Bill whipped the Lancer through the air with the speed and precision of an automaton. He knew that the Lancer was taking a terrific pounding, and he knew that one bullet in the reserve tank on which he was running might be fatal. But he was determined to fight it out now. He was determined to fight until he had the knowledge he wanted. And that meant he must drive off those four planes so that he could land beside the pilot who had bailed out of his burning plane.
As another blue plane came under his sights his finger clamped down on the trip of his 37 mm. cannon. A half dozen roaring barks sounded above the din of throbbing motors and yammering machine guns.
What had been a sturdy biplane became a great cloud of black smoke, stabbed with streaks, of saffron and crimson. Ribbons of bright orange shot out of it as it broke in all directions. The three ships behind it zoomed upward to get out of the path of the flying debris. Wings and fuselage hurtled through the air as the shells of the 37 mm. gun struck the engine block and detonated. The engine dropped from the black cloud and raced toward the desert. A gust of wind struck the black cloud of smoke and lore it apart. All that was left of the biplane and its pilot were bits of cloth and metal falling earthward.
“That ought to teach 'em something!” Sandy gasped. ,
But Bill was too busy avoiding the six streams of death that were aimed at him to answer. He grimly counted three in his mind as he came up in an outside loop and dived. Again his fingers fastened down on his machine-gun trips. The pilot of the ship that was under his sights tried to stand up and walk off into space. Or so it seemed. But he would never try to walk again. His body had been made into a sieve, from which his life's blood poured out into the cockpit as the ship plunged toward the silent, endless desert.
It was then that the other two biplanes decided that discretion was the better part of valor. They stuck the noses of their ships down and opened their throttles wide as they saw the fourth of their comrades go to his death. Their faces were white and frightened as they glanced back and up over their shoulders.
Bill wiped the perspiration out of his eyes as he watched them go. For an instant he had an almost overwhelming desire to follow them and tear their ships to pieces with his bullets. They had tried to gang him, thinking their superior numbers would give them an advantage he could not overcome.
The blood pumped through his body like liquid fire as he watched them go. They were the murderers of young Douglas. And they had tried to murder him. He debated whether or not it was his duty to go after them. Then he decided against it. It he could pick up the man he had seen bailout of his burning ship he would take him back to Kestrel, and Kestrel would make him talk.
He took his eyes off the fast-disappearing ships and scanned his instrument panel. The blood in his body, which had been boiling with rage a moment before, seemed to freeze.
His fuel gauge showed zero as his engines began to spit and sputter! He idled them out and tried to hold his altitude while he studied the barren wastes of sand below them.
“Gosh, Bill.” Sandy's voice came to his ears. “We'll never get out of here.”
“Shut up!” Bill answered as he threw his radio key and began to chant Shorty's call letters into the microphone.
But Shorty's voice did not answer. No sound came back to Bill but the faint crackle of static. He twirled the volume, wave-length control, and the master tuning control to get the radio station of the Royal Air Force field at Ma'an.
As an answering voice came back he spoke his name once. Then all was silence. He stared at his radio controls and twirled them while he continued to chant the field's call letters into the microphone. But no voice answered except Sandy's.
“It's dead, Bill,” he said as Bill threw his telephone switch.
“Get out some glasses,” Bill said to him. “See if you can locate Ma'an. I can't see it because of the mountains to the east. Perhaps you can find it with the glasses. I'm trying to stretch out our altitude, but we're almost out of it.”
“I can see where it is, approximately,” Sandy said in a moment. “But it's a long way from here. What do you suppose is wrong with the radio?”
“Something shot away,” Bill said curtly. The cold hand of fear clutched at his heart as he gazed at the interminable sea of sandy hillocks that stretched on and on, forever.
He knew that unless one of Kestrel's men sighted them in that vast expanse of sand it would be their last resting place. A man might fight his way through to water and civilization, but his chances would be small.
He threw a switch and watched his instrument panel until his wheel-landing-gear light and float-landing-gear light burned. Then he flattened the Lancer out until his wheels were just kissing the sand. They struck the irregular surface at eighty miles an hour, with flaps set well down. The engines gave their last sputtering gasp as Bill threw on his wheel brakes and cut his switches.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his bucket seat and probed the air above him. Then he tore out his radio headset and shouted at Sandy.
“Get your gun ready, kid!” he said. “Those two planes are coming back. They must have seen us banking down and came back to find out what was the matter.” He went over the side of the Lancer with a bound, saying, “I'll get the submachine gun and the rifle out of the emergency locker. Be ready; they'll come shooting.”
They came shooting! They came roaring down like two attack ships with all four or their machine guns yammering and their engines wailing in protest.
But they had not counted on the flexible gun in the rear cockpit or the Lancer. They had expected to find their two victims helpless.
Nor could they shoot with the accuracy young Sandy displayed. After that first terrific onslaught they zoomed upward as Sandy's .30-caliber gun sent burst after burst into them.
“Gosh, Bill,” Sandy said after that first attack, “if we could only use the cannon!”
“Take this Thompson gun,” Bill said grimly. “I'll handle your gun. They'll be back in a minute.”
But they didn't come back. Bill watched the two circling ships, waiting ( for one or them to rock his ship slightly t and extend an arm upward, meaning I to attack.
Instead, the leader or the two ships rocked his plane violently and “peeled off” toward the south, indicating that he was going out or action. The other one followed close on his tail. They had had enough or the accurate shooting of Bill Barnes and Sandy.
“They'll probably come back with reinforcements,” Bill said. He ran his tongue across his dry lips and was startled as he caught himself doing it. He knew that the terrible hands or desert thirst were flicking him. He knew that unless one or Kestrel's men located them they would never be able to get out of there alive.
But he kept those thoughts to himself as he looked at Sandy. He knew that it would be useless to tap the radiators for water because or the chemical mixed with it. It would make them both deathly sick. He thought about two French airmen who had been forced down in the Sahara. They had kept themselves alive by scooping the dew off their wings in the morning and putting it in a container.
That, and a thousand other things, flashed through Bill's mind in those first terrible minutes. Then he got hold or himself and grinned at Sandy.
“We'll have to get under the ship, kid,” he said, as though this was something that happened to them every day. “We can take advantage of the shade. We won't get so thirsty. KestreI and Shorty will have men out looking for us in no time.”
“I'd like to get hold of that grease monkey who said our fuel was 0.K.,” Sandy said.
“Perhaps,” Bill said slowly, “he told us that with a purpose.”
VIII—TRUE HORSEMANSHIP
THE NEXT FEW HOURS were burned into their brains indelibly by the desert sun. When it seemed that they could stand no more, the sun turned on its most scorching rays. At midday they lay panting below the float of the Lancer, moving every few minutes to stay within its shade. Their lips were beginning to crack and their tongues swell into things tha
t felt like huge, dry sponges.
Bill tried to tinker with the radio. But each time he thought he had mended the defect and threw the switch, no crackle of static came to his ears.
“Gosh, Bill,” Sandy said at two o'clock, “do you suppose they'll look for us? I-I-”
“Sure, they will,” Bill said hastily. He gazed at Sandy's burning eyes and cracked lips and turned his head away to hide the thing that came into his own eyes. “They're probably scouring the countryside now. They may not pick us up until morning. But they'll find us. It gets cool out here at night. We'll be able to get water then by scraping moisture off the wings. Keep your chin up, kid. We've been in tighter spots than this one.”
“Oh, I'm all right,” Sandy said, trying to laugh. But it wasn't much of a laugh. It was more like the hack of a consumptive. “We—we'll be laughing about how thirsty we were in a few hours.”
“That's right, kid,” Bill said. But he knew it wasn't right as he anxiously scanned the sky. He knew it would be a long time before they laughed about that day-if they ever laughed again.
In the late afternoon Bill broke out some chocolate from the emergency equipment in the tail locker of the Lancer. And he jotted down in his memory to the effect that if they ever did get out, in the future the emergency equipment would include a certain amount of water.
The sun was poised, ready to plunge into the sea of sand to the west when Sandy let out that first startled exclamation and began to shout at Bill, and point.
Bill followed the direction in which he was pointing, and his eyes narrowed after their first moment of astonishment. Between two hillocks of sand they could see a half dozen mounted men. They wore the bright-colored mantle and head cloths of the desert nomad, and Bill could see that they were armed to the teeth with lances, rifles, shotguns and yataghans. Then they were gone from view. .
“Wait a minute, kid,” he said. “Stop yelling! They may not be so friendly. Remember, they took shots at us before.”
“I'd do anything for some water, Bill,” Sandy said desperately.
“If they're unfriendly you don't want to fall into their hands.” Bill answered sharply. “Kestrel said the natives were ready to revolt. It may be a tribe on their way to join others in the revolt.
Bedouins are notorious for their methods of torture. Get into the rear cockpit of the Lancer. I'll get in the front. If they come toward us in a friendly fashion, stay in the cockpit and have your gun ready. If they come shooting, let 'em have it.”
As twilight settled upon them, the desert became a place of exquisite color for that brief period between daylight and dark. Then the day's fierce heat began to radiate away through the clear, dry air, and the chill of night crept upon them. In an hour's time the moon was high overhead, making the night nearly as light as day.
Suddenly Bill sat up in the front cockpit and threw the switch on the infrared-ray telescope. He had seen what he thought were moving forms on the crest of the hillock ahead. He took one look through the telescope, then spoke to Sandy.
“They're coming, kid!” .he said. “There are forty or fifty of them all around us. I can cover the front with my machine guns. You'll have to take care of the rest. They'll charge on horseback. Use your-”
That was as far as he got when that horde of wild tribesmen came charging over the hillocks of sand from every side, their; robes flapping out behind them, their guns spouting fire and death, their horses driven half crazy by their high-pitched screams.
Bill's finger came down on the gun trips of the two .50-caliber guns in the nose of the Lancer as that first mad wave reached the crest of the hillock. His guns cut a path through the charging tribesmen before they began their charge. As they tore down the side of hillock, out of range, he snatched the Thompson gun from the deck and swung it in an arc.
Behind him, Sandy ran the .30-caliber gun over its track with the swift precision of a trained gunner. Horses and men fell in screaming heaps as his bullets tore into them.
The desert night became a place of horror as the deadly fire of the two machine guns cut down the charging zealots. Yet, on they came, shooting from the saddle, screaming their chant of hate and war.
When they were within twenty yards of the Lancer the thin line wavered. Horses and men piled up in struggling, howling masses. The unwounded men behind them could not advance. For an instant they hung there, returning the machine-gun fire with poorly placed shots from their rifles.
Then they broke and went streaming back over the hillocks, with half their number dead or dying. “
“Take it easy, kid,” Bill said. “They'll be back. You'd better get some more ammunition ill your gun while you can.”
The horrible screams of the wounded horses and men nearly drowned out his words. An occasional shot pinged into the Lancer from behind the hillocks.
“Gosh, Bill,” Sandy said. “I wish they'd go away now. Look at that horse over there. It's a beauty. I could get it if I dared get out.”
“You stay where you are, you half-wit,” Bill growled. “You don't need a horse; you nee a nurse.”
Bill's hands were trembling and his whole body ached from loss of sleep and nervous excitement as he checked over the ammunition he had left for the submachine gun. He found that he had just enough to stand off another charge such as the last one.
“How about your ammunition, kid?” he asked Sandy.
“Not an awful lot left, Bill. One belt.” Bill shook his head angrily, then peered through the infra-red telescope again. The Arabs had stopped firing now, and he could see no movement beyond the hillock. He debated with himself for five minutes about the course he ought to pursue.”
Listen, kid,” he finally asked, “can you ride that horse?”
“Ride him!” Sandy answered. “Look at him, Bill. He's still standing there like a statue over the body of his master. You know I can ride him. I learned how to ride horses right after I learned to walk. I~”
“ All right,” Bill said sharply. “I'm going to give you a chance to ride him, Kestrel or Shorty will never find us here before that gang of bandits out there finds a way to slit our throats. It can't be more than twenty miles to Ma'an. If you can get into the saddle and get through that first line of Arabs you ought to make Ma'an within a couple of hours. An hour after you leave I'll turn on the landing lights of the Lancer to help you find me from the air. Don't let Kestrel send a lot of planes out here to crack up when they try to land.
“Just tell Shorty the situation and come with him. He'll get in some way. You can bring enough fuel with you to get the Lancer out of here. Take an automatic and the rifle with you, and be ready to shoot when you ride over that rim of sand. Then ride!”
“What about you, Bill?” “I'll be all right, if you get through safely. I have enough ammunition to hold them off .for a couple of hours.”
“Suppose they charge in the way they did before from all sides?”
“I'll handle that,” Bill said. He knew he didn't have a chance if they started working their way toward him under the cover of darkness. If they charged mounted, he could stand them off for a time. But if they crept in on him, they could get close enough to use their deadly yataghans.
He believed Sandy could get through if he once got astride the superb white horse that was only fifty feet away. Those fifty feet would tell the story. The kid would either get through safely or be killed in the saddle-which was better than being tortured.
Bill closed his lips tightly and peered through the telescope again. “All right, kid,” he said. “Good luck! Shoot your way through if you have to. Don't let them take you alive.”
He found Sandy's hand with his own in the dark.
“I hate to leave you here, Bill,” Sandy said anxiously.
“Don't worry about me, kid.” Bill laughed. “None of those desert lice have my name on their bullets.” ''I'II be seein' you, Bill.” “Right, kid. Go like the devil when you get aboard.”
He saw Sandy drop over the side of the Lancer,
saw his dim form, bent half double, flash across that fifty feet of sand. He expected to hear a fusillade of rifle shots and see him pitch forward on his face at any moment. Those few seconds brought cold perspiration out on Bill's body and left him wear and trembling. He saw the white horse go up on its hind legs with its front ones pawing the air. He saw Sandy bent over its neck. For all instant they were silhouetted against the sky, a perfect target for enemy bullets.
Then the horse and Sandy became a part of the desert night. He saw them again for an instant as Sandy topped the first hillock, saw them plunge out of sight on the other side.
Shouts and rifle shots floated back to his ears. Then a bedlam of clamor, Arab oaths, and he heard an automatic spit many times—and knew that Sandy was still in his saddle.
As the shots and cries died in the distance, Bill knew that Sandy had got away without being hit.
He leaped for the telescope and then clamped his fingers down on the trigger cables of his two .50-caliber guns as twenty or thirty men came charging over the crest of sand ahead, on foot. His bullets cut two paths through their ranks before they plunged down the side and were out of range. He dived into the rear cockpit of the Lancer and swung the .30-caliber gun to bear on the screaming tribesmen as they came on and on.
His blood ran cold as turbaned heads appeared above the rim of the Lancer. The two automatics in his hands were hot as he fired them point-blank into the desperate, mad faces. Something seared his arm as a dagger slashed through his overall.
WHEN young Sandy went over the side of the Lancer he was not worried about Arab bullets. He was worried about one thing only. That was whether he could get into the saddle of that white horse and stay there. He would rather have been shot than to be thrown from the horse's back under Bill's eyes.
He approached the horse with the easy, cautious movements of a true horseman. He spoke soft words to him, words that had no meaning other than to quiet the nerves of the trembling horse. He ran an eye over the snow-white shoulders and hind quarters of the superb creature and thrilled as the horse nuzzled its muzzle into his hand.
The Blood-Red Road to Petra Page 5