"Well, we'll do our best," Dave said grimly. "And I hope and pray it will be good enough."
"Amen, to that," Colonel Welsh said softly. Then, pushing up onto his feet, he said, "Well, we can start now by finding you two uniforms that don't look as if they were picked out in the dark. Then we'll go on out to Alexandria Field—and head west."
With her twin engines roaring full out, the Navy Lockheed R40-1, a "cousin" of the famous Lockheed Hudson bomber, shook the dust of the airport runway at Albuquerque, New Mexico, from her wheels, and went climbing up into the night sky on the last leg of the trans-continental flight to San Diego. At the controls was Dave Dawson. In the co-pilot's seat was Freddy Farmer, and between them and just aft in the navigator's seat was Colonel Welsh.
For quite some time now conversation between them had been at a very definite stand-still. At the start of the trip they had talked on this and that to help pass the time, but long before Albuquerque was reached all three of them had run down like clocks. There wasn't anything more to talk about, and each was quite content to sit with his own thoughts and hope for a speedy arrival at San Diego.
However, when Dave had lifted the Lockheed high enough to clear the mountains ahead by a good margin, he got fed up with the silence, and nudged Freddy in the ribs.
"Say something, pal," he said. "Tell me the story of your life, before the silence puts me to sleep. Don't be bashful. Colonel Welsh won't mind. Will you, Colonel?"
"Certainly not," the senior officer said with a chuckle. "Fact is, I'll bet it's mighty interesting, and well worth listening to."
"There you are, Freddy!" Dave cried. "Both the Colonel and I are all ears, and eager to hear about it."
"Very well," the English youth said. "If you insist. There isn't very much to tell, though. Up to May, Nineteen Forty, I led the usual English boy's life. You know, school, play, and all that sort of thing. But in May, Nineteen Forty—it was May Tenth to be exact—I met an American chap named Dave Dawson. Well, that was the turning point in my life.Downwards, you know. I've rued the day ever since. And there you are!"
"Ouch!" Dave cried. "A bull's-eye for the young man. And he has the nerve to say that after all I've done for him. He's—Hey! What's that?"
"What's what?" Freddy demanded as Dave spoke the last sharply.
The Yank born war ace took a hand off the controls and pointed off to the right.
"Over there," he said. "Thought I saw a flash of light. Guess it was a falling star."
"Probably was an airways beacon," Colonel Welsh spoke up. "There's one up that way a bit, I believe. That was all right, Farmer. Now it's your turn, Dawson. See if you can match it."
"Fat chance, but I can try," Dave said with a grin. "Well, up to that never to be forgotten May Tenth, when Hitler really started to try and drown the world in human blood, I too had led pretty much the average boy's kind of life. But May Tenth changed everything for me, too. In a different way, though. Up to then I had all kinds of ideas about fighting my way through life and maybe up to the top in whatever profession I chose to follow. No soap, though. That meeting with Farmer on May Tenth changed everything. Since then I've had to carry him on my back, and try to make the grade fortwopeople instead of just for myself. However—"
"Thatissome kind of a light over there!" Colonel Welsh interrupted sharply. "And it isn't the flash from any beacon. Sort of a blue kind of light. Saw it for a second, just now, and it was slanting upwards."
"Could be another plane," Freddy Farmer opined. "Engine exhausts show blue in the dark, you know. Might be one of your transport planes."
Colonel Welsh glanced at his wrist watch in the glow of the cabin light, and shook his head.
"No," he said. "At least, not one of the scheduled planes. Besides, we'd see the red and green navigation lights."
On impulse Dave reached out his hand and switched off all of his own lights, save the wing-tip navigation lights. Then all three of them stared hard off to the right. For a full two minutes nobody spoke. The three of them simply strained their eyes at the vast array of night shadows in the heavens. But all that it got them was aching eyes.
"Nothing there evidently," Colonel Welsh eventually broke the silence. "Perhaps it was just a falling star, but I never saw a star fallup."
"Maybe it was some of that Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said with a chuckle. "I never heard of it being seen in this part of the country, though."
"Saintwhat?" Freddy Farmer echoed. "What in the world are you talking about? And what is it?"
"Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said. "Didn't you ever hear of it, Freddy?"
"Would I be asking, if I had?" the English youth snapped. "Go on. Stop waiting to be encouraged to show all your knowledge. Just what is Saint Elmo's Fire?"
"Well, I can't give you a scientific answer to that one," Dave said. "But Saint Elmo's Fire is the name given to globular electric light often seen on the spars and rigging of ships at sea during a storm. And of recent years it has been seen on the wing tips of airplanes flying through electrically charged air. Frankly, I've never seen any of the stuff in my life. But I knew a pilot once who used to fly over the Andes in South America, and he said they used to see it often. Little bright balls of fire that seemed to roll right along the leading edges of the wing, and then disappear just when you thought they were going to bump into the gas tanks, or something. The first few times he witnessed such a display he lost a dozen years off his life. He said, though, that after a while he got used to it—even looked forward to it every time he took off."
"You're pulling my leg!" Freddy snorted.
"No, Farmer, that's true," Colonel Welsh said. "I've seen some Saint Elmo's Fire myself. And I can tell you that it scares the pants off you the first time you see it. Ever fly through a thunder storm, and see lightning playing around your wing tips?"
"Yes, I've seen that," Freddy admitted. "And I was sure I'd never live to land safely on the ground again."
"Well, then, you know how it feels to see Saint Elmo's Fire," the Colonel chuckled. "Only I think the Saint Elmo stuff gives you a worse scare when you see it actually come rolling along the wing toward you. But that light I saw just now wasn't shaped like a ball. More like a streak, or like the powdered tail of a comet. It was strung out in a—"
If Colonel Welsh finished the sentence, nobody heard it. At that moment the night skies shook and trembled with the savage yammer of aerial machine gun fire. And the cabin window not eighteen inches in front of Dave's eyes seemed to crack in a trillion places and then melt away into oblivion.
"My word!" Colonel Welsh cried. "What was that?"
Dave didn't bother to answer for a second or so. His heart had zoomed up his throat to jam hard against his back teeth, and his eyes had bulged out of their sockets like marbles on sticks. Instinct took split second charge of his movements, however, and almost before he realized what he was doing he had booted the Lockheed up over on left wing tip and was slicing down through the air. At practically the same instant he whipped out his free hand and switched off the navigation lights. Then as the craft went slicing down through the night sky, he dragged air into his aching lungs.
"Those were aerial machine guns!" he cried. "And whoever was working them was in earnest. Look at that window! Just a shade improvement on his aim and it would have been curtains for the three of us."
As the last left Dave's lips, he pulled the plane out of its wild sideslip and went curving up and around to the left.
"Aerial machine guns?" Colonel Welsh echoed in blank amazement. "You're crazy, Dawson!"
"Could be, and maybe!" Dave snapped. "But I've heard those sky choppers often enough to recognize them every time. And do you think an eagle or something flew into that window, sir?"
"No, of course not," the Intelligence chief grunted. "Sorry I sounded off. You're right, of course. But it doesn't make sense. Who the devil would want to take a crack at us?"
Dave shrugged in the darkness, and for a moment or so as the plane roared heavenward he strained his eyes for a glimpse of some other shadow cutting about in the air. He saw nothing, however, and then turned his head and spoke back over his shoulder.
"Maybe notus, sir," he said, "but I guess the Axis would be pretty tickled to seeyouput out of circulation. If you want my guess, some rat saw you take off with us. Maybe he used a hidden radio and sent word ahead. This mountainous country is a swell place to hide a plane, you know, sir."
"And thosewereexhaust plumes you saw!" Freddy Farmer cried. "The lad was probably climbing up to get around in back when you saw his exhaust plumes. Well, let the beggar come again. We'll—Good grief! This plane isn't armed!"
"No," Colonel Welsh said in a slightly hollow voice. "Guess they never figured it was necessary to arm these utility planes used to transport personnel about the country."
"If only the chaps in high places would stopfiguringso much in this war!" Dave groaned.
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed the truth bitterly. "But bemoaning the lack of common sense in the average High Command won't help us now. If the blighter comes back for another fling, Dave, you'll just have to—"
"Don't bother telling me!" Dave shouted. "Here he comes—from the left and up! Hang onto your seats!"
The last had hardly left Dave's lips before he was hauling the Lockheed straight up on its tail. Before the plane reached stalling speed, however, he kicked it over on wing and then sent it dropping nose first toward the black carpet below that was the ground. No sooner had he kicked the plane over on wing than he switched off both engines, and shoved the compensator throttle open wide, so that no carbon sparks or exhaust light of any kind would etch their path downward through the night.
Meanwhile the mysterious attacker had opened fire again, but Dave's quick action at the controls caused the unknown killer to miss by a wide margin. The flickering ribbon of tracers didn't even come close. And at the end of another three or four seconds the Lockheed was well on its way earthward and out of sight.
"See that bird as he banged on by us?" Dave cried, when he was able to talk again. "It looked to me like a small Beechcraft. Or maybe it was a Waco. But he's carrying two guns—and he wants us mighty badly. Heck, if there were only guns aboard this crate. I had a beautiful broadside bead on him."
"Yes, I saw his silhouette as he tore by," Freddy said through clenched teeth. "But I didn't recognize his type. I don't know the Yank planes very well, though. But I say, Dave! Watch our altitude, you know!"
"You're telling me!" Dave grunted. "I'm watching it plenty, and praying, too. There must be some of those mountains under us by now. I think we've got a couple of thousand feet to play around in, but no more than that. I'm flat gliding her as much as I can, but keep those eagle X-ray eyes of yours on the job, Freddy. And yell if you see a mountain peak looming up."
"Mountain peak!" Colonel Welsh cried excitedly. "For pity's sake, keep above them, Dawson. Start those engines and get us some altitude!"
"That would be risking more than this glide, sir," Dave told him. "That bird up there has been spotting us by our exhaust plumes, and aiming blindly. So long as we show no light at all he stands to lose us completely. But if we open up the engines and show exhaust light he's going to be able to take another crack. And—well, third time never fails, you know, and stuff. Our best bet is to try and lose him before we get too low. He has a ship that can travel, but if we get a little lead on him we'll be all right."
"But remember all those mountain peaks down there!" the Intelligence chief persisted. "One thing this plane has got is parachutes. Perhaps we'd better bail out and let the blasted ship crash. At least we'd save our own necks."
"Not me!" Dave barked without thinking. "Go ahead and bail out if you want to. You, too, Freddy. But I'm sticking with this ship if I possibly can. I don't want to see her bust up, if I can help it. Anyway, I'm going to give her all the breaks she's got coming."
"And of course I'm staying with you," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "I'm a blasted fool to put my precious neck in your hands. But there you are, anyway."
"No wonder you two are famous for pulling miracles out of a hat!" Colonel Welsh growled. Then after a short pause: "Very well! If Farmer trusts you that much, I suppose I might as well. But if you have to hit a mountain, for pity's sake try and pick out a soft one. I bruise very easily!"
Dave chuckled as the Colonel's remark came to his ears, but his heart pounded a little harder and the warm glow of pride rippled through his veins.
"Thanks, sir," he said. "And sorry that I exploded that way. But don't worry, I'll get us out of this little jam if it's the last thing I do."
"Well, see that itisn't, my good man!" Freddy Farmer grunted.
For the next few moments nobody said a word. All three of them leaned forward in their seats and strained their eyes at the darkness ahead and below. Dave's hands felt cold and clammy, and he could feel the little drops of sweat ooze out on his forehead and trickle down his face. For the last fifteen seconds or so he had spotted what he believed to be a mountain peak just ahead, and not more than a hundred feet below. He didn't say a word to the others. He kept his mouth shut and eased the plane a little to the left so as to be able to pass on by the peak with enough free air to spare between his right wing tip and the unseen trees or jagged rocks he knew must dot all sides of that peak. Once past it, he could start the engines again and climb for altitude. It was a cinch that the unknown attacker was cutting about in the black sky somewhere far behind him. But once he got beyond that peak he felt that his lead would be great enough for him to risk showing his exhaust plumes. As a matter of fact, though, it was quite possible that the unknown attacker was miles and miles behind. It was possible that the man had cut around to the east, believing that Dave wouldn't dare chance holding his westerly course with the mountains so close.
"Yeah, maybe!" he murmured. "But I'm going to make sure just the same!"
"What did you say, Dave?" Freddy Farmer cried out in a voice of alarm.
"I didn't say a thing," Dave grunted, and tightened his hold on the controls. "Just thinking a little out loud. Shut up, little man, or you'll make me rock the boat."
Freddy Farmer caught his breath as though he were about to speak. Instead, though, he said nothing. He simply leaned farther forward in his seat. Dave caught the movement out the corner of his eye, and grinned, tight-lipped. Freddy had sighted the mountain peak, but realized that he had seen it and was trying to slide by on the left. So the English youth had snapped his lips shut so as not to give Colonel Welsh a slight case of heart failure. Good old Freddy. Always knew when to open his mouth, and when to keep mum.
Perhaps it was six seconds, but it seemed like six thousand years to Dave before the slightly darker shadow that was the mountain peak slid past the tip of the right wing and disappeared behind. The instant it was gone from view he whipped on the switches, caught both engines, and fed them high test gas at full throttle. The roar of the engines breaking into life was a sound akin to worlds crashing into each other. Yet at the same time it was a welcome sound to Dave's ears, and to Freddy Farmer's too. But what filled their hearts with an even greater happiness was the Lockheed climbing upward to a safe altitude above the mountain range. The instant he was well clear, Dave swung the plane onto its westerly course again, and relaxed in the seat.
"Top-hole, Dave," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "A very pukka bit of flying, that."
"Thanks," Dave replied. "We got away with it okay. But I'd hate like heck to have to do it every day. You spotted that mountain peak, didn't you?"
"Quite," the English youth murmured. "But I thought it best to keep my mouth shut. Realized that you knew what you were doing. And besides, no sense in—"
"No sense in giving this old dodo grey hairs, eh?" Colonel Welsh spoke up with a chuckle. "Well, it was nice of both of you, but I saw it, too. The only reasonIdidn't speak, though, was because my tongue was frozen stiff. As you say, Dawson, I'd hate to have that sort of thing for a daily diet. Very sweet flying, though, very sweet."
"We could have made it sweeter if this plane had been armed," Dave grunted, and stared at the black sky ahead. "That tramp certainly had his nerve jumping on us. Wonder who the heck he could be. Sure you haven't any ideas, Colonel?"
There was a long minute of silence while the senior officer seemed to make up his mind.
"No, I'm afraid I haven't," he finally said slowly. "As you mentioned awhile back, there are probably plenty of birds who would like to see me out of the way. Somehow, though, I can't see them going about it in this manner. Their style is more along the line of pot shots from dark doorways. Or a bomb in my car, or tossed through my window. Frankly, I can't make head nor tail of this business tonight."
"Many chaps know you were headed west, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked quietly.
"What do you mean, many?" the Colonel replied sharply. "Did I broadcast it, you mean?"
"Hardly that, sir," Freddy chuckled. "I mean, did you tell many people that you were making this trip? Not that any of them are in the pay of Tokio or Berlin, sir, but it's possible that one of them might innocently enough mention the fact to somebody who was. You understand what I mean, sir?"
There was another moment of silence while the chief of U. S. Intelligence thought things over.
"I see what you mean, Farmer," he grunted presently. "No, I didn't tell anybody who didn't have the right to know. Fact is, the only ones I told were those three officers you met in my office. And if those three aren't one hundred per cent Americans, then I'm Adolf Hitler in the flesh."
"What about the other end?" Dawson asked.
"What other end?"
"San Diego," Dave said. "Is your man in charge there expecting you? Or are you just dropping in on a surprise visit?"
"No wonder you chaps always come out on top," Colonel Welsh said in a frank tone. "Once you get your teeth in something you keep at it until there's nothing left. Yes, I did wire my head agent in San Diego that I was coming west tonight. And—"
"And my first month's pay as a U. S. Naval Aviation Lieutenant says somebody read that wire!" Dawson cut in quickly.
"Hold it!" Colonel Welsh cried, and laughed shortly. "You're flying one wing low this time. I said in the wire that I was coming out, but I didn't sayhow, orwhattime I'd arrive. Afraid you're off on the wrong scent there, Dawson."
"Maybe, maybe not," Dave said doggedly. "But that chap didn't have a crack at us tonight just for gunnery practice. He was shooting for keeps. He knew darn well who was in this plane—and he was out to get us. He—"
Dave didn't finish. At that moment the right outboard engine of the Lockheed lost revs fast and began to sputter and clatter. Dave snapped his eyes at the dash dials, and sucked in his breath sharply as he saw the oil pressure needle sliding around the face of the dial toward the zero peg. However, even as he glanced at the needle, it stopped swinging back and promptly climbed upward again. The engine stopped sputtering and clattering, and once again sang its full throated song of power.
The tiny lump of ice remained in Dave's chest, however. He glanced sidewise at Freddy Farmer and saw the corners of the English youth's mouth tighten a bit.
"What the devil was that?" Colonel Welsh demanded in a sharp tone. "Something wrong with the engine?"
"Not now," Dave said with an easiness he didn't feel. "Guess it picked up a bit of ice but got rid of it in time. Anyway, she's back where she should be. As I was saying, that lad tonight was out for blood. So it must follow that somebody knew where you were going, when, and how. Don't you think so, sir?"
Dave spoke the words, but it was really just an effort to keep the conversation going. The lump of ice in his chest was hurting him again, and he was feeling far from calm and collected. The way the oil pressure of the right outboard engine had dropped told him that there was trouble ahead. Many people claim that the carburetor is the heart of an engine, and probably it is, if you want to look at it that way. However, countless hours in the air had proved to Dave that your real danger signal is when oil pressure starts dancing around. Engines can run, often for a long, long time, when the carburetor is out of whack and the engine is getting a bad feed. But let oil pressure go screwy and you'll have real trouble on your hands. There are no halfway measures about oil. It has to be right or your engine is worth no more than its weight in junk. Gasoline is food for an engine, but oil is its life blood. If it hasn't got the proper amount it dies, but definitely!
And so Dave spoke the words just to keep the conversation going and fixed his eyes on the instruments pertaining to the functioning of the right outboard engine. He hoped and prayed that the skipping had simply been just one of those things. But in his heart there was gnawing fear and dread. He feared that bullets from the guns of that unknown attacker had nicked one of the oil feed lines, and that continued vibration of the engine was slowly but surely shaking the feed line connection loose, or at least causing it to crack and buckle slowly, so that eventually the pressure set up in the line would be reduced to nil.
If it had been daylight, or if he had been sure of the terrain below, he would have landed and made sure what had happened. But a landing was too great a risk right now. His best bet was to keep going, nursing the right outboard engine as much as he could, and hoping and praying that it would continue to tick over and produce power.
"Yes, I guess your reasoning is sound enough," he heard the Colonel say. "It's rather hard to believe, though. I mean, why go about it in such a—well, in such a story book thriller style, you might say? I'm not going to San Diego on any vital mission. Fact is, I could make this trip tonight or next week, and it wouldn't make much difference. That's what makes it seem so—so utterly crazy."
There was a moment of silence, and then Dave laughed a trifle flat-toned.
"I don't mean to be conceited," he said. "But what you've just said, sir, doesn't make me feel so good. Or maybe it should make me feel important as heck. How about you, Freddy? Catch on?"
"I think so," the English youth replied. "But it's a bit—er, fantastic, you know. However, I would feel a bit better if we had been able to shoot the beggar down. Always did say night attacks weren't quite the sporting thing, you know."
"Not the sporting thing, huh?" Dave echoed with a snort. "Pal, that's only putting it by half. In my book they're plain murder."
"Of course, I'm only the passenger," Colonel Welsh spoke up sharply. "So don't mind me. However, I would like very much to know what the devil you two are jabbering about. What's it all about, anyway?"
"You tell him, Freddy," Dave said. "I—I feel too modest."
"Rubbish!" the English youth snapped. "You couldn't be if you tried. Besides, you brought it up."
"Listen, you lads!" the chief of U. S. Intelligence boomed in exasperation. "Have I got to use my authority as a Colonel? What in blue blazes are you two talking about?"
"The fantastic, sir," Dave said with a chuckle. "Yet, on the other hand, possibly the truth. Maybe the pilot of that plane didn't wantFarmer and me to go aboard the Carrier Indian."
Colonel Welsh made a hissing sound as he sucked in his breath sharply.
"Great guns!" he gasped. And then in the same breath: "But thatisimpossible. Not even my three closest assistants knew that was to happen until I informed you. And we went from my office straight to Alexandria Field. No, you must be wrong, Dawson. Captains Lamb and Stacey, and Lieutenant Caldwell, wouldn't breath a word of that even though a gun were held at their hearts. Thatisfantastic!"
The two boys looked crestfallen.
"See, Freddy?" Dave cried, and jabbed an elbow in his pal's ribs. "You get the screwiest ideas. I never—!"
"None of that, funny boy!" the English youth barked back at him. "No, you don't, not by a jugful. You brought it up. I simply agreed with you, to be polite. You're quite right, Colonel. It's ridiculous. But when you get to know Dawson better, you'll understand how he's—"
The rest of what Freddy Farmer would have said to the Colonel stuck fast when only halfway up his throat. The right outboard engine had started kicking up again, but this time it was really doing it in earnest. The oil pressure needle went around to the zero peg in a single jump. And even as Dave grabbed for the throttle, the right outboard engine let out a grinding scream as though it were actually something human, and in mortal pain. It had run dry and was seizing up. Almost at the same instant, and as though in sympathy for its mechanical brother, the left outboard engine started falling off in revs at an alarming rate. Dave killed the right engine completely, shoved hard on the left rudder to check the plane yawing, and concentrated on keeping the left outboard engines alive as long as possible.
"That tears it!" he said between clenched teeth. "I was afraid that right engine had been nicked. Getting ready to drop a couple of those landing flares, Freddy. At least we can take a look at what it's like below."
"Take a look?" Colonel Welsh cried sharply. "You don't have to, boy! There are mountains down there. Get us as high as you can, and then we'll all bail out."
A hot wave of anger swept through Dawson, but he was able to choke the words back in time. Instead he turned to Freddy Farmer and nodded.
"Let a couple go, Freddy," he said quietly. "We're only losing a foot or two of altitude. We'll take a lookfirst!"
Freddy Farmer didn't bother acknowledging the request by word of mouth. He simply nodded, and reached out his hand and jerked the little handle that released landing flares fitted into the wing tips. There were a few seconds more of silence; then a great silver-white light came into being below, and spread swiftly outward toward the four points of the compass.
Fighting the tendency of the Lockheed to yaw toward the dead engine side, and struggling to keep the left outboard engine turning over, Dave leaned over close to the shattered window and peered down into the sea of silver-white light below. For a couple of seconds he couldn't see anything but eye-dazzling light. Then as the flares dropped astern, he was able to get a good look at the type of terrain below.
What he saw didn't exactly cause his chilled heart to warm up and loop over with joy. True, they had safely crossed over the highest peaks of that part of the mountain range. Below, though, were the tree-covered foothills, cut by deep jagged stone sided ravines, and narrow plateau formations of ground that would be hard for even a crow to alight on.
"It's no go, Dawson!" Colonel Welsh's voice suddenly broke the tingling silence that had settled over the trio. "I know what's in your mind, but our safest bet is for all three of us to jump. We've still got three or four thousand feet of clearance. I think we should jump."
"I don't, not yet," Dave said bluntly, and raked the terrain below with his eyes. "I think we should hang on a bit longer, and try to pick out some spot big enough to slip into. This is wild country here, Colonel. If we bail out we'll lose contact with each other, and all three of us get lost. Let's look hard, first. I can keep her up a big longer. That left outboard hasn't quit cold yet. And we're not losing altitude too fast."
"All right," Colonel Welsh said grimly, and leaned forward the better to study the flare-lighted ground below. "Confound that rat! I'd give a lot to have his neck between my two hands right now!"
"I can think of things to do to him, myself," Dave grunted. Then, out of the corner of his mouth: "Work those eagle eyes hard, Freddy. This is where you should star. You always do see things first. Hurry up and find Papa a place big enough to set us down in."
"Shut up and tend to your flying!" the English youth growled. "You dropped our nose two feet while you were talking. Want to power dive us in, or something? You—hold it, Dave! Bear right a bit. What's that down there? It looks like—oh, blast it! They would, wouldn't they!"
The last was caused by the two flares finally touching ground and being snuffed out. Quick as a flash Freddy Farmer shot out his hand and released two more flares. The instant his eyes were again accustomed to the bright light, Dave looked in the direction of the English youth's pointed finger. His heart did loop with joy this time, and he gulped with relief. What at first looked like the rock studded side of a foothill was actually a strip of barren and seemingly level ground between two foothills. It wasn't very big, but it seemed big enough—unless Lady Luck deliberately turned her face the other way.
"Yeah, check, Freddy!" Dave murmured, and eased the laboring Lockheed around and down. "That's us, that spot. Just hang on, everybody. It won't be long now!"
"I don't like the way you say that!" Colonel Welsh said with a mirthless laugh. "But I guess you don't mean it. Go ahead, though. I was wrong again. We'll keep the parachutes in their packs. What a fine night this has turned out to be!"
"Me, I'm thinking of tomorrow and next week," Dave muttered grimly as he eased the Lockheed lower and lower, and around toward the near end of the narrow landing space. "This is wild country here. It's plenty wild. Right in the middle of nowhere. And this baby isn't going to do any more flying until she has a couple of new engines stuck in her. Oh well—"
Dave let the rest go with a shrug and hunched forward slightly over the controls. The time for talking had passed. Now was the time for action, and prayer. The Lockheed was down low now, too low to correct any mistakes. The first swipe at that narrow landing space had to be good. It had to be perfect. The jagged rocks and trees on all four sides would make a second try impossible.
Dave's whole body felt dry as a chip, yet at the same time sweat poured off his forehead, and the palms of his hands were clammy and cold. He could almost feel Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh hold their breath. As far as that went, he could almost feel the whole world stand still and hold its breath. The dropped flares were throwing off less and less light, but he refrained from telling Freddy to drop a couple of new ones. Their first moment of brilliance might blind him just enough to misjudge things by a hair. And misjudging by a hair would be more than enough to pile them up in a heap among the trees and jagged rocks.
"Now!" he whispered softly. "Now, baby! Easy does it, now. Down you go. Down you go. Ah-h-h...! That's the stuff!"
The Lockheed's wheels touched, touched hard, and the plane tried to push itself off and up into the air again. But Dave had killed the forward speed as much as he could. And after a short run forward, and gentle but firm application of the wheel brakes by Dawson, the twin-engined craft finally bumped to a halt not ten feet from the lip of a sharp drop-off in the ground.
"Now I've seen everything!" Colonel Welsh fairly exploded the words. "I've seen two miracles come to pass in the same night. It couldn't be done, but you did it, Dawson. Congratulations from the bottom of my heart. Good work! We really are on the ground, aren't we?"
Dave didn't bother to answer. As a matter of fact he couldn't have said a single word at that moment even though it would have gained him a million dollars. His heart was stuck halfway between his chest and his throat, and refused to go up or down. It was the same with Freddy Farmer, too. The English youth sat stiff and straight in his seat, working his lips but making no sound. Eventually, though, he did manage to get control of his tongue and of his frozen muscles. He reached across and pressed Dave's arm.
"Top-hole, Dave!" he got out in a husky voice. "A bit of the very, very best, and I mean it, really. As a pilot bloke myself, I know how good you have to be to get away with that sort of thing. It was absolutely perfect."
"What else?" Dave cracked back with a shaky laugh. "Look who did it! But skip it. Is my hair grey, Freddy? Do I look very much older? I know doggone well I gained forty years in those last couple of seconds. Jeepers! Take a look at that drop-off ahead. Another ten feet and youwouldn'tbe thinking I was so hot. And I'm not, really. If Lady Luck ever landed a plane, she did it that time, and I'm not kidding."
"Well, we're down, anyway," said Freddy. Then, getting practical: "What do we do now? Do you know this area very well, sir? Have we got far to go to the next village?"
Both Dave and the Colonel laughed in spite of the seriousness of the situation. And Freddy made angry sounds in his throat.
"What's so blasted funny about that?" he demanded. "Do you plan to stay here all night?"
"Sorry, Freddy," Dave said, and patted his pal's knee. "But this isn't England, where you can throw a rock from one town and have it land in the next one. This is our wild and woolly west. I don't know exactly where we are, but I'd make a rough guess that we're a good two hundred miles from the nearest town. And that's as the crow flies. Going over and down these mountains and hills, you could add another two hundred miles. What do you think, Colonel?"
"Well, not quite that far, Dawson," the senior officer said with a laugh that was just a little too tight. "You're stretching it a little, I'd say. Call it a hundred by air and two-fifty by foot, I guess. We're just over the Arizona line and south of Holbrook. I'm afraid, though, Farmer, that we will have to sit here for the rest of the night, worse luck. To try and get out of here in the dark is just about like deciding to step off some cliff and smash yourself to bits on the bottom of a ravine. No. We've got to sit here until they find us."
"Hey!" Dave cried. "Aren't you forgetting something, Colonel? I mean, who knows we're on our way? We—Oh, I see! You planned to send word back to your office, eh? When they don't hear, they'll send planes hunting for us, huh?"
The Colonel groaned heavily and clapped a hand to his forehead.
"You spoiled it that time, Dawson!" he muttered. "But you hit the nail on the head. I did forget. I mean, I didn't say anything about letting Lamb or Stacey know when I arrived at San Diego. They simply expect to hear from me, when they hear. And my man at San Diego doesn't actually know when I expect to arrive. Thisisa sweet mess. I should be demoted and kicked back into the ranks for not thinking of this possibility. We're stuck, and no two ways about it."
"But we took this plane from the Alexandria Field," Dave said. "What about their flight board there? Don't they list every take-off, the pilot, and where he's heading?"
"Usually, but not in a case like this," the Colonel replied unhappily. "When I borrow a plane, I don't tell them where I'm going. And naturally, they don't ask me. But do we have to sit here in this darkness, Dawson? The lights don't run off the engine, do they? How about some light, eh?"
"Sure, sir," Dave said, and flipped up a couple of switches.
The interior of the compartment glowed with light, and the three looked at each other. They grinned in a friendly sort of way, but neither of them was particularly happy looking. Freddy Farmer twisted around in his seat and looked at the Colonel.
"Then we might be here for some time, sir?" he asked.
"For several hours, at least, Farmer," the senior officer replied gravely. "Nothing to worry about, though. As soon as it's light, we'll build a fire and get a smoke signal in the air. A passing transport plane may see it and come down to investigate. We're a bit south of their regular run, though. Still, one of them may see it and get some rescue parties sent out. Nothing to worry about."
"Not even your constant worry, pal," Dave laughed, and stuck a hand in his tunic pocket. "Your constant worry about starving, I mean. Here's a flock of chocolate bars I picked up at Alexandria Field before we left. One thing I didn't tell you about Farmer, Colonel. If he can't eat forty times a day he gets as weak as a kitten. And where he puts it, I'll never know. Doesn't weigh more than a hundred and fifty soaking wet. He's—"
"Some other time, my funny little man!" Freddy cut in harshly. "I wasn't thinking about eating, if you must know the truth. Something more serious. Or at least it will be serious if we're stuck here for a considerable length of time."
Dave's smile faded immediately. He stared at the English youth. Colonel Welsh also regarded him keenly.
"Okay, what?" Dave finally asked.
"The Carrier Indian," Freddy replied. Then, looking at the Colonel, he asked, "Didn't you say that she weighs anchor sometime tomorrow afternoon—this afternoon, really? If we're stuck here, will she sail without us? Or has her skipper orders to wait for word from you?"
The chief of U. S. Intelligence swallowed hard and made a wry face.
"That close-shave landing!" he muttered savagely. "It still has my brains all scrambled up. You're quite right, Farmer. What you say makes it more of a mess than ever. The Indian is to sail whether her skipper hears from me or not. Those two men of mine serving as machinists' mates are already aboard. At least they were to go aboard last evening. But she won't wait for you two. The skipper has his sailing orders, and he'll sail whether he's shy two pilot lieutenants or not. Blast and double blast it all! What you say, Farmer, gives me a very disquieting thought. Perhaps Iwasn'tthe one that unknown killer was interested in. It's quite possible that itwasyou two. The attempt was made to stop you from reaching the Indian before she sailed. Confound it! If I've fumbled this thing all up, I'll go out somewhere and cut my throat. But—but I still can't see how anybody else could possibly have found out about this flight, let alone the real reason!"
Dave didn't say anything, but he was thinking of a case he had heard about in England not so long ago. A bad leak had been found in the Air Ministry Intelligence, and when it was eventually tracked to its source it was discovered that a high official's own secretary—a supposedly loyal Englishman who had held his post since long before the outbreak of war—was actually in the pay of the Nazis.
"I'm wondering something, myself," he said presently. "Not to toss more cold water on things, Colonel, but—well, you don't know for sure if your two men went aboard the Indian last evening, do you?"
"No, not for sure," the senior officer replied with a shake of his head. "But it's—Oh, I see what you mean. Maybe they were—er—delayed, too, eh? You think of the nicest things, Dawson! But keep on thinking. Don't stop. Maybe you'll think of a way to get us out of this jam in a hurry."
"I sure wish I could!" Dave said fervently. Then, reaching out and taking a flashlight from the instrument panel clamps, he said, "Meantime I'm going to have a look at the engines. I could be wrong about an oil line being nicked. It wouldn't be the first time. Maybe it's something that we can patch up with some gum and a piece of our shirts, and we can get ourselves out of here come daylight. That's a hope, anyway."
Half an hour later, though, it wasn't a hope. The oil feed lines of the right outboard engine were split and parted in three different spots. Besides that, she was seized up tighter than a drum, and couldn't be made to move short of using dynamite. The left outboard engine wasn't in a much better condition. Bullets from the unknown attacker's guns had started a bad leak in the gas line that couldn't be repaired without the proper tools. And so at the end of the half hour Dave wiped oil and grease from his hands and climbed down off the wing onto the ground where Freddy Farmer and the chief of Intelligence waited.
"No soap," he said bitterly. "If that bird's job was to delay us, he did it up brown. The only way you'll get this plane out of here is to fly in a couple of new engines. Nothing to do but wait for daylight."
"Why wait?" Freddy Farmer protested. "Let's get a fire going now. No telling but what it might be seen by somebody. It—I say, though! What about your Indians? They'd give us a bit of trouble, wouldn't they? I've heard—"
"Hold everything, pal!" Dave chuckled, while Colonel Welsh struggled to keep a straight face. "Nowadays you only find that kind of Indians in books, or in the movies. Let's get the fire started. It's a good idea. And if Indians do show up I'll welcome them as the flowers in May."
Freddy Farmer hesitated and looked hard at Dawson. After a moment or so he shrugged.
"Very well, then," he murmured. "But I swear I don't know when to believe you, and when not to. If I get scalped—"
"You won't!" Dave stopped him, and backed away. "Head's too hard!"
Freddy took a quick half step forward, but gave it up. Then the three of them started collecting deadwood, and stuff from the plane that could be used to make a good fire.
Dawn came roaring up over the mountains to the east to touch off their peaks with fire, and send rainbows of color arcing off in all directions. It was a sight to make a man catch his breath and stand in awe of the glorious majesty of nature. But for Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh, the coming of the new day was more than just something beautiful to watch and admire. It was like being released from a prison of darkness.
As soon as there was enough light to allow vision at any great distance, they eagerly and hopefully scrutinized their immediate surroundings. But what they saw dashed their hopes even lower. Heart-chilling wilderness met their gaze on all sides. It was as though they had landed at the very end of the world; landed in a little pocket of level ground completely lost in the depths of jagged rock sided hills and towering snow-capped mountains.
For several minutes they looked about them in silence. Then, as though at an unspoken signal, they turned and looked at each other, each man reading the message of utter helplessness reflected in the next man's eyes. It was Dave who finally broke the silence, and spoke the thought that was in the minds of the other two.
"Our smoke signal won't be seen by any plane unless it passes directly over this spot," he said. "These hills and mountains are such that it's as if we were at the bottom of a well. And it's going to be even tougher getting out of here on foot."
Neither Freddy Farmer or Colonel Welsh said anything. There wasn't anything they could say. Dave had spoken the truth. And that was that. Eventually Colonel Welsh knocked the ashes from his dead pipe and stuck it back in his pocket.
"We'd better not try going out on foot for a while," he said, "at least not until tomorrow. Better to stick here today and see if anything happens. I'm mighty sorry this happened, you fellows. It's all my fault, and I could kick myself right up the side of that mountain."
"I wouldn't say that, sir," Freddy Farmer said with a smile. "You had no idea that chap was going to attack us last night."
"No," the chief of U. S. Intelligence growled. "Just the same, ignorance is no excuse. I should have made sure, just in case the unexpected did happen. I certainly should have taken a plane fitted with a radio, instead of this one that hasn't got any. At least we could have let the world know that we were going down for a forced landing. But as it turned out—"
The Colonel sighed heavily and let the rest slide. Dave and Freddy looked at each other and shrugged. It was no use crying over spilled milk, but as a matter of cold hard fact both of them had been just a little surprised when they had boarded the plane and seen that it carried no radio. Neither, though, had said anything about it.
"Why wasn't it fitted with a radio, sir?" Dave finally blurted out the question. "I mean—well, a radio is standard equipment on any ship. Is there no radio on this for some particular reason?"
"Yes," the senior officer replied with a wry smile, and tapped his chest. "I'm the reason. On a couple of occasions when the plane I was in did have a radio, I was contacted about this and that every half hour or so. Once I even turned back because of a message I had received, only to find I'd wasted my time. Ever since then I've flown without a radio. Been able to get more done, too. But I certainly struck out this time. I'm sorry."
"Well, those things happen," Dave said politely, and let the subject drop. "How about a short scouting trip about here? Or better yet, what say I to make the top of that mountain, there? I guess I could do it in a couple of hours. Maybe we're not buried as deep as we think we are. Maybe I'll see a town, or a Ranger camp from there. Also, I may find some berries and stuff, and a spring. The chocolate we have aboard, and the drinking water, isn't going to last us for very long. What do you think, Colonel? Think you can keep Freddy cheered up while I'm gone? See that the Indians don't get him?"
The Colonel grinned and opened his mouth to speak, but what he was about to say never left his lips. At that moment all three of them heard the faint drone of a plane somewhere up in the sky, but out of sight behind the towering mountains north of them. As one man they spun around and stared hard at the dawn light bouncing off the snow-capped peaks. Nobody said a word. Nobody could. They were all too busy holding their breath, and praying as they had never prayed before.
After a few seconds Dave snapped out of his trance, ran over to the pile of deadwood they had collected, grabbed up an armful, ran back to the fire and dumped his load. Then he picked up a can of oil drained from the engine and poured it on the licking flames. A second more and a column of oily black smoke went towering up into the dawn sky.
"He can't miss that, unless he's blind!" Dave muttered through clenched teeth as the black smoke mounted higher and higher. "Come on, whoever you are, take a look, take a look!"
"Steady, Dawson," Colonel Welsh cautioned gently as Dave's voice rose to a wild shout. "We've got to steel ourselves in case he doesn't see it. Then it won't be so tough. This thing might happen several times, you know. No telling. Save your strength, son. Take it easy."
Dave hardly heard the words of wisdom. His eyes were glued to the north, his ears strained to catch every beat of the plane's engine which was still out of sight, and his two fists clenched tight as though he were actually pulling the unseen plane closer and closer. Then, suddenly, the drone of the engine grew louder. It rose to a mighty roar. And then the plane came sailing into view above the mountain peaks. It was a five-place Stinson cabin plane, a commercial plane probably owned by some rancher. There were no markings on the craft other than the usual Bureau of Aeronautics license letter and number. A wild cry of joyous relief struggled up Dave's throat but was unable to pass his lips. A riot of emotions boiled up within him, and his lips and his tongue were suddenly too dry to form sounds. So he simply stood stock still and grinned from ear to ear as the cabin plane cleared the peak and then came nosing down toward them; circling down like some giant bird seeking a spot to light on.
When it was less than five hundred feet over their heads, the three men shook themselves loose from their paralytic spell and started jumping around and waving their arms wildly as though the pilot of the plane hadn't seen them yet. The pilot waggled his wings as a signal that he had, and then leveled off and went coasting toward the eastern end of the landing strip. There he circled back, suddenly fed hop to his engine and started to climb. For one horrible moment Dave was afraid the pilot had decided that he couldn't put his plane down on the small strip. But he was wrong. The pilot had simply goosed his engine to add enough to his speed to clear the tops of some tall trees. He slipped over them, went up on left wing a bit, and slid down to level off in a perfect landing.
Even as the plane was braking to a stop, Dave, Freddy, and the Colonel rushed back to it. They pulled up to a halt, waited for the plane to roll the last few feet, then ducked under the left wing and around to the cabin door. They had already seen that there were two men aboard the plane, the pilot and a passenger. As Dave watched them come back from the pilot's nook to the cabin door, he was faintly surprised by their looks. Why, he didn't know, but somehow he had expected to see a couple of youngsters climb down from the plane. But they weren't young. They were both well along in years. They had hard, rugged faces, covered by at least a two week's growth of whiskers. They wore rough clothing, and each man carried a gun slung at his hip. The guns were not pistols, though. They were automatics, and Dave suddenly had the hunch that their rescuers were a couple of fire rangers, or at least some kind of government men. The way they leaped cat-like out the cabin door and down onto the ground seemed somehow to suggest the military to Dave. But what they were didn't matter in the slightest. They had arrived to rescue them, and that was all that counted.
"Stuck, huh?" the older one of the pair grunted, and grinned. "Lucky we happened to see your smoke signal. You might have camped here for quite a spell. Army and Navy, huh?"
"And in a hurry," Colonel Welsh said. Then, after introducing himself: "We had a forced landing. Er—engine trouble. Can you fly us to the nearest Air Corps Base where we can pick up another plane? I'll see that you're paid for it, of course."
"Guess so," the man grunted after a look at his partner. "But where're you headed? Maybe we could hop you all the way, and save time, if you're in such a hurry."
"San Diego," Colonel Welsh said. "I have to get there as soon as possible. But maybe you haven't the gas."
"San Diego, huh?" the older one, who was the pilot, murmured, and arched his brows. "Yeah. I guess we can make it there from here. Had engine trouble, huh? Not much fun in this neck of the woods. Okay. Get aboard."
A hidden thought was tugging at Dave's brain, but he couldn't seem to get it out in the open. Something was just a wee bit wrong with the picture, but after a moment of deep thought he decided it was worry about a take-off from the narrow space of level ground.
"Think you've got a long enough run?" he asked, and jerked a thumb at the crippled Lockheed. "Maybe the five of us should haul that out of the way. But even then you wouldn't have much extra. There's a sharp drop-off just ahead of it."
"Don't get in a sweat, kid," the man mouthed, and gave him a hard stare. "I wouldn't have come down if I'd thought I couldn't get off again. Just get aboard and keep your seat. We'll get you places, and with no trouble at all. Okay, Colonel, let's get going."
With a curt nod the pilot and his passenger turned and climbed back into the plane. Colonel Welsh followed at their heels, but for an instant Dave and Freddy hung back. They looked at each other and frowned slightly.
"Queer couple of blokes, aren't they?" the English youth murmured. "Can't say I like their looks much."
"I've seen better," Dave replied with a nod. "But so long as they get us out of here, I don't care what they look like. But—is there something on your mind?"
"Not a thing," Freddy replied. Then, with a puzzled scowl: "Just sort of feel funny, though. One of your confounded hunches, I guess. Oh well! No doubt it's your American climate. I'm sure I should have stayed in England."
"Hop in, or do you two kids want to stay and play boy scout?"
The Stinson's passenger stood framed in the cabin doorway. His blue green eyes stabbed down at Dave and Freddy, and the mop of coarse red hair on his head actually did look like fire in the glow of the dawn sun. Dave stared at him, felt that elusive thought tug at his brain for the last time, and then climbed into the plane with Freddy right behind.
The pilot at the controls glanced back just long enough to see that everybody was aboard, and then he goosed the engine and taxied around on one wheel, and went trundling back toward the far end of the landing strip. His friend, the redhead, sat in the co-pilot's seat, but he was twisted around so that he faced Dave, Freddy, and the Colonel, who were sitting in the three passenger seats. A grin parted his lips, but he seemed to be grinning over their heads rather than at them.
For a brief instant a clammy chill rippled through Dave. He shook it off, angrily told himself that he was letting his imagination run wild, and concentrated on watching the pilot take the plane off. It was a beautiful bit of flying, and Dave nodded his head in silent approval and admiration as the pilot held the Stinson on the ground until he had plenty of forward speed, then gently eased it off and up as nice as could be.
Holding the nose up, the pilot circled the Stinson upwards until the mountain peaks were almost on a level with the wings. Flattening off the climb, he banked around for the last time and went roaring between two mountain peaks to the north. For a couple of minutes Dave was too thrilled by the wild, heart stopping beauty of the mountain scenery below to pay much attention to the course of the plane. Eventually, though, when the sun continued to stay on the right wing side, he stopped gaping at the terrain below, and glanced sharply ahead. The redhead was still grinning, very comfortably relaxed in his seat. And the pilot was still holding the nose pointed north as though he planned to keep going in that direction for quite some time to come.
Dave held his peace for a moment or so longer. Then curiosity and an eerie tingling sensation at the back of his neck forced the words off his lips.
"We're heading north!" he called out. "San Diego isn't north of us!"
Both Colonel Welsh and Freddy Farmer jumped as though they had been shot. They turned and stared at him, wide-eyed. The redhead stared at him, too. But his eyes were slightly narrowed, and his perpetual grin stiffened slightly. He didn't say anything.
"Well, what is the idea, anyway?" Colonel Welsh finally boomed angrily. "San Diego is west and south of here!"
The redhead shrugged and nodded, but the pilot didn't even turn his head.
"That's right, isn't it?" he called out. "Well, what do you know about that? I guess we ain't heading for San Diego, Colonel. Kind of looks that way, don't it, huh?"
Colonel Welsh blinked and looked blank for a moment. Then his face reddened and he started up out of his seat.
"See here!" he thundered. "What in—?"
The redhead made a quick motion, and the chief of U. S. Intelligence choked off the rest. But it was the automatic that suddenly seemed to jump right into the redhead's hand that really stopped him. He froze motionless half up out of his seat. The redhead waved the gun a little.
"Relax, and sit, Colonel!" he said in a voice that sounded like small stones on a tin roof. "I couldn't let you have it down there, but up here it's easy. Relax and get smart. And that goes for you two kids, too!"
For a long minute there was no sound inside the cabin save the faint drone of the plane's engine. Like three men suddenly struck dumb, Dave, Freddy, and the Colonel stared at the redhead. Rather, they stared at the automatic he held in his right hand; held so that at the bat of an eyelash he could send a bullet into either of them, or into all three of them, for that matter. Then, finally, Colonel Welsh broke the silence.
"What in thunderisthis?" he demanded. "Who are you two? What's the idea?"
The redhead hunched his shoulders and half nodded his head toward the pilot.
"That's Ike, and I'm Mike," he said with a chuckle. "But it isn't any act. We're just keeping you on ice for a while, Colonel. Be nice and you'll get back into circulation again in time. Be dumb, and you'll be dead."
As the Colonel struggled for words, Dave leaned forward a little, arms resting on his knees.
"This isn't the plane you flew last night," he said.
The redhead grinned all the more and shook his head.
"Nope," he said. "And that makes you a bright little boy—Flight Lieutenant Dawson. And that was nice flying last night. I thought that second time I had you cold. I guess you're as good at the controls as I've heard tell you were. Or was this English kid, Farmer, doing the flying?"
Dave didn't reply. He suddenly felt as though his seat had been jerked out from under him, and as if his brain were tumbling down through space. This redhead knew his name, and Freddy's, too? An eerie chill swept through him, and he impulsively looked at Colonel Welsh. The chief of U. S. Intelligence's face was bright with dumfounded amazement. He in turn was staring speechlessly at the redhead. The man with the gun dragged down a corner of his mouth in a scornful gesture.
"Why so surprised, Colonel?" he asked. "Did you think you were the only smart one in this war?"
"You won't feel so smart when you're facing a firing squad!" the Colonel clipped out. "And that's where you're headed. Both of you!"
"Well, what do you know!" the pilot cried out, and turned around just long enough to give the Colonel a horse laugh. "Maybe you ain't got it yet, Colonel, who's holding the gun. Snap out of it. I know it's tough, but there's nothing you can do about it. Don't be a sap and make us let you have it. We just want to keep you on ice for a while. That's all."
The Colonel seemed to swallow his wrath, because when he spoke again his voice was normal, and almost friendly.
"All right, we'll be smart," he said. "But where are we heading? And why are you keeping us on ice, as you call it? What good is it going to do you?"
"What good?" the redhead echoed with a laugh. "Well, about ten thousand dollars' worth, for one thing. For another—well, I guess we just don't like you."
A hard, glittering look leaped into the Colonel's eyes, and Dave could tell that the man was employing every ounce of his will power to stop from leaping from his seat and hurling himself at the redhead, gun or no gun.
"A couple of bought and paid for American traitors, eh?" the chief of U. S. Intelligence suddenly grated. "American by birth only. Actually lower than the rats in Berlin and Tokio are—the ones who are paying you your blood money. Well, paste this in your hats. You'll never live to spend that money. And that's a promise!"
The redhead simply continued to grin. Then suddenly the gun in his hand spat flame and sound, and Dave saw the Colonel's left shoulder strap fly off as though cut by a knife. The bullet tore on out through the side of the cabin. Colonel Welsh didn't so much as flinch, or even bat an eye. He held the redhead with a steady agate-eyed stare.
"Put the next right between my eyes!" he grated. "You'll still not be able to spend that blood money. You'll be run to earth like the anti-American vermin you are. And you'll be wiped out, along with the rest of your fifth column brood."
The redhead didn't say anything. Dave wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a look of fear flash across the man's unshaven face. However, it came and went in a flash. The pilot turned from his controls again, and gave the Colonel a long look.
"Maybe!" he finally said harshly. "That's the chance we take. But let's not kid each other, Colonel. The point is that the Carrier Indian won't be sailing with these two little heroes of yours aboard. Yeah! So don't look like you're going to faint. We know all about it. The boys we work for are smart. And your whole country is going to find that out in short order, too.
"You guys in Washington have got a New Deal. Well, another guy has aNew Deal, too. I like his better. So don't waste breath trying to unsell me. It can't be done. I've been kicked around too much by your cops and F.B.I.
"I'm looking out for my own good, see? I found out how my pal and me can make dough easy, and we're making it. No more working my life away for nothing. I'm sold onmyNew Deal.
"Now shut up, and relax. My pal and me have dough to earn."
"Aw, let 'em talk!" the redhead said with a hoarse laugh. "Maybe they'll try selling us some of them Defense Bonds."
"And you shut up, too!" the pilot snarled. "I don't feel like hearing anybody talk, see?"
The redhead looked both surprised and angry.
"Okay, okay!" he said. "So nobody talks."
Silence once more settled over the interior of the cabin, but it was the kind of a silence that feels charged with high voltage electricity, and apt to strike all over the place at an instant's notice. Turning his head, Dave snapped a quick glance out the window, but what he saw didn't help his spirits any. The plane was grinding northward over wild mountainous country that looked every bit as uninviting as that narrow strip of ground where they had force landed. Whether or not they had reached the Utah line, or were still in Arizona, Dave couldn't tell with that one quick glance. And he didn't bother taking a second look.
Fact was, it didn't matter where they were. Through a crazy twist of fate they were helpless prisoners in the hands of two men who would shoot them dead at the slightest provocation. The single warning shot that the redhead had snapped across Colonel Welsh's shoulder had been proof enough that he wasn't afraid to use his gun.
Yes, they were helpless prisoners. And their captors knew all about them: who they were, where they had been heading, and why. As those three truths came home to Dave, again he swallowed hard and shivered slightly. It was like a crazy nightmare, only it wasn't. It was stark reality; nothing out of a story book. The pilot and his redheaded companion had received orders to make sure that Freddy Farmer and he did not sail on the Aircraft Carrier Indian. They had tried the first time last night by attacking them with machine guns in a plane.
They had failed, yet in a way they had succeeded. They had drilled the Lockheed's engines and forced Dave to sit down on that narrow strip of smooth ground deep in a valley. Not knowing the exact results of their efforts, the two men had cruised about over the area as soon as it became light, and—by another crazy twist of fate—they had seen the smoke signal that had been sent up to attracthelp. Seeing that the plane had not crashed, the two men had done the logical thing, from their point of view. They had landed and picked up their prey. Kidnapped them, yes, but for a very good reason. Some other plane passing over might have landed and given them a quick lift to their destination. So the redhead and the pilot had picked them up to make sure somebody else wouldn't do it.
And the reason they hadn't been killed on the spot was simple to figure. Death in the dark during that air attack last night would have been different. The plane would have crashed and burned up, and when its charred ruins were found no one would ever had dreamed that bullets had sent it hurtling down to its doom. But three dead men lying beside a force landed plane was something else again. A scene like that naturally screamed murder all over the place. And so the redhead and his pilot had kidnapped them so that if another plane landed to investigate, it would look as though the occupants of the Lockheed had tried to find their way back to civilization on foot, and had become hopelessly lost in the mountains.
"But they know all about us! How?"
Dave didn't speak the words aloud. He spoke them only in his brain, but as he glanced at Colonel Welsh and met the man's eyes he knew that the senior officer understood what was in his mind, just as though he had heard the words spoken. Even as Dave met his eyes, Colonel Welsh bit his lower lip and gave a sharp little puzzled shake of his head. A hundred and one answers to the question leaped into Dave's brain, but every one of them seemed too fantastic even to bother considering.
However, fantastic or not, one thought kept hammering away until he was forced to admit that it at least must be true. It was that somebody close to Colonel Welsh—very close—was unquestionably in the pay of Berlin, or Tokio. Somebody in the drab, unpretentious building where Colonel Welsh maintained his real head-quarters was a traitor to the American flag, a paid rat of the lowest form who gnawed at the very heart of America.
But who? Dave thought of Captain Lamb, and Captain Stacey, and Lieutenant Caldwell—and shook his head vigorously. He thought of the man who had taken them up in the elevator—and wondered. He thought of the man reading the book in that room with the mops and pails—and wondered some more. In fact, he wondered until his head ached and his brain rang. It just didn't seem possible that any spy could get close enough to learn all that somebody had learned. That, however, was one of the many cockeyed things about war. The impossible was constantly popping up to prove to be a cinch. There were over two years of proof of that. Poland for one. The Maginot Line for another. And Crete, and Malaya, and Singapore—and Pearl Harbor, too, for that matter. All that had happened at those various places just couldn't happen. Only ithad!
"So maybe Lamb, or Stacey, or—"
Dave cut short the unspoken thought. The pilot up forward had throttled his engine and was nosing the Stinson downward. Leaning over close to the window, Dave peered down and ahead. He saw a stretch of wild wasteland that seemed to extend to the four horizons. Scrub growth, a few patches of towering trees, and all the rocks in the world, it seemed, met his scrutiny. The plane seemed to be nosing down toward an area of tableland. And as Dave squinted his eyes he suddenly was able to make out a couple of weatherbeaten shacks built close to a patch of woods. He thought he saw something glistening just under the branches of the trees, but he was too high and too far away to tell what it was.
"Okay!" the redhead suddenly called out. "We're getting near the end of the line. Remember what I told you, you three. Be nice and nothing will happen. Get funny and I'll drill you and think nothing of it, so help me. I ain't a killer often, but when I am, I'm good. So watch your step."