Seek and Destroy

by John Glasby

  “They tried to make me work down there, helping them to build this secret site. When I refused they locked me in here, kept me without food in an attempt to break me.”

  “You’ll be able to explain all of that later,” Carradine said, his voice rough and urgent. “At the moment, I have to try to get you away from here. Can you pilot a plane?”

  “I’m not sure.” The other’s voice expressed surprise. “They brought me here in a plane. I used to fly before the war, but that is nearly thirty years ago.”

  “Do you think you can remember enough to get that plane off the ground and fly it to Montevideo?” Carradine saw a shadow cross his eyes. Then the other stiffened with a sudden resolve. “If that is the only way we can get out of here, then I’ll do it, of course. But why can’t you fly it?”

  “Because I won’t be going with you. Now hurry. Once you’re in the air the rest is up to you. They won’t be able to follow you from here. It’s the only aircraft on the site.”

  “I understand,” nodded the other. By now, they were standing almost directly beneath the wing of the DC-3. “But what about you?”

  Carradine caught the other by the arm, his fingers biting into the other’s flesh urgently. “Listen to me,” he said tightly. “There is a Russian submarine coming to rendezvous with these people sometime tomorrow night. I don’t know where or when it will be. But it’s carrying several nuclear warheads for these missiles on board. I want you to get word through to the authorities in Washington. Tell them that Carradine gave you this information. They can check with British Secret Service headquarters in London if they need confirmation of this. Whatever happens, they must stop that submarine from landing those atomic devices. I think you can understand the consequences if they succeed.”

  The German nodded his head hurriedly. “I can visualise what would happen,” he affirmed grimly. He threw an apprehensive glance at the plane, the mass of cold metal that loomed over them. If he felt any doubts as to his ability to fly it, he gave no verbal expression of them, but merely said quickly. “Why must you stay behind, Carradine, What is there for you to do here,”

  “Just in case you don’t make it, I have to follow them to their point of rendezvous, try to do something myself. It’s the only way of finding out just where they propose to meet. I may be able to direct any planes to the area if you get word through in time. Now get up there and get this crate off the ground. With luck, you should make Montevideo before dawn.”

  He half pushed the other forward, watched tensely as the German climbed towards the cockpit. He tried not to think of the odds that were stacked against them, of how many things could go wrong during the next few hours. If Henkel did succeed in getting this plane off the ground safely, it might hold one tremendous advantage for him. The Russians would almost certainly jump to the conclusion that he was in that plane with Henkel. It would give him more scope during the hours of daylight which would be the most dangerous as far as he was concerned.

  Three minutes later, the starboard engine started up with a spluttering cough that sent the echoes booming from the distant rocks, chasing themselves among the trees. The propeller began to spin, slowly at first, then more rapidly, whirring into an invisible blur. Black smoke streamed momentarily from the exhausts. Then the port engine fired and Carradine was deafened by the noise. He moved back until he stood in the shadows of the control block. The plane shuddered as Henkel fed more power to the motors. God, would everything go all right, Or would Fate step in once again and wreck all of their hopes. He knew how Henkel must be feeling at that moment, seated behind that glittering array of controls, possibly far more complex than any he had known in the years before the war when they had flown nothing more advanced than the slow-moving biplanes, aircraft with the minimum of controls Slowly, the DC-3 began to trundle forward. It began to turn into the wind. The roar of the engines beat at Carradine’s ears as he turned and began to run towards the high rocks on the very edge of the clearing. If Donovsky needed any further indication of where he had got to, the sound of the DC-3 taking off would provide him with it.

  Crouching down behind the cover of the huge, misshapen boulders, he saw the plane hesitate as it reached the far end of the runway Then it began to roll forward, increasing speed as it did so. Just keep it nice and level until you’ve got enough speed to lift the nose clear of the ground, thought Carradine. through tightly gritted teeth. He found himself almost willing the plane off the ground and safely into the air. Fortunately there was no cross-wind, otherwise it might have been impossible. As it was, Henkel just made it, with scant yards to spare. The undercarriage of the aircraft cleared the tops of the trees on the very edge of the runway by less than six feet. Then it was climbing steadily into the dark night sky, the throbbing thunder of the engines fading slowly into silence.

  He let his breath go in a loud exhalation. God, but that had been a close thing. Henkel was not out of the wood yet. He still had to fly that plane all the way across Argentina to Montevideo. But as he had discovered himself when it came to piloting a plane, getting it off the ground and down again at the other end in one piece were the difficult things. The bit in between was relatively simple. Unless the other ran into a storm such as they had encountered on their way there.

  Cautiously, he pressed himself close to the hard ground as a group of men came running out into the open from the direction of the jungle.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Big Gamble

  Inwardly, Carradine felt oddly pleased with himself. Although his body ached and the heat had brought the sweat out on his limbs and face, he was now in a position where he could look down on the whole of the site below him and watch every bit of activity that went on. He was too far away, to identify any of the men he saw with any degree of certainty, but it became apparent as the day went on, that Donovsky considered he had left with Henkel, and also that they were still determined to go through with their original plan of picking up the nuclear warheads from the coast Indeed, Carradine would have been very surprised if things had gone otherwise. It meant that they would have to take extra precautions, but their plans were now so advanced that it would have proved impossible for Donovsky, already labouring under the heavy responsibility of Vozdashevsky’s death and Carradine’s escape, to cancel their meeting with the submarine. By now, he reckoned it would be somewhere in international waters, some miles off the coast. It would remain there, submerged, until dark, when it would move in closer to land, ready to meet the boats which would put out to it and take off the warheads.

  Shortly before noon, five trucks had been driven out into the open. They must have been kept underground, ready for work such as this. He would have given anything for a pair of powerful binoculars so that he might keep a closer watch on things. Several men busied themselves around the trucks during the early part of the hot, sultry afternoon, tinkering with the engines, checking wheels and tyres. They could not afford to have a puncture on the road to the coast and back, not with a cargo like this on board the vehicles.

  Winding his watch, he wriggled his body into a more comfortable position. The heat was energy-sapping. It lay like a thick, tangible blanket over everything and dehydrated him. His lips and throat were parched and it was painful to swallow. Below him, the ground shimmered and shook in the heat haze and an occasional flash of bright sunlight, reflected from some metal piece of one of the trucks would burn across his vision. He felt sleepy and everything conspired to make him sleep. The heat, the damp smell of the jungle around him, looming at his back where it lifted up the slope of the hill in a thick green blanket, the dull ache which was suffused throughout his body, the fact that he had not slept properly for almost twenty-four hours. Unconsciousness was not sleep and did not bring rest or refreshment, he now discovered. He screwed up his eyes and force them open again. He could not afford to go to sleep. He would have to keep a close watch on those trucks down there, judge the moment when the men were ready to move out and get down there and into o
ne of them without being seen. The fact that no one suspected he was still there would help him, but it might not be enough of an advantage.

  He carefully lifted his arm. Almost three o’clock. He doubted if the trucks would begin to move until it was almost dark, but he could not afford to take the chance of relying on this. He closed his mind to everything but the need to stay awake no matter what happened. There was too much at stake for him to make another mistake. He had made too many already. A lot depended on Henkel, and if he failed in his attempt, then still more depended on him. He could hitch a ride on one of the trucks and with any luck at all, reach the destination with these men. But what then? There was no chance of destroying the submarine himself. If he could somehow wreck the trucks with the warheads on board. He concentrated on that thought, though at the moment he could not see any way of doing it. But at least, it served to keep him awake.

  Two hours later, he spotted the small group of men making their way up the steep slope just beyond the place where he knew the entrance to the main tunnel to lie, hidden in the fringe of jungle. His gaze followed them until they disappeared into the dense foliage. Had they been sent to scour the jungle for him? Was Donovsky still not certain that he had gone on board that plane? He raised his head very carefully an inch at a time, estimating the route those men were likely to take. If they were to swing round once they got into the really dense jungle, they would come out somewhere close to his hiding place. He forced his body to relax.

  He could not be sure they were looking for him. They could have been sent on some quite innocent errand utterly unconnected with him. But he could not afford to take unnecessary chances. Keeping an eye on the clearing below him, he shifted his position. It meant that his view of the ground below was somewhat obstructed, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.

  Dusk was a rapid darkening of the sky over the jungle. It came with an unaccustomed swiftness, surging in from the east in a rush of purple which blotted out the reds and golds on the western horizon. The sun had dropped over the rim of the world like a penny going into a black box. Carefully, Carradine moved his stiff body. His circulation was sluggish. He tried to rub his limbs to bring some of the feeling back into them. Very soon, there would be some renewed activity down there and it would be time for him to move and make his play. The darkness was almost complete when he noticed the men beginning to file out into the wide clearing. His heart jumped, hammering into the base of his throat as he began to make his way down through the rocks, moving as quickly as he dared. One wrong move and he might start a minor avalanche of rocks which would give the game away at once.

  In the darkness, he was able to approach to within twenty feet of the line of trucks, keeping, his body low. The men were getting on board the vehicles now, two men inside every cabin except the very first. Carradine recognised Donovsky, as the other clambered up beside the driver. So the Head of Security would be travelling with them. He nodded to himself in the darkness, threw a swift, all-encompassing glance in every direction, then darted forward, leapt for the top of the tailgate of the rear truck. His fingers caught at it, clung there for a moment. With a wrenching of shoulder muscles, he hauled himself up into the back of the truck. The canvas fell back into place, hiding him from prying eyes.

  He settled himself in as comfortable a position as possible, heard the engine start up a moment later. Then the truck was rolling forward into the darkness, bound for its meeting on the coast.

  * * * * *

  For more than an hour, as near as Steve Carradine was able to judge, there was no sound but the muffled roar of the engine as the line of trucks filed on through the night, following a winding, tortuous route to the west. The metalwork creaked continually. Time and again, he was flung from one side of the truck to the other as they swung sharply around the twisting bends of the road. Obviously this road was seldom used. Soon, they would be on their way down to the sea. Then there was a lot to be done. He could not hope to tackle all of these men, but if he was able to get one of them alone, separated from the others, he might be able to grab his uniform, giving himself the chance of mingling with the others.

  Then he would have to play things as they came. If Henkel managed to get through to Washington and convince them of the truth of what he said, there might be a welcome interruption. If not, it would be up to him to try to do something.

  With a sharp jerk, the truck began to slow. He felt his muscles tense as he crouched close to the tailgate. The truck swung suddenly, almost threw him off balance. Desperately he hung on to the metalwork. They had driven off the road now. Bumping and heaving, the truck moved forward, swaying precariously from side to side as they hit patches of uneven ground. Lifting the canvas, he peered out into the darkness that lay all about him. At first, he could see nothing. There was a dull muted roaring in his ears which could be heard even above the sound of the engines, but for a long moment he was unable to recognise it. Not until the truck turned sharply once more and he was able to look out over the smooth expanse of sand that lay to one side, did he realise that it had been the booming of surf on the beach.

  Without pausing to think, he pulled himself over the lip of the high tailgate, paused for a moment on the edge, then dropped to the ground. He hit hard, bent his legs as he struck the ground, flexing the muscles of his knees and thighs, rolling over to break the force of his fall. No sign from the trucks, now drawing to a halt in the near distance that anyone had heard him. Scuttling towards the line of rocks nearby, he flung himself down on the wet sand behind them, panting through clenched teeth. For the moment, he was safe. But what now? The moon was beginning to rise. He could just see it over the rising black hump of the land behind him. Very soon, it would be light enough to see by and that could increase the danger to him.

  He saw the men climbing down from the trucks. There were no lights visible and he guessed that Donovsky did not want to advertise their presence there until he was ready to signal out to sea where the submarine would be moving towards this part of the coast, looking for their signal.

  There would be a little while to wait yet, he reflected. Donovsky would be sure to get there with plenty of time to spare. He too had made his share of mistakes during the past few days and he would not want to run the risk of making any more. The moon laid a distant shimmer on the water, yet for some strange reason, Carradine noticed that the land seemed brighter than the sea. Maybe it was just an optical illusion. The thought went out of his mind at that moment. One of the soldiers had moved away from the line of trucks, was heading towards the rocks near to where Carradine lay. He did not pause to guess at the man’s purpose, knew only that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He moved his body slowly and carefully, got his legs under him, the muscles bunched, ready for the upward and forward leap.

  Carradine had no illusions as to what he had to do. There would be no giving this man a chance to live. He would have to be killed, instantly and without any noise. The first upward stab of the knife in his hand would have to be utterly decisive.

  The dark shadow came forward, picking its way carefully through the sharp rocks, careful where he put his feet. There was no sound except for the dull, monotonous booming of the surf and an occasional voice from the men near the trucks. The knife was cold and hard in Carradine’s right hand. He held himself ready as the distance between the man and himself decreased. The other was only five yards away now, still unsuspecting. He felt his muscles tighten under his flesh. If only one of the men at the trucks glanced round at the wrong moment, it would be the end. But it was a chance he had to take, a calculated risk as Merton would have described it.

  The man’s face was in profile as he stepped over the rocks, half-turned away from where Carradine was hidden. Almost lazily, the other lifted himself to his feet, moved forward like a wraith. The knife flashed for a second before it struck downward, buried itself to the hilt in the man’s back. The other uttered a little cough, half-swung to face his attacker, mouth d
ropping slackly open, eyes widening in that last, despairing moment before death came. He went down on to his knees, wavering backward a little, arms struggling to lock themselves around Carradine’s thighs, to pull him down with him in his death throes. The fingers gripping his trousers suddenly loosened, fell away. The man arched his body backward into an impossible posture. Then with a slithering motion, he fell back, his head striking the rocks with a sickening crunch that sent a little tremor along Carradine’s spine.

  Without pausing, he thrust the knife into his belt, bent and stripped the heavy greatcoat off the dead man, shrugged into it, thrust the shapeless cap on top of his head and hauled the rifle free of the man’s shoulder, looping his own arm through the sling.

  The job was done. In the darkness, he should pass well enough for one of the soldiers and his knowledge of Russian would ensure that he did not slip up when any orders were given. He felt reasonably sure that nobody would find the dead man among the rocks.

  Donovsky had moved forward now, away from the line of trucks, down to the water’s edge. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, like some present-day Napoleon looking out over the battlefield at Waterloo. A moment later, he turned and called something to one of the men. The other walked forward and the two men spoke together in low voices, occasionally pointing out to sea where the gentle swell brought the waves lapping over the smooth, sandy beach.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Carradine noticed the cruel, pointed rocks which rose up for perhaps twenty feet on either side of this short strip of smooth sand. Donovsky had certainly known what he was about when he had chosen this spot for their rendezvous.

  It was a weird scene. The dark shadows of the trucks drawn up in an almost mathematically straight line on the beach. The men gathered about them, and those two figures outlined against the moonlit water, everything in absolute stillness. Something would have to happen to break the strange spell which seemed to hold everything immobile.