CHAPTER XXXV.
THE THUNDERSTORM.
"WHERE's he making for?" asked the doctor.
Vaughan Whittinghame paid no apparent heed to the question. His eyesseemed riveted upon the small dark object against the crimson glowof the brief tropical sunset.
It was Dacres who answered Hambrough's query.
"I believe he's making a dash for the Galapagos Islands," he replied."It's a matter of six hundred and fifty odd miles."
"If the fellow had any sense he would keep on doubling," said Gerald."Quick as we are that craft can turn like a top. It would be like ahare dodging a hound."
"Don't send him any telepathic messages, Mr. Whittinghame," said thedoctor. "The sooner we nab him the better. I am beginning to see whata London theatre looks like again."
"Now, if you were a kinematograph operator you'd make your fortune,doctor," remarked Setchell.
The Captain half turned his head. One glance was enough. Theinconsequent conversation annoyed him. The rest of the officerspromptly subsided.
"Switch on, there," he ordered curtly.
The two powerful beams shot out into the now fast gathering gloom.Both were focussed upon the fugitive. The flying-boat looked as ifmade of silver, floating motionless in the air, for the "Meteor's"speed had been reduced till the relative rates of the two craft werepractically the same.
Had Captain Whittinghame wished he could have ordered the bow-gun tobe manned, and the result would be a foregone conclusion. Owing toengine trouble Durango's craft was capable of travelling only at thecomparatively slow rate of sixty miles an hour. At that speed theordnance of the "Meteor" could be brought into action. But thecaptain of the airship, apart from his desire to recover the stolenplans, was averse to taking life unless absolutely necessary. Hewould pursue the Mexican until the latter, through sheer exhaustionor inability on the part of his craft to keep running, would becompelled to surrender.
Onwards and onwards tore the two craft, the huge airship in pursuitof the midget aerial boat. Durango made no attempt to double. It washis only chance, and for some unknown reason he failed to availhimself of his loophole of escape.
The two Whittinghames, Dacres, and the doctor remained in the lowerfore observation room, their eyes fixed upon the apparentlystationary object upon which the two searchlights playedrelentlessly. Not a word was spoken. The rapt attention of thewatchers was centred upon their prey.
Presently Durango relinquished the steering-wheel, his place beingtaken by one of his Valderian companions. Stooping he drew a smallleather bag from one of the lockers, opened it and produced a bundleof papers.
For a few moments he paused irresolutely, alternately looking at thetied-up parcel of documents and at the relentless Dreadnought of theAir. Then, standing up and steadying himself against the furiousblast that whirled past the boat, he poised the packet.
A muttered ejaculation burst from Vaughan Whittinghame's lips. This,then, was to be the fate of the precious submarine plans, for suchthe documents undoubtedly were.
The Mexican was on the point of letting the packet fall when thesecond Valderian touched him on the shoulder and said something.Durango shook his head. Again the Valderian spoke, seemingly inremonstrance. Just then a vivid flash of lightning threw theboundless expanse of sea into strong relief.
A tropical storm was brewing. Although there was practically no windand the sea was as smooth as glass it was quite evident that the"Meteor" and her prey were heading towards the storm-centre. A glanceat the barometer showed Dacres that, allowing for the difference inaltitude when the instrument was last set, the mercury had droppednearly three-quarters of an inch in two hours.
Suddenly the helmsman of the flying-boat put the vertical rudder hardover. Round spun the craft like a top, tilting to a dangerous angleas she did so. The unexpected movement took Durango by surprise, andunable to retain his balance he sprawled ignominiously upon thefloor-boards. The precious plans slipped from his grasp.
As the fugitive boat swerved from her former course thequartermaster, running the port searchlight of the "Meteor," promptlyswung the giant beam in the hope of following the elusive craft. Theeffort was in vain. The object of the chase darted out of the path ofbrilliant light and was instantly swallowed up in the darkness.
"After searchlights, there!" ordered Captain Whittinghame on thetelephone. "Switch on and try to pick up the flying boat."
At the same time the "Meteor's" vertical rudders were put hard over,while the remaining propellers on the port side were set astern toassist in the more rapid manoeuvring of the airship.
Four searchlights swept the air in all directions. Yet although itseemed impossible that any object floating in space within the limitsof the beams could escape detection there were no signs of the craftcontaining Durango and his two companions.
"Perhaps, sir, she crumpled her planes when she turned," suggestedDacres.
"Quite possible," assented Captain Whittinghame. "In that case shehas a drop of nearly eight thousand feet before she hits the surfaceof the sea."
"Then, it will be useless to expect to recover the plans," said Dr.Hambrough.
"It does not matter so long as we know they are destroyed," repliedVaughan Whittinghame. "The Admiralty have others: the danger was thatthere was a possibility of this set getting into the hands of aforeign power. Provided----"
His remarks were cut short by a vivid flash of lightning that seemedto envelop completely the now practically stationary airship. Almostsimultaneously came an ear-splitting detonation. The whole fabric ofthe Dreadnought of the Air seemed to quiver.
Dacres, Hambrough, and Gerald Whittinghame looked at each other. Theyfully expected to find the "Meteor" rent amidships, falling with anever-increasing rapidity into the sea.
The Captain was the only man who seemed to ignore the sublime andappalling atmospheric conditions.
"Keep a look-out!" he exclaimed; "you're missing our only chance."
Flash succeeded flash with the utmost frequency. The "Meteor" wasevidently between two huge stores of electricity, for the clouds werenot releasing their super-charges to earth. The airship's best chanceof safety was to descend to within a few hundred feet of the sea.
Three ballonettes only were required to be emptied to allow the"Meteor" to drop rapidly, until the air, growing denser as shedescended, her vertical course would be automatically retarded andeventually stopped.
The seaward plunge was awe-inspiring. The airship was passing througha bank of clouds so dense that even the powerful searchlights were asuseless as candle lamps in a heavy London fog. Yet at about every tenseconds the veil of pitch dark vapour was pierced by flashes oflightning that left the crew blinking like owls suddenly transportedfrom the depths of a lightless cave to the dazzling brilliance of thenoonday sun.
Four thousand feet. The "Meteor" was still enveloped in clouds, butto add to the terrors of the situation fierce whirlwinds wereassailing her on all sides. In spite of her non-rigidity theunprecedented strain to which she was subjected threatened to breakher asunder amidships.
The Dreadnought of the Air was now utterly out of control. At onemoment her bows were pointing upwards at an angle of forty-fivedegrees and to the horizontal. At another she was plunging obliquelywith her nose downwards. She rolled like a barrel, and strained andwrithed like a human being in torment.
Elevating planes and vertical rudders were alike useless. The onlychance of escape was to drop vertically.
Staggering to the engine-room indicators the Captain ordered themotors to be switched off Now the motion was slightly less erratic.Hailstones the size of pigeons' eggs were falling upon her aluminiumdeck--not with the metallic clang that characterizes their fall onthe land, but with comparative lightness, for the airship was stillwithin a few hundred feet of the cloud in which the frozen rain-dropswere generated.
Two thousand feet. The "Meteor" was now regaining her normalstability. Her seaward descent was momentarily becoming slower. Shehad emerged from the rain-
cloud, and although the lightning stillplayed, the danger seemed to have passed.
Something had to be done to save the airship from violently alightingupon the water. Her present rate of retardation was insufficient.
"Telegraph for half speed ahead," ordered Captain Whittinghame. "Trimthe forward elevating planes there, doctor."
Back came the startling information from both the fore and aftermotor-rooms: the ignition had failed.
"Short circuit somewhere," muttered the Captain. "I'm not surprised.Recharge those three ballonettes, Dacres."
A thousand feet. With a succession of sharp hisses the ultra-hydrogenescaped from the cylinder in which it had been stored under pressureand re-entered the ballonettes. The crew could feel the sudden checkto the downward plunge, but in spite of the additional gas the"Meteor" was still falling.
The four searchlights were still running: two practically parallelbeams showing ahead and two astern. In the after motor-room--whencewere actuated the still intact propellers--Parsons was hard at worktrying to locate the source of the mischief. Could these motors bestarted in time the attraction due to gravity would yet be overcome.
Suddenly Gerald Whittinghame gave a shout and pointed towards thestarboard observation scuttle. Dacres was just in time to see anobject falling--falling with extraordinary irregularity. It wasDurango's flying-boat. She was describing a succession of "loops,"while her motors were still running.
In the path of the starboard searchlights' rays she appeared to checkher downward course; then lurching ahead made straight for the bowsof the "Meteor." Just as it seemed as if a collision were imminentthe wrecked craft dipped and passed into Cimmerian darkness.
"He's done for, by Jove!"
"What's that?" asked Captain Whittinghame, who had heard hisbrother's exclamation but had failed to see the reason for it.
"Durango--smashed up," reported Dacres.
Vaughan Whittinghame made no audible remark. H e realized that the"Meteor" herself was in peril. In the face of impending disaster oneis apt to banish thoughts of vengeance.
Two hundred feet. Dacres glanced at his watch and looked inquiringlyat his chief.
"Well?" asked the Captain laconically.
"We're hardly falling, sir," said the sub. "Our downward course isbeing greatly retarded----"
"You're right, by Jove!" exclaimed Whittinghame. "All the same, Iwish Parsons could get those motors to start."
His hopes were not to be realized for the present. With a barelyperceptible jar the airship alighted on the surface of the Pacific.Her searchlights played upon an unruffled expanse of calm water. Thestorm had been confined to the upper strata of the atmosphere.
"Heave out the sea-anchor in case it comes on to blow," orderedVaughan Whittinghame. "We're safe for the present. Mr. Dacres, willyou please go on deck and obtain a stellar observation? It will bedawn in half an hour; but I would like to ascertain our position incase we drive ashore before daybreak."
The sub hurried to carry out his orders. It was a relief, after beingcooped up in the confined atmosphere of the observation room of theheaving and pitching "Meteor," to breathe in the fresh night air.
The searchlights had now been switched off. The airship was floatingmotionless in a phosphorescent sea. Having taken the observationDacres was about to go below and work out his position when apeculiar swirl in the water about a hundred yards to starboardattracted his attention.
"Surely that's not a reef?" he asked himself. "I wish I had mynight-glasses."
Then came a quick succession of splashes. "Sharks--that's what it is.Or perhaps a swarm of threshers attacking a whale. A livelycommotion! I'll go below and get my binoculars."
"Anything in sight?" asked Captain Whittinghame, noticing Dacres'haste.
"Something splashing, sir; I'm just going to get my binoculars."
The two men made their way to the upper deck. The sub pointed in thedirection he had noticed the commotion, but all was now quiet. Acareful examination of the spot by the powerful night-glassesrevealed no sign of anything to account for the swirl of the water.
"Hark! What's that?" demanded Whittinghame.
"I heard nothing," replied Dacres.
"Could have sworn I heard a man's voice. Perhaps my senses areplaying me a trick."
"It may be the breeze, sir," suggested the sub, as a catspaw ruffledthe surface of the placid water.
"Of course. All the same, I'll have the searchlight trained on theplace."
For quite ten minutes the beams swung slowly to and fro, but nothingcould be seen beyond the ripples on the sea.
"There's a vessel approaching, sir," announced Dacres, who had beensweeping the horizon with his glasses. "I can just pick up her redand green lights. She's quite five miles off, I should think."
"She must have spotted our searchlight, and is altering her course toinvestigate. Pass the word for the searchlight to be switched off,Dacres. I don't think we need assistance, unless I'm very muchmistaken about Parson's capabilities."
"There's quite a decent breeze, sir," commented Dacres as he preparedto descend the companion ladder. "We must be making a fair drift."
"Not with that sea-anchor out," said Whittinghame.
"I don't know about that, sir; you see, we're floating light. I'llwork out our position, for I shouldn't be surprised if we aredrifting down upon the Galapagos."
Captain Whittinghame remained on deck. He was pondering over the fateof his rival, Reno Durango, and wondering whether he could safelyassert that the last of the tasks he had set out to perform had beensatisfactorily accomplished. He had witnesses ready to affirm on oaththat they had seen the Mexican's flying-boat being hurled todestruction. Could it unquestionably be taken for granted that thestolen plans of Submarine "M I" were no longer in existence to provea menace to the admittedly superior construction and organization ofthe British submarine service?
The rapid approach of the coming day disturbed Vaughan Whittinghame'sreveries.
The vessel whose navigation light Dacres had picked up had alteredher course and was steaming quite two miles to windward of thepractically helpless airship.
By the aid of his glasses the captain could see that she was a trampof about eight hundred tons, and in ballast, for she rose high out ofthe water, while the tips of her propeller blades could be seen amidthe smother of foam under her rudder-post. There was nothing abouther to enable Whittinghame to determine her nationality. Her singlefunnel was painted a dull black without any colouring bands.
Even as he looked the tramp starboarded her helm. The dawn hadlikewise revealed to her sleepy watch on deck the presence of thedisabled airship. She was on the point of steaming down in the hopeof earning a salvage job.
"No use, my friend," quoth Vaughan.
The next moment he burst into a hearty laugh, for the tramp began tocircle as if to resume her former course. The acceptance of hismuttered advice to a vessel a mile and a half away tickled his senseof humour.
"Hulloa! What is the move now, I wonder?" he exclaimed. He might wellevince curiosity, for instead of holding on to her former course,which was practically due north, the tramp was slowly turning dueeast. Even as he watched, Whittinghame could see that the cascade offoam under her rudder had vanished. She had stopped her engines.
Apparently the vessel was still carrying too much way, for again herpropellers churned up the froth, this time for less than half aminute. Men were hanging over her port side and lowering ropes.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Whittinghame aghast.