Samuel Edwards - Neptune

The man shifted his position, and as he moved Porter dashed forward, firing as he ran.

His enemy returned the fire.

Porter had the advantage, however, and paying no attention to a savage jolt in his left shoulder, he emptied his chamber a second time. The man pitched forward, his automatic pistol clattering on the cement wharf.

Safety beckoned at the end of the pier, and Porter ran with all his might towards the helicopter.

The aircraft was not deserted after all. Someone on board shouted, ‘Watch out behind you!’

Porter instinctively swerved, ducked and spun around as a heavyset man appeared from behind another pylon. It was impossible to determine what arms he was carrying, and Porter did not wait to find out, but kicked him viciously in the groin.

The man doubled over, dropping an automatic pistol.

Porter leaped forward, intending to hit him over the head with the butt of his empty Magnum, but the man straightened, and they grappled.

‘This is a surprise, Georgi,’ Porter said. ‘But you did mention meeting again.’

Georgi Verschek cursed him in Russian as they crashed to the wharf together and rolled over and over.

Both tried to gain the upper hand, and the KGB agent managed to grasp Porter’s throat with both hands.

Porter felt dizzy and realized his strength was ebbing, so he knew he had to react quickly. He drove his right fist into the pit of the Russian’s stomach, and as Verschek relaxed his grip a trifle he smashed his left into the man’s face.

An excruciating pain travelled the length of Porter’s arm and for an instant he thought he would lose consciousness.

But his blow snapped Verschek’s head back, and Porter had the chance he had been seeking. He drew his Lilliput from his pocket, simultaneously removing the safety catch, and emptied all six chambers into the KGB agent’s body.

Verschek made no sound as he died.

Porter managed to haul himself to his feet. ‘Shame on you, Georgi,’ he muttered. ‘All that fuss for the sake of a little money.’

Police sirens sounded in the distance.

The helicopter came to life, its jets roaring, its lights turned on.

Blackman materialized beside Porter, and supported him as they ran to the helicopter. ‘You were so tangled up together I couldn’t shoot him. That was a near thing.’

They threw themselves into the aircraft, and as they closed the door behind them the pilot began to taxi into the harbour, his speed increasing.

The helicopter began to rise, the engines blotting out the sound of the sirens.

Porter looked out of the window and saw several police cars, their roof lights blinking furiously, pull to a halt at the base of the wharf.

The helicopter, ascending swiftly, headed out to sea under full power.

How badly were you hit?’ Blackman asked.

Porter didn’t know what he meant.

His assistant pointed to his shoulder.

His shirt and jacket were soaked with blood, but he laughed. ‘Thanks for calling it to my attention, old chap. A small price for a red herring to pay, don’t you agree?’

Because of the possible approach of the typhoon Franklin Richards advanced the start of the salvage operation to 3.30 a.m., preferring to begin in the dark to avoid a possible curtailment of his activities at the climax. The loading of demagnetized iron shot into the lip of the submersible was under way more than an hour earlier, with cranes lowering more than 7,000 tons of the metal bars to the float. The entire task was automated, making it unnecessary for the men who watched in the glare of floodlights to do anything other than supervise and be ready to intervene only if something went amiss.

Nothing untoward happened, however. The technicians had rehearsed every move so many times they knew what was expected of them, and as they watched the lights and gauges on their control boards they knew what was expected in each step of the procedure. Nothing was left to chance, and there was no guesswork.

Adrienne was not on hand for the loading of the ballast. A long day stretched ahead, experience had taught her that at least a little rest would be necessary for her to face it, so she changed her mind about sleeping, and at midnight retired to her cabin for a few hours. She lay on her bed fully dressed, secure in the knowledge that the Deacon was on duty and would call her in the event that she was needed. The Navy and Air Corps were taking responsibility for the security of the present phase of the operation, and only if and when the Zoloto was recovered would she be required to return to work in earnest.

In spite of her belief that she wasn’t tired she drifted into a deep sleep. A heavy pounding at the door of her cabin awakened her, and a glance at the clock told her it was 2.45 a.m.

The Deacon stood in the passage. ‘The Captain wants you in the communications centre,’ he said. ‘Pronto.’

She combed her hair while climbing the stairs.

The Captain and the signals officer were awaiting her. ‘There’s an aircraft that’s trying to penetrate the security zone,’ he said.

‘What kind of an aircraft?’

‘No national markings. Beta squadron is keeping it under surveillance. It’s a sea-going helicopter, and the pilot identifies himself as Y-Twenty-six.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Adrienne said.

‘He keeps insisting he wants to talk to you, so I’ve told Beta squadron to hold off until you give the word.’

Adrienne shrugged.

The signals officer picked up a microphone. ‘This is Neptune calling Y-Twenty-six. Come in, please.’

‘Y-Twenty-six calling Neptune,’ a high-pitched voice said over static. ‘These fighter planes are making us nervous. We wish you’d get Miss Howard.’

‘I’m here,’ Adrienne said.

A deeper, equally metallic voice came over the wireless. ‘I wish you’d call off your fly boys, my love. If they swoop down on us just once more I may not be able to keep my breakfast date with you.’

Adrienne’s temples began to pound. ‘Identify yourself, Y-Twenty-six.’

‘If I tried to pick you up at a bar,’ the metallic voice said, ‘I hope you wouldn’t smash my knuckles with an ashtray.’

Tears came to her eyes, and her voice trembled as she said, ‘ Neptune to Beta squadron. Please escort the helicopter to us. Safely. Make sure nothing happens to anyone on board!’

The commander of the Air Force squadron acknowledged the order.

Captain Humphries and the signals officer looked at Adrienne, waiting for an explanation.

She offered none, and for the first time since they had known her she seemed flustered. ‘I’ve got to put on make-up and change my clothes before he gets here,’ she said, and fled to her cabin.

The months of planning and building, preparation and practice came to an end at 3.30 a.m. The air was muggy, indicating that a change in the weather was due, but the star-filled sky was clear, and a full moon provided far better illumination than did the floodlights that shone on the submersible from the Neptune. The last of the demagnetized ballast had been stored in place, a final check revealed that all instruments were operable and that all plugs were secure. The technicians making the inspection climbed a ladder to the deck of the Neptune, and were followed by Franklin Richards, who went straight to the operations centre.

He hurried to the master control panel, where three project supervisors were monitoring the many needles, gauges, and lights. His wife was waiting for him, too, and for an instant he put an arm around her shoulders.

‘All systems are go, sir,’ the chief supervisor said.

Marie Richards smiled at her husband, stepped forward and pulled the switch turning on the delicate mechanism that began the decompression of the gasoline stored in the chamber beneath the huge float.