Assignment- Death Ship

by Will B Aarons

  He hated to spoil such a picture of conviviality, even if it were rank with hypocrisy.

  Without any preliminaries, he turned to Muncie. “I have some bad news, but I want you to stay calm,” he said. “Someone killed your watchdog.” She sucked in her breath and looked at the others. “Whoever did it must still be out there,” he said. “They may hope to take us by surprise, maybe after we’ve gone to bed.”

  She stared at him, going pale.

  Tina said, “I knew it. I knew someone was sneaking around out there.”

  Muncie found her voice. “What do you mean, ‘take us by surprise?’ You really think people are . . . are still lurking out there?"

  “My government may not be the only one after Dr. Plettner’s material,” he said, his tone grim.

  “Who else is?”

  “As I told you before, there are things I can’t talk about, but you’re right in the middle of a vicious little war, and you’d better believe it.”

  “What are we going to do? I don’t know anything about fighting wars.” Her eyes went to Durso and Tina.

  Durso said, “We’ve got to get off this island, that’s for sure. Do it now is my suggestion.”

  “But our plane isn’t due until six in the morning. There’s no other way tonight,” Muncie said.

  “Don’t be silly. Call the air taxi out of Ponce; we’ll arrange to be picked up there for Geneva,” Durso replied. He tossed down the last of his highball. “I’ll go to the lab and finish the packing.”

  “Wait,” Durell called. Maj. Miller would be in the lab. Durso had to be kept away, but he didn’t think that would be too difficult. “You may as well save the effort,” he told him. “There’s no way to get in touch with the air taxi. Try the phone.”

  Durso gave him a look of disbelief, picked up the phone, joggled the button. Warily, he replaced it in its cradle. “No dial tone,” he said.

  “So I guessed,” Durell said. “The phone lines have been cut. We’re stuck here until morning, whatever happens.”

  They stared at him with stricken expressions. Durso looked like a cornered fox. The wind moaned against the glass wall that faced the ocean. Through reflections of fire and lamps, Durell could see the phosphoresence of curling breakers.

  His voice was taut. “Where do you keep your guns?” he asked.

  “You have the Weatherby, or Maj. Miller does,” Muncie said. Then, with alarm, “Where’s Maj. Miller?”

  “He’s resting,” Durell replied. “The trip tired him more than he thought. The guns?” he asked.

  “In a cabinet in the library, through there.” She pointed. “Where’s your handyman?”

  “In the servants’ wing. What—?”

  “Get him in here, and the maid, too. We want everybody with a finger to pull a trigger.”

  Durell hurried toward the library, which was in the vicinity of the laboratory. Durso was a worry, because he had followed, and might take it in his mind to check there. They found the gun case, which held two rifles, a .22 semiautomatic and a bolt-action .30-06, and two shotguns, a 12-gauge and a 16-gauge; In a drawer was a fancy, long-barreled .22 target pistol.

  He snatched the weapons from the cabinet, handed the shotguns to Durso, and was headed back to the women when time ran out.

  Through the walls he heard the crash of splintering glass.

  It came from the lab. . . .

  Chapter 7

  Durell chucked the weapons and ran toward the lab.

  “What is it, in heaven’s name?” Muncie had caught sight of him just before he’d turned. He heard a clatter of heels as she and Tina joined Durso, hurrying after him.

  He didn’t bother to reply; dread twisted his gut like a cord. The sound of shattering glass continued to come from the lab as he approached. He brought out his revolver, hardly knowing what to expect.

  He stopped at the lab door, remembering Maj. Miller’s prohibition against opening it, and peered through the little window. Dimly his eyes made out the form of the major struggling with someone at the end of the room. He could do nothing but watch; there was no telling what had been loosed in there. The major was hardly a powerhouse, but neither was his assailant, a small, lightly built man in green clothing. Durell guessed that the intruder had meant to steal Dr. Plettner’s notes and had surprised Maj. Miller, but now he was paying for it. The soldier had him down and was bludgeoning him.

  When the man in green lay still, the major rose unsteadily. He caught sight of Durell, and called through the door, “Stay out. I’ve been exposed. Get out of the house. It’s got to bum!” He saw the look on Durell’s face. “It’s just a matter of minutes for me anyhow, Sam,” he called.

  “What’s he doing in there!” It was Muncie, indignant.

  “The man’s mad. What’s he talking about?” Durso demanded.

  “Shut up! Get back!” Durell shoved them away and turned back to Maj. Miller, who had sunk to his knees.

  “I don’t understand—is he. . . ?” Her blue eyes were round with alarm.

  “Dying,” Durell said. “It’s your husband’s work.” Angrily he pushed through the others.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “You’re not really going to ... to do what he said?”

  “Of course not,” Durso exclaimed. “It’s insane, I tell you. It’s Dr. Plettner’s laboratory, his data—Caske property!”

  Durell offered to reason, but only for a second. “Suppose whatever’s in there got loose in a city!”

  “It won’t, it can’t . . . I mean. . . !” Muncie stammered.

  “You mean you don’t want it to, but that won’t stop it. Get out of the way.”

  Durso stepped haughtily before him. “I won’t allow this,” he insisted.

  Durell hit him, the blow coming out of rage and frustration with volcanic force, and Durso bounced off a wall and landed on his back. He looked up with stunned eyes as Durell stepped over him, bound for the fireplace in the living room. Muncie and Tina followed, then Durso, holding a bruised jaw.

  “Please Mr. Durell . . . Sam?” Muncie clasped his arm, holding him back. “At least call a doctor for the man, before you—”

  “There isn’t a phone, and it wouldn’t matter if there were. All you’d get would be a dead doctor.”

  The handyman and maid were waiting in the living room, eyes wide at all the hubbub. “Phineas and Joanna, come here,” Durell said. He looked over his shoulder. Durso shambled into the room. “Get over here,” he told him.

  With everyone gathered around, Durell spoke rapidly. “This is what we’re going to do: Take weapons and slip into the jungle. Head for the airstrip where the jet is to land. If it can’t take all of us in the morning, it can send another, with help, if need be.”

  “That man in the lab—there are others?” Muncie asked. Her eyes were round, frightened.

  “I’m sure of it; we’re lucky if we’ve got two, three minutes before they hit the place. They may have heard the fight, too.” He took a breath. “We’re going to get out of here in two groups to attract less attention. Durso will take his wife, and Phineas will escort Mrs. Plettner and Joanna.” He began distributing the guns found in the library. “Use these only if you have to.”

  “Lordy, I couldn’t shoot anybody,” Joanna said.

  “You may change your mind before you reach that airstrip,” Durell replied. “If you have to shoot, shoot to kill.”

  They stared at him dumbly, and he was made to recognize the differences between him and them. He accepted killing as a real alternative; it was an essential tool in his business— nothing more, nothing less. It didn’t seem a real possibility to them—to them he was talking make-believe.

  They’d find out.

  Only Muncie and Durso accepted the situation with a measure of aplomb—they were good at masking their feelings.

  Muncie told him, “If I have to go, I want my Weatherby.”

  “It’s in the major’s room. Hurry.”

  She rushed away with a rustle of
silk.

  Durso had recovered enough to argue again. “Suppose there’s only one person out there—or none? Is all this artillery necessary? Why don’t we just get us some lights and go get him?”

  “It could be a dozen, that’s why,” Durell said. Nothing more was said in the seconds it took Muncie to return. Tension showed on everyone’s face. Phineas put an arm around Joanna’s shoulder. When Muncie returned, Durell asked her the location of the least exposed exit.

  “Kitchen,” she said. She led the way.

  “Stay away from lighted windows,” he told them as he stood ready at the door. “Don’t silhouette yourself.”

  “I’m scared, Mr. Durell.” It was Joanna.

  “We can’t stay in this house. It’s that simple,” he said, his voice stem. Turning to Durso, he said, “You and Tina . . . go now!” Durso sounded cocky. “See you at the airstrip in the morning, Durell—if I don’t accidentally blow your head off in the dark.”

  Durell didn’t trouble with a reply. He asked that the kitchen light be turned off, and when that was done, cracked the door. He felt Durso, then Tina, slide into the darkness.

  “Phineas?”

  “Right here, Mr. Durell.”

  “Out you go. Joanna? Muncie? Stick with him.”

  Phineas brushed past him, then the softer form of Joanna, out into the window night.

  Then he felt the sharp prod of a rifle muzzle against the back of his neck. . . .

  “Don’t try anything this time, or you won’t have a head left for Ron to blow off,” Muncie told him. She spoke in a tone of nervous strain. “You’re not going to burn my house down.”

  “If I don’t, lots of people may die. Don’t try to stop me,” he said.

  “Get out that door,” she ordered.

  “I’m not going. I can’t.” He turned slowly, careful not to startle her, and felt the muzzle slide from his neck. The room wasn’t totally dark; starlight layered shadow on shadow. He couldn’t see the gun, but he could make out the vague lines of Muncie’s body. He listened to the noises outside for a second, heard nothing to indicate that the others had run into trouble, was thankful for that, at least. He told Muncie, “I’m going to fire this place. You’ll have to kill me to stop it.”

  “No!”

  He walked past her, unpleasantly aware that she kept her rifle trained on him.

  “Come back!” she demanded.

  He ignored her, striding into the living room'. She followed him. “I’m warning you,” she said. He heard her throw the bolt of her rifle.

  The lights remained on in the living room; he got a good look at her and felt a fleeting touch of remorse. She trembled and tears dripped down her cheeks. Her eyes were begging him, but he knew what he had to do. “Now’s your best chance to get out of here like the others,” he told her. “When the fire starts, everything’s going to blow sky-high.”

  He turned to the fireplace, chose a flaming stick, and went over to the window drapes and set them on fire.

  Muncie screamed with rage, and he heard the Weatherby’s report. Its roar seemed to shake the walls; its slug whiffed by his ear and out a window.

  “You little idiot!” He grabbed the rifle from her shaking hands. Flames clawed hungrily up the drapes and licked across the ceiling. Smoke was filling the room.

  “Listen!” she told him, eyes wide.

  From outside came shouts, mingling with the noise of the wind. He couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t sound good. Everything would have to be done faster now, with less chance of success. There were two oil-filled hurricane lamps; without further word, he took one and smashed it against the floor. He lit the kerosene with another flaming brand and fire reared up, bolting right and left. All of a sudden the hot smoke was suffocating.

  Still holding the rifle, he clutched the other lamp and yelled to Muncie over the sizzle and snap of the spreading flames. “Slip into the woods. Head for the airstrip. I’ll see you there.”

  “What are you going to do?” she shouted.

  “I have to make sure the lab is burned.” He headed out of the flaming room. Smoke swirled; his eyes and lungs stung. He heard Muncie’s cough behind him.

  Then a door flew open and a man burst through, toting a short, Soviet-made PPS submachine gun. Durell recognized the Cuban insignia on his beret. Without time to aim the Weatherby, Durell speared the muzzle into the man’s gut. He doubled over, and Durell’s knee caught him flush in the face. He heard the crunch of bone. The Cuban looped over onto his back.

  “Sam. . . !” Muncie reached for him, as if to pull him back into the living room.

  He thrust the rifle into her hands, startling her. She looked quickly at it, then back to him, seemingly wondering how he could trust her with it.

  “You can’t stop what’s happening now,” he snapped. “Get the hell out!”

  She ran for the kitchen.

  The last he saw, she was enveloped in smoke. He hoped she made it.

  He got to the lab with the other lamp, took a quick peek through the door window. The major lay on the floor near his assailant, whether conscious or unconscious, dead or alive, he couldn’t tell. Durell looked away, collected himself, twisted the wick mechanism out of the lamp’s base, and poured kerosene over the door, then in the rooms that adjoined the lab. When the glass was empty, he struck a match and set fire racing through the rooms.

  With his pistol in hand, he fled outside through the nearest door, keeping low, darting for the jungle. Someone flitted across his path, apparently without seeing him. It wasn’t anyone from the house. Gunfire mixed with the roar of the flames and wind. He didn’t know whether they were shooting at him or blindly into the building. He couldn’t see where the shots came from.

  Everything was in wavering fire colors that glowed against stone and foliage.

  A machine gun stuttered; slugs wailed.

  He felt sudden fear for Muncie and the others. Maybe they were the targets.

  There came a whoosh! as something exploded, probably a container of laboratory gas. The jungle wall went bright; he felt heat on the back of his neck, heard a scream. Then he was among the trees, where he dropped onto his knees and fought for breath. For a moment he felt sick at what he’d had to do, sick and weary and disgusted, but he came out of it. What he’d done may have saved the lives of countless others. Maj. Miller had known the stakes when he went into the lab.

  He held the .38 loosely, watching through the trees. No one had come into the bushes after him. Fire billowed out windows from one end of the house to the other, from eaves and the roof. The glow of the flames reflected on an enormous column of smoke and blowing cinders.

  Three men ran toward the house—more Cubans. One waited on guard as the other two rushed into a smoking doorway. Were they going to try to pull out the contents of the lab? If they did, it would be the end of them. Durell wondered if the Russians were here, or had left the dirty work entirely to the Cubans.

  He judged they’d gotten wind of Plettner’s disappearance and had drawn the same conclusion as the Americans—namely, that it made him suspect number one for what had happened aboard the Sun Rover. And that the newly created agent he’d used, or clues to its nature, could be found in his lab.

  With the lab destroyed and Plettner still missing, they’d try to squeeze the secret out of Muncie—if they could.

  Now it was urgent not only to find and stop Plettner, but to keep his wife out of Soviet hands.

  For starters, he’d have to get her safely off the island.

  “Mr. Durell?”

  He gave a start, nerves popping like elastic.

  It was Phineas.

  He looked beyond the handyman, saw none of the others. ‘‘What are you doing here?”

  The young black man spoke in a West Indian singsong. “I came back for Mrs. Muncie. Don’t worry about Joanna; she’s a long way off—”

  “Durso and Tina; did they get away?”

  ‘‘I didn’t see them after I left the house
.” Phineas took a frightened breath. ‘‘Mr. Durell, these people got Mrs. Muncie!” “Oh, no,” Durell groaned. The way things had gone so far, it figured.

  “What can we do?” Phineas said. “We can’t go away and leave her.”

  “You’re right. There’s only one thing to do,” Durell said. He got up, brushing his knees. “Let’s get her back.”

  Chapter 8

  “I saw them grab her,” Phineas said. “I was coming back for her. They hauled her into the bushes around by the garage.”

  Durell wondered when anything would go right. “Let’s have a look,” he said. “Stay close to me and keep low.” He began working his way further into the shadows, pushing with outstretched arms through the thick foliage. If he didn’t pick up Muncie’s trail right away, he would head for the beach, he decided. The Cubans must have landed on the lee side of the island in order to avoid the combers that swept the eastern beaches. He remembered the rocky overlook from which Muncie had taken potshots at him. It offered the best vantage for scanning the shore.

  Trees hissed and sent up orange banners of steam as they baked in the heat from the burning dwelling. Durell and Phineas beat their way through the clutching growth, following a curved line that would take them by the corner of the garage, where Durell hoped to pick up Muncie’s trail.

  The firelight flickered through the basketry of tree limbs, playing tricks on him. Every sense was raw with expectancy, alert to the wrong movement of a shadow, a noise that didn’t fit . . . anything. . . .

  He had no idea how many Cubans were here, or just where any of them were.

  Any moment could bring an encounter.

  He had to wonder how long he could evade the bulk of them if they chose to hunt him down on this postage-stamp-size hunk of rock.

  Anything less than all night wouldn’t do.

  He was near the garage now. “Show me where you saw her,” he told Phineas.

  “About there.” The man pointed a lanky arm.

  Durell pushed his way to the spot, looked this way and that. “It’s useless to try to pick out their trail in this light,” he said.