"Napoleon! What are you..."
"I'm in one of the Squadron B jets," Solo said. "We're on our way to you. We have a grappling sling ready."
"Grappling sling? But there's not enough time for that!"
"Just hold on," Solo said. "We've got time."
"I don't even see you yet," Illya said, and Solo knew he was scanning the sky.
Solo caught up one of the jet's microphones hanging on the wall. "Mac, this is Solo. How much longer?"
"Lake Mead, dead ahead," McDuffee said from the cockpit. "Two minutes."
"Can you see what point the chemical change has reached?"
"Hang tight," McDuffee said. "I'm taking her down."
Solo felt the jet begin to nose dive. He had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, but not all of it was due to the sudden drop in altitude. The jet leveled again.
"I see it now," McDuffee said. "Man, that's some sight. It's moving forward like a wave."
"Where, Mac? Where is it?"
"A couple of miles behind us, now," McDuffee said. "We're over Lake Mead, approaching the position."
The communicator in Solo's hand crackled. "I can see you now!" Illya's voice yelled. "You're coming right at me!"
"Mac, hold her steady," Solo said in the jet's microphone "We're on target."
"I can see the helicopter now," McDuffee said.
"What's your altitude?"
"Seven-fifty."
"Take her down to five hundred."
The jet dipped.
"Do you see Illya?" Solo asked.
"Not yet," McDuffee said. "There's a man running across the surface to the left, toward the shore. But I... Wait! I see him now! Two hundred yards from the helicopter!"
"All right," Solo said. He was aware that perspiration covered his body. He rubbed wetness from his forehead. "Get set, Mac. I'll give you the word when we're ready."
"Roger," McDuffee said. "I'll start circling."
"Mr. Solo, this is Waverly," the U.N.C.L.E. chief's voice said over the communicator. "How much time have you?"
"Plenty of time," Solo lied.
"Can you see me?" Illya said. His voice seemed to have gotten fainter. He was still coughing.
"We can see you," Solo answered. A thought struck him. "Illya, you're not going to pass out?"
"No, I don't think so," Illya said feebly. "But my chest is on fire."
"Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Sign off for now. You have work to do. I will maintain contact."
"Yes, sir," Solo said. "When we're set, I'll come on again."
He put the communicator in his pocket, looking at the two crewmen. "Ready with the grappling sling?"
"Ready, sir," one of the crewmen said.
"Get the door open."
The crewmen unlatched the jump door on the left side of the plane. Cold wind howled through the opening, chilling the sweat on Solo's body. He shivered, looking out. Below him, he saw the white salt surface of the lake, and then, as they passed in a tight circle, the still form of Illya Kuryakin, lying prone there.
Solo looked at the grappling sling they had set up on a succession of steel pulleys in front of the jump door. It was a series of plowsteel cables, running through the pulleys, and attached to a ten-foot square piece of reinforced plastic nylon. Above the nylon, fastened onto the cables, were sliding metal hooks, manipulated by drawstrings from inside the jet. Running through the square of nylon at the edges, and affixed to the bottom of the hooks, was a thick, elasticized fiber cord.
When the victim to be rescued was safely onto the nylon square, the drawstrings were pulled upward, lifting the hooks and pulling the nylon closed at the top, somewhat like a fish net, so that there was no chance of the victim falling from the sling while the cables and pulleys hauled him into the plane.
This enabled rescue to be successfully made of unconscious individuals, as well as conscious ones. The entire unit, had been developed and perfected by U.N.C.L.E.
It was, in itself, foolproof. However, if the lowered sling, due to wind conditions or other elements, were to miss its target on the first pass, the plane would have to circle and make a second, or third, attempt. The operation required precise timing, and offered little margin for error, especially in a spot such as the one they were faced with now.
Solo knew that if they missed on that first try, there would be no opportunity for a second effort.
"All right," he said to the crewmen. "Get ready to drop the sling."
The crewmen hoisted the sling, poising at the door. Solo went to the microphone and lifted it from the wall. "Mac?"
"Yes?"
"All set?"
"All set."
Solo took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.
"Let's go," he said.
FOUR
Illya Kuryakin lay looking up at the U.N.C.L.E. plane circling above him. He heard the droning sound of the jet engines, but there was another, somehow louder, sound that came from upstream, at the western end of the lake. He was able to identify that sound instantly... Rushing water.
He looked there, across the shimmering white. At first, he saw nothing. The rumbling hiss of the water seemed to grow louder. Then he saw a fleck of foaming color that seemed to gain size, moving rapidly nearer.
The pain in his chest had climbed into a raging inferno. He saw numbly that the front of his mackinaw was covered with blood. Nausea bit into the back of his throat, and he felt his eyes becoming heavy. A warm lethargy took hold of his mind, pulling him downward, pulling him .
He tried to concentrate on Mr. Waverly's voice, talking to him through the communicator he held clenched tightly to his ear. But the words seemed to low together, melt into a buttery monotone of soothing sound. He felt himself beginning to relax, allowing the warm feeling in his mind to spread, to...
"Illya!"
The sharp tone of Napoleon Solo's voice snapped him out of it. "Yes, Napoleon?" he said weakly into the communicator, biting his lip against the fire in his chest.
"We're dropping the sling now," Solo said. "We've only got time for one pass, and we've got to make it fast. You'll have to grab onto the sling if we miss the scoop. Are you all right?"
"Fine," Illya said. He tried to make his voice light, but it didn't come off.
There was silence for a moment. Then Solo said, "We've dropped the sling. Can you see it?"
Illya looked up into the sky. He saw at first only a bright, yellowish haze. He shook his head. His eyes focused. He saw the U.N.C.L.E. jet circle, banking above, and then come in from the east, flying low. He saw the grappling sling, suspended on the plow-steel cables. It floated some twenty feet above the surface of the lake, almost directly below the plane. The wind didn't have much effect, due to heavy weights strategically placed on the cables.
"I see it," Illya said.
"Are we in a direct line-above you?"
"Yes," Illya said. "Maybe three hundred yards."
He heard the sound of the water again. It seemed to be almost on top of him. He forced himself not to turn and look there. He kept his eyes on the U.N.C.L.E. jet and the grappling sling.
He was aware of Solo's voice, speaking to the pilot of the jet. "Cut it down, Mac. All the way. We're almost above him. Steady, now."
"Hurry," Illya said. It was all he could say.
The jet flew right above him. He saw the billowing white nylon of the sling, skimming across the top of the surface toward him. With every ounce of strength and will power left in his body, he forced himself to rise onto his hands and knees. The roar of the jet overhead and of the approaching rush of water was a cacophony of maniacal sound in his ears.