“The Old Man has the right hunch, all right,” Foster said quietly. “Those yellow rats have a hidden base somewhere on the island. Otherwise those planes of theirs couldn’t make such quick appearances and then disappear as completely as they do. Those babies up there probably are from that very field.”
Mason wasn’t too interested in conversation. The Zeroes were edging in closer.
One of them slid off in a knifelike power dive.
“Here they come,” yelped Mason, getting braced.
For what seemed an eternity, Foster held the Avenger on course. The second Zero was diving now and the third was wheeling over. Mason huddled grimly, waiting. He knew the Avenger wouldn’t keep sailing along like this until Jap slugs reached out for it.
Any minute now …
Suddenly the Avenger came to life, snapped skyward, stood on its tail and climbed, the Wright Cyclone shrieking a challenge to the diving enemy.
The leading Zero twisted desperately to follow the American plane, skidding a sharp angle that almost tore it apart. Calmly Mason lined his sights with the pool of light that was the Jap’s propeller as the plane came about, pressed the trips.
Fifty calibre slugs slammed into that pool of whirling steel and the Zero came unstuck.
The wash of light disappeared in an explosion of shattered metal. Long strips peeled off the cowling and the plexiglass that housed the pilot disappeared in shreds of flying debris that glinted in the sun.
For a split second something was punching holes along the Avenger’s left wing as the second Zero flashed past, guns still smoking.
Then the wing guns of the Grumman opened up and Mason flipped his turret around.
The Avenger still was climbing and the wing guns were stabbing out at the third Jap, storming straight down upon them.
The red mouths of the Zero’s guns flickered at them wickedly and the Avenger shuddered slightly as bullets struck home.
Ducking, Mason got behind his sights and swung his guns to bear, but even as he did, there was a thudding wham, the Grumman bucked to the recoil of the cannon in its nose and then rolled over, tumbling out of the Zero’s way.
The Jap ship shook for a moment in the sky, seemed to stall in its downward dive, then slowly fell apart. One wing came off and tumbled seaward. The plane sideslipped and started screaming down, whirling and twisting, heaving wreckage as it fell, part of the second wing, the tail assembly, the motor, wrenched from the mountings, falling free.
But Mason did not watch it. There was other business at hand.
“Where is the other one?” he yelled at Foster.
Apparently Foster didn’t know, for there was no answer.
There was not long to wonder.
Mason straightened up to sweep the sky and a moment later a hurricane of slashing, ripping steel caught the American ship—just a brief two second burst, but one that slivered chunks of metal off the wings, that shattered the plexiglass, that punched the tail full of gaping holes.
The Jap had attacked from below, even now was swinging up on the side of them, motor full out to make his getaway.
Mason whipped the guns around, got set as the Jap climbed into view. It was sheer luck, of course, that the Zero happened to climb straight into his sights.
Mason took advantage of that luck. He pressed the trips and kept them down.
The 50 calibres raked the rat cage from prop to tail, chewed it into a sieve-like hulk.
It went on climbing for a moment, faltered, wobbled for a second, then slid in a long slanting dive down toward the water.
Mason rubbed his hands gleefully.
“Well, that’s that,” he announced, but even before the words were out of his mouth he knew something was wrong. Something wrong with the throbbing of the Cyclone. As if the motor had the hiccoughs.
“Steve,” he yelled. “Steve! Are you all right?”
“I’m all right,” said Foster, “but the motor isn’t. Acts like it can’t get gas.”
“Feed-line,” suggested Mason.
“Yeah,” agreed Foster. “That last monkey must have messed us up a bit.”
“Nothing,” said Mason, “like we messed him up.”
Foster was craning his head over the side, trying to figure something out. The motor was choking and gasping.
“How does that beach down there look to you?” asked Foster.
Mason studied it carefully. “Ought to get her down. Might smack into a boulder or a hole or something. Never can tell.”
“There’s nothing else we can do,” said Foster. “Hang onto your hat and cross your fingers. Here we go.”
The motor gasped one last time and stopped, the prop circling idly, then hanging dead. The silence was terrifying. Wind whistled eerily along the ship’s metal skin and they were going fast.
Mason, fascinated, watched and tried to relax. Mentally he made bets with himself whether they would make it.
The sea was coming up at them. The beach was off to the right. They would never make it …
And then they were above the beach, Foster fighting to keep the ship level. The Avenger struck the sand with a force that jarred Mason’s teeth, leaped and struck again, threatening to nose over, then was rolling free, gliding to a stop.
Foster stood up, took off his helmet, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He looked at Mason and grinned. “What are we going to do now?” asked the gunner.
“Take a look. Maybe we can patch her up.”
It was the feed-line, all right. Sliced in two and not too hard to patch, but that wasn’t all.
Foster, stepping back in the ship, switched on the ignition, stared at the gauges for a while and then snapped it off again.
“What’s wrong now?” demanded Mason.
“The gas,” said the pilot. “We lost practically all of it.”
He snapped the ignition on again. The needle on the fuel gauge barely quivered.
“About two cups full,” moaned Foster.
“We can call the base,” said Mason. “One of the boys will be down in half an hour with enough to get us home.”
“Not with this radio.” Foster snapped the switch. There was no hum.
Mason groaned.
“We might just as well start matching now,” he said, “to see which one of us hikes back to let them know the fix we’re in.”
Foster stared up and down the beach.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right at that, Hank. We’ll have to be careful, though. Sun’ll be down in a while and one of us can start. Have to stick to the shadows as much as we can. Some Jap patrols are apt to be gum-shoeing around.”
Feet crunched on the sand and Mason leaped from the wing, gun half out of his holster.
It wasn’t a Jap, however. It was a native.
The man, apparently, had slipped from the jungle without them noticing him.
He stared at Mason for a moment, then stabbed a thumb at his own naked chest.
“Me N’Goni,” he announced. “Me mission boy.”
Mason grinned. “Me Hank,” he said. “Him Steve. Americans.”
N’Goni gestured at the Avenger. “Machine that fly, him haywire?”
“No gas,” Mason explained. “You know him, gas?”
“Know him,” declared the native. “Water make machine go put-put.”
“Know where we can get any?” demanded Foster, impatient at the pidgin conversation.
N’Goni considered. “Jap maybe have him.”
“Jap!” yelled Foster.
“Jap here,” N’Goni told him. “In the hills. Not far.”