THE THUNDERSTORM.
"WHERE's he making for?" asked the doctor.
Vaughan Whittinghame paid no apparent heed to the question. His eyes
seemed riveted upon the small dark object against the crimson glow
of the brief tropical sunset.
It was Dacres who answered Hambrough's query.
"I believe he's making a dash for the Galapagos Islands," he replied.
"It's a matter of six hundred and fifty odd miles."
"If the fellow had any sense he would keep on doubling," said Gerald.
"Quick as we are that craft can turn like a top. It would be like a
hare dodging a hound."
"Don't send him any telepathic messages, Mr. Whittinghame," said the
doctor. "The sooner we nab him the better. I am beginning to see what
a London theatre looks like again."
"Now, if you were a kinematograph operator you'd make your fortune,
doctor," remarked Setchell.
The Captain half turned his head. One glance was enough. The
inconsequent conversation annoyed him. The rest of the officers
promptly subsided.
"Switch on, there," he ordered curtly.
The two powerful beams shot out into the now fast gathering gloom.
Both were focussed upon the fugitive. The flying-boat looked as if
made of silver, floating motionless in the air, for the "Meteor's"
speed had been reduced till the relative rates of the two craft were
practically the same.
Had Captain Whittinghame wished he could have ordered the bow-gun to
be manned, and the result would be a foregone conclusion. Owing to
engine trouble Durango's craft was capable of travelling only at the
comparatively slow rate of sixty miles an hour. At that speed the
ordnance of the "Meteor" could be brought into action. But the
captain of the airship, apart from his desire to recover the stolen
plans, was averse to taking life unless absolutely necessary. He
would pursue the Mexican until the latter, through sheer exhaustion
or inability on the part of his craft to keep running, would be
compelled to surrender.
Onwards and onwards tore the two craft, the huge airship in pursuit
of the midget aerial boat. Durango made no attempt to double. It was
his only chance, and for some unknown reason he failed to avail
himself of his loophole of escape.
The two Whittinghames, Dacres, and the doctor remained in the lower
fore observation room, their eyes fixed upon the apparently
stationary object upon which the two searchlights played
relentlessly. Not a word was spoken. The rapt attention of the
watchers was centred upon their prey.
Presently Durango relinquished the steering-wheel, his place being
taken by one of his Valderian companions. Stooping he drew a small
leather bag from one of the lockers, opened it and produced a bundle
of papers.
For a few moments he paused irresolutely, alternately looking at the
tied-up parcel of documents and at the relentless Dreadnought of the
Air. Then, standing up and steadying himself against the furious
blast that whirled past the boat, he poised the packet.
A muttered ejaculation burst from Vaughan Whittinghame's lips. This,
then, was to be the fate of the precious submarine plans, for such
the documents undoubtedly were.
The Mexican was on the point of letting the packet fall when the
second Valderian touched him on the shoulder and said something.
Durango shook his head. Again the Valderian spoke, seemingly in
remonstrance. Just then a vivid flash of lightning threw the
boundless expanse of sea into strong relief.
A tropical storm was brewing. Although there was practically no wind
and the sea was as smooth as glass it was quite evident that the
"Meteor" and her prey were heading towards the storm-centre. A glance
at the barometer showed Dacres that, allowing for the difference in
altitude when the instrument was last set, the mercury had dropped
nearly three-quarters of an inch in two hours.
Suddenly the helmsman of the flying-boat put the vertical rudder hard
over. Round spun the craft like a top, tilting to a dangerous angle
as she did so. The unexpected movement took Durango by surprise, and
unable to retain his balance he sprawled ignominiously upon the
floor-boards. The precious plans slipped from his grasp.
As the fugitive boat swerved from her former course the
quartermaster, running the port searchlight of the "Meteor," promptly
swung the giant beam in the hope of following the elusive craft. The
effort was in vain. The object of the chase darted out of the path of
brilliant light and was instantly swallowed up in the darkness.
"After searchlights, there!" ordered Captain Whittinghame on the
telephone. "Switch on and try to pick up the flying boat."
At the same time the "Meteor's" vertical rudders were put hard over,
while the remaining propellers on the port side were set astern to
assist in the more rapid manoeuvring of the airship.
Four searchlights swept the air in all directions. Yet although it
seemed impossible that any object floating in space within the limits
of the beams could escape detection there were no signs of the craft
containing Durango and his two companions.
"Perhaps, sir, she crumpled her planes when she turned," suggested
Dacres.
"Quite possible," assented Captain Whittinghame. "In that case she
has a drop of nearly eight thousand feet before she hits the surface
of the sea."
"Then, it will be useless to expect to recover the plans," said Dr.
Hambrough.
"It does not matter so long as we know they are destroyed," replied
Vaughan Whittinghame. "The Admiralty have others: the danger was that
there was a possibility of this set getting into the hands of a
foreign power. Provided----"
His remarks were cut short by a vivid flash of lightning that seemed
to envelop completely the now practically stationary airship. Almost
simultaneously came an ear-splitting detonation. The whole fabric of
the Dreadnought of the Air seemed to quiver.
Dacres, Hambrough, and Gerald Whittinghame looked at each other. They
fully expected to find the "Meteor" rent amidships, falling with an
ever-increasing rapidity into the sea.
The Captain was the only man who seemed to ignore the sublime and
appalling atmospheric conditions.
"Keep a look-out!" he exclaimed; "you're missing our only chance."
Flash succeeded flash with the utmost frequency. The "Meteor" was
evidently between two huge stores of electricity, for the clouds were
not releasing their super-charges to earth. The airship's best chance
of safety was to descend to within a few hundred feet of the sea.
Three ballonettes only were required to be emptied to allow the
"Meteor" to drop rapidly, until the air, growing denser as she
descended, her vertical course would be automatically retarded and
eventually stopped.
The seaward plunge was awe-inspiring. The airship was passing through
a bank of clouds so dense that even the powerful searchlights were as
useless as candle lamps in a heavy London fog. Yet at about every ten
seconds the veil of pitch dark vapour was pierced by flashes of
lightning that left the crew blinking like owls suddenly transported
from the depths of a lightless cave to the dazzling brilliance of the
noonday sun.
Four thousand feet. The "Meteor" was still enveloped in clouds, but
to add to the terrors of the situation fierce whirlwinds were
assailing her on all sides. In spite of her non-rigidity the
unprecedented strain to which she was subjected threatened to break
her asunder amidships.
The Dreadnought of the Air was now utterly out of control. At one
moment her bows were pointing upwards at an angle of forty-five
degrees and to the horizontal. At another she was plunging obliquely
with her nose downwards. She rolled like a barrel, and strained and
writhed like a human being in torment.
Elevating planes and vertical rudders were alike useless. The only
chance of escape was to drop vertically.
Staggering to the engine-room indicators the Captain ordered the
motors to be switched off Now the motion was slightly less erratic.
Hailstones the size of pigeons' eggs were falling upon her aluminium
deck--not with the metallic clang that characterizes their fall on
the land, but with comparative lightness, for the airship was still
within a few hundred feet of the cloud in which the frozen rain-drops
were generated.
Two thousand feet. The "Meteor" was now regaining her normal
stability. Her seaward descent was momentarily becoming slower. She
had emerged from the rain-cloud, and although the lightning still
played, the danger seemed to have passed.
Something had to be done to save the airship from violently alighting
upon the water. Her present rate of retardation was insufficient.
"Telegraph for half speed ahead," ordered Captain Whittinghame. "Trim
the forward elevating planes there, doctor."
Back came the startling information from both the fore and after
motor-rooms: the ignition had failed.
"Short circuit somewhere," muttered the Captain. "I'm not surprised.
Recharge those three ballonettes, Dacres."
A thousand feet. With a succession of sharp hisses the ultra-hydrogen
escaped from the cylinder in which it had been stored under pressure
and re-entered the ballonettes. The crew could feel the sudden check
to the downward plunge, but in spite of the additional gas the
"Meteor" was still falling.
The four searchlights were still running: two practically parallel
beams showing ahead and two astern. In the after motor-room--whence
were actuated the still intact propellers--Parsons was hard at work
trying to locate the source of the mischief. Could these motors be
started in time the attraction due to gravity would yet be overcome.
Suddenly Gerald Whittinghame gave a shout and pointed towards the
starboard observation scuttle. Dacres was just in time to see an
object falling--falling with extraordinary irregularity. It was
Durango's flying-boat. She was describing a succession of "loops,"
while her motors were still running.
In the path of the starboard searchlights' rays she appeared to check
her downward course; then lurching ahead made straight for the bows
of the "Meteor." Just as it seemed as if a collision were imminent
the wrecked craft dipped and passed into Cimmerian darkness.
"He's done for, by Jove!"
"What's that?" asked Captain Whittinghame, who had heard his
brother's exclamation but had failed to see the reason for it.
"Durango--smashed up," reported Dacres.
Vaughan Whittinghame made no audible remark. H e realized that the
"Meteor" herself was in peril. In the face of impending disaster one
is apt to banish thoughts of vengeance.
Two hundred feet. Dacres glanced at his watch and looked inquiringly
at his chief.
"Well?" asked the Captain laconically.
"We're hardly falling, sir," said the sub. "Our downward course is
being greatly retarded----"
"You're right, by Jove!" exclaimed Whittinghame. "All the same, I
wish Parsons could get those motors to start."
His hopes were not to be realized for the present. With a barely
perceptible jar the airship alighted on the surface of the Pacific.
Her searchlights played upon an unruffled expanse of calm water. The
storm had been confined to the upper strata of the atmosphere.
"Heave out the sea-anchor in case it comes on to blow," ordered
Vaughan Whittinghame. "We're safe for the present. Mr. Dacres, will
you please go on deck and obtain a stellar observation? It will be
dawn in half an hour; but I would like to ascertain our position in
case we drive ashore before daybreak."
The sub hurried to carry out his orders. It was a relief, after being
cooped up in the confined atmosphere of the observation room of the
heaving and pitching "Meteor," to breathe in the fresh night air.
The searchlights had now been switched off. The airship was floating
motionless in a phosphorescent sea. Having taken the observation
Dacres was about to go below and work out his position when a
peculiar swirl in the water about a hundred yards to starboard
attracted his attention.
"Surely that's not a reef?" he asked himself. "I wish I had my
night-glasses."
Then came a quick succession of splashes. "Sharks--that's what it is.
Or perhaps a swarm of threshers attacking a whale. A lively
commotion! I'll go below and get my binoculars."
"Anything in sight?" asked Captain Whittinghame, noticing Dacres'
haste.
"Something splashing, sir; I'm just going to get my binoculars."
The two men made their way to the upper deck. The sub pointed in the
direction he had noticed the commotion, but all was now quiet. A
careful examination of the spot by the powerful night-glasses
revealed no sign of anything to account for the swirl of the water.
"Hark! What's that?" demanded Whittinghame.
"I heard nothing," replied Dacres.
"Could have sworn I heard a man's voice. Perhaps my senses are
playing me a trick."
"It may be the breeze, sir," suggested the sub, as a catspaw ruffled
the surface of the placid water.
"Of course. All the same, I'll have the searchlight trained on the
place."
For quite ten minutes the beams swung slowly to and fro, but nothing
could be seen beyond the ripples on the sea.
"There's a vessel approaching, sir," announced Dacres, who had been
sweeping the horizon with his glasses. "I can just pick up her red
and green lights. She's quite five miles off, I should think."
"She must have spotted our searchlight, and is altering her course to
investigate. Pass the word for the searchlight to be switched off,
Dacres. I don't think we need assistance, unless I'm very much
mistaken about Parson's capabilities."
"There's quite a decent breeze, sir," commented Dacres as he prepared
to descend the companion ladder. "We must be making a fair drift."
"Not with that sea-anchor out," said Whittinghame.
"I don't know about that, sir; you see, we're floating light. I'll
work out our position, for I shouldn't be surprised if we are
drifting down upon the Galapagos."
Captain Whittinghame remained on deck. He was pondering over the fate
of his rival, Reno Durango, and wondering whether he could safely
assert that the last of the tasks he had set out to perform had been
satisfactorily accomplished. He had witnesses ready to affirm on oath
that they had seen the Mexican's flying-boat being hurled to
destruction. Could it unquestionably be taken for granted that the
stolen plans of Submarine "M I" were no longer in existence to prove
a menace to the admittedly superior construction and organization of
the British submarine service?
The rapid approach of the coming day disturbed Vaughan Whittinghame's
reveries.
The vessel whose navigation light Dacres had picked up had altered
her course and was steaming quite two miles to windward of the
practically helpless airship.
By the aid of his glasses the captain could see that she was a tramp
of about eight hundred tons, and in ballast, for she rose high out of
the water, while the tips of her propeller blades could be seen amid
the smother of foam under her rudder-post. There was nothing about
her to enable Whittinghame to determine her nationality. Her single
funnel was painted a dull black without any colouring bands.
Even as he looked the tramp starboarded her helm. The dawn had
likewise revealed to her sleepy watch on deck the presence of the
disabled airship. She was on the point of steaming down in the hope
of earning a salvage job.
"No use, my friend," quoth Vaughan.
The next moment he burst into a hearty laugh, for the tramp began to
circle as if to resume her former course. The acceptance of his
muttered advice to a vessel a mile and a half away tickled his sense
of humour.
"Hulloa! What is the move now, I wonder?" he exclaimed. He might well
evince curiosity, for instead of holding on to her former course,
which was practically due north, the tramp was slowly turning due
east. Even as he watched, Whittinghame could see that the cascade of
foam under her rudder had vanished. She had stopped her engines.
Apparently the vessel was still carrying too much way, for again her
propellers churned up the froth, this time for less than half a
minute. Men were hanging over her port side and lowering ropes.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Whittinghame aghast.