IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM
The attack of the wind was sudden beyond all precedent in the
experience of the young aviators.
It was as though the demon of the storm had counted on surprise and
had hoped to accomplish the destruction of the _Hope_ at one blow
before the aviators could rally their confused senses to combat it.
One moment the _Hope_ had been flying on an even keel. The next, it
had completely reversed its position, and the occupants found
themselves flying head downward.
The straps that held Slim Tyler in the pilot's seat stretched and
strained, but did not break.
His comrades were not so fortunate. Jerry Marbury was for a moment
literally standing on his head. Then he fell down heavily, grasping
an iron bolt, to which he clung with the tenacity of a drowning man.
Dick Mylert was flung out of the plane and would have gone hurtling
to the waters beneath if his hands, flung about wildly, had not
grasped the side of the fuselage. There he hung suspended while the
wind tore at him, trying to loosen his grasp.
"Hold on, Dick! For the love of Pete, hold on!" screamed Jerry, as
his senses cleared and he saw his companion's frightful plight.
He crawled close to his imperiled comrade, clutched his wrists, and
by a tremendous effort pulled him in to safety.
Slim Tyler was fighting desperately to regain control of the plane
and bring her right side up. It was a herculean task, as she had
already started on her downward plunge.
A lesser pilot would have lost his head and his doom would have been
sealed then and there. But Slim Tyler kept his nerve, and by
consummate craftsmanship finally brought the plane to its normal
position.
The first onslaught had been met and repelled, but others followed,
and the aviators found themselves in a wild turmoil of the elements.
The wind was blowing with all the force of a tornado. It beat and
tore at the plane as though it would rend it into shreds. The
howling of the storm drowned the roar of the motors. It was a
terrible demonstration of nature's unbridled fury.
Yet in that awful welter, Slim Tyler's hand at the control never
faltered. His pulses were steady, his heart undaunted.
With masterly skill he jockeyed the plane, driving here, banking
there, trying to present the least vulnerable surface to the blow,
making the wind at times his ally, again challenging it to do its
worst.
He darted upward in an attempt to find a quieter strata of air, but
found that he gained nothing by the change. Then he sought lower
altitudes, coming down at times so close to the water that he heard
its roar and was sprinkled with its spray.
But wherever he went it was the same. The gale was out to find a
victim, and it seemed to exercise a demoniac cunning in thwarting
every effort of its prey to escape.
To keep on their projected path was of course out of the question.
All that mattered now was saving the plane and with it their own
lives. If they perished, the course did not matter. If they
survived, they could easily find it again.
Over that great angry waste of waters, the _Hope_ flew on, a mere
speck in immensity, while its imperiled occupants never knew what
moment might be their last.
For one thing Slim Tyler was grateful. He had repaired the
stabilizer before the storm started. If he had been delayed until
the gale was upon them, nothing on earth could have saved them from
certain death.
Luckily, there was no lightning. They were too far north for that,
and thus they were spared one peril that had so nearly brought to
naught the journey to South America.
For more than an hour the storm raged with the greatest fury. Then
it began to subside. It died away in fitful gusts that came at
longer and longer intervals and finally ceased altogether, although
the agitated air rocked up and down like the waves of the ocean after
a gale.
Slim Tyler's tense grip on the controls relaxed. Despite the bitter
cold, he was drenched with perspiration from the terrific strain he
had undergone.
"I've been on many a ship in a gale," breathed Dick Mylert, "but I've
never been shaken up and tossed about like this. I feel like a
scrambled egg."
"You brought her through wonderfully, Slim," said Jerry, clapping his
friend on the shoulder. "Where do you think we are?"
"Search me," replied Slim. "I'll try to figure it out as soon as I
can get my breath. If those clouds break away and let the moon shine
through again, you can get out your instruments and we'll check up on
the figures. I've tried to keep her in an easterly direction as far
as I could, but in this hullabaloo she's been dancing round to all
points of the compass."
But the clouds obstinately refused to break away. They had contained
more than wind. Half an hour had not elapsed before snow began to
fall.
The storm came first in scattered flakes, then in a thick cloud, then
in blinding sheets. It plastered the windows of the cockpit. It lay
in a heavy blanket on the body of the plane. It coated the broad
wings, weighing them down.
Every additional ounce that weighted the plane weighted Slim Tyler's
heart as well.
For the plane was losing buoyancy and sinking lower and lower with
every ten minutes that passed.
She was like an overloaded ship, wallowing in the trough of the sea
when she ought to have been cleaving her way through it.
Slim banked and dived and rose and sideslipped in the effort to shake
the snow from the wings. Had it been of the powdery variety, he
might have succeeded. But it was wet and stuck to the wings like
glue.
"Going through a good many stunts, aren't you, Slim?" asked Dick
Mylert lightly. He had no idea of the gravity of the situation.
"What is this, anyway? A flying circus?"
"Something far different from that," answered Slim soberly. "The
wings are carrying so much snow that the _Hope_ is getting too tired
to fly."
"Is that so?" exclaimed the reporter, his airy manner vanishing
instantly. "Does that mean that there's danger of her going down?"
"Exactly that, if the snow keeps falling," affirmed Slim. "I have
all I can do now to keep her aloft. There must be half a ton of snow
on her wings now. And half a ton is a thousand pounds."
"If this keeps up, we'll have to throw some of our cargo overboard to
lighten the plane," declared Jerry.
"Possibly," admitted Slim. "Spare parts, tools, even food, if
necessary. Lucky if we keep our shirts. But even that is better
than drowning."
As if to emphasize that sinister word, the roar of the waves beneath
grew louder.