The Flying Cloud, R505 - Season Two

Episode 95: Ujelang

The secret nationalist base on Ujelang

Iverson felt a sense of dťjŗ vu as he studied the room. It was bigger than his cabin on the Inselmšdchen, brighter than the hut on Sarahís island, but it was every bit as much a prison. His captors had taken him from the bar on Kwajalein at gunpoint, forced him aboard a powerful-looking motor yacht -- almost a small patrol boat -- and brought him here. He imagined this was Ujelang, the objective of all their travels, but he was hardly in a position to take advantage of this fact.

Why had Natasha betrayed him, he wondered? Had she been acting under duress or had she been working for the nationalists all along? He wanted to believe the former. If nothing else, it would make him feel less of a fool. But when he looked back at her behavior -- the peculiar questions, the odd slips of the tongue, the slight inconsistencies in her story -- he couldnít help but suspect it had all been an act. Still, if this had all been a deception, what were her motives?

Footsteps sounded outside. A lock rattled and the door swung open. A guard peered in, hefting a truncheon, then spoke with someone behind him. "I can give you five minutes, Fraulein. If he causes trouble, you call, we come and handle it."

"He wonít cause any trouble," said a second voice. "Will you, Iverson?"

The lieutenant kept his expression blank as Natasha entered the cell. She crossed the room and sat down beside him. "Just like old times," she remarked, "back in New Caledonia."

"Did you come here to gloat?" he asked. It might not have been the gentlemanly reply, but there were limits to his training.

"No," she replied gently. "You were just an innocent victim, caught up in someone elseís plot. And it was all a plot, you know, from the very beginning. Did you ever wonder how Ritterís men could have overlooked that saw blade, or how that boat just happened to be waiting for us on the beach?"

"The attack by that cruiser, was that part of the plot as well?"

"No," said the woman. "That came as a surprise to us, as did Wassermanís betrayal. It appears that he and the Governor have allied themselves with a third party. But weíll take care of them soon enough."

"Whoís behind all this?" asked Iverson. "And what does he want?"

"The Fat Man," said Natasha. "As Iím sure youíve guessed. He believed you had access to something he wanted, so he let you escape in hope that youíd lead him to it."

"This so-called Trapezohedron that everyone seems to be after? I donít have the slightest idea what the thing might be."

"I know," she said sadly. "But itís the only thing keeping you alive. Youíve seen the Fat Man. You know what heís like. Be careful what you tell him. Once he realizes youíre of no use to him, heíll order you killed without a second thought."

Iverson glanced at the woman, struck by the tone of her voice. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because..." she hesitated, then shook her head. "You men are such idiots! You have all your great causes and plans, but you never see whatís under your noses!" With that she rose, crossed to the door, called for the guard and left.


Iverson was still wondering what sheíd meant when the door opened again. The same guard stood in the entrance, accompanied by several companions. "You will come with us," he announced. "It is time for your interview."

This was Iversonís first good look at Ujelang Island. It was every bit as flat as Kwajalein, but its soil seemed to be more fertile, for it was covered with a dense forest of palms. He imagined this was why the nationalists had chosen it -- the vegetation would conceal their base from prying eyes. There was no hiding the place now, for the L-137 rode from a mooring mast that rose above the trees. A shorter tower, topped by a dull metal blockhouse, stood some distance away. He wondered what it was for.

The center of the grove had been cleared to make room for a set of low buildings built in a severe modern style. The guards marched him to one that was more substantial than the rest -- the only one with a trace of ornamentation. Inside, a corridor led past several closed doors to a large room furnished with a luxury that seemed quite out of place in this tropical environment. Three figures studied him from the other side of a table. Iverson dismissed two of them as unimportant. The third was all too familiar.

"So," said the Fat Man, "it is our young lieutenant. You lead us a merry chase, but it was a chase that could have only one end. Now you will tell us about the Trapezohedron."

"Itís... part of the Device," said Iverson, stammering out the only reply he could think of. One of the Fat Manís lieutenants leaned forward to mutter something in his ear.

"This is true," said the German darkly, "and what do you know about the Device?" His henchman gazed at Iverson expectantly. Glancing the man, the lieutenant had a sudden flash of insight.

Could it be they donít know what the thing is either? They stole it from the Russians, but they might not have found the Russiansí notes! Maybe thatís what was hidden in the secret tunnel at the laboratory!

He wracked his brains. What would Captain Everett do in this situation? The trick, he decided, would be to come up with a story that was internally consistent. If it was wrong, the nationalists would conclude he was no threat. If it was right, they would want to learn more. Either way they might keep him alive.

"Itís a weapon," he said, remembering Sarahís tale of magical musical instruments. "It produces a sound -- a unique combination of tones that will destroy anyone who hears it."

The henchman leaned forward to exchange more words with his superior. The Fat Man listened, then leaned back with a sinister smile. His eyes were cold as death.

"How did you learn these things?"

"Notes," said Iverson, trying to keep his voice steady. "The Russians left a set of notes behind at their laboratory. We found where these were hidden."

"And where are these notes now?" asked the Fat Man dangerously.

"On the R-505," said Iverson. It was the only possible reply.

The Germans conferred again. Iverson sat, waiting to learn his fate. At last the Fat Man turned to the guards. His face gave nothing away.

"We will let this one live, for now," he announced. "Take him back to the cell."


As the door slammed shut, Iverson breathed a great sigh of relief. He hadnít expected to survive. He had no idea how much time heíd purchased with his wild fabrication, but perhaps it would be long enough to find some way of escape.

He was examining the walls, searching for some sign of weakness, when the door opened again. He was not surprised to see Natasha.

"You did well," she said after the guard had left. "You might have a chance to live."

Iverson studied her expression. "Thank you," he said, reaching out his hand. "I think I understand now."

She struck it away. "Donít patronize me!"

"Iím sorry."

The woman glared at him, then relented. "Itís all right," she replied. "I know that your heart belongs to someone else."

"What about you and Karlov?" asked Iverson. "I know he isnít your husband. I suspect that he isnít your brother. What is he to you?"

Someone coughed behind them. The lieutenant turned to see Howard Phillips standing in the open doorway, brass knuckles in hand, an unconscious guard at his feet. Beside him stood a man Iverson didnít recognize.

The stranger gave a sardonic smile. "Why donít you ask me yourself?"

Next week: Varieties of Seamanship...

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