by Lee Falk
"It's marvelous, Chris, but it is hard to believe. It seems too simple," she said.
Luaga, standing near her with his delegation, nodded. "Much too simple. I don't trust Bababu," he said.
"Trust Bababu?" said Alec Kirk. "What does it matter about him? Cari's there—he arranged it for all of us."
"Not all of us," said Luaga glancing at his delegation.
"What do you mean?"
"We cannot return with you. Bababu will be looking
for me—for all of us. We must find another way to return," said Luaga.
"That's impossible," said Kirk. "The helicopter'll have us out of here in no time—but you have to stay in this terrible place?"
Luaga smiled briefly.
"Not terrible to us, Kirk. We came from here."
Kirk stammered his confusion.
"I didn't mean that. I mean—the deserters—and the pygmies . . ."
Luaga took his hand.
"I know. And you are right. It would be simpler for us to fly out with you, but that would endanger your lives as well as ours. Sometimes the simplest way is not the best way." So it was decided. The team would go. The delegation would remain. The team hurriedly packed belongings, leaving only the radio uncrated for any last-minute instructions. Then they waited for the helicopter. It would be a long wait.
The rescue helicopter took off promptly at noon with red-haired Tom Lanston at the controls, co-pilot Jim Osborne handling the navigation and radio. Ambassador Cari and the press with cameras and microphones saw them off at the airport. Cari sighed with relief, then went inside to phone the good news to his New York headquarters. A few miles away, on a balcony overlooking the broad gardens of the palace, General Bababu and his aide, Colonel Mokata, also watched the helicopter as it slowly lifted over the city and moved east to the jungle. Bababu grinned and waved a silk handkerchief at the distant craft.
"Bon voyage," he called in a mock falsetto voice.
"Bon voyage?" sputtered the colonel, laughing so hard he almost lost his balance. Bababu joined in. The two men laughed until the craft was out of sight.
As the rescue craft left Mawitaan behind and slowly passed over the fields surrounding the capital, co-pilot Jim Osborne made radio contact with the airport tower.
"All systems go here," he reported, using the space- age rocket term for his slow craft. The tower replied with a chuckle. "Happy landings on the moon." Now, as the helicopter sailed over the first line of trees fringing the jungle, Osborne attempted to reach the team at the Wambesi village.
"Calling Dr. Kirk ... calling Dr. Kirk ... do you read me? Lanston and Osborne here ... come in Dr. Kirk . . . over . . ." The receiver crackled and they heard a feminine voice.
"Hello Lanston and Osborne. We hear you. This is Diana Palmer with the team. Where are you? Over."
"Diana Palmer—that's the girl everybody was talking about," said Lanston.
"Hello, Diana Palmer, we are ten minutes out of Mawitaan, over the jungle ... on schedule ... should arrive at 1500 as planned ... over."
"Hello men, Kirk here ... we are delighted to hear you ... we are ready and waiting ... over."
"We'll be there—Jim Osborne signing off—over and out."
"Man, I'll bet they're ready and waiting. They were in a tough spot there," said Lanston.
"Wonder if that Diana Palmer is as pretty as they say," said Jim Osborne dreamily.
"Watch your map, Mr. Navigator," said Lanston.
Riding near the jungle's edge while inspecting his guerilla fighters' defenses, the Phantom heard the distant muffled roar of the helicopter as it approached. Farmers and herdsmen in the fields paused to look at the unusual sight, which looked like some prehistoric flying monster. Planes of any kind were still not seen too often in Bangalla, and this strange flying machine was unique as it flew slowly only a few hundred feet above the treetops. The Phantom, mounted on Hero, watched it wistfully. It would be taking Diana away. So near, and yet so far. There would be no chance to see her now. There was work to do, and with a last glance at the craft he turned away and started to ride off.
Suddenly there was rapid gunfire, not the familiar rifle nor even mortar sounds, but the ack-ack of anti-aircraft! He watched in amazement as the craft rose and
swerved, gaining altitude, changing direction, trying to avoid the attack.
In the helicopter, the two men were startled as something crashed through the thin metal of the craft and went out the other side. Then the air was full of metal, smoke puffs, and a popping sound.
"Hey, somebody's throwing stuff up at us!" yelled Osborne.
Neither man had had war experience, but they instinctively knew what was happening. Lanston looked down, but could see nothing among the trees. He began living the standard anti-aircraft avoidance flight pattern, as Osborne hurriedly turned on his radio to contact Mawitaan airport.
"Mayday, Mayday, calling Mawitaan—;UN 'copter 7z34n calling—they're shooting at us—repeating—UN 'copter 7z34n calling-—they're shooting at us—do you receive us? Over."
The radio crackled a reply.
"Mawitaan airport calling. We receive you. Message garbled. Please repeat . .. over."
"They're shooting at us—shooting at us—from the trees—shooting " That was the end of the message.
Watching, the Phantom saw smoke trailing from the helicopter, then plumes of flame. Then the tiny figures of two men leaping from the craft. White parachutes opened above them, and a moment later the craft exploded with a blast and blaze of light. But the men seemed to have fallen clear of it as they slowly sank out of sight into the treetops.
The Phantom made two clicking sounds and the great white stallion leaped forward as though shot from a cannon, with Devil the mountain wolf at his side. They raced between the trees, leaping bushes, fallen limber, stumps and boulders, racing in the direction of the fallen men.
In a small clearing surrounded by trees and bushes, four men kneeling by an anti-aircraft gun smiled at each other. A hit! A dozen other gun emplacements
like theirs had been waiting for the helicopter, but they had the luck to get it. They were outfitted in the uniform of Bababu's own crack private regiment, the only army unit completely uniformed and equipped in Bangalla. One of the men reached for a field telephone, and cranked a call to the presidential palace. There the aide, Colonel Mokata, picked up the telephone anxiously. He and Bababu had been waiting ever since the helicopter's take-off.
"We've got them!" said the excited soldier on the other end.
"Sir," corrected Colonel Mokata.
"Sir," said the field soldier.
"Well, well?" said Bababu impatiently.
"They got them, sir," said the colonel.
Bababu showed his delight, clapping his hands together.
"Are they dead?"
"I don't know, sir," said the colonel.
"Of course you don't know, you idiot!" roared Bababu. "Ask them!"
"Yes, sir. Are they dead?" asked the colonel sharply into the phone.
"We don't know, sir. They came down in parachutes," replied the soldier in the field.
"They don't know. They came down in parachutes," said the colonel.
At that moment, a second phone on the desk rang. Bababu had six phones on his desk. Since Mokata was busy with the field phone, Bababu picked it up impatiently. It was a direct line to his secret police chief.
"Yes, yes?" said Bababu impatiently. "What is it?"
As he listened, his face hardened. He slammed the receiver onto the hook.
"Those damn pilots got a radio message through before they fell—saying they were shot at!" he roared. "They were supposed to be lost, missing. Now everyone knows they were shot at. Tell him," he shouted at Mokata who was still holding the phone to the field, "I want those pilots dead."
"Dead?" said Mokata.
"Those pilots know the difference between rifle bullets and antiaircraft shells. I want them dead. Tell them to make sure those two pilots are dead
. Understand?" shouted Bababu.
The colonel nodded, and repeated the orders into the phone. "Make sure to inform us when it's done," he added, about to hang up the receiver. Bababu touched his shoulder.
"Wait," he said. "I want to be sure. I want no lies. I want their heads. Bring me the heads of the two pilots, here to this table. Tell them!"
The colonel was used to his leader's abrupt and brutal ways, but he stammered as he delivered this order. That done, he replaced the receiver and turned away to regain his composure. Bababu watched him narrowly.
"Do you understand why this is necessary, Mokata," he said.
"You—er—want to be sure," said Mokata.
"Yes, but why?" roared Bababu. "Because we will tell that gukaka Cari and the United Nations and the world that the guerillas shot down the helicopter," he said. (The Bangalla epithet gukaka—if translated— would not be printable.) "Now, no one would believe that guerillas have anti-aircraft guns. So the pilots must not live to tell their story. Is it clear now?"
Mokata smiled at his chief.
"You are truly brilliant, sir," he said, meaning it. "I never would have thought of that."
Bababu nodded and lighted a cigarette. "That's why I am sitting here, and you are standing there," he said, and slapped the desk and roared with laughter at his own wit.
In the clearing, the soldier received the colonel's orders and passed them on to the others.
"Their heads?" they asked, almost in unison.
"That's what he said "
The soldiers jumped to their feet and grabbed their rifles. All had long knives at their belts, and one drew his from the scabbard and held it up so that it glinted in the sun. Taking heads was a novel order, but this crack regiment had done worse for their leader. Then they moved quietly through the woods toward the place where they had seen the parachutes descending.
The Phantom left Hero behind high bushes, with Devil to guard the stallion. Then he moved swiftly but quietly. As it happened, the soldiers and the Phantom were approaching the fallen pilots from opposite directions. He got there first. When he saw the cloth in the treetops not far ahead, he left the ground and moved through the trees. Tom Lanston and Jim Osborne were still tangled in their shroud lines, trying to cut themselves free. They were hampered by a dislocated shoulder (Tom's) and a broken wrist (Jim's), and their colorful language—not suitable for a Sunday school picnic—was suddenly silenced by a loud shhh, a sound understood in all languages. They looked about, mystified. Then another shhh coming out of thick leafy boughs above them. Then a strange masked face peered down at them.
"Did you—?" began Tom angrily.
"Shhh," said the stranger. Then softly, "I'm with you." A long powerful body dropped lightly to a branch near them. They stared at this strange hooded figure, clad in an odd skintight suit, two guns at his hips on a broad gunbelt bearing a death's head insignia at its center.
"Who are ?" began Jim.
"Shhsh" repeated the stranger, almost angrily this time, and he pointed down to the ground. Below, a short distance away, they saw a few men moving among the bushes. One of them started to look up at the tree.
"Be quiet," whispered the stranger, and then he was gone. He had dropped directly upon the man below, a uniformed soldier with a rifle, who fell to the ground without a sound. The pilots, watching from above, could not see how this had been accomplished, but in a split second the masked man had disappeared into the thicket. There was a short yelp, and the body of a second soldier flew out of the thicket, landing heavily on the ground, where he remained. Two other soldiers, carrying rifles and long knives burst out of the bushes and ran toward the fallen pair. They exclaimed excitedly, then one looked up into the tree and saw the two pilots. He raised his rifle toward them, but at that moment, the masked figure leaped out of the thicket upon them. The force of his leap carried both soldiers to the ground. They scrambled to their feet, clutching their knives but had no chance to use them. A fist moving as fast as a hummingbird landed like a piledriver against both their jaws. The pilots watching from above could hear crunches, and they winced. One soldier dropped to the ground like a stone, the other one wavered, knife raised. Another crunch, and he flew off his feet, landing in a heap ten feet away.
The masked man stood quietly, listening for a moment. Then satisfied, he looked up at the pilots.
"It's safe. You can come down now," he said. In telling about this later, Tom remarked, "I never saw such power in a man. He hit so hard I thought their heads would fly off their necks. And when he called to us, he wasn't even breathing hard."
When the Phantom saw that the men, because of their injuries, were having a hard time descending, he climbed up to help them. Two big hands closed around Tom's waist and he was lightly placed, feet-first, on the ground. Jim followed the same way. "I weigh one hundred ninety pounds," said Tom later. "Jim's about the same. But that guy plucked us out of the tree like we were a couple of apples."
On the ground, they looked at the evidences of the recent mayhem around them. The four soldiers hadn't moved.
"Are they dead?" asked Tom.
"No," said the masked man. "I don't kill. Besides, we need them, for witnesses."
"Witnesses? Who are they?" asked Jim.
"Bababu's men, with orders to shoot you down. I heard them talking. They were coming to get your heads."
"Our heads?" gasped Jim.
The masked man nodded. "Those were their orders."
"Bababu did this? Why the low-down cheating "
said Jim using a few choice expressions.
"But we saw him. He gave us permission to make this flight," said Jim. "Why did he do this?"
"Probably has to do with Luaga," said the Phantom.
"Whatever the reasons, we have to move. These woods are full of deserters, as well as Bababu's men. I believe he sent out a dozen anti-aircraft teams to stop you."
"To get our heads!" said Jim. "He means business."
"Yes he does. So do we," said the Phantom.
"Mind telling us who you are?" said Tom.
"Later," said the Phantom. He picked up two rifles and examined them briefly.
"Loaded," he said. "You two know how to use them?" he added, handing each a rifle.
The men chuckled.
"We both had basic training," they said.
"Wait here. We need some help to move these soldiers. I don't think they'll be moving without help for a few hours."
"Wait here? Where are you going?" said Tom.
"To get help. Keep an eye on these soldiers. Watch out for any others. If anyone in uniform shows up, shoot. This is war. Understand?"
The two men nodded. The masked man whistled, a sharp blast. A few moments later, there was a sound of hooves and a magnificent white stallion raced toward them with a large animal at its side. It looked like a dog; it was a wolf. The masked man swung easily into the saddle.
"I won't be long. Stay alert," he said, and galloped away.
"How about that?" said Jim.
"Wow," said Tom. "He said this is war. He's a one- man army. Did you ever see anything like what he did here?"
"These guys are no creampuffs. Tough, all of them, with guns and knives."
"Those knives were for our necks," said Jim, shuddering.
"Yes. I think that's why he hit them so hard. He got sore."
"He didn't say who he is."
"I'm glad he's on our side," said Tom.
"Yes," said Jim.
General Bababu sat at his table, puffing impatiently on a cigarette. Butts littered the table and the floor around his chair. He paid no attention to ashtrays. Colonel Mokata was holding the field phone nervously.
"Tell the switchboard to ring!" shouted Bababu.
"They are ringing, sir. No answer," said Mokata.
A junior officer was at the door.
"The reporters from the airport are outside with Ambassador Cari," he said. "They wish to interview you, sir, about the missing helicopter."
"They got the news at the airport," said Mokata.
"Obviously, idiot. Where else?" said Bababu. "Are you ringing?"
"Yes sir, ringing, but no answer."
"They should have those heads by now! What's taking them so long?"
"The press corps, sir?"
"Tell them to wait. I want the word first. Keep trying, Mokata!"
The persistent shrill ringing from the field phone on the ground vibrated through the trees. It was an incongruous sound in this place and the birds and monkeys watched it curiously from a safe distance. Several hundred yards away, Lanston and Osborne heard it too.