Originally published in the September, 1934 issue of Dusty Ayres and His Battle BirdsTM
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Copyright ©1934 by Popular Publications Inc. Copyright renewed © 1962 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
By Robert Sydney Bowen
A sky full of death awaited Dusty Ayres, superace of the U.S. air defense,
when he soared forth to accept the challenge of the Black Hawk,
merciless angel of terror of the tyrant Fire Eyes. All Dusty's steel-nerved
aerobatic skill... all the miraculous advancement of his screaming Silver
Flash II seemed pitifully futile before the power and subtle cunning the
Black Invaders now marshaled against the free world's stronghold. Could
one man dispel the looming purple cloud of doom that darkened the
nation's skies?
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CHAPTER ONE
BLACK CHALLENGE
"AND IN RECOGNITION OF VALUABLE
services rendered, the President and the
Congressional War Council hereby appoint you
special contact officer to the combined armed
forces of the U.S. Government. In the carrying out
of this emergency roving commission, you are
hereby permitted to act independently of any
branch of the three major services, and report
your findings direct to the General Staff at
Washington, D.C. Notice of this appointment
appears in general order number ZY 679.
"Signed the President, and chairman of the
C. W. C."
Deftly folding the official document, Colonel
Marberry, acting chief of staff, dropped it on the
desk top and reached out his big right paw.
"Let me be the first to congratulate you,
Captain Ayres," he smiled at the lean, wind-
bronzed pilot. "I am sincerely happy that our
Government has seen fit to place this trust upon
your capable shoulders."
Saluting stiffly, Dusty Ayres, top eagle of
Uncle Sam's brood, grasped the colonel's hand
and shook it firmly.
"Thank you, sir," he stammered. "I only hope
that I shall always be able to prove myself worthy
of this great honor."
"I'm sure you will, my boy," smiled the senior
officer with genuine pleasure.
And then he turned to the third man in the
group office, Major Drake, C.O. of High Speed
Group No. 7.
"As Captain Ayres' former commanding
officer, you are to be congratulated, too, Major.
And now, if you'll both excuse me, I'll be getting
on back. No, don't bother, my car is right outside.
Good day, gentlemen."
When the door closed, Dusty whistled softly,
dropped into the nearest chair, and drew a hand
across his forehead.
"Gosh!" he ejaculated.
Major Drake chuckled and placed a hand on
the pilot's shoulder.
"Wouldn't believe me, would you, eh?" he
grunted.
"Well, it's just as I predicted. You're a one-
man army now, son. You can tell your old C.O. to
go fly a kite, and he'd have to take it. General
staff is your boss, now."
Dusty swallowed hard, struggled to his feet.
"Listen, Major," he blurted out as the red
seeped up his neck. "I've been under your
command for two years, and-er-well, this--"
The C.O.'s tightening fingers on his shoulder
stopped him.
"Hold it, son," said Major Drake. "I
understand what you're trying to say. You don't
want to cut away from the old gang? Well, you
won't be cutting away. Your drome win be any
one of the hundred from Duluth to the Atlantic
coast. If you want to operate out of this field, then
that'll be swell. But you've been given a grave
responsibility. In a way, you've been appointed,
on the President's order, as Flying Trouble
Shooter Number One. You rate it, so don't let any
thoughts about the old homestead cramp your
style. There isn't one of us who isn't tickled silly
about your receiving this honor. So do your stuff,
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
2
and remember that the old candle will be burning
in the window for you, any time you drop in."
Dusty grinned and ran the tip of his tongue
over his lower lip.
"Don't worry, sir, I won't forget," he said,
huskily. "Only--well, I suppose I should do a jig or
something, but somehow I feel like a fellow bailing
out at midnight. Don't know just where I'm going
to land."
"You'll find out soon enough, if past events
mean anything," Major Drake chuckled. "Ever
since Fire-Eyes and his damned Black Invaders
started banging on our front door, action has
come to you like a steel chip to a magnet. You
haven't had to wait for anything."
At that moment, as though in confirmation of
the statement, the door opened and the field
signal officer came charging inside. He walked
quickly over to Dusty and thrust out a radiogram.
"For you, skipper!" he panted. "What the hell
do you make of that?"
Dusty took the paper and stared at the typed
message.
To Captain Ayres,
High Speed Group Seven.
My congratulations on your new
appointment. It would seem that I have
underestimated your true worth, or else your
country has overestimated it. However, I suggest
that we settle the matter by meeting each other
at twenty thousand feet over your northeastern
area map position M-18. As I have important
mission to fulfill later I would like to take care of
this affair between ten-thirty and eleven o'clock,
this morning.
In the event that you do not meet me I will
consider my belief to be correct that your
government has been misguided by the sheer
good fortune that has befallen a blundering fool.
--The Black Hawk.
"Oh, Yeah?" echoed Dusty in a hard voice as
he finished reading. Then to the signal officer,
"When the hell did this come through?"
"Not over five minutes ago," was the prompt
answer. "It was sent direct on the station's official
wave length. From Black station KZ in the Ontario
Zone, too. The bums even asked for a checkback
and reply in half an hour."
Dusty glanced at his watch. The hands
showed twenty-four minutes after nine.
"Okay on the check-back," he nodded grimly.
"Shoot the flash along to him that I'll be there
with bells on!"
"You really mean you're--?"
"Damned tooting!" Dusty cut him off. "I
wouldn't miss this for a flock of steak dinners.
Scram, Sparky, old kid."
The signal officer shot him a searching look,
shrugged and turned on his heel.
"Okay, Skipper," he grunted over his
shoulder. "I'll take vanilla, myself!"
The pilot laughed and turned to the C.O.
"Guess you called the turn again, major," he
grinned. "Here I'm wondering just how I'm going to
start this new job of mine, and pop!--the first
move drops right into my lap."
Drake snorted, scowled at the floor.
"I don't like it!" he growled.
"Don't like it?" Dusty echoed. "Hell, I love it!
Nothing would suit me better than to plant that
flying rat down under, once and for all. I've
tangled with him so many times, I'm getting sick
of the sight of his homely mug. And besides--"
He paused and pointed through the Group
office window toward the Silver Flash II resting on
the tarmac.
"And besides," he repeated a moment later,
"it'll be a swell chance to see how my new bus
shapes up in action. Incidentally, I don't think I've
thanked you yet, sir, for rushing through the
request for my new ship. She's a honey. Never
expected to fly anything better than the crate I lost
in that Washington scrap, but she's that and then
some. Why, only this morning I got five-sixty-eight
m.p.h. out of her, and--"
"I know, I know!" the other cut in gruffly. "It's
the last word in planes, and all the rest of it. But
listen, Ayres, this Black Hawk is no damned fool."
"That's right," nodded Dusty. "Just conceited.
And I'm the fair-haired boy who is going to shoot it
out of him. If you knew him like I do, major,
you'd--"
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
3
"I'd wonder what was behind his challenge,"
the C.O. finished sharply. "You're a better man
than he is. You've beat him to the punch half a
dozen times. Watch your step, it may be a trap.
You're no match for the whole Black Invader air
force, you know."
Dusty shrugged, pulled out a pack of
cigarettes, offered the major one and took one
himself.
"Right again, sir," he said as he held a match
for them both. "But here's a stepping-off place for
this new title the President has handed me. The
Hawk is the head of the Black air force. We hate
each other's guts, and getting him will hand the
rest of his vultures a jolt they won't like. Maybe it
is a trap, and maybe there's something bigger
behind it than just a two-ship scrap. Well, that'll be
okay, too. I've at least got a starter, and that's all I
want."
The C.O. spewed smoke ceiling-ward and
nodded.
"You don't have to tell me that," he muttered.
"Well, remember, you've got a radio and there's
eighteen planes here that'll come a-flying if it
should turn out to be a trap. Meantime, I'll buzz
Washington to start checking on how the hell the
Blacks heard about your new appointment before
even our own troops did."
For a moment Dusty's face went grave.
"Yeah, that's so, isn't it?" he murmured. "Oh,
well, as General Horner of Intelligence once said,
there's a Black agent behind every lamppost in
Washington.
But if their finding it out caused the Hawk to
get up enough steam to send me this invite, then
three cheers for them! Well, so long, sir. I'll be
seeing you soon!"
A quick salute and Dusty hard-heeled out of
the Group office and went over to his plane. Two
minutes later he was pulling clear and streaking
up for altitude.
Not once did he look down back at the
familiar sight below. Like the knights of old who
set out alone to seek their destiny in distant lands,
so was this modern warrior of the skies riding his
thundering charger into the great unknown. Life
and death rode the cockpit with him, and on his
broad shoulders rested the responsibility of his
own fate, whatever it might be.
For a moment memory of the glorious days
and nights spent with High Speed Group No. 7
caused the instrument panel to blur before his
eyes. Then he laughed and slammed his free fist
against the bulletproof side of his cockpit.
"It's just the dish you ordered, kid!" he
shouted aloud. "Responsible only to general
staff--if and when! Yip-p-y!"
Heart pounding with wild joy, and the blood
dancing through his veins, he hand-heeled the
throttle wide open, booted the plane around on
wingtip and sent it roaring across the
Massachusetts line and straight up the border of
Vermont and New Hampshire.
A glance at the magnetic clock on the dash
showed the time to be ten-seventeen. Checking
his position on the roller map he nosed up through
a cloud layer and didn't level off until the altimeter
needle quivered at the twenty-one thousand foot
mark.
Then he eased back to half throttle, let the
ship have its head, and keenly studied the
heavens in all directions. To his eagle eye there
came not a single sight of anything, except clouds
and pale blue emptiness.
Several minutes later he grinned, spun the
wavelength dial and unhooked the transmitter
tube.
"Calling Ontario Station KZ!" he shouted.
"Captain Ayres speaking. Please reply to the
commander of your air force that I'm waiting. He
is five minutes late already. Has black changed to
yellow?"
Without waiting to get a check-back on his
call, he slipped the transmitter back on the hook,
and continued his searching study of the
surrounding sky. Minutes dragged by. The hands
of the dash clock swung around to ten forty-six--
and still he had the heavens all to himself.
At eleven o'clock, exactly, he suddenly
hunched forward on the seat and stared hard
toward the northern horizon. The silver cloud layer
was slowly changing to a murky blue-gray in
color.
As he watched, the color deepened to a dirty
purple and a great billowing curtain of the stuff
rose straight up from the cloud layer. Higher and
higher it rose until its pluming crest was lost in the
sub-stratosphere regions.
"By God, that's a gas curtain!"
Even as Dusty muttered the words aloud, the
red signal light on the radio panel blinked, and a
voice crackled in the phones clamped to his ears.
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
4
"All American planes in northeastern zone,
attention! Enemy releasing gas curtain from
position N-27 to Z-10. All pilots not equipped with
protectors will keep ten miles clear of this area.
Winds generally northwest from ground to thirty-
five thousand feet. Maximum velocity eighteen.
Minimum, five miles. Stand by for all clear signal if
you are flying enemy territory patrols."
As the ground station started to repeat,
Dusty tuned down the volume and studied his
roller map. The result brought a puzzled frown to
his brows. He raised his eyes toward the massive
purple curtain hanging in the sky. It seemed to be
slowly moving away from him --away toward the
northwest.
"Hell!" he gasped. "The blacks must be nuts.
That damned thing is swinging back over their
own lines! God, this is screwy!"
Sliding the cockpit cowl shut and turning the
sealing clamps, he adjusted the air pressure
equalizer and nosed the Silver Flash II toward the
purple curtain.
But when he was still a good five miles from
it, he suddenly pulled up in a screaming zoom and
swung around toward the west.
A jet-black monoplane had plunged out of the
curtain of gas and was streaking due south. In
one flash look, Dusty saw the Black Invader
insignia on its fuselage--a black flag edged in
white. A shout of battle spilled off his lips.
"Showed up at last, eh?" he shouted. "Hey,
over this way, bum! Here I am!"
But the other ship did not alter its course a
single inch. Like a winged black arrow it kept right
on slicing southward.
Belting the stick and booting the rudder,
Dusty spun his plane around and charged after it.
"Just like that, huh?" he snorted. "Well,
maybe this will attract your attention!"
He slid his thumbs up to the electric trigger
trips as he spoke, started to jab them forward,
then suddenly jerked his thumbs away. From a
good ten thousand feet above his altitude, two
more Black ships were piling down toward the
first, their guns slanting twin streams of jetting
flame down across the sky.
Wide-eyed, Dusty watched them streak
earthward; saw them close the gap in a period of
split seconds and rake the first plane from prop to
tail wheel with fire-spitting guns.
A moment later, action was preceding the
thought in his brain. Hardly realizing what he was
doing, he cut around in a screaming half turn,
yanked the nose up and hurled the Silver Flash II
straight at the attacking planes.
The range was too great, and for the first few
moments, their pilots ignored him. But as he
roared in close, the nearest one slanted off and
came rushing right at him.
Eyes hard, lips curled back in a savage grin,
Dusty steadied his ship and took deliberate aim.
And then steel fury swirled out from the muzzles
of his Brownings and buried itself in the vitals of
the Black ship.
For an instant it seemed as though the
onrushing plane had stopped dead in its tracks.
Then it lurched crazily to the side and hovered
almost motionless for a split second before it went
cork-screwing upward.
Relentlessly, Dusty followed it up,
hammering it from prop to fin with burst after burst
of singing steel. No creation of man could have
withstood the devastating fire that spewed out
from Dusty's guns, and the upward spinning Black
monoplane was no exception.
A thousand feet higher and both wings
wrenched free and went slip-sliding off like dried
leaves. The rest curved over like a spent rocket,
and went racing down, over-revving engine
howling a song of certain doom.
As it streaked by, Dusty strained his eyes for
a glimpse of the figure in the glass-cowled
cockpit. But if he expected to see the cruel
hatchet face of the Black Hawk, he was
disappointed. All he could see were the head and
shoulders of a black-uniformed figure slumped
forward against the instrument panel.
And then, as he jerked his eyes away, he
promptly forgot all about the thing. The second
Black plane had fired the fuel tank of the first
plane. It was now little more than a ball of flame
and oily black smoke slithering down the skyway.
And the remaining plane was slashing down
toward a limp figure in civilian garb who hung
suspended at the end of parachute shroud lines.
The same impulse that sent Dusty tearing up
toward the two attackers sent him roaring down
on the one that remained.
That he should suddenly risk his life to help
an unknown at the controls of an enemy plane, he
did not try to understand. Something inside of him
had sent him charging into the strange sky battle,
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
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A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
5
and that same strange something, fired by
additional rage that a helpless figure in parachute
harness was being attacked, sent him gun-blazing
downward.
But the pilot of the remaining Black ship must
have seen him coming, and had no stomach for a
possible end such as had been the fate of his
companion. After spewing out one final burst at
the dangling figure on the shroud lines, he cut off
sharply to the west and went swinging round to
the north in a furious curving dive.
Dusty started to follow, then checked his ship
and swung around toward the limp figure floating
earthward.
Throttling a bit, he eased in close and
studied the man intently. Friend or foe, he could
not tell, for the wind had whipped the front of the
figure's jacket up over his face. But as he circled
about, wondering, he saw the man stiffly raise his
right arm in what was supposed to be a salute.
Then, as though the effort had been too
much, the arm dropped down and hung lifeless
from its shoulder socket. A few minutes later the
swaying figure floated down out of view in a cloud
layer.
As it disappeared, Dusty hesitated and
glanced at the dash clock. It was twenty-eight
minutes after eleven. He looked toward the
towering gas curtain far to the north, and made up
his mind.
"We'll see this through first," he grunted, and
stuck the nose down.
When he came out of the cloud layer it took
him a few seconds to pick out the mushroom
chute against the earth's carpet. It was several
thousand feet below him and sinking toward a hill
and rocky section of ground.
A ground wind caught the silk folds of the
chute, billowed them out like a sail, and dragged
the still figure a good twenty yards before the
shroud lines snubbed about a tree trunk.
A moment later he saw the man struggle to
his knees, try to continue the rest of the way, and
go crashing down on his face.
Noting a small clearing a half mile to his
right, Dusty swung toward it, cut the throttle, and
slid into it with less than a dozen feet to spare.
Slapping open the cowling, he legged out and ran
back toward the flapping silk fouled on some
heavy underbrush.
First cutting the man loose from the shroud
lines, he then turned him over and stared down at
the face. It was not a pretty sight. A bullet crease
across the forehead was flowing blood freely, that
ran down to mingle with the blood from a hundred
ugly scrapes and scratches caused by the "wind-
drag" across the rocky soil.
Outside of the cuts and scratches the face
was of ordinary structure. Its owner might be a
member of most any of the white races.
He was of average height, dark brown hair
and between twenty and perhaps thirty years of
age. The clothes he wore were of general style
and material, and tailored to his figure.
All those items Dusty noted in a glance as he
put his hand over the man's heart. There was a
faint beat, and when he pulled his hand away, it
was soaked with blood.
Ripping open the shirt, he jammed his
handkerchief in a gaping wound. Bullets had torn
half the chest away.
"No--use--thanks."
Blood flecked lips were moving, and pain-
filled brown eyes gleamed their gratitude as Dusty
looked at the face.
"Take it easy, fellow," he grinned cheerfully.
"Just a couple of scratches. I'll get you out. Who
are--?"
"No use, flyer," the words seemed to drag
themselves off the thin lips. "Finished this time.
Listen--tell--attack--Z-10--but--they--right
shoe--"
The rest trailed off to a choking gurgle. The
man trembled and a mad look came into his eyes.
Blood sprayed off the foaming lips as he made a
desperate effort to put syllables together.
"Hold it," soothed Dusty, crooking an arm
about the man's neck. "Try not to waste your
strength."
The eyes blazed at him angrily.
"Shut up! I know I'm finished. Listen, tell--I
am--right shoe-- right sh--"
The last word was never finished. Dusty felt
a wild tremor shoot through the man's body. The
eyelids fluttered closed, and the mouth sagged
open.
He lowered the man's head and shoulders
gently to the ground.
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
6
CHAPTER TWO
DEAD MAN'S SECRET
FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS, DUSTY
GAZED down at the still figure, but death was not
to be cheated of its prey. The man was beyond all
help on this earth.
Dusty swallowed hard, and began the
gruesome task of searching the other's pockets.
Each article that he found he placed on the
ground beside him.
When he finished, he had two handkerchiefs,
a penknife, a length of wrapping twine, seventy
cents in Canadian money, a pencil made in
Toronto, and two imitation pearl cufflinks. On the
inside pocket of the jacket he found a few loose
threads where the maker's label had been sewn,
but there was no label now.
Further investigation brought to light the fact
that even the maker's name on the inside of the
shirt neckband had been removed.
Sinking back on his haunches, he fingered
the collection of articles.
"If you didn't want anybody to find out," he
grunted at the death-chilled face, "you certainly
did a damned good job of it!"
And then, suddenly, as his eyes roved over
the body, he fastened them on the man's feet and
recalled to memory a few of the disconnected
words. The man had tried to say something about
his right shoe.
Dusty looked at it, and saw nothing unusual.
It was neither new nor old. Just a low-cut oxford
of ordinary style.
Impulsively, he untied the laces, pulled the
shoe off, and examined it closely. The heel was
solid, a little probing with the penknife proved that.
He stuck fingers inside the shoe, started to
pull them out, and stiffened. Jamming the tongue
up through the laces, he shoved his fingers clear
to the toe and pecked at a small paper wad that
was tightly wedged into the crevice where the toe-
cap was joined to the sole. He was unable to
dislodge it.
Pulling his hand out, he took the penknife
and slashed the toe-cap down the middle. Prying
the two sides apart with one hand, he levered out
a dirty pellet of paper with the penknife blade.
It was no bigger than the tip of his little
finger, and popped out like a marble
Picking it up he started to unwad it. When he
did, a small green bead rolled out into the palm of
his hand. The paper that had been wadded about
the bead was so dirty and creased and wrinkled
that at first he saw nothing on it. In fact, he was
about to toss it away when he suddenly gasped
and smoothed it out between his palms.
Eyes narrowed, he stared at it intently.
But the more he studied it, the more
befuddled he became as to its meanings. As far
as he was concerned, it could mean almost
anything.
That there had once been more of the
cockeyed diagram was evident by the short arrow
and the portion of the figure eight at the torn edge
of the paper. On the reverse side there was
nothing but dirt and sweat marks.
Dusty closed his eyes and tried to remember
all that the dying man had said.
The result was partial confirmation of the
growing belief that the man was either a Canadian
or an American secret agent. He had tried to say
something about an attack and Z-10. He--
"By God, Z-10!" Dusty muttered aloud.
"That's the northern end of that damned gas
curtain!"
Jumping to his feet, he started to go back to
his plane for a look at his roller map, when
suddenly he stopped in his tracks.
Off to his right something was crashing
through the underbrush. Instinctively he shoved
the bead and the paper in his pocket, and flicked
his other hand to the butt of his service revolver.
But before he could draw it, a beautiful bay
horse, with a tall United States artillery major
astride its back, came charging into the clearing.
The major swept the scene with a quick
glance, dismounted, and came striding forward.
"What the devil's happened, Captain?" he
demanded. "Saw this man float down, and saw
you circle after him. Who is he?"
Dusty's jaw squared at the other's tone. "I
don't know, sir," he said tightly. "That's what I've
been trying to find out."
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
7
"So I see," said the other dryly. "Were you
fighting him in the air? Doesn't look like a Black to
me."
Suspicious eyes bored into Dusty's. With an
effort, the pilot curbed a hot retort. Instead, he
said, "Two Blacks shot at him after he'd jumped. I
followed him down, but he died as I reached him."
Dusty started to speak of the man's last
words, but on sudden impulse he checked
himself. A faint sneer of contempt was curling
back the major's lips.
"And you let him be shot down, eh?" he
snapped. "A fine business. I suppose the
attackers got away? If he was a pilot, why was he
wearing civilian clothes?"
The Yank pilot's eyes narrowed and the
hardness in his voice matched that of the major's.
"Suppose you answer that?" he grated. "I
can't. He was flying a Black plane. The wreck's
around this area some place. So is the wreck of
one of the attackers. They got him before I could
help. I let the other go because this man was
coming down by chute, and I was curious."
The major seemed unimpressed.
"Hum-m," he mused. "What's your name?"
The officer's belligerent attitude forced the
words off Dusty's tongue before he realized he
was speaking them.
"Have you read general order ZY 679,
Major?" he bit off.
The artillery-man stiffened and his chin came
out.
"Yes, and what the devil's that got to do with
it?"
"Nothing, except that I happen to be Captain
Ayres!"
The major's chin went back into normal
position, his eyes widened a trifle, and he pursed
his lips.
"Oh, I see," he grunted. "So, you're the
Captain Ayres, eh? Then, perhaps, you'll be good
enough to tell me in detail about this thing,
Captain. I'm Major Walker, acting area
commander, and--"
He suddenly stopped short and shot a stiff
forefinger at the ground.
"That penknife!" he exclaimed. "Where did
you get it?" Without waiting for Dusty's reply, he
scooped up the knife. Then dropping to his knees
he bent over and peered hard at the dead man.
When, a moment later, he straightened up, rage
was twisting his features.
"The complete details!" he barked. "I want
the true story!"
Dusty walked close to him, and his voice was
like steel against steel.
"I told you what happened, Major Walker!" he
clipped out. "Now suppose you tell me--who is
he? You recognized him, just now."
"I most certainly did!" gritted the other,
tapping the penknife against his other hand. "He
is Charles Strickland, a cousin of mine. I sent him
this penknife on his birthday six months ago. And,
five days ago, I received a letter from him stating
that the Army doctor had refused his enlistment
because of bad health! And, to my knowledge, he
never spent a single hour in an airplane, much
less to pilot one. His heart was bad."
The inference behind the words started the
blood up Dusty's neck.
"Meaning just what, Major?" he asked
evenly.
"Meaning that I doubt your story, and that I
have no proof that you're who you say you are!"
Dusty started to raise a hand to the group
identification card in his tunic pocket, then let it
drop as he remembered he never carried it while
in the air. Never carried any means of
identification, in fact.
"I'm afraid, Major, you'll have to believe
both," he said.
The others eyes flickered down to the
slashed shoe.
"You cut that shoe!" he snapped. "Why? Did
my cousin say something before he died?"
Dusty hesitated, then nodded.
"Yes he did," he replied. "But I am making
my report direct to general staff. And now, if you'll
be kind enough to take care of the body, I'll be on
my way. I have something to do that can't wait."
Saluting, the pilot turned and started to walk
toward his plane.
"Stop right where you are!"
The voice spun him around, an angry retort
on his lips. But he didn't say it. The artillery officer
had his automatic out, and its muzzle was trained
dead on Dusty's heart.
For a second the pilot's jaw dropped in blank
surprise. Then berserk rage gripped him, and the
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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8
sense of courtesy to a superior officer went
overboard.
"You damned fool, are you crazy?" he
roared. "Put down that gun!"
"Keep your hands still!" the other snarled.
"We'll find out just who you are when we get back
to headquarters."
With a quick movement, the major stepped
forward and jerked Dusty's gun from its holster.
"There, that's better," he grunted, pocketing
it.
"Now, pick up that body, and walk in front of
my horse. One false move and I'll put a bullet in
you!"
Dusty curbed his mounting wrath.
"For God's sake, man, listen to me! I've got
to fly north and see what the hell that gas curtain
is all about. Your cousin said something about an
attack. I've got to see the Z-10 C.O."
"Shut up! My cousin wouldn't know anything
about an attack. Don't try that on me. If you are
Captain Ayres, we'll find out soon enough."
"And G.H.Q. will be down on your neck like a
ton of bricks, you fathead!" Dusty blazed.
"Perhaps!" he snapped. "We'll see about
that, later. Now, pick him up, and be careful."
Dusty hesitated, went rigid, then relaxed
completely.
"Very well," he groaned. "Just as you say,
sir."
Bending over the dead man, he reached out
his hands, started to curl them about the still form,
and then, in a movement faster that the human
eye could follow, he whirled and swung up his
clenched fist with every ounce of his strength.
In the same movement, he flung out his left
hand and knocked the gun down. A bellow of rage
spilled off the major's lips, and a split second later
it was drowned out as his gun roared flame and
sound. But, as the bullet plowed harmlessly into
the ground, Dusty's steel-bunched fist caught him
under the jaw.
Teeth clicked sharply, the moon-faced head
snapped back, and the man's knees buckled.
Stepping quickly to one side, Dusty caught the
toppling figure and eased him to the ground.
Retrieving his own automatic, he gave the
limp artillery officer one last glance.
"Sorry, you fathead," he murmured. "But you
asked for it." He turned on his heel and raced
back to his plane.
CHAPTER THREE
SKY DUEL
WITH THE SAME SKILL AND EASE WITH
which he slid into the clearing, he slid out of it
again, engine wide open and pointed toward the
heavens. Holding the ship that way, he looked
toward the north.
The curtain of gas still hung in the sky. If
anything, it was more dense than before. There
was also another change.
The pluming crest was being doubled back
northwestward by a high wind, giving it the
appearance of a weird, gigantic sail billowed out
taut by a gale.
Its length he judged to be well over three
hundred miles; clear from the Great Lakes
northeast to the northwestern reaches of Maine.
Its thickness he could not tell as yet. But as he
thundered toward the strange sight he was unable
to see a single thing beyond its murky purpleness.
Impulsively he reached out and spun the
wave length dial.
"Captain Ayres calling Area 27 station!" he
shouted into the transmitter.
A few seconds later the call-back buzzed in
the earphones.
"Twenty-seven on your wave length! Go
ahead!"
"That gas curtain!" said Dusty. "It's getting
thicker and blowing back over the enemy lines.
What's the ground report on it?"
"The same as before," came the answer.
"The enemy have blocked out their entire Front. It
is impossible for us to see their movements. We
are ready for an attack, but do not expect one.
There are no enemy aircraft below the clouds,
and no artillery action, either. What's the report
from your position, Captain Ayres?"
"No aircraft sighted this side of the curtain,"
called Dusty. "Will let you know developments, if
any. Signing off."
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
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9
Flipping up the wave length switch, Dusty
leaned back against the head rest and stared
thoughtfully toward the most northern point of the
gas curtain.
"An attack at Z-10, he said, eh?" he mused
aloud, turning the roller map. "Now, let's see. Z-10
is where Maine and New Hampshire meet the
Canadian line. If they did smash through to the
coast they'd bottle up the fifth and sixth armies in
Maine. And that would shorten their battle front a
couple hundred miles. And--"
He finished the rest with a muttered curse.
An attack in the Z-10 area would be suicide for
the Black Invaders. He knew that. America had
built up a well-nigh impregnable line of defenses
at that point.
Almost at the very beginning of the war,
Yank G.H.Q. had realized the possibility of an
attempt by the enemy to cut off the finger of
Maine that stuck up into Canada between the
provinces of Quebec and New Brunswick. And to
thwart any such attempt a barrier had been built
all along the western border of Maine.
Not only that, a great system of rapid
transport had been layed down from that point
south, so that within the space of twelve hours the
might of the entire U. S. Army could be rushed to
fill up what few gaps the Blacks might make in the
lines.
No, it was foolish to consider a Black
offensive in Z-10. Yet--Dusty shrugged and
turned the wave length knob again.
"Calling Z-10 area commander!" he barked
into the tube. "Calling Z-10 area commander . . .
emergency. Captain Ayres coming in to land.
Please meet me. Have important matter to talk
about. Do you get--get my message?"
The panel light blinked almost immediately.
"Message received, Captain Ayres," crackled
the earphones. "Do not try to land at Z-10. Area
covered by gas. Keep wave length open for a
clear signal."
"Z-10 . . . wait!" he bellowed. "I've got a
protector. I can get down all right. Turn your radio
beacon on and I'll follow it in."
Anxiously he waited for the needle on the
graduated dial on the dash to move, telling him
the Z-10 had turned on the beam. But it remained
motionless.
With a grunt, he snapped his fingers against
the glass, but still the needle did not move.
Puzzled, he called Z-10 for a check-back on
his request. But as he did, there came a faint hum
in the phones, and an eerie tingle rippled up and
down his spine.
Either Z-10 was refusing to receive his wave-
length signals, or else some other station was
"jamming" the area.
Heeling the throttle all the way open, he
climbed up to twenty-five thousand, leveled off,
and flew by compass to a point where his wind-
speed and drift indicator told him he was directly
over the Z-10 area.
Less than half a mile off his left wing was the
huge, billowing gas curtain, its crest still curving
more and more toward the northwest.
Turning on full radio power, he set the wave
adjuster for vertical plane-to-ground station
transmission and called Z-10 again.
Tense seconds went by, and then suddenly
he heard faint sounds in the earphones. It was
like a weak voice trying to yell through a solid
brick wall.
Full reception volume brought the voice up a
little, but it was too muffled for Dusty to make out.
It was followed by a sharp clicking, and then
Dusty could understand.
" . . . and the area commander suggests that
you reconnoiter northwest of the gas curtain, if
possible. It is believed that preparations are being
made for an attack at this point. Please give us a
report as soon as possible. Signing off."
Dusty swore and slapped the off switch.
"Was going to do that anyway!" he snorted.
"Okay. If you suspect an attack, there's no need
of my wasting fuel to land and tell you what little I
know."
Making sure that the cowl was sealed, and
the air pressure equalizer was set, he swung the
Silver Flash II toward the top of the curving gas
curtain.
Then, holding the ship steady, he pulled the
strange diagram from his pocket and stared at it
thoughtfully. None of the markings had changed,
and it did not signify anything more to him than it
had in the beginning.
"Charles Strickland, eh?" he grunted to
himself. "And his cousin, that cluck major, said he
wasn't a pilot. I wonder if there were two guys in
that single seater? But, hell, this guy told me
about his shoe. And--"
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
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10
He cut off the rest, and started to swing the
plane about and head back for Intelligence H.Q.
at Washington. Then, with a savage shake of his
head, he changed his mind again and swung back
north.
"You've got enough to work on, kid, without
running home to papa. Take a look around here
first."
As his grated words died to an echo in the
cowled pit, he shoved the nose down and tore into
the murky purple.
When it closed over him he snapped on the
dashlight, glued his eyes to the instrument panel,
and held the ship in its wild plunge.
Down, down he went--a silver bird cutting
through a dark thunderhead. The altimeter needle
slid around the graduated dial peg by peg, until at
last it was close to the five-thousand foot mark.
The air in the sealed cockpit fogged up a bit,
and he was forced to keep his oxygen tube
clamped over his nose and mouth.
And then at four thousand, when he was
about ready to level off and climb back out of the
purple sea that swirled about him, the gas
changed to dull gray, and then to faint yellow as
he reared down into clean air.
Checking his dive, he swung southwest,
rubbed a rag on the fogged-up cowl glass, and
stared through it at a panorama of war that made
him suck in his breath in sharp gasps.
The ground in every direction was fairly
crawling with troops, tanks motor artillery and
heavy siege guns. Bomb-proof pillboxes dotted
the ground, and behind them was a crisscross
maze of cement and steel--girder reinforcement
trenches, with their heavily armored dugouts
evenly spaced at intervals of fifty feet.
Behind them thousands of tanks were lined
up, their knife-like snouts pointing toward the
United States defenses.
At a dozen military rail terminals, long
streamlined trains were landing hordes of black,
steel-helmeted troops.
And supporting it all were great batteries of
naval gums, their muzzles elevated for high
trajectory bombardment.
In truth, it was like a world of war all its own,
completely hidden beneath the great curtain of
purple gas.
One look and Dusty knew beyond all
possible doubt that the greatest offensive of all
time was about to be launched against Z-10 area.
Yet even with all this great array of weapons, the
Blacks would never be able to crush the American
defenses. Not in a hundred million years. The
Yanks in Z-10 were too well prepared. They would
be able to hole up and repel any kind of an attack.
"You're crazy, you damned fools!" he
muttered as he went sweeping over the countless
upturned faces below. "We'll beat hell out of you
any day in the week. We'll--"
He heard nothing, and saw nothing, yet that
certain thing in every human that science calls a
sixth sense, suddenly flashed him an inner
warning. He knew, even as he choked off his
words and turned in the seat, that he was no
longer alone in the air.
And he wasn't.
Racing down out of the drifting canopy of
purple gas were a dozen sleek Dart monoplanes
of the Black Air Force.
In line formation they came, the two end
planes swinging out for a broad-side, cross-fire
attack. An instant later Dusty saw the middle ship
wobble its wings, and a harsh voice rasped in his
earphones.
"Sorry, that I was delayed, Captain Ayres.
However, the pleasure is all mine, now!"
The last word was punctuated by a savage
burst of jetting flame that leaped out from the
pointed snout of the plane. But it was a perfectly
good waste of ammunition, for Dusty had instantly
recognized the voice of his hated enemy, the
Black Hawk, and had flung the Silver Flash up
and over in a screaming half roll.
The Hawk's burst of fire was the signal for
the others, and like so many flame-spitting
demons from Mars, they came roaring in on three
sides.
The Silver Flash seemed to almost flinch
visibly as the shower of singing steel slashed and
tore at its armor plating from prop boss to tail
wheel.
Eyes agate, Dusty hurled his plane about in
devil-may-care abandonment, and held both
trigger trips jammed all the way forward.
There was no time to pick out any one Black
plane and charge it. There were too many against
him. It was simply a case of making himself as
difficult a target as possible, and hope that his
twin streams of smoking steel would find their end
in something flashing across his sights.
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
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11
A moment later something did flash across
his sights; became a ball of flame and went
swirling earthward. He got only a quick glimpse of
it, but it fired him with savage joy. First blood for
him, anyway!
"Come on!" he roared. "I've got plenty more
like it!"
A harsh chuckle in the earphones brought
realization that his wave length was open.
"And a double dose for you, Yellow Hawk!"
he thundered. "Wouldn't try it alone, would you?"
"Unless you care to surrender, captain,"
rasped the earphones, "I am afraid I shall never
be able to explain my tardiness."
And at that moment, a burst of steel
smacked through the forward edge of the glass
cowl and buried itself in the radio panel.
Dusty's earphones snapped sharply, then
went dead. Blind rage gripped him.
He spun around on wing-tip and tore at the
nearest Black like a berserk tiger at bay. Whoever
the pilot was, he probably never saw Dusty
coming. One second the Black ship was curving
away, and the next it was plunging straight
downward, minus one wing.
But the satisfaction his second victory
brought Dusty was short lived. At the beginning of
the fight there had been one loophole of escape
for him in case he was hemmed in too close. He
could always lose himself in the gas curtain and
beat a strategic retreat.
But the gaping hole in the forward part of the
glass cowl mocked that idea now. Once he
entered the gas curtain, the deadly stuff would
pour in through that jagged hole and put him out
like a light.
His only hope was to fly north to the end of
its downward curving crest, and then either skirt
the eastern edge or else stake his life on the
possibility of the Silver Flash being able to climb
over it.
But as he feinted a charge at a zooming
Black plane and then cut to the side and around
toward the north, his heart sank.
The Blacks must have seen the damage that
one of their number had inflicted and calculated
the results. For, in half circle formation, they
charged in, guns blazing and throwing a wall of
whining steel across the northern exit of the area.
The Silver Flash trembled and shivered
under the savage hail. It bucked and sawed, and
acted as though it were really something alive and
conscious of the death ring closing in on it.
A dozen times it went swirling over in a crazy
mad spin toward the ground. And a dozen times
its cursing master jerked it out and sent it plunging
to the north again.
One after another the Blacks smashed in to
block the way, and one after another they went
skidding out and away from the relentless fire that
poured like two continuous streams from Dusty's
guns.
How many Blacks he got he did not know.
There was no time to watch any balls of fire go
hurtling downward. All sense of time became lost
to him.
Suddenly, when it seemed that the Silver
Flash could hold together no longer, an over-
eager Black gave him his one great opportunity.
Mad for the kill, the Black came screaming down
from the right. Below it was another Black
swinging up for a prop-to-prop charge.
Out of the corner of his eye Dusty saw them,
and realization and action became one. With
every ounce of his strength he slammed the stick
over against the cockpit side. And at the same
instant he booted the rudder.
Around he spun, a blur of silver light, then up
toward the diving Black. His guns yammered
madly and sprayed the diving plane from wing to
wing.
Even a blood-maddened Black was not fool
enough to hold his position in such a hail of steel.
The diving pilot instantly steepened his plunge in
a furious effort to slide down under.
And that was a fatal move.
Too late, the Black saw his comrade roaring
up. He lurched to the side, but the combined
speed of both ships was too great. Their wings
locked, a great sheet of flame leaped high up into
the canopy of purple gas, and a thunderous roar
shook the heavens.
Dusty didn't see them fall. He only saw the
hole their finish left in the attacking ring. Like a
shot he went through it.
The remaining Blacks tore after him, guns
spitting. But Dusty gave the Silver Flash its head.
And the plane, like a race horse answering the
jockey's whip, leaped forward and out from under
the billowing canopy of gas.
"Did it, old girl!" he shouted as he pulled the
nose up in a thundering climb toward the east.
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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12
But though he had clear air ahead of him,
death still rode his wings. Like pack wolves the
Blacks came racing after him. And as he tore for
the northeastern end of the gas curtain, he
suddenly saw a whole squadron of Black attack
ships zoom up out of the murky purple.
"Oh yeah!" he laughed harshly. "Still want my
hide, eh? Well, just try to stop me!"
Hauling back on the stick, he sent the Silver
Flash clawing heavenward. With his free hand he
adjusted the oxygen tube to his lips, and turned
the valve knob. Now, let them come. Any ship that
could out climb the Silver Flash could have a free
shot.
But as he muttered the challenge to himself,
he suddenly stiffened in the seat. With feverish
fingers he turned the valve knob wide open. Then
he saw it--saw the jagged bullet hole in the
oxygen tank. The burst that had shattered his
glass cowl and smashed his radio panel, had also
knocked the oxygen tank haywire.
Free fist clenching helplessly, he swept the
surrounding skies through narrowed lids. The
sight made little fingers of ice clutch at his heart.
Above him was clear air--and suffocation
without his oxygen tank. To the front, to the left,
and behind was half the Black air force. As though
by magic the heavens had suddenly become
black with enemy wings.
And to his right was the great towering
curtain of deadly gas.
A choice to be made, with death waiting no
matter what the choice might be!
In the few moments left before the Blacks
would be upon him again, he battled furiously to
make up his mind. Either course he might take
was a thousand to one chance for success.
To charge the Blacks that blocked his path to
the northeast was but asking for a chest full of
singing steel. It was the same thing to his left and
behind.
With a grim smile he realized that the Blacks
were out to get him. He had penetrated their gas
screen, and learned of their offensive
preparations. And now, his escape would knock
all their efforts into a cocked hat. As a result a
general alarm had been sounded along the entire
enemy front--get the silver plane! Get it at all
costs!
Letting go of the stick for a second, he bent
forward, ripped off his tunic and, bundling it into a
wad, jammed it into the jagged hole in the glass
cowl.
Then skidding the Silver Flash clear of a
close burst from one of the Black planes, he
heeled sharply over on wing and roared straight
into the gas curtain, free hand clamped over his
nose and mouth, and breath locked in his lungs!
CHAPTER FOUR
WANTED FOR MURDER
AN OCEAN OF PURPLE SWIRLED ABOUT
him. Through smarting, slitted eyes he saw it tug
and whip at the tunic in the hole.
His face suddenly began to burn, as though
he'd plunged it into a seething flame. The joints of
his arms and legs went stiff, and the roar of a
thousand mighty engines smashed against his
eardrums. His lungs ached, and the blood
pounded against his temples. But he dared not
suck in one tiny drop of air.
The prop wash had jerked free the tunic and
with an inward groan he saw it go swirling off into
purple space.
Like water gushing through a dam leak, the
deadly purple gas poured in through the hole and
engulfed him. The skin of his hands and face
became raw with pain, and it was impossible to
keep his eyes open any longer. Spears of purple
flame pierced the eyeballs, and seemed to literally
set his brain afire.
Instinctive self-preservation and nothing else
forced him to keep one hand clamped over his
mouth and nose, and the air in his lungs securely
locked. His only comfort was realization that the
gas was not of the skin and flesh eroding type. Its
first contact with him had proved that.
Each passing second seemed to be the last.
He had to breathe--he must gulp in just one small
lungful. His chest was ready to explode, and the
surging blood in his veins ready to burst through
their tissue walls. Yet the fighter in him would not
let go.The hand clamped over his nose and mouth
seemed almost to melt into it and become a solid
part.
Steeling himself against the horrible pain, he
opened his eyes a crack and peered ahead. Five
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
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13
times he did that, and saw only a whirling purple
vortex in front of him.
And then, when the compressed air in his
lungs was forcing itself up his throat, he opened
his eyes for the sixth and last time. Through a red
blur he saw the dim outlines of trees and hills and
valleys below. The ocean of purple was behind
him.
Still keeping his hand clamped to his mouth,
he let go the stick and raised the hand up to the
cowl-sealing lugs, released them and slammed
the cowl wide open. Glorious cool air rushed in at
him.
The burning sensation fled and new life
surged through his body. Choking, sobbing, and
gasping, he gushed out the dead air in his lungs
and gulped in blessed coolness. The reaction
made his head swim, and a giddy feeling to take
charge of his entire body. But he simply relaxed
and pumped air into his aching lungs.
Eventually the dizziness passed away, his
eyes stopped smarting altogether, and blurred
objects came into clear focus. It was then he
located his position. He was less than two
thousand feet above the pill-box outpost defenses
of the U.S. lines. Ahead and several miles to his
left was the headquarters of the Z-10 area
commander.
Almost unable to realize his good fortune, he
turned in the seat and glanced back at the gas
curtain. As he did, he saw a flight of Black planes
come charging out of it.
"Yup, it's me!" he roared into the propwash
rushing past him. "Still on deck, and still going to
town!"
Swinging around toward the area H.Q., he
stuck the nose down and fed the twenty-eight
hundred horses cowled in the nose all the hop
they could take.
For a distance of perhaps ten miles the
Blacks followed him, and then suddenly they cut
sharply away and lost themselves to the west.
Dusty curved around, slammed a parting, defiant
burst after them, and then throttled and went
sliding down toward the area H.Q.
As he landed a hundred yards from the main
office, a dozen soldiers ran out and grabbed his
wings. One of them, a noncom, saluted him as he
legged out stiffly.
"Captain Ayres?" he asked in what seemed
to Dusty to be an astonished voice.
"Yes," he nodded.
The noncom swallowed, and fingered his rifle
nervously.
"You--you will come with me at once,
please, sir," he stammered.
Dusty shot him a sharp look, and glanced at
the others. They were watching him as though he
were some kind of a freak from another world that
had suddenly popped out of the clouds.
"What's the matter with you chaps?" he
snapped. "Haven't you ever seen an airplane?"
"Oh, yes, sure, sir!" gulped the noncom.
"But, well, we didn't figure on seeing you land
here, captain."
Then, as though he had spoken too much,
the soldier stiffened and pointed to the main office
shack.
"My orders are to take you to General
Billings, the area commander, sir. Please come
with me."
"That's what I landed for," he grunted. "Let's
go. No, wait a minute." He turned to the rest
grouped about his plane.
"Get mechanics from the nearest repair
depot," he ordered. "I want the radio, the glass
cowl and the oxygen tank fixed up as soon as
possible."
They blinked at him, then looked at the
noncom. Dusty whirled on him, eyes hard.
"Well!" he barked, "what are these men, a lot
of dummies? Don't they know an order when they
hear one?"
"Our orders were to bring you in, sir,"
stammered the noncom. "I guess you'll have to
speak to General Billings about fixing up your
plane, sir."
Dusty hesitated, then nodded.
"Come on, then!" he rapped at the noncom.
"Take me to the general."
With a look of puzzled surprise still on his
face, the noncom kept step with him, ushered him
up to the shack door and rapped on it. When a
gruff summons to enter came from the inside, he
saluted smartly and opened the door.
Dusty went in, clicked his heels, and glared
at the big, be-medaled man seated behind the
desk.
"You want Captain Ayres, sir?" he snapped.
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
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The general, who was bending over some
papers, jerked his head up, started to speak, then
let his jaw drop.
"You--Captain Ayres?" he gasped
incredulously. "Well, by God, I must say I admire
your nerve."
"Nerve had nothing to do with it, sir," Dusty
cracked right back at him. "You asked me to do a
job for you, and I did it. The Blacks are--"
"Do a job for me?" the commanding officer
thundered. "What in hell are you talking about?"
"Talking about?" he echoed slowly. "You
remember our radio conversation a couple of
hours ago, don't you? You said this place was
covered with gas, and that I mustn't land. And
later you asked me to reconnoiter back of the gas
curtain, well I did, and I want to report that--"
"Wait a minute!"
The general got up from the desk and walked
around and over to Dusty.
"Let me have your gun, captain," he said,
holding his hand out.
The pilot hesitated, then drew his gun and
handed it to the senior officer, butt first. The
general took it, half turned to lay it on the desk top
then faced Dusty again.
"And now, Captain," he grunted, "just what is
this cock-and-bull story you're trying to tell me?"
Dusty gaped at him in angry astonishment.
"You're the Z-10 area commander, aren't
you?" he blurted out.
The other nodded his head patiently.
"I am, Captain," he said softly. "As a matter
of fact, I have been for the last three weeks."
"Well," frowned Dusty, "two hours ago you
asked me to reconnoiter the area back of the
Blacks' gas curtain. You said that you believed
preparations for an attack were being made."
"Rubbish!" the other cut him off sharply. "The
Blacks aren't fools enough to attack at this point.
And I certainly didn't ask you any such thing.
Frankly, Captain, I just don't understand your
landing at my headquarters. Did you think that we
hadn't found out yet?"
Dusty's head swam. He stared hard at the
senior officer, struggling for words. They finally
came out like a torrent of falling water.
"What in the hell are you talking about?" he
demanded.
General Billings didn't answer directly.
Instead, he turned and picked up Dusty's gun.
Slipping the cartridge magazine out, he examined
it closely, slid the loading chamber back and
examined that, too. Then he put the muzzle to his
nose and sniffed.
"Hum-m!" he mused, arching his eyebrows.
"That's rather strange. You certainly didn't use
this gun. You have another, Captain?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Dusty grated, "but I still don't
know what this is all about. What's my gun got to
do with it?"
The general's eyes narrowed, and the
muscles about his jaw hardened.
"You have heard of Major Walker, Captain?"
he rapped harshly.
Dusty nodded.
"Yes, sir," he said. "I guess he's reported our
little meeting. Well, I'm sorry, but considering the
circumstances I could not afford to waste any
more time convincing him. I told him to contact
Washington G.H.Q., but he seemed to believe
that I was personally responsible for the death of
his cousin, and held a gun on me.
"I didn't feel that it was necessary for me to
make detailed explanations to him. I wanted to get
a good look at Z-10 area, and then contact your
H.Q. I had reason to believe that an attack was to
be made here. That much I did tell him. But--well,
I hit him. I admit it, sir."
The general's eyes narrowed even more.
"Hit him, eh?" he grunted. "And then shot
him?"
Dusty's jaw dropped
"And then what?" he repeated slowly.
"I said, shot him!" thundered the general. "A
patrol found Major Walker shot through the chest.
"He lived long enough to say that a pilot who
claimed he was Captain Ayres hit him when he
tried to take him to H.Q. for identification, and
then shot him. Captain Ayres, Major Walker is
dead, and you--on his word--stand accused of
murdering him!"
The general paused a moment, and a faint
trace of marked disappointment came into his
eyes.
"Knowing your records," he went on, "I had
hoped that it was someone masquerading as you.
A Black agent. A G.H.Q. order for your arrest has
been issued. And so, it is my unhappy duty to--"
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"Wait!" Dusty shouted. "Do you think if I had
killed him I'd be fool enough to land here? I've just
damned near lost my neck doing a job for you. Go
out and look at my ship. It's all shot to hell. Except
for a carload of luck I'd be dead an hour ago."
Some of the hardness went out of the
general's eyes.
"You do not need to say anything until your
trial, Captain," he said. "But I'd certainly like to
hear your side of the story. There was a dead
man found with Major Walker. He had been
thoroughly searched. For one thing, his right shoe
had been taken off, and ripped down the center.
Did you do that?"
Dusty hesitated, eyed the general for a
moment, then nodded.
"Yes, sir. And here's the whole story as far
as I know it."
The pilot recounted his experiences from the
time of receiving the Black Hawk's challenge right
up to the present moment.
"And that, sir," he finished, "is God's truth! It
was my intention to turn over that bead and torn
paper, you have there, to Washington Intelligence
just as soon as I'd reconnoitered the gas curtain
area. But circumstances have forced me to tell
you everything I know."
A heavy silence settled over the room as
Dusty stopped. Brows furrowed in puzzled
thought, General Billings bent over the green
bead and queer diagram Dusty had placed on the
desk.
For several moments neither of them spoke.
Then the senior officer shot out his right hand and
jabbed one of a row of bell buttons that lined the
right side of his desk.
A moment later an orderly corporal entered
and saluted.
"You rang, sir?"
"Yes, Corporal," nodded the general without
looking up. "Ask the radio signal sergeant to
report to me at once with today's log."
The orderly saluted and retreated outside. As
the door closed, General Billings raised his eyes
to Dusty's face.
"A damned queer mess, Captain," he said. "I
don't understand it at all. What the devil this bead
and crazy diagram can mean, is beyond me. But I
want to first check on your conversation with our
station. I know nothing of it. And I'll be damned if
the signal sergeant issued any such request on
his own initiative. We'll see what he has to say,
and then contact Washington for further orders."
Dusty nodded absently, and stared hard at
the opposite wall. A tiny, elusive thought was
spinning around in the back of his brain.
Suddenly, he stiffened.
"By God, I wonder!" he breathed fiercely.
General Billings shot him a quizzical glance.
"You wonder what?" he questioned.
Dusty shrugged.
"Don't know just how to put it in words, sir,"
he got out slowly. "But that bead and the paper--
they're dynamite. The man who had them first,
this Charles Strickland, died before he could
explain. Later, Major Walker died. In the
meantime--"
He suddenly stopped.
"By God, I think I've got it!" he continued a
few seconds later. "I'll bet I didn't talk with this
station at all. I'll bet the Blacks cut in on my wave
length, blanketed out my signals to you, and lured
me over to their side of the lines for a killing. They
did every damned thing possible to prevent my
returning. Because I'd seen their preparations for
an attack? Hell, no. Because they were afraid that
Strickland had told me something.
"Yes, sir, that bead and that paper mean
something damned big, or else I'm crazy. They've
killed, or tried to kill, everyone who has been near
it. Maybe I may annoy the Blacks every now and
then, but they've never sent a couple of hundred
ships after me yet! And the Hawk failed to meet
me as arranged. Sure, Strickland was a Yank
agent. He got hold of something important and
tried to get through to the American side."
In silence General Billings drummed his
fingers on the desk.
"There are still a few holes to be filled in," he
murmured. "According to you, Major Walker
claimed that Strickland was refused enlistment,
and didn't know how to fly. Incidentally, your
telling me that is a point in your favor. I mean, the
very fact that you told something that could be
used against you at the trial."
"Good God, do you still think--?"
"It's not for me to make a final decision,
Captain," the other cut him off. "That's up to a
military court. My orders are simply to place you
under arrest, if I find you. At your trial you can--"
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"Trial, hell!" Dusty exploded. "That may not
be for weeks. And in the meantime, there's plenty
for me to do."
"Do what, Captain?"
The pilot leaned over the desk, his eyes were
agate and the hands gripping the edge were white
at the knuckles.
"Find out the answer to that bead and
paper!" he got out through tight lips. "I know
where the answer is, and I'm the one who can get
it!"
The general arched his eyebrows.
"Really!" he murmured patiently. "And just
where is the answer, Captain?"
"The Black Hawk has the answer. And I'll
hammer it out of him with my two hands, if it's the
last thing I do!"
The general seemed unimpressed by the
savage outburst.
"Perhaps, captain," he smiled. "From all I've
heard of you I'm sure you'll tackle any kind of a
task. But it so happens that the matter is not
entirely in your hands. For the moment, the
murder of a distinguished artillery officer is the
paramount item."
"But the Black Hawk!" cut in Dusty excitedly.
"He--!"
"Has only to do with your deductions,
Captain!" General Billings snapped. "Just whether
this bead and paper mean anything, remains to
be seen. If Strickland said that an attack was
planned in this area, he was certainly mistaken.
The Blacks know of our defenses, and realize that
any attempt could not possibly move with
success. So we need not worry about that."
Dusty gritted his teeth and groaned.
"Then I'm non compos mentis until a military
court gets around to deciding one way or the
other, is that it?"
The senior officer hunched his shoulders,
and nodded.
"That's about it. I'm sorry, Captain. Section
fourteen, paragraph twelve of the revised Army
Rules and Regulations will tell you that a soldier
or officer charged with a major offense cannot be
reinstated to active duty until the charges against
him are dismissed by a governing military court."
"But I tell you--"
Dusty bit off the rest as the general raised a
silencing hand. Burning with rage, he walked over
and glared blindly out the window. Silence, heavy
and tense, again settled over the room.
And then the door burst open and the orderly
corporal came panting inside. His eyes were wide,
and he fought for breath a few seconds before he
was able to get the words out.
"Sir!" he choked. "Sergeant Crabtree--the
radio sergeant! He's been murdered, shot through
the heart. In the radio shack!"
General Billings knocked over the chair as he
leaped to his feet.
"What?" he thundered.
The orderly bobbed his head up and down.
"Y-Yes, sir!" he gulped out. "Sergeant
Crabtree's been shot through the heart. And all
the radio equipment has been smashed to hell--
to pieces, sir!"
CHAPTER FIVE
DEATH DROME
IT SEEMED TO TAKE GENERAL BILLINGS
several seconds to grasp the full meaning of the
orderly's words. Dusty, who had spun around
from the window at the sudden entrance, stood
poised on the balls of his feet, eyes glued to the
general's face.
Suddenly the senior officer started toward
the door.
"Come along, Corporal," he snapped. "Show
me!"
Why he did it Dusty couldn't explain to
himself at the moment, but, as the general started
through the door, he shot out a hand, scooped up
his automatic, the green bead and the torn
diagram, and jammed them all in his breeches
pocket. Then spinning around, he raced out of the
office and after the others.
The radio shack was a good two hundred
yards from the main area office, and all three men
were panting hard when they reached the door.
General Billings entered first, with Dusty and the
orderly corporal at his heels.
The interior of the place looked as though an
H.E. battery had scored a direct salvo hit. Every
piece of equipment from the delicate transmitting
and receiving tubes to the heavy rubber batteries
had been smashed beyond all hope of repair. So
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much so, in fact, Dusty realized instantly that an
entirely new station would have to be installed.
But the thing that caught and held the eyes
of all three was the limp figure sprawled face up
on the steel and copper floor just under the
speaker units.
He wore the uniform of a radio signal
sergeant, and was probably no more than twenty,
if that. The eyes were open and in their death-
glazed depths there was a glint of horrified
surprise. The out-flung hands were doubled into
hard fists, and one leg was twisted under him.
The part of the man's fatigue tunic that covered
the heart region was stained a dull, glistening red.
"Good God!" gulped General Billings, as he
stood staring down at the still figure. "It's--it's
impossible!"
Brushing past him, Dusty knelt down and
opened the man's tunic front and shirt. Just a
shade to the left of the breast bone was an ugly
quarter-inch hole that was oozing sluggish blood.
Controlling the shudder the sight sent
through him, he pulled the man's tunic together
and stood up.
"I'm afraid that you'll have to believe it, sir,"
he said quietly, facing the general. "He got it right
through the heart. I'd say a regulation Army .45
was used. Not so long ago, either!"
The pilot's words seemed to rouse the
general from his stupor. He let his eyes rove
about the room.
"Every blasted thing's smashed!" he grunted
angrily. "Have to replace it all. But why?"
"I think that someone wanted to make sure
you couldn't contact any other units," replied
Dusty. And then as an after-thought, "Particularly
Washington H.Q."
The general stared at him.
"You mean, because of that crazy theory of
yours?" he demanded.
Dusty silenced him with a warning glance.
"Yes, sir," he said simply. "Because of my
theory. I connect up the three deaths with it. This
last, just as a precautionary measure. A Black
agent right here at your H.Q. did this job, and then
contacted one of his own stations!"
The senior officer snorted.
"How the devil do you figure out that,
Captain?"
Dusty stepped over the dead man and
pointed at the in-coming and out-going message
recorder. It was shaped something like a stock
ticker tape machine, only now the glass dome
was broken and the delicate gears and cog-
checks mashed hopelessly out of line.
"See this, sir?" he said, taping a strip of the
tap. "Voice transmission hasn't been recorded for
the last four hours. That means that my call
signals were not picked up. The Blacks blanketed
them out. But see here--this torn piece? It
recorded dot-dash signals sent out less than an
hour ago."
General Billings came over and peered hard
at the dangling ribbon of tape covered with dot
and dash marks.
"Well, what about it?" he got out gruffly. "We
use wireless as well as radio. I often send out
orders in coded Morse."
"Quite right, sir," nodded Dusty patiently.
"But this is not International Morse! Take this one
symbol here --two dots, two dashes and three
dots. There isn't a signal letter or figure like that in
International Morse. Now I can't say for sure, but I
think this is part of a message sent out in the
secret speed code that the Blacks developed in
Europe."
The pilot suddenly stopped talking, went
quickly across the debris-littered room and picked
up a massive radio log lying on top of a table.
Spinning the pages to the last entry, he studied it
a long second, and nodded his head.
"Looks like I'm right," he said holding up the
log. "The last entry was made at ten fifty-six--a
request for miscellaneous stores for the 20th
infantry, this area. But there's no entry for those
code signals on the tape."
As though reluctant to believe him, General
Billings went over to Dusty, practically snatched
the radio log from his hands and glared at it,
brows furrowed. Presently he slapped the log shut
and tossed it on the desk.
"By God, I still can't believe it!" he growled
with a stubborn movement of his lower lip. "A
Black agent in my headquarters? Bah! It's
probably someone who had a grudge against
Sergeant Crabtree."
"And a grudge against all this expensive
equipment too, sir?" murmured Dusty.
The other whirled on him angrily.
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"See here, Ayres!" he barked, "you're
forgetting that you're--"
"No, I'm not!" Dusty cracked down on him.
"I'm only asking you to believe that I did see the
signs of a big Black offensive against this area!
What happens to me, is out of it. I'm only asking
you to let me carry on with the job of trying to
unravel this mess. It's big, General--something
damned big. The very fact that the Blacks are
preparing for a mighty blow at this sector proves
that there's something else behind it. As you say
they're no fools. They're not going to bang their
heads against a steel wall, and just pray. That
dia--"
Dusty cut himself off as out the corner of his
eye he saw the orderly sliding toward the door. He
swung around in a flash and took a step forward.
"You! Where are you going?"
As he spoke, his foot caught on the table leg
and he stumbled to his knees. Instantly something
glittered in the orderly's hand. A white-hot bullet
slid across Dusty's left shoulder. Behind him a
sharp cry rang out.
One hand and knee still on the floor, he
jerked his automatic free, swung it up and fired at
a blur in the doorway. The blur disappeared and
he saw the gouge mark his bullet made in the
metal jamb.
Hurtling to his feet he leaped forward, flung
himself through and down onto the ground. There
was a sharp crack and dirt flew up into his eyes.
As he rolled furiously to the left he saw the
orderly, crouched behind a field phone pole,
steady himself and take careful aim. Still in
motion, Dusty threw out his gun hand and pulled
the trigger.
The two shots were so close together that
they seemed like one. Something stung Dusty's
hand and sent his gun flying. As he cursed and
grabbed for it, he saw the orderly collapse on his
back. A wild scream beat against the air.
Scooping up his gun with numbed fingers, he
raced over to him and bent down. A second shot
was not necessary. There was a small blue hole
square between the man's close set eyes.
Looking down at the face, Dusty noticed, with
a glow of satisfaction, something that he had not
seen before. The features, save for the lightness
of the skin --possible to obtain with certain
chemicals--were distinctly cruel-looking and
hawkish in appearance.
"You tried to work too fast!" he grated softly.
"A nice bit of acting, all the excited stuff--but
when you heard me guessing things that clicked,
you got just a bit nervous.
By now the whole H.Q. was in an uproar.
Soldiers and officers of all ranks came pouring out
of the buildings. In a matter of seconds there was
a mob gathered about Dusty. As he started to
shoulder his way through, a staff Major grabbed
him.
Dusty shook himself free.
"Get a medico!" he snapped. "That spy just
missed me and got General Billings. I think the
general is hurt."
Without waiting for any more questions, he
put his head down, plowed through the ring of
officers and soldiers and ran back to the radio
building. The others followed.
Slumped down on the floor, legs crossed
under him, General Billings was clutching blood-
smeared fingers to his stomach, and bracing
himself against the desk with his other hand.
"A medico's coming, sir," said Dusty gently
as he crouched down beside the moaning man.
"Better lay down, sir."
"Damned--if you--weren't right, Captain. It's
four--killings now. Meant for you--but you--
tripped. Lucky, lad. Did--did you--?"
"Don't try to talk," cautioned Dusty. "Yes, I
got him. He's dead. He meant to get us both, I
think. Probably heard us talking in your office.
Now take it easy, sir."
The general glared, and coughed blood.
"Hell, know when I'm done! Major Shelton,
Shelton --damn, do you hear me?"
The staff major who had grabbed Dusty
stepped quickly forward and kneeled down.
"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, General?"
The wounded man let go of the desk long
enough to point a finger at Dusty.
"This officer is--Captain Ayres," he choked
out. "My orders--give him all--the cooperation--
he wants. Understand?"
The major shot Dusty a piercing look.
"Yes, sir," he said to General Billings.
"Certainly!"
The fast-graying lips of the senior officer
twitched back in a faint smile as he turned his
head to Dusty.
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"Believe you, now--Captain," he gurgled.
"You must be right. I'm--giving you your freedom
on--your word! Find out--your way. And give
them--hell--for me! Will you, Ca--cap--?"
The last was too much for the man. His eyes
went wide, and blood sprayed from his lips. Then
he seemed to catch his breath in a wheezing gasp
and slumped forward.
"One side, gentlemen! One side please!"
A short mustached medico came shouldering
through the mob that had crowded into the radio
shack. But he stopped short as he saw the look
on Dusty's face.
"I think so," said Dusty, shaking his head.
"Better make sure, though."
It took the medico about twenty seconds to
do that.
"He's gone," he said quietly. "Internal
hemorrhage, and a rib deflected the bullet to the
spine. How'd it happen? I saw a dead orderly lying
near the pole outside."
In as few words as possible Dusty told of the
double killing, but did not mention any of the
events that had passed before.
When he finished they all stood looking at
him with speculative eyes. It was the staff major
who finally put the question uppermost in every
mind.
"Just a minute, Captain Ayres," he began
hesitantly. "If you don't mind we'd like to hear
more of the facts. Of course we know of your little
er--affair. And although General Billings ordered
me to--"
He stopped short as Dusty shook his head.
"You mean you won't tell us, Captain?" he
got out harshly.
"I'm afraid I do, sir," said Dusty slowly. "But I
will say this much. The enemy is planning an
attack against this area, although I have reason to
believe that it will not be launched as long as I'm
alive. So far, four Americans and one Black agent
have died because of a certain scrap of paper.
Knowledge of the contents of that paper means
death. No, I'm not trying to be dramatic--"
Dusty hesitated, and gave Major Shelton an
appraising glance.
"May I speak with you alone, outside?" he
asked suddenly.
The other nodded, turned on his heel, and
shouldered his way through the crowd. Once he
was out of earshot of the group in the radio
building, he turned and fixed Dusty with steady
eyes.
"Well, what's it all about?" he snapped.
The pilot gave him look for look.
"I want you to carry out General Billing's last
order, Major," he said. "How far is the nearest
radio station from here?"
"Second infantry, twenty miles east of here.
Why?"
Dusty spoke slowly, carefully choosing his
words.
"I want you to call the Second Infantry," he
said. "Explain to them that your station was
wrecked, and tell them to notify Washington H.Q.
that your radio operator, a Black agent, General
Billings and myself have been killed. Say that the
reason for the deaths is not known, and that you
are awaiting further orders."
The staff major stared at him as though he
had suddenly gone crazy.
"That you were killed?" he echoed. "What the
devils the idea?"
Dusty grinned.
"Just part of a little plan," he said. "I'm sorry,
but I'd rather keep it to myself. If I flop, there'll be
no come-back on you, I assure you."
Major Shelton scowled at the ground, and
marked a crazy pattern in the dirt with the toe of
one shoe. Presently he muttered a curse of
annoyance under his breath, and jerked his head
up.
"I know of your special appointment,
Captain," he said evenly. "And of the G.H.Q.
request that assistance be given you when
demanded. But I consider that the general order
for your arrest has changed that somewhat.
Incidentally, this does not happen to be a one-
man war. I think, instead that I'll notify
Washington H.Q. of what has happened and ask
for orders from them direct."
"If you do, Major," Dusty grated at him, "you
may be signing your own death warrant."
The other arched, gave Dusty a
contemptuous look.
"I guess I can chance that," he said lightly.
For a minute or so they both stood there,
eyes locked and bodies tensed. It was Dusty who
eventually broke the spell.
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"Believe me, Major," he said earnestly, "I
know what I'm talking about. The broadcast of my
death will sure to be picked up by the Blacks. It
will give me the chance to carry out the rest of my
plan. I ask you as one American soldier to
another, please carry out my request. It--hell, it
may mean everything!"
Perhaps it was the sincerity in Dusty's tone,
or the grim anxiety on his face. But, at any rate,
after a moment's pause, Major Shelton smiled
slowly and nodded his head.
"All right," he said quietly. "This is the first
time in sixteen years of army life that a junior
officer has talked me into going against my better
judgment. I'll do as you ask."
In spite of himself, Dusty heaved a great sigh
of relief.
"Thanks, sir! Now, one more favor. About my
ship --it needs repairs, and--"
"I know," the other cut in. "One of the men
said you ordered repairs. We have the necessary
parts here. We carry the stuff for staff ships."
Dusty beamed.
"Swell," he exclaimed. "That's what I call
luck. Get the men at it right away, will you, sir?
Won't take them more than an hour. And I'll be
ready then."
"All right," shrugged Major Shelton. "But I
certainly wish that you'd tell--oh, let it go. Guess I
always did have a soft spot for crazy Indians."
The staff officer turned on his heel and
walked away. Dusty smiled at his back a moment,
and then looked toward the gas curtain still
hanging in the northern heavens. The smile faded
from his lips; jaw muscles tightened, and his
hands slowly doubled into steel knotted fists.
"Now, you dirty skunks!" he gritted out
between clenched teeth, "it's my turn to deal a
hand!"
He walked quickly over to the area H.Q.
shack and shouldered inside.
CHAPTER SIX
THE HANGING DOOM
CHIN PROPPED IN HIS HANDS, ELBOWS
propped on the edge of the desk, Dusty stared
silently down at the torn diagram. For over half an
hour he had not taken his eyes off the paper. Its
meaning, if any, still eluded him. But that was not
the purpose uppermost in his mind. He had been
slowly and methodically memorizing the strange
diagram until at last every crease, every line, and
every figure was stamped indelibly upon his brain.
Presently he leaned back, blinked his tired
eyes, then dropped the torn sheet into an ash tray
and applied a match. A minute later it was a
crinkled, charred strip that became so much black
dust under his tamping finger.
"Just in case Lady Luck gives me the go-by,"
he grunted, and spilled the dust into the
wastepaper basket.
Picking up the green bead, he scowled
thoughtfully at it a moment then jammed it into the
seam of his right breeches pocket. Hardly had he
finished that, than a noise outside the door made
him stiffen and shoot out a hand for his automatic
close by on the desk. Its muzzle was trained dead
on the door as it opened.
At the sight of Major Shelton's head he
relaxed and lowered the gun.
"Your plane's ready, Ayres," grunted the staff
officer, eyes riveted on the gun. "What's next?"
"The next is up to me, sir," he said. "But I
want to thank you for everything."
"Cut it!" snapped the other. "I'm half inclined
to change my mind. God knows I'll be in a pretty
pickle when Washington H.Q. starts checking
back on everything. Sure you want to play this
mysterious plan of yours alone?"
The pilot nodded his head firmly.
"Dead sure," he said shortly. "You've
equipment here for smoke screening enemy air
raiders, haven't you?"
"That's right," Major Shelton clipped out.
"Good God, that, too?"
Dusty gestured.
"Naturally, sir! I can't take off in broad
daylight, and simply hope that enemy pilots on
patrol will look the other way. A smoke screen will
cover me perfectly. I can be in the cloud layer
before it fades out. And any Blacks that see the
screen will just think that this H.Q. has got the
wind-up over a possible raid.
"You think of everything, don't you?" the
other snorted. "Very well, I'll give you your smoke
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screen. But listen, young fellow. If I do get into hot
water, I'm going to raise heaven and hell to pull
you in with me. That's a warning."
"Check, sir," grinned Dusty. "And thank--"
"Shut up! and good luck on whatever the
hell's in that head of yours."
Darting through the door, the staff officer
slammed it shut. Five minutes later Dusty
followed him outside.
It was like stepping out into a swirling sand
storm, minus the sand. At first he could see
nothing. Great waves of oily gray smoke swished
and swirled about him. Buildings less than fifty
yards away looked like dull blotches in a heavy
rolling gray mist. Beyond them nothing was
visible.
Pausing a second to get his bearings, he
turned half right and plunged into the billowing
shroud.
He stopped only when he almost ran into the
Silver Flash, and a shadowy figure grabbed him.
"Right here, Ayres," sounded Major Shelton's
sharp voice in his ears. "Hope its thick enough for
you. In case you're wondering, you've got a clear
run of about a hundred yards straight in front of
you. The top of this stuff should reach fifteen
thousand. That okay?"
"Couldn't be better," Dusty called over his
shoulder, as he legged into the pit. "Give me two
minutes, and then you can shut the stuff off."
As an after-thought, just before he slid the
cowling closed, he called back.
"And send the laundry bill to me, Major!"
"Don't worry, I will!" echoed back to him.
"The damned stuff, it--"
The rest was lost to Dusty as he heeled open
the throttle and released the wheel brakes.
As though eager to get into the air again, the
Silver Flash leaped forward, clung to the ground
for a bare twenty yards, and then went zooming
up blindly into the smoke screen.
Holding the nose up and to the south, Dusty
gave the ship all it could take, and swept the
cockpit's fittings with a practiced eye.
Everything was as it should be. New glass
replaced the shattered strip, a new radio panel
adorned the dash board, and a replacement
oxygen tank was clamped to the cockpit side. The
rest of the instruments, including the guns, had
been checked and put in perfect working order.
Dusty grinned and snapped one hand up in
congratulatory salute.
"Nice work, lads," he grunted aloud. "I'll
remember you next time something goes wrong."
The inspection over with, and everything
found to be okay, his face went grave and a look
of half anxiousness and half savage determination
came into his eyes.
Up to now a definite plan had been
crystallized in his mind. And it all revolved about
the Black Hawk. That sky vulture knew the
answers to all the questions which baffled him, he
believed beyond all possible doubt.
Next to Fire-Eyes, himself, in importance, the
Hawk undoubtedly knew every major plan of the
Black Invaders. And a major plan was slowly but
surely coming to a head--to a thundering. roaring
climax.
But the nature of that plan the Yank did not
know. He was only certain that there was some
great scheme about to be sprung by the Blacks.
Call it a hunch, or premonition, or just plain guess
work, it didn't matter which. Past events hooked
up too closely to be put down to coincidence.
"Damn it, there must be!" he argued aloud to
himself. "And that torn diagram is the key.
Strickland, Walker, the radio sergeant, and
General Billings--all killed because of it. And they
tried their damnedest to get me. God, if I could
only figure it out!"
He stopped talking long enough to smash a
clenched fist against the cockpit side.
"But you, Black Hawk!" he blazed. "You're
going to tell me about it, even if I have to break
your damned--"
As a heart chilling thought came to him, he
cut off the rest. Was the Hawk still alive? Had the
Hawk been in one of those Black ships he'd sent
hurtling downward a couple of hours ago?
The sudden thought deadened the fire of
determination that burned in his chest. He'd shot
off his face to General Billings, vowed that he'd
get the answers from the Hawk--and had pleaded
for the chance.
Well, murder had given him that chance.
Now, he was in the air to hunt down the Black
ace--but was he still alive? For a moment the
bottom seemed to drop out of everything. The
small quiet voice inside of him called him a fool
and flayed his confidence for its assumed belief
that he alone could succeed in following the tiny
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strands of the spidery web to the center, and
disrupt the whole thing.
Certainly he was a crazy fool. He should
have reported to Washington H.Q. hours ago. If
he had, these other murders probably never
would have happened.
If the bead and the torn diagram meant
anything it was up to Intelligence to figure it out,
not an over-zealous eagle like himself.
He reached out his free hand to the wave
length knob to notify Washington H.Q. that he
was coming in to report.
Then with a savage curse he jerked back.
"Like hell I will!" he roared out. "I started this,
and I'll finish it. If the Hawk's dead, I'll get the
answers some other way!"
As the last ripped off his lips, the nose of the
Silver Flash poked itself up through the top of the
smoke screen. Leveling off, Dusty hugged close
to its crest and searched the surrounding air
through narrowed lids.
Between him and the cloud layer was a
space a bit less than a thousand feet deep. Half a
minute was all he needed to bury himself in the
cloud layer. But first, before roaring up into the
thousand-foot channel of clear air, he had to
make sure that no patrolling Black planes were
about.
One sweeping look east, south and west
resulted in nothing but clear air, not even a tiny
dot in the distance. But as he looked north,
toward the gas curtain, he stiffened in his seat. A
flight of Black ships was weaving in and out of the
billowing mass.
But a few moments later, he gave a shout of
joy and jerked the nose of the Silver Flash
upward. As though tired of their fruitless patrol all
of the Black planes had suddenly plunged into the
gas curtain and become lost to view.
Eyes glued to the spot where they had
disappeared, Dusty cursed his own ship on to
greater speed. And when at last the misty
tentacles of the cloud layer gathered him into their
blind depths, his heart was looping over with
triumphant relief.
So far, so good. He had gained his first
objective. Now to fly compass in the cloud layer to
a point far behind the Black defenses.
Swinging around to the northwest, he glued
his eye to the instrument board and sent the
Silver Flash charging forward.
Little tingles of excitement and worry rippled
up and down his spine. Flying blind didn't bother
him in the least. He'd had too much experience in
that phase of the game. Besides, his instruments
never lied.
But still and all there was one danger that
might be lurking near at hand--a danger that he
might be forced to meet and overcome in the bat
of an eyelash. And that danger was the possibility
of a collision with some enemy plane drifting
about in the cloud layer.
But as he toyed with the thought, he
shrugged. It was a chance that had to be taken--
and that was all there was to it.
A few moments later, though, a black
shadow came rushing through the cloud layer
toward him. His heart stood still, and he started to
hurl the Silver Flash off to the right and up.
Almost instantly he checked the movement, and a
shaky laugh spilled off his lips. He was simply
flying through the section where the gas curtain
passed up through the cloud layer.
Instinctively he glanced up to make sure that
the cowl-sealing lugs were locked in place. They
were. He ruddered the ship back onto its original
course. Seconds ticked by and became minutes--
five of them, ten--fifteen--
Grump!
Sound, like the heavy bark of a mighty Saint
Bernard, came to him through the cowling. Off to
the left a dull ball of flame appeared in the cloud
layer, hung motionless for an instant, and then
fused out.
Hardly had it disappeared than there was
sound and flame off to the right. Groaning with
rage, he barked and deliberately flew toward it.
Seconds later he zigzagged sharply back in
the opposite direction. Behind him he heard a
third explosion.
"Dummy!" he blazed at himself as he
savagely zigzagged this way and that. "Did you
think the Blacks would leave their sound detectors
home?"
Blindly cursing his own stupidity for not
having taken the very natural existence of enemy
sound detectors and amplifiers into consideration,
he slowly eased the Silver Flash up toward the
top of the cloud layers.
About him, in the shroud mist, shells were
spewing out their balls of fused red fire,
"bracketing" his ever-changing position, and
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warning patrolling pilots of the presence of an
enemy airplane.
To go down now, was out of the question.
For the moment at least, his wild plan was
knocked into a cocked hat. His only hope lay in
climbing up to peak ceiling, cutting his engine and
gliding down to a point at least a hundred miles
north of the Black lines.
Then, at half throttle, and keeping just inside
the cloud layer, he could drift back and pick out a
spot to land in close by the Hawk's drome.
That he'd find it he had no doubt. Only the
Hawk's unit flew the speedy arrow-shaped Dart
monoplanes. And once he found their nest, there
would he find the man he sought--or would he?
He cursed the question out of his mind. Time
to worry about that later. Right now it was up to
the Silver Flash to claw air upward and claw it
fast. The Blacks knew that an enemy plane was
hidden in the cloud layer, but they didn't know the
identify of the pilot.
A minute later he roared into clear air--less
than two thousand feet above him was a whole
unit of Black attack planes. And in a split second it
took to whip the Silver Flash down into the cloud
layer again he caught a glimpse to the south of an
enemy bomber flight lumbering toward his position
in strung-out line position.
Had he more time he would have noticed
something else. As it was, with a gasping sigh of
relief, he buried himself in the cloud layer, totally
unaware of the shroud of doom that was
relentlessly closing in on him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SILVER FIRE
KEEPING THE SLIVER FLASH
THROTTLED all the way back, he held it in a
shallow glide toward the northwest. With escape
by altitude lost, he could only stake his hopes on
being able to stay in the cloud layer long enough
to get out of range of the sound detectors.
But as the seconds ticked by and the
airspeed indicator needle hovered dangerously
close to the stalling mark, his heart sank. Bitter
desperation seized him. It was either down or up
for him now. To open up would be but a waste of
time. He was still within the range of the
detectors, and already the gunners were poking
around for his new position.
"All right, miracle man!" he groaned sadly.
"This washes up your pet plan! So take a look-see
and get the hell back to your own side of the
fence."
Oblivious to the pain that shot through his
hand, he banged the throttle wide open, and stuck
the nose down.
The sudden, furious thunder of the roaring
twenty-eight hundred horses cowled into the nose
deafened him for an instant. But a few seconds
later as he shot down into clear air, he forgot all
about his vibrating eardrums.
Below him on the ground was a scene that
sent his heart pounding with excitement. The
earth seemed to be virtually covered with
countless streamlined tractor troop trains, tank
units, and armored field guns on tread-trucks.
But it was not the sight of them that startled
him, so much as it was the fact that they were all
crawling along behind the gas curtain in a
southwesterly direction. In fact they were just
inside the northern lip of the downward curving
curtain.
Without taking the trouble to glance at his
roller map for confirmation, Dusty realized
instantly that the gigantic caravan of war was at
least one hundred fifty miles behind the Black's
main defenses--and headed southwest, away
from the Z-10 area!
Yet, as he thundered through the back flap of
the curving gas curtain and into the clear again,
he saw far to the southeast the same panorama
of offensive warfare that he'd seen a few hours
before.
A mighty army, guns, tanks and everything
else, was converging on the frontier of the Z-10
area. Yet one hundred fifty miles behind it, an
even greater steel clad horde was moving slowly
southwest along the northern borders of New
Hampshire and Vermont.
Two great sledge hammers of war, one
moving southeast and the other southwest. And
shielding both movements from the American side
of the line was a towering curtain of thick, heavy
and deadly gas.
Wide-eyed, Dusty stared at the weird yet
blood chilling sight. He was certain that a great
offensive would soon be launched against the Z-
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10 area. This second view of the obvious
preparation was just so much confirmation.
But that second and even greater army
crawling southwest was like a big question mark
burning in his brain.
Could the Blacks be planning offensives at
two points? If so, what was the other point? To
the southwest lay the Great Lakes, Yanks on one
side and Blacks on the other, and miles and miles
of vigilantly patrolled waters between them.
And then, like a spear of light, a thought
flashed through Dusty's spinning brain. It jerked
him up straight in the seat.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "Is that it?"
Trembling with excitement, he ignored the
shells that started barking in his wake, snapped
out his hand and spun the wave length dial.
"Emergency, Washington H.Q.!" he bellowed
into the transmitter, turning up full volume.
"Emergency . . . stand by!"
Breathlessly he glued his eyes to the red
signal light on the panel and strained his ears for
the familiar crackle in the phones. One second,
two seconds... three.
His body went clammy with eerie dread, and
sweat oozed out on his forehead and trickled off
in drops.
"Washington H.Q., emergency!" he called
again "Emergency . . . emergency. Captain Ayres
calling Washington H.Q."
A split second later the signal light blinked,
and the phones hummed.
"Go ahead, Captain Ayres. What would you
like to tell your commanders?"
A harsh laugh followed the rasping words.
Dusty sat rigid as the hated voice of the Black
Hawk continued.
"Did you suppose your little death broadcast
and smoke screen trick would blind us? Did you
think we have only one secret agent working for
us . . . ?"
Dusty was no longer listening. He was
searching the air for a glimpse of a sleek jet-black
monoplane. But there was none to be seen.
Subconsciously, he realized that the gunners
below had stopped firing at him.
"--and, I might add, Captain, that the staff
major has now joined that very stupid General
Billings. So that leaves only you."
"Damn it!" Dusty blurted out. "Show yourself,
and I'll do the rest!"
The chuckle in the earphones mocked him.
"Bravo, Captain! My compliments on your
courage. But my fancy holds me in check, at the
moment."
Dusty began hurling his ship around in mad,
questing circles. But though he searched until his
eyeballs ached, not one single sign of a Black
ship did he see. And all the time the rasping voice
of the Black Hawk maintained a taunting chatter in
the earphones.
Suddenly he swung the Silver Flash toward
the south, fed the engine all the hop it could take.
"Some other time!" he howled into the
transmitter. "I've got other things to do right now."
Easing the nose down a bit, he waited
expectantly for the Hawk to stop his hide-and-
seek game and come plunging down out of the
cloud layer to give battle.
But as the seconds whipped by, even that
hope vanished. Wherever he was, the Black pilot
seemed bent on remaining there.
And then, suddenly, there was a sound like
the booming of a naval gun in the yanks
earphones.
He jumped violently in spite of himself, and
the Silver Flash skidded crazily off to the side
under the sudden and uncontrollable jerk of his
hand.
Ears ringing, he checked the wild movement
of the plane, hauled it back onto even keel, and
sent it screaming up toward the cloud layer.
An instinctive warning had shot through his
body. The Hawk was not playing this game of
hide-and-seek for nothing. And it was plumb
foolishness to wait down in clear air for the Black
to finally show himself.
In the back of his brain he was putting the
pieces of the puzzle together bit by bit. And
although the picture was not entirely clear as yet,
he had more than enough to work on. In fact,
enough to cause his heart to pound furiously
against his ribs and cold sweat to splash off his
forehead.
Outlined in fire against the screen of memory
in his head was the torn diagram he had taken
from Strickland. The more he studied it with his
mind's eye the more clear it became.
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Gone was the mystery that had surrounded it
a few hours ago. He knew now--knew the truth!
And realization set the blood in his veins to
boiling, and fired him with a determination to get
through to the American lines before it was too
late.
He pounded his free fist against the throttle.
"Come on, old girl, get going!" he yelled
hoarsely. "We've got to make it. Got to make it
now!"
And then suddenly it happened--happened
so quickly that his brain was unable to scream an
order to his hands before it was too late.
Right in front of him, a curtain of dangling
cable wires shot down out of the cloud layer.
Like so many thin, gray snakes they twisted
and screwed about in the air. A wild cry of alarm
clogged in his throat as he frantically belted the
stick over against the cockpit side, and slammed
all his weight on the rudder pedal.
The Silver Flash seemed to groan aloud as it
tried to respond instantly to the vicious movement
of the controls. It lurched off to the side, seemed
to hover motionless as its prop clawed madly.
And then it plunged downward.
But too late.
The terrific forward speed of the plane was
too great, and the curtain of dangling gray wires
too close.
In the split second left him, Dusty saw the
network of connecting strands that held the
vertical cable wires in place--saw the interlocking
mesh barrier come sweeping toward him.
And then, helpless to do anything, he went
plowing right into it.
As though made of rubber instead of fine
cable wire, the sky net seemed to give way to the
force of the impact. But only for a matter of split
seconds, and then the cables went taut, and
Dusty was flung up against the instrument board
with crushing force.
Half conscious, he reeled back into the seat.
Through blurred eyes he saw his prop
clashing and ripping at the maze of twisting and
whipping cable wires. They snapped with the
report of pistol shots, but their loose ends slapped
back and wound themselves about the prop shaft.
Others curled back over the wings and
gouged long grooves in the metal covering.
And yet, as though it were something
human--like a Bengal tiger caught in the hunters'
stout rope net--the Silver Flash bucked and
yawned and strained mightily, to break through
the countless thin, gray fingers that curled
themselves about it from prop to tailskid.
And slamming the stick about, and sawing
rudder, Dusty added every bit of his flying skill in a
mad effort to help the plane break through.
But it was useless.
The sky net wound its steel fingers about the
shaft of the thrashing propeller. Presently, the
engine sputtered, broke itself free for an instant
with a mighty roar, and then sputtered and
backfired some more.
Black smoke spewed out from its exhaust
vents and smeared great streaks of soot oil along
the glass cowling. Vibration shook the plane like a
leaf in a tornado, and a second later one of the
wing internal bracing wires let go with a singing
twang that echoed against Dusty's eardrums like
the bells of doom.
One eye blinded by the blood that flowed
down from an ugly gash on his forehead, Dusty
somehow managed to haul back the throttle and
snap off the ignition switch.
Its power gone, the prop snapped to an
instant stop. And then, as though unable to hold
out any longer, the variable pitch gears flew off in
pieces, and the blades of the prop itself followed
them into oblivion a moment later.
Dully conscious that he was still able to work
the controls after a fashion, Dusty virtually lifted
the ship over on one wing, slammed on top rudder
and let the tail swing down to the vertical.
It was his only hope--and it worked. The
mesh curtain, that had immediately been released
from above at the moment of impact, went
swishing forward and jerked the remainder of its
dangling strands free from the nose of the plane.
But it had already done its work and the fact
that its twisted and tangled remains dropped clear
of him brought no sense of joy to Dusty's heart.
He was through--and in due time the Silver
Flash II would be no more.
As his mind rushed backward and he
remembered those bombers in strung-out line
formation, he groaned aloud in bitter agony.
Like mine sweepers sweeping their great
steel nets through the waters, those Black
bombers had swept the skies. And watchers on
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the ground had signaled when to let the nets out
to their full length. That signal had been the
booming sound in the earphones.
Half mad with blind rage, Dusty jerked the
plane out of its lumbering dive and stared at the
ground below. There, less than five miles to the
west, was an enemy airdrome, and in front of its
row of hangars a long line of Black Dart
monoplanes. The Black Hawk's drome--the
objective of his crazy plan!
Plan? He laughed harshly. Plan, hell. What
plan did he have? He, a helpless eagle floating
down to a hit-or-miss landing in enemy country--
and a million pairs of eyes watching him.
"To the west, Captain. You are to land on my
field. And after we land you can thank me for
saving your life."
The crackling voice of the Black Hawk in the
earphones startled Dusty. Snapping his head
back, he saw a Black bomber slide down out of
the cloud layer.
From snap-releases fitted to the spar ends of
both lower wings, shreads of the sky net flapped
backward in the prop wash. Though he could not
see the figure in the pilots' compartments, Dusty
knew instinctively that the Hawk was there. Too
yellow to risk his precious neck, the man had
hidden in the clouds until his trap had been
sprung.
Like a beam of brilliant light cutting through
impenetrable darkness, the last words of the
Hawk touched a note of sudden realization in his
brain. The Hawk wanted him alive, yet a few
hours ago they had moved heaven and hell in a
desperate effort to kill him.
Why? As Dusty told himself the answer, his
lips curled back in a hard smile.
"You're worried," he murmured softly, "and
you want to make sure. Well stew in your own
juice a while!"
And then in loud tones. "Hey tramp! Signal
down to clear your field. My ship won't hold out
much longer and I'll have to land fast!"
Dusty heeled over on a wing, pulling out
close to the ground. Rather than land as
instructed, he sped the plane as far as he could
into the hills, then crash landed purposely. He set
fire to the Silver Flash and had time to run into
the hills while the enemy arrived in armored
trucks. They tried to approach the burning craft
but were driven back by the intense heat. As they
departed, Dusty laid his head on the soft turf,
lungs seared and muscles aching.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLACK TARMAC
NOT DARING TO KEEP HIS EYES
CLOSED for long, lest he fall into an exhausted
sleep, he soon opened them and rolled over on
his stomach. His head ached horribly, and he
suddenly remembered that he had not eaten for
hours.
But with a grim shrug he dismissed all that
from his thoughts. There was nothing he could do
about it now. As a matter of fact, there wasn't
anything he could do; except wait for the shadows
of evening to creep across the countryside.
To move now, was to beg the Blacks to take
him prisoner. And above all he had to avoid that
final catastrophe.
For perhaps two hours he stayed right where
he was. And then, when the shadows of evening
closed over the landscape, he slowly got to this
feet, flexed his stiff muscles, and went jog-trotting
down the hill.
Continually checking his course with the aid
of a small pocket compass, he held steady for an
hour. When he caught the glimpse of flickering
lights in the distance, he slowed down to a walk
and veered his course toward the west.
He was on flat country now: the hill range
was far behind him. A small village loomed up in
the darkness off to his left. He skirted it stealthily
and kept on going to the southwest.
Finally, when he had crept up to the crest of
the slight rise in the ground, he sank down on
hands and knees and studied the scene ahead
through narrowed eyes.
Less than two hundred yards in front of him
was the dimly-lighted drome of the Black Hawk.
By straining his eyes he could just make out the
shadowy blur of planes lined up on the tarmac.
And at intervals he saw the silhouettes of guards
against the dim background.
Longingly he stared at the planes. So near
they were, yet so far. If he could only get one of
them. Once he was in the air it wouldn't matter.
Let them bums try to catch him.
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He shook his head. He was straining his luck
as it was. Before he could get within fifty feet of
the nearest plane, a dozen Black guards would
have their rifles trained on him. Nope, his only
chance lay in the radio shack. Just two minutes in
there and he'd be able to flash his warning back to
G.H.Q.--warning of the most gigantic military
maneuver ever attempted in the history of the
world.
The very thought of it made him pause and
consider the crazy diagram stamped on his brain.
Had he figured it right? Was its significance really
clear to him? After all, it was only guesswork on
his part.
"I know I'm right!" he gritted savagely. "Hell,
it can't be anything else."
Jerking his automatic from his breeches
pocket, he curled a finger about the trigger and
started to slowly circle the southern rim of the
drome.
A thousand times his tensed nerves seemed
ready to snap, and send him haywire. And a
thousand times it was all he could do to stop
himself from breaking into a mad dash for the
small, stone-walled radio hut, on the east side of
the field.
Twice he thought he saw the tall form of the
Black Hawk go striding by one of the open and
lighted hangar doorways. Instinctively he snapped
up his gun and framed it on the figure. But sane
reason prevented him from pulling the trigger.
The Hawk was no longer important to him
now. Five hours ago he would have pounced
upon the man and beaten the truth from his ugly
lips with the butt of his automatic. But now that
wasn't necessary. A few words of the Hawk in the
earphones, and some furious thinking on Dusty's
part had given him the answer he had been
seeking ever since he pried the torn diagram out
of the toe of the dead Strickland's shoe.
Virtually pressing his body into the ground,
he edged toward the radio shack inch by inch and
foot by foot. When it was less than fifty yards
away, a motionless blur to his right suddenly
whirled into action.
For one split second Dusty caught the dull
glint of blue steel. The crack of a rifle belt
snapping back was like the sound of Doomsday in
his ears.
Action preceded thought. Like a shot Dusty
hurled his body sidewise, gun arm upraised.
There was a grunt, and a gurgle. He saw big lips
open to let out a following shout; saw a rifle
muzzle swinging around toward him.
For at the same instant, even while still clear
of the ground, he brought down his gun hand with
every ounce of his strength.
Metal smashed into solid bone beneath the
coarse skull cap. A faint sigh escaped through the
parted lips of the Black sentry. Then the rifle
slipped from his fingers, and his tall figure melted
to the ground.
Grabbing the rifle with one hand, Dusty
snaked his gun arm around the toppling Black,
held him a second, then eased him down to the
ground.
Placing the rifle beside him, he bent over the
sentry, gun raised for another blow. But a close
look at the ugly face made him lower his gun. No
second tap on the head was needed. It would be
many hours before the limp sentry would open his
eyes again.
Dusty hugged the ground beside the Black
for a few moments. Then, as nothing else moved,
he got to his feet and crept on toward the rear of
the radio hut.
Five minutes later he was hugging the deep
darkness of the rear wall. A faint shaft of light cut
through a small window into the darkness. When
he reached it, he slowly peered around the edge
of the sill.
At first he saw only a room full of radio and
wireless instruments. But a split second later he
saw the back of a Black radio sergeant.
The man was perched on a stool in the far
corner, phones clamped to his ears, and the
upper part of his body hunched forward over the
transmitter and receiving panels.
Dusty smiled grimly and took a tighter grip on
the butt of his automatic. For several seconds he
stood motionless and peered intently toward the
group of buildings just back of the hangar line.
Several indistinct figures were moving about, but
not one of them came toward his side of the
drome.
"Okay, fellow!" he grunted under his breath.
"It's now or never!"
Crouching down, he scurried past the
window, and around the corner to the door. Gun
ready, he curled the fingers of his other hand
about the knob and turned it gently.
Then, so slow that it seemed he wasn't even
moving, he pushed the door open and snaked his
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body inside. Once the door was behind him he
darted forward one quick step, and leaped the
rest of the way.
Too late, the radio sergeant heard the
scuffing of shoes on the floor behind him. As he
twisted around on his stool, Dusty's gun barrel
caught him square behind the right ear. Eyes wide
open, and a silly expression spreading over his
hatchet face, the Black keeled over backward like
a wet sack of meal.
As he fell, Dusty snatched the earphones
from his head, adjusted them on himself and bent
over the transmission panel. Even as the
sergeant's unconscious body hit the floor, Dusty
was spinning the wave length dial. With his other
hand he tuned up maximum volume.
That other Black stations would pick him up,
he knew full well. But, if only he could get through
to Washington H.Q. first, it didn't matter what
happened later.
A green signal light on the panel blinked
rapidly. He snatched up the transmitter.
"Washington . . . Washington H.Q." he called
breathlessly. "This is Captain Ayres. Listen,
the--"
A click in the phones cut him off. His heart
plunged down to his boots. With trembling fingers
he readjusted the dial reading. God be praised . . .
the green light was blinking again.
"Washington H.Q.!" he called wildly. "Ayres
speaking . . . send out a general alarm. The
Blacks are planning to attack at--"
Crack!
A metallic wasp zipped past Dusty's head
and smacked into the radio panel. Instantly there
were three faint pops as three tubes exploded.
Crack!
The radio panel split straight through the
middle and a thread of thick yellow smoke oozed
upward. Dusty froze motionless, his hand halfway
to his automatic
"Stop!"
Choking back a groan, he slowly pivoted--to
glare into the eyes of the Black Hawk. He stood in
the open doorway, a gun clutched in his right fist.
For a second there was dead silence as the
pair locked eyes. Then with a grating chuckle the
Hawk snaked forward and snatched up Dusty's
gun with his free hand. Dropping it in his pocket,
he pulled a chair around with his foot and sat
down. Not for one instant did his gun move away
from the Yank's chest.
"And so we meet again, Captain Ayres," he
purred softly.
Dusty didn't say anything. Face a mask, eyes
glaring, he stood like a statue of stone. The Black
Hawk patted his gun with his free hand and
widened his smirk.
"It was clever, crashing and firing your plane,
Captain," he said. "But it did not mislead me. I
knew you are not the type to give up so easily, so,
I simply waited for you."
Dusty licked his lips.
"Yeah?" he asked. "How'd you know I'd seek
you out? Hell, you're not that important to me."
The other wagged his head tauntingly.
"Didn't you tell General Billings that you
wanted to find me?"
Dusty's face darkened as he thought of the
spy he'd shot.
"Oh, your spy told you in his last message,
eh?" he snapped. "Well, he won't be telling you
anything more."
"It doesn't matter," shrugged the Hawk. "We
have other agents. The loss of one does not
worry me. In a way, he deserved to die. He would
have made things more difficult if he had killed
you."
The Yank frowned in spite of himself.
"Yes," continued the Black Hawk, as though
he hadn't paused. "With you dead it would have
been hard to find out the exact truth."
Dusty laughed.
"I like riddles," he snapped. "But I'll have to
give up on that one. What's the answer?"
"The answer is that you are going to give me
a little information, Captain Ayres," replied the
Black quietly. "At eleven o'clock this morning, or
shortly thereafter, you aided an American spy in
making his escape. He died in your arms. Of that I
am positive, although I believed him dead as he
went down by parachute. But--"
"So you were the rat that tried to shoot him
after he bailed out!" blazed Dusty, swaying
forward on the balls of his feet. "Why you dirty,
low--!"
The gun was jabbed toward him.
"Move and you'll regret it. Yes, I was that
other pilot. Unfortunately I could not remain to
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engage you. But that spy died in your arms. A
report I received from an agent, who later
examined the body--and incidentally put that
artillery officer out of our way-- convinces me that
the spy talked before he died. What did he say,
Captain--and what did you cut out of the toe of
his right shoe?"
The last was spoken slowly, and with
measured emphasis. Feigning a puzzled
expression, the Yank shrugged.
"I'm still punk at guessing the answers to
riddles," he snapped.
Rage smoldered in the Hawk's eyes, and his
forefinger tightened about the trigger of the gun.
"Perhaps you forget, Captain," he purred
harshly, "that it would be very simple for me to put
a bullet in your heart."
Dusty grinned inwardly. He knew damned
well that if the Hawk wasn't worried about
something, he would have shot him minutes ago.
"I'm not forgetting," he said evenly. "But I still
can't answer your riddle."
The Hawk gave him a long, shrewd glance.
Dusty fought to keep the puzzled expression on
his face, and prayed fervently that the truth was
not showing in his eyes. Presently the Black
spoke again.
"I'm giving you your choice of life or death.
And I promise you that death will not be by a
bullet. It will be the most terrible death you could
possibly imagine. Now, tell me--did that American
spy talk, and what did you take from his right
shoe?"
Dusty looked him straight in the eye.
"I'm scared stiff about dying," he said. "So I
guess I'd better tell you."
The other's eyes widened and he leaned
forward eagerly.
"Yes, yes?" he got out harshly. "Tell me!"
The Yank hesitated, and curled his lips back
in a slow grin.
"Well, he said to me that if I wanted a drink
I'd find a quart in his right shoe. So I cut open the
shoe and finished the bottle. Not bad stuff, either!"
A roaring curse spilled off the Hawk's lips. He
leaped forward and swung the gun. Dusty blocked
part of the blow, but it nevertheless sent him
reeling back against the opposite wall.
For an instant he poised to hurl himself at the
snarling Black. But the unwavering gun muzzle
fixed dead upon him cooled his passion. Instead,
he grinned defiantly.
"That's your style!" he grated. "You haven't
the guts to try anything man to man. Go ahead
and shoot, and I'll see you in hell!"
For one horrible second, Dusty's heart went
cold from the sudden realization that his taunting
rage was sealing his doom. Insane with anger, the
Black Hawk was going to shoot, regardless.
Body instinctively braced for the expected
bullet, Dusty watched through glaring eyes as the
Black battled with his own emotions. And then
suddenly the Hawk's tensed figure relaxed and
the gleam of savage hatred died from his eyes.
In spite of himself, Dusty could not check the
tiny sigh of relief that rippled off his lips. For a
moment his knees went water weak, and the
room swam. But almost instantly, he got a grip on
himself.
"Well?" he asked easily, "are you going to
shoot."
The other shook his head.
"No, it will not be by a bullet."
Keeping his gun trained on Dusty, the Black
edged over to the wall and jabbed his thumb
against a bell button. He held it pressed until there
were the sounds of running feet outside, in the
darkness. Presently the two apelike Black
mechanics entered and saluted the Hawk with the
peculiar Invader salute--right forearm raised up
and the outward facing palm of the hand on a line
with the shoulder.
The Hawk returned the salute and then
barked an order that Dusty did not understand.
But he did a moment later as the mechanics
pinned him against the wall and searched him
systematically.
Holding his breath for fear that they might
find the green bead jammed in the seam in his
breeches pocket, he offered no resistance
whatsoever. And finally when they backed away
from him scowling, and shook their heads at the
Black Hawk, his heart leaped with joy. They had
not found the bead.
After a moment or two of silence, the Hawk
snarled some more orders. Again the mechanics
grabbed Dusty. But this time they did not pin him
against the wall.
Steel fingers curled about his upper arms,
they virtually yanked him off his feet and propelled
him through the door, into the darkness outside.
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Looking to neither the left nor the right, they
hurried him across the drome to a bomb dugout
on the opposite side. Jerking him to a stop.
One of them released his hold and lifted
open the heavy steel-reinforced bulkhead door.
"I leave you to your thoughts for a while,"
came the Hawk's chuckling voice from in back of
Dusty. "And also, to a little surprise!"
As the last word died to the echo, a battering
ram crashed into the small of Dusty's back. With a
cry of alarm, he flung out his hands for a grip on
something. But they were instantly paralyzed by
crushing blows from the two Black mechanics,
and he went spinning and bumping down the
dugout stairs. And as he crashed against a rough
wood floor, the bulkhead door banged shut, and a
heavy bolt clanked into place.
CHAPTER NINE
THE GREEN BEAD
STUNNED, DUSTY LAY GASPING FOR
breath in that pit of enveloping darkness. A dozen
times unconsciousness reached out to spread its
shroud over his pain-wracked body. But each time
the fighting instinct within him beat it back.
And then, finally, he crawled up onto his
hands and knees, lurched over against the steps
and stared about him.
It was then that he realized that the dugout
was not as black as it had at first seemed. As a
matter of fact, it was flooded with a faint light that
seeped down through a cross-shaped window
high up in the domed ceiling.
For a moment, he wondered dully about that
fact. How the hell should there be light, when it
was night outside? And then, as the faint light
seemed to flicker, he knew and understood. The
dugout was close to the hangar line, and the light
coming through the dome window was the faint
reflection of the lights in the hangars.
That settled in his throbbing brain, he began
a slow tour of the walls. Halfway around, he
bumped into the only piece of furniture in the
place--a low plank bench.
Too exhausted to continue around the bare
interior, he sank down on the bench, leaned his
head back against the wall, and stared moodily up
toward the cross window.
For the want of something better to do, he
toyed with the possibility of trying to make his
escape through the window. But really serious
consideration of the idea forced him to abandon it
completely.
In the first place it was a good twelve feet
beyond his reach. And in the second place it was
made up of thick glass and many crisscross steel
bars. Hell, naturally it would be like that. What
good would a bomb dugout be if a bomb could
come down through a flimsy window?
With an unhappy sigh, he allowed his eyes to
close. Better to relax and rest while he may. He
probably wouldn't be there long. He guessed that
much from the Hawk's parting remark. But the
Hawk had also said something about a surprise.
Surprise?
He opened his eyes and stared absently at
the opposite wall. He couldn't guess the answer.
Hell, what a sweet jam he was in now! One more
minute and he would have been able to send the
truth back to Washington H.Q.--the true meaning
of that torn diagram,
At that moment, he sat up straight. The belt
had been jerked free in the bulkhead door. The
door was being opened!
A sharp cry rang out. Almost immediately it
was followed by a scuffle of feet and a clawing of
hands as a figure came hurtling down the steps.
Not making a move, Dusty watched it literally
bounce on the floor, and roll over. The figure was
clad in the uniform of a Black soldier.
Straining his eyes, he stared at the man who
was now groaning and rubbing his big hands
about his head. Presently the Black sat up slowly.
He turned his head toward Dusty. Dark eyes
blinked and squinted, then widened in
dumbfounded amazement.
Dusty gasped. The Black soldier was not a
Black soldier at all. He was an American--a man
with whom Dusty had gone through the fires of
hell on two different occasions--Agent 10 of the
U.S. Intelligence Department!
At first Dusty refused to believe his own
eyes. But as the other grinned, he knew beyond
all possible doubt that he was looking at the man
known as Agent 10, and whom he secretly knew
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to be the only son of General Horner, Chief of
U.S. Intelligence.
He shot off the bench and knelt down beside
the man.
"You!" he gasped. "Hell, I thought you were
still in Washington! What?"
"A long story, Ayres," the other grunted. "I
should be in the States, but I figured that I could
fool the Blacks and come back here again. Well, I
was wrong. Guess they've had their eye on me
ever since you flew me out of that last jam. I got
hold of something big, and they nabbed me two
hours later."
Dusty put his hand over the other's mouth.
"Not so loud," he snapped. "We don't know if
this place has ears."
The other shook off Dusty's hand.
"It hasn't," he said. "I spent most of the day
here. It's just a parking place for their prisoners,
until they take them over to their torture chamber.
They don't go in for simple dictaphone stuff, if
that's what you mean. They've got other ways
to--But, say! What are you doing here?"
Dusty grimaced. "Oh, I was just checking up
on a hunch, and I stuck my head into a noose.
But you said something about getting hold of
something big. What was it?"
The Yank agent hesitated, and scowled
down at the floor.
"Damn right it was big!" he muttered. "And
our boys are going to beat the Black army
tomorrow and the day after."
Dusty nodded.
"Maybe," he said softly. "If they find out in
time."
The other jerked his head around and stared
at him.
"What the hell do you mean?"
The pilot hesitated a second, then bent his
head close.
"The green bead and the torn map didn't get
through!" he said.
The effect of the words made the Intelligence
man stiffen as though he had been suddenly
pierced by a bullet.
"How--good God!"
"Strickland died in my arms," Dusty went on.
Then he told Agent 10 of his experiences in a
few short sentences.
"I didn't catch on to the real meaning of the
thing until a few hours ago," he finished up. "It
was the figures that stumped me. But as soon as
the thought came to me that they were dates, the
rest was simple!"
"Simple?" cut in the other with a groan. "God,
it's hellish. Tomorrow they spring the trap!"
"Maybe!" grunted Dusty. "But let me check
with you to make sure I got it all. The map is like
this--" He drew a hasty sketch of the design
which he had burned into his memory that
morning.
"The wavy line, 99, is the gas curtain they
sent up today. Right? Figure 1 is the northern
point where Maine joins New Hampshire. In other
words Z-10 area. Figure 2 is the Bath, Maine,
area. Three is the Buffalo area, and 4 is New
York. On the tenth, tomorrow, the Blacks will
move against Z-10 by land, and Bath area by sea.
"By doing that they plan to pull our reserves
up north. And when they do that their surprise
army will smash through Buffalo and head for
New York. And New York will be attacked from
the sea also. That'll be on the eleventh--day after
tomorrow. The number 8 on that diagram
represented the date reserves would be started
toward the Buffalo area. And the curved 9 line
represented the main reserve army that I saw
today, moving behind the gas curtain screen
toward the Buffalo area.
"In other words the Z-10 and Bath attacks
are only gigantic fakes to pull our armies and sea
power up north. Then they'll cut across from
Buffalo to New York, and try to bottle up the
whole works. There--am I right?"
Dusty asked the last question eagerly. The
secret agent, who had been listening in a dazed
sort of way, slowly nodded his head.
"You are--and neat work," he grunted. "I
drew that diagram myself, but--"
The man paused and a shaky hopeless
laugh rattled in his throat.
"What the hell's the good of checking with
me?" he groaned. "It won't help, knowing that you
figured it out right."
The pilot smiled grimly, and slowly bunched
both hands into steel-knotted fists.
"I'll at least know I'm telling the truth, when I
finally get word through to G.H.Q.," he breathed
softly.
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"Get word through?" echoed the other in a
defeated tone that sent a little pang of pity
through Dusty's heart. "Even if a miracle happens,
and you do--it'll be too late."
For a moment Dusty made no comment. The
other's resigned attitude surprised him more than
a little. In the past, Agent 10 had never been like
this. He had been the spark plug of their
adventures--a man totally devoid of nerves.
Dusty gripped the man's shoulder.
"Chin up, fellow!" he said earnestly. "We're
far from licked yet!"
The other heaved a sigh.
"I'm not thinking of us!" he grunted. "I know
we're sunk. I'm thinking of the others. God, I was
only able to stand what they did to me this
morning, because I thought that Strickland had
gotten through."
"About this Strickland," cut in Dusty quickly.
"As I told you, his cousin said that he wasn't a
pilot. And what about that green bead? That's the
one thing I can't figure."
Agent 10 pursed his lips.
"I didn't know much about Strickland," he
said. "None of us know much about each other in
this service. Only learned his name last night. The
green bead is the way one agent identifies himself
to another in case of emergency. We are never
captured with it on our person.
"That's the one order we can never
disobey--to destroy it if we're captured. In that
way the Blacks have never been able to catch on
to the idea. They've never seen one of the things.
And, as far as I know, they don't even know of the
idea. They--"
The man suddenly stopped and grabbed
Dusty's arm.
"My God!" he cried excitedly. "You said you
destroyed that diagram map, but--what about the
bead? Did they get it?"
Dusty had to shake off the trembling fingers
in order to dig the bead out of the breeches
pocket seam.
"Nope," he said, and dropped it in the other's
hand.
Agent 10 uttered a low moan of relief as he
fondled the bead. Dusty frowned.
"I don't think so much of the idea," he said.
"I'd say you're taking chances on whether or not
the other chap with a bead really is one of your
gang. A common, ordinary green bead isn't so
hard to--"
"But it isn't a common, ordinary bead," the
secret agent cut in. "Look!"
Placing the bead between his two thumbs he
twisted sharply. Then he separated his thumbs
and two halves of the bead dropped into the palm
of his left hand. With his right forefinger he poked
them over so that the flat sides showed. Stamped
in each flat surface was a tiny white figure 8.
"Strickland's number," murmured Agent 10
as Dusty squinted at the numerals. "As an extra
precaution there is a secret question that each of
us can ask about the other's number. The answer
we get will tell us the truth. But no one will ever
ask the question of this number again."
As he spoke, Agent 10 quickly placed the
two halves on the floor and ground them to green
dust beneath his heel. A puff from his lips and the
green dust disappeared.
"I did that to mine this morning," he grunted.
"So Strickland really was an agent?"
muttered Dusty, as though still unable to believe
it. Funny, though, his cousin getting that letter--
and about his flying, too!"
"Nothing funny at all," the other replied. "You
don't advertise enlistment in the Intelligence
Department, even to your cousin. But Strickland
was a pilot, right enough. His cousin just didn't
know what he was talking about, that's all."
For a moment or two they both sat there in
brooding silence.
"Tell me more about that diagram," said
Dusty after awhile. "I want the whole story so I
can convince G.H.Q."
Again Agent 10's face took on the expression
of utter defeat and hopelessness.
"No sense in hoping this time, Ayres," he
said dully. "The Blacks will probably change their
plans, knowing that you got hold of the map."
"But that's the idea!" interrupted Dusty. "They
don't know. That's what has them worried. I'll bet
my shirt on it. Hell, I'd be dead now if they knew
the truth. So tell me the rest, and we can figure
from there."
Dusty's words seemed to cheer Agent 10 a
little.
"Not much to tell," he said. "By a chance
meeting I contacted Strickland soon after I got
through. He'd been on this side for a week as one
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of their civilian air mechanics. Said that something
was in the wind. Didn't know just what, but said
the answer was in the area H.Q.
"As a civilian mechanic he couldn't get near
the place. As an ordinary soldier, I could, and did.
One look at a marked-up wall map was all I
needed. The whole plan was pin-pointed out."
The man smiled bitterly. "It was bait!" he
grated after a while. "Live bait--and I took it hook,
line and sinker. The rats had put their secret right
in plain view, hoping I'd walk into their trap. I did,
but I damn near beat them at their own game.
"I made that diagram. Just as I finished they
closed in on me. I tore off a blank piece of the
paper and scaled it through a window. Like I was
tossing it to an accomplice. That made them
hesitate long enough for me to dive through an
opposite window and run for it.
"A bit of luck put Strickland in my path. He
faked a charge at me, and I dropped the wadded
diagram, and dodged around him. In the
excitement to get me, which they did about two
minutes later, Strickland scooped up the wad and
started his get-away by air. God, if only he could
have crashed through!"
Jack-knifing his knees, the man rested his
elbows on them and cupped his hands about his
chin. Eyes narrowed, he stared dully ahead.
Dusty studied him keenly, a faint perplexed frown
knitting his brows together.
"A funny question," he suddenly blurted out.
"But just why are you still alive? I thought that--"
"A spy was shot on sight?" the other finished
with out turning his head. "They usually are,
unless it's believed that he'll spill information. And
that's what the rats figured about me, curse their
rotten hides. I wish to hell they had shot me!"
"Nonsense," Dusty snapped angrily. "You're
not that type. Licking these bums is a pushover
job for us. We've done it before, haven't we? Well,
we'll do it again!"
The other turned his head just enough to
stare into Dusty's face.
"Thanks, Ayres, thanks a lot," he said thickly.
"I pray to God you can get through somehow. But
you'll see what I mean, very soon. Hell, let's talk
about something else!"
A strange undertone in the man's voice made
fingers of ice clutch at Dusty's heart. He shook
them off with a muttered curse and started to
speak again, but checked himself quickly. The
bulkhead bolt had clanked back, and the door was
being lifted open.
A brilliant beam of light shot down the dugout
steps. Three pairs of heavy boots thumped behind
it. And presently, preceded by two armed guards,
the Black Hawk came down the steps.
Holding the light so that its beam ricocheted
off the dome ceiling, and lighted up the whole
place, the Black pilot grinned mockingly and
bowed stiffly from the waist.
"And now this pleasant little reunion must
come to an end," he purred. Then looking straight
at Dusty. "Did I not promise you a surprise,
Captain?"
The Yank pilot matched the other's look and
grinned also.
"Thanks," he said. "And you've got a little
surprise coming to you, too!"
For a second the Black's eyes narrowed
questioningly. Then he shrugged, and laughed
aloud.
"An extreme pleasure," he said easily. Then
bending his cruel, ugly face close to Agent 10, "A
double pleasure, eh, swine? Even more than I
enjoyed this morning!"
"Damn you!" howled the other, and flung
himself forward.
Dusty yelled a warning, but it was too late.
One of the Black guards swung his rifle and the
barrel smashed against Agent 10's head with a
sickening sound. Hands outstretched for the
Hawk's neck, the Yank secret agent seemed to
suddenly relax in midair. Then he crumpled to a
heap on the floor.
Dusty started to leap himself, but the other
guard jabbed him savagely in the pit of the
stomach, and he went reeling back, choking for
breath.
The Hawk barked an order at the guards.
One of them picked up Agent 10 as though he
were a babe, and slung him across his massive
shoulders. The other prodded Dusty in the back.
And with the Black Hawk bringing up the rear,
they all trudged up the dugout steps.
CHAPTER TEN
SATAN'S ARMCHAIR
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UPON REACHING THE DROME LEVEL
THE guards turned sharp right and proceeded
along the edge of the field toward a group of
buildings at the eastern end of the hangar line.
Biting his lip against the pain of the gun muzzle
jammed cruelly in the small of his back, Dusty
cast his eyes about.
Lined up in front of the hangars were an
array of enemy ships, from the fleet Darts of the
Hawk's unit, to giant flying-wing germ and gas
bombers. In fact, there were so many different
types that they extended past the hangar line
itself and occupied most of the western border of
the drome.
Mechanics in black jumpers were swarming
all over them. Others were dollying germ and gas
tanks out to the bigger ships. And still more were
gingerly easing deadly aerial torpedoes into
underslung wing cradles. A great sky armada of
death was being groomed for its hell-raid!
Where would it strike--at Z-10, or the Buffalo
area? Or would it strike from the sea at Bath, or
New York?
The questions burned through Dusty's brain
as he stared at the nest of death-dealing, black-
winged vultures. And his heart ached as he
thought of the thousands upon thousands of
unsuspecting Yanks who were to be the victims.
"The Blacks would not be fools enough to
attack the Z-10 area."
Dusty groaned as General Billings' words
came back to him. That was exactly the idea of
the plan.
Realizing that an attack against the Z-10
area was military suicide, the Blacks were going
to fake one, draw the American armies up into
New England for a crushing counter-attack, and
then bottle them up by smashing through the
Buffalo area and across New York State and
Pennsylvania to New York City.
A bold, almost insane plan for any attacking
force. Yet, fantastic and crazy as it seemed to
Dusty's military mind, he realized that its chances
of success were well within the realm of
possibility.
Once the fake Z-10 sucked the American
forces up into New England, and the Atlantic
battle fleet was drawn up to the defense of the
Bath area, it would be a military race by sea, land
and air to the greatest prize of all--the City of
New York. New York--the throbbing center of the
financial, industrial and business arteries of the
entire United States.
Dusty raised his eyes toward the southern
heavens. An eerie chill went through him.
The gas curtain still billowed upward. He
could see it beyond the dull red glare of heavy
H.E. guns in action far to the south.
Almost simultaneously he became conscious
of the fact that the rumbling in his ears he had
believed to be an aftermath of the terrific blow in
the stomach, was the rolling sound of heavy
cannonading. The fake attack against Z-10 was
already underway!
"Yes, the attack has started."
Dusty turned his head to find the Hawk at his
side. The intensity of his stare made Dusty's heart
jump. How long had the Hawk been there? Had
he read anything in the expression on the Yank's
face?
With an effort he steeled himself.
"Just wasting ammunition," he countered.
"You couldn't even dent our lines there."
"Ah!"
The sharp exclamation caused the blood in
Dusty's veins to run cold.
"Ah!" repeated the Hawk, his smiling lips
curling back over fang teeth. "So the spy did tell
you something?"
"Still talking riddles, eh?" Dusty snapped
back at him.
"No," purred the other softly. "Our agent that
you killed told me of your conversation with
General Billings. Didn't you realize that?"
"Yeah? Then why this old-home-week
gathering, if you know everything?"
"When I captured you, I did not know," said
the Hawk. "As a result of an error, by a man who
has paid for it with his life, I did not get all of my
agent's message until just a few minutes ago. So
now, you will not have to tell me as much as I had
planned."
"That'll be nice, won't it?" snorted Dusty.
"And simple, too," muttered the Hawk as he
dropped back a few paces. His guard grabbed
Dusty by the shoulder and jerked him to a halt.
They were in front of a low-roofed, single-story
building that, so far as Dusty could see, contained
only one door and no windows. It was a log cabin
structure, the logs being fastened together with
iron ribs. Yet, strangely enough, the door instead
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of being made of wood was made of solid copper
with riveted hinges.
Stepping around the guards and their
charges, the Hawk pulled a bunch of keys from
his pocket, selected one and fitted it into the
narrow keyhole that Dusty had not noticed until
that minute. After a sharp twist of the key, the
Black shoved open the door, and motioned the
guards inside.
With the gun muzzle digging into his back
deeper than ever, Dusty stepped into a dark
room. He heard the door close behind him, heard
the click of a switch, and instantly there was
brilliant light.
It was so brilliant that it blinded Dusty, and
for several moments he was unable to see a
single thing. Eventually, his eyes refocused and
he looked about him.
His first impression was that he was standing
in the main room of a power generating plant. The
wall seemed covered with every conceivable
instrument known to electrical science. Then
suddenly, as his eyes picked out several relay
boxes, transformers and speaker units, he
realized that the place was the main signal
station.
But he was wrong.
The Hawk had been watching his face, and
had evidently read his thoughts told him so in his
next words.
"No, Captain, you couldn't guess. This
happens to be one of our portable experimental
plants. A place where we experiment on various
ideas that require either mechanical or electrical
power. For instance, see that object in the far
corner?"
The man paused long enough to point at
what looked to Dusty like a bed spring bent into
the shape of a chair.
"My own idea," continued the Black Hawk
with unconcealed pride in his tone. "A few
perfections required, to be true. Nevertheless,
quite practical for immediate purpose. Though I
haven't given it a name, the success of my
experiments induce me to name it the Talking
Chair. Here, I will demonstrate the connection."
He barked something at the guard who still
held the unconscious Agent 10 slung across his
shoulders. With a nod, the guard carried his
burden over to the queer looking thing and
dumped him into it in a sitting position. Then with
brutal force, the guard ripped off the man's tunic
and shirt, exposing him bare to the waistline.
It was then that Dusty saw the parallel rows
of raw and bleeding welts across the man's chest.
For a moment he saw red, and started to lurch
forward, but the guard stopped him and held him
in a grip of steel. Helpless, he stood there
quivering with rage, and the other guard calmly
went on with his work.
First he lashed Agent 10's wrists to the arms
of the chair with steel mesh straps. In the same
manner he secured the ankles to the lower part of
the framework. And the third and last movement
was to circle the man's neck with a strip of steel
mesh and draw the head tight against the back of
the frame.
That done, he saluted the Hawk and took up
a position at Dusty's side.
Without so much as even looking at Dusty,
the Hawk went over to a nearby table and picked
up an oblong frame, the two ends of which were
connected by several fine-drawn steel wires.
Hooking one end over clamps of the right side of
the queer chair back, he pressed the frame
across Agent 10's bleeding chest and fastened it
down with the clamp hooks on the left side of the
chair back. The result was that now Agent 10's
bare torso was completely encased in wire!
Inspecting his work a second, the Hawk
nodded his satisfaction, and walked over to a dial
and rheostat panel on the side wall. His hand
resting on a lever switch, he paused and grinned
at Dusty.
"Your friend is asleep," he leered. "I will wake
him up--so."
With a quick motion the Black slapped down
the switch handle. Instantly a low-keyed humming
sound reverberated through the room. Higher and
higher it rose in pitch until it seemed to become a
part of its own echo.
"Watch, Captain!" shouted the Hawk. "Watch
your friend. See--he is waking up!"
With an effort Dusty tore his eyes from the
Hawk's face and looked toward the wire chair. As
he did, his blood froze in horror.
The wire frame pressed across Agent 10's
chest was glowing red, the wires sinking into the
yielding flesh like a hot iron sinking into snow. A
moment later faint threads of smoke curled
upward, and the man's body twitched and
trembled convulsively. Then his whitened lips
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parted and a cry of mortal pain gushed from his
throat.
As the cry died to an echo, there came to
Dusty's ears the click of a switch and the wires
ceased to glow red. But where they had burned
into the raw flesh they still smoked faintly, and the
nauseating stench in Dusty's nostrils made
everything become a swirling, blurred mass
before his eyes.
So this was what Agent 10 had meant when
he'd said, "I know we're sunk, and you'll see what
I mean very soon!" This was the torture chamber
the man had been taken to that morning!
God, no wonder his usual indomitable spirit
had been broken and crushed. With hope in his
heart that his comrade operator, Strickland, had
gotten through to the American side, Agent 10
had faced this horrible torture. And then, his body
undoubtedly screaming with pain, he had learned
the bitter truth from Dusty. Learned that all his
sacrifices and all his suffering had gone for
naught.
Through a swimming red haze, Dusty heard
his own roaring voice.
"You rotten killer! Leave him alone. He can
tell you nothing! He knows nothing!"
The smirk of a gloating maniac was on the
Hawk's ugly face.
"It touches you, eh, Captain?" he sneered.
"The dog is very stubborn. He refused to reveal
the identity of other secret agents we believe to
be in our midst. And so, regrettable as it seems, I
must continue persuading him to talk."
Turning his back to Dusty, the Hawk walked
over to the wire chair.
"And now, Agent 10," he sneered at the
chalk faced, blazing-eyed man, "perhaps your
tongue has loosened since this morning? Perhaps
you will tell me of the other spies who roam
among us?"
The helpless agent strained against his mesh
bonds, and the voice that seemed to come from
way down deep inside of him, shook with
defiance.
"Do your damnedest--and go straight to
hell!"
The Hawk stiffened, half raised a fist as
though he were going to smash it into the man's
face, then suddenly relaxed and lowered his hand.
"Still stubborn, eh?" he purred softly. "Well, I
have said I would demonstrate my talking chair to
Captain Ayres. And I consider it a promise."
Agent 10 roared a blistering curse at him and
went limp from pain and exhaustion. The Hawk
stood chuckling a moment then turned toward the
control panel.
Held fast in the steel grip of his guards,
Dusty nevertheless fought like an enraged tiger to
break free. But it was but a waste of his own fast-
waning strength.
The gash on his head burned like a live coal,
and his breath came in jerky, whistling gasps.
Through glazed eyes he saw the Hawk raise his
claw hand for the switch lever. It was more than
he could stand.
"Wait--wait." he choked out. "The man can
tell you nothing. None of them know each other!"
"To hell with him, Ayres!" Agent 10's
trembling voice called across the room. "Don't
worry about me."
Dusty didn't even look toward him. His eyes
were riveted on the Hawk's hand. If that switch
handle went down again--
The Black let go of the switch handle and
came over to him. So great was Dusty's sense of
momentary relief, that he missed the gleam of evil
cunning in the Hawk's deep-sunken jet-black
eyes.
"So, your friend can tell me nothing, oh?" the
man mused aloud, eyes boring into Dusty's face.
"Perhaps you are right, Captain. As a matter of
fact I am not particularly interested in what he
might tell me. It is what you have to tell me!"
The last was spat out like machine-gun fire.
Claw fingers were hooked in the loose front of
Dusty's shirt, and he was half jerked off his feet
as the Hawk bent his hatchet face close.
"Yes, what you have to tell me!" the man
snarled. "Speak, and perhaps your friend will live!"
Dusty steeled himself, and looked at the man
unblinking.
"Tell you what?" he grated. "I thought you
said you knew everything!"
He held his breath while the other man
paused.
"The truth," went on the man suddenly. "You
learned about our secret attack--of how we plan
to cut off America's armies. But, of one thing I
must be sure --there was a period of thirty
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minutes this afternoon when we were unable to
blanket out your wave length. It was while you
were climbing up through our smoke screen,
which you thought would mislead us. Did you use
your radio during that time? Did you warn your
American G.H.Q.?"
"Keep your mouth shut, Ayres!"
Dusty heard Agent 10's voice. He was too
occupied with his own reactions to the Hawk's
words. He had guessed correctly! His life had
been spared because the Blacks wondered if he
had given a warning to his comrades. Thirty
minutes when they had been unable to blanket
out his wave length.
Hell, during that time he hadn't even used the
radio for fear of betraying his presence in the air.
What a twist of fate. Thirty minutes of
unsuspecting silence upon which now hung the
life of Agent 10 and his own.
He grinned up into the leering, narrow-eyed
face.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" he snorted.
The Hawk surprised him with a vigorous nod.
"Yes," he snarled. "Your life is in my hands,
Captain. You mean nothing to me. But too much
is at stake, now. Tell me the truth, or you shall
watch your friend die before your eyes."
Keeping the mocking grin on his face, Dusty
battled madly with his problem.
Should he lie and say that the Yanks had
been informed? Should he tell the truth and admit
that word had not been sent through? Or should
he seal his lips and let the Hawk go on
wondering? Which course to follow?
If he lied, what then? The fake attack was
already underway. The Blacks would probably go
through with their plan, and double the force of
the blow at Buffalo --or at some other point. And
the Yanks, still ignorant of the double attack,
would meet the same fate.
Or if he told the truth? It might save Agent
10's life, and his own. But he doubted that. The
Hawk would never let them leave this room alive,
once he was sure of the truth.
Besides their lives didn't matter, now. It was
a case of thousands upon thousands of lives, not
just two. The Blacks would be sure to strike,
knowing that their terrible secret was safe.
Or should he keep them guessing--tell them
nothing?
That last thought made his heart beat rapidly.
Perhaps it might delay them long enough so that
some kind of miracle could happen, and the Yank
forces be warned of the impending doom hovering
about them.
Delay, at least, meant postponement of a
crushing death. And the elements of time in the
waging of war had often proved itself to be the
difference between victory and defeat.
On impulse he made up his mind.
"That's another answer you'll have to guess!"
he flung back into the Black's teeth.
Stark murder flared in the Hawk's eyes. With
savage words that Dusty did not understand, he
hurled him back against the guards and went over
to the control panel.
"All right!" he screamed. "Watch him die!"
Down clicked the switch handle. Agent 10's
body twitched and quivered. Yellow smoke rose
up from the bleeding flesh of his chest. A
sickening, sizzling sound filled the room. And
above it came the harsh, rasping order of the
Hawk.
"The truth! For the last time, the truth!"
For an instant Dusty's whirling brain seemed
to go blank. From way off he heard the groaning
cries of Agent 10. And as though he was looking
into the pit of hell, itself, he saw the blood-
drenched, smoking figure in the wire chair,
quivering and jerking about in mortal agony. Then
something seemed to snap inside of him and he
forgot all else except that a brave man was slowly
burning to death before his eyes.
"Stop--for God's sake stop! "I'll--"
Shrill rage filled words from Agent 10
stopped him.
"Ayres, don't tell them. For my sake, don't tell
them!"
The tortured man's plea ringing in Dusty's
throbbing ears seemed to suddenly engulf him in
an ocean of seething flame. In that moment he
ceased to be a human being. He became a
raging, bellowing animal possessed of unlimited
strength.
His blazing brain hardly registering the fact
that his body was in motion, he lurched and
twisted and kicked out with his right foot.
A voice screamed with pain, and steel fingers
slipped from his right arm. Around he pivoted, his
clenched fist coming like a flash of light. Knuckles
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crashed against jaw bone, and a white hot spear
ripped up his forearm. Through blood-reddened
eyes he saw a gun go spinning from the hands of
one of the guards.
He lunged for it, caught it in mid-flight,
jammed it against the black form which smashed
into him and jerked the trigger.
The roar deafened him, and the downward
crashing Black threw him off balance. Stumbling
clear, he swung toward the moving blur of Hawk,
racing for the door.
"No you don't!" he howled.
But as he tried to make his numbed fingers
raise the gun up, and pull the trigger, the four
walls seemed to cave in on him with a thunderous
roar.
Through the red film he saw the other guard
start swinging his gun for a second blow.
Paralyzed muscles refused to obey--and then the
whole world blew up inside his head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TALK OR DIE!
DULL, INCESSANT RUMBLING COMING
from a great way off finally caused Dusty to open
his eyes. Brain still stunned, he stared up into a
shadowy void. In a detached way he realized that
he was still alive. The pain that seemed to pierce
his body in a thousand different places proved
that.
With a moan he closed his eyes and
struggled to make his brain function properly. It
was all he could do to stop himself into
unconsciousness. But he fought against it.
When he again opened his eyes his brain
had cleared. He was lying flat on his back and
staring up at a dark, gray-painted ceiling. He
started to sit up, groaned from the pain, and
flopped back. On the third try he succeeded in
propping himself up to a sitting position and
wiggling his body back and forth so that he could
brace it against the wall. But the effort set his
head ringing with four alarm intensity, and
everything became a swirling blur in front of him.
"Ayres! Thank God--thought you were
dead!"
The whispered words on his right made him
turn that way and strive desperately to pierce the
swimming blur.
Presently he was able to see the blood-
drenched figure of Agent 10 crumpled in the far
corner of the room.
The man was lying on his right side, one arm
pillowed under his head, and the other dangling
down in a pool of blood on the floor. Glazed eyes
met Dusty's, and bloodless lips twitched in a
grimace.
The pilot summoned his strength, and
crawled over on his hands and knees. But as he
got close his heart seemed to stop beating. It
seemed as if death was slowly reaching out its
hand for Agent 10. The man's chest was a mass
of raw, bleeding flesh. And in the depths of his
eyes was the glassy look of a man living beyond
his time.
Dusty tore off a piece of his own shirt and
started to wipe the wounds. But Agent 10 winced
and shook his head.
"Don't!" he got out faintly. "No use. I can't
stand the pain. Listen--"
He choked and blood flecked the corners of
his mouth. Dusty clenched his fists helplessly.
There was absolutely nothing he could do.
"Listen, Ayres," the other gasped. "Don't
tell--him. He's coming back. "Don't tell--the--
swine!"
"I won't, fellow," Dusty promised by way of
soothing him. "Now, take it easy--we're both
going to need our strength."
The other stared at him vacantly, then slowly
raised one hand.
"Hear that?" he murmured. "It's been going
on for hours. I wonder--I wonder whether--?"
Dusty didn't notice that he had stopped
talking, for his ears had suddenly become pitched
to a heavy rumble in the distance. He turned his
head, saw light streaming through a window and
gasped aloud. He looked questionly at Agent 10.
The other's eyes, which had never left him,
gleamed the answer. Then the bloodless lips
moved to confirm it.
"The first attack. Over twelve hours ahead of
time. It--must be noon, now. Noon of the tenth. I
heard their planes leave--when it was still dark.
Too bad-- we did our best--tough luck!"
The eyes flickered closed.
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"Hold it there, fellow!" Dusty called out in
alarm. "There must be a way. I'll get you out."
Dusty screwed around on his knees and
looked wildly about the room. It contained only
one window and one door. The window was high
up, and well barred. The door was of iron
reinforced oak. Even as he crawled over to it and
grabbed the handle, he knew what to expect. The
door was securely bolted on the other side.
Stumbling back, he slumped down beside the
dying man, and stirred him gently.
"The Hawk, how long has he been gone?"
It seemed an eternity before the eyelids
fluttered open.
"The Hawk?" faintly. "He didn't go with the
others. He's still here. Heard him say--he was
going to take you--with him--later. Heard him tell
the guard outside!"
"But, where are we?" asked Dusty in
desperation as the man's eyes started to close
again.
"In prison block--behind the hangars.
Tough--Ayres--tough! But--its been aces
knowing you. So long. They'll never--lick--
America. Never!"
To get the last word out the man arched his
bleeding chest and used up the last ounce of
strength in his torn body. Then, as Dusty reached
out comforting arms, he collapsed and lay still.
With a choking sob, Dusty grabbed him.
"Agent 10--Horner--come back fellow!"
But the eyes did not open this time.
Strickland, Major Walker, Sergeant Crabtree,
General Billings, Major Shelton and now Agent
10. All dead because of a green bead and a torn
diagram map. There was only one left now--
himself.
A wild laugh fell off his lips. Hell, he might as
well be dead too. He had failed, failed miserably.
The attack was over twelve hours underway.
Right now the Yanks were being sucked up into
the gigantic trap. Perhaps even the crash through
the Buffalo area had been started. And he was a
helpless prisoner.
Putting his hands against the floor for a
brace, he slowly pushed himself up onto his feet.
Teeth clenched, he turned toward the still
American, and saluted stiffly.
"It should have been me, instead of you,
Yank," he said. "But I pledge you my word, fellow,
I'll kill him myself."
And then an ocean of misery swept over him,
he stumbled over beside his silent friend and
slumped down on the floor.
Suddenly the smack of the door bolt
snapping back penetrated his senses. Then a
moment later he saw the door swinging inward,
cautiously.
A gun muzzle was poked around the edge,
and then above it the cruel face of a guard. Thick
lips grinned and the door was flung wide. Beyond
the burly form of the guard, Dusty saw the man he
hated with all the intensity of his entire being--the
Black Hawk.
Motioning the guard to step aside and let him
pass, the Hawk advanced toward Dusty and stood
staring down at him. A second later his eyes
flickered toward Agent 10, and his smile
broadened.
"He had his choice, to talk or die."
The rasping voice made Dusty's blood boil,
but a strange silent warning that rippled through
him forced him to remain motionless. He slumped
back against the wall and relaxed completely.
"That's something your breed could never
understand!" he said evenly. "But get this, Black
Hawk. That man was my friend. I've promised him
your life, and I never go back on a promise!"
Perhaps it was the utter lack of boastfulness
in the Yank's tone, or perhaps it was the
determination that gleamed deep in his eyes--but
at any rate the Hawk's ugly face paled for the
fraction of a second. Then he threw back his head
and roared with laughter.
"A threat and a promise, eh?" he snorted.
Then bending close, "And how do you plan to
keep your promise when in the matter of a few
hours you, too, will be dead? Did you think that
because you talked, I'm going to let you go free?
You, who have annoyed me so much?"
In spite of himself, Dusty sat up straight.
"What the hell do you mean, I talked?" he
thundered.
The other pointed toward the dead man.
"Did he not tell you?" he asked. Then
answered his own question. "But no, he had not
regained consciousness then. Of course you
talked, Captain. There is no longer anything for
you to tell me."
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Dusty grinned at him scornfully.
"That line won't work!" he bit off. "I wouldn't
tell you the time, and neither you nor your whole
rotten gang could ever make me."
The Hawk smiled. "Did you not know that a
man in a semi-conscious, delirious state of mind
quite often babbles out things that under normal
conditions he would keep to himself?
"Well, Captain, that is exactly what you did.
Yes, the guard who struck you with his gun will be
rewarded well."
Dusty struggled to his feet and half fell
against the wall. Fighting to keep himself up, he
glared at the man.
"You lie!" he bellowed.
The Hawk, the gloating expression on his
face proving he was thoroughly enjoying himself,
watched the Yank's determined efforts to remain
on his feet.
"No!" he suddenly spat out. "You told me
what I wanted to know. You wildly cursed yourself
for not having sent word to your G.H.Q. when you
had the chance!"
Like the thunder of doom the man's words
beat against Dusty's whirling brain.
The Hawk saw the bitter chagrin on the
Yanks face, and his own became almost inhuman
in its expression of insane triumph.
"For your efforts," he said, "you deserve a
reward. You are the only American who knows of
our great plan to crush your country. All the others
who knew are now dead.
"And so, Captain, I shall let you live long
enough to watch our final and lasting triumph. As
my reluctant guest you will fly with me and
witness the doom of your country. Come!"
For an instant Dusty hesitated. Desire to go
down fighting right then and there swept over him.
He swayed crazily on his feet. And then, as the
Hawk's gun suddenly popped into view, he went
deadly calm and grinned inwardly as a crazy idea
flashed through his brain. A moment later he
nodded, and put one bracing hand against the
wall.
"Okay," he mumbled. "Okay. But don't
rush--I'm-- all in. I give up--you win. Hell!"
Hating himself for it, he forced a whimpering
groan off his lips. The Hawk sneered and took
hold of his arm.
"When it is too late," he mocked as they went
through the door, "the fool gets a little sense in his
head!"
Dusty made no answer. Eyes narrowed
against a brilliant sunshine that greeted bun, and
lungs sucking in cool fresh air, he stumbled
forward like a drunken man, letting his weight sag
on the other's arm.
Guiding his charge to the right, the Hawk
started along behind the line of hangars. Still
faking a state of near collapse, Dusty cast his
eyes furtively about. An instant later his heart
leaped as he saw the guard who had entered the
prison block with the Hawk, salute stiffly and run
on ahead toward the tail of a Black attack plane
that was just visible beyond the corner of the end
hangar.
And a few moments later Dusty had a feeling
of exultation as he saw that the field was
practically deserted. At least there were no
mechanics within a hundred yards of them.
One last final play in this game of death. The
odds were all against him. But, hell, he couldn't
lose anything except his own life, now. And his life
wouldn't be worth living, if he muffed this last
chance.
Breathing hoarsely, he tripped over his own
feet, fell down on one knee, then struggled up
with a sobbing moan.
"Wait--wait please!" he choked out, letting
his body pivot slowly around. "Let me--get my
breath--a second."
The Hawk stopped and sneered at him.
"So the courageous one has broken at last?"
he grated.
"Sorry," mumbled Dusty as he shot a quick
look toward the attack plane. "God--my chest
hurts so!"
He raised a hand to his chest and groaned.
The Black's eyes left his face and looked down.
And in that instant Dusty staked his last bet
against the Grim Reaper.
Every ounce of his strength left in him, he put
into his right hand that shot out and grasped the
Hawk's gun wrist. In the same instant he whipped
up his right knee to the man's stomach.
The Black snarled and tried to jerk back, but
the snarl was lost in a grunt of pain as Dusty's
knee found its mark and his other hand twisted
the gun free. The next instant he had the gun
jammed against the Hawk's ribs.
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"Now, you dance," he husked savagely. "I'm
itching to do this--for Agent 10. I promised him,
you know. A nice little slug ripping through your
rotten hide. They tell me that a bullet in the
stomach hurts like hell. Want to find out?"
"You'll die for this!"
The words were hissed off cruel lips that
were now trembling in stark fear. And fear shone
in the sunken, black eyes.
"Maybe I will," said Dusty, crowding close, so
it would look as though the other still supported
him. "But you'll go first. Nothing can stop me from
slapping a slug into your guts.
"Now, listen, we're going over to that ship.
Keep close to me--like this. Feel the gun right
smack against you? And when we get close to the
ship, order that guard of yours to the other end of
the hangar line. And do it in English, get me? In
English! So help me --one dizzy word or sign and
you get it. And, that is a promise!"
The Hawk tried desperately to sneer. But the
look in Dusty's eyes checked the attempt. The
Black was looking into eyes of death, and he
knew it. For one second more he hesitated, then
he wilted as he seemed to sense Dusty's finger
tightening on the trigger. Slowly he started toward
the end hangar.
"You will die for this!" he got out from
between grinding teeth.
"Then I'll be seeing you," Dusty grunted,
sticking close to him.
Eyes alert for any untoward movement, the
Yank forced the Hawk down to the end of the
hangar line. His heart was thumping madly, and
his hand gripping the gun was clammy.
Each split second was an eternity of hellish
waiting for an expectant voice to cry out in back of
him, or Black soldiers to come running around the
corner of the hangar. If either happened, he had
no idea what he would do. He only knew that no
matter what might happen to him, the Black Hawk
would breathe his last breath this side of hell.
Fifty feet from the plane--forty feet! Dusty
felt the Hawk's body stiffen. He dug the gun
muzzle into the man's ribs.
"Remember!" he breathed out the corner of
his mouth. "You get it first. A hot slug where it will
hurt the most!"
Faking a slight stumble, Dusty lurched
against the Hawk and made him walk around the
tail of the plane, so that the fuselage came
between him and the guard. Through slitted eyes
he saw the guard watching them intently. There
was a puzzled expression on the man's face.
Dusty jabbed the gun muzzle deeper, and half
turned so that the guard could not see his lips.
"Order him away!" he breathed softly, eyes
riveted on the Hawk's face. "Order him away--in
English!"
For a split second heaven and earth seemed
to stand still. And Dusty held his breath. If the
Hawk refused--
"Go to my quarters, and wait for me!"
The Hawk had spoken! Dusty stood rigid,
gun jammed in the Black's ribs, and eyes glued to
his ugly face. Behind him he heard heels click,
then footsteps on the concrete tarmac.
For one second Dusty took a quick look out
the corner of his eye.
The guard was thirty yards down the tarmac,
walking sidewise, face turned toward them.
"Stand still!" he grated as the Hawk's body
trembled with helpless rage. "For your sake, I
hope the boy friend doesn't get curious. Guess
the English order surprised him. Well, don't let
him come back. I could get you both--easy!"
The Hawk muttered something under his
breath, and his arms pinned helpless by Dusty's
fake collapse position jerked spasmodically. But
the Yank only grinned and pulled him over to
where the cockpit domed up and hid them both
from the guard.
Then Dusty released his hold, stepped back,
but kept the gun trained on the Hawk. Then,
shooting a quick side glance at the double
cockpit, he shook his head and grunted.
"Nope," he said, as though talking to himself.
"Can't waste the time. I was going to let you be
my guest. But I can't chance it. So open that door.
I said, open that cockpit door!"
Face twisted with rage, the Black reached
out and jerked open the door. Dusty took a step
toward it, then stopped and fixed agate eyes on
the man. His hand gripping the gun went white at
the knuckles.
"I think I'll keep that promise now!" he said
tightly. "It wouldn't be murder. Killing a rotten rat
isn't murder."
The Hawk's eyes went glassy, and his jaw
sagged. Dusty eyed him scornfully, and moved
the gun an inch or so nearer. But something
inside of him refused to let him pull the trigger.
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42
Besides a shot might bring others over on the
run--and he couldn't risk a general fight right now.
He cursed softly.
"Nope, I think I'll give you a break this time!"
he snapped. "You can live a while and tell that
guard who socked me, just what a clout on the
head feels like!"
As the last rushed off his tongue, he swung
the gun up and put every bit of his weight behind
the blow. The Hawk, who was heaving a sigh of
relief, saw the gun slicing up too late. It caught
him just behind the right ear.
Stiff as a ramrod he started over backward,
but Dusty grabbed him and let him fall across the
lower wing of the ship. Then, making sure that the
man's feet and legs would look as though he were
lounging against a strut, he slipped into the cabin
cockpit and closed the door. His trained eyes
swept over the mass of strangely marked
instruments, and for an instant he frowned in
perplexity. But almost immediately he found the
gadgets he wanted; opened the throttle, snapped
up the ignition switch, and jammed his foot down
on the electric starter.
A second or two of hellish tension dragged
by, then the foreign engine, cowled in the nose,
caught and roared into full-throated life. Slapping
off the wheel brakes, Dusty breathed a prayer and
heeled the throttle all the way open. As the plane
leaped forward he saw the Hawk's unconscious
figure go sweeping off onto the ground, and then
it was lost to view.
"Don't worry!" he thundered into the howl of
the engine. "I'll be back to keep my promise!"
Fifty yards out on the field the wheels
cleared, sank back onto the ground, and then
cleared again. Faintly he heard the savage bark of
ground-pit guns, and the sharp twang as unseen
wasps ricocheted off the metal fuselage.
The Hawk's body had been seen, and the
field crew was trying to cut the Yank off. Eyes
agate, body hunched over the stick, he poked the
ship skyward and held his breath as he went,
charging through a hail of whining death.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HELL TRAP
UP, UP, UP HE WENT, THE HOLLOW steel
prop clawing frantically at the air, and the engine
straining every nut and bolt to drive to even
greater speed. He did not level off until he was
lost in a cloud bank. And only then, so that he
could get his compass bearings and veer around
toward the south.
Till now the joy of escape had been
uppermost in his mind, but as he oozed up
through the cloud bank and into clear air again,
fingers of ice clutched at his heart anew, and his
mouth went dry and burning.
His way was free, yes. And there was a stout
ship under him. But between him and home was a
smoking, flaming wall of war. The southern
horizon was completely blanketed out by gas and
smoke-screen curtains.
And darting and twisting through them were
countless ships of both Black and American
forces. Through them he would be forced to fly.
The Blacks first, and then through a swarm of his
own countrymen.
Even as he debated the chances of flying
around them to the east or the west, he saw three
Black Darts cut away from a dogfight and swing
around toward him.
His guess was as good as the truth. He knew
it, and his heart sank. The field staff on the
Hawk's drome had already radioed his escape.
And now the Hawk's brood were closing in to cut
down the conqueror of their leader.
"What did you expect--a free ride home?"
The sudden sound of his voice startled him,
then steadied him, firm as a rock. He tore his
eyes from the onrushing ships for a second,
looked at the trigger trips on the stick and grinned.
The Blacks and the Yanks had at least one thing
in common--they both fired their guns the same
way.
A second later he reached out his free hand
to the radio panel, spun the wave length knob,
and clamped the phones over his head. The result
made the grin on his face disappear altogether.
A high-keyed hum in the phones told him that
he was in a static-jammed area. For reasons he
didn't know, but could perfectly well guess, the
Blacks had static-jammed their side of the lines,
after sending the warning ahead.
"That's that!" he grunted. "It's through you
go, kid. And hope for luck on the other side!"
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43
Deliberately allowing the Black ships to get in
close, he held his plane on a level, dead-on
course, until the others were almost on top of him.
Then, as their pointed noses began to spit twin
streams of jetting flame, he thumped rudder to the
right, jammed on opposite rudder almost
immediately and pulled the stick back into his
stomach.
The Blacks, expecting a tricky zoom attack
from beneath, pulled out to the side. Before they
realized what was happening, Dusty was plunging
into the cloud bank, engine wide open. Like a
bullet he went through it, and out of it into clear
air. But even then he didn't pull out.
Engine thundering, wings virtually groaning in
protest again the excess strain, he held the ship
dead-on for the ground.
The altimeter needle on the dash slid like the
second hand of a watch. Four thousand, three
thousand, two thousand--one thousand!
Below, scattered groups of Black soldiers
stared up in utter amazement at some pilot who
couldn't possibly avoid plunging headlong into the
ground. Four hundred feet, and still diving. That
man was mad, crazy--or was he dead?
Such must have been the thoughts of those
bewildered Blacks. But that steel-clawed eagle at
the stick was neither mad nor dead. Instinct had
led him to the one way out, a wild, hedge-hopping
race southward, and he was taking it at peak
speed.
High above him, three Black pilots twisted
their ships, seeking a glimpse of their prey who
had dodged into the clouds, waiting for him to
show himself, and die. And then too late, they
realized that they had been tricked again.
Far below them, hugging the tree tops, miles
ahead, was their prey. As Dusty jerked his head
around and looked up, he saw them slide into V
formation and climb up through the cloud bank.
As he turned front again there was a happy
grin on his wan and blood-drawn face. So far, so
good. Twenty minutes and an equal amount of
luck, and he'd be on the American side.
It was less than twenty minutes--twelve and
a half to be exact. But to him it was a lifetime
spent in hell. A hell made up of roaring guns,
seething flame and heavy enveloping gas clouds.
But he did not flinch for one instant. It was a
gauntlet of life and death, and the fire of the
fighter within him flared up with an all-consuming
intensity. A race against time--
The attack on the Z-10 area had been
started twelve hours ahead. Was the attack on
the Buffalo area and New York underway now?
Plunging through flaming air, he fought
desperately with himself as to where he should
land and spread the alarm.
Time meant everything. He had wasted all he
could afford to. It might even be too late now.
Beyond this hell of smoke and flame, and
singing shells that made his ship rock and buck as
they whammed by, were American troops. But
what good would it be to tell them of the great
danger at Buffalo and New York? They had
enough danger on their hands, right where they
were.
It was the reinforcements rushing up that he
must head off. He must stop that great doomed
army that was being sucked up into a gigantic
trap. Once they were up there--
He banished the rest from his brain as he
went charging out of the curtain of purple and red
hell, and over Yank-occupied ground.
Beneath his wings, American gunners were
hurling steel death into the Black's defenses, and
the ground literally crawled with puppet tanks
going forward in front of infantry waves. A great
grotesque fighting machine charging head-on into
another machine equally grotesque in
appearance.
It was not until he was several miles back of
the first wave that he saw human faces. The
thousands going into the battle had been hidden
by gas masks and flame suits. And behind them,
thousands more were preparing to take their
places.
Gripped by the spell of the horrible scene
that seemed to spread out to the four horizons,
Dusty was unable to jerk himself out of it until a
shower of steel from American guns slashed up at
him.
He had forgotten what minutes before he had
fully expected. Americans--his comrades in
arms--were blazing away at what they believed to
be an enemy plane.
And a second later the telltale tac-a-tac-tac
from above, drummed against his ears. As he
glanced up and saw the four Yank pursuits piling
down, guns flaming, he shot out his free hand and
turned up full volume of the radio.
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Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
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44
"I'm Ayres!" he bellowed into the transmitter.
"Captain Ayres ... a Yank. Lead me to the nearest
main area H.Q. Which way?"
The phones crackled.
"Like hell! You can't fool us. Land in that field
a mile south."
In blind desperation Dusty banged his free
fist against the side of the cockpit.
"I am Ayres . . . Captain Ayres, you dumbell .
. . for God's sake, the nearest main area H.Q.
quick! It's important!"
For an answer, a savage burst of fire cut
across the nose of Dusty's plane.
"That's a last warning!" the phones barked.
"You can't get away with it. Land, I'm telling you.
My fingers are getting itchy!"
Dusty groaned, and for one wild instant he
elected to take a chance and drive through this
bunch of nitwits.
But as they closed in around him, he killed
the urge. They'd never let him get through--not
that bunch, whoever they were. He didn't
recognize their markings. Nope, damnit, it was
best to land.
Jerking the throttle back, he sent the ship
sliding down toward an infantry camp, close to the
field the strange pilot had indicated and as the
plane slid down, he spun the wave length knob
furiously.
"Washington ... Washington H.Q.... Captain
Ayres calling!"
But his only answer was a sharp crackling in
the phones. The escorting pursuits were on his
wave length, and he couldn't get through to
Washington.
And then, before he could plead with them to
get off, his wheels touched and he braked to a
savage stop.
Slamming open the door he leaped out and
ran headlong for the leading pursuit floating down.
As it rolled to a stop, and the cockpit cowling was
slid back, he leaped up on the fuselage step and
grabbed a wide-eyed, and thoroughly
dumbfounded lieutenant.
"Now, damn you!" he roared. "Out of this
ship ... I'm taking it for a while!"
The other continued to gape at him.
"My God!" he finally blurted out. "You are
Captain Ayres. But--but we heard that you were
dead. It came over the radio. And you're hurt,
Captain!"
Dusty curled his fingers in the man's tunic
and jerked him up.
"Out!" he roared. "I'm in a hurry! Where's the
main area H.Q.? Speak up, man--speak up!"
The other virtually fell out of his ship,
assisted considerably by Dusty.
"Listen, that's my ship, Captain!" he gulped.
"I'm responsible for it. And there isn't any main
area H.Q. It's a mobile unit attack. And I--"
"Here, what the devil's all this about?"
Dusty turned to stare into the puffing red face
of an infantry general. Behind him trailed a few
staff johnnies.
"I'm General Conklin!" he wheezed as he
came to a halt. "What happened to you?"
"You can help me, sir," Dusty cut him off
excitedly. "I've got to get word through to G.H.Q.
This attack here is a fake. The Blacks are
planning to smash through the Buffalo area--
maybe they've started already. And you'll all be
trapped!"
"What?" the other roared at him. "You call
this a fake attack? You damn fool, who are you
anyway?"
"Captain Ayres!" the pilot told him. "And for
God's sake, sir, help me to get through to G.H.Q.
The troops coming north must be stopped. The
Buffalo area, and--"
"Funny!" the general said. "We were in the
Buffalo area twelve hours ago, and it was as quiet
as could be. Anyway, you can't get G.H.Q. now.
The whole General Staff is on its way up here by
special train."
Dusty saluted.
"Thank you, sir. Excuse me--I'm in a hurry."
"Here, wait a minute! Where the devil are
you going? I say, Captain?"
But Dusty wasn't listening. Before any of
them could bat an eyelash, he leaped into the
plane and rammed the throttle wide open. A cloud
of dirt-filled prop-wash swept them all off their
feet.
And as they swore and dug at their half
blinded eyes, Dusty pulled the ship clear and went
screaming up into the air.
Slamming around past the other Yank ships
that were now floating in to land, he cut sharp to
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45
the south and gave the engine every drop of hop
juice it could take.
"Can't get G.H.Q. now, eh?" he roared
savagely. "Well, we'll damned well find about
that!"
As the last ripped off his lips he snapped up
the radio panel switch and turned the wave length
knob to the S.O.S. Emergency reading. Then
slapping the phones over his head, he grabbed up
the transmitter.
"General Staff train, en route!" he shouted.
"Calling General Staff train, en route. Important.
Give me your position at once. This is Captain
Ayres calling from the air. My map reading
position approximately J-34. Give me your
position. I have important information. Emergency
. . . emergency . . . emergency!"
With baited breath he glued his eyes to the
signal light on the instrument board. It seemed as
though he died a thousand deaths before it finally
blinked, and a voice spoke in the phones.
"Orders of commanding general! All stations
will remain off this wave length for thirty minutes.
Until then make all reports to your unit
commander!"
Gritting his teeth, Dusty stepped up the
volume.
"This is Captain Ayres!" he bellowed. "I've
got to contact General Staff. If you can't listen in,
tell me where in hell you are!"
With tantalizing monotony the voice in the
earphones droned back at him.
"Repeating order of commanding general. All
stations will keep off this wave length for . . . "
"Shut up and listen to me!" howled Dusty.
"My God, do you want to lose the damned war?"
". . . make all reports to your unit
commander. Signing off."
With a groan the pilot leaned back against
the head rest, and glared into space. Then
suddenly he sat up straight and turned the dial
knob to another reading.
"Calling commanding officer of Buffalo Area!
Calling commanding officer of Buffalo Area ... on
wave length 2, 7, 8. Please plug in on me at once
... it's important!"
Seconds dragged by, became one minute,
then two. Voice trembling with rage, Dusty
repeated his call three times. Halfway through the
fourth time the red light blinked and a booming
voice roared in the phones, "Wave length 2, 7, 8
... get the devil off the air! You're jamming up
everything. This is Major Trapp, General Staff
adjutant speaking! Get off, 2, 7, 8 ... and stay off!"
"Like hell I will!" roared Dusty and stepped
transmission volume up to peak. "This is Captain
Ayres. I must talk with you. It's important!"
"Captain Ayres?" exploded the phones.
"You're crazy. Ayres is dead. Now, by God get
off, before you get into trouble."
The light winked out.
"Of all the damned, fat-headed nitwits!"
Dusty thundered.
Reaching out his free hand, he snapped off
the set switch.
"Okay, okay," he muttered grimly. "Have it
your way. But, I'm still going to find you. I started
this thing, and by God I'll finish it!"
Sweeping down below a thin cloud layer, he
checked his position on the roller map on the
dash, and then started a wide, zigzag course
south, down the heart of New Hampshire and
across the Massachusetts line.
But every mile he flew was a mile of raging
chagrin. Below him the might of America's fighting
forces were sweeping northward. Every rail-line
was clogged with one-way troop and equipment
traffic.
And it was the same all along the network of
broad highways. Which of those countless troop
trains contained the General Staff? The more he
peered down at them the more helpless seemed
his task.
And then, suddenly, he sat bolt upright in the
seat. Off to his right, and slightly northwest of
Worcester, he saw several troop trains easing into
sidings, and leaving the main line clear.
Snatching up his binoculars, he trained them
on the main line and followed it south. A minute
later a shout of joy burst from his lips.
Just south of the Massachusetts line a three-
car armored train was speeding northward at
breakneck speed. One look and he knew it to be
the General Staff train. It was getting the right of
way, while the fighting forces waited in sidings for
it to go by.
Sticking the nose of his plane down, Dusty
headed right for it like a thunderbolt out of the
blue. He met it just north of Springfield. Swooping
low he throttled to its speed and buzzed back and
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forth across the heavily armored roof. And as he
did he snapped on the radio.
"This is Ayres again!" he yelled. "The Blacks
are going to attack at ..."
The last was choked off as a gun turret just
back of the streamlined nose of the train spat
jetting flame at him. With a curse he dodged to
the side then cut down so that he was racing
forward on a level with the steel-framed, bullet-
proof windows. Slamming back the cockpit cowl
he half raised himself from the seat and waved
frantically at the dimly outlined faces inside the
windows.
"The Blacks!" he shouted. "The Blacks are
going to attack at Buffalo. It's a trick--a trick! For
God's sake stop the general movement north. I
tell you, you'll be swamped!"
And the answer he got was a double blast of
machine-gun fire from the two ends of the train.
An instinctive movement on the controls and a
pilot's luck was all that saved him from getting a
shower of steel in his face. Cursing and shouting,
he zoomed up and tore forward along the track.
Ten miles north, his blazing eyes found what
they had been seeking--a grade crossing that
was wide enough, and without gates.
"By God, you boneheads, will you listen to
me yet?" he grated, and swung out in a wide turn.
Cutting the throttle, he swung back just over
the highway. Then with a steady hand he eased
the ship down foot by foot.
It was a tricky job as both sides of the
highway were lined with tall trees. But his
calculating eyes had seen the three-foot
clearance on each end of his wingtips, and to him
three feet were as good as three miles.
Lower and lower he sank, gaging his descent
to a fine hair. At the crossing a flagman was doing
all sorts of acrobatics to attract his attention, and
to the south he heard the faint scream of the staff
train's siren. But he paid no attention to either.
Every part of him was concentrated on making a
perfect dead-stick landing.
And then, finally, his wheels touched fifteen
feet from the crossing. Stick all the way back to
hold the tail down, he let the plane roll forward
until it was right smack in the middle of the
crossing. Then he thumped down on the brake
pedals, and stopped the roll dead.
"You damned fool. You damned fool! Do you
want to wreck it? There's a staff train coming. Get
this thing out of here."
The flagman had climbed up on the fuselage
step, and was screaming words at him through
frothing lips. With a quick motion, Dusty flung him
off and legged out. The flagman was beside
himself with rage.
"You'll wreck the staff train. You'll wreck it--"
Dusty clapped a hand over the man's mouth
and pulled him off the crossing.
"I hope to hell I do, if they don't stop!" he
snapped. "Look out--here she comes!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PURPLE TORNADO
ITS METAL SIDES AND ROOF GLEAMING,
the Staff train poked its streamlined snout around
a bend half a mile away and came rushing down
the track. For several hellish seconds Dusty held
his breath in fear and dread. Were the damned
fools going to chance being derailed and plow
right through?
His heart like a lump of ice in his chest, he
kept one hand over the fuming, gurgling flagman's
mouth, and glued his eyes to the train. On it
rushed, a steel-clad juggernaut on wheels. It
wasn't going to stop! It was going right--
Suddenly, air brakes screeched horribly. But
to Dusty's ears it was music. Swaying crazily, the
train slackened its plunging speed foot by foot.
Wheels ground on the rails, and coupling joints
clanged and banged together. And finally, its
snout not more than twenty yards from the
crossing, the train came to a dead stop.
Seconds later all hell broke loose. Doors and
windows banged open and a swarm of O.D. clad
figures, headed by the grease smeared train
crew, came pounding down to the crossing. The
air was filled with a hundred curses, and shouted
questions.
For a moment Dusty was buried in a swirling
tangle of arms and clutching hands. Eventually;
the roaring voice of Colonel Marberry blasted
loudest in Dusty's ears.
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"Good God--Ayres! I told you, General. I
didn't believe it. Ayres, this is General Cummings,
Chief of Staff!"
A big, white-mustached man with blazing
eyes confronted Dusty.
"What's the meaning of this, Captain? Was
that you blocking out wave length? Was--?"
Something snapped in Dusty's brain. He
grabbed the general by the tunic lapels and shook
him vigorously.
"Shut up, sir, and listen to me! The Z-10 area
attack is a fake. A trick to draw you all up north,
so that the Blacks can crash through at Buffalo--
and at New York by sea. I--"
"Wait a minute--stop!" the senior officer
thundered "Major Trapp, have the crew pull the
plane off the track. Colonel Marberry, come with
me to my car and we'll hear what Ayres has to
say. I'll give the order to proceed later."
Turning his back on them, the general
stamped down the train side to his car. Dusty
followed at his heels. Colonel Marberry and
several others brought up the rear. And it was not
until they were all seated in the car compartment
that the general finally unsealed Dusty's lips.
"Now, Captain," he said, fixing him with
steely eyes, "tell us what this is all about. A
supposedly dead man coming to life, rather
amazes me, to say the least."
Steadying his temper, Dusty sucked in a
deep breath and started to talk, slowly. He told
them step by step everything that had happened.
But as he talked his anger mounted, and before
long he was leaning over the table and pounding
home his truths with blood-smeared fists.
"And all of that is fact, sir!" he finished up.
"You're riding right smack into the biggest trap
ever set. Half a dozen brave men have already
died, trying to check the thing; and you owe it to
them, to believe me. It's truth, sir. And I've been
trying to tell it to you for over an hour, but you
wouldn't stay on my wave length!"
Completely exhausted, the pilot sank back
on his seat, eyes still clamped on the general's
face. For a moment heavy silence settled over the
compartment room. Eventually, General
Cummings coughed throatily and scowled at his
folded hands.
"I would believe you, Captain," he said
testily. "Except for a few facts that we happen to
know ourselves. The Navy Department reports
that the entire Black North Atlantic fleet is moving
down on the main coast. And our coast patrol
reports not a single Black ship has been sighted
within a hundred miles of New York.
"The fact that we've been keeping in touch
with navy maneuvers, and the fact that we had
received a definite report from Second Infantry
that you and General Billings had been killed by
spies, explains why we did not let you contact us.
But, aside from that, my reports from our entire
line state that there is action in only the Z-10 area!
And--"
Dusty suddenly leaned forward.
"When did you get them?"
"When?" the other echoed angrily. "Why,
early this morning. When I ordered our general
reserves to move north. The exact time, I believe,
was about four o'clock."
As the general finished, Dusty shot out his
hand and grabbed his wrist.
"Look, sir!" Dusty cut him off, pointing at the
man's wrist watch. "It's four in the afternoon.
Twelve hours! Don't you see?"
The general glared at him.
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"This!" Dusty shouted at him. "The Z-10
attack was started twelve hours ahead of time.
Why, I don't know. Maybe the Blacks got anxious.
Or maybe that army moving southwest behind the
lines got to the Buffalo area ahead of time.
"But, there were to be twenty-four hours
between the two attacks. And the end of that
twenty-four hours is right now! The Buffalo attack
is starting--now!"
The senior officer started to speak, then
clapped his lips shut. Colonel Marberry leaned
toward him.
"I agree with Captain Ayres, sir," he said
quietly. "I would suggest that we contact Buffalo
and New York and find out what they have to
report."
"Check!" said Dusty before he could stop
himself.
General Cummings' face went beet red.
"Young man," he thundered, "I order you to
keep a more civil tongue in your head! I haven't
liked your tone from the beginning!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the pilot replied evenly. "But, I
can't help thinking of the men I saw die for their
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country! I earnestly beg of you to do as Colonel
Marberry suggests."
It seemed to Dusty that every man in the
room held his breath, while the general scowled
some more at his folded hands. Then, presently,
he nodded his head sadly.
"Very well," he got out gruffly. "It won't take
up much more of our time. Lieutenant Allen, use
my official code signal and contact both New York
and Buffalo for immediate reports!"
A slim, flaxen-haired officer said, "Very well,
sir," and disappeared through a door leading to an
adjoining compartment.
A moment later they all heard the faint sound
of his voice speaking into the transmitter. Dusty
sat rigid, eyes fixed on the table, a sense of bitter
weariness was creeping over him. He felt as
though he were beating his fists helplessly against
a steel wall.
Through fire and death he had come with his
warning. And now, here at the end of his trail, he
had run into a stubborn "Medal-rack" who had to
be virtually bulldozed into the smallest bit of
action. What a person to put in command of the
lives of four million fighting men! Hell!
Then, suddenly, his brooding revery was
shattered as Lieutenant Allen came dashing into
the compartment.
"General!" he called. "Captain Ayres must be
right. I can't get any reply from New York. And
Buffalo's signals faded out just as they began to
talk. Something has happened on both ends."
Of all those in the room, General Cummings
was the least excited. In fact, he seemed just a
trifle disappointed that something queer had
happened. He glared at his officers.
"Probably only temporary," he said almost
sullenly. Then to Allen, "You tried relaying my
orders?"
The young officer nodded.
"Yes, sir, via Cleveland, also Pittsburgh. But
neither has checked back with me. I--"
The man stopped short as sound came from
the speaker unit beyond the half-closed door.
"Cleveland calling General Staff, enroute, on
2, 7, 8. Unable to contact Buffalo area station as
ordered. Something seems wrong at their end.
Will keep trying and check back to you as soon as
contact has been made."
There was the click of the Cleveland station
signing off. But before anyone in the compartment
could speak, the radio made sound again.
"Pittsburgh calling General Staff, enroute on
2, 7, 8. No reply from Buffalo or New York.
Unusual oscillation, but no signals. Check back in
five minutes. Going off."
"They've started! And now they've static-
jammed both sections from the air. They could do
it easily with the equipment I saw headed that
way!"
Dusty paused long enough to catch his
breath.
"Now, sir, will you stop the general
movement north?" he pleaded. "There's the proof
you need!"
General Cummings shook a finger at him.
"Any more of your insubordination. Captain,"
he thundered, "and I'll have you put under arrest!
Proof you say? I certainly demand more proof
than that, before I'll change the maneuvers of
over two million men and arms!"
"Then may I make a suggestion, sir?" asked
Dusty. And before the other could reply, "I can
make the Buffalo area in less than an hour--and
get proof. If the attack has started, or is about to,
I'll use your official code signal and warn every
ground station within range. And you, picking up
my signals, can warn all those my set may not
reach. It's our one chance, sir!"
"He's absolutely right, sir!" cut in Colonel
Marberry, before Cummings had a chance to
open his thin-lipped mouth. "We can't afford to
take further risks. The danger's too great. As an
appointed member of the General Staff I insist
that we make sure immediately, the way Captain
Ayres suggests. Here, Captain, I'll help you get
away."
As the colonel dragged him out of the
compartment, Dusty had the flash impression of
General Cumming's jaw slowly sagging open, and
the faint pleased grin on the face of each of the
others. Then he was running along the tracks
toward his plane, Colonel Marberry's hurried
words drifting back to him.
"I believe you, Ayres, and I'm going to risk
my neck and career because I do. The general is
of the old school, and difficult at times. But this
time we've got to chance the consequences."
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The officer paused for breath and didn't
speak again until Dusty was legging into the
plane.
"Sure you can make it?" he asked anxiously.
"You look ready to flop right now. Perhaps--"
"Flop now, sir?" the pilot echoed happily.
"Hell, I'm just getting started. Sir, I told the general
that I'd send out a warning. Well, if the attack has
started I won't be sending out any warning. I'll be
ordering the reinforcements back, and using the
General Staff code signal! Hell, I should have
done it long ago, instead of wasting time reporting
to him!"
"Right!" the other nodded as Dusty reached
for the throttle. "Good luck, lad, And by the way,
most of Staff is different. It was his idea to drive
away a pesky aviator whom he thought was
strafing his train. None of us ordered the men to
fire on you."
"Don't worry, sir," Dusty grinned, "I knew that
he'd pulled that stunt as soon as I met him.
S'long."
A quick glance forward to make sure that the
members of the train crew had stepped aside, and
Dusty rammed the throttle wide open. Like a shot
from a gun the plane leaped forward, bounced
across the rough crossing, and went careening off
to the right.
The pilot ruddered it clear and lifted it into the
air. As he went up through the narrow space
between the bordering trees, a branch slapped
against the right wing. But with his speed, and
with a final upward lunge, he roared into the open.
Leveling off at an even thousand feet, he set
a dead-on course for the Buffalo area, hunched
himself over the stick and strained his eyes
ahead. Low hanging clouds obscured his view for
several minutes.
But as the plane thundered west across the
Massachusetts-New York line he thought he saw
a queer, dull haze low down on the horizon. And
as he raced toward it the haze seemed to spread
out, and become almost jet-black in color. A great
black mushroom growing bigger and bigger with
each passing moment.
And then, as he tore through a thin
intervening cloud layer, his eyes met a sight that
chilled him to the core. The mushroom was not
black, as it had seemed through the cloud layer. It
was deep purple in color, and no longer
mushroom in shape.
In fact, Dusty's first impression was that a
tornado of purple dust was rushing down across
the narrow strip of Canadian ground between
Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. Though still several
miles from it, he could see it swirl and curl upward
from an ever widening base, sweeping forward.
A few moments later he saw balls of fire rain
down on the district of Buffalo.
Like magic the entire surrounding area
became blanketed by a great sea of flame and
rolling smoke.
Outward and outward it rolled, enveloping
everything in its path until it seemed as though
Erie and Ontario were one great lake, covered
over in the middle by that swirling, purple tornado.
Then, as Dusty saw the tiny figures of
soldiers and civilians stumble and stagger beyond
the fringe of the cloud, and collapse in writhing
heaps, he knew that the blow had been struck.
The Blacks had launched a preliminary gas
barrage, and would soon start hammering through
the thin line of American defenses.
But as he reached out his free hand to the
radio panel, the heavens above him suddenly
trembled with the savage yammer of machine-gun
fire, and a swarm of jet black wings came tearing
down.
Death was not through yet. Now, at this final
moment it was still reaching out to slam him down
into hopeless defeat.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BLACK DEATH
FOR ONE SPLIT SECOND, DUSTY SAT
spellbound, staring up at the great vulture
cavalcade thundering down. His ship seemed to
wince as singing steel tore through it, and his
hand reaching for the radio-dial jerked instinctively
back to his gun trips. With a curse he snapped
back to the radio panel.
"Tell them first," he bellowed at himself. "Tell
them, and scrap these rats later!"
In one continuous movement he flicked up
the switch, spun the dial to S.O.S. Emergency
wave length, and grabbed the transmitter. He
opened his mouth to yell, but the words died in his
throat. A high-keyed hum in the earphones made
him groan instead. Glancing above he saw six
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powerful radio ships sweeping into position to
form a wave length blackout curtain between
himself and the eastern seaboard. He was in a
dead area as long as they were between him and
the coast.
Forgetting the radio for a moment he cut
sharply toward the north. At his heels a flight of
sleek black Darts spat streams of jetting flame.
His whole body burned with a savage desire to
whirl around and give them a dose of their own
medicine.
"Stick to your job!" he grated harshly. "Don't
go off half-cocked."
Every nerve and muscle tensed, he held his
mad headlong course to the north. Out the corner
of his eye he could see the purple tornado eating
its way deeper and deeper into New York State.
Helpless against overwhelming odds, the
American troops were slowly giving ground.
Fighting every inch of the way, and hundreds of
them, to say nothing of the civilian population,
were dropping in their tracks as that swirling hell
overtook them. He didn't dare look back because
he knew that he could not run away if he did. The
sight would send him charging down to their aid.
But his one job at the moment was to
summon stronger aid than he alone could render.
His weapon was the radio, not his twin Brownings
in the nose, or the bombs in the cockpit chutes.
His voice streaking through the air along radio
waves was the one salvation of a trapped army.
Grimly holding his ship on its course, he
turned in the seat, glanced back, and grunted. It
was now, or never.
Bracing himself he hauled back on the stick
with all his might. The craft trembled, then went
screaming up in a gigantic loop.
Three-quarters of the way over he kicked
hard on the rudder, slammed the stick to the
opposite corner, and jabbed both trigger trips.
Guns spitting flame, the ship careened around in
a lop-sided half roll.
Two Black Darts, closing in, went skidding
away from the steel shower. Two more tried to
hang on their props for a belly shot, but Dusty
was now in a thundering dive to the southeast,
and the hail of steel missed his wings by a good
twenty yards.
The frantic maneuvers of the small pursuit
planes didn't interest him a bit. His eyes were now
glued to the radio planes high overhead. And as
he saw them try to swing around in front of him a
shout of triumph spilled off his lips, and he cut his
dive sharp east.
Tricked out of position, the radio planes were
unable to keep up with him, and he went roaring
past them and out of the dead area. Oblivious to
the shower of death from pursuing guns, he
grabbed the transmitter tube once more, and
turned up full volume.
S.O.S. Emergency . . . all American stations!
Official Staff Code Signal G.P.H. Official Staff
Code Signal G.P.H. Stand by for orders. Stand by
for orders . . . "
Almost instantly the red light on the panel
began to blink, and his heart leaped with joy. He
was in clear air, and his signals were being
received.
"Enemy breaking through Buffalo area!" he
shouted wildly. "All units enroute to Z-10 change
course and head southwest to cut off enemy
attack in B-30 zone. Equip for gas and germ
resistance. Enemy forces at maximum strength.
All air units not engaged in actual combat
elsewhere divide into groups for supporting
ground defense at both B-30 zone and New York.
"Emergency . . . bear southeast of Buffalo
area as it is now in the hands of enemy. Prepare
to check attack in B-30 zone. Relay this order to
adjoining units. Official Staff Code signal G.P.H.
Official Staff Code signal G.P.H. Repeating order,
five minute intervals!"
The earphones crackled with check-backs
from a dozen different ground stations. So many
in fact were clammering over the emergency
wave length that Dusty was unable to pick out a
single signal.
But that didn't matter. His alarm had been
received, and right now a steel fist would be
swinging around to smash into that purple tornado
behind him. But--and the thought chilled the
blood in his veins--would that steel fist smash
down too late?
For an instant he was inclined to change
course and go back to the stricken area. But with
an effort he curbed the idea. His job was not yet
finished. He must still keep in clear air and repeat
his order at five minute intervals. He--
A shower of steel-jacketed lead ripping
through his right wingtip crystalized the decision.
Behind him a skyful of black wings were trying to
blast him out of the air. His lips slid back in a tight
grin, and he went zigzagging crazily toward the
east coast.
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Five times he repeated his order. Struggling
desperately to keep his ship clear of the spitting
death which was licking out at him from three
sides, he became a mechanical talking machine.
And in his ears rattled the checkback signals from
countless ground stations.
Then, suddenly, as he plunged through a
section of heavy rain clouds and roared out into
clear air, he choked off the order he was
repeating, and shouted in alarm. For there, twenty
miles ahead of him, was the city of New York--in
flames!
At first glance it appeared like a gigantic
torch of purple smoke and fire etched against the
broad expanse of the Atlantic. But as he
thundered toward it he was able to see the scene
in detail.
Racing up and down the Hudson river front,
their knife-like bows cleaving the churning waters,
was a swarm of queer-looking armored
motorboats. Great streams of crimson flame
gushed out from a swivel nozzle mounted atop
the cabin of each craft, and rainbows of dripping
fire arced over burning ships and the piers and
splashed against the buildings far beyond.
Overhead, supporting the strange fire-
raiders, were whole squadrons of Black germ
bombers and gas attack ships, pouring down their
particular brand of hell upon the great city. And at
lower altitude, sleek dart monoplanes were slicing
down in between the towering buildings and
spraying the panic-stricken multitudes with singing
steel.
Like so many rats caught in a gigantic trap,
civilians and home defense troops were being
swallowed up by the seething red whirlpool. Every
bridge across the East, Hudson and Harlem rivers
had been reduced to twisted and crumpled metal
that sagged down into frothing waters, running red
with human blood.
Their main garrison troops having gone
north, the Yank defenders were helpless against
the steel tide. Coast batteries on Long Island and
the Jersey shore were firing at almost point blank
range at the fire spitting armored serpents
streaking up and down the waterfront.
But only about one out of every hundred
shells found its mark, and even then the damage
wrought was slight.
A ring of anti-aircraft batteries about the city
was desperately pumping death into the black-
winged hordes above. And hopelessly bucking
that hell on high were but two Yank pursuit
squadrons from the eastern area. Just a handful
of valiant eagles hurling themselves over the brink
of certain doom.
Stunned by the terrible spectacle, Dusty sat
rigid. New York, the greatest city on the face of
the globe, was slowly being hammered into its
own blood-soaked dust. The entire metropolitan
area was doomed, unless--
God, where were the Yank forces? Where
were the air units he Had ordered to this zone?
Had all the fools gone to the Buffalo area? That
was a crash-through by land--troops could handle
that. Planes were needed against this attack--
bombers, pursuits, attacks, gas ships--
everything!
With a wild shout, Dusty slammed his ship
into a thundering dive, and grabbed up the
transmitter.
"Stick with 'em, Yanks!" he bellowed. "Tear
into 'em--we have help on the way! Stick it out
until the reinforcements come! Give 'em hell,
fellows!"
Whether the handful of Yank eagles heard
him he didn't know, nor did he try to find out.
Cursing he went streaking down into the yawning
vortex of the red whirlpool.
His engine thundered to protest, and the
wings groaned and trembled as a thousand steel
trip-hammers smacked against them. The glass
cockpit cowl melted into a million stinging splinters
that whipped into the skin of his hands and face.
A lurch of the ship sent him crashing over
against the cockpit side and ripped open the
blood-caked gash on his forehead. Blood
streamed down into his smarting eyes and half
blinded him.
But his body was too engulfed by rage to
sense any pain. Thumbs jammed against the
trigger trips, he booted and slammed the plane
about the smoking sky.
A black shadow raced across his sights, and
instantly became a ball of fire. A third, a fourth, a
fifth--
Sane reason and caution tossed over the
side, Dusty charged into anything with black
wings. A thousand times over, death missed him
by inches.
The metal covering of his wings became
transformed into bullet-made sieves, and strips of
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the cowling ripped off and went skidding into the
blood-red oblivion.
But he didn't notice, for he no longer had any
thought for himself or his plane. He had no
thought of anything except the twisting, turning,
fire-spitting vultures all about him. Time became
lost in that seething inferno. It was simply fight,
fight, fight until he dropped.
And then, after what seemed like eternity
dragged by, a human voice roared in the
earphones.
". . . and take circle formation. Bombers go
down on the east. Attack ships from the south.
Group numbers 12,4,16..."
As the voice droned on in the earphones,
Dusty jerked himself up straight and stared
dazedly about. He blinked hard, wiped blood
drops from his eyes and looked again.
The heavens had become hammed with
squadron after squadron of American planes. In
line formation, group formation, and in V's, they
were charging down upon the black-winged
hordes. Bombers were swooping low over the
rivers and dropping, roaring down upon the flame
throwers.
And as Dusty jerked his eyes seaward he
saw a squadron of Yank destroyers cutting the
swells toward the entrance of the Narrows. Far
behind them, low down on the northeastern
horizon, was rolling smoke from the funnels of the
bigger and slower ships.
Exultantly Dusty tore out to the rim of the
fight and swung in along side a pursuit unit. But it
wasn't until then that he saw the markings on the
lead ship. He snatched up the transmitter.
"Hey, Major Drake. Hey, gang . . . it's me . . .
Dusty . . . Dusty Ayres. Let's go to town!"
The lead ship swung around on wingtip, and
Dusty's phones crackled.
"You, son? Well I'll be--"
"Look out, Major--look out!" called Dusty, as
he saw a Black dart come zooming up from
below. "A ship--under you!"
As he yelled the warning he slammed his
plane down and cut in under the C.O. Instantly
the Black ship fell over on wing and started to cut
away.
But as it went over, Dusty saw the face of
the pilot behind the glass cowling. It was the Black
Hawk!
Taken by surprise, he gaped blankly for a
moment, and then as he saw Major Drake's plane
go tearing down on the Black, he became a
cursing, raving mad man.
"Major Drake--Drake!" he thundered into the
transmitter. "I want to get that rat! I've been laying
for him, sir!"
Like a meteor, he swept down past the
C.O.'s plane and pounced on the Black, both
guns yammering out a hymn of pent-up hate.
Through red-filmed eyes he saw the Hawk turn in
the seat and look back.
A split second later the Black plane cut
sharply to the left and went streaking out across
Long Island. Dusty laughed harshly and tore after
him.
"No you don't!" he bellowed. "This time I deal
the cards. Here, blast you, this is for Billings!"
Hot steel from his guns slashed into the tail
of the other ship. It lurched crazily to the right.
Like a flash Dusty was on it again.
"And this for Major Walker!"
Desperately the Hawk tried to skid clear, but
Dusty's singing steel caught him square
amidships. The Black plane fell over on wing.
Then it spun around in a dime turn and charged
straight for him, guns spitting flame.
"Come on, come on, you killer!" roared the
Yank, jabbing the trips again. "This is for
Strickland, and the radio sergeant. And some
more for Major Shelton!"
Oblivious to the blazing fire from the other's
guns, Dusty held his ship dead-on for the whirling
prop. His eyes gleamed like balls of fire as he saw
his bursts crash into the other plane.
It was the Hawk who finally weakened and
cut away to avoid a mid-air crash. And that
moment was the supreme climax of Dusty's entire
life. He flung his ship down to the right. Then up
and over he went--and down like a streak of light.
"And the last for Agent 10," he thundered.
"For Agent 10--this and this--and this!"
Unable to slice clear of the charging plane,
the Hawk nosed over and raced for the ground.
But, even that was useless.
Clinging to the tail of the Black ship, Dusty
poured burst into it. And then, when the Black
ship was but a bare hundred feet off the ground,
the right wing let go, and the plane went cart-
wheeling crazily off to the right. Seconds later it
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became lost to view in a great cloud of smoky
dust, as it hit on the edge of a small field.
Hardly conscious of what he was doing, the
Yank slid down and landed close to the heap of
crumpled wreckage. Stumbling out of the cockpit
he staggered over and started tearing the
wreckage aside.
"I'm making sure that you're dead," he
grated. "I promised him--and by God, I'll keep
that promise, I'll--"
He choked off the rest, as he pulled a slab of
cowling clear and saw the figure pinned under the
engine. Black eyes, seething flames in their
depths, glared up at him. Cruel lips moved and a
string of strange words screamed against Dusty's
eardrums.
"The curse of my race is now upon you," the
Hawk muttered savagely. "It will follow you to a
swine's grave! It--"
The man stopped talking, and coughed
raspingly. Blood spilled from his lips, and then
with a spasmodic jerk he arched over backwards
and went limp.
Holding onto a part of the crumpled wing for
support, Dusty stared down into the cruel face for
a long minute. Then slowly he raised his eyes
skyward.
"I promised you, pal," he said thickly. "The
Black Hawk's dead!"
And then as he started back toward his
plane, the last thread of strength that had kept
him going snapped. His knees buckled, and he
collapsed on the ground.
Bracing his palms against the ground, he
tried to get up. But his arms slipped out and he
crashed down on his face as a great cloud of
darkness engulfed him.
When he opened his eyes again he was
swathed in bandages, and between the sheets of
a hospital cot. Dully he stared at a blur just above
him. Presently the blur cleared and became the
grinning face of Major Drake. The C.O.'s lips were
moving.
"How's it going, son?"
Dusty blinked, started to grin, then gasped. "I
remember now--the attack! God, did they--
Where's my clothes?"
The C.O. pushed him back on the pillow.
"Steady. You can't fight a one-man war every
day in the week. Now, hold everything, and don't
worry. What happened last week doesn't matter
now. We--"
"Last week?" choked Dusty.
The other nodded.
"Eight days ago, to be exact. You were used
up pretty well, you know. But, as I started to say,
thanks to you we checked them at Buffalo with
only a small loss of ground. And though a lot of
New York is in ruins, it's still ours--and we can
build it up.
"Incidentally, we gave their navy a neat
beating, too. Part of it had been standing off
shore, waiting for those damned flame-tossing
motorboats to come back, and our boys trapped
them."
The C.O. paused, and his face went grave.
"I pray to God we never have another close
call like that again," he murmured. "If it hadn't
been for you, if you hadn't spread the alarm--I
don't even want to think of it!"
Dusty grated.
"I just had a couple of lucky breaks, sir," he
said.
"That's what you say," grinned the other.
"Don't worry, the whole country knows now what
you went through, and did. And by the way, while
you've been out you've been raving about the
death of Agent 10. Well, you're wrong, Ayres.
Agent 10 is alive."
Dusty stared at him in dumbfounded
amazement.
"What?" he shouted. "Why, you're crazy!
Agent 10 is dead--I saw him die. He--"
"No," the other shook his head. "Maybe you
thought so, but he didn't. He escaped, got through
the lines and is now in a Washington hospital
recuperating."
The pilot heaved a happy sigh. "That is good
news!" he breathed.
Drake grinned. "And here's some more good
news," he added. "There are a flock of medals
waiting for you. And--"
The C.O. paused and his grin widened.
"And General Cummings won't be the man
who will pin them on your tunic."
The pilot shot him a questioning look. "What
do you mean by that, sir?"
"Well," replied the other, shrugging his
shoulders and pursing his lips, "stories get
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dusty Ayres and His Battle Birds TM
PURPLE TORNADO September, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New MediaTM
www.vintagelibrary.com
54
around, you know. And I have it from very good
authority that General Cummings is being relieved
of General Staff command.
"It seems that the War Department objects to
a commanding general who has to have a fire-
eating Air Force captain tell him how to run his
army. Get what I mean?"
Dusty chuckled softly.
"I get it," he grunted. "And you can send
those medals to the War Department, with my
compliments!"
THE END
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