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 stop _figuring_ so 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!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
_Pilot's Luck_
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 it _isn'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 reason _I_ didn'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 say _how_, or _what_ time 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 want
_Farmer 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 that _is_
impossible. 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. That _is_ fantastic!"
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 look _first_!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
_Nobody's Airport_
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 you
_wouldn't_ be 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."