No one discussed tactics with me, but it was clear that this operation
was carefully planned. Our copter was second in a long string of at
least a dozen that whirled down the coastline, past the foothills of
Vesuvius, over the clusters of fishing villages and vineyards.
I had never seen Pompeii, but I caught a glimpse of something
glittering and needle-nosed, up-thrust in the middle of a cluster of
stone buildings that might have been the ruins.
Then the first ten of the copters spun down to a landing, while two or
three more flew a covering mission overhead.
The expediters, hard-pellet guns at the ready, leaped out and formed in
a skirmish line. Gogarty and a pair of expediters stayed close by me,
behind the line of attack; we followed the troops as they dog-trotted
through a field of some sort of grain, around fresh excavations, down
a defile into the shallow pit that held the ruins of first-century
Pompeii.
I had no time for archeology, but I remember tripping over wide,
shallow gutters in the stone-paved streets, and cutting through a tiny
villa of some sort whose plaster walls still were decorated with faded
frescoes.
Then we heard the spatter of gunfire and Gogarty, clutching at me,
skidded to a halt. "This is specialist work," he panted. "Best thing we
can do is stay out of it."
I peered around a column and saw a wide open stretch. Beyond it was a
Roman arch and the ruined marble front of what once had been a temple
of some sort; in the open ground lay the three gigantic copters Defoe
had mentioned.
The vanes of one of them were spinning slowly, and it lurched and
quivered as someone tried to get it off the ground under fire. But
the big thing was in the middle of the area: The bomb, enormous and
terrifying as its venomous nose thrust up into the sky. By its side was
a tank truck, the side of it painted with the undoubtedly untrue legend
that it contained crude olive oil. Hydrazine, more likely!
Hoses connected it with the base of the guided-missile bomb; and a knot
of men were feverishly in action around it, some clawing desperately
at the fittings of the bomb, some returning the skirmish fire of the
expediters.
We had the advantage of surprise, but not very much of that. From
the top of the ancient temple a rapid-fire pellet gun sprayed into
the flank of the skirmish line, which immediately broke up as the
expediters leaped for cover.
One man fell screaming out of the big skyhook copter, but someone
remained inside, for it lurched and dipped and roared crazily across
the field in as ragged a take-off as I ever saw, until its pilot got
it under control. It bobbed over the skirmish line under fire, but
returning the fire as whatever few persons were inside it leaned out
and strafed the expediters. Then the skyhook itself came under attack
as the patrol copters swooped in.
The big ship staggered toward the nearest of them. It must have been
intentional: We could see the faint flare of muzzle-blast as the two
copters fired on each other; they closed, and there was a brutal
rending noise as they collided. They were barely a hundred feet in the
air; they crashed in a breath, and flames spread out from the wreckage.
* * * * *
And Slovetski's resources still had not run out. There was a roar and a
screech of metal, and a one-man cobra tank slithered out of one of the
buildings and came rapidly across the field toward the expediters.
Gogarty, beside me, was sobbing with fear; that little tank carried
self-loading rockets. It blasted a tiny shrine into rubble, spun and
came directly toward us.
We ran. I didn't even see the second expediter aircraft come whirling
in and put the cobra tank out of action with its heavy weapons. I heard
the firing, but it was swallowed up in a louder screaming roar.
Gogarty stared at me from the drainage trench we had flung ourselves
into. We both leaped up and ran back toward the open field.
There was an explosion as we got there--the fake "olive-oil" truck,
now twenty yards from the bomb, had gone up in a violent blast. But we
hardly noticed. For at the base of the bomb itself red-purple fire was
billowing out. It screamed and howled and changed color to a blinding
blue as the ugly squat shape danced and jiggled. The roar screamed
up from a bull-bass to a shrieking coloratura and beyond as the bomb
lifted and gained speed and, in the blink of an eye, was gone.
I hardly noticed that the sound of gunfire died raggedly away. We were
not the only ones staring unbelievingly at the sky where that deadly
shape had disappeared. Of the scores of men on both sides in that area,
not a single eye was anywhere else.
The bomb had been fueled; we were too late. Its servitors, perhaps at
the cost of their own lives, had torched it off. It was on its way.
The cobalt bomb--the single weapon that could poison the world and wipe
out the human race--was on its way.