Dimension Of Horror Part 18

The mulatto shrugged. "So be it. It will take a week for me to have your false papers prepared and to get you a plane ticket."

"I don't have a week."

"When do you want to leave?"

"Today."

"But the false papers . . "

"I won't need them."

"The tickets . . ."

"With your help, I won't need them either."

"But how . . . ?"

Richard stood up. "I understand you fly regular spy plane missions over Russia from somewhere around here to the American airbase outside London."

Glen looked at him oddly, head c.o.c.ked to one side. "You're not supposed to know about that, d.i.c.kie baby."

"Once in a while, by chance, MI6 blunders onto something. I want to hitch a ride on that plane. Can you arrange it?"

There was a long silence, then Glen said softly, "Yes, I can arrange it. Do you want a two-way ride?"

Richard did not meet the shorter man's intent gaze. "No, Glen. I rather expect this will be a one-way trip."

Richard Blade caught his first glimpse of the spy plane from the air, as Glen circled the desert airfield.

"What do you think of her?" Glen demanded, half-turning in the c.o.c.kpit to look back over his shoulder at Richard.

"Not bad," Richard answered over the rus.h.i.+ng roar of their jet fighter.

Moments later they touched down and taxied up to the looming bulk of a giant bomber. The spy plane was perched on the back of the bomber as if it were the bomber's child. Unlike the parent, who was unpainted save for the insignia of the U.S. Air Force, the child was painted a dull black and bore no markings of any kind. Glen brought his jet to a stop in the shadow of the larger plane's wing, cut the engines, unplugged himself, pushed back the canopy, and clambered out. Richard followed.

"Hi, Glen!" A groundcrewman in brown coveralls waved a greeting.

Glen jumped from his wing to the ground. "Hi, man."

The groundcrewman gestured toward the spy plane. "We waited for you. I hope you realize this puts us ten minutes behind schedule."

"What's ten minutes?" Glen retorted, grinning.

Richard jumped to the ground and looked around, noticing for the first time the nearby camouflaged bunkers that apparently were the airfield's only structures, at least the only structures above ground. He realized, with professional admiration, that once the field was cleared of aircraft, it would be completely invisible from above and almost invisible even from the ground. As far as he could see in all directions there was nothing but desert, except for some indistinct blue mountains on the horizon that s.h.i.+mmered dreamlike in the heat. There was not a breath of breeze, and the silence was so absolute that the crunch of his boots in the sand seemed like a desecration. He removed his crash helmet and wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his arm.

Glen introduced him to the groundcrewman. "Richard Blade, Mark Williams."

Richard pulled off a glove. The handshake was slippery with sweat. Richard was beginning to wish he'd kept his white T-s.h.i.+rt and slacks, instead of exchanging them for the olive drab coveralls Glen had loaned him. Of the things he had brought with him from the sanitarium, he now retained only the incongruous pillowcase containing the tranquilizer gun. This he gripped in his left hand like a trick-or-treat bag.

"Let's get this show on the road," Williams growled, with a frowning glance at his wrist.w.a.tch.

"Right." Glen started for the ladder that extended from the bottom of the bomber, near the center of the fuselage.

The three men clambered up into the belly of the plane, and on up another ladder into the smaller plane above it.

Glen introduced Richard to the pilot. "Richard Blade, Chris Rasmussen." Rasmussen looked at Richard briefly but did not offer to shake hands. It was not difficult to see that Rasmussen regarded him as an unwelcome intruder.

Ordway helped Richard strap down and plug in. His seat was directly behind Rasmussen's, and there were no other seats, though the interior was surprisingly roomy. Rasmussen bent over the instruments, apparently too busy to pay any attention to his unwanted pa.s.senger.

Ordway gave Richard a clap on the back for luck, then, together with Williams, scrambled down through the floor.

A few minutes later the bomber was airborne, the spy plane still riding piggyback. Richard leaned over to watch, through the canopy, the grotesque dwindling shadow of the double aircraft rus.h.i.+ng across the dunes. Over the low drone of the bomber's jets, he heard, in his helmet headphones, Ordway's cheery voice. "Mark and I are down here in the Mama bird. Everything okay, Blade?"

"No problems," Richard responded.

"All systems go," Rasmussen added.

They went into a steep bank, then began climbing.

Ordway went on, "This is the last thing I'll be able to say to you for the time being, old sock." His accent had gone British again. "In a few shakes Mama bird will kick Baby bird out on his own. We don't ever talk to Baby on the radio, since Baby isn't supposed to exist."

"I understand," said Richard.

Ordway's voice became more serious. "There's a pub in London called the Globe. Have you ever been there?"

"Once or twice," Blade said.

"If you ever want to contact me, leave a message at the Globe. They'll get it to me within eight hours."

"I'll remember that, Glen."

"Any questions?"

"There is one." Richard hesitated. "Why are you trusting me like this? I mean, how do you know . . ."

"That you're you? That you're okay?"

"Exactly."

"They took your voiceprint from your phone call at the Tomcat Skip Tracer Service and matched it with one we had on file from your last visit. And all the time you were talking at my place, your voice was being checked for the stress patterns of a liar by our resident electronic wizard in the next room. And of course your fingerprints were on your brandy and soda gla.s.s. They checked that after we left. But mainly, you knew the reason why that fruit in the john wasn't a lady."

"You don't miss a trick, do you, Ordway?"

"We try to stay on top, chum." The accent had slipped all the way into a rich c.o.c.kney. "Well, cheerio, pip pip, and to ta, d.i.c.kie, me lad."

"Ta, ta, Glen," said Richard, half-laughing.

From this point on the intercom was taken over by a crisp, alert, but calm interchange between the pilot of the bomber and Rasmussen, the pilot of the spy plane. Without being able to see the instruments, Richard estimated that they were between seven and eight miles high, in the lower stratosphere. The sky had gradually changed from blue to near-black. The sun had brightened, but when he looked away from it, he could begin to see the stars. The few clouds, thin and stringy, were below him. The cabin, in spite of pressurization and heating, had cooled rapidly.

Rasmussen began counting down. "Ten, nine, eight . . ."

At the end of the count there was a lurch and the c.o.c.kpit swayed in a way it could not have done when the two aircraft were linked. Baby was on his own!

The bomber swung into view to Richard's right, waving its wings in farewell.

Rasmussen returned the parting salutation, pressed a red b.u.t.ton on the instrument panel, and eased forward the throttle at his side. The spy plane's own engines ignited and Richard was pressed forcefully into his seat by the sudden acceleration.

"How high are we going, Rasmussen?" Richard said into his helmet microphone.

"High enough," came the laconic reply on the earphones.

The plane was climbing much more rapidly than it had when attached to the mothers.h.i.+p. Richard felt the vibration rise, then, with a shudder, they broke through the sonic barrier and the noise level, which had become too loud for conversation, dropped to a gentle drone and hiss, and even this hiss was dying away as, with increasing alt.i.tude, the atmosphere outside grew steadily thinner.

"May I ask a question?" Richard was trying to be friendly.

Rasmussen did not answer.

Richard persisted. "What does this plane do?"

"We take pictures," said Rasmussen.

"But can't you take pictures from an orbiting satellite?"

"Not good pictures."

This was the last thing either man said for the remainder of the flight. Richard contented himself with watching. The leading edges of the stub wings were beating up, glowing a dull red, but they began to fade again before any damage was done. The acceleration pressure continued for a while longer, then, as Rasmussen eased off the throttle, the pressure vanished, to be replaced by the unforgettable sensation of free fall, of weightlessness. In a moment they were drifting, without power, in the most total silence Richard had ever experienced. He could hear his own heartbeat, his own blood pulsing in his ears, his breathing and the other man's, the faint creaks of the s.h.i.+p adjusting itself to the vacuum of s.p.a.ce. The temperature in the c.o.c.kpit had become uncomfortably cold, and moisture was condensing on every bit of bare metal in sight, though something-probably wires imbedded in the plastic-kept the canopy from clouding.

There was a thump and Blade saw two large torpedolike objects fall away, turning slowly. He thought, Expended fuel tanks. Probably fall into the Pacific or burn up on reentry.

Reentry!

Reentry for the spy s.h.i.+p would come somewhere over Europe. If MI6 had not been misled, the entire flight would take slightly over an hour. In minutes he would be in England again!

He leaned as close as he could to the canopy and was rewarded by a glimpse of the coastline of Russia, almost unrecognizable beneath a swirl of white clouds.

He sat back with a sigh and closed his eyes, resting for the ordeal ahead. For a moment he was relaxed, on the verge of sleep, then he thought of Zoe. I'm coming for you, Zoe. I'm coming, love.

He thought of the Ngaa.

A terrible anger possessed him, driving away sleep, the most frightful fury he had ever known.

He thought feverishly, I'm coming for you, Ngaa!

Was it his imagination? Or did he hear a voice like a mult.i.tude of voices whispering in unison, whispering at the edge of his consciousness?

I'm waiting.

Chapter 13.

As he had done before, times without number, the quaint red-clad chief Yeoman Warder marched his troop of four similarly dressed guards toward the looming fog-shrouded b.l.o.o.d.y Tower, ancient lantern held high. A small crowd of tourists, Germans in short pants and green-feathered caps, looked on with mild boredom.

The sentry challenged the Warder. "Halt!"

"Detail halt!" the Warder commanded.

His men obeyed with mechanical precision.

"Who goes there?" said the sentry.

"Keys," said the Warder.

"Whose keys?" said the sentry.

"Queen Elizabeth's keys," said the Warder.

"Advance Queen Elizabeth's keys," said the sentry. "All's well."

"Present arms!" commanded the Warder.

His men obeyed.

The Warder doffed his ornate Tudor bonnet, calling out, "G.o.d preserve Queen Elizabeth!"

The guards responded, "Amen!"

From out of the darkening mists came the tolling of a bell. Ten o'clock. A bugler blew the Last Post. The b.l.o.o.d.y Tower was locked. The strange eternal pageant of the Tower of London was officially over for another day.

As the squad marched off toward the Queen's House, the German-speaking tour guide began shepherding his tourists toward the exit.

When the Germans were at last gone the un.o.btrusive silent men of MI6 appeared from the shadows and took up their nightly vigil.

Casually they pa.s.sed the word, seeming to stand a moment together now and then by pure chance.

"This is our last night here."

"The project is closing down tomorrow."

"It's all over."

Richard Blade's rowboat drifted slowly on the black River Thames, under the Cannon Street Station railroad bridge. A train, its lights only dimly visible, rumbled by overhead. He had heard the bells toll ten. He knew the tourists and Yeoman Warders had left, but he did not bend to the oars, did not try to hasten the little craft's progress. All too soon he would have to draw upon every muscle in his body, every nerve, every braincell.

He drifted, and rested, turning with the tide.