“CAST OFF!”
Lieutenant Commander Weeks compared his watch with the chronometer
before him in the cockpit. He was a tall, lithe, quiet-mannered man of
perhaps twenty-seven. His lean, clean-shaven face was almost boyish
and undeniably good-looking. Very calm gray eyes, that in conversation
seldom wavered for an instant from the eyes of those with whom he
talked, a straight, determined mouth and a somewhat square chin were
the notable features. He spoke as quietly as he moved, but Jack had
noticed that no one else about the shed obtained such instant and eager
obedience. “Six-fourteen,” he said, turning to Lieutenant Traine. The
latter, leaning outboard of the cockpit, nodded.
“I think he’s coming now,” he answered.
A young sailor in dungarees was hurrying toward the _F 8_, some papers
fluttering in his hand as he came. “Captain Rounce’s compliments, sir,
and he regrets delay and wishes you good luck,” said the messenger
as, from the first rung of the rope ladder that hung over the side, he
stretched an arm upward with the papers outheld.
“Our compliments to the captain,” returned the commander of the _F
8_, “and our thanks.” The messenger saluted and drew aside. “Anything
important, Ben?” Mr. Weeks added.
“Light winds in upper altitudes from southeast, varying eight to
twenty. No, nothing important.” The pilot read the brief reports
quickly and stuffed the sheets into a pocket of his leather jacket.
“Slight disturbance over Caribbean. Let’s go!”
“Right. Ready, Mr. Jordan?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Port her nose a bit!” The commander issued the direction through a
small megaphone. In obedience the groundmen clinging to the forward guy
ropes moved slowly to the right and the long body of the airship swung
in answer until the level rays of the sun came straight into the faces
of the crew. “Steady! Hold her!” The shuffling crew stopped. Crews and
workers from other sheds had gathered to witness the _F 8’s_ departure,
and, although the time of the ascension had not been announced,
officers’ quarters and barracks had added their quota. The airship
had been trailed out of the shed an hour before and the engines
tuned. She was to have floated at six, but a delay in receiving the
weather reports had postponed the start. In the navigating cockpit
the commander jotted the time in the log-book, stowed it again in its
locker and looked forward and aft. Forward, the head and shoulders of
Lieutenant Gandell showed; aft, he looked into the alert, expectant
faces of Lieutenant Jordan and Engineer’s Mate Wason, the latter a
thick-set young giant of twenty-one or two, and, beyond them, the two
radio operators. Then he put the megaphone to his lips again. “All
clear, Mr. Ryan?” he asked.
“All clear, sir!” answered the petty officer in charge of the shed crew.
“Then you may cast off,” said the commander quietly.
“Let go all!” shouted the officer below.
Jack, his heart beating fast, held his breath. But nothing happened!
Or so it seemed to him until, of a sudden, the figures on the ground
became squat and foreshortened. The onlookers were cheering and waving.
Jack, suddenly tremendously excited, waved frantically back. Although
there was no perceptible motion in the boat, the yellowish ground
was sinking away beneath as though some unseen agency was pulling it
down. It was difficult to believe that the airship and not the earth
was moving. Now the rounded tops of the sheds were below them, the
long rows of barracks and the sun-dyed parade ground northward, and
the men down there were no more than pigmies! Jack drew a long, deep
breath of exultation. It was like nothing he had ever experienced or
dreamed of! He turned to Clode. That youth had seated himself and was
experimentally tapping a key. Jack laughed involuntarily, and the
ensign looked questioningly over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“I――I don’t know why I laughed,” said Jack happily. “Yes, I do, though.
I was just thinking that you were an awful bluff, pretending that you
aren’t thrilled and excited. Of course, you’ve been up before, but I
don’t believe any fellow can really ever get as indifferent as you
look!”
Clode laughed a trifle sheepishly. “Guess you’re right, Sterling,” he
answered. “I was sort of bluffing, that’s a fact.” He got up and looked
back along the shadow of the balloon. “By jiminy, that’s a wonderful
sight, isn’t it?”
Behind them the waters of the Gulf lay golden and glittering in the
radiance of the westering sun. The gray destroyers looked like slender
chips in the molten magic and the wheeling seaplanes like tiny birds.
Far away, the rim of the sea curved like the edge of a great bowl.
“How high are we?” asked Jack in awed tones.
“Search me! Maybe a thousand, maybe more. She’ll go up fairly high
before she finds her equilibrium on account of the warmth of the lower
air. We’re drifting north a bit.”
“Why? There’s no breeze,” said Jack.
“Isn’t there? Watch the little whirligig thing in front of the pilot.
See it go around? We don’t notice it because we’re traveling right
along with it. Look down now. Recognize any of your friends?”
Jack looked as straight toward earth as the curving deck of the hull
would allow. Winding yellow streaks, oblongs and squares of green,
little slate-hued blocks met his sight. The world was like a map and
nothing else. The darker spots, purplish-blue in the yellow-tinged
expanse, were shadows. The long streak running back along the coast
was the railway. Miles to the north and west a range of low hills were
distinct enough but had no suggestion of height. Everything beneath
looked as flat as a checker-board.
“Gee!” breathed Jack. “I――I guess I’m getting sort of scared, Clode!
Suppose we couldn’t get back there!”
“What of it?” laughed the other. “Isn’t this all right?”
“Yes,” replied Jack dubiously, “but――――”
A bell tinkled in the compartment ahead and looking across he saw
Lieutenant Jordan move to the controls. The commander turned and
spoke, and in the silence, a silence that was broken only by the faint
creaking of stays and cables, his words came back distinctly to the
after cockpit. “Nineteen hundred and fifty, Mr. Jordan,” announced the
commander casually. “When you’re ready we’ll start.”
“All ready, sir.” The lieutenant spoke to his mate and threw a switch
in front of him. “Port engine, Danny! Let her go!” There was an instant
of buzzing and then a sudden hum in the engine at the right of the
hull. Underfoot, the shaft came to life, and, astern, the big propeller
whirred slowly. A breeze played against Jack’s face. For the first time
since leaving the ground he experienced the sensation of movement.
Wason, a long-nosed oil-can in hand, was busy as the engine’s hum
deepened to a sound like the droning of a million bees. Mingled with
it was a higher-toned, more strident note, the clattering of rods. Now
a fresh breeze blew along the boat and the _Fate_, swinging her great
bluntly-pointed nose toward the west, moved majestically forward. A few
minutes later Clode drew Jack’s attention to a winding ribbon toward
which the ship was flying.
“That’s the Rio,” he said. “Wonder if we’ll cross it. When we do we’re
in Mexico and a target for those bullets of theirs.”
“They’d never hit us at this height,” said Jack untroubledly. “Do you
know where we’re going?”
“Well, Mr. Weeks didn’t show me the orders,” laughed the ensign, “but I
guess we’re aiming for the State of Coahuila over yonder. Fancy the War
Department wants to know what Señor Roza’s outfit looks like and where
he’s keeping it. Also what he intends doing with it. I dare say you’ve
heard that he means to capture Chicago and New York and a few little
towns like those. He must be a nut, for fair!”
“How far is Coahuila?”
“About three hundred miles, I think, if we fly direct. But we may
follow the river up to somewhere about Eagle Pass and then slip over.
It’ll be dark then and we could get pretty well south before we were
spotted. I suppose that, considering we’re not at war with Mexico――yet,
we haven’t any real right to fly over the country.”
“Seems to me when this Roza fellow is acting up like he is we’ve got
a right to fly over _his_ part of the country, anyway,” said Jack,
stoutly.
“Maybe that’s so. I guess we’re going to keep along the Rio. Mr.
Gandell’s bringing her around a bit.”
“How long will it take to do three hundred miles?”
“Depends on the speed, of course. We’re doing about twenty-five or
thirty now, I guess. If we open up with both engines and give her a
full throttle we can do better than sixty. As we’re going now we ought
to be about Eagle Pass, if that’s where we’re headed for, by three in
the morning. But it’s my guess that the Old Man will fix it so that
we’ll be well into Coahuila by sunrise.”
“And that’s Mexico, just the other side of the river,” mused Jack. “It
doesn’t look much different from Texas, does it?”
“Why should it?” laughed Clode. “They were made the same day! Guess
I’ll see if I can get the Brazos Station.” He seated himself at the
bench, threw his switch and began to hammer. After a moment he turned
a grinning face toward his companion. “Pensacola’s trying to get the
_Monticello_, and is all stewed up. Here we are!” The ensign tapped
busily a moment and the sparks crackled. “Hello!” He reached for his
pad and his pencil flew. Then he flashed “O. K.,” wrested the receiver
from his head and jumped to his feet.
“What’s up?” asked Jack eagerly.
“Get busy!” Clode indicated the instrument. “Brazos reports a cyclone
headed this way. Says southern New Mexico towns are getting it heavy.”
He hurried forward with his message as Jack quickly adjusted the
receiver. Camp Stanton was already calling: “Weeks Commander _F 8_
cyclone central at Silver City NM six twelve traveling east southeast
report your course Thomas R. A.”
“O. K.” Jack thrust the scribbled message toward Clode, who was back at
his side, and the latter read it quickly.
“Take it forward,” he said, motioning. Jack pulled the receiver off and
Clode took his place. As Jack started along the passage he noted that
the ship was already on a new course. The western sky, saffron yellow
above the horizon, lay to port. Stepping up over the gasoline tanks
between rear and engine cockpits his ears were assailed by a thunderous
drumming, and he realized that both engines were at work. The wind tore
at his cap and he had to hold it on for the instant that he stood there
atop the tank. Then he was back under cover and had crossed the engine
space and was handing the message to the commander.
Mr. Weeks and Mr. Traine leaned over it together. Then: “Just a minute,
Sterling,” said the former, and wrote rapidly on his pad. “Thomas, R.
A., Stanton. Sailing south, southwest one-half west from Colombres
six forty-two. Storm not sighted. Will go up if necessary. Weeks,
Commander.”
A few minutes later Camp Stanton again spoke: “Path of storm reported
varying half to one and half miles height unknown bearing southeast at
Sierra Blanca advise taking more westerly course.”
Mr. Weeks whistled when he read that. “Looks like it was on our trail,
Ben,” he said. “Funny the sky doesn’t show it. Hold on, though! Sort of
dirty-looking back there, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Mr. Traine looked and nodded. “And the barometer’s showing it
now. I rather wish we’d had this before dark.”
“Been simpler, yes. Guess we’ll begin to work up.” He picked up a
speaking tube. “Pete! The blamed thing’s chasing us. I think we’ll be
safer at ten thousand. How are your controls working? Good! What do you
read? Three-four――six――point――O is right. Sterling’s bringing you the
last message from Thomas.”
Jack crowded between the two occupants of the navigating cockpit and
put the paper in the hand of the directional pilot. Up there behind
the wind-shield it was quite still. Mr. Gandell took his eyes from the
message and grinned back over his shoulder at Jack.
“Looks like it was going to breeze up, Mr. Sterling,” he chuckled.
“Ever been up in a dirigible in a cyclone before?”
Jack smiled as he shook his head, but the smile could not have been
called a happy one. The lieutenant handed back the paper. “Well, don’t
worry, son,” he said kindly. “We’re going up where tornadoes won’t
bother us, I guess. Anyhow, if we do have to run, there’s plenty of
room up here!”
Back in the after cockpit Jack observed Clode anxiously as the latter,
drumming idly with his pencil on the little bench, listened. Below, the
world was dark and mysterious, but up where the _F 8_ sailed the last
dying rays of light still shone. It was a strange twilight, unlike any
Jack had ever seen. Above him the rounded belly of the big envelope was
steely-gray where the afterglow touched it, darkening to purple-black
where the shadows lay. Eastward a faded half-moon lay far down near the
horizon. Even as he looked the moon went from sight, he was conscious
of a chillier feeling and realized that the ship was passing up through
a cloud. The side of the cockpit where his hand rested became damp
under his fingers. For some minutes the engines had been throttled down
to a lazy tune and he knew that overhead, inside the silken envelope,
gas was expanding in the many bags. That cloud brought him a fuller
realization of height and something very much like fear came to him.
Ten thousand feet! Why, that was nearly two miles! Suppose something
happened! A squirmy feeling developed in the pit of his stomach and he
gazed with horror into the surrounding blackness. Night had come on
them and the running lights were agleam, and, ahead, the forms of the
men were visible in the glows from the cockpit lamps. Somehow, those
lights brought comfort. He wished that Clode would switch on the lamp
above the bench. And at that moment Clode did so, and turned to shake
his head boredly at Jack.
“Not a sound for five minutes,” he said. “Thought I heard Arlington
once, but I’m not sure.”
He relapsed into silence again. He didn’t seem greatly concerned,
Jack reflected. But then he had had air training at Pensacola and
had been up in the _F 8_ twice before, whereas this was Jack’s first
experience. Yesterday he had been done out of the trial spin by the
necessity of securing his instruction certificate. Later he had heard
about it from the ensign and had listened to enthusiastic praise of the
Enscott engines, of the ship itself and of the personnel, for Clode
had sought him out in his new quarters and been very friendly to him
all evening. He had reversed his opinion of the ensign now and was
beginning to like him thoroughly; which, he reflected, was fortunate
considering that they were to be thrown together in that tiny cockpit
for awhile. A bell tinkled in the engine station and almost at once
the engines roared again. The wind tore past and Jack turned up the
high collar of his coat. Far away the dejected-looking moon sailed
into sight once more and its wan rays lighted a fleecy bank of cloud
miles off to starboard. The sight was very beautiful, and for no reason
that he could explain Jack’s uneasiness disappeared and a feeling of
triumph took its place. Two miles above the earth, sailing steadily
through space, with lights about him and an appealing odor of coffee
blowing back from the engine cockpit! It made that chap, Jules Verne,
a veritable piker, thought Jack! As for danger, why, one was always in
the way of that. At all events, he assured himself with a smile, he was
safe from automobiles!
The voice of Engineer’s Mate Wason interrupted his reflections. Wason
had a voice like a young fog-horn, and now it traveled the length of
the boat in spite of the wind. “Coffee’s ready!” bawled Wason.
Jack brought his mug and Clode’s, and the four sandwiches apportioned
to them, and nothing ever tasted better. Clode slipped the receiver off
while he ate, clapping one ear-piece back at intervals.
“This is certainly the life, Sterling!” he declared, stretching
luxuriously. “By the way, what’s your other name, old man? Jack, isn’t
it? Thought so. Well, you’ll be Jack after this. Sterling’s too much
of a mouthful. Sounds too――too precious, too. ‘Nine-twenty-five one
thousandths fine,’ you know, and that sort of thing. And my name’s
Hugh, if you care to know it. So here’s to us, Jack, and to the good
old _Fate_! More power to us all!” And Hugh Clode raised his aluminum
cup, touched Jack’s with it laughingly and drank deep. And the next
instant he was sprawling on the cockpit floor, for the boat had swayed
wildly. Jack saved himself by seizing the edge of the bench. Again the
boat plunged and tilted and a gust of cold air tore past. Voices, sharp
and imperative, from ahead, the jangle of the bell in the next cockpit,
the whistling of the wind past cables and guys and then a sickening
swoop as the great airship, seized in the grasp of a mighty wind, swung
from her course! Jack, clinging desperately, his heart in his throat,
knew what had happened. The cyclone had caught them after all!