Horror Wears Blue

by Lin Carter

  Petrie’s man came back to tap on the window of Menlo’s car. The waspish scientist rolled down the pane.

  “Got six or seven men trying to move the fallen tree,” he said crisply. “But I think it’ll take a bulldozer — thing weighs tons, at least.”

  “Then we’ve lost ’em,” groaned Menlo Parker.

  Soaked to the very skin, and looking about as peeved as a cat dragged from a reservoir, the officer nodded in surly fashion.

  “Lost them good and proper, I’m afraid, sir,” he admitted.

  “Lightning bolt or dynamite charge?”

  The other tightened his jaw. “Dynamite charge.”

  Menlo sighed, nodded. What was the use?

  “It’s up to the choppers now, I guess,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. If they can keep aloft in this flood.”

  As things turned out ... they couldn’t.

  And the Vulture had won another round.

  Since there was nothing else to do but abandon the pursuit of the fleeing crooks, the police cars backed one by one out of the wooded lane, turned around, and headed back to Fenchurch St. Paul. They sought refuge, and a piping hot meal, in the little pub across the way from the jail in which, for so brief a while, the Vulture had been locked up.

  Menlo Parker was finishing up his second high-heaped platters of “bangers and mash” when Prince Zarkon and the other Omega men, with Val Petrie and some of his officers bringing up the rear, entered the small, now-crowded establishment.

  The newcomers looked damp, disgusted, and discouraged. As well they might be, thought Menlo sourly. It galled him, as it doubtless galled the others, to have been so very close, to nabbing the Vulture and his entire gang, only to find themselves snatching (as you might say) Defeat from between the very jaws of Victory.

  Devouring with hungry gusto a solid, hot meal, the lawmen compared notes. Only Scorchy Muldoon seemed at all cheerful at the outcome of the morning’s events.

  “Heck, Chief, we got that bird on the run now!” he announced happily. “We done closed down two of his hideouts ... how many more can this gang possibly have?”

  “You have a point there, Scorchy,” agreed Prince Zarkon in somber tones. His expression was more thoughtful than any of them could remember. “The trouble is, we’ve now played every last card we had up our sleeve, and we’re nowhere nearer to capturing these criminals than we were when we first arrived at Heathrow.”

  Scorchy looked vaguely puzzled. Menlo filled in the details of the picture for him.

  “Knowing these Blue Men crooks had a hidey-hole down here, that wuz one ace we played. Didn’t grab a single one of ’em. Using these ‘specials’ the Chief outfitted us with, that wuz another ace. Danged guns didn’t faze ’em in the least. Now we dunno what to do next, or where to turn.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Doc Jenkins gloomily. “Guess we just sit back and wait for them guys to knock over another warehouse, or something.”

  Scorchy began to look morose. Then he brightened. “What about that mini-sub I told you guys about? It’s gotta be somewhere ...?”

  Nick Naldini, who had been looking down in the mouth — and with Nick’s striking similarity to the late actor, John Carradine, the expression on his face rather resembled what Count Dracula might look like in famished condition, with nary a blood bank in the neighborhood from which to make a tasty and much needed withdrawal — spoke up, surprisingly, for once, agreeing with the little boxer.

  “Scorchy’s got a point there, hasn’t he, Chief? I mean, where is that danged sub? It’s gotta be worth too much dough for the Vulture to just ditch it somewhere ... so where do you stash a blasted submarine around here?”

  Zarkon gave him a keen glance.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “But there may be something in what you suggest, Nick. Petrie?”

  “I’ll get right on it,” said Val Petrie, heading for the phone.

  CHAPTER 25 — On the Run

  The river patrol boats were still on active alert, sailing up and down the Thames. Petrie’s call, asking them to employ their sonar apparatus and search the Thames for a miniature submarine may have raised a few eyebrows at their end of the line, but his request was obeyed.

  The waters of the Thames were searched in this manner from Southend — where the river emptied into the English Channel — to as far upriver as the patrol boats could go, before the river narrowed, making further examination impossible. All branches and tributaries of the mighty river were also given a thorough going-over.

  No submarine was discovered.

  There were, however, further developments.

  A phone call informed Petrie that several automobiles which answered to the description of the cars in which the Vulture and his gang of crooks had fled after the jailbreak had been found abandoned on the outskirts of a small town a few miles to the north.

  “What was the locale of the abandoned vehicles?” asked Prince Zarkon.

  Petrie looked grim and a trifle harried.

  “It was a waterfront with docks and sheds. A small marina,” he replied. Zarkon looked interested.

  “That would tend to suggest that the Blue Men switched to their submarine,” he murmured. “If they did not travel north towards London, as the river patrol assures us, then perhaps they doubled back and sailed south on this tributary.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Val Petrie admitted. He dug out detailed maps of the area and they examined them together.

  The narrow river snaked its way through the south counties of England, eventually connecting with the sea. That point contained a small town a few miles from the famous seaport of Southampton. Zarkon studied the map carefully.

  “I wonder if there is anything like a marina there,” he remarked thoughtfully. Petrie went to make another call and check. He soon returned with an answer in the affirmative.

  “Let’s take the helicopters again,” suggested the Master of Fate, “and search the tributary from the covered bridge to the sea with sonar.”

  “Right!” declared Val Petrie crisply. “If the Vulture’s sub is anywhere along the river, we’ll find it.”

  Scorchy rubbed his hard hands together briskly at the prospect of some action in the near future.

  “Oboyoboyoboy!” he burbled cheerfully.

  Refueled and ready for flight, the police helicopters took to the air and began to follow the winding river, sounding its depths with their sonar apparatus.

  From Fenchurch St. Paul, the tributary of the mighty Thames wound south through fields and woods and farms. Occasionally, a small town or village was built on the banks of the meandering river, but none of these held a marina in whose sheds the mini-sub could have been concealed.

  The reason for this was the extreme narrowness of the tributary south of Fenchurch St. Paul. Power boats would have found the stream too narrow for traffic; in fact, anything much larger than a rowboat would have discovered the river difficult to navigate.

  They failed to locate the Vulture’s private submarine. But they continued their careful search of the river’s depths.

  Seated side by side in the second of the police helicopters were Menlo Parker and Doc Jenkins. The huge, heavy-built giant and the skinny little scientist made an oddly mismatched pair, since one was half the size and a third of the weight of the other. Be this as it may, the two men were the closest of friends.

  Menlo was puzzled about something, his brow furrowed with thought. Doc Jenkins glanced inquiringly at his companion.

  “Something eating you, Menlo?” he asked after a time. The other nodded slowly.

  “Yep. I never heard of a river that dumps into the sea at both ends,” he confessed. “I been tryin’ to figure it out. Don’t all rivers rise in the interior of a country or whatever and then flow into the nearest sea?”

  Doc Jenkins nodded.

  “Almost all of ’em,” he said in his slow, deep voice. “But this one don’t. Anyway, it ain’t the Thames, you know, just one of the little st
reams feeding into it. Maybe the connection is an artificial one, come to think of it.”

  “Um,” said Menlo, chewing it over.

  They flew on south, following the meandering path of the river in question.

  The town on the coast of the Channel, where the tributary finally joined the sea, was larger than it had looked on the map. And it had a very good-sized marina. From the number of fancy hotels, it would seem the place enjoyed a brisk tourist trade.

  There turned out to be quite a number of covered sheds at the marina, where year-round residents stored their seagoing pleasure crafts. Unfortunately, most of these were roofed with sheet metal, which made a sonar probe of their contents impractical.

  While two of the ’copters flew on, to search the little bay and the coastal waters, the others settled to earth. Petrie asked for and got the cooperation of the local town constabulary, and began to search the docking sheds with his officers.

  One of the choppers remained aloft, in case the Vulture and his gang should break and run. This was not unlikely, if the little submarine was indeed stashed in one of the sheds the police officers were now searching.

  After so many setbacks, the policemen had become somewhat frustrated. It annoyed them, as it annoyed the Omega team also, that the Vulture had outsmarted them at every single turn of this adventure.

  Now, however, their spirits brightened.

  After all, the Vulture was on the run at last. With any luck at all, they would be able to nab the master crook and all his gang, and put an effective end to the mystery of the Blue Men.

  As Shakespeare put it, this was a consummation devoutly to be wished ...

  As it happened, Scorchy Muldoon and Nick Naldini and little Joey Weston were in the helicopter which remained aloft while Petrie and the others were searching through the docking sheds one by one.

  Suddenly, the officer at the sonar set leaned forward and uttered an exclamation.

  “There he is, begad and begorra! Just headin’ out into the middle channel from that little shed at the end of the street. Give Petrie a call — quick!”

  “Hot dawg!” breathed Scorchy Muldoon.

  As I have previously pointed out, it was an extremely rare occasion when the long-legged stage magician found himself in agreement with anything his pint-sized sidekick had to say.

  This, however, was one of those rare occasions. Naldini pounded his partner on the back, chortling with glee.

  The officer stationed at the radio set murmured a crisp “yes, sir!” into the mouthpiece, and switched the radio off.

  Turning to the others, he said: “We’re to follow the sub and not lose it, no matter what. The other choppers will be joining us presently.”

  Scorchy and Nick exchanged a happy glance.

  Not only did they have the Vulture on the run at last, but now it began to look as though they would be in at the kill...

  Abandoning the now pointless search of the docking sheds, the police officers and their Omega friends piled happily into the waiting helicopters and took off.

  In a matter of moments they had joined the one craft already aloft and pinpointed the fleeing submarine on their own sonar apparatus.

  “There’s no way in the world he can escape us now,” grinned Val Petrie to Prince Zarkon with satisfaction in his tones.

  Zarkon agreed. While flight was perhaps to be proven ultimately futile, the opportunities for a clean escape seemed completely out of the question.

  Petrie studied the sonar screen alertly, intently. Then his face began to sober.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Prince Zarkon.

  Val Petrie gave him a troubled look.

  “He seems to be heading straight out into the Channel,” said the Scotland Yard officer.

  “How deep is the Channel at this point?” inquired Zarkon.

  “Plenty deep,” said Petrie. “But that’s not what’s troubling me. It can’t get too deep for us to follow the sub with these new sonar sets ...”

  “Then what is troubling you?”

  Petrie chewed moodily on his bottom lip.

  “Where can the Vulture be heading?” he muttered, half to Prince Zarkon and half to himself. “There’s nothing in the direction in which he’s heading, this side of the coast of France ...”

  “Then it seems more than likely that the Vulture is making a break for France,” agreed Zarkon. “I still fail to see why that is a cause of concern to you.”

  Petrie gave him a dull look of baffled fury.

  “We don’t have any jurisdiction in France,” he admitted in heavy tones.

  Zarkon looked thoughtful.

  CHAPTER 26 — In at the Kill

  Cruising only a few dozen feet above the water, the fleet of police helicopters followed the Vulture’s miniature submarine.

  While the rains had stopped earlier, the day was dull and overcast, damp, windy, and chill.

  The waters of the English Channel were choppy. They were the moody gray color of battleship steel. They looked mighty cold, as indeed they were, as any Channel swimmer will testify.

  This narrow and stormy little strip of water had seen plenty of history in its time. Across it had sailed the Roman fleet of Julius Caesar; not far off, Sir Francis Drake and his gallant little band had fought and eventually destroyed the huge and lumbering galleons of the Spanish Armada. They had stopped, these waters, the imperial plans of Napoleon and of Adolf Hitler. Here the brave little boats had borne home the survivors of Dunkirk.

  Later, these very waves had shouldered the Allied invasion fleet all the way to Normandy beach on D-Day. Probably no body of water of comparable size in the world had witnessed so many of the great moments in human history.

  And now it was witnessing one of the strangest pursuits in the annals of criminology ...

  While the helicopter which carried Scorchy Muldoon and Nick Naldini and little Joey Weston was still in the lead, the one containing Prince Zarkon and Val Petrie was not very far behind.

  The pilot of Petrie’s chopper half turned to address his chief.

  “We’re nearly halfway to the coast of France, sir,” he observed. “Nearly out of our territorial waters ...”

  “I know,” grunted Petrie, looking miserable.

  Then his expression became grim and hard with finality. It was obvious that Petrie had come to a difficult decision. He turned to Zarkon, who sat beside him.

  “Your Highness, I am well aware that you disapprove of the taking of lives — even the lives of desperate and dangerous criminals,” he said hesitantly.

  Zarkon remained impassive. He said nothing. He obviously had a hunch of what course of action Val Petrie had decided upon.

  “I’m not fond of bloodletting either,” said Petrie. “But at times like this, we have no choice. Simply no choice. We simply cannot afford to let these crooks escape, to continue their career of crime elsewhere.”

  Zarkon still made no reply, his face as wooden and expressionless as a mask.

  “However it is that they manage their Blue Men trick that makes them bulletproof, they’re the most dangerous gang at large in the world. With their invulnerability, they could topple governments, bring Europe to the brink of war. We have to stop them now. The decision is totally mine and I will take full responsibility for it.”

  Zarkon nodded briefly.

  Despite his intense dislike for the wanton taking of human lives, he more or less agreed with what Petrie had been saying.

  “Who’s in command of the lead helicopter?” Petrie asked his lieutenant.

  “Sergeant Martin, sir.”

  Petrie snapped on the radio.

  “Martin, this is Petrie. Prepare to drop your depth charges on my order,” he said crisply.

  In the first helicopter, Sergeant Martin replied with a brisk “yes, sir,” to the command of his chief. He brought the chopper directly over the submarine. To the officer beside him, who sat at the sonar screen, Martin said:

  “Prepare to fire Number One at my order.�
�

  The other officer grinned, and set his control.

  “All is in readiness, sir,” radioed Sergeant Martin to Val Petrie.

  Petrie gave the order. Martin relayed it.

  “Fire One,” he snapped.

  “Number One away,” said the officer.

  A fountain of snowy foam exploded into the air, splattering the plastic bubble canopy of the helicopter with droplets.

  They searched the surface of the Channel with high-powered binoculars. There was no trace of wreckage. The man at the sonar screen said: “She’s still moving.”

  “Then prepare to fire Number Two, when ready.”

  “Number Two away!” said the other.

  A second fountain of boiling foam geysered from the choppy gray surface of the Channel.

  Again the surface was scrutinized with binoculars. Scorchy yelled and pointed.

  “There’s the oil slick, by golly!” he crowed.

  “It may be a ruse,” said Martin determinedly. “Prepare to fire Number Three when ready.”

  A few moments later, the other officer reported: “Number Three away!” Again the surface of the English Channel was torn asunder by an underwater explosion. This time there was wreckage to be seen.

  “I think we nailed her, Sarge,” commented the second officer. “Anyway, she’s stopped moving. In fact” — he leaned forward to study the green glowing sonar screen more carefully —”by golly, I think she’s coming apart. She is!”

  As if in visible response to his words, a large fragment of metallic wreckage broke the Channel’s surface. It looked like a big piece of the hull. More oil slick could be seen and bits of bobbing wreckage.

  And at least one floating body, clad in a bulky and badly-fitting business suit.

  It was no longer blue, however.

  Within about ten minutes, an officer who had clambered down the rope ladder had managed to snare the floating body with a boat hook. He hauled it back into the aircraft.