“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.
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,
