GFU01 - The Global Globules Affair

by Simon Latter

  "They won't be able to see anything from way down there."

  "I didn't mean that, you oaf!"

  He smiled at her. "I'll remember your concern for me—in the right place." He moved the red switch, lifted the recessed gun site on the torch body, took aim at a smallish rock some hundred yards away and pressed the button.

  The rock exploded with a dull crack. Pulverized stone spurted up in a fan-shaped arc. When it had settled, only a faint depression remained where the rock had been.

  Mark moved the safety-catch to "off". They looked at each other steadily, silently. April shivered slightly, then stooped over the laser beam receivers. She opened the slide panels and drew out the purple-orange-green striped film. Mark did the same.

  "We could have saved one," said Mark. "But orders is orders. We might have been separated at the time."

  On the films were the messages, translated into ordinary words. These read:

  "Move in dusk. All forces position 1800 hours. Target area sealed. Avoid or destroy hazards. No wrecking. Repeat: no wrecking. We cover but avoiding inter-in. Delicate."

  "Once the department boys get into the act they start pussy-footing around," said April. "Why try to avoid an international incident when the whole darn caboodle down there is directed against all of us?"

  Mark shrugged. "The F.B.I. claim that large numbers of genuine foreign nationals—sick people—do actually come to Little Basin. That's why we can't just march on the place. You know how dicey these inter-ins can be. The dipsomatic boys have nightmares about agents shooting one foreign national who is under their protection—which same these sick people are."

  "Phooey!" said April. "Sick people might have checked in there one time—when Karadin was building up a front—but not now."

  "Don't be bloodthirsty, darling. Read on."

  She read on:

  "Retreat and contact if infiltration impossible. Major attack set-up discovered Chicago. Suspect others. Keep finger off button. Good luck. A. W."

  "Ah—that's better!" said April. "A far more valid reason for no-wrecking attack."

  "I think A. W. was pacifying the dipsomatic boys."

  "Do you mind not mispronouncing that word? Some of my best friends are diplomats."

  "Gertcha!" said Mark. "Most of my best friends aren't. Let 'em be friends with each other—there are enough of them. They don't speak our language, me old darling."

  "This finger-off-button bit means that A. W. must be dead sure that Little Basin is their American H.Q."

  "And the Chicago bit means even more," said Mark. "With all forces alerted, it's possible they've picked up some lesser agent in Chicago. Maybe more than one. Lesser agents crack easy."

  "But they don't always know much."

  "Only who tells them to do what, and when."

  "So?"

  "So A. W. and our Government pals may have cracked the Global Globules alarm system. There won't be anything casual about the way their project swings into major action. To do the greatest harm in the shortest time, they'd have to synchronize the blast-off of their blasted spray—a one-button job for certain."

  April nodded pensively. "And dat is down dere?" She pointed.

  He chuckled. "Dat is. Tell you something else—dere is someone over dar." He pointed to further around the hills. "I seen him bobbing behind a rock."

  "A peeping Tom?"

  Mark looked at her, one eyebrow flicked up. "You're kidding, of course?"

  She looked away. "Well, I mean—we're not what people might think, and—"

  He grabbed her, held her tight. "Darling—you're really human! Let's give Tom an eyeful he won't forget."

  She stared at him calmly, her face close to his. She kissed him gently, then said softly:

  "Let go of me, you over-sexed rat, or I'll clobber you!"

  "At last!" he cried. "At last, the real woman emerges from her glossy career cage!" He too kissed her gently. "You're a sweet bitch. Keep looking over my shoulder."

  She lay still. "Yes—yes, I saw a movement. Ah! He's gone now—scuttled up and over the brow of the hill."

  Mark looked back and released her. "Now who? Not one of our friends, surely? And it's a powerful long hike from the valley to where he was, so we'd have seen him." Mark pulled out the range glass and twisted the bevel for focus. "He's gone right enough. It's a great big lonely world out there." He switched to the sprawled cluster of buildings below them. "No activity. Strange, y'know. Not seen a soul outside ever since we got here. There's movement inside—can just see shadows through the screens over those picture windows. What is it—off-season for nut hatches?"

  She held out her hand for the glass, then laughed. "They must have heard you!"

  "I can see them—not to identify though. They look like women."

  "They're not," said April firmly. "They're dressed like women, but they're husky men." She lowered the glass, then looked at Mark. "Could be they have spotted us and are putting on a show?"

  "Not a chance. We were here before dawn. We've built a natural stone rampart, plus the cover that scrub further down must give us against anyone looking up here." He tapped his chest. "Plus these desert-camouflage track suits which blend perfectly against the background. Why, I couldn't even spot you when I reccied along the ridge." He paused before adding: "But chummy-boy over there might have set them off."

  "Set them off on what?"

  Mark pointed downwards. "If that nut hatch was genuine, there would be people resting on the patios, others taking the air, some using the pool—there's an awning over it to protect invalids from the sun. And where are the staff? It's a lovely place down there. Lush and beautifully laid out. Wouldn't there be even one single person with business or pleasure outside the building? There are stables beyond the pool and a carport full of cars and pick-up trucks. Yet no one to tend the horses? No car needing checking? No, me old darling—something set 'em moving, and I think it was young chummy on the hill yonder. He was wearing dark clothes."

  "Young?"

  "The way he scarpered over the Beecham—yes."

  "Speak English, you limey half-wit!"

  "Scarpered, darling—ran. Beecham—as in Beecham Pill hill. They call it rhyming slang. Very useful."

  "Not now. The only useful thing I need is a way in to that lush oasis without setting off their goddamn button."

  Mark leaned back, relaxed.

  "With you little eye, can you spy a gee-gee?"

  "A number of them in stables—the top halves of the doors are open."

  "I have a way with gee-gees. I think I smell good—a sort of inner cleanliness."

  "Skip the commercial."

  "Devices are for alarm—yes?"

  She shrugged. "I've known some killers—booby traps."

  "But not down there."

  "Oh no? Flower beds, lawns, curving paths—we won't know how to avoid them. That dirt road from the highway must be all of eight miles, but I'd say there'd be alarms every mile."

  "But not killers."

  "If it was me, I'd wire the patio too," she said thoughtfully. "That would leave the path around the perimeter fence, past the corrals and the carports and on to the stables. Now where would I booby that? I'd let us get in—some way in—then I'd rig them across that open area. Hmm—can't see what's at back of the main building. Doesn't really matter. Our shortest line for entry is at the side." She moved her head and the range glass back and forth. "Yep—through or over the fence, along the outer path, past the stables, cut across at the edge of the pool. Three leaps and we're under a window."

  "They won't be killers," said Mark.

  "Will you quit saying that? It's a chance we have to take."

  "I love horses. I wouldn't hurt a horse. And it can run a sight faster than I can."

  She lowered the glass, leaning on one elbow.

  "You British! Crazy animal lovers. Feed a dog and starve a child."

  "Nasty, nasty."

  "Yes, it was. Sorry. But you make me so mad. You thin
k we can use the horses?"

  "Me—not we. I will give my well-known impersonation of the galloping major while you trip the light fantastic around t'other way."

  "But if the approaches are booby-trapped, as we're sure they must be, you'll set them off. It's the very thing we want to avoid."

  "Horses, ducky—horses will set 'em off. So if you set any off, they'll think it's another horse. By the time they find out, you'll be through the alarm system."

  "You'll draw them to you."

  "I shall be expecting them. They won't be expecting me."

  "How do you get around to the stables?"

  "Goat's milk—very nourishing," said Mark. "Make yogurt from it. Marvellous stuff. Makes you live to a hundred and ten. And goats live on old chop sticks and bubble gum."

  "What are you burbling about?"

  "Behind the stables, in the shade of them now, no doubt; but last time I spied, I saw a li'l white goatee beard. Where there's goats there are no booby traps, so I hike me around yonder, do a spot of belly crawl down that side and, at a synchronized time—bingo!" He rested his head in the crook of his arm and tilted his hat over his face. "Call me at eighteen hundred hours, mother dear, for I long to be Queen of the May."

  "Queen is right," April snarled. "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Stop yapping," said Mark. "Do your knitting—or something."

  He snored into a quivering silence.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: THEY'RE ALL YOURS!

  A SHREDDED canopy of silver and black lay over the valley and hills of Little Basin. The moon rode the hills, rimming them with light.

  Earlier, in the sunset's flare, the message "Let's go" had flashed into the sky. They waited until a smoky-purple haze rippled beneath the early stars, then became two swift, soft- moving figures. Their track suits had been reversed—the underside being black with a pattern of zigzag purple stripes, giving an illusory effect of a moving shadow. Whereas all black is a stark outline in all but the deepest of shadows where the eyes cannot see, this coloring had an affinity with both full and half shadow. The pouch belts and shoulder attachments fitted natural body contours and did not rattle, reflect or protrude.

  Mark swung wide around the fencing to come in at the far side, leaving April to enter at a point immediately opposite the swimming pool providing shortest access to the patio. Watches were synchronized for the time when each would don U.N.C.L.E. gas masks and make the first move according to the carefully assessed plan.

  It was annoying not to be able to use even their personal ear radios. These could not be overheard, but ultra-sensitive equipment might reflect the signals. But April ceased to be annoyed at this when, as she waited by the fence, she saw one of the flower beds begin to move apart in the center. Moonlight on the bed gave her a clear view, despite the fact that this section of the fence was shadowed by the buildings.

  From the gap there a pole began to rise, looking at first sight like a young fir tree. A faint whine of hydraulics, a slight hiss, and the pole stopped at about the thirty-feet height. Fan-shaped antennae "grew" from near its top. TV and radio booster aerials sprouted below these. Then at the very top a "soup-dish" radar bowl came up like a conjuror's bunch of flowers that appear out of his sleeve, springing open to assume its correct shape.

  April goggled at it. "I sure hope lover boy sees this," she muttered. "With that mast they could monitor my grumbling appendix."

  Mark certainly saw it—from under the belly of a goat as he inched across a patch of moonlight towards the shadow of the stables. Reaching this shelter he checked his watch, to find he had time in hand. He surveyed the mast. "Take a look at that, me old darling!" he whispered. "I reckon the C.I.A. or the F.B.I. boys made a shrewd guess about the electronic potential around here."

  He was about to break open the lock on the stables' main door when a couple of goats ambled past him, having come through the hole he had made in the fence. Ignoring him, they went on across the stable yard, over a grass patch and along the path curving around the house.

  "Ye gods! A goat radar, no less! Well, thanks a lot!" He drew his gas gun and followed them. No booby traps. He was at the corner of the house when he saw his mistake. By a reflection of moonlight as a goat passed it, the glassy eye of a photocell set amid some wall greenery betrayed its presence.

  Mark dropped to one knee, eyes keened for more photocells. There should be a pattern of them to identify the size of objects caught in their beam. He saw the next highest; then saw something else. The window nearest to him was curtained by a sheet of the metal material and was stretched across the inside frame. A tiny chink of yellow light showed at one corner; otherwise the window reflected only moonlight.

  Crouching to keep his body at the same height as the animals, he followed the goats around the path. He was nearly caught when a door opened. He heard the snick of the catch, darted close to the house wall, dropped flat. No light flowed from the open door, but the man there was clearly etched against the sky. Even his gun was in sharp relief. He swore in a guttural voice. "These goddamn goats are loose again. That's all it was. Cut out the scanners and send Longess out to round them up." The door closed.

  Mark exhaled slowly. "Scanners too!" He blew a kiss towards the goats, who now were scoffing flowers from the large bed in which the aerial mast was set. "I'll never call you 'stinkers' again!" He eased upright, then sped on soundless feet across the front of the house, around the patio, and up the side of the pool. He took a chance that April was there and leapt for the patch of shadows. She almost rammed the gas gun nozzle into his ear.

  "Some horse!" she whispered from under her mask.

  "Some break! The goats got loose. I didn't need the horses. No booby traps, darling—just masses of cells and scanners. They've switched off until—ah, here be is! Wait here!" A man had come out from this end of the house.

  Shadow leaping, silent—a swift pad-pad of feet balancing, body poised, arms reaching.

  The man halted, swung around, mouth open. Eyeballs white, wild against the moonlight, glazing fast as flexed-steel hands struck once, twice. The senseless figure crumpled. Human sack among the flowers. The goats went on eating.

  April anticipated the next move. A small side door was open. Mark joined her. They stepped inside, closed the door softly. A lobby, Spanish style, wall benches, hooks, overalls hanging. Riding boots, sand-yellow, a straw sombrero, the smell of garlic. Then a door, light-glow slanting through. She tiptoed past him, peered, backed up, signaled three. He nodded. They went in.

  A large kitchen, fitted ranch-style, split level. Three men, cards on a plastic-topped table, were there smoking, waiting for the fourth, now sleeping among the flowers. Two were big men, one small, and they scarcely glanced up as Mark sat in the fourth chair.

  "Took you long..." said one man, and broke off as the gas gun hissed.

  They reared up, puking, gasping, mouths working at words which were strangled at source, then sank to the floor like jelly-babies, in all shapes.

  April caught the smallest man and eased him on to the floor, steadying the tilting chair before it crashed. Mark slammed the other two over the table, patted their clothes, and drew out two guns. April bad already taken the third. She took the two from Mark, went across to the stove, and lifted a stew-pot lid. Steam eddied up. She dropped the gun inside, replaced the lid, and came back, eyes smiling.

  There was a short passage before them now, high-ceilinged, one wall a whole mural, a desert scene glowing with light. On the other wall were crossed sabers, an old muzzle-loader rifle, a board with Spanish daggers akimbo. And along the pine floor was a long, narrow Jacobean antique linen chest. Mojave rugs lead to a ghastly pseudo-Moroccan archway, draped with an Indian blanket.

  Beyond the drape was a large oval room, aseptic in its clinical lay-out, a ghost room, silvered with moonlight from huge picture windows. It had sound-absorbing tiles from floor to ceiling. Fluted air-conditioning vents pulsed sibilantly, loud in the emptiness, invalid chairs, their tubular chrome
glistening, stood headstoning the long white graves of massage couches. There were white leather lounge chairs, canopied sun chairs, tall spindly chairs, all mocking an empty curving bar. This was the hub of the nut hatch, thought Mark. Yes indeedee.

  He noticed two white doors, smooth, all smooth, with no handles, no locks, no hinges. They set to work methodically, but fast, training, experience, knowledge culled from a thousand minutes, compressed and drawn on in less than five. System, mechanism, alarms. Contacts, method, effect.

  Mark made signs, not daring to use personal radios, and drew out his U.N.C.L.E. device, held it, questioning. April nodded agreement, took her cigarette lighter, adjusted it into a cutting torch. Mark traced the hair-wires, separated them, clipped on the device to one, then spat on his fingers and arced the wires. Blue light danced from finger-tip to device. A puff of white smoke, a tiny "phut"—and the alarm circuit was broken.

  The torch flame burned blue-white, following the line of the alarm wires into the door post, burning deep, clean, through steel contact plate. Paint blistered in a small halo. Mark came around April, to place the palms of his hands hard on the smooth door surface, each palm holding a suction pad. The torch flame died. The blistered halo glowed half an orange bubbling, then slowly dulled to a bruise blue. The door jerked, beginning to whip back on its glides. Mark held it, saving the crashing thud when it would have hit the stops.

  At the same time this action allowed an aperture for their vision and April peered through. There was a danger sign. Four—no, five—men. Noise now, too, booming out into the ghostly room. Voices, voices, voices—jabbering, murmuring; static crackling, F.M. waves pulsing sound. Mark now controlled the door with one hand, the first release impulse having gone, his head pressed against hers.

  In their fan of vision stretched part of a console: TV screens, radio and radar dials, switches, colored lights. Above the console was a light-glowed map—not contoured––a linking chart of all major towns, many smaller but important centers, with Washington D.C. as the radial heart. Next in size of markings came New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, and an outer perimeter of symbols linking these with the main points.