hours. His twitching face was pale beneath its coat of tan.
“You're sure of this, Creighton?” Kestrel whispered.
“Positive,” Creighton answered. “Two of our Beersheba spies just made a report to me. They are thoroughly reliable. The Bedouins are gathering in tribes.”
“But what Moslem would dare to mutilate the Dushara?” Kestrel asked, his voice stunned. “If the natives believe we did it, the lives of non-Moslems will not be worth a farthing. If we start using an air patrol above the mosque on Jebel Harun it will only add to the natives' conviction that we have c tried to enter the Holy of Holies.”
“I'll get word through to Amman, Jerusalem, and Mecca,” the adjutant said. “The natives will strike when their leader tells them he is ready.”
“We will have to evacuate all women and children and double all guards,” Kestrel said, pulling at his haggard face. “I'll issue general orders, immediately. Then I must have some sleep. Barnes will be here sometime before morning. I wish to see him the minute he arrives.”
IV-OUT OF THE NIGHT
THE PROPS of the three Snorters and the silver bullet that was the Lancer were ticking over slowly as Bill Barnes came out of the administration, building of the airport at Bagdad. The goggled, white-helmeted heads of “Shorty” Hassfurther, Bill's chief of staff, “Red” Gleason, and young “Sandy” Sanders, the youngest of Bill's little squadron of aces, jutted above the rim of their yellow-and-black-and-red amphibians.
They were waiting, impatiently, for Bill to signal the dispatch tower. Luggage, ammunition, emergency equipment in the tails, and fuel had been carefully checked.
Shorty Hassfurther, that blue-eyed broad-faced veteran of a thousand battles in the air, wanted to be on his way to the Royal Air Force field at Ma'an. He wanted to see and talk to James Douglas, the brother of an old War- time pal. He had seen young James a half dozen times in England since his brother r had been killed. And once, young Douglas had spent a couple of weeks with him on Barnes Field, Long Island.
A strong bond of friendship had been forged between Douglas, Bill Barnes, and Shorty Hassfurther during those two weeks. They had been horrified, then angry when they learned that Douglas had been cashiered from the Royal Air Force. Now they wanted to get to him to prove that their friendship was something more than empty words.
Bill Barnes' bronzed face became grim and a little tense as he studied the scudding black clouds racing across the sky. A vision of that night two years before when he and young Sandy had been caught by a sand storm over the Syrian Desert flashed through his mind. Then he shook his head angrily and raised his hand above his head. The dispatch tower acknowledged.
The twin Diesels in Red Gleason's Snorter roared. A signal flashed and the big amphibian rolled forward. It streaked down the runway into the wind. The tail came up. The earth faded away beneath it and the' spinning landing wheels described an arc as the bracing members folded and swung up into their wells. Red took the thundering ship upward in tight spirals to level off at five thousand feet. The wind screamed along the streamlined fuselage as Shorty Hassfurther and young Sandy kicked their ships into the wind and joined him.
Bill Barnes' eyes sparkled as they ran over the instrument layout of the Silver Lancer. He felt a surge of pride as he told himself for the thousandth time that he was sitting in the greatest fighting ship in the world.
He touched the elevating and transversing screws of his telescopic machine gun and 37 mm. cannon sight, tested the radio control group and ran an eye over the Stark 1-2-3 flight instrument layout. He pivoted the infra- red-ray telescope which permitted him to sight along a beam of “black light” through fog clouds or darkness on its two-hinged supports, to test it.
His whole body was singing “as he stuck his booted feet into the rudder stirrups and opened the throttle. He cocked his head to one side as he released his brakes, and listened to the throb of his engines.
He was smiling to himself. He eased l the stick back and took the great ship into the air. The world he decided at that moment, was a pretty swell place to live in. His trip to China and his business with the Nanking government had been successful. Things were on the up and up. To-morrow they would pick up young Douglas at Ma'an and a few days later they would be back on Barnes Field on Long Island.
The yellow wheel-gear light and the green floating-gear light flashed as the amphibian gear folded completely into the fuselage and wings.
Bill threw his radio key and spoke to his men.
“Be sure your running lights are 0.K.,” he said. “Watch out for the air currents over the desert. They're tricky. We'll cruise at two hundred and fifty. Shorty, you take the point of a V with Red on the right and Sandy on the left. I'll be a couple of hundred feet above and behind you. Keep plenty of distance; you'll need it. Signing off.”
“Say, Bill!” young Sandy broke in, breathlessly. “Do you suppose I could pick up a good Arabian horse when we get to Ma'an?”
“How're you going to get him home, kid?” Bill asked, grinning.
“He's going to let Douglas take his ship and swim the horse across the Atlantic!' Shorty Hassfurther offered,
“Naw,” Red Gleason interrupted. “He's going to get a jumper and jump him across the Atlantic. Or, maybe, get that magic carpet some one used to fly around on.
“All right, smart guys,” Sandy said, heatedly. “No one asked you what you thought.”
“We just like to be helpful,” Shorty said. “You know, do our daily good deed. Why don't you buy a camel instead. It-”
“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.
