Originally published in the July, 1934 issue of Dusty Ayres and His Battle BirdsTM
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Copyright ©1934 by Popular Publications Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1962 and assigned to Agrosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
Dusty Ayres is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
By Robert Sidney Bowen
THE ICY FINGERS... Of a new dread circled his heart, as Dusty swayed
with the car. Before his straining eyes lay the converging point of the two
highways. As they careened, a ribbon of road whipping toward them--the
hulk of a milk lorry--a black streak whipping in at a tangent--these
flashed across Dusty's vision as he braced himself. Then it happened--
there was a high-pitched whine of ripping metal. The black shadow
slammed past, bouncing off them and disappearing through the front of a
building. Then there was a loud crack. A human voice screamed in mortal
pain, and the non-com driver fell over like a poled ox. Dusty, shot forward.
Something smashed against the top of his skull, setting his brain on fire...
____________________________________________________________________________________
CHAPTER ONE
THE BLACK INVADERS
A FIST POUNDING AGAINST THE OTHER
side of the door punctuated the shouted words.
"Captain Ayres! It's important!"
The five-foot-eleven of bone and muscle
stirred under the blankets, then sat up and blinked
sleepily at the dark room. The fist pounded again
on the door. With a grunt, Dusty slid out of bed,
went over to the door and jerked it open.
A red-faced orderly clicked to attention and
snapped a salute.
"The major's compliments, Captain," he said.
"You are wanted immediately at his office."
"Right," nodded Dusty. "Be there in two
shakes of a lamb's tail. Thanks."
Less than five minutes later the tall pilot
shouldered into the office of Major Blake, C.O. of
High Speed Group No. 7, U.S. Air Force.
"You want me, sir?"
The big man seated behind the paper-littered
desk nodded and stood up. In his hand he held a
folded sheet of paper. With a quick gesture he
sailed it across the desk.
"You're elected, Ayres," he grinned. "Read
it."
Dusty spread it out and looked at the
teletyped message.
To Commanding Officer
High Speed Group No. 7--Dayton Field
Detail best pilot and plane for emergency
courier work. Pilot will report to Room 19 War
Department at once.
--Signed, X34
As Dusty read it, the blood raced through his
veins. He glanced questioningly at his superior.
"X34?" he gasped. "That's Chief of
Intelligence, Washington, isn't it, Major?"
The other nodded.
"Right. And if you ask me, Ayres, this is your
big moment. A big moment for all of us, I guess. It
means that we'll soon get a chance to shoot at
something besides tow-targets. In short--it
means war!"
War! The word caught Dusty off guard, sent
a strange eerie sensation tingling down his spine.
War! To be sure, he'd expected it. As a matter of
fact the whole country had been expecting war. It
was inevitable.
Three thousand miles away a steel fist was
pounding against the gates of Paris; battering to
smoldering ruins the last European stronghold
against ravaging hordes that sought to annihilate
the civilized world.
For three long years all Asia and Europe had
been a seething inferno of war; a war started by
one man, a man of mystery. Who he was, or from
whence he came, no one knew. But like magic he
had risen up from an obscure part of Central Asia
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
2
and screamed his doctrine of eternal vengeance
for all forms of government oppression.
The words had come not from his lips, but
from the lips of unnamed agents, and the spark of
unrest that flickered in the souls of the
uneducated millions in that part of the world was
fanned into a great white flame.
Almost overnight civil war and rebellion
belched out from the vortex of hell itself, and
consumed all it touched.
Nations tottered and fell, and were swallowed
up by the great black wave that swept westward.
The Black Invaders they became known as, and
the man of mystery who commanded them they
called "Fire-Eyes", the Emperor of the World.
The name was because of his eyes. They
were like blazing pools of flame that looked out
from behind a close-fitting green mask. Millions
had seen him; his form-fitting black uniform, with
no markings of rank save green-gold shoulder
straps. They had also seen the black gauntlets
that he wore, and the black spun skull cap that
came down in the back to cover the nape of his
neck.
Yes, millions had seen him, and even heard
his harsh, cruel voice that could speak every
language on the face of the globe, and speak it
without a single trace of any other language.
But his true identity was a secret that no one
knew. Those who had tried to find out died. Cruel,
yet fearless, a maniac, yet a genius in leadership,
he crushed the leading nations of two continents,
bent them to his will, and molded them into his
own great war machine.
And now, he was smashing the last
European stronghold. If he succeeded, the path
across the Atlantic to America would be open.
War--bound to come.
Dusty glanced at the Washington dispatch,
and took a deep breath. Bound to come? Hell,
that message meant that it had arrived, and that
the United States Government was not going to
be caught napping. He looked the major straight
in the eye, and saluted.
"Thank you, sir, for detailing me," he said. "I'll
do my best."
The other nodded.
"I know you will, Ayres," he smiled. "Of
course, this may mean nothing. But I don't think
so. I think that you're going to be given a real job
to handle. In case we don't meet again for a while,
good luck, son."
As Dusty took the hand extended to him a
queer feeling surged through him. A feeling that
he couldn't exactly understand--as though
something mysterious were waiting for him out
there in the darkness.
He had a sudden crazy desire to laugh. Hell,
he was letting his imagination do tricks. After all,
he was simply going to do emergency courier
work. The Black Invaders were three thousand
miles away. Yet--
He shrugged, clicked his heels again and
went outside and over to the hangar line.
Floodlights sunk into the field turned the take-off
runway into day. In front of the third hangar a
plane was being dollied around, nose to the field.
Its sleek body and taper wings glistened like
silver.
A thrill of wild joy surged through Dusty as he
ran over to it. What a ship! What a ship! The very
last word in high-speed design. Fluted steel from
prop to tail, chrome-dural wings with Presto
cooling radiators in the top leading edge, and
under the cowled nose, twenty-five hundred
horses.
The Barling XFB she was known as officially,
but to Dusty and his pals she was the Silver
Flash. He'd painted the name on the nose, and
just three days ago, at the group christening, he
hung up an unofficial world speed record of 527
m.p.h. And that wasn't her top, either. He was
certain that with a little adjusting he could add
another 50 m.p.h.
The Silver Flash, the first one turned out. All
his--and a special detail awaiting him in
Washington. Boy, was he lucky and how! War?
Okay, let her rip!
His heart pounding with excitement, he
legged into the cockpit and slid the glass cowling
hood into place. With his finger he snapped on the
ignition, and kicked the starter. Gears hummed
softly for a second or two and then, with a loud
click, the prop turned over. Two minutes later he
shoved the throttle all the way home and braced
himself.
Like a racehorse leaving the starting gate,
the Silver Flash leaped forward. Its wheels
seemed hardly to touch the runway, and before
the second floodlight slid by, the plane was clear
of the ground and streaking straight up into the
heavens.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
3
Eyes glued to the wind direction and speed
indicator, Dusty gave the ship its nose. At thirty
thousand feet he got the tail wind he wanted,
leveled off, and set his robot control for a due east
course. Then, slouching back against the
headrest, he reached up and slid the glass hood
open and adjusted his oxygen mouthpiece. The
icy cool air of night whipped in at him and set the
blood to tingling through his veins.
But suddenly he stiffened, sat bolt upright
and closed the cockpit hood. A red eye on the
two-way radio panel on the instrument board was
winking rapidly. It was a signal that some ground
station was trying to contact his wave length.
Slipping the earphones over his head, he
snapped up the "All Ready" switch and leaned
toward the cockpit microphone.
"Captain Ayres, High Speed Group No.
Seven, speaking."
As he switched over to the receiver the
earphones made a crackling sound. And then to
his utter amazement, a soft, purring voice spoke.
"My guns are trained on you, Captain.
Change your course to due north, or I will shoot!"
Dusty gaped wide-eyed at the mike.
"What?" he blurted out. "Say, who are you?"
"A man who will kill you, if you do not obey at
once," came the reply. "Change to north, and
stand by for orders when to land."
Icy fingers ran up and down the back of
Dusty's neck. In a quick movement he snapped
off the cockpit light and strained his eyes at the
black heavens. He was not sure, but he thought
he saw something move above him and to his
right. A split second later the voice spoke in the
earphones again.
"I'm waiting, Captain Ayres. Fly north at
once."
As the last word died away a tiny stream of
sparks sliced across the dark sky, and Dusty
heard the twang of bullets ricocheting off the steel
side of the fuselage.
"Just a warning, Captain," said the strange
voice. "The next will be through the glass hood
over your head."
For one mad second Dusty sat frozen to the
seat. Then, reaching out his hand, he switched off
the robot control and took the stick. Gently he
started to bank toward the north.
But when he had made a quarter of the turn,
he suddenly thumped down hard on left rudder
and pulled the control stick all the way back to his
stomach. The Silver Flash shuddered, then
whipped over and went down in a wild power spin.
Instantly singing bullets twanged against the
outside of the plane. But seconds later they died
off and stopped altogether.
Lips pressed tight, eyes agape, Dusty held
the ship in its terrific spin for a full ten thousand
feet. His head was whirling, and there was an
empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he
hung on grimly until the altimeter needle
registered twenty thousand feet. When it did, he
braced himself, jerked the plane out of the spin
and sent it streaking due east.
Shoving back the glass hood, he half raised
himself from the seat and stared upward into the
night. But he saw nothing but inky darkness.
There wasn't even a moving blur that might be his
mysterious attacker. And when he glanced at the
radio panel he saw that the red light was no
longer winking. That meant that the other had
tuned off his wave length
Brows furrowed, Dusty slumped back on the
seat and stared dully at the instrument board. A
thousand questions raced through his brain. What
in hell was it all about? That tramp had tried to
smack him down. And if it hadn't been for the
Silver Flash's greater speed, death would have
nailed him. But why? Who in hell could that other
pilot be? How did he know Dusty was up here?
And how the hell did he know his wave length?
As reaction set in, the Yank pilot had a
sudden desire to turn back, hunt out the
mysterious attacker and give him a dose of his
own medicine. And with the Silver Flash he could
do it, too. The twin Browning guns mounted
forward could spew death at the rate of fifteen-
hundred shots a minute for each gun.
But he curbed the thought even as it came to
him. He had his orders to obey. He flung one last
look upward.
"Maybe some other time, you bum!" he
grated.
The whole thing still rankled in his brain when
an hour later he tore down out of the night and
coasted to a perfect landing on the military field at
Washington. As he taxied up to the hangar line
and legged out, a field orderly ran over.
"Captain Ayres?"
Dusty nodded.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
4
"Over here, sir," said the orderly, pointing to
a waiting government car. "I'm to drive you to the
War Department at once."
Dusty simply nodded again, and followed the
man over to the car.
"Guess it's our turn next, huh, Captain?"
grunted the orderly as he meshed gears.
"I guess it is," replied Dusty absently.
"Sure, sir. But it ain't going to be no cinch for
them Black Invaders," went on the man. "That guy
Fire-Eyes is going to have plenty of trouble licking
a country a couple of thousand miles away 'cross
the water. No, sir, he won't find a bunch of sorties
like that European Army either. Funny how he
wrapped them up so easy, isn't it, sir? But a pal of
mine was saying that he done it by sorta busting
up the country before he attacked them. You
know, secret agents and all that kind of thing.
They blow up reservoirs, and ammo and supply
dumps. You know, all at once, like he did in
Germany. And then it's a walk-over for him,
because--"
But Dusty wasn't listening. A new thought
had come crashing through his brain. The orderly
had spoken about secret agents. Hell, that
mysterious attacker could have shot him down
without warning. Instead, he had ordered him to
fly north and land. Why?
Well, it was a wild guess, but a possible one.
The Silver Flash was the fastest thing in war
aircraft. Neither the European Army nor the Black
Invaders, themselves, had anything that could
touch it. And it was the only one of its kind. Was
some secret agent of the Black Invaders trying to
get hold of it?
"Right, sir. This is it."
The orderly's voice jerked Dusty back from
his reverie. The car was sliding in to the curb in
front of the War Department building. As it
stopped, the pilot jumped out and ran up the long
flight of stone steps. A sentry at the door saluted
smartly and held the door open. An elevator took
him to the nineteenth floor.
Room 19 was at the far end of the hall. He
paused in front of it a moment, glanced at the
gold lettering on the glass.
General Horner
Chief of Intelligence
He knocked and entered. A thin lieutenant,
seated behind a desk, scowled up at him.
"Who are you?" the officer snapped. "What
do you want?"
Dusty gave him a leveled eye.
"Captain Ayres, H.S. Group Seven, reporting
on orders."
The other's attitude changed instantly. His
face lighted up with a look of respect, and his lips
parted in a smile.
"Oh, Captain Ayres, the speed ace!" he
exclaimed. "Yes, yes, Captain, you're expected.
You'll find the general in the radio control room on
the roof. Go right up."
With a nod, Dusty left the room and took an
express elevator to the roof, forty-one stories
higher. He stepped out into a great, glass-domed
hallway. A soldier immediately confronted him,
took his name and disappeared through a steel
door. Dusty cooled his heels for a couple of
minutes, and then the soldier reappeared. The
man nodded.
"Go in, Captain," he said. "Fourth room on
the right."
Returning the salute, Dusty went through the
door, down the short hall to the fourth door. His
knock brought a gruff summons to enter. As he
did, a big officer standing back to him turned and
studied him intently from beneath shaggy
eyebrows.
"Yes, you're Captain Ayres." the officer
suddenly boomed. "I'm General Horner. Sit down,
Ayres."
Dusty obeyed and waited expectantly. But
the general didn't go on speaking. Brows
furrowed, hands folded behind his back the big
officer fell to pacing up and down the length of the
small room. Presently he stopped dead, turned
and pointed a thick finger at the pilot.
"Captain Ayres, are you afraid to die?"
Dusty gulped.
"Why--why no, sir," he stammered. "I--well I
really hadn't thought about it, sir."
"Well, think about it now," the general
snapped. "Because, Captain, I'm going to detail
you to a mission that may mean death. In fact, I'm
going to place in your hands something that may
prove to be the immediate safety of these United
States of America."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
5
The pilot slowly stood up, put his shoulders
back, and looked at the general straight in the
eye.
"I'm through thinking, sir,'' he said evenly.
"I'm waiting for orders."
"Very well, then," nodded the general. "Now
sit down and listen carefully. In case you haven't
heard, the Black Invaders took Paris two hours
ago. Right now the European Army--what's left of
it--is in full retreat toward the French coast. That
means we're next. Just when, I don't know. But
for weeks, agents of this maniac warlord, Fire-
Eyes, have been slipping into the country. A
conservative estimate would put the number
around ten thousand. That's what the easing up of
the immigration laws five years ago has done for
us."
The senior officer paused long enough to
drop his big frame into a chair.
"Where and how we will be attacked, I don't
know," he went on presently. "Part of the Black
Invaders' Pacific fleet is concentrated somewhere
off the Aleutian Islands. There's another couple of
squadrons near the West Indies. The main part is
off the French Coast. And that section will be
doubled in size once Fire-Eyes captures the
European Army fleet. Now, with his battle
squadrons, airplane carriers, and fast transports
so arranged in the waters about us, he can attack
any part of our coastline within twenty-four hours
after he gets steam up. Those cursed agents of
his have pinpointed every one of our defenses.
They know our strength to man and gun in every
section of the country. Therefore, this Fire-Eyes
has only to select a point of attack and arm
himself in accordance with the defense he knows
he can expect at that particular point of attack. Do
you follow me, Ayres?"
Dusty nodded.
"I think I do, sir," he said. "You mean that his
knowing our sectional defense strength robs us of
any surprise defense in the event of an attack?"
"Right, Ayres. As things stand now, he
knows what to expect from us, but we don't know
what to expect from him. However, we've got a
trick up our sleeves, and that's where you come
in. Now listen, the general staff has worked out a
last-minute mobilization plan. A plan whereby,
during the twenty-four hours grace we'll have
before the attack, we can shift our entire defense
all around. Thus, once we do learn the point of
attack, we will be able to concentrate on its
defense. As a matter of fact, we've worked out
several plans. But only one man knows which will
be used. I am that man."
With surprising ease and speed for one of his
bulk, General Horner slid out of his chair and
came over close to Dusty. When he spoke, his
voice was little more than a hushed whisper.
"Watch the second finger of my right hand,
Ayres."
Dusty looked down at the hand. It was half
buried in the palm of the left. Then the second
finger moved, and tapped the left palm seven
times.
"Make sure, Ayres!" came the soft command.
"I'll repeat."
The pilot nodded and counted the seven
finger taps again.
"Right, sir." he said. "I--"
"Shut up, Ayres!" the other hissed. "Listen to
me first. That is the number of the mobilization
plan to be used. I order you to guard it with your
life, understand? Beginning with now, no one is
your friend, see? You are to trust no one. You are
to disobey every single order that you may get
after you leave this room. Once my agent sends
word that the Black Invaders have started toward
our shores, you will take your plane and deliver
that number by word of mouth to the commanders
of the regional Army Corps areas. There are ten
of them. You know their H.Q. locations, of
course?"
"Oh, yes, sir. It was our job to contact them
all, in those Air Force maneuvers of two months
ago."
"Good, then. Their H.Q. locations are the
same. And in order that they won't miss you,
coded orders have already been sent out for them
to stand by for your arrival. Now, everything
clear? Any questions?"
Dusty pursed his lips, frowned slightly at the
floor.
"I believe I understand, sir." he said. "But I'd
like to ask a question, if you don't mind, sir."
"What is it?"
"Well, sir," began Dusty slowly, "even with
my ship, it will take at least twelve hours for me to
contact the ten corps area commanders. Why not
transmit the secret number by short wave code,
and save that much time?"
General Horner shook his head vigorously.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
6
"Can't risk it, Ayres!" he said decisively. "For
one thing, I suspect that the agents of the Black
Invaders know every one of our short wave
codes. Another thing, a circuit of secret
transmitter stations in this country, that we haven't
been able to smoke out yet, can clamp down on
their high-powered transformers and jam the air.
In fact, blanket out everything from the Mississippi
valley to the Atlantic seaboard. That would put
half our corps area commanders in ignorance of
what they should do. No, Ayres, the only thing
that they cannot do is pry words out of a man's
brain. You can tap around wires, and air waves,
but not a man's brain!"
The senior officer paused significantly.
"I mean just that, Ayres." he continued a
moment later. "Nothing in the world can make a
brave man speak, if he doesn't want to. But don't
take this thing lightly. From this moment on, you
travel with death. Guard that number. Contact the
corps area commanders, no matter what
happens. It is your one and only assignment until
completed. Nothing else matters. Understand?"
Dusty nodded stiffly, started to speak, but
checked himself as there came a sharp rap on the
door. A red-faced staff captain entered. He didn't
even bother to salute.
"We lost contact with Agent 10, sir!" he
announced breathlessly. "I think they got him. His
last message was blotted out."
For a second General Horner seemed
stunned. Then frank disbelief spread over his
face. He grabbed the staff captain by the
shoulders, shook him roughly.
"You're crazy, man!" he roared. "Agent 10
was the one man we depended on. He's got to
get word through to us!"
The captain paled and shook his head sadly.
"I know, sir." he said lamely. "But we haven't
been able to raise his call signal for twenty
minutes."
The general stared dully at the opposite wall
and a low moan akin to that of some wounded
animal rolled off his lips.
CHAPTER TWO
AMERICA NEXT
IN SILENCE DUSTY WATCHED HIM.
Suddenly the general shouted an exclamation.
"By God, there's just one chance!" he
boomed. "The Telerad! Captain, get Major
Jordon. Send him to me in the receiving room at
once. Get going!"
As the staff officer bobbed his head and
ducked out through the door, Horner turned to
Dusty.
"Perhaps I've just been wasting my breath
with you, Ayres,'' he said heavily. "God knows
what may happen, with Agent 10 gone. But come
along with me, and stick close, anyway."
With that, the senior officer started out of the
room. Dusty followed at his heels. As they walked
down a steel-lined corridor, disappointment swept
over the pilot.
Five minutes ago he represented something
really important in the welfare of the American
nation. He had been selected to act as a key man
in the great crisis to come. And now maybe
Horner had been wasting his breath. Hell!
With a savage gesture, Dusty banished the
thought. Damn it, important or unimportant, it
didn't matter. He was an airman, the high-speed
ace of Uncle Sam's brood, and it was his sworn
duty--to take what came and do the job as best
he could, regardless of its degree of importance.
And so, head up, shoulders back, and a look
of grim resoluteness on his wind-bronzed face, he
followed the general through a series of rooms
until they reached a large one that flanked almost
the entire north side of the huge, glassed-over
roof.
It was dimly lighted, and its four walls were
lined with laminated strips of copper and steel,
evenly spaced. Three sides of the room were
covered with countless dialed instruments, each
one fitted with its own tiny cowled light. And it was
from these that the rest of the room got its light.
The fourth wall, however, was bare save for
a framed square of silver cloth, exactly in the
center. General Horner started questioning a
lieutenant who was bent over a teletype machine
set against the south wall.
"You've tried everything, Gleason?" he asked
harshly. "How about our emergency signal to
him?"
"Everything failed, sir," replied the other
gloomily. "Here's the last we got from him."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
7
He handed the senior officer a strip of
teletype tape. As the general straightened it out,
Dusty saw the printed words:
10 TO INT. HQ . . . PARIS IS NOW A CITY
OF DEAD AND DYING. IMPOSSIBLE TO
ESTIMATE CASUALTIES. BLACKS IN FULL
CONTROL AND PUSHING RETREATING
EUROPEAN FORCES TOWARD FRENCH
COAST. FIRE-EYES REPORTED TO HAVE
LEFT IN HIGH SPEED BOMBER FOR . . .
REPORTED LEFT . . . REPORTED . . . FOR . . .
LEFT . . . LEFT . . .
"You see the ending, sir?" came the
lieutenant's voice. "It just blotted out on the
machine. All I could get was oscillating repetition.
All call-backs failed. I'm afraid, sir, that--"
"I know!" groaned the general. "God, that
man's a devil! My ten best foreign agents trapped
and swallowed up in less than a week. Wait a
minute, lieutenant. How about contacting
European Army H.Q. direct? You know their
emergency wave length?"
For answer, the lieutenant pointed a finger at
one of the dials. The indicator needle was stuck
fast against the zero peg.
"Their station hasn't registered receiving
power for over two hours, sir." he said hopelessly.
"That means either that they've dismantled it and
we'll be able to get through to them as soon as
they establish the new station, or else their old
station was captured and destroyed."
The general's mouth sagged down at the
corners, and his eyes went dull.
"God, what a devilish mess!" he muttered. "I
shouldn't have counted so much on Agent 10.
Poor devil!"
Hands locked behind his back, the man
started pacing slowly up and down the room.
Dusty watched him with fascinated awe. Horner
seemed like a man in a trance. His eyes were
glassy, and the tiny blue veins at his temples
stood out like taut cords. As he paced by Dusty
for the tenth or eleventh time, the pilot put out his
hand impulsively.
"Sir," he said helplessly, "is there anything I
can do?"
The general stopped dead, and stared at him
as though he were seeing him for the first time.
"Do?" he echoed thickly. "No, Ayres, there's
nothing that any of us can do right now--except
the Telerad. Hell, I'd been staking everything on
Agent 10. I--he--well, he's been with the Black
Invaders for over three months. Right in their
midst, mind you, and keeping me informed of
every move. He was our hidden ace. My--one of
my own men, right close to this Fire-Eyes. It was
Agent 10 who was going to send warning as soon
as the Black Invaders headed for these shores so
that we could make our last-minute preparations.
God, I wish I hadn't--no, no, I'm proud of him.
Damn proud!"
The general stopped with a husky cough.
Dusty glanced at the framed square of silver cloth
in the center of the bare wall, hesitated a second
or two, then took the bit in his teeth.
"Pardon, sir," he began, "but that thing up
there. What--?"
The pilot didn't finish. General Horner was no
longer paying attention to him. A signal unit major
had come bursting through the door. The general
grabbed him.
"Jordan!" he boomed, "it's up to you. We've
lost contact with our one remaining foreign agent.
We've got to get Williams at Brest on the
Telerad."
The signal major nodded.
"I will, if he's there, sir," he said. "Our final
experimental tests two weeks ago were perfect. I
saw him clearly, and his voice came in okay."
"Then get to work!" Horner cried. "Never
mind anything else. Get Williams, or God help us!
We'll be a nation in the dark, waiting for the
lightning to strike!"
The general shouted the last at thin air. The
signal unit officer was already spinning dials and
rheostat knobs at one end of the room. His hands
worked so fast that it seemed he had a hundred
instead of just two.
A high-keyed hum filled the room. It mounted
and mounted until it faded off into nothing. The
instant it stopped, Major Jordon clipped a
transmitter speaking tube about his neck, and
taking up a position in front of a foot-square
switch board, he started flipping down a series of
relay switches and jamming contact plugs into
their sockets.
Then his lips moved, and Dusty heard his
voice. It was measured and distinct in tone. But
strangely enough, it did not seem to come from
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
8
his lips. It was coming from a point in back of the
framed square of silver cloth.
"Jordon 48, calling Brest 624! Jordon 48,
calling Brest 624. Can you hear me, Brest? Can
you hear me Brest? Oscillator set at 72. Jordon
48, calling Brest 624 . . ."
On and on the man spoke, repeating every
word at least ten times. Suddenly he stopped.
Dusty, his eyes riveted to the square of silver
cloth, sucked in a stifled gasp. Thin lines of
rippling light were beginning to slide across its
surface from left to right. Faster and faster they
went, until they seemed to be traveling not only
from left to right, but from top to bottom as well.
And they made sound--a sort of soft hissing
sound.
Presently the sound died out, and the lines of
rippling light speeded up so that they all merged
together into what looked, to Dusty, like a solid
sheet of white flame. And then from its center
came sharp clicking noises, and a split second
later, the sound of a human voice.
"Williams at Brest, switching in. Your dial
setting not true, 48. Swing to 7-2-0-1. Oscillator
too high, 48. Swing to--check! You are
registering! Send report on your end, 48."
As the last died away to the echo, the
Telerad screen darkened a bit, and became
shadowy in spots. The shadows spun in crazy
circles, then suddenly ceased motion, and took on
definite shapes with definite outlines. The head
and shoulders of a thin American officer appeared
on the screen. He was sitting in a chair,
transmitter to his lips, and his hands were
hovering over a dial board set at a slant in front of
him.
"By God, he did it!" Dusty heard Horner
breathe fiercely. "That's Williams at Brest. Oh,
thank God!"
But Dusty wasn't listening any more. His
body rigid, his lungs hardly daring to suck in a
breath, he stood as a man of stone watching the
figure on the Telerad screen.
It looked more like a ghost than a human
being. The face was thin, sunken at the cheeks,
and there was at least a week's growth of stubble
on the man's chin. But it was his eyes that sent an
icy chill slicing about Dusty's heart. They were like
the eyes of a dead man--glazed and dull, as
though they had looked upon things that the brain
behind them could not forget.
No more than a split second for impressions
of what he saw, and then Dusty heard Major
Jordon's voice.
"Check, Brest . . . perfect. Stand by . . .
emergency . . . X34 taking over this end . . . stand
by."
With a quick wave of his hand the signal unit
officer motioned Horner over, clipped the
transmitter tube about his neck, and stepped back
from the switch board.
The man at the Brest Station spoke almost at
the same instant.
"Check, 48 . . . registration perfect . . . go
ahead."
Horner's voice boomed out from behind the
screen.
"The latest, Brest. Give us the latest, at
once. Agent contact completely lost. What's
happening?"
"Black Invaders here on the coast," came the
reply. "Retreating Europeans bombed and gassed
to complete destruction. None of their units were
able to retreat by water. Atlantic fleet of Blacks
closed in on the coast. There is no hope for the
Europeans. Their forces have collapsed
completely. Black Invaders have control of all
armament and supplies."
"But their next move, Brest?" Horner cut in.
"When can we expect an attack? Where have the
Blacks established their high command H.Q.?"
The man on the Telerad screen gestured and
shook his head.
"I don't know. Bombing and transport
squadrons have passed over here for the last
hour, heading north by west. Possibly they intend
to establish a remobilization base in England. The
destruction of the retreating European Army was
accomplished by gas bombers and high-speed
mobile tank units under junior commanders. As
yet, not a Black staff officer has been sighted in
this area. My opinion is that the main part of the
Black army is concentrating elsewhere for an
immediate attack on America. I think--Oh, God!"
The man on the screen suddenly started
clawing at his eyes and throat. His tongue welled
up and pried his jaws apart, and the skin of his
face and hands turned a hideous yellowish purple.
Choked, gurgling sound came from his
mouth, and his body writhed in mortal agony.
Then suddenly he toppled off the chair and
disappeared from view.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
9
Horrified, no one in that control room atop
the War Department building uttered a sound.
Like statues of stone they stood, staring wide-
eyed at the Telerad screen. Then suddenly,
Horner's thundering voice crashed against the
terrible silence.
"Look! Look!"
There was no need for him to have spoken.
They all saw the tall figure in black, with a green
mask over its face, slide into Williams' chair. And
they all saw the inhuman, terrible flaming orbs of
Fire-Eyes, the mysterious warlord of the Black
Invaders--two pools of seething flame spewing
out at them from behind the slits in the mask.
A second later his voice whipped against
their eardrums. It was harsh, rasping, like
tempered steel being dragged across jagged
glass.
"Yes, look, America! It is me you see. Fire-
Eyes, the Emperor of the World!"
Crashing laughter punctuated the last word.
"And you wish to know my plans, do you?"
the masked figure continued. "Yes, I'm talking to
you, X34--you, General Horner, chief of
America's intelligence department! The time has
come for me to speak to you direct. Take this
message to your President, and your
Congressional Committee for national
emergencies. Tell them that the fate of your
country rests with their compliance with my
demands. And here are my demands. Mark them
well, so that you do not forget.
"First, that you demobilize your entire Army
at once.
"Second, that Naval and Air Force fleets be
dispatched to the French coast, manned only by
skeleton crews.
"Third, that you arrange for the receiving of
regional commissioners that I shall send you to
take over control of your industrial and
government centers.
"Fourth, that you prepare and establish
quarters for the immediate arrival of the Fourth
Black Army of Control.
"And fifth, that your countrymen, including
women and children, be informed that any
resistance to the fulfillment of these demands will
result in the instant death of the entire population
of the state, city and community in which such
resistance takes place."
The voice paused, and the weirdly uniformed
figure shifted its position on the chair.
"Those are my demands. Take them at once
to your President and his committee. I give you
exactly five hours. You may communicate
agreement to me over International Commerce
wave length number fourteen. Refuse these
demands, or delay your reply beyond the five-
hour limit, and my armies will hammer you all into
the soil of your native land. That is all.
Remember, you have five hours in which to
obey!"
The masked head bobbed violently, and a
black gloved fist crashed against the dial panel.
Those watching saw sparks slither out in all
directions.
Instantly, the picture faded, and a spinning
jumble of blurred shadows smudged the screen.
And then even the shadows faded into oblivion,
leaving nothing but a framed blank space on the
metal-laminated wall.
CHAPTER THREE
WAR DECLARED!
FOR A LONG MINUTE THE CONTROL
room virtually quivered with an almost
supernatural, ringing silence. Eyes dry, lips
burning, Dusty had the sudden impression that he
had been looking into the vortex of a seething
inferno of hell. The muscles of his body felt
strangely stiff and aching, and his nerves were
taut as bowstrings.
It took every ounce of his will power to tear
his eyes from the Telerad screen and look at
General Horner. And when he succeeded, it
seemed to him that he was seeing a replica of his
own expression stamped on the other's features.
Eyes gleaming with a sort of terrified awe,
the general was standing poised on the balls of
his feet, one hand frozen halfway up in an attempt
to unclip the transmitter tube from about his neck.
The other hand was doubled into a hamlike fist,
as though he were going to smash against the
Telerad screen.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
10
Then slowly he realized, licked his lips
nervously, and fumbled with the transmitter clip.
When he spoke, his voice seemed to come from
the very soles of his shoes.
"Put me through to the President, at once,
Gleason. I'll take it in the next office. You all
remain right here. Don't leave this room, do you
understand?"
He didn't wait to hear their combined "Yes,
sir!" Shoulders hunched, face suddenly aged, yet
somehow still hard, the general went through the
door, and slammed it shut behind him.
The action seemed to relieve the electrified
tension that still flooded the room. Major Jordon
started pounding his right fist into the palm of his
left hand, and punctuating each wallop with a
curse. Lieutenant Gleason spun a couple of dials,
flipped a switch, and then began pacing up and
down the room.
Only Dusty remained right where he was. But
it was not from choice. His whole body was
quivering with half suppressed excitement.
Quivering so much that he did not dare take a
step, lest he trip over his own feet and go
sprawling.
"Damn him, damn his rotten hide. He killed
my best friend. I saw him do it. I saw him do it!"
The words spilled off Major Jordon's lips, and
his face went purple with uncontrollable rage.
Dusty hardly realized what he was doing, until he
heard his own voice.
"Steady, sir! It's not going to help."
The other stopped short in the middle of a
curse, lips parted and jaw down. He spun, glared
at Dusty, then nodded, and forced a twisted smile
to his lips.
"Thanks, captain. Sorry. You should be
wearing these oak leaves instead of me."
Dusty felt foolish, tried to think of something
appropriate to say. But before he could, the door
opened and General Horner popped back inside.
He went straight up to Gleason.
"President's orders, Gleason!" he barked.
"Send out word over every commercial wave
length in the national system for all commercial
transmitting stations to close down. Then send
out orders over military wave lengths for stations
to send in a report on the status of their areas.
Send the same thing to all high seas battle
squadrons, and to all Air Force scouting bases.
Send it in executive emergency code. Get at
it! The President and his committee are on their
way over here to receive all reports direct."
Gleason spun around, and his hands flew to
the maze of dials and rheostat knobs. Seconds
later, a soft purring sound, that was the man's
voice muffled by the lip of the transmitter tube,
drifted back over his shoulder. General Horner
nodded with satisfaction, and turned toward
Jordon.
"Well, Jordon," he said, "it seems that we're
not the only ones who have been getting a
surprise. An unsigned code message came in
over the State Department wave length just ten
minutes ago. 'Gutan and Miguel Locks completely
destroyed by double explosion at 10:05 tonight.
Canal completely blocked to navigation.' That was
all. The message faded out."
"Good God!" gasped Jordon. "Then--"
"Exactly!" snapped Horner as the other
fumbled for words. "It splits our Atlantic and
Pacific fleets--if it's true. That's what the
President has ordered me to find out. The State
Department's transmitter detector couldn't get the
sending station--a static jam from a super-
transformer somewhere. Perhaps we can check
back through relay stations. And, if it is true--"
The general paused, doubled his fist and
shook it violently.
"If it is true," he repeated harshly, "it means
that that war devil has struck already. It means
that this five hour business was just a bluff. It
means that war was declared on America six
hours ago, instead of five hours from now. It'll be
war, no matter what the President decides!"
He whirled and rushed over to Gleason.
"Damn it, man, aren't you getting any reports
yet?"
The junior officer shook his head, and
pointed at a multiple teletype message recorder.
"All wave lengths are static jammed, sir.
Look, not a single one of the tapes has moved."
"But hell!" exploded the general. "You mean
there is nothing open? That every damned wave
length in the country is jammed?"
"Yes, sir." came the reply. "They all fail to
register. That is, all except one, sir. And--"
"Then for God's sake, use that one!" Horner
cut in on him.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
11
"The only one open, sir." came the sharp
reply, "is International Commerce wave length
number fourteen!"
The junior officer's words echoed through the
room. Horner's face paled, and the corners of his
mouth twitched violently.
"Fourteen!" he got out in a croaking voice.
"The wave length he said to use! Then it must be
true."
At that moment the door swung open and a
group of men stepped inside breathlessly.
At a glance, Dusty recognized them all. He'd
seen them face to face, or their pictures in the
nation's papers, countless times. They were the
elected or Presidential-appointed heads of the
government, the military, the Navy, and the Air
Force Departments. And the first to enter was the
President himself.
A wild thrill of pride surged through Dusty as
he saw the grim, determined set of what was
usually a pleasant, smiling face; the hard glint in
the deep gray eyes and the man-against-man
swing of the broad shoulders.
For a fleeting second he forgot about the
crisis of impending doom that seemed to lurk in
the very air that he breathed. He forgot it in one
great moment of untarnished admiration for the
executive leader of his own native land--his
President.
But the President had eyes only for General
Horner.
"What have you received so far, General?"
The words snapped off the tight lips like
nickel-jacketed steel bullets whipping from the
muzzle of a Browning.
"Nothing, sir. All national wave lengths are
static jammed. But we're still trying."
"All? What about the wave length he told you
to--?"
"Lieutenant Gleason says its the only one
open, sir."
With a wave of his hand for silence, the
President stepped past Horner and went over to
the control-room officer.
"Lieutenant Gleason, send this message
over to Fourteen. Ready? To the commander of
the Black Invaders. Sir, the Government of the
United States of America refuses every one of
your demands. We hereby declare that a state of
war exists between this country and your forces.
Signed, the President and the Congressional
Committee."
Turning toward the others, the President
eyed them in silence for a minute. Then his lips
moved and he spoke.
"The die has been cast, gentlemen. Our
country is now at war. May God in Heaven give
us guidance, comfort and courage, and lead us
through it all to a complete and final victory for the
cause we and our countrymen forever hold
closest to our hearts. Amen."
As though a hidden spring had been
suddenly pressed, every man in the room
stiffened to attention and saluted solemnly, as an
echoing "Amen" came from the innermost regions
of their hearts.
Fired with a love of country and right far
greater than he had ever dreamed he could
possess, Dusty Ayres stood enthralled in the
gloriousness and drama of the moment.
And then, suddenly, he was almost jerked off
his feet. General Horner had him by the arm, and
was practically dragging him out through the door.
"It's up to you, now, Ayres!" the general's
words hissed against his eardrums, as he raced
down the steel lined corridor. We haven't got a
second to lose. They're probably on their way
right now. Remember, don't stop at anything.
Contact the corps area commanders at all costs.
You must not fail. Shoot anything or anyone that
gets in your way, understand? Here, this will
identify you to all."
A square card was jammed into Dusty's
hand. He was only able to get a glimpse of the
U.S. Government seal countersigned with the
President's own signature, before Horner made
him shove it in his pocket.
At the elevators, General Horner skidded to a
stop, practically threw Dusty into one with its
doors open, and then pivoting, grabbed the
gawking sentry.
"Escort this officer to the military field!" he
barked. "There's a staff car at the curb, waiting.
Don't let anything stop you. Go through, and go
through fast. My orders!"
The sentry hadn't completed half of his nod
before Horner shoved him into the elevator and
slammed the door shut. A split second later,
electric mechanism clicked and the elevator shot
downward. Had not Dusty unconsciously braced
himself he would have gone crashing up against
the guard railing.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
12
As it was, he still didn't have his breath when
the car slid to a full stop at the ground floor, and
the doors flew open. But the sense of action
within him was clicking over at lightning speed. He
reached over and jerked the sentry after him.
"Come on, soldier!" he clipped out. "Here's
where we travel!"
Feet smacking the tiled flooring, they raced
through the lobby, barged through the heavy
doors and tore down the long flight of stone steps
to the curb.
A non-com, lounging behind the wheel of a
staff car, jerked to attention and jabbed the
synchro-gear mesh button.
"The military field!" Dusty barked at him, and
piled into the rear seat.
The red-faced panting soldier was almost
flung back onto the sidewalk as the car leaped
forward. But by the grace of God and Dusty's
hand shooting out to grab him, he regained his
balance and tumbled inside.
By now the car was roaring through the
capital's streets, its siren scattering white-faced
pedestrians to the left and right.
Rubber shrieked in protest as it sliced around
corners, and a hundred and one new blockades
swept toward them with each passing second. But
the non-com at the wheel knew his job, and
obviously he had received his orders. Eyes glued
to the road ahead, he gave the car all it could
take.
"My gosh, sir, look! Someone's following us!"
Dusty whirled at the soldier's wild
exclamation, and glanced through the rear
window. The soldier was right. A jet black car of
strange make was streaking after them, missing
the same crash dangers with equal skill, and
whipping around every corner they took.
One glance and Dusty knew beyond a doubt
that the pursuing car was not government. Just
why he knew that, he didn't bother to explain to
himself. He just knew it--knew that the hidden
occupants of that car were after him. Like a flash
of light the general's warning came back to him.
"Once you leave here, you travel with death!"
His heart leaped up to the back of his throat
to choke him, and the palms of his hands went
wet and clammy. Unseen eyes had been
watching his every move since he left his home
drome. With a start, he remembered that he had
not even spoken to General Horner about the sky
attacker. Perhaps if he had spoken--
But hell, what did it matter now? In the last
sixty seconds the low black car had gained sixty
yards. Black? Good God, was that a symbol of
the Black Invaders?
With a curse, Dusty leaned toward the driver.
"We're being followed!" he yelled above the
whine of the powerful engine under the hood.
"Give it everything you've got. We've got to lose
them!"
An almost imperceptible jerk of the non-
com's head indicated that he had heard. A split
second later Dusty went slamming up against the
side of the back seat, as the car split-arced
around the next corner. Before he could pick
himself up, he went flying over on top of the
soldier as the car raced around a second and
opposite corner. Then like a streak of light it went
whamming down a straight-away stretch.
"Atta boy, Corporal!" the soldier shouted.
"You gained some on them, then."
Dusty looked back, and tingled with
momentary relief. The black car had lost twice
what it had gained at the start. But at that instant
a stream of jetting flame spewed out from behind
its windshield. Dusty grabbed the sentry and
pulled him down onto the floor. A split second
later the glass in the rear window became a mass
of criss-cross cracks.
"Thanks, sir!" panted the sentry as he
scrambled up. "But this car is armored. They can't
do nothing unless they get abreast of us, or in
front. So long as we keep in the lead, it's okay.
And--
But Dusty wasn't listening. Through the
cracked glass he saw the black car turn off the
main highway and go tearing up a tangent street.
In another moment he lost it from view. He slid
back onto the seat, and heaved a sigh.
"They turned off, Corporal!" he yelled. "Good
work!"
"No, it ain't yet, sir," the astonishing reply
whipped back to him. "That street swings in about
a mile ahead. It's up to us to beat them to the
corner. We'll do it, sir. You just hang on."
The icy fingers of a new dread circling his
heart, Dusty sat rigid, swaying with the car as
though he were actually a fixed part of it. Beside
him, the sentry was a crouched image of stone.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
13
It seemed an eternity, though it was only a
matter of seconds, before his straining eyes saw
the converging point of the two highways up
ahead. And even as he saw it, a wild cry rang
from his lips. A milk lorry blocked their side of the
road, and off to his left, thundering down to the
converging point on the other side of the road,
was the black car.
Faintly he heard the non-com driver's cry of
warning.
"Get hold of something back there! We're
going right through!"
A ribbon of road whipping toward him--the
massive hulk of a milk lorry--a black streak
whipping in at a tangent. Those three things
flashed across Dusty's brain as he automatically
braced himself.
And then it happened.
The milk lorry shot past their right side.
There was a high-keyed whine of ripping metal. A
fraction of a second later the black shadow
careened into their left side, slid off and seemed
to disappear through the front of a building. Then
there was a loud crack. A human voice screamed
with mortal pain, and the non-com driver fell over
like a poled ox.
Instinctive action shot Dusty forward. His
frantic fingers found the wheel, gripped it, only to
be wrenched off as the wheel bucked, and the car
lurched sidewise.
He had the crazy sensation that a thousand
steel hooks were looped in his body, each one
pulling in a different direction. Something
smashed against the top of his skull, and set his
brain on fire. Choking, sobbing, cursing, he
slumped downward.
CHAPTER FOUR
MYSTERY ORDERS
"HEY, MIKE, THIS ONE'S BREATHING!"
The words rolled into Dusty's fogged senses
from a long way off. In a dulled sort of way his
brain registered the fact that hands had taken
hold of him; that he was being lifted clear of a bed
of spear points and carried through soft, limitless
space.
"One of them Air Force fellows, eh? Well, no
wonder. They're a crazy lot for speed."
The words seemed to touch a secret spring
in Dusty's head. He suddenly realized that his
eyes were open; that he was looking at a pair of
weather-beaten faces. Each face was topped off
by a shiny black-visored blue cap, with a silver
badge in front. He scowled at the inscription on
the silver badges, then grunted as the meaning
came home to him. Each inscription read--Motor
Police Patrol, District of Columbia.
"Now take it easy, Captain," said one of the
weather-beaten faces. "It's mighty lucky you're
alive. What's the idea of going so fast, anyway?"
The last question unloosened a flood of
memory in Dusty's brain. He gasped, and pushed
away the hands that tried to hold him.
"That black car!" he exclaimed. "They're
secret agents. I've got to get to the military field."
"Secret agents, eh?" growled one of the
policemen. "Well, they ain't doing anything secret
now. All three of them is dead. And so are the two
lads that were with you, Captain."
Bushy brows furrowed, and a pair of
skeptical eyes peered into Dusty's.
"Huh! Suppose you come along and tell the
desk lieutenant all about it!"
Dusty's head was ringing like a four alarm
fire. He had to go to the military field. But what
for? That's what he couldn't remember.
"I've got to get to the military field!" he blurted
out wildly. "I've got to get there."
"Well," dubiously from one of the motor
policemen, "you won't be riding in either of these
wrecks. Suppose you come along with us,
Captain, and get that cut on your forehead fixed
up. You're in no shape to go any place for a
while."
Dusty groaned helplessly. The staff car was
twisted about a fire hydrant, its long, streamlined
hood less than three feet from a building front.
Twenty yards down the street, the rear end of the
jet black car poked out from a great hole in a
store front. There was a crowd collecting about it,
and staring with eerie fascination as a squad of
grim-faced policemen took three limp and twisted
bodies from the wreckage. A city ambulance was
at the curb, and on the sidewalk near it, two
blanket-covered stretchers. Beneath each blanket
was a huddled form.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
14
But one thing that caught Dusty's roving eyes
was an Army rifle lying in the gutter close to the
staff car. He gazed at it, striving desperately to
reason out why the sight of it stirred an elusive
thought in his brain.
And then, like a bolt of lightning striking
home, he recalled everything. With a choked cry
he glanced at his wrist watch. The hands under
the non-shatterable glass showed exactly seven
twenty-five. Good God, he'd left the War
Department at six-thirty! Almost an hour lost
already!
With one hand he grabbed a motor
patrolman's arm. The other he shoved into his
pocket, pulled out the card Horner had given him,
and waved it in front of the man's face.
"The military field, quick!" he snapped.
"We're going in your patrol car!"
The other glanced at the card, and his eyes
popped with utter astonishment.
"Sure, sir, sure!" he gasped out. "I can get
you there in five minutes. Gee, sir, why didn't you
show me that before?"
Dusty didn't bother to answer. Dragging the
policeman after him, he ran over to the parked
patrol car, and slid in behind the wheel. The
policeman hesitated a split second, then leaped
on the running board, braced himself with one
hand, and grabbed the siren handle with the
other.
The motor patrolman had said five minutes,
but it was only three minutes later when Dusty
tore across the composition tarmac of the military
field, and rubber-screamed to a full stop at the
side of his plane.
A field mechanic ran over, helped him out,
and gaped.
"Gosh, skipper, something happen? We got
orders to tune her up about an hour ago!"
"Plenty!" snapped Dusty over his shoulder,
as he legged into his ship. "Tell the field
dispatcher that I haven't got time to wait for his 'All
Clear.' If he raises hell with you, refer him to
General Horner."
Kicking the wheel lock release, Dusty heeled
the throttle and air compensator forward in one
swift motion. The twenty-five hundred horses
cowled into the nose took it without a single kick-
back, and the Silver Flash leaped forward,
seemed to virtually set itself, and then went
tearing up into a cloud-flecked dawn sky.
With almost a whole hour of precious time
already wasted, he didn't bother about altitude. At
ten thousand he checked the climb, leveled off
and set his directional compass indicator for a
straight line route to Atlanta, Georgia. That done
with, he started to turn his short wave radio finder
knob.
To his ears came nothing but a high-keyed
buzz. His heart pounded against his ribs, then
seemed to sink within him. The air over America
was still being jammed by some hidden high-
powered transformer set.
One after the other he tried to tune in on the
military station settings, but to all he got the same
telltale buzz.
Leaving the switch open, so that he'd be sure
to pick up anything from a station that might
succeed in breaking through the static wave wall,
he leaned back against the headrest and stared
fixedly at the Virginia and North Carolina terrain
sweeping toward him from out of the distance.
Atlanta would be his first stop. Perhaps he'd
get news there. They had a powerful station in
that area, and perhaps they'd received a relay
message from the government station in the
Canal Zone. If the canal was blocked, there would
be hell to pay.
He jerked up straight, as a new thought
came to him. Why, damn it, what could be a
better place for an attack than right in the Canal
Zone? It would be a perfect base of operations for
the Black Invaders. From there they could work
north through Mexico, and smash into the
American Southwest. And with their sea fleets
working up and down the Atlantic and the Pacific
coasts, the whole country could be bottled up and
blockaded. Why, hell, sure--
"Wait a minute, fellow!" his own voice rapped
at him aloud. "You just stick to your job, and let
Washington H.Q. figure out all the tricky angles!"
But when at last he tore earthward toward
the Atlanta field he had figured out no less than a
hundred different ways for Fire-Eyes to
completely cripple the United States, and do it
almost overnight.
The instant he touched ground and wheel-
braked to a stop, a car rushed out to him. A thin
man in general's uniform practically leaped clear
of the front seat and ran up to him. Dusty
recognized him at once as Brigadier Allen, the
corps area commander.
"Well, Captain Ayres?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
15
Black eyes probed into his own.
"Seven, sir," said Dusty in low tones.
"Anything from the Canal Zone, sir?" he blurted
out a second later. "Washington H.Q. is static
jammed."
The other scowled at him.
"What?" he snapped. "Canal Zone? What
about it?"
Dusty started to speak, then checked
himself.
"Nothing, sir," he said. "Stand clear. Taking
off!"
The general bellowed a question after him,
but Dusty didn't hear it. He was already clearing
ground and swinging southwest toward the New
Orleans corps area.
There he delivered his secret number, asked
the same question, and got the same astonished
question in reply. And it was even the same at the
El Paso area. At Los Angeles, too, where the
most powerful military station of all was
established. No one knew anything.
Racing up the Southern California coast
toward the San Francisco area, he battled silently
with the countless tricky questions that spun and
whirled about in his head.
The four important southern areas had been
contacted, and he had learned absolutely nothing.
Not that it was his duty to find out. Yet a strange
sense of dread gripped him as though it were the
jaws of a steel vise relentlessly closing in.
Somewhere, the fist of disaster was
hovering, waiting the right moment to smash
down. He knew it! Damn it, he could feel it. It was
all about him. In the air that tore past his wings.
Burning deep in the eyes of those he met during
his brief stops on the ground. A steel fist hovering.
Where? Had it really smashed down on the
Panama Canal? Had it--?
God, that was the thing, the very thing that
seemed to consume his brain with white fire. He
didn't know. No one else knew. Communication
was cut off--the air jammed. A whole country
waiting--waiting--waiting for what? Waiting for
news. That was it.
Suddenly the tangled mess of thought fled
from his brain, and a great charge of high-tension
excitement streaked through him. The perpetual
buzzing had ceased in his earphones. Different
sounds were coming through--the sounds of a
human voice. It was too fuzzy for him to get at
first.
Steeling his trembling fingers, he bent over
the oscillation knob on the wave-length panel and
moved it a hair to the right. The sounds started to
fade out. He moved it a hair to the left of the true
setting, and dampened the magnetic shield
adjustment. And then, a split second later, clear
reception came to him. Every nerve tensed, he
listened as a distant voice came to him through
the earphones.
". . . forty-two degrees west. Position due
south of Jamaica. Four squadrons of heavy
armored battle cruisers, with advance escort of
twelve airplane carriers. It is believed that this
enemy force is proceeding for attack on Colon.
Canal already destroyed. Second 10th, 12th,
16th, and 20th Atlantic squadrons will proceed to
this point at once. New Orleans air groups 6, 8,
and 11 are proceeding to Canal Zone now.
Enemy is reported to be--"
Dusty groaned as the words faded out. He
fumbled and fooled with the dial setting, but it was
almost a minute before they came back. But it
was not the same voice. His set was on a
different wave setting.
As he glanced at the dial his heart leaped
over with frenzied excitement. He was getting
emergency orders to base air units direct from Air
Force H.Q. in Washington. The blood raced and
whirled through his veins as the words came in.
"Altitude bombers, Groups 10, 14, and 15 will
proceed for concentration at Frisco. High speed
attack units will concentrate at Los Angeles.
These will include all units in West Coast zone.
Gas bombers, Groups 4, 5, and 6 will concentrate
at Tacoma. Transport units will serve all three
areas, and contact mobile transport battalions 24,
30, and 40. Proceed immediately. End of
message. 7A 64, Washington."
The earphones clicked and went silent.
Dusty gaped at the wave-length panel. His brows
furrowed.
"But what the hell?" he blurted out aloud.
"What about my gang, H.S. Group 7? You can't
do without them. They deserve first crack. They're
the best outfit in the whole damned Air Force!"
The burst of protest off his chest, he leaned
back and shook his head sadly. What the hell was
he yelling about? A damned good thing he didn't
have the two-way switch up, or maybe somebody
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
16
would have heard him sounding off on his own
ideas.
But hell, his gang should be in on it. If the
attack was coming from the West Coast, they
should be.
A cry of amazement slid off his lips, and he
jerked up straight in the seat. West Coast? Good
God, he was on the West Coast right now!
He stared out at the broad expanse of the
Pacific down off to his left. Close in to shore he
could see three squadrons of American Navy
ships, riding peacefully at formation anchorage.
Five miles out were the dim shapes of an
airplane carrier unit, strung out in a line that lost
both of its ends in a heavy sea mist. And beyond
them--nothing but the limitless swells of the
Pacific.
Yes, he was right smack over the West
Coast. But it was a picture he'd seen a million
times at least. The ships out there were riding at
anchor as though a Presidential review were
expected--too damned close in to shore for
adequate defense maneuvering.
Yet he'd heard with his own ears the
Washington Air H.Q. order for concentration on
the West Coast. It didn't take a military expert to
figure out the idea behind it. It meant in plain
English that Washington expected an attack on
the West Coast, and they were ordering adequate
defense to that area.
Quivering with a new excitement, Dusty shot
his Silver Flash toward the San Francisco corps
area landing field. Perhaps Intelligence had
remade contact with Agent 10. And, perhaps,
down there on the Frisco field, orders were
waiting for him to terminate his special mission,
and hold himself ready for active duty in that
area--the area that would receive the first blow of
war.
However, even as the thrill of excited
expectation danced through his body, he realized
in his heart that such a possibility just couldn't
come true. No matter what might be happening
elsewhere, his job was to keep on going. His
orders were to go through; not to stop at anything!
Hell, he wished that his group major had
picked one of the other boys for this messenger
job. He wanted to be sent where there was action,
not go slamming around the country saying,
"Seven, sir" to a lot of pop-eyed corps area
commanders.
Action, that's what he wanted. His fingers
itched to press the electric firing switch of his
guns. To hear their chattering yammer, and to see
some enemy ship quiver and tremble as the rain
of death from his guns slashed into it.
Yet, even as he told himself those things, the
soldier in him refused to believe. No, the thing he
wanted to do most was to serve his country in the
very best way he could. Why, what was he
thinking of, anyway? Hadn't he been given a great
honor? The honor of being the first airman to be
assigned active duty in time of war?
Hadn't he heard the President's message to
Fire-Eyes, with his own ears? And did he think
that this menace that was encircling America
would be brushed away in one effort? Hell no!
Every red-blooded American would see plenty of
action before this thing was over.
Rapping the stick, he sent the Silver Flash
side-slipping downward.
"Yeah!" he growled. "You stick to your
knitting, Dusty, and like it, see?"
Five seconds later he braked to a quick stop
in the middle of the field. Sliding open the glass
hood, he lifted himself out of the cockpit, by way
of stretching his cramped legs, and waited for the
staff car that was speeding across the field.
As it drew near he recognized the
commander, Brigadier Fulton. But it was the third
figure in the car that brought an exclamation of joy
to his lips. For the man was none other than
Colonel "Hammer-Head" Harmsworth, a former
group commander, and, as a matter of fact, the
man who had taught him to fly. He hadn't seen
him for over two years.
As the car coasted to a stop, the two officers
jumped out and sprinted the rest of the way.
Dusty grinned at his old instructor and snapped
his hand up in salute. At about the same instant,
Brigadier Fulton's voice cracked out at him:
"Damn the formalities, Captain Ayres! What
is it?"
Dusty reddened. He hadn't even looked at
the Brigadier.
"Sorry, sir!" he choked. "It's seven."
With a quick nod the other spun around,
almost bowled over Colonel Harmsworth, and
dashed back to the car. The colonel made no
effort to follow. Instead he came close to the
cockpit, smiled, and nodded in admiration.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
17
"Congratulations, Dusty," he said. "I'm glad
that one of my old pupils was selected for the first
air job. But I envy you, too. It's a hell of a note for
Washington to ground us all until further orders.
Say, where'd you get that cut on your head?"
"Motor mix-up," said Dusty hurriedly. "But did
you say that you were all grounded?"
"Yes," replied Harmsworth. "Orders came
through an hour ago, by ground wire, along with
news about the declaration of war by the
President. Every unit on the West Coast has been
grounded. I've just been raising hell. We should all
be on patrol--Ayres, get out of that ship! You're
hurt, man!"
Dusty shook his head.
"No, no, Colonel," he insisted, "I'm all right.
You mean that you've just been talking with
Washington Air Force H.Q. and they grounded all
units?"
"Right!" the other nodded. "Until further
orders. I'd say that you're the only pilot in the
whole Air Force who is flying right now."
Dusty grabbed the colonel's arm.
"Something's wrong, sir! I just heard
Washington order half of the central area air units
to proceed here to the West Coast for
concentration! What about that?"
The other's eyes blazed.
"You heard what?" he roared. "Why, you're
crazy, man!"
"I'm not crazy!" Dusty cut in. "Look, there on
the panel, I left it at the Washington wave length
reading. Three altitude bomber groups, all high-
speed attack units, three gas bomber groups, and
transport units for ground contact work. I heard
the orders, Colonel, and the sign-off signal 7A 64,
Washington!"
Harmsworth's face paled, went beet-red,
then paled again as he peered fiercely at Dusty.
His lips moved but he didn't say anything. Then
presently the words came, low and husky.
"If you're in your right mind, Ayres, then
something is wrong. Washington Air Force H.Q.
couldn't possibly have sent out those orders!"
"No," he repeated a moment later, "they
couldn't possibly have done it! Why, damn it, I
switched off ground wire connection with them as
you were coming in to land. And they had just told
me that further orders would come by ground, as
the air east was static-jammed. By God, Dusty, I
think you've stumbled into an enemy attempt to
leave the East wide open for their first attack!"
"You mean, Colonel--?"
"I mean," the other cut in before the question
was finished, "That it's a sure thing that the Black
Invaders did this. Why, hell, their logical attack
would come on the East, anyway. They'd be
starting out from Europe."
"But, I don't understand, Colonel. Why the
devil wasn't what I got picked up at this station?"
Harmsworth scowled.
"God knows. Unless--"
"Unless what, sir?"
"Unless this static jam just covers the
ground, doesn't extend upward. As far as I know,
your ship is the only one that's been up. If you
were above the static blanket you'd get reception,
while on the ground here, we couldn't."
"I got more than one message, sir!" Dusty
exclaimed, as he suddenly remembered. "I think
the other was from the Navy Department. It was a
general order to the Atlantic battle squadrons to
proceed toward the Canal. It said that Black
Invader forces were concentrating south of
Jamaica, for a probable attack on the Canal. Then
it faded out on me."
For a moment the other made no comment.
Eyes narrowed speculatively, he remained deep
in thought.
"An attack on the Canal, eh?" he murmured
presently. "And if that, too, is a fake, it would
mean that our Atlantic squadrons would be pulled
away from the East Coast. Listen, Dusty, what
are your next stops?"
"Tacoma, Bismarck, Chicago, Boston, and
New York, sir," the pilot answered promptly.
Harmsworth stepped down off the wing.
"I'm going to check back on this thing," he
said. "Washington H.Q. is either asleep, or else
they're walking into a wide-open trap. I'll contact
you at Bismarck, if anything turns up. Let her rip,
son, and good luck."
With a smile and a nod, the colonel turned
and ran across the field. Dusty hesitated a
second, then opened up the throttle. Like
something actually human and impatient to be
away, the Silver Flash streaked across the
ground and raced upward.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
18
CHAPTER FIVE
X34
A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR LATER HE SLID
down onto the landing strip at Tacoma,
Washington. All the time the two-way switch of his
panel had been open, but nothing had come to
him out of the air. It was as though the world of
radio communication had gone completely dead.
A queer sense of relief and comfort stole over him
as he watched the corps area commander's car
speed out onto the field.
"Are you Captain Ayres?"
The bemedaled figure that leaped out of the
car and ran up fairly shouted the question.
Dusty nodded and started to speak, but the
other cut him off.
"Let me see your identification!"
Frowning, Dusty pulled the card from his
pocket and held it up. The other, whom Dusty
now placed as General Baker, peered at it
intently, then nodded and gave a grit of
satisfaction.
"Right, Captain," he said. "Here, this came
by ground wire half an hour ago."
The man held out a folded slip of yellow
paper. l Dusty took it, smoothed it out.
To Captain Ayres.
c/o Corps Area Commander,
Tacoma Area.
Your orders reversed. Report to me at
once.--
Signed, X34.
Dusty read it twice, glanced questioningly at
the general.
"You say this came by ground wire, sir?" he
asked.
"It did," was the short reply. "Half an hour
ago."
"But I don't understand, sir! My orders were
to go through, regardless."
"No use now." replied the other. "Washington
knows the point of attack. It's the Canal Zone. Our
Atlantic fleet is now on its way to cut them off.
Lucky devils, the Navy! We're to stay mobilized as
we are until further orders."
In a few right-to-the-point sentences, Dusty
recounted his experience south of Frisco and his
conversation with Colonel Harmsworth. As he
talked, the look of annoyed patience that had
stamped the general's face from the beginning
faded and changed to one of genuine alarm. He
motioned Dusty out of the plane.
"Come with me, Captain," he said. "I think it's
best that we check back on this before you do
anything."
Cutting his engine, Dusty legged out and
followed the general over to the car. In silence
they rode to Corps H.Q., got out, and hurried into
the signal room. An operator working over a radio
switch board turned as they entered.
"Can't even get Frisco, sir." he said to the
general. But the blanketing seems to be local.
Every now and then I pick up a code signal from
the St. Louis station. But it fades out on me
before I can get anything."
"Well, never mind that!" snapped the general.
"Get War Department, Washington, on the ground
wire. Emergency signal."
"Yes, sir," nodded the operator, and went
over to his old-fashioned telegraph keyboard.
A minute later the spark gap crackled with
dots and dashes going out on the line. The
operator repeated four times, then switched over
to the receiving key. Face expectant, he waited
for the acknowledge of his call signal to click
through. But there came nothing but silence. The
tapper-knob on the instrument didn't so much as
even quiver.
The operator muttered something, swung the
switch to sending, and repeated his signal. Again
he stopped, again he listened and waited
expectantly, and again, nothing but silence.
The silence was eventually broken by a
harsh snort from General Baker.
"What the devil's the matter? Can't you get
them?"
The operator shrugged and shook his head.
"It's mighty funny sir," he frowned. "The line
seems to be dead. As a matter of fact, I'm not so
sure that my own signals are going out."
"Then for God's sake, make sure!" snapped
the general. "Try a relay through Frisco or
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
19
Bismarck--or any other damned station. But, get
through somehow!"
"Yes, sir," meekly.
Five minutes later the operator jerked out the
connection plug, and allowed it to hang uselessly
by its cord.
"Sorry, sir," he said, "I can't raise a single
station. There's a break in the transcontinental
line somewhere. My signals are just going to a
dead end."
The senior officer growled something,
grabbed up the radio phone at his elbow and
banged down the plug-in switch. Instantly an eerie
screeching sound started to pour out of the
transmitter.
General Baker gave a yelp and leaped
backward, his face white. The operator jumped
over and knocked up the plug-in switch. The
sound died out at once.
"Good God!" gasped the shaking general.
"What in the devil did that?"
The operator didn't answer for a moment.
"That sound, sir," he whispered finally, "was
caused by someone opening a transformer all the
way. It was nothing but a drown-out signal. Only
twice as bad as we've been getting on the
teletype machine."
"But where is that transformer?" demanded
the other. "We've got to hunt it out--arrest
whoever's operating it. Damn it, we're practically
isolated here!"
"That's just what we are, sir," nodded the
operator slowly. "Isolated. And where that
transformer station is, sir, I haven't any idea. It
could be five miles from here, or five hundred. All
they have to do, you see, sir, is tune in on our
wave-length, and keep their power on. But there's
one thing, as long as they jam our wavelength
they can't get through to anyone themselves."
The general bit off an irate curse.
"Damn lot of good that does us!" he rapped
out.
"I wonder if we're the only ones, sir," Dusty
put in suddenly.
The other spun on him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, sir," began Dusty slowly, "have the
Blacks tried to isolate every one of the corps
areas? With the exception of Frisco, no place
where I've landed had any official news. With
every place isolated, this flight of mine would be a
dead loss, because mobilization contact afterward
would be impossible."
He paused a second and tapped the dispatch
he still held in his hand.
"Maybe that's the reason for this, sir." he
said. "Perhaps Washington has found that out--
and is calling me back. Frankly, I don't know what
to think. It's all so jumbled up."
"Well, anyway," nodded the other vigorously,
"you've got your orders."
Dusty stared helplessly at the teletype
dispatch.
"I wonder," he muttered, "if I have."
"Of course you have!" barked the other. "It's
signed by X34, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," nodded Dusty. "But I wonder if
X34 sent it, General. It kind of strikes me funny
that just half an hour ago messages came into
this station perfectly, and now when we want to
check back we find all communication at a
standstill. Did X34 really send this? I'm going to
try and find out. If I can't, then I'm going to obey
my original orders."
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"Suit yourself, Captain. I wash my hands of
it. Your orders come from Washington, the same
as mine, so my units will stick here until we
confirm those orders."
Dusty saluted and walked out.
Three minutes later he was in his ship. He
took a last look over at the H.Q. buildings, and
saw General Baker running around, barking a
string of orders. He grunted with disgust.
"The old Army pass-the-buck game, eh?
With all your initiative, Baker, you're going to be a
big help in this war!"
With a nod for emphasis he heeled the
throttle open and sent the Silver Flash skimming
forward. Once clear of the ground he set the
automatic climb control and gave all of his
attention to his wave-length panel.
From the ground all the way up to thirty
thousand feet he got nothing but jammed air. But
at thirty-five thousand the earphones crackled to
life. Then suddenly, as he made a finer
adjustment of the wave-length setting, he
received the rapid-fire dot-dashing of a code
wireless station.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
20
He tried desperately to pick out some of the
letters and make words out of them, but it was
impossible. After five minutes of steady
concentration he knew definitely that the sender
was not using the International code.
As that thought came to him, he suddenly
stiffened in the seat. He remembered reading
somewhere in an article, about a secret, wireless
dot-dash code the Black Invaders were using in
Europe. It was reported to be considerably
simpler than standard International Morse, and
could therefore be sent out faster.
But hell, he couldn't be picking up any stuff
the Blacks were sending out. His receiver only
had a range of about four thousand miles, and the
Black Invaders were in Europe.
Wide-eyed, he stared at the station
directional finder needle, and twirled the power
indicator. The result seemed to mock his fogged
brain. According to the needle reading, he was
listening in to a station located about two
thousand miles east of his present position. In
other words, somewhere between Detroit and
New York.
"But that can't be!" he mouthed into his
oxygen tube. "I must be imagining things."
But he wasn't, and he knew he wasn't.
Somewhere between Detroit and New York, an
enemy station was sending out high-altitude
signals. Undoubtedly it was a secret station
operated by the Black agents General Horner had
spoken about.
But the one fact that sent an icy chill rippling
down Dusty's spine was that he'd only been able
to pick up the signals on a thirty-five thousand
foot wave-length adjustment. That meant that the
ground station must be in communication with
aircraft at that altitude!
Stunned for the moment, Dusty could only
turn his head and gaze out at the vast limitless
space through which he was racing. He saw
nothing but thin air, and the cloud layer drifting by
far below him. Yet he suddenly became
possessed with a queer sensation--a feeling that
at any second he would see a squadron of battle
planes come tearing into view. He grunted a curse
and tried to rid himself of the dizzy premonition.
"Cut it, Dusty!" he grated aloud. "What the
hell's the matter, letting every damned little thing
get you? A swell soldier you're turning out to be!"
Rapping on the stick, he sent the Silver
Flash streaking down to twenty thousand. There
he twirled the wave-length adjuster for his own
transmitter, and switched on the battery current.
Then he bent close to the mouthpiece.
"Captain Ayres calling X34 . . . Captain Ayres
calling X34!"
Over and over again he repeated the call
signal, and kept his eyes glued to the red signal
bulb on the panel. Two minutes, three minutes
dragged past, but the light did not go on. Still
sending the call signal, he started flying in a slow
circle.
Then, suddenly remembering what the
Tacoma operator had said, he turned the dial
reading to the signal for the St. Louis Army
station. And still he got no reply.
One by one he went down the whole list of
receiving stations, but the red light didn't wink
once. Nor did a change of altitude help any. He
even went up to forty thousand, stood the cold air
and dizziness as long as he could, and then slid
down again with no results.
A glance at the magnetic watch on the dash
told him that it was about 12:45 p.m. Almost six
hours of flying time gone, and here he was
chasing around in circles over northern Wyoming,
striving desperately to make contact with some
ground station.
The X34 dispatch in his pocket seemed to
virtually burn a hole in his side. In the next five
minutes he pulled it out and read it at least fifty
times. And the message was always the same--
"Your orders reversed. Report to me at once!"
Damn it, he had to know first. Too many
things were happening for him to just take a
chance on his own judgment. He couldn't possibly
make Washington under four hours, going full out.
And then if he should find that he was wrong, that
the message was a fake, the wrath of General
Horner, and a lot of other unpleasant things would
come down on his head! The general had told him
to trust no one; that he was to go through at any
cost, that any other orders didn't matter. He,
Dusty, was to contact the ten corps area
commanders.
Yet, countermanding orders had arrived at
Tacoma before he had. And General Baker hadn't
even asked him for the secret number. Didn't that
mean--
He left the thought unfinished as the red
signal light on the panel suddenly winked.
Feverishly he bent over the transmitter tube.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
21
"Captain Ayres, speaking. What station's
calling?"
The earphones hummed for a second or two,
and then words came.
"Des Moines Air Base 23 with relay from
Washington Air H.Q., 7, A, 6, 4. Are you ready,
Captain Ayres?"
Dusty shot a look at the wave-length reading,
and gasped. It was about thirty points off the
usual reading for the Des Moines Air Base. For a
second he hesitated. Then impulsively he nodded.
"Ready, Des Moines!"
"Relay from Washington," said the
earphones. "You will proceed at once to Winnipeg
for high-speed group concentration with Canadian
forces. Message signed, X34."
"Winnipeg?" Dusty blurted into the
transmitter tube. "What--that--I mean, is that all
of the message?"
"Right!" came the reply. "That's all! Signing
off."
"Hey wait, Des Moines!" the pilot yelled.
"Wait!
But the red light went out and left him yelling
into a dead wave-length. Furiously he spun the
dial to the usual Des Moines reading, and called
the station's signal until he was hoarse. But not
once did he get a reply, not even a fade-out
signal.
With a groan he leaned back wearily and
tried to figure out this last and craziest order.
Winnipeg? Why in the name of Heaven have a
high-speed group concentration there? Des
Moines must have been trying to contact some
other pilot, and gotten on his wave-length by
mistake. But they'd called him by name. The
message had been meant for him, all right. If he
could only get through to Washington direct, and
check on all these orders.
He suddenly felt very tired and depressed.
His head ached, and the blood-caked gash on his
left temple smarted and throbbed. He should have
taken time out at one of the corps areas to get it
fixed up. Should have grabbed something to eat,
too.
With a curse he tried to forget what he
should have done. They were trivial things, now.
What mattered was this new countermanding
order from General Horner. What to do? Should
he go on with his original job? Should he hightail
for Washington? Or should he go to Winnipeg, as
Des Moines had ordered him?
The more he ran the three ideas over in his
mind, the more confused they became. For the
second time he fervently wished that someone
else had been selected for the courier job.
Then, with a gesture of savage decision, he
whipped the Silver Flash around and set a dead-
on course for Winnipeg. To contact that Canadian
city would only take him an extra half-hour
anyway. And he just had to find out where he
stood. If there was no concentration there, it
would mean that the Des Moines message was a
fake, that some hidden enemy had been tailing
him around the country. And--but what hidden
enemy? Who knew he was in the air?
The question mocked him as he thought of it.
"Orders be damned!" he grated harshly. "I'm
going to find out a thing or two first!"
CHAPTER SIX
THE BLACK HAWK
IT HAPPENED AS DUSTY TORE DOWN
from higher altitude, just over the Canadian line.
The cloud layer was still below him, and he
couldn't yet see the ground. Easing back to half
throttle, he started to coast toward the cloud layer,
when suddenly the red signal light on the panel
winked rapidly. Seconds later a harsh voice
vibrated in the earphones.
"Level off, Captain Ayres, and fly due north!"
Rigid in the seat, Dusty stared at the panel.
The voice sounded like the one he had heard
while enroute from the Dayton field to
Washington.
"Level off, and go due north, Captain Ayres.
You can't get away this time. If you think so, then
look up!"
Hardly realizing what he was doing, Dusty
jerked back his head and stared heavenward. As
he did, a wild cry burst from his throat.
Unconsciously he brushed his hand across his
eyes, and stared anew. But the scene did not
change!
Less than two thousand feet above him were
six jet-black fighting monoplanes. They were
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
22
pursuit planes, but of what make, he could not
tell. He'd never seen anything like them before.
Save for their single wing, faired into the center of
the fuselage, they had the same beautiful
streamline design of his own Silver Flash. Even in
his utter bewilderment he could not help but
admire them. Like six graceful, death-dealing
hawks. They sat poised above him.
Then to his spinning brain came the harsh
voice again.
"Look below you, too, Captain Ayres."
He obeyed and got the second jolt in as
many minutes.
The top of the cloud layer was speckled with
at least a dozen of the speedy little black
monoplanes. Neither they nor the ones above had
a single marking on their wings or fuselage. But
they didn't need any insignia. Though he tried to
convince himself that it just couldn't be possible--
Dusty knew that he was looking at a pursuit unit
of the Black Invaders.
For an instant stark terror gripped him. Not a
muscle of his body moved, not a single thought of
action came to his brain. From head to foot he
suddenly became completely paralyzed. The
earphones hummed and in a dull sort of way his
befuddled brain registered the words.
"You see, Captain Ayres, you have a choice.
It is not our wish to kill you. On the contrary, we
want to take our first air prisoner alive. That is
really why I did not shoot to kill last night, nor
even try to chase you. We knew that there would
be another chance. So, fly north as ordered,
Captain. It is the safest thing for you to do."
Harsh and grating, yet without a single trace
of accent, the voice beat against Dusty's
eardrums. Hardly realizing it, he bent toward the
transmitter tube.
"Who the devil are you?" he shouted.
The answer came back almost instantly.
"I am known by many as the Black Hawk,
Captain Ayres. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
The Black Hawk! Had he ever heard of him?
Dusty had an almost irrepressible desire to laugh.
Who hadn't heard of him? During the two years of
war in Europe, the American papers had carried
almost as many accounts of the Black Hawk as
they had of Fire-Eyes himself.
Like his commander-in-chief, the Black Hawk
was more or less of a mystery. To friend and foe
alike he had been known as the Man of a
Thousand Lives. Time and time again his death
had been reported. Countless eye witnesses had
sworn they'd seen him go crashing to earth.
Others had vowed they had seen him shot at the
firing stake. And then, a day, a week, or a month
afterward, he had suddenly returned to life again
and continued with his weird and well-nigh
miraculous feats in the air.
One thing about him was known quite
definitely. It was confirmed by the Black Invader
high command--the man was the supreme head
of the Black Invaders' air forces. But what other
functions he performed for that ravaging horde of
world destroyers was merely speculation.
Everyone had ideas, of course. But no one was
able to prove them.
The Black Hawk--the scourge of the sky--
was right above him, ordering him to surrender!
With a desperate effort, Dusty tried to collect
his thoughts, to spur his brain to action. He was
nailed like a rat in a trap. Worse than that. A rat
usually went into a trap blind, but he'd gone into
this one with his eyes wide open. The choice had
been his and, like the dummy he was, he'd
chosen the wrong thing. Damn, it was all so plain,
now.
That dot-dashing he'd received had been a
Black Invader ground station signaling to this
monoplane unit. And undoubtedly, the Des
Moines orders had come to him from the Black
Hawk's own ship. As memory flashed back for a
second he seemed to be able to join up the two
voices. Yes, there was a similarity--the same
inflection, even though one was a harsh voice and
the other just commonplace.
Trapped! For a moment he didn't try to
reason why. He didn't question why so much
trouble should be taken over his capture. Other
thoughts crowded his brain. And the most
puzzling of the lot was how in the name of God
did they come to be there? But there was no
plausible answer for the question. This was just a
dream. A dream? Look up--look down! What do
you see?
The order his brain lashed at him was but
additional confirmation of what he already knew.
Yet, impulsively he obeyed; stared down at the
black-speckled cloud layer, and up at the six
darting arrows above him.
"Well, Captain Ayres, do you surrender
peacefully, or must we force you down?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
23
The harsh voice in the earphones snapped
him back to reality. Face grim, eyes like rock, he
bent over the transmitter tube. With his free hand
he reached out toward the dial knob on the wave-
length panel. A wild and crazy idea had flashed to
his brain.
"The Black Hawk, eh?" he said slowly. "How
do I know this ain't a joke? I'm on important
business, and I can't waste any time. Yeah, how
do I know you're the Black Hawk?"
The moment of silence that greeted his
words fired the tiny spark of hope that flickered
within him. With trembling fingers he turned the
dial so that his sending wave was timed into the
War Department wave-length. That meant that
every word he spoke would go out on that wave-
length, and if Washington was not static jammed,
they'd get both parts of this conversation.
To make doubly sure, he unhooked one of
his earphones and held it clamped against the
transmitter tube.
And then, in the other earphone, he heard
the harsh reply.
"You may rest assured that this is no joke,
Captain Ayres. And you may also realize that our
patience is practically exhausted. I am giving you
a chance for your life. Any sort of resistance is
futile. Now, obey, at once!"
Dusty steeled his quivering nerves.
"But how did you plan this?" he spoke into
the transmitter tube. "How did you plan to meet
me, Captain Ayres, at longitude one zero one and
latitude four nine? How did the Black Hawk get
here at this point with his squadron? I don't
understand. Do you mean that the Black Invaders
have already landed?"
Clamping the loose earphone against the
transmitter tube, Dusty breathed a fervent prayer.
If only Washington H.Q. would be able to pick up
his position tip-off. If only they'd get it and realize
that a Black Invader air fleet was already on the
North American continent!
At that moment it seemed to him as though
all heaven and earth stood still and waited. Head
thrust back, he stared up at the six black planes,
waited, and dully wondered which one held the
famed Black Hawk.
And then as the harsh voice spoke again, his
heart seemed to drop through limitless space.
Like the clarion call of doom, the words came to
him.
"You are wasting your time, Captain Ayres. I
realize that you are trying to send word to your
Washington headquarters. You see, Captain, my
own voice is being recorded right back to me. And
my wave-length detector tells me that your setting
is for another station. But it's useless, Captain
Ayres. Every ground station in America is
blanketed out. No one is hearing a thing. And
now, Captain, I'm signing off and coming down to
show you where to land."
As the earphone made a clicking sound,
Dusty saw one of the black ships above him come
sliding down in a graceful, curving arc. With the
utmost ease it took up a position a bit behind and
to the left of the Silver Flash. No fear of
impending doom could have stopped him from
turning in his seat to stare at that ship, or could
have quelled the true airman's thrill at seeing so
beautiful a craft of the air.
So perfect were its fuselage lines that at first
he didn't see the glassed-over cowling. As a
matter of fact, the cockpit wasn't exactly glassed
over. At least not in the same way as his own. His
rounded up in the front to enable him to see
straight ahead. But the cockpit cowling of the
other ship was an integral part of the fuselage.
From the nose to the base of the high-finned tail
ran one straight, unbroken line.
The bottom part of the fuselage was the
same, except for two protruding, faired-over
humps that covered the pivoting joints of the
retractable landing gear.
A real ship, for a real pilot, whether he be
friend or foe.
But the thrill that was Dusty's lasted for only
a few fleeting seconds. As he saw the figure in
the black plane point toward the north, the horrible
reality of the situation swept back to him. Though
the horror of it was doubly intensified now, he
could not take his eyes off the man in the glass-
cowled cockpit.
He was a big man with a face unlike any
Dusty had ever seen before. The eyes were deep-
sunken and close-set and the nose was hawkish.
The mouth was big, at the moment, stretched
back in a wide smile revealing large, fang-like
teeth. Though Dusty couldn't see clearly, the
man's skin seemed to be a copperish hue, and
the hair that showed beneath a skull cap was as
black as the cap itself.
Trapped! The thought crashed through
Dusty's brain for the millionth time. And as it did, a
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
24
part of him seemed to die, the other part to flare
up to white heat.
From a long way off he heard his own voice
bellowing savagely.
"Like hell you will! Like hell you will!"
Even as the words rasped from his lips he
slammed the throttle and compensator wide open,
thumped down on the right rudder pedal and
hauled the stick all the way back to his stomach.
The whipping motion of the ship, as it went over,
almost flung him out of the seat.
As it was, he crashed his head up against
the cowling brace. But his senses were already
too numbed for him to feel pain. Holding the stick
back, he flashed out his free hand and pressed
the electric firing switch of his guns.
Instantly the twin muzzles, streamlined into
the nose, started spewing out pickle-jacketed
steel messengers of death--fifteen hundred to a
gun, three thousand a minute for two guns.
Thundering downward he saw a black shadow
dart across his fixed sights. A split second later it
seemed to stop dead in mid-air, as though it had
slammed into some invisible barrier. The sleek,
black wings ripped off like so much paper, and the
bullet-shaped fuselage went screaming down into
the cloud layer, like a berserk meteor of black fire.
"First blood for the Yanks. Come on you
devils, come on and get me!"
Crazy, insane words blabbed off Dusty's lips
as he yanked and spun the Silver Flash about in
the sky. A second black dot whipped past his
sights; then it went careening straight up, like a
bird caught cold in mid-flight. But what it did after
that, Dusty didn't know. He didn't bother to look
and find out. He had only one thought in mind;
one thought that sliced through his head like a
spear of livid fire.
In the few seconds that had passed, he'd
learned one thing. Tricky as these black
monoplanes looked, and flew, his own Silver
Flash was tops in speed and maneuverability.
Hell, if he'd only guessed that before, instead of
wasting time trying to get word through to
Washington. But it was too late now to curse his
stupidity. The thing for him to do was fly the wings
off the Silver Flash. Spin, twist, and whirl and
shoot his way down through this Black Hawk
brood, and make a landing on American ground.
Suddenly he sucked in his breath in a sharp
gasp as the realization came to him that the other
ships were not shooting at him. Rather they were
trying to keep out of his own savage hail of death
and form a sort of aerial network about him. But
though this bewildered him, it did not stop his
flame-spewing guns.
Around he cut in a dime turn, straight for a
black monoplane. Its pilot flopped it over on wing
and tried desperately to slide out of the way. But
the deadly shower from that crazy Yank's guns
caught him amidships and blasted the plane into a
shower of black pieces which lost themselves in
the cloud layer.
"Two!" roared Dusty, and pounded his free
fist against the armored side of his ship. "Come
on old girl, we can do it. Let 'em shoot, if they
want to. So long as it isn't a lucky burst, we're
okay. Come on you Silver Flash! Let's sh--"
The rest was lost in a choking gurgle. His
lungs suddenly seemed to be on fire, and his
throat was closing together, shutting off his wind.
Sweat oozed out on his forehead and trickled
down into his eyes. Then a wave of utter
weariness swept over him. Nothing seemed worth
the effort any more. His arms and legs were like
bars of lead, which required every ounce of his
strength to move. Sound crashed against his
eardrum, he dully heard his own voice.
"Dusty. Dusty, damn you, snap out of it! Do
you hear? Snap out of it!"
Swaying like a drunken man, he stared
through the cowling glass. God, he couldn't see!
Everything was a greenish-brown. No, not quite
everything. There were lines of greenish-brown,
criss-crossed and woven together in a weird
pattern. They were in front of him, behind him, on
both sides, above and below him. He was in the
very center of a greenish-brown web that seemed
suspended in the sky. And on the outside of the
mesh was a mass of twisting and turning black
shadows.
Not a single one of the planes was trying to
get inside of the web, to dart in on him and slam a
death burst into his unprotected top cowling. Of
course, the first burst wouldn't count. The semi
bullet-proof glass would protect him for a few
moments. But after constant hammering, even it
would give way. After that, death would be his lot.
But not one of the black ships was firing at
him. He dashed the smarting sweat from his eyes,
steeled himself against the horrible burning in his
chest, and searched the heavens on all sides.
They--hell, they seemed to be shooting at each
other. Streams of greenish-brown smoke were
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
25
pouring out from the under part of the tail of each
plane. That's what made the sky look so damned
funny. Those streams of peculiar-looking smoke
which poured out from each ship formed the cries-
cross webbing that hung all about him. What in
the name of--?
Dusty tried desperately to think, to reason
the thing out. But it was useless. A great weight
was pressing down on his brain, and a sweet,
penetrating smell filled his whole body. He had the
wild sensation that he was inside a candy factory.
The sweet smell gagged him, dulled his senses,
and steadily sapped his strength.
At that moment his guns jammed, but he
didn't try to clear them. An overpowering
numbness pinned him back against the seat. And
his churning brain didn't seem to care. It refused
to concentrate on any one thing for more than a
split second at a time. Even when it dully
registered the fact that he was completely
shrouded by the greenish-brown mesh, that he
couldn't even see the black monoplanes any
longer, the reaction was a blank
He was going down, that was all. Slipping,
sliding, hurtling earthward. That was swell. Sure,
wasn't it something like that that he planned to do
a while ago? The idea played hide and seek in the
dim recesses of his brain. That's just what he
wanted to do--get down and land, then go to
sleep. God, but he was tired. Felt as though he
could sleep for a thousand years. Sleep, sleep,
and then more sleep.
For a moment his brain clicked over
normally. Damn, there was something he was
supposed to do, wasn't there? Sure, but what was
it? Darned if he could remember. He was in the
air, in the Silver Flash. That's funny, what was he
doing--a test flight perhaps? Or had he been
tuning the ship up for a new crack at the speed
record? His head hurt so damned much he
couldn't even think. Needed fresh air--that was it.
God, if he could only get his hands up and unhook
the sliding cowling. No, he couldn't--funny--what
the hell was the matter?
Brain deadened completely, and instinct
alone guiding his grip on the controls, Dusty went
thundering into the cloud layer. Seconds later he
raced into clear air. He sucked it into his lungs
with the feverishness of a drowning man, and a
hidden lock within him seemed to snap open. But
only for an instant. And then the great over-
powering sense of drowsiness engulfed him
again.
With a tremendous effort he forced his head
to the side of the cockpit, looked out and down.
Below was the panorama of dull-colored earth.
The location didn't even occur to him. He had
eyes only for a strip good enough to land on.
That's all he wanted--to land and go to sleep.
After that, time lost all meaning to him.
Perhaps it was seconds, perhaps hours, it might
even have been an eternity before the wheels of
the plane touched a smooth surface and he
braked to a gentle stop. A sob of relief welled up
within him. Ah, now he could sleep.
Later, he'd take off again--take off and go
back--go back--go--?
The tiny thread of consciousness snapped
and Dusty went floating outward on a great,
billowing cloud of utter bliss and silence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SECRET DROME
LIQUID FIRE SLIDING DOWN HIS
THROAT dragged Dusty back to partial
consciousness. He coughed and gagged and
sputtered, but his mouth seemed to be held in a
vise. More liquid fire went down his throat. He
tried to pry his eyes open, but the lids seemed
glued together. Wildly he thrashed outward with
his hands, struck something soft and yielding. And
then his hands, too, were clamped down at his
sides.
There was a great roaring in his ears, and his
whole body seemed ready to burst apart from the
pressure of the seething flames which were
consuming him inside.
Then suddenly, the burning sensation left
him and his whole body became as a solid form of
ice. Seconds later, a strange tingling freshness
swept over him, a curtain of darkness was lifted
from his brain and eyes, and he found himself
staring wide-eyed down the long room.
It was a queer room. The walls contained
row after row of black cabinets, some of them with
their doors open. The ceiling was arched and
spotted with huge indirect lighting globes. Below
the arched ceiling was a criss-cross net of fine
copper wire, stretched straight across from wall to
wall, and drawn so taut, that it gave the
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
26
appearance of a solid sheet of copper. Only the
lights above it belied that impression.
But what held Dusty's attention more were
the figures seated in front of each wall cabinet.
They were all dressed the same, in loose-fitting
black uniforms and black skull caps. And fastened
over each figure's head was a set of earphones.
But their faces--
Dusty had the eerie sensation that he had
emerged from a world of human beings, and
suddenly plunged down upon a make-believe
planet. The face of each one of the strangely
garbed figures was thin and pointed, to almost
razor-blade thinness. Their eyes were not eyes
really--more like glistening marbles set behind
slitted skin. And the nose, rather than being a
nose, was more like the peak or beginning of a
receding forehead and jaw. The mouth was but
another slit in the brown, blotched skin. And the
hair--there was no hair showing beneath any one
of the skull caps.
Fascinated, horrified, heart and brain filled
with disgust, Dusty sat watching their bony hands
flick up to the myriad of switches and plugs back
of the cabinet doors. And to his clogged eardrums
came a low murmur of inarticulate sound,
whenever their lips moved.
"An interesting lot, aren't they, Captain?"
The words seemed to actually explode inside
Dusty's head. Impulsively, he jerked about in his
chair and gaped wide-eyed at a new weird
spectacle.
Five men stood behind him. Each was tall, at
least two or three inches taller than himself. They
were clothed in neat-fitting black uniforms. On the
left tunic front of each man was a tiny pair of spun
gold wings, joined together in the center by a
single bar of black onyx. In the center of each
onyx was a tiny number in inlaid gold--the
number 10.
Although the faces of the men in front of the
wall cabinets startled Dusty, the five faces he now
gaped into startled him twice as much--not in the
same eerie, horrified way, though. True, the faces
were dark-skinned, almost a bronze and
altogether fierce-looking. But the fact that dragged
a gasp off Dusty's lips was their exact similarity.
To look at one was to look at all five--identical in
every detail. Each had the same large, hawkish
nose, the same close-set, deep-sunken, jet black
eyes, the same large mouth and the same
coarse, ebony hair hanging raggedly down from
under the black skull cap.
As Dusty gaped at them, his brain slowly
awakened to life. And in that instant, memory in
all its vividness came crashing back to him.
He let out a wild yell, and sprang to his feet,
one hand automatically clawing for his holstered
service gun. But his hand grasped at an empty
holster, then dropped to his side in a gesture of
savage helplessness. He had seen one of the five
men dart forward a step, seen a queer-looking
gun trained dead upon him. It was shaped like a
tapering bulb, a tiny needle point in the tip. The
back of it curved down to form a triggerless hand
grip. Then its owner spoke. Harsh and rasping
came the sound of his voice, even though the
fang teeth showed in a wide smile.
"I've brought you back from the dead once,
Captain. Are you going to force me to again?
Don't you Americans ever know when you're
beaten?"
Dusty shook his head, took a deep breath,
and stood poised on the balls of his feet. What,
where, how and when? There were so many
questions he couldn't answer. He didn't try. He
only knew that he was in the middle of some
hell--a world he'd never get clear of, except by
fighting. Let just one of them even try to lay a
hand on him and he'd smash the hawkish face to
a bloody pulp.
But a second later, as the man holding the
queer gun spoke again, he realized the utter
absurdity of his thoughts.
"Captain Ayres, your life has been in our
hands for hours. It is still in our hands this very
instant. One charge from this gas-gun which is
trained on you, and you will drop like a suffocated
fly. Can't you realize that we wish you no physical
harm?"
Dusty bit his lower lip, stared intently at the
man.
"Why?" he blurted out a moment later. "Why,
damn you? You belong to the Black Invaders
don't you?"
Like puppets they all bobbed their heads.
"Naturally," said the original speaker. "I was
under the impression that you understood that
quite thoroughly when we first met this afternoon.
It was I, Captain, who talked with you."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
27
The man bowed his head again. His smile
broadened, and the corners of his mouth curled
upward in a smirk of pride.
"The Black Hawk, eh?" Dusty mumbled in
spite of himself. "And who are these others?"
"They?" echoed the man. "Well, to be
truthful, Captain, each of them is the Black Hawk,
when I find it necessary to make him such."
The Yank curbed the start the answer gave
him. Then, for a reason he couldn't explain at the
moment, he stepped close to the man and peered
at him intently. When he stepped back, he was
grinning.
"The Man of a Thousand Lives, eh?" he said.
"I get the idea. But there is a difference. Yes, I'd
recognize you the next time!"
Like a tiger who has been suddenly
cornered, the man uttered a savage, grating
sound. His eyes narrowed, and the veins in his
temples went taut underneath the copper skin.
Then, as quickly, he relaxed and shrugged.
"My compliments, Captain. I admit that
others have noticed the difference, but it did them
little good. To be sure, no more good than it will
do you."
Dusty shrugged back at him casually, though
he was now burning with curiosity. Life was still
his, but he was in the center of an endless tangle
of mystery. First--why was he alive? He put the
question into words.
"And just why have you been so careful with
my neck?"
"For various reasons, Captain," the Black
Hawk replied. "In the first place, I wanted your
plane, almost as much as I wanted you. In some
things you Americans are quite clever. One of
them is the manner in which you guard technical
secrets of aircraft design. For some time we've
known about the Silver Flash. We--"
"How the hell did you know it by name?"
cried Dusty.
The other laughed.
"Good heavens, Captain, I know how to
read! The name is painted on the nose of the
plane, isn't it?"
A surging wave of bitter remorse swept over
Dusty. The Silver Flash--his Silver Flash--in the
hands of these devils.
"But, as I was saying," went on the harsh
voice. "We failed in all of our attempts to get hold
of the drawings for the plane. As a matter of fact,
we failed to learn anything, except what our eyes
told us--and only then from a distance. So, we
naturally took the trouble to get it intact. A very
wonderful plane it is, too. Five years ahead of our
latest Black Dart--the type plane you saw this
afternoon, Captain."
The man stopped suddenly, and his black
eyes fixed steadfastly on Dusty, and seemed to
recede deeper into his head. They flashed tiny
pin-points of white flame. A chilly tingling clutched
at Dusty's heart, but he steeled himself outwardly
and returned the steady glare.
"Yes, you are much more valuable to us alive
than dead, Captain," the Black Hawk grated. "Else
I would have killed you long before this. You see,
you've cost me the lives of three pilots already."
Heart thumping with joy that he'd been of
some use to his country's cause, the Yank
nodded grimly.
"And there are ten thousand other Yank
pilots who are just as good shots," he got out from
between clenched teeth. "Most of them a damn
sight better. So fire away. I'm just one of ten
thousand. Paste that in your trick skull cap!
"But I'm still listening. Why save my hide? If
it's because you think I may talk, then forget it. I'm
an American, Black Hawk! A Yank--and if you
don't know what that means, then you'll damned
soon find out!"
Dusty stopped short as the other raised his
hand in a soothing gesture.
"Of course you are an American, Captain,"
he said. "And a rather commendable example of
the breed, I might add. Personally, I've always
admired courage in friend and foe alike. But that
is not the reason I've spared your life, and I did
spare it, Captain.
"We could very easily have shot you down.
Instead, we ringed you with a certain gas we've
perfected. It's quite harmless, as regards the
tissues of the body; it does not destroy life.
"Often times we wish to preserve the lives of
those we conquer, so our chemical warfare
department developed a gas that simply dulls the
brain of its victim, and leaves him with nothing but
a great craving for sleep. Perhaps you recall the
sensation, but I rather doubt it. When we first tried
it against the French, we found that they only
recalled events up to the time they inhaled the
fumes."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
28
The man paused a moment to lick his lips,
then continued like a professor delivering an
oration.
"A most remarkable gas, Captain. With it we
have captured countless prisoners for
reconstruction work, and unlimited quantities of
war supplies that would otherwise have been
destroyed. Of course, when we want destruction
we simply refrain from applying the restorative to
the victim. Without it, he dies within twenty-four
hours without once regaining consciousness.
"But in your case--well, Captain, we wanted
you and your plane intact, so we acted
accordingly. And by the way, you are in splendid
condition, Captain. Your reaction to the restorative
was quicker than that of any other man to whom
I've ever seen it applied."
Eyes agate, Dusty simply stared at the man,
while his brain worked in a frantic effort to recall
the details of a blank spot in his memory. But it
was futile. It was as the Black Hawk had stated;
he remembered everything from the time he left
Dayton Field for Washington right up to when he'd
first seen the greenish-brown web forming in the
sky. But after that? He couldn't recall a thing.
"Thanks," he got out shortly. "But you haven't
answered the question yet. You got the ship, but
why save me?"
The Black Hawk smiled at him, pocketed his
gas-gun.
"As a souvenir, Captain Ayres," came the
astonishing reply. "Yours will be the honor of
becoming the American Airman exhibit in our
museum of war prisoners."
The Yank gulped, fought for words.
"W-what?" he finally managed to stammer
out.
"Exactly what I said, Captain," returned the
Black Hawk grimly. "Since we first began our
conquering crusade, we have taken the first
prisoner of each enemy nation, alive. As a matter
of fact, we have taken a prisoner from each of the
country's arms of defense. The collection is a sort
of museum for the benefit of our own peoples. It
gives them a certain sense of pride, boosts their
morale when they see how many nationalities
they have conquered and subdued. Yes, it's a
custom originated by our great leader."
Dusty recoiled a step or two in spite of
himself. A museum of war prisoners! God, what a
devilish idea!
"You--you rotten dogs!" he blazed.
As the last word spilled off his lips, his brain
flashed him a call of alarm. Instantly he ducked
and twisted to the side. But the snarling black-
uniformed figure charged like a flash of light. A
hammerhead fist curved through the air, and
caught Dusty flush on the side of his neck. His
whole body went stiff as a board as he went
crashing down on the floor.
The second impact released his momentarily
paralyzed nerves, and he came bouncing up like a
rubber ball. But that's as far as he got. Steel
fingered hands gripped both his arms and pinned
them to his sides. He struggled furiously, but the
black pilots on either side of him had the strength
of a dozen oxen.
Panting, cursing, Dusty returned the glare of
the Black Hawk, who was standing straddle-
legged in front of him.
"And it goes double for you, you tramp!" the
Yank roared. "Call off these eggs and meet me
man to man, if you dare. I'll knock you east of
Suez!"
The Black Hawk's eyes retained their deadly
gleam, but his tight lips curled back in a smirk.
"We've conquered you, Captain," he grated
out. "But I see we have yet to subdue you. That,
perhaps, will take time. But it shall be done, never
fear. You were my choice in the beginning. What
better than taking prisoner America's speed ace?
And when by a stroke of good fortune you
became involved in the initial stage of our capture
of America, you doubled in importance to me.
"True, that fact added certain difficulties. It
necessitated the risk of killing you, because of
your increasing importance. But when we
succeeded in luring you north of your country's
border, the whole thing became quite simplified.
So, all that remains now is the simple task of
subduing you. And it shall be done."
"Think so?" Dusty blazed at him. "Well, try it,
you black bum! You nailed me--I admit that. How
you worked all those trick messages, how you
jammed our ground stations with static, I don't
know. But it's only the first trick, Black Hawk, and
Uncle Sam has got a few of his own. You'll never
lick us--never in God's world, do you hear? So do
your damnedest with me--and to hell with you!
That goes for your fancy murdering leader, Fire-
Eyes, too!"
A light of stark madness and cruelty seeped
into the other's eyes. Dusty knew that he was
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
29
looking at certain death, that he was but inches
away from it. But he didn't give a damn. His heart
was deadened with the shame of his own
blundering, his own failure in the hour of his
country's greatest need. His brain was on fire,
seething with a berserk desire to hurl himself at
the smirking, copper-skinned rat in front of him.
"Call them off, Black Hawk!" he choked, as
he got his breath. "Call them off, and let's see if
you can take it, man to man!"
The other laughed in his face.
"You fool!" he said harshly. "You have
courage but you are a fool. There were many
interesting things I would have shown you, before
I shipped you off to Fire-Eyes. But no, you shall
not see them now. They would mean nothing to a
fool. So take him away until he gets a little sense
into that thick head of his, and mends his ways!"
The last was snapped at the two men who
held Dusty. With a low growl they propelled him
forward, toward a steel door. He struggled and
fought, but he might just as well have tried holding
back the tide.
Through the door he went, down a long,
dimly-lighted hall, up a circular, steel stairway,
and down another hall to a small door. As his
guards paused in front of it, he made one last
desperate effort to wrench himself free. He
succeeded in getting one arm loose, and he drove
his fist into the face of the other guard with every
atom of his strength.
The man howled with pain, but did not let go.
But before Dusty could jerk back his fist and slam
it out again, a sledge hammer blow from behind
knocked him off balance. The next thing he knew
he was sprawling face down on a cold, stone
floor, and above the buzzing in his ears came the
slam of a metal door closing behind him. Even as
he turned he heard the soft click of the bolt sliding
into place.
With a groan he raised himself to his hands
and knees, and remained that way for several
minutes cursing softly to himself. Then eventually
he turned over, sat up and looked about him
There was not a great deal to see.
He was in a small room, about ten by ten and
eight feet high The walls and the ceiling were of
steel plating, and the floor was of solid stone.
Against the right wall was an army cot with a
single blanket, no pillow. Against the left wall was
a bare, narrow table. At the back wall was a
smaller table with a towel, a small basin and a
pitcher of water on top of it. In front of him, was a
five foot by three foot steel door, with what looked
like a hinged section at the bottom. The light in
the room came from a single, screened-over bulb
sunk up into the middle part of the ceiling.
"Dusty Ayres, the prize sap! So what?"
The sound of his own voice startled him, sent
his nerves tingling. He laughed bitterly and got to
his feet.
"So what?" he echoed thickly to himself.
"Well, wash up for one thing. Yeah make yourself
nice and pretty and maybe they'd give you a
special niche in the prisoners' museum, you
block-headed dummy!"
Weaving over to the rear table, he splashed
water into the basin, then doused his hands and
face in it as best he could, and dried them on the
towel. That helped a lot. The cold water cleared
his head, eased the throbbing pain, and served to
take some of the bitter sting of self resentment
from his heart. After all, why jump down your own
neck? It wasn't going to help. Forget it, and think
of how the hell one could get out of this place.
With a resigned shrug he walked over to the
bed, threw himself upon it and tried to segregate
the twisted thoughts in his brain. But the result
was like running around in a circle, and ending up
right where he started. The blank spots skipped
him every time.
In the first place, where was he? What time
was it? His watch had been taken away from him.
And with a start he realized that he hadn't seen a
single window. Every room or hall he'd been in
had been windowless, like the one he was in now.
Where was the Silver Flash? How his hands
ached to be gripping the control stick. Hell, what a
laugh that was! Would he ever see the old bus
again?
He moaned aloud and fought back the tears
of helpless rage that crowded to his eyes. What a
fool he'd been. His C.O. had picked him for the
honor. General Horner had entrusted him with an
important mission--counted on him, and he'd
failed. Yes, he'd let his own gang down, his C.O.,
General Horner, and his country.
Hell, he'd tried. But he'd been tricked,
completely fooled. Perhaps any other of Uncle
Sam's eagles would have been tripped up the
same way. But the fact remained that he was the
one. God knew what might be happening now
while he sat here eating his heart out between
steel walls. Damn it, he had to do something!
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
30
But his own thought echoed back to mock
him--do what?
There was no answer to that. Struggling to
keep his sanity he lay there on the army cot,
going over every conceivable detail in his mind,
and getting nowhere. Dusty Ayres, speed ace of
Uncle Sam's fighting eagles, was sunk--sunk
deeper than hell. For all the good he was to his
country, he might just as well be a thousand feet
below the international meteorological station at
either the north or south pole.
How long he lay there battling with his
thoughts, he didn't know. There was no way of
telling time. Suddenly he heard a clicking noise.
Like a flash he sat up, trying to place the sound. It
came from the other side of the steel door.
As he stared at the door, he saw the hinged
part at the bottom open inward, and a tray of food
was slid into the room. For an instant he got a
glimpse of a bony hand holding the tray, then the
hand disappeared and the trap clicked shut.
The hope that had flickered to life in Dusty
died out again. Hell yes, museum prisoners had to
be fed, didn't they? Well, as far as he was
concerned, they could take their damn food and
stuff it down their own throats. He'd starve before
he'd touch a bit of it. With a savage curse he
rolled over on his stomach.
But regardless of the situation, a man's
empty stomach has a most pronounced way of
making its owner acutely conscious of its
presence. And Dusty Ayres was no exception to
the rule. For ten minutes he doggedly stuck it out.
Then as the savory flavor of soup and meat filled
his nostrils, he weakened enough to roll over and
stare at the tray. Another five minutes and he sat
up. Five minutes more and he went over to the
tray, convinced that he really should eat. He
needed his strength, that was the only reason. It
wasn't that he was hungry. Hell no, but perhaps it
would be a darn good idea to eat this one meal.
There was no telling when he would get another.
Picking up the tray, he placed it on the wall
table and pulled the cot over for a chair.
Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the soup
was good. It was tomato and rice, and he sure
liked rice!
He'd almost finished, when suddenly, he
stopped a spoonful half way to his mouth and
stared at it. It was not all soup and rice in the
spoon. There was something else--a tiny white
square. It was like a piece of paper that had been
wadded together. He picked it out and started to
toss it on the tray when his hand froze and his
eyes went wide. There was not the slightest
doubt. The white square was wadded paper.
Dropping the spoon into the bowl, he
unfolded the wad with trembling fingers, and
presently smoothed it out to an inch and one half
of soggy white paper. A gasp choked in his throat
as he saw a jumble of black dots on its surface.
But they meant nothing to him.
There was a short row at the top, and a long
row at the bottom. Both rows were made up of
little squares of dots, so it seemed. Yet as he
studied them closely he saw that they weren't all
squares.
Frowning, he turned the paper over. It was
blank on the other side. Then he turned it back,
and studied the dots again. A split second later he
almost cried out aloud.
In turning it back he had turned it so that now
the long line was on top and the short line on the
bottom. The squares were no longer squares--
the dots pinpricked in the paper formed words and
figures. Hardly able to believe his eyes, he read:
YOUR CHIN UP YANK 10 OF X34
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRAPPED!
LIKE A DROWNING MAN CLUTCHING AT
a lifeline, Dusty clutched at the tiny, mysterious
ray of hope that the message sent flashing
through him. 10 of X34? At the moment he didn't
know, nor particularly care. The one truth that
pounded through his brain was that some person,
unknown to him, knew that he was here. And that
person was calling upon him to keep courage.
God be praised--he was not alone among
enemies. Somewhere in this eerie maze of steel
rooms and hallways, there was a friend. A friend
who might get him out.
The rest of the food on the tray was
forgotten. Eyes riveted to the quivering paper he
held, he studied every bit of it with savage
fierceness. But the one message he had read was
all that it contained. For the moment it was
enough.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
31
Like the waters of a flood tide rushing into an
empty bay, strength and hope surged back to
him. In a matter of seconds, he had been lifted
from the hell-pit of despair and borne up to the
peak heights of renewed courage and faith. True,
it was but a mysterious lifeline flung to him as he
floundered helplessly, but it was something.
"10 of X34?" he murmured in breathless
wonderment. "who the devil? X34 means Horner,
of course, but how could he know I'm--?"
The rest was left unfinished as a whistling
gasp rippled off his lips. Ten? Did Ten mean
Agent 10--the foreign agent General Horner had
counted on--the man whose last teletype
message was never finished? No! Hell no, it
couldn't. That man was probably dead. And even
if he was still alive, he was over in Europe,
thousands of miles away. He--
Dusty stiffened and eat with mouth agape, as
a new thought came to him. God Almighty, he
didn't know where he was, himself. The Black
Hawk had said that his life had been in their
hands for hours. How many hours had passed
since he'd seen that gas web hanging in the sky?
Where was he? He could be most any place,
America or Europe, or maybe on the moon, for all
that.
With an impulsive movement he crushed the
paper to a wad and placed both doubled fists
against his temples.
"Hold it, kid, hold it!" he grated at himself. "It
looks like you've got a break, but don't go
haywire!"
With a great effort he got hold of his jangled
nerves. Then with calm deliberation he tore the
soggy paper into tiny bits, put the bits in his mouth
and washed them down with a spoonful of soup.
Hardly had he done that than the lock on the
door snapped back and the door swung open.
The Black Hawk and a cruel-looking guard stood
on the threshold. The Black's eyes fastened on
Dusty's in fierce concentration. For almost five
seconds the tableau remained motionless then,
slowly, the Black Hawk walked into the room, the
guard at his heels clutching a gas-gun in his huge
paw.
Steeling himself, the Yank rose to his feet
and forced a grin to his lips.
"And so what now?" he got out lightly.
"Figure to shoot your face off some more?"
The other didn't speak. With a quick step he
went up to the table, bent over the tray of food,
and peered at it intently. A moment later he took a
spoon and carefully prodded the contents of the
various dishes.
"Say, what's the idea?" snapped Dusty. "If
you want the damned stuff, take it."
The Black Hawk said something in a
language Dusty didn't understand. The next thing
he knew, the guard had pinned him up against the
wall and was searching him thoroughly. He
started to struggle, then suddenly changed his
mind and stood motionless until the man had
finished.
As the guard shook his head at his superior,
the Black Hawk muttered a curse, snatched up
the gas-gun and leveled it at Dusty.
"Where is it?"
The words echoed sharply against the steel
walls. Dusty shrugged.
"Where's what?"
"The message concealed in your food,
Captain," said the other with deadly evenness.
You've been watched every second. One of my
men saw you take something out of your food. He
said it was a folded slip of paper. Where is it,
Captain?"
Inwardly the Yank's heart looped over with
excitement and relief. Thank God he'd swallowed
the message in time. Outwardly his expression
was one of blank amazement.
"What in hell are you talking about?" he
stalled. "Who saw who with a folded slip of paper?
You're crazy!"
The Black Hawk smiled nastily, and the
muscles about his jaws tightened. With a sudden
movement he went up to the rear wall.
"Look here, Captain!"
Placing the flat of his hand against the steel
wall, at a point in the center and about a foot from
the ceiling, he twisted sharply to the right. Then
he took his hand away. Dusty gulped and stared.
Where a second before there had been a solid
sheet of steel, there was now a tiny slit, about four
inches long and a quarter of an inch wide.
"A little slide panel," came the Black Hawk's
voice, "that enables the guard to watch the
actions of the man in this detention cell. It is also
part of the ventilation system. But the point is,
Captain, that you have been watched. We
wouldn't want our first American prisoner to
become too remorseful and try to commit suicide,
you know. And the guard reports that you took a
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
32
piece of paper out of your soup, and read
something written upon it!"
As the man spoke, he moved close to Dusty
and raised the gas-gun until its muzzle was on the
level with the Yank's eyes. At the same time the
guard pinned Dusty's hands behind his back.
"You remember my words, Captain?" the
Black pilot purred, nodding toward the gas-gun.
"Just one small charge from this and you drop like
a dead fly. Where is that paper?"
The Yank's blood ran cold, but he kept his
face expressionless and his eyes riveted on the
other.
"You're crazy, Black Hawk!" he grated.
"There wasn't any paper!"
"So you swallowed it, eh?" the man shot right
back. "Well, in that case, you'd have to tell us
what it said."
Dusty was surprised at the chuckle that
spiked from his own lips.
"Yeah?" he got out. "Well, that's something
else you can try and do. Even if there had been a
paper, I'd see you in hell first, before I'd tell you."
"Brave words, Captain! But death is not
pleasant--not this kind of death. I understand that
the membranes shrivel up and the lungs contract,
finally the heart explodes. Most unpleasant,
Captain, I assure you of that. Now, what did that
paper say, and who signed it?"
Though death seemed to be reaching out at
him, something in the back of Dusty's head told
him that it would not touch him. The Black Hawk
had kept him alive too long as it was, to kill him
now. The man was playing the old prisoner-bluff
game, and playing it to the limit.
"What it said, oh?" Dusty echoed "Is that
what you want to know? Well, I'll tell you."
As Dusty paused, the Black's lips slid back in
an eager, triumphant leer.
"Yes, yes, Captain, that's what I want!"
"It said," replied the Yank slowly. "Merry
Xmas from Santa Claus!"
For a second the Black Hawk's jaw dropped
in blank astonishment. Then the features of his
cruel face twisted with rage and his sunken eyes
virtually spewed tongues of flame. With a hideous
shriek he lashed out with his free hand. Unable to
protect himself, Dusty could only jerk his head to
one side and take the savage blow on his left
shoulder. But even then the pain brought a groan
to his lips.
"Go ahead, you rat!" he rasped from between
clenched teeth. "Keep it up. Get in your innings.
But some day I'll give you two for one. Yeah, even
if I have to wait for you in hell to do it. And that's a
promise, so help me!"
But the Black Hawk didn't strike again.
Instead, he stepped back a pace, stood there
glaring savagely at his prisoner. Then gradually
the anger faded from his eyes, and to Dusty's
amazement he smiled and raised his hand in a
half salute.
"My apologies, Captain," he said. "Of course
I was mistaken. Not even a fool hero would face
certain death, and joke as you did. But about that
promise you gave me. I accept it with pleasure,
and I hope that the day will come when you can
try to make it come true. But I doubt it. In time,
you will be sent to a place from whence there is
no return. I do not mean death, for death is the
least of punishments that we Black Invaders can
inflict."
The man paused, nodded again.
"And now, I leave you for the present," he
said, moving toward the door and bobbing his
head at the guard. "If there is anything you wish,
simply call out. Your watcher, back of that wall,
will convey your wishes to me."
With that the Black Hawk and the guard
ducked out through the steel door. Seconds later
the lock bolt clicked into place and Dusty was
alone again.
For several minutes he stood still, staring
dully at the door. Then with a stifled moan he
went over to the cot, sat down, and buried his
head in his hands. Within him rose up a seething
tempest of fear, disappointment and bitter
chagrin. A spark of hope in a world of mystery
had now faded out. The Black Hawk had lied
when he'd said he was mistaken. From now on
the food would be searched, and perhaps 10 of
X34 would be trapped. God, he, Dusty, was not
only responsible for his own doom, but probably
the cause of doom for another Yank. He wished
he'd never been born.
"Captain Ayres!" Like a man who has been
awakened out of deep slumber by some peculiar
sound that penetrated his dulled senses, Dusty
jerked his head up and frowned into space.
Then he heard it again, a low, hissing
whisper.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
33
"Captain Ayres! Here--the rear wall!"
A tremor of electrified action sliced through
him. He started to his feet and walked quickly
over to the rear wall. The panel slide was open,
and behind it he could faintly see the whites of
gleaming eyes. He placed both hands against the
wall and kept his eyes raised toward the slit.
"Who are you?" he breathed.
"Agent 10," came the faint reply. "Will that
wash stand hold you? You've got to get close to
this crack. Try it!"
Fighting desperately to keep his hands
steady, Dusty pulled the table over, tried his
weight on it. The wooden legs creaked a bit, but
the table seemed strong enough. Climbing up on
it, he braced himself in a half crouched position
and put his lips close to the slit. He started to
whisper something, then suddenly changed his
mind.
"Agent 10?" he said. "Never heard of him."
"Don't be a damned fool!" hissed the other.
"This isn't a trick."
Dusty scowled. A queer sensation was
surging through him. He couldn't tell whether it
was a sensation of joy or caution. In the light of
past events, he was prepared to expect almost
anything. He put the question slowly.
"How do I know?"
"You don't!" came the startling surprise. "But
damn it, man, you've got to believe me!"
An idea suddenly came to Dusty.
"Wait a second!" he breathed. "If you're
Agent 10, tell me this--what was the last
message you sent on the teletype, and to whom?"
There followed a few seconds of quivering
silence, then the man on the other side of the wall
spoke again.
"To Horner, X34. I started to tell him where
Fire-Eyes was reported to have gone in a high
speed bomber. But I couldn't finish the message.
I--"
"Check, old man!" Dusty cut in excitedly. "But
what happened? How did you get here? Where
the hell are we anyway?"
"Shut up, and let me talk, Ayres!" the other
breathed back fiercely. "You didn't tell them about
that note in the soup, did you?"
"No. But they suspect. The guard who was
where you are now saw me reading it."
"That's okay," was the dumbfounding reply. "I
was that guard. I told the Black Hawk I'd seen you
read a message. I--"
"You?" gasped Dusty, as his head whirled.
"But what the--?"
"Building myself up with him, you dope! Now
he thinks I'm a real bright-eyes, and has given me
the job of watching you for the rest of the night."
"Night?" echoed the Yank in Blaring "What
night? What time is it, anyway? I don't know what
the hell this is all--"
"It's almost midnight of Wednesday," was the
reply. "You've been here since yesterday
afternoon. Now, shut up, don't interrupt, and let
me talk. Just keep your eyes on the door. If the
lock moves, rap the wall once, and then get down
off the table. Got it?"
Dusty nodded, then realized his ear was
jammed against the crack. He turned his head.
"Right, 10! Let her rip!"
Ear jammed again to the crack, and eyes
riveted to the door, Dusty waited with tingling
nerves for the other to speak. There was a long
pause then softly whispered words began to pour
into his ear.
"Listen, Ayres, I don't know just where we
are, but I'm pretty sure it's some place in Ontario,
Canada. And here's why. As I was finishing my
last message to Horner, a mopping-up squad of
Blacks got too close to me. I'm supposed to be in
their army, but if they'd spotted me with the
teletype key, it would have been curtains. So I
destroyed it and beat it."
"Transport planes of Black troops were
leaving the Paris area, and in the confusion I
managed to get aboard one. Twelve hours later
we landed. It was dark and I didn't know where I
was. An officer took a squad of us and marched
us into a shaft in the side of a hill. That's where
we are now--in the middle of a range of hills. I
haven't been able to get out because it's a two
man job. There are too many guards. But I've
found this out. The Blacks have been building this
place for months. It's a combination air base and
signal base."
The voice paused for a moment, and Dusty
grabbed the opportunity to ask one of the million
odd questions that were coursing through his
brain.
"Couldn't you see where the transport was
going?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
34
"No," came the answer. "There were no
cabin windows. But I know we swung north for a
long time and then veered toward the south,
because it got cold as hell and then eased off.
Since I've been here I've overheard a couple of
these rat officers talking. From what they said I
place this spot a couple of hundred miles north of
Lake Superior. It's in Ontario some place,
because I've heard them mention the name
several times.
"But, here's the point, Ayres. This is their
main power signal station on the North American
continent.
Remember that big room you were in? I saw
you there. That's the central control room. Every
one of those cabinet relays contact with a hidden
wave length station in the United States, a Black
agent station, see?
"In that way they can set up a magnetic
disturbance in any section of the country and
blanket-out our stations. That's what they've been
doing for two days. The whole of the United
States is static jammed right from this spot here.
Get the idea?"
"Partly," breathed Dusty. "But what's that get
them in the long run? They jam up their own
communications, don't they?"
"That's just the point!" came the hissing
answer. "It doesn't matter because their plans are
obviously all ready made. They are jamming our
stations so that we can't contact each other, and
in the meantime they are sending out fake orders
over the U.S. government wave lengths to our
battle squadrons and air fleets. They can do that
right from here--clear the air long enough to get
their fake message through and then jam it before
there is a call back for confirmation. My God,
Ayres, they've sent almost the entire Atlantic fleet
chasing down to defend the Canal. And--"
"I heard part of that order!" cut in Dusty
breathlessly. "I heard that the Canal was
destroyed. How--?"
"It was destroyed two days ago! They did it
with a couple of radio-controlled bombers from
their Pacific fleet. Crashed them into two of the
locks. I know that much, definitely."
"But why send our fleet down there, if they've
already destroyed the Canal?" Dusty asked
excitedly. "Hell, of course, I get it--to leave our
East Coast open to attack!"
For a moment there was nothing but silence
beyond the steel wall. A pang of sudden fear
sliced through Dusty.
"Hey, 10, did you hear me? Are you still
there?"
"Yes, I hear you. But I don't know where they
plan to attack--I mean attack with a landing
force."
"But it's obvious that they plan to take the
East Coast!" Dusty cut in. "With the fleet headed
south, New York and Philly are left wide open.
And, say, I heard another of their fake messages.
One ordering most of our central states air
squadrons to the West Coast."
"You did?" the other hissed. "When was
that?"
Dusty told him in a few rapid-fire sentences
of what happened during his flight up the West
Coast. As he finished there came a low groan
from beyond the slit.
"Even the ground wires, too, eh?" echoed
Agent 10. "God, that's the one thing I'd been
hoping against. But I should have realized they
would. The devils are clever. They think of
everything, curse their hides!"
The silence that followed the last remark
fired Dusty with a frantic desire for action.
Action--anything, rather than remain cooped up
here in the bottom of a hill. The news he had
received from Agent 10 created a reaction of
liquid fire which soured through his veins. There
were still a few blank spots, but he could fill those
in from his imagination. The important thing was
that Black high-speed bombers, transports, and
pursuit planes were already on the North
American continent!
He jammed his lips to the crack.
"We've got to do something, 10!" he hissed
fiercely. "We've got to get word to Washington
somehow. Damn it, man, the East Coast is wide
open. We've got--"
"Hold it, Ayres, hold it! There's something
else we must do first. Listen as long as this power
station functions, the U.S. is just banging around
in the dark. Merely getting word to Washington
won't help much. It would still be impossible to
contact our defense units and countermand the
fake orders. I doubt if there'd even be time for
courier contact work.
"That leaves us with just one possible move.
It will probably mean curtains for us both. But hell,
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
35
we're Yanks, and we've got to risk it. At least, I'll
risk it. How about you, Ayres?"
Dusty's face went grim with savage
determination.
"What do you think, Agent 10?" he grated.
"Shoot! What's to be done?"
"Just this--destroy this power station. If we
can, it frees the air for our stations."
"Okay!" whispered Dusty, his heart pounding
against his ribs. "That suits me swell. But how the
devil am I going to get out of this room?"
"Leave that to me," came the answer. "Now
listen, Ayres--"
The voice paused, and when it spoke again
Dusty had to strain his eardrum to catch it.
"Remember the word, 'static.' When you hear
that word again, you'll know it's me. Then use
your own judgment about what will follow.
Remember, when you hear static, be ready for
action. Now, get down and finish that food. Make
believe you're eating, if you don't want it. And
keep your chin up, Yank!"
Something clicked in Dusty's ear. He turned,
started to whisper a question, but stopped. The
panel had slid back in place and he was looking at
nothing but a blank steel wall. For a moment he
hesitated, then with a shrug, he climbed down off
the wash stand, moved it over to its proper place,
and seated himself on the cot.
Automatically, he ate some of the meat, but
he didn't even notice its savory flavor. His brain
was spinning over too fast with what had just
happened to register anything else.
For the first time in years, it seemed to him,
a glad song was in his heart. He felt like a man
whom fate has pulled back from the very lip of the
grave. What lay ahead didn't matter.
Though he had no absolute proof of the
man's true identity, something deep down inside
of him told him to put his faith in the owner of that
whispering voice. Damn it, the man couldn't be
anybody else but Agent 10. He just couldn't be--
he knew too many of the important details.
Subconsciously he wondered what the man
looked like. Was he tall or short, fat or thin, young
or old? A member of the Black Army, eh? What a
man! What things his eyes must have looked
upon! The Blacks were clever? Well, there was
one Yank who was going them one better.
A sudden surge of pride flooded through
Dusty. What a man to know--what a man to work
with!
The last stuck in his brain. Work with? Agent
10 hadn't said anything about the details of his
plan. He'd simply said, "Leave it to me.
Remember the word, static." Just words, and
what did they mean? The man had admitted that
the place was well guarded. How did he expect to
get him out of this steel-walled room? And
suppose he did, then what? The Blacks would
spot his uniform a block away.
He raised his eyes and stared dully at the
wall. But he wasn't seeing the wall before him. He
was seeing the steel corridors through which the
guards had rushed him, the circular flight of stairs
and the big, long room with its cabinet-covered
walls. The control room--the very heart of the
static web the Blacks had spread over the United
States.
Sitting there, picturing that room, a strange
sensation seeped through him. This all seemed
unbelievable, like something he was reading out
of a story book. From that room, deep down in the
bowels of a hill range, a victory-thirsting brain was
stifling American air communication. One nerve
center was able to plunge a great nation into a
void of mystery.
It was fantastic. During his lifetime, science
had done wonders with the invisible power man
called electricity. But, anything like this? No. Not
once during his time spent at the Air Force War
College at Dayton had any such offensive or
defensive tactic been spoken of. True, he'd
learned how it was possible to static jam a single
station with planted, high-powered transformers.
You simply left the transmitter key open. But to be
able to static jam any and all stations, regardless
of their distance from the central point? Well--
Dusty left the thought unfinished. It was
beyond him, outside the limits of his training. But
it nevertheless chilled him to the core as he
realized the propensities of the menace his
country was facing. A blood-thirsting horde of
destroyers, yet geniuses in their own right.
Wide awake to the danger that confronted
them, fully prepared to meet it when it struck, the
American people had been practically crippled
and cut off from each other in one lightning
swoop. The key defense cut off in a flash If the
Black Invaders could accomplish that stroke while
they were still subduing Europe, what hellish
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
36
things would they do once they got a firm foothold
on American grounds?
The Yank pilot shivered in spite of himself.
There was no use thinking about it. War was
here! It had already slashed down with terrorizing
brutality. This was no time to indulge in gruesome
speculation of the future. The important thing was
to act--to act now, and let come what may take
care of itself.
To act, now! The thought was like a saw-
toothed blade twisting in his brain. God, he could
do absolutely nothing now. His task was to wait
and keep his chin up. Wait? It seemed as though
he'd been waiting since the beginning of time.
Suddenly his heart turned over as he heard
the lock bolt in the steel door clicked back. Agent
10? Yes, thank--
But as he turned, his heart went cold. The
door swung open and the Black Hawk stood on
the threshold. Behind him was a guard, evil-eyed
and leering menacingly.
Curbing the disappointment in his heart, the
Yank gave the Black Hawk a fleeting glance, and
turned back to his food.
"Don't you like our food, Captain? Or is it
your custom to eat slowly?"
Dusty said nothing, and kept his head bent
over the plate lest the other have the satisfaction
of seeing the strained look that he knew must be
stamped on his face.
"Maybe it's because you've been too busy
reading more messages you've found?"
The chuckle that accompanied the words
stung Dusty, like raw salt in an open wound. For
one crazy second he had a reckless desire to slap
a plate square into the Black's face. But he killed
the idea the instant it came to him. Instead he
turned and eyed the man steadily.
"I'm your prisoner, Black Hawk!" he gritted.
"And that makes you top man. But I don't have to
talk to you, see? So save your breath and go
crowing up another alley. In other words, you
waste my time. You might just as well go ask
questions of somebody who'll answer them."
The Black Hawk stepped close to him. There
was a smile on his big mouth, but seething anger
in his sunken eyes.
"You're beginning to annoy me, Captain," he
said. "I saved your life and I've treated you with
the courtesy afforded important prisoners. But you
deem it fit to act otherwise. The guard told me
that you were not eating, so I decided to come
here, personally, and find out what was wrong. I
don't do that always. But you interest me, greatly.
However, I see you want a different sort of
treatment. So you shall have it!"
With that the Black nodded at the guard. The
result was, that before he knew what was
happening, Dusty was spilled from his chair and
sent flying up against the opposite wall. A red
haze filmed before his eyes as he scrambled to
his feet.
"Why, you damned--"
He got no further. With the speed of
flickering light the guard leaped backward and to
the side, so that the Black Hawk was between
them. And as he moved one word spilled off his
lips.
"Static!"
Stunned, Dusty stood rooted to the spot
while his whirling brain tried frantically to whip
action orders to his paralyzed muscles.
CHAPTER NINE
AGENT TEN
"STATIC, AYRES, STATIC!
As the voice called out again, a spring inside
Dusty was suddenly released. He leaped forward
as the guard hurled himself onto the Black Hawk.
The man spun and tried to jerk up the gas-
gun clenched in his right hand, but the guard's
blow knocked it free and sent it skidding across
the stone floor. And at that moment Dusty's
clenched fist connected with solid jaw bone.
A gasp whistled out of the wide lips, and the
Black Hawk crashed down, with the other two on
top of him.
"His mouth, Ayres! Gag it! I'll take his arms
and legs."
Brain functioning at full speed, Dusty didn't
waste a second. He jammed his handkerchief into
the Black Hawk's mouth, ripped off his service tie,
and bound the gag in place. By that time the
guard had jack-knifed the Hawk's arms and legs
and lashed them together with his belt.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
37
Then the guard rolled the Black over, face to
the floor, and sat on the small of the man's back.
His leering features wrinkled into a grin.
"And that's that! Nice work, Ayres. Kind of
took you off guard, though, didn't it?"
Dusty fought for control of his tongue, and
stared pop-eyed into the grinning, but horrible
face.
"Y-yeah!" he managed a moment later. "But
good God, man, you--"
"Face?" finished the other. "Hell, how'd you
expect me to look--like a Yank soldier? Make-
up's a big part of my job, you know."
A shaky laugh spilled off Dusty's lips.
"I'll say it is!" he breathed. "But--"
He stopped short, darted over and scooped
up the gas-gun. A glance showed him the clamp
trigger in the grip, and a sense of security flooded
through him.
"Come on, 10, let's get out. What's the next
move?" And as the other remained seated,
"Come on, for God's sake, we can't stay here very
much longer!"
Agent 10 nodded and gestured.
"Yes we can, Ayres," he said. "And we're
going to. So take it easy, and get your breath."
Dusty gaped at him in amazement, and for
one fleeting second the clammy fingers of fear
clutched at his heart.
"Why?" he blurted out. "I don't understand!"
The secret agent grinned.
"But I do," he said, almost casually. "We've
got to stay here for ten more minutes. The place
we're headed for is occupied right now. It's a room
downstairs. To try to take it by storm would be
asking for suicide before we even got started. But
it's ten of two now. At 2:00 o'clock the room will
be empty. Then will be our chance, if any."
Dusty glanced at the rear wall, then looked
meaningfully at Agent 10. The man shook his
head.
"No one there," he spoke quietly. "That's
supposed to be my post. I simply left it and
reported to Black Hawk that you weren't eating. I
was hoping he'd come down here and order me
along with him. Well, I got the break. And here we
are."
"But how about somebody missing him?"
Dusty insisted, as the frenzied desire for action
burned hotter within him. "Suppose some of the
others come in here?"
"They wouldn't dare, in the first place," was
the reply. "He," pointing a finger at the prostrate
man under him, "would kill the first man who
came strutting in without knocking. And if anybody
does knock, I'll simply order them the hell away.
Or else let them in, and treat them accordingly."
The poise of the man filled Dusty with
admiration. Agent 10 acted as though he were
enjoying a pleasant drawing-room conversation. A
perpetual smile was on his lips, and his every
movement was one of calm deliberation. He
seemed to have no nerves at all. Dusty heaved a
sigh and sat down on the edge of the cot.
"You win, fellow!" he exclaimed. "I've heard
of men with guts, but, boy, you cop all the
medals!"
"Forget it, Ayres!" snorted the other. "I've just
been living and eating with these rats for almost
three years. You forget what might happen to you
after a while. But you're no sissy yourself, lad.
The way you stood up to this egg with a gas-gun
in your face, and told him where to head in--well,
that's one for the book too, Ayres.
"But listen, while we're waiting, tell me what
you've been doing. Some kind of a contact flight,
wasn't it? At least that's what I gathered. On my
chief's orders, wasn't it?"
Dusty nodded, hesitated a moment, and then
with sudden decision he gave the secret agent a
detailed account of his experiences. The man
listened in thoughtful silence. At times he frowned,
at others smiled faintly, but at no time did he
interrupt. Even when the pilot had finished, Agent
10 remained seated, chin in hand, staring dully at
the floor.
Presently he took his hand away from his
chin, doubled it into a fist and pounded it softly
against the palm of his other hand.
"I don't get it," he muttered savagely. "I don't
get it at all. Fire-Eyes would be a fool to try to
attack New York. He knows damned well that our
coast defenses would blow him to hell and back.
Of course, he could smash up the city a bit with
his radio-controlled bombers. But to land troops?
He wouldn't stand a chance. He certainly must
realize that. Yet, perhaps that's his idea, after all.
The man's insane with his own power."
"Say," Dusty cut in, "I just happened to
remember--that last message to Horner. You
started to say that Fire-Eyes was reported
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
38
heading some place in a high speed bomber, but
you didn't finish it. The message was blocked out
on the machine."
"Oh, that?" the other echoed. "That was a
rumor I heard. He was supposed to be heading
for Bermuda where his Atlantic fleet is at anchor.
But later I heard he'd gone back into Central Asia.
He could be any place, now; for all I know."
Dusty leaned forward excitedly.
"Perhaps here?" he breathed.
The secret agent started to laugh and shake
his head, but he checked himself and frowned.
Then with a muttered curse he shrugged.
"Your guess is as good as mine, Ayres. He
may be here, but I don't think so. The Black Hawk
seems to be in complete command, and he sure
wouldn't be if Fire-Eyes was around."
"Listen," spoke up Dusty quickly. "Just what
the hell is this place, and why couldn't you get
out? If it's in Canada, why haven't the Canadian
authorities spotted it? It just doesn't read right, if
you get what I mean."
"I get you all right, Ayres. But you don't know
the Blacks like I do. Sometimes I almost think
they're a bunch of phantoms. You can't figure
what they're going to do five minutes ahead.
They're absolutely uncanny. Hell, you could go to
sleep at night, and wake up and find them in your
hair.
"But as I said before, I don't know for sure
where we are. I only know that we're twelve hours
by plane away from Paris. And as you were
brought down on the North Dakota border line, it's
only logical to suppose that we're in Canada.
Besides, since I've been here I've heard these
beasts talking about how long it took them to build
this place, heard them mention Ontario, and that
this is their central power station and air base on
the North American continent."
"But why haven't you been able to get out?"
insisted Dusty as the other paused. "Maybe a look
at the countryside would--"
"Right! But this room where we are right now
is four flights down. The only way out is either by
the stairs, or in an elevator at the far end of the
corridor. A certain number of Blacks are assigned
to each of the five floors, and their orders are to
stay on that floor. Luckily, I was given a guard job
that permitted me to go around on the three
bottom floors.
"As a matter of fact, if I hadn't got that job I
probably would never have known you were here.
But to try and get out without a signed pass from
the Black Hawk--well, just no can do. Besides,
I've been too interested in that central control
room downstairs to try to get out. Before I leave
here, that room's going to be a heap of junk, or I
just don't leave!"
There was a moment's silence and then
Dusty spoke again.
"I hate to keep asking a lot of dumb
questions," he said. "But I've got an idea, and--
well, I'm just trying to get as much of the picture
as I can."
The other shrugged, glanced at his watch.
"That's okay, Ayres. Shoot. You've got four
minutes left."
"It's about my being here," said Dusty. "I
wonder how they brought me, and where my ship
is now. God, it gripes me to think they've got that
bus."
"My guess is that you came by air," replied
Agent 10. "In either this hill or the next one there
is a subterranean drome. There must be one with
the Black Hawk being around here. Incidentally,
did you notice his wings--the figure ten? Well,
that's the crack air unit of the Black Invaders. If
you live to meet any of them again, don't give
them a single break. They're a bunch of killers."
Dusty's eyes went hard.
"Don't worry," he grated, "I won't! But you
spoke of a room downstairs. What is it? And
what's your plan of action? Give me the worst,
Agent 10. I can take it, I reckon."
The other pursed his lips and stared at his
bony hands a moment.
"That room," he began presently, "is the
power room. It contains the controls for every bit
of electrical power used in this place. I was only
able to get one quick glimpse at it last night. Up to
then I didn't even know what it was. If we succeed
in smashing all the stuff in that room we'll put the
central control on the bum for a long time to
come. And that will mean that this crowd here will
be unable to jam any of our government wave-
lengths, or even send out messages of their own,
except by the old-time wireless method."
"I get you," cut in Dusty eagerly. "But why
couldn't they repair the damage we do? Rebuild it,
I mean. Would it take them long?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
39
"Plenty long," nodded Agent 10. "If I know
anything about electricity, and what will happen, it
wouldn't be worth their while. You see, they are
not only using standard high-tension current here,
but they're tapping the cosmic system as well. By
shorting the two systems, we'll melt every
damned wire and plug they've got in the place.
Yeah, if you've ever wondered what hell-fire looks
like, you're going to find out firsthand.
"Well, let's go, Ayres. They switch over to
standard current at two and keep it that way for
five hours, so that the cosmic generator can bring
the charging cells up to maximum power. I just
noticed the light flickering, and that means they've
switched over and have locked up the room for
the five-hour period. So, come on, and do just as I
say."
Like a man who had suddenly decided to
take a short stroll before turning in, Agent 10 got
to his feet and leisurely flexed his muscles. Then
he bent over the prostrate Black Hawk, shoved a
hand into the pilot's pocket and pulled out a key
ring. He grinned at Dusty.
"Save us the trouble of smashing down
doors, and maybe waking somebody up," he said.
"Now stay right behind me, and keep that gas-gun
ready. If I yell, don't be afraid to use it. And one
more thing, Ayres, as soon as we've wrecked the
place, it'll be every man for himself. The place will
be a raging hell. Try and get out, if you can, and
get word to Washington of what you know, see?"
Dusty swallowed hard and nodded.
"Sure, but what about you?"
"I'll take care of myself," came the quiet
answer. "No matter what happens, my job is with
the Black Invaders, yours with the Yanks. We're
both working toward the same goal. Okay, here
we go."
Selecting one of the keys, Agent 10 slid it
into a key groove in the door and twisted slowly.
The lock-bolt clicked back and the door swung
open. Motioning for Dusty to stay right where he
was, the man slipped outside. A thousand
minutes of fear and doubt dragged by, then his
head reappeared in the doorway and with finger to
his lips he nodded an okay signal.
Steeling himself against the qualms and
tremors which rippled through him, Dusty gripped
the gas-gun in one hand, bunched the other fist,
and stepped through the doorway.
Hugging the steel wall of the corridor, Dusty
stuck close behind Agent 10 as they edged
toward the circular staircase twenty yards away. It
seemed to Dusty that they would never reach it.
The small of his back itched unbearably, and
though he didn't dare look behind, he had the
feeling that thousands of cruel black eyes were
glued on him.
Two feet from the stairs, Agent 10 went rigid.
Dusty's heart looped over and spun down inside
of him. The scuffing sound of footsteps blasted
against his ears. Someone was coming up the
stairs.
A moment later the head and shoulders of a
big Black guard came into view. The man glanced
at Agent 10 and started to nod when his fierce
eyes fastened on Dusty. His right hand streaked
to his tunic pocket and his big mouth commenced
to open. But not a sound came out from between
his thick lips. Agent 10's gas-gun came up like a
flash and Dusty saw the thin stream of purple
smoke mush into the guard's face. The guard
stiffened and toppled forward. With his free arm
Agent 10 caught him, eased him to the floor, then
nodded at Dusty.
"Gotta run for it!" he hissed. "Stick close!"
Even as the words swished out of his mouth,
Agent 10 was turning the corner and racing light-
footed down the circular stairs. Heart pounding
against his ribs, Dusty stuck right with him. The
faint patter of their footsteps seemed to crash
through the silence like the staccato yammering of
Browning guns.
But Agent 10 didn't pause for a single
instant. As soon as he reached the landing below
he turned left along the corridor, dashed down its
entire length and cut sharply to the right.
Thirty yards down the hall, he skidded to a
stop in front of a massive metal door. He fumbled
feverishly with the bunch of keys in his hand.
Dusty could see beads of sweat oozing out on the
man's forehead.
Cursing softly, Agent 10 tried key after key in
the lock, but the big steel portal would not open. A
prayer on his lips, every muscle twitching with
anguish and excitement, Dusty stood helplessly
by, watching him try the eighth key, the ninth, the
tenth, and the--
A hoarse shout from in back of him spun
Dusty around like a flash of light. There,
thundering down the corridor, came a Black
guard. His face was twisted with rage, and he
gripped a gas-gun in each hand. From each
muzzle spewed a thin stream of purple smoke.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
40
For a split second Dusty stood frozen, then
he crouched and flung his body forward along the
floor of the corridor. His eyes and mouth were
clamped tight. He didn't dare breathe. Then his
head and shoulders crashed into a yielding body.
A roar of rage filled his ears as a big hulk came
tumbling down on top of him.
Lungs aching for air, he twisted sharply to
the left, rolled over and scrambled to his feet.
Through slitted eyes he saw the Black guard
striving to squirm around on his back and bring up
his gas-guns.
Dusty pressed his own gun trigger. The big
hulk of a man trembled violently, then went stiff,
his huge red tongue lolling out one corner of his
mouth.
Lungs at the bursting point, Dusty staggered
back toward Agent 10. The door was now open,
and the Yank spy was beckoning frantically.
"Nice work, Ayres!" he said as Dusty reeled
up to him. "You'll do! My God, man, go ahead and
breathe. It's all right. Those gas-guns are only
effective at close quarters. The gas in them is
light and rises instantly. Come on--now we go to
work!"
The air whistled out of Dusty's lungs, and for
a moment everything swam crazily around in front
of his eyes. But a minute later his lungs expanded
normally and his vision cleared. He was still
gasping for breath though as he stumbled into the
room.
CHAPTER TEN
HELL BLOWS UP
AT FIRST GLANCE, DUSTY HAD THE
impression that he had entered a glassware store.
He could see nothing but glass funnels, glass
bells and glass globes. But presently his eyes
took in the details.
The room was of ordinary size except that it
had an exceedingly high ceiling. Along the right
wall were three rows of current meters, domed
with glass. And from the bottom of each of the
meters extended an inch cable which ran to a
criss-cross series of glass tubes attached to the
far wall. At the top of each glass tube was a big
double-throw switch, at the moment in a negative
position.
The left wall was a mass of relay boxes,
glass battery cells, graduated rheostat controls,
and current recording dials.
The ceiling, however, was the most
fascinating of all. It looked like a roof of
suspended, coned, spike-like objects. The tip of
each cone was attached to the next by coiled
strands of copper wire, spaced in such a peculiar
way that it gave the impression of being a flimsy
layer of copper gauze.
"Come on, Ayres, snap into it. Here, start
busting those glass tubes!"
Dusty took the wrench that was thrust in his
hand, went over to the rear wall and started
swinging. As he broke the first tube there came a
loud crack and a tiny jet of flame. It startled him
for an instant and he went back a step.
"Don't worry!" came Agent 10's panting
voice. "You're just shirt-circuiting minor lead-ins.
Bust them all--fast!"
The Yank pilot grunted and renewed his
swinging with a vengeance. Sound rang and
blasted against his ear-drums, but he didn't stop
until all the tubes were dangling stems of
shattered glass. Then he turned to Agent 10, who
was disconnecting the cable of the current
meters. The man seemed to have a hundred pairs
of hands, so fast did his fingers fly.
"Those rheostats!" he panted without looking
up. "Swing them all to the 'Full-on' mark. Then get
ready for all hell to break loose."
Ten seconds later Dusty had completed the
job.
"Okay, Ayres," came the spy's voice at his
side. "Now, the last thing, and God grant we're
right. See those throw switches! There're ten of
them. I'll start at the left you start at the right. We
swing them down. But when we swing the last
two, get out of here fast. I think we'll have a
couple of seconds--not any more. The door is
ready to jerk open. You do it, and pile out first.
Set?"
Dusty nodded. Together they went over to
the switches. Two, four, six, eight of them went
down. Suddenly Agent 10 grabbed Dusty's wrist.
But the Yank pilot also heard the pounding of
footsteps along the corridor outside. He glanced
at Agent 10.
"To hell with them," he blazed. "When I say
three, pull and run for it! One--two--three!"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
41
Two switches clicked down into their grooves
and two frantic Yanks dived for the door. Dusty
jerked it open, started out, and stumbled to a
stop. Then there came a great crash of sound and
he was flung flat. Through blurred eyes he saw
the huddled form of Agent 10 still part way in the
room. The room was a room no longer. It was a
seething mass of flame.
Subconsciously, Dusty realized that the
corridor lights had gone out, and that voices harsh
and rasping were adding to the bedlam created by
the crackling flames. And above it all was a shrill
whine that rose and fell in modulated crescendo.
But only subconsciously did he realize all
those things. The active part of his brain was
concentrated on the huddled form of Agent 10. In
some way he had fallen, and crashed his head
against the steel doorjamb. A thin trickle of blood,
shimmering in the light of the fire, was running
from a small gash where the hair met his
forehead.
Spinning over and back, Dusty scooped him
up in his arms and staggered out into the dark
hallway. His heart sank as he saw the faint
outlines of huge bodies that blocked his path. But
he didn't check his pace. Clinging to Agent 10 with
one arm, he shoved the gas-gun out in front of
him, squeezed the trigger grip, and charged
madly forward.
What happened next he didn't know. He had
the wild sensation that he was wading through a
nest of boa constrictors. Hands, feet and bodies
seemed to tangle about him. Screams of fear and
pain vibrated against his ears. Then suddenly, he
was plunging blindly forward in a sea of total
darkness.
In one tiny corner of his brain was a prayer to
the goddess of luck, and the realization that the
Blacks in the corridor Were too haywire
themselves to realize that an enemy was beating
his way through their struggling ranks.
Presently he was free of them, and
staggering toward--God knew where. But he kept
on going. Instinctive self-preservation forced him
to do that. Behind him was danger. Probably
ahead of him, too. But for the moment he didn't
care.
He only prayed that Agent 10 had been right
in his belief, that they had ruined this cursed hell,
and freed the air over America.
His brain playing tricks with him, Dusty went
stumbling onward, crashed into walls, groped his
way to the left or right, crashed into more walls,
and kept on going. Then presently he became
conscious of a voice in his ears and something
pounding him between the shoulder blades. It was
Agent 10's voice, and Agent 10's hand.
"Ayres! Ayres, for God's sake, let go! I'm
okay!"
Dusty lurched to a stop, and let the spy slide
off.
"Good God, man!" hissed the voice in his
ear. "You're not a truck horse, and I'm all right.
Just a bump. Must have fallen and walloped my
head."
"You did," panted Dusty as he leaned wearily
against a steel wall. "Now what? Guess we're lost,
aren't we?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," came a chuckle in
the darkness. "At first I thought a Black had me.
Then I felt your insignia, and knew it was you. By
the way, lad, thanks, plenty. I saw those Blacks
just as I spilled over. I--"
"Do you think we did it?" gasped Dusty. "I
mean-- what you wanted to do?"
"Damned right! Hear that high hum? That's
from the generators. They're running wild. Feel
this wall it's even hot. Come on, Ayres, damned if
I know what might happen now. We've got to find
a way out. Here, take my right hand, then feel
your wall with your right hand, and I'll feel my side
with my left. Let me know if you touch the stairs.
One of us is bound to soon. Then we'll go up.
That's our only exit."
Then began an ordeal of fear and
uncertainty. Dusty lost all sense of time. From out
of the darkness behind, came a jumble of shouts,
curses and screams. Above it all was the eerie,
high-keyed wail of powerful generators spinning
themselves to destruction. A strange smell filled
his nostrils and gagged him in the throat. His head
felt surprisingly light and his feet, like chunks of
lead. His brain swore a thousand times that he
could not take another step, yet he stumbled on
and on, one hand feeling the wall, the other
gripping Agent 10's hand.
Eventually Agent 10 jerked him across the
corridor and hissed words in his ear.
"A break for us, Ayres! Here are the stairs. I
think I know where we are. Follow me up three
flights, then we turn sharp to the left. There's a
corridor there, and a door at the end. If I'm right, it
takes us outside. Now don't let anything stop you,
and for God's sake don't speak. I don't know who
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
42
we may meet. Okay, here we go. Hang onto the
tail of my tunic."
His leadened feet finding the first step, Dusty
started stumbling upward. Higher and higher they
went in the pitch darkness. Twice his heart stood
still as bellowing, unseen forms charged down
past them, but--the tunic he clutched kept jerking
him onward and upward.
Stairs, hundreds of them, thousands--would
they never stop climbing? Suddenly, smooth steel
flooring was under his feet, and he knew he was
going down a corridor. Another eternity, and
Agent 10 stopped abruptly. It was all Dusty could
do to check himself from crashing into him,
"Right, Ayres!" came the hoarse whisper.
"Hold it 'til I try these keys. Then be ready for
anything--it's going to be guesswork from now
on."
Metal scraped against metal. A gasping sigh
from Agent 10, and the click of a bolt as it slid
back.
A blast of fresh air hit Dusty in the face. It
was like tonic, and his aching lungs gulped it in.
But a moment later steel fingers gripped his arms,
dug into the flesh so hard that he winced from the
pain.
"Good God, Ayres, come over here close.
Take a look through the crack!"
The steel fingers pulled him forward, and the
next thing Dusty knew he was trying to focus his
eyes on a blur of fantastic shadows. They spun
around crazily, then slowed down, became
motionless and took on definite outlines. The
blood beat furiously against his temples, and his
heart seemed about to explode within him.
Dusty found himself looking out into a
gigantic hangar. Planes of every type and
description were packed in wing to wing, every
one of them jet black. The light of early dawn that
seeped in from the front end enabled him to see.
As he looked toward the front, he realized that the
hangar was not a hangar, but a great cave with a
cement floor, cut deep into the side of a hill.
Beyond, he could dimly see rolling countryside
that merged into the horizon in the early morning
mist.
Fighting his jangling nerves, he tried
desperately to study all the details of the scene.
But he could only get the general panorama of it
all. Planes and planes, over a hundred of them at
least. A squadron of the sleek, black monoplanes
which had attacked him over the Canadian
border. A couple of squadrons of trim, cowled-
over, high-altitude observation planes, their gas
and H.E. bomb racks loaded to the hilt.
And last but not least, three squadrons of
twin engine, blunt-nosed bombers. A second
glance at them and he knew that they were the
famous radio-controlled bombers he had heard so
much about. There was no pilot's cockpit. Instead
there was the small radio-shielded compartment
that housed the electrical robot-pilot. And behind
that were two bomb compartments, with two and
one half tons of death and pestilence in each one.
As he peered at them closely, Dusty could
see the row of long tubes that extended down
from the underneath part of each fuselage, back
near the wheel skid. The tubes slanted backward,
like the stacks of a gasoline motorboat engine;
and in front of the first tube was a curved, spade-
shaped shield that protected the mouths of the
tubes from the back-lash of propeller wash.
Germ tubes! Though he'd never seen them
before, he recognized them instantly.
Humaneness meant nothing to the Black
Invaders. Their aim was to conquer, and they
turned every weapon of destruction at their
disposal against the rest of the world. But most
terrible of all were those radio-controlled germ
bombers. Great squadrons of them had flown
over European cities, spraying the populace with
invisible death. Every flesh and bone destroying
germ known to medical science had been used.
Those germs, coupled with the gas used by the
Black Invaders, had swept everything before
them.
Dusty turned to Agent 10. "God--look at
them--the whole side of the hill is one great
drome!"
The other nodded grimly.
"Yes! It's what I suspected. They've been
doing this for months, and we didn't know. The--
yes, by God, I recognize that first ship--the main
air fleet's here, Ayres, the main fleet! Do you get
it?"
Dusty scowled, half shook his head.
"No. Just what do you mean?"
Agent 10 didn't answer immediately. He
swung the door closed and pulled Dusty close to
him.
"The Blacks," he began, "have been using
this place as an air concentration depot, besides a
communication station. One of those ships out
there is the ship I was in when I left the Paris
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
43
front. I recognize some of the others too--those
germ bombers. Now, here's my guess. Fire-Eyes
has concentrated his air force in Canada. He sent
our Atlantic fleets heading for the Canal and
sacrificed two of his radio-control bombers to blow
that up so that the North Atlantic airways would
be free for his planes. It's a cinch."
"I get you now," breathed Dusty, as the other
paused. "Okay, so what next?"
Steel fingers gripped Dusty again.
"That puts it up to you, Ayres!"
"Huh? How do you mean?"
"I'm not a pilot," the Yank spy said. "But you
are--the best in the business, so I hear. Now, we
have just one hope. That's for you to take one of
those fast ships out there, and make your
getaway. When you do, you've got to definitely
locate this spot. Then, hightail to Washington and
give the alarm.
"If we can nail the Blacks before they get
started, it won't matter what section they plan to
attack. The point is, fellow, that they're here,
ready, and we're the only two Yanks who know it.
I can't get word through to Horner, or anybody
else right now. Will you try it?"
"Hell, yes!" Dusty snorted. "Certainly I'll try it.
But they'll nab you if you stick here, won't they?
The Black Hawk knows you knocked him out."
"The Black Hawk isn't going to see me
again." was the calm answer. "But get going,
Ayres. We're wasting time now. Here's my gas-
gun. Use it if you have to, and good luck. You've
got one break--the hangar's empty. They must all
have rushed inside to see what the hell was going
on. Okay!"
The Yank pilot eased open the heavy door
and slipped into the hangar. The click of the door
closing behind him gave him a queer sensation. It
was as though he had stepped out of one world
and into another, leaving behind a brave and loyal
countryman.
For a fleeting instant Dusty became
possessed with a wild desire to go back in and
insist that Agent 10 come with him. The two of
them could make it in a pursuit ship in a pinch. If
not, then take one of the observation ships. Agent
10 might be going to his doom. He wouldn't stand
a chance with the Blacks any more.
The pilot half turned, started to reach for the
door knob, then checked the movement, and let
his hand drop to his side, as he recalled Agent
10's words, "No matter what happens, Ayres, my
job is with the Black Invaders; yours with the
Yanks. But, we're both working toward the same
goal!"
Yes, the man was right. Their jobs were
totally different, yet the goal was the same.
Perhaps they would never reach it, but--There
was a job to be done first.
Crouching close to the floor, in the shadow of
a big oil drum, Dusty concentrated his thoughts on
the task at hand. As far as he could see, in the
dim light, the opening of the hangar was blocked
by a row of the big gas and germ bombers. They
were radio controlled, and he knew that he
wouldn't stand a hope in hell of getting one of
them off the ground. He had to get one of those
Black Darts. He could handle that crate, all right.
A new thought came to him and his heart
beat faster with eagerness. If he stole one of the
Black Darts he could turn it over to the U.S.
Chemical Department and let them analyze that
sleep gas. Perhaps they could perfect a mask
against it.
Now he started to worm his way toward the
front of the hangar. He hoped fervently that he'd
find one of the small black monoplanes near
enough the opening so that he could wheel it out
into the clear. Ahead, he could see the ground
mist rising, but it was still too thick for him to form
any idea of the terrain that lay beyond.
And then suddenly he froze, motionless,
beside the tail of one of the gas bombers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE STEEL SNAKE
OFF TO HIS LEFT, DUSTY HAD HEARD a
door slam, and heavy footsteps were running
across the floor of the hangar. They came nearer
and nearer. He just barely had time to brace
himself, when a lumbering guard came around the
end of the plane. The Black, who was headed
toward the front of the hangar, didn't see Dusty
until he was practically abreast of him. And then it
was too late.
With the savageness of a cornered tiger, the
Yank hurled himself forward, his gas-gun held in
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
44
front of him, and pressed the trigger. A faint,
choking cry rang out and the Black went spinning
backward, crashed into the wing of the next ship,
then pitched forward face down on the floor.
At that instant panic gripped Dusty. Head
down, he started zigzagging around ships toward
the front of the hangar. He was but two rows from
the opening when he came to a dead stop. There
was the Silver Flash, right under the left wing of a
big germ bomber, and nothing in front of it but
God's open air.
But as he crawled forward a dozen yards, he
saw something that quelled his first impulsive joy.
There, standing in front of the right lower wing,
was an evil-faced figure in mechanic's overalls. In
one hand he held a pot of black fabric dope, and
in the other a fine-haired brush. Half the top
surface of the right lower wing was already a
glistening, jet black.
With a leap, Dusty shot forward, cursing
vehemently. The Black mechanic glanced up
wide-eyed, gaped at him, and then with a choked
growl grabbed for his holstered gas-gun. But the
Black's hands hadn't touched his gun when Dusty
crashed into him, and brought his gun hand up
with every ounce of his seething strength.
The Black took it square on the point of his
chin and Dusty booted the guard clear of the
wheels, then spun around and leaped into the
cockpit.
His fingers found the fuel throttle and air
compensator and rammed them forward. At the
same time his right foot booted the electric-inertia
starter. With his other foot he released the wheel
brakes.
Split seconds snapped by, a tiny, high-keyed
whine, and then the steel prop spun over. Dusty
was so thrilled at being in his Silver Flash again
that he didn't see the group of Black soldiers that
dashed toward him. Not until the Silver Flash
leaped forward, was he conscious of the big,
clawing hands on the rim of his cockpit. And then
he didn't care. The Silver Flash was under him
once more, and he had valuable information. All
hell and high water weren't going to stop him now.
Out of the hangar he raced, cleared his
wheels and went streaking up into the cold, gray
sky of early dawn. Hardly realizing it, he pounded
his fist against the armor plated side of the
fuselage.
"Now, damn you, try and stop me!"
The altimeter needle showed almost fifteen
thousand. With a gasp, he jerked back the throttle
to the halfway mark, and started to coast down in
lazy circles. Below him, a sea of mist hid
everything from view. But at the ten thousand foot
mark he was able to see the ground.
At first glance it all looked like a stretch of
ordinary countryside. Then gradually he came to
observe the detail of the scene.
To his left there was a row of three hills,
close together. A glance at his compass showed
that they ran from east to west. On the south side
of each hill was a wide opening. Sliding lower he
saw that each opening was the entrance to a hill-
hangar. In the mouth of the center hangar were
several figures pulling and hauling a brace of
Black Darts out into the clear.
Down Dusty went, thumbs on the electric
trigger trips. As the guns spewed death he
realized with a start that the last time he'd fired
them they'd been jammed. The Blacks had
obviously cleared them since, with the idea of
using them themselves. A harsh laugh burst from
his throat.
"Thanks, you rats!" he roared. "Now have
some!"
The mouth of the center hill-hangar had
become a scene of wild panic. Black uniformed
figures were crashing into each other in a frantic
effort to get back out of range. Some of them took
only a few steps and then went sprawling, their
bodies full of made in America bullets.
Down went that mad eagle, right to the very
lip of the opening. Then killing his guns, he
careened up the side of the hill. At the top he
winged over and started down again. But,
suddenly he checked the maneuver, hauled the
nose up to a forty-five degree angle, and skidded
out, away toward the south. For southward he
had seen something very strange.
His first impression was that he was seeing
some gigantic snake, of prehistoric proportions,
curving southward along the ground. Hunched
forward over the stick he coasted down toward it,
eyes narrowed. The front end he couldn't see. It
was lost in the mist far ahead. But the rear end
was blunt and glistened dully in the faint light of
early dawn.
He put on a bit more speed and went forward
at five thousand feet. Three minutes later he was
right over the strange monster. But he was as
mystified as ever. The thing looked like a dulled
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
45
silver band pressed against the ground. It was
about a quarter of a mile wide, and as he got
closer, he thought it was striped lengthwise and
horizontally.
Frowning, he slid down to a bare two
thousand feet. Without warning a ribbon of jetting
tongues of flame whipped up at him. Instinctively
he rammed the throttle all the way forward, and
cut sharply away. The Silver Flash faltered in the
air and the heat of a thousand blast furnaces
surrounded him.
For a moment he thought his ship was on
fire. The spade grip of the stick in his hand
actually heated up. And his feet resting on the
rudder pedals became warm. Frantically he jerked
back the glass cowling and gulped cold air into his
lungs.
Choking and gasping, sweat pouring off his
forehead, Dusty turned in the seat and looked
down. The thing was far below, a good five miles
to his right. It looked exactly as it had before, save
for a thin haze of blue smoke that clung about it.
He brushed his hand across his eyes, and looked
down again. But the picture had not changed.
He cursed, yanked the Silver Flash around
on its tail, and pointed the nose downward. The
twenty-five hundred horsepower under the cowled
nose bellowed in protest against the terrific speed,
but he grimly held the stick jammed up against the
instrument board. The air-speed needle quivered
at five hundred, then slid up to five-twenty-five, to
five-fifty. Prop wash swooped down over the edge
of the open cowling and stung his face, but he sat
like a man of stone, eyes riveted on the long,
striped thing down there on the ground.
A thousand feet up, the air-speed needle
was lodged fast against the 650 m.p.h. peg. The
ship had ceased to be an airplane; it was a Silver
Flash zipping through the air. And guiding it
earthward was a crazy man who had but one idea
in mind--to get close enough for one quick look at
that thing which spewed fire into the air.
And then, it happened again.
From the back of the snake, a ribbon of
jetting flame, shot skyward, and the sensation of
heat smote Dusty again. He was racing straight
for a curtain of fire. There was no turning off now.
Like a meteor he went through the blast furnace
and up again into cold air.
For another instant he felt as though his ship
was in flames. Again the spade grip on the stick
had grown hot. But it was all over in an instant.
And now as the Silver Flash screamed
heavenward in its zoom, Dusty sat numbed. It
wasn't a snake--it was a long, strung out
formation of midget flame tanks!
Midget flame tanks--one of the most
destructive war weapons known to man. They
were little more than heavily armored airplane
fuselages without wings. No obstacle was too
great for them to overcome. Like metal rats they
could eat their way through any sort of defense.
In official dispatches, Dusty had read
countless accounts of what the Black Invaders
had done with them in Europe and Asia. They had
served as escort for troop units, as scouts for the
big bombardment tanks, as the advance guard for
an attacking army force, and more effective still,
they could transport several army corps deep into
the heart of enemy-occupied areas.
Just how these midget flame tanks were
constructed no one but the Black Invaders
themselves knew, for one had never been
captured intact. The European forces only knew
the result of the attack. The tanks could shower
flames on their enemies be they in the air or on
the ground. Nothing, not even the best war plane
built, could withstand the furious heat they threw
long enough to do any destructive work at close
range. High-altitude bombing by H.E. was the only
course left, and as the war in Europe had proved,
when the defenders did that, the Invaders simply
sought the interior protection of their flame tanks,
and kept right on going.
And now there were thousands of midget
flame tanks down there on the ground, all lined up
in formation advance positions. No wonder they
looked like a big, criss-cross striped snake. Their
burnished steel plating shimmered like scales in
the early dawn light. Naturally they had attacked
with their spouting fire when Dusty had gotten
down too close. The Blacks inside of them had
seen the Yank air force markings on his wings.
For several moments his brain spun wildly.
But eventually he got his thoughts in order,
leveled the Silver Flash off its whining climb and
swung south in line with the tanks. Engine wide
open, he tore through the air.
At the end of five miles he ran into heavy
clouds and was forced down to a ten-thousand-
foot level in order to keep the ground in sight.
Thus far he hadn't spotted a single place he
knew. It seemed as though he were flying over an
endless, rolling wilderness; each mile was but a
facsimile of the one before.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
46
Then a mile further on, he came to the front
of the tank line. It was arranged in fan-shape
position. He realized the reason for this
immediately. Once the line got underway, the
tanks would separate to the left and right, thus
making a wider path of advance. That would
permit greater operation ease for each individual
unit, and reduce the possibility of direct hits from
aircraft bombers.
Where were these demons headed? South
to be sure. His compass needle told him that. But
what lay south?
In time of war an airman often blesses
clouds, for they afford him a haven of retreat in
case things get too hot. But at the moment Dusty
cursed the clouds which hung like a blanket just
over his head. They cut out the light of dawn,
turned objects on the ground into blurred
shadows, and cut down his visibility to less than
five miles ahead.
But grimly he kept on flying south. The tank
line was far behind him now. Nothing but mist-
covered rolling country ahead. Eventually a lake
flashed by on his right. It was a small one, less
than a couple of miles across. Then two more
flipped past on his left. But they told him nothing
as to his whereabouts.
Suddenly, without warning, hell broke out of
the cloud layer and the air chattered with the
savage yammer of aerial machine guns. One
glance upward, and he went spinning around in a
dime turn, then zoomed into the clouds. Six sleek,
black monoplanes had tried to jump him.
For an instant he was filled with a desire to
slide out of the clouds and give those Black pilots
something to remember him by. But he curbed
the idea. He had an important job to do, and so
far he had gotten nowhere.
Holding the ship on a due south course,
Dusty flew blind through the clouds for ten
minutes, then raced down into the clear. He came
out at five thousand. Directly below him was the
same rolling countryside. But as he strained his
eyes ahead, his heart leaped over, and he let out
a wild shout.
Far ahead the clouds parted and sun was
drifting through. There in the golden light was a
broad expanse of water; and far to the right, on
the shore, a big city, the smoke of its industries
belching from myriad stacks.
Dusty didn't need to look at his roll map. He
knew he was racing straight for the city of Duluth
on the western tip of Lake Superior!
And as he saw his exact position, the whole
situation sprang into sharp relief. Three hundred
fifty miles due north from the Minnesota border
line, deep in the rolling wilderness of Ontario was
the hidden force of the Black Invaders. Gas and
germ bombers, observation ships, countless
pursuit planes, and a great five-mile column of
midget flame tanks were only three hundred fifty
miles from the United States border. And perhaps
they were ready to start a death raid at any
moment.
Though during his talks with Agent 10 he had
guessed the possibility of such a thing, the whole
thing became a clear picture in his brain. No
wonder the Canal had been destroyed; no wonder
fake messages had sent the Central States air
units flying out to the west coast. With his secret
air and communication base already established
in the Wilderness of Canada, Fire-Eyes had only
to give the signal and his devilish forces would go
crashing straight through the middle of the United
States and split the country into two isolated
parts.
With a muttered curse, Dusty snapped on
the radio power switch and twirled the dial knob to
the Washington H.Q. wave-length reading.
"Captain Ayres calling Washington H.Q.!
Captain Ayres calling Washington H.Q.!
Emergency . . . emergency . . . return signal at
once!"
As he yelled into the transmitter tube he kept
his eye glued to the red signal light. Seconds
passed, then a minute, and he called again.
Damn them, why didn't they call back? He had to
get H.Q.--he had to get through. To go there by
air would take him at least an hour and a half, and
that was an hour and a half too long. Maybe the
tank line commander was already starting south.
With those fast midget flame tanks he could reach
the border in five hours, probably less.
"Captain Ayres calling Washington H.Q.
Captain Ayres calling Washington H.Q.!"
Silence greeted him. He reached out and
spun the receiving dial to the Chicago air base
reading, and called them. Seconds later the return
call cracked in his ears.
"Chicago base, 96! What do you want?"
Dusty's hand trembled as he grabbed the
transmitter tube.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
47
"Black planes and tanks three fifty north of
Duluth. Get word through to Washington H.Q. that
attack is expected at any moment. I advise that
your air fleets move to Duluth and concentrate for
attack."
"Huh? What?" the answer snapped back.
"Hey, wait a minute. I'll put Major Trainor,
adjutant, on."
There came a pause, and then the
earphones said, "Major Trainor on this end. Go
ahead."
Frantically Dusty repeated his message, and
the reply made his blood boil.
"What in hell are you talking about, Ayres?
The Blacks in Canada? You're crazy. The attack
will be against the East Coast, and all our planes
have been dispatched there. They left yesterday. I
think you'd better go back to bed and sleep it off,
Captain."
"You dumbhead!" blazed the pilot. "I'm telling
you the truth damn it. I was captured, taken
prisoner, and I--"
He almost screamed with rage as the red
light winked out, telling him that Chicago air base
had switched off. Desperately he tried to get them
again, and failed. Once more he tried Washington
H.Q. His heart leaped as the red light winked, but
it sank at what he heard. "H.Q. orders!" snapped
the voice. "All planes and ground stations not
already informed will keep strictly off the wave-
length. Station is remaining open and clear for
emergency signals from scouting squadron over
Atlantic. Get off!"
"But listen--listen!" roared Dusty. "This is
Captain Ayres, and--"
"I don't care who you are! Get off this wave-
length at once. Don't you realize that you may jam
us out on something important, you fool? Signing
off."
The red light winked out again.
Cursing and shouting with rage, the Yank
pounded his fist against the cockpit rim.
Eventually, he cooled down and started to call
Chicago corps area, but he never made it,
because at that moment six sleek, black vultures
appeared out of nowhere, and before he knew it
they had him boxed tight as a drum.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LIGHTNING STRIKES
FOR ONE FLEETING SECOND Dusty
stared at them stupidly. Then he saw twin
streams of yellowish-brown smoke begin to pour
out from underneath their tails.
"You don't get me like that this time," Dusty
yelled. "Not by a damn sight, you rats. I'll see you
in hell first."
Like a man gone mad, he whipped the Silver
Flash into a half spin, then kicked it over on wing
and yanked the stick back to his stomach. The
black monoplane was still going round in a lazy
circle as Dusty's hail of lead caught it square
amidships. For a split second the Black Dart
lurched crazily through the air. And then there
came a great flash of light, a roar of sound, and
the plane went down in a slithering shower of
wreckage.
Unable to swerve, for fear of slamming into
flying pieces, Dusty thundered straight through
the trail of yellowish-brown smoke. For a second
his nostrils tingled, and then cool air banished the
smell. He glanced up, saw that the glass cowling
was open, and laughed wildly.
If he had only known that before! As long as
the glass cockpit cowling was open the prop wash
blasted the fumes away before they could do any
real harm. The time before he had the cowling
closed. Okay, now he knew, he'd teach these rats
a thing or two.
Like a demon, Dusty hurled and slammed his
ship about the sky. A second Black Dart went the
way of the first. And two minutes after that the
count was three. Fingers jammed against the
electric trigger trips, he spun and looped, triple
rolled, and cursed, hoped that one of those ships
held the Black Hawk.
After the fourth Black Dart went down minus
his right wing, the remaining two decided not to
stay any longer. As Dusty screamed up toward
them, they both slammed into a wild dive, and
careened up to lose themselves in a cloud bank.
The last Dusty saw of them they were heading
northward as fast as their thrashing propellers
could take them.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
48
Still whipped up to fighting wrath, Dusty
roared after them, knowing full well that he'd nail
them eventually. But at the end of five miles or so,
sane reason began to seep back into his battle-
mad brain, and he swung back south.
Racing over Port Arthur and Fort Williams,
cut down the west end of Lake Superior to Duluth.
The air base was on the south side of the city. As
he roared over it despair filled him. There wasn't a
ship on the field. For a second he hesitated,
decided to land and give the alarm, then changed
his mind. The one man who would listen to him
was General Horner, and X34 was in Washington.
Yet--
Even as he spun the idea over in his mind he
snatched up pad and pencil from the message
box and braced the pad on his knee. A second to
choose the words, and he wrote!
Commanding Officer
Minnesota Area.
Invader tanks and planes 350 miles north
of border. Concentrate all available forces for
attack, and advise H.Q. Washington.
--Captain Ayres H.S. Group 7 .
Jamming it into the metal message-carrier
tube in the floorboards, he pressed the release
lever and sent the colored cylinder spinning down
straight for the middle of the air base field. Then
he banked southeast and went tearing down the
heart of Wisconsin.
Minutes later he was flashing across Chicago
with a second message to the corps area
commander all ready to let go. And again he
groaned in despair as he circled the central air
base field. Like Duluth, the field was empty of
planes. Not one of its hundred odd battle planes
could he see inside the hangars or outside of
them. Teeth grinding against each other
helplessly, he released the message cylinder, and
pointed his nose up for altitude. At thirty three
thousand he got a fifty mile tail wind, leveled off,
and set his directional compass dead-on for
Washington.
Sucking on his oxygen tube, he snapped on
radio power and twirled the station wave-length
dial to H.Q. But it was no use. The instant he set
the receiver dial the same rough voice cracked
down on him and ordered him off. Even the
emergency wave-length reading for Intelligence
Department got him no results. Washington, blind
to the truth, not knowing what had happened, was
concentrating every bit of attention on a
suspected sea and air attack against the East
Coast.
In fact, as he tried to tune in other eastern
stations, it seemed that the whole country had its
eyes on the Atlantic. Station after station switched
him off with the brief statement that H.Q. had
issued orders for eastern wave-length channels to
be kept open for naval and coast defense
communications. Cursing and yelling at the
receiving operators, he tried desperately to get
them to listen in long enough to what he had to
say. But it was but a waste of his breath. They
had received their own orders, and they were
living up to them to the letter.
Finally, ears burning and eyeballs hot with
tears of rage, he slammed off his set, gritted his
teeth and cursed the Silver Flash on to greater
speed.
As though it were something alive and fully
conscious of the important part it was playing in a
desperate mission, the plane plunged madly
through strips of bad weather and fair without so
much as missing a single rev.
But to Dusty the seconds were hours. And
his thought didn't help any. They pictured all kinds
of horrors taking place on the Minnesota border.
He saw bombers and tanks smashing the
border city to flaming ruins; saw the long snake of
midget flame tanks crashing and pounding down
the length of Wisconsin into Illinois, to the very
gates of Chicago. And nothing to stop them. A
handful of soldiers here and there. Maybe a
dozen planes at the most--death fodder for those
bloodthirsty Blacks.
God in Heaven, what good now that he and
Agent 10 had crippled the secret communication
power station in Canada? Fire-Eyes and his army
of devils had done their hellish work beforehand.
They had static jammed a nation's broadcasting
stations; issued fake orders, and sent the armies,
air fleets and sea squadrons of the nation
shooting off to half a dozen danger points. And all
the time the madman from hell was sending his
legions through the open and unprotected gate of
the greatest country on the face of the globe.
Splitting it in two so that later at his leisure he
could hammer both isolated parts into humble
submission.
"But he won't, by God!" the pilot roared wildly
at his own ears. "He won't!"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
49
He finished with a choked cry of rage, as the
words mocked him fiendishly. Won't? God
Almighty, what was there between heaven and
hell to stop him? Nothing but one pilot tearing air
toward Washington at thirty-three thousand feet.
Dusty Ayres--speed ace--damned fool--block-
headed sap!
After what seemed long centuries, he
rammed the stick up against the instrument board
and went hurtling down toward the military field at
Washington, like a meteor from another world.
A quick spin, then a dime bank, a screaming
sideslip, and a hair-raising fishtail finished him up
right smack in front of the central hangar. Jerking
of the oxygen tube, hurling back the glass cowl-
slide, he leaped out and practically ran into a field
orderly.
"A car, quick!" he bellowed. "The fastest
you've got! Snap it up!"
The orderly gulped and gaped like a half
dead fish.
"My God, you sir? Gripes, I thought that you
were--"
"Don't think!" Dusty roared, grabbing him by
the arm. "Come on, move, damn you! Where's a
car!"
The orderly stuttered and stammered and
finally got the words out.
"O-over there, sir. Behind Hangar Three. But
I thought--I heard--you were dead, sir!"
The pilot didn't bother to confirm or deny the
statement. His long legs moved like overheated
piston rods, and he went tearing through Hangar
Three and out the back.
A mechanic leaning against a long, sleek
staff car suddenly found himself leaning against
nothing but thin air, as a cyclone took the car right
out from under him. He stumbled and grabbed for
his gun.
"Hey! Halt, or I'll shoot!"
But Dusty didn't even hear him, or his shot
that went wild. Motor wide open, he tore down the
field road, raced around the corner, and streaked
across the city to the War Department Building.
He was out and racing up the stone steps
before the car had stopped rolling. A building
orderly at the door put out his hand, started to
speak, but only got a couple of words out before
he went spinning sidewise into the guard railing.
Inside a bemedaled officer started to step
into an elevator, and suddenly found himself
facing the other way and the elevator door
slamming shut behind him.
The human dynamo didn't stop until it slid to
a halt in front of General Horner's office. There a
guard blocked the way.
"One side!" Dusty snapped at him.
The other didn't move.
"You can't go in, sir. Staff meeting. No one is
al--"
"I said one side!" the pilot roared.
As he spoke the pilot snapped out his hand,
hooked it back of the guard's neck, and jerked
hard. That left the doorway clear, and Dusty
barged through into the room.
A staff general, his mouth half open to let out
a word, gaped wide-eyed, then started to sputter
like a missing engine.
"What the devil? You--get out of here at
once. Who the devil do you think you are? I say
get out, damn it!"
Dusty snapped him a salute, and ducked
around the table to where General Horner was
seated, pop-eyed.
The Chief of Intelligence was not the only
officer knocked haywire by the whirlwind entrance
of a blood and grease-smeared wild man in the
uniform of the U.S. Air Force. All six of the big
military and naval bugs seated about the table
gasped and gurgled and glared.
But Dusty had no time for any of them save
X34.
"Sir!" he blurted out hoarsely. "I've got to
speak to you at once. Hell is popping loose!"
The big officer's shaggy brows twitched up
and down in keeping with the motion of his lips as
he rattled out harsh commands.
"Attention, damn you, Captain Ayres! What
the devil do you think this is?"
Dusty's face went hard, and he leaned
forward tensely.
"General!" he grated, "the Black Invaders are
going to attack the border at Duluth by midget
tanks and planes. Do you understand? They're in
Canada, and have probably started their attack
already. And we haven't got anything up there to
stop them!"
The words blasted out like machine-gun fire,
and created just about the same effect. Every
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
50
officer at the table leaped to his feet and stared at
the pilot as though he were some queer animal
that had suddenly dropped down through the
ceiling.
It was General Horner who first found his
tongue. His face was beet-red with rage.
"By God, I'll have you court martialed and
shot!" he roared. "You failed on a trusted mission,
and now you have the insolence to come back
here with some crazy cock-and-bull story. Why,
you young pup, we know where the attack is
coming from--by sea and air, you young
whippersnapper, off the East Coast!"
Tears of stark madness were close to
Dusty's eyes. He put out both hands pleadingly;
the gesture including them all.
"Shoot, and be damned to you all!" he raved.
"But for God's sake, listen to me! I was captured,
forced down, and escaped. I saw them with my
own eyes--hundreds of planes twice as many
midget tanks. And they are only three hundred
fifty miles north of the Border. Oh, for God's sake
can't you see? We've been tricked! We've--"
"Just a minute!" cut in a ranking naval officer.
"You've seen them, eh? What proof have you
got?"
Dusty went back a step.
"Proof?" he choked out. "My God, haven't I
just told you? Proof you want? Here--here, look
at that!"
He rammed his hand into his tunic pocket,
jerked out the gas-gun and slapped it down on the
table.
"There!" he bellowed at them. "That's one of
the Black's gas-guns. A charge from that and you
drop like a fly. You hear what I say? Well, I heard
those very words from the lips of the Black Hawk
himself!"
He grabbed the gaping General Horner by
the shoulders and actually shook him.
"And do you know who gave me that?" he
yelled. "Agent 10! Agent 10, do you hear? He was
up there with me. He helped me escape. Damn it,
we cleared the air for you. Now, for God's sake,
wake up, all of you, and believe me. We've got to
do something, and do it fast!"
But they all stood there like pertrified clothes
racks, gawking at him in complete and
dumfounded amazement. Never in any of their
glorious careers had a junior officer ever clouded
up and rained down upon them in such hide-
blistering wrath.
At first they couldn't believe what they saw
and heard, then they couldn't understand it, and
finally, being men steeped in service tradition and
red tape, they didn't know what to think.
Caution dumped over the side, his brain on
fire with seething anguish and anxiety, Dusty tore
into them, ripped them up and down, left and
right, and backward and forward. The words
spilled off his lips like torrents of water going over
a broken dam.
He told them the whole story from beginning
to end. Many details he left out, but that was only
because in his excitement he forgot them. But he
gave them the true picture as he knew it, and
pounded the table with both fists.
And finally, throat tired, breath exhausted, he
came to a hoarse, faltering stop.
"Now do with me as you wish!" he finished.
"But for the love of God, believe me!"
Tight-lipped, faces pale, they looked at each
other. That is, all except General Horner. He
grabbed Dusty and swung him around.
"But they couldn't possibly be there, Ayres!"
he got out, doubtfully. "How in the world could
they have done it?"
"I don't know!" panted Dusty. "Probably came
in at altitude at night. There's no one around there
for miles. And their transports could bring fifty of
those tanks apiece. I don't know, but I tell you
they are there--and ready!"
"Answer me this!" snapped the other. "You
say the air had been jammed. That's right. But at
three o'clock this morning we got definite word
from one of our Atlantic patrol squadrons that the
Black fleet had been sighted. We checked back
and got confirmation right away. How do you
explain that?"
"Only this way, sir," said Dusty. "Agent 10
and I destroyed their power station at two. That
left them only the wireless. So they ordered their
fleet to proceed on a fake attack, in order that
their original plans wouldn't be knocked haywire
before they could carry them out."
As sudden inspiration struck the pilot, he
turned to the ranking navy officer.
"Tell me, sir, where are the 2nd, 10th, 12th,
16th, and 20th Atlantic Battle Squadrons right
now?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
51
The admiral glared at him a second, then
grabbed the inter-office signal system and barked
some orders into the mouthpiece. There were a
few moments of silent waiting, then the receiver
crackled sound, and the admiral's face went
white.
"My God!" he gasped. "Their position has
just been reported off the Florida coast,
proceeding back from the Canal. I--I didn't order
them to the Canal!"
"See?" cried Dusty wildly. "And that's one of
the fake orders I heard. It was part of their plan.
They jammed your air and sent out fake orders.
And the only orders that you've been able to get
through were the ones you sent out after two
o'clock this morning."
With a roar, General Horner leaped toward
the door.
"The signal control room will tell us the
answer!" he cried.
As one man they all leaped after him. That
is, all except Dusty. He started, but at that
moment his strength failed him. He lurched
drunkenly against the corner of the table and went
reeling up against the opposite wall. Only an
instinctive sense of balance saved him from
crashing headlong on the floor.
He felt sick, as though a thousand demons of
hell were driving white-hot spears through his
insides. He wanted to lie down, to throw himself
headlong on the floor, and never get up again.
He'd been going through mental and physical hell
since the beginning of time, it seemed, and every
muscle and tissue seemed drained of its last drop
of strength.
But his fighting heart wouldn't let him quit.
Through? This was only the beginning. From now
on it would be real war, real fighting, no playboy
stuff like he'd been having. Stay on your feet,
damn you, Ayres!
Mechanically his feet moved, took him to the
door and through it. Then down the hall to the
elevator, and eventually he found himself
stumbling along the corridor toward the signal
control room on the roof. He had to see it through.
He just couldn't quit now.
Halfway to the door it flew open and General
Horner came tearing out. At the sight of Dusty, he
put on speed and raced up to him.
"You were right, son!" he snapped. "The
Atlantic attack is a fake. Just a small carrier
squadron drawing our ship and plane patrols
south. Just received a check on it. Listen, Ayres,
it's up to you, lad. You've got to do it!"
Dusty eyed him through glazed eyes.
"Do what?" he got out thickly.
"Just this," replied the other, speaking
rapidly. "Get word to all western units,
bombardment groups, corps areas, tank
battalions, everything! They started moving
toward the Mexican border on fake orders. Orders
sent out two hours ago right from here. I--"
"Two hours ago?" cried Dusty.
General Horner's eyes went deadly.
"Gleason, the signal officer!" he grated. "A
rat spy in our own nest, by God. I've just shot him.
But not before he smashed things up. Jordon
caught him contacting a Black Agent station near
St. Louis. They were fighting as I came in. And
the rat smashed all transmitter equipment for unit
stations west. We can't depend on the phone, or
waiting until Jordon gets it repaired. It's you,
Ayres. Go up, and fly west. Use the emergency
wave-length, and sign the War Office code
number. Order all fast mobile units to the Duluth
area. Get it?"
"Right, sir. I'll do it. Code number 4Z2, isn't
it?"
"That's right! Now get going. I'll phone the
field to have your ship ready. And pray God, H.S.
Group 7 can hold things in check until
reinforcements get up. It'll take four hours at
least."
Dusty, who was running down the hall,
skidded to a halt.
"What?" he roared. "H.S. Group 7? My own
gang?"
"The only air unit we can get on the radio-
phone," came the quick reply. "It's still at Dayton.
Air Force H.Q. is contacting Major Blake right
now!"
Like a gigantic cloudburst roaring down into
bone-dry reservoirs, strength and mile-a-second
action whipped back into Dusty's body. That
Gleason had turned out to be a traitor, had
stunned him and fired him with a desire to go on
serving. But the realization that his own gang was
being sent to fill the breech against what he knew
to be overwhelming odds was like the sounding of
the death knell itself. For almost two years that
rough and ready brood that composed the 7th had
been everything in his life.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
52
And now the emergency of war was sending
them hurtling down the mouth of hell. Twenty of
the best against hundreds of the worst, and he
couldn't join them. Not for several hours at least.
And by that time, they might all be--
He finished the thought with a savage curse
that jerked General Horner's eyes wide open.
Then he dived into the elevator and shot
downward.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DEVIL'S ODDS
HIS ARRIVAL AT WASHINGTON MILITARY
field was simply the arrival of a second cyclone.
Exactly eighteen seconds after he skidded the
staff car to a stop he was in the cockpit of the
Silver Flash and heeling home the throttle and air
compensator.
The plane, like a horse that has just been
watered and fed, streaked into the air from almost
a standing start and zoomed heavenward like a
rocket gone crazy.
Swinging southwest, Dusty set a semicircle
course that would take him as far south as the
northern tip of Alabama and as far west as the
central part of Kansas. And away he went, a
madman with a job to do.
Roaring full out, he raced down the border-
line of Virginia and West Virginia, emergency
wave-length set at the true reading.
One part of his brain directed his lips that
repeated the War Department Code over and
over again. And the other part of his brain
struggled and suffered the hellish tortures of a
thousand and one taunting thoughts.
Every few minutes he glanced at the
magnetic dash watch and tried to picture in his
mind what was happening to High Speed Group
Number 7. Had they started? Were they on the
way? Were they there and in a scrap?
Questions, like countless tongues of fire,
lashed and whipped through his head. At times he
felt that he was going mad. That he couldn't stand
it a second longer. He had to veer north; tear up
to the border and join the hell-fight with his gang.
God, he couldn't bear the thought of what they
might run into. They didn't know; they didn't
suspect, but being Group 7 they'd tear into
anything they saw.
A hundred times he reached out to twist the
wavelength dial to his Group reading, and yell a
warning across the miles of air space to Major
Blake and the boys.
But each time that certain trait, which we call
a sense of duty, forced him to pull his hand away.
He couldn't lose the time for that.
His job was to call and get a check-back from
a hundred other stations.
Roaring, thundering through storm clouds
and brilliant sunshine, he became a mechanical
man, now twisting the dial reading, now barking
the War Department Code number into the
transmitter tube, now twisting the dial for a
receiving check-back, now yelling the emergency
order to the operator listening in miles away from
him.
Several times local magnetic disturbances
blotted out his call or the check-back, and he was
forced to change altitude, sometimes going down
to within a few feet of the ground in order to get
his message through.
Twice his own signal light blinked, and with a
prayer on his lips that it might be orders for him to
join his outfit, he switched over to receiving. But
each time it was some thick-headed corps area
commander demanding additional details. His
reply was usually in perfect keeping with the
seething tempo of his mind.
On and on, cutting corners to Alabama and
Mississippi; across the river and up through
Arkansas, a human dynamo on fire but chained
fast to a stipulated task by training and born-to-
the-cloth duty.
And then finally the end--every station
contacted and every check-back complete. In his
mind's eye he pictured the scene he could not
see, a great wave of armed Yank forces sweeping
toward the Duluth area.
Transport planes with their load of guns and
men. Fast bombers with ground supplies in the
extra compartments. Troop trains thundering over
steel rails. Speed tank units rattling and banging
over smooth roads. Staff cars, ambulances, anti-
aircraft motor units whipping into action.
And all headed north at maximum speed, to
what? To victory, to death, to crushing defeat.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
53
Dusty didn't try to answer the thoughts as
they flashed through his brain. He was all through
thinking now. Only action was left. He'd done his
job; stuck to it for three long hours of agonizing
hellish torment. And now he was free. He had
received no other orders.
With a savage grunt he snapped off the radio
power. Let the red light wink, if it did, and be
damned to it. Nothing in heaven or hell or upon
the earth was going to stop him now.
Get going, Silver Flash old girl! Show some
real speed now. The gang's up there, and that's
where we're going!
Shouting encouragement to his ship, he tore
up to high altitude, got a favorable tail-wind and
went rocking across the heavens.
Three times he sighted slower units laboring
along underneath him, and the sight of them sent
the blood snapping and ripping through his veins.
Uncle Sam was on the way--tricked in the
beginning and slow to start. But now the spirit of
America was at fever pitch, and the might of the
greatest of all nations was racing forward to meet
the black hearts that would destroy her.
Finally he got his first glimpse of the fury of
hell belching up from the pit of war. It wasn't
much, simply a brownish smudge way down on
the horizon--too far away to see anything clearly.
But it was like a bolt of lightning slashed through
his senses.
War was on! It had begun! The Black
Invaders had started.
For an instant something snapped in his
brain and he went stark raving mad. His free fist
flayed the side of the cockpit. The skin of his hand
split and spattered blood. But he didn't even feel
the pain, for his whole body was consumed in one
great flame of berserk action.
"Come on old girl--faster, faster! There it is.
We're too late! No we're not. Down you go. Take
it, Silver Flash, take it."
The ship virtually groaned in protest as the
hand of steel on the stick jammed its nose
earthward. The thin wings quivered and trembled
in the tornado of propwash that lashed past.
Every nut, every bolt, and every bracing wire, and
every square inch of chrome-dural wing covering
became something alive, exerting every ounce of
effort to streak downward.
A thousand other ships would have
disintegrated from vibration alone, and gone
showering into eternity in so many pieces. But the
best aeronautical brains were in the Silver Flash,
and the best pilot in the cockpit. And added to
that, the true airman's god rode the wings.
Hunched over the stick, eyes narrowed to
slits, Dusty sat as a carven image. Bit by bit the
brownish smudge grew bigger; changed in color
and became tinted with brilliant streaks of orange
and yellow.
Up and up it surged like a great billowy
column connecting the earth with the skies. At the
peak it mushroomed out in all directions, like a
gigantic umbrella that would eventually cover the
entire earth and blot out the sun from a world of
horror and war.
Its exact position, he couldn't place at first. It
was close to the shore of Superior, that he did
know, for the waters of the western tip of the lake
virtually merged into its base.
But whether or not it belched up from
American territory--the distance was too great.
And then he roared close enough to pick out
details. The reaction was as a fist of ice pounding
against his heart. At the northern outskirts of
Duluth a sea of flames and dirty smoke wound its
way back, far up into Canada. Part of Duluth itself
was already in flames, and the waters of its
waterfront rippled red in the reflection.
The heart of the city did not appear to be
touched yet by the seething conflagration oozing
down from the north, but several of its
skyscrapers had been reduced to jagged,
smoldering stumps by H.E. bombing.
But it was the streets of the city, and
highways leading southward from it, that held
Dusty's eyes in magnetic horror. They were
jammed with struggling figures fighting each other
in one wild, insane desire to get clear of the
menace that had swooped down upon them from
the north.
Chaos and riot ruled. People poured out of
buildings and jammed the streets, only to be
mowed down and churned into bleeding pulps as
madmen in motor cars raced frantically for
freedom.
And behind it all a great column of flame and
smoke creeping closer and closer.
From a long way off Dusty heard his own
voice scream commands and instructions to
milling thousands who could not and never would
be able to hear him. For they weren't human
beings down there. Fear had changed them into
savages, maniacs who had flung off centuries of
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
54
civilized training, and had but one thought in what
was left of their minds--to get away.
And for hours they must have been
struggling, for the streets leading south were
simply moving bands of jammed humanity that
poured out of that raging hell like trickIets of tar
weaving their way through loose sand.
On and on they came, endless, spreading
out one second, stumbling and faltering the next,
as those behind piled up on top of them.
Through glazed eyes Dusty stared down at
them, unable to think. The horror and terror of it
all had turned his brain to a blank. His hand was
frozen to the stick, and the Silver Flash thundered
lower and lower, straight down to its own eventual
destruction, yet he didn't move a muscle. Every
part of him was paralyzed by the panorama that
lay spread out below him.
Never in all of his wildest nightmares had he
envisioned such a scene. He lost all sense of
reality. He wasn't alive, he was dead and buried
deep down in the bowels of a hell that no mortal
mind had ever imagined.
"Dusty, pull out of that dive, you fool!"
A tiny thin voice from thousands of miles
away--the alarm of the last thread of instinct that
remained unsnapped within him. His right hand
shot out to the throttle, pulled it back, and his
other hand eased back on the stick.
The Silver Flash bucked and sawed, then
obeyed its master; swung up its nose and went
screaming up and away from certain doom. Dusty
searched the smoke-filled skies.
And it was then that he saw them--a
twisting, spinning mass of darting shadows high
overhead. Even as he sighted them his hand
rammed the throttle wide open, and his other
hand jerked up the nose.
Though he couldn't see markings, he knew
instantly that up there his gang, H.S. Group 7,
was getting its first taste of war and death.
When he was still five thousand feet below
them, one of the shadows burst into a ball of
flame and came hurtling downward. It swept past
him in a flash, but not before he caught a glimpse
of the ship and its markings.
It was a Group 7 ship!
How many more had gone before that one?
He strained his eyes upward and tried to count
the planes he believed American. But it was
impossible. There were too many in that milling
mass--too many black shadows.
A groan choked in his throat as he saw the
great fleet of little Black Darts that swept across
the skies like a tidal wave. There, mingled in that
aerial stampede, were the rest of his gang.
Seconds later he saw them--saw his own
gang. Their leader must have given a signal for
they suddenly all whirled into formation and
started a wedge attack on the Black fleet.
It was then he was able to count them--
five--ten--fifteen! Only fifteen? But with the blow
of sadness that smashed against his heart, came
also a great surging wave of pride. Only twenty to
begin with, but they were showing the claws of the
American eagle. Outnumbered five to one, they
were holding the Black vultures at bay.
But as the Yank group started its formation
attack, Dusty whipped his hand to the wave-
length dial.
The Blacks had "given air," but now they
were circling about the charging formation and
weaving a web of brownish yellow--the web of
sleep gas. Unable to shoot their way through, the
Blacks were falling back on their trump mystery
card.
Dusty's voice screamed into the transmitter
tube.
"Major Blake . . . Major Blake, watch that gas
. . it's sleep gas. All of you, slide your cowlings
open . . . slide your cowlings open!"
The earphones crackled.
"You, Ayres? by God, welcome! Group
Seven . . . Group Seven, did you hear that? We're
being gassed . . . slide your cowlings open! Attack
by flights on your flanks. Ready . . . fly!"
"No, no!" howled Dusty. "Spread out . . .
spread out . . . break though and reverse attack!"
He was hardly conscious that he had
bellowed the order. It was simply the result of
memory of his fight with the Black brood.
As a unit, Group 7 might not break through,
even by flights. But individual attack would break
the spinning cordon of Darts, and a reverse attack
would tend to drive them back into their own web.
And if they could do that, why--
But Dusty cut off speculation with a grunt. A
Dart had cut out of the ring and was streaking
down toward the city.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
55
Eyes steady, face granite, the Yank kicked
rudder and jabbed his trigger trips. Jetting flame
spewed from his twin Brownings. Steel death
sliced across the sky and lost itself in a jet black
fuselage. The jet black turned to yellowish red,
then to flaming crimson and went hurtling outward
in a crazy arc.
Without giving it a single second glance,
Dusty belted the stick over, flashed around and
tore headlong into the ring of gas-spouting Darts.
There was no time to take aim, and no need
for it either. The targets were there, waiting for his
messengers of doom. And without a single
thought for himself, he ripped and lashed into the
whole bunch.
A sane man would never have done it, for it
was no more than plain begging for death. But
Dusty had stopped being sane hours ago. All he
was now was a mechanical demon--a whipping,
whirling, crashing machine of destruction.
The first ship that took his burst simply
disappeared in a tower of light. The next went
down with neither tail nor left wing. And the pilot of
the third died even as he turned his eyes toward
the hell-chariot that bored into him.
Perhaps it was one minute, or perhaps two,
before the nerve of a murdering horde began to
crack and bend. One crazy eagle they could
handle, even though it be that madman in the
silver plane, but his wild reckless solo attack had
done something to the others, and now sixteen
madmen were tearing about the sky.
Such must have been the thought of each
pilot of that Black brood, for they suddenly broke
their ring formation and started streaking toward
the north. And in doing that they spelled death for
six more of their number.
Like clay pigeons picked out of the air by the
gun bursts of keen-eyed trap shooters, six Darts
went whipping down in a shower of smoking metal
and fabric.
The rest cut out across Lake Superior, but
Group 7 swung sharper to the right and, lead by
Dusty in the Silver Flash, cut around them and
forced them back to the raging furnace that had
once been the city of Duluth.
"Like hell you will!" roared Dusty, as he sent
a straggler down without his wings. "There's more
of our lads coming up, and they'll want a crack or
two. So get around, damn your Black souls. Get
around!"
"You're right, Ayres! Take a look to the south
of us!"
The sound of Major Blake's voice in his ears
made Dusty jump. Then with a shaky laugh he
realized that he had not cut off his radio power.
He turned in the seat and stared southward.
A shout gushed from his throat as he saw a
great cavalcade of American planes clawing air
toward the besieged city of Duluth. Another half
hour and they, too, would be in the fray.
But as he turned forward the northern
heavens became black with wings. Re-
enforcement's were also coming to the aid of the
Dart pursuit ships. He grabbed up the transmitter
tube.
"Major Blake! Radio-controlled gas and germ
bombers headed this way . . . we can't let them
through . . . they'll wipe out those refugees on the
highway. What are your orders, sir?"
The reply came back with machine-gun fire
rapidity.
"Every man pick a ship, Group 7, shoot for
the engine and props . . . don't let a single ship
past the city, no matter what you have to do.
Okay, go to it!"
No matter what you have to do! Dusty
groaned aloud as he glanced at the oncoming
bombers. There were at least two squadrons of
them. No matter what you have to do!
For a second he hesitated, licked his lower
lip, then gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw bone
ached.
"And here goes nothing!" he snarled.
With that he banged his throttle all the way
forward and sent the Silver Flash straight into the
path of the Black ships.
Forgotten were the pursuit planes. They
were just a pack of yellow bellies who had quit
under fire. But this new menace was something
totally different. Their pilots were neither yellow
nor courageous, for they weren't men of flesh and
blood and bones. They were electrical robots--
pilots created by the brains of scientists.
Death couldn't stop them. Nothing but
complete mechanical destruction could do that--
smashed engines, broken propellers and all that
sort of thing. But mechanical or alive, they had to
be stopped.
And so, with bodies hunched and eyes
narrowed, Dusty and his pals flung themselves
straight into the teeth of the science-made enemy.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
56
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SUICIDE DIVE
TWISTING, DARTING, ZOOMING,
SPINNING and everything else, they hurled their
planes about the sky. Thousands of steel bullets
spat from the muzzles of their guns and found
their finish in cowled engine metal.
First one ship went flopping down like a
broken bird of gigantic proportion. Then another,
and another, until ten in all had gone hurtling
down to end up in bits on the shores of Superior.
But far north, in Canada, the guiding brains at the
control key sent the rest onward.
Out of the corner of his eye Dusty saw one
speed up and slip past the blockade of Yank
planes. With a curse he cut around after it. But
one of his pals, who was nearer, beat him to it
and went thundering down on it both guns blazing.
Suddenly the gnus went dead--jammed! Dusty
pounded his throttle. But before he could act
another Group 7 ship swerved sharply to the right
and plowed head-on into the radio controlled craft.
A geyser of roaring flame spewed upward.
The crumpled wreckage of the two tangled ships
slashed against a second bomber and sucked it
into their burning fury. And a few seconds later a
third ship got in the way, to become a part of the
falling world of fire and smoke.
Through tear moist eyes, Dusty watched it
go zigzagging downward, and lose itself in the
waters of Superior.
"High ceilings and happy landings, old man!"
he murmured.
Then he hurled himself anew at the rest of
the bombers. But as he did, a cry of surprise
snapped from his lips. The "Controller" must have
been signaled that a madman's blockade stood
between the bombers and their objective, for the
ships were swinging around to the west and then
back to the north.
Chalk another one up for Group 7! Man or
machine, that fire-eating gang of hell-benders
could stop either.
But the gods of war had momentarily turned
their backs upon the killer-hawks of Fire-Eyes,
they were smiling proudly upon his ground
legions.
A hundred or so of the midget flame tanks
were already within the city limits of Duluth, and
with its population either slaughtered or fleeing for
their lives, there was nothing in front to stop that
relentless advance of that caravan out of hell.
Swinging back toward the city, Dusty saw all
this in a flash. What of it if the Blacks had been
temporarily driven back in the air? The capture of
ground was what won the final decision in the
conflict of war.
And down there the Black Invaders were
succeeding. Many of the tanks had pulled up in
strategic positions, and he could just faintly see
the black-uniformed figures that poured out of
them and formed up in an advance infantry raid.
Blazing with rage, he raced downward and
began raking the streets with his guns. But it was
like a small boy shooting shell-peas at a stone
wall. A blast from hell itself slashed up at him and
the Silver Flash went rocketing up into the
heavens.
Partially stunned, he sank back, gasping for
breath. But the thing that jerked him all the way
back was the chatter of Black aerial guns. Two
Darts were slicing in at him, one from each side.
Even as he reached for the stick, a steel
burst crashed through the cowling slide and
splintered the glass to bits.
He cut back in, raked the right-hand Dart
from prop to wheel tail skid. Its pilot probably
never knew what hit him. And his death was
enough for his flying mate; the second Dart
whirled about and lost itself in a billowing pillar of
smoke.
Dusty let it go. Not because he was afraid to
follow it through that hell of smoke, but because
Fate had suddenly dealt him a trumping-card in
this mad game of death. True, it was only a card
that a madman would play, but that didn't matter.
What did matter, was checking the advance of the
midget tank caravan into the city of Duluth.
True, Yank transports were landing and
discharging their loads of guns and tank parts, in
preparation for a counter attack. And Yank
bombers were already showering down tons of
H.E. upon the devastated streets of Duluth in an
effort to check the slow but steady progress of the
flame tanks.
And higher up, Yank pursuit and observation
groups were beating back a savage assault of the
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
57
Black air forces, and protecting the Yanks ground
troops making ready for war.
But it all hinged on time, and time was
favoring the Black Invaders. Let their tanks once
get complete control of the city and they would be
able to protect themselves against counter air and
ground attacks.
In fact, they had virtually succeeded already.
From the funneled spouts atop each tank great
fountains of flame and smoke poured out, hiding
their movements from all directions. Yank
bombers were flying blind, and dropping their H.E.
eggs on hidden targets, not knowing whether they
were hitting the foe, or their own countrymen.
No, those devils could not be stopped that
way. They had to be split apart; the advance cut
off from the rear guard.
Dusty laughed wildly as he bellowed the
words:
"And the damned thing's a one man job! My
job--because the other lads haven't spotted it
yet!"
It was true. Too occupied with their
respective jobs, no other Yank pilot had
seemingly noticed the half-mile square patch of
ground, just north of the city, that the Black tanks
were avoiding.
And well they should, for the section was
covered with rows of giant fuel storage tanks.
Millions and millions of gallons of valuable
gasoline, benzene, and machine oil. To an
invading army, that had penetrated far from its
own base of supplies the capture of such a prize
would be as a manna from the gods of war.
And it was obvious that the commander of
the Black tank forces realized that, for though the
store park lay directly in the path of their advance,
the tank line had split, going around the place and
then converging again in a solid column a mile
beyond.
Yes, that storage park offered the one
chance to check the Black advance.
Sliding down a few thousand feet, Dusty
studied the layout, selected the most vital spot in
the storage tank area. In a moment he spotted
it--a group of huge benzene tanks a bit to the left
of the center.
With a nod of satisfaction, he eased open the
throttle and "lifted" the Silver Flash up to fifteen
thousand feet.
All about him planes were racing and tearing
about, spitting streams of death from their cowled
guns. And far to the south, heavy Yank guns were
hammering steel into the city in a frantic effort to
build up a wall of ruins that might check the tank
advance until American tank corps could be
assembled.
For a moment he floated lazily about at
fifteen thousand, while he adjusted the four armor
piercing bombs with which his ship was equipped.
They were only fifteen pounders, and were
primarily designed for aerial attack on armored
machine-gun redouts. But now he was going to
use them for something different.
With steady hands he turned the timing
knobs to zero, released the locking pins that held
the directional fins in place, and then slipped them
into the trap tubes that slanted forward through
the flooring of the cockpit.
A split second later he nosed the Silver
Flash over the "hump" and sent it roaring hell for
leather toward the ground.
As though the Blacks on the ground had
suddenly suspected the idea of his thundering
plunge, a hail of steel whipped up at him. But he
did not veer an inch one way or the other. A
madman going to his doom, he tore down over
the city like a rocket sent from Mars.
Down, down he went, the twenty-five
hundred horses under the nose screaming in wild
protest.
The storage park swept up toward him. The
rows of fuel tanks, looking like black pin heads at
the start of the dive, grew bigger and bigger, their
round tops becoming as so many black dinner
plates turned upside down.
And then, the split second of doom arrived.
A rigid grip on the stick with one hand, Dusty
shot out the other, hooked his fingers about the
four spring bomb toggles and jerked upward. At
the same instant he hauled back the stick with
every ounce of his strength. The Silver Flash
virtually screamed aloud, as it went tearing and
thrashing upward.
Eyes closed, lips set in a grim line, Dusty sat
frozen in the seat. Yet, it was but a matter of
seconds before the world split apart and the
unleashed raging fury of a thousand hells blasted
up into the heavens.
A gigantic unseen hand of terrific force
grabbed the Silver Flash and hurled it spinning off
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
58
into space. Weakly Dusty tried to get it under
control, but it was useless. Ten thousand sledge-
hammers were pounding him down into the seat,
and balls of fire were racing around in his brain.
Touch, smell, sight, all his senses vanished. He
became as nothing that was whizzing into a great
void.
On and on and on into nowhere he roared,
totally helpless; unable to move a muscle or even
flick up his eyelids. A thousand eternities came
and went. A thousand eternities filled with
crashing thunder and sizzling, flashing light.
And then, life seeped back into his body, and
instinct took up the job that a dulled, stunned
brain was unable to cope with yet. The mad
shimming stopped and the Silver Flash leveled off
and raced forward on an even keel.
His eyelids parted and he looked out again
on the world. He found himself staring at thin air.
With an effort, he turned his head and looked
stupidly downward. Below was a vast expanse of
rolling water.
It meant nothing to his aching brain at first.
And then, presently as he unconsciously banked
the Silver Flash around in a lopsided turn, he
saw, and realized. He was high in the air and far
out over Lake Superior. But he wasted no more
than a glance at the lake.
Breathlessly he looked in-shore toward
Duluth.
"My God!"
A gigantic fountain of boiling fire was
spouting heavenward and then sloshing down
again like a great canopy. The ground itself had
changed into an ocean of liquid flame that spread
outward in all directions. And it enveloped the
center sections of the Black tank advance like a
blanket of doom.
Unable to swerve aside, column after column
of them were, mushing into it, like the rats of the
Pied Piper rushing into the river's water. On they
came, those in the rear banging and charging
against those in front.
In spite of himself, Dusty groaned with the
horror of it all. The Blacks, devils that they might
be, did not have a chance. Tank after tank
lurched to a stop and its occupants spilled out and
tried frantically to scramble to safety.
But like the tentacles of an octopus, the
fingers of boiling flame reached out and
consumed them in the agonies of hell.
And the tanks already in the city were striving
to swing around, get clear of the flames, and
contact their split ranks. But Yank gunners were
pounding them into hiding.
As Dusty glanced to the south he saw a
column of mopping-up tanks, of the Yank army,
lumbering menacingly into the city.
A job done--and he was still alive!
"But you are, you lucky bum!" he howled
joyously. "You are alive--"
The rest froze on his lips, as the earphones
crackled.
"But not for long, Captain Ayres!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BLACK PATROL
DUSTY WHIRLED IN THE SEAT. THIRTY
yards back of him was a sleek Black Dart. He
could not see its pilot, but the voice in his
earphones told him enough. The Black Hawk had
him in a cold-meat shot position.
Dusty's hand on the stick started to move it,
then he checked himself. If only he could gain a
few seconds. Just a few, and he might catch this
tongue-wagging conceited rat off guard.
"Well?" he grated into the mouthpiece. "You
win this one, anyway. So go ahead and shoot,
damn you!"
As he spoke he let his body slump down into
the cockpit. With luck, the other's first burst might
miss him, and smash into the instrument board.
"Of course I win!" came the harsh words.
"You're a very clever man, Captain Ayres, but not
clever enough. Oh, yes, I admit that you have
hindered our progress for the time. But there is
always a tomorrow. A tomorrow when you won't
be there, Captain Ayres. And now, fly north,
Captain. We are going back!"
The voice stopped. Dusty started to speak
again but checked himself. It was now or never.
He started to veer the Silver Flash slowly around
to the north. But when he was halfway; he
slammed down on opposite rudder with all his
might, and banged the stick over.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
59
A savage yammer of guns blasted out from
behind, and hissing messengers of death zipped
past his head and transformed the instrument
board into a shambles.
But a split second later the hail of steel was
pounding against his left wing-tips, then off it slid
into thin air. He kicked the Silver Flash around in
a pin-point split-arc.
"Now, damn your soul!" he bellowed. "We'll
see who the hell is going back!"
But the Black Hawk didn't wait. The Dart
spun over and down, then swung northward at top
speed. Dusty laughed harshly, belted his stick
forward and dived.
The Black Hawk must have looked back and
seen him coming, for the monoplane started
zigzagging crazily. The defense maneuver
brought a crooked smile of scorn to Dusty's lips.
With cold deliberation he squinted an eye to his
telescopic sight and jabbed the trigger trips.
The Brownings barked and the monoplane
seemed to cartwheel over. The Brownings barked
again, and the monoplane went careening crazily
off to the left. Then suddenly it spun completely
over on its back, hovered in mid-air for a split
second, and whipped downward straight into the
boiling sea of flame.
Dusty didn't watch the horrible end. He had
seen enough horror for one day.
The thing for him to do was to land. To get
down near that infantry area south of the city. He
was hungry. Hell, when did he eat last, anyway?
And, sleep? Boy, could he cut himself a big slice
of shut-eye just about now? And how! He'd
contact Group 7, and breeze back to them later.
Sure, he'd land. His job for the time being
was finished. To his left there, the Yank troops
were starting a mop-up of Duluth. What remained
of the Black tank column was rushing northward
as Yank planes rained down more hell on it.
The Black Hawk was dead! And Fire-Eyes
had been taught a lesson!
He flew southward, circled the infantry air
contact field a couple of times, and then slid down
to a landing. A squad of doughboys helped him
leg out. One of them gave him a cigarette. He
was in the act of lighting it, when a corporal ran
up.
"Captain Ayres?"
"Right," he nodded wearily.
"You're wanted over at the temporary area
H.Q., sir," said the corporal, pointing. "Over in that
portable shack, sir."
Dusty shrugged resignedly. God, would the
big bugs never stop sending for him? He walked
with heavy steps over to the portable H.Q. shack.
Inside, he pulled up short, eyes wide. The big
figure of General Horner confronted him. The man
stood straddle-legged, hands clasped behind him,
and there was fire in his eyes.
"Well, Captain Ayres!" he boomed. "Do you
think that a junior officer can cuss and bawl out an
executive war council of the ranking officers of the
United States Armed Forces? Gentlemen who
were captains long before you were born? Why,
you deserve to be shot every day at sunrise for a
week!"
The thick lips snapped shut, and the steely
eyes burned into Dusty's face.
The pilot swallowed hard.
"I--I'm sorry, sir." he began. "I--"
But General Horner was shaking with
laughter.
"Don't be a fool, Ayres!" he roared. "Don't
spoil it by trying to apologize. It was perfect!
Never seen the like of it in all my forty-three years
in the service.
"I sent for you, Ayres," he went on gently, "so
that I might have the honor of being the first to
express the everlasting gratitude of our country
for what you have done. Every report I've
received has been full of your feats. There aren't
words to express it. By all the laws of war and
mankind you should be dead. But--well, I can
only call it a great miracle. A miracle of courage
and valor."
Dusty smiled.
"Thank you, General. I'm glad I did my duty,
and that I was lucky. But I wasn't the only one.
Everyone did his full share. And--and Agent 10,
sir--he deserves far more credit than I. If it hadn't
been for him, why--"
"That's what I wanted to speak about," cut in
the general huskily. "He's been able to get word
through to me, gave me a report on all that
happened. Well, Ayres, your country owes you a
great debt of gratitude and thanks. But I owe you
even more than that. You did me a great service,
Captain Ayres."
Dusty frowned at him.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
BLACK LIGHTNING July, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
60
"I don't understand, sir," he faltered.
"A secret, Ayres," said the other slowly.
"Something I should not tell. But I know I have
your confidence and loyalty. Agent 10 is my son."
The pilot stiffened, then looked him straight
in the eye.
"And a great son, sir!" he said. "A son you
can always be proud of. I shall always remember
him, and pray that we will meet again."
A shadow flitted across General Horner's
heavy face.
"Who is there to say that you will or will not,"
he murmured thickly. "Your jobs are different, but
no man can foretell when your paths may cross
again, or if they will. Today we gave the Black
Invaders a taste of their own medicine. Perhaps
that will teach a lesson to this Fire-Eyes, their
leader. But with men like you, Ayres, and my son,
and ten million others, this country need have no
fears of the ultimate outcome of it all. Let us
shake hands on that, Captain."
They clasped hands and smiled. But only
with their lips did they smile, for in their eyes was
the same haunting question--what would be the
next move of Fire-Eyes and his devastating
horde?
THE END