“They decided to keep us both prisoners till the chieftains had gone. They took us to this cave and blocked the entrance, even though they have us fettered.”
“Not very well,” Wade said grimly as his handcuffs clicked under the wire he manipulated. “There! Once we’re free, we may be able to get out.”
He fumbled his way to the Hadj and set to work on the oldster’s fetters.
“Ai! Escape? If we can, we may be able to stop this evil Jihad, In-sha’llah.”
“Think so?” Wade was scowling in the darkness. “D’you know what happened to my radio kit?”
“It is still in the hut. Klett tore it from your body, turned it off and cast it into a corner.”
That would help, Wade thought, unless the radio had been smashed beyond repair. No doubt the Thunderbug was still cruising over the desert, unable to locate the Hills of Gold without the guiding beam signal. But perhaps Argyle and Marat had already found it! Wade shook his head. There had not been time enough for that.
If he could reach the radio, though, and send an S.O.S. to Red and Dirk—
First he’d have to get out of this cave, he realized.
The Hadj was free now. He massaged his shriveled limbs, emitting little grunts of pain. Wade left him to examine, by sense of touch, the barrier that closed the cave-mouth.
“It’ll take time,” he said at last. “We might as well get to work. You haven’t any matches, eh?”
“I was well searched, Sahib.”
WADE began to drag rocks away from the entrance. It was dangerous work, for in the darkness he could see nothing. Removal of a key rock at the wrong time might bring the whole mound crashing down on him. Presently Nesserdin joined him, and the two toiled together.
“Do you know what’s behind all this?” Wade panted.
“Yes, I have found out a good deal. But first tell me what you know.”
Wade obeyed. As he finished, he heard the Hadj chuckle.
“We work for the same goal. I should have asked your help sooner, but I did not know you were Thunder Jim.”
He gasped for breath in the choking dust as he worked.
“I learned of this false mu’min some time ago. He was sowing the seeds of dissension among my people, so I made it my business to find out the reason. With the aid of two white men, Klett and Coyne, he was fomenting a Jihad. He was trying to undermine European prestige in the Near East. The Tuaregs help him do that.”
“But why?” Thunder Jim pursued.
“The greatest Jihad the Moslem has even known! Like a flood the Sons of Mohammed would sweep down on the cities and the streets would run red with blood. But renegade Arabs, thieves and dogs, have been placed in those cities already, waiting for the Jihad. Organized bands of robbers, they are. Under cover of the Holy War, with the cities in chaos and revolution, they intend to loot, plunder the banks and the shops. Do you see now?”
“I see,” Wade said murderously.
A Holy War, created by unscrupulous scoundrels for their own personal gain. While the deluded Arabs fought their Jihad, the men hired by Coyne and Klett would raid the banks under cover of the confusion. Jewelry shops would be looted. The treasures of the richest Eastern cities would vanish into the desert, carried to Coyne to feed his insatiable greed. Thousands of lives would be lost.
“From all over Saudi Arabia, the great chieftains have come to hear the mu’min,” Nesserdin said. “Tomorrow he will preach to them, enlist them in the Jihad and send them home to gather their men. Then, when he gives the signal, the Jihad will flame into being, unless I can stop this terror.”
“Can you?”
“The chieftains will listen to me. They know and trust me. But first we must escape.”
The night dragged on. Wade’s hands were bleeding and agonized, but he did not pause in his task. Presently the tiny crevice at the top of the mound grew lighter and the swift dawn of the desert brightened.
It was easier to remove the boulders now, for guesswork was no longer necessary. Yet both Wade and Nesserdin were tattered scarecrow figures, exhausted with fatigue, when the last rock was rolled aside and the path out of the cave lay open. Few men could have accomplished the task. Without Wade’s great strength, Nesserdin would have been helpless.
There was a scuffling sound outside. Thunder Jim’s hand closed on a small rock, the size of a baseball, that fitted neatly into his palm.
“A guard!” he whispered. “Quiet!”
THE blue veil of a Tuareg was visible through the narrow shaft, a silhouette against the morning sky. Wade flung the rock with unerring accuracy. A cry died in the native’s throat and he vanished from sight, his skull crushed by the whizzing missile.
There might be other Tuaregs on guard, Wade knew. Hastily he flung himself forward, wormed through the narrow passage and burst out into a glare of sunlight.
The native’s body lay at his feet, a rifle beside him.
A rock-strewn plain sloped down to the oasis, where the tents rose by the palm trees. A throng of men were visible there, specks in the distance. But for the moment Wade and the Hadj were safe.
Nesserdin wriggled out of the cavern and stood up, trying to comb the dirt from his tangled beard.
“Insha’llah,” he panted. “So the dog is dead? It is well. Now—”
He turned toward the oasis. Wade seized his arm.
“Keep down!” he snapped, dragging the Hadj to safety behind a boulder. “If they spot us, we’re sunk.”
“But the mu’min is already haranguing the chieftains,” Nesserdin objected.
“We can’t help if they put a bullet through us,” Wade stated.
“They would not dare. My people would slay them.”
“A cornered snake will strike blindly,” Wade quoted. “No, we’ll have to play it another way. If I can get to my radio, I’ll send a message to my airplane, the Thunderbug. Then we’ll have the upper hand.”
Grudgingly Nesserdin agreed. Together the two wormed their way down the slope, toward the collection of ruined houses at its foot.
It was surprisingly easy, for apparently everyone had gathered to hear the mu’min. Carrying the dead Tuareg’s rifle, Wade led the way to the house through the roof of which he had crashed the night before.
He thrust the gun into Nesserdin’s hand.
“Wait here,” he whispered. “Keep guard.”
SOME distance away, atop the roof of a brick structure, the mu’min stood, his voice booming out. It was too far for a good shot, Wade decided as he dived into the hut.
The place was deserted. The radio kit lay in a corner. Thunder Jim hurriedly picked it up. It was uninjured, save for a broken wire that could easily be mended.
He turned the switch, sent out call. After a moment he spoke into the tiny microphone.
“Red—Dirk! S.O.S. I need the Thunderbug bad! We—”
A clatter from outside made him whirl. Two strides took him to the door. The rifle lay at his feet. Down the slope the Hadj was racing at top speed toward the roof where the false mu’min preached.
“The crazy fool!” Wade groaned. “Why couldn’t he have waited?”
Chapter VIII
Forced Flight
THE damage was done now. Nesserdin had to be protected against the results of his own rashness. Thunder Jim took the time to race into the hut, snap the radio to its beam signal and leave it as a guide to Red and Dirk. They would follow the beam. But whether or not they would arrive in time, it was impossible to say.
Then Thunder Jim, rifle in hand, began loping with long strides after the Hadj. As he went, he noticed that the mu’min’s audience was divided into two groups—the chieftains and the Tuaregs, who far outnumbered the chiefs. Klett and Coyne were nowhere in sight.
The Hadj suddenly appeared like a jack-in-the-box on the half-fallen wall of an ancient ruin. His tremendous voice roared out, cutting through the mu’min’s harangue like a thunderbolt.“In the name of Allah, hear me!”
Startled faces turned to him. A gasp we
nt up from the ranks of the chiefs.
“It is Nesserdin—the Hadj!” someone cried. The mu’min, caught by surprise, halted, stammered and looked around frantically. Wade vaulted atop a roof that gave him a vantage point, cradled the rifle against his cheek and waited.
“This man is an impostor!” Nesserdin roared. “He is no mu’min! He is a child of Eblis, of Shaitan!”
Someone moved suddenly amid the Tuaregs. Wade’s rifle barked. A man screamed and collapsed, his blue veil fluttering.
“The first man to move dies!” Wade shouted. “Listen to the Hadj. He will tell you how you have been betrayed!”
Under the threat of that deadly rifle, no one stirred. It was pure bluff, strengthened by the element of surprise, but it worked for a time. How long it would continue to work, Wade could not guess.
Twice he had to fire and each time his bullet found its mark. The Hadj kept on. As he talked, a low murmur began amid the chiefs, a murmur that swelled into an angry buzzing and then a furious roar.
“Slay the mu’min!” someone cried shrilly.
Mabruk acted. From the folds of his garment he tore out a gleaming scimitar. With one bound he crossed the gap that separated him from the Hadj. He towered above Nesserdin, bearded mouth gaping in a screaming oath. The steel shrieked through the air—
Crack!
The scimitar shot out in a wide arc, went sailing over the heads of the throng. The mu’min threw back his head, reached out clawing fingers and fell dead at the Hadj’s feet.
“He betrayed Allah for gold!” Nesserdin roared. “He has gone down to eternal damnation!”
The voice of Skipper Klett barked a command. In answer the Tuaregs silently spread out into a crescent formation. Their intention was obvious. With increasing speed they bore down on the compact group of the desert chieftains.
“Get down!” Wade yelled at the Hadj. “You’re a perfect target up there!”
But Nesserdin did not obey. His voice thundered out, hurling searing curses at the Tuaregs. Simultaneously with the crack of a pistol, he toppled from the wall.
Thunder Jim saw Klett running forward, smoke drifting from his pistol’s muzzle. He fired, missed and saw the other man dive to cover.
WADE vaulted from the roof, racing toward the spot where Nesserdin had fallen. From the corner of his eye he saw the band of chieftains retreating.
Far outnumbered by the Tuaregs, they knew that they would have no chance in the open. But behind them, under the beetling cliff face, was the wall of an ancient courtyard. It was still in good repair. The chiefs poured through a narrow opening, took shelter from the withering fire of the Tuaregs.
From his position higher up the valley, Wade could look down into the courtyard and the roofless baked-brick structure that stood in its center.
The chiefs were racing into the house, taking up their positions at loopholes and windows, using their few weapons in a desperate attempt to hold back the Tuaregs. But the desert wolves, the Forgotten of God, came racing into the courtyard, heedless of death. Not long, Wade knew, could the chiefs hold out in their improvised fort.
All this he saw and realized in a brief glance. Then he halted, stooped over the Hadj. Nesserdin was not dead. He was groaning feebly, clutching at his side, from which blood seeped slowly. A clean wound, Wade saw, it presumably had touched no vital part.
A bullet screamed past Wade’s head. He swung up his rifle, took a snap shot at Klett and heard the lead go singing off a boulder as the other ducked.
Purposely Wade turned his back on Klett. He bent to pick up Nesserdin, his back crawling with the expectation of a bullet. He knew Klett would not be able to resist the temptation of another shot. He was right.
Wade whirled, the rifle flipping into position as Klett fired. The skipper had the advantage. Thunder Jim had little time to aim and then only at a disappearing head.
He felt lead rake the skin and flesh from his ribs. The reports of the two guns were almost a single bark.
For a moment Wade thought he had missed. Klett disappeared behind the boulder. Then he shot up abruptly, his arms windmilling. He toppled backward, out of sight. He was either dead or unconscious, Wade knew.
Thunder Jim glanced up as a low droning reached his ears. The Thunderbug!
The streamlined shape of the black plane swept into view from behind the mountain’s shoulder, raced over the Hills of Gold and dived toward the valley.
So Red and Dirk had got the message, after all! The Tuaregs, Wade saw, were closing in on the cornered chiefs. The courtyard inside the wall was filled with the savage, yelling killers. The chiefs, within the crumbling house that served as a fort, were firing with careful accuracy. But not for long could they hope to hold out.
Far above, the Thunderbug circled, apparently puzzled. Wade hesitated, glanced at his rifle and then ran out into a cleared space. He was risking a bullet, but this was the only way.
HE semaphored with his arms till the wings of the plane dipped in response. Red and Dirk, he knew, were watching him through field glasses, waiting for their cue. Wade gave them that cue, moving his arms in quick signals.
The Thunderbug swept toward the Tuaregs. It banked sharply in a strong gust that blasted off the cliff-face behind the courtyard where the battle was going on. For a second the plane dropped. Then its pilot swung it around and back toward Wade.
Thunder Jim knew what was wrong. In an open space, with sufficient room to maneuver, the Thunderbug could bomb the Tuaregs, or machine-gun them. But the courtyard was too close to the rock wall of the mountain. The Thunderbug, in the tricky thermals and air-currents, could not get close enough to use its weapons.
Wade semaphored again. In response the plane turned, circled back, losing altitude. The instant it landed with phenomenal ease, it seemed to change shape.
The wings shortened as they were pumped in. The plane settled down, the undercarriage vanishing as it lowered. The propeller was withdrawn into its compartment. A streamlined, bulky, elliptical object lay motionless on the slope—but for only a moment. Caterpillar treads were pushed out. The Thunderbug had changed from a cabin plane to a speedy land tank! It lurched forward.
Wade turned back to Nesserdin. He bent, picked up the Hadj’s unconscious body and dragged him into the shelter of the ruined, roofless structure. Then he looked back down the valley.
The Thunderbug was driving toward the courtyard where Tuaregs were gathering for the final attack on the cornered chiefs. When it struck the wall like a thunderbolt, the crumbling brick seemed to explode inward. Shards and chunks of baked clay flew in every direction.
The snout of the black behemoth poked through the gap. It lumbered forward, trickles of dust running down its sleek sides, white clouds rising about it. It pivoted on its treads and came smashing forward among the Tuaregs.
Bullets screamed against its armored hull. The desert wolves poured toward it, concentrating their attack on this new enemy. Simultaneously gunfire raved out from the black skin of the Thunderbug.
Machine-guns stuttered and snarled. The Tuaregs were caught between two fires, for now the chiefs, who had been caught by surprise by their unexpected ally, rallied and poured a murderous volley at the Tuaregs. The marauders had no chance to get away. The tables were reversed with a vengeance.
Wade’s face was grim. He could leave the killers to Dirk and Red, he knew. The nomad chiefs were safe—those of them who had not already been slaughtered. Already the Tuaregs were fleeing, but there were only a few left to flee.
“Don’t move, Wade!” a low, deadly voice said. “Careful!”
WADE looked up. Coyne was kneeling atop the ruined hut’s wall, his pistol aimed unwaveringly at the unconscious, prone figure of Nesserdin. The fake correspondent’s sallow, gaunt face was twitching convulsively.
“Don’t move,” Coyne repeated, “or I’ll put a bullet in the Hadj.”
“You’re licked, Coyne,” Wade said, “Don’t you know that?”
“Not quite,” the ot
her whispered. “I took precautions. Get his gun, Klett.”
A pistol-muzzle was pressed into Wade’s back. The snarling, bearded face of Skipper Klett came into view, a bloody slash along his temple dripping red. His yellow teeth showed in a grin.
“No, you didn’t kill me, Wade. Just knocked me out.”
Roughly he jerked the rifle from his captive’s hand.
“Pick up the Hadj,” Coyne said. “Quick!”
There was nothing to do but obey. Wade silently bent, shouldered Nesserdin’s slight body. At Coyne’s command, he led the way through the ruined city. Behind him the stuttering of gunfire grew fainter.
If he had been alone, he might have taken a chance, rather than give up his rifle. But Nesserdin’s life was at stake as well. Later there might be an opportunity….
Coyne urged him on impatiently. They halted beside a wall which slid aside on concealed rollers as Klett flung his weight against it. Through the broad gap that was left, Wade saw—a hangar!
It was a large shed, camouflaged so as to be almost invisible from the air. Under it was a cabin plane, a light convertible. Coyne smiled at Wade’s involuntary look of astonishment.
“We took no chances. I’ve had this plane waiting here, in case of accident, for months. It’ll come in handy now. Get in!”
Wade grudgingly entered it. He was wondering why Coyne and Klett had captured instead of killing him. Surely it was an unnecessary risk for them to take. Their plans were smashed now and they could not hope to succeed with their synthetic Jihad.
He changed his mind, however, when the plane took the air and climbed rapidly, banking toward the lower end of the valley. The last of the Tuaregs were disappearing through the pass, while the chiefs had emerged from their temporary fortress and were attending to their dead and wounded.
The Thunderbug came rolling up the valley. Abruptly it halted as the plane droned overhead. It swung about, making for a level, bare stretch of ground.
Chapter IX
Allah Pays his Debts
THUNDER JIM was not tied to his seat. There had been no time for that. But Klett watched him with unblinking eyes, holding a pistol aimed steadily at his captive’s middle. Nesserdin, still unconscious, was prone on the cabin floor. Coyne, at the controls, barked a mirthless laugh and pulled back a lever at his side.
Thunder Jim Wade Page 15
