Madame Atomos Strikes Back

by André Caroff

  “It’s 12:45,” Beffort said. “We haven’t gone very far…”

  Dick Slatt scowled. “We’ve got another damn hike before us! We’ve only just passed mount Oso.”

  Dr. Soblen dried his glasses and said, “Don’t complain, Mr. Slatt. To get to mount Hamilton with any chance of success, we would have to abandon our vehicle anyway. Smith, do you think that it’s really necessary to carry all this gear on our backs?”

  Beffort held back a smile. He knew that Soblen hated firearms and explosives and that he very much preferred to use his gray matter. “You only have to carry an automatic, Doctor. I’ll take care of the Tommy gun and dynamite. Dick, you take the shotgun and other submachine.”

  “All this is a little dramatic,” the journalist grumbled, “but I still hate that I can’t record it. The one time I’m in the heat of battle…”

  Beffort shot him a sidelong glance. “Don’t start blowing your trumpet! We might just wander around in this damned forest without spotting Madame Atomos’ laboratory. In that case there won’t be any battle. At 6 p.m. she’ll start up her emitters and if we’re still here, we’ll take a full charge of paralyzing rays right in the carcass and our dead bodies will rot under the trees. So, do either of you still want to say this is overacting? Now let’s go. Every second counts.”

  They walked away from the Jeep, left the bad luck road behind and took a narrow path that wound up the hillside. The birds and wild animals had fled to other places. A heavy silence hung over the forest. The sun was hot and the air was still and dry, hard on the lungs. At ground level there was not a breath of wind. The valley slumped between two hills. Overhead warm currents of air swept the dust that whirled around a moment before dropping into the valley; it was permanently stagnant, sparkling in the sun and gritty.

  “Tell me about California,” Dick Slatt said ironically. He was sweating profusely and his feet hurt. At his side Dr. Soblen scampered along merrily. Smith Beffort led the pack at a smooth, steady pace. Slatt was discouraged. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  Soblen stared at him. “Hold back, Mr. Slatt, or suck on a pebble.”

  The journalist did not look pleased. “We should have brought some water.”

  “Why? You said yourself that it was useless and we agreed with you. We shouldn’t carry too much… Remember?”

  Slatt grumbled and swallowed his saliva like it was a piece of cotton. He felt like he was traveling in the middle of a desert. “It’s this goddamn dust,” he swore.

  No one answered. He switched the submachine gun to the other shoulder, loosened his tie and wiped his face and neck—his handkerchief was already soaked. While he was doing this, Beffort and Soblen got ahead. He had to push himself to catch up with them and this made his bad mood worse. He understood that the next few hours would inevitable reach the height of dramatic intensity and during this time, when chance was going to play a remarkable role, a man’s life would count for nothing. Now, if he broke his leg jumping over a ditch, he knew that he could not expect any help from his partners. They had a job to do and could not stop for trivial things. With this in mind, he sunk into a dark well of thought.

  So, politeness, a good upbringing, the natural consideration a man has for his fellow man and respect for human life were always just hanging by a thread. One step on either side of that uncertain (because invisible) border that is a great wall in normal times but that we cross without even being aware of it when the storm is brewing. A war, a tornado, a fire or any dramatic, emotional event sends man back to the cave, reduces him to an animal…

  “There’s Mount Hamilton.” Smith Beffort said.

  The valley opened up and the slopes of Mount Hamilton were indeed close by.

  “Another mile and we’ll be there,” Soblen estimated.

  “And none too soon,” Slatt uttered. “I’m dying of thirst.” He looked anxiously at Beffort and added, “Of course, Smith, we’re going to pass by the spring, aren’t we?”

  Beffort nodded. “We can’t let ourselves dry out, Dick. We’ll make a detour. How do you feel?”

  Slatt understood that his judgments about men’s behavior, under the influence of what was happening, was wrong. Certain individuals are always able to think about others before thinking about themselves. “I’m okay,” he said humbly.

  Then, to break the emotional strain that was taking hold of him, he looked up at the sky and said, “What time do you think it is? 2:30 or 3…”

  Soblen agreed, “Around… But I think it’s better if we don’t worry about that. If we manage to destroy Madame Atomos’ installations, everything will be all right, no matter what time it is. If not, we’ll die and only God knows what will become of the United States.” He smiled. “Pretty gloomy, isn’t it, Mr. Slatt?”

  The journalist forced himself to smile. “Truthfully, until now I haven’t considered things from such a dark angle. I think that most of the people don’t take Madame Atomos seriously. Otherwise they would all have left country. I’m sorry I didn’t send my wife and kids away to Mexico or Europe.”

  Soblen did not answer. The slope was steeper and in front of them Smith Beffort was climbing like a bat out of hell. The vegetation came denser and gray rocks jutted up from the greenery like reefs cropping up from the surface of a calm sea. As the men advanced, the horizon widened. They could see the ocean, the San Francisco Bay and most of the towns scattered in the area under threat. At that distance the houses looked like toys and the people like ants—they meant nothing on the human scale.

  They understood that Madame Atomos could bring death upon this anonymous multitude. She was in the driver’s seat and could drop a string of bombs on a city without blinking, forgetting that among her victims there were innocent woman and children.

  If you don’t want to see, don’t look…

  “From now on,” Beffort whispered, “don’t raise your voice.”

  “Did you see something?” Dick Slatt asked.

  The G-man had an unpleasant grin on his face. “You don’t know this Japanese woman. She could have microphones hidden in the trees around her hideout and cameras that start automatically… This is no picnic, Dick!”

  The journalist shook his head. “If you think I didn’t know that… Is the spring still far?”

  Beffort made a negative gesture. “I don’t know this area any better than you, Dick, but it seems to me that we should get there pretty soon. I remember that it came up at the base of a huge sequoia.”

  Soblen, who was perched on a little mound, came down and murmured, “The sequoia is just a little ways in front of us, straight ahead.”

  “Finally!” Slatt let out and jumped forward.

  The nervous little doctor grabbed his arm firmly and held him back. “Easy! There’s someone by the spring.”

  Smith Beffort gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s a man,” Soblen whispered. “He’s not easy to make out, but even with my bad eyes I saw him clearly enough.”

  Beffort bounded up the slope and shaded his eyes with his hands. He spotted the sequoia right away. At the base of the huge tree were thick bushes. Between the trunks of the sycamores and the green oaks, the G-man saw the shadowy form of a man. He was kneeling down and drinking the fresh water coming out of the rock, but his face was hidden by his jet-black hair. Behind him a strangely curved object glittered metallically in the sunlight. Beffort tried to determine what it was, but could not, which made him anxious.

  The man’s presence on the slopes of Mount Hamilton at such a time was unnatural. No one could ignore the threats of Madame Atomos or the danger that this place held.

  “Well?” Dick Slatt asked.

  Beffort turned toward him and shrugged his shoulders. When he looked back at the spring, the man and the curved object had vanished. He had left without making a noise and extraordinarily fast considering that he had been squatting down. If Soblen had not seen him, Beffort would have thought the man was just a figment of his imagination.

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nbsp; “Well?” the journalist insisted.

  Beffort came down worriedly from the mound and described what had happened. Soblen listened carefully and said, “If this person had not stopped there to get drink, I would swear that he worked for Madame Atomos.”

  Dick Slatt was not so sure. “Because whoever works for the Japanese woman doesn’t get thirsty? That’s ridiculous!”

  Soblen looked him up and down sympathetically. “It’s not a matter of physical needs, Mr. Slatt, but of organization. The laboratory hideout of Madame Atomos is equipped with all the necessities. The people who live there have everything they need. Plus, the discipline that their chief demands cannot be broken. To walk around in the forest and stop to drink during this pressing time is not the act of a henchman of this diabolical woman.”

  “Well reasoned!” a voice shot out.

  They swung around and found themselves face to face with Akamatsu coming out of the brush. He was carrying his bike over his shoulder and Beffort recognized the curved form of the handlebars that so intrigued him. Soblen and Beffort had not seen the Japanese for almost three months. Finding him there left them speechless and amazed.

  Akamatsu smiled, but lines of concentration remained between his eyes and his blood-splattered face stayed frozen. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Meeting each other is great but totally coincidental. I came from San Francisco where I left May Maxwell sleeping in her room at the Lindamar… Um, ikasa deska5, Smith?”

  Beffort let the air out of his lungs. “Apparently better than you, Yosho! Good lord, what happened to you?”

  I got punished by a dozen Blacks,” the Tokkoka man responded. “San Francisco has become a real death trap. But thanks to this punishment I was pretty certain that Mount Hamilton was hiding Madame Atomos’ emitters.”

  He quickly told them about his misadventures without forgetting to mention the attack against the Boss and finished up with his stop at the spring. “I recognized you right away, Smith, but I thought that the reverse was unlikely. Scared of being shot, I chose to sneak up on you to get recognized. Now, what are we going to do? Do you have any more information than I do?”

  “No,” Beffort said. “And compared to you, we’re at a disadvantage. Your race protects you from the famous paralyzing ray. If we don’t do anything before 6 o’clock, you’ll be watching us go to sleep.”

  “Not necessarily, Smith. In the plane to New York I studied the file. One fact that I completely forgot came back to me recently.”

  “What are you talking about?” Soblen asked.

  The Japanese sat down. He looked exhausted. “Remember that three families had been affected by the rays. That happened in a clearing on these hills. Now, only Shirley Timber was unscathed. Why?”

  There was silence and Dick Slatt said, “She’s white, isn’t she?

  Dr. Soblen was confused. “Indeed. That should be cleared up.”

  “Shirley Timber was lying in a portable cradle,” Akamatsu resumed. “When I think about it I wonder if the cradle might have protected her from the radiation?”

  Soblen turned red. “Yosho,” he said excitedly, “I believe you have just discovered something of primary importance. I have to examine the cradle right now! How can I get as fast as possible to the clinic where the little girl is being taken care of?”

  Akamatsu pointed to his bike. “It’s the only way, Doctor.”

  Chapter VII

  At 4 p.m. the electricity came back on as if by magic. Motors started running and televisions working, on which the world could see one of the greatest mass movements in the history of the United States.

  Everything would have been fine if the evacuation set up by the appropriate authorities had been followed to the letter. Unfortunately, as always in such cases, the roads on which the cars and trucks were supposed to come to transport thousands of people were blocked by the people who had decided to leave on foot. Unbelievable traffic jams resulted. Then the pedestrians stormed the vehicles and forced them under threat to turn around. Those leaving ran into those coming and Highway 101 was swamped under bumper-to-bumper lines of all kinds of cars and trucks.

  It was a terrible shame because farther west the highways planned for the evacuation—like 280, 5 and 1—stayed pretty much empty. In spite of everything, some drivers showed initiative and took these highways. Among others there was a big red and blue bus that veered off toward Balboa Park, cut across Alemany Boulevard and hooked up with highway 1 at Thornton Beach. The bus belonged to the Baxter & Strong Company, a specialist in transporting schoolchildren. At the moment it was evacuating 50 children, aged eight to ten, with their physical education teacher. Her name was Veronica Mae Connell, 23 years old. Her parents lived in Monterey and she was hoping to stay with them after getting the children to safety.

  Veronica was sitting in the back of the bus, getting more and more nervous. She did not know where the driver was supposed to take them and to make matters worse she did not know him. He was a small, yellow man—Chinese or Japanese—and not talkative. He drove well, stayed quiet and never turned around, even when the kids drummed on the doors with their fists. Veronica knew that the doors were locked, that the bus belonged to Baxter & Strong, that it was always at school on time and that the group should be in no danger, but she could not stave off her anxiety.

  Finally she could no longer hold back and she walked up the aisle. The engine was loud and she had to raise her voice to be heard. “Where exactly are we going?”

  The driver pointed to the road. “Straight ahead.”

  “But where?” the teacher insisted.

  The man’s slanting eyes flashed briefly. “In theory,” he said, “we should get to meeting point C…”

  Veronica hung on because the heavy vehicle took a turn at full speed. She stayed in her seat, but several children fell out of their seats and started crying.

  “Aren’t you going a little fast,” she said angrily.

  “Zip it!” the little yellow man barked back.

  Veronica clenched her teeth and went to comfort the children. One of them had cut his knee and it was bleeding. The teacher put a band-aid on him after cleaning the wound with antiseptic and then closed the first aid kit. While doing this she told herself that she should not have got angry with the driver. After all, he was the one who was responsible for leading the children to a safe haven. He must have been very upset… Until then he had managed to find a road that was clear enough, but he was bound to run into problems. Driving such a vehicle could not have been easy. To gain some time by going faster when the road was empty was natural. And then they had to get to point C.

  Veronica told herself that she had behaved impolitely. Instead of making this ridiculous observation, she would have been better off finding out about the mysterious meeting point with an ominous code name. But feeling uncomfortable, she sat and watched the countryside unfold. They followed the highway along the sea as more and more cars became visible. It was 4:25 p.m. The minutes were flying by at an alarming speed.

  All of a sudden the bus veered toward an embankment and stopped on a turn-off that was hidden from the road by a row of trees. Veronica jumped up. “What are you doing?” she cried.

  The yellow man turned around and flashed his rotten teeth. “I think I got a flat in the back. Since you’re next to the door can you take a look?” He pulled a lever on the dashboard and the door to the right of the teacher hissed opened. Veronica hesitated only a second and then hopped out. She checked the closest tire, but found nothing wrong. Walking to the other side of the bus, she leaned over…

  At that very instant the bus fired up the engine. Stunned, Veronica heard the door click closed and saw the children through the windows waving frantically and desperately. It jerked her awake. She sprinted after it and got to within a couple of feet of the metal ladder on the rear, but the bus had reached the road and sped up. Veronica made a last, wild effort and hooked a finger on the ladder. Her hold was weak, impossible to maintain.
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  The teacher felt herself losing her balance. At full speed she rolled on the asphalt as the bus took off. She lay in a ditch, bloody and half-unconscious, surrounded by a cloud of dust kicked up by her fall. She was staring stupefied at the bus disappearing into the distance when a car stopped next to her. It was an old, gray De Soto with Ohio plates. A woman got out, leaned over her and asked bluntly, “Are you hurt?”

  Veronica shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you fall off that bus?”

  Automatically Veronica dusted off her stained skirt and felt her bleeding cheek. She was having a really hard time pulling herself together. The woman saw this and grabbed her arm furiously. “Answer me!” she ordered.

  Instantaneously the teacher remembered. She straightened up, put her hand to her mouth and cried out, “My God, the children!”

  “I saw them when the bus passed me,” the woman said. “Who’s the driver?”

  “I never met him before,” Veronica said. “He pretended that he had a flat and asked me to get out to check…”

  “And then,” the woman finished, “he started up! He was Asian, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

  The woman pushed her toward the De Soto and said bitterly, “Get in. We’re going to try to catch up with them.”

  Defeated, Veronica sat in the car. The woman went around to the other side, closed the door and took off like a shot. Veronica felt something hard against her. She pushed it away, saw that it was a submachine gun and screamed.

  “Don’t be scared,” the woman said. “I stole it and the car, too, but I work for the FBI…” She smiled and added, “My name’s May Maxwell.”

  Little Dr. Soblen was no champion cyclist, but the way he went down the west slope of Mount Hamilton would certainly have earned him an Olympic gold medal. At 3:30 p.m. he reached San Jose. He could see out of only one eye because during the trip a wasp had been crushed against his glasses. Squinting, he coasted to the police station. People were already waiting in trucks and private cars. Everything was ready. They only needed electricity.