The Devil—With Wings (6 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Shinohari's Squadrons

W
ITH
dusk hazy upon the earth under a scarlet-bannered sky, they sighted the dredge.

It stood in a backwash of the Amur and looked like some gigantic animal skeleton of prehistoric days propped up in the black water. The chain buckets were running up and returning empty in an endless stream. Water poured out from pipes and steam rose busily over the shacks on the deck of the barge.

Forsythe banked once around it, flying low. He could see men diving hastily down the swinging catwalk which connected the dredge with the shore. Another man in a white shirt stood on the deck, staring up.

Forsythe stabbed away from there like a silver arrow and picked up a nearby field. Gun cut and wires shrilling, he settled down for a landing upon the dark ground.

Before the ship stopped rolling, the man in the white shirt was seen sprinting over the river bank toward them. No one else could be seen anywhere. The top of the dredge was visible against the sunset of yellow and flame, and Forsythe, looking at it, thought of the gallows.

The man in the white shirt bobbed up beside the pilot's pit. He was young and tanned and eager, eyes bright with hope. Eyes as courageous and swift as Patricia's.

“Hey, what's it all about?” cried Bob Weston. “One glimpse of your crate and those cutthroats ran like quail yellin'
‘Akuma-no-Hané
!'” He glanced away before Forsythe could answer and incredulity flooded in upon him to hold him for a frozen instant of amazement. Joy exploded in him and with a whoop he leaped up into the stirrup so hard that the ship rocked. He pried up the hood.

Patricia grabbed him and held him tightly as he lifted her down to earth. They said nothing because they couldn't talk. Patricia's eyes were shining with tears and happiness as she held him off and looked at him.

Forsythe, looking down at them, felt suddenly cold and lonely. She would never look at him that way. Never.

Ching and Lin got out and scouted with drawn automatics up to the bluff and lay there, protected by the edge, looking all around for possible ambush.

Bob Weston finally subsided enough to turn and shout at Forsythe: “Gee, you don't know how I want to thank you! Those guys went out of here as though they'd been shot from guns. Say, what was that they were shouting about?”

“It means ‘The Devil With Wings,'” said Patricia slowly.

Bob's eyes grew big and he gaped with amazement, releasing his sister and taking a step back.

Ruffled slightly, Forsythe growled, “I don't bite.”

“Oh, I didn't mean anything. But…but gee! I've heard about you so much since I've been up here I…” He was still backing away. He dragged his eyes from Forsythe's goggles and turned to stare his question at Patricia.

“He…he kidnaped me and brought me up here,” she began.

Anger clouded Bob's imperious face but before it could spread to action, she caught his arm.

“Please,” she begged. “You don't understand. I don't either. He's doing something against the Japanese and we…we sort of fit into the plan. I…I think he'll let us go free.”

Darkness was dropping steadily upon them. The mist was curling whitely up from the river in the still air. Forsythe stood wearily up in his pit, looking at Patricia. She could never know the blow her tone had dealt him.

Even in the thickening gloom, the trickle which ran sluggishly down the front of his black jacket showed a glossy red like a streak painted there with lacquer.

He dropped to the ground, landing heavily and reaching out for the stirrup to support himself. He straightened up then. Fumbling inside his leather coat for a cigarette, he brought out the pack. It was soggy. He stared at it for an instant and then crumpled it in his hand. Drops of red dripped from the end of his fingers very slowly as he held them out, watching the blood fall.

Ching came back, gun in hand.

“They've beat it,” said Ching. “Do you think those ships got word through to their headquarters?”

“I heard it,” said Forsythe tonelessly. “Shinohari is on his way.”

“He'll bring squadrons with him!” cried Ching. “We'd better take off quick!”

“No,” said Forsythe. “I…”

“You're hit!” cried Ching. “Wait. Let me see!”

Forsythe thrust him back and left a dark print on Ching's white jumper.

Patricia and Bob, standing together, saw the streak which ran so slowly on the black leather of the jacket. Patricia clung hard to Bob's arm. Her face was a pale heart in the dropping night.

“You've got gold?” said Forsythe to Bob Weston.

“If you've come for that, I can't stop you from taking it,” replied Bob dispiritedly. “I bought this dredge sight unseen with my last cent down in Port Arthur. And I no more than started it going when a little guy with a pockmarked face barged in and took over. He put Japanese soldiers to work with me and made me show them how. I…I thought for a minute there I was saved.”

His voice grew sharper. “Yes, I've got gold!” cried Bob. “Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in dust! Take it!”

Forsythe was standing erect with an effort. “Take it easy, lad. This ship wouldn't carry an extra hundred pounds, much less thousands. Is there a car across the river?”

“No, but there's one on this side and a bridge,” replied Bob doubtfully.

“You've got gas for it?”

“Sure.
I
haven't used any.”

Forsythe looked up at the darkening sky. A pale amber haze to the east showed where the moon would shortly appear.

“You haven't got too much time,” said Forsythe. “Load your gold into the car and get across the river into Russia.”

“But there's fighting around here,” protested Bob.

“That fighting was ordered to cover up this gold operation.” Forsythe smiled and fished absently again for a cigarette. He remembered then and brought his wet fingers back before him. “Not even the Imperial staff knows about this thing, Weston.”

“But I thought the Japanese government…”

“Never mind that,” said Forsythe wearily. He fumbled in his pockets and finally brought out a card. “Here. Take this. When you reach the railroad, show them this and bribe the officials. Get to Vladivostok. Ching will make sure you get through.”

“What's that?” said Ching quickly.

“You're going with them. Both you and Lin,” said Forsythe.

“But what about you?” demanded Ching.

Forsythe glanced up at the sky. “I have an appointment very shortly. With Captain Shinohari.”

Patricia stifled a gasp.

Angrily Forsythe barked, “Get going! You've got until the moon rises.”

“I won't leave you!” said Ching.

“You've got your orders.”

Ching hung his head, trying to think of some way to change Forsythe's mind. But his mind was a whirl of despair. He finally reached into the rear cockpit and hauled out a small kit. From it he took a wad of bandages and handed them to the white man.

Forsythe tucked the gauze under his jacket.

Bob Weston was moving away, pulling Patricia with him.

“Wait,” snapped Forsythe. “Come back!”

Bob and Patricia came closer to him and the glinting goggles stared blankly at them through the night.

“Weston,” said Forsythe. “You'll wait for a little while—a few days—in Vladivostok. And if…and when I show up I can help you get your gold out of the country. Don't get me wrong. I want none of it. But…you didn't realize before that you were responsible for Miss Weston. You won't forget that again?”

Bob nodded wonderingly.

“And one more thing!” barked Forsythe.

Bob looked attentively as Forsythe sank down to sit on the catwalk. He wondered when he saw the black-garbed figure grinning at him.

“Give me your cigarettes,” said Forsythe.

Hastily Bob brought a package forth and handed them over. Forsythe lit one and inhaled deeply. The red spark throbbed as he pulled on it again.

Suddenly Bob understood. He reached out his hand. Forsythe started to take it and changed his mind, shifting over to his left. And even then Bob felt the thick dampness which ran from the cuff to the back of the hand.

Bob turned and Patricia stumbled after him, looking back. Lin looked forlornly at Forsythe and then trudged away. Ching dallied, hoping Forsythe would forget his order.

“What are you waiting for?” roared Forsythe.

“Nothing,” whimpered Ching.

“Get going. They need your help.”

Ching turned very slowly and went around the wing. He stopped once, wanting badly to go back. But he did not dare.

When he reached the bluff above the river, Ching turned once more. He could see a glowing dot of red pulsating beside the vague outline of the ship.

Forsythe, sitting on the pack of his harnessed parachute, listened quietly. He had been hearing a far-off drumming sound for some time. It was distinct now, though still miles away.

He stood up and glanced southeast at the glowing sky, painted pearl with the rising moon. Shinohari was on his way with a score of ships at his back.

Forsythe ground the glowing coal of the cigarette into the dust and stepped wearily up to slide down into his pit. He kicked the engine into life and braked one heel to turn.

Full gun he streaked southeast, exhausts flaring against the night.

CHAPTER TEN

The Death of
Akuma-no-Hané

T
HE
car had crossed the river, heavy-laden, though the cargo in the black wooden boxes was very small. Bob Weston was driving across the open plain, setting his course by a star as engineers will.

Lin and Ching were kneeling on the back seat, looking upward and southward. They could see the pinpoint of red which was the attack ship's flaming exhaust and they could hear the drumming roar of many engines far away but coming nearer. Sadness and death were in their dark eyes as they watched.

Patricia turned to look at them and then followed their gaze. Her eyes were misty, sorrow lay heavily in her breast. “Ching. Did he… Is he doing that because the Japanese will think we are in the plane?”

“You didn't know that all the time?” said Ching bitterly.

“Then…then there isn't any chance of his getting away from them?”

“One plane against twenty?” said Ching angrily. “Not a chance! He knew he could never fly away from here alive. He
knew
it!
You
did that to him!”

Patricia looked startled.

“You know what I'm talking about,” said Ching. “He's doing this to let you get away. They'll never send a patrol to search for us after he's shot down. They'll think we all died with him. The men on the dredge are too far away to know what happened afterwards and they'll be too rattled to figure it out. One night of wind will hide the tracks this car is making. If he wasn't up there to hold them back, do you think, with all this border trouble, that the Japanese would stop on the river's other side? No. They'd find us and gun us by moonlight—and an easy job it would be. But they won't suspect, until it is too late.”

Patricia suddenly hid her face in her hands, weeping. Ching's glare was merciless upon her shoulders.

“I didn't know,” she whispered. “I…I thought I hated him. But it wasn't
hate.
It wasn't hate! And now I've let him go up there alone without ever telling him.…”

Ching was looking back. The moon was over the horizon now, bathing the world with an orange flood. Against it, like wasps, the Japanese pursuit ships were framed. And roaring down the sky to meet them went The Devil With Wings.

Forsythe, crouched in his pit, looked tiredly through his ringsights at the approaching armada. He clamped the phones on his ears and clicked his switch, getting the band of the Japanese.

He heard Shinohari's yelping voice crying, “There he is! That is he! Keep in close formation and dive past him in groups of three. Bow guns, then let the gunners get him. Don't pull up until you're far below. Turn then and climb above him again. Get him at all costs!”

Forsythe's lips curved downward into a twisted grin. He picked up the radiophone.

“Shinohari?
Akuma-no-Hané
speaking. If you'll let me land and discharge my passengers, I'll give up.”

Shinohari's startled yip cracked through the phones. “Passengers? You say ‘passengers'?”

“Bob Weston and his sister,” replied Forsythe to the dot growing bigger in his ringsight.

He thought he heard a relieved chuckle. He had spoken in English because he was fairly sure no pilot in the squadrons ahead could understand it.

“You are too tricky,” cried Shinohari in Japanese. “I cannot risk it. Military necessity demands your instant death.”

In English, Forsythe said, “My death will not help you greatly, worthy Captain. Already word has been passed to certain powers and I think you will be wise enough to listen to their orders. I
know
you will. The evidence is too great and you cannot even resort to hari-kari.”

Hurtling at each other across the palely glowing sky, enemy to enemy. And the man who was to die still held the winning hand.

Forsythe took off the phones. He did not want to hear more, he had nothing more to say. The crackle told him that Shinohari understood and that nothing could stop the hammering slugs which would soon riddle the attack plane.

He must be careful, Forsythe thought, not to fire. He did not know which ship was Shinohari's and Shinohari had to live. Living, to the captain, would be a fate far worse than flaming down into the dark earth far below.

Hands away from his trips, without even trying to get above his foes, Forsythe looked down toward the long silver strip which was the Amur River.

The exhaust stacks of the coming ships flared blue and red against the moon. The wings were spread out into groups, all compact, getting ready for their dives.

Forsythe looked up. Over his head a squadron started over the hump and stabbed down, engines screaming, scarlet
pom-poms
beating through their props.

Forsythe flew onward, keeping his course straight.

He was smiling.

T
he car was miles away by now and Bob was driving fast. Ching and Lin saw the exploding muzzles of the diving guns long before they heard the chattering roar.

By watching the direction of fire they made out the attack plane.

Ching's fists were balled tightly. His throat was dry and rasping as he whispered hoarsely, “Take some of them with you. Please take the captain.
Please
…”

Patricia was turned in the seat, staring up and back. She could not see distinctly. A shining film covered her eyes.

From afar they saw the attack plane burst into leaping yellow flames.

Like a comet it stabbed down the sky trailing fire, lighting up the wings of the greedy swarm about it.

Like a comet it stabbed down the sky trailing fire, lighting up the wings of the greedy swarm about it.

Patricia tried to look away but she could not.

The brilliant arc of fire ended abruptly in the river and went out.

Ching was suddenly crazy but it lasted only a few seconds. He sagged back into the seat and stared at Patricia.

Belatedly they heard the long overdue whoosh and crash of the crumpled attack.

In a choked voice of disbelief, Lin whimpered, “He's dead.”