CHAPTER TWELVE
The plane skimmed over the ice for nearly half a mile, then shot upwardin a joyous goodbye to the little group on the ice.
Tim and Ralph smiled at each other. At last they were off the ice, inthe air, and started on the 2,200 mile flight over the roof of theworld--a flight that was to carry them across the heart of the Arctic,across areas never before seen by the eyes of man. Just what the hoursahead of them held in store they could only guess. Tim hoped that thetrip would reveal the age-old secret of the Arctic, whether a hiddencontinent existed in the land of ice and snow. Ralph hoped that theplane would carry them through to King's Bay, Spitzbergen, theirdestination.
The pilot kept the stick back until they reached 6,000 feet and thenleveled off on their course. The motor was running smoothly, even thoughthe thermometer outside the cockpit windows registered 40 degrees belowzero. Underneath them, their shadow was flitting over the rough, brokenice pack at 110 miles an hour. For two hours they roared steadilyonward, with only an occasional word, Ralph handling the stick and Timcarefully checking their course, for a variation of one degree wouldmake them miss Spitzbergen, scarcely more than a tiny dot of an islandon the other end of their long course.
They were far out on the Arctic ice pack and Tim kept a careful check ofhis charts while he scanned the rolling sea of ice beneath them fortraces of the fabled Arctic continent. At 6,000 feet they had avisibility of 200 miles and he secured some marvelous pictures. Foranother two hours they forged steadily ahead, conversation at a minimum,although Ralph chewed enthusiastically on a cud of gum.
Tim estimated that they were nearly 500 miles from Point Barrow whenthey sighted storm clouds far ahead. Great, rolling banks of clouds werepiling up over the horizon as the speedy little plane roared on itseastward flight. The air was growing colder and Ralph revved the motorup in an attempt to climb above the approaching storm, but fast thoughthe sleek, gray monoplane climbed, the clouds climbed faster, and,finally, with a shrug of his shoulders that meant more than words, Ralphglanced at his chart and compasses and headed into the storm. Snow andwind buffeted them and the compasses swung wildly as the plane gyratedin the air. For half an hour Ralph fought the controls, a half hour thatwas centuries long to Tim, who had staked everything on the success oftheir flight. The clouds thinned and they shot out again into clearweather. The storm had swung them nearly 50 miles further south thanthey had intended, and Ralph turned the plane northward again. Althoughthey were cutting across the heart of the Arctic, they would not passover the North Pole, since the only purpose of the flight was todiscover whether there was hitherto unknown land in the Arctic.
For hours they droned onward, both young adventurers busy at theirtasks. Mile after mile of ice, some of it smooth as glass, otherstretches rough and hummocked and sometimes shot with long streaks ofopen water, unfolded under their eyes. They were flying very high, upnearly 10,000 feet, and the visibility was unusually good. But stillthere was no land. Only ice and water and more ice. Tim snappedmagnificent panoramas of ice and snow that would thrill thousands ofnewspaper readers if they succeeded.
The cold was bitter but with the motor functioning perfectly neither Timnor Ralph noticed it. Once in a while they shifted positions to resttheir tensed bodies and their conversation was in shouted monosyllables.
Suddenly Tim's elbow went into Ralph's ribs and one heavily gloved handpointed to the hazy outlines of land far to their right. Ralph noddedand grinned.
"That's Grant land," shouted Tim. "Means we've passed over the heart ofthe Arctic without finding land. The big job's done. Now all we've gotto do is keep on until we reach Spitzbergen."
They had flown over the top of the world and definitely proved that thefabled Arctic continent was just that--a fable.
The northern end of Grant land rapidly assumed definite proportionswhile Tim completed his log of their flight over the heart of theArctic.
There was more open water below them now and the lines on Ralph's facedeepened, for a forced landing would mean sure disaster. Grant landslipped away beneath them as they pushed steadily eastward while far tothe south the mountains of Greenland were rearing their white-crestedheads.
Tim went back in the cabin to check up on their gasoline supply, forthey were still nearly 600 miles from Spitzbergen. He had just completedtesting the tanks when a shout from Ralph made him hurry back to thepilot. There was no need for words. Far ahead, probably 300 miles away,another storm was brewing.
Tim debated only a moment before he turned to his pilot.
"It's up to you, Ralph," he yelled in his companion's ear. "We can buckthe storm or turn back and land at Grant land. Plenty of game there tokeep us alive and if we can't get the plane off the ice again, we canwalk to the station of the Northwest Mounted Police at Bache peninsula."
"I'm not going to do any walking in this temperature," shouted Ralph."It's Spitzbergen or curtains for me," and he turned back to hiscontrols.
The next two hours were an agony of suspense for Tim and Ralph. Ahead ofthem the storm clouds loomed higher and higher and half an hour beforethey reached the storm area, the wind was teasing their plane. But therewas no turning around now; only straight ahead for their gas was too lowto risk a flight back to Grant land.
Into the heart of the storm they flew; both white faced and tense asthey faced the final ordeal of their great flight. The gale tossed theirplane through the clouds and driving snow beat on the wings and againstthe windows of the cabin. Both men were watching the clock on theinstrument board, with Tim making anxious trips to the gas tanks. Theirfuel supply was running dangerously low.
If only the storm would abate so they could get their bearings. The sameprayer was in the minds of both and whether it was an answer or flyer'sluck, the clouds lightened a few minutes later and during a lull in thestorm, Ralph sent the plane rocketing downward.
At the 1,000 foot level he checked their descent and through the nowthinly drifting snow they could discern a savage, broken line of cliffsrearing their heads above the ice pack. Further back were the outlinesof a mountain range.
Spitzbergen. Tim let out a shout of relief and Ralph gave the motor thegun in an attempt to find a suitable landing place before the stormclosed down again. They shot low over the coast line, but the clouds cutdown their visibility and it was impossible to see more than a mile inany direction. Ahead of them the mountains disappeared in the clouds.
Ralph circled desperately, motor thrumming wildly. Finally he found asmall, level snow field, well down in an ice valley. It was risky butwith the storm and the gas supply nearly exhausted, a landing was theonly thing. The pilot banked swiftly, cut his motor, straightened outand then drifted down on the narrow field. The skis touched the frozensnow, bounced once, twice, and then carried them smoothly forward. Theplane stopped under one wing of the little valley, well protected fromthe storm, which was closing down again.
Half paralyzed with cold and fatigue, Tim and Ralph forced themselvesout of the plane. Hastily, they examined the ship, then dove into thecabin for an axe, light steel stakes and ropes. In a short time they hadthe plane staked down securely and had slipped the heavy canvas cover ofthe heater over the motor. A portion of their precious fuel went to fillthe tank of the heater for if the oil in the motor froze their chancesof getting into the air again would vanish.
Back in the cabin of the plane they warmed themselves over their alcoholstoves while outside the wind and snow raged at the man-made craft whichhad slipped through their fingers. Tim opened their supply kit and theymunched chocolate and biscuits and topped it off with malted milks madefrom melted ice. There had been little conversation, but now that thestrain of the long flight was over and they were on land again, theirlips were unsealed and they discussed the trips and their prospects atsome length.
"Storm sounds like a regular old norther and that may mean a week," wasone of Ralph's laconic contributions.
"I'm not worrying as much about the storm as I am
about our gas supply,"said Tim. "We've got enough concentrated food for a couple of weeks butwe may not have enough gas to get us any place when it does let up."
"I'm too tired to worry about where we are, gas, food or anything else,"and with that Ralph snuggled down in his flying clothes and was soonasleep. Tim adjusted the little stoves, made sure that there was properventilation in the cabin, and was in a sleep of exhaustion in a fewminutes.
How long they slept neither one knew for when they awoke the clock onthe instrument board had stopped, but the storm continued in fullstrength. The temperature was flirting with the 30 degree below zeromark but in the enclosed cabin they were comfortable. Despite theintense cold and the angry shrieks of the gale, Ralph insisted ondodging out to give the plane a "once over." With an inward feeling ofunrest, Tim watched his companion disappear in the storm.
Seconds were minutes and minutes were hours while Tim waited for Ralphto return. He was on the verge of despair when his chum stumbled throughthe swirling snow and pitched headlong onto the floor of the plane.Ralph was shouting and laughing idiotically. Something in his mind hadsnapped under the terrific strain of the flight and the pounding of thestorm.
Although Ralph continued to shout and once in a while screamed interror, Tim realized that he was not dangerous and that the trouble wasprobably a nervous one. He fixed a cup of hot chocolate and the steamingliquid calmed Ralph. Words and phrases became coherent and Tim wasastounded by the story he pieced together from his friend's ramblingaccount.
He couldn't doubt Ralph's story--there must be something behind hisincoherent narrative--something in the tale of terror that had drivenhim half mad. But Tim felt that the big thing was to get Ralph calm, togive his nervous system a chance to get back to normal.
For endless hours he sat with Ralph, soothing him as some shriek of thegale alarmed him. In spite of himself, Tim half expected some unknownterror to stalk out of the storm. Could he, too, be losing his senses?He pinched himself and tried to reason that everything was all right butback of all the common sense he could call upon was the fact that Ralphhad encountered something far beyond the ordinary. Whatever it was, Timintended to find out as soon as the storm let up.
Ralph finally sank into a deep sleep of nervous exhaustion and a shorttime later the storm abated. The wind died down rapidly and the snowceased its stinging tattoo against the plane. In the gray light Timcould see the dim outlines of the ice walls of the valley which hadshielded them from the full fury of the elements.
With Ralph asleep it was his chance to do a little exploring, and,making sure that he was ready for action, Tim slipped out of the cabin.He knew that whatever had terrorized Ralph must be close for the flyercouldn't have wandered far in the storm and found his way back.
Tim skirted the right side of the valley and was halfway back on theleft side when he came upon a good-sized opening in the ice wall of thevalley. For a moment he hesitated. Without doubt it was something behindthe black opening which had so upset Ralph. Determined to solve themystery, Tim looked at his rifle again, then started resolutely forward.Half a dozen paces inside the mouth of the cave he halted. There was nosound of life--nothing to indicate that some Arctic animal might bewaiting to pounce upon him.
Ahead Tim thought the darkness of the cave seemed lighter and he pushedcautiously on, testing every foot of the way for fear he might step insome fissure in the ice. The cave was growing lighter. He turned acorner and stopped involuntarily.
In spite of himself Tim exclaimed aloud at the horror and beauty of thescene that was unfolded before his eyes. Vikings--great giants ofmen--peered down at him from the prow of their galley, spears in hand,ready to impale him if he moved.
For a minute Tim was motionless. Then he realized that somehow, incenturies long gone, a Viking ship and crew had been caught by therelentless north and entombed by the ice. There they had been forcenturies and there they might remain keeping their ceaseless vigil,until the end of time, unless Tim carried the news of his discovery backwith him.
No wonder Ralph had been terrorized when he stumbled into the ice tomb.Light that filtered through crevices in the roof gave a weird, unnaturaleffect that would have shocked the nerves of even the steadiest man. AndRalph had already been under a terrific strain.
Tim stood reverently before the tomb of the men of old. It was evidentlythe forward watch looking down at him for the prow of the vessel was allthat was in view. The rest of the strange craft faded into the shadowsof the ice wall of the cave.
The men were physical giants--their crude leather jackets still buttonedclose around them to keep out the Arctic cold. Yellow hair peeped frombeneath helmets that fitted close to their heads. Long spears wereclutched in readiness for a foe that never came and eyes stared over Timand into eternity.
Tim spent an hour studying his discovery and mentally cataloging all thedetails. What stories he would have when they got back to civilization.In addition to proving that there was no continent in the Arctic, theyhad found a tomb of the Vikings.
He hastily ran back for his camera and exhausted the remainder of hissupply of plates taking time exposures in the tomb of the north.
Tim knew that if they could safely complete their flight, they wouldhave some of the greatest news pictures in years.
When he finally returned to the plane he resolved to say nothing abouthis discovery to Ralph when his chum awoke, rested and with his nervesback to normal, Tim was happy to see that his pilot recalled the wholeincident as a bad dream. Later he would tell him all about it.
While Ralph took off the hood of the heater and inspected the motor, Timbusied himself working out their location.
"Not as bad as it might be, Ralph," he called. "I've got it doped outwe're on an island just off the west coast of Spitzbergen. King's bay isabout 100 miles, air line, and we've got enough gas to make it."
"Plenty of gas, if we ever get off this excuse for a landing field,"grunted Ralph. He scrambled into the cabin, threw the switches, and Timswung the propeller. Again and again he leaned on the shiny stick andfinally the motor caught with a sputter, then a roar that shrouded theplane in a cloud of snow.
Tim hastily chopped away the lashings and helped Ralph swing the planearound so it headed toward the coast. Down the center of the valley thewind had swept the snow clean and hard, ideal for a takeoff if there wasroom enough to get the plane into the air before it crashed into the iceon the shore.
Ralph gave the motor a final test and motioned for Tim to climb in. Thesong of the motor deepened, reached a crescendo, and they started slowlyahead, gathering speed rapidly, and, just when it seemed that they wouldcatapult into the ice, they shot into the air. It was an old trick andRalph had worked it to perfection.
With the motor working perfectly despite their enforced stay in thevalley, they headed eastward and in little more than an hour wereskimming over King's Bay.
When they landed, both adventurers tumbled from their plane and racedfor the radio station where they made arrangements with the operator tosend their stories to the News as fast as they could be written.
Ralph wrote the story of their flight over the top of the world andfailure to discover land while Tim wove his discovery of the Viking tombinto a powerful, dramatic tale that within a few hours was to fascinatethe reading public of America.
The operator was still busy sending their copy over the ether waves whenhe stopped for a moment.
"There's a couple of messages for you," he said to Tim. "Shall I takethem?"
"Go ahead," replied the flying reporter.
The operator's fingers flew as he copied the messages and then handedthem to Tim.
The flying reporter's eyes dimmed and his hands shook as he read thefirst message, then re-read it to be sure that he was not mistaken.
"To Tim Murphy, Aviation Editor, Atkinson News, King's Bay, Spitzbergen.
Heartiest congratulations on wonderful flight and stories. Effective today you are aviation editor of News with Ra
lph as your assistant.
(Signed) George Carson, Managing Editor."
Tim's heart leaped with joy. Aviation editor of the News! The attainmentof his cherished goal.
With trembling fingers he took up the second sheet of flimsy. The wordsdanced before his eyes; they were almost like a message from anotherworld.
"Congratulations. Your flight was splendid. Am awaiting your return. No fun sky-larking when you aren't around to make things interesting. The score is still 50-50. The next time we meet will be the last for one of us.
THE SKY HAWK."