"What about me?" asked Illya. "I'm Russian. For me you should have a speed meter calibrated in versts per hour."
Simpson shrugged. "It's only three cents more for an extra meter face, after all."
Illya grinned at Napoleon, who shared his little joke, and appreciated the technician's comeback. Without further comment, they went on to discuss the inertial guidance system, which handled most of the navigation for the Squid.
Their checkout occupied the rest of the day, including a break for lunch, which was prepared from the freeze-dried concentrates in the Squid's stores and cooked up on the electric stove. By the time the clock on the instrument panel read 2200 GMT, which Napoleon's electric wrist watch translated as 5:00 P.M. they had learned a good deal about the internal functioning of the sub.
The following day they took it out into the East River (which is actually a salt-water tidal estuary rather than a true fresh-water river, which would have interfered with the operation of the Squid) and with Simpson guiding them they cruised submerged through the murky waters of the Upper Bay, and then east past Coney Island and Rockaway Point. Both Napoleon and Illya spent a pleasurable afternoon handling the sub, and leaving and entering the airlock in scuba gear while submerged.
When they returned, wet and exhausted, to the secret harbor under U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters that evening, a message from Waverly awaited them.
After briefly refreshing themselves, they reported to the familiar office on the topmost level. Their superior looked up from his work to greet them and inquire about their progress. The necessary amenities disposed of, he continued, "Something new has come up on your current assignment. I have the tape somewhere around here of the latest broadcast from the Monster Wheel—but if you don't understand Esperanto I can tell you roughly what it said:
"First let me explain that there has recently been some discussion—on a very high level, of course, and terribly secret—of attempting to fire a missile at the Wheel. Sometime this morning, apparently, the Wheel began voice transmission again. Without addressing anyone in particular, it stated in so many words that any missile approaching with twenty kilometers would be considered hostile, and the nation that had launched it would be bombarded with thermonuclear devices from space."
He paused while his two top agents looked at each other, and raised two pairs of eyebrows slightly. Then he continued, a slight tone of annoyance creeping into his voice. "They concluded by saying that they had made no threats to any nation, and had broken no laws, but they would defend themselves if attacked. And of course as far as that goes they are correct. There's no law in the world against launching a space station without a license. Nor is there any that says you must identify your space stations. But every one of the governments represented by the United Network Command is biting its collective fingernails and urging me to do something about this menace in the sky."
He snorted and leaned back in his chair. "You understand my position. All I can do is make the situation clear to you, and urge your greatest efficiency and most careful work. And this is unnecessary, because you work at peak efficiency most of the time anyway. If you didn't, you wouldn't be in the positions you now occupy."
"Exactly," said Napoleon. "We'd be sitting behind a nice safe desk somewhere."
Waverly's face wrinkled into a wry smile. "There are times, Mr. Solo, when I would gladly trade this nice safe desk of mine for a good simple field assignment. Out there, at least, you are allowed to shoot back when you are attacked. Here there is no protection, and no retaliation." He shook his head. "But to return to the subject. I would like to accelerate the operation by a day, if possible. How would you feel about taking off for Ceylon tomorrow, instead of Friday? It will give you a day less to practice with the submarine, but Simpson's reports on your work have been most satisfactory. How do you feel?"
They nodded simultaneously, and Napoleon spoke. "If you have the aerial survey maps, and the underwater contour maps we'll need, we can take off any time."
"They are ready, and will be here in my office for you tomorrow morning. You can spend the day making your final preparations. The jet leaves Kennedy International at four P.M. It's not a regular commercial flight, but a cargo plane. The submarine will accompany you disguised as several automobiles."
"I suppose it's too late to make one change in the submarine," said Illya slowly. "Not a major one—more a design revision than anything else."
They looked at him questioningly.
"Gray is such a drab color. How much more appropriate if it could be painted yellow."
"Appropriate? And why yellow?"
"Oh, never mind," said Illya. "It was just an idea...."
Chapter 10: "Island Ho!"
After lunch the Captain conducted Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin below decks and unlocked the doors in the "D" hold. The harsh incandescents overhead cast black shadows and sharp highlights around the small chamber, and left a pool of inky blackness under the Squid, which hung in a double canvas sling a few feet above the floor.
The ship in which they had left Colombo some three days ago was a disreputable-looking freighter, flying the Liberian flag, but owned and operated, sometimes at a profit, by the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. It usually worked as a real freighter, but was maintained as a cover for a number of unusual operations, for which it was specially outfitted. "D" hold was only one of the many special features of the ship. Only her captain was privy to all the surprises contained by her hull, and his U.N.C.L.E. rank was not much lower than Solo's own.
Down in the damp darkness of the hold, the mini-sub swung gently in her canvas cradle, awaiting the kiss of the salt water that would bring her to life. Inside her dull gray body rested maps, supplies and equipment that would direct and sustain two valuable men for an indefinite period of time—underwater, and ashore in a hostile land.
The ship's engines were idling now, and the time had come for parting. Napoleon and Illya slipped through the hatch in the underside of the Squid, with a last look around at the dim interior of the hold—the smell of rust, the patches of moss on the walls, and the bearded captain standing near the door, awaiting their signal.
And then they were inside. The slight pressure change on his eardrums told Napoleon that the outer hatch had been sealed, and a moment later Illya's blond head appeared in the airlock.
"Welcome aboard, Captain Kuryakin," he said formally.
"Thank you, Captain Solo," said the Russian agent, as he slipped into his padded control seat and fastened the safety straps.
At the same time, Napoleon lifted a small microphone from a clip below the board, thumbed the button on the side, and said, "Hello, Mother Ship. Squid is ready to go."
A speaker next to the mike-slip hissed to life. "Hello, Squid. Your signal clear. All set." The lights outside the little sub blinked out, and a moment later, as Illya touched a button, their own headlights blazed to life. "'D' hold sealed," said the speaker. "Open 'er up."
Faintly through the double hull of the submarine Napoleon could hear a low rumble of heavy machinery. Leaning forward, his head next to Illya's, he peered out through their little porthole into the vast hollow of the hold.