"Stand by," Illya said, and dropped the microphone. His hand caught the firing mechanism for the U.N.C.L.E. gun mounts, finger poised on the button. He clenched his teeth, waiting.
The THRUSH helicopter opened fire.
Illya shoved hard right on the throttle, pitching him sideways. The first volley of bullets riddled the air where he had been. He hunched over the controls, jamming down on the button, and felt his own guns chattering beneath him. The THRUSH copter veered, dodging as he had done. He knew he had missed.
Dog-fight, he thought. A dog-fight with helicopters. Now if that wasn't...
"What's going on there? Mr. Kuryakin, I hear gunfire. What..."
Slashes of red flame from the fore guns on the THRUSH: chopper drowned out Waverly's words. Illya fought the throttle again, left this time in sidelong bank.
He was too late. The glass in front of him shattered.
Illya threw his left arm across his face, an instinctive motion. He felt a burning pain along his elbow as one of the machine gun slugs furrowed through his skin there, and tiny pinpricks on his forehead and face as the flying glass peppered his vision.
He shook his head, pawing to clear his sight. His hand came away red with blood from the glass cuts. Dimly he saw the THRUSH helicopter moving towards him, coming in for the kill.
Teeth bared in anger and pain, Illya found the firing mechanism he had dropped when the dome splintered. The U.N.C.L.E. copter had lost altitude, the throttle jarred loose from his hand with the impact.
Illya clutched the throttle now, straightening the machine, and then drew back on it, raising his front end and the mounted guns there to the approaching THRUSH aircraft.
He jammed his finger down on the firing button and held it there. The first stream of bullets sheered one of the rotary blades on the THRUSH helicopter. He saw it sputtering, airborne on only a single blade. More slugs smashed into the body, through the glass on the pilot's side. Crippled, it began to descend.
Illya released the pressure on the firing button then. He tested the controls, found that none of the THRUSH bullets had hit vital parts, and went down after them.
The THRUSH helicopter was not crash-falling. The pilot, apparently still alive, was able to maneuver the craft, even with one blade. He could keep it in the air, but not for long. It would have to land.
Illya, hovering above the crippled machine, following it down, resisted the urge to fire on it again.
As they descended, the crystal floor of what had been Lake Mead loomed large and white below. Illya, mouth pulled into a tight line, fumbled for the microphone on the floor. Angry crackling sounds still emerged from the radio, giving indication that it was still operational.
He flicked the send button. "Kuryakin here," he said.
"What happened?" Waverly's voice said through heavy static. "Are you all right? It sounded as if..."
"All right," Illya said shortly. "A shaky moment or two, but everything's under control now."
The THRUSH helicopter landed on the salt surface of the lake.
Illya went directly above them, vacillating there, a hundred feet overhead. He could see the two men in the shattered cockpit. Neither of them moved. The pilot had slumped over the controls.
Illya reported to Waverly. He finished with, "I'm going down for a look."
"Stay where you are," Waverly said sharply. "There are planes..."
"Wait a minute," Illya said. He saw that the second man in the THRUSH helicopter, the man he suspected to be Dr. Sagine, had begun moving. The long yellow hair shone in the sunlight as he clambered his way out of the crippled aircraft, onto the surface on the lake.
The man stood motionless for a moment, peering up into the air. Then he began to run.
"Dr. Sagine!" Illya said into the microphone. "He's alive! Out and running."
He took the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter in the direction the man was running, Dr. Sagine, stopped finally, digging into his pocket. He came up with something that glinted shafts of light in the sun.
A gun, Illya thought. Hand gun. Not much range. But if he can keep me far enough overhead, and if he can reach he shore, the rocks there .
"I'm going down after him," Illya said into the microphone.
"No!" Waverly snapped. "I want you to—"
Abruptly the mike went dead, just as Illya said, "If he reaches the shore, I'll lose him. Can't take that chance."
"I'm going after him," Illya said again, to the silent mike. If Waverly had different ideas it was too late now.
He increased the speed on the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter, passing over the running man, and then turned and took it down, cutting off Dr. Sagine's fight to the opposite shore. He landed, switching off the rotors.
Dr. Sagine veered to the right, running out toward the middle of the lake. Illya dug his U.N.C.L.E. special from his belt and leaped out, running. He chased headlong after the fleeing Dr. Sagine, across the gleaming, bleached-bone whiteness of the crystallized lake.
ACT VII: LAST COMMAND
Napoleon Solo was sitting in the co-pilot s chair of the U.N.C.L.E. jet that had picked him up in Granite River. Eyes closed, he was fighting a losing battle against exhaustion, when Waverly's frantic call came over the radio.
The jet had wound its way down from the Rockies, following the irregular, twisting course of the Colorado River. Their only sighting in the time they had been aloft had been another U.N.C.L.E. search plane. There had, of course, been no sign of Dr. Sagine.
The radio crackled. "Attention, all Squadron B- units. Attention, all Squadron B units. Report your positions immediately. Repeat. Report your positions immediately. Urgent. Red Line urgent."
The sound of Waverly's voice jarred Solo into sudden wakefulness. He sat erect, shaking his head. The pilot, a gaunt, slackjawed Scot named McDuffee, reached for the microphone.
"Control, this is B Leader One reporting. Heading south-southwest, search course above the Colorado River. We have just passed over Grand Canyon, approaching the Nevada border. Over."
There was no instant response. Solo, listening attentively, heard the other U.N.C.L.E. jets relaying their positions. After a moment, Waverly's voice boomed again. "B Leader One, this is Control. Alter your course point-zero-six degrees, due west, full maximum speed. Place all emergency rescue equipment on stand-by readiness. Your destination is Lake Mead. Acknowledge, please."
"Roger, Control," McDuffee said. "What's the exact position?"
Waverly told him what it was. "How long will it take you?"
McDuffee checked his instruments quickly. "Ten minutes, sir," he said. "We're on our way."
Solo grabbed the microphone. "Mr. Waverly," he said. "This is Solo in B Leader One. What's going on at Lake Mead?"
There was a brief pause. Then Waverly said, "Mr. Solo, I thought you were still convalescing. But I am glad you are along. We may need your assistance."
"Lake Mead is formed by Hoover Dam," Solo said. "That's where you sent Illya this morning. What's happening there?"
Waverly said: "I have been trying to raise Mr. Kuryakin on his communicator, but there is no response."
"You think he's hurt, then?"
"Possibly," Waverly said "Though I think not. I don't want him to land on Lake Mead, but I can't reach him."
"Why the rescue equipment?" Solo asked. "And why the urgency?"