"Very sorry, sir," said Illya politely. "The Captain has observed a serious fire in your settlement, and thought it best to suspend operations to allow your men to combat it. There is no great hurry, after all."
"You were ordered to turn your cargo over to us at once," said the voice, rising in pitch. "We have more than sufficient personnel to control the fire and still continue this operation."
"I am sorry, sir. The Captain has ordered the operation suspended."
"Let me speak to the Captain."
"The Captain is otherwise occupied, sir."
The voice became almost incoherent with rage at this, and babbled something about mutiny, piracy, and hanging in irons.
"I'll tell him you said so, sir," said Illya, and switched the receiver off.
"It seems they know all about it," said Napoleon, and his partner nodded.
"I envy them," said the Captain. "Could someone tell me?"
Napoleon took a deep breath. "First, do you know what you're carrying and what it's for?"
"I know what, but not why."
"Before you start the lecture, Napoleon," said Illya, "I think we had best prepare to be attacked. Captain, whoever I just talked to on the ship-to-shore knows that your government will be calling you in a few minutes. Naturally he wants the gold. If he doesn't take it now, he'll never get it. Is this ship fully armed? With anti-submarine devices as well?"
"Yes—fully equipped."
"Order all defenses into operation. Now."
Five more minutes had passed before all stations reported ready. And only one extra minute passed before one of them reported again.
"Sonar—submarine approaching. Bearing three-two-zero degrees, depth ten meters, range twelve thousand meters and closing."
The Captain looked at the pair of U.N.C.L.E. agents for some ten seconds, then bit at his lip and picked up a microphone. "Ready three anti-submarine missiles. Track, and hold fire."
Suddenly two transceivers twittered, and Illya picked his from a shirt pocket. "Kuryakin," he said.
"Mr. Kuryakin, there is monumental confusion at the High Command. They were apparently informed immediately by a monitoring station when the Wheel ceased transmission, but no creative action has come from them yet."
"Can you offer us any other aid? The ship is about to be attacked, and Thrush might be able to marshal more force than we can stand off. It would be easy enough for them to salvage the gold from our hulk."
The ship-to-shore phone buzzed. Napoleon gestured with his automatic, and the Captain picked it up.
"One moment, sir," said Illya softly to his boss.
The same voice they had heard before spoke, but it was no longer angry. It was cold, and hard. "We have a loaded submarine pointed at your ship," it said. "Unless you begin unloading your cargo at once, we will torpedo you and remove it from the sunken wreck."
The Captain's finger hesitated over the push-to-talk switch, and then he picked up another microphone. "Missile Control," he said. "Fire one and two at the established target."
One speaker acknowledged as the other speaker clattered angrily, "Captain, answer us! You have one minute!"
They couldn't see the missiles launched, but suddenly the smooth silence of the sea erupted in a furious boiling blast some two miles away. A moment later a second ball of fire flared at the same spot. And silhouetted in the midst of it, photographed on the retinas of the watchers by the explosive flash of the second warhead, was the black outline of a submarine, half out of the water at an impossible angle. And in that moment they saw it break in half as it began to fall back. Then there was a third flare as the armament of the submarine detonated.
No one moved on the bridge until the three concussion waves shook the windows and the distant surface of the sea subsided.
The Captain squeezed the handset of the ship-to-shore, and said, "Pardon the interruption. You were saying that we had one minute?"
The machine remained silent.
"Mr. Kuryakin! Mr. Kuryakin!" a thin metallic voice whispered in Illya's hand, and he lifted it to his ear and answered.
"What on Earth is going on there?" Waverly's voice demanded.
"We have—ah—just reduced the threat, sir."
"Good. How much remains? We can have a flight of SAC bombers to you in a matter of hours. Four hours, if you can hold out that long."
Napoleon had restored his automatic to its holster sometime during the excitement, and now he spoke to the Captain. "Sir, check with Fire Control."
The intercom sounded over his last word. "Sonar clear, sir. Radar reports two small aircraft approaching."
"Ready anti-aircraft. Engine room —"
"Here, sir."
"Get engines up to full speed as soon as possible. Helm —"
"Here, sir."
"Prepare to put about to a course of three-five-zero. Mr. Kuryakin —"
"Here, sir," said Illya automatically.
"Tell whoever you are in communication with that we will want those bombers to fly escort for us until our own Egyptian forces can take over the position."
Illya spoke to Waverly, and received assurance.
The ship's intercom buzzed. "Communications room. Signal from the High Communications room. Signal from the High Command for Captain in maximum security cipher."
"Read it off."
"Cancel all operations and return to base. Do not, repeat, do not complete delivery of cargo under any circumstances."
"Captain," cut in another voice. "Aircraft approaching at two thousand meters."
"Fire only if we are fired upon."
"Yes, sir."
"Communications—send off the following in clear text. Proceeding home flank speed. Send full protection to relieve American task force as soon as possible."
A shuddering jar shook them as the anti-aircraft cannon began to fire. The engine room telegraph rang, signaling ready, and the helm was put about.
"Damage Control here. Both aircraft fired high-explosive rockets; one hit. Number three battery damaged. Both aircraft destroyed."
"Fire Control report."
"All clear, sir, unless they have big guns on the island."
Napoleon touched Illya's arm and spoke softly. "I think the military might by which we are surrounded will be capable of handling things from here. Unless you're particularly interested in watching naval operations I suggest we get out of the way and go below. Besides, you still haven't guessed my 'W'."
They started out the door from the bridge, and walked calmly past and among the various running figures of sailors on their ways to or from posts, as Illya began, "I've established you're a literary figure and American. So you were the Town Crier of the Air?"
"Too easy," said Napoleon. "Not Alexander Woolcott."
"All right. Did you...whoops!" A short sailor with a bristly moustache ducked between them and scurried off.
"A lot of people are killed in traffic every day," said Illya philosophically. "Now, where were we?"
"Not Alexander Woolcott."
"Right. Now, did you collaborate with..."
The two of them turned a corner, and were gone.
THE END
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posted 2.12.2008, transcribed by Connie