Collection 1986 - Night Over The Solomons (v5.0) (18 page)

“I’d say you were lucky, mighty lucky!” Runnels said. “Great stuff, old man!”

Then he told them of the yacht and the house. They watched his face curiously, but it was Winkler who seemed most worried. He paced the room thoughtfully.

“This thing scares me,” he said. “They might find us!”

It was just daylight when Turk Madden slipped from the cabin. He took his carbine, and went toward the Goose, then turned away among the trees and started for the trail that led along the creek, the trail seen from the plane.

T
HIS WAS IT. He could sense the building up of forces around him, could sense an intangible danger. Someone in his own group, he felt sure, was a traitor. It could be Panola, and yet, it might be either of the others. Winkler had been a good leader, and Turk could understand his natural worry. The atomic explosion was to be tomorrow, and if it was to be witnessed and checked, everything must move smoothly and easily. The explosion, unless the time was changed, of which they would be informed, would be at ten in the morning.

Panola was to remain here. Winkler, Runnels, and himself would fly to the vicinity, taking advantage of the cloud cover. Then, just before ten, the explosion. They would drop through, make their check when the explosion occurred, and get away—if possible.

He knew what was at stake. The Fascists in the Argentine were strong, and they had been increased by refugees from Germany. More than one worker with atomic science had escaped to Buenos Aires, and they had been joined by others. There were rumors of money being sent to them from the north to aid the experiments by those interested in the commercial application of atomic power.

The experiments were strictly hush hush. Even the Argentine Government was supposed to know nothing about them. The presence of a North American here—well, Turk Madden knew the men he was working against.

Baron von Walrath, one of the shrewdest operatives in the former German Military Intelligence; Walther Rathow, atomic scientist and militarist; Wilhelm Messner, of the Gestapo; and Miguel Farales, of the Argentine Military Intelligence.

Yet they had seen none of these men. The patrol of the coast was apparently purely routine. The whole affair had moved so perfectly that he had become suspicious. And the next few hours would tell the story.

Hurrying, he worked along the trail, then rounding a fallen log, he saw there in the soft earth, the mark of a boot! The shape was not distinct in the moss, but the heel print was plain. It could have been made no earlier than the night before.

As he continued along the trail, Turk watched carefully, and found several more footprints, but none was distinct. Yet someone had left their camp, or the vicinity of it, and had come over this trail. Then almost at the plain where he had seen the tracks of the fighter plane, he saw a double footprint. They were apparently of the same foot, and the second one was superimposed on the first, and that second track pointed toward camp! The man had come from the camp, and returned to it!

Following the footprints, he reached the dead campfire. The man he had followed had come this far. He had waited, he had smoked several cigarettes, and then he had returned the way he had come. He had waited here—for the patrol plane!

Leaving the plain, Madden crossed by way of the woods to the range of hills beyond, stepped through the woods carefully toward the cove. He could see the cold sea water lapping on the gravel beach, and he could hear the bump of the launch hull against the small pier.

Then he leaned forward to peer at the gray house. He leaned forward still further and put a foot out to balance himself. A branch under his foot cracked like a pistol shot, and he jerked back.

Then something struck him on the head, and as he toppled forward he heard a pistol shot ringing in his ears!

H
E OPENED HIS eyes and saw a hard-wood floor, then blood. His own blood. He closed his eyes against the throb of his head and tried to place himself, to remember what had happened.

“Hang it, Stock,” a voice was saying in English, “why did you have to shoot the man? Couldn’t you get the drop on him and bring him in?”

“That guy’s Turk Madden!” another voice said. “I’d know him anywhere. If you ask me, you better kill him. You leave him alive and you’re borrowin’ trouble. I knew him in China, and the guy is poison.”

“Thanks, pal!” Turk told himself mentally, “but I don’t feel very much like poison right now.”

“We’ve got to keep him alive!” The first voice was crisp and hard. “We must keep him alive until we know where they are. Messner was to have communicated with us as soon as they landed. They aren’t far from here, we know that, and he has the patrol plane stops. One of them is sure to be close to where they will be.”

“Perhaps, Baron,” said a third voice, suave and smooth, “we can make Madden talk. Timeo has convincing methods.”

“Not a chance!” Madden rolled over and sat up. His fingers touched his scalp gingerly. The bullet had cut a neat furrow along the right side of his head. He looked up. “Unless there’s some money in it.”

H
E GLANCED UP at the three men. Stock would be the big man with the flat face. The man seated in the chair with the smoothly shaven face and the monocle could be no one but a German. That would be von Walrath. And the other was Latin. Probably Farales.

“Money?” Farales leaned closer. “Why should we pay you money? You have nothing we want.”

“Maybe yes, and again, maybe not.” Turk swallowed. “How about a drink? I’m allergic to bullets. They make me thirsty.”

At a motion from Farales, Stock poured a drink and handed it to Madden. He tossed it off, shook his head, and then got slowly to his feet. There was an empty chair, and he fell back into it.

“I’m a businessman,” he said then. “I’m not in this for my health. If you guys have got a better offer, trot it out.”

He was stalling for time, stalling and watching. Somehow, he had to get out of here, somehow he had to block Messner, whoever he was. Certainly, one of the three men at camp was Messner, formerly of the Gestapo. To think that such a man could be in an American unit, on such a mission. But the man was there. Turk was under no illusions about stopping him. There would be only one way now.

“Who sent you here?” von Walrath demanded. “From what office do you work?”

“Office?” Turk shrugged. He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “I work for Turk Madden. I’m in this for myself. I’m goin’ to get all the dope I can, and sell to the highest bidder.”

“The United States?” Farales asked gently. He was studying Turk through narrowed eyes. “Why should they pay? They already know.”

“Do they?” Madden shrugged again. “But you may find out something they won’t know. Also, they may want to know how much you know.”

“And that’s why you’re here. To find out how much we know. That’s why your government sent you here.” Farales’ voice was silky.

“My government?” Turk raised an eyebrow. “What is my government? I fought for China before I fought for the United States. I fought for them because they paid me well, and because I like the winning side. They were a cinch to win.”

Von Walrath’s eyes were cold. “Then you did not believe we Germans could win? The greatest military power on earth?”

Madden chuckled. “Why the greatest? Who did you ever lick? Nobody I can remember except a lot of little countries who never had a war. It’s like Joe Louis punching a lot of guys who ride a subway. Anybody can lick an average guy if he’s got some stuff. Germany was ready for war, the other countries weren’t. Germany never whipped a major power who was even half ready for war.”

“No?” Von Walrath sat up stiffly. “And why did we lose this one?”

“Mainly because you never had a chance.” Turk warmed to his subject. “Any war can be figured on paper before it begins. You didn’t have the natural resources. You were cut off from the countries that had them. You didn’t have the industry.”

“Next time,” von Walrath replied coolly, “we won’t need it. Atomic bombs change everything.”

“That’s right. The smallest nation has a chance now.”

“Even,” Farales suggested, “Argentina.”

Von Walrath stood up suddenly. “Where is your plane now?” he demanded.

“Around,” Madden rested his elbows on his knees. His .45 was lying on the table not a dozen feet away. “Supposing we make a deal. You slip me a chunk of dough, and I keep my plane out of this? Your man Messner can’t keep it out. I can.”

“And why can’t Messner keep it out?” Farales demanded.

“First place,” Turk looked up from under his eyebrows. He had his feet drawn back and was on his toes now, “because he won’t try. Why hasn’t he communicated with you? I’ll tell you why: because he hasn’t any intention of it. Because he has another deal pending.”

“You lie!” von Walrath hissed furiously. “I will vouch for Messner!”

Turk chuckled. “Listen, you guys. You’re not so dumb. Who will pay most to get the atomic secret now? Who wants it worst? Not as a weapon, but just to make things more equal, to give herself more confidence. I ask you: who wants it?
Soviet Russia!
”

He lighted another cigarette. “What do you think they’d pay? A hundred thousand? Yes, and maybe more. Maybe a million. If a man had the secret, he could ask plenty, and get it! What can a poverty-stricken Germany give Messner? What can even the Argentine give Messner? Would he get a million from them? From you? Not a chance! What can we give your friend Messner?”

Farales’ sardonic black eyes lifted to von Walrath. “He speaks wisely, Señor. What can we give your friend Messner?”

“He lies.” Von Walrath’s eyes were blaring, yet Madden knew he had injected an element of doubt into the Prussian’s minds. “Messner is loyal.”

“Then why has he not communicated with us? He is days overdue.” Farales looked at Madden. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed a week ago,” he lied.

“A week, and still no word. How is this, Walrath?” Farales’ voice was cold. “Four times in that week has our plane been at the prescribed places. And it cannot be far. This man walked.”

“Wait until the plane comes today before you speak. Messner probably has been unable to get away.”

Madden could see that the Baron was uncertain. “There will be word today.”

“No,” Turk said coolly, “there won’t.”

He had been stalling for time. Stock was across the room now, mixing a drink. No one was near the table where the gun lay.

“What do you mean?” von Walrath demanded. “What makes you so sure?”

“Simply,” Turk said, this was going to be close, “because your pilot is dead, and your patrol plane crashed. It’s lying up there,” he pointed suddenly toward the wide window and the Dome of St. Paul, “burned to a crisp!”

As he pointed, their heads almost automatically turned, and he was out of his chair and had made three steps before Farales swung and saw him. It was too late. Turk hurled himself at the table, grabbed the automatic and swung with his back to the table. Farales’ shout brought a crash from Stock as he wheeled, dropping the glass and grabbing for his gun. Turk shot him in the stomach, and then wheeling, he hurled himself, shoulder first, through the window.

I
T WAS NO more than six feet to the ground. The instant he hit he flattened against the building and ran along it close to the wall until he reached the end of the house.

The shore there was high, lifting in a straight bank at least ten feet above the shelving gravel beach. He jumped off the bank to the gravel, landing on his feet, and fell back into a sitting position.

As he fell backward, he saw a man on the motor launch grab a rifle, and he blasted with the Colt from where he sat. The bullet hit the cabin of the boat and laced a white scar across its polished side. The man fell over, and then the glass crashed as the fellow thrust the rifle through a cabin port. Turk was on his feet then, but he wheeled and put two quick shots through that port, and then he was running.

He had made a dozen steps before a rifle cracked and a shot hit the rocks ahead of him and whined viciously away over the water. He zigged right, and then dodged back, and seeing a cut in the bank, dropped behind it just as several more shots struck nearby.

He paused just an instant, caught a quick breath, and then ran up the cut. Ahead of him it ended near a cliff and the forest came up to the foot of the cliff. Yet there he would have to dodge across twenty feet of open country before he could make the forest.

“That German is a shot, or I miss my guess,” Turk told himself. “He’ll have his sights set on that open place, and I’m a dead pigeon!”

Yet even as he reached the end of the water cut, he saw there was a deep hollow and another water drain that fell sharply away. The water that had made the deeper hole had fallen off a corner of the cliff around the shoulder. Perhaps he could get across.

A huge root thrust itself out, and sticking his gun in its holster, he jumped. It was a terrific leap, but his hands just grasped the root, and he swung with all the impetus of his leap and hurled himself at the bank opposite.

He hit it, chest first, and grabbed wildly at the edge. Dust and rock cascaded into his face, and suddenly a rifle barked, and a shot smacked into the bank right between his clutching hands!

Frightened, he gave a mighty heave and hurled himself over the edge and rolled into the woods. A bullet clipped a tree over his head, and he scrambled to his feet and floundered away in the knee deep moss. Then he saw a fallen log and, leaping atop it, he ran its length, swung by a branch to another, and ran along it.

It wasn’t going to be enough to get away. He had to lose them. Yet on one side was the plain, and if pushed into the open they would cut him down in an instant. On the other side was the river.

His breath was coming in great grasps, and his lungs cried out with pain at the effort. Yet he kept on, for speed meant everything now.

He had crossed a small clearing and was entering the woods along the river when suddenly another shot rang out, and he plunged head first into the soft, yielding moss. The shot had come from in
front
of him!