He landed in soft earth among some bushes. Quickly, he bundled up the 'chute and checked his gun. He cleared the branches just as something dark slipped by him, and then a white cloud descended, enveloping him into its folds!
Desperate, he fought free, lunging to his feet. Another man staggered erect, and he saw the dark glimmer of light on a gun barrel.
"Skipper?" the voice was low, questioning.
Chiv Sauten!
"What the heck?" Madden demanded softly. "I left you in the ship!"
"Yeah," Sauten nodded agreement as he got himself free of the parachute, "but things looked kind of slow up there. I had this typewriter, so I thought I'd come down and see what was cookin'."
"Let's go!" Turk felt relieved. There was no denying the security he felt with Chiv at his elbow. Then, a cold chill went over him.
Why had Sauten joined him? Had the man come to help or to prevent Turk's effort from succeeding?
He could only drive ahead and take a chance on that.
He knew where the radio station was. The plan had been well studied. They had landed close together in a small park. Chiv, who had followed Madden by seconds only, had observed a tall building to their rear, a dwelling dead ahead of them. He spoke of this now.
Turk nodded.
"We'll skirt the smaller place, then head for the radio. It isn't over a thousand yards away."
Suddenly, the night was broken wide open by the whine of an air raid siren!
Turk broke into a run. Men were dashing about everywhere, and his running did not attract attention. Nearby, covering him, was Sauten.
Dodging past the dwelling, they rushed across a street and down an alleyway. Lights were going out, and in a matter of seconds the town would be in total darkness.
Suddenly, from ahead of them, muffled by the screaming siren, there was a burst of small arms fire!
A soldier darted from a building and started up the street toward the sound. Then, under the scream of the siren he must have heard the running feet and spun around-too late!
Turk was running full tilt, and he jerked up his tommy gun and smashed the butt into the man's face with all the drive of his powerful shoulders. Behind him, as the man fell, he heard another thud, a heavier one. Chiv Sauten was always thorough.
The shooting had broken into a roar now, and it came from a building dead ahead where there still were lights.
There was no time to hesitate. Turk slid to a stop at the door, then turned the corner quickly and flattened against the wall inside the doorway.
Two Japanese policemen were dead on the steps. At the top of the steps was Lin, one of the Cantonese who had flown with Ryan. He was dead. Fairly riddled with bullets.
Turk started forward, working his way up the steps.
Inside the shooting had slowed to an occasional shot. He stepped up, then stopped suddenly, his gaze riveted on the body of the Chinese!
Lin had been shot in the back!
Eyes narrow, Turk cleared the top step. Four Japanese soldiers were crouched by the switchboards, their eyes on something across the room.
"All right," Turk said loudly, "this is it!"
As one man, they wheeled, and, turning, they faced a blasting, hell of fire! Through a haze from his tommy gun, Turk saw one Japanese then another toppling to the floor.
Beside him Sauten's weapon was hammering.
Across the room, Sparrow Ryan suddenly lunged to his feet and poured a battering chain of .45-caliber slugs into the switchboard.
Sauten jerked a handful of wires then, punching a hole in the wall near him he pulled the pin on an incendiary grenade and dropped it in.
A bullet clipped the door over Turk's head, and he wheeled, firing at a soldier in the side door. There was a dull thud and part of the wall blew out as the grenade sent a rush of hot flame toward the ceiling. The three men ran and, as they reached the door, Madden jerked the pin on another grenade, tossing it over the switchboard into the maze of wires. That would take care of the telephone exchange.
They made the street. Madden wheeled to run, and then something smashed across his forehead, and he felt himself falling. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, struggled to get up and then another blow landed on his skull from behind, and he slid facedown on the sidewalk, his head roaring with a gigantic blackness shot through with the lightning of pain.
It could only have been minutes later when he opened his eyes. His face, which had been lying on the floor, was stiff with blood from his cut scalp. He tried to move, and the attempt made his head throb horribly. He lay still, gathering strength.
"Who is it?"
The voice was scarcely a whisper.
"Are you a Yank?"
Turk's head jerked. "A Yank?" he gasped. "Yes. Who are you?"
"My name's Morley, I-"
"Vic!" Madden heaved himself to a sitting position.
"It's Madden! We thought you were dead!"
"They kept me alive for interrogation," Morley replied bitterly. "But if I ever get out of this-" He hesitated, his voice queer and strained. "Turk, we were sold out. It was..."
The door opened, and a brilliant light flashed on. Two Japanese officers stepped in, and following them, were four soldiers, supporting the wreck of what had been Sparrow Ryan. They threw the little flyer to the concrete floor, and one of them kicked him brutally.
The stockier of the two looked at Madden. His eyes were malignant.
"You are a fool!" he snapped, his words clipped, but in excellent English. "You think you will surprise us? We have been ready for you for days!"
He stared at Madden, then stepped close.
"You tell me-how many planes come in the attacking force?"
Turk smiled. "Go to the devil," he said quietly.
The officer kicked him in the head. Once, twice, three times. Turk let his head roll with the kicks, and held himself inside against the burst of pain.
"You will tell." The man's voice was distinct. He kicked Turk again, breaking ribs.
"Sure," Turk gasped, "I'll tell."
The Jap's eyes gleamed.
"How many come?"
"Ten thousand," Turk said. "It won't end until Dai Nippon is a heap of smoldering ruins."
"Yes? I have seen your country. They are soft! They will tire of the war, then Japan will be left with all she needs!"
He looked down at Turk contemptuously.
"Bah! I know how many ships come! Their size, their bomb loads, their route!"
He turned on his heel and left the room. The guard loitered, his eyes ugly. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then walked back to Madden. For a moment, he stood looking down, then slowly, he raised the rifle and pointed the bayonet at Turk's chest.
Madden's eyes were cold.
"Go ahead, yellow belly! Some Marine will feed you one of those soon enough!"
The soldier snarled, and the bayonet came down, and suddenly, with all his remaining strength, Turk Madden rolled over, thrusting himself hard into the soldier's legs!
The Japanese had started to shift his weight, and Turk caught him off balance. The guard toppled, and fell, his head striking the corner of the table as he dropped. He rolled over and, groggy, started to get up. Morley, lying almost beside him, fastened his teeth on the man's ear.
At that moment, the sky turned into a roar of sound, and they heard the shrill scream of bombs, punctuated by explosions.
Madden heaved himself'closer to the struggling guard and, drawing his knees back to his chest, kicked out hard with the heels of both bound feet. The man's head slammed back into the wall, and then Madden struggled nearer, and kicked again, kicked with all the strength in his powerful legs.
"Quick!" Madden snapped. "Get his rifle and work the bayonet under the ropes on my wrists!"
Outside, the world was an inferno of flame and the thunderous roar of bombs. There was a fight going on overhead, too, and amid the frightful explosions of antiaircraft fire and the high, protesting yammer of machine guns,
Turk could hear the scream of diving planes.
He could feel the blade of the bayonet working against the ropes. It was slow and hard, for Morley was working with bound hands. Suddenly, everything happened at once. A Japanese officer stepped into the doorway, and the ropes on Turk's wrists came free.
There was an instant of paralyzed astonishment, and then the officer reached for his pistol. The holster flap was buttoned and Turk had time to whip the Arisaka rifle to his shoulder and fire.
His hand still fumbling helplessly at the flap, the officer tumbled back through the door. Turk hastily freed his ankles, then turned to Morley.
Stopping only to grab up the officer's pistol, they dashed from the room and then down the steps.
A shadow loomed nearby, and Turk whirled, the rifle poised.
"Hold it, Skipper." Chiv Sauten stepped into view. "It's me."
There was no darkness now. Wakkanai was a roaring mass of flame, and the pound of exploding bombs roared on, unceasing.
"Sparrow got away, too," he said. "We'd better get out of here."
He led them at a fast walk. They carried their guns ready. Rounding a corner, they came face-to-face with a cluster of men fighting a fire. They ran toward the blaze, hoses at the ready, and showed no interest at all in Madden's armed group. Sauten led the way down an alley, picking up the pace. The roar of wind-captured flames was so great as almost to drown the sound of the nightmare overhead. Somewhere a munitions plant let go, and glass cascaded into the street. An arrow of fire shot across in front of them from a burning building, and then a huge wall fell in, and a great blast of flame gulped at the sky.
Moving through the destruction, Turk felt himself turn sick with horror at what was happening to the town. This was fury such as no man had seen short of Hamburg or Berlin.
Soon they were at the edge of town, and they turned into a small field to see Sparrow's B-25 waiting.
And then, Turk Madden saw the officer who had spoken to them.
The Japanese was standing across the field, with him were three soldiers, one behind a heavy-caliber machine gun. Even as Turk glimpsed them, he saw the officer lift a hand as a signal.
Turk's Arisaka went to his hip, and he fired. The shot missed, but knocked the gunner to a kneeling position.
Sauten dropped into a crouch and opened up with the tommy gun, but on the third round the gun went dead.
Madden was halfway across the short intervening space before the gun had stopped pounding. The officer was the only man on his feet, and he cried shrilly and sprang from behind the gun, drawing his samurai sword.
Leaping back before the slashing arc of the great sword, Turk hurled the rifle. Its bayonet point was within four feet of the officer's chest, and Madden's throw drove the long knife deep into the man's body! Turning, Turk Madden ran stumbling toward the bomber....
Behind him, the bullet-riddled body of the Mitchell once again stood on the Air Corps field. As dawn began to light the sky Turk Madden walked quickly toward the Headquarters office. At his side was Sauten, behind him Sparrow Ryan and Morley limped, trying to keep up. Beyond them planes returning from the raid of Wakkanai were beginning to fill the sky and drop toward the landing strip.
Stepping up, Turk stopped in the doorway. For an instant, there was complete silence.
Colonel Sharpe's eyes widened, then narrowed.
"You? Thank God you're back!"
"Yes," Turk said. "And I know who gave us away. I know who the traitor was who blew up the Morley job and who gave us away this time."
The Colonel's eyes were calculating.
"You do?"
Turk turned to face Martin, and his face was quiet. Then Morley stepped through the door, his face thin and pale, his eyes burning.
"Well Martin, I see you got back again. I supposed you had another story cooked up as good as the one you told after you betrayed us?"
"He landed in a radio-equipped Jap plane a few minutes ago," Colonel Sharpe said. "When the rest of you were shot up, he got away in a stolen plane."
"Did you come back, Martin," Morley said slowly, "to betray us again? Or were you afraid of what the Japs might do to you for failing?"
Turk turned to Sharpe. "The burning fighter planes gave away their airfield and the burning signal station ended up being a guide to the bombers."
Sharpe turned to Morley. "Are you claiming he sold us out?"
"He didn't sell anything, Colonel. He's a Japanese!"
"He's a what?"
Martin's lips twisted with contempt.
"You're right, Morley. My mother was, and I'm proud of it! You Americans forced us into this war but we'll..."
His hand lurched to the holster at his hip and the gun swung up, but he never made it, for Turk sprang, driving his shoulder hard into Martin's chest.
Martin staggered, tried to remain erect, but Turk stepped back and hooked a left, high and hard. Martin slammed into the wall, and then slid to the floor.
Madden turned.
"That was it," he said, "he sold us out as he did Morley.
He even might have succeeded again, except when they threw me in a cell it was with Morley and he'd figured some of it out.
"I should have guessed. Martin was the only one who lived in the building with me, and who might know where I kept the maps he stole from me. But Vic reminded me of something I had forgotten. Before the war there was an up-and-coming football player at USC. He went back to Japan but this kid was the nephew of Commander Ishimaru of the Japanese air force! It was Ken Martin!"
Chiv Sauten looked down at Martin.
"Yeah?" he said slowly. "What was that he was spoutin' about our starting the war? Didn't he ever hear of Pearl Harbor?"
Vic Morley collapsed into a chair. "I heard it a couple of times while I was locked up. You won't find too many in Japan who know the truth. They've all been told that Japan declared war on the U. S. before the attack and that we forced them into it by cutting off their supplies of steel and fuel oil."
"That's ridiculous!" Sharpe barked. "Our boycott was in protest to their invasion of China!"
"It makes it seem they're in the right, Colonel. That's important for motivating troops, especially with a people for whom honor is so important." Turk nudged the unconscious Martin with a toe. "It even works with men who have been around enough to know better."
"Come on, Morley," Sparrow Ryan said, "I think we'd better get to the infirmary."
Turk paused in the doorway of the building with Chiv Sauten at his side. "When I go out again, buddy, I want you along. You'll do to ride the river with!"
"Me?" Sauten grinned. "You should see my brother Pete. He was fifteen years old before he learned you were supposed to take the cans off the beans before you ate 'em!"
*
DREAM FIGHTER
He never even cracked a smile. Just walked in and said, "Mr. Sullivan, I want a fight with Dick Abro."
Now Dick Abro was one of the four or five best heavyweights in the racket and who this kid was I didn't know. What I did know was that if he rated a fight with anybody even half so good as Dick Abro, his name would have been in every news sheet in the country.
At first I thought the guy was a nut. Then I took another look, and whatever else you can say, the kid had all his buttons. He was a tall, broad-shouldered youngster with a shock of wavy brown hair and a nice smile. He looked fit, too, his weight was around one eighty. And Abro tipped the beam at a plenty tough two hundred.
"Listen, kid," I said, shoving my hat back on my head and pointing all four fingers at him. "I never saw you before.
But if you were twice as good as you think you are, you still wouldn't want any part of Dick Abro."
"Mr. Sullivan," he said seriously, "I can beat him. I can beat him any day, and if you get me the fight, you can lay your money he will go out in the third round, flatter than ten pancakes."
What would you have said? I looked at this youngster, and then I got up. When I thought of that wide, brown face a
nd flat nose of Abro's, and those two big fists ahead of his powerful shoulders, it made me sick to think what would happen to this kid.
"Don't be a sap!" I said, hard-boiled. "Abro would slap you dizzy in half a round! Whatever gave you the idea you could take that guy?"
"You'd laugh if I told you," he said quite matter-offactly.
"I'm laughing now," I said. "You come in here asking for a fight with Abro. You're nuts!"
His face turned red, and I felt sorry for the kid. He was a nice-looking boy, and he did look like a fighter, at that.
"Okay," I said. "You tell me. What made you think you could lick Abro?"
"I dreamed it."
You could have knocked me down with an axe. He dreamed it! I backed up and sat down again. Then, I looked up to see if he was still there, and he was.
"It's like this, Mr. Sullivan," he said seriously. "I know it sounds goofy, but I dream about all my fights before I have them. Whenever I get a fight, I just train and never think about it. Then, a couple of nights before the fight, I dream it. Then I get in the ring and fight like I did in the dream, and I always win."
What would you do with a guy like that? If Dick Abro ever smacked this lad for a row of channel buoys, he'd do a lot of dreaming before he came to. Still, there's a lot of nuts around the fight game. At best, and it's the grandest game in the world, it's a screwy one. Funny things happen.
So I tipped back in my chair and looked up at him, rolling a quid of chewing gum in my jaws.
"Yeah? Who'd you ever lick?"
"Con Patrick, in two rounds. Beetle Kelly in four, Tommy Keegan in three. Then I beat a half dozen fellows before I started to dream my fights."
I knew these boys he mentioned. At least, I knew one of them personally and two by their records. None of them were boys you could beat by shadowboxing.
"When'd you have this pipe about Abro?" I asked.
"About a week ago. I went to see the pictures of his fight with the champ. Then, two weeks ago I saw him knock out Soapy Moore. Then I dreamed about fighting him. In the dream, I knocked him out with a right hook in the middle of the third."
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