Rick Brant 1 The Rocket's Shadow

by John Blaine

  Inside the house, the phone jangled sharply. The boys raced into Hartson Brant’s office.

  “Yes?”

  “On your call to New York, we are ready,” the operator intoned.

  In a moment, Hartson Brant’s voice came through. “Hello, Rick. What is it, son?”

  “Dad,” Rick said, “the microtron tube is gone. Do you have it?”

  There was hushed silence at the other end of the wire. Then Hartson Brant spoke again, and his voice sounded tired. “No, Rick. Have you looked everywhere?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That finishes us then,” the scientist said slowly. “We couldn’t possibly make another one in time. And that means I’ll have to tell the Stoneridge people to count us out.”

  “Please don’t do that, Dad,” Rick pleaded. “Scotty and I have an idea we want to follow up. Give us a chance. Will you, Dad?”

  Hartson Brant thought it over for a moment. “All right, son. But don’t do anything foolhardy. I’ll take the next train home.”

  Rick hung up and turned to Scotty. “Did you hear?”

  Scotty nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Rick said. “It isn’t much of a chance, but we have to try it.” He reached into a drawer of his father’s desk and took out an old but good pair of field glasses. “They’re not as good as Weiss’s binoculars,” he said. “But they may help us to spot that secret lab!”

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  CHAPTER XIV

  Down in a Wheat Field

  Rick climbed to a thousand feet and leveled off. “No need to go any higher. We couldn’t see much.”

  Scotty nodded. “This is a good altitude-high enough to see plenty of the countryside.” He took the binoculars from their case and held them to his eyes, turning the knobs to focus them properly.

  “These are just the ticket,” he said. “I can see practically every ant in New Jersey.”

  “Mosquitoes,” Rick corrected. “New Jersey is famous for its mosquitoes, not its ants.” His eyes were scanning the horizon as he spoke, searching for any sign that might lead them to the secret laboratory.

  “What’s that?” Scotty asked suddenly.

  Rick followed his pointing finger. “Some sort of construction. Can’t you see through the glasses?”

  Scotty shook his head. “Not very clearly. It’s round, I think, and pretty high.”

  “What!” Rick grabbed for the binoculars. “Let’s see.” He took the glasses and held them to his eyes, trying to make out what Scotty had seen.

  The structure on the horizon was cylindrical, reaching into the air, above the treetops. He handed the glasses back to Scotty and rocked the little plane over in a tight bank, heading for the strange edifice.

  “What do you make of it?” Scotty asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Rick replied grimly. “But it could be a rocket-launching device. A round frame like that could support a rocket.”

  As they came closer to the structure, Rick put the Cub into a shallow dive, the nose pointing straight at the cylinder. Scotty shot him a worried glance which Rick interpreted correctly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to fly into it. I just want to get down where we can get a good look.”

  The cylinder was near a group of buildings, invisible until now because of concealing foliage and their neutral coat of paint. The structure itself glared red with fresh color, standing out sharply against the green of the surrounding trees.

  Rick eased back on the control wheel as the ground flashed up. The Cub shot over the cylinder scarcely a hundred feet above ground, then zoomed skyward again.

  Scotty and Rick looked at each other and suddenly they were laughing.

  “Rocket launcher,” Scotty said. “Oh, great!”

  Rick shook his head. “You saw it first, remember? I guess neither of us would make good farmers, not Page 62

  even knowing a new silo when we see one.”

  “It was the top that fooled me,” Scotty said. “I’d never seen a silo with the top off, at least not from the air.”

  They passed over the town of Whiteside. A mile beyond, Rick saw a clearing in the woods that looked vaguely familiar. But had the place where Mac tried to force him down been so close to the town?

  He phrased the question aloud, and Scotty answered, “Could be. I don’t imagine you were in a mood to notice distances with that plane on your tail.”

  “We’ll take a look,” Rick said. Again he put the Cub in a dive, holding it well above treetop level this time. The clearing passed underneath. “I didn’t see a thing,” Rick declared.

  “Neither did I. Wait! What’s that on the opposite side?”

  Scotty was looking through the field glasses.

  “I don’t see anything,” Rick said.

  “Go back,” Scotty said. “I want another look. I saw something gleam as we passed over. It looked like the sun on glass.”

  Rick banked around and brought the little plane back on a straight line with the center of the open field.

  This time Scotty knew where to look.

  “I see it!” he exclaimed. “A car. Right at the edge of the woods.” Then, as they passed close, he turned with an exultant yell. “It’s the gray sedan!”

  “Are you sure? Take another look, Scotty.”

  “Right. But I’m sure. I don’t believe in coincidences. There can’t be very many gray sedans of that make in this neck of the woods.”

  “But why should it be at the clearing? I don’t see any buildings.”

  “Search me.”

  “Besides,” Rick continued, “Mac wouldn’t have tried to force me down over his own field. If I got away- which I did-it would be too easy to find him.”

  “Could be,” Scotty conceded. “Well, we’ve found some trace of the gray car. Now what?”

  “I don’t know,” Rick answered. “I wish we were sure.”

  They had been flying in a wide circle, five hundred feet above the woods. Now he turned back toward the field. “I’m going to take a closer look,” he said. “Hang on to your hat.”

  “I haven’t a hat,” Scotty said grimly. “I’ll hang on to my stomach if you’re going to try anything fancy.”

  Rick let the Cub down until the wheels were almost touching the treetops, and headed straight for the Page 63

  gray car. As they sped across the clearing, Scotty let out a wild yell.

  “Get out of here, quick! They’re shooting at us!”

  Rick jabbed the throttle and lifted the small plane’s nose. As the edge of the clearing and the gray blur of the sedan passed below, he caught a glimpse of an orange flash.

  The Cub was a thousand feet in the air before he leveled off. When he turned to Scotty his face was white. “They were really shooting,” he said shakily. “You weren’t just kidding!”

  “Not me,” Scotty answered. “I know muzzle flashes when I see ‘em.” He took a deep breath. “Boy, this is past the joking stage. I’m scared. If that’s the kind of mugs we have to deal with, I’m thinking we’d better call out a platoon of marines.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Rick said grimly. “I’m going to land at the Whiteside Airport, and then I’m going to have a talk with the police. They can’t explain this away like they did the shields.”

  “That’s the best thing to do,” Scotty agreed.

  Rick glanced down at the terrain below, trying to get his bearings. While they had talked, the Cub had been flying in a straight line due west.

  His friend glanced down, too, then turned to him and said, “What’s that white stuff?”

  “What white stuff?”

  “Underneath the plane.” Scotty pointed to a stream of vapor that flowed beneath them.

  The color washed out of Rick’s face. He leaned forward and snapped off the switch, simultaneously pushing forward on the control wheel. The engine coughed once and died, leaving the propeller windmilling uncertainly.

  “Hey!” cried Scotty. “What did you do that for?”

  “That white s
tuff,” Rick said tensely, “was gasoline. One spark from the exhaust and we’d have blown up.”

  The silence pressed in on them, relieved only by the faint sound of air rushing past the gliding plane.

  Scotty fell silent, tightening his safety belt. Rick leaned far out of his window, searching for the best place to put the Cub down.

  The only level place in sight was a wheat field next to a large farm. It looked awfully small.

  “Like trying to land on a handkerchief,” Scotty said dryly.

  Rick’s voice sounded strained. “Well make it. Relax.”

  “Who are you trying to convince?”

  Rick’s eyes never left the field. They were flying parallel to it, losing altitude rapidly. He had to gauge their descent just right, and make a 180-degree turn, which would end right at the boundary fence.

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  Otherwise, they might not stop before the other fence was reached.

  His hands on the control wheel were damp with sweat, and a stream of perspiration poured down his face. After pulling the plane around in a tight turn, he saw at once that he was going to overshoot the mark. He began fishtailing, kicking the rudder from one side to the other.

  The boundary fence drifted past and they were over the field, the Cub wobbling from side to side. Then he pulled the control wheel all the way back. The tail went down and the nose was pointed skyward.

  They pancaked to earth with a jar and rolled forward through grain that was cockpit high, losing speed rapidly as they bumped over the rough earth.

  When the plane came to a stop, Scotty let the air out of his lungs audibly. “Nice flying,” he said. “But how are you going to get out of here?”

  Rick looked around. The field was the size of a postage stamp.

  “It’s small,” he said, ‘Taut I could make it if the wheat were cut.”

  “Not now, you couldn’t,” Scotty pointed out. “Not without gas in this thing.”

  “That’s right,” Rick said wryly. “Let’s see about it.” He climbed out, patted the earth lovingly and grinned up at Scotty. “I was afraid we were going to hit this ground a little harder.”

  As Scotty climbed out, Rick walked to the engine covering and began unsnapping the patent screws with his jackknife. In a moment he had it off and was probing the engine’s innards.

  “Take a look,” he said, holding up a piece of the fuel line. “A hole right through it!”

  “And here’s where the bullet came in,” Scotty said, pointing to a hole in the cowling.

  “And here’s where it hit,” Rick added, indicating a bright splash of metal on the engine itself.

  The boys looked at each other, then at the cabin, so close behind the spot where the bullet had struck.

  “Look, Rick,” Scotty said. “Having fist fights with this gang and doing nice, clean detective work is one thing, but having gun fights with them when they have all the guns-that’s plain ridiculous!”

  “I agree with you,” Rick answered, looking across the top of the waving wheat. “But what can we do?”

  “We can call the cops in on this. That’s what we can do,” Scotty said flatly. “And get in touch with your dad!”

  “Right now I think we’d better prepare for another battle,” Rick said, “with this farmer!”

  Thrashing through the wheat toward them came a sunburned man with a pitchfork in his hand. His eyes swept the length of the destruction wrought by the Cub’s forced landing and then stopped on the boys themselves.

  “Well, you made a fine mess of my wheat,” he said tartly.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Rick said, as the farmer arrived at the plane. “We just had to come down.”

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  “I saw you. I told my wife, ‘Martha,’ I said, ‘I got that wheat insured against everything from hurricanes to snowstorms, but not airplanes-and I’ll bet that’s just where that thing’s gonna land.’ And it did.”

  “Believe me, we’d have preferred to stay in the air,” Rick said earnestly. “But we’ll pay for your wheat.”

  The farmer wiped his red face with a blue handkerchief and looked at his ruined wheat as though estimating the cost.

  “Time enough for that later,” he said. “My wife’s worried to death about you young fools breakin’ your necks in our field. You better come along and show her you’re all right. How’d it happen?”

  “Oh, just a little engine trouble,” Rick answered, throwing a silencing wink at Scotty.

  The farmer remained silent the rest of the way to the big house. As they stepped out of the field, the boys saw a motherly-looking woman in red gingham anxiously looking their way.

  “They’re ah1 right, Mother,” the man called. “Now,” he said, turning to the boys, “how can you get that thing out of my field?”

  “Well, first off, we’ll need a phone. Do you have one?” Rick asked.

  “Yup. Right in the livin’ room.”

  “I’d better call Mother first,” Rick said. He called the Spindrift Island number. In a moment his mother’s cheerful voice answered and he explained rapidly what had happened, omitting the fact that the broken fuel line had been cut by a bullet.

  “How long will it be before you can get home?” she asked.

  Rick squinted out at the fast-fading light. “If I can get Gus to bring me a fuel line, I’ll be home tonight, Mom. Otherwise I might have to stay here till morning.”

  “Well, do the best you can,” his mother said. “And be careful.”

  Rick smiled at the slightly tardy advice, reassured her, and said good-by.

  “I hope Gus can get that fuel line to us,” Scotty said. “Better not waste any time calling him.”

  Rick called the Whiteside Airport number.

  “Gus on this end. Who’s on that end?”

  “Rick. Gus, I’m down in a wheat field ten miles away. Do you have a fuel line in stock?”

  “Sure, what’s the matter?”

  “Broken line,” Rick said briefly. “And I’ll need gas. I lost quite a bit. Can you fly it over?”

  “Afraid not,” Gus returned. “My kite is down for its hundred-hour check. It won’t be in flying shape for a couple of days. I’ll drive the stuff over.”

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  “Okay,” Rick agreed reluctantly. He gave the mechanic directions for reaching the farm, and hung up.

  Scotty noticed that Rick’s hands were shaking. “What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously.

  “I guess I’m just beginning to realize what a close shave we had,” Rick said. “Why on earth did they shoot at us do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know,” Scotty answered. “This is the first time they’ve come right out and played rough-with guns. I think one of those guys lost his head.”

  “Well, it looks like well have to stay here all night,” Rick said finally.

  “We? Do you think it’s wise?” Scotty asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Personally, I think one of us should be back on that island,” Scotty said.

  “You’re right,” Rick answered. “But I have to stay and fly the Cub out.”

  “I’ll go back then,” Scotty said. “If they’ve started shooting at us, who knows what they might do on that island while we’re away.”

  When they returned to the porch, the farmer was waiting for them. “Did you get help?” he inquired.

  “Yes, sir,” Rick answered. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stay in your wheat field overnight. I’m not equipped for night flying and my fuel line won’t get here until after dark.”

  He turned to Scotty. “How are you going to get to Whiteside?” Rick asked.

  Scotty held up his thumb. “Remember what I was using that for when you met me?” he answered, grinning. “”Well, I’m going to put it to work on the road right now. I’ll ask Barby to pick me up in the speedboat when I get there.”

  Rick shook his head. “Be careful,” he warned. “These guys are getting rough. So keep your eyes open when you get
back to the island.”

  Scotty nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. He headed out the driveway and Rick saw him disappear up the road.

  The farmer and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Collins, did their best to make Rick feel at home. Shortly after supper Gus drove up. Working rapidly, he and Rick made the repairs and filled the tank. Rick returned to the farmhouse and Gus drove back to Whiteside.

  “I’d like to get an early start,” Rick told Mr. Collins, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to have some of the grain cut so I can take off.”

  “Well do that in the morning,” the farmer said. “You just go on to bed. And don’t worry about the price of the wheat either.”

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  Rick was led to the room that Mrs. Collins had already prepared for him. He was exhausted and dropped wearily into the soft bed. Neither worry nor memories of the exciting day could keep him awake and soon he was asleep.

  CHAPTER XV

  The Man on the Cliff

  Scotty walked through the silent Brant house and went noiselessly up the stairs to his room. All was quiet on Spindrift Island. Since returning to the island, he had made the rounds four times and had seen nothing to arouse his suspicions.

  He put his gun on the bureau and stretched out on his bed, not to sleep, but to rest for a little while. In about an hour he would get up and make the rounds again.

  So far as he knew, everyone else on the island was sound asleep. After his talk with Hartson Brant, who had returned from New York, they had decided Scotty was the only one to be trusted as a guard, and that he should make the rounds hourly.

  He closed his eyes and relaxed, wondering how Rick was making out. He had a mental picture of his friend frying to curl up in the cockpit of the little plane, or perhaps trying to get forty winks on the ground under a wing. Then he decided it was more likely that the farmer had provided him with a bed.

  With the practiced ease that was the result of many nights of waiting in the jungle, he let his mind go blank.

  The ticking of the clock on the bureau blended into his relaxed, half-asleep state, and he breathed rhythmically, content for the moment.

  Suddenly he was fully alert again and staring up at the darkened ceiling, his whole body tense with listening. Some sound, too faint to be identified, had drifted in through the open window.