The rail wobbled in his hands, still attached to the other by the thin piece of weld. Solo felt the pressure that the weight of the solid piece of steel exerted on his forearms, the tautness of the tendons and muscles there, and he knew he could not hold it for long. When that last connecting piece of weld snapped
Sweat rolled from his forehead into his eyes. His vision blurred. He leaned his head against one straining shoulder and rubbed the wetness away on the rough cloth of his shirt.
The helicopter was still maneuvring beneath him. He could see half of it now, the whirling, singing blades, part of the glass dome covering the cockpit, the huge, brown cargo body beneath it.
The helicopter sat motionless, half-in and half-out of Solo's view. His hands were white around the rail, and the pressure on his arms was unbearable. I can't hold it, he thought. I can't...
The chopper began to move. It dipped forward, banking under the trestle, under the hole in the track bed, and Solo saw the pilot then and in the next instant the man with the machine gun. The blades of the copter were tilted forward, directly beneath him now, and the body was raised out and to the side of the trestle wall.
The man with the machine gun saw him then. He saw Solo's head and arms extending out over the hole, and the grin contorted his face as it had before, and he raised the Thompson gun, leaning out of the helicopter doorway.
Solo let go of the rail. He felt the- release of pressure from his arms and heard the sharp crack as the last piece of steel snapped free.
The end of the rail nearest him jolted upward, narrowly missing Solo's chin, and then it plunged down through the hole.
There was just enough time for Solo to see the face of the man with the machine gun, to see the grin change into an expression of pure terror, and then the steel rail crashed with tremendous force into the rotating blades of the helicopter.
There was the grinding, tortured scream of twisted metal, the shattering sound of the glass dome breaking, and Solo saw one of the chopper blades, ripped in half, skim through the air and splinter against the granite canyon wall across from him.
The helicopter began to plunge. It dropped straight down at first, rotors crippled, and then it began to spin, a lazy, revolving spin, almost as if it were falling in slow motion. It grew smaller, smaller, trailing black smoke, a mere speck, and then it disappeared on the canyon floor below. It was quiet again.
Solo lay panting inside the trestle, head cradled in his arms at the edge of the hole. A fever-weakness seemed to have seized him. His chest heaved, and his arms felt slightly numb. He wanted to lay there, rest, just rest. Fatigue had seeped into every corner of his body.
But he got to his knees, and then, his fingers clawing at the rough shed wall, to his feet. He swallowed into a sore, parched throat. The helicopter would have radioed his position, Solo knew. THRUSH agents would be coming along the tracks after him at any moment. He still wasn't out of danger yet.
Solo stood hanging on to the shed wall. The only way past the hole, as he had seen before, was across that single steel rail. Legs rubbery, he stepped to the opposite side again. The ties beneath his feet did not seem any too sturdy. He knelt quickly there, testing the solidarity of the rail with his hand. It seemed firm enough to hold him.
Sweat drenched his entire body. He took a long breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. Then he stepped up onto the rail. It creaked, rocking faintly under him. Facing the shed wall, he leaned his body forward, both hands flat against the wood for balance, and to take his full weight from the rail.
He began to move his feet sideways, slowly, inching his way across the slippery piece of steel. He stared straight ahead, eyes on his hands as he slid them along the wall.
Splinters gouged into his skin, but he paid no attention to the stinging pain.
After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the other side of the hole. He paused there momentarily, breathing deeply, rubbing sheets of sweat from his face and eyes.
He walked through the trestle cautiously, watching the trackbed below him, bypassing ties and rails that looked to be rotted through or about to give way, stopping to test with his hands and feet areas that he was-not sure of. Finally, he reached the end of the trestle and stepped onto the solid ground of the tracks on the other canyon wall.
He wanted to pause there, rest his aching body. But the feel of the ground, its stability, seemed to instill new purpose in him, and he moved onward along the tracks without stopping.
He moved downward, in close to the granite, and when he reached the point where the tracks curved around the canyon wall, he turned, looking across to the wall facing him over the gorge. He saw no one. His breathing became easier. He went around the curve of the tracks and out of sight from the THRUSH pursuers he knew would be following him.
He walked for hours. Afternoon began to give way to night. It grew colder, and he saw clouds forming in the sky above him. It would snow soon, and when it did he would have to reach shelter. He knew the consequences if he didn't. He was already chilled to the marrow. He reached the timberline just as it began to get dark.
Solo saw, as he rounded a bend, that the tracks fell into a long, steep incline, and at the bottom and growing sparsely up the side of the mountain there, was a thick forest of Colorado Blue Spruce. The mountains above him through which he had been making his way, gave way to pitted -gullies and long, flat stretches of woodland.
He had made it out of the Rockies. He began to run. He ran, lurching, stumbling over rocks, down the incline, running almost blindly in the twilight. His breath choked from his lungs in wheezing gasps. But still he ran.
Solo reached the bottom of the incline, smelling the odor of pine and moss, and the chill, building snow in the air. He ran along the trackbed, through the trees, and he stopped running, slowing into a staggering walk, only when his tortured lungs screamed for relief and threatened to burst through his chest.
It had begun to snow when he saw the road. The snow was light at first, thin, misty flakes. It mixed with the gathering darkness to make front and peripheral vision difficult, and when he saw the road he thought his mind was playing tricks on him.
Solo stopped, peering ahead of him. The road bisected the tracks, disappearing into the forest on both sides. But there was a road!
He began to run again and halted where the road crossed the tracks. It was rutted, passable only by jeep, little more than a fire trail. But it had been used often, and recently judging from the freshness of the tire treads he saw there. That had to mean it led to a ranger station; yes, he was sure of it. A ranger station, a fire-prevention outpost, some place where he could get help.
He tried to remember how the terrain had looked from his earlier elevation. To the left, a thick forestland of blue spruce, unbroken wilderness. To the right, higher ground. Ranger stations were always built on higher ground to protect them from the possible danger of fire.
Napoleon Solo turned to the right. He tried to run, but his right leg had grown numb. The gash he had received in Mexico, plus the chilling cold and the countless falls, had begun to take their toll. He could move only in a half-shuffling, half-walking step.
The snow began to flurry, building into a storm. He could see only a few feet in front of him. He had become almost oblivious to the cold, and he knew that was one of the first signs a man experienced before freezing. He knew it, but he could not seem to fight off the torpor that took hold of him, the lethargic feeling of drowsiness.
The road seemed to widen. He saw that, even through the swirling snow, and at first it had no significance for him.
And then he saw the light It glowed ahead of him, a dim yellow, an unblinking yellow eye in the darkness and the falling snow He stared. A light! He had an in sane urge to laugh.
He tried to run, fell to his knees and then sprawled forward. He couldn't get to his feet again; his arms were leaden, frozen from the cold. He began to drag his body toward the light. He tried to call out, but his throat would not work and no word
s came out. He realized the uselessness of trying to make himself heard over the howling wind.
As he crawled forward, he could make out the dim outlines of a building, sitting dark and shadowy at the far edge of a clearing. The light shone from a single window beside the door.
He reached the porch of the building and dragged himself up the three wooden steps there. With the last ounce of strength he had left, he threw himself forward against the door, hammering feebly with his frozen hands at its wooden base.
Footsteps sounded inside. The door was pulled open. "My God!" a man's voice said. "Pete! Come here! Quick!"
Hands touched his shoulders, lifting Napoleon Solo inside. He felt warmth, real warmth. He raised his eyes, looking into the face of an alarmed Colorado Forest Ranger, that title displayed across the front of his green uniform shirt.
Solo's throat worked and he forced hoarse words past his lips. "Telephone," he said. "Have you got a telephone?"
"Yes," the ranger said. "What happened?"
Solo didn't hear the rest of it. He felt another pair of hands on his legs, and then he was being lifted. He relaxed his body. He knew, somehow, that it was going to be all right, now.
ACT VI: STAND AND FIGHT
Alexander Waverly received the long distance phone call exactly thirty minutes after Illya Kuryakin had left New York for Hoover Dam.
He had been busy during that thirty minutes. He had put through a call to the Secretary of the Interior in Washington, getting him out of bed, and had explained the situation. The Secretary, obviously alarmed, had agreed to instruct Hoover Dam officials to immediately shut down all facilities. He informed Waverly that an immeasurable amount of damage could be done to the Dam itself, since the huge dynamos inside drew 1,344,800 kilowatts of hydroelectric power from the Colorado River. Both Waverly and the Secretary agreed that the entire affair should be kept as quiet as possible in the interest of public safety and wellbeing.
Waverly had then contacted the U.N.C.L.E. district office in Salt Lake City, directing the agent-in-charge to dispatch a group of operatives to Pardee. He gave a quick outline of what they were to be looking for, and of the circumstances in general.
He had been about to radio the U.N.C.L.E. Air Command, to order them to conduct a thorough air reconnaissance of the entire upper half of the Colorado River, when the call came through on his private line.
The man on the other end of the wire identified himself as a Colorado State Forest Ranger named Emmett, Ranger Station 17, Rocky Mountain National Park. He said that a man, half-frozen almost delirious, had stumbled to their door over an hour before. After asking if they had a telephone, Emmett said, the man had passed out, and they had administered hurried first aid. When the man regained consciousness, he had given them Waverly's private number and implored them to put the call through without delay, it was a matter of the utmost urgency, involving national security.
Waverly's brain was whirring like the well-organized computer it was. "The name of this man, please?"
"He says he is Napoleon Solo."
Faint traces of what might have been a smile touched Waverly's stoical features. He asked, "Is Mr. Solo able to speak with me?"
"I can't keep him in bed, weak as he is," Emmett said. "He's right over my shoulder."
Solo came on the line. He began talking immediately, his voice hoarse, only barely audible over the long-distance wire. He detailed everything that he had learned, everything that had happened to him, beginning with Estrellita Valdone and his exposure to the nerve gas. He dwelled at length on his encounter with Dr. Mordecai Sagine.
Waverly listened intently. When Solo had finished, he explained that U.N.C.L.E. had learned only a short time ago that the Colorado River was the initial prime THRUSH target, and related the pertinent details surrounding Illya's capture of Estrellita Valdone and the man named Benson.
"Illya!" Solo interrupted. "Illya's alive?"
"Yes, he's alive, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Did you believe him dead?"
Waverly could hear the relieved sigh Napoleon Solo emitted on the other end. Solo related rapidly that he had thought Illya killed in the accident in Mexico, and that THRUSH hadn't led him to believe any different while he was being held captive.
Waverly said, "I have sent Mr. Kuryakin to Hoover Dam. It has been shut down completely in an effort to stop crystallization of the entire Colorado River."
"The chemical was supposed to have been introduced at seven o'clock, Mountain Time," Solo said. "Over three hours ago. Yes, there might still be time."
"You say that the Colorado was only to be a test?" Waverly asked.
"The final test," Solo said. "The first step in THRUSH's singular offensive. Once THRUSH Council has been satisfied, then their entire operation will swing into full-scale, simultaneous action."
Waverly tapped his pen on the desk top absently. "I was afraid THRUSH were planning something along those lines," he said. "Every major body of fresh water in the world, eh? Unless I miss my guess, THRUSH will waste no time once the Colorado is crystallized. No time at all."
"Tomorrow some time, then," Solo said. "Tomorrow morning!"
"Exactly, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "And once THRUSH realizes that we know of their little plot, which they shall when only the upper section of the Colorado succumbs to the chemical, they will attempt to take prompt advantage of the upper-hand they hold before we can react further. Tomorrow morning is rather a safe assumption, I should think."
"Which means we've got to stop them before they can get underway," Solo said.
Waverly said, "The salt chemical is being manufactured at the fortress in the Rocky Mountains, is that correct?"
"Yes," Solo said. "Manufactured in aggregate amounts, judging from what I saw." "Is it being stored there for later transportation, do you think? Or have they previously transferred quantities of it elsewhere?"
"Some, possibly," Solo said. "But I'd say most of the chemical—is still at the fortress. They were working like beavers bottling the stuff today. I think they plan to take it out by helicopter."
"Most likely to a hidden THRUSH air base," Waverly said. "It would be a simple task for their jets to convey the chemical to any section of the world in a matter of hours." He paused, deep in thought. "If we can penetrate their fortress and seize the chemical, we shall nip the entire maneuver before it begins. Do you know its exact location, Mr. Solo?"
"I think so," Solo said. "The rangers have a geographical map here, and I've been going over it." He gave Waverly the longitude and latitude, according to the map.
"I am going to send interceptor planes into the area immediately," Waverly told him. If THRUSH attempts to transport the chemical tonight, we shall see that they do not succeed."
"How do you propose to get inside the fortress?" Solo asked him. "It's solid concrete and steel, built into the hollow of the mountain. Not bombs, surely. The antidote would be destroyed, as well as the chemical and the formulas for them."
"Not bombs," Waverly assured him. "I believe I have the answer to that problem. The road you mentioned, leading up to the fortress. Do you know where it begins?"
"There are two roads, I think. The main one begins several miles northwest of where I am now," Solo said. "A mining community called Granite River." He gave its exact location.
"I will expedite a full U.N.C.L.E. raiding unit to Granite River as quickly as possible. They will mobilize there, and at dawn attack the fortress."
"I had better lead the unit," Solo said. "I know the area now."
"No, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "You have been through quite enough. You are to remain at the ranger station. In bed."
I've been on this assignment from the start," Solo said stubbornly. "I want to be in on it at the finish."
"You are to remain at the Ranger station," Waverly repeated in a firm voice. "That is an order, Mr. Solo."
"But sir..."
"An order, I repeat! " Waverly barked. He hung up.
Waverly sat staring at th
e silent receiver. He knew Napoleon Solo's carefree, almost indifferent, attitude toward his job with U.N.C.L.E. was just an elaborate facade hiding the true, dedicated patriot within.
TWO
At the first yellowish rays of dawn the following morning, Illya Kuryakin stood on the observation deck of Hoover Dam. A chill, whistling wind tugged at his heavy mackinaw, numbing his face beneath the parka hood.
At the base of the dam stretching upstream as far as he could see, was a frozen, stilled floor of white. Lake Mead, the lake formed by the presence of Hoover Dam and extending some one-hundred fifteen miles upstream, and beyond that the raging Colorado River, were now nothing more than rock salt.
Beside Illya, the director of Hoover Dam said, "We closed all the locks and spillways, and shut down the dynamos, as soon as we received word from Washington last night. It appears as if we were in time."
Illya Kuryakin nodded. Downstream, as he had seen moments before, the Colorado flowed on its natural course. They had managed to halt the crystalisation at the dam, saving, as Waverly had said, thousands of acres of fertile land that depended on the Colorado for irrigation.
Illya had arrived at the Dam a few minutes earlier. He had taken an U.N.C.L.E. jet from New York to Las Vegas, waited impatiently for a heavy storm there to subside, and then had gone by helicopter to Hoover Dam. The entire dam had of course, been blocked off, and the copter had set down without obstruction in the visitor's parking lot.
He had received the news that Napoleon Solo was safe while aboard the jet enroute to Las Vegas. Waverly had radioed, telling him what Solo had learned and informing him of the course of action U.N.C.L.E. was taking.
Illya had asked Waverly if he could join Solo at Granite River for the assault on the THRUSH fortress in the Rockies, and had been told that he was to continue on to Hoover Dam and remain there until further instructions. Waverly did not elaborate as to his reasons for wanting Illya there.
Illya was dissatisfied. He felt left out of things. He did not want to be stuck here on the concrete dam; the need for positive action, fed by the long hours and days of waiting, was strong inside him. Why had Waverly wanted him to remain here when he could...?
The Pillars of Salt Affair Page 9
