The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven: The Cruise

PRESENT DAY

THE TRITON

Mr. Honeywell stood on the command deck of the Triton, gazing out into the harbor through the thick glass that surrounded the deck. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mr. Quarl and Mr. Hausen move from position to position, fiddle with switches and then exchange looks and nods. Finally Quarl returned to Honeywell's side.

"It's all here, Mr. Honeywell," he said happily. "The engines, the steering, the navigation...it can all be controlled from this deck...it's all automated, as per advertised. For our purposes, a crew of five will be quite sufficient."

Honeywell nodded. Absently, he placed the fingers of his right hand between the third and fourth buttons of his vest and lifted his chin the slightest bit. "I can feel the power, Mr. Quarl," he said softly. "All of these tons of machinery, all the weapons, at our beck and call. The mere press of a button and this great leviathan will do anything we want it to do."

"With the right codes," said Mr. Hausen, who had seated himself in the main engineer's chair. "The captain has to input those codes, remember, and he's asleep."

"Not to worry, Mr. Hausen," said Honeywell cheerfully. "Mr. Strange should be here any minute with the solution to that problem."

Hausen nodded. He swiveled his chair back around and ran his eyes over the control panel once again.

The sound of footsteps caused him to look up.

The elderly Admiral Forrestal entered the deck room, followed by the black-clad Mr. Strange, an ugly revolver in his hand. Behind him was Mr. Charon.

Forrestal's face was white and he was shaking, but it was not from old age. His eyes were smoking with rage.

"Mr. Strange," said Honeywell chidingly. "You shouldn't have pulled a gun on our honored guest. Put it away, please."

Strange did as he was bid, then went to stand by the hatch, arms folded across his chest.

"What's this all about, sir?" demanded the admiral. "What's going on here?"

"Admiral, I intend to borrow this ship for the day. Take it for a little cruise."

Forrestal's eyes bulged. "Don't be absurd, sir! You need a crew of 500 men to run this ship! And it seems you've killed them all!"

"Oh, not killed, Admiral, not killed. They are merely asleep...they'll wake up in 48 hours none the worse for wear."

Forrestal took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. "Well, that's something, anyway. But you've scuppered your own chances of taking this ship for a 'cruise' as you put it. Without 500 men this craft isn't going anywhere!"

Mr. Honeywell clicked his tongue. "You insult my intelligence, Admiral. The Triton is the latest experimental craft - practically all of its operations can be controlled by radio...from this command deck. I know all about its capabilities, so don't try to pull any silly games with me."

"Well, aren't you the clever one then," snarled Forrestal. "Go ahead, start the engines and head for open sea then, why don't you?"

"I will, as soon as you give me the codes which will enable me to set the machinery in motion."

"Ha!" crowed Forrestal. "You were too clever by half! Only the captain and his first officer know the codes, and they're asleep for 48 hours! So put that in your pipe and smoke it!"

Mr. Honeywell smiled at Forrestal sweetly.

"All the officers aboard know the code, Admiral," he commented. "Otherwise, they'd be in rather a bad way if the captain or first officer were killed during a battle...they'd be dead in the water, wouldn't they?"

Forrestal shrugged. "Doesn't matter how many of the crew know the codes - they're all asleep, aren't they?"

"Yes...all except you. So I need you to give me the codes."

"Me? Don't be daft! This is the first time I've been on this bloody ship!"

"To be sure, to be sure," Honeywell said, his voice as smooth as syrup. "But you spent the last two years of your career overseeing the design of it, and you are part of that cadre of senior officers who know...what is the technical term for it... oh yes...the override codes?"

Forrestal's eyes narrowed. So. These men were very well informed. Well, it wasn't going to do them any good. What did they consider him? "Get stuffed," he said, viciously. "I've lived a long life, I'm not afraid of pain, and I'm willing to die for my country."

Mr. Honeywell sighed. "Mr. Strange."

Forrestal straightened his shoulders and stared straight ahead. They could beat him bloody...they could threaten to put a bullet through his brain. He wouldn't talk.

A photograph was suddenly thrust in front of hies eyes. A photograph of his wife...his sweet, kind, beautiful, fragile wife, tied to a chair with a strip of plaster over her mouth. Her eyes stared at the camera in shock.

"Taken this morning, Admiral," Honeywell said softly.

Forrestal turned and lunged at Strange, who merely turned and guided the elder man down to the deck, not gently.

"We have more photos, Admiral," Honeywell barked. "And we have more than that. We have your son. Your daughter. Your grandchildren. We have them all."

Forrestal lay on the deck, gasping for breath.

"Mr. Strange, that was unkind. Please help the Admiral to his feet."

"Get your bloody hands off me," grunted Forrestal, standing up slowly. He stared at Honeywell. "I give you the codes. Then what?"

"That's my secret, Admiral. I will say only that there are many weapons on this ship, but there is only a chance that they might be used to kill innocent people, if certain governments don't give us what we want. But if you do not give us the codes, all of your family will most certainly die."

Forrestal stared at Mr. Honeywell. Then at Mr. Strange, who fanned a sheaf of photographs out across his chest so that Forrestal could see them.

"Alright, damn you," Forrestal said hoarsely. "All right. I'll give you the codes."

PRESENT DAY

THE TRITON - BELOW DECKS

John Steed sat quietly in one of the comfortable leather chairs, tapping his fingers slowly on a table, lost in . Peel, being mobile, had gone out to reconnoiter. He had remained behind to think.

Unconscious sailors could mean only one thing...someone was trying to take over the ship. Was that too great a leap to make on the basis of a bunch of unconscious men? No, not at all. He'd 40 years of experience with this type of thing and he knew in his water that that was what was happening. Someone was taking over this ship.

What could he and Emma do about it?

Emma moved as gracefully and powerfully as a woman half her age...but her days of going through a group of toughs like a dose of salts was long gone. And while he could despatch anyone who came close enough to him to be despatched, all the villains had to do was stay out of range and shoot him and that would be that.

No...they'd have to use all brains this time.

Mrs. Peel returned. She dropped into the chair next to Steed. Her face was grim.

"I've been through every room, every corridor. Men in heaps everywhere. Not dead...just...sleeping, it seems. But they won't wake up."

"Some kind of knockout gas," Steed said, nodding. "But why didn't it effect us?"

"Perhaps it came with us. From the Mulberry Retirement Home."

Steed grimaced. "That seems the logical explanation. I noticed an odd odor in the van. I paid no attention to it at the time...but perhaps it was something that inoculated us against this knockout gas."

"Us, and the ten attendants from Mulberry who came with us."

"Ten men, to hijack a ship? It doesn't seem possible."

"It must be possible, or they wouldn't be trying to do it."

"Well, we've got to..."

Steed paused. "Do you hear that?"

Emma cocked her head...then her liquid brown eyes met his. "The engines...I can hear the engines. Someone's turned on the ignition."

"That's right, Mrs. Peel. The ship's moving. And taking us with it. Somewhere."

"The question is, where?"