Assignment- Death Ship

by Will B Aarons

  Twilight had come.

  He tried to speak. His throat was dry, his lips puffed and cracked.

  As his senses returned, he was grateful that he’d survived the day.

  He didn’t see how he could live through another like it.

  Even in his condition he could take cunning pleasure in one thought: the memory of the bar he’d loosened that morning. Tonight he’d be free.

  They dragged him down the stone stairs and threw him into the cell, leaving without having spoken.

  Durell just lay on the floor without moving, relishing the cool air he breathed. He ran his tongue around his lips. They felt like wads of tissue paper. He couldn’t summon .enough saliva to swallow—the oven where he’d spent the day had baked him dry.

  “Durellji?”

  Durell turned his head without lifting it from the floor. “I’m back, Gupta,” he croaked.

  “It is the end for me, Durellji. I can’t move.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Don’t be sad for me. Death is peace. But if I could have a taste of water . . .? The pain is in my kidneys.”

  The sun had vanished and the only light was indirect, from illumination beyond the door and window. Durell sensed that his strength was slowly reviving. He knew Caske wouldn’t supply them with water, but he still had a chance to save Gupta as well as himself. He pulled himself up the wall and made his way to the barred window of the cell. The night was a star-filled purple hanging over the black shapes of wall and jungle.

  He gripped the bar he’d worked loose that morning and got a bitter surprise. A half-inch-wide strip of steel had been welded across the bars so that they had to be removed all at once or not at all—an impossible task.

  He slumped down, wondering what he would say to Gupta. “Just keep hoping, Gupta,” he said. “Gupta?”

  There was no reply.

  Durell found him in the dark. He was unconscious, his pulse weak.

  Durell threw himself at the door. “Water!” he shouted through the peephole. “A man’s dying down here. Water, damn you!”

  No one responded.

  Some time later he heard footsteps coming down the stairs and saw the cell door swing open. Caske was speaking to Muncie in a most courteous way. “I hope you had a pleasant day. I regret that you must return here, but perhaps that won’t be for long. When you see the error of your ways, my dear, ask anything, and it shall be yours.”

  Light from the opening fell across Durell. “You’re looking the worse for wear—you must be dreading tomorrow. After all, how many times can one cook the same goose?” Caske said with a malicious laugh. He added soberly, “Mrs. Plettner can spare you that. Why don’t you speak with her about it?”

  The door clanged shut. “Until tomorrow,” Caske called.

  Durell spoke through the gloom. “You okay?”

  “They didn’t touch me. You sound awful.”

  “Dehydrated. I cooked in a metal box all day.”

  “Sam, it’s my fault!” She sat beside him.

  “Why?”

  “If I give in and assist Peter in the lab, he’ll let up on you.”

  “Don’t do it,” he said, his jaw set stubbornly.

  “You don’t understand. He’s working on my—”

  “What?”

  “He must know . . . I care for you.”

  Durell said nothing.

  “Know what I did today? I swam in the lily pond, while you were being cooked to death!”

  “You didn’t know. Besides, enjoy whatever you get. Just don’t give in,” Durell growled.

  “I saw Tina. We got to talk a little. I feel sorry for her now,” Muncie said. “I guess I never realized how much she loved him.”

  “Did she tell you that?” he asked in surprise. “When she saw him last night, she acted as if she couldn’t have cared less.”

  “She’s just keeping her distance so Caske will trust her with him—it’s the only way she could have gotten to see him at all,” Muncie said. “She says Peter’s deeply depressed, and she doesn’t think he’ll go through with helping Caske manufacture the bacteria.”

  Durell’s throat ached dryly. “Maybe she doesn’t know she’s the reason he will do it. Caske’s told him she’ll be the one to pay if he doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Oh, no!” Muncie gasped.

  “Plettner’s in a no-win situation as a man in love, and he’s in a no-win situation as a scientist of conscience,” Durell said.

  “Then he really loves her. I’m glad. I’m finally free.” She almost seemed to be speaking to herself.

  Durell said, “If you see her tomorrow, tell her where they’re keeping me. It’s right out in the open—maybe . . .” He shook his head. “There isn’t much hope. I’m only there during daylight, and people are sure to be nearby. But tell her the door’s held shut by a hasp; just has a spike through it, no lock.”

  “I’ll tell her, Sam.” Muncie was solemn. “Is there no other hope?"

  Durell gave an unhappy sigh. “There’s always hope—the Russians, for one.”

  “My God, I’d forgotten about them! Do you think they still—”

  “More than ever,” he said. “They’ll be frantic, and they won’t spare any effort to find our trail. The way they see it, we may get a flying head start on a whole new generation of biological weapons. If we have it, they’ve got to. That’s their philosophy in a nutshell.”

  “Not so different from ours, when you think about it, is it?” she said. He felt her hand on his cheek. “I didn’t mean to be glib. ...” She looked up at him, her face a faint glow in the dark. “Please tell me when you can’t take the punishment anymore, Sam.”

  He took her hand in his. “Fair enough—but if you don’t hear from me, you’re to stick by your refusal to help them. Clear?”

  “Even if it means—the worst?”

  “The worst would be for Caske to get what he’s after,” he replied.

  They sat close to each other for a long while.

  Frogs chirped in the trees and bellowed down by the river. Ships’ horns called across the waters of the Hooghly.

  Slowly, through the pain and darkness, Durell became aware of the magnetism of Muncie’s body beneath the flimsy fabric of her clothing. The scent of her clean hair and skin was tantalizing, and he sensed the aura of her desire as surely as if it flickered in a fire visible to the eye. Then, out of the darkness, her mouth touched his, and they kissed. Her mouth was wet and sweet as an orange.

  Wordlessly, he crushed her against the floor. . . .

  Chapter 24

  The next morning Gupta was dead, the final result of Luis Alegra's savage beating.

  No one troubled to remove the body when they came for Muncie.

  Her bitter, dusky eyes didn’t part with Durell’s until they slammed the door behind her.

  Still no water or food for him, though he didn’t notice the hunger, only the raging thirst.

  He sat against the rough stone wall and stared dumbly at Gupta’s body as dizziness played across his mind. His task, he told himself, was to outlive the day. One more day. . . .

  He saw his hands where they hung limply between his knees. They didn’t feel like his hands—not that they were numb, because they did have feeling. But his senses were becoming disjointed, and what he felt was not necessarily what he saw.

  He worked this over in his mind, slowly.

  He tried to forget thirst.

  “Durell! On your feet!”

  Dimly, he regarded the three men filling the open doorway, confused that they had managed to open the door without his being aware of it. Caske was there, as usual, with Alegra and one other, an Indian henchman.

  Without hinting at the resolve that at that moment crystallized in his mind, he steeled himself. It wasn’t much of a chance, he thought, but it might be the only one he’d get. . . .

  He hurled himself from the floor and lurched across the room, arms outstretched for Alegra and the black Uzi he carried, a
snarl on the bursting skin of his bleeding lips.

  He caught them by surprise.

  There was a tangle of arms, knees, and flailing fists as he groped for Alegra’s throat amid cries and curses. Then the Indian was swinging on one of his arms, and he saw the barrel of the Uzi coming down on him. He dodged and it missed his head, cracking into his shoulder and numbing it. He reeled back as another blow caught him in the ribs, and then they were all over him as he sank to his knees.

  “Enough!” Caske roared. "I don’t want to lose him yet. Bring him out.”

  They put him in the box.

  For hours the heat consumed him, but the light coming beneath the door told him it still was only midday. The worst hours lay ahead—one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock. It would be five before the torment lessened appreciably. He clenched his teeth and his head drooped down from hunched shoulders. There was nowhere to lean without getting burned by the metal walls. He forced each thick, steaming breath of scalding air down his throat and into his parched lungs. Sweat oozed, sucking his body dry. . . .

  He thought he’d gag on his swollen tongue.

  He’d never feared death, but he hadn’t spent much time thinking about it either. For the first time since arriving here, the black reality of his death leered at him. . . .

  His only defense seemed to be to stay alert, but he had to fight to keep from blacking out.

  He yanked himself awake.

  Like a drowning man, he struggled up again.

  When he started going under once more, he thought that he may have been weakened too much to fight off the end for a third time. . . .

  A tremendous explosion rocked the earth, jolting him wide-eyed. He heard the rattle of debris falling onto the tin roof over him.

  There were screams, shouts, the confused sound of people running.

  Someone was removing the spike that held the door closed, and he scrambled out, strengthened by new hope.

  “Mr. Durell?”

  The door opened, and Durell blinked unbelievingly. “Tina!”

  In the background he saw Caske’s men milling in confusion. Many were injured; others were trying to organize a fire brigade. Dense smoke laden with the searing fumes of burning chemicals swirled through the courtyard. Fire was spreading through the wing of the palace that Durell remembered was over the cell where he’d been held prisoner. He took it all in instantly. Then Tina. Her pretty face was a white mask, her eyes rimmed with red. There was a bum slash on her left arm and a rose of dark blood matted in her copper hair.

  She thrust a quart bottle into his hands. “It’s a bomb, Mr. Durell. Peter said to give it to you—you’d know what to do.” Her voice caught with a sob, but she controlled it. “Peter blew himself up!” she added.

  So Dr. Peter Plettner had found a solution after all, Durell thought. By killing himself, he’d killed the secret of X. coli.

  There came another explosion and more screams. Chunks of stone and plaster smashed into the courtyard as shrieking birds fluttered away in the jungle.

  “Where’s Caske?” Durell asked.

  “I saw him take Muncie into the basement. He’s probably scared she’ll get loose in the confusion. Don’t let him get away, Mr. Durell!”

  He was moving before she’d finished talking, his eyes fixed on the door. His legs moved sluggishly, and he had the hellish feeling of being mired in a dream, but he wouldn’t be denied. At least no one paid him any heed in the flaming bedlam.

  Only the bomb in his hand gave him any hope of an advantage—he knew he wouldn’t survive a hand-to-hand struggle, and he had no other weapon. His coordination was gone for the time being.

  He came to the doorway and rested a second against the frame. The flames in the palace made a windy roar. Tine waited behind him. He took a breath and went in, stumbling on the stairs but catching himself. Cautiously he descended, recognizing with distaste the odors of the dungeon.

  Then he saw Caske, and Caske saw him. Alegra was there, too, and both were armed.

  As in Geneva, Caske had the dangerous look of a wounded beast. Durell took in the gun and the ugly snarl and knew the next thing would be a shot. . . .

  Without thinking he threw the bottle and flattened himself back inside the stairwell. Nearly simultaneously he heard Caske fire once.

  There was a blinding flash that sucked the air from his lungs, and he felt a crushing force that was beyond sound, beyond comprehending.

  His ears rang, and dust filled his nose. He couldn’t see.

  He coughed as fumes stung his nose and throat, burning his eyes. He called Tina, barely able to hear himself, then saw her legs through the smoke. She lay on the stairs, unmoving.

  “Sam?” The voice came muffled by the cell door. “Is that you?”

  It was Muncie. “I’ll get you out,” he yelled. The ancient palm-trunk roof beams were afire. He went down and found what was left of Bernhard Caske and Luis Alegra. There was nothing recognizable, only a mass of shredded meat and guts with the clothing burned off and the heads and extremities blasted away. An iron ring with the cell key hung from a nail in the wall. He grabbed it and let Muncie out. Gupta’s body still lay on the floor in there. He’d just have to leave it.

  Muncie rushed into his arms, coughs racking her body.

  “Help me with Tina,” he said. “This place is going.” “Oh, my God!” She covered her mouth in horror.

  “Just step over it and don’t look,” he said, hustling her past the mutilated remains.

  With Muncie’s help, he got Tina up the stairs and safely out of the building. His head swam, but he didn’t pass out.

  Caske’s launch was still tied up on mossy pilings beside the ghat stairs leading down the riverbank. On the bottom step Durell knelt, shaking, smelling the filth of Calcutta in a river that was also a burying ground, then he gleefully dunked his face and drank.

  Life revived in him like an unfolding flower.

  “Who’s that?” Muncie asked, pointing.

  He raised his eyes and saw a freighter, anchored hundreds of yards away, launch a whaleboat loaded with men. Flying from the stem of the ship was the red merchant ensign of the USSR. He rose unsteadily to his feet. “Help me get Tina into the boat. It’s the Russians.” He cursed under his breath.

  Tina was limp, an awkward burden.

  He could hear the puttering sound of the whaleboat’s engine from far across the water.

  The fire still raged.

  Tina slid woozily over the gunwale and dropped inside Caske’s launch.

  “Stay where you are, pashalta!" a Russian shouted through a bullhorn. By then Durell had Muncie over the side. Throwing loose the mooring lines, he started the engine.

  “Halt, or you will be shot!”

  A submachine gun stuttered, and half a dozen rounds sang overhead, clipping leaves from branches.

  Durell gave it the gas, spinning the wheel. The fast launch reared like a horse and bolted from the shallows into the broad expanse of midriver. He saw guns sighted on him, but the noise of their firing was drowned out in the roar of his engine.

  A picket of white spouts crossed his wake, then he was safely out of range.

  A final glimpse over his shoulder showed smoke rising above the tropical riverbank, the anchored freighter, and other ships plodding along in the wilting heat. The whaleboat’s bow was in his wake, but was falling further and further behind.

  Muncie sat close, her hair trailing in windblown ribbons, and they raced toward freedom. . . .

  Durell spent the afternoon submitting a preliminary report through the communications center in the U.S. Consulate on Harrington Street. He learned from Washington that Caske had been on the verge of losing his company to creditors when Plettner vanished. Without the star scientist, Caske’s back had been forced to the wall.

  Finished with business,a good meal buoying them, Durell and Muncie visited Tina, who’d been hospitalized for observation and rest. Her injuries weren’t serious.

  “Th
e real hurt was to something they can’t bandage,” Tina told them. “I . . . I’m sorry for the pain I caused you, but I couldn’t help myself . . . and I guess Peter couldn’t either.” She touched Muncie’s hand.

  Muncie’s smile was bitter. “I’m sorry, too.” That was all she said about it.

  “I had no idea he’d take his own life.” Tina sobbed. She turned to Durell. “Muncie told me where you were, that you’d said you’d help us get loose if there was a way. Peter brought out the bomb, like he’d just been waiting for a chance. He told me to take it to you, and you’d know what to do. After I left, there was this explosion, and I looked back . . . and it was the lab.” With pleading eyes, she said, “I feel it made him a hero, don’t you?”

  “He sacrificed himself,” Durell said.

  “I never even knew what it was all about,” Tina said.

  “People get caught in the middle,” he told her, remembering another young woman under hospital sheets. Tina was more fortunate than Nydia Duka, whose mind had crumbled under the weight of self-imposed guilt and the horrible memories she’d brought from the Sun Rover. Word today had been that she’d gone hopelessly insane.

  He drew a long sigh. “It’s all over now. It’s hard, but you’ve got to believe you can go on.”

  “Yes,” she said. She turned to Muncie. “Do you think we could help each other?”

  Muncie considered it. “Check with me in San Juan in about a week, and I’ll let you know.” She wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to her. Her expression said she might take Tina up on the suggestion.

  Then she and Durell left the hospital and were chauffeured away in a consulate limousine.

  “So you’ll return to San Juan?” Durell said.

  “And hopefully my island, when it’s safe.”

  He said nothing for a long moment as they wove through teeming streets headed for Dum Dum airport. Then, “The days’s still young. We could catch a Fokker and be in Darjeeling in a few hours. I know a lodge with a view of the sunrise against Kanchenjunga—Everest is only eight hundred feet higher. Let’s save our goodbyes for the sunrise. Will you?”

  She regarded him warmly. “Of course, dear Sam—” she gave him a peck on the nose, her sultry eyes close to his— “but don’t think you’re getting away when the sun comes up. Why do you suppose I told Tina not to look me up for a week?”