The weave of the coiled hawsers could be clearly seen. Men were staring up with frightened faces. Grim-visaged gunners began to shoot at the perfect target, the .50-caliber weapons spilling a stream of glittering brass to the decks, hosing lead and flame into the sky.
Down, down, down sped the dive bomber.
Lucky sighted on the after hatch. He did not dare glance forward at Dixie.
The zigzagging steamer rolled hastily out of the way but sure hands on rudders and stick placed the quarterdeck again between the two front cylinders without faltering.
Noise hammered the world. A bolt of lightning with thunder as well.
Flynn knew when to pull. The instant he felt the ship start out of the dive. Holding the releases, light as a feather in his seat, ready to pull and yell all at the same time, Flynn saw them go lower than three thousand.
Two thousand! One thousand!
He could count the buttons on Bullard’s vest. Would Lucky stay in the groove forever?
Five hundred, four hundred, almost as low as the pennants, almost level with the scared sailor in the crow’s-nest.
Lucky knew he could not afford to miss. At seven hundred feet per second, the timing would have to be perfection itself.
He eased the stick. Flynn yanked the releases.
Thrown like pebbles from a sling, five bombs threw themselves at the triangle made by the three machine guns.
Lucky yelled and hauled out. The fist which was split air banged against the wings and fuselage. Waves licked for the withdrawn wheels.
Lucky kept the stick back. Like a pole-vaulter, he shot skyward again, straight up.
Over his shoulder and down, he saw flame and smoke and steel fly up from the stern of the freighter, to hang in a cloud as suddenly lazy as it had been violent.
Over his shoulder and down, he saw flame and smoke and steel fly up from the stern of the freighter, to hang in a cloud as suddenly lazy as it had been violent.
It was impossible to see anything through that haze now. Impossible to tell if he had sunk the vessel outright.
Flynn yelled, “The plane!”
The same instant, metal sang, pierced by stabbing lead.
Lucky went over on his back in a loop, upending the sea completely, mingling sunset with smoke, waves with wings.
Upside down, looking straight ahead, he saw the gray ship.
The wing guns let drive. The pursuit dodged frantically to the left.
Lucky rolled and banked and fastened the other plane’s tail through the gleaming disc of the prop.
Wing guns started up again.
“Cold meat!” shouted Flynn.
The dive bomber overrode the other plane, slapped it with the shadow of wings. Lucky looked down at Smith, but Smith did not look up.
Even in that fraction of a second, Lucky saw that Smith would no longer contemplate shooting pilots in the back. There was very little left of Smith’s head.
The gray ship slopped over on one wing, straightened out and then whipstalled. With engine still on, it began its final dive, describing a corkscrew.
Lucky circled and presently the gray ship hit with a geyser of spray, almost instantly gone below the surface of the waves.
But Lucky had become aware of a certain clanking sound in his ship’s engine, a certain smell.
Either Smith or a machine gunner on the steamer had got the bomber’s gas tanks.
A fine spray of the fluid was whipping back from the left wing like a veil, and before Lucky could say anything to Flynn, the engine quit entirely and left them in a sibilant void.
“Here,” said Lucky, “is where we find out if one of these things will float.”
“Might as well add that to the tests. She hangs together in a dive, she bombs perfect and she bested a pursuit job, so we may as well know all about it,” said Flynn.
Lucky felt out the best gliding angle and started their descent. After the steady shriek of wind and the bellow of the engine and the racketing blast of guns, the quiet was very welcome.
The molten, scarlet sun was down, leaving a twilight haze. Lucky tried not to think about Dixie. He was not sure that all the bombs had gone where Flynn had tried to place them. A dull dread filled him.
The freighter was very much afloat, though it was easily seen that she would cruise no further until a dry dock had repaired her stern. Steering engines, possibly the shafts themselves, were blown away.
Floating with a high bow and showing no signs of sinking, the vessel rolled a little to the south of the spot where Lucky was landing.
Without letting down his wheels, choosing to take a crest and try it crosswind, Lucky settled into the spray.…
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dixie’s Fate
TOSSED alternately from tip to trough, the bomber lurched drunkenly, shipping water, nose up, then tail up, with the black combers cleaning their fangs for the final bite.
Lucky had little hope of ever knowing Dixie’s fate. His own was definite.
“Sorry?” he asked Flynn.
“We got them, didn’t we? They won’t go noplace now.”
“Look, what’s that?” said Lucky.
He slid back his hood and stood up in the giddy cockpit, salt spray biting at him.
A lifeboat from the freighter was coming in toward them. A man who held a submachine gun yelled, “Take this line!”
Lucky was astounded, until he bethought himself that Bullard would hardly let a bomber go to waste in this shameful fashion.
The lifeboat, motor-driven, took the slowly sinking bomber in tow. Lucky did not think they would reach the bobbing hull of the vessel. But fate was being either kind or unkind, depending upon the reception.
They came abreast of the forward deck, and a boom with slings dangling was lowered down to them. Lucky and Flynn, getting very wet in the process, made the best of things and secured the ropes to the plane. The boom lifted away and in a moment the dripping wings were over the ship, swinging in toward the big, square hatch.
Bullard roared, “You’ll get yours, Martin—and you too, Flynn. No guys are going to— Hey, Svenson, you got that jury rudder rigged yet?”
“Yust about,” somebody said from the bridge.
Jury rudder? Then the ship could still proceed? They hadn’t stopped them? Lucky’s heart sank.
Men dragged him down from the cockpit and Bullard ranged up. But before Bullard said anything more, Dixie brushed him aside and threw her arms around Lucky.
“Get away from him,” cried Bullard, thrusting her aside.
Lucky saw Bullard’s face plainly for the first time. Bullard had a scratch which ran diagonally from his left eye to his thick mouth. Dixie turned to face him, and Bullard dodged.
“You got Smith, did you?” said Bullard. “And you tried to blow us out of the water, did you? Okay, Lucky Martin, you and Flynn stand over there against that bulkhead. I said stand over there!”
Lucky looked around him and saw no escape.
“Give me that Tommy gun,” snapped Bullard, yanking it out of the bosun’s hands. “Come on, you two. Snap it up!”
Dixie tried to speak. Flynn swallowed hard, staring at the weapon. Lucky promised himself a good crack at Bullard’s jaw before he went out.
“What’s that?” said the bosun.
A steady, even, drumming sound came faintly to them.
Lucky knew what it was. Bullard also knew. Savagely he sought to throw his targets into position. He had only one chance to squash the evidence.
Another sound came up on the port side.
“Ahoy! Ahoy the bridge! What the devil’s going on here?”
An instant later a deadly little hundred-and-sixty-five-footer swept up to the steamer’s rail. Gold braid and white caps and web-belted .45s came in a swift torrent over the side, as though the f
reighter had shipped a peculiarly lethal sea.
An officer, thrusting his way through the paralyzed seamen, confronted everybody in general. “Which is Martin?”
“I’m Martin.”
The officer sang out, “All right, Skipper. This is the ship!”
Bullard’s courage went out of him like hot air out of a balloon. He began to drool excuses and whimper and whine until even the Coast Guard was disgusted.
A big flying boat came down out of the darkness to look the situation over and then vanished into the west.
The Coast Guard lieutenant and his men rounded up all hands with speed and dispatch. They pried into the hold and found what the crates contained. They took a set of lines from the patrol ship and prepared to ride the night.
Later, in the steamer’s cabin, with all quiet and under control, Dixie and Lucky faced each other across the table. Because the lieutenant was there, drinking a cup of coffee, and because, after all, it’s against the rules for anyone connected with flying to show emotion of any kind, the two said their sentences with their eyes.
“Good job you did,” remarked the lieutenant breezily.
“You didn’t see it, did you?” said Lucky in surprise.
“Me? Oh, not me—I was in the radio room listening to Jenson. He’s the pilot of that flying boat that went over. When you started your dive, he picked you out by the sun on your wings. It was pretty low, you know. And he built altitude pretty fast and saw what you did, and he told us about it. We sent him out first thing, but he isn’t as fast as your plane. He spotted us to this place, staying a long way off while he did it, because he could hardly attack with a .45, you know.”
“Do you think,” said Dixie, “that Jenson might tell the Navy about it?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Then,” said Dixie, “then Lawson will know it did stay together.”
“You bet he will,” said Lucky.
“That was a swell scrap you had with that other ship,” said the lieutenant.
“There’s the evidence,” said Dixie.
“And we’ve got a hundred planes in the hold,” said Lucky, “all ready to peddle to the place where they belong. Dixie—”
“What?”
There was something of a silence, and then the lieutenant casually set his cup on the table and wandered away, just as though he had thought of something important which had to be done.
Story Preview
NOW that you’ve just ventured through one of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of The Lieutenant Takes the Sky. Join American pilot Mike Malloy, who enlisted in the French Foreign Legion only to get himself thrown into a Moroccan military jail for trying to swab a deck with a general’s aide. To get out of prison and clear his name, Malloy undertakes a suicide mission: to fly deep into enemy territory and find an alchemist’s book missing for 800 years, a discovery that may determine the destiny of a nation.
The Lieutenant
Takes the Sky
CAPTAIN MIKE MALLOY was conducted to the general’s office with great speed. Before the door, the files grounded their Lebels with a loud crash and the corporal threw the portal wide.
The people in the office turned. General LeRoi gave a start and scowled.
He had not expected his order to be so promptly carried out, and he had never imagined for an instant that Captain Mike Malloy of the French Air Service could be anything but neat. Just now, Mike was not at all polished. A week in jail had taken away all gloss. His beard was dark; his tunic was ripped from shoulder to waist, and the flapping cloth almost obscured his pilot’s wings; the bill of his dusty kepi was broken and, all in all, his condition yelled, “Dungeons!”
But for all that Mike was cool enough. He pushed his kepi to the back of his head and walked out of the guard file and into the office. He stopped before the general’s desk, looking neither right nor left.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“I did!” said LeRoi, white mustaches bristling and ruddy face scarlet. “You seem to be somewhat untidy.”
“No illusion about it,” said Mike. “Your observation is correct.”
LeRoi coughed and glared, and then gradually composed himself through necessity.
“Captain Malloy, I wish to introduce you to M’m’selle Lois DuGanne,” said the general.
Mike turned and then blushed for the wretchedness of his appearance. Lois DuGanne, a little bewildered, nodded to him and gave him a slight smile. Mike bowed but he did not lower his glance. She was a very lovely woman, all neat and crisp in delicate whites. Her eyes were blue and frank. Mike was spellbound.
The general coughed to distract Mike’s attention.
“And,” said LeRoi loudly, “I wish to present you to M. Delage, and his secretary, Henri Corvault.”
Mike turned to shake Delage’s hand. The man was patently important. His linen was expensive, and was cut on the pattern of most French politicians’. He was around forty, and there was a certain arresting quality about him which one could trace to his eyes. They were odd, those eyes, because it was impossible to tell their exact color.
Henri, the secretary, was too thin to throw a decent shadow. His head was too big for his body and his neck too small. He seemed to be a very timid echo of Delage.
“Captain Malloy,” said General LeRoi, “is the man I have been telling you about. He has just returned from scout duty and I apologize for his appearance. However, it has nothing to do with his competence. He knows every square inch of the Middle Atlas, having fought throughout the last campaign in that region, and he is one of our best pilots.”
Mike looked on in amazement and heard in astonishment such praise.
“In addition, we will send with you our Lieutenant Reynard, who is also an excellent pilot,” continued LeRoi. “I doubt you will suffer any inconveniences on your trip.”
Delage stood up. “General, I am very pleased at your generosity. I could have hoped for nothing more satisfactory.”
“M. Delage,” said the general, “it is with extreme pleasure that I am able to extend to you the courtesies of the French Army. It is little enough to do for such an important personage as yourself.”
They bowed to each other.
Miss DuGanne stood up. “And I too thank you, General.”
“M’m’selle,” said LeRoi, “while I regret your insistence upon accompanying the party into the Middle Atlas—which I assure you is no place for a lovely woman—I shall nevertheless do all in my power to aid you.”
Henri scuttled to the door and opened it for Delage. The personage bowed in the entrance to the general and then to Mike. “We shall see you in the morning, Captain.”
Miss DuGanne smiled at the two officers and withdrew.
When the door had closed, Mike looked with suspicion at LeRoi. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, it’s hardly the time for an expedition of a private sort—”
“Nobody asked your opinion,” snapped LeRoi, sitting down. “Why did they have to bring you here in that condition! If you could see yourself…!”
“Sir, I assure you that if I had had time, and if I had known, I would have presented another facet of my glittering self. But your guards are most abrupt and your jail… General, you should look into that jail.”
“None of your insolence, Malloy. You were brought here for one purpose and one purpose only. You can go to the bataillon pénal, as scheduled, or you can fly this party into the Middle Atlas. I give you that choice.”
Mike was suspicious. “By any chance, would the Middle Atlas trip be worse than the bataillon pénal?”
“Probably,” snapped LeRoi. “You know the conditions inland as well as I do. Berbers sniping at planes, strange troop movements, and the lid about to blow off all Moro
cco. I chose you because I would not order an officer on such duty—”
“You are ordering Lieutenant Reynard,” said Mike.
“Yes, Lieutenant Reynard. He has committed one too many murders in the name of espionage. As he cannot be censured for doing his duty, I can only send him on such a mission.”
Mike was very puzzled by now. “Sir, if it is going to be as bad as all that, how can you send such an important man as M. Delage into the interior—”
“I send him nowhere,” corrected LeRoi. “M. Delage is much less important than he himself thinks. He is a small-time politician in France, has some remote connection with the French Academy and, through ignorance, has selected this time to go searching for a book in the Middle Atlas.”
“A book?” said Mike.
“Yes. I understand that it is the girl’s idea. She is an American and, like you, seems to be crazy. The book is L’Aud, the only volume missing from the Karaouine University Library. It has been gone for eight hundred years, and was last in the possession of Sultan Ibn Tumart. I believe it contained an alchemical formula for the manufacture of gold from base metals. That is all pure bosh, but these three people are crazy to go on their trip, and they have asked the French Army to help them. Very well, help them we shall. But they will also help us.”
To find out more about The Lieutenant Takes the Sky and how you can obtain your copy, go to www.goldenagestories.com.
L. Ron Hubbard in the
Golden Age of
Pulp Fiction
In writing an adventure story
a writer has to know that he is adventuring
for a lot of people who cannot.
The writer has to take them here and there
about the globe and show them
excitement and love and realism.
As long as that writer is living the part of an
adventurer when he is hammering