15 - The Utopia Affair

by David McDaniel

  Illya jumped sideways, back towards the opening of the door. He'd been seen and could he identified—that was all he needed to accomplish this time out. Now to try to take a whole skin home with him.

  He fell back to grab the doorknob, but a hard bare foot slammed the door closed again and he kept falling back. Stay beyond his leg reach and get the gun out— he almost stumbled as he backed into a chair, and Kiazim leaped forward. Illya rolled sideways and knocked over a small table, caught it as it fell and threw it legs first. One leg caught the Turk just under the rib cage and his face paled as he staggered before the blow. He's human after all! Illya felt an insane flash of relief as he grabbed for the holster under his short coat, back pedaling a few more paces while Kiazim recovered his balance. He fired from the hip as the wire-hard assassin came forward in a rush, and saw the dart strike home, sticking in his shirt front. The drug would act in seconds after hitting his blood stream.

  Those were very long seconds for Illya as one brown arm batted his gun aside and an axe-blade hand stabbed into his left pectoral. His guard crumpled and vise-like fingers clutched at his throat. His vision darkened around the edges as the leering face of the killer loomed before him. Then the fingers relaxed and the cold face went suddenly vague, and he slumped to the floor like a slack-stringed puppet.

  Illya brought his right arm up to massage his bruised throat, and tried to breathe again. He could, though not easily. Nothing broken, he thought, feeling the larynx gingerly and swallowing. His functioning fingers probed gently into his throbbingly numb left shoulder and found a badly bruised muscle. Hot packs tonight. He rubbed his arm gently, restoring the stunned circulation, as he retrieved his U.N.C.L.E. Special, his knife and his stick. Five seconds was, objectively, a very fast-acting knock out. But subjectively, it could be an awfully long time to wait. He let himself out and hurried down the hall.

  Kiazim would sleep the sleep of the innocent for six hours—or considering his constitution, maybe four. But when he awoke, he would certainly hurry to tell Sakuda, and they would be after him. Somehow he couldn't quite look forward to the prospect. Oh well, he told himself, you knew the job was dangerous when you took it.

  Inside the Field Command Post, somewhere in the vast backyard of Utopia, the man called Leon Dodgson sat surrounded by papers. Maps littered the chairs, charts were tacked to the wall, coding sheets lay covered with scrawls on the desk. A desk calculator squatted, humming a minor fifth with the teleprinter which stood at Dodgson's elbow, and muttered quietly from time to time. When it did, he would study the row of symbols it gave him and consult his charts.

  Very good. The skirmishing unit he had sent over the ridge had attracted the attention of the major defending force while his armor traversed the far end of the defile unobserved, which might mean a theoretical debate later in the evening over whether a real detachment of the size represented could have accomplished the maneuver. The same argument cropped up in different forms every few days, and remained theoretical. In practice, his air cavalry were in position to hit Silverthorne's key supply point, and by nightfall he should have regained almost half the area factor he had lost in the last few engagements. He smiled, savoring a very real feeling of triumph.

  The teleprinter nattered, signaling readiness for his next move. He checked his coding sheet against neatly written notes on a slightly wrinkled sheet of paper, and began to type orders into the machine.

  Outside in the balmy morning sun, a green slope dotted with trees crested just above the converted trailer. From the ridge, some fifty feet away, a good pair of binoculars on a tripod could survey the entire field of conflict up to a mile and a half across the valley. Real men, armed with simulated weapons, were maneuvering down there, directed as pieces in a gigantic and complex game. Since the field below was a sca1ed-down version of the imaginary playing-board, the hypothetical pieces moved much slower than the men who did their fighting. These men were a thoroughly random mixture of races and nations, recruits for mercenary armies which fought for anyone anywhere in the world, sent here for practical training. They'd had basics, and many of them had previous experience, but here they shared experiences which welded them into a unit. Soldiers declared killed were locked away for the duration of that particular game; they were effectively dead—they saw no one and no one saw them. Their equipment was modem, but their ammunition was blank. The judge was the Battle Results Computer, which magnified their actions to the Game's scale and decided who lived and who died. Each individual was notified by radio the moment he committed his fatal mistake, and removed himself from combat immediately.

  Now, at a signal from the B-R-C, fifteen men took off in ducted-fan vehicles, clearing trees by ten feet, standing in their roaring platforms in a torrent of wind, buffeting the leaves and branches. Four trucks behind them started their engines, and exactly one minute later rumbled off in low gear along a dirt road away from the open field where fifty domelike tents were pitched. Individual transmitters on men and vehicles, tracked by sensitive intermittent receivers keyed to the jamming blanket, sent all movements derived from triangulation and doppler to the B-R-C. All reports were checked visually by a human observer in an absolutely neutral tower. Other observers in fluorescent orange coveralls and hardhats hurried about the area with handi-talkies, sharing a dozen channels with swift precision, occasionally yelling unarguable orders to individuals or whole groups. They were also absolutely neutral, although once in a while they were called upon to defend themselves from individual soldiers whose personal feelings bore no direct relation to the war effort as a whole.

  Scattered gunfire was heard over the next ridge as the first wave of Dodgson's attack penetrated the enemy's defenses, and the orange-suited men jumped into jeeps which took off in high gear.

  Over there the aircav corps had surprised the enemy's camp, and would hit hard at their inner line. The guerrilla squad hit them three minutes later from behind. Inside a buried room eight miles away, molecules changed state in a unit of time smaller than the mind could comprehend, and currents flowed for less than flickering instants. Circuits closed and things happened. Keys chattered in several locations and screens glowed. Orders went to the men in orange and bullhorn voices shouted commands to the troops in the field. Some inevitably were ordered wiped out without even seeing or knowing their enemy, but the computer knew every thing and calculated the odds. Usually battles were joined, and then the umpires ruled death or life to every man in action.

  The timing of the attack had been perfect. With a complicated set of moves in the Game, each timed and directed in perfect coordination, Dodgson's first attack after the early feint had punched a neat hole in the enemy line. Although the actual distance was narrow enough for a shout to carry over, it represented more than two miles and was accordingly judged as difficult to cross.

  Silverthorne met Dodgson over dinner late that evening, his face slightly furrowed with thought of the day's final printout. Looking up from his Steak Wellington, in the midst of an objective analysis of the day's play, he said frankly, "Dodgson, I must say your grasp of the Game is remarkable. To have improvised such a perfectly conceived operation as yours today quite puts my efforts to shame."

  Dodgson glanced at him beneath bushy eyebrows which rose slightly and wrinkled at the corners. "My thanks, Silverthorne, but I fear your opinion is too complimentary. I spent many days planning it and working out the timing and battle order."

  Silverthorne detached a slice of his dinner and ate it neatly. "It was well fought, too. I especially observed the actions of your Fourth Brigade—I must ask for them specifically the next time I play."

  Dodgson shifted in his chair, reaching for his pipe and pouch, and the end of a cracked glossy piece of paper stuck out of one pocket, a drab brown with the edge of a yellow band. He fumbled about a moment and measured out the last of his daily ration, tapping the pouch carefully and packing the pipe with great care. Silverthorne's eyes were not riveted on the end of the dust jacket for more
than a second or two, and as they flicked back, Dodgson was intent on applying flame to his pipe.

  Silverthorne smiled just behind his teeth. It had been the book after all—but not quite the book itself. What an imaginative ploy. The sweet smoke from Dodgson's pipe rose steadily as he said, "In fact, I believe we are very nearly even again."

  Smoke flowed gently out with the answer. "Actually, I haven't taken the time this evening to evaluate the final printout. The morning will do as well."

  Outside the open window the Austral night was warm, and an especially sensitive nose could have caught the scent of Steak Wellington drifting from the second dining hall. One such nose did. It was immediately beneath a large pair of binoculars gripped in slender, gnarled hands. Through the binoculars a distant window appeared large and unsteady. Two men were visible. At length one rose and beneath the binoculars thin lips parted.

  "He is leaving."

  "Then let us go to meet him."

  Under the shade of a low-bending tree, Illya Kuryakin, dressed in a comfortably loose outfit of dark greenish-brown, reclined almost dozing. His shoulder still ached from the Paynim's caress, and it had been a long day in Room Service. His feet hurt and his back was sore. He rested his head against the bole of the tree and listened to the sounds of the night. He dozed like a cat, awakening at the sound of a footfall and turning to check those who passed on the lighted walk.

  And finally Waverly came out, his tall, dark and devious friend beside him.

  They parted where the paths did, bidding each other a friendly good evening as though their Game were only a game. And Illya rose and passed like a shadow among the trees, paralleling Waverly's walk home. They could be anywhere along here, attacking from either side.

  He had a full clip of sleep darts and the night-vision scope, and his knife was ready to hand. Every sense was alert, straining forward to penetrate the gloom. Stars appeared and vanished among the leaves over head.

  The miniaturized light-amplifier in his gunscope, held to his eye, showed him the trees and bushes in shadowgraph with adequate detail—and he froze silently as he saw two crouching figures only fifteen feet away. He faded back behind a tree and heard Waverly's regular pace approaching on the gravel path.

  He stole forward with the greatest care, raising his automatic again. He adjusted the little shield around the muzzle which would so break up the slight sound of the silenced shot as to make its location unidentifiable, and leveled it.

  They were gone! They had moved out more silently than the wind. He followed them, night-scope to his eye, feeling his way over the leaves and twigs of the garden. Once the figures ahead stopped and started to turn, and Illya melted into the shape of a bush without a sound. After a second they looked in the other direction.

  Footsteps were approaching on the gravel path. There was no time for finesse. He saw the Turk's arm draw back and knew the five-second delay of the drug would mean Waverly's life. His wrist flicked and his perfectly balanced knife dropped into his palm. He might not be as good as the Turk, but he didn't have to play fair if they didn't. His arm snapped over and down, wrist locked straight, and a shining silver sliver in the faint light of the stars stood out from the wrist of the up raised arm. The murderous boomerang fell from flaccid fingers to the soft earth and the Turk stifled a cry of pain. Quickly both assassins ducked down as Waverly stopped on the path.

  "Who's there?" he demanded. Only silence answered him.

  Illya padded forward, a hope growing in his mind. He could see the Japanese, dressed more or less like himself, kneeling beside his partner attending his arm. They looked around cautiously at first, but the pain of the wound drew their attention and Illya dropped to his belly. Still not daring to relax, he was about to withdraw when suddenly both men stood up. Kiazim muttered something unspeakably filthy in Turkish—Illya himself had only heard the term once before. With his friend's help he made it to the path, and the two of them started away, footsteps crunching quickly on the gravel.

  Illya lay on his stomach and breathed deeply. Now, at last, his shoulder started to hurt again. He lay still for several seconds, then very slowly rose to his knees and backed away until he was well within the cover of the woods. Then at last he stood erect, stretched, and made his way home by a roundabout route for a well-earned rest. He might just possibly pull this one out of the fire after all.

  Chapter 14

  "Stop Them."

  NAPOLEON SOLO'S expression was habitually grim as he came into the office shortly after dawn. He nodded curtly to Miss Williamson as she entered just behind him, and said, "Is the preliminary analysis on the Anchorage situation ready?"

  "Right here." She handed him a file folder from the top drawer of the desk, and dropped her hat and gloves into the lower drawer.

  "Have Section Eight call me as soon as he comes in." He carried the folder into his office and spread it on the desk, scanning through it from a standing position as he removed his coat and hung it in the concealed closet. There was one possibility for recovery of the situation.

  He scribbled a memo to himself to call Gavin at the hospital in Anchorage when it was a reasonable hour there. And for the moment...

  He initiated a Channel D signal and shuffled the report together as the connection was made. During the conversation be made notes on various cards in the priority file and sifted a few forward.

  "Harbeson here," said a breezy voice. "Your man on the spot with the Akhoond of Swat!"

  "You're cheerful," said Napoleon. "I take it everything is proceeding satisfactorily?"

  "It's falling into place, chief. The Number Four Wife was behind the whole thing. Her second cousin ran the kennels. There was a nice little palace revolution brewing. A few things turned up on the Number One, however, and now she's teetering between a headsman's axe and permanent exile. His Royal Incredibility took a good look at Number Four and she talked things around so she had saved him from the recently divorced. Now she's in the top spot after all. Chief, what does all this fuss really accomplish, anyway?"

  "When you can answer that one," said Solo, "you'll be sitting here."

  "I suppose you've got another seemingly pointless assignment for me. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stick around here a while. The, uh, scenery is beautiful."

  Napoleon, who had been in Swat more than once, recalled its sandy wasteland, and nodded. "And you want a few weeks to appreciate her." He was torn remembering himself on the other end of the stick hoping for a chance to make friends with a charming stranger, thinking Do unto others; while clearly aware that Waverly never did leave him on post without a job to do. His eye touched on the freshly-lettered sign taped to the upper panel of the communications console. It read: WHAT WOULD HE HAVE DONE?

  Solo cleared his throat. "Mr. Harbeson, your leave period is not due until March. You may forfeit it if you continue leaving assignments unfinished. How thoroughly have you checked into the background on that second cousin? He could easily have been under someone else's orders. I doubt the Number Four Wife could be entirely responsible for the complex plot you have outlined to me."

  "Oh, chief, you haven't seen her! She's about five-four, with golden eyes—."

  "You're kidding!" said Solo, breaking character.

  "I'll swear it. She's a belly dancer."

  "Oh." He cleared his throat again. "Mr. Harbeson, you have your assignment. I'll expect a preliminary report on her family's connections by the end of the week. If anything more important comes up, we'll let you know."

  "Right-ho, Chief. Don't call me—I'll call you. Harbeson out."

  The intercom signaled. "Mr. Simpson, Section Eight, on your line, sir."

  "Mr. Simpson, I'd like to talk to you about the Flin Flon Monster. Would you pull together the material you have on it and drop up here for a cup of coffee."

  "Tea?"

  "Ten minutes."

  He looked over a lighted display on the map and tried to guess how the situation would develop in however long it
would take to get ready whatever he was going to use. He ordered a requisition drawn up for a C-141; on second thought, he made that three C-141s. "And bring in some coffee with plenty of sugar and a vitamin pill. And start Simpson's tea."

  He pulled out a new pipe delivered from the best New York tobacconist and dipped again into Waverly's humidor before starting down the stack of daily summaries from the other four Continental Headquarters until interrupted by the sound of the door.

  They sipped and chatted about the Monster for a few minutes, while Napoleon learned just how much Simpson actually had figured out about the thing. As it turned out, it was very little.

  "The crux of the matter is," Napoleon finally stud, "could you build one?"

  "Well...not a real one. But I was thinking about a counterfeit."

  "A counterfeit?"

  "It wouldn't do everything the real one does. It wouldn't do much of anything. But it might fool somebody who'd never seen the real one."

  "It would look like it, you mean."

  "Well... maybe from a distance and with your eyes half-closed..."

  "That's all we'll need. Now, if you can make one, can you make three?"

  "I suppose so. I think we have the materials lying around the lab."

  "How soon?"

  "Mmmm... Tomorrow morning?"

  "All three?"

  "Oh, making three monsters isn't really that much more trouble than making one."

  "Somehow I thought you'd say that. What'll it consist of?"

  "About twenty-five cubic feet of tactical smudge. That's essentially a sort of highly compressed smoke. We could let that go, under a parachute or a radar-equipped steerable balloon. It would tend to drift with the wind, and it wouldn't be much for tearing up buildings, but as I said, from a distance and with your eyes half closed…"