“How did you know I was coming?” Bill asked.
Kestrel's eyes left Bill's and traveled upward to a point on the wall across from Bill, then shifted back to Bill's face, then to Shorty's. He shook his head sadly as he spoke.
“I learned it from a letter Douglas was writing to you, Barnes. We found it in his rooms in town. He-he-,—”
“What about Douglas?” Shorty snapped again. “Where is he? We know about his court-martial. Where is he?”'
“He's dead,” Kestrel said. “He was murdered night before last!”
“Murdered!” Shorty said slowly. His own face was white now, and he was thinking about the parents of young James Douglas. He was thinking about the tragic death of James' older brothel during the War. Thoughts rushed through his mind. He tried to speak and found that he couldn't,
Kestrel's eyes softened as he saw the tragedy written on Shorty's hard face. He put up a hand and spoke softly.
“Let me tell you about things,” he said. “I'll lay all the cards on the table. You'll understand if you let me tell you the whole story. It can't be told in halves. You wouldn't understand if I told you that way.”
Bill and Shorty sat spellbound while Kestrel unfolded the whole weird story. At times Kestrel stopped as they glanced at one another incredulously. He told them of the unrest of the natives and the attempt to mutilate the sacred Dushara. He told them of the theft of eight British planes and the cashiering of young Douglas. He told them all he knew up to the time he had gone to bed the night before.
“Those planes that attacked you,” he said, “were the ones that were stolen. It is as I thought: some one is working from the inside. They knew you were coming. They sent out those ships to stop you. But who sent them? And from where did they come? Those two things, gentlemen, are the things that confront us. If we can find out those things we will learn who murdered your friend.
“I admit now I was a fool to listen to the charges against him. He was not guilty, and he was determined to prove it to us. The things he learned cost him his life. What were they?
“If I had not been such a fool he would be alive to tell us. One of your own men has been dangerously wounded through no fault of his own. It seems that you are drawn into this thing without being able to help it. The long arm of the man behind it reached all the way to China to enmesh you in a fiendish plot that may cost thousands of lives. I need your aid. I beg you to work with me. By working together we can each satisfy our own interests.”
“We're in, all right,” Bill said. “ And we're going to stay. Have no fear about that. We want to know who murdered Douglas. And if Gleason doesn't pull through-”
He stopped, unable to go on.
“What about Douglas?” Shorty asked. “Will he be sent home?”
'I have cabled his parents,” Kestrel said. “I will do what his parents wish.”
“I'll take care of that,” Shorty said abruptly. “They are friends of mine, too.”
VI—PETRA'S STRONGHOLD
BILL and Sandy paced nervously up and down the anteroom of the hospital. Shorty Hassfurther, whose anxiety was even greater than theirs about his best friend and War-time pal, sat reading a newspaper and mentally cursing his nerves.
An interne had told them that they would not be permitted to see Red that day. He was so heavily doped, he said, he would not be able to recognize any one.
But they were waiting to get a report from the doctors who had worked on his shoulder in the operating room. They knew it was very possible that his left arm might be amputated.
Major McCardell, in command of the medical unit, made a report to them. He was an elderly man with a long and naturally dour face. Bill's heart fell to his boots when he made his appearance and Bill got a glance at his face.
“I'm glad to be able to tell you,” he said, “that it isn't as bad as it looked at first. He will not lose his arm and we will be able to build up the bone very satisfactorily. It will always be a little stiff, but he will not be a cripple. He is doing very well considering the shock and frightful loss of blood. We will have to keep him extremely quiet for a few days. It is possible we may need a blood transfusion or two.”
“That's where I come in,” Shorty said gruffly. “My blood has been tested for him. They used my blood for him once before.”
“That's a relief,” McCardell said. : “We may need you, Hassfurther.”
“Wing Commander Kestrel has given us quarters on the field,” Bill said. “Will you send an orderly to us as soon as we can see Gleason?”
“I will.” McCardell nodded. “ And I'll keep you informed about any developments. Don't worry about him; that won't do any good.”
“0.K.” Bill smiled. “We know you're doing your best.”
Bill reported to Wing Commander Kestrel before he took the Silver Lancer into the air a half hour later.
“I'm going to look the land over,” he said to Kestrel. “I may see something that will give me an idea.”
“Some one has got to get an idea pretty quick, Barnes,” Kestrel said. “If we can find the place they are hiding those eight planes and where they took the cargo from those seven caravans, we'll be a long way toward a solution. Even my own men are getting jumpy now. They know that somewhere there are traitors. We are like a house divided. Everyone is suspicious of every one else.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief, and Bill saw that his face was white and tense, and strained to the breaking point. “You'll want to go through Douglas' things with Hassfurther?”
“When I come back,” Bill answered shortly. “Hassfurther will remain here on the field. Sanders is going with me.”
Bill whipped the Silver Lancer into the air in a manner that had the grease monkeys and mechanics on the field wide-eyed. As he spiraled upward, they stood in little groups hardly able to believe what they saw.
At five thousand feet Bill leveled off and looked over the side as Sandy's voice came over the inter-cockpit phone.
“Say, Bill,” Sandy said, “I wonder where a fellow would go to buy a horse?”
Bill didn't answer him. He was searching the boulder-strewn desert below with his eyes. Here and there he could see the tents of the nomad Bedouins with their camels grazing near by.
“How much do you think a good Arabian horse would cost?” Sandy persisted.
“How the deuce do I know?” Bill growled. “Why don't you get yourself a harem instead?”
“Not for me,” Sandy said emphatically. “I'd rather have a horse-any day than a lot of women!”
“ All right, all right,” Bill said. “Now shut up. I didn't come up here to talk about horses. Keep your eyes on your altimeter. I'm going to cut north over the Dead sea.”
They raced the length of the Dead Sea into the Jordan Valley before Bill banked the silver ship around and came back over the precipitous cliffs on the eastern shore. Black basalt from volcanic eruptions blended with the bright red of the sandstone cliffs. Where wind and rain had chiseled away portions of the cliffs, great columns stood erect with black crowns on their heads, which faded into red, until, at the base, the bright-blue waters of the Dead Sea lapped at their feet.
The narrow chasm, through which the Wadi el Mojib flowed into the Dead Sea, flashed below their wings, and here and there they saw bright-red patches where the fertile land had been newly plowed. Scattered along the wadies were camps of Bedouin goat-hair tents.
Gliding down to a thousand feet as they entered another valley, they could see the terraced gardens and orchards below El Kerak.
Then they were back over the vast expanse of desert plateau that was the northernmost extremity of the Syrian Desert. The tan-and-yellow desert was bare of trees or color, except where a wadi cut its surface. To the east the desert rolled away interminably; and to the west a low range of hills towered into the air.
Bill stuck the nose of the Lancer up, and just cleared the tops of the scrub-oak thicket on the westerly range with his altimeter at five thousand feet. They both gasped in ama
zement as they sped between the dizzyingly colorful twin ranges where Petra nestled. To the west stretched the deep expanse of the Araba, blue-tinted, remote and forbidding. The yellow, tan and ivory sandstone changed to vivid rd as they flew between the two ranges of fascinating shapes and color.
“That is Petra, kid,” Bill said, pointing. “Kestrel gave me a map. The large building in ruins used to be the castle of Pharaoh's daughter, and the hill above it is El Habis, the Acropolis Hill.
“Over there on the left is El Khubdha and El Der. The river below us is the Wadi es Siyagh. It's the only outlet from Petra, except Es Siq, where Douglas was murdered two nights ago. But it's impassable to caravans.”
“How did that caravan get out of Petra?” Sandy asked.
“It didn't,” Bill said grimly. “It's in here some place. That highest peak is Jebel Harun. The building on the top with the white dome is the tomb of Aaron, and the place where the Dushara is kept. Some one tried to get in there the other night and mutilate the Dushara. The natives, according .to Kestrel, are half mad because of it.
“That great flat mountain over there is Umm el Biyara, Petra's most ancient stronghold. It tells in the Bible how David wanted to storm the Edomite stronghold in his day. There used to be a single path cut in the side of it so that men could get to the top. But erosion has worn it away.”
“We could almost land on there, couldn't we, Bill?” Sandy asked.
“Almost is right,” Bill said. He flew lower and inspected the great, flat surface. “It might be done, but I don't want to do it. It was impregnable in its day, and still is, except from the air. The little mountain beside it is El Habis. That's an unfinished tomb. The rock-cut couloir was the only way to the top of Umm et Biyara. After the men had taken their women and children and eiders to the top they could close off the path with a gate. They had cisterns on the top—you can still see them—to catch and hold water.”
“Gosh, Bill,” Sandy said. “You know a lot; don't you?”
Bill swung around in his seat and looked at Sandy suspiciously. But Sandy was serious.
“You aren't trying to kid me, are you?” Bill asked.
“No! Gosh, no, Bill. I'm really interested.”
The air had become bumpy now above the crags and caverns of Petra. Bill yanked the stick back and zoomed the big ship upward.
“The best way to get into that place is on a horse, Bill,” Sandy said.
“That's the way we'll come next time,” Bill answered. “I'm going to circle this place now. Those caravans and those eight ships have to be some place. Button up your lips. I'm going to open the Lancer up wide and cover as much territory as I can.”
VII—STRANDED
THE RED limestone hills surrounding Petra gave way to the great barren wastes of the desert as Bill opened the throttles of the Lancer and circled westward. Here and there among the boulder-strewn stretches of desert west of Ma'an they could see Arab encampments with horses grazing where there seemed to be no vegetation.
As the ruins of an old Arab citadel flashed beneath their wings, Bill stuck the nose of the Lancer down and circled back. No living thing moved within the crumbling walls. Outside, heat danced from the sun-scorched steppe as the sun crept higher into the heavens.
Twice they saw large bands of roving Bedouins astride sturdy Arab horses. Flying low, they saw the fierce nomads of the desert unsling their rifles and felt the drum of their bullets as they pounded through the metal skin of the Lancer. As they nosed upward the tribesmen shook lances and yataghans at them until they were mere specks on the desert.
“Take her for a few minutes, kid,” Bill said to Sandy. “There is something screwy about our fuel tanks. I told 'em to check 'em when we landed this morning. We may have picked up a couple of punctures last night.”
Sandy held the Lancer at three hundred miles an hour while Bill checked the fuel lines and tanks. He checked and rechecked his instruments to find their position.
“We're almost two hundred miles from Ma'an, Bill,” Sandy said.” And she isn't pulling the way she ought to. I just adjusted the props and it didn't do any good.”
“Stick the nose on Ma'an, kid,” Bill said. His eyes were worried as he scanned the instrument panel. “Give her some more juice.”
Sandy opened the throttles another notch, and the air-speed indictor crept up to four hundred miles an hour. Then be leaned over and inspected the extension handles of the two .50-caliber machine guns at his right and left and fingered the trigger cables. The circular dials of the automatic counters showed capacity filling.
For fifteen minutes Sandy held the nose of the Lancer pointed at the horizon, and Ma'an. Perspiration dripped down his face as the sun became hotter and hotter. He half closed his eyes to protect them from the intense glare.
Suddenly his eyes flew open and he sat up in his bucket seat with a start. The far-away roar of airplane motors came faintly to his ears. He thumbed the sun, but could see nothing. He looked back and up on both sides, and still could see nothing. He saw that Bill was bent over so that any sound would be drowned by the roar of the twin Diesels in the Lancer: He bent his head and cocked it to the right, then to the left.
It sounded as though the planes welcoming toward him from his starboard side. He scanned the air above and below the starboard wing. The sound was certainly growing louder and coming closer. He decided he had better speak to Bill. He hesitated another minute while he listened.
And while he listened it happened! Two formations of three fast, rugged, one-seaters were diving out of a wisp of fleecy clouds a thousand feet overhead, their might); power plants roaring at high-pitched crescendo as they dived.
Sandy gasped in horror and shouted Bill's name three times in the inter-cockpit phone. White streamers of lace floated through the air as machine guns began to yammer their song of death.
As Sandy jammed the control column forward into a vertical dive, Bill grabbed at the controls and yanked the throttle wide.
“Break out that swivel gun!” he roared as the Lancer plummeted toward the desert at terrific speed. “Don't miss when I come back up in a loop!”
Sandy broke it out and pushed back the sliding hatch. He ran the gun across the track while he nearly choked, with excitement. His freckled face was dripping with perspiration. He held the palms of his hands against his head for a moment to lessen the pressure as the Lancer continued to plunge earthward.
The two V formations continued their dive, following the Silver Lancer toward the desert. Bill's mouth was a firm, hard line across his face as he glanced back and up. He held the stick forward until the Lancer was almost at terminal velocity. Then he swung the nose up with the touch of a master. Machine-gun bullets drummed into the tail assembly as the Lancer came up and over on its back.
Bill centered the controls and rolled light side up as the six light-blue ships dived under him. He could see the cockade of the Royal Air Force and the same squadron insignia he had seen on the ships that had attacked them the night before.
Opening the throttle of the Lancer wide, he stuck the nose up in an abrupt climbing turn until he almost stalled. He kicked his rudders and rolled to the right. He was back on his original course with the nose of the Lancer pointed toward Ma'an.
He cut his throttles while he studied the six blue ships. The men piloting them wore helmets, goggles and overalls, . and he saw, as they came out of their dives in a precise formation, that they could fly.
A thousand thoughts raced through Bill's mind as he watched them spiral upward and return to the attack. He knew he was justified in returning their fire. Yet he hesitated. He knew he could open the throttles of the Lancer and run away from them. He could land safely at Ma'an, but he would still know nothing about their base.
He could climb to a ceiling they could not reach and follow them to their base, but he was worried about his fuel supply. If his tanks had been punctured the night before and he was forced to land, he and Sandy would be at their mercy.
Then one of the blue ships was on his tail again. He heard the tat-tat-tat of its machine guns, followed by the fire of another. He could feel the bullets lashing through the Lancer's tail assembly and creep forward. He pulled the stick back and sent the Lancer skyward in a desperate zoom.
“All right, kid,” Bill shouted into the telephone. “Let's dish it out!”
He heard Sandy's swivel gun chatter as the six rugged biplanes closed in on them from every side. He gunned the Lancer and pulled away. The light-blue ships tried desperately to stay on his tail.
“Now, kid!” he roared. “We'll take it to 'em!” He whipped upward in a chandelle and dived head-on at the six rugged one-seaters. He dived with his two .50-caliber guns yammering. But his speed was too great for accurate fire. The blue ships dived and zoomed and skidded to get out of his mad path.
A blue ship came under his sights for that fraction of a second that is enough. His finger fastened down hard on his gun trips. He raked the blue ship with a withering fire. The pilot's head jerked upward, then slumped forward on his chest as it became a mask of blood. The plane slipped off to the right and began a fluttering descent to the desert, until the nose fell and the tail began to spin.
Bill gunned his engine again and came over in a normal loop on the tail of another ship. His line of tracer smoke curled above the head of the pilot. His bullets crashed into the fuselage and crept-forward into the engine block. Little wisps of smoke rose along the engine housing. Then orange flame raced out and back into the face of the pilot.
As Bill zoomed upward he heard Sandy's swivel gun chattering again. He glanced back over his shoulder, and saw that Sandy's eyes were gleaming like balls of fire in a face that was streaked with black.
Then the air seemed to be filled with flashing, slashing blue planes. They darted about the Lancer like wasps about an enemy who has disturbed their nest. They were everywhere, charging in from all angles, trying to get the Lancer in the vortex of their fire.
The Blood-Red Road to Petra Page 4