"The rays must have struck some electric cable carrying tremendous
power--more powerful than any cable to be found on shipboard," the
inventor explained, in a husky voice. "That would put so heavy a power
load on it that the rays were no longer capable of short-circuiting it
to extinction. They carried the overload back to us and burned out our
generator."
"But that little plane," Nelson argued. "It couldn't--"
Androka shrugged his narrow shoulders and ran his fingers nervously
through his gray beard. "There must be some other vessel near at
hand--with power cables such as I have described."
Nelson cursed savagely and tore out of the room. He raced up the ladder
to the bridge, tugged at Herr Kommander Brandt's sleeve.
"That fool Androka's rays have failed. They've short-circuited
themselves. We've got to shoot down Curtis--that helicopter--with our
antiaircraft guns!"
"Better have Androka release the radio and tell the others what we're
doing," Brandt advised.
In the next few minutes, the radio silence was lifted long enough to
let Nelson tell the rest of the convoy that an enemy plane was hovering
over the _Comerford_.
Then a blast from the antiaircraft batteries of the cruiser screamed
into the sky. Other armed vessels in the convoy cut loose with a fierce
barrage.
A few minutes of bedlam. Then the firing ceased.
Nelson, sweeping the sky with his binoculars, saw the blasted fragments
of wings and fuselage fluttering out of the clouds, to be swallowed up
in the black waters. He handed the glasses to Brandt, saying: "I reckon
that's the end of Curtis and his helicopter!"
Herr Kommander Brandt searched the sky for a moment, then explored the
dark wastes of ocean astern.
"_Ja_," he agreed. "Ve must have blown him to bits. He ain't in the sky
nor the sea!"
* * * * *
Other eyes were watching the fragments of aircraft wreckage that
drifted with the eternal wash of the Atlantic waves astern of the
convoy. Through the observation window in the helicopter's fuselage,
Commander Bob Curtis grinned as he watched the sea-tossed remains
of the dummy plane--a smaller replica of the helicopter--that he
had thrown out as a target for the antiaircraft batteries of the
_Comerford_.
Slowly he wound in the light cable by which the decoy aircraft had
been lowered from the trapdoor in the helicopter's hull to take the
full fury of the barrage, while Curtis and his pilot Lieutenant Jay
Lancaster were hovering safely far overhead, protected by a cloud of
vapor.
Curtis thrilled with a sense of keen satisfaction, because many of
his own ideas were embodied in this helicopter. For many months of
his spare time, he had worked in the navy's chemical laboratories on
the aluminoid paint formula that rendered it practically invisible,
especially when enveloped by the cloud of gas that could be released
from the series of valves in the fuselage by touching a key on the
instrument board. The collapsible dummy plane, which could be towed at
a safe distance as a decoy for ambitious antiaircraft gunners had also
been Curtis' own idea.
For hours after that, the helicopter drifted in the sky, high over the
convoy, which, Curtis found, was still enveloped in the zone of radio
silence, for he could neither send nor receive any message through the
ether.
Finally, he touched Lancaster on the arm and spoke into the mouthpiece
on his chest: "The _Comerford's_ running alongside the _Carethusia_.
If the other ships try to interfere, the _Comerford's_ guns are heavy
enough to sink them. There's only one thing to do. We _must_ break that
zone of radio silence!"
"But how--" Lancaster began.
"Listen!" Curtis said, and spoke rapidly for the next few minutes.
Lancaster began to maneuver the helicopter, throttling down the frontal
engine, and reversing the lateral engine, so that the plane glided in
slow circles, like a swooping hawk, till it was about three hundred
feet above the _Comerford's_ mastheads.
Curtis shook hands with Lancaster. The latter murmured "Good luck!"
and Curtis crawled out of the cockpit and back into the plane's small
cabin. He loosened the fastenings of his 'chute pack, saw that his
automatic was safe in its holster.
Then he pushed open the escape hatch and jumped out into space.
From the plane's cloud-gas valves, a mass of opaque vapor streamed,
enveloping him in a fog-like cloud that combined with the blackness of
the night to render him invisible to those on the ship below.
The 'chute opened out, and Curtis found himself descending on the
_Comerford_. By kicking with his legs and manipulating the cords, he
maneuvered the 'chute so that he would land in the mizzen-mast turret.
From what Androka had once told him--perhaps in an unguarded moment--he
felt certain that the radio silence was projected from this point.
The cords of his 'chute tangled with the basket-like structure of the
mast. Curtis got out his knife, cut himself free of the 'chute, then
scrambled down the mast till he was at the entrance to the turret.
He pushed his way into the small chamber and found himself facing
two sailors, in United States naval uniforms, but they uttered harsh
exclamations in German at sight of him, and went for their holstered
automatics.
Curtis brought his gun up, pointed it, and squeezed the
trigger--once--twice--three times--four--
The first German sailor's face took on a look of surprise, the guttural
curses died on his lips, as he slumped forward in a bloody heap. The
second man uttered a scream and clutched at his chest, as Curtis' lead
tore into him. Then he fell beside his companion.
* * * * *
A huge dome stood in the center of the turret, with antennae radiating
out from it in every direction. Curtis could hear the low, humming
drone, as of a powerful dynamo at work, and he could see a heavy cable,
which evidently fed this dome of silence with its power.
He found a switch and shut off the current; then he attacked the cable
with the pliers he had brought with him. One by one, the thick strands
of wire began to part--
Behind him, a harsh, inhuman cry caused Curtis to look around swiftly.
Instinctively, he dropped the pliers, reached for his automatic, then
hesitated, his finger on the safety catch.
Zukor Androka stood in the turret entrance, his gray hair floating in
wisps around his head, his eyes ablaze with a maniac's fury, his hands
extended toward Curtis like gouging claws.
"You ... you ... you have ruined my invention!" Androka murmured, in a
heartbroken voice. "You have wrecked the zone of silence!"
Curtis took a step forward, seized the Czech inventor by the shoulder
and shook him.
"You dirty little traitor!" he barked. "You've lied and cheated--sold
out to the Nazis you profess to hate!"
Androka looked at him, terror-stricken, evidently recognizing him for
the first time. "You--you're Commander Curtis!"
"Yes!" Curtis gave the inventor another shake and released him. "And
you helped steal my ship--tried to ruin me as an officer of the United
States navy!"
"Listen!" Androka moved closer to Curtis, then fell on his knees in an
attitude of supplication. "Listen to me!"