Bill stuck the nose of the Lancer up, and just cleared the tops of the scrub-oak thicket on the westerly range with his altimeter at five thousand feet. They both gasped in amazement as they sped between the dizzyingly colorful twin ranges where Petra nestled. To the west stretched the deep expanse of the Araba, blue-tinted, remote and forbidding. The yellow, tan and ivory sandstone changed to vivid rd as they flew between the two ranges of fascinating shapes and color.
“That is Petra, kid,” Bill said, pointing. “Kestrel gave me a map. The large building in ruins used to be the castle of Pharaoh's daughter, and the hill above it is El Habis, the Acropolis Hill.
“Over there on the left is El Khubdha and El Der. The river below us is the Wadi es Siyagh. It's the only outlet from Petra, except Es Siq, where Douglas was murdered two nights ago. But it's impassable to caravans.”
“How did that caravan get out of Petra?” Sandy asked.
“It didn't,” Bill said grimly. “It's in here some place. That highest peak is Jebel Harun. The building on the top with the white dome is the tomb of Aaron, and the place where the Dushara is kept. Some one tried to get in there the other night and mutilate the Dushara. The natives, according .to Kestrel, are half mad because of it.
“That great flat mountain over there is Umm el Biyara, Petra's most ancient stronghold. It tells in the Bible how David wanted to storm the Edomite stronghold in his day. There used to be a single path cut in the side of it so that men could get to the top. But erosion has worn it away.”
“We could almost land on there, couldn't we, Bill?” Sandy asked.
“Almost is right,” Bill said. He flew lower and inspected the great, flat surface. “It might be done, but I don't want to do it. It was impregnable in its day, and still is, except from the air. The little mountain beside it is El Habis. That's an unfinished tomb. The rock-cut couloir was the only way to the top of Umm et Biyara. After the men had taken their women and children and eiders to the top they could close off the path with a gate. They had cisterns on the top—you can still see them—to catch and hold water.”
“Gosh, Bill,” Sandy said. “You know a lot; don't you?”
Bill swung around in his seat and looked at Sandy suspiciously. But Sandy was serious.
“You aren't trying to kid me, are you?” Bill asked.
“No! Gosh, no, Bill. I'm really interested.”
The air had become bumpy now above the crags and caverns of Petra. Bill yanked the stick back and zoomed the big ship upward.
“The best way to get into that place is on a horse, Bill,” Sandy said.
“That's the way we'll come next time,” Bill answered. “I'm going to circle this place now. Those caravans and those eight ships have to be some place. Button up your lips. I'm going to open the Lancer up wide and cover as much territory as I can.”
VII—STRANDED
THE RED limestone hills surrounding Petra gave way to the great barren wastes of the desert as Bill opened the throttles of the Lancer and circled westward. Here and there among the boulder-strewn stretches of desert west of Ma'an they could see Arab encampments with horses grazing where there seemed to be no vegetation.
As the ruins of an old Arab citadel flashed beneath their wings, Bill stuck the nose of the Lancer down and circled back. No living thing moved within the crumbling walls. Outside, heat danced from the sun-scorched steppe as the sun crept higher into the heavens.
Twice they saw large bands of roving Bedouins astride sturdy Arab horses. Flying low, they saw the fierce nomads of the desert unsling their rifles and felt the drum of their bullets as they pounded through the metal skin of the Lancer. As they nosed upward the tribesmen shook lances and yataghans at them until they were mere specks on the desert.
“Take her for a few minutes, kid,” Bill said to Sandy. “There is something screwy about our fuel tanks. I told 'em to check 'em when we landed this morning. We may have picked up a couple of punctures last night.”
Sandy held the Lancer at three hundred miles an hour while Bill checked the fuel lines and tanks. He checked and rechecked his instruments to find their position.
“We're almost two hundred miles from Ma'an, Bill,” Sandy said.” And she isn't pulling the way she ought to. I just adjusted the props and it didn't do any good.”
“Stick the nose on Ma'an, kid,” Bill said. His eyes were worried as he scanned the instrument panel. “Give her some more juice.”
Sandy opened the throttles another notch, and the air-speed indictor crept up to four hundred miles an hour. Then be leaned over and inspected the extension handles of the two .50-caliber machine guns at his right and left and fingered the trigger cables. The circular dials of the automatic counters showed capacity filling.
For fifteen minutes Sandy held the nose of the Lancer pointed at the horizon, and Ma'an. Perspiration dripped down his face as the sun became hotter and hotter. He half closed his eyes to protect them from the intense glare.
Suddenly his eyes flew open and he sat up in his bucket seat with a start. The far-away roar of airplane motors came faintly to his ears. He thumbed the sun, but could see nothing. He looked back and up on both sides, and still could see nothing. He saw that Bill was bent over so that any sound would be drowned by the roar of the twin Diesels in the Lancer: He bent his head and cocked it to the right, then to the left.
It sounded as though the planes welcoming toward him from his starboard side. He scanned the air above and below the starboard wing. The sound was certainly growing louder and coming closer. He decided he had better speak to Bill. He hesitated another minute while he listened.
And while he listened it happened! Two formations of three fast, rugged, one-seaters were diving out of a wisp of fleecy clouds a thousand feet overhead, their might); power plants roaring at high-pitched crescendo as they dived.
Sandy gasped in horror and shouted Bill's name three times in the inter-cockpit phone. White streamers of lace floated through the air as machine guns began to yammer their song of death.
As Sandy jammed the control column forward into a vertical dive, Bill grabbed at the controls and yanked the throttle wide.
“Break out that swivel gun!” he roared as the Lancer plummeted toward the desert at terrific speed. “Don't miss when I come back up in a loop!”
Sandy broke it out and pushed back the sliding hatch. He ran the gun across the track while he nearly choked, with excitement. His freckled face was dripping with perspiration. He held the palms of his hands against his head for a moment to lessen the pressure as the Lancer continued to plunge earthward.
The two V formations continued their dive, following the Silver Lancer toward the desert. Bill's mouth was a firm, hard line across his face as he glanced back and up. He held the stick forward until the Lancer was almost at terminal velocity. Then he swung the nose up with the touch of a master. Machine-gun bullets drummed into the tail assembly as the Lancer came up and over on its back.
Bill centered the controls and rolled light side up as the six light-blue ships dived under him. He could see the cockade of the Royal Air Force and the same squadron insignia he had seen on the ships that had attacked them the night before.
Opening the throttle of the Lancer wide, he stuck the nose up in an abrupt climbing turn until he almost stalled. He kicked his rudders and rolled to the right. He was back on his original course with the nose of the Lancer pointed toward Ma'an.