“Nuts!” Sandy said and threw his radio key.
The air was causing their compass needles to jiggle in crazy fashion as they passed above that flat, arid stretch of northern Arabia. From each dial on their instrument panels came a pale, phosphorescent glow. Their gyro and earth-inductor compasses, and turn-and bank-indicators were going mad as the hot, upward drafts of air bounced them around.
As the fury of the wind increased they had to clench their teeth and use every bit of concentration at their command to keep on their course.
The sturdy ships dropped into pocket after pocket, slapping them against their safety straps. Every moment was a fight; every twist and lurch and drop had to be compensated for.
Their ships would nose upward, suddenly, like an ocean liner riding a heavy sea, only to slide down again on the other side.
Then a sand storm came roaring at them like a giant monster. Bill checked his bearings while he tried to keep control of the Lancer, threw his radio key and gave his position to his men. The world became a yellow-and-black hell, with sand seeping through the locked overhead hatches of the four planes.
“We'd better get some altitude,” Bill gasped into his microphone. “We may be able to get above this. Get up to fifteen thousand and hold the same course.”
“You ought to be down on the ground on your favorite Arab steed, kid,” Shorty panted into his microphone.
“Don't worry about me, you Pennsylvania kraut,” Sandy gasped. “We'll be lucky if you don't crack up your Snorter.” He flipped his radio key and began to feel his way even more cautiously. He was using every sense, relying more on his inherent touch and skill than on his instruments. He was crouching forward over the stick. His shoulders ached from being banged against the cowling and the rubber crash pad in front of him.
Suddenly, it seemed that a giant hand came out of the air from above to slap him toward the earth. He nursed the ship to an even keel, his eyes anxiously scanning his instrument board. He drew the stick back and talked to the Snorter. Terrific blasts of air and sand were beating against the windshield. His hands were clammy with perspiration. His whole body was wet. He threw his radio switch as a ruby light gleamed on his radio panel.
“Check in, all of you.” Bill's voice came over the air.
They gave Bill their positions and all said they could not see one another's navigation lights.
“Hold 'em as you are,” Bill said. “Try to keep on your course. We ought to be out of this soon. Signing off.”
He pulled the Lancer out of a flat spin and tried to peer earthward-abysmal darkness, the swirl of sand around his running lights on his wing tips. He pulled the parachute lever and watched the flare take a dizzy course earthward. The whole world was a thing of swirling sand.
Far out in front of Sandy and Red, Shorty Hassfurther jerked the stick of his Snorter back into his stomach to bring it out of a dive. It was being buffeted about like a leaf in a gale. His body ached from being thrown against the cowling. His stomach ached from being slapped against his safety strap. His heart was pounding from exertion. Sand had crept through his hatch to settle in his eyes, his mouth, even down his neck. He shook his fist at the weather and cursed it as only he could curse at such a time. He nursed the ship back into level flight, only to have it picked up and slammed down another four hundred feet. The storm raged and roared without a let-up. He wondered how long his Snorter could take such a buffeting. Then it occurred to him that he didn't care much. He was getting so tired that nothing mattered.
Off to the right, Red Gleason was fighting with a laughing tenacity that was characteristic of him. He whipped his ship out of pocket after pocket while he tried to accompany the scream of his motors with his own voice.
The motor, he told himself, was singing bass and the screaming wind that brought that high-pitched whine to his props was singing tenor. He was carrying the baritone, although he couldn't carry a tune. He gave an excellent imitation of two drunken men singing in a bathroom as he studied his compass and checked his course again. His head was ringing like a blacksmith's anvil from the beating he had been taking. He threw his radio key and a roar like the bellow of a bull greeted him.
“No radio, no peace, no ceiling, no nothin',” he said to himself, through clenched teeth, and settled back to the business of taking his Snorter through that storm.
Suddenly, the sand and wind no longer beat at the windowpanes of non-shatterable glass. Bill flipped his radio key and shouted, “Red, Shorty, Sandy!”
The three of them gave the all-clear signal. Bill's breath hissed between his teeth as he exhaled. His eyes swept, from his map and chart to the instrument board as he asked them for their positions. He checked them against his own and gave them their course. Ten minutes later they were back in their original positions.
“ All right,” Bill said to them. “Take it easy. Hold your course. I'm going to break out the infra-red-ray telescope to take us in the rest of the way.”
He brought the telescope out of its recess in the instrument panel and threw the switch. He looked into the eyepiece, which was not unlike the old-fashioned parlor stereoscope. Ahead the pitch-black night became as day as the beam of infra-red rays projected themselves artificially into the darkness and the electron telescope enabled him to pick them up.
As he started to adjust the lens, a sharp, staccato noise came, out of the night. It brought him straight up in his bucket seat, his eyes wide.
He had heard that noise too many times before not to know what it was. And he knew by the sound of that staccato chatter that the machine guns he heard were not the Brownings set in the engine housing of his Snorters.
He could feel bullets drumming into the wing and tail surfaces of the Silver Lancer; he could feel the big ship tremble under the impact. He pulled the control column of the Lancer back into his stomach as he heard screaming props and thundering motors dive beneath him. As the nose of the Lancer streaked upward, he threw his radio switch arid began to chant the call letters of his men. Red Gleason's voice came back to him first. And he could feel the blood in his body turn to ice as he heard Red's voice.
.”Bill!” Red gasped. “Bill! They got me. I still have control, but they got me bad through the shoulder. I'm trying to climb.”
Bill's hand was a ball of muscle and steel around the control column of the Lancer as he tried to pick thoughts out of his whirling mind.
“Can you make it? You aren't going to faint?” he asked quickly.
“I'll be all right if I can get above 'em,” Red said, his voice steadier. “I'm getting hold of myself now. One bullet almost tore my shoulder off. The pain is easing now.”
“Turn on your oxygen tank and get up to twenty-five thousand,” Bill said. “They're coming back!”
“Bill!” Shorty's voice cut in. “They made a sieve of my Snorter. They are flying without lights. I thought I heard their engines, but I wasn't sure. I was sure when bullets began drumming into me.”
“Get up with Red!” Bill barked. “Stay beside him. Keep contact by radio. Leave your navigation lights on. Where's Sandy?”
“I'm riding all right, Bill,” Sandy broke in, his boyish voice high-pitched and strained. “They came out of nowhere; Bill. I think there are about six or eight of them. I can hear them climbing. They're trying to get above us.”
“You get up with Red, too,” Bill said. I'll try to find them with my telescope. 'Then I'll join you.”
“Look out for a crash, Bill,” Shorty said.
“I'll watch it,” Bin growled. His whole body was burning with anger now. It had been the most murderously unfair attack that had ever been made on him. His body and mind were seething with rage. He neutralized the controls of the Lancer and cut his engines. He could hear the drone of six or eight engines below him to the north. He kicked his rudder and stuck the nose of the Lancer down. He peered into the eyepiece of the infra-red telescope, as he thought he had the nose of the Lancer 'n the ships returning to their murderous attack.