“Sandy may have had trouble with his motor and headed for Kodiak,” Bev said.
“Yes and he may be down with his radio out of commission,” Bill said. “I don't want to send out a distress signal yet.”
“I might hop back over the Gulf and look for flares,” Shorty said. “He would be on the course we took.”
“Sit tight,” Bill snapped. “I want the rest of you here, then I'll know where you are.”
Old Charlie, the machine-gunner-cook, opened some cans of stew and concocted a huge salad from canned green vegetables. They ate it while the rain continued to beat down on the metal skin of the transport with increasing fury.
They could barely see the lights in the low, squat buildings along the waterfront through the sheets of water and the inky blackness of the night.
“I hope that Sandy ain't down on the Gulf of Alaska on a night like this,” old Charlie said to Bill. Shorty threw him a dirty look and Bev Bates kicked him in the ankle.
Bill didn't answer. He pushed his plate away from him as though the sight of food choked him and got to his feet. He went back on the bridge, threw the radio switch and began to chant Sandy's call letters for the thousandth time.
All through the night they took turns standing watches at the radio. And all through the night nothing came to them from the ether but the scratching roar of the storm and silence.
The rain had stopped when the first eager streaks of light crept out of the east. Bill Barnes was tossing back and forth on the cot in his cabin trying to get some sleep. Bev Bates was standing by the radio. He had just finished a short contact with Tony Lamport on Barnes Field and had thrown the radio key when the scarlet light on the panel brought him up in his chair again.
“BB—BB—BB—calling BB,” came to his ears. “BBG—calling BB. BBG calling BB.”
“Oh, Bill,” Bev shouted, “Red is checking in!”
Bill's feet hit the deck with a thud. His powerful legs drove like pistons as he raced by the Eaglet's hangar and up the steps to the bridge.
“Gimme!” he said and spoke into the microphone.
“BB answering Red. BB answering BBG. Go ahead! Go ahead!” he shouted.
The voice that came back to his ears was barely a whisper. He could just hear it above the crackle of static.
“Can you speak louder. Red?” he asked. “Are you all right? Where are you?”
“O.K., Bill,” Red said. “I've got to talk fast and I don't dare talk too loud or they'll hear me. I'm a prisoner. Bill. I was forced down four or five days ago by a half dozen red-and-black, single-seater Barton Hawks. They all mounted two machine guns. I couldn't get away from them. They knew how to use their guns. I had to land or take plenty of lead. They flew me to a little island east of Rat Island. It has a small landlocked harbor like the one at Unalaska. They forced me to talk to Tony yesterday with a couple of guns on me. The only thing I could say, except what they told me to say, was that I'd had trouble with the nozzle injectors, on my Diesels. Did you get that?”
“I got it,” Bill said. “Who's holding you, Red? What's the layout?”
“I don't know. Bill,” Red said. “I'm being guarded by a couple of gangsters that would rather shoot me than speak to me. Their names are Ugly and Lippy. I managed to slip down to my Snorter while they're asleep. They made me talk to Tony and told me what to say. They told me you were on the way to Unalaska. Is that where you are?”
“Yes,” Bill said. “Haven't you learned anything from the two men who are guarding you?”
“Nothing,” Red said. “They won't talk. This island is uninhabited except for them and some men living in a sort of barracks a quarter of a mile away. , They're the same outfit. I think their boss is there. They won't tell me anything. Take down the position of this place, but don't bring the bomber over here. That's what they're after. I could tell that by their conversation. They call their boss Slip and they're afraid of him.”
“Can't you take your Snorter out of there now?” Bill asked after he had written down the position Red gave him.
“My hands are tied and I think they've done something to the ship,”
Red said. “Remember those names—Ugly, Lippy, and Slip. They may mean something if I don't get out of here.”
“You'll get out all right,” Bill growled. “Sit tight, Red. I'll be there within two hours. Your Snorter is the only ship there?”
“That's right,” Red said. His voice rose suddenly. “They're coming. Bill. I'm signing off!”
A new buzzing sounded in Bill's ear.
He called Red's name a half dozen times but no voice answered him. He looked into Shorty's questioning eyes.
“Where is he?” Shorty asked.
“Some one is holding him a prisoner on an island west of here,” Bill said.
“You got the position?” Shorty asked.
“Yes.” Bill pointed to the piece of paper lying on the chart rack.
Shorty picked it up, checked it on the chart and started to go down the steps 'toward the port gangway.
“Where are you going?” Bill snapped at him.
“I'm going to get Red,” Shorty snapped back. “Did he say how many of them there were? Does he know why they're holding him?”
“He doesn't know much more than we do,” Bill said. “Two men are guarding him. But there are more there. He doesn't know how many. He says they're after the BT-4, but doesn't know why. You wait a minute, Shorty. Let me think this thing over. We haven't had any word from Sandy yet. Red said this gang have a half dozen Barton Hawks, all armed with two machine guns each. They may have spotted Sandy, too—picking us up one at a time so they can get the bomber. We're playing right into their hands.”
“Sitting here won't help Red,” Shorty said, and moved toward the steps again.
“Wait a minute!” Bill snapped. “I'll go after Red in the Lancer. I'll have more guns and more speed in case I run into trouble. You take the Snorter and double back over the course we held yesterday. See if you can pick up some word from Sandy. When you get part way back, you ought to be able to pick up Juneau and Fairbanks on your radio. Bev will have to stay here with the crew of the bomber.
“This damned thing doesn't make any sense,” he said. “I don't want you to go all the way back across the Gulf. Use your own judgment. I'll try to get Red out of there. If I'm not back by the time you are, you had better come and take a look. Give me that latitude and longitude; you copy it.”
“O. K.,” Shorty said. “Let's go!”
VII—TRAP
WHEN Bill Barnes took the Lancer off the waters of the harbor a half hour later, his thoughts were as gray as the drab, colorless morning. He had a feeling of impending tragedy that he could not throw off. He hung the Lancer on its props and took it up to ten thousand feet. He thought that once he was in the air he could dispel the gnawing fear that seemed to have crept into his very bones. He opened the throttles of the Lancer wide and watched his air-speed indicator climb from three hundred to four hundred miles an hour. When it had reached four hundred and fifty, he closed his throttles a notch and there he held her. He studied the position Red had given him and checked it on his chart.
“Nearly two hours,” he said to himself and he began to think about the strange series of events that had happened in the past few days.
“It's almost a certainty,” he said to himself, “that the disappearance of young Reynolds has nothing to do with the thing. Unless-unless—” And there he stopped.
The Island of the Four Mountains towered up ahead, looking like one vast cathedral with four uneven spires rising from its center. The sun was climbing into the heavens now, behind him, and the air was clear and cold. He knew that he should be able to throw off the feeling of anxiety that nagged at him. But he couldn't. Not even the brilliance of the day and the crisp, clean air he sucked into his lungs seemed to help.
Suppose, he thought, after all the things I have been through in the past few years, this is the end. That I end my life in
the cold, drab waters of the Bering Sea. Suppose——
“Hey!” he shouted at himself. “Snap out of it, Barnes, or you'll begin to cry.”
As the last of the innumerable Andreanof Islands sped beneath his wings, he cut his throttles, flipped the tail of the Lancer up and checked his position.
A single tiny island loomed off to starboard—just a rocky dot that marked the spot where the Bering Sea and Pacific mingled. He probed the air all around him as he nosed the Lancer down in wide, sweeping spirals. He estimated that the little island was about five miles long and not more than two wide. It was as barren and desolate a place as he had ever seen.
Then he saw Red's Snorter—left high and dry on the beach of the landlocked harbor-by the receding tide. He saw a half dozen crudely constructed buildings and a pair of powerful radio masts. He circled low above the little island, but could see no sign of life. He supposed that they were keeping out of sight— hoping to lure him lower, within range of machine guns. He zoomed the Lancer upward and went into a conference with himself. He wished he had brought the bomber and the rest of his men with him.
He thought of dropping two or three of the twenty-five-pound bombs that nestled in the belly of the Lancer, going in for a landing and trusting to luck that he and Red could fight their way out again. But he knew that might be suicide.
Suddenly he forgot all those things and his eyes flew open as he sat up in his bucket seat and probed the air all around him. The roar of four or five airplane motors had joined the drone of his Diesels!
Yet he could see no planes. He looked back and up on both sides of him and thumbed the sun. Were his ears playing tricks on him? Was it a strange air current that made the Diesels in the nose of the Lancer a sound illusion? He bent his head and cocked it to the right, then to the left. It sounded one moment as though the planes were above him—the next, as though they were below. And it was increasing in volume as though the planes were screaming into a power dive or pouring in juice for a take-off.
He swung around in a wide, sweeping circle that would take him completely around the tiny island.
And while he was turning it happened!
Five red-and-black amphibians came roaring out of a rock-sheltered harbor, so close together that their wailing props nearly touched the trimming tabs of one another's rudders. Then they broke and went hurtling over the water and into the air in five different directions. They were spread out like the five fingers on an outstretched hand as they raced into the air. Their pilots hung them on their props and took them upstairs with the dazzling speed of the fastest interceptor.
Then they converged and formed an echelon that came tearing back like five steps—with their twin guns vomiting lead and death at the Lancer.
Bill had been watching them like a man in a trance, so complete was his surprise. For a few moments he hadn't been able to believe what he saw. Then he realized that the floor of the hidden airdrome was the surface of the harbor. It was a perfect camouflage. His astonishment was so great that he watched them whip into the air and get above him before he thought of his own safety.
He stuck the nose of the Lancer down and slipped it out of range of their guns while he deliberated on what to do. He knew that he could open the Lancer up and walk away from them. But that wouldn't help Red.
He heard the bark of a light gun below him, felt the Lancer bounce and saw streaks of white and yellow smoke off to his left. He shifted his course as the antiaircraft gun below spoke again and missed.
White streamers of tracers floated through the air as the five red-and-black biplanes thundered down on him. He stuck the stick of the Lancer forward again as bullets laced just above his head. Then he came up and over in a flashing Immelmann to throw the ships off his tail.
Bill's mouth became grim as he leveled off and fired two quick bursts to test his guns. Opening his throttle, he stuck the nose of the Lancer up in an abrupt climbing turn until it almost stalled. There he kicked his rudder and rolled to the right.
He could feel bullets slashing through his tail and hear the tat-tat-tat of machine guns as the biplanes came up under him. He sent the Lancer sky-ward in a desperate zoom and then chandelled back to the attack.
The Lancer, with its terrific speed and maneuverability, was up and over and diving head-on at the five biplanes as though it had gone berserk. They dove and zoomed, skidded and rolled to get out of its flaming path. Bill's finger was fastened down hard on his gun trip. He raked one of the red-and-black ships with a withering fire, but the pilot slipped it out of range before his bullets struck a vulnerable spot.
He gunned his engine again and came over in a normal loop to roll right side up at the top. The five ships had spread out now and were trying to form a circle around him so that they could get him in the vortex of their fire. He wished, as he had never wished before, that Sandy was in the tail to help break their circle with the swivel gun.
Then the air seemed choked with slashing streaks of red and black as they circled on their prey. They were everywhere, charging in from all angles, their guns screaming lead.
Bill tried to break through that circle without having to run a death-dealing gantlet of lead. He realized that these five pilots knew all of the old and all of the new tricks of combat flying. They were a bunch of veterans who never made a mistake. Their tactics were flawless as they converged on him. He felt as though he was hemmed in by a band of steel from which there was no escape.
When those five ships formed an echelon and dove on him, he had taken it in his stride. It had seemed similar to a hundred other attacks. But now he knew it was different. These men were all masters at their craft. He could picture their lined, hard-bitten faces behind their windshields. He knew that they were men like Red and Shorty, veterans of a thousand battles in the air.
He whipped the Lancer up and down, skidded and sideslipped, zoomed and crabbed to avoid the streams of death that were aimed at him. He knew that if he could cut out of that circle without being annihilated he could run away from them. But he couldn't cut out without putting himself in a position where they could chop his head from his shoulders with their bullets. They knew how to anticipate every move he made.
And he was getting tired, desperately tired. He opened the throttles of the Lancer even wider, taking a chance on “blacking out” to increase the speed of his maneuvers. But still they clung to him like blood-sucking leeches. Each one did his part as though he had rehearsed it a million times.
For the first time in his life Bill Barnes knew stark terror in the air. It wasn't that he was afraid of the death they were trying to mete out to him. It was something else that he couldn't understand himself. It was as though he was inclosed” in an air-tight chamber from which there was no escaping— where he must surely and slowly strangle to death.
Cold, damp perspiration oozed out all over his throbbing body. He thought, “This is the end. The premonition I had this morning is coming true.”
They were closing in on him now. He braced himself like a man who is about to take a blow in the face. Opening his throttles wide» he yanked the control column back into his stomach as he decided to go through or die trying. As he came up and over on his back and started to roll right side up, black despair seized him.
The Lancer skidded off to the right and the nose dropped. As it spun once, then twice, he warped and managed to bring the nose up. He was aware that the red-and-black ships were holding their fire as he started a glide toward the waters below. They fell in on each ' side and above and below him. The pilot on the port side leaned over the cowling and motioned downward with one hand. They knew he was helpless, that he could no longer maneuver for combat.
For one black moment rage surged through him. They had got him the way they got Red. And, probably, the way they had got Sandy.
He flipped over his radio switch and began to chant his own call letters into the microphone. “BB calling all ships,” he said. “BB calling all ships!”
But no voi
ce answered him. Once the scratching increased in his ear and he thought he heard a voice. He shouted into his mike, but the voice faded away and there was only silence.
Spume and spray that was like ice shot high in the air as he sat the Lancer down on the waters of the Bering Sea. The five red-and-black amphibians landed beside him. He slipped an automatic out of a pocket and stuck it in his overall as they taxied toward him.
They made motions for him to kill his engines and he obeyed. The five pilots had pushed their goggles back on their foreheads and were laughing at him when he climbed out to catch the line one of them threw him.
“Bill Barnes, the boy wonder, eh?” one of them shouted at him. “Throw that gat you have in your pocket over the side!”
Bill remained silent as he watched his automatic disappear beneath the water. As the line tightened, he manipulated his steerable water rudder to follow the course of the red-and-black ship in front of him. The other four ships taxied along beside him as they headed toward the little harbor.
The five hard-faced pilots weren't laughing as they ordered Bill out of the cockpit of the Lancer into a boat one of them rowed. They didn't even speak to him. But he could tell by the glitter in their eyes that any one of them would have been glad to cut his throat.
Two men, who were even harder-' looking than the five pilots, took charge of Bill when he stepped out on the dock.
“Git up there with your pal, punk,” one of them said to Bill.
Bill didn't even look at him. He started toward the crude little hut a hundred feet from the waterfront and saw Red Gleason standing in the doorway. He was so tired he could hardly walk.
VIII—THE PLAN
“THEY got you, too, did they?” Red said. “I didn't think you'd try to come alone.”
His face was cut and battered. Both his eyes were half closed and tinged with yellow, blue, and black. But his carrot-colored hair flamed as brightly as ever.
“I slammed one of those plug-uglies on the nose,” Red went on in answer to the question in Bill's eyes. “They tied my hands behind my back and went to work on me.”
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