The Thousand Coffin Affair, стр. 14
She batted the ignition switch on the instrument panel. “Forget it. My uncle is bigger than your U.N.C.L.E.”
“Come again?”
“Uncle Sam, Solo. They all know we’re represented by the biggest country in the world and they’re impressed. Besides, the last bit of excitement around here must have been V-E Day.”
“Maybe you’re right. But look at Herr Muller and the mortician. They sure do look sorry to see us go.”
It was true. The thin little Herr Burgomeister was positively crestfallen and the mortician reflected the same attitude. But the Debonair’s motor was purring powerfully, the propeller churning briskly. Jerry Terry fiddled with the control. board.
“Say goodbye to Oberteisendorf,” she suggested.
“Goodbye to Oberteisendorf.”
Within seconds, it was all behind them. The meadow, the startled faces, the huddled ugly town. The Bavarian Alps raised snowy heads on the Eastern horizon. Jerry banked the Debonair in a gradual, even soar of speed and finally leveled off at four thousand feet. Solo stared straight ahead, thoughtfully. The sky was a floor of unbroken blue on which the Debonair skirted gracefully.
“You’re still worried, Napoleon. Why?”
He sighed in exasperation. “I wish I knew why. Ever get the feeling you’re leaving something behind. Like unfinished business or something you had to do but you didn’t.”
“You feel that way now?”
“Very much so. I feel the last thing in the world we should be doing is saying goodbye to that ugly little town. And I don’t know exactly why.”
She flung him a look, saw the worry in his eyes. Her bright expression softened.
“Maybe we should take a look at—”
He sat up in his seat. “Of course. Though what good it will do, I don’t know. See if you can find that cemetery from the air. You may have to backtrack a bit but it ought to stand out on a day as nice as this. We can’t be too far from it, either.”
At his word, she had nosed the ship in a climbing turn, arrowing back in the direction they had come. Solo peered through the plexiglass, straining for the ground below. The earth from the air was a wide unending carpet, broken into terraced squares and oblongs and rectangles of all sizes and colors.
It was a mere five minutes before he saw the cemetery.
“There!” A flat expanse of earth, broken only by neat, orderly rows of stone markers.
“I’ll lower down. Hang on.”
The Debonair dropped like an elevator. Solo hung on, the sinking sensation in his stomach suddenly exhilarating like a roller coaster ride.
She cut her flying speed and arced the plane in a sweeping glide. The tiny squares of stone drew nearer with dizzying speed as the earth rushed up to meet them.
She leveled off, the Debonair skipping across the cemetery, yards above the earth. Solo scanned the tableau.
It was a beautiful place. Tended green landscape, flowers still in evidence. The whole area looked well cared for and arranged by a master landscape artist. That was all there was time for. The plane climbed, avoiding the wall of trees just ahead. Jerry sniffed the air.
“Cozy. Another look?”
“One more, maybe, though I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.”
On the second pass, Solo tried to estimate the number of headstones. But the ground roared by and they were aloft again.
“Herr Muller was right. A lovely spot.”
“Orangeberg. Nice name somehow.”
“Yes.” He was still trying to think of that elusive thing that was dancing around in his brain, but it was useless. He was weary and so was his mind. “I made out about two hundred headstones. Muller said there were that many at least—
“I never flew over a cemetery before.”
“You’re likely to do lots of things you never did before, on this assignment.”
She laughed. “Paris, next?”
“Non-stop, if you please.”
The cemetery of Orangeberg moved away from them as they rose to the West. The sun was now a blinding red ball in the sky—and neither of them saw the whining black shadow which dropped from behind its concealing corona of blaze.
The dark shadow power-dived and fastened itself on their tail with deadly intent
The next sound either Napoleon and Jerry Terry heard was the thudding, frenzied pound of .50 calibre machine-gun fire slamming into the wings of the Beechcraft Debonair.
THE WINGS OF THRUSH
JERRY TERRY said, “Oh!” and that was all. For Napoleon Solo, it said it all. Oh, indeed. The wings of the Debonair shivered and seemed to flap wide open under the withering hail of lead. And then the black shadow had shot past them into full view.
Solo’s eyes opened wide as he saw the plane. It was an MIG fighter, one of those Russian destroyers he had seen in action in Korean skies. The Debonair was a go-cart compared to it. He and Jerry Terry didn’t have a chance.
“Go down,” he barked. “Right now. We haven’t got a prayer staying up here with him. One more pass and he’ll rip our wings off like canceled stamps.”
“Hang onto your breakfast,” she sang out. “There’s only one way out of this.” He knew what she meant. Even as he scanned the skies for the MIG, he knew what she would do. He had gauged her mind and her courage well. She wasn’t an Army Intelligence officer because she had nice coppery hair or good legs.
The Debonair heeled over, almost whining in protest, as she worked it into a flat spin. A dangerous maneuver but with death staring at them over the muzzle of twin .50 calibre machine guns, it was the only chance worth taking.
And the MIG had banked and roared on back at them.
Jerry Terry’s quick-thinking slip down caused the fusillade of new fire to spray harmlessly across the heavens. The Debonair had one advantage—it could fall faster than the MIG could fly forward. Unless the MIG decided to follow them down. Solo bit his lip to ease the tension. He felt helpless and useless. She was doing all the work.
The Debonair dropped like a rock, the wings dancing erratically because of the gaping wounds in the metal. The pilot of the MIG barrel-rolled beautifully, shortened a pass that would have carried him miles away and hummed on back for another try. But the altitude was giving away. Another loss of five hundred feet and the MIG couldn’t dare stay close.
Still, the unknown pilot had his instructions—and cast-iron nerves. Even as the Debonair spiraled swiftly toward the ground, reaching that point of no return where Jerry would have to level off, the MIG pilot was setting itself for one last-ditch, all-out effort.
The MIG loomed in the rear-view mirror. A black phantom of unbelievable speed, shooting at them from nearly a forty-five degree angle to catch them as they passed his angle of observation.
“Brace yourself,” Solo gritted. “Some more singing telegrams coming this way.”
“Watch out for yourself,” she snapped back.
The air came alive with the pounding of machine-gun fire. Solo cursed. This time it was for keeps. Pounds of lead found a home in the right wing. He watched it happen, too fascinated to turn away. A stitching, ripping pattern of trouble worked along the left wing to the point where it met the fuselage. Too late, he shouted a warning. Too late, he saw the wing crumple backwards, like an arm being bent at the elbow. And then came the tearing, grating song of doom. The wing buckled and flew off like a leaf in a gale wind. The Debonair flipped over on its side, throwing Solo against the girl. Flying on one wing now, the plane plummeted helplessly like a rock cast down a deep well. Jerry Terry screamed once.
Solo ignored her. The earth was rushing up at them. Time was lost now. So was letting anybody else do the thinking for him. Solo seized the stick from Jerry and pulled back.