At the ends of the silver, all-metal cantilever wings gleamed navigation lights, and underneath the belly, protruding slightly, were the slots containing emergency landing flares.
The pilot's cockpit, just back of the rear-wing spar, contained a complete set of blind-flying instruments, including the Kreusi short-wave direction finder, along with all the other instruments to be seen in Bill's ships.
The rear cockpit was equipped with a complete set of duplicate controls and navigating instruments and a flexible .30-caliber Browning mounted on a track in the rear of the pit. A sliding inclosure of shatterproof glass covered both cockpits completely, with an arrangement that permitted the rear section to be telescoped forward out of the gunner's way when in action.
In the fuselage, immediately behind the rear cockpit, in a locker, was the usual Barnes emergency equipment including a small outboard motor, a .45-caliber Thompson submachine gun, one Springfield rifle with a telescopic sight, and a repeating shotgun. There was also a mattock, a hatchet, a keg of water and emergency rations.
The radio installation was easily accessible between the cockpits, with duplicate controls on each instrument panel. The headsets were adaptable for use as intercockpit phones.
The whole world seemed to be alive with thunder as old Scotty gunned the twin Barnes-Diesels in the nose of the big ship. Then, after checking the infrared ray telescope that permitted Bill to see through rain, fog and the dark of night, he cut the throttles and climbed out, his gray head nodding with satisfaction. He was as proud of the Lancer as Bill.
“She's sweet, boy,” he said. “She sings a lullaby when you open the throttles.”
“See if she can sing Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen, Scotty,” Bed Gleason suggested.
Some of the acute tenseness seemed to leave Bill Barnes' face as he joined the others laughing at Scotty's dignified discomfiture.
“All right, fellah,” Shorty Hassfurther said as he saw Bill's glance sweep anxiously about, taking in the, hangars, airplane factory, administration building, hospital and even the fire house. “Let's see you shove. And don't stick your homely mug around here again for three weeks.”
“That's right, boy,” Scotty said. “We'll take care of things. You'll keep in contact by radio and cable?”
“By radio and cable,” Bill said. “I gave Tony Lamport instructions this morning.” Tony Lamport, a black-eyed, Italian-American, was chief radio operator and superintendent of communications on Barnes Field.
Climbing into the forward cockpit, Bill suddenly asked, “Where is that brat. Sandy?”
Sandy had completely disappeared. But a moment later he came tearing around a comer of the administration building, his white helmet and overall napping. “I forgot my autograph book,” he panted as he scrambled into the after cockpit. “I'll probably have a chance to get some swell signatures in England.”
“Do you want my autograph before you go, Nimrod?” Shorty yelled.
“Sure, mister.” Sandy opened the little black book and thrust it over the side.
Shorty looked at him suspiciously, then wrote his name on the page Sandy had designated.
Sandy took the book back, tore out the page, folded it and threw it at Shorty. “See if they'll let you in the zoo with it!” he shouted. “Let her ride, Bill.”
Bill's hand came above his head in farewell salute as Tony Lamport gave the all clear signal. He released his brakes and the gleaming, silver ship rolled down the runway. At the center of the field, where the runways con verged, he tapped the rudder to kick it around into the wind and whipped it off the ground with his characteristic touch. The landing-gear light on the instrument panel gleamed as the amphibian gear folded completely into the fuselage and wings, and what had been a sesquiplane became ft silver bullet that was a monoplane.
II—S.O.S.
A LITTLE over three hours later Bill shot a “sun sight” as the tip of Cape Race flashed under the wings of the Lancer. He eased back his engines to about sixty-five per cent throttle, as a twenty-mile tail wind came out of the west.
Every half-hour he had been talking to Tony Lamport on Barnes Field giving him his position and the weather so that Tony could check it against the forecast. At the same time Tony took a radio bearing to crosscheck the position Bill gave him.
“You're going to run into a couple of high fronts pretty quick,” Tony told him as St. Johns faded away behind them.
“Okay, Tony,” Bill said. “I'm going to throw the controls to Sandy if he isn't asleep. Hell check with you.”
“BBX signing off,” Tony said.
“Want me to take her, Bill?” Sandy asked.
“Just a minute.” Bill checked their fuel consumption, climbed to fifteen thousand feet and increased their speed forty miles an hour to get maximum efficiency. “You'll get a wind shift before you strike that first cloud wall,” he then said. “If it gets bad wake me up. I'm going to sleep.”
“I've got her, Bill. I'll take radio bearings if it closes in. Sweet dreams.”
An hour later Sandy stuck the nose of the Lancer into a front, or cloud wall, that rose to twenty thousand feet from the surface of the Atlantic. Blade rain that was half hail beat down on the overhead hatches, and a sudden gale snatched them, buffeting the Lancer around like a cork on an angry sea.
For a moment Sandy debated about waking Bill; decided against it. From the dials on the instrument panel came a ghostly phosphorescent glow. He could barely see his navigation lights far out on the wing tips. A wrench and a twist dropped the big ship three hundred feet. Then it glided up an ascending current of air—and down again, as though its belly were attached to the rails of a roller coaster.
Sandy flipped his radio switch and began to chant Tony Lamport's call letters into the microphone. The wail that came back to him was like the eerie screams in a melodramatic movie. He closed the key with eyes roving over his instrument panel and coming to rest on his artificial horizon. His arms ached from trying to keep the big ship steady on her course. He was fighting a cross-wind that made him take his bearings every few minutes.
The storm had swallowed them up completely, locking them tight in a world that was a mass of ominous fog and wind and driving rain. The wind was slashing in against the windshield so hard he could not see two feet in front of him. He was flying entirely blind and fighting his controls every instant.
In the forward cockpit Bill Barnes was sleeping the sleep of a man who has left his worries and nervous tension behind him. Not even the fearful buffeting the. Lancer was taking could „ disturb him.
Almost without notice the Lancer popped out on the other side of the front, and Sandy found that the wind had shifted two hundred and forty degrees. But now there were dear, sunlit skies ahead with an almost unlimited visibility. He nosed the Lancer down in a long power glide, hoping to pick up a more favorable, wind at a lower altitude. Flipping his radio key, he made contact with Tony Lamport and checked his dead reckoning navigation against the Barnes Field radio station. He was glad that he had not awakened Bill. .
But after two hundred and eighty miles of sunshine another front loomed up ahead. Sandy raised the nose again, trying to get above it, but the ominous mass seemed insurmountable. Leveling off at twelve thousand feet he began that same desperate fight all over. This time a light snow began to collect on his windshield.
Once again his radio screamed with static as Sandy threw the key and tried to make contact with Tony. Then, after adjusting his volume and wave length, he spun the master tuning control and sought to get the Irish radio terminal at Foynes. More angry static was the only answer.