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DEATHLIGHT
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I stripped the mask back from my face and let
the mouthpiece for my air tank fall to my chest,
crouching there in the rolling, ice-cold surf, peering
into the darkness beyond the craggy rocks forming
an almost natural wall along the coastline. Involun-
tarily, the corners of my mouth raised in a smile.
Wall or not, I thought, I had to penetrate—above
it, around it, or through it if necessary. I ripped
open the waterproof pack strapped to my chest and
in the darkness found the reassuring shape of the
Interdynamics KG-9, sealed in plastic along with
its primary thirty-two round magazine. I rammed
the magazine up the well and pulled back the bolt
handle on the left side of the receiver, the first fin-
ger of my right hand edged along the side of the
trigger guard, ready to squeeze back the trigger,
sending the bolt flying forward to strip the first
115-grain gilding metal-jacketted, hollow-point
round. The KG-9, black and spacegun-looking
with its ventillated handguard, was a semi-auto-
matic 9mm, like Wilhelmina, my Luger, strapped
under my wetsuit in the shoulder rig beneath my
left arm.
I rose from the water, still moving in a low
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NICK CARTER
crouch through the surf, glancing skyward for a
moment. I could see the almost luminous clouds,
scudding on the brisk northwesterly wind from a
collision course with the full moon. In a moment or
so, the moon would be wholly visible and the water
and the rocky beach would be as brilliantly lit as in
daylight. Ironic, I thought. It was a hell of a night
•for a commando raid.
I edged laterally through the foaming surf, stop-
ping again and stripping the webbed fins from my
feet. I secured them to the weight belt around my
waist and kept moving, slipping forward now as
another line of rocks flanked me on the right. I
rolled back the cuff of the wetsuit from my left
wrist to better see the luminous dial of my
wristwatch—it read one minute before midnight
and by now I should have seen the recognition sig-
nal from the rocks beyond the beach. My trigger
finger twitched, and under the cowling of the
wetsuit's head piece I could feel the small hairs on
the back of my neck starting to hackle. Over all the
years of clandestine missions, I'd never really de-
termined whether there was an actual "sixth sense"
that alerted you to danger, or whether somehow
subtle clues from the conventional five senses pro-
duced the so-called sixth sense sensation. No mat-
ter. What I did Was not to ignore it.
On impulse, I dropped into the water, my mouth
just above the shallow advancing and retreating
surf. The KG-9 was half in the water, but the
muzzle up and clear. There was a movement
beyond the wall of rocks, a darker shadow against
the darkness of the night. Suddenly the beach and
the surf were lit by the brightness of the full moon
overhead. The shadow now had features, clearly
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defined. Slender, tall, carrying some type of sub-
machine gun, and then the shadow was gone, into
the rocks.
Glancing back over my left shoulder, the temp-
tation was there to pull down the mask and once
again clamp the air tank mouthpiece against my
lips and start the return swim—to hell with the mis-
sion. But the submarine was a long way off; my
muscles and joints still ached from the exertion. . .
An involuntary shudder had raced up my spine,
but I'd told myself it was just the frigid tem-
perature, the shock of watching the torpedo tube
fill with the icy seawater, then what had seemed
like an interminable wait as the forward torpedo
hatch opened and I swam free. On my right wrist
was strapped a relatively sophisticated self-level-
ling compass lit by electronic diodes, similar to
those used in watches and calculators. Activating
the diodes, I found my co-ordinates, orienting my-
self and then starting toward the landing area,
roughly moving southeasterly. Despite the still-ex-
perimental insulated wetsuit , the arctic waters were
beginning to numb me as the already indefinitely
shaped shadow of the U.S.S. Liberty became ever
more vague in thé distance.
As I tried to see ahead through the dark, surpris-
ingly calm waters, I had the uneasy feeling that the
cleaning and oiling I'd given Wilhelmina hours
earlier while aboard the nuclear submarine
wouldn't last too long. The interior diameter of the
barrel would be fouled with powder residue, the
muzzle smudged and the carefully loaded eight
round magazines emptied before the night was out.
I'd been in West Germany, Hawk's assignment a
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NICK CARTER
relatively straightforward detection job—locate,
identify, then secure the arrest or arrange the liqui-
dation of the new and deathly efficient head Of the
Executive Action Section for the KGB. The Ex-
ecutive Action Section had been referred to by
many names over the years, and indeed the names
had changed as had the enigmatic initials Of the
parent agency since its inception shortly following
the Russian Revolution. The current designation,
the KGB, translated to Committee for State Secur-
ity, performing a combination of functions most
closely paralelling a combination of the CIA, the
FBI and my own employer, AXE, but with a grisly
twist. Unlike the agencies of a democracy, KGB
was also the Secret Police and murder in the middle
of the night for political or social reasons, mys-
terious disappearances to slave camps—all this and
more were its hallmark.
The new head of the Executive Action Section
had brought an almost terrifyingly creative zeal to
the job. For Hawk to have pulled me away from
the search for the one we called by the Code Name
"Undertaker" had in itself spelled something un-
imagineably grave—and indeed it had been.
I surfaced for a moment, scanning the horizon in
the direction my compass was pointing me and
could barely discern a faint, ragged line that would
be the shore. I ducked under the choppy surface
waters again and levelled off in the calmer waters
below, perhaps twenty feet down. I was pacing my
swim as best I could, my breathing already becom-
ing labored with as much as a mile to go before I
could rest.
Hawk had relayed my instructions in an unusual
way. Reinhart Gruen of West German Intelligence ,
assigned to duty with the NATO staff, had gotten
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me an Eyes Only message to report to the U.S.S.
Liberty where it was docked at Bremerhaven,
further instructions awaiting me there. Once
aboard, the captain, Commander Luther Breath-
waite, had handed me a sealed Manila envelope.
Inside had been the details of the emergency as-
signment.
Naval Intelligence had learned that battalions of
Soviet technicians had been working round the
clock on special conversions of three of the Soviet
Navy's top-of-the-line nuclear submarines. The
work was being done under the tightest security at
their submarine pens at Archangel, the purpose ap-
parently the installation of a new and top secret
weapons system. And because the Russians at-
tached so much importance to the operation, it was
obvious that Western Intelligence sources had to as
well. The nature of the modifications to the three
submarines and the nature of the weapons system
itself were the reason for the recall from my earlier
assignment and the reason, as once more I sur-
faced, for the swim. The coastline was still perhaps
fifty yards away. I checked my watch. On schedule,
the face reading two minutes to midnight. .
I checked the face of the watch again now—mid-
night. Pushing myself up in the surf, the KG-9 as-
sault pistol in my right hand like an ordinary hand-
gun, I started in a dead run up through the water,
hugging against the rocky outcroppings flanking
me along the right, then flattening myself against
the edge of the wall of rocks and waiting, hardly
daring to breathe, listening for the slightest sound.
Nothing.
The moon was starting to become obscured
again, clouds passing in front of its face, lending
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NICK CARTER
the sky behind them a grayish glow that permeated
the land and seascape below. The overall im-
pression didn't calm my growing case of nerves. As
the shoreline once again fell into total darkness, I
thought I spotted a movement in the rocks. I eased
forward, dropping to my hands and knees, moving
more slowly than I normally would have because
of the cumbersome air tank and the rest of my
equipment. Edging around the corner Of the rock
wall and up onto a large smooth outcropping—ap-
parently worn that way by years of tides and
storms—I waited again, listening. Still there was no
sound.
If the figure beyond the rocks was my contact
there should have been a signal—a light flashed
twice, then twice again. There had been no signal.
The figure was either some innocent person stroll-
ing the beach who'd happened to spot me or a So-
viet security guard. Considering the hour and the
temperature, I had serious doubts someone had
just been out for a good brisk walk. That left the
other alternative. If indeed my contact were still
out there in the darkness, he was lying low, or had
been discovered by the Soviets and was dead or ar-
rested. In either case, that was bad news for me.
Regardless, I had to penetrate the Soviet sub base
tonight.
I pushed myself up off the flat rock surface and
edged slightly forward, dropping down behind the
rocks, some six feet or so onto the sand. Flattening
myself against the rock, again I waited. Still no
sound. Reorienting, the figure I'd seen moments
earlier had to be to my immediate left. I started
moving, slowly, as silently as I could, at a sharp
right angle to the target position.
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The rocks strewn about the beach area made
straight line movement impossible, but keeping the
target in mind, I moved as best I could to get in
position to approach the figure from behind. I was
convinced now that my contact had problems—
likely the permanent kind. That would mean pene-
trating the base without the Soviet Naval Officer's
uniform and identification. The likelihood of suc-
cess would be even lower than it had been from the
start.
I moved, then froze. There had been a sound, far
off to my left, the sound of fabric rubbing against
fabric——someone moving, their trouser legs rub-
bing together. I flattened myself in the sand, the
KG-9 in my right fist.
There was a shadow moving across the rocks,
the outline of a submachine gun clear in the right
hand, the dark line of a sling extending outward at
an angle from the body. The shadow stopped, turn-
ing toward me. Pushing myself up to my feet, I ran,
then leaped forward, my right shoulder impacting
against the figure, my right hand clawing for the
throat, the two of us rolling back against the
leeward side of the rock wall, then falling into the
sand. My left hand was braced on the barrel of the
subgun, pushing the muzzle away from my body
plane, Jny right hand still struggling for a death
grip on my opponent's Adam's apple.
The subgunner rolled on top of me, the face near
mine. Perfume? On impulse, I loosed the barrel of
the subgun and hauled my left fist into a cross body
shot, connecting with the right side of the shadowy
figure's jaw. The subgunner went limp on top of
me and I rolled the body off my own, then got to
my knees, turning the unconscious body face up
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NICK CARTER
and ripping away the dark knit ski toque.
The face underneath it, the eyelids closed but
fluttering as I watched, was a woman's. Even in the
scant light I could see the fine cut of the features.
Her eyes opened then, wide, and I covered her
mouth with my left hand, the muzzle of the KG-9
just under her left eye and beside the bridge of her
nose. In Russian, I rasped, "One sound and this—
understand?"
She nodded, and I eased the pressure of my
hand, keeping it against the neck to crush her
windpipe if she did try to scream—the last thing I
wanted was a shot. "Who are you—dressed that
way?" she asked in Russian.
"Who are you," I countered, "dressed this
way?" and for a moment I moved my hand from
her throat and picked up the subgun she'd dropped
to the sand when I'd hit her.
"Where's your flashlight?" I cut her off.
She looked at me a moment, and I could barely
discern a slightly different set to her eyes.
"1
dropped it. .
back there among the rocks. The
lens and the bulb broke—there was no spare bulb."
"What were you planning to do with the
flashlight?" I asked.
She said nothing, then I pressed the muzzle of
the 9mm assault pistol harder against the bridge of
her nose, and she whispered, her voice choked not
with fear, but something else indefinable, "Two
flashes, then pause, then two flashes."
I eased back the muzzle of the KG-9-—if she was
acting, she was too good for me. "Nick Carter," I
said, smiling, not knowing if she could even see my
face in the dark. "I'm sorry about the sock on the
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DEATHLIGHT
jaw," I added in English.
In the semi-darkness, I could see the whiteness of
her teeth and the outline of a smile. "l am Alicia
Yopinskiya. "
"I was supposed to meet a man named Alex-
ander," I told her.
' 'My' father—he was stricken with pneumonia
and could not come. I convinced him I could come
in his place. When the light broke and I saw your
figure on the beach, I was afraid you were Russian
—and one of them."
"KGB?" 1 asked.
"Yes," she said, her voice trailing off, then re-
gaining its vitality. She explained, "I have the uni-
form and identification papers in the rocks, and the
car is parked a kilometer back in the trees. Why do
you need these things—my father did not tell me?"
"He couldn't," I whispered. "We didn't tell him.
The subpens at Archangel—there's work being
done there we must learn about immediately—can
you help me get there? Once we're at thé main
gates, I'll do the rest."
"You cannot," she said, her voice now sounding
frightened. "The security there—you cannot. Just a
uniform and identity papers will not help you to
make it inside. It is impossible, it cannot be done."
"Let's hope it can," I rasped, starting up from
my knees and then, still in a crouch as I handed the
subgun back to her, saying, "Come on—I want to
get out of this wetsuit." I started to move, then
turned and looked at her, now resting back on the
palms of her hands in the sand, legs spread wide
apart. Despite the clothes she wore and the situ-
ation, the set of her body was as provocative look-
ing as a nude. "Can you use that gun?" I asked.
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NICK CARTER
"When I have to—not all Russians like the
Communists. There are many of us who can use
guns if we are ever given the chance." There was a
note of finality in her voice and I said nothing else,
waiting then, watching her get to her feet. She
started running back along the perimeter Of the
rocks. I ran behind her.
I'd changed, despite the freezing temperatures,
and was finally starting to warm a little as the stand
of trees came in sight and the girl gestured toward
it, saying, "The car is there. " I had to commend the
Soviet military establishment, I thought. They pro-
vided warm uniforms. The heavy wool trousers
and jacket beneath the mid-calf length dark blue,
double-breasted greatcoat were finally starting to
do their work, the ear-flapped chopka with its
Naval insignia even serving to warm my head, de-
spite the still damp hair.
She'd watched as I changed, unabashedly,
even staring, but had said nothing. The clouds had
shifted again, the moonlight making the rocky
beach area as bright as day. I had even seen her
eyes; I thought they were blue. Afterward, we'd
started walking, and as we did I'd consumed a
sandwich she'd brought for me—spicy sausage on
dark bread with something akin to horseradish
flavoring it. This and two swigs from a small bottle
of Stolichnaya had served to warm my insides.
The car was a seen-better-days Moscva, with
military insignia and military identification tags. I
realized then, suddenly, that I hadn't taken the
time in the cold to check my ' 'rank," at least ac-
cording to the expropriated uniform. I was the
equivalent of a commander. No wonder the tiny
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hammer and sickle flags on the fenders of the car,
I said to myself.
"Where's the driver?" I asked Alicia.
"My father could not get a driver," she told me.
"There were no young men we could trust. I am
your driver. "
I put my left hand against her forearm, then
spun her around on her heel. The moon was still
bright, and I could see the angry look in her eyes.
They were definitely blue. "Why a woman driver?
That shouldn't be right."
"l will not be a woman driver—you must help
me when we get into the car," and she ran the fin-
gers of her left hand through her hair and for the
first time I noticed how short the hair was. "I did
this for the mission," she said.
I let go of her arm, wondering how long the hair
had been before she'd cut it. We walked in silence
the rest of the way into the trees and to the car,
then stopped as she opened the door and we
climbed inside—both in the back seat. Almost im-
mediately, she started to unbutton the heavy
sailor's coat she wore, then stripped the turtleneck
sweater over her head. She was naked underneath.
"Here," she said, handing me a roll of heavy
elastic bandage.
I looked at it a moment, then she added, "You
must help me wrap this around my chest to help
hide the fact I am a woman. Hurry, it is cold!"
Shaking my head, catching a fast glance at the
watch and realizing the time was running away
from us, I started to wind the bandage around her,
my hands unintentionally brushing against the nip-
ples of her breasts as I did so. She half turned to-
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NICK CARTER
ward me then, but said nothing. As I secured the
bandage, she reached up with both hands and
began combing her hair, parting it at the side as a
man would. I noticed then too that she wore no
make-up.
She didn't ask me to, but I turned and looked
out the window into the darkness while she fin-
ished changing. After what seemed like too little
time, she said in English, "You may turn around
now, Mr. Carter."
I did, and what greeted me was not the lovely
young woman I had seen moments earlier, but a
young, ruddy cheeked man, perhaps aged twenty
or so. The uniform was perfect, the boots showing
beneath the hem of the greatcoat even seeming
large enough. There was a cigarette hanging from
the left side of her mouth, and only the hint of hu-
mor sparkling in her eyes revealed her sex.
"Will I pass the mustard?"
"Pass muster," I told her, feeling myself smiling.
"Yes—unless someone smells your neck."
It was odd—when she'd been naked, when I'd
helped with the bandage to conceal the shape of
her breasts and make her appear flat chested, even
when my hands had inadvertently touched her
breasts, she'd shown no emotion. But now she
blushed and turned away.
"Where do you get the perfume?" I asked her
then, really just to make small talk.
Without turning to face me, I could hear her
voice, saying, "We have smugglers in the Soviet
Union, as you do in America." Then, turning
around, the blush in her cheeks almost faded, she
said, "A woman is a woman wherever she lives, I
think—no?"
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I leaned across and kissed her, my lips touching
hers, more like a kiss between friends after a part-
ing, rather than a first kiss with a beautiful woman.
"Why did you do this?"
"l kissed you because you are so beautiful;" I
said in Russian. "If anyone looks too closely at you
—at your face—I'm afraid we've had it with the
masquerade. But if no one does, afterwards. . ."
And I let the sentence hang on the air.
There was no blush this time, but her voice had
a huskiness to it I hadn't heard before, "I would
like this, I think—Nick."
"Good," I answered in English, smiling I think,
but feeling suddenly warmer inside than I had.
"We had better go," she said.
I glanced at the face of the wristwatch again,
then stripped it from my wrist and wound it—it
was a Soviet watch, my own watch left with my wet
gear down by the beach. "Yes—we'd better go
now."
Alicia climbed over into the front seat and, in a
moment, the Moscva's engine groaned to life. In
another moment we were rolling out of the trees
and across a dark and rocky field and we slowed,
gliding onto the main road. The headlights of the
Moscva came on. ' 'What do we do when we get to
the submarine base, Nick?" she asked.
I didn't answer her for a moment, asking myself
instead why people thought up awkward questions.
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The Moscva sedan rolled to a stop, the tires
crunching over something that sounded like gravel.
The nearer of the two submachine gun armed
guards stepped from the gray-painted sentry house
doorway and up to the driver's side window. As he
saluted me , his dark eyes peered innocently enough
into the back seat, toward me, and he mechanically
asked, C' Your papers, please?" After a second's
pause, he added the words, "Comrade Com-
mander."
I returned the salute and passed across my pa-
perse—they had been prepared by our best forger
working with Soviet identity cards and military or-
ders. I was with the equivalent of Naval In-
telligence, my rank held in both the Soviet Navy
and the KGB. The special papers explaining my
reason for coming to the base at such a late hour
proclaimed that I was making a surprise security
inspection.
The sentry took the papers, read them, looked
back, to his fellow and grunted something I
couldn't catch, then looked back at the papers. The
second sentry approached, said something to the
first man, then ran quickly into the yellow-lighted
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NICK CARTER
guard house. I could see the slight shoulders of the
girl under the heavy padding of the greatcoat, shift-
ing uneasily.
I said nothing as the young sentry returned my
papers, saying to me, "I have ordered my sub-
ordinate, Comrade Commander, to contact my
Captain of The Guard. He will arrive here in a mo-
ment. "
"That is excellent. No one else is to know—least
of all the base commander, Admiral Kasznikovski.
This is for the benefit of all—you understand." It
was a statement, not a question, but the young sen-
try nodded and saluted again just the same. "Yes,
Comrade Commander."
We waited then, the engine idling, the heater
warming us. Intentionally, I checked the face of the
expensive Soviet wristwatch. I'd used the make be-
fore and for reliability and accuracy would have
traded it for a much-abused Timex. Nervously, I
wound the stem, drumming the fingers of my left
hand against the briefcase on my lap as I did. In-
side the case was a voluminous notebook, that was
hollowed out to hold the low frequency hand-held
radio transmitter, the KG-9 and two loaded thirty-
two round magazines and the camera with the mi-
crofilm threaded into it. The briefcase was quite
heavy, but I would have to make it appear light
when I left the car. The contents would be damning
to me if discovered.
I checked the watch again, nudging my arm
against the reassuring bulk of Wilhelmina, in the
shoulder rig under my left arm, and spotting the
Captain of The Guard coming toward us, three
others with him. The officer stopped by the young
sentry to whom I'd shown my papers, then ap-
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proached the car after a moment's conversation:
He saluted, asked for my papers, and I passed them
over the front seat to him, trying to look annoyed
rather than afraid. Alicia stared straight ahead,
trying, I supposed, to 100k nonchalant in her male
drag.
The Captain of The Guard, checked the papers,
then handed them back to me and saluted, saying
in a crude Russian, "Comrade Commander, it will
be our pleasure to assist you in your inspection."
I leaned forward, my tone confidential, saying,
"You can help me most by ignoring my entry here.
Feel free to send one of your men with me to show
me what I need to see. But other than that, you are
under express orders not to reveal my presence
here. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Comrade* Commander," the Captain of
The Guard snapped.
"Excellent,"
I •returned. "Now, instruct my
driver where we can park so I may begin."
The Captain of The Guard muttered something
to the younger officer accompanying him, and he
in' turn leaned down toward the driver's side win-
dow to give directions to Alicia. I silently hoped
she'd done something about the perfume. He
pointed toward a massive, squarish, almost pink-
colored concrete structure perhaps two hundred
yards beyond the main gate and Alicia nodded,
coughed and threw the car into gear, moving slow-
ly. The officer—apparently the one pegged to ac-
company me—followed along on foot behind us.
I bent forward, whispering to Alicia, "I'm leav-
ing you here with the car. If I don't get back, if any
shooting starts, get it in gear and try to break
through the fence—understand?"
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NICK CARTER
"I understand, Nick," she whispered, her lips
barely moving as I stared at her face in the rearview
mirror, a momentary sadness, I thought, flickering
in her eyes.
She stopped by a concrete wheel block, the nose
of the car looking from where I sat to be mere in-
ches from the wall. In a moment, as Alicia ran
from the car to get my door, the younger, lower-
ranked officer was up behind us. As I exited the
car, the man saluted and I returned it. He reached
for my briefcase, but I held it to my side, raising my
right hand in a gesture of dismissal. I turned, as
Alicia saluted, saying to her, "Corporal—wait in
the car and talk to no one—you may smoke if you
like."
She saluted and started to say something and I
coughed very loud to cover hef voice. The young
officer started toward me again, but again I waved
my hand in a gesture of dismissal.
As Alicia stood obediently beside the car, await-
ing my departure, I turned to the young officer,
clearing my throat heavily to reinforce the previous
coughing spasm and said, "You are to take me to
the Security Control Section, immediately. I wish
to pass the main construction bays as well along
the way—security there must be of the highest
caliber. It will be your function, yours alone, to get
us past any security guards—I have no time to
waste and no desire to expose my identity to any-
one beyond yourself and the other personnel from
the main gate. That is clear?" I snapped.
"Yes, Comrade Commander," he returned,
saluting again.
I left him standing there and started away from
the car. He jumped forward to walk on my left
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side, starting the guided tour of the facility—he'd
apparently done the V.I.P. junket before. Crash se-
curity inspections without notification of the base
commander are relatively routine things in many
services, especially those Of the Soviet Union and
its satellites—the KGB ranking on my papers just
further•icing on the cake. I decided the young of-
ficer was in no way suspicious—yet.
We entered the pinkish concrete building, and
once past the steel door the cacaphony of clanging,
buzzing and brazing was almost deafening. Below
us and down an overlong metal stairway was the
main "shipyard" for the submarine pens of
Archangel—one of the largest Naval installations
in the history of the world, and the most closely
guarded. Hundreds of yards in front of me,
stretched the prows of three of the new monster-
sized Vladivostok Class Submarines, nuclear pow-
ered, fast and highly maneuverable and nearly the
size of a World War Two vintage aircraft carrier.
Their appearance was so formidable that for a mo-
ment, I stopped, staring.
Covering myself, I turned to the younger man,
saying, "I see this awesome power of our
homeland's defenses and I am struck by its beauty
and the terror it must inspire in the souls of our
enemies---do you not feel this, comrade?"
"Yes, oh yes, Comrade Commander. I feel this.
They are the masters—beneath the waves I should
say."
"Yes," I added, sighing, then started forward
again.
We walked a long catwalk of steel, and I thought
overly narrow, the sub pens stretching below us,
the mass Of activity from the hundreds of techni-
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NICK CARTER
cians more reminiscent of a bird's-eye view of a
beehive rather than human activity. If there were
any malingerers, I couldn't see them, or if there
were any of the technicians who didn't seem to
know their task—it appeared from where I
watched that not a motion nor a moment was
being wasted. And I was doubly concerned now for
the weapons systems being installed with such
haste in these leviathons.
I was carrying a second camera—this built into
the handle of the briefcase—and as I held it some-
what affectedly in my left arm, as a schoolgirl
might carry her books embraced against her, I was
squeezing the glidelike brass support in the upper
left corner of the base of the briefcase, activating
the camera and running a continuous series of
postage stamp-sized shots. If I got out, these would
be developed, blown up and then pieced together
by computer analysis like a bizarre jigsaw puzzle
with some of the pieces missing. The result would
as much as possible duplicate the shipyard scene
below me now.
The doorway at the far end was already in sight
and I stepped up my pace as we neared it—my
briefcase handle camera out of film by now. As we.
stopped before the massive steel door, I turned and
said to the young officer, "Impressive-Zbut where
are the guards? There should be two men at the
entrance, as well as here. What if someone were to
penetrate the main gates? Hmmm? A saboteur
would need only a moment to hurl a bomb, would
he not? See to it!" I added, then turned toward the
door, waiting for him to work the knob.
The young officer reached past me and I fol-
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lowed through, waving him ahead of me. Beyond
the door was a long corridor on a sharp oblique
angle away from the shipyard area itself. Bare bulb
fixtures were spotted every ten feet or so.
There were no doors in the tunnel-like corridor as
we walked, and as the still oblique angle away from
the sub pens began bending sharply downward I
realized why—the security center was underwater,
making it bomb and escape proof. A smile crossed
my lips and still thinking in Russian, I muttered,
"Wonderful. "
The young officer turned to me, saying, "I'm
sorry, sir?"
"I was remarking, comrade, how wonderful this
is—the location for your security section—vir-
tually impenetrable."
The young man's eyes lit up with the praise and
his step picked up as we followed the slope of the
tunnel still downward. I counted the paces, judging
their length and, as the tunnel finally began to level
again, I estimated we were perhaps twenty feet
below sea level. The tunnel angled sharply again,
toward the sea, I judged, and once around the cor-
ner, the entrance to the Security Control Center be-
came visible, a massive steel doorway with a red
bulb—not burning—mounted in the upper portion
of the doorframe, the wiring visible.
We stopped beside the door and the young of-
ficer knocked. Nothing happened and he knocked
again. The door opened and a bulky man with a
pronounced five o'clock shadow stood there, his
uniform tunic apparently buttoned in haste, one of
the middle buttons undone.
"Yes?" he almostgrunted. He was KGB and de-
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spite the enlisted rank could have actually held any
grade—and looked as though he made the most of
the possibility.
I reached into the breast pocket of my greatcoat
and produced my papers, handing them to him. "I
am Commander Boris Yoravinavic. My orders are
self-explanatory—let me pass. "
I waited as the man read the orders, studied my
face, then said, "We were not alerted to this, Com-
rade Commander. "
"I know," I answered, allowing a smile to cross
my lips. "I enter now," I said then, and the man
stepped aside and threw open the door. The young
officer who had accompanied me thus far stood by
the doorframe, apparently wondering what to do. I
told him, knowing his security clearance would not
be high enough to allow him to enter the room.
"You may wait around the corner," I ordered, dis-
missing him, then added, "Allow no one to pass
while the inspection is in progress!"
I walked through the open doorway, past the
burly man and inside. The Security Control Center
was set up much like a miniature version of the
submarine pens—a narrow metal staircase leading
down to a catwalk, and below this the room itself,
perhaps a half dozen code clerks and security peo-
ple working various consoles or sitting at desks
busily working on report forms. At the far end of
the room was a wall safe and for an instant I
couldn't help rivetting my eyes to it. Beside it sat
the seventh person—a submachine gun across his
lap.
The Soviets sometimes used that procedure, and
it was why an operation based on guile had in-
cluded the KG-9 inside the cut-out notebook, in
the event—now inevitable—that shooting might
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prove the only way out. The massive safe's door
was swung open, but it was clear I wouldn't get
past the guard. My "orders" authorizing the in-
spection did not authorize me to inspect docu-
ments themselves, and to have included that in the
orders would have only labelled them counterfeit.
I turned to the man beside me, saying, "This
room is soundproofed to guard against someone
having penetrated into the facility and placing a
sensitive listening device against the door or wall?"
"Yes, Comrade Commander," the burly man
answered, his tone now more pleasant.
"You are positive?"
"l will show you something you may not have
been aware of,"
I told him, stopping on the
catwalk and reaching into my briefcase. "It is a
new device, marvelously efficient at its designated
task. "
I reached into the binder inside the case, with
both hands. "This is awkward," I lied. My left
hand locked onto the center of the magazine, by
feel positioning it for the fast loading I'd need. My
right hand closed around the pistol grip of the
KG-9, the first finger just touching against the trig-
ger. The gun fired from an open bolt, like a sub-
machine gun, and I had secured the gun with the
bolt open, but not on safety.
"Here, comrade," I said. I wheeled, the KG-9 in
my right hand, the left hand already ramming the
magazine home, then locking there as I squeezed
the trigger, twice, two of the 115-grain jacketted,
hollow-point rounds ripping into the burly man's
chest at point-blank range, the gun bucking in my
hands.
I turned; the subgun-armed safe guard was start-
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ing to his feet. My left fist wrapped around the ven-
tillated handguard surrounding the barrel; I fired
the KG-9, working the trigger as fast as my finger
would move, three rounds pumping from the as-
sault pistol into the guard's head, his body slapping
back against the interior of the safe door opened
against the wall behind him.
The other six technicians and analysts jumped
up, some with pistols in their hands, some bare-
handed; one man had a submachine gun, a PPSh it
looked like from the distance. I took the man with
the PPSh as my first target, firing low because I
was shooting down from the catwalk and the open-
bolt KG-9 shot high. The technician doubled over,
the subgun spraying into the concrete against his
feet, chips spraying up almost as lethal as the ri-
cochetting slugs from the submachine gun. I fired
left, into a pistol-armed technician, then right into
a man pulling a handgun from under his uniform
tunic, both men going down. I swung the muzzle of
the KG-9 right, cutting two of the 9mms into a
man with a big Swedish Lahti pistol in his left
hand, then swung the KG-9 all the way far left, a
man with a Walther P-38 firing at me. His shot
whizzed past my head and I dropped to my right
knee, firing three rounds fast into his midsection. I
shifted the KG-9's muzzle even before the Walther-
armed man fell, pumping two rounds, then another
two into a chunkily built woman with short blonde
hair and a Tokarev in her right fist. The woman fell
back into the swivel desk chair behind her, her
body slumping but not sliding from it, the chair
spinning round, facing her bullet pocked head to-
ward the wall.
It was better that way, I thought.
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I whirled toward the door, listening, hardly dar-
ing to breathe. If the man with the five o'clock
shadow—the one I'd shot first—had been lying,
the doorway would be working open, the officer
from the guard detail coming through it. Nothing
—not even an alarm sounding from beyond the
door. I smiled, almost bitterly, asl took the metal
stairs down from the catwalk two at a time. If the
place were soundproofed but somehow a hidden
microphone had alerted a security monitor, I
wouldn't hear a warning siren from beyond the
door no matter how loud it was.
I jumped the last three stairs to the concrete
floor, automatically going into a crouch, the KG-9
sweeping across the short-fought battleground.
There was no movement to indicate anyone was
still alive.
I started across the row of desks and toward the
safe, then stopped, reaching into my uniform
breast pocket for'the tinted wire-framed glasses. I
slipped them from the case, positioned them on the
bridge of my nose, then cautiously approached the
open safe. Taking the small Soviet-made pencil
flash from my pocket, I aimed it inside the vault.
The special frequency of light the flashlight
emitted, when seen through the glasses I wore,
made the inside of the safe lose its innocuous ap-
pearance—pencil thin light beams, not visible to
the naked eye, formed a web inside the safe, each
beam focused to a tiny photo-electric eye. I
stripped away the glasses and shut off the
flashlight, quickly scanning the entire area for a
switch to cut off the alarm system. I saw none.
I searched the desk tops and drawers, hoping the
documents I was seeking might have been in use at
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the time I'd entered. No such luck. On impulse, I
checked the dead man who had been guarding the
safe. There was nothing in his pockets or on his
person that could have been a switch to deactivate
the beams of high-frequency light.
Tossing the chopka onto my briefcase, I ran my
fingers through my hair, then reached inside the
briefcase for the camera. I left the KG-9 beside the
case and turned back to the safe, staring at it a mo-
ment, then cursing softly under my breath. I re-
positioned the specially treated glasses in front of
my eyes.and took the thin pocket flash into my left
hand, switching it on. The lights indeed formed a
web, and there were holes in the web. Beyond the
web were file cabinets, no locking system visible
and it was likely none was needed. If the docu-
ments I sought were anywhere in the Security Con-
trol Center, they were in those cabinets.
I checked the Soviet wristwatch again—it had
stopped. I searched the bodies of the KGB per-
sonnel in the enclosure and found one wearing a
vintage Bulova. I stripped it from his wrist, and put
it on, pocketing the old Soviet watch.
I returned to the safe, studying the web, working
the flashlight back and forth throughout the entire
interior of the safe. On the far right, there was a
tunnel through the web, spanning halfway across it
appeared. The entire width of the web I judged as
six feet or less. I dropped to the floor, flattening
myself, then extending my right arm, holding the
pencil flash now as far forward as I could reach,
into the web of light. I extended my arm to the end
of the tunnel through the light beams, then bent my
wrist sharply left and flashed the light. From where
I lay, there appeared to be a tunnel progressing at
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an oblique angle back across the width of the safe
and safely out of the web of light beams. It ap-
peared that the tunnel would be wide enough to let
me pass—I hoped.
I pushed myself to my feet, kicked off my shoes
and stripped away the officer's greatcoat and the
tunic beneath it. I glanced at Wilhelmina in the
shoulder holster under my left arm, then stripped
the holster awåy as well. Bending down, I tucked
the bottoms of my trouser legs into the tops of my
socks. Soviet trousers are incredibly wide and there
was the chance the trouser legs could have acciden-
tally flapped into the path of one of the light
beams. I tucked the uniform tie into the front of
my shirt, then once again dropped to the floor. I
passed my arm into the tunnel, verified the passage
as best I could,' then took a deep breath and edged
forward on my stomach. If someone entered the
room, I would be compromised and unarmed—I'd
be dead.
Moving along on my elbows, keeping my head
tucked down, the flashlight was so limited in its
traverse that I could see little of the actual web of
lights. The upper half of my body was completely
in the tunnel and my eyes were on line with the
curve. I inched forward, twisting my tucked arms
and my chest around the beam of light that made
the corner. As I dragged my legs after me, I looked
along the floor to make certain I didn't brush into
the path of one of the light beams, thus interrupt-
ing it and triggering the alarm. I stopped for a mo-
ment in the second portion of the tunnel, catching
my breath—my legs and feet had cleared it. My
hunched shoulders were starting to cramp.
Taking another deep breath, I surveyed the web
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of light beams once again, then started forward. I
could see the hole at the end, where no light beams
passed. I had gambled all the way that the floor
was not pressure sensitive and so far there had been
no alarm. I continued forward.
Finally I was out. I stood up, slowly, sweeping
the pencil flash across the rear of the vault room.
There were no more light beams. I took a deep
breath, rising to my full height, my knees trembling
from the muscle strain—and the fear.
Stocking-footed, I stepped toward the file cabi-
nets, opened the first door and waited. It could
have been a silent alarm, but there was no way to
tell. I began my search, checking the time on the
Bulova on my wrist as I did. Time was running
short—in forty-five minutes, there would be a shift
in the guard details.
The first four drawers were a disappointment,
but I photographed something from the fifth
drawer—attack plans for Soviet nuclear sub-
marines operating in the North Atlantic. They
were standing orders but I had no idea if they
would prove valuable or not.
I moved to the sixth drawer and stopped at the
center—the Russian code name on the file trans-
lated into "Deathlight." Quickly, I scanned the fat
sheaf of documents, then began photographing
each page, each directive, each blueprint copy.
Even with my rudimentary knowledge of science, I
could understand what it was—the Russians ap-
parently had some type of laser or other high-in-
tensity light system that could be projected across
great distances and was being mounted aboard the
three submarines. Using computer links, the weap-
ons were precision targeted. Scanning the next
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page as I photographed it, it appeared there were
references to satellites. Was it an undersea-based
satellite hunter-killer weapon, I wondered?
I snapped through the remaining film, then re-
wound, removing the film from •the camera. This
was the part I didn't like. I slipped the film into a
tiny stainless steel tube about the size of a cold
capsule, then slipped it into my mouth. Involun-
tarily, I gritted my teeth, then swallowed
Shivering at the thought of the retrieval system,
I forced it from my mind. I started to turn and
drop back to my knees for the crawl back through
the light beam tunnel. Then I spotted it—a switch
on the wall beside the file cabinets on my far left.
The switch was marked, "System on/System off."
The switch was turned to on.
I flicked on the pencil flash, readjusting my spe-
Cial glasses, then glanced at my watch, I had
twenty-nine minutes to go. I flipped the wall
switch, watching the beams of light as I did—and
they vanished. A smile crossed my lips and I
walked out of the vault. There was still no alarm or
at least none that I could hear. Quickly, I replaced
my shoulder holster, the tunic, the greatcoat, my
shoes and the hat. I secured the KG-9 and the cam-
era in their compartments inside the binder in my
briefcase and closed the case.
Taking the ladder two steps at a time, I reached
the catwalk and started toward the door. I'd
watched as I'd entered—there was no alarm switch
and seemingly no trick to the lock. I touched the
door and opened it, turning and saying into the
room full of dead people in an overly loud voice,
"Make certain that I am sent a full report on the
security revisions I found necessary—you may re-
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NICK CARTER
sume your work, comrades. "
I closed the door behind me, seeing the young
guard officer approaching me from around the cor-
ner, his face lit with a smile of relief. Then suddenly
the smile faded and I saw his eyes glancing above
my head. I looked up. The red light bulb was on,
because—I cursed my stupidity—I had turned the
vault alarm switch off.
The man started toward me in a rush. I flicked
my right wrist, flexing the forearm muscles at the
same time and dropping Hugo, my pencil-thin
stilletto into my right palm. Underhand, I lofted
the tiny knife forward, the blade arcing slightly,
hammering hard into the Soviet officer's chest as
the pistol from his belt holster came into his hand.
I ran toward him, catching the man as he
dropped to his knees, already dead. Glancing up
the tunnel and seeing no one, I pulled Hugo free,
wiped the blade on the officer's greatcoat and re-
placed the knife in its sheath. After dragging the
body across the hall and toward the security room,
I stopped, hoping the door had to be manually
locked from the inside.
The door opened, and I pulled the officer inside,
rolling his body down onto the catwalk, then clos-
ing the door again. I looked up at the red light
bulb, still burning like a beacon of betrayal to any-
one who knew its meaning. Taking one of the
gloves from my pocket to protect my fingers, I
twisted the bulb half out of the socket until the
electrical connection cut out.
Without the young officer as my official guide, I
would be stopped, perhaps questioned. I thought
of the radio transmitter in my briefcase. Through
the concrete walls of the tunnel and the water
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DEATHLIGHT
beyond, the transmitter would be useless.
I could feel my jaw set as I started up the tunnel,
my greatcoat opened to make getting at
Wilhelmina a split second faster.
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Three
I reached the point in the tunnel where it levelled
off. I had seen no one and ahead of me now there
was the massive steel door leading into the ship-
yard area. Once I passed through it, there would be
a prolonged period of vulnerability. Anyone who
had cared to watch me passing over the catwalk
before would see now that I was alohe, the young
officer of the guard somehow missing. I ap-
proached the door, nudged my left arm against
Wilhelmina, then worked the door handle. As I
closed the door behind me, I stopped, shifting the
weight of my briefcase ostensibly, but actually star-
ing at the submachine gun armed guard now
posted at the center of the long catwalk.
Perhaps the guard had gone to relieve himself
earlier, perhaps he'd just been late for his shift, but
now there was a guard, regardless. I moved the
briefcase under my arm again and started walking
forward, glancing below me occasionally to keep
from staring too hard at the guard—he was staring
at me. The three submarines were still the center of
activity beneath the catwalk, and if anything it
almost seemed that the activity itself had increasecL
As I approached, the guard raised his weapon—
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NICK CARTER
a PPS M1943, identifiable because of the folding
metal stock—his left hand resting in front of the
long, thirty-five round magazine. Our eyes met. I
stopped, less than six feet from him.
He saluted, then said, "I see no security badge,
Comrade Commander. Your papers, please!" I
handed over the papers and he glanced at them,
saying, "They seem to be in order, but there should
be a member of the security staff accompanying
you, sir. I must call my superior."
He still held the papers and started to turn
around. Secured to a vertical metal support beam a
few feet behind him, I could see a button; his right
hand left the trigger guard of the PPS and started
to move toward it. My right hand flashed out and
the middle knuckles smashed against the base of
the guard's nose, ramming the broken bone into
the brain and killing him instantly.
I reached out and grabbed at the body, so if any-
one were looking I would hopefully convince them
the man had suddenly taken ill and I was just
trying to save him from falling off the catwalk. As
I started to ease the guard to the surface of the
catwalk, there was a shout from below me. I
glanced down—a second guard, this one holding
an AK-47, was looking up at me. His eyes clearly
spelled out suspicion.
"Halt or I'll shoot!" he ordered.
I eased the dead guard up in my arms, my hands
under his armpits. I shouted down, "He suddenly
started to fall.
I was only-—
As the guard below me raised his AK-47 to fire,
I pushed the dead body over the catwalk, straight
down on the armed man.
He stepped back to avoid the impact, his shot
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string going wild into the ceiling girders high above
my head, the bullets whining as they ricochetted off
one of the steel supports. Wilhelmina was already
in my right hand, my thumb sliding the safety off,
my trigger finger starting the squeeze. Two shots,
each of the 115-grain gilding, metal-jacketted slugs
impacting into the upper chest cavity below the
man's collar button, the guard stumbling and fall-
ing back, arms outstretched, the body spreadeagl-
ing across a coil of chain on the shipyard surface
below me. I started to run, my right hand dumping
the Luger into the pocket of my greatcoat, then
searching into the briefcase, pulling out the KG-9
and both magazines. I dropped the briefcase,
stomping on it to crush the radio transmitter in-
side, ripping away the briefcase handle with the
special hidden camera built in. I cpntinued to run,
Wilhelmina back in my right hand, the KG-9 in my
left.
The door at the far end of the catwalk swung
open fast, three guards framing themselves beside
it at the top of the stairs. I fired both pistols, taking
out the first two men, catching the third man as he
turned and started to close the door. I reached the
foot of the stairs and started to take them three at
a time. Midway, another guard came in through
the open doorway and I fired the Luger once,
catching the subgun-armed guard in the gut. He
doubled over and I dropped flat against the stair-
case, letting the body roll over me.
I pushed myself to my feet and clambered up the
last remaining stairs and to the door, stepping over
two of the bodies and into the open. The com-
pound was alive with guards. I shot out the"rest of
the eight-round magazine in Wilhelmina toward
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the nearest squad of men, then started running for
the Moscva, above the din the noise of its engine
revving to life sounding almost beautiful.
I dropped the Luger into the pocket of my great-
coat, switching the KG-9 into my right fist, firing it
one handed, the bolt slamming forward but the
magazine empty as I fired two more three-round
semi-automatic bursts. I dumped the empty maga-
zine into my hand and pocketted it, ramming the
fresh magazine home and smacking back the bolt
then starting to fire again. Alicia had a subgun; it
was another PPS. She was firing it through the
open driver's side window in short, professional
bursts.
My left hand grasped around the KG-9's ven-
tillated handguard, my right working the trigger, I
ran and fired.
A squad of guards, perhaps a half dozen or
more, was starting toward me from the gate.
Alicia's subgun stopped firing for a moment. I
turned, feet squared, toward the guards, the KG-9
at shoulder height, the 9mm slugs hammering from
its muzzle, the guards returning fire, bullets whin-
ing about my head, one tearing at my left shoulder.
I stumbled back, dropping to my right knee, but
still firing. From the Moscva I could hear Alicia
shouting, "Hurry—Nick, for God's sake, hurry!"
The subgun in her hands was roaring again and
more of the guards were going down.
I started running again, my hat gone, my left
shoulder bloody and aching, the KG-9 still spitting
death at the never-ending waves of Soviet guards. I
reached the Moscva, the rear door already swing-
ing open, then dove inside shouting to the girl,
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The car lurched backward, and without bother-
ing to close the door I rolled down onto the floor,
the KG-9 still firing through the opening into the
pursuing guards. As the Moscva slammed to a stop
out of the high speed reverse, I could hear the gears
grinding into a forward speed. I reached the rear
door closed and flipped over into the front seat,
firing a last burst from the KG-9, then dropping
the gun onto the seat beside me—empty. I snatched
up the PPS the girl had used and continued firing.
"Spare magazines," Alicia shouted, "under the
seat!" I reached under the seat, found four loaded
spares, ran a rapid, overly long burst through the
PPS and dumped the spent magazine, slamming
the fresh one home as we started picking up
momentum, the Moscva rolling toward the gate.
There was a phalanx of guards rearing up to
block our way, and I ordered Alicia to drive
through them. L could feel the gears crunching,
hear the engine whining as she downshifted and the
car gathered speed and started to lurch into the line
of subgun armed men. Some of them were firing,
others dropped away, rolling to the ground to
dodge the oncoming vehicle.
The glass in the windshield was shattering under
the impact of countless slugs and a shower of
spikelike shards was streaming over us. My hands
were bleeding and I glanced at Alicia; her left
cheek was cut. I rammed the muzzle of the PPS out
the window and fired, leaning out of the seat, my
body half through the window as the car sped past
the last of the guards and into the wooden and
chain link fence barricade. The shudder of impact
almost hurtled me through the window, but then
the car was speeding forward, the fence splintering
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apart around us, some of the steel fencing dragging
behind us, making a shower of sparks as the girl
cut the wheel in a hard right and turned out onto
the paved highway.
There were sirens sounding, and in the distance
coming through the demolished compound gate
behind us I could see several automobiles and two
armored cars.
I leaned further out the window and fired, knick-
ing a burst into the headlights of the nearest
pursuer. The car crashed off the road into a stand
of trees, seconds later becoming a dull orange fire-
ball belching up into the sky.
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I leaned back and stared up at the dull yellow
light swaying in the cabin ceiling over my head.
The small coastal icebreaker was rocking, but not
uncomfortably so. I thought about the girl, forcing
my mind from the swim that would start again in
less than fifteen minutes. It had begun with her af-
ter we'd ditched the Moscva, then hiked noiselessly
through the woods to the underground shelter her
father's people had dug for just such purposes—
escape from Soviet troops after acts of sabotage.
We'd waited there in the dark and-cold hole in the
ground for two hours, not even daring to talk, then
afterward ventured out and found the way relative-
ly clear. There'd been anxious moments waiting it
out behind a rock or pressed flat to the ground for
small Soviet foot patrols to pass us by, but we'd
made it to the coastline and to the small boat her
father used in his trade as a fisherman.
While helping her to undo the elastic bandage
binding her chest, my hands once again strayed
to her breasts. She pressed her fingers over mine to
keep my hands there, and I turned her around in
my arms, bringing her against me. I'd already
stripped away my greatcoat and the uniform tunic
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and in the comparative warmth of the cabin my
uniform shirt had been open. I could feel the
warmth of her skin against my own. The blue eyes
were looking into mine, an almost shy look. Her left
arm encircled my neck, her fingers stroked my hair.
I raised her face and bent my own to touch her lips
with my mouth. There was a warmth, almost fire,
her tongue, like a frightened thing, darting toward
mine as we kissed, my hands on her sides against
her breaSts and pressing her tightly to me. I drew her
toward the bed in the corner and eased her down
gently, my hands undoing the buttons of the uni-
form trousers she wore, my fingers brushing
against the smoothness of her abdomen. I helped
her strip away the trousers, then the incongruous
lace-trimmed panties. Stepping out of my own
clothes, I lay down beside her on the bunk. I could
feel her moving the rough woolen blanket over us
as I kissed the hollow of her throat, her head
cocked back, a soft moaning sound issuing from
her lips.
Her hands were touching my left hand and draw-
ing it down. I fought her a little, hearing her whis-
per in Russian, "Please, Nick. .
My fingers
touched at the triangle of hair there and I could feel
the moisture. It was hot as I slipped between her
thighs, the coldness of the air against my bare back
a contrast that only seemed to heighten the feeling
coming to me from inside her. I kissed her again,
the fingers of my right hand now playing with the
nipples of her breasts, my left hand in the small of
her back arching her up to me. I could feel the tiny
muscles inside of her moving around me, feel her
stomach pressed against me.
I drew her up, my mouth crushing down against
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hers, her body thrusting up against mine, the fire in
me exploding into her, her nails digging into my
bare back and I pushed her hands away as I sank
into her arms. She repeatedly whispered my name
in my left ear as we lay there, her breathing in short
gasps, my left hand resting against the rising and
falling of her breasts.
Afterward, she changed while I lay there smok-
ing, startling me when I saw her appear with a full
head of long, dark-brown hair. She turned fully
around, as though modeling for my approval, then
with a childish grin on her face tugged at the hair.
It was a wig and she threw it to me, saying, "To
cover the fact that I cut my hair. Now no one will
ever suspect me of being your driver!"
Looking at the wig, then tossing it back to her, I
said, "From the perfume smuggler?"
"He will sometimes bring things on special order
—-for his regular customers. "
I laughed, "And how regular are you?"
She only smiled, then said, "I'll fix you some-
thing to eat."
She brought some stew with an unidentifiable
meat, possibly rabbit, and we ate it with dark
bread, washing it down with Vodka.
I could hear her now in what served as the galley,
the sound of dishes being moved about. It was
peaceful in the cabin while I began to dress. There
was still more than ten minutes to go before I had
to leave, then twenty minutes or so in the water and
then the return to the submarine and home. I
smiled, thinking what would soon happen to the
meal the girl had made for me—there was still that
stainless steel capsule to retrieve.
As I slipped Wilhelmina in the shoulder harness
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across my back and pulled up the top of the
wetsuit, zipping it halfway up my chest, I could
hear Alicia coming from the kitchen.
"You must go, so soon?"
I looked at her and smiled, "Perhaps we'll meet
again," I said in Russian, knowing that most likely
we wouldn't.
"Perhaps," she agreed, her voice soft, her eyes
turning away.
"Come on," I said, taking her hand in my right
hand, snatching up my pack in the left hand. I
helped her with the sailor's coat on her shoulders
as we went up top, the air there cold, a stiff wind
starting to rise up again. Already, the sky was light-
er, a thin band of pink on the eastern horizon of
the water andland. She helped me with the air tank
and I pulled on the flippers, and this time the
gloves as well. I took some 9mm solids from her for
use in the KG-9, then I stared back against the
horizon line again. There was a dark shape moving
fast through the water—a Soviet Patrol boat.
"Go ahead," she shouted to me. "Hurry!"
"What about you?" I asked, pulling up the hood
of my wetsuit and ducking below the gunwale to
stay out of sight of the boat.
"If you get out quickly, I can talk my way out of
this—they know me. "
My mind raced—the uniform had been
overboard, she'd even changed the bed after our
lovemaking. I'd heard her moving the dishes about
and presumably none of the food would betray
there had been a second person. "All right,"
1
rasped, "but come down here."
She dropped to her knees and I drew her face to
me, feeling her lips respond hungrily as I kissed
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her. "Maybe I will see you again," I smiled, then
pulled the mask over my face and slipped over the
starboard gunwale, on the far side of the boat from
the Soviet cutter, the water icy cold. I found the
mouthpiece for my air tank and twisted the dial for
the air flow and, glancing past the prow of the So-
viet cutter, tucked my head below the surface, forc-
ing myself down into the dark waters to evade the
cutter. I pressed the button on the wrist compass,
the diodes illuminating with my compass bearing
and mentally marking it. I cut at a sharp right an-
gle north and started into an even stroke through
the water, alternating using my hands then using
my feet to propel me, checking the face" of my
watch for the elapsed time. Already, the U.S.S.
Liberty should have been coming into position and
there would be doubts among those aboard who
knew of my mission—the chief from the torpedo
room, Commander Breathwaite. The doubts
would stem from the lack of radio transmission,
but I'd warned the captain earlier I might not be
able to make the transmission safely.
It had been a stopgap procedure; in case it
seemed impossible to make the rendezvous with
the sub, I could broadcast what I'd observed of the
sub pens and of the documents I'd photographed.
I stopped moving toward the surface and tread-
ing water as I peered above the • low waves,
searching the area for two things: any signof the
Soviet cutter or any sign of low-flying aircraft
equipped with sonar to spot the sub. There was
neither.
I started to tuck back below the surface, then
turned, a faint sound coming up from the heighten-
ing pink of the horizon line, I pulled back the edge
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of the wetsuit hood to hear bettered recognized the
sound—a helicopter. I dove below the surface,
checking the compass bearings again and pouring
on as much speed as I could, swimming toward the
rendezvous spot.
Looking up, I could see a ghostly glow on the
water sweeping toward me, then over me, then
back. The only way they could detect my presence
in the water was with heat sensing or infrared
equipment—and even then I could be taken for a
large fish. The light was directly over me, and as I
looked up, the surface of the water broke once,
then again, then a third and fourth time—scuba di-
vers turning about in the water; one of the men
with a powerful light. I averted my eyes as it shone
toward me, saw mad gesturing among the four di-
vers then saw them starting after me.
I turned in the water and swam on. There was no
danger of leading them toward the submarine. I
was coming up on one of the sides covered by
closed circuit television monitors and if whoever
was watching the monitor saw that I was being
pursued, there'd be U.S. divers dispatched. But the
whole trick, I thought, glancing behind me, seeing
the dark shapes through the murky waters, seeing
the glow of the searchlight following overhead and
the light from behind me, was to reach the sub-
marine alive. I glanced to my right wrist for the
compass bearings again, changed direction and
swam for my life.
The Soviet frogmen were fresh, and were gaining
fast. Ahead of me, in the gloom, I could see a
shape, dark against the lighter gray of the water—
the US.S. Liberty. I was moving through the water
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on line with the bow and the bow camera would be
operating.
Suddenly, the ocean floor was bathed in a dif-
fused yellow light, search or work lights from the
Liberty. I turned my eyes away from them, then
looking back saw six dark forms coming from the
submarine, the long menacing shape of spearguns
in their hands.
I glanced behind me—the Soviet frogmen were
still coming, knives brandished. I turned, too tired
to swim, pulling the diving knife from the holster
strapped against my right calf.
The nearest of the divers started for me, the one
with the light, holding back. He swiped with the
knife, but the drag of the water slowed him and I
edged back in the water. He made a pass again with
the knife and I swiped at him with my own blade.
It was like fighting in slow motion, or in a vat of
mud, the water drag making every move deliberate
and telegraphing its direction. On his third try, my
knife hacked down on his right arm. With my left
hand, I ripped the mask from his eyes, then my
knife chopped the airhose. There was an explosion
of oxygen bubbles as he started frantically for the
surface. I pushed away, the other diver with the
searchlight dropping the light to sink slowly to the
ocean floor and lunging through the water at me. I
caught his right wrist, locking his knife hand back,
then moved in with my own knife, but his left hand
caught my wrist as well. We were rolling now in the
water, plunging deeper toward the ocean floor. My
lungs, my muscles, everything ached. I pushed hard
with my left hand against his right arm, then re-
leased the wrist and hauled my fist toward the side
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of his head, but it was a feint.
He started plunging the knife hand down on me,
but released my right wrist enough for me to pry it
free, my knife cutting in deep to his groin, a dark
smear of blood clouding the water around us as I
let him float away, my knife gone, locked in the
rictus of his stomach muscles.
I turned, expecting to brace the other two
barehanded, but the U.S.S. Liberty divers were
around me now, their spear guns firing. The
barbed spears flashed through the water, one Of the
Soviet divers clutching at his throat and going limp
in the water as a spear punctured his neck.
I glanced up. The eerie light from the helicopter
was still above us, the water surface churning
overhead with what I assumed to be machine gun
fire, but useless against myself or the men from the
Liberty. Suddenly, the wound in my left shoulder
that Alicia had cleaned and dressed was
aching, and I was tired. I started toward the Liber-
ty, the U.S. divers coming up around me, one of
them reaching out a hand and helping me. I gave
him a thumbs-up sign—and swam beside him to-
ward the air lock hatch, remembering then the
earlier swim from the torpedo tube, to prevent the
betraying escape of bubbles from the air lock
hatch. We were compromised now, but would soon
be out to sea, then perhaps under the ice—a radio
transmission to Hawk of what I had learned would
determine the destination. And somehow, I felt I
wasn't due for a long rest yet.
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FIVE
The unpleasant part was over—the stainless steel
capsule had been retrieved—and I sat now, feeling
empty inside, drinking a cup of hot dark tea and
sipping at "medicinal" whiskey. The officer's
lounge was comfortable, far from plush, but most
importantly now quiet. It was seven A.M. ship's time
and between watches.
I heard a noisp, the shuffling of feet, and I
turned. It was Captain Breathwaite. "Mr. Carter—
I got a response for you on that coded message we
transmitted via satellite when you came aboard.
Appears we're supposed to do a U-turn here."
"I don't follow you," I said, looking up from the
whiskey, one of my gold-tipped cigarettes burning
in my left fist.
"l don't mean back to Russia—relax on that—
but nearby. We're heading to Vardo, Norway;
you'll have to get your own transportation from
there to Trondheim. A Norwegian agent will have
the rest of your instructions. We're to keep the lit-
tle pill you swallowed and take it to London by
special delivery. I got a copy of the transmission up
forward in the radio room if you want to see it.
Your boss said the code word for the Norwegian
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agent would be "Chimpanzee. "
I repeated the code word to myself. Chimpanzee?
How the hell, I thought, do you subtly meet an
agent you've never seen before with a word like
Chimpanzee as the recognition signal.
"Was that it—as far as the message?"
'Bout so," he drawled. He was a New Eng-
lander, sounding as though he should have been
hawking lobster. "The countersign will be the
name of your gun—Luger?"
I knew what Hawk had meant and laughed out
loud—Wilhelmina. He was finally paying attention
after all these years. "Where?" I asked.
"By the steps of the city administration building
day after tomorrow in the morning, around eight
their time. That's about forty-eight hours from
now—gives you plenty of time. We won't hit
Vardo for about another nine hours."
"Good," I droned, staring down at the whiskey
and drinking it down in one gulp. "I'll catch up on
some sleep. "
"Oh, one other thing—spotted some wreckage
topside when we swept closer to the coastline.
Looked like a small icebreaker—hole, in the hull
below the water line big enough to drive a Volks-
wagen through—sorry." Then he stood up and
walked away.
I hammered my fist down on the table, burning
myself from the cigarette. I could feel the muscles
in my neck tightening—Alicia! "Dammit!"
I stood up and walked toward the sideboard
where I'd left the bottle of whiskey and poured an-
other glass—it was a rotten business. . .
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Winter was coming to Vardo-—at over seventy
degrees north latitude winter was the predominant
season. There had been a snowfall in the ten or so
hours since I had rejoined the U.S.S. Liberty, the
ship's meteorological corpsman indicating the en-
tire area had been socked and that more snow was
to come. I hadn't prepared for winter travel. In
West Germany it had been fall, and the captain
authorized out of the ship's stores a regulation
Navy arctic parka and a crewneck sweater, along
with a pair of combat boots and several pairs of
heavy socks. With this and a Navy blue khit watch-
cap, I was put ashore in the harbor by a small boat.
Already, far out to sea, the white walls of ice could
be seen in the distance, and above us as the
crewmen rowed me to the docks, the sky was a
heavy gray blanket. No Norwegian government
transportation was available from the area, but by
radioing ahead, the skipper, Commander Breath-
waite, had arranged through local authorities to
find an experienced civilian pilot to get me out of
Vardo and to Trondheim. It was now late in the
afternoon and with the storm still just off to sea
and darkness already falling, I decided to spend the
night in Vardo, then leave early the next morning.
The Liberty would be underway as soon as the
crewmen returned with the rubber boat.
I had tried sleeping aboard the Liberty, but the
tension of the previous night, the knowledge that
Alicia, who'd risked her life to keep me alive was
dead, and the possibilities—almost endless—for
the new Russian weapons system, had kept me
awake.
I stood on the dock, an officious looking
passport control officer with a silly stage mustache
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approaching. I rubbed my eyes, realized too that I
hadn't shaved. My papers said I was a U.S. scien-
tist, Aaron Shanford, on duty with the U.S.S. Lib-
erty examining samples of deep ocan bacterial life
in arctic waters; the story for the Norwegian of-
ficials was that my brother had suddenly been
taken critically ill and that he worked with the De-
partment of Education and was himself stationed
in Trondheim.
The encounter with the passport control officer
went smoothly. They'd arranged accomodations
for me in the "Village Inn"—a quiet hotel where I
could rest undisturbed in my "grief," and with
good food.
I'd nodded my thanks and headed by shanks
mare to the hotel. I was pre-registered, so all I
needed to do was check my passport at the desk
and sign in. I took the stairs to the third floor and
found I had a room overlooking a wharf—pic-
turesque in the extreme, I thought, but now it was
nearly dark. I called down to the desk on a blow-
tube-type house phone, asked if they had room ser-
vice and found they didn't. I locked the door, went
back downstairs and bought a bottle of Scotch—
the only whiskey I could find—then brought it
back up to the room. I poured out three fingers of
the Scotch and found ice in a bucket in my room. I
dumped several of the round cubes into the glass
-and swished the amber liquid around them, then
drank it down.
I poured another, added two more ice cubes and
stripped away the heavy outer coat and the
crewneck sweater, then stripped the shoulder
holster from my body, ripping Wilhelmina from
the leather and dropping back on the bed a mo-
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ment. I was exhausted, but bent down and re-
moved the combat boots, kicking them across the
room. I unstrapped Hugo from my right forearm,
setting the knife on the nightstand, and picked up
the glass of Scotch. I studied the profile of
Wilhelmina—I knew so much about her: Each lit-
tle peculiarity of its construction would have
labelled it to the collector as belonging to one of as
many as three dozen model variations. All the seri-
al numbers matcheé except for the magazine—the
magazine with the' matching serial number was
locked away safely. In my business, you lose too
many pistol magazines.
I turned the gun over in my hand—Wilhelmina,
I knew so much about her. I set the pistol down,
Alicia—I'd known so little. Sleep came.
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I judged the pilot as competent. With the storm
front ricochetting back from behind us and heavy
snow already starting to fall, though the runway
itself was reasonably clear, I at least hoped he was.
He was a Swede by birth, having lived in Norway
for the past twenty years and having flown the
Scandinavian Peninsula for the last dozen. The
plane was a twin-engine Beechcraft, dating from
about the time the pilot—Carl Bjornblum—had
started flying, but as we taxied for the final takeoff
run the engine sounded reassuringly steady and
the almost total lack of vibration felt signalled the
frame was sound as well.
I checked the security of the seat belt and leaned
back, making a mental note to check the flight time
with the pilot once we were clear of the small field.
The takeoff was faultless, or at least as far as I
could tell, the Beech banking sharply as it cleared
the runway, the swirling snow seeming somehow
lighter the higher we climbed. I watched out the
window, seated behind the vacant co-pilot's chair.
"How long should the flight take?" I asked.
"Less than two hours, Mr. Carter," the pilot
said over his shoulder, pleasantly enough.
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"That's impossible—Trondheim is much further
than that—unless you've got a jet engine concealed
on this thing. " I looked out the window. We'd been
heading almost due south, but from the swirling
pattern of the snow, now I could see either
ourselves or the wind had drastically changed di-
rection. I glanced over between the seats, trying to
see the compass.
The pilot, his voice even but the accent somehow
slightly more eastern sounding, said, "Relax, Mr.
Carter. We aren't heading to Trondheim—we're
taking a little side trip across the border into the
Soviet Union. "
I started out of my seat, remembered the seat
belt, then tried unlocking it—it wouldn't budge.
"l told you to relax, Mr. Carter—that seat belt's
closed to stay. And if you do get free of it, I'll have
plenty of time to shoot you with this." He bran-
dished a Colt Government Model automatic—
from the size of the hole at the muzzle, on a line
with my face, either a 9mm or .38 Super.
Bjornblum thumb-cocked the Colt and placed it
on the co-pilot's seat beside him. My eyes drifted
down to the seat locking latch for adjusting the
position backward and forward. I flicked my right
wrist and Hugo dropped into my hand. I raked the
slim blade across the fabric end of the seat belt,
slicing through the material, then almost dove for-
ward, my right hand dropping the knife and going
for the seat latch. Bjornblum was starting to move,
reaching across to the Colt as I worked the seat
latch and held it, the seat snapping all the way for-
ward, pitching the gun away from him. The plane
was starting into a dive as I jumped between the
seats, my hands going for Bjornblum's throat, his
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right hand slapping back, the pistol in it now, my
right hand slicing out, the knife edge Of the hand
impacting hard against his forearm, the gun firing
into the instrument panel then falling from his
grasp. My right hand was free again and the only
thing I could grab was Bjornblum's right ear. I
wrapped my fist around it and snapped the head
back, getting my left hand under the base of the
pilot's nose and pulling back.
I pulled my right arm back and hammered it for-
ward, my fingers bunched into a fist, connecting
hard with his right temple, then my fist pulling
back and snapping forward again, jabbing across
his exposed jaw and bumping his head into the
glass of the pilot-side window. I leaned forward—
his eyes were opened wide, already starting to get
the dry, glassy look of death in them, and the plane
was hurtling downward.
¯There wasn't any time, I realized, the ground
slamming up toward the twin-engine Beechcraft,
inexorably and deadly. I slid awkwardly behind the
co-pilot controls, switching them on, the seat—all
the way forward—awkward for me, impeding my
movement. I started trying to pull up the nose, but
it wouldn't come—apparently the bullet into the
control panel did more damage than I had thought.
I tried working the flaps up again, and slowly I
could feel them starting to respond. But the ground
was racing up too fast, snow covering the wind-
shield faster than the wiper blades could brush it
away. I could feel the muscles in my jaw and neck,
my shoulders and arms, straining under the pres-
sure pushing me back into the co-pilot's seat,
straining too under the pressure of struggling back
the controls. I was starting to get them back, the
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nose starting up, but too late. There was a stand of
pines, snow covered, directly in the path of the
twin-engine Beech. I hauled back on the controls,
the nose rising more but not enough. I could hear
the undercarriage scraping; the propellers were cut-
ting through the trees like buzz saws.
There was a loud, crunching sound, the plane
jerking, lurching upward then plumetting down-
ward. My body hurled from the seat as the wind-
shield crashed around me. .
I opened my eyes, my face wet—with blood? I
wiped my right hand across my eyes and it came
back with snow melting on the fingertips. My left
arm and shoulder were stiff, but I could move.
Carefully, I wiggled my toes, slowly flexed the
muscles in my legs, slowly turned my head, then
tried pushing myself up. A spasm of pain shot
through my shoulder and the left side of my back,
but I was sitting, my clothes covered with white
powdery flakes of snow, the sun starting already to
go down on the horizon. It was just mid-afternoon
—amazingly my watch was still working. Auto-
matically, I reached under the borrowed G .1. parka
and my right hand wrapped around the checkered
walnut stocks of Wilhelmina and I ripped the gun
from the oiled leather of the holster, my thumb
sweeping the safety up, the first finger Of my right
hand edged against the side of the trigger guard.
I pushed myself to my feet, my back aching. I
ran the fingers of my left hand through my hair,
snow falling from it as it fell across my forehead. I
scanned the ground for signs of the plane, my eyes
sweeping toward the trees. I remembered then, and
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started toward them and already, as I neared the
pines, I could see a piece of one of the wings and a
broken propeller blade. I pushed beyond the
wreckage toward the plane itself, memory coming
back to me in a flash as I approached the fuselage.
After the crash, I had smelled something, pushed
myself out of the seat, thinking there was going to
be an explosion, then stumbled from the trees and
fallen to the ground. My head started swimming
again and I leaned against a tree trunk, still staring
at the wreckage. I moved closer to it then, seeing
the shattered face of the pilot, the head half
through the windshield. I walked around in front
of the nose of the plane and the furrow it had
carved in the ground, now partially filled with
snow.
I reached in the door and climbed inside, care-
fully sniffing for any sign of gasoline fumes. I
found Hugo, half covered under my suitcase,
everything in the cabin thrown about or smashed.
Hurriedly, dropping Hugo into my jacket pocket
and pitching my suitcase through the hatch, I
searched the cabin for anything that would be use-
ful. I found a flashlight, a good one, one of the
Safariland Kel-lites-—-and a box of European 9mm
ammo. I checked one of the rounds, it appeared to
be corrosive primed, but I dropped it in my pocket
anyway just in case the spare ammo would come in
handy—I could always give Wilhelmina a soap and
water washing if I had to. There were some candy
bars and a half-filled pint bottle of rye whiskey. I
took these as well.
Checking Bjornblum's pockets produced a
pilot's license and a driver's license, a small map
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NICK CARTER
with a circle around a spot just over the border into
the Soviet Union; a Swiss army knife and a wad of
Norwegian currency. I pocketed everything but the
knife, which I opened and wiped clean against my
coat, then found the right hand of the pilot and
pressed the thumb against the blade, doing the
same thing with the left hand. Carefully, not
smudging the side of the stainless blade, I closed
the knife and wrapped it in a spare handkerchief
from my trouser pocket. If I got out, I reasoned,
perhaps Interpol could provide a make on the
man's real identity from the prints—the licenses
could have been fakes.
I found the Colt and rendered it useless by pull-
ing the plug off the spring and tossing it out the
window. I dropped the gun on the farthest back
seat and jumped out into the snow.
With the sun setting, it was easy to pick my bear-
ings—l started walking toward it, the flashlight
ready for darkness, the suitcase under my left arm,
Wilhelmina back in her holster. I realized that
when Bjornblum and I didn't land inside the Soviet
Union, the Russians would certainly cross the*
border and start looking. I had no choice but to
head south and west, the course they would know
I would follow. But if a search party were sent from
Trondheim by the Norwegian Intelligence people, I
wanted to get as close to it as possible. Time was
wasting. If the Russians were so eager to get their
hands on me, they obviously wanted to work any
delays they could into an Allied counter to their
new weapons system. My loss wouldn't have done
much, but it would have perhaps gained them a few
hours, perhaps a day. Perhaps, too, they counted
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on getting information from me as to just whau
had learned, what I had photographed. I kept
walking—I couldn't afford to .give them the
chance.
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SEVEN
I rolled over, hugging the Thermos Space
Blanket around me. They cost next to nothing,
took up little more room than a package of
cigarettes and had kept me warm more than once
in the past. The sunrise was a gray blur and the
snow was still falling. I'd used the edge on Hugo to
hack off pine bows to construct a shelter, once it
had seemed pointless to go on in the cold and
darkness. Then I'd put on an extra sweater from
my suitcase and consumed all but one of the candy
bars and most of the rye whiskey, forcing myself to
sleep, Wilhelmina under the blanket in the pocket
of my parka, the snaps over the pocket open for
instant access. Throughout the shortlived day after
the crash and the long night, there had been no
sounds of either a Soviet or Norwegian search par-
ty. But now there were helicopters moving low in
the sky, signalling, most likely, a hunt and kill par-
ety from the Soviets.
I folded the Space Blanket and shoved it in my
pocket, grabbing the handle of my suitcase in my
left hand, the butt of Wilhelmina in my right, start-
ing to run. Glancing behind me through the swirl-
ing snow, I could see the outline of the lead chop-
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per, hear the whirring of the rotor blades louder,
feel the heightened force of the snow stinging
against my face. I spun on my heels, dropping the
suitcase, bringing the Luger up into a two-handed
hold, the front sight dropping into the rear notch
and my finger starting the squeeze—I couldn't out-
run them.
There was a bullhorn, a voice shouting over it,
hard to hear clearly, but a woman's voice. I edged
my finger away from the trigger for an instant, the
chopper now perhaps twenty yards away, hover-
ing. The voice was saying, "Nick Carter . . .
this is
Ilsa Gustafsen of Norwegian Intelligence. . . . We
have been searching through the night for you .
code word Wilhelmina. This is Ilsa Gustafsen of
Norwegian Intelligence. . ." I stood up and waved
the pistol in my right hand slowly back and forth
through the air, gesturing with my left hand for the
helicopter to land. As it began to descend, I re-
membered to breathe.
The snow below us seemed to help cushion the
sound of the rotor blades as the helicopter sped low
over the snow, the blonde-haired, green-eyed girl
beside me warm looking in the mint green ski
parka. I was watching her lips, rather than listening
to the words she was saying and finally, I noticed
she'd stopped talking, then I heard her say, "Mr.
Carter, you don't look as though you've been lis-
tening to me. Is my English that bad?"
"I'm sorry," I smiled. "Call me Nick, please. I—
I just had my mind somewhere else." Then I lied.
"I was thinking how lucky I was that you people
happened along when you did. It would have been
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DEATHLIGHT
a long walk into Trondheim—too long."
"We didn't just happen along, Nick," the wom-
an said. "When you didn't arrive last night, we as-
sumed it was something with the Russians, either
that or a crash. And with the cold, we had no idea
how long you would survive exposed to the frigid
temperatures. And there's greater urgency now,
too. I have orders for us to fly directly to the resi-
dence of Professor Gustafus Geltner. "
"Geltner?" I asked. "Wasn't he a U.S. scientist
who quit because he felt his work was being put to
military use, then returned to Sweden?"
"It was Norway," Ilsa told me. "He was a con-
firmed pacifist, born here but emigrated to the
United States before the war with •the Nazis—he
was just a boy then. Became one of your top re-
search specialists in—I have it here—" She consulted
a small notebook taken from an absurdly large
black leather handbag. "Yes," she said absently.
"Particle Beam Research. He is so far advanced in
the field, your AXE organization relayed that he is
the only man who might understand the applica-
tion for the new Soviet Weapons System you un-
covered. I have copies of some of the key research
projects he was involved with prior to his leaving.
Mr. Hawk tells me you can probably give Pro-
fessor Geltner a rough idea of what the plans you
photographed dealt with."
"Mr. Hawk?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "So,
what? We try to persuade Geltner to help, then
bring him back to look at my film after its pro-
cessed, so he can tell us what the Soviets are up
"If he does not wish to co-operate, I will arrest
him," Ilsa said. "He is a Norwegian citizen and
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NICK CARTER
subject to our laws. There is sufficient reason to
believe the Soviet intelligence network might sup-
pose Geltner would be consulted, so I can arrest
Geltner to place him in protective custody. "
"Oh, I bet he's gonna love that," I said, lighting
one of my gold-tipped cigarettes and offering one
to her.
She smiled and flashed teeth so white I knew she
didn't smoke. I tried placing Geltner's face from
the news articles years earlier, but couldn't. I
turned instead and watched the weak shadow of
the helicopter as we sped across the snow below us.
The white flakes had stopped falling and the sun—
cold and gray-yellow—was doing its best. Shiver-
ing still in my heavy parka and two sweaters, I de-
cided the sun was fighting a losing battle.
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EIGHT
When we arrived in Trondheim, I showered and
changed into more suitable heavy clothes Hawk
had sent over for me from my own things. Before
boarding the refueled helicopter, we ate. The hotel
chef was apparently used to Americans and the
waiter took my order for a steak, two eggs sun-
nyside up and hash browned potatoes without even
batting an eye. •He had even known what hash
browned potatoes were. Several slices of toast and
more than a half dozen cups of coffee later, I felt
marginally human again. A staff car had driven us
to the heliport and Ilsa's special equipment was al-
ready aboard the chopper—a portable short wave
set, two 9mm UZI submachine guns and spare
magazines, several days' emergency rations if the
chopper were to go down and detailed maps of the
area where Geltner lived.
With Ilsa at the controls of the machine—she
was a good helicopter pilot, flying as though it
were as natural as breathing—I studied the
maps, tracking our position. There had been no
snow to speak of here, and what little there was
had gathered along rocky crags, the brown and
dull green foliage below us relatively devoid of any
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signs of winter. Geltner lived in a restored, medi-
eval castle, in a remote foothills region near the
mountains running through the center of Norway,
like a spine, the castle itself virtually on the edge of
a long fjord. There was no telephone, no other way
to reach him than flying in or going by boat. Be-
cause of the season, using a boat would have been
hazardous—and too slow. Because of the terrain,
fixed wing aircraft were also ruled out—thus the
helicopter.
The sun was low on the horizon, the early night-
fall coming as we circled along the bank of the
fjordmd Ilsa's green eyes scanned the shadowy
ground for a suitable landing spot. When she
found one, she made a thumbs-up signal to me,
then gestured down and off to my left. I looked
where she was pointing and nodded my head in
agreement. Already, it was getting increasingly dif-
ficult to see anything on the ground and I didn't
envy her making the landing. Suddenly we started
dropping, and the descent became choppy.
"Air current—probably from the fjord," she
shouted, frantically. maneuvering the -controls.
"I'm going to have to come in low over the fjord—
hang on."
She pulled the chopper up again and angled off
sharply out over the dark of the water. I could feel
the strength of the wind, and feel the machine Ilsa
piloted fighting it, dropping down , sweeping direct-
ly over the water and gliding into a landing perhaps
twenty-five yards beyond the bank of the fjord. I
stepped half out of the chopper, the rotor blades
already slowing over my head but erractically be-
cause they were catching in the wind. Ahead, a
quarter mile in the blackness was a darker, deeper
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blackness—the castle, looming high into the night
sky.
It took several minutes for us to tie down the
chopper because of the wind and at my suggestion
we removed the oil filter cap. If someone wanted to
steal the chopper, they would get only so far until
the oil pressure dropped drastically, oil spraying
the engine and catching fire from the heat of the
block. Wrapping the cap in an old rag, we stashed
it by the trunk of a peculiarly gnarled tree that
would be easily identified, then catching up our
things started for the castle.
It was cold, the wind blowing hard from the
north, and Ilsa walked close beside me, shivering
badly. The ski parka she wore, its hood up framing
her face and hair, gave her a delicate, almost little
girl look. I put my arm around her shoulders and
she didn't move away.
As we approached the castle, the perimeter of
its shape became more pronounced. It was high
walled, with what appeared to be intact battle-
ments running along the upper surface, the heads
of gargoyles and griffins adorning the far corners
and running in a rank over the entrance. The torch
holders on either side of the entrance were not
fitted with torches, so I used the Kel-Lite I'd liber-
ated from Bjornblum to guide us. There was a defi-
nite drop ten yards from the castle indicating there
had once been a moat, and vegetation—now all but
dead for the season—sticking up at odd angles
flanking a rough but sturdy looking wooden
causeway, chains running from it at forty-five
degree angles and into the castle walls.
We stepped onto the wooden causeway, Ilsa with
her right hand in her pocket. She had a gun there,
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NICK CARTER
I'd noticed earlier. As we crossed the drawbridge, I
pressed my left arm against the reassuring bulk of
Wilhelmina.
Massive wooden doors loomed before us,
framed with what appeared to be railroad spike-
sized bolts for reinforcement; there were ring-
shaped handles in the center, but no evidence of a
knocker or bell. We stopped at the doors, the girl
glancing toward me nervouslyA looked around,
above the doors and on both sides and saw noth-
ing.
Shrugging my shoulders, I took my left fist and
hammered on the closest of the two doors, shout-
ing in Norwegian, "Hello in the house. Hello in the
house
The wind was howling and the girl moved closer
to me, but not from the cold I reasoned. It was
funny, the castle, the howling wind, the intermit-
tent moon , the otherwise total darkness. According
to what I understood, Ilsa Gustafsen was one of
the top agents in Norway's intelligence communi-
ty, Norway a vital and extremely viable link in
NATO. She handled the helicopter with consum-
mate skill, and the gun in the right-hand pocket of
her parka wasn't for show'. But there were some
things that penetrated toughness, getting deep un-
der the skin. As if the environment were taking
cues from our fears, fog was starting to roll in off
the fjord, the dampness killing, the look in the
girl's eyes turning from apprehension to something
near terror.
I banged on the doors again, shouting louder,
"Professor Geltner—open the doors!"
Suddenly, as if someone had been waiting for me
to shout one more time, for the terror Of the night
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to be sufficiently great, the door on my right
opened under my fist , inward , creaking because the
hinges needed lubrication.
An old woman, graying hair done up in a bun, a
shawl around the shoulders of her black dress and a
white apron around her waist stood in the
doorway. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a
bulbous nose, her voice squeaky sounding as she
said, "Yes—you were knocking?"
"Ohh," I groaned, turning and looking away for
a moment, then saying to her in Norwegian, "Yes
—we were knocking. My name is Nick Carter, this
is Ilsa Gustafsen, a representative of the Nor-
wegian Government. I'm a representative of the
United States Government. I apologize for the late
hour, but we have business with Professor Geltner,
business of the utmost importance."
"The professor is working in his laboratory now
and does not wish to be disturbed," the woman
crooned, smiling at Ilsa, then at me, "but he'd like
you to join him for dinner at eight 'clock this eve-
ning unless you are both too tired from your trip."
I felt Ilsa start to move, to say something, and I
squeezed her tightly, smiling at the old woman in
the door and saying, "That would be excellent—
give Miss Gustafsen and myself a little time to
freshen up if we may."
The woman smiled and stepped aside, gesturing
with her hands for us to come in. I followed Ilsa
inside through a dark hallway, wide and high-ceil-
inged, lit with the battery operated lantern the old
woman carried, its yellow light throwing weird
shadows of Ilsa and myself against the damp stone
walls. There was another set of double doors, iden-
tical to the first and the woman opened these and
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stepped aside for us to pass by her, the hallway
now flooded by a strong shaft of white light. Ilsa
still ahead of me, I followed her into the light. Sud-
denly, sharper by contrast to the dark entrance hall
between the massive wooden doors, we were in a
huge medieval hall, buttressed ceiling supports
high above our heads in deep shadow, massive
chandeliers hanging from heavy chains perhaps
only twelve feet above the floor. The ceiling fix-
tures were out of character, bare bulbs burning in-
side large tinted glass, cuplike enclosures that had
once sheltered open flames.
The girl beside me now, we continued forward.
On a far wall hung above an enormous stone
hearth were some authentic looking medieval
swords, crossed and under a breastplate, all these
tarnished but still somehow catching the glow of
the lights and catching the eye. On impulse, I
started toward the hearth, saying over my shoulder
in Norwegian to the old woman, "I would like to
look closer at the swords—weapons of all sorts
fascinate me."
Without waiting for a response, I kept walking
toward the hearth, my eyes scanning the stone
floor, the oriental rug as I passed over it, then scan-
ning the base of the hearth itself. But I'd already
seen what I'd been looking for—the rug was cov-
ered at the fringes with grayish black hairs, the
kind a Norwegian Elkhound or similarly furred
dog would shed, the kind of thing that would stay
in a rug regardless of how well it were cleaned. The
dog could have died, been away at the
veterinarian's or the woman had obviously been
expecting us. I turned and faced her, Ilsa standing
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approximately midway between us. Somehow,as I
started walking slowly back across the room, tak-
ing Ilsa's hand, I thought I wasn't going to be too
terribly hungry for the dinner waiting for us at
eight—ground glass wasn't my favorite. . .
The rest of the castle as we passed through it to
our rooms seemed comparatively well-lit, only the
halls dark and dungeonlike.
"This is the young lady's room," the woman told
us, stopping before an imposing wooden doorway.
And as she opened the door I noticed there was no
lock visible on the outside.
"Looks lovely," I said. "How about mine."
"Yes, certainly sir." The woman trotted on
ahead a few yards, stopping before an identical
doorway and opening the door.
I looked inside. The chandelier was already lit,
the bed more than king-sized, the furniture antique
and overstuffed.
"What a beautiful room," I commented.
The old woman smiled, then said, "Professor
Geltner prefers to dress for dinner. I'm sure söme-
thing can be found for the younglady, and Mr.
Carter, one Of Professor Geltner's father's sets of
evening clothes would probably do well." With
that the woman turned on her heel and left. I
looked down the hall after her, shrugged and
turned back to enter the room, Ilsa beside me.
"Nick, what's going on here? I don't—
"Neither do I," I cut her off. "Check those con-
necting doors to your room, get them open and
then lock your room from the inside if you can. I'll
be right here, won't let you leave my sight."
Ilsa was obviously spooked, but with her gun in
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her right hand, she started toward the adjoining
doors, barely hesitated and opened them then pro-
ceeded into her room.
I kept eyeing the girl through the open doors as
she worked on locking her room door, then as she
started coming back through into my room, I
walked toward the windows. They opened like
French doors, on small brass handled cranks, the
glass itself leaded and old but in perfect condition.
Suddenly the girl was beside me, her voice soun-
ding controlled as she whispered: "Nick, why did
they expect us? What's going on?"
I looked down at her, lighting one of my gold-
tipped cigarettes. "I don't know, but I think we've
got to play along with whatever it is until dinner at
eight—then maybe we'll know. If Geltner isn't
there, then we can start trouble—but somehow I
don't think that's it. If they'd wanted to try for us,
it would have been simpler outside. If they were
watching us, they know we disabled the heli-
copter."
"But then they'll be able to find the oil cap!"
"No," I said, softly, then reached into the pocket
of my jacket, extracting a clean white square of rag,
bundled around the oil cap. "I buried a rock in-
stead. "
"If they don't want to kill us, what then?"
She looked up at me, and I watched her eyes a
moment without answering, then said, "There may
be nothing wrong—Geltner may have seen the heli-
copter on the first approach and anticipated vis-
itors, may have kept us waiting outside intentional-
ly—maybe somebody here is a psychic."
"You don't—
"No, I'm afraid I don't. . . KGB probably, but
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what they're doing I don't understand."
"I don't know why," the girl said, leaning close
to my chest. "I don't know why this place bothers
me so. I'm afraid, Nick, really afraid."
"All of us have a soft spot," I smiled, turning up
her chin and looking into her eyes, then bending
down to her and kissing her mouth. Her lips tasted
like something I couldn't describe, strange yet
hauntingly familiar—reserved, yet wanting. As I
folded her into my arms, I heard her breath letting
out hard in a sigh.
I heard her whisper then, "Are you going to
make love to me, Nick—or just continue to kiss
"Can't I do both?"
"Can you?"
"I'll show you," I said, walking with her, toward
the bed. We sat down on its edge and I glanced at
my watch, It was barely five o'clock, meaning more
than three hours until the dinner with Geltner.
"I'll be right back," I said, standing, walking to-
ward the door and bolting it shut. If there were
microphones or hidden cameras in the room, I
hoped the KGB people would enjoy themselves. I
stripped off the down-insulated parka I wore, then
the shoulder rig with Wilhelmina. I pulled the gun
from the leather, tossed the holster onto an
overstuffed armed chair then walked toward the
bed.
I smiled to Ilsa as I turned down the bed, ex-
amining the pillows and sheets for needles or some-
thing worse. I set Wilhelmina on the stand beside
the left side of the bed, then turned around. Ilsa
stood there minus the jade green parka and the
heavy turtleneck sweater; the fly on her pants was
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open, her boots kicked off. I leaned toward her, my
left hand moving across her right shoulder and up
the side of her neck, stopping there, my fingers
spread in her hair and my thumb along the side Of
her cheek. She didn't move, and I could see some-
thing besides fear in the green eyes. There was a fire
burning in the hearth and despite the overhead
light of the chandelier I could see the sparkle of the
flames in her eyes. I could see something else there ,
too, and I closed my eyes and leaned over and
kissed her. My right hand undid the closures at the
back of her bra and she bent closer to me, arching
her shoulders forward, the straps slipping down,
my right hand kneading the warmth of her left
breast. We leaned back across the bed and I
reached my hand inside her panties, feeling the
warmth there. I started to move my hand, but felt
her hands on me and holding the fingers where
they were, moving my hand against her rougher
than I would have moved it myself.
After a long time of soft, moaning, sometimes
purring sounds coming from her, her eyes closed,
the lids fluttering. As I moved my fingers harder
against her, her hands moved away from my hand,
and with almost a sense of desperation, I could feel
her hands working the belt and the zipper on my
pants, then pushing my pants down over my hips.
I helped her, then pushed her own pants all the
way down, letting her kick one leg free so I could
come between her thighs. She was already moist
when I slipped inside her, the muscles of her but-
tocks tight, her pelvis moving under me. I kissed
her again—there was something about the way she
tasted that was addictive to me. .
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NINE
We slept afterward, the instinctual alarm awak-
ening me at seven-fifteen. I let the girl rest for a few
moments longer and naked, I stood up and walked
across the floor toward the locked door to her ad-
joining room. I had Wilhelmina in my right fist,
opened the door and stepped back, then walked
through, noticing the reason for the small hallway
and the double doors—there was a large bath be-
tween the two rooms. I walked into the bathroom.
It was well appointed, a modern one-piece shower
with glass front doors, a modern sink and toilet. I
tested the latter, pulled the handle and was re-
assured that the plumbing not only looked good
but seemed to work. Then I went through into
Ilsa's room. On the bed was a long white evening
gown, silk it looked like. Beside it was a long white
slip and on the floor a pair of white silk shoes.
Near the dress laid out for Ilsa was a midnight blue
tuxedo, the lapels wide, a black bow tie and cum-
berbund and white formal shirt.
I heard a noise behind me and spun, dropping
into a crouch, the muzzle of Wilhelmina reaching
out toward the double adjoining doors, but it was
Ilsa, the spread from the bed in my room wrapped
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around her, covering her but still somehow pro-
vocative looking: "What's this?" she said, gestur-
ing toward the clothes on the bed.
"I guess Geltner really does dress for dinner."
"Should we?" she asked.
I looked at the tuxedo. It was old, from the thir-
ties I thought, probably as the servant woman had
said, owned by Geltner's father. "Sure—why not,"
I sighed. "Bathroom between the rooms—you got
it first if you want, but give me a couple of minutes,
too. "
"Would you, ahh. . e" She smiled and turned to-
ward the bathroom.
"Shower? Probably has a small hot water heater
—-old building like this. Guess we'll have to con-
serve."
She started to laugh, a nervous laugh like that of
an innocent young girl. I walked toward her and
kissed her lightly, not daring to stay longer. I could
feel my mouth raising into a smile, then a little
overly hard I cracked my left hand across her rear
end and rasped, ' 'Go on—I'll be with you in a sec-
ond."
I could hear the water starting in the shower as I
went around and checked the doors again. I didn't
like the idea that someone had gotten into Ilsa's
room while we'd slept, despite the fact that she'd
bolted it. I edged a chair under the door handles of
both rooms, not expecting the chair to stop any-
one, but at least cause some noise and give me a
few seconds warning that someone was coming in.
I wrapped Wilhelmina in a towel to guard the
finish against moisture condensation in the bath-
room, then shaved, listening to Ilsa humming as
the water splashed around her. I climbed into the
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shower with her then, washing myself, letting her
wash my back, thinking I was getting to like her
more than I should. The water was still hot and we
stood there a moment, locked in each other's arms
and I kissed her again.
"Nick," she whispered, "is something happening
—I mean to us?"
I looked at her, pushing her away a little so I
could see her eyes. Her lashes looked as though
they were tipped with pearls, droplets of water sus-
pended there. "Yes—as a matter of fact—I think
so," I told her, kissing her and holding her under
the water.
Afterward, as I dressed, I could hear the sound
of a hair dryer in the bathroom. Staring out of the
castle window, onto the fjord below and the spo-
radic moon lighting the water, it seemed oddly out
of place—like a kink in time. I was wearing the
1930's tuxedo, like some sort of gangster with the
bulge of Wilhelmina in the shoulder rig under my
left arm. Then I turned, watching Ilsa, the white
dress, the blonde hair piled on top of her head. I
walked across the room toward her, my watch
reading two minutes to eight. She smiled, turning
around for me to admire her. I did.
Taking her elbow, I started toward the door. I
left the lights on, closing my door behind us, then
started with her down the hall. There had been a
small beaded bag on the bed beside her dress, but
I didn't see it now; she had the leather handbag
she'd carried earlier. I smiled, "All that for a
Walther PPK and some lipstick."
"Wait a minute," she said, smiling up at me. She
opened the flap on the bag and held it forward for
me. Inside was an two-and-one-half inch .357
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Magnum Smith & Wesson Model 66. I counted at
least three cylinder-shaped speedloaders for the
gun, and also spotted a standard blue, full-sized
Government Model Colt Automatic.
She smiled and nodded.
"Where's the Walther?" She raised the hem of
her dress and nodded toward her left leg. I grinned
and took her elbow again, saying, "And I suppose
you do have the lipstick—or wasn't there any
room."
She squeezed my arm and laughed. It was funny
—we seemed so happy, I thought, for two people
possibly on their way to their own execution.
At the end of the hallway, it was light again, and
as we walked down the movie set staircase, I could
see the glow of candles coming from the open
doorway of what I'd earlier pegged as the dining
room. There was the old woman, walking with
what looked like a cart laden with food ahead of
her, stooped over it slightly.
And there was an old man, enough like her in
age and general appearance to be the other half of
a bookend set. He wore a gold-colored cloth vest
and a white apron, looking more like a waiter in a
light opera than a butler. He was carrying a silver
bucket, and inside it, on an angle, a bottle of wine.
When we reached the foot of the the but-
ler turned toward us, smiling, and said in halting
English, "Good evening, Mr. Carter, Miss
Gustafsen. Professor Geltner is waiting for you
both in the library. May I please bring you some-
thing to drink?"
Ilsa looked at me, and I said, "I think the young
lady might. What would you suggest, ahh—"
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DEATHLIGHT
"Nils, sir."
"Nils, what would you suggest as compatible
with dinner-—a white or red wine?"
"We have a lovely Cabernet, sir."
"Excellent," I said. "A glass for theyoung lady.
I'll have the same."
He started toward what I assumed was the li-
brary, stopped by the door and announced us in
appropriately sober tones, then ushered us in and
disappeared. I glanced over my shoulder at the de-
parting butler, then heard a deep voice in perfect
English asking, "Did you require something from
Nils, Mr. Carter?"
I turned back and looked at Geltner, studying
his face for a moment. His looks were perfect—
identical to the picture Ilsa had shown me, perhaps
a few years grayer, an added set of wrinkles, but
that was as it should have been. He was fifty-five,
with the body of a much younger man. His hand-
shake was solid, dry and self-assured. I decided he
was too good, too much the perfect Dr. Geltner to
be Dr. Geltner.
"Mr. Carter, a pleasure to have you and the
charming young lady as dinner guests. Especially
you, sir. I so rarely see anyone from America—
anyone who speaks English with a natural ease.
But tonight will be so enjoyable. Has Nils offered
you both a drink?"
"Yes," I answered. "He recommended a red
wine. I was wondering how you came to expect us.
There was no way of contacting you, of course."
"Of course—and I have really no idea why you
both have come, but we get visitors here so rarely,
we try to make the most of each occasion."
"We, Professor?" Ilsa questioned in English.
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"l mean the servants and myself. They are like
second parents to me, I suppose. They and their
family before them worked for my parents and my
grandparents. The castle has been in our family for
centuries—we built it," he said, smiling and gestur-
ing toward the walls with his hands.
"Outstanding," I said. "l imagine you've done a
great deal to restore the place?"
"Yes—after leaving America, I was under-
standably used to the conveniences—but you both
must forgive me. In my enthusiasm, I've forgotten
my manners. Please, Miss Gustafsen, sit here," and
he gestured toward the couch. Ilsa started to sit,
but then didn't, asking, "May I please see that
beautiful porcelain on the mantle?"
"Why, of course!" Geltner exclaimed. The girl, I
decided, was quite the professional. She had
avoided sitting where he'd wanted her to sit,
perhaps escaping a poison-tipped needle or a
spring-loaded bayonet blade as well. And Geltner
was between us.
"Why did you and the young lady decide to fa-
vor my home, Mr. Carter?"
"How should I put it?" I began. "We need your
help, your expertise, Professor. But why don't we
wait until dinner, or afterward. I must admit I've
never had such an intimate view of a castle before
and I'm fascinated."
"Where should I start??' Geltner smiled.
I didn't really care where Geltner started. I was
more concerned about little things like an oriental
rug with dog hairs on it and no dog and the
curiously bizarre qualities of the servants. And that
was just for openers.
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TEN
After dinner, Geltner made his apologies and re-
tired to his laboratory. He promised to confer with
us first thing in the morning and announce his de-
cision as to whether or not he would help in the
current crisis concerning the mysterious Soviet
weapons system—evidently a particle beam device ,
but its application and its mounting aboard sub-
marines and its connection with satellites seemed
unfathomable. I told Geltner—whether he was the
real Geltner or not—virtually everything. I had
reasoned that if he were the real Geltner, the more
he knew, the better he could help us. If he were a
KGB man, the Russians evidently knew what the
particle beam weapons system was all about since
they were fitting three of their newest and largest
subs with it. Either way I had nothing to lose. Ilsa
and I had both appealed to Geltner as a pacifist,
which he claimed to be. He would be serving the
cause of world peace by showing the United States
how to equal or neutralize the Soviet weapons sys-
tem. If the Soviets employed it without the United
States having developed effective counter mea-
sures, it could only lead to a thermo nuclear holo-
caust. That argument had seemed to have effect,
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and he had abruptly left the table, leaving us to the
dessert and the after-dinner drinks in the library.
We had waited in the library for several hours,
drinking Geltner's excellent bourbon and going
over the book collection—first editions from all
over the world in dozens of languages. I was not a
book collector, but I estimated the collection worth
tens of thousands of dollars. It was the sort of thing
better kept in a hermetically sealed room, rather
than a room in a damp, stone-walled castle flanked
on one side by a bog and on the other side by a
fjord.
I leafed through a beautifully illustrated book on
arms and armour for a time,. smoked my way
through more than a half-dozen cigarettes and
finally turned to Ilsa, breaking the silence, "Well,
what do you. think?"
She looked up at me, then looked at the door.
She was seated on a brocade love seat with one of
the books on her lap. She closed the book, de-
liberately, then set it down beside her on a small
leather-inlaid table. "I think he is not Dr. Geltner.
I don't know why, really, but I think he is not."
"I agree," I told her.
"Then why did you tell the man so much about
the Russian weapons system?"
"No choice—if he is Geltner, we need his help,
and if he isn't he knows what I told him and more
anyway. What I'm interested in is where Geltner is
going when he is supposed to be in his laboratory. "
"Why don't we try and find out?"
"We can't," I said, lighting another cigarette. "If
it's a fake Geltner, fine. But on the off chance that
this whole thing is totally real, just bizarre—if I spy
on Geltner, that's going to kill any chance we have
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of getting his co-operation. I don't go along with
your idea of arresting him and putting him in some
kind of protective custody. That won't get him to
help. "
"What do we do, then?" she asked, getting up
and walking across the room toward me.
I dragged on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in
the brass ashtray beside me on the mantle. "We go
upstairs, to bed, just like normal people and get
some sleep, If it's the real Geltner, we'll learn his
decision in the morning. If it isn't, we'll see the last
act in the play tomorrow morning. After that, we
can decide. Come on."
I replaced the book I'd been browsing through
and took her arm and started toward the library
doors. Across the hall and starting up the stairs, I
saw the butler and he smiled. I looked at him,
saying, "Good night, Nils."
"Good night, sir. Madam. May I get anything
for either of you?"
"No, thank you," I told him and I took Ilsa's
arm again and we continued up the stairs.
We let ourselves in through her room, then took
the adjoining doors into mine. Both rooms seemed
perfectly normal and untouched. Our luggage was
apparently unexamined. "Your room or mine?"
the girl asked.
"Sleep in my room—at least we know the bed is
comfortable." While she began to change I
checked the UZIS and my own KG-9 semi-auto-
matic that I still had with me from penetrating the
base at Archangel. They, too, were untouched and
in good shape. If someone were indeed putting on
a play for our benefit, convincing us that a fake
Geltner was the real Geltner, then it was evidently
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more important that we walk away with a definite
impression about Geltner and be able to get back
alive to give that impression to our superiors. The
only fly in the ointment so far had been the attitude
of our being •expected. I had to admit, that suspi-
cion aside, Geltner's explanation—if it was Geltner
—had been believable enough. Had I lived here, I
realized, I would have been obsessed with having
company as well-—especially if that Old man and
woman were really servants. Having them around
constantly would have been enough to drive any-
one insane. And , Geltner—imposter or not—really
did live in this castle.
Ilsa called my name, and my thoughts were in-
terrupted. She was lovely: the blonde hair fell to
her shoulders, her body's sensuality heightened by
the floor length pink negligee that clung to every
curve. I walked across the room toward her, taking
her into my arms and kissing her.
It was midnight and long after that we fell
asleep, Ilsa curled up against me and lying in my
arms, the wind howling outside. We'd made love
again. It was a habit I thought might be difficult to
break.
I had been dreaming. .
. it was something odd
about the castle, odder than the obvious things.
And in the dream, it was somehow strangely im-
portant—a hingepin for determining whether or
not Geltner was really Geltner. I heard the voice
again and opened my eyes, rolling over, taking Ilsa
in my arms and kissing her. But it was Ilsa's voice.
"Nick! I hear something—wake up and listen."
I closed my eyes and opened them again. The
room was dark, gray coming from the leaded wilE
dows, apparently whenever the howling wind out-
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side blew the clouds out of the path of the moon
and then there was darkness again.
"Nick," Ilsa said again, shaking me. "I heard a
scream. "
"A scream? From where?"
"From, . ." I could feel her hands closing tightly
on my right arm and chest. "From inside the wall,
Nick, from inside the wall." I leaned up on my
elbows in the bed, trying to get rid of the cobwebs.
I remembered what it was I'd been worrying over
in the dream. If Ilsa's room had been bolted from
the inside, how had the old woman gotten in to lay
out the clothes for us?
And then I felt Ilsa's nails digging into my arm.
I heard the scream, faint, but human sounding and
not just a trick of the wind. And if it were from
somewhere other than inside the walls, whoever
was screaming was a damned good ventriloquist.
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ELEVEN
Ilsa pulled a sensible looking flannel robe on
over her nightgown. I'd been sleeping naked, and
was just closing the fly on a pair of Levis from my
suitcase when we heard the scream again. I found
the blue crewneck sweater I'd gotten from the sub-
marine, then slid Wilhelmina into the waistband of
my jeans. I dropped Hugo, sheath and all, into my
hip pocket, then snatched up one of the UZIS and
two spare magazines, telling Ilsa, "Get yourself
ready to go—as soon as we find the entrance into
the walls, we're moving out."
' 'Where are you going?" she said in the darkness
beside the bed.
"Into your room. Think about it: in order for
those clothes to have been laid out on your bed
with the door to the hall bolted from the inside,
there had to have been some sort of passage
through the walls, from your room." I could see
her body outline against the gray light from the
window for a moment, see her hugging her arms;
the idea of climbing around in the walls of a cen-
turies' old medieval castle at three in the morning
didn't appeal to me either. "So we start in your
rocm—there has to be a hidden entrance there."
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The girl close at my heels we walked through the
first connecting door, past the bathroom and
through the second connecting door into her room.
I walked through the darkness, found the light
switch and turned it on, squinting against the
brightness. I heard the scream again, and from the
look on Ilsa's face, so did she. And it seemed a little
louder.
But to Ilsa's credit, despite the look of terror in
her eyes, she immediately started working her way
around the walls, feeling each joint in the stone,
checking each of the cabinet-type wardrobe closets
inside and out. I was doing the same, and neither of
us was having any luck. We walked over to her
bed, dejectedly sitting on it.
"Where is it? We looked everywhere," she said,
her voice tinged with nervous desperation.
"I don't know," I admitted, my eyes drifting
across the room. Suddenly, my eyes stopped and I
found myself staring at the hinges on the adjoining
doors; then I glanced toward the hinges on the
door leading into the hallway. Both sets of hinges
were brass, but the ones leading into the hallway
were decorative, with gently curving lines. The
ones on the adjoining door to my room were
squared.
"I got it—come on," I almost shouted, getting to
my feet and running across the room to the adjoin-
ing door, then turning into the bathroom. I stood
there, looking at the shower and bathtub, the sink,
the toilet. "Think," I said to Ilsa, a smile crossing
my lips. "You've got this Old castle, walls out of
rock practically. You notice that with the light
switches and the light fixtures. Wire mold was run
on the outside of the walls—why? Because the elec-
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trician couldn't get inside the walls. It's not like
drilling a hole in a plaster wall.
"But do you see any plumbing pipes or, for that
matter, any wire mold for the electrical wiring in
the bathroom here?"
"You mean—" she started.
"Right. If you wanted to build a bathroom in a
medieval castle and you needed plumbing space,
where would you put it?"
Almost in unison, we both said, "Between the
hollow walls!"
"We're in the passage," I told her, "Now we just
have to find the door."
I started pulling on the flush tank for the toilet,
the toilet bowl itself. Nothing moved. Ilsa was
doing the same with the bathroom sink, even trying
to move the medicine cabinet. The walls were
plaster board and in desperation I was about to
take a candlestick and just smash my way through,
when Ilsa shouted my name.
I turned around. She was standing beside the one
piece bath and shower unit. "Of course—the
thing's got to move so they could get the pipes up
behind it for the shower!"
We both started tugging on the bathtub at the
base of the glass shower doors. Nothing happened.
"Here—wait a minute," I rasped, then pulled on
the near end of the bathtub. Nothing. Almost
pushing past her, I pulled on the end nearest the
faucets. Nothing. As I stood up my eye caught the
eight-inch long metal bar built into the shower wall
by the soap dish. I reached across and pulled on it.
The entire tub and shower unit swung outward,
and on the right side by the plumbing, the unit was
completely away from the wall. "Get the flashlight
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from my room" I told the girl and she ran off, in a
moment returning with the Kel-Lite and both our
UZIs.
I shone the light past the pipes. It was a narrow
space, but large enough to work in if the pipes had
needed a repair. I looked inside, first to my right,
where I eyed a network of plumbing pipes and elec-
trical wires. I shone the light to my left; the passage
broadened and seemed to slope downward.
"Come on," I said softly, then started through. I
stopped just on the other side, Ilsa bumping into
me.
"What's the matter," she asked, whispering.
"I just want to see how this thing works when
you open it from the inside—just in case someone
comes along and closes it behind us."
"l wish you hadn't said that, Nick," she said,
smiling weakly. I shone the light back to the show-
er unit and saw a long chain on a small pulley. Sat-
isfied, I turned and started down the pasSageway.
The footing was slippery, the walls damp, drip-
ping sounds everywhere. About fifty feet along, I
saw a torchholder and a lantern hanging from it. I
looked at the lantern in the beam of the flashlight,
and as I shook it I could hear the sound of liquid in
its base. I pulled up the glass and took my lighter
and lit the wick. It flickered for a moment, then
started burning. I slid the chimney back in place,
smudging away some of the dust with the back of
my left hand. Taking the light, I handed the girl the
flashlight.
The walls were dripping more and more as we
moved downward, portions of the passage covered
with huge cobwebs, but ripped apart, a clear sign
something human-sized had recently gone through
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the passage. I stopped, the light of the lantern
flickering off some metallic object to my right.
"Shine the flashlight over there," I told Ilsa, and
the girl shifted the Kel-Lite's beam, the light reveal-
ing a centuries old armory. Breastplates, axes, even
a sword or two were piled on old stone tables along
the wall, cobwebs covering them.
"That must be worth a fortune," the girl ex-
claimed.
"Not really. Look." I walked over to one of the
axes and touched the wooden handle; it crumpled.
"Rot. " As the axeblade shifted, now free ofits han-
dle, the light of my lantern caught a huge spider
scurrying across the table. "Come on," I told her,
then started back into the passageway. Just as we
turned out of the old armory, we heard the scream
again, hideous now in the dark and evil smelling
place, and vastly louder. It was a woman.
Holding my fingers to my lips for silence, I
pointed to the flashlight the girl held and signalled
for her to cut it off. The light of the lantern was
sufficient to guide our way, but dimmer; it
wouldn't be as much of a giveway to anyone else in
the passage. And with the scream, we knew now
that we weren't alone.
Suddenly, after moving along another fifty yards
or so, I signalled with my hand for the girl to stop.
I held my breath listening. It was either the sound
of rats scurrying along the passage floor, or human
voices, still quite distant. We inched ahead, pressed
against the stone walls, and, despite the uneven and
slippery surface of the passage, I killed the light in
the kerosene lantern.
We kept moving, and ahead of us now I saw a
dull, faint yellow glow, and the sounds now seemed
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definitely to be voices. We went on, stopping again
after another twenty yards. I held my breath again,
listening. There was no sound. Just as I was ready
to signal for us to move out, I stopped, flattening
myself against the damp cold wall. I could hear the
voices again, and make out some of the words. The
voices were speaking Russian.
I leaned toward the girl's ear in the darkness,
whispering, "If they're ghosts, they're dead KGB
men. Come on and be ready. Don't shoot unless
you have to." As we started moving, I could feel
the girl's massive handbag with her travelling
arsenal swing against me. Both of us had the UZIS
ready, the bolts locked back, the safety on.
The light was growing in the distance, brighter,
bathing the far end of the passage and making eerie
shadows, taller than humans and slender as wraiths,
along the far wall. And the voices were more clear
now, too. Then I heard the scream again, and Ilsa
heard it too; I could feel her hand tense on my arm.
One of the voices, speaking now in Norwegian,
said, "Old woman, be quiet. I know and you know
no one can hear you through these walls, but I'm
sick of the screaming. One more time and you get
what your husband got, only worse. Understand?"
There was a whimpering sound, and then the
sound of one of the men's voices laughing.
Ilsa and I edged forward into the boundary of
the yellow light. The tunnel took a bend, apparent-
ly another room like the old armory the location of
the light source. I edged toward the corner of the
wall and looked around it. What I saw was enough
to frighten even the stoutest of hearts: a medieval
torture chamber, complete with bones on the floor,
a burning torch flickering on the wall and living
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victims. An old woman, much like the one who had
greeted us at the front door was chained to the far
wall, shackles on her wrists and a large shackle
around her neck, her head hung down, a soft sob-
bing sound coming from her lips. Beside her was an
Older man. Both of them were in their underwear,
the old man beside her apparently unconscious, a
large dark bruise on the right side of his face.
It was clear now—the servants were fakes,
Geltner was a fake—the real servants were chained
here in the hidden passage, their clothes taken to
complete the costuming for the KGB officers
who'd replaced them. And Geltner—the real
Geltner—would be in the passage somewhere too,
kept around rather than spirited out of the country
in order to be a ready reference for the KGB officer.
impersonating him. I started forward in the pas-
sage and almost tripped, catching myself, then
looking down on the floor. There was a dark shape
there, and forcing myself to stick my hand into the
darkness I felt it—it was the body of a large dog.
Why someone had been foolish enough to use
the passage in the first place, to put the clothes in
Ilsa's room was beyond me, but even the KGB
make mistakes, Suddenly, too, the rationale for the
theatrics came to me. If we could be convinced that
the imposter was the •real Geltner, then the im-
poster could give us false information about coun-
tering the new Soviet Particle Beam Weapons sys-
tem, or just refuse to help. In either event, it would
seriously frustrate our efforts to find a way to deal
with the weapons system, costing us valuable time,
perhaps rerouting research that would already be
going on. The Soviets for some reason were con-
cemed with buying time at any cost. It spelled out
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something obvious—the weapons systems weren't
completely installed yet and once they were, they
would be so formidable, nothing could stop them.
"We can't risk guns," I whispered in the girl's
ear. ' 'You don't have a silencer in that purse, do
you?" I could feel her indicating negative. "There
are two of them," I went on. "I'll go in after them,
you help as best you can—don't shoot unless you
have to. Try and get the old woman free—she's
chained to the wall. The old: man Reside her
might be dead, but let's see what we can do for
him. "
I handed Ilsa the UZI, checking that Wilhelmina
was secure in my trouser band, then palming
Hugo, clear of the holster stuffed in my hip pocket.
I set down the lantern, gestured in the dimness at
the edge of the dungeon lights for Ilsa to step over
the body of the dead animal, then I started for-
ward. I edged around the corner, working my way
into the chamber. The two KGB men—burly,
tough looking—were sitting at the small wooden
table in the middle of the room, a kerosene lantern
similar to the one I'd found burning between them.
I could see two pistols on the small table as well,
but flat on the table surface as they were, I couldn't
tell the type. Hugo was in my right hand, held like
a rapier. The guards were perhaps fifteen feet
away. I started toward them in a rush, one of the
KGB men, a dark-haired man needing a shave,
started to get up. I stormed past him, into the edge
of the table, knocking it over, both pistols and the
kerosene lantern skittering to the floor.
The chamber was now a maze of shadows, the
only light source the torch flickering on the wall
mount, the kerosene lantern out, the smell of the
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liquid it burned heavy on the already damp smell-
ing air. I feigned a lunge for the man needing a
shave, the other man—taller than me by a head,
with thick blonde hair—coming at me then,
barehanded. But I was ready for it, wheeling and
striking out with my right foot in a karate kick into
his chest, the impact of my foot connecting against
his solid frame sending a tremor up my leg.
I wheeled again, the one needing a shave starting
for me, a knife in his left hand, the blade an easy
eight inches long, the steel glinting in the yellow
torchlight as the edge swiped past me, inches from
my face as I dodged back. He came toward me
again and I feigned another dodge but sidestepped
instead, coming in low, shifting Hugo into my left
hand and making a fencer's lunge with the tip of
the blade, then retreating.
The knife-wielding man fell back, his right hand
clasped to his left side. He started toward me again,
more cautiously. The second man—the blond-
haired one—was getting to his feet. I could see Ilsa
moving along the wall through the shadows, com-
ing up behind the blond man. As the other one, the
man with the knife started toward me, Ilsa made
her move, swinging the telescoped stock of the UZI
down onto the back of the neck of the blond man.
He lurched forward under the impact of the blow,
the knifeman turning a second to see what was hap-
pening. I lunged forward, the stiletto in my right
hand, stepping inside his guard and hammering the
thin blade into the left side of his neck. I withdrew
it and stepped back as he swept his eight-inch blade
around in a long arc, his body already starting to
fall forward, blood spurting from his still pumping
pulse at the throat. The knife slipped limply from
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his fingers and he half turned, then crumpled to the
dungeon floor.
The blond man was coming at me, staggering,
both hands extended forhny neck.
I didn't need my knife; he threw himself toward
me. I sidestepped, lashing out with my left foot and
catching him across the rib cage. Hammering him
back against the dungeon wall, I moved in, my left
elbow smashing upward into the right side Of his
head, my right hand in a knife-edge karate blow
hammering down along the left side of his neck, my
right knee smashing up into the groin. As he
started doubling over, I drove my left hand up in a
short, lethal jab, the middle knuckles striking
against his Adam's apple and crushing the wind-
pipe. Both his hands went to his throat and he
started to go down. I took a half step back and
sideswiped my right knee into the left side of his
head, finishing him.
Already, Ilsa was working to free the chains on
the old woman. The woman was stuttering some-
thing through her tears. I took a step closer to help
Ilsa, then understood what the old woman was
saying. She was crying the name of the old man,
her husband, Nils.
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TWELVE
The old man wasn't doing well—his body tem-
perature seemed down, his pulse weak and his
breathing labored. While Ilsa was helping the old
woman, I stripped the heavy coats off the two dead
KGB men, trying to hide the bloodstains, and we
helped the old woman into one of them, covering
the old man with the other. I'd done what I could
and turned toward the old woman, listening to her
tell Ilsa what had happened.
"It was after breakfast. And the dog, Ranger,
was wanting to go out. Nils started to take him
when there was a knock at the door. Six men were
there, and a woman. They said they wanted to see
Professor Geltner, and I asked them to wait a mo-
ment, then the woman took out this gun and
pushed me inside. "
"What did the woman look like?" I asked.
"She had dark hair and wore dark glasses. She
was wearing pants."
I shook my head, smiling at the woman. The de-
scription—-dark hair, dark glasses and pants—
could have fit half the women in any Western na-
tion on earth.
"What happened then?" Ilsa asked, glancing to
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me, then to the old woman.
"They forced their way inside. Nils heard the
noise and came with old Ranger. The woman shot
the dog. Nils tried to help me and they hit him with
a shotgun barrel on his face and he fell and—" the
woman's tears were uncontrollable now.
"And then they got Professor Geltner?" I asked.
"Yes," she nodded.
"Nils is your husband then?" Ilsa asked.
The woman nodded again, and I looked back
down to the old man. He needed help. Mostly, too,
he needed warmth. ' 'Dr. Geltner is in his labora-
"Yes," the woman said. "Just down the passage-
way."
"Nick?" Ilsa said, looking at me,- her eyes wel-
ling up with tears.
"I know," I sighed, heavily. I could hear Hawk,
munching on one of his cigars, haranguing me,
shouting, "What the devil is the matter with you,
man—your job was save Geltner, not the old wom-
an's husband." Mentally, I gave Hawk a one-
fingered salute, then bent over and picked the old
man up in my arms like a baby. He was frail and
light. I said to Ilsa, "Walk close ahead of me with
the flashlight. We'll get him up to our room—
keep the woman next to you so she doesn't fall."
I started walking, stopping and looking over my
shoulder. Ilsa's hand was touching my arm. The
flashlight came on and as quickly as we could we
started back up the passageway with the critically
injured old man in my arms and his wife, still
crying, walking beside us.
We reached the end Of the passageway, Ilsa slip-
ping through first, then helping me with Nils. We
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brought him into Ilsa's room then set the old man
on the bed, wrapping his frail body in a quilt. Ilsa
had the suitcase with the portable short wave radio
and I told her, "Make Nils as comfortable as you
can, then get on the radio and call in to your head-
quarters. Get some friendly troops out here as soon
as possible, then make sure Nils and his wife are
secure and come after me. I might need some help
down there." I snatched up one of the UZIS and
some spare magazines and started back toward the
passageway, turning, hearing Ilsa behind me.
"Yeah," I said, turning to face her.
Then she was in my arms, her arms entwined
around my neck, her mouth searching for mine.
"Be careful," she whispered.
I looked at her,. feeling my face creasing into a
smile, holding her close to me again for a mo-
ment. For one of the rare times in my life, there
was a woman in my arms that I couldn't imagine
letting go of—ever. I knew nothing about her, had
made love to her only twice, known her for less
than twenty-four hours. But there was something
about her—we were drawn to each other.
I kissed her cheek, told her not to worry, then I
turned and started into the passage, the kerosene
lamp in my hand, already lit, the flashlight left be-
hind with her. I thought about Ilsa's face—there
were smudges of dirt on it, where she had pressed
against the passage walls beside me, and the hem of
her robe was torn, her hair half falling into her eyes.
Funny, though, I felt she was one of the most beau-
tiful women I'd ever seen.
The dripping sounds of the water in the passage-
way brought me back to the reality of the moment
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and the danger ahead. I passed the room with the
old armor, flashed the lantern toward it and then
walked on. Soon, I could see the yellow light from
the dungeon much fainter because now there was
only a torch. Äs I passed it, I turned and stared—
the bodies of the two men were where I'd left them,
as were their guns. I was half tempted to snatch the
guns, but I didn't need them and anyone coming
after me would already be armed. I kept walking.
The passage went on seemingly without end,
twisting and turning, several other side chambers
like the armory and the torture chamber, but noth-
ing of interest in any of them. After ten minutes of
walking through the tunnel I stopped, holding my
breath, listening. I could hear the dripping sounds,
and from behind me I thought I heard footsteps,
but wasn't sure. It could have been Ilsa, I thought.
Then I heard voices ahead of me from the darkness
in the chambers. I started moving, more slowly,
picking each footfall. If there had been a half dozen
men and a woman, and I had taken out only two of
the KGB people, that meant at least five left at the
end Of the chamber, perhaps fewer there and one or
two in the main part of the castle.
As I moved ahead, I could hear the voices more
clearly now, almost detect what was being said. I
rounded a gentle bend in the tunnel, then stopped
dead; there was a beam of powerful light extending
into the end of the tunnel. I shifted the UZI into a
better position, then inched forward along the wall.
The tunnel narrowed and the ceiling dropped as
the light grew more intense. I rounded another
curve in the tunnel and then drew back, flattening
myself against the wall and watching along its
edge. There was a huge cave opened before me, the
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far end brilliantly lit and there I could see several
persons standing around something at its farthest
edge. One of the people, a man, a•submachine gun
cradled under his arm, moved aside a moment and
I could see past him. There was a man, in his fifties
or sixties, strapped to a laboratory table—Dr.
Geltner. Behind him, standing at the head of the
table, was another man in his fifties or sixties—the
fake Dr. Geltner.
The imposter had the lead from an electrical
cable in his heavily gloved right hand, touched it to
the bare chest of the real Dr. Geltner and the latter
screamed. I heard the standing man shouting, "I
have warned you, Professor, that we would be
forced to resort to such measures. Now, once again
—just how much does the American government
know about the bending of charged particles? An-
swer me!"
I leaned back against the wall, the scenario now
perfectly clear. They did intend to feed Ilsa and I
false information, but had to know first just how
spurious the information could be before we'd rec-
ognize it as fake—and for that they had to know
what Geltner knew. Then the fake Geltner would
talk with Ilsa and I in the morning, telling us his
conscience would not allow his active involyement
in defeating the new Soviet Weapons System, but
out of patriotism and in a spirit of co-operation he
would offer a few helpful hints. Then Geltner
would be spirited across the border into the Soviet
Union, defecting to them in outrage over U.S. war-
mongering attitudes, ready to do anything he could
to serve the cause of peace—helping the Soviet
Union.
It was a variation on some rather tired old
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themes in Soviet Espionage, but creative enough to
work. I realized, too, that if they got Ilsa and my-
self, they could still claim Geltner's defection to the
Soviet Union—and the United States wouldn't
have the information it needed to defeat the new
Soviet Weapons System.
I started to check the UZI, then almost swal-
lowed my heart, turning, then seeing Ilsa beside
me. I bent toward her, whispering, "You look ri-
diculous in that bathrobe—but beautiful." In the
faint light I could see her smile. Holding a finger to
my lips for quiet, I gestured toward the edge of the
chamber and she looked past me, turning then, her
eyes wide.
Smiling, I held up two fingers and pointed to-
ward the two Geltners.
I gestured for her to follow me, then started
moving out, turned and saw her holding her robe,
looking down disgustedly at it. I could barely keep
from laughing. I shrugged my shoulders, watched
as she hitched up her robe and nightgown, then we
both started forward. After a moment, she
stopped, pulling off her slippers and leaving them
on the floor of the cave beside some wooden pack-
ing crates. We were still in darkness as we edged
forward, but the cave was at least easier to nego-
tiate, the cave floor virtually dry and of rougher
stone than the passageway through the wall.
We stopped behind a low row of more packing
crates, and I took stock of the opposition: all five
KGB personnel were accounted for. I could hear
the fake Geltner saying, "Doctor, perhaps you do
not understand what we intend to do. I will kill you
if necessary. We must feed the Americans false in-
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formation, and cannot do that without your help. "
The professor, still strapped to the table, his
voice weak, have told you—I have no in-
terest in your weapon or the weapons of the United
States. I am working exclusively on the application
Of particle beams to micro-surgery. Why won't you
believeme?"
The woman stepped forward, still dressed as the
old housekeeper, but now there was a spring in her
step, betraying her youth. "Liar!" she snapped,
slapping Geltner once, then again with the back of
her hand. His face rolled away and I could see her
reaching over, her hands holding Geltner's head up
from the table by his ears, hear her shouting,
"Would you like us to burn out one of your eyes,
Professor, or apply the electrodes to your testicles?
We can and will make you tell us anything we
want! You have no chance of escape—the Ameri-
cans will not save you. The American agent and the
Norwegian girl are sleeping peacefully upstairs,
your servants are useless to you—you have no
hope. If you do not tell us, aside from what we will
do to you, we will kill all the others, slowly, pain-
fully. It is in your power to make the rational
choice and tell us what we want to know. Now!"
As the woman slapped him again, I looked' at
Ilsa and she nodded. I said, "That's our cue, sweet-
heart
I stood to my full height; the UZI slung at my
side, Wilhelmina in my fist, and I fired once, the
shot striking low because the woman interrogator
had moved, impacting into the left cheek of her
rear end. There was a scream, but oddly metallic
sounding, unlike a flesh-and-blood human, and the
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woman fell forward onto the floor. Ilsa was
standing beside me and firing her UZI. I started
running forward then, the Luger still in my right
fist, the closest of the KGB people, the man with
the subgun, wheeling toward me and firing. I dove
to the rock floor of the cave, firing Wilhelmina
twice as I did, the man loosing a burst, then doubl-
ing over and starting to go down, the subgun still
firing.
I could hear the woman with the metallic sound-
ing voice, shouting, "Kill Geltner."
The fake Geltner, crouching behind a rock out-
cropping in the floor of the cave started in a run
toward the table, the woman now limping away
into the shadows. The double for the professor had
a pistol in his hand and started levelling it for the
real Geltner's head. I raised the muzzle of the
Luger, running forward, my hands Shaking too
much for a steady shot as I moved across the un-
even floor. I lunged forward, jumping across the
table, knocking the Walther P-38 in his hands
aside, my own gun ramming up and the muzzle
slamming into the fake Geltner's neck, my finger
snapping back the trigger. The recoil Of the point-
blank shot sent the Luger in my fist rocking back
hard, my wrist almost breaking. The fake Geltner
fell back, blood spurting from his throat and neck
and spilling out of his mouth as he tumbled across
some of the packing crates then flopped like a bro-
ken doll to the floor.
I heard a short burst of subgun fire, turned and
saw Ilsa, dropped on one knee, the gun in her
hands pointed up the stairs at the far end of the
cave, the body of the last of the KGB men tumbl-
ing to the floor.
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Geltner, below me on the table, his voice feeble
sounding, rasped, "Who are you? CIA?"
"Never mind. Where'd the woman go-—-do you
"Those stairs," Geltner whispered hoarsely.
"They lead into the main hall of the house."
"Gotcha," I shouted, already running across the
floor of the cave. I reached the stone steps and
raced up them two at a time. I realized now—I'd
scanned the faces and builds of the dead KGB men
—that the man impersonating Nils was still at
large, probably upstairs with the woman waiting
for me. They couldn't just run—they had to kill me
and all the witnesses as well. I couldn't let that hap-
pen.
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I inched out of the stairwell and into a small,
dark room. Feeling along the wall, I found a light
switch; I flicked the switch and jumped away, ex-
pecting a burst of gunfire. There was none. I could
see a small door at the other side of the room and
I moved toward it. The door was swinging half
open, and I kicked it back, then with the UZI in my
left hand and the Luger in my right, stepped into
the door frame and ducked back. There were no
shots.
Setting my jaw, I raced through the doorway,
flattening myself against the near wall, listening,
hardly daring to breath. I was in the -main hall,
chandelier lights running its length, but nothing
out of the ordinary was in view.
I started forward, hugging the wall, then froze.
There was a loud click and the light went out. I
glanced behind me. The lights were out in the small
antechamber leading from the stairwell as well. I
edged along the wall, found a light pull for a table
lamp and tried it. The light evidently worked, but
there was no electricity. Someone had popped the
main circuit breaker, plunging the castle into total
darkness.
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I moved forward, the only relief in the velvety
blackness coming when the clouds would pass
from in front of the moon, allowing a meager
grayness to penetrate the gloom and drawing
ghostly fingers along the carpet beneath my feet.
Edging along the wall, I came upon an archway
leading off into a side room. I knew how it would
go down—how it had to go down. They'd have a
trap set for me, and with two of them, waiting there
in the darkness, I'd be unable to avoid it. I'd have
to survive it.
I moved away from the wall and deliberately
walked forward. I could feel my heart pounding in
my chest; my stomach was knotted with fear. Every
sound caused me to stop in mid-stride, my heart in
my mouth. I kept walking down the hallway. I
heard it then, a footfall, and I rolled into the
darkness, the chatter of the subgun behind me,
sparks flying as the bullets impacted through the
carpet and into the stone floor, ricochetting. I fired
at the muzzle blast, rolled up onto my knees and
fired again. A second subgun opened fire and my
left arm suddenly felt like someone had dropped a
piano on it, then ground their heel into the raw
nerve endings, I fell to my right, firing the UZI at
the new menace, the second subgunner still firing.
Then—the clouds must have passed away from
the moon—I could see my targets and they could
see me. The one on my right was the counterfeit
Nils. I emptied the rest of the 9mm UZI into his
silhouette and there was a burst of fire from the
muzzle of his subgun and he went down. The sec-
ond shooter! I rolled awkwardly to my right, the
UZI out of my hand, Wilhelmina replacing it. I
could see the shadowy silhouette Of the woman
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limping down the hallway. I fired the Luger empty
without hitting her, then I buttoned out the maga-
zine, the toggle locked back and the pistol empty.
Jamming the gun into my trouser band-—my left
hand numb and useless to me—I pulled a fresh
eight-round magazine from my pocket. Setting the
pistol on the floor, I awkwardly rammed the fresh
magazine home, then jerked the toggle back to
chamber the first round, holding the pistol between
my knees. I almost caught my thumb in the toggle
as it closed, but the gun was loaded and a round
chambered and for now that was what mattered.
I started down the hallway, dizziness starting to
hit me because of the gunshot wound. I kept going.
At the end of the hall I could see more of the moon-
light coming through a small open doorway far to
my left. I started toward it, edging along the frame-
work of the door, glancing quickly around it. It
appeared to be a short stone staircase leading up to
the battlements. The staircase was not short at atl I
found once I started, merely going round and
round in a spiral, open stone firing ports dotting
the way. It was like a silo, tall and cylindrical and
at the top of the winding stairs I could see an
arched opening with no door. The woman would
be up there, waiting.
I stopped at the head of the steps, knowing the
one with the metallic voice would be out there.
Shaking my head, half from disgust and half to
clear it of the dizziness, I dove through the
doorway, going into a roll. Gunfire sounded
around me, my left shoulder slamming into one of
the parapets and aftidal wave of pain starting to
drown me. I had Wilhelmina up, instinct alone
driving me.
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I could see the woman, the subgun spitting
sparks into the darkness. I fired the Luger, then
again, and kept firing, the toggle locked back now,
the pistol empty, the woman lurching toward the
parapet, the subgun firing into the air, her body
stumbling, falling and gone. I pulled myself to my
feet. The moon was bright now at last. I could see
her body—it was hanging above the ground, im-
paled through the stomach on the horn of a stone
gargoyle.
The pain in my shoulder was excruciating, and I
let myself slide down to the cold stone and close my
eyes.
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FOURTEEN
"l have to get out of this bed," I told Ilsa. "l
don't want to miss Geltner's debut—where is he?"
"He was just released from the emergency room
and they've taken him to our offices in Trondheim
for some Preliminary questions. We're all supposed
to fly to Oslo in the morning. Can't you wait until
then? I'll tell you what he says about the weapons
system. The doctors won't release you."
"I'll release myself. Aside from being a little
groggy and weak on the pins—"
"Weak on the pins?" Ilsa repeated, looking
puzzled.
"It's an Americanism—my legs feel a little rub-
bery. But aside from that, I'm okay. If you help me
walk out of here and you do the driving, I'll be
fine. "
"I'm afraid, Nick. You need the rest—you've
lost a lot of blood."
"Yeah, but that was all. I don't know how, but
they didn't even break a bone. I tell you though, I
never want another burst from a PPS again. Come
on, help me get dressed; okay?"
Still shaking her head no, but her eyes saying
yes, she helped me to a sitting position and I swung
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my legs off the bed, my head starting to ache. I sat
there a moment, feeling almost foolish as she
helped me with my clothes. She had my gun, -my
knife and my money and identity papers and
against the protestation of the floor nurse, we
walked out.
It was late afternoon and dark again as we
reached the car Ilsa had parked on the wet street
across from the hospital. She helped me into the
front passenger seat; then ran around the front of
the car and got in, She started the car, a Volvo, one
of the old P1800S models. I saw the tiny red light
bulb that indicated she had overdrive on it. They
were fast cars. I'd driven one once and my only
complaint had been the sponginess you felt in the
power train once you kicked into overdrive—the
speed was good, the gas mileage good, but it was
just a feeling.
"Here," she said, reaching into the massive
black leather bag again, handing me my wallet,
Hugo and lastly, Wilhelmina. "I'm afraid your
shoulder holster won't be much good to you for a
while, Nick."
"I'll live without it,"
I said, shoving the
Luger into my belt, not verifying the loaded con-
dition. I knew the girl well enough to know she
wouldn't have had an empty gun in that purse of
hers.
The drive across Trondheim was uneventful and
almost dismal; I was getting tired of darkness. It
was hard to remember it was only fall when you
shivered inside a car with the heat going full blast
and you were wearing a heavy down-insulated
coat.
After about fifteen minutes, she pulled the car up
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in front of a red brick building, slipped the short
throw gearshift lever into neutral and hauled up on
the emergency brake. "This is it. Geltner should be
here by now, or just arriving." As she started
around the Volvo I could see another car, a Fiat,
pulling up across the street. A few seconds later I
could see Geltner climbing out, helped by two men
I supposed were with Norwegian security. One of
them turned, glancing angrily toward us as we
started across the street; his face relaxed when he
recognized Ilsa.
We finished crossing the street and came up
alongside Geltner and the two security men, one of
the men nodding and smiling to Ilsa, looking
curiously at me. "This is Nick Carter," Ilsa said.
"He's with Americån Intelligence."
Ilsa and I let Geltner and the two Norwegians
enter the building ahead of us. There was a short
flight of stairs just inside the main entrance and,
after resting halfway up, I made it to the top and
she left me in a leather desk chair in a small ante-
room.
She was gone about five minutes, and I'd already
fired up one of my cigarettes. She returned with an
older man, white haired, with a long white beard.
He wore a corduroy suit and a heavy turtleneck
sweater underneath it. "Nick—this is Stig Bruun,"
Ilsa said, gesturing toward the man. "He's the sec-
tion chief here. "
"Hi," I said. "Forgive me for—
"Don't worry about that—let me help you into
my office. We have a nice comfortable chair there
and we can all hear what Doctor Geltner has to tell
us about this new secret weapon of the Russians,
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I nodded thanks and let him help me into the
next room. My legs were weak and I begin-
ning to think Ilsa and the doctors had been
right and I should have stayed in the hospital
overnight.
The office was small, lit with two standing lamps
and a desk lamp throwing light onto a much-
doodled green blotter. The chair Bruun had picked
for me was beside his desk, the heavy leather kind
you find in doctors offices. I eased down into it,
found a comfortable spot and leaned back.
Ilsa came by in a moment with a cup of coffee,
black and steaming. I was still cold from the drive,
and the coffee—almost burning my mouth—felt
good just to hold let alone drink.
"Is there a threat from the Soviet weapon as you
understand it, Doctor?" Bruun asked, also sipping
coffee.
"I—I really can't say now. I must see the things
I understand Mr. Carter photographed, in Oslo
tomorrow. But at this stage, I would have to say alf
particle beam weapons that could be operational—
at least that I can conceive as being operational—
are likely to be only defensive in nature. But I am
a pacifist, as youall well know, and even defensive
weapons can be used for evil purposes. I must wait
and see."
"But surely," Bruun pressed, "you must have
some idea. "
"I wish only to say that I thank Mr. Carter for
saving my life—and the young woman, of course,
as well. For that reason only, I will temporarily
suspend my feelings as best I can and accompany
them to Oslo tomorrow and there view the
documentation on the Soviet Weapons System. I
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must reserve my judgment on its nature until then,
however. Now, if you will all excuse me-—I feel as
tired as Mr. Carter looks."
There was a round of weak laughter from ev-
eryone but me. I turned to Geltner and looked hard
at him, saying, "You're a pacifist. Well, only a fool
wants war or violence or death, but only a fool
leaves himself defenseless against* the violence of
others, Professor Geltner. Maybe you don't take
this seriously. Communist weapons systems are
something you don't want to be involved with, but
just remember two things. The Soviets have that
weapons system, and they didn't build it for their
health, or just to keep the idle hands of their work-
ers busy. And a weapon saved your life—"l took
Wilhelmina from the waistband of my trousers and
set the 9mm loudly on the desk beside me. "I shot
that son of a bitch right through the neck with this.
I didn't like it, but I did it because it was the right
thing to do."
My right hand was shaking as I pointed the fin--
ger at Geltner. I let my hand drop and slumped
back in the chair. I was tired, angry and Geltner's
face was the last face I felt like seeing tonight.
We took a military flight early in the morning.
Ilsa and I had spent the night in her apartment and
I'd almost been embarrassed, wanting more to fall
asleep than to make love. The wounds in my shoul-
der were aching badly and I'd broken down and
taken two of the pain pills and slept hard through
the night. With a plastic covering over the band-
ages, I'd showered in the morning, then ate a big
breakfast.
We'd been picked up at her place at seven A.M.,
waited around at the airport while Geltner had ar-
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rived late, then taken off. The professor hadn't said
more than two words to me when he'd come
aboard.
I'd meant what I'd said to him and he evidently
knew it.
I expected Hawk to meet us at the airport, but
instead there'd been an anonymous Norwegian in-
telligence agent acting as chauffeur. Rolling
wooded hills were visible as we drove, skirting the
main arteries of the town. The population stood
something over a half million, and was perhaps one
of Europe's most interesting cities visually—it
seemed to successfully combine a country at-
mosphere with the bustle of a modern, indus-
trialized city. Even the peacefulness of the 'Oslo
fjord helped with the overall ambiance of the city.
Pulling down a side road, we drove up toward a
farm house, looking more like an English country
home, nestled in the foothills. We got out of the
car, Ilsa still helping me. Behind us, I could see the
dots of the buildings of Oslo and beyond that the
blue of the harbor. I started up the gravel path to-
ward the house, the Mercedes carrying Geltner,
coming up along the road behind us.
Hawk was standing in the doorway, polluting
the country air with one of his foul smelling cigars.
He hadn't changed in the weeks since I'd seen him
—his build matched his shoulders, massive and
strong. The eyes were set hard, staring past me,
past the incredibly beautiful Ilsa, staring behind us.
I turned, my shoulder still stiff and saw him eyeing
Geltner.
"He's a charmer," I said.
"So I understand," Hawk grunted. "The young
lady and I haven't been introduced."
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I smiled, gesturing toward Ilsa in an exaggerated
manner, saying, "Young lady—this is the Mr.
Hawk you've been in contact with by radio."
"I'm happy to meet you, Miss—Gustafsen, isn't
it."
"Yes. The pleasure is all mine," Ilsa said.
Hawk turned on his heel and walked back from
the door. We entered behind him and followed his
waddle down the low steps and into the com-
fortable country house great room, where a fire-
place was roaring on the far wall. He turned to me
as he sat in the most comfortable looking chair,
saying, "Norwegian safe house—figured it was the
best place for our little chat. Wouldn't you agree?"
I knew he didn't want me to answer him, so I
didn't.
Geltner entered then, and with him was Bruun
whom I hadn't seen at the airport. He'd apparently
flown in earlier, perhaps right after the previous
night's meeting.
When Geltner was settled, a young man walked
in bringing a coffee pot and cups. I Marted to get
up to get some, but Ilsa gently pushed me back and
got me a cup.
Hawk struck a match, touched it to a fresh cigar,
and said, "Dr. Geltner, I understand from Mr.
Bruun that you have little interest ip the Soviet
Weapons System,.that you are merely helping us as
a matter of courtesy to my associate, Mr. Carter. Is
that correct?"
"Yes," Geltner answered without emotion.
As I sipped my coffee, I listened to Hawk's
warm-up and watched Geltner's bored, disin-
terested visage.
"I think you might change your mind, sir,"
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Hawk went on. "If you are as sincerely interested
in world peace as you profess, then you will most
assuredly feel obligated to help us preserve it. Mr.
Bruun and I have some intelligence that even Mr.
Carter and Miss Gustafsen are not aware of."
"What?" I asked, lighting one of my gold-tipped
cigarettes.
' 'A few items of interest, actually. The Soviets
have begun a massive build-up in East Germany—
Army Divisions, ostensibly for war games. Also a
good sized naval build-up in the Mediterranean. It
appears they're up to something and I ihink it has
to do with the Particle Beam Weapon they have
mounted on those submarines, Professor Geltner. "
"As I indicated to Mr. Bruun and the others last
evening, sir," Geltner began, "I view current devel-
opments in Particle Beam Weaponry as being only
defensive in nature—nothing more, at least for half
a decade or so, probably longer."
"Nick obtained information about the system. I
have it here," and Hawk held up a large Manila file
folder, then reached into it, producing a sheaf of
black-and-white glossy photographs, eight by tens
and throwing them—almost too forcefully—on the
braided rug on the floor between his leather easy
chair and the chairs where the rest of us sat.
believe you knew that, sir," he said to Geltner.
"One thing Mr. Carter may not have mentioned to
you is that the Soviets said something in their ma-
terials about satellites—Nick had theorized that
perhaps it was a submarine based satellite hunter-
killer system. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
From one of their bases in Siberia, they recently
launched at least three satellites—peculiar appear-
ing to our analysts. Our scientists think the satel-
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lites are somehow linked to the Soviet Particle
Beam Weapons Systems. I want to know if they
are; you are the only one who Can tell us, then
hopefully suggest a way to stop it."
Geltner still looked bored, saying, "Mr. Hawk,
this is folly, sheer folly. The two incidents could
have no relation to one another. Certainly, it is the-
oretically possible to utilize satellites as reflecting
discs or-=say to bounce a particle beam. But to
mount a weapon of the proportions needed aboard
a conventional submarine would be impossible, es-
pecially taking into account a power source. Then
add to that thousands of square feet of computer
space—that's impossible. The miniaturization
work hasn't been done yet."
I looked at Geltner, the idea forming in my mind
something I didn't like, then said, "What if the
miniaturization work could be gotten around, doc-
tor? What if the submarines themselves were as
large as World War Two sized aircraft carriers?
What if the satellites served not only as reflectors
for the particle beams, but as radio links to hook
the submarines into a massive computer—land
based? And what if the bulk of those huge sub-
marines that wasn't given over to the Particle Beam
System itself was given over to stepped-up sized
nuclear generators—that'd be all the power you'd
need, wouldn't it?"
Hawk interrupted before Gellner could answer.
"Some of the photos Nick took showed the work
area for the submarines, and on the topside decks
there were curious large hatchways; only one of
them was opened. One of our scientific people
thinks they are sophisticated solar collection
panels, to augment the nuclear generators, proba-
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bly allowing the. conventional batteries to power
the ship while the nuclear power source is entirely
diverted to powering the particle beam." Hawk
turned and offered one of his rare smiles, C 'Great
minds or something," and he doffed an imaginary
hat to me.
Geltner said nothing, but then got from his chair
and dropped to his knees, picking up the photos,
laying them out in some order he had apparently
improvised on the spot.
"Coffee," he rasped to no one in particular. Ilsa
looked at him oddly, got up and poured coffee for
him,' handing him the cup. He held it in his left
hand, examining each photo as he picked it up with
his right hand. He didn't drink the coffee, just held
it there. I smoked two more cigarettes as he went
through the photos.
He looked up at Hawk, then at me and at Ilsa
beside me. "Mr. Carter is apparently right; your
scientist, Mr. Hawk, is also right. I need to study
these further, then study the written material in de-
tail. It is too early to say yet, but I think the Soviets
may have just jumped eight to ten years ahead of
existing technology. It looks like the sort of thing
that isn't really invention so much as accidental en-
gineering. But the result is the same. You could
build one too if you built the satellite, and the
super-sized submarine, and the computer banks to
handle targetting. It's too early to say," Geltner re-
peated, "but I think this weapons system is not de—
signed for submarine warfare at all, or for hunting
U.S. satellites in space. I think it just may be the
first ocean-based weapon ever capable of hitting
land based targets nowhere near coastal areas. So
long as the satellite can form the apex of the tri-
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angle, the angle for the beam won't matter—it
doesn't dissipate as a laser does. A submarine in
the Atlantic could fire its beam, bounce the beam
off the satellite and knock out a target in Chicago
or Madrid. I'm afraid we have a problem."
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FIFTEEN
"I must know how it works—it isn't scientific
curiosity. I actually see the threat of this system,
but we must know how it works; what Mr. Carter
was able to photograph just isn't enough."
"I got everything in the damned file, Professor,
everything I could in the shipyard."
"l know," Geltner said, walking over to where I
was seated and putting his hand on my shoulder.
"From what I understand, merely entering the So-
viet base was a monumental achievement. Yet, ap-
parently, all they had there was the information on
the submarines themselves. I can give you all the
information you might need on a particle beam
weapon." He walked to the window—the sun was
already starting to set—and then turning with a
dramatic flourish, said, "What I need, gentlemen,
and Miss Gustafsen, is the workings of the satellite
link! That is vital, if you are to succeed in neutral-
izing the effectiveness of the device. Perhaps you
don't grasp the gravity of the situation, but with
pinpoint accuracy, they could hit the President at
his desk in the Oval Office from a submarine thou-
sands of miles away—provided he hadn't moved
his desk chair since the last time the Soviet Am-
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bassador visited him."
Hawk started to laugh, then so did Ilsa and so
did 1.
Geltner turned back to the mosaic of photo-
graphs he'd made on the rug, looking down at it,
saying, "I'm not really as bad a sort as persons of
your peculiar persuasion might think. I happen to
believe that all men are brothers and that wholesale
slaughter in warfare will not only bring about the
end of mankind, but is brother killing brother. I'm
only helping you because, unfortunately, what Mr.
Carter said back in Trondheim last night is true. If
we allow the Soviet Union to bring this weapon
into fully operational status—and it isn't now—
they will be the masters of the earth and there will
be tremendous bloodshed along the way."
Hawk asked the same question I was starting to
ask: "You said it isn't operational."
"Well, of course it isn't," Geltner said. I felt stu-
pid that it wasn't that obvious to me. Seeing the
blank looks on our faces, Geltner went on, "You
see, obviously the powering source for the beam
weapon, the weapon itself. All •the items needed
have been tested individually, probably the radio
targetting with previously launched satellites—but
never the whole system. It would be quite im-
possible without all the parts in their proper place.
As I see it—and I'm not trying to tell you gen-
tlemen your affairs—what you need to do is some-
how ascertain the exact nature Of the satellite
targetting system. Then, either find the defect there
or convince the Soviets they have a defect there by
deliberate sabotage, but in such a way that you
forestall them from turning around and starting up
all over again. Do you see?"
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Unfortunately, I did see. "We should launch a
commando raid on whatever base they have where
the satellites themselves are controlled, get the
poop we need, then go after the whole system. "
"Yes," he told me. "Not all that difficult I
should imagine for persons such as yourselves."
I didn't say anything, just wondering instead
why he seemed to see a big letter "S" on my shirt
when I couldn't.
"What you are proposing then, Professor
Geltner," Bruun said, "is that Mr. Carter or some-
one like him take an armed force into the Soviet
tracking center for the satellites, raid their com-
puters, get out again and bring the information
back to you so you can formulate a defensive
Before Geltner could answer, Hawk said, "And
damned quick, before they start using it, since after
we penetrate their satellite tracking center in
Siberia, they will be forced into immediate use , sus-
pecting just something such as you propose, Doc-
tor. "
"I suppose so, yes," Geltner said.
"When do we leave?" I asked.
"I wish I could accompany you," Geltner said.
"They couldn't hide the information from me. I
know just exactly what to look for."
"We can't let you go, Doctor Geltner," Hawk
droned. "You're too valuable."
"The only other person who could accompany
you, who would know what I need and also be
skilled at computer use is my daughter, Kristen.
She is a computer designer, and has assisted me
frequently ever since her teens, on particle beam
studies. If she'll go, she's perfect."
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"No," I said. "I don't need an amateur along on
this, Doctor. Tell me what you want and I'll get it. "
"I don't think it's that simple, Nick," Ilsa said.
"I'm going too. " She looked at Bruun who nodded
silently. "We can't just punch all the buttons and
get the computer to print out everything in its
memory banks. We need to know just where the
information is stored and how to retrieve it."
I sighed heavily and lit a cigarette.
Hawk said, "For an operation this size, we'll
need a few hours start-up time—twenty-four to
thirty-six hours. Hope the Russians are kind
enough to wait that long."
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SIXTEEN
We stood on the dock back in Germany, where,
I'd started. There were slightly less than three
dozen of us, some of the faces recognizable, some
not. I knew the brand names though: some Navy
seals specially trained in arctic warfare, a special
group of Green Berets with similar training, a cou-
ple of Covert Operations Officers from CIA—and
one Norwegian Intelligence agent, Ilsa. I had asked
her not to come, but she had insisted and there had
been no way to stop her.
We stood there, checking weapons, checking
equipment, Commander Breathwaite, the Captain
of the U.S.S. Liberty, watching us with undisguised
curiosity. My arm was out of the sling, but still stiff
as I tried moving it. Besides Wilhelmina and Hugo,
I had special equipment as well. There was a cus-
torn, twelve-inch blade Bowie knife made by the
master craftsman Chris Miller, a six-inch barrelled
Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum revolver,
Mag-Na-Ported by Larry Kelly and then given the
stainless-steel look and endurance of a Metalife SS
Chromium M treatment by my old friend Ron
Mahovski. The factory walnut stocks had been
swapped for checkered rubber Pachmayr grips.
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NICK CARTER
Beside me was an M-16, leaning against my pack,
the Colt in .223, the rifle all of us would use. There
was special arctic gear, snow smocks, goggles,
everything we could have possibly needed. Now all
we needed was success.
I checked my watch. There was one person miss-
ing, Geltner's daughter, Kristen. It seemed that
being late ran in the family. But then, almost as if
because I was thinking of her, a black Mercedes
pulled onto the dock, an official car with West
German flags flying from the front fenders, the
glass tinted dark and prohibiting anyone from
seeing the passenger inside.
The Mercedes, one of the big 660s, several years
old I judged, stopped. Nothing happened for a mo-
ment, then the rear door opened and a woman
stepped out, wearing a dress, a mink coat around
her shoulders, the sleeves hanging loose at the
sides. She was dark haired, the make-up perfect,
looking more like a tall, slender and fabulously
beautiful high fashion model than a computer de-
signer.
She walked down the dock, toward us, stopping
in front of me about five yards away. She looked
up to the sail and called out to Commander
Breathwaite, the voice silky sounding, saying, "I'm
Kristen Geltner—where should I have my things
The driver was out of the Mercedes now, unload-
ing several suitcases from the trunk Of the car.
I walked toward the woman, Ilsa's eyes on fire
beside me. I said to the girl, "Miss Geltner, I'm
Nick Carter. Are you sure you understand what
we're doing—where we're going?"
"Oh," she said, looking at my face, then her gaze
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travelling down all the way to my combat boots
and back to my face again. "So you're the Ameri-
can assassin who saved my father's life. I suppose I
should say thank you. But I'm afraid I can't con-
done killing a man when he could have just as easi-
ly been arrested or something."
"It's the 'or something' that's the hard part," I
told her, then turned and walked back to Ilsa,
wrapping my right arm around the blonde-haired
Norwegian girl's shoulders, saying to her, "I can
see where this is going to be a lovely voyage. Trying
to get her across the icepack in one piece is going to
be like washing your car in a sandstorm—im-
possible and useless at the same time."
We had been out fourteen hours, and Ilsa was
sleeping in my arms in the narrow bunk when I
heard the shrill buzzing that sounded Battle Sta-
tions. I sat bolt upright, Ilsa sitting up now too. We
had been under the icepack for several hours and
the Battle Stations alarm could only mean one
thing—a Soviet nuclear submarine. As I skinned
on my jeans and a sweater, then crammed my feet
into my shoes, slipping the Luger into my trouser
band, I hoped one thing—that it wasn't one of the
monster nuclear subs armed with the Particle Beam
Weapon. I couldn't see a conventional submarine
having any kind of a chance against it.
As I started through the cabin door into the
companionway, Ilsa was right behind me, the in-
evitable black leather purse slung from her right
shoulder with the travelling arsenal stashed in it.
What either of us thought a few handguns would
do against a nuclear submarine was beyond me,
but people are nothing if not creatures of habit,
and going armed was ingrained in us both.
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We were spectators in this battle, not actual
combatants, and as some of the ship's personnel
came steaming down the companionway, we flat-
tened ourselves against the bulkhead to let them
pass, then moved ahead again.
As we finally reached the last watertight door, I J
stepped halfway through, framing myself there,
staring at the mass of activity going on before me.
I didn't really understand any of it. Ask me to sab-
otage a submarine and I can do it, especially one
going under the icepack. But, ask me to explain
how it works and I can't—I only know how to
make it stop working.
Commander Breathwaite was at the center of the
activity, one of the few recognizable pieces of
equipment the periscope, but this wasn't in use
now. A small, almost fragile appearing, brightly
polished steel rail was around the periscope, form-
ing a platform on which Breathwaite now stood.
He was barking orders I didn't understand, then I
caught his eye.
"Mr. Carter, Miss Gustafsen, since you're in
charge of the topside mission for this little junket,
come on in—got some company. Not one of those
giants you talked about—that new class—just a
standard Soviet nuke sub. But they put together a
good little boat when they want to. Come onto the
bridge. "
Breathwaite was the essence of coolness in a
crisis. I supposed that getting panicky hundreds of
feet below the surface of the polar icecap wasn't of
much use anyway.
We started onto the bridge, and then standing
below Breathwaite's balconylike perch around the
periscope, I looked up, asking, "What happened?"
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"Logical question, Mr. Carter. Soviet sub ap-
peared out of nowhere—which is pretty easy under
the icecap really—and started dogging us, closer
than healthy. Seems like they might be getting
ready for something nasty; we should know in a
couple of minutes. Want to see them?"
"Sure," Ilsa answered and I nodded.
Breathwaite walked over by a mustachioed
corpsman and leaned over the console the man was
operating, apparently getting some kind of readout
he understood, then moved on to the man beside
the first one. Over the consoles this man operated
were what looked like conventional television sets.
Breathwaite leaned down and said to the man,
"Pete, why don't you give us a picture on the
starboard bow camera. Let's see what's playing on
channel fourteen tonight."
Pete twirled some dials and the television screen
to his right flickered and suddenly there was a pic-
ture, a dark shape. The Soviet submarine, its red
star barely visible, was out at the end of the picture.
"Vision intensification television cameras—a
modified starlight system—it's so sensitive it even
uses available light from luminous sea creatures.
Had a man who accidentally flicked the wrong
switch on this when we were on the surface once
and blew out the whole system—too much light. I
think you can see our friend over there."
I stared at the television picture tube, watching
the submarine. "What's that,"
I asked Breath-
waite. Air bubbles were trailing from the port bow
of the Soviet boat.
"That—" Breathwaite began.
someone shouted, and
"Torpedo firing sir,"
Breathwaite ran toward the man, headphones on
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and intent over a myriad of dials in a flat il-
luminated console.
"All ahead two-thirds, hard right rudder—hub-
ba, hubba," Breathwaite rasped, his voice still
even, perfectly under control. "Leave those camer-
as running . . . light up something farther back
. shake it up!"
starboard . .
Another of the TV screens came on and the tor-
pedo could be seen. It seemed to be speeding right
toward us using some sort of guidance system,
changing its course in the water like some sort of
radar-controlled underwater-smart bomb.
"All ahead full," Breathwaite commanded.
"Hard left rudder—shake it up!"
I started to ask something, then thought better
of it—the last thing anyone needed was an inter-
ruption.
Breathwaite shot a glance to the TV cameras'
pictures coming through on the screens, then
rasped to his men, "Okay, give me all stop!"
The torpedo passed out of range of the cameras;
all the screens 'were on now. Suddenly I could hear
the torpedo—-everyone on the bridge could it
seemed, more than a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly
glanced upward, a faint rumbling sound seeming to
go along the starboard bulkhead and past the sail
and then the sound died.
There was a collective sigh. "Let's not sit on our
laurels, gentlemen. Let's goose it up to all ahead
one-third, hard right rudder again. How's number
two, Norton?"
One of the corpsmen checked a panel and re-
sponded, "Got a P15A9 in her, sir."
"Okay, let's activate that. Get number six loaded
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with something a little better just in case—Torpe-
dine. Open the hatch on number two, fire on my
signal." Breathwaite glanced toward the television
consoles again, then said, "Give me all ahead two
thirds." Watching the Soviet sub on the television
screen, he snapped, "Belay that—all stop, hard left
rudder, all ahead now one-third. Fire number
There was a hissing sound from outside the sub
and suddenly a white, missile-shaped object flashed
across the forward camera's field of view, the tor-
pedo homing -toward the Soviet submarine. The
Soviet sub was starting to maneuver, and they were
firing another torpedo. "The best defense is a good
offense," I could hear Breathwaite muttering.
"Hard right rudder, now give me all ahead full and
open the hatch on number six. We ready there,
Norton?"
"Aye, aye, sir!"•
"All right, back one-third, hard left rudder, ease
up on the bow planes. Norton—green light for
number six—fire!"
The Soviet torpedo was homing toward us, our
torpedo glancing off the Soviet sub's starboard
hull; there was no explosion. "Just a practice torpe-
do," Breathwaite told us. "Figured to let them
know we were sincere. The one they fired after that
kind of changed my mind, but maybe they'll think
we're lobbing another practice shooter at 'em—
we'll see. " The Soviet sub was maneuvering toward
the left of the screen, the camera tracking. Breath-
waite, eyeing the Soviet torpedo, rasped, "All
right. All ahead full, hard left rudder. Back one-
third, give me another hard left and pray!"
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The Soviet torpedo passed out Of the camera
range, and again all eyes stared at the bulkhead
above, as if somehow through concentration you
could see the torpedo; there was a shudder, then an
alarm sounding. Breathwaite snatched a micro-
phone down from the conn, rasping into it, "This is
the captain—-damage report—make sure we got all
the watertight doors closed, boys!"
I was watching the US. torpedo now, as it sailed
through the water toward the Soviet sub. The sub
looked to be maneuvering desperately, but the tor-
pedo was homing in on it. I could hear a voice com-
ing over the loudspeaker, "Carrington in the reac-
tor room, sir—damage report!"
"Give it to me, Carrington."
"Aye, sir—two injured, one serious; shipping a
little water by the aft compartment door. Tried
raising somebody in there, can't. Reactor room se-
cure except for minor damages—nothing we can't
fix."
"Good man," then Breathwaite's tone changed.
"Torpedo room—let's sing out back there!" There
was no response. "Torpedo room—let's hear from
you—this is the captain speaking. " Still no answer.
I was watching the television camera. Our torpe-
do was about to impact and then suddenly there
was a flash of light and the cameras went blank.
There was a brief period of horizontal distortion—
static or something—and the Soviet sub was visible
again, a massive hole in its starboard bow, the sub
itself nosing downward.
There were no cheers—I think too many of the
men aboard our sub were picturing themselves
aboard the Soviet vessel, going down hard for the
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DEATHLIGHT
last time under the ice.
Breathwaite was on the PA again, shouting this
time, "Torpedo room—let's hear from you—tor-
pedo room." There was silence, except for the
buzzing of the system itself.
Another bridge officer walked over to Breath-
waite, suggesting, "Sir, maybe just the system is
out back there."
Breathwaite looked at the junior officer, putting
his right hand on the man's left shoulder, then took
the microphone again and choked it in his left fist.
"Norton," he rasped across the bridge. "What do
your instruments say?"
"They're out, sir. The readings don't make any
sense. "
Breathwaite turned to the man I'd pegged as the
helmsman. "She readin' sluggish, Charlie, or not?"
"Real sluggish, sir, in the aft section."
"Forward torpedo room—let me hear from
you ? l,
The PA kicked back on, "Mulliner, sir, no dam-
age."
"I think you just lost your buddies in the back of
the bus, Mulliner—l'm sorry—relay that for me. "
There was a pause and Breathwaite stared at the
microphone, then a voice came back over the PA,
the man who'd called himself Mulliner, but the
voice was cracking a little as he spoke, "Aye, aye,
sir. I got a whole load of volunteers here for a
swim. "
"I know you do," Breathwaite said, his words
slow and uneven sounding. "Not under the ice."
Then turning to another corpsman, Breathwaite
rasped, S' You got a monitor on the pumping—
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"Less than three feet down there now, sir. We're
blowing air in there."
Breathwaite dropped the microphone and let it
hang on the coil of cord, then walked over to Ilsa
and me. "Hit the butt end of the torpedo tubes—
pressure probably blew open the interior hatch on
one of them. Thank God the water tight doors
were closed. . . "His voicetrailedoffandherubbed
his hands across his face. Breathwaite looked as
though he'd just lost some of his best friends—and
he had.
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SEVENTEEN
We were suited up and ready-—climbing ropes,
ice axes, everything for negotiating the icecap.
There were crevices that could open at any moment
—hence the ropes to bind ourselves together and
the ice axes if the ice started to close, although that
would do little or no good. The ropes were also to
keep us from wandering apart. To avoid detection
as much as possible, we wore white snow smocks
and pants, and with the blizzard conditions that
were supposedly above us, the danger of becoming
lost in an Arctic 'white-out' was high. The ice ma-
chine for judging the thickness of the ice above the
sail was now the center of everyone's attention, and
Breathwaite was watching it intently.
"Shoot her some air, all ahead one-third," he
called out. "Let's go up nice and slow . . . all stop
. more air aft. Okay, let's let her up——level off
the diving planes." There was a crunching sound
above us, almost as though the very structure of
the submarine were being torn at, then a loud,
almost ear-splitting crack and Breathwaite's face
creased into a smile. "Well, I think we can safely
say we did it again. Let's get the hatch opened."
I started toward the ladder and Breathwaite
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stopped me, his hand on my shoulder, his voice
low, "One thing, Mr. Carter, there is a slim chance
we might not be here when you get back. If that's
the case, drop one of those homing beacons under
the ice and we'll pick up the radio signal and try
and come for you when we can. The ice up here is
under thousands of tons of pressure. If the pack
starts shifting—as it does all the time—we'll have
to dive, otherwise the sail will get crushed and we'll
have a big hole in the boat. In a situation like that
I have no other choice. I have the welfare of my
crew to think about, and the safety of the ship."
Then his eyes brightening, he added, "You imagine
having the cost of one of these things taken out of
your paycheck every two weeks?"
I laughed, slapping Breathwaite on the back,
then started toward the ladder and toward the
openåatch. Snow was blowing in through the
opening already—but it wasn't snow I realized—it
was too cold outside for snow. It was blowing ice
crystals and even with the goggles and the snow
mask in place, I could feel them pelting at my skin
as I reached the top of the sail and peered over the
side. I'd heard the Arctic described as a sea of ice
before—and, it was that, but there could .be an
equally strong case for calling it a desert of ice.
There was nothing to relieve the bleakness of the
landscape—nothing at all. We were four miles
from the farthest perimeter of the Soviet tracking
station base, and surprise would be our only ally as
we aimed toward the thin spit of ice-covered land
extending onto the ice. If we were off on our co-
ordinates by so much as a few degrees, we would
never find it, perhaps walking endlessly until we
dropped or froze to death. Visibility in the near to-
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tal darkness was low, less than an eighth of a mile
at best and because of the storm swirling around
the sail now, there would be no moonlight to guide
us either.
Ilsa was beside me, and I turned and looked at
her, trying to signal her not to accompany us. She
read what I was saying and signalled no. I gave up.
I hadn't seen Professor Geltner's daughter since
she had come aboard. But nowshe was there too.
She was dressed like the rest of us and all that
could be seen of her actual features was the dis-
torted image through the lightly tinted snow gog-
gles, the eyes dark and somehow angry seeming.
Four miles. We started away from the sub's sail
and in just seconds the sail was no longer vis-
ible to us. Four miles. A distance any reasonably fit
person could cover with little effort in a short time.
But on the icepack, four miles was twenty times the
effort. Wind drove against you, numbing your
body despite the heavy clothes and the total cov-
erage of every surface of your skin. For every foot
you moved forward, the wind drove you back at
least half the distance. Each step was torture, the
weight of the equipment, the shortness of breath as
the wind hammered against you and made your
lungs burn, the numbing of the face under the con-
stant rain of ice spicules. About midway across the
icepack, one of the seals stepped off into a crevice,
pulling one of the Special Forces men roped to him
down to the edge of the crevice. We got the Navy
man clear of the crevice just as it started to close.
He'd twisted his left ankle, but was still able to
walk, with the Special Forces sergeant he'd nearly
pulled along after him now lending him the sup-
port of his shoulder. There was no hope of two
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men making it back alone, and to have left the seal
behind would have been to pass a sentence of death
on him. He slowed us but we took him.
We had been on the pack for three hours, resting
every half-hour to avoid working up too great a
sweat—then as soon as you stopped or your body
started naturally to cool, you would freeze to death
inside your clothes.
With the visibility as bad as it was, we all re-
alized that we would not have any real warning be-
fore we hit the outer barriers of the tracking sta-
tion. We would just suddenly come upon it. It was
not heavily guarded, but we knew we would be out-
numbered. Our only refuge was in the element of
surprise—no one with any sanity would have been
on the ice in the early winter storm.
My feet were doing all right, but the tops of my
thighs were starting to stiffen. I couldn't tel! if it
was muscle strain or if they were starting to freeze.
My shins ached from oxygen deprivation in the
blood, but that was to be expected. Suddenly, in
the lead of the others by perhaps three feet, Ilsa
behind me and my body helping to shelter her from
the force of the wind, I stumbled, panic sweeping
over me that it was another crevice or worse, a hole
in the ice and I would plunge into the water. In less
than two minutes I would freeze to death, but I'd
likely die before that—the shock of the icy water to
the heart was more than most men could bear and
frequently brought death instantly.
I caught myself on my hands, the M-16 slipping
from my shoulder. It wasn't a crevice I realized—it
was the base of a fence, partially blown down by
the force of the wind. And as I strained my eyes to
see, suddenly ahead of us was a dim white light. We
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had found the Soviet Satellite Tracking Station.
I made hand signals to call the force to a halt,
then pointed into the darkness. I could see heads
nodding in recognition and I was relieved then,
too; I'd half feared it was my mind playing tricks
on me. With the fence down, and the intensity of
the storm, it was almost an invitation. We walked
over the debris of the fence and started toward the
light source. There were no guards, perhaps the
storm too intense, perhaps the base defenses so
strong they weren't felt to be needed.
The light source was less than a city block away
from us now and once more I called a halt, fanning
out the commando force on both flanks, Kristen,
one of the seals and one of the CIA Covert men
with Ilsa and I. We started toward the light, our
guns ready, knowing it was too easy.
Suddenly, off on the left I heard the rumble of a
motor, something that was the Soviet equivalent of
an arctic cat, enclosed and fully protecting the oc-
cupants from the storm. The half-track vehicle
started toward us. In the distance behind it, I could
barely make out what seemed to be a helipad, a
machine there, the rotors turning slowly.
The vehicle was coming at us now at full speed
and I signalled to the CIA men and Ilsa. We
opened fire, a machine gun mounted to the things
firing at us, the CIA man going down, a line of red
emblazoned in bullet holes across the white of his
snow smock. We kept firing, a scries of three round
bursts from my M-16 pumping into the windscreen
on the vehicle, the vehicle turning crazily then and
going off across the iced-over snow.
I heard myself shouting„ "Come on ! " not knowing
even if anyone could hear me. The two flanking
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elements were starting already to converge on the
front of the building that was the light source and
we all reached the opening simultaneously. There
was a massive steel door with a wire-reinforced
window panel, half frosted over by the contrast of
warmth on the inside to the cold of the arctic
night. One of the seals began laying a charge to the
door. I pulled down my snow mask, the cold num-
bing my face almost instantly more than even it
had been previously. I shouted to another seal lead-
ing the left flanking element, "Secure that heli-
copter landing pad—that may be our only way out.
Find any vehicles!"
The man nodded broadly, his left hand leaving
the front stock of his M-16 and going up into an
0K sign. With the ten men from his force, he
started off across the open space toward the land-
ing pad. The seal demolitions man, signalling fran-
tically to us, started away from the steel door and
we all drew back, the explosion coming then in a
burst of heat and light and sound, the door flying
off its hinges, billions of the ice spicules seeming
to be released into the air against us. I started for-
ward, jumping over the debris of the explosive
charge, half out of the desire to get into the warmth
and save my face from frostbite. I was inside the
foyer of the building now, the M-16 in my hands. I
slid to my knees, my boots wet and slippery on the
concrete surface. About a half dozen Soviet sol-
diers started running from beyond another door,
each armed with an AK-47. I opened fire, Ilsa
beside me, still standing, some of the seals and Spe-
Cial Forces personnel there now, too.
The fire fight lasted a second and we were up and
running, the sudden warmth of the building despite
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the blown open front, stiffling somehow. There
was a long corridor beyond the interior door and
with Ilsa beside me, then Kristen and some of the
commando team at our heels, I ran down the cor-
ridor, waiting for the next attack. It came. There
were a dozen or more Soviet soldiers on both sides
of the hall, firing. One of the Special Forces men,
lobbing a grenade down the hall like a miniature
bowling ball, shouted, "Fire in the hole," and dove
for cover, the rest of us moving back, the grenade
exploding and the roar deafening in the confined
space.
With Ilsa beside me, we charged ahead, down
the corridor, the surviving Soviet resistance back-
ing off, but still firing. My M-16 was dry and I
changed sticks, slamming the bolt home and firing
a three-round burst into the last of the retreating
Russians.
We made the end of the hallway and I left two of
the commando force from the right flank unit to
guard our rear as we pushed ahead.
There was another corridor to our right and we
started down it, smashing through the doorways to
each of the rooms, gunning down the armed tech-
nicians there, searching for the computer center. I
could hear alarms sounding above the roaring of
the automatic weapons. There was heavy resistance
ahead of us—a phalanx of Soviet troops, most
armed with Ak-47s, some even bravely defending
their base with pistols alone. We fought them every
step of the way down the next hall, dodging into
doorways, trading shots, advancing a few yards to
the next doorway, shooting again. I snatched a
grenade from my packstrap and pulled the pin with
my teeth. I loosed the handle on the grenade and
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tossed it, a storm of arms and legs and dismem-
bered torsos flying upward and then raining down
into the hallway. The walls were splotched with
blood and tiny bits of pink flesh. Nauseated, I
pushed ahead, Ilsa and the others behind me.
We turned into the next hallway, the Soviet re-
sistance pulling back along the hall, still fighting
hard. There was a massive double steel door on the
left and I gave the nod to the seal demolitions man
and he ran a strip of soft plastique down the joint
at the middle of the doors, set the timer to it and we
ducked back.
More gunfire came from the Soviet troopers at
the end of the hallway, then the plastique charge
blew and the doors ripped away from their hinges,
sailing into the concrete wall opposite them,
beheading one of the men in the lead of an attack,
ing group of the Soviet defenders. Our weapons
blazing in sustained automatic fire, we reached the
blown apart doorway. It was the computer room;
there were men and women inside, most of them
armed with pistols and PPS subguns, firing at us,
making a last effort to stop us.
I could hear Kristen screaming from behind us,
"Don't damage the machines-—don't hurt the com-
puters."
We fired low, driving the Soviet defenders back
into a side room. I signalled the remainder of the
right flank force to defend the doorway, the rest of
my team to pin down the Soviet resistance in the
side room. Ilsa and I stood with our weapons ready
and Kristen ran forward across the room, up the
thin steel ladder to the central computer consoles.
She ran along their length, stopping and glanc-
ing at something then continuing to move on,
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almost to the very end Of the wall, then stopped
and came back, stood behind a black vinyl chair a
moment, then sat down. I heard her shout, "This is
it—if I can get it to talk to me!"
The gunfire outside was still heavy, the shooting
from the side room where the computer technicians
were pinned down sporadic now. From outside
there was the roar of another grenade. I turned,
looking behind me, startled. There was a mechani-
cal whirring sound and suddenly all the lights on
the computer panels were aglowg the machine
almost alive under Kristen's hands as her fingers
typed a tattoo on the machine in front of her. At
the far end of the machine was a printer and
Kristen shouted, "Which one of you reads Rus-
"We both do," I shouted, starting to move to-
ward her.
"Then get onto that printer and tell me what you
see."
I ran the length of the computer bank to the
printer, stopped and started to study the roll from
the printout machine. I started reading numbers
and a series of inexplicable alphabet combinations.
Little of the stuff was in Russian, English almost
the universal computer language.
Kristen shouted back, "All right, that's enough.
Now help me with this."
She was up and running, trying to pry open a
plastic-fronted portion at the center of the ma-
chine, a large disc of magnetic tape there. The cov-
er wouldn't budge. I rammed the stock of my M-16
against it and it shattered. She reached inside, re-
moved the tape reel and shouted breathlessly, "I've
got it—all the coded instructions for the firing and
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target identification sequence. We can go."
If she had what she said she had, we were home
free. All we had to do was get out with our skins.
I shouted. "Pulling out!"
1
"Pulling out!"
started running, Ilsa and Kristen behind me, the
force pinning down the computer technicians fol-
lowing after us. I reached the doors, signalled my
men there that we were pulling out. One of the Spe-
Cial Forces men pulled another grenade and I did
the same, both of us tossing them down the
hallway as the commando force withdrew behind
us. With Ilsa beside me, we started running back
the way we had come, up the halls, past the shot-
out side rooms, past the ranks of bodies of the dead
Soviet troops. There was a large force moving in
behind us. Heavy gunfire was coming toward us
and we stopped, exchanged shots, lobbed more of
the grenades and kept running. We were in the
hallway now just before the interior door and we
started pulling up our hoods. Then I burst through
the doors leading to the foyer, the sudden shock of
cold enough to make my breath catchl I started
running again, through the blown-out door and
into the iced-over snow, my commando force
around me, Ilsa and Kristen flanking me.
I could see movement down at the helipad,
one of my own men waving frantically for us.
There were two choppers, the large military types
similar to our Huey Cobras and we ran toward
them. I sidestepped, letting the commando force
pass me, counting them. We had totalled thirty-six,
and as I caught up at the rear •running toward one
of the helicopters, there were eighteen.
As we started aboard the choppers, there was a
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sound like thunder out of the west and I turned, a
Soviet fighter aircraft coming in low under the
clouds.
"Get aboard—hurry," I shouted.
We were done for now, but there was no sense
making it easier for them, I realized. Ilsa was still
beside me as the fighter came in for his first pass. I
raised the M-16, firing into the air at the plane,
useless I knew but hoping to draw its fire away
from the choppers.
There was a loud roar, the iced-over snow in
front Of me and around me ripping up in huge
chunks, and the plane was gone. I was still alive. I
started toward the chopper and stopped dead
in my tracks. Ilsa was on the ground beside
where I stood, the aircraft's machine gun bul-
lets having ripped up the center of her body.
She was a mass of blood and even the beautiful
face was gone. My rifle dropped from my limp
right hand and I fell to my knees in the snow. I
could hear someone shouting, "Carter—come on,
man—come on!"
I could hear the shouting, but it didn't matter. I
closed my eyes, remembering the smile, the way her
mouth had tasted against mine. I remembered the
terror in her eyes at the door of Geltner's castle, the
way she had looked in the 1930's evening gown.
I opened my eyes, and she was still dead in the
snow in front of me, the chopper blades whirring a
blizzard of ice that was already drifting over her
body. I stripped awaymy snow smock and covered
her face with it.
The thunder was coming again, the jet fighter.
I stood up, turned to the chopper and shouted to
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one of the Special Forces men.
"Give me one of those Goddamned LAWS
rockets!"
I took the long green disposable tube and
charged. it, then rested it along my right shoulder.
The jet was coming—I remembered the markings
—the one that had killed Ilsa. As it started to open
fire, I triggered the LAWS rocket and the jet
seemed to hesitate in mid-air for an instant and
then exploded.
More fighters were coming over the horizon and
I threw away the LAWS tube, starting toward the
chopper as debris rained down from the sky
from the Soviet plane. As I stepped aboard, a heav-
ily armed squad of the Soviet soldiers started out of
the building, shooting at us. My M-16 gone, I
snatched the .44 Magnum revolver from the hip
holster and thumbcocked it, letting the Model 29
belch its fire into the night, the Mag-Na-Ported
barrel climbing, then settling down and I fired
again. The helicopter was starting to lift off now
and I let the revolver hang limply at my side. All I
could see—even when I closed my eyes—was the
lifeless form under the snow smock on the ground
below us. Ilsa.
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We'd landed the two choppers as close to the sub-
marine as we could, then ran toward it across the
icepack, almost literally throwing ourselves down
the hatch in the sail and into the sub, the Soviet
fighters coming in right behind us. I found a corner
of the bridge and leaned against the bulkhead, the
sounds of the power system growing louder,
Breathwaite giving commands to dive, the roar of
the jets overhead finally blotted out as the hatch
closed, then the lurching and scraping, the shud-
dering of the steel ribs around us as the sub tried to
pull out of the jaws of the icepack. There was a
rattle from the overhead, like a long series of heavy
hammer taps and I heard Breathwaite calling for a
damage report—the ice machine was disabled.
Breathwaite muttered something vulgar and
gave a depth for the dive, then turned to me. "I'm
sorry about the young lady, Mr. Carter. It's a rot-
ten business." He slapped me on the shoulder and
went back to the problem at hand—the submarine
running under the icepack without being able to
judge the depth of the ice overhead.
With the ice machine disabled and the Russian
fighter attack, we headed, rather than back by the
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polar route, to Alaska: Breathwaite surfaced as
soon as he felt safe and there was a plane waiting
there to fly us to San Francisco. From San Francis-
co we flew East, stopping in Colorado. There, at a
hardened strategic base which was so secret I didn't
think Hawk even knew about it, Kristen's stolen
tape was run through a massive computer bank.
While she worked, I tried sleeping and finally did.
I was awakened and she was ready to go. She
would say nothing beyond the fact that her father's
worst fears were substantiated. We made a short
hop to Omaha, Nebraska, then left from Strategic
Air Command Headquarters on the longest hop—
to Brussels, Belgium, where we were told we would
meet Hawk and many of the other NATO in-
telligenceofficials.
I slept, my shoulder aching but the wound still
closed, my dreams of ice and snow and grenades
going off and at the end of every dream there was
the same jet roaring overhead and Ilsa dying.
Finally I gave up and sat up for the rest of the trip.
It was early morning in Brussels and there was
slightly less than an hour before the meeting would
begin. Latest word was that two of the three Soviet
subs had put to sea with the new weapons system
aboard, But according to a remark Kristen made,
she doubted it was anything more than an attempt
to get them to safety in the event of a U.S. pre-
emptive strike against their submarine pens at
Archangel,
I used the time to grab a shower in the base
officer's quarter I was assigned, and the first shave
I'd had in more than forty-eight hours. Wilhelmina
got a cleaning as well. I stripped all the cartridges
from the main and spare magazines and checked
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the spring pressure under the magazine followers;
stripped the Luger, cleaned and lightly oiled it,
then reassembled it. As I loaded each magazine, I
smacked the spine of the magazine against the
palm Of my hand, firmly seating the cartridges for
uniform feeding. With the Luger reloaded, I tried
the shoulder holster, but the weight of the gun was
still uncomfortable with the shoulder wound; car-
rying the pack across the icepack had been sheer
hell. I elected merely to stuff the P-08 in my trouser
band—where I was going, concealment wasn't that
terribly important.
The NATO officials meeting was on the base
and I walked the two blocks through the morning
mist, my collar up against it, the thought of Ilsa
still in my mind. It was my own damned fault—I
knew that. Breathwaite had been right—love didn't
mix with my business. I showed my security badge
at the entrance to the large building being used as
the meeting site, then went inside, showed the
badge again, and the guard there made a telephone
call. An American by the cut of his clothes and the
set of his face, came down the steps at the end of
the entrance hall, walked over to me and shook my
hand, identifying himself as Captain Arrington
and, despite the civilian clothes, with Air Force In-
telligence. I followed Arrington, dragging my wet
raincoat with me up the flight of stairs and down a
long carpeted corridor. We stopped before two
double oak doors, and Arrington opened the one
on the right, then let me pass ahead of him.
It was a large conference room, looking more
like something you imagined the General Motors
executives used rather than the NATO Intelligence
people: water pitchers, neat note pads, and a wide
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movie screen at the end of the table coming down
electrically into position. Hawk was sitting toward
the head of the table, an empty chair beside him
and Kristen Geltner in the next chair, her father
beside her.
Hawk waved me over. If I hadn't seen him, my
sense of smell would have led me to him—he was
smoking one of his inevitable cigars. I took the-
chair, tossing my wet raincoat onto an empty
couch behind us and turned to watch the movie
screen'. I hoped they were running a cartoon, but I
guessed it was all going to be previews of coming
attractions—World War III.
The man at the head of the table—French by the
sound of him, but I judged more likely a Belgian,
rapped a gavel on a small circular base and began
speaking in English. "We are all conversant with
the situation, we are all conversant too with the
singular heroism of Mr. Carter, the late Norwegian
agent,' Ilsa Gustaf—
"Gustafsen," I corrected him. He turned and
glared at me and I heard Hawk and of course, Dr.
Geltner and his daughter, Miss Kristen Geltner.
The crew of the U.S.S. Liberty also deserves quite
a bit of credit, as do several persons from the Spe-
Cial Forces of both the United States Army and
Navy, and some of the Intelligence people from the
United States CIA. Our thanks to all. But now to
the problem at hand. Professor Geltner. "
I turned and Geltner stood up. I watched
Kristen's eyes, beautiful eyes, as she stared at her
father. Pride, love, respect—maybe she wasn't so
cold after all, I decided.
"Gentlemen, and my daughter," Geltner began.
"If you will allow me, I think the situation can best
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be understood with the help of some film I've had
prepared. Lights, please," and the room darkened,
shades automatically passing from right to left in
front of the windows opposite me.
The pictures were ones I'd seen before; I'd taken
them. Geltner flashed through several shots, then
began to speak. "As you all know, the Soviets now
have what seems to be an operational Particle
Beam Weapons System mounted aboard their
newest submarines, the largest submarines ever
built, vastly larger than those of any of the NATO
nations. The power source for the beam weapons is
in a greatly improved nuclear generator aboard the
submarines—because of their large size, the gener-
ator facilities are immense. Coupled with this, a so-
phisticated computer system located near Moscow
itself has been designed. The computer system han-
dles targeting, firing orders, trajectories, etc. And I
use the word trajectories. For how the beam works
is by satellite. The beam is fired—for optimum re-
sults from on the surface though underwater firings
are possible. The beam is directed by radio gui-
dance fed through the computer via satellite back
to the submarine, this initiating the firing. The
beam then is shot toward the satellite, bounced Off
the satellite and redirected to any land- or sea-
based target desired. There are three submarines,
each identical to the other, three satellites, also
identical. One submarine can be directed by all
three satellites for differing shots, or three sub-
marines can be directed by one satellite for concen-
trated fire power. As long as the co-ordinates are
known, the target can be hit. If all three beams are
used, entire armies could be vaporized with a suc-
cession of hits. Single beam hits from one satellite
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could wipe out land-based missile sites easily. Be-
cause of the sophistication of the heat-sensitive
tracking systems, a submarine could knock out a
single camouflaged tank three thousand surface
miles away. The Soviets, gentlemen, have won
World War III without firing a shot. I suggest you
negotiate. "
Before there could be a response, I stood up. I
was there to smile politely and be quiet, but I
wasn't in the mood to do that. I could feel Hawk
tugging on the sleeve of my jacket and I shook him
away.
The Belgian moderator said, "Mr. Carter—you
wish to say something?"
"Yes, I wish to say something." I took a deep
breath. "Dr. Geltner is wrong. The facts about the
effectiveness of their weapons system is all true, or
at least the best I can figure. But that routine about
losing the war without a shot being fired is wrong.
If they've got a new weapons system, then fine, we
stop them. I don't think we could try a commando
raid in force on the Moscow targeting center, but
maybe we can take out the submarines, or shoot
down the satellites. That information we
stole cost a lot of lives, on their side as well as
our side. It was important enough to risk a war
over, but now Professor Geltner is saying we
should just hang it up. Well, we can't."
Geltner stood up, saying, "Mr. Carter's senti-
ments are admirable, if a bit old fashioned and
naive , gentlemen. "
I turned around toward him and did something
I'd been wanting to do ever since he had first
started spouting off about how stupid this thing
was. I reached across his daughter Kristen and
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with my right fist, I hammered into the left side of
his jaw as hard as I could, knocking him halfway
across the conference table. Everyone was starting
to their feet.
I snatched my raincoat from the couch and
turned, shouting back to Hawk as I walked out of
the room, 'SI know—I'm fired!"
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"You're not fired. I felt like socking Geltner in
the jaw myself—I think half the people in the room
felt like it. I just wish you hadn't broken his jaw."
I looked at Hawk, not even minding the terN)le
cigar he chewed for a moment, then said to him,
"What can I say—I was angry, mad."
"Oddly, the NATO chiefs agreed with you. We
must do something. Whether it works or not, we
don't know, but no one was in the mood to just let
the Russians take over the world and stand there
watching it with a dumb look on his face."
There had been a strong diplomatic protest
about the raid on the Soviet Satellite Tracking
Center, and the Russians—as we had envisioned
they would—had used the commando raid as an
excuse to bring their European forces to full alert
status. There was nothing said about the Soviet
submarine the U.S.S. Liberty had sunk under the
icepack. Either the Russians had no way of at-
tributing the loss to belligerent action, had not yet
been scheduled for communications with the ship
and didn't know it was lost, or they just weren't
about to mention it. It seemed likely it was the lat-
ter.
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There was another meeting planned—Geltner
would be there, and I was invited. This would be a
strategy meeting to determine what could be done
about the Soviet threat, not just to discuss the pos-
sibilities that the threat existed. As Hawk and I
walked down the hallway to enter the conference
room, he stopped, saying to me, "One thing—
don't strike Geltner again, or his daughter for that
matter?"
I smiled at the older man, shaking my head and
shrugging my shoulders. Glancing at my watch—it
was nine P.M. Brussels time—I realized it had been
exactly twelve hours since the morning conference.
We entered the room. I spotted Geltner immedi-
ately. His jaw was wired up and he glared at me
when he saw me. Kristen was beside him, and
strangely she smiled at me—the first time she'd
smiled at me since I'd met her, the first time she'd
ever seemed to show any kind of emotion.
I took my seat, between Hawk and Kristen
Geltner again just as I had that morning. After the
Belgian opened the meeting, he recognized
Geltner. His voice strained and his speech garbled
sounding, Professor Geltner said, "I protest the
seating of Mr. Carter here—he cannot contribute
anything of value. "
I saw Hawk eyeing me and I said nothing. I felt
a pressure on my right knee and looked down—
Kristen Geltner's hand was on my knee. I looked
at her and she looked at me a moment, her eyes
warm and smiling, her face expressionless. Her
hand increased its pressure on my knee as her
father continued talking. I leaned back in the chair
and let him talk.
Finally, the Belgian said, "I have no desire, nor
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do we have the time, Professor, to arbitrate a dis-
pute between yourself and Mr. Carter. You gen-
tlemen can settle any difficulties you have person-
ally after we attend to the business of this con-
ference, namely a way to counter the Soviet
threat. "
Kristen Geltner raised her right hand from the
table top and the Belgian recognized her. Without
standing, without moving her left hand from my
right knee, she said, "My father has a bit of dif-
ficulty talking, so I have agreed to outline the spe-
cific nature of the problem at hand. Because of the
mammoth size of the new Soviet submarines, the
Russians were able to invest them with the new
weapons system. But the size is still the problem.
Virtually all of each ship must be consumed with the
particle beam generating system and the nuclear
power plant, carefully intertwined and arranged to
maximize on available area. That would make the
submarines enormously heavy and slow and from
what I saw aboard the U.S.S. Liberty, likely very
difficult to maneuver. "
She stopped and sipped at the water in the glass
on the table before her, then went on. "Because of
the size problem, it would neither be practical nor
desirable to have a large crew. I doubt the sub-
marines are droids, but likely they have a skeleton
crew, only to handle emergency situations or re-
pairs. I imagine they handle the actual mechanics
of the submarine's navigation, that sort of thing.
We gave a great deal of thought to whether or not
the submarines could be used tactically—in other
words, would they be able to fight in their own de-
fense. The answer to that is yes, but a qualified
one."
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The Belgian moderator said, "What do you
mean by this, Miss Geltner?"
"All targeting would have to be acquired and
handled by the master computer near Moscow. So,
let's say an American submarine were about to at-
tack the Soviet Particle Beam submarine. The Sovi-
et submarine possibly has some standard defenses
—missiles and torpedoes—but likely the first thing
it would do would be to call down a hit on the U .S.
submarine—"
I interrupted her. "So, if somehow we could con-
fuse the computer that all three of the Soviet subs
were being simultaneously attacked by three Amer-
ican subs, then confuse the position of the Ameri-
can subs with that of the Soviet subs—"
The girl turned to me, smiling, "Yes, but there's
one problem with that. According to the program
I studied—and I'm sure they've changed it since,
but it would have to have the same perimeters—
there is a built-in defense against that, since the
sending devices aboard the submarines auto-
matically broadcast the submarine's precise co-or-
dinates in alignment with the Pole star. It couldn't
be done."
"Unless we got aboard one of them and sort of
rearranged things. "
Hawk looked at me then as I turned back to look
at the Belgian moderator. The Belgian threw up his
hands and leaned back in his chair, muttering,
"The meeting is open for discussion."
Hawk said, "If you could alter the equipment
that sends the bearings, you could make it appear
that the attacking American submarines were lo-
cated where the Soviet submarine was, and vice
versa. That way, if the Particle Beam Weapon
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didn't destroy the Soviet submarine, the American
submarine would still be in the clear and able to
fire all its torpedo tubes in a massive launch and
destroy the Soviet ship. I like it."
I was afraid he would. An Englishman from
down at the far end of the table chimed in, saying,
"Don't you chaps have some sort Of experimental
mini-sub—nuclear powered? I think our Royal
Navy had been helping your people with it. Called
the—"
"Magno-Leech," Hawk droned. "Works like a
huge Limpet Mine—-designed as a rescue vehicle
for deep diving subs that are trapped on the ocean
floor. Nuclear powered, approaches the submarine
—heavy thing, throws it out of trim if I recall. Then
it bores through the hull of the stricken submarine.
There's a pressure tight tube leading from the
Magno Leech. Divers from the surface using or-
dinary equipment can essentially rappel down the
tube ang enter the submarine through the new air
lock made by the magnetic attachment of the mini
sub to the larger sub. It can be operated remotely,
or manually."
"Ohh," I smiled, lighting a cigarette. "That's so
simple sounding." Then turning to Kristen, I said,
"And I suppose you're the only person who could
mess up the guidance system for the computer so it
would get the wrong target co-ordinates."
"Yes," she said.
"That's a suicide mission," the Englishman from
the far end of the table pointed out.
"Not if I can help it,"
I told him. "Not if I can
help it. "
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Over the next few days, several things were in the
works. Kristen and I were involved in intensive
training in use of the Magno Leech—that had
taken us to Southwestern England and the
Portsmouth Naval Yards, England's largest Naval
base, in the shelter of the Isle of Wight. There, a
simulator was designed to handle our familiar-
ization with the controls of the Magno-Leech; the
actual device—only one existed—was being mod-
ified for the mission. U .S. and British scientists had
been working on an analysis of the surface material
of the satellites used to reflect the beams. As best as
they could ascertain, it was some sort of new indus-
trial synthetic that had been rumored to have been
developed in the Soviet laboratories—harder than
diamonds. Daring Norwegian commandos and
equally daring U.S. submarine crews had
monitored the Archangel base, tracking the third
submarine as it had gone to sea, while NATO na-
tions, principally the U.S. and Great Britain, had
devoted all possible energies to locating the other
two Soviet submarines. Their exact positions had
to be fixed and constantly monitored in order that
Kristen would be able to feed them into the com-
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puter as target locations. A slip of a minute of an-
gle would cause the operation to be a washout.
That took time, and when we weren't using the
simulator together, Kristen was giving me a crash
course in computer lying—how to convince the
mammoth Soviet master computer of the wrong
co-ordinates, this in case she didn't make it
through and I survived to sabotage the system. The
further we got, the more I determined my educa-
tion was severely lacking and that if she didn't get
through to do it, it wouldn't be done.
The work schedule had gone on for three days
and it was late on the evening of the third day—still
no word on the precise positions of the submarines
—that we walked along a darkened street, both of
us seeking quiet and some outside stimulus beyond
simulators and computers. Word was not good.
The third submarine was not to be found yetand
Russia's central European build-up was getting
bigger. There was open talk of an invasion of Eu-
rope by the Soviets and of war.
We had planned it so it wouldn't necessarily be
suicidal, but the odds were that it would be. We'd
pilot the Leech to the side of the submarine, careful
about the positioning so as to keep the sub im-
mobile and out of trim, careful, too, not to bore
through into the reactor room. Once the massive
drill bit had reamed through the hull, it would be
shifted aside and we would open the hatch into the
new airlock that was formed, simultaneously alert-
ing the commando group waiting topside to enter
the rescue tube. Although designed to be used from
the bottom to the surface, it would now be used in
the reverse—to enter the sub through the Magno-
Leech. If we did what we were supposed to, the sub
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we entered would be the last one destroyed. We
would return to the Magno Leech and then use the
rapelling system back up the tube. The system was
mechanically operated, like a conveyer belt, and
fast enough since there was no pressure to contend
with.
Just how we would get out of the sub and up in
time was the problem.
Kristen was talking to me and I realized I hadn't
heard a word she'd said. "I'm sorry," I began. "I
wasn't listening."
The girl sighed, saying, "I just felt like talking—
I'm sorry, too."
"No, tell me what you said. I want to listen, my
thoughts were somewhere else, that's all. "
"Oh, just all this, my father, everything. I wish it
weren't this way."
We stopped walking and I looked at her a mo-
ment, saying, "I don't follow you. I gathered you
don't get along with him too well, but, . . ."
I was
walking on shaky ground and I let the thing hang
there.
"Ever since my mother died, I always helped him
—he never once thought of remarrying. "
"Your father's not so peculiar. I've know a lot of
men like that. They lost someone they cared about
a great deal and suddenly after they lost them, they
realized they cared more than they thought."
"I guess I'm just terribly, terribly tired," she
said, "of competing with ghosts."
We stopped again and I put my hands on her
arms and turned her around to face me. "Run that
by me again."
She looked away, trying to pull out of my grasp,
then looked up at me. "I said, I'm tired—just so
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damned tired of competing with ghosts. Now leave
me alone. "
"You don't want me to leave you alone, do
you?" I said.
"Yes, I do. All I want to do is get this stupid
thing over with and then go back to—" She
stopped herself in mid-sentence.
"Go back to what?" I asked.
The channel fog was starting to swirl in around
us in the street. No one sensible was out—it was
too cold, too damp. "Go back to what," I re
peated.
"Nothing, damn you—" She pulled away from
me and started running down the street. I started
after her, calling to her but she didn't stop. There
was a pier at the end of the street and she was run-
ning toward it. With what she'd said I couldn't
read her frame of mind—I started running again.
I could hear the click of her heels on the pave-
ment ahead of me, barely make out her shape in
the fog as the swirling mass grew in density around
us. I called to her again and she ran faster it
seemed. I lost her in the fog, but I kept going,
knowing there was no place for her to turn off, that
she was out there ahead of me.
reached the wooden pier and slowed, calling
for her again, "Kristen—come on. Talk about it."
Then a gust of wind crossed my face and cleared
the fog for a moment and I could see her standing
by the edge of the pier. I started running toward
her, getting up beside her then and taking her
roughly into my arms, turning her to face me. I
still couldn't see her face, and then suddenly she
looked up at me. "Men are so damned conceited.
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What did you think I was going to do-—kill myself,
jump off the pier?"
I shook my head, saying, ' 'What are you trying
"Ghosts, Nick, ghosts. My father had a ghost
and she always did the experiments better, kept th?
notes better, did better in school than I did, every-
thing was better. She made better coffee. She made
better salads, she made better sense! I don't want
that again. I don't agree with my father, I don't like
my father—
"But you still love him, don't you?" I asked, my
voice low for some reason.
"Ghosts are hard to fight, Nick. If you don't
know it I do. I just learned it again."
She pushed against my chest, freeing herself
from my arms and started walking back up the
pier. I shouted after her, "Kristen—come to my
place tonight. I want you to."
She turned around and I walked up to her.
"Why," she said, her voice tinged with defensive-
ness.
"You're a beautiful woman—and there's a big
difference to me in holding onto a memory and be-
lieving in ghosts. I don't believe in ghosts, never
have. You shouldn't either. I'll show you," and I
put my arms around her. She was almost as tall as
I was, her features chiseled with high cheekbones. I
bent my face down to hers—she was standing on
her toes, her face centimeters from mine and I
kissed her.
I had an apartment rented by the week, just off
the base. There was a twenty-four hour security
watch on the place because the possibility existed
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that the Russians might see it as the most expedient
thing to bump me off and the girl as well, putting
a bigger knot in the plans we were forming. What
we were planning to do was hopefully steal a secret
from them. Various blind operations had been
started, everything from specialized commando
training to make them think we planned an attack
on the Moscow computer center to the launching
of a gutless satellite that we were secretly but loud-
ly enough touting as our own hunter-killer device.
We took the stairs up to my room. I found the
latch key in my jacket pocket and let us in. The
place had central heat, for which I was grateful, but
there was little else besides a bedroom, a kitchen
and a bathroom. I turned on the lamp by the door
from the hallway, the shade a little lopsided, the
bulb throwing our shadows against the far wall and
the ceiling as we stood beside it. We realized then
for the first time that we were both wet from the
fog and cold.
I took her over beside the bed, sat down and
kicked off my shoes, then pulled off my tie and
opened my shirt. She stood there a minute, not
doing anything, then I said to her, "It's all right—
it is."
She let the raincoat slip from her shoulders and
down her arms, the action provocative somehow.
She threw the coat onto the wooden rocking chair
near her, then reached behind her, her arms above
her head as she reached around to work the zipper
at the base of her dress. I could see the outline of
her breasts pushing against the black fabric of the
sheath she wore. She'd already stepped out of one
shoe, and as she pulled down the zipper on the
back of the dress and let it fall forward off her
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shoulders, she kicked off the other shoe, stepping
out of the dress as she did. She was wearing an
ivory colored slip, lace trimmed, silk I guessed. She
walked stocking-footed toward me across the floor
and sat down on the rug, resting her head on my
thigh. We talked then for a while, about nothing in
particular.
Finally she came on the bed beside me. I stripped
away the rest of my clothes, helped her out of the
slip and the stockings, the panties and the bra. Na-
ked, she was still tall and thin and young looking.
I kissed her, slowly, the light still burning in the
lamp, the patchwork quilt covering our bodies
from the cold air of the apartment, the sounds of
foghorns in the distance outside the window. The
nipples of her breasts came erect under the pressure
of my hands; she was moist and warm feeling as I
touched at the curly hair at her crotch, demanding
when I slipped between her thighs and we did
things to each other, and quiet afterward when she
slept in my arms under the quilt, the light still burn-
ing,
She'd been right about one thing as I stared up at
the ceiling, heard her sleeping with her head
against my chest—I felt the shiver up my spine
again, held the girl closer to me and told myself to
go to sleep. But like a lot people, I couldn't take my
own advice.
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There were two more days of the training with
the simulator for the Magno-Leech, two more days
of work with the computers, two more nights of
lovemaking with Kristen. I was glad I hadn't as-
sumed we weren't being reported on, for at six
A.M. on the morning of the third day, a Friday, the
phone rang, and it was Hawk.
"Nick, they've located the third submarine; the
submersible is en route. You and the girl get pack-
ing and there'll be a car around for you in an hour.
I'll see you on the plane."
The line clicked dead. I looked at Kristen, the
brainy computer designer who looked and dressed
like a high-fashion model. And all along she was
just a perfectly normal person wanting someone to
love her for herself. I leaned over the girl, curled a
strand of her hair around my little finger and
tickled her nose with it, "Get up; kid—we're on."
She opened her eyes, looked at me, then just
said, "I'll get the shower going while you shave.
How much time?"
"An hour."
"Can you shave on the plane?"
"Yeah," and I drew her into my arms. We'd
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come to like the little apartment quite a lot. .
The third Soviet submarine had been found in
the Atlantic, six hundred miles off the coast of
Washington, D.C. With Hawk accompanying, we
boarded a Strategic Air Command bomber con-
verted for passenger use and flew to the South Car-
olina coast where once again we'd be using the
U.S.S. Liberty. The Magno-Leech was being fer-
ried on a helicopter drag from where it had been
based along the Florida coast. The commandos
were being flown in from California where they
had been rehearsing their work as best they could
without the actual Magno-Leech.
It was dark by the time Kristen and I reached the
Liberty, and the mere sight of the submarine
brought back memories I'd been trying to sup-
press. We reported to Captain Breathwaite, stand-
ingup on the sail, then went aboard. Once we were
underway and had completed the practice dive and
resurfacing, then dived for real since the bulk of the
voyage would be under water, Breathwaite met us
for a late supper in the forward officer's mess. He
had taken the Polar route again to get to South
Carolina in time to meet us. The repairs to the ice
thickness machine needed after the Soviet
machine-gunning had been extensive, but quickly
accomplished, the sub's refitting given a top priori-
ty. There was a rendezvous scheduled in four hours
with the helicopters designated to ferry in the com-
mando team and after we each had a slug of medic-
inal whiskey, he advised we grab some sleep.
There was a knocking at the cabin door almost
exactly four hours later, a young officer telling me,
as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, that the Liberty
would be surfacing in five minutes to take on pas-
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sengers. I pulled on pants, shoes, a sweater and a
winter jacket and let the girl sleep, going topside,
Wilhelmina stuffed in my trouser band. The heli-
copters, two of them, were hoverring over the
stern, some of Breathwaite's crew there guiding the
rope ladders as the commandos exited the chop-
pers and reached the deck with the grace of cats. I
recognized two of the faces from the Arctic opera-
tion against the Siberian Satellite Tracking Station,
the rest of them new to me. There weren't as many
men this time—there were only twelve of the com-
mandos, and with the girl and myself that meant
fourteen people to take over the monster Soviet
sub. If we did it right that would be enough, if we
didn't, ten times that many wouldn't make any dif-
ference.
By the time I went below deck with Commander
Breathwaite, Kristen was awake, all of us meeting
in the same forward officer's mess after Breath-
waite ordered the dive.
We sat there, waiting for someone to say some-
thing, the faces of the twelve men classic composite
caricatures of the commando—one or two had
handle-bar mustaches, some of them wore Mont-
gomery style berets in black or green, a few just
Navy watch caps pulled low across their brows.
The men, their coats off in the warmth of the sub,
bristled with a variety of weapons: Browning High
Powers, Colt Government Model Automatics,
Gerber knives.
Finally Breathwaite stood up, saying simply,
"Welcome aboard the Liberty, gentlemen. After
the job I've got orders to break out the medicinal
whiskey supply. Right now, help yourselves to the
coffee. Mr. Carter—a couple of you know him—
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will take over the briefing. "
I didn't stand. I leaned back instead in my chair
against the canvas back and lit one of my gold-
tipped cigarettes. When some of the men of the
commando force saw me light up, cigarettes, pipes
and even a cigar appeared. Soon the room was
filled with a low gray cloud and I saw Breathwaite
get up and walk over to the bulkhead and flip a
wall switch—-there was immediately then the low
hum of an exhaust fan. I started my little speech.
"You've all been briefed. None of you have seen
these subs before—the new monster-sized ones the
Russians have. I've seen them. They are huge, easy
to intimidate you. You all volunteered for this
thing, which is good, because the chance of getting
out, is a Flim one. The important thing is getting
the young lady here, Kristen Geltner, to that com-
puter console aboard the submarine, giving her
enough time. to work her magic fingers over the
keyboard and call down the Particle Beam shots.
Then we disable all the communications and get
the hell out and hope the Particle Beam shot is ac-
curate, but not so fast as to blow us up. We figured
out a little something that'll help with that: we're
going to get the target sub rolling to maneuvering
speed on a tight circular course, that means the
target for the Particle Beam shot from that same
sub will be moving and the computer will have to
work out the position in 'x' number of seconds af-
ter firing and aim for that, Gives us a little edge on
the time, but not much. It's not critical that the
particle beam shot hit the submarine we're on. If it
doesn't, the Liberty here can blow it out of the wa-
ter—they have a few special torpedoes designed
just for the occasion. It is critical that the other two
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subs get knocked off, and if it means sitting there
ourselves and waiting to get vaporized in order to
do that, then that's what we'll do. I don't know just
how much you were told about the importance of
this. Well, according to the best informed opinions
we have, once the Soviets get this system started—
they could be starting it at this instant for all we
know—they'll be unstoppable. They can knock out
any land- or sea-based target they want with pin-
point accuracy—a sort of ultimate weapon.. So it's
important. Any questions?"
There were none. I glanced toward Breathwaite
and said, ' 'Commander, you want to run it down
from your end?"
He nodded, then began. "We have the sub
spotted and under infrared surveillance by Sky-
Therm Satellite. There's an underwater canyon
about a half a land mile from the sub; we can enter
it quite a bit further off. Tricky navigating but
leave that to me. Anyway, we get the Magno-Leech
launched—we'll pick that up shortly. As soon as
we do, Mr. Carter and Miss Geltner will board the
Magno-Leech. They have to keep that thing's
screws working in conjunction with the Liberty,
otherwise I couldn't navigate properly with the ex-
tra weight. Hopefully, the vibration won't be so
bad as to rip us all apart. There're about twenty
tons of pressure down there, so needless to say, it
wouldn't be much fun if that happened. Once we
reach the mouth of the canyon, the Magno-Leech
frees itself and moves out, dragging the escape tube
apparatus with it. It approaches the sub on the port
side, just aft of the reactor room. It drills through,
forms the air lock, Mr. Carter and Miss Geltner go
aboard her. As soon as they start drilling, they re-
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lease the rescue tube apparatus which is floated to
the surface, helped along with controlled oxygen
release. Like a giant accordion. Once it hits the sur-
face, we open the hatch and the first man through
starts the rope system which is on pulleys con-
nected to a winch. He gets winched down. You
wear your underwater breathing apparatus just in
case, but if anything goes wrong once you're more
than half way down, kiss your ass good-bye."
The comment got a subdued laugh and Breath-
waite went on. "The pressure would kill you. Now
remember, that tube is filled with air being pumped
in from above at a good number of atmospheres
. I've got the figure someplace. Consequently,
the tube should stay together, keep its integrity.
You reach the submersible—the Magno Leech—
and open the aft hatch, forming an air lock with
the surface. First man goes through followed by
everybody else. Now, that Magno-Leech with all
those atmospheres pumping into it is going to be
like a wind tunnel, keep that in mind, gentlemen,
so be careful."
That got a laugh, too. "After you sabotage the
Soviet submarine, start back up the ropes on the
winch. It'll be operating continuously until the last
man is back aboard or we know not to expect him.
The last man—or woman," Breathwaite said, bow-
ing to Kristen sitting beside me, "will seal the hatch
on the Magno-Leech. One person stays behind to
release the magnetic hold and free the submersible.
That's not to save the submersible, it's to move the
escape tube out of the way of the exploding Soviet
sub.
"If the sub goes off, obviously the folks closest
to the surface in the escape tube have the best
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chance of survival, the one operating the Magno-
Leech the poorest. The thing is built to take a lot,
but we have no precise dimensions on the nuclear
reactor aboard the Soviet sub. It could go up like
Hiroshima or Nagasaki—-we don't know. Mr.
Carter has the dubious distinction of piloting the
Magno-Leech. Any questions?"
One of the men from the Siberian raid, a wicked
looking smile crossing his face, raised his left hand
and said, "Yeah, who notifies my life insurance
man it's time to pay off?"
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TWENTY-TWO
The Magno-Leech was shaped like a giant
sphere, flat at the bottom though, approximately
nine feet in diameter at its widest point, a television
camera system its only eyes. It was bright yellow on
the outside.
It was lowered off a large industrial helicopter
from a commercial super tanker impressed into
service by the government. An aircraft carrier in
the area would have signalled Soviet satellites that
something was up. There were anxious moments
when the weight of the Magno-Leech on the for-
ward section of the deck started throwing the Lib-
erty out of trim, but by creative ballast blowing,
Breathwaite solved the problem. Suited up with
our scuba gear, Kristen and I went aboard,
Wilhelmina and an UZI subgun were sealed in a
padded plastic waterproof case. There was a sub-
gun for Kristen to use too, but I doubted she would
—she wasn't the type.
The pilot's seat was on the port side of the
Magno-Leech, the second seat on the starboard
side, facing me. It was just like the simulator. A
maze of toggle switches, dials and pressure gauges,
winking lights, humming instruments and all the
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roominess of a broom closet. I flipped the switch to
rig for red, then computer linked with the Liberty's
navigational control system and sat poised over the
instruments, to obey the words of the machine. If I
didn't Auplicate the maneuvers of the Liberty pre-
cisely, the Liberty would go out of trim, out of con-
trol and we'd all plummet to the ocean floor, a
depth even the deep dive submersible Honeysuckle
—the official name for the Magno-Leech——would
be unable to tolerate.
I was linked to the Liberty's communications
system as well, and when Breathwaite gave the
commands for the dive into the canyon, I felt my
palms starting to sweat. Sitting there in full' scuba
gear was awkward and uncomfortable, but a pre-
caution in case the little-tested Magno-Leech de-
veloped a leak. A minor leak at a reasonable depth
would be tolerable, although it would scrub the
mission. A pinhole leak once we reached our final
depth would kill us, swamping the "boat" and
crushing us to death, whichever came first not real-
ly mattering for there would be no escape.
Breathwaite was talking to me over the comm
line, .the computer was guiding me, my own mind
was racing to keep the directions sorted out, ma-
nipulate the right levers and switches, and suddenly
we were in the canyon. I had things to do, toggles
to flip, but for an instant I was struck dumb by the
beauty of the picture on the forward camera.
Graceful flowers that casual scientific readings told
me weren't flowers at all but types of undersea
worms, waved silken tendrils around the sub-
mersible. The modified starlight system was black
and white only, and I wished for color.
Breathwaite's voice brought me back to reality,
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"Nick, it happens to everyone out here. Come out
of it and work those controls!"
I did—come out of it and work the controls—
but I couldn't help being charmed by the beauty of
the life in the canyon. While I travelled the back
alleys and the cabarets and the shadows, they ex-
plored frontiers of beauty that seemed un-
imaginable. If the Hindus were right, maybe I
could try that in my next life. But then a smile
crossed my lips as I blew part of one of the ballast
tanks—if I came back again in another life, likely
I'd do the exact same thing. There was excitement
in my line of work as well, and the beauty was get-
ting the job done.
"Nick, how much time?" Kristen asked.
I checked my watch, working the left rudder.
Sighing, I said, "About five minutes to separa-
tion. "
We were locked magnetically to the hull of the
Liberty, but with a special magnet system that had
been installed on her. Normally, the Magno-Leech
would have been lowered into the water from a sur-
face craft, then guided into position by wetsuit-clad
divers, then gone under its own power. For this,
the Liberty would kill the power on its magnetic
lock to our bottom, then much like a space craft I'd
activate tiny navigational thrusters to clear the hull
quickly before the forward movement of the Liber-
ty caused the nuclear sub's sail to crash into us,
disabling both ships.
It was Breathwaite's voice, over the comm line.
"Four minutes and counting for separation on my
mark."
Then the planned countdown began. There was
no chance for a stop in the countdown, it was
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timed to the Liberty's speed through the canyon.
We had to separate just as he reached the canyon
mouth, or otherwise the Soviet sub would pick him
up on its instruments. With our small size and the
special reflective paint given the hull, it was proba-
ble that it wouldn't pick us up until we were
alongside and magnetically locked to it. If they
started moving, it was hopeless and last word had
been the sub was sitting it out on the bottom—
meaning, too, that a strike with the Particle Beam
Weapon might be imminent. They would merely
surface and fire, or perhaps fire from the bottom.
At five hundred miles off the coast of the United
States with the current trajectory of the satellites,
the beam strength would not be sufficiently deflect-
ed by the water to make any difference in accuracy.
And we were counting on that, that the beam could
be effective from deep below the surface, both in
firing and on its targets.
Two minutes and counting. I checked all the sys-
tems, all the instrument readings. Thirty seconds
and counting. Fifteen. . .ten. . .nine. . .eight. .
seven. . .six. . . five. .
. four. . .three. . .ignition
of the navigational rockets. . . two. . . activate di-
rect fuel imput . . . one—fire. I punched the button
and the Magno-Leech hesitated, listed slightly to
port then lifted away from the hull of the Liberty.
The camera activated now in the bottom of the hull
showed the Liberty's sail passing directly below us,
the clearance inches, if that. I cut the navigational
rockets and activated the main power train and we
moved forward, the Liberty now below us at the
edge of the canyon walls, its engines stopped, the
sub settling to the bottom, a cloud of silt whirring
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up around it obscuring one of the Magno-Leech's
cameras for a moment. I maneuvered hard' right
and we were out of the canyon, and ahead there
loomed a massive shape.
The Soviet submarine.
I had seen it before, so perhaps I wasn't as
shocked as Kristen. But seeing it all in profile rath-
er than just from above was still startling. I revised
my appraisal. If a U.S. submarine were compared
in size to a shark, then this wasn't just a sperm
whale—it was some prehistoric underwater deni-
zen that dwarfed the sperm whale, too. On im-
pulse; I let the Magno-Leech move at full throttle,
the ocean floor seemingly speeding away below us.
"I'm afraid," Kristen admitted.
I looked up from my control panel a moment,
saying to her, "That means you have common
sense—two people going up against that thing? If
you weren't afraid, you'd be crazy."
I turned back to the instruments and the tele-
vision rhonitors. I was closing the gap between our
vessel and the Soviet sub, its red star like an ob-
session to me. I hit the button on the computer
console to my right, there appearing the probable
schematic of the Soviet sub—-the best our engineers
had been able to conceptualize. If they were wrong,
I'd drill right into the reactor room and blow
everything up including ourselves, which would
take care of this submarine but leave the other two
untouched and ready to launch their attack.
I set the computer lock to take over the final
positioning of the Magno-Leech against the Soviet
sub's hull, then turned to other matters. The com-
puter taking the navigational command of the sub-
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mersible, I ran through a systems check for the for-
ward air lock and the drilling device—everything
seemed perfect.
The distance—shown by the forward camera—
was closing rapidly and I checked that the com-
putgr was handling the speed as well. It looked too
fast, but I let the computer do Ithe "flying" since
that was the plan. I only hoped it wasn't hot-rod-
ding.
There was a clanging sound and for å moment I
panicked. The forward camera showed nothing but
black, then I realized we were against the hull and
the field of the camera's view was only the
submarine's hull and nothing more. I punched the
switch to activate the magnetic coupling and there
was a loud clang and a jerk as we settled against the
hull, locked to it near the first of the aft diving
planes. According to our engineers as well, that
would throw the sub out of trim and keep it pinned
to the ocean floor, immobile. I hoped they were
right.
Kristen was out of her seat first, and I was right
behind her. It was her job to begin the drilling op-
eration, mine to launch the escape tube toward the
surface. I found the right panel on the bulkhead,
started away from it after throwing the switch, then
remembered to release the lock on the aft hatch so
once the commandoes were down the tube, they'd
be able to open the hatch from outside the sub-
mersible and enter.
There was a loud groaning sound that startled
me, the high speed drill already working against
the hull. The heat of the drill bit was lubricated
with jet of sea water from outside the airlock.
Once the hole was punched, the airlock filling with
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air would blow it dry to where there would be
perhaps eight inches of water in the bottom of the
lock as we entered.
"Almost drilled through, I think," the girl said,
checking one of the computer readouts on a
bulkhead mounted console. Then suddeiily the
whirring sound heightened in pitch and she
shouted, "We're through!"
I unzipped the front of my wetsuit and she
looked at me. "What are you doing?"
"You take that shot I told you to?"
"Yes," she answered, her brow knit in puzzle-
ment.
"Then don't worry about it, got a surprise for
the crew of the submarine. "
I rezipped my suit, Pierre my tiny, but lethal gas
bomb in my left hand. I took Wilhelmina and both
of the UZIS from the waterproof bag and handed
the girl one of the subguns.
"Do I have to?"
"Only if you have to—but don't be afraid to use
it—shooting is my department. " I scanned the con-
sole on the bulkhead behind me. It read out that
the escape tube was nearly to the surfaCe, meaning
the reinforcements would be coming soon.
She was already activiating the airlock as I
pulled back the bolt on the UZI 9mm subgun. I
pulled the red tab on Pierre, like pulling the pin on
a grenade. Now the slightest impact would cause
detonation, and death to anyone not given the spe-
Cial injection. I'd taken a fresh one just prior to
leaving Portsmouth and made sure the girl had
been given one as well. By the time the command-
oes still topside reached the airlock, the gas would
be sufficiently dissipated. Pierre was composed of
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compressed hydrochlorsarsomasine, one of the
deadliest of nerve gases, acting almost instantly
and inevitably causing death.
"Ready to break the airlock seal," Kristen
shouted.
"Let her rip, honey," I rasped, a smile crossing
my lips.
As the airlock door into the Magno-Leech
opened, a rush of air behind us and around us, I
stormed through into the airlock and over the
mounds of shredded steel made by the drill bit now
swung to the side and away. I squeaked past it and
into the Soviet sub, breathing a sigh of relief. We
were where we were supposed to be, behind the re-
actor room.
I could hear running footsteps over the steel
bulkhead floor, saw the bulk of a squad of armed
sailors turning out of a companionway and I threw
Pierre toward them, then opened fire with the UZI;
the men started dropping like flies, gagging and
coughing and going down dead.
"Come on!" I shouted to Kristen. The girl came
up behind me and we started forward. Already I
could feel the wind tunnel effect through the hole
in the Soviet sub's hull; the escape tube was at the
surface, and the pressurized air was being pumped
into it.
I reached the bodies of Pierre's victims, stepped
around and over them and toward the open water-
tight door. Three more of the Soviet sailors were
coming toward us, submachine guns blazing in
their hands. I pulled back behind the bulkhead and
opened fire, suddenly hearing the gun in the hands
of the girl beside me firing as well. I glanced to her.
She muttered, "I had to," and kept firing. We
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pressed forward, the remaining sailors dropping
back under our steady, withering subgun fire, the
greatest danger the ricocheting of the 9mm slugs.
But the guns had had their barrels specially
throated to accept custom-made soft point rounds
to minimize the danger, but there was no such cus-
tom treatment for the Soviet guns, and ricochets
zinged off the bulkhead around us, one ripping a
gash across my right forearm but not penetrating.
I clenched my fist against the pain and ran on.
We were amidships now, past the reactor room
and already the warning sirens were sounding. We
were encountering less resistance than I'd thought.
As we passed the forward missile room, three
Soviet subgunners came up on us from behind, the
girl going down with a bullet wound in the left arm.
I dragged her out of the line of fire, firing the sub-
gun in my hands empty, then dropping it on the
sling to dangle from my shoulder, Wilhelmina
spinning into my right hand. I pumped one of the
standard. 115-grain metal-jacketed, hollow points
into the forehead of the nearest man, another two
rounds into the chest of the man behind him. The
third man fell back behind a bulkhead before I
could nail him.
I looked at the girl, her voice cracking with ter-
ror and pain, she said, "I'll make it—let's go." We
started running again. There was a watertight door
closing ahead of us and I vaulted toward it, throw-
ing my weight, all my strength into it to keep it from
closing. The girl was beside me, pushing on it.
With Wilhelmina, I rammed my right hand
around the door and snapped off the rest of the
rounds in the magazine. The door pushed open and
we stepped through, the bodies Of two Soviet
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NICK CARTER
seamen on the floor behind it.
I rammed another magazine up the butt of the
Luger, snapped the toggle to draw it back and let it
ram forward chambering a fresh round, then ran
on.
We were coming to the bridge and what would
be the fire control center.
There were four men, all of them officers, bar-
ricaded behind a series of computer consoles, firing
subguns toward us. The girl shouted, "Don't hit
the computers—that could ruin everything."
The only course of action I had was to charge the
four men, drawing off their fire. I ran forward and
down to the steel ladder leading into the bridge.
The men were up and firing. I stopped a slug in my
right leg, my knee 'buckling and I dropped four
rungs to the hard floor, the UZI gone, Wilhelmina
belching fire in my right fist, the girl at the top of
the ladder firing her subgun. The first three men
were down, the last man running toward the com-
puter console, his subgun levelled and ready to fire ,
destroying it. I tried snapping off a shot.
Wilhelmina was empty. I flicked my right fore-
arm, Hugo sliding into my palm. Drawing my right
arm back, I let the tiny blade sail across the bridge
compartment, just as the subgunner started firing
into the computer console, Hugo hammering in
hard just below the man's neck and to the left of
the spine. He fell forward, the subgun chattering
into the bulkhead floor and then silent. I pushed
myself to my feet, my right arm bleeding from the
graze, my right leg stiff from the shot in the thigh.
I limped forward, the girl coming down the ladder
to the bridge. I rammed a fresh magazine into
Wilhelmina, then took the girl's subgun from her
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as she surveyed the computer consoles, selected the
right one—or the one she thought was right at least
—then sat down in front of it and started working
the dials and the buttons, tying into the machine. I
checked the magazine on the girl's UZI; it was
almost shot out. I rammed a fresh stick into the
gun from the bag slung under my left shoulder,
then took up a defensive position behind the
periscope mounting.
"I'm calling down the co-ordinates now," she
shouted. "I've got the one in the Indian Ocean
locked in for target. It's working .
I've given
them the data on their own sub and the master
computer is buying it! Hallelujah!"
I couldn't help it—I laughed. Hallelujah indeed!
There were more of the Soviet sailors coming to-
ward the bridge area, firing at us, shooting down at
us, like shooting fish in a barrel. Where the hell
were our commandoes, I asked myself? I returned
fire as best I could, protecting the girl, too, as she
huddled over her machine, calling down the next
target. "I've got the one off the coast of San Fran-
cisco. It's on target for a strike—just us now!"
"Start this thing maneuvering, fast, so it takes
the time we need to program for our course."
"Right," she shouted and she was up and run-
ning across the bridge. I fired out the UZI, snap-
ping off shots with the Luger as I changed sticks
again on the subgun, then started firing the UZI
again. I could feel the vibration of the screws
through the floor of the bulkhead; we were mov-
ing.
Suddenly there was a burst of gunfire and I
started to return fire, but then caught sight of the
commandoes. The man in the lead was the one
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who'd joked about his insurance company.
"Everything's secured behind us—not a man alive
in the crew."
"I've got the computer calling down on the last
target—us. Three minutes at the most, I think," the
girl shouted.
"Come on, let's get out of here. " The command-
oes were already starting back up the length of the
sub, and pushing the girl up ahead of me I started
up the ladder and away from the bridge. I couldn't
run because of the leg, urging the girl to go ahead
of me. She wouldn't and one of the commandoes
stayed close with us as well.
We passed the missile room, then on through an-
other open watertight door and to the reactor
room, this the size of a basketball court. We were
past it now, and the first of the commandoes was
fighting the wind tunnel effect and going through
the airlock. My watch read a minute and a half to
go. The last commando was through and I pushed
Kristen in ahead of me, then followed her through,
ramming closed the airlock hatch. She started up
into the escape tube, reaching for the rapidly mov-
ing rope harness and then she turned and kissed me
hard on the mouth. "I don't want another ghost—
don't die," and then she was gone.
I stumbled behind my navigational console and
punched the toggle switch to deactivate the mag-
netic locking system releasing us from the hull.
There was less than a minute to go. Nothing hap-
pened. Cursing not softly, I flipped the toggle off
and then on again, off and on, trying to make the
electrical contact needed to break the Magno-
Leech's death grip on the Soviet monster sub be-
fore it was vaporized. I punched the switch off
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again, then held it—I think I prayed—then I hit the
toggle one last time and there was a clanging and
grating sound and I could feel the Magno-Leech
starting to drift. I hit the power and activated the
cameras. If the force of the explosion of the Soviet
sub was too great because the submersible was too
close, then the escape tube would be ripped away
and the open hatch would flood. I started to move
down the mask on my wetsuit and open up my
tank oxygen, but let the mouthpiece drop-—at this
depth I'd be crushed to death anyway and that
would be faster without oxygen. I gunned the
submersible's twin screws and in the topside cam-
era could already see the underside of the Liberty's
hull and the thin, spaghetti diametered escape tube
reaching up toward it.
I glanced to the second hand on my watch—it
was three minutes, but nothing was happening. I
was at full throttle but the submersible was still
going too slowly. I blew ballast, parts of it then all
of it, and I could see it starting to rise but too slow-
ly.
I looked to the forward camera; there was a
pencil-thin line of light coming in at an angle to the
Soviet submarine, then the television monitor went
white and the tube burst inward, the submersible
rocking below me, twisting and heaving, the metal
vibrating. I tried to work the controls but they were
jammed. There was a roar as the water transferred
the sound of the Soviet sub exploding into the
metal of the submersible's hull. I clamped niy
hands to my ears, could feel them wet with blood
and the submersible trembled violently and started
pitching to starboard. The computer console on
my right was moving toward my head and I tried
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blocking it from my face. Then I felt another im-
pact—-either in the submersible Magno-Leech or
my head—and I tried pushing to my feet.
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I opened my eyes, my head aching badly, the
submersible in total darkness, all the power gone. I
could barely breathe. I found the oxygen tank
valve and opened it, the mouthpiece fixed. There
was a chance fresh oxygen would cause an elec-
trical fire, but it was a chance I knew I had to take.
I was blind without the cameras working. My
hands were covered with blood—I could feel it, but
I forced myself up to my feet, the submersible
swaying beneath me. I pulled the mask down and
clambered through the darkness toward where I
knew the escape tube was. There was a humming
sound, the winch topside still working. Light was
filtering down the tube and I reached into it. My
right hand slipped as I grabbed at one of the escape
harnesses and it passed me by. I lost my footing,
falling to the floor, then pushing myself up again,
reaching again into the lighted escape tube for the
next harness. I missed it again. I sank forward,
barely able to stand now, the submersible rocking
maddeningly around me, the next harness rolling
past. The winch was apparently starting to switch
off, the rope harnesses rolling down slower.
I leaned back, breathing, feeling my heart
pounding in my chest. If they felt a weight in the
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winch they'd speed it up, keep it going rather than
just cutting the tube free.
I could release the end of the tube and bank that
the submersible was in shallow enough water that
the terrific pressures wouldn't crush me. If I sur-
vived the rush of water as the submersible filled, I
could swim out before it sank to the bottom, pro-
viding I had the strength left for the swim.
If I were inside the tube when they cut it loose
topside, I'd be trapped, the flexible tubing folding
around me like a shroud and carrying me to •the
bottom where I'd be slowly, inexorably suffocated
by the pressure of the water around me. It would
be worse to keep afloat and simply run out of air,
taking perhaps as long as two hours to die; pow-
erless to move inside the shroud of the tube.
There was another of the escape harnesses com-
ing down and I pushed myself up and reached for
it, feeling my right hand wrap around it, feeling the
sudden lurch as the harness started to drag me up-
ward, feeling and hearing the clang of my air tanks
against the perimeter of the hatchway. I hauled up
my left arm, the old shoulder wound there burning
and chafing me, my head swimming with pain, my
right leg numb from the loss of blood from the
gunshot wound.
I got my left fist wrapped around the harness. I
could see the growing light at the top of the escape
tube, but sickeningly, the winch was stopping. It
was slowing inexorably and, I judged, I was only
halfway to the top. I wanted to scream through my
air hose, tell them-I was alive, to haul me up. The
winch stopped and I was there in the tube.
Was it my imagination, or had they cut the tube
loose already, was the tube starting to close around
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me? I hauled myself up, bending my elbows against
the weight of my body, then let myself drop, the
pain in my left shoulder now unbearable. I tried it
again, hoping that somehow the shuddering of the
rope would signal to whoever was releasing the
tube that I was still there and alive. I got my elbows
bent again, then let myself drop as hard as I could,
the force making my whole body shudder, my left
hand losing its grip, my right fist feeling as though
it were ripping away from my wrist.
The rope vibrated under me—imagination, wish-
ful thinking my mind told me—then suddenly I felt
the vibration more strongly, the rope was moving
and the winch was hauling me up. I could see the
light at the top, but my right hand was giving way
and I fell, downward through the tube. I was slid-
ing against its surface, one of the escape harnesses
passing by me, then another. Fear gripped me as I
flailed my arms •for purchase against the escape
tube, then suddenly I had my right hand around
the rope, then my left. I wove my legs around it. It
was still travelling upward and I held on, focusing
every ounce of my strength, every part of my con-
sciousness on' that one valuable strand of rope. I
was coming up, the light growing stronger. I
thought I saw a piece of machinery—there was a
blue sky, a face, Commander Breathwaite?
There were hands reaching out to me and I was
standing on something firm—the submarine deck?
I started to fall, my eyes closing, my head pound-
ing.
The next days were a blur, hospitals, smiling
faces, worried faces, tubes leading into me and out
of me, needles prodding me, Kristen, Commander
Breathwaite, Hawk, all standing beside the bed at
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various intervals, saying things to me that I didn't
understand, and cared about less. By the fourth
day, though, I was fully conscious, learned I'd
somehow gotten a case of the bends—nitrogen fix-
ation—but that my wounds were healing. I would
be fit soon and the operation against the Soviet
Union had been a success.
The Russians had withdrawn some of the forces
from their German build-up and plans for an in-
vasion of Europe seemed to have been put aside.
The three satellites had been deactivated—at least
as far as U.S. instrumentation could detect. Since
there had been no survivors of the Soviet sub-
marine we had boarded, and they had apparently
gotten out no radio communications before we
took over, the Russians had no idea exactly how
we had defeated what Hawk had labelled as their
"infernal machines." The operation then had had
the ancillary benefit of causing the Russians to
think we had some fantastic radio frequency
override device and had used this against them—
which could also slow down their hunter-killer sat-
ellite program. What if we used the "secret device"
against those, and caused the satellite destroyers to
hunt and kill Soviet satellites?
It was a clean operation and now only one thing
remained. Hawk sat beside my hospital bed, smok-
ing one Of his nauseating cigars—especially nau-
seating to someone who hadn't smoked anything in
four days. He said, "Those fingerprints you got on
the pocket knife blade from that dead KGB pilot,
back on the way to Trondheim?"
' 'What about them?"
"Well, the FBI and the French 'Sureté had them
on file. He was Mikhael Kamenstiov. His sister
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worked with him quite a bit several years ago in
Paris--—Mrs. Natasha Vornonieva, Colonel
Vornonieva. We'd thought she was dead, but since
her brother had still been operating until you took
care of his career, we checked on her. She was le-
gally dead, but actually quite alive. Backtracking,
we found out that Colonel Vornonieva is our mys-
terious head of the Executive Action Section of the
KGB, the chief would you say—hit
"Yes, she's in Oslo. We sort of put out the rumor
that you, who had so coldbloodedly killed her
brother, were back in Oslo, wrapping up the details
on the operation against their Particle Beam Weap-
ons. She's looking for you. Thought you might like
to leave for Oslo in a few days and let her find you.
That was your original job before the thing the
Soviet's labelled Deathlight came up. May as well
finish it if you're able. I told Miss Geltner—she
had to leave yesterday—that you would see her
there. "
"Didn't leave me a hell of a lot of choice, did
you?" I asked.
"No," he said, relighting the cigar.
As I left the passport control people, I saw a fa-
miliar face in the crowd, Stig Bruun. I wasn't sure
if I should go over to him. Intelligence people, po-
lice, security men—you can never tell when they
might be on a case and going up and gladhanding
someone could blow the assignment or, worse, get
them killed. But Bruun saw me and flagged me
down.
"Thank God I spotted you, Nick," he said hur-
riedly. "You must come quickly—now."
"What—my baggage and things?" I began.
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"All you'll need is your heaviest clothing, boots
and your gun. Come on, I'll have one of my men
get your things," Bruun grabbed my left arm and
pulled me across the terminal.
As we reached the far end, Bruun flashed his se-
curity ID and passed us through, and we ran
through a doorway and were suddenly back out on
the airfield, moving across a runway -toward a
small business-sized jet with military markings. My
luggage was already there, being tossed aboard
through the passenger door and Bruun was shout-
ing, "You can change on board the plane. Hurry!"
He ran to the passenger steps and started aboard
and I followed him. I was barely in the door when
he signalled the pilot to begin the taxi across the
runway, a man on the outside, the one who'd been
stowing the luggage, starting to close the door,
Bruun taking it on the inside and securing it. He
turned to me, rasping, "Belt yourself in, Nick,
quick," and I began working the seatbelt, sitting
opposite him.
"What the Hell is going on, Stig?" I asked
almost out of breath.
'S They've got Kristen Geltner—that damned
Colonel Vornonieva. We were looking for her and
she for you. When you weren't spotted in Oslo, she
and her people kidnapped Miss Geltner. In less
than eleven hours—nine o'clock tomorrow morn-
ing—you've got to meet them on the Svartisen
Glacier or they'll just dump her body down one of
the ice grottos and kill her!"
I sank in my chair. Norwegian geography wasn't
my strongest point, but Svartisen was not terribly
far from Russia in air miles. We'd flown over it-—
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Ilsa and I—after her helicopter search party had
found me in the frozen wilderness outside Vardo. It
wasn't terribly far from where I'd killed Colonel
Vornonieva's brother, the pilot. Ifthe colonel were
looking for justice, what more poetic than to kill
me near where I had killed him? It was a game a
sensible man in my business would have turned
around from. Training told me to just let Kristen
Geltner go—a casualty in the Cold War which had
been all too hot this time around.
Instead, I said to Bruun, ' 'I'll need some equip-
ment, and I'll need some back up."
Bruun looked at me, a faint smile on his face and
he said, ' 'Good man—whatever you need."
I leaned back in the chair, loosening my zeat
belt. A few hours sleep in the air was better than no
sleep on the ground, and I assumed then it was
going to be a busy night.
Wilhelmina was in a drawer in the local police
chief's office; Hugo was there, as well. Pierre had
been replaced when I'd left the hospital, but since
Kristen was probably out of the immunity period
for the nerve gas Pierre used, I didn't dare use it.
For Wilhelmina, I substituted a beat up and mis-
matched serial number Luger scrounged from a lo-
cal gun collector; he was planning to use it for
parts. For Hugo, a cutlery store had supplied
something that looked close enough and fit the
forearm sheath. It was simple logic—the
Vornonieva woman would know my file back-
wards and forwards, know about the Luger and the
knife and as soon as we came in contact and they
had the drop on me, the Luger and the knife would
be gone, likely tossed down one of the tubelike ice
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grottoS that ran on for hundreds of feet or longer,
lost forever. I had no desire to lose Wilhelmina, so
we had a substitute.
The real armament I was counting on was the
Chris Miller Bowie knife, taped between my shoul-
der blades under special padding that would
hopefully get it by a simple fast frisk and a Smith &
Wesson Model 60 stainless steel Chief's Special
borrowed from Stig Bruun. The gun was loaded
with Smith comparatively new 125-
grain Nyclad hollow points, manageable and com-
fortable in the small, lightweight .38 Special, but
powerful for defensive use. The 60 was secured in a
S&W pop-up holster worn inside my trousers
below the belt line near my crotch, all but invisible.
Wrapped around my waist was a length of ultra
thin, five hundred pound test nylon climbing rope
and taped to my legs were a half dozen pitons,
these precautions against a quick trip down one of
the grottos—a deadly likelihood.
The plan was simple, because there was no plan.
Stig and a specially outfitted team of alpine com-
mandoes would be waiting two miles away, ready to
come in by helicopter when I signalled, the signal
device a high-frequency radio transmitter inside a
borrowed Rolex wristwatch. Somehow, I had to
move the elapsed time bezel to activate it. Once I
did, they would be airborne and on the glacier in
minutes. Beyond that, it was Vornonieva's ball
game completely.
Following instructions, Stig Bruun had me
dropped off on the glacier, without a pack and
without an ice axe. As the helicopter lifted off, I
started walking along the glacier surface, only the
ice-creepers helping to keep me standing on the
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slippery flow of white ice. I could see nothing of
Vornonieva or her people, but I knew they'd be
there. The deal was that Kristen would be with
them, and after they dealt with me, she would be
freed. I doubted the latter part, but that Kristen
would actually be presented was to keep me slight-
ly off guard. She'd be there.
Suddenly, in the distance, I heard the whirring of
helicopter rotor blades and looked up. It was not
one of the Norwegian military choppers, nor the
civilian chopper that had dropped me. That left
only one possibility.
I waited on the ice flow, a sitting duck if they just
wanted to shoot me and fly by. But, if Vornonieva
had gone to all this trouble for simple revenge—
something rarely practiced in our business—then
she would doubtlessly want the chance of telling
me how horribly I was going to die. The whole nine
yards. I was under no delusion she was planning to
spirit me to the Soviet Union; her operation was
without official sanction and bringing me back
alive would have gotten her in trouble. It was death
she planned, there on the ice flow, and I hoped it
would follow the pattern I was planning on.
The chopper landed and I turned my face away
as the ice spicules it stirred from the surface of the
glacier pelted my skin. Then the rotors died and I
turned around.
The first person out of the chopper was Kristen,
and as she started toward me she fell on the ice. She
started to get up, I started to move toward her,
then there was the voice of a woman, the English
perfect, saying, "Neither of you move!"
I looked back toward the helicopter. It was
Vornonieva, tall and thin and not unattractive
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looking, dark sunglasses over her eyes, a knit head-
band protecting her ears from the cold. Behind her
were three men, one of them apparently the pilot.
"Now that you've got me here, what?" I asked.
I could see the soles of Kristen's boots—no ice
creep•ers. She couldn't keep her footing if she tried.
Vornonieva and her three men moved across the
ice easily. It was a subtle but practical way for
Vornonieva to keep Kristen in line—she could not
walk without slipping and falling. "Nick Carter, in
the flesh. How exciting to meet the AXE agent. DO
they call you "Killmaster" because you kill men
like my brother, men who barely know which end
of a gun shoots? Or do they call you that because
you are really any good."
I couldn't resist it. I said to her, "Try me, colo-
nel, just you and me."
She laughed bitterly, saying, "No, I think not,
Nick Carter. I think not." Then turning and saying
something I couldn't hear to the three men with
her, one of them walked over the ice and stood
beside Kristen, dropping to one knee and taking a
Walther P-38 from under his jacket and pointing it
with the muzzle a few inches from Kristen's head.
One of the other men started toward me. ' 'We want
to relieve you of your weapons, Mr. Carter," she
said, "then we'll get on with our business. The gun
against Miss Geltner's head is just a precaution to
make sure you co-operate."
I was tempted to activate the warning signal on
the watch on my wrist, but if the Norwegian com-
mandoes showed up now, Kristen would be killed
before I could stop it. I bided my time, hoping I
had some left.
The man who was to disarm me walked over and
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reached under my ski jacket, pulling the zipper
down and snatched the borrowed, beat up Luger
from my shoulder holster. He balanced the gun in
his hand, then said in English, "I expected some-
thing better than this, Mr. Carter."
C' You use a gun a Aot in the field—well, you
know," and I shrugged.
"I'll take the stilletto you carry."
I pulled up the storm sleeve on my right arm and
twisted the forearm and let the Hugo lookalike
drop into my palm. I handed him the knife.
"I've got the weapons," he said to the woman,
Colonel Vornonieva. "Do vou want me to search
"No," she shouted back. "He's boringly consis-
tent—that's all he ever carries. Now drop them
down that ice grotto there," and she pointed about
a hundred yards off to my right;
The man started toward the ice grotto with the
Luger and the knife, and then Vornonieva gestured
with the Sig P-210 in her right hand, saying, "Fol-
low him, Mr. Carter. After the weapons go in, then
you go in."
I started across the ice, moving at an angle to get
myself closer to Kristen. Vornonieva shouted at
me, ' 'Stay away from the girl—you'll join her soon
enough." Then, to the man with the P-38 at
Kristen's head, she shouted, "Otto, bring her
along. "
If they planned to dump us both down one of the
grottos, that would be my chance to haul in the
troops, when she was beside me, but then time
would be short before she tried killing us. I glanced
over my shoulder, hearing Vornonieva shouting,
"Eyes ahead, Mr. Carter," and saw the man with
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the P-38 still inches from Kristen's head as he
helped her across the ice. The sun was bright,
though low on the horizon and without sunglasses
I would have been blinded. I stopped, about ten
yards from the entrance to the grotto, able to see it
clearly. It sloped down into the glacier at a steep
angle, the bottom lost in darkness below, the sides
bluish-white in the sunlight the wind-polished ice
reflected. It reminded me of a toboggan run—slick
and fast and once you were in it no stopping until
you reached the bottom—and that meant death.
I turned around and faced Vornonieva. The man
with the P-38 to Kristen's head shoved her roughly
across the ice toward me; she slipped and fell. I
brought her up to her feet and at the same time slid
my left hand in front of the crotch of my trousers,
pushing up the S&W Pop-up holster and enabling
me access to the butt of the Model 60.
"Keep her on her feet, Mr. Carter. You are both
going to die now."
I looked across the white surface Of the ice at
Vornonieva. I'd activated the bezel on the Rolex at
the same time I'd gotten the gun ready—the radio
signal in the micro-transmitter under the watch
case would be working now, calling in the troops,
I hoped.
"I am not going to shoot either of you, unless I
have to," she said, a wicked smile crossing her lips.
"You will both strip naked—now. You will be
bound to each other back to back, then go for a
little trip, into the grotto." She turned to the man
holding the Luger and the knife, ' 'Drop the weap-
ons into the grotto, theri keep them under your gun
while they undress." Looking back to me, she said,
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"Get started-—you and the girl. Otherwise, I can
kneecap you first, hmm?"
I looked at Kristen, then started to haul down
the zipper on my ski jacket. As I started to edge
toward the butt of the Smith Model 60, I caught
sight of Kristen's eyes. She was crying, and you
could see the resignation to death written across
her face. I snatched at the butt of the Model 60,
pulling the gun through the holster flap, and fired.
I double actioned the first 125-grain slug into the
chest of the man called Otto. He buckled back onto
the ice, his body skidding, the pistol sliding away
from him. I pushed Kristen down, falling on top of
her, pumping one shot into Vornonieva, catching
her in the left thigh. She started falling, shooting
the Sig in her right fist, the 9mm slugs spitting into
the ice a foot in front of my head. A second KGB
man was already firing at me, a Browning High
Power in his left fist. His first slug tore into the ice
beside my head, creasing me across my neck. I fired
once, my slug homing into the center of his throat.
Dead already, he fell back, disappearing into the
grotto.
I was up in a crouch, going for his gun because
mine only had two rounds left and Vornonieva and
the man back by the helicopter were firing. I
slipped, losing my footing, and slid across the ice,
bullets hammering into the ice around me. I
ground to a stop, rolled onto my side and, the
Model 60 in both hands, I fired. The man from the
helicopter had been running across the ice, the dis-
tance to him about thirty yards—stretching it too
much I knew for the two-inch barrelled gun. I'd
aimed for the center of mass, but the slug went
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high. His left hand shot up to his head, his balance
gone and he stumbled forward, his body spread-
eagling across the ice, a red ribbon of blood mark-
ing his trail from the head wound.
Vornonieva was still shooting. I tried moving
into position to get her, trying to get to my feet.
She fired and the slug caught me in the right thigh.
I went down, onto my knees, firing the last round
in the Model 60's five-round cylinder. I caught her
in the chest and Vornonieva fell back.
Breathing a deep sigh, I got to my feet, limping
across the ice toward Kristen. She was perhaps two
yards from the edge of the grotto. In the distance,
I could hear the helicopters with the Norwegian
commandoes coming. I bent down to Kristen, drop-
ping the empty revolver into my pocket. As I
hauled her to her feet, she screamed, "Look out!"
I wheeled, losing my balance on the ice surface,
Vornonieva throwing herself toward us, a long
bladed knife in her blood-stained right hand, mad-
ness in her eyes. My left arm free I raised it to pro-
tect my face, my right arm still entwined around
Kristen's waist to keep her from falling.
Vornonieva fell against me, the knife glancing off
my left arm, slicing into the flesh, the three of us
falling backward, the footing gone, the mouth of
the ice grotto gaping up at us.
We were gone! Vornonieva shot over me and I
could hear her scream, Kristen and I were sliding
face first down the ice into the darkness. I
wrenched my wounded left arm behind me, under
the turtleneck sweater and windshirt, my fingers
finding the hilt of the Chris Miller Bowie knife, rip-
ping it away from my back, the adhesive tape flail-
ing my skin. We were skidding maddeningly, my
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right hand locked on Kristen's ski jacket at her
waist.
I thrust my left hand with the Bowie knife in it
out as far as I could reach; there would be only one
chance. I drove the blade downward into the ice,
like a stake into the heart of a witch. The blade bit
into the glassy surface, my left wrist taking the
impact and wrapped -in a death grip around
the hilt. I skidded and stepped, my right hand still
clinging to the back of Kristen's ski parka as she
dangled below me. I glanced up—there was brilliant
white light at the top of the ice shaft, the ice around
it appearing blue, and below us the blue deepening
into blackness. Somewhere down there was Colo-
nel Vornonieva, and we'd be there too if the knife
broke or slipped, or my hand lost its hold.
I shouted down to Kristen, "Try and get your
arms around me, grab onto my legs. Hurry!"
I could see her, like a puppet dangling from a
string, trying to move, flattening her body against
the ice and trying to turn it, her nails scraping
across its smooth surface, breaking. She was
screaming, "I can't make it. Let go of me and save
yourself!"
My mind raced. In a minute or two the Nor-
wegian commandoes would be on the glacier. But I
knew in my heart I couldn't hold my grip that long,
that it was either lose her into the bowels of the
glacier or lose us both—but I wasn't going to let
go.
"You've got to try. Grab my legs!"
I com-
manded. "Dammit, try again!"
"I can't—I can't!" she screamed.
"Try, damn you, try!"
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and the words were stifled in a scream and
then heavy wracking sobs. But I could feel her
moving, twisting her body under me, her cries now
cries of pain as she fought against her body, will
over fatigue and pain.
I felt her hand tugging at my right leg, the pain
there from the gunshot wound burning, intense,
the muscles almost screaming as her weight went
onto my leg.
"I've got you!" she screamed up to me.
"I'm letting go of your coat now, hold on," I
rasped, my breath coming to me in short, painful
gasps.
I let go of the jacket, the full weight of her body
now on my injured leg, the pain starting to make
me black out. I fought unconsciousness, repeating
to myself over and over, "I won't die!"
I swung my right arm up, missed the knife, then
tried again, my right fist clasping along the dull
spine of the Miller Bowie. I could hear the chop-
pers touching down on the ice. I shouted to
Kristen, "Scream so they know we're here. Scream
She shouted something I couldn't understand,
her voice shrill and broken from the sobs, the
sound reverberating off the walls of the tube of ice.
My grip was going, my fingers slipping. I looked
up. Nothing at the mouth of the grotto. Frantical-
ly, I wondered if I could get to the climbing rope
lashed round my waist, could I unwind it in time.
My left hand was slipping badly, my left shoulder
was soaked with blood, the old gunshot wound
opened.
The girl was screaming for me and I looked
down, then looked up at the mouth of the grotto—
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there was a face, a man, Bruun. He was shouting,
"Hold on! We'll get a rope down there with one of
our people. Hold on a moment longer!"
I breathed hard. "Hurry!" I shouted.
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TWENTY-FOUR
It took two days for a climbing team brought in
especially for the purpose to finally get down and
get back up with the bodies of Colonel Vornonieva
and Otto. I stood, flexing my sore left shoulder un-
der my suitcoat, Wilhelmina secured in my waist-
band again because the shoulder was too painful.
Kristen was beside me.
We stood at the base of three red-carpeted steps,
the fourth step a platform and behind it a large red-
draped dome with a crown at the very top. On
either side of us were ranks of small chairs with
smaller secretary desks in front of them, dark-
clothed men and women, members of the Nor-
wegian Storting—the National Assembly—looking
toward the platform as well.
In the background a band was playing, first the
Norwegian National Anthem, Ja, vi elsker dette
landet—iranslated to mean, "Yes, we love this
country." Afterward, in my honor I'd been given
to understand, it played the Star Spangled Banner.
We're not often allowed to participate in formal
ceremonies, nor to accept medals, but Hawk had
made an exception this time. Norway was a valu-
able ally and had ridden this through with the
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United States all the way and to refuse their medals
however tactfully done, would have been an insult.
A personal representative of the King was there
and gave both Kristen and myself their highest
honor which can be awarded to civilians. There
was a third medal—llsa Gustafsen's fourteen-year-
old brother accepted it for her.
Afterward, there was a- reception, then some
photos. Later Kristen and I walked down in the
harbor area, watching the ships being loaded and
unloaded at the docks. We talked, walked more
and finally the sun was starting to go down again.
We weren't hungry—-except for each other. With a
bottle of wine under my arm we walked two flights
up to my room at the hotel. I let us in and while
Kristen poured some of the wine into two glasses,
I stripped away my coat and tie, setting the Luger
down on the nightstand. We sipped at the wine for
a while; I smoked a cigarette.
It was dark outside now, and Kristen got off the
edge of the bed and walked to the lamp by the door
and turned it on, the sudden brightness heightening
the shadows in the rest of the room. I kicked off my
shoes and watched her as she walked to the foot of
the bed. "Like the first time?" she whispered, her
voice soft, vulnerable.
"Yes," I said, watching as she reached behind
her and undid the zipper of her dress, kicked off
her shoes and let the dress fall to the carpeted floor.
She came over then and sat beside me. We leaned
back across the bed and my fingers trailed up her
thigh under her slip, my lips coming down on hers
—it was like the first time.
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there was a face, a man, Bruun. He was shouting,
"Hold on! We'll get a rope down there with one of
our people. Hold on a moment longer!"
I breathed hard. "Hurry!" I shouted.
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