THE MAGIC LABYRINTH

"I'll give the word when the coast is clear," Sam said.

Petroski's machine finally quit climbing. The other copter was still in its original position. Vftien its pilot saw the big all-white chopper moving to get above it, he spun his machine around and fled.

The radar operator, now posted as lookout, said, "Enemy aircraft is moving at an estimated eighty-five miles per hour."

"Then it's faster than ours," Sam said. "It's not carrying near as much weight. Byron, tell de Marbot he can go ahead."

The huge hatch had been open for some time. The larger of the launches, Post No Bills, slid out of the water-filled compartment, kicking up a white wake. It turned and headed toward the shore. Close behind it came the After You, Gascon. Both were loaded with rockets, dismantled launching apparatus, and marines.

Petroski's voice came from the set. "The enemy has gone around the bend. I'm going up another two thousand feet before I go around."

While Sam waited for another report, he watched the launches. Their noses were against the low bank now, and men were jumping out of them into the water. They quickly waded ashore and began off-loading the weapons and equipment. Each man would then carry a forty-pound missile or part of a disassembled launcher.

"John must have sent men up first with tackles and ropes," Sam said. "Then he must have winched those heavy rockets from the deck of the Rex. It would've been at night, of course, so the Virolanders wouldn't see them. It must've been a hell of a job. Too bad we don't have time to place heavy rockets. But those light rockets can do plenty of damage if they hit the right places on the Rex."

He rubbed his hands and blew out a cloud of smoke from his cigar.

"There's nothing like turning the tables on old John. Using his own trap to trap him."

"If we have time," Byron said. "What if the Rex comes barreling out of the strait before our weapons are situated?"

"That could happen, but it ain't likely," Sam said, frowning. "Once John reenters the pass, he can only go straight ahead. There isn't room to turn around, even if he spins on one wheel. For all he knows, we might be waiting for him, just outside the exit, out of radar sight, and out of sonar detection, too. We could blast his ass off as he comes around."

"Maybe he could back up," Joe said.

"With two ca

Sam snorted.

"Anyway, I'd like to see you trying to run that boat in reverse in that current with only thirty feet to spare on each side. Detweiller couldn't do it. Even I couldn't do it!"

They waited. Sam watched the long line of marines, each man loaded with a silvery cylinder or a piece of equipment. .Presently, de Marbot reported by walkie-talkie.

"I've found the path."

"I see you waving your arm," Sam said. "It should take you about an hour to get to the cave. It's not so high up but the path must be a long one."

"We'll go as fast as possible," the Frenchman said. "But we can't go too fast if the trail is narrow."

"I trust your judgment."

"Petroski's speaking again," the operator said. Sam could hear the pilot before he got to the radio.

"We've dropped to the surface," Petroski said. "I decided to come in at the height of the control room. They'll pick us up on the radar as soon as we get around the last bend. But I'm counting on shaking them up, spoiling their aim. Six rockets for the pilothouse, six for the chopper, whether it's in the air or the flight deck."

Petroski sounded happy. He was a wild Pole who had flown for the RAF against Hitler. After the war, he had refused to live in communist Poland and so had emigrated to Canada and earned his living first as a bush pilot and later as a police copter pilot.

"Hot damn!" Petroski bellowed. "The boat's just outside the entrance! Its nose is pointed straight at me. Only a quarter-mile to go! Wish me luck!"

The roar of motor and vanes was heavy, but his excited voice rode above that.

"Fire six!" Two seconds. Then, "Dead on! Missed the control room but blew the smokestacks all to hell! Can't see through the smoke! Pulling up now! Flak all over the place! Can't see through the smoke! Oh, oh! There's the chopper, on the flight deck! I'll..."

The radio operator looked up at Sam.

"Sorry, Captain. It's dead."

Sam ground the end of his cigar to shreds on the set and cast it on the deck.

"A rocket must've got him."

"Probably."

The operator's eyes were moist. Petroski had been his good friend for ten years.

"We don't know if he got John's chopper or not," Sam said.

He wiped his eyes with his knuckles. "Shit, I feel like ramming right on it, making him pay..."

Byron raised his eyebrows again at this unprofessional attitude.

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "We'd fall into his trap. Forget it. And I know what else you're thinking. It would have been better to have retained our observation facilities, to put it in cold military language. Now John can keep an eye on us with his chopper, if Petroski didn't destroy it."

"We took a chance, and perhaps it paid off," Byron said. "Perhaps both the copter and the control room were hit. Petroski wouldn't have had enough time to make an accurate assessment."

Sam strode back and forth some more, puffing so hard the airconditioning couldn't keep up with the clouds. Finally, he stopped, thrust his cigar out as if he was spearing an idea. Which, in a sense, he was.

"John isn't going to come back unless he knows where we are. So, he'll either scout with his chopper or a launch. In either case, we'll not fire on it. Byron, tell de Marbot to hold his fire if either leaves the strait. And to lie low.

"Detweiller, take her to a grailstone near the temple. We'll dock there and do some repairing."

"How come, Tham?"

"How come? So John's spies will see us there. Then, if he's going to attack, he'll know he won't be ambushed. In fact, he might think the rockets from the cliff did us so much damage we're badly hurt. And he'll know he can get through the strait before we could even get near him. Then it'll be the last deal, with us holding a royal flush. I hope."

"But, Tham," Joe said, "vhat if Petrothki did blow up the control room? And Bad Chohn vath killed? Maybe they ain't in no pothithyon to fight."

"I don't see anybody under a white flag and offering to surrender. We'll just retreat and hope that John will come out to do battle. In the meantime, we'll do a little scouting of our own. Byron, send the Gascon out. Tell Plunkett to go through the strait at top speed, take a quick look, and get to hell back here."

"May I offer a suggestion?" Byron said. "The Gascon has torpedos."

"No, by thunder! I'm not going to sacrifice any more good men on suicide missions! It's dangerous enough as it is, as the old bachelor said to the spinster who proposed marriage. They could be attacked by the chopper, though I think it's more than an even match for the Gascon there. In fact, if the chopper should chase the launch out, de Marbot should then fire on it. We'll have our information, and John will wonder what in hell happened to his chopper. He won't be able to resist sending a launch out to scout. We'll let the launch get back.

"In any event, John isn't going to come through until nightfall. I think."

Byron transmitted the messages. Presently, the whitely shining Gascon swung away from the bank and headed toward the strait. Its commander was the younger son of an Irish baron and had been a naval aide-de-camp to King George V and then an admiral. He was a veteran of the battles of Heligoland, Dogger Bank, and Jutland, and a recipient of the Grand Cross, the Order of Orange-Nassau of Holland, and the Russian Order of St. Stanislas, Second Class, with swords. He was also a distant relative of the great fantasy writer, Lord Dunsany, and, through Dunsany, of the famous English explorer, Richard Francis Burton.