Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (16 page)

As he stood looking, momentarily frozen in place, he heard the clear sound of footfalls on the deck behind him. A half-thought shot through his brain.
We five are the only people aboard!

"Slowly, young man, slowly." The voice was deep and unfamiliar.

Tom turned about to confront the unknown intruder.

The man was tall and slender, but unexpectedly muscular, his skin burnt dark by the sun, his eyes gray. His face was long and dour. Tom thought he looked like he had never smiled in his entire life. He was dressed in a loose tee-shirt and khaki pants. Tom judged the gun in his hand to be of a foreign make, possibly military issue. It was trained on Tom rather casually—for a gun.

"I wish very much to get along well with you, Tom Swift," the man said. "After all, we have the same name, do we not? Tomas Zavoga, at your service."

Half-raising his hands, Tom nodded toward Rip and Bud. "What did you do to them?" he demanded.

"Ah, such concern for your employees! It is very noble."

"They are my friends."

"Then I think it is not so noble, but still most natural." The man raised his eyebrows in a sort of facial shrug. "Not to worry. The spray is harmless and will wear off. Perhaps a little loss of memory. But what do they have so important to remember?" With his free hand, Zavoga took a small spray can from his voluminous pants pocket. "This stuff, it only works in concentrated form—otherwise I should have to wear a mask. Do you smell it? Perhaps we shall open a window, eh?"

Tom’s eyes bored into his adversary. "We are here representing the United States and Hemispak. Our mission is scientific. By attacking us—"

"No, no!" protested Zavoga mockingly. "What attack? I am a guest aboard your beautiful ship of the clouds. Admittedly, I found it wise to defend myself… preemptively. But I had those men over there lie down on the floor before the spraying, lest they fall and bruise themselves. The others, of course, were comfortably seated. And they still are!"

"Who are you?"

"I have said my name and that is not enough? I am hurt." He sighed. "But perhaps you should turn your Damonscope in the direction of the newspapers. Do you not know that I am the Lieutenant Commander of the Militia for the Rights of the Puyachay? Which is to say, the
Veranistas
. I am sometimes called ‘the
capitan’
."

Tom nodded warily. "I’ve heard of you. I suppose you intend to steal the Flying Lab and hold us captive."

Zavoga motioned toward the deck with his gun barrel. "Tell you what, let us both become more comfortable. Sit down."

Tom sat and so did Zavoga, laying down his gun, though it remained within fingertip reach. "Better," he said. "Now then, what do you think you know of me and my
compadres,
eh?"

"Your group has menaced me and my family," Tom declared. "You planted a bomb aboard this aircraft. You kidnapped the Roberts expedition. You had
me
kidnapped—I was to be delivered to you."

Zavoga raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully. "It looks bad for me, eh?" His gray eyes locked with Tom’s in a freezing stare. "And have you asked yourself, my genius, why we would do such things, why we
Veranistas
would wish to draw the mighty superpower of the North into our affairs here? And on the side against us?"

"I’ll tell you why," said Tom. "Because of the uranium. Because you knew your government would turn to us as scientists, to find where you are mining it for your illegal traffic."

"I see, I see." He removed something from his pocket—several photographs. Zavoga slid the bunch of them across the deck to Tom, where they fanned out like a hand of playing cards. "To put you in the mood to hear what I have to tell you. You talk of kidnappings. I deny that these incidents you mention were—what do you say?
Orchestrated
by us, by the rebels
.
No, not by us. And yet they did happen,
Si?
And another one besides."

Tom stared at Zavoga. "What do you mean? Another what?"

"But of course, you don’t know yet." Zavoga showed his yellowed teeth in a chilling, humorless grin. "I refer to the kidnapping of your father."

TOM’S MUSCLES KNOTTED and he would have jumped to his feet had Zavoga not given him a warning look, accompanied by a tap on his gun.

"You’re lying!"

"It is always a possibility," the man replied calmly. "Yet I say I am not. But why speculate, when you have only to look?"

Tom rubbed his forehead. "Why should I believe you at all?"

Zavoga shrugged. "Well, I tell you, I don’t know. Of course, these
could
be fakes," he said sarcastically. "I will let you judge. My friends in Alta Bapcho took them by telephoto lens."

The photos showed a number of men milling about in a walled-in patio. Some of the men wore the uniform of the Army of Montaguaya and carried rifles. The others, dirty and unshaven, wore civilian clothing and were handcuffed together. Tom flipped through the photos quickly. In one photo he saw a man in a coat and tie, who seemed to be giving instructions. His face was turned away. In another—

"My father!" Tom cried. "Handcuffed!"

"Taken yesterday morning," Zavoga remarked. "And count two down, do you recognize that man?"

Tom nodded. "I’ve seen his picture. It’s Mr. Roberts’s son!"

"And other members of his party. Their helicopter was forced down by the National Air Force."

Tom looked up sharply. "The National Air Force. So your story is that a faction in the Montaguayan military has muscled in on your uranium racket, is that it?"

Zavoga gave a bark of laughter. "A
faction,
amigo? Tell me, do they teach anything in your schools? Do they print anything in your newspapers? Look carefully at the next picture, won't you? I think perhaps you will see an old friend."

In the next photograph the man in the suit had turned partway toward the camera and was caught in a shaft of sunlight, his face illuminated.
It was the face of Deputy Minister Rigoledo!

Tom slammed the photos down. "All right. You have my attention, Señor. What is this all about?"

"It is about treachery, young Tomas," the man responded gravely. "Treachery, and the human vice of greed. How shall I begin?"

"You might tell me how you came to be aboard this ship."

"Not at all difficult," said Zavoga. "Not when there are, shall we say, sympathizers within the Army base where your
Sky Queen
was berthed for a day. To breach your security devices was easy enough—after all, we have monitored the methods of our enemies, who have mastered such things at your Swift Enterprises. That parachuting fool Luis Duran, for one, who was trapped on the ship while spying and had to signal his confederates to snatch him in the air—a signal we received at our encampment."

"Where do you get the technology for all this?"

"Why, Señor, we steal it!" He looked apologetic. "But it is not so bad, you see, for we steal it from those who have already stolen it—stolen it from you, in fact."

"The spy at Swift Enterprises?"

"Just so. He does not know that he is ‘bugged.’ I am sure you wonder how this man, whose name is Vernon Doss, came to work for you. First, most of his background was falsified. But what is more important was a recommendation from someone powerful and trusted, someone high up—in your own Department of State, you see."

Tom grimaced. "Harold Tennyson!"

"The good Dr. Tennyson, trusted diplomat, man of world peace. Before the shredding of the Iron Curtain, he was well known for his missions to Central and Eastern Europe. He utilized his many contacts there to become a sort of entrepreneur. His product line was radioactive ore, mostly uranium from my lovely Montaguaya. The form of payment was not always money. One country has decided to pay its bill in somewhat-outmoded fighter jets, as you have seen. There is also payment in humankind, so to speak—a short-term lease upon the learned services of such men as Dr. Leeskol. Do you see?"

"Yes," replied Tom. "And where does Rigoledo come in?"

"We would run out of fuel long before I could give you the true history of my country," Zavoga declared. "Democracy was undermined almost as soon as it began, and the government is riddled with corrupt, self-serving men and women. Your Deputy Minister Rigoledo is in charge of the international disinformation campaign aimed at the Puyachay and the
Veranistas
. They will not give Verano its independence, for they know of the uranium locked in the mountains—trillions of altaesitos!"

Tom shook his head in chagrined weariness. "It makes sense. We have some dangerous incidents in Shopton, and Rigoledo shows up to blame it all on the Verano rebels, with Tennyson acting as his cheering section."

"They hope to get the United States involved, you see," continued Zavoga. "And so they have a fine no-lose plan. You come here with your inventions, Tom Swift, unwittingly endangering us. Perhaps we rebels will hesitate to defend ourselves. They win, and get from you the key locations of the ore deposits."

"And if you rebels do take action against us, by shooting down the
Sky Queen
or something else, they still win—because it draws in the United States on the side of the government."

Zavoga showed his teeth again. "Ah, a quick mind, Tomas!"

Tom thought back to the dinner at the University. "Is Fernans y Zuniga behind it all?"

The other man smirked. "Pfaa,
El Presidente!
Oh, once Fernans was a good man, I think. Perhaps he still is. But good men wear out, as do all of us. His opinions are no longer heard. And so they are no longer uttered." Zavoga straightened up. "No, Montaguaya is run behind the curtains by The Cabal, a group of military men, wealthy industrialists, drug-lords, and the representatives of a few of the great old families. They run everything—except Verano!"

Now Tom also straightened up, looking Zavoga in the eye. "So you
Veranistas
are just good, idealistic, democratic earth-lovers. Maybe you’re in this
with
Rigoledo’s group."

Zavoga looked disinterested, yet Tom could sense a furious anger flaring within. "If you are so cynical, I can say nothing to you. But listen, who do you think released the bolt on the cellar door that night in the farmhouse?
I myself!
The fools used my nickname in front of you as part of their charade, but you should have seen their faces when that name stood before them in the flesh! And why were we there, eh?
To free you,
young Tomas. In the process, one of my men died. But do not feel bad, we killed one of theirs, and even brought a few back as prisoners."

"You could have introduced yourself that night," commented Tom wryly.

"With your FBI on their way? I think not."

Tom took a deep breath. "I want to stand up now."

Zavoga nodded and stood up as well, holding the gun loosely. "Now you know what is to be known."

"Not hardly!" retorted Tom. "What about my father and the other kidnapped men? What about the Flying Lab?"

"The enemy holds Mr. Swift and the others. How shall I know what they intend?" Zavoga shook his head. "Perhaps it is a ransom plot. Perhaps it is another move to discredit the rebels. Perhaps they think to hold it over
our
heads in some way, to gain a concession. As for your airplane—but let us step over to the controls,
por favor
."

They approached the control panel. "If you wish to check the pulse of your friends, you may do so. Then lower Mr. Hulse to the floor, if you please. You will have to take his seat."

Tom carefully took Rip’s and Bud’s pulse-rate and listened to their breathing as best he could. Everything was normal, even relaxed—they might have been in a deep sleep. "How much longer till they wake up?"

"Not so very long," responded the
capitan
. "And then, for a time, it seems the victim is most suggestible. That is how Pedro Canova overcame your Mr. Roberts, the night guard. Roberts does not remember that he was interviewed before he was sent on his way. And
we
had a copy of their report within two days."

Tom dragged Bud from the copilot’s chair, gently placing him next to Hank Sterling. Then he took Bud’s place, strapping himself in as Zavoga leaned over his shoulder, nudging him occasionally with the barrel of the gun. "Now what?" Tom asked grimly.

"I am something of a pilot, Tomas, and I have been able to study the blueprints of your
Sky Queen."
There was pride in Zavoga’s tone. "I know there is an automatic guidance system. With regrettable insistence—his attitude was rather uncooperative, I am sorry to say—I compelled Hulse to set a general course, very slow, in the direction of our base camp on the eastern edge of Verano, at the triple border between Montaguaya, Brazil, and Colombia. Now it is time for you to take over the controls. We have prepared a landing field for you."

"And what is your purpose? To ransom us? The ship?"

"Not at all," he replied suavely. "You will continue your project, your sky prospecting. You have merely changed employers. We do not have the ability to work the deposits to generate ore for sale, but if we know the location of the uranium we can keep the government forces,
Los Cabalistas
, at bay."

"And my father and the others?"

"We will work something out with them."

"Rigoledo said something similar," Tom fumed. "I see no reason to cooperate with you. You’re all killers as far as I’m concerned! And if you shoot me, Zavoga, you have no way of being sure that the fuel won’t run dry before Rip or Bud are in shape again to pilot the plane down."

Zavoga did not seem at all put out by Tom’s anger. "You are very logical," he remarked. "Over there—the keypad for a telephone? Perhaps we can connect to the poor primitive cellphone service of Montaguaya,
Si?"

Tom saw no reason to deny it. "Yes, we have a powerful antenna mounted in the belly of the ship."

"Very good. You will please dial this number, then. I would do it myself, but it is hard to hit the right keys with the barrel of a gun." Tom punched in the number Zavoga gave him, putting the phone on speaker mode. It was answered on the third ring by an unfamiliar voice. The man and Zavoga spoke rapidly in Spanish and then, after a silent pause, a new voice came on the line.