Tim and Ralph returned to the _News_ office where Tim busied himself
writing copy for his aviation column in the next day's paper.
Among the letters he found on his desk was one from the news director of
the Transcontinental Air Mail Company at San Francisco. The letter
contained an announcement of the company plans to increase their
passenger and air mail service to three trips a day each way across
country. It would mean the inauguration of the most auspicious air
transport program in the country.
The letter went on to say that giant tri-motored biplanes, capable of
carrying 18 passengers and half a ton of mail or express, were being
completed in the Transcontinental's shops. A half dozen of the new
planes would be put in service with the opening of the new schedule and
a dozen more would be completed as rapidly as possible.
The letter indicated that all of the planes would stop at Atkinson,
which meant Tim's home city would have the best transcontinental air
service in the country. The story was news, big news, and he devoted the
remainder of the afternoon to writing it. He got in touch with Carl
Hunter at the field and learned that Hunter had just received
instructions to put on an extra ground crew. The postmaster supplied
information on the value of the increased air mail service to bankers
and business men and when Tim had finished gathering his material he had
enough for a two column story.
The young aviation editor of the _News_ worked until six o'clock, went
out for a hasty dinner, and returned to the office to complete his
story. The aviation copy must be ready the first thing in the morning to
send to the waiting Linotypes.
Tim checked the facts in his story carefully. When he finished reading
it over he felt that it was a creditable news story, certainly it was
interesting and he thought it fairly well written.
Ralph, who had been sent out late in the afternoon to cover a service
club dinner, came stamping into the office.
"Of all the hot air," he exploded, "I've listened to a prize assortment
in the last hour and a half. I'm always getting stuck for some
assignment like this."
Tim had little sympathy to offer and Ralph went over to his typewriter
and banged savagely at the keys.
At nine o'clock the boys decided to call it a day. Tim had written the
last line of copy for his aviation department and Ralph had managed to
finish his story on the dinner.
The air was raw and bitter when they reached the street and heavy clouds
obscured the stars.
"Nasty night for the air mail," commented Tim as he turned up the collar
of his coat.
"Going to snow before morning," predicted Ralph.
"Hope you're wrong," replied Tim. "We've had enough winter. I'm ready
for spring."
The young reporters walked to the corner where they boarded different
street cars. Ralph started home and Tim went to his room.
Tim undressed when he reached his room, selected an interesting
adventure novel, and stretched out on his bed to read. Lost in the
thrilling exploits of the hero of the novel, he did not notice the
passage of time. The coolness of the room finally aroused him and when
he looked at the clock it was nearly midnight.
Tim got up and felt the radiator. It was cold and the wind was whistling
in the eaves outside his window. He looked down into the street. Faint
swirls of snow danced along the paving and while he watched the air
became thick with snowflakes.
The wind was increasing, whipping the snow into a blizzard. Tim could
hardly see beyond the first street light. He looked at the clock again.
It would be tough on the air mail flyers if they were between landing
fields or in the Great Smokies when the storm broke. The rugged peaks of
the mountains would be merciless on such a night.
Tim turned to the telephone and called the municipal airport. After an
interval Carl Hunter answered.
"How is the mail?" asked Tim.
"Getting a bad break," snapped Hunter. "The storm dropped like a blanket
and two of the ships were caught in the Great Smokies. We haven't heard
from either the eastbound or the westbound for more than half an hour."
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing until the storm breaks."
"And then?"
"Send out rescue planes if I can find anyone to fly them. All of the
mail pilots are on the east end of the division and even if the storm
lets up at daybreak it will be noon before they can get here."
"You can count Ralph and me for anything we can do," promised Tim.
"Thanks a lot," replied the field manager. "I'd appreciate it if you
would come out now. I'm here all alone and my nerves are getting jumpy
in the storm. Bring plenty of heavy clothes for the temperature is
dropping fast. May be near zero by morning."
Tim promised to go to the field at once and after Hunter had hung up the
receiver telephoned for Ralph. A sleepy-sounding voice finally answered
his summons and in a few words Tim explained what was needed.
"I'll throw on some clothes and hop a cab for the field," said Ralph,
all thought of sleep having vanished.
Tim dressed carefully and warmly for he had a hunch it would be a good
many hours before he saw bed again and from past experiences he was wise
enough to follow his hunch.
The flying reporter phoned for a cab and then went downstairs to await
its arrival. He stopped at the door of his landlady's room and slipped a
note under to tell of his sudden departure. Then he went into the front
hallway. The lights of a cab gleamed dimly through the snow and Tim
hastened out into the storm.
The taxi driver, heavily bundled, grunted as Tim gave his destination.
"Sure you want to get to the airport?" demanded the driver.
"Can't you make it?" asked Tim.
"Don't know," replied the taxi man. "The snow is drifting fast and that
road is bad on a night like this."
"See how far you can get," said Tim as he climbed into the cab.
With a grinding of gears the cab moved into the storm. The snow was
falling in a solid blanket that obscured even the buildings flanking the
street. Lights were visible for only a few feet and Tim and the driver
felt as though they were in a world of their own.
Once or twice the cab slid into the curb but each time the driver
managed to keep it under way and they finally pulled through the gate at
the airport. Tim told the driver to charge the trip to the _News_ and
was about to enter the administration building when another cab jolted
to a stop.
Ralph, bundled in a heavy coat, hopped out and followed Tim into the
field manager's office.
Hunter, a radiophone headset at his ears, was listening intently to an
air mail report. He motioned for the boys to take chairs and went on
with his work.
The reporters waited until Hunter had finished taking the message.
"What news now?" asked Tim.
"Bad news," replied the field manager. "Two planes lost somewhere in the
Great Smokies. It's a cinch that the storm forced them down and you know
how much chance there is of making a safe set-down on a night like
this."
"Who were on the ships?" Ralph wanted to know.
"Tiny Lewis was coming east and George Mitchell was on the westbound,"
replied Hunter.
"They don't make any better flyers than those two," commented Tim.
"But they can't buck a storm like this," Hunter reminded. "Why, man
alive, you can't see ten feet ahead of you."
"Maybe they had a break and landed when the first flakes started down,"
suggested Ralph.
"You're too optimistic," replied the field manager. "This storm wasn't
on the weather charts. It just dropped down from nowhere. I don't
believe those ships could have stayed up two minutes after they nosed
into the storm and neither one of the pilots had time to use their
radio-phones."
"Good thing they had parachutes," said Ralph.
"I'm afraid chutes wouldn't do them much good," said Tim. "They wouldn't
have time to use them and wouldn't know where they were going if they
did. We'll find Lewis and Mitchell with the planes."
Conversation stopped. There was no use to say anything more. They knew
the air mail pilots had stuck by their ships. When the storm cleared
they would find the ships and the pilots and they only hoped that in
some miraculous fashion the ships had not crashed too hard.
At four o'clock the storm lessened and the wind abated. At five o'clock
there was only a trace of snow in the air and at six o'clock the
mechanics had struggled through the drifts from town and were warming up
two reserve mail planes. The _Good News_, its fuselage damp from the
coat of paint, was in no condition to take the air and Hunter had placed
two of the Transcontinental's planes at the disposal of the flying
reporters.
Tim and Ralph loaded thermos bottles of hot chocolate into the cockpits
of their planes, put in first aid kits, ropes and hand axes and
generally prepared for any emergency that might confront them.
Abundant supplies of extra blankets were tossed into the mail
compartment ahead of the pilot's cockpit and the hood was strapped down.
The motors of the great green and silver biplanes droned steadily as Tim
and Ralph seated themselves at the controls.
"Locate them first," Hunter shouted to the reporters. "If you can't land
and bring them out yourselves, come back and get help. Good luck
and--hurry!"
Tim and Ralph fully understood the urgency of their mission and they
swung the tails of their planes around, opened the throttles and bounced
over the field in a smother of snow.
The mail planes, their 525 horsepower motors barking in the near zero
weather, lifted off the field and sailed away toward the Great Smokies.
Somewhere hidden in the dim peaks to the west were the air mail planes
and their pilots.