller coaster ride."

  He put the big plane in a steep bank and started to descend. As they dropped, the two men from U.N.C.L.E. saw details of the sea. The waves were piling up. Their whitecaps were snatched away by the hard wind.

  "It must be pretty important for those two vessels to meet to risk docking with each other in this wind," the pilot said.

  "I imagine it is," Illya replied.

  Suddenly the wind faltered, came back with a hard gust and then almost died.

  "That has been going on since the blame thing was sighted," the ship's weather observer said to Solo. "It is what makes this storm so unusual. It seems to have trouble keeping going."

  "Good!" Napoleon said crisply. "It will give us a break to get a close look at that rendezvous."

  The plane came down only a couple of hundred feet above the water. Despite the fall of the wind the waves were still high and angry.

  They faced a sudden rain squall. The plane plunged into it. Rain drummed on the windows. A sudden gust of wind caused the airplane to lurch. Then the wind died to almost nothing. They came out of the rain with the mysterious ship dead ahead. There was no sign of the submarine in the gloom, but the radar scope showed it slightly submerged and departing.

  Napoleon was at the scanner's window, trying to focus a pair of binoculars he borrowed from the pilot. The plane was bouncing so badly he could not get a clear enough view in the gloom to pick out the vessel's name on the bow.

  Suddenly the plane gave a savage lurch that almost tore loose Solo's grip. In spite of himself his shoulder hit the side of the plane with a hard jolt.

  The pilot suddenly applied full power. The straining plane shuddered as it struggled for altitude. A wing dipped dangerously. For one startled moment Napoleon Solo thought they were falling into a side slip. But slowly the pilot brought his craft under control again.

  "Hang on!" he called grimly over the intercom. "They're shooting at us!"

  Then as the plane circled, struggling for altitude, Napoleon saw an explosion just off their right wing. It was a savage burst of fire and smoke, reminding him of a 75mm shell burst.

  The plane shuddered again. Napoleon did not have to wait for the pilot's report to know they were hit. For a moment they lost altitude, but then began to climb with agonizing slowness.

  Another shell ripped through the fuselage. It exploded in the radio compartment. Illya and Napoleon rushed forward. The radio operator was dead. The radio equipment was a shambles. Even the plane's intercom was out.

  Napoleon stepped through into the pilot's cockpit. He was staggered by what he saw. Another shell had ripped away part of the windshield. Rain and wind was slashing through the broken hole. The co-pilot was slumped over his controls, unconscious. Blood was streaming down the pilot's face.

  He turned his agonized eyes on Solo.

  "I c-an't keep her up! Help me!"

  With Illya's help, Napoleon pulled the unconscious co-pilot out of the way and slipped into the seat himself. Acting on the choked instructions of the man in the other seat, Solo helped him fight to keep the plane under control.

  "Right rudder! R-right rudder!" the pilot cried.

  Solo jammed the right rudder control down with all his strength. The plane was lurching with the renewed fury of the wind. The rain was increasing in violence. An occasional ball of hail banged like a cannon ball on the skin of the plane.

  "The typhoon is overtaking us!" the ship's weather observer, Major Frank Patterson, came forward to tell them.

  "T-here's not a chance with the ship crippled like this!" the injured pilot gasped.

  "We can't ditch in the ocean!" the weather observer said quickly. "Those waves will pile up as much as a hundred feet high before the storm subsides. No human being could live in such a sea, no matter what kind of life vest he wore!"

  "We'll never keep aloft," the pilot said, gritting his teeth against the pain from his cut head. "One engine is out now. Another is running rough. I don't expect it to hold out much longer. We have no directional aids. I don't know where in hell we are. Without a radio we haven't any chance of getting back to Hawaii."

  "Look," the observer said, desperation in his voice. "This section of the Pacific is dotted with atolls. Can't we find one to crash land on?"

  "Our navigator is dead," the pilot said wearily. "I don't know where we are. I don't know where any islands are."

  One of the enlisted scanners stuck his head in the cockpit.

  "Major!" he said, shouting to making himself heard above the howl of the wind ripping through the broken section of the windshield. "I checked the radio equipment like you told me. There isn't a chance of patching it up enough to get any reception."

  "What do we do?" the major said.

  "Pray, if you still know how," the pilot said.

  His head drooped with weariness. Rain splashing through the cracked plexiglass, ran down his face. The plane side-slipped dangerously as his feet slipped on the foot controls. He caught himself in time.

  Slowly through the combined supreme efforts of himself and Napoleon Solo, they got the plane flying half way level again.

  All of them knew the pilot couldn't hold out much longer. He had already done more than any person should be called upon to do.

  It would only be a matte
r of a short time before he would collapse completely.

  Illya Kuryakin offered to take his place.

  "You can sit between us and tell us what to do."

  The pilot shook his head. "What good will it do? I think I can hold out longer than the plane will."

  "Do you think we could make it to some atoll island if we could get a fix on our position?" Napoleon asked. They could converse a little better since Major Patterson rigged up a canvas barrier that partially cut out the driving rain slamming into the cockpit.

  "Maybe," the pilot said. "That's all I can say—maybe. In this kind of a storm, nothing is certain. We're being carried farther into it. We don't have sufficient power left in our crippled engines to fight our way out!"

  Napoleon turned and shouted back over his shoulder to Kuryakin, "Illya! Can you raise New York on the pen-communicator?"

  "I don't even know if the thing works," Kuryakin said. "I haven't tried it since we got it back from the police when they searched Taro. But I'll try."

  He pulled out the tiny world-wide communication set. A twist of the cap extended the six inch aerial. He quickly spoke his identifying call letters and added, "Kuryakin calling Mr. Waverly. Emergency! Over!"

  He repeated the call several times. Then he paused. Vicious bolts of lightning were ripping through the black boiling clouds. He waited until the worse of the display was over. Solo looked back at him anxiously as Illya tried again.

  "Kuryakin calling Mr. Waverly! This is an emergency! Over!"

  "—ryakin. This is Wav—"

  That is all they got. Illya looked at Napoleon.

  "Repeat!—Keep—repeatin—"

  "He means keep repeating your message over and over," Solo said quickly. "The atmospherics are so bad it keeps killing part of the reception. But if you keep repeating it, they'll be able to assemble a complete message from the fragments!"

  "Here goes!" Illya said. "I hope it does some good!"