The Pillars of Salt Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice said over the radio. "Is something wrong?"

  "I don't know," Illya said. "They've stopped moving forward. Just hovering, now."

  But as he said that, the THRUSH machine, hovering, turned in midair, reversing itself to face him. It sat there like that for an instant, and then the pilot leaned forward on the throttle and it began to move at full speed, right at him.

  Illya Kuryakin recognized what they were going to attempt to do. They had realized that trying to outrun the faster U.N.C.L.E. helicopter was useless. The only recourse left open to them, if they hoped to escape, was to eliminate the single obstacle that stood in the way of their freedom.

  They were attacking.

  It was too late to run, even if he wanted to The swiftness of their action had allowed them enough time to narrow the distance between the two helicopters, putting Illya within range of the THRUSH guns. By the time he turned around, they would be on top of him. There was only one thing he could do.

  Stand and fight.

  "Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice crackled over the radio. "Come in, please."

  "Stand by," Illya said, and dropped the microphone. His hand caught the firing mechanism for the U.N.C.L.E. gun mounts, finger poised on the button. He clenched his teeth, waiting.

  The THRUSH helicopter opened fire.

  Illya shoved hard right on the throttle, pitching him sideways. The first volley of bullets riddled the air where he had been. He hunched over the controls, jamming down on the button, and felt his own guns chattering beneath him. The THRUSH copter veered, dodging as he had done. He knew he had missed.

  Dog-fight, he thought. A dog-fight with helicopters. Now if that wasn't...

  "What's going on there? Mr. Kuryakin, I hear gunfire. What..."

  Slashes of red flame from the fore guns on the THRUSH: chopper drowned out Waverly's words. Illya fought the throttle again, left this time in sidelong bank.

  He was too late. The glass in front of him shattered.

  Illya threw his left arm across his face, an instinctive motion. He felt a burning pain along his elbow as one of the machine gun slugs furrowed through his skin there, and tiny pinpricks on his forehead and face as the flying glass peppered his vision.

  He shook his head, pawing to clear his sight. His hand came away red with blood from the glass cuts. Dimly he saw the THRUSH helicopter moving towards him, coming in for the kill.

  Teeth bared in anger and pain, Illya found the firing mechanism he had dropped when the dome splintered. The U.N.C.L.E. copter had lost altitude, the throttle jarred loose from his hand with the impact.

  Illya clutched the throttle now, straightening the machine, and then drew back on it, raising his front end and the mounted guns there to the approaching THRUSH aircraft.

  He jammed his finger down on the firing button and held it there. The first stream of bullets sheered one of the rotary blades on the THRUSH helicopter. He saw it sputtering, airborne on only a single blade. More slugs smashed into the body, through the glass on the pilot's side. Crippled, it began to descend.

  Illya released the pressure on the firing button then. He tested the controls, found that none of the THRUSH bullets had hit vital parts, and went down after them.

  The THRUSH helicopter was not crash-falling. The pilot, apparently still alive, was able to maneuver the craft, even with one blade. He could keep it in the air, but not for long. It would have to land.

  Illya, hovering above the crippled machine, following it down, resisted the urge to fire on it again.

  As they descended, the crystal floor of what had been Lake Mead loomed large and white below. Illya, mouth pulled into a tight line, fumbled for the microphone on the floor. Angry crackling sounds still emerged from the radio, giving indication that it was still operational.

  He flicked the send button. "Kuryakin here," he said.

  "What happened?" Waverly's voice said through heavy static. "Are you all right? It sounded as if..."

  "All right," Illya said shortly. "A shaky moment or two, but everything's under control now."

  The THRUSH helicopter landed on the salt surface of the lake.

  Illya went directly above them, vacillating there, a hundred feet overhead. He could see the two men in the shattered cockpit. Neither of them moved. The pilot had slumped over the controls.

  Illya reported to Waverly. He finished with, "I'm going down for a look."

  "Stay where you are," Waverly said sharply. "There are planes..."

  "Wait a minute," Illya said. He saw that the second man in the THRUSH helicopter, the man he suspected to be Dr. Sagine, had begun moving. The long yellow hair shone in the sunlight as he clambered his way out of the crippled aircraft, onto the surface on the lake.

  The man stood motionless for a moment, peering up into the air. Then he began to run.

  "Dr. Sagine!" Illya said into the microphone. "He's alive! Out and running."

  He took the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter in the direction the man was running, Dr. Sagine, stopped finally, digging into his pocket. He came up with something that glinted shafts of light in the sun.

  A gun, Illya thought. Hand gun. Not much range. But if he can keep me far enough overhead, and if he can reach he shore, the rocks there .

  "I'm going down after him," Illya said into the microphone.

  "No!" Waverly snapped. "I want you to—"

  Abruptly the mike went dead, just as Illya said, "If he reaches the shore, I'll lose him. Can't take that chance."

  "I'm going after him," Illya said again, to the silent mike. If Waverly had different ideas it was too late now.

  He increased the speed on the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter, passing over the running man, and then turned and took it down, cutting off Dr. Sagine's fight to the opposite shore. He landed, switching off the rotors.

  Dr. Sagine veered to the right, running out toward the middle of the lake. Illya dug his U.N.C.L.E. special from his belt and leaped out, running. He chased headlong after the fleeing Dr. Sagine, across the gleaming, bleached-bone whiteness of the crystallized lake.

  ACT VII: LAST COMMAND

  Napoleon Solo was sitting in the co-pilot s chair of the U.N.C.L.E. jet that had picked him up in Granite River. Eyes closed, he was fighting a losing battle against exhaustion, when Waverly's frantic call came over the radio.

  The jet had wound its way down from the Rockies, following the irregular, twisting course of the Colorado River. Their only sighting in the time they had been aloft had been another U.N.C.L.E. search plane. There had, of course, been no sign of Dr. Sagine.

  The radio crackled. "Attention, all Squadron B- units. Attention, all Squadron B units. Report your positions immediately. Repeat. Report your positions immediately. Urgent. Red Line urgent."

  The sound of Waverly's voice jarred Solo into sudden wakefulness. He sat erect, shaking his head. The pilot, a gaunt, slackjawed Scot named McDuffee, reached for the microphone.

  "Control, this is B Leader One reporting. Heading south-southwest, search course above the Colorado River. We have just passed over Grand Canyon, approaching the Nevada border. Over."

  There was no instant response. Solo, listening attentively, heard the other U.N.C.L.E. jets relaying their positions. After a moment, Waverly's voice boomed again. "B Leader One, this is Control. Alter your course point-zero-six degrees, due west, full maximum speed. Place all emergency rescue equipment on stand-by readiness. Your destination is Lake Mead. Acknowledge, please."

  "Roger, Control," McDuffee said. "What's the exact position?"

  Waverly told him what it was. "How long will it take you?"

  McDuffee checked his instruments quickly. "Ten minutes, sir," he said. "We're on our way."

  Solo grabbed the microphone. "Mr. Waverly," he said. "This is Solo in B Leader One. What's going on at Lake Mead?"

  There was a brief pause. Then Waverly said, "Mr. Solo, I thought you were still convalescing. But I am glad you are along. We may need your assistance."

>   "Lake Mead is formed by Hoover Dam," Solo said. "That's where you sent Illya this morning. What's happening there?"

  Waverly said: "I have been trying to raise Mr. Kuryakin on his communicator, but there is no response."

  "You think he's hurt, then?"

  "Possibly," Waverly said "Though I think not. I don't want him to land on Lake Mead, but I can't reach him."

  "Why the rescue equipment?" Solo asked. "And why the urgency?"

  "Simply because," Waverly said, his voice tinged with impatience, "if Mr. Kuryakin does not get off the surface of Lake Mead within the next few minutes, he is going to be trapped on a rushing torrent of fresh water instead of solid rock salt."

  Solo got it then, touching his mind like an electric shock.

  "Good Lord!" he said slowly. "The antidote!"

  "Precisely," Waverly said. "It was introduced into the Colorado some time ago at the THRUSH site in Pardee. I have had planes watching its progress. Even in controlled amounts, it decrystallizes the water at a fantastic rate of speed. Most of the Colorado has already been returned to its original state. When the water carrying the antidote reaches Lake Mead..." He paused. "I am sure I needn't explain further."

  "No," Solo said. "How much time have we got?"

  "Approximately fifteen minutes, maximum, according to the present rate of change. We have to make contact with Mr. Kuryakin before he gets too far away from his helicopter."

  "And if we can't?"

  "Then I am afraid his fate will be in your hands."

  "But it's going to take ten minutes to reach Lake Mead," Solo said. "That only leaves us five minutes to launch a rescue operation. That's not much time."

  "I am well aware of the time factor," Waverly said. "We can only hope that Mr. Kuryakin can be raised on his communicator before that necessity arises. Keep your own communicator open to Channel D. If he answers too late to escape by helicopter, then you will have to take over with rescue instructions."

  "Yes, sir," he said. "Solo out."

  He replaced the microphone, rising. As he did, he saw they had lost altitude. Through the windshield, he could see the Colorado River below, no longer white, now cold and surging through the rock canyons toward Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. He wet his lips, turning to McDuffee.

  The U.N.C.L.E. pilot was barking orders to his crew on the jet's communication system. He had set the throttle wide open.

  When McDuffee finished, Solo said, "I'm going to supervise the operation if it's needed. See if you can set a new speed record, will you, Mac?"

  "As good as done," McDuffee said, but his mouth was tight.

  Solo left the cockpit and hurried through the plane to the tail section. He took his communicator from his pocket as he went, thumbing out the antenna. He reported to Waverly on Channel D that he was waiting on stand-by.

  Illya Kuryakin still had not acknowledged.

  Solo reached the tail section. The crewmen there were already setting up the newly-developed U.N.C.L.E.. aeronautical rescue devices carried in that section. He stood watching them, feeling a tightness in his chest as he listened to the silence from the communicator in his hand.

  TWO

  Ahead of Illya as he ran, the THRUSH scientist was following a straight course toward the rock-covered shore to the right. Illya Kuryakin had narrowed the distance between them to a hundred feet, and was gaining rapidly. He was younger, more agile, than Dr. Sagine, and he knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before he overtook him.

  And that made him careless. He forgot about the gun Dr. Sagine was carrying. In his pursuing dash across the shining salt floor of the lake, Illya's mind was focused on only a single objective, and that was catching the man in front of him before he reached the cover of the shore. He had pushed the existence of the gun completely from his mind.

  When Dr. Sagine suddenly halted his flight, turning abruptly, Illya did not immediately understand why he had done so. He slowed himself, a natural reaction, and then he saw the THRUSH scientist's arm stretch out in front of him, and the transitory view of metal, and he knew, almost too late, what the reason was.

  He flung himself to the side, his left shoulder connecting solidly with the grainy, unyielding surface, jarring him. The bark of the gun in Dr. Sagine's hand split the morning stillness, and a bullet furrowed salt near Illya's face, spewing brackish chips at his eyes. He rolled twice and came up on to his knees, trying to see where his assailant was, his special held up in his hand. The gun roared again, directly in front of him.

  Sagine's second shot took Illya high in the left side of the chest. The force of the impact stunned him, driving him over onto his back. His chest went numb. He lay there, looking up into the pale yellow ball of the sun, and he thought dazedly, He shot me. I'm hurt bad.

  There was another crack from the gun. The shot missed. Illya was aware of that, and aware at the same time that he was completely at the mercy of Dr. Sagine. The initial shock wore off, and his mind was alert again.

  He tried to raise himself into a sitting position, couldn't with the lack of feeling in his chest, and leaned onto his side with a lunging effort. He saw the THRUSH scientist approaching him, shouting unintelligible words that were lost in the breath of wind blowing across the surface of the lake. He steadied his right arm and squeezed off two wild shots, unable to aim properly from the huddled position he lay in.

  But the fact that he had managed to fire at all accomplished a purpose. Dr. Sagine stopped, uncertain. He realized Illya Kuryakin was not dead, and realized as well the foolishness of walking into the muzzle of the special held in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's right hand. He turned and began to run again.

  Illya Kuryakin emptied the special after the running man, but at the widening range none of the shots were remotely close. The figure of Dr. Sagine began to grow smaller as he raced toward the rocky shore in the distance.

  Illya reached under him, fingers clawing at his pocket. The communicator had gone dead, but maybe it was from Waverly's end. If his own was...The first sharp pain slashed across his chest then, squeezing tears from his eyes. He clamped his teeth down tightly together, pulling the communicator free. Maybe there was still time. If an U.N.C.L.E. jet or helicopter were in the area, it was possible they might be able to spot Dr. Sagine before he could lose himself in the rocks.

  Illya nipped out the antenna, pulling the communicator to his lips. "Kuryakin here," he said, and his voice mirrored the rising pain in his chest.

  THREE

  Solo was pacing nervously up and down the tail section of the U.N.C.L.E. jet when he heard Illya's voice come over Channel D.

  His heart jumped. He started to speak into his communicator, but Waverly was already acknowledging. "Mr. Kuryakin, this is Waverly. Listen carefully. Return to your helicopter at once. Do you understand? Return to your helicopter and lift off at once."

  "Negative," Illya said. "Sagine's getting away. He shot me. He's..."

  "Shot you?" Waverly cut in. "Are you badly hurt? Are you able to return to your helicopter?"

  "Negative," Illya said again. He began to cough, and the rest of his words were flecked with the rasps. "Shot in the chest. Don't think I can move. But I'll be all right until you can send someone down for me. Sagine is..."

  "Sagine is unimportant," Waverly said tersely. "He won't get far. You are of primary concern at the moment."

  "Told you, I'm all right," Illya said.

  "You are not all right, Mr. Kuryakin. The chemical antidote has been introduced into the Colorado River. I was attempting to tell you that when my mike went out of order. In another six to eight minutes, the antidote will reach Lake Mead, decrystallizing the salt."

  "What?" Illya said.

  Solo couldn't wait any longer. "Illya, this is Solo," he said into the communicator.

  "Napoleon! What are you..."

  "I'm in one of the Squadron B jets," Solo said. "We're on our way to you. We have a grappling sling ready."

  "Grappling sling? But there's not enough time
for that!"

  "Just hold on," Solo said. "We've got time."

  "I don't even see you yet," Illya said, and Solo knew he was scanning the sky.

  Solo caught up one of the jet's microphones hanging on the wall. "Mac, this is Solo. How much longer?"

  "Lake Mead, dead ahead," McDuffee said from the cockpit. "Two minutes."

  "Can you see what point the chemical change has reached?"

  "Hang tight," McDuffee said. "I'm taking her down."

  Solo felt the jet begin to nose dive. He had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, but not all of it was due to the sudden drop in altitude. The jet leveled again.

  "I see it now," McDuffee said. "Man, that's some sight. It's moving forward like a wave."

  "Where, Mac? Where is it?"

  "A couple of miles behind us, now," McDuffee said. "We're over Lake Mead, approaching the position."

  The communicator in Solo's hand crackled. "I can see you now!" Illya's voice yelled. "You're coming right at me!"

  "Mac, hold her steady," Solo said in the jet's microphone "We're on target."

  "I can see the helicopter now," McDuffee said.

  "What's your altitude?"

  "Seven-fifty."

  "Take her down to five hundred."

  The jet dipped.

  "Do you see Illya?" Solo asked.

  "Not yet," McDuffee said. "There's a man running across the surface to the left, toward the shore. But I... Wait! I see him now! Two hundred yards from the helicopter!"

  "All right," Solo said. He was aware that perspiration covered his body. He rubbed wetness from his forehead. "Get set, Mac. I'll give you the word when we're ready."

  "Roger," McDuffee said. "I'll start circling."

  "Mr. Solo, this is Waverly," the U.N.C.L.E. chief's voice said over the communicator. "How much time have you?"

  "Plenty of time," Solo lied.

  "Can you see me?" Illya said. His voice seemed to have gotten fainter. He was still coughing.

  "We can see you," Solo answered. A thought struck him. "Illya, you're not going to pass out?"

  "No, I don't think so," Illya said feebly. "But my chest is on fire."