A single tiny island loomed off to starboard—just a rocky dot that marked the spot where the Bering Sea and Pacific mingled. He probed the air all around him as he nosed the Lancer down in wide, sweeping spirals. He estimated that the little island was about five miles long and not more than two wide. It was as barren and desolate a place as he had ever seen.
Then he saw Red's Snorter—left high and dry on the beach of the landlocked harbor-by the receding tide. He saw a half dozen crudely constructed buildings and a pair of powerful radio masts. He circled low above the little island, but could see no sign of life. He supposed that they were keeping out of sight— hoping to lure him lower, within range of machine guns. He zoomed the Lancer upward and went into a conference with himself. He wished he had brought the bomber and the rest of his men with him.
He thought of dropping two or three of the twenty-five-pound bombs that nestled in the belly of the Lancer, going in for a landing and trusting to luck that he and Red could fight their way out again. But he knew that might be suicide.
Suddenly he forgot all those things and his eyes flew open as he sat up in his bucket seat and probed the air all around him. The roar of four or five airplane motors had joined the drone of his Diesels!
Yet he could see no planes. He looked back and up on both sides of him and thumbed the sun. Were his ears playing tricks on him? Was it a strange air current that made the Diesels in the nose of the Lancer a sound illusion? He bent his head and cocked it to the right, then to the left. It sounded one moment as though the planes were above him—the next, as though they were below. And it was increasing in volume as though the planes were screaming into a power dive or pouring in juice for a take-off.
He swung around in a wide, sweeping circle that would take him completely around the tiny island.
And while he was turning it happened!
Five red-and-black amphibians came roaring out of a rock-sheltered harbor, so close together that their wailing props nearly touched the trimming tabs of one another's rudders. Then they broke and went hurtling over the water and into the air in five different directions. They were spread out like the five fingers on an outstretched hand as they raced into the air. Their pilots hung them on their props and took them upstairs with the dazzling speed of the fastest interceptor.
Then they converged and formed an echelon that came tearing back like five steps—with their twin guns vomiting lead and death at the Lancer.
Bill had been watching them like a man in a trance, so complete was his surprise. For a few moments he hadn't been able to believe what he saw. Then he realized that the floor of the hidden airdrome was the surface of the harbor. It was a perfect camouflage. His astonishment was so great that he watched them whip into the air and get above him before he thought of his own safety.
He stuck the nose of the Lancer down and slipped it out of range of their guns while he deliberated on what to do. He knew that he could open the Lancer up and walk away from them. But that wouldn't help Red.
He heard the bark of a light gun below him, felt the Lancer bounce and saw streaks of white and yellow smoke off to his left. He shifted his course as the antiaircraft gun below spoke again and missed.
White streamers of tracers floated through the air as the five red-and-black biplanes thundered down on him. He stuck the stick of the Lancer forward again as bullets laced just above his head. Then he came up and over in a flashing Immelmann to throw the ships off his tail.
Bill's mouth became grim as he leveled off and fired two quick bursts to test his guns. Opening his throttle, he stuck the nose of the Lancer up in an abrupt climbing turn until it almost stalled. There he kicked his rudder and rolled to the right.
He could feel bullets slashing through his tail and hear the tat-tat-tat of machine guns as the biplanes came up under him. He sent the Lancer sky-ward in a desperate zoom and then chandelled back to the attack.
The Lancer, with its terrific speed and maneuverability, was up and over and diving head-on at the five biplanes as though it had gone berserk. They dove and zoomed, skidded and rolled to get out of its flaming path. Bill's finger was fastened down hard on his gun trip. He raked one of the red-and-black ships with a withering fire, but the pilot slipped it out of range before his bullets struck a vulnerable spot.
He gunned his engine again and came over in a normal loop to roll right side up at the top. The five ships had spread out now and were trying to form a circle around him so that they could get him in the vortex of their fire. He wished, as he had never wished before, that Sandy was in the tail to help break their circle with the swivel gun.
Then the air seemed choked with slashing streaks of red and black as they circled on their prey. They were everywhere, charging in from all angles, their guns screaming lead.
Bill tried to break through that circle without having to run a death-dealing gantlet of lead. He realized that these five pilots knew all of the old and all of the new tricks of combat flying. They were a bunch of veterans who never made a mistake. Their tactics were flawless as they converged on him. He felt as though he was hemmed in by a band of steel from which there was no escape.
When those five ships formed an echelon and dove on him, he had taken it in his stride. It had seemed similar to a hundred other attacks. But now he knew it was different. These men were all masters at their craft. He could picture their lined, hard-bitten faces behind their windshields. He knew that they were men like Red and Shorty, veterans of a thousand battles in the air.
He whipped the Lancer up and down, skidded and sideslipped, zoomed and crabbed to avoid the streams of death that were aimed at him. He knew that if he could cut out of that circle without being annihilated he could run away from them. But he couldn't cut out without putting himself in a position where they could chop his head from his shoulders with their bullets. They knew how to anticipate every move he made.
And he was getting tired, desperately tired. He opened the throttles of the Lancer even wider, taking a chance on “blacking out” to increase the speed of his maneuvers. But still they clung to him like blood-sucking leeches. Each one did his part as though he had rehearsed it a million times.
For the first time in his life Bill Barnes knew stark terror in the air. It wasn't that he was afraid of the death they were trying to mete out to him. It was something else that he couldn't understand himself. It was as though he was inclosed” in an air-tight chamber from which there was no escaping— where he must surely and slowly strangle to death.
Cold, damp perspiration oozed out all over his throbbing body. He thought, “This is the end. The premonition I had this morning is coming true.”
They were closing in on him now. He braced himself like a man who is about to take a blow in the face. Opening his throttles wide» he yanked the control column back into his stomach as he decided to go through or die trying. As he came up and over on his back and started to roll right side up, black despair seized him.
The Lancer skidded off to the right and the nose dropped. As it spun once, then twice, he warped and managed to bring the nose up. He was aware that the red-and-black ships were holding their fire as he started a glide toward the waters below. They fell in on each ' side and above and below him. The pilot on the port side leaned over the cowling and motioned downward with one hand. They knew he was helpless, that he could no longer maneuver for combat.
For one black moment rage surged through him. They had got him the way they got Red. And, probably, the way they had got Sandy.
He flipped over his radio switch and began to chant his own call letters into the microphone. “BB calling all ships,” he said. “BB calling all ships!”