Death Dimension

by Denis Hughes

  As if in answer to his unspoken questions the Monster said: “Yes, Tern this is our destination. You are no doubt very interested?”

  “Just what do you mean to do?” he growled uneasily.

  “Strike a more telling blow at your futile civilisation,” came the ominous reply. “Out there at the end of the runway is one of this country’s most powerful long-range bombers. It is fully loaded with live stuff, ready to take off for a practice flight and bombing exercise off the Scottish coast. All most convenient. It will not, of course, be flown by its normal crew, nor will its destination be as planned by the R.A.F. However, you will learn more of that presently. Keep driving, Tern; I have a feeling that we may meet some opposition further along the road. The authorities are singularly suspicious, guarding their aerodromes closely. It may be that some of the vigilance is increased on account of the reputation I am gaining. We shall see.”

  Tern was cold with anger, helpless with rage. But the muzzle of the creature’s automatic was pressing against the back of his neck and the monster’s arm was poised for a quick blow at Vivienne if he tried any tricks. He knew that blow, if it landed, would be enough to kill her. Mercifully, the girl herself was still in a deep sleep of exhaustion, unheeding of the danger now building up around her.

  “Faster!” came the shrill command. “Faster, I tell you, and do not stop for anything. Drive straight into the main entrance to the ’drome. I will direct you from there.”

  Tern gritted his teeth in sheer desperation. Hunched over the wheel, he sent the car forward at flat-out speed.

  He saw the road block when it was still a hundred yards away. A white bar lay across the road, with figures in a group on either side of it, dimly seen. Someone was waving a red lantern to and fro. They wanted him to stop. In the beam of the headlamps he made out the uniformed shapes of civilian police, R.A.F. regiment guards, a few civilians in raincoats and felt hats. He saw, too, the gleam of rifles and knew that there was trouble piling up.

  “Straight through!” shrilled the monster. “Do as I tell you, Tern. For the girl’s sake keep going. Smash the barrier!”

  Tern ducked low, his foot flat on the floorboards as the car roared forward. He had often see this kind of thing done on the films, had never imagined he would one day do it himself—with a gun sticking in his neck.

  Vivienne woke up with a scream as the first shot was fired at the racing vehicle. It starred the windscreen but passed harmlessly overhead. Then there was a shattering crash and the car seemed to check momentarily as it met the heavy pole of the barrier. A cloud of steam shot upwards from the radiator. Men were shouting and cursing on all sides. Someone thrust an arm in through the open window beside him, attempting to seize the wheel. Then the car lurched free and was moving again with little apparent slackening of speed. The steam from the burst radiator obscured the windscreen so that Tern had to look through the side window. The shouting had stopped, but a rifle cracked venomously in the background. Then a veritable hail of bullets crackled past and over the lurching car. One ricocheted whiningly off the wing.

  Vivienne had screamed only once; now she was huddled down on the floor beneath the scuttle, cowering from danger. The Monster grasped her neck, keeping a hold on her.

  “Keep going!” it snarled.

  “She’ll seize up in a minute or two!” Tern replied. “The rad’s burst!”

  “Keep going, I say! It will take us far enough!”

  At that moment Brooking decided to wake up. He at once started lashing out at the monster, only to be crushed again by another stunning blow on the head. And then the car gave a violent lurch as one of the stray bullets that flew around it found a mark in one of the tyres. The bang of the burst seemed to form part of the grinding, splintering crash that followed immediately afterwards. Slewing broadside, the careering car skated straight for a brick wall, struck it a violent blow and bounced off at another tangent, only to hit a shallow ditch and roll over on its side.

  Tern fought the wheel till the last moment, conscious of being driven by that instinct for self-preservation that wipes out all other considerations. In those few fleeting seconds he forgot about the monster, Vivienne or Brooking. Forgot even that his own countrymen were shooting at him.

  Then his head shot forward as the car jolted in the ditch. His forehead met the rim of the steering wheel in a blinding impact and he sagged unconscious, no longer aware of what was going on around him.

  *

  “You’ll be charged when we get you to the station,” said the police superintendent sternly. “It’s about time people like you were checked once and for all.”

  Tern glared round the bunch of men who hemmed him in. They had lifted him from the car and carried him to the guard room close by the road block. That much was obvious, but a new fear came to him as he looked round for signs of Vivienne or the others.

  “Listen, you blind damn’ fools!” he said tensely. “Do you imagine that was my party? The Blue Peril was in that car, making me drive it. Haven’t you got it yet? And where’s the girl and Brooking?” He rubbed a hand over his aching forehead. “Oh my God, if only you knew!”

  “That’ll be enough of that,” said the superintendent.

  Tern glared at him angrily. “What happened?” he asked. “You might as well tell me; it won’t make any difference now because if that Thing’s still loose you won’t catch it. Has anyone seen the girl who was in the car?” He looked round desperately, but met only the cold hostile stares of uniformed men. Most of them carried side arms or rifles.

  The police superintendent eyed him stonily. “There were three other people in the car beside yourself,” he stated. “You were rendered unconscious in the crash. By the time we arrived on the scene the other three had escaped in the dark. What is this nonsense about a blue peril, and who were the other three passengers? You’d be wise to answer sensibly.”

  Tern swallowed hard, clenching his fists in rage. If only these fools realised their danger!

  “Tell me this,” he said grimly “there was a bomber on the runway a while ago. Is it still there, or has it taken off?”

  Almost before he had finished speaking the door of the guard room burst open and an aircraftman staggered in, His face was covered in blood and his jacket was torn down the front.

  “Some joker’s taking Number Five!” he gasped. “Quick! The crate’s all bombed up and if—” He stopped, falling sideways against the door frame, sliding to the floor, out for the count. Men crowded round him, asking questions, trying to wake him up again.

  The superintendent whirled on Tern, “What is going on?” he demanded curtly.

  Tern said: “I’ve tried to warn you! The half-man, half-robot created by Brooking—the Thing that’s been murdering people—was in that car. His plan was to take one of the station bombers and use it for heaven knows what devilry! Pull yourselves together and get out there to stop it. If you don’t it’ll probably drop its load on London!”

  The superintendent was confused for a moment. He was a police officer, not an R.A.F. type, and this sort of thing was a little beyond his normal scope.

  The phone rang shrilly. One of the regiment men, the guard N.C.O. picked it up and listened. “Cripes!” he said. “You don’t say! Er—sorry sir. Yes, of course! Now, sir, very good!” He slammed the receiver back and turned to the superintendent. “Squadron HQ report that if Number Five takes off unauthorised it must be brought down at all cost! It’s loaded with secret stuff and they’re scared that enemy agents are trying to make off with it!”

  Tern heaved a sigh of relief. At least something would be done now, he thought.

  And then, even while he was congratulating himself, the aircraftman who had staggered in with the news came to enough to do some further talking. The ‘joker’ he had previously mentioned appeared to be a small man with an enormous head. And he had battered the handful of men working on the bomber into unconsciousness in a matter of moments. Only this particular man had stayed awake; th
ough helpless. Then the ‘joker’ had carried two apparently insensible bodies on board the aircraft and started to taxi it out.

  Tern felt as if a bucket of icy water had been flung in his face. Two unconscious bodies! The creature was taking Vivienne and Brooking with it on this insane flight!

  Before he could say anything constructive the entire guard room was a bedlam of orders being given and acknowledged. A crash tender screamed to a halt outside. Three R.A.F. men rushed in. They were armed. The guard commander was on the phone again, red in the face, talking nervously to someone a very long way senior to himself. In the distance outside a siren was wailing the alarm.

  And the night air throbbed steadily with the thunder of boosted engines.

  Tern grabbed one of the N.C.O.s by the arm.

  “What are they going to do?” he demanded.

  The man shook him off savagely. “Shoot the swine down, of course!” he snarled. “That’s the emergency siren now. In three minutes flat there’ll be a dozen jet fighters warming up! We’ll show the bastards whether they can pinch a kite or not!”

  Tern sagged away, breathing deeply. Shoot them down…In the din and confusion all round him he suddenly realised that no one was taking any notice of him anymore. The door was a yard away. And outside a jeep was standing with its engine ticking over, unattended.

  “Close all roads to the ’drome!” the superintendent was saying busily. “Throw a cordon round the perimeter!”

  A squadron leader appeared, flying helmet in his hand. He was grinning wickedly, a cheerful looking soul with the devil in his eyes.

  “Bang on, what!” he said to no one in particular. “Bit of battle practice, eh? Just the job!” He elbowed over and grabbed the phone, reporting his arrival to the duty pilot’s office. “You bet, old boy! Be right over. Yes, too true! Tell Carruthers to get her turning. That’s right, old man, just got back from a dance to find this cooking up. Good eh? Nothing like it since the old days. Bye-bye…”

  Tern was thinking fast. Most of the noise in the guard room was drowned out by the thunderous roar of a heavy plane taking off. That would be the bomber, with the Blue Peril at the controls. He shuddered. A pity they couldn’t have stopped it before now.

  The debonair squadron leader was just leaving. He moved with considerable speed, his lazy manner cloaking a well-developed sense of urgency.

  Tern decided the time had come to do something definite.

  He sidled to the door in the wake of the squadron leader. Everyone else was too busy to notice the fact. He and the squadron leader reached the jeep at the same time, boarding it together.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” said Tern affably. “Someone’s borrowed my car and left me stranded. Must have a word with the station commander.”

  The squadron leader grinned and slipped into gear as Tern hunched forward in the seat at his side. “You won’t get far with old Sloppy-chops, brother! Proper terror, he is. You the police?”

  “Connected with ’em. Special department. Er—did you say Sloppy-chops has this station? I knew him during the last flap.”

  The squadron leader chuckled. “Then you’ll know what I mean about him! Where are you heading by the way?”

  “Dispersal point,” answered Tern. “Checking up on something. We think there may be someone here who has no right to be around.”

  “Ah! The master sleuth, what?”

  Tern grunted. The jeep was bumping rapidly along now. Several hundred yards away the flare path had sprung into a river of light. Silhouetted against it were the squatting shapes of jet fighters, the more bulky fuselages of bombers. Three tenders tore past in the opposite direction, loaded with armed men. “Looks as if they’re manning the ack-ack guns,” said the squadron leader interestedly. “You don’t know what this is really all about, I suppose? Or shouldn’t I ask you…?”

  Tern said: “We think an enemy agent has stolen one of the bombers; that’s all. Orders are to stop it at all costs, even to shooting it down if need be.”

  “That’s what I was told myself. Wizard prang, what? Too bad about the kite, though. One of the latest. The bus drivers say it’s a peach to fly.”

  “There’s a girl on board it now,” said Tern very quietly.

  “Holy Mick! Do you mean that?”

  “Unfortunately yes,” said Tern. “And I’m truly sorry about this, too.” As he spoke he brought his fist up from somewhere close to the floor of the jeep, aiming it straight at the fully exposed jaw of the squadron leader as the man turned an astonished face towards him.

  The blow was a beauty, as accurate as a rifle bullet, and with almost as much latent power when it connected. The man grunted weirdly. The jeep swerved to the side of the road just as Tern grabbed the wheel and straightened it out. Then he reached across, heaved the senseless man aside and slid deftly into the driving seat himself. During the process the jeep almost stopped and the squadron leader disappeared over the side with a dull thud, landing in the ditch. Tern was sorry about it, because he had liked the fellow and meant him no harm, but he needed the jeep in a hurry for his own reasons. It was lucky, he thought grimly, that he had only recently undergone a training course, in the handling of the latest jet fighters. There were distinct advantages to joining the R.A.F.V.R.

  Alone in the jeep, he headed fast for the dispersal point. Already the thin scream of the turbine engines was shrill in his ears. Men were running hither and thither, mechanics making final checks, armourers loading the cannon magazines.

  Tern brought the jeep to a skidding halt near the closest of the fighters, the one at the end of a dozen long line, all warming up with mechanics in their cockpits. Coming up at the other end of the flight was a tender. He wondered if it was bringing the pilots, men like the squadron leader, ready to kill a plane for the good of the cause, cool, calculating men with training to back their courage.

  But he had little time to indulge his curiosity. The man in the cockpit of the fighter he had chosen was just clambering down, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. At sight of Tern he paused, leaning forward for a better view of the newcomer.

  Tern had to work fast. Fortunately any noise that was made would be drowned by the high-pitched whine of the jets. The mechanic was coming to meet him, puzzled it seeing civilian clothes instead of uniform.

  Tern shouted something in the din of noise. They were close to each other now. The twin-boomed fuselage was between them and the rest of the waiting planes. Tern was ready for it now. As the mechanic came close to hear what he was saying, he struck, neatly, coolly, effectively. As the hapless mechanic collapsed at his feet he darted forward, and a moment or two later was settling in the cockpit after kicking away the chocks from the wheels. The engine was ticking over gently, too slowly to overcome the brakes. He was all set for his desperate bid, and Vivienne’s life depended on how he went about it.

  CHAPTER 9

  FLARE PATH TAKE-OFF

  Men in flying kit were piling out of the tender further down the line. Tern tightened his mouth and checked the instruments, then gunned, the motor and sent the Vampire rolling away from the line. He could see the illuminated take-off in the distance at the near end of the flare path. Out on the perimeter of the ’drome a battery of searchlights were coming into action, probing the sky for any signs of the stolen bomber. But by now it was well on its way, and from the sound of it when it took off Tern guessed with a sinking feeling that it was heading for London.

  He thought of Vivienne, the bomb load, Brooking, and the hideous creature who was up there controlling it with that fearful omniscience that put nothing beyond its reach. How the night would end he hated to think, but somehow or other he must get in touch with the monster and try to persuade it to change its plan before the guns grew hot and death and destruction marked the coming of dawn.

  The jet motor screamed as he turned down the flare path. He saw men waving at him frantically. They knew now that this was another pirate flight. But he was still the first off the deck, stil
l the first to take up the chase. The rest would be too busy to bother about him once they were in the air. Or so he hoped.

  Cool now that he was on his own and in a plane, he made final checks, then throttled up and streaked down the flare path.

  Without circling the ’drome, he set a southerly course, driving full bore, guided by the distant glow of light in the sky that told of London. Guided, too, by the spires of probing searchlights. On this trip there was no need for radar locating apparatus. Always to the south, the lights formed a beacon. And suddenly to the lights were added the tiny sparks of bursting ack-ack fire. As if by magic every searchlight beam swung and concentrated in a cone. Staring ahead, Tern saw the speck of silver caught in the mesh. The light boys were hot! He put the nose down a shade and drove the jet fighter for all it was worth, closing the distance rapidly.

  As he flew he brought the radio into action, searching for a live band, praying that he could contact the monstrous Being.

  The flak increased in intensity. Detachedly he wondered what people were thinking; did they realise the peril in which they slept? Had the news leaked out yet? He doubted it. He was close enough now to see the heavy bomber jinking and dodging amid the lights. And London lay ahead, still safe. But the flak was flaring all around the bomber, closer and closer as the gunners got the range. Tern had gained a lot of height. He was well above the harassed bomber now, diving towards it, not quite knowing what to do when he failed to contact it by radio.

  Then the radio crackled and he found that the Monster was calling him!

  “Go back,” it ordered, its voice shrill and thin on the air. “Go back or the girl will suffer for your madness. What do you think you can do to stop me from reaching my objective?”

  Tern gritted his teeth. “You fool!” he groaned. “The fighters will get you if the flak doesn’t! Can’t you understand that that crate you’re driving doesn’t stand an earthly chance against jet fighters? For God’s sake, if you value your own hide jettison that bomb load and land anywhere. Better still jump for it and turn the kite over the sea!”