The Menacers (20 page)

Carol winced. “You have the most untactful way of putting things of any man I’ve known. It would serve you right if I sicked up all over you!” She turned around, kneeling on the seat. “Here’s your arsenal. Where do you want it?”

I took the guns and looked at them. The plane was flying along docilely, no hands, at three thousand feet and a hundred and forty miles per hour. I could afford to take my attention off it for a little. I looked at the big, slim-barreled Luger with which Harsek had made his reputation, checked the loads, and dropped it into the coat pocket that already held Priscilla’s Colt .38. I glanced at the compact Browning I’d taken from Vadya’s purse, it seemed a long time ago. I rechecked that, since it had been out of my possession, and put it in the other coat pocket. I hefted Solana’s very similar automatic and started to dispose of it the same way, but stopped, frowning.

For a gun almost identical to the Browning, it had a startlingly different balance. Well, that happens. Take two shotguns of the same general type and weight but different manufacture, and one will feel light and alive while the other feels heavy and dead, depending on how the weight is distributed. The same can be true of pistols, if you’ve had experience enough to recognize it in the smaller weapons. But here the difference was so marked that a little investigation seemed indicated.

I removed the clip. It appeared to be fully loaded. I jacked the remaining cartridge out of the chamber, and it seemed to be an ordinary .380 round. I picked up the clip again, to reload, and realized belatedly that it was much too light for the five or six cartridges it was supposed to hold.

Studying it, I began to laugh. It was a very simple arrangement. There was a perfectly good cartridge in the chamber, and another in the top of the clip, so the gun would fire two shots just like any other gun. It would seem fully loaded to anyone who made a routine check. However, the lower part of the clip held no cartridges, although it was carefully camouflaged to show a gleam of brass wherever it was supposed to. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what was inside it, and it wasn’t powder and lead.

“What is it?” Carol asked. “What’s the matter with it? What’s so funny?”

I grinned. “Our friend Solana’s simpleminded plot wasn’t quite as simpleminded as it seemed. Here’s his real tracking device. The one you were carrying was just fool-bait.”

She flushed. “Well, I think that’s… kind of disgusting! You mean that whole act he had us go through was… wasn’t really supposed to convince anybody?”

“Well, Priscilla was obviously supposed to see through it. She was supposed to search you, and find that gadget in your boot, and relax. And all the time the real beeper was in the gun. Solana knew no pro would leave a loaded gun behind.” I laughed again. “Not bad! Hell, I could get real fond of that tricky little greaser!”

“Matt!” Carol had all the usual nice-girl horror of derogatory racial terms.

“He called us
gringos
, why can’t I call him a greaser? In an affectionate way, of course. But I’ll call him a clever Castilian gentleman if you prefer. Anyway, that should mean we’re not alone up here.” I looked around at the blue morning sky. “There must be a plane up there somewhere, tracking us. Well, let’s hope the pilot is on the job.” I looked down at the half-dismantled weapon in my hand, and began to reassemble it. “It means, also, that I’ve got to change my plans a bit. I’ve got to figure out how to get this damn electronic firearm into enemy hands under very convincing circumstances, preferably without getting shot in the process—”

“Matt, look! There’s a boat down there, heading this way. And there, off to the right, is an island shaped like a new moon. Is that the one you wanted?”

It was the island, all right, but saying that I wanted it was putting things a little too strongly. Now I had to live up to my brave words and get us down somehow, preferably alive.

As we passed over the black power boat, it was swinging around to follow us back towards the island. Obviously it had headed off to chase the plane when it appeared to be in trouble. Now the boat was out of position for the pickup, which could be good or bad, depending on how things worked out.

If I managed to land us in one piece, I would be happy to have a little breathing space before the opposition arrived. On the other hand, if I cracked us up badly, it would be nice to have somebody—anybody—standing by to haul us out of the wreckage before it sank.

There were three men visible on deck, looking up. That meant a probable total of four, I reflected, figuring one steering. Of course there could be another at the radio, trying to make contact with us. In fact, the boat could be crammed with concealed, hostile manpower like a Barbary pirate, but it was hard to see what the point would be. A crew of four seemed like a reasonable working assumption.

They were having it rough down there, I saw, hammering into the big seas as they turned, with spray flying high. We passed over them at several times their speed, steady and comfortable, proving, I guess, that there’s something to be said for progress.

I dismissed them from mind, temporarily, and concentrated on the island coming up ahead. There had to be something good about that island; Harsek had presumably picked it carefully. It was undoubtedly far enough from civilization that there was no chance of having some public-spirited Mexican citizen report seeing a plane go down into the drink; but it was also, presumably, a safe place to ditch with the wind in this direction. Well, I hoped the Czech had made a good choice, because I was stuck with it.

One of my few authenticated pieces of aeronautical information said that a plane must land into the wind. I lined things up carefully, therefore, while I was still several miles out. No windsocks were available, of course, but the waves below served just as well. At least I hoped they did.

When the island was dead upwind from us, I made a cautious, clumsy turn and headed in, gradually throttling back the motors and shedding altitude—so gradually that we were still some eight hundred feet up when we passed over the target area. Well, it wasn’t a bad idea to take a look at what I was getting myself into, I told myself.

Two slim, curving, sandy promontories formed the outer ends of the scrap of land below. The center was wider and rose, I estimated, to some twenty or thirty feet above sea level. It looked pretty barren. There were hints of stuff growing here and there, but it wasn’t a tropical garden by any means, just an overgrown sandbar, with a couple of lumps in the middle. You could call it a fat new moon, or you could call it a skinny crab with claws embracing a sheltered bay or lagoon. Obviously I was supposed to come gliding in between the claws and make my splash in the calm water beyond.

I made another of my shaky turns and headed back downwind, taking the time as we passed the island, just to be systematic. I gave us a good two minutes, and made another one-eighty. This time, after getting lined up properly, I pulled the throttles back more decisively, letting the speed drop significantly as we headed back in, descending.

The airspeed indicator said we were going slower, but the water seemed to go by much faster as we neared it. Suddenly the entrance to the bay was flashing past and we were still much too fast and much too high. I had a momentary, suicidal impulse to shove the controls hard forward and dive her in and get it over with; then I put on full power instead, and climbed out of there.

When I had enough altitude to feel safe—well, moderately safe—I made my downwind turn again. At least I was getting that technique under control. Four or five miles out, by my watch, I turned again, like an expert.

“Okay,” I said aloud. “That’s enough practice. Hold your hat, we’re going in.”

I didn’t look at Carol as I said it. She was a smart girl; I probably wasn’t kidding her a bit. This time I forced myself to put it down faster and run the throttles back even farther—so far that suddenly I realized we weren’t going to make it. The airspeed was dropping fast; the controls were getting heavy and unresponsive; and the island was still a good mile ahead. The big, white-capped waves were reaching up for us, and if we hit here, away from the shelter of land, the plane would probably break up and sink too fast for us to get clear, assuming that we lived through the impact…

I started to reach for the throttles once more, and drew my hand back. To hell with it. There are times when you can repair your mistakes, but there are also times when you’d damn well better just live with them. If I started to horse around now, at this low altitude and sluggish speed, I’d probably lose control altogether and make the crash worse. I concentrated on keeping the damn bird straight and level as it sank towards the water. Anyway, my line was good, and every second brought us closer to the entrance.

Suddenly the two horns of the crescent were welcoming us, and I realized that, far from hitting short, we were probably going to overshoot and crash into the island. I reached out and cut the ignition switches and flipped a mental coin. It seemed better—or at least slower—to flop in tail first than to dive in. I yanked the controls brutally back into my lap. All kinds of things happened at once. The nose went up, the right wing dropped, the tail hit the water, and the whole plane came crashing down on its belly, hard. The low wing dug in, and we went plowing blindly across the lagoon.

Then everything was very quiet, and we lay there rocking gently, with water draining from the windows and windshield. I looked at Carol, who lifted her head and looked at me.

I grinned. “A good landing is any landing you can walk away from—as we birdmen say.”

“Walk?” she said shakily. “Swim, you mean. Let’s get out of here!”

She unbuckled her seat belt. The door opened easily, which was a relief; I’d had a sudden fear that it might have jammed somehow. Then she was out of there, and I was scrambling after her, but I stopped for a moment to look around. After all, there was some sentiment involved: this was my first aircraft command. Now that it was over, I realized that it had been kind of fun driving the thing around the sky.

I looked at Harsek, huddled behind the seats, and felt less happy. It was a hell of a way for an experienced agent to go, shot by accident while acting as window-dressing for an operation being conducted by some vicious kids with odd sexual appetites. Harsek, the Mad Czech. I wondered how he’d come by the name; he’d seemed sane enough to me. Well, as sane as they come in this racket.

I wondered if, perhaps, as in Vadya’s case, there hadn’t been a little more to Harsek’s story than we’d been told. Perhaps somebody’d had some doubts about him, too, to send him here in a subordinate capacity. Maybe he’d been disciplined for making an error of some kind during the recent Mid-Eastern disturbances…

“Matt!” It was Carol’s voice. “Matt, hurry, it’s sinking!”

I gave Harsek a salute, as one pro to another, and squeezed my six-feet-four out through the door. Carol, her life preserver inflated, was crouching on the half-submerged wing. I paused to yank the tab, and felt my rubber vest fill, which was just as well. With all the firearms in my pockets, I’d have sunk like a rock without the extra buoyancy. I looked out to sea and saw that the black power cruiser was only a mile or so out, heading straight for the entrance.

The plane was settling fast. I sat down and slid into the water, which was warmer than I’d expected. Carol hesitated a moment longer, conventionally reluctant to go swimming fully dressed. Then the plane gave a sudden lurch, and she launched herself cautiously, being careful to keep her head above water. She glanced in my direction to make sure I was coming, and started making her way towards shore in an embarrassed, gingerly manner, as if afraid her friends might see her paddling around in the Pacific—well, an arm of it, anyway—with all her clothes on.

It wasn’t much of a swim. Five minutes later we were wading up to the beach.

Flying might be fun, and swimming was all right in its place, but dry land felt very good to me as I peeled off my life-jacket and tucked my wet shirt into my dripping pants. Even a lonely sandspit in the desolate Gulf of California had a lot to recommend it.

I looked at Carol and grinned. She’d made it ashore without getting wet above the neck, and her smooth blonde hair, only slightly windblown, looked ridiculously neat and civilized above her sagging sweater and wetly clinging skirt.

I said, “Ditch your waterwings and let’s go.”

“Go where?” She tossed the inflated vest aside, and bent over to pull the brief safari skirt away from her legs. Wringing it out by sections, she looked around the isle, and glanced at the approaching boat. “There’s no place to hide, Matt. The whole island’s only a mile or so long and a few hundred yards across, mostly sand. They’re bound to catch us.”

“Sure,” I said. “But let’s dress it up a bit and make it look impressive. I’d like to find a picturesque spot for Helm’s Last Stand, over towards the middle there. The lower of those two sandhills, I think, so they can show their tactical genius by eventually outflanking us from the other one. We’ll hold them off bravely, though, until death stares us in the face. Can you shoot a pistol?”

“No. Matt, I—”

“So much the better. They’ve got to be healthy to show us the way, so we don’t really want to hurt them. Well, maybe just one, to make it look good. Three can handle the boat and prisoners. But by God we’ll go down with a bang. A lot of bangs.” I patted my weighted pockets. “They’ll think they’ve fought the Battle of the Bulge before they capture and disarm us.”

“Matt, be serious. If you start a lot of shooting… Well, they’ll shoot back, won’t they? I don’t think I’m a coward, but I don’t particularly want to get killed just so you can make a dramatic gesture.”

I said, “Don’t run down dramatic gestures, doll. Dramatic gestures are absolutely essential in this business.” I hesitated, and glanced at her. I still had my orders, but the situation had changed somewhat, and I said, “I will now make a confession. I really am a secret agent of sorts. Just don’t tell anybody I told you, particularly my boss.”