Over the Sierras
Presently Uncle Brian rejoined his nephew. The flying-boat was now
at an altitude of 4000 metres and following the course of the Rio
del Morte.
From the island from which they had made their escape rifle bullets
were singing harmlessly, for the searchers, upon hearing the hum of
the flying-boat's engines, had jumped to the conclusion--a correct
one in this case--that the "English dogs" had scored rather heavily.
"She's well stocked in the food department," reported Uncle Brian,
"and there's plenty of fuel in the tanks. With reasonable luck we'll
cross the Sierras before sunset."
"And then----?"
"Make for Trinidad or Barbadoes," replied Peter's uncle, as he
carefully stowed the haversack containing the secret-rays parts into
a locker. "She'll do that easily. But I've a notion that I'd like to
stop and have a look at the pipe-line between El Toro and Tajeco. We
might be able to cut off the fuel supply to the Rioguayan Air
Fleet."
"Right-o," agreed Peter. "And what about Antonio?"
"Who?" asked his uncle.
"Antonio, our mechanic," explained Peter, indicating the closed
hatchway, underneath which the Rioguayan engineer was quaking and
trembling. "He'll be a bit of a nuisance on board, although he
hasn't the pluck of a mouse. Can't we land him somewhere? Between us
we can manage quite all right."
There was no difficulty in conversation. With the plate glass window
in front of the pilot's seat and the hatch to the motor-room closed,
the compartment was practically cut off, both from external and
internal noises. Except for the muffled pulsations of the motors and
the subdued roar from the propellers, there was little to indicate
that the flying-boat was cutting through the air at eighty-five
miles an hour.
"It's a jolly lucky thing we didn't carry on in the motor-boat,"
remarked Peter. "Look down there."
He pointed to the sinuous course of the river. Even at that height
it was quite easy to see that the Rio del Morte above the lake was
not easily navigable. There were rapids at about every half-mile,
the foaming water showing up distinctly in the strong sunlight. It
was doubtful whether a small boat, or any boat, could force her way
against that furious torrent, rendered even more formidable by the
numerous rocks that split the swiftly-running water into dangerous
cascades.
"Yes," agreed Uncle Brian gravely, "we did the right thing. But
don't forget--more than likely the air station at San Antonio is in
touch with us by means of the magnetic detectors. We've got to bear
in mind the possibility of being pursued."
"But they won't know what has happened," said Peter. "All they know
is that the 'bus is proceeding up-country, following the course of
the river. They would naturally conclude that the original crew are
in pursuit of our late and unlamented 'egg-box'. Until the air
station people get to hear from the fellows we left on the
island--by the by, what will happen to them?"
"That's not our affair now," replied Uncle Brian. "In a few days
another flying-boat will be dispatched to look for them. They've
plenty of water, so they won't be thirsty; and, if they're
hungry--well, there's the hound. In a way, he is responsible for
their present plight."
"Talking of hunger," observed Peter, "isn't it about time we piped
to dinner? I think I heard a suggestion about grub a couple of hours
ago."
His uncle agreed, and went aft to the store and provision room. A
few minutes later, thanks to the stabilizing device that enabled the
flying-boat to hold on her course both as regards altitude and
direction, Peter and Uncle Brian were enjoying a plain but
satisfying meal of the food originally intended for the ill-fated
Rioguayan captain.
Nor was the motor-mechanic neglected, although, when Peter opened
the trap-hatch to pass the food down to him, he cowered and trembled
in a state of utter funk.
"Now," remarked Uncle Brian, after consulting a map, "we ought to be
approaching the scene of preliminary operations. The pipe-line
should be about here, running in a north-west to south-east
direction. It may be overgrown with tropical growth, but I know for
a fact that it was laid on the surface and not buried."
"Bad system, that," observed Peter.
"Yes; but it was for economical reasons," continued his uncle.
"Apparently the Rioguayan authorities never contemplated an attempt
to cut it. We'll do our utmost to prove the fallacy of their belief
in its immunity."
By the aid of binoculars, the track of the huge oil-pipe was
located. So far so good; but there still remained the task of
finding a suitable landing-ground. The flying-boat, although
provided with means for alighting both on the water and on land,
could not reasonably be expected to come to rest on tree-tops
without the almost certain risk of being completely destroyed.
At two hundred metres the aircraft followed the line--until Peter
discovered a possible landing in a clearing about fifty yards from
the Englishman's objective. Here, for the first time since leaving
the island, they saw signs of human habitation--small _adobe_ huts.
"All right, I suppose?" asked Peter.
"Yes, they're Indians in the pay of the Rioguayan Government,"
replied Uncle Brian. "They are paid, I understand, not for the work
they do, but for the damage they don't do--sort of retaining fee,
providing they are good and don't start carving pieces out of the
iron pipe."
"I see," remarked Peter. "Then, as far as we are concerned, they
need not be taken into account. S'pose they won't carve up our
engineer bird when we set him ashore?"
"They will more likely take him down to El Toro and get paid for the
job," said Uncle Brian.
His nephew nodded. He was now engaged upon the task of bringing the
flying-boat to earth, no easy task in a strange 'bus and on a
landing-ground of doubtful quality and very limited extent.
With a succession of slight jolts, the flying-boat was brought to
rest with her nose within ten feet of one of the huts. No Indians
came out to gaze curiously at the wonderful sight, or to beg tobacco
from the crew. They had promptly taken to the bush at the first
distant view of the strange, enormous mechanical bird.
Bolting the hatch over the for'ard motor-room and at the same time
telling the craven Rioguayan that there was nothing to be afraid of,
provided he behaved himself, Peter and Brian Strong removed one of
the fifty-pound bombs from the dropping gear and carried it ashore.
Then, armed with rifles, they transported their bulky load to the
enormous rust-red pipe-line that was raised eight feet above the
ground, stretching miles in either direction, upon which depended
the main kerosene supply to the Rioguayan arsenals and aerodromes.
It was the work of a few minutes to place the bomb close to the pipe
and "tamp" it with earth. In the absence of a time fuse, it was
necessary to detonate the explosive by rifle-fire.
At a safe distance, Peter put bullet after bullet at the target. The
pipe was holed in several places, the oil gushing forth at high
pressure, but it was not until the tenth shot that the desired
result was attained.
There was a deafening crash. To quote Brian Strong's words: "It was
as if the entire contents of an ironmonger's store had been dropped
from the top of a skyscraper". A cloud of dust and smoke rose high
in the air, mingled with fragments of jagged iron. Flames fifty feet
in height shot up from the pipe, spreading far and wide as the
inexhaustible supply of highly inflammable oil poured out in
torrents to add to the work of destruction.
"That's kippered the show," remarked Peter gleefully, as the two
Englishmen retraced their steps to the flying-boat.
The next business was to "pay off" the Rioguayan engineer. He was
given a supply of provisions and a liberal quantity of tobacco and
told to clear out and not to hurry back to San Antonio; while, for
self-protection, he was provided with a rifle and twenty rounds of
ammunition.
"You might have made him start up the motors, Peter," remarked his
uncle, as the mechanic disappeared in the undergrowth.
"Thought I'd try my hand at the job," replied his nephew.
The for'ard pair of motors fired without hesitation, but the after
ones gave a certain amount of trouble. At length, with the four
engines throbbing and out of gear, Peter made his way to the pilot's
seat.
At a steep angle, the flying-boat rose skywards. As she did so, a
rifle bullet "pinged" harmlessly against the light steel armour
plating of the fuselage.
"Ungrateful brute, that mechanic," was Peter's only remark.
Ten minutes later the fiercely burning oil pipe was a mere speck in
the distance. The flying-boat, at an altitude of three thousand
metres, was heading for the distant Sierras, that rose in a
far-flung barrier of irregular projection to a height averaging nine
thousand feet above the sea-level.
The aircraft was flying "all out", her speed, on account of the
rarefaction of the atmosphere, being a little less than 140 miles an
hour.
Peter was in a hurry. It was most desirable that the mountains
should be crossed well before dark. Apart from the risk of crashing
blindly against one of the many almost vertical peaks, there were
the dangerous air-pockets and eddies to be taken into consideration,
and with the setting of the sun, and the consequent rapid cooling of
the earth's surface, the higher altitudes were certain to be
disturbed by raging winds that attain the velocity of a hurricane.
For miles the ground rose steadily. Viewed from a height, the rise
appeared to be gradual, since the smaller irregularities were
apparently flattened out. It was only by judging by the shadows cast
by the sun, which was now well down in the west, that the numerous
valleys and ridges could be noticed.
For the first hundred miles, the country was well wooded. Then came
a wide belt of grass land, gradually merging into an arid waste
absolutely destitute of vegetation. The desert marked the beginning
of the Sierras, which were now plainly visible at a distance of
thirty or forty miles.
"Think she'll do it before dark?" inquired Uncle Brian, glancing at
the sun, now only about thirty degrees above the horizon.
"Rather," replied Peter. "It will be quite light up here after the
low-lying ground is in darkness. Once we're above the peaks I don't
mind. It will be plain sailing after that."
"If you're sure of it, well and good," rejoined Brian. "If not, we'd
better make a landing while it is light." The youthful pilot shook
his head.
"Twelve hours saved is twelve hours gained," he said sagely. "I
don't want to spend another night in Rioguayan territory if it can
be avoided. She'll do it."
Fifteen minutes later, a violent bump announced that the flying-boat
had struck an air-pocket, a clear indication of the adverse
conditions that awaited her above the snowy peaks of the Sierras.
She dropped vertically for nearly a thousand feet in spite of the
pilot's efforts to counteract the sudden loss of "lift". Then
staggering blindly into the furthermost wall of the invisible air
chasm, the flying-boat "stalled" and almost stood on her tail, until
she picked up and Peter was able to bring her back to her normal
trim.
The next five minutes was a perfect nightmare. Above the snowy
crags, now pink in the diffused rays of the setting sun, she sped,
side-slipping, banking, and plunging, as if scorning the desperate
efforts of the pilot to keep her up.
Once she nose-dived, flattened out, and made straight for a sheer
wall of rock that a few seconds previously she ought to have cleared
with a thousand feet to spare. Vainly Peter put the vertical rudders
hard over. It seemed as if a collision was inevitable and that the
shattered debris of the flying-boat would fall headlong into the
fathomless chasm, when a side gust of terrific force hurled her,
like a leaf, crab-fashion, so that she just scraped clear with a few
feet between her port wing-tips and the pitiless face of the peak.
Then, propelled upwards by a freak air-current of irresistible
strength, the flying-boat was hurled, like a sheet of paper up a
tall chimney, between the perpendicular walls of a deep defile. So
near did she scrape the summit of one of the twin peaks, that the
rush of air dislodged a mass of snow, sending it thundering into the
abyss, with a roar plainly audible within the supposedly sound-proof
pilot's cabin.
Suddenly the roseate snow peaks gave place to a void of intense
darkness. The crossing of the Sierras was accomplished. Ahead lay
miles of country, sloping towards the Caribbean Sea, with nothing
higher than three thousand feet to be encountered--at least, so the
map read.
"We're over!" exclaimed Peter thankfully, as the flying-boat settled
down to her normal even style of flight.
"More by luck than by anything else," thought Uncle Brian, who felt
bruised and shaken all over.
"I'll take her down to eight thousand feet," continued Peter
briskly. "Then I'll get you to stand by, Uncle. There's nothing to
be done except to watch the altimeter and the compass. There's no
need to bust along now. We've ten hours of darkness in front of us
and we don't want to find ourselves miles out over the Atlantic when
day breaks. I'll cut out the after motors."
In spite of the fact that the interior of the fuselage was heated by
pipes connected with the exhausts, the air within the cabins was
bitterly cold, and the temperature fell yet lower after the rear
pair of motors was shut down.
Peter was now feeling very sleepy. Lack of proper rest, the
excitement of the last two days, and the effect of the rarefied
atmosphere all combined to reduce him to a state of resistless
drowsiness.
"You turn in," said his uncle peremptorily. "I'm good for another
ten hours, if needs must. If there's anything requiring your
attention, I'll wake you."
The elder man "took on". Since the flying-boat was built largely
after his designs, he was well acquainted with the technical part of
the mechanism and construction, but he was quite a novice in the art
of actual flight. As long as things went right, there was little for
him to do.
Peter, wrapped in half a dozen blankets in addition to a leather
flying-coat, was soon sound asleep in spite of the low temperature.
He had not slept for more than ten minutes when his uncle roused
him.
"She's faltering--both engines," announced Uncle Brian laconically.
Peter rose stiffly to his feet. He had not the trained ear for
mechanism that his uncle possessed, and as far as he could hear, the
motors were still keeping up their rhythmic purr.
"Look at the gauge of the main fuel tank," suggested Uncle Brian.
His nephew picked up an electric torch and made his way to the
'midship compartment. He went sceptically enough, but on consulting
the indicator, the state of the gauge fairly startled him. It stood
at zero.
That meant that only one of the auxiliary tanks contained any
kerosene, and owing to its position was useless unless the
flying-boat was diving steeply or in an inverted position while
"looping".
The tanks were three-quarters full when the flying-boat had passed
out of Rioguayan control; and since only a few hours had elapsed, it
was a matter of impossibility for the four motors even running all
out to "mop up" anything like the quantity that had gone somewhere.
A hasty examination revealed the cause of the leakage. A drain-cock
was half open, allowing a steady stream of kerosene to flow into
space. At first thoughts, Peter attributed the leakage to the
Rioguayan mechanic, until he remembered that the fellow had been
locked up when left alone on board.
But there was little time for speculation.
Hastening back to the control compartment, Peter found that the
for'ard motors were now firing spasmodically. In a few moments they
would cease functioning for lack of fuel, and then there was nothing
to keep the flying-boat from descending with fair rapidity. Her
weight and relatively small plane-area were against her for
prolonged gliding.
He touched his uncle on the shoulder and motioned him away from the
controls.
"Luck's out this time," he said grimly. "It's a thundering big drop
in the dark."