They could barely see the lights in the low, squat buildings along the waterfront through the sheets of water and the inky blackness of the night.
“I hope that Sandy ain't down on the Gulf of Alaska on a night like this,” old Charlie said to Bill. Shorty threw him a dirty look and Bev Bates kicked him in the ankle.
Bill didn't answer. He pushed his plate away from him as though the sight of food choked him and got to his feet. He went back on the bridge, threw the radio switch and began to chant Sandy's call letters for the thousandth time.
All through the night they took turns standing watches at the radio. And all through the night nothing came to them from the ether but the scratching roar of the storm and silence.
The rain had stopped when the first eager streaks of light crept out of the east. Bill Barnes was tossing back and forth on the cot in his cabin trying to get some sleep. Bev Bates was standing by the radio. He had just finished a short contact with Tony Lamport on Barnes Field and had thrown the radio key when the scarlet light on the panel brought him up in his chair again.
“BB—BB—BB—calling BB,” came to his ears. “BBG—calling BB. BBG calling BB.”
“Oh, Bill,” Bev shouted, “Red is checking in!”
Bill's feet hit the deck with a thud. His powerful legs drove like pistons as he raced by the Eaglet's hangar and up the steps to the bridge.
“Gimme!” he said and spoke into the microphone.
“BB answering Red. BB answering BBG. Go ahead! Go ahead!” he shouted.
The voice that came back to his ears was barely a whisper. He could just hear it above the crackle of static.
“Can you speak louder. Red?” he asked. “Are you all right? Where are you?”
“O.K., Bill,” Red said. “I've got to talk fast and I don't dare talk too loud or they'll hear me. I'm a prisoner. Bill. I was forced down four or five days ago by a half dozen red-and-black, single-seater Barton Hawks. They all mounted two machine guns. I couldn't get away from them. They knew how to use their guns. I had to land or take plenty of lead. They flew me to a little island east of Rat Island. It has a small landlocked harbor like the one at Unalaska. They forced me to talk to Tony yesterday with a couple of guns on me. The only thing I could say, except what they told me to say, was that I'd had trouble with the nozzle injectors, on my Diesels. Did you get that?”
“I got it,” Bill said. “Who's holding you, Red? What's the layout?”
“I don't know. Bill,” Red said. “I'm being guarded by a couple of gangsters that would rather shoot me than speak to me. Their names are Ugly and Lippy. I managed to slip down to my Snorter while they're asleep. They made me talk to Tony and told me what to say. They told me you were on the way to Unalaska. Is that where you are?”
“Yes,” Bill said. “Haven't you learned anything from the two men who are guarding you?”
“Nothing,” Red said. “They won't talk. This island is uninhabited except for them and some men living in a sort of barracks a quarter of a mile away. , They're the same outfit. I think their boss is there. They won't tell me anything. Take down the position of this place, but don't bring the bomber over here. That's what they're after. I could tell that by their conversation. They call their boss Slip and they're afraid of him.”
“Can't you take your Snorter out of there now?” Bill asked after he had written down the position Red gave him.
“My hands are tied and I think they've done something to the ship,”
Red said. “Remember those names—Ugly, Lippy, and Slip. They may mean something if I don't get out of here.”
“You'll get out all right,” Bill growled. “Sit tight, Red. I'll be there within two hours. Your Snorter is the only ship there?”
“That's right,” Red said. His voice rose suddenly. “They're coming. Bill. I'm signing off!”
A new buzzing sounded in Bill's ear.
He called Red's name a half dozen times but no voice answered him. He looked into Shorty's questioning eyes.
“Where is he?” Shorty asked.
“Some one is holding him a prisoner on an island west of here,” Bill said.
“You got the position?” Shorty asked.
“Yes.” Bill pointed to the piece of paper lying on the chart rack.
Shorty picked it up, checked it on the chart and started to go down the steps 'toward the port gangway.
“Where are you going?” Bill snapped at him.
“I'm going to get Red,” Shorty snapped back. “Did he say how many of them there were? Does he know why they're holding him?”
“He doesn't know much more than we do,” Bill said. “Two men are guarding him. But there are more there. He doesn't know how many. He says they're after the BT-4, but doesn't know why. You wait a minute, Shorty. Let me think this thing over. We haven't had any word from Sandy yet. Red said this gang have a half dozen Barton Hawks, all armed with two machine guns each. They may have spotted Sandy, too—picking us up one at a time so they can get the bomber. We're playing right into their hands.”
“Sitting here won't help Red,” Shorty said, and moved toward the steps again.
“Wait a minute!” Bill snapped. “I'll go after Red in the Lancer. I'll have more guns and more speed in case I run into trouble. You take the Snorter and double back over the course we held yesterday. See if you can pick up some word from Sandy. When you get part way back, you ought to be able to pick up Juneau and Fairbanks on your radio. Bev will have to stay here with the crew of the bomber.
“This damned thing doesn't make any sense,” he said. “I don't want you to go all the way back across the Gulf. Use your own judgment. I'll try to get Red out of there. If I'm not back by the time you are, you had better come and take a look. Give me that latitude and longitude; you copy it.”
“O. K.,” Shorty said. “Let's go!”
VII—TRAP
WHEN Bill Barnes took the Lancer off the waters of the harbor a half hour later, his thoughts were as gray as the drab, colorless morning. He had a feeling of impending tragedy that he could not throw off. He hung the Lancer on its props and took it up to ten thousand feet. He thought that once he was in the air he could dispel the gnawing fear that seemed to have crept into his very bones. He opened the throttles of the Lancer wide and watched his air-speed indicator climb from three hundred to four hundred miles an hour. When it had reached four hundred and fifty, he closed his throttles a notch and there he held her. He studied the position Red had given him and checked it on his chart.
“Nearly two hours,” he said to himself and he began to think about the strange series of events that had happened in the past few days.
“It's almost a certainty,” he said to himself, “that the disappearance of young Reynolds has nothing to do with the thing. Unless-unless—” And there he stopped.
The Island of the Four Mountains towered up ahead, looking like one vast cathedral with four uneven spires rising from its center. The sun was climbing into the heavens now, behind him, and the air was clear and cold. He knew that he should be able to throw off the feeling of anxiety that nagged at him. But he couldn't. Not even the brilliance of the day and the crisp, clean air he sucked into his lungs seemed to help.
Suppose, he thought, after all the things I have been through in the past few years, this is the end. That I end my life in the cold, drab waters of the Bering Sea. Suppose——
“Hey!” he shouted at himself. “Snap out of it, Barnes, or you'll begin to cry.”
As the last of the innumerable Andreanof Islands sped beneath his wings, he cut his throttles, flipped the tail of the Lancer up and checked his position.