Illya Kuryakin caught the girl just in time to keep her from being thrown against the control panel. When the plane was half on an even keel again, the angry pilot switched to intercom and called the stewardess.
"Come up here! Get this crazy woman out of here before she wrecks us!"
"You stupid fool!" the girl cried wildly. "You'll kill us all if you don't listen to me!"
Illya braced himself as best he could, and pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. identification. He flashed it to the startled pilot.
"Better do what she says," he shouted. "I've a hunch she knows more about this thing than any of us!"
"I can't take a chance on hunches!" the pilot yelled back. "I've got a two million dollar plane and the lives of ninety people to think about!"
"Do you think we've got a chance to get out of this alive?" Illya asked. "Be honest. A lot depends on this."
"No," the pilot replied. "This is the worst storm I've ever encountered. We're continually losing altitude. Unless a miracle happens, nothing can keep us from going into the ocean!"
He wasn't a coward. Illya Kuryakin could see that. He just spoke the plain truth based on long experience as captain of an international jet.
"Then try it her way," Illya said persuasively. "Things can't get any worse."
The pilot hesitated. The reputation of the men from U.N.C.L.E. was so great that he nodded.
"I guess you're right," he said. "Things can't get much worse, no matter what we do."
"Thank you!" the girl said breathlessly to Illya. "You can stop worrying now. We'll come out okay. There's a rhythm in these things. If we turn on the pulse, we can make it into the eye.
He was amazed by her confidence. He moved back to make room for her beside the pilot. As he did, he backed into someone. He turned his head and saw Napoleon Solo.
"I saw you rush up here," Solo said. "So I followed. What gives?"
"I don't know!" Illya said into Solo's ear. "But this girl seems to know more about storms than anyone."
"Who is she?" Napoleon asked.
There was another flash of that frightening blue lightning outside. In the brief glare Illya saw the suspicion on Solo's face as he stared at the girl's back.
"I don't know," Illya said. "But I would like to."
Solo nodded. Together they watched the girl. Her swaying body, slenderly outlined against the glow of the cockpit instrument panel, bent half doubled so she could shout her instructions into the pilot's ear.
TWO
The wild turbulence increased in fury. It was beyond anything either of the men from U.N.C.L.E. had ever experienced before. At one point it appeared that the groaning, straining plane would be torn apart. But somehow, it struggled through.
Outside another crash of lightning illuminated the cockpit with a ghostly glare. It shocked Napoleon to see how helpless the crew was now. But he was even more struck by the calm confidence of the girl.
As the plane continued to fight the wild wind and rain, the two men from U.N.C.L.E. began to realize that the girl was right. There did appear to be a rhythm to the storm's gusts.
Cleverly the girl was anticipating this stormy rhythm and informing the pilot when to make his banks.
Then suddenly the solid wall of surging clouds was gone from in front of them. The plane's tail gave one last upward loop as they left the circling winds. Then they were flying in still air.
The stars were visible above them, dimming with the approach of dawn. The sea beneath was whipped to an indescribable fury and a circling wall of clouds hemmed them in.
"We're in the eye now," the girl said calmly. "In all storms of this kind the winds circle about a dead section of air known as the eye of the storm. This eye moves along with the hurricane."
"Thanks," the pilot said, mopping his dripping face. "You knew what you were doing. I'm sorry I doubted you, but'
"Forget it," she said crisply. "My life was at stake here too, you know."
She turned to go back to her seat. As she passed Napoleon Solo, he stopped her.
"This is quite a remarkable thing you did," he said, giving her an engaging smile. Illya noted with amusement that Solo's charm was lost on the young woman.
"How does it happen that you know so much about storms?" Solo asked.
She gave him a steady stare.
"Are you a policeman?" she asked, her voice cold and harsh.
"No," he said quickly.
"Then, until you get your badge, keep your questions to yourself!' she snapped.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I was just curious."
She brushed past him.
He turned to follow, but she slammed the compartment door in his face.
Illya chuckled. Napoleon turned to look at him.
"How many times have I told you to let me handle the pretty girls we meet up with? Girls require finesse, you know. You just confine yourself to masterminds and old ladies. Let me handle the young pretty ones!"
Solo gave his partner a sour look.
"Are you a betting man, Mr. Kuryakin?" he said, an edge in his voice.
"Definitely not, Mr. Solo," Illya said formally. "But on occasion I have been known to slap down a chip or two."
"Okay," Napoleon snapped. "I'll bet you a drink when we get to New York that you don't have what it takes to even get her name."
"Mr. Solo, you have yourself a bet! And no fair putting it on your expense account. This has to come out of your pocket, as punishment for doubting my romantic abilities!"
Solo smiled. "Trot back and start your pitch. I've got to call Mr. Waverly. That young lady will bear watching. I want to arrange for a shadow to pick her up when we land."
"Okay, I—" Illya began, but broke off suddenly when the pilot's compartment door opened.
THREE
The storm girl—as they came to call her—stood there looking at them. Her expression was half angry, half malicious. Obviously she had not gone to her seat, but remained against the other side of the door listening to them talk.
"And I bet both of you two drinks that neither of you get anywhere with me!" she snapped.
She slammed the door, leaving the two young men looking at each other with embarrassment.
"You made a bet," Solo said. "I'm holding you to it."
"I'll find out who she is," Illya retorted. "She has thrown me a challenge."
He went back to his seat. The girl didn't look at him as he slid into it. She kept staring out the window at the gradually lightening sky. The pilot was circling inside the eye of the hurricane, gaining altitude as he sought to fly over the storm.
Illya Kuryakin felt a curious sense of uneasiness as he stared at her lovely, but determined, profile. He had a peculiar hunch that this woman meant trouble. He couldn't put his finger on the source of his uneasiness. He did not believe her part of the THRUSH organization.
If the storm was an artificial one created to destroy him and Napoleon Solo, it seemed unlikely that a THRUSH agent as resourceful as this one would have been expended.
Then he caught himself with a start. He recalled something that had slipped his mind in the rush of events. This was the angry exclamation of the girl when the storm first broke so unexpectedly.
He shot her a narrow glance. She still had her eyes focused on the swirling clouds outlining the eye of the storm. He recalled her anger.
They should have checked to see which plane I took!"