Illya made a sharp gesture. "Let's not fall to bickering. We've work to do."

Peterson mopped his upper lip. "Sorry. The sun even makes me edgy, and I've been out here four years now. But I lost my best man to a dagger in the spine at Khaibar. I don't want this particular little manoeuver to fail. When Tommy turned up knifed, I decided THRUSH had gotten wind that we'd located the cell. If so, they may be hurrying to close down and move on."

Peterson's pale eyes grew extremely hard. "I don't care to see that happen. Tommy was a top U.N.C.L.E. man, you know."

"I'm sorry I cost us time—" Solo began.

Illya ticked a fingernail against the crystal of his watch. "It's already 0715 hours. We're fifteen minutes behind schedule. Shall we move out?"

Some of the buzzing was clearing from Solo's head. He flopped belly-down in the sand. His companions did likewise. Silently the three men began to crawl upward toward the dune's crest, using their elbows and knees to propel themselves along.

Through his sweat-sodden shirt Solo could feel the heat of the desert rising to flay his skin. On his back, where the sun beat, the heat was even worse. And it was as yet only a relatively short time past dawn. Fortunately they soon crawled into a patch of purple shadow on the near face of the dune. From there they worked themselves slowly upward in relative coolness.

Here it felt only 100 or 110 degrees, not 130 or 140.

Solo's mind slid over the events of the past hours. He and Illya had flown in from New York and met Peterson in the city of Khaibar the preceding sunset. In a ramshackle 'copter Peterson flew them roughly northeast out into the Red Desert. Toward the end of the night Peterson set the 'copter down, using its radar and the stars to hit the precise location he wanted.

At first light they set out overland, their destination three miles away. Solo now felt chagrined that the heat had affected him so drastically, but he didn't indulge in self-pity for long.

They were near the crest of the dune. Demolition of this THRUSH cell was crucially important. Every nerve, every ounce of his mental power had to be concentrated on the fast surprise attack—

"Carefully, chaps," Peterson whispered. "Let's take a peep."

With extreme caution the three U.N.C.L.E. agents raised themselves just sufficiently for a good view of the land beyond the dune.

Perhaps a hundred yards ahead, round, ominous and helmet-shaped, a steel structure protruded above the sand. Its bluish surface appeared unbroken except for the tiny punctuation of rows of rivet heads.

Beyond it a short concrete airstrip, pitted and cracked in many places, stretched away into the blazing, wavering horizon. An unmarked, double-engined turbo-prop plane stood on the ready line at the end of the strip nearest them.

A hot breeze lifted sand whorls here and there. Otherwise nothing moved.

"They're all underground having their morning vodka and potatoes," Illya said with a macabre grin.

"Bacon and eggs," Solo corrected, working one of the special pistols loose from its holster. He palmed the heavy butt and began to insert bullet-like projectiles from his bandoliers into round receptacles at the muzzle end of the weapon.

"Whatever they're eating in that warren under the sand," said Peterson, "shall we interrupt?"

The three U.N.C.L.E. agents worked now with trained precision. Each loaded eight of the special rocket-propelled demolition bullets into the honeycombed ends of the weapons. The guns were the latest innovation of the U.N.C.L.E. research laboratories.

Each man flipped up the homing sight on his weapon, extended his right arm and braced it. In a matter of moments three right arms were aimed out across the dune top at the pillbox.

Solo began to count downward from five. On signal, the three pistols would discharge a total of twenty-four projectiles which would obliterate the pillbox structure above ground and fill the area below with such heat that the THRUSH agents lurking in the tunnels and offices would be crisped.

"—three, two—" Solo counted.

Up from the sand directly in front of him shot a periscope, its glass eye watching him. Klaxons began to warble.

"A trip wire somewhere!" Peterson bawled. "We missed it, damn it!"

At the pillbox, a section of its curved wall facing the dune was rolling back. From the opening a medium-caliber anti-personnel cannon shot forth its wicked barrel. There was a quick, ear-knocking chuff. Straight at the dune, a white-sizzling charge came rocketing.

Illya was already throwing himself wildly to the left. Solo followed. Peterson rolled in the other direction. The rocket howled and crashed into the top of the dune where the three U.N.C.L.E. agents had been lying only moments before.

The whole summit seemed to erupt in a white, spurting cloud. A thunderous explosion slammed Solo's ears and threw him forward forcibly three yards. Sandlike glass stung the back of his neck, drawing blood.

"Dirty blighters got the jump on us!" Peterson was on his feet, aiming his demolition pistol at the pillbox.

Illya and Solo began running to their left, Illya going ahead of his friend. Strung out, they presented three targets rather than a single one for the cannon. It was swivelling from left to right and back again as the gunners sought a new quarry.

Where the dune on which they had been lying sloped down, Solo flung himself out on his stomach. The cannon chuffed. A sizzling streak of white fire flashed over his head and blew up the desert two hundred yards behind him. More sand rained down. Solo steadied his right arm and began triggering the demolition pistol.

Another port in the pillbox had opened. Several ill-uniformed Thrushmen with high-powered rifles were stumbling out to do battle, egged on by a shrill-voiced officer who was ordering them forward in Arabic.

The officer remained conveniently screened from danger behind his men. Solo's demolition pistol smoked and bucked. The tiny but potent projectiles spurted out one after another.

Illya was setting up a cross-fire with his own pistol, mowing down the Thrushmen. Solo saw the muzzle of the cannon peel back upon itself, flow limp and molten for a heartbeat of time. Then it disappeared in a flash of scarlet fire. Solo's slugs had found their mark.

Peterson's demolition pistol emitted four lethal blasts before Solo shouted, "Hold your fire! We won't have time to re-load if they try—"

Unfortunately Peterson didn't hear. The morning burst open with a splatter of sound as the engines of the plane shrieked to life. Somehow a pilot had darted out—probably through an escape port on the pillbox's far side—and boarded the plane during the fighting. An escape seemed imminent.

Peterson hadn't let up, either. His remaining four demolition bullets polished off the last of the Thrushmen who had rushed out, including their reluctant officer. The whole near side of the pillbox was a dancing apparition of flame and smoke.

"The plane!" Illya bawled through the noise. "Napoleon, follow me! We must stop the plane!"

Legs churning so hard they ached, Solo raced after his friend. Peterson was right behind.

Solo tried to re-load the pistol on the run, with little success. The heat boiled out from the melting pillbox. Smoke billowed, obscuring the airstrip briefly.

Just as Napoleon Solo caught up with Illya and the two of them started around the left side of the THRUSH station, two men darted from the hidden escape hatch nearest the airstrip and raced for the plane.

One man, of slight stature, wore a rumpled THRUSH uniform and had an attache case handcuffed to his left wrist. That would be the station chief, taking all key documents with him. It was the man lumbering along at the station chief's side who curdled Solo's blood.