Trouble on His Wings

by L. Ron Hubbard

“He probably already had his pictures,” said the Jinx.

  “Sure,” said Johnny, before he thought.

  They laughed at him, and the big Clipper bore upward into the smoother air and the Pacific stretched limitlessly below. Hawaii was far ahead, and beyond that . . .

  Chapter Eight

  BUT nothing happened in Hawaii and the endless blue leagues of the Pacific fled by below, flanked by the strange, castellated clouds of the tropics, which flamed each night before the sea vanished below and flamed each dawn before the sea could again be seen. Always the clouds, never overhead, rarely below, always on the horizon. Forever the sea, that seven million square miles of the Pacific, a wide, variegated world of its own, too great and lordly to notice the bright wings of the airliner.

  And then Manila, a week out of San Francisco, a week in the company of men one would never see again, but who had become friends just the same. The Jinx, moving in a world she had never before seen, riding the crest of great events, had seen deeper into Johnny than he knew.

  In the sticky-hot Customs, she clung close to Irish and Johnny, recoiling at the sight of the armed, brown police, anxious to be free once more of these patrolled towns. Even more than the officers, she was interested in the changing crowd, especially when it contained well-dressed people.

  And then they were aloft again, heading for China. But it was no longer a Clipper, but a small, eight-passenger cabin plane of the Chinese National Airways.

  It was now that Mr. Wu’s calm began to break. Any sudden remark would make him start violently, and forever his eyes patrolled the skies ahead and above. Out from under them rolled the South China Sea and, finally with morning, China spread before them. Their destination was Chau-chow on the Han River, a prudent choice of Mr. Wu, who hoped against hope that the—

  Japanese battle planes glittered briefly as they wheeled in the sky. The pilot, a young American, gave a startled glance into the cabin and then peered upward again. Mr. Wu, face pressed against the window, shivered like a deer which has heard hounds. There were eight of those planes, vicious and stubby and efficient. They were here with a job to do, and with Oriental calm they set about it, getting neatly into a stair-step formation out of which they would start their dives. A sharp, brief barking sound was in the air—those pilots were warming up their machine guns for the coldblooded kill.

  The Jinx’s face was pale, eyes fixed in fascination upon the death which waited in the sky. It seemed impossible that such cool deliberation could forerun what it would. The pilot of the passenger plane was diving, engines wide open. Below was the Han River, its bulk broadening, as they neared it, into a coffee-colored sheet. Suddenly the Jinx was aware of Johnny’s activities. With steady hands he was checking the load of his camera. Irish was reading a light meter and counting it off. Johnny lifted the camera to the heavens and the small whir of it was audible, even above the scream of the transport’s engines and the growing yowl above.

  A rattling, snapping sound burst about them. A great hole appeared in the back of the Chinese secretary’s neck. He quietly folded up on the back of Mr. Wu’s seat. Daylight could be seen in the top of the cabin; small holes were there, like stars. The rattling sound came again. But the Jinx heard Johnny’s camera whirring once more. He was shooting the river as it swept up to them.

  Past the windows flashed, in rapid order, four of the Japanese planes, wheeling below to zoom once more into the sky while the remaining ships came down.

  The transport’s engine clanked and was still, and the dismal howl of wind past struts and through bullet-holed wings was suddenly more than the Jinx’s ears could stand. The drumming engines of the battle planes seemed far off and unreal.

  The transport leveled out for a crash landing in the water. The camera’s whir stopped for a moment, while Johnny buckled his belt. And then he pointed the nose of his camera up once more and caught three warplanes streaking down, one after the other, emptying their drums and flashing by. Swiftly he turned his lens on the water which, in the next instant, shot over them in a great, translucent sheet. The transport bobbed up, plowing ahead. All about them the water was lined with rows of small geysers. Machine-gun bullets. The cha-cha-cha-cha of the guns was louder now. The transport was slowing down. With a start, the Jinx saw the black bulk of a man-o’-war looming just ahead.

  The pilot leaped up. “Swim for it!” he shouted, as he slammed open his door. He was gone. Mr. Wu struggled up, death stamped like a white mask on his face. He went through the port into the water below.

  The transport leveled out for a crash landing in the water.

  “Beat it!” ordered Johnny. “Grab her, Irish.”

  Irish grabbed her and thrust her out, breaking her instinctive hold on the plane. The water was cold as she fought through its depths, and then Irish had her again. They swam swiftly away from the ship.

  Suddenly she knew Johnny wasn’t with them. The water was boiling around the plane as bullets hailed out of the sky. In a sick surge of terror she screamed, “Johnny’s back there!”

  Irish turned in the river and stared at the transport. And then they saw Johnny. He had just finished his last shot of the man-o’-war and was turning his camera on the struggling Mr. Wu, now far out from the ship.

  “Johnny!” she cried.

  In the din of guns her voice was lost. In an agony of suspense, she watched him coolly take out the drum and wrap it in a rubber sheet, thrusting it into a container. But even then he did not jump. With the plane rocked by striking lead, Johnny was calmly loading his camera again. Finally he focused it on the man-o’-war, the sky, and then the water, and then he dropped it and, in a long dive, hit the water.

  The pilot had vanished. Mr. Wu was struggling feebly and then she knew that Johnny wasn’t coming to them, he was heading for Mr. Wu. With unceremonious hand he gripped the ambassador’s collar and towed him toward the shore.

  The shelling had stopped, and the resulting quiet was hard on the eardrums. The shore seemed a thousand miles away, and she began to despair of their ever reaching it.

  Suddenly, directly in front of them, a ship’s boat loomed. Brown hands fastened themselves upon the swimmers and lifted them into the boat.

  The Jinx pushed her hair from her eyes and looked around at the Japanese sailors on the thwarts. Johnny, she saw with a start, was empty-handed. No, Irish did not have the drum. With her spirits sinking even lower, she felt the conviction that she was again the cause of lost film.

  Mr. Wu was nodding politely to a Japanese officer, who bowed politely in return, and then the gig swerved into a long turn and sped back to the man-o’-war.

  They clambered up the black side, trailing water on the white-scoured ladder, and arrived in a group of polite officers on the deck. The captain, seeing them, turned and made a sign with his hand to the gig, which curved outward again and swept down upon the wrecked but floating transport. She saw the officer retrieve Johnny’s camera from it, while others tossed luggage into the gig and then the boat came back.

  “I am very sorry,” said the bedraggled Mr. Wu to the Jinx, “to be the cause of unpleasantness to you.”

  She didn’t think he meant more than the transport crash itself, until she heard Johnny talking to the captain.

  “Ah, yes,” said the captain to Johnny. “I am very sorry. I realize how serious it is. But, believe me, we made a most regrettable mistake, thinking you were a Chinese bombing plane sent to destroy this warship. Very regrettable, very sorry.”

  “A common mistake, Captain,” said Johnny, tight-jawed, but not to be outdone in politeness. “If you would be so kind as to set us ashore—”

  “The country,” said the captain, “is very wild. I would fear for your safety. May I invite you to be my guests?” He was eyeing the camera, which was being brought aboard. “We will store this for you—if you do not mind?”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Johnny, grimly.

  “You will be taken to your cabins,” smiled the captain.

&nbs
p; Escorted by a young officer, Mr. Wu went slowly down a hatch and out of sight. Another officer signed that the Americans were to follow him. Johnny took Irish and the Jinx, each one by the arm, and tagged the officer.

  “The dirty rats,” said Irish. “That pilot didn’t have a chance. He’s dead on the bottom.”

  A thudding explosion shook the river behind them and the Jinx glanced back to see that the remains of the transport were pattering the breadth of the river.

  “If we get out of this,” said Johnny, “we’ll be lucky. Keep your chin up.”

  “You mean . . . they won’t set us ashore?” said the Jinx.

  “Us?” said Irish scornfully. “Newsmen? Ready to blast that story across the world? What do you think would happen to Japanese prestige if it got noised around that they attacked an American plane, killed the pilot, took Mr. Wu a prisoner and executed him?”

  She looked at Johnny.

  “Sure, his goose is cooked. They’ll ease his body over the side as soon as they get to sea.”

  “But they can’t hold us forever!” she protested.

  “No?” said Johnny. “That’s like the jailbird saying they can’t jail him—but there he is. Keep your chin up. I hope you’ll like Japan.”

  “When I think of those pictures,” mourned Irish, “I wanta cry. The biggest scoop of the war this year—on the river bottom.” And he glanced at the girl and she saw in his face that he was beginning to believe things about her too.

  As they entered the large cabin suite they heard the anchor engines grinding, and through the port they saw the river bank begin to slide away. For a moment the Jinx was a little dizzy.

  “Is . . . is this business always like this?” she said.

  “Like what?” said Johnny innocently.

  “One minute in the Atlantic, the next in the mountains and . . . I can’t believe it . . . here we are in China, and heading for Japan and all in less than two weeks.”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny, disinterestedly lighting a cigarette, graciously offered by the ship.

  She had just started toward her cabin when the door burst open and two marines stepped aside to let the stick-bristled captain enter, followed by a lieutenant.

  “We are very sorry,” said the captain, politely. He made a sign and the lieutenant approached Johnny, who at first drew back and then submitted to the inevitable. The lieutenant made a quick search and, from under Johnny’s belt, where it had lain flat against his stomach, drew out the film container. They then searched Irish without result.

  “Thank you very much,” said the captain. “We have that film left in your camera and now this. My field glasses are very fine, very powerful. Thank you very much.” Bowing courteously, he withdrew.

  Johnny’s lean face was strained. He looked fixedly at the girl.

  She winced and quickly closed her door, but not soon enough to block off his “Jinx!”

  Chapter Nine

  THE ship plowed through the soft dark of the Eastern Sea, phosphorus curling in straight lines away from the bow, a small slice of a moon paving the water with silver squares. Within four or five hours, and still before dawn, they would dock at the Japanese port.

  The Jinx rested against the rail, looking down at the sea, her thoughts a turmoil of misery but, for all that, looking very lovely in the softness of the night. She became aware of Johnny standing beside her and she made an effort to rally. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? If . . . if only I knew what was going to happen, I might be able to enjoy it more. I’ve never been in the Orient until now.”

  Johnny dragged thoughtfully on his cigarette. “Well, if that’s all it will take to make you happy, I can tell you all about it. We’re going to be held incommunicado until hell freezes over. We know too much about Japanese methods in general and the sinking of an American-owned transport in particular. They know what the US press would say about the murder of a pilot and Mr. Wu.”

  “You mean Mr. Wu—”

  “Sure. He’s been dead for more than a day. He tried to escape, they said.” He tossed his cigarette into the water. It glowed in a bright arc on the way down and then, suddenly, was extinguished and gone.

  “But they can’t do that to us,” she protested.

  “No, they may not kill us, but they’ll imprison us—which, as far as I am concerned, is just as bad.”

  “But our ambassador—”

  “Will never know a thing about it,” said Johnny.

  “But they can’t do it!”

  “In almost every country of the world,” said Johnny, “there must be imprisoned at least one foreigner, long ago given up for dead, held merely because he knows too much. Russia, France, England—”

  “And the United States?”

  “Who knows?” said Johnny.

  “Then maybe we’ll be held for years and years! Oh, Johnny—”

  “Keep your chin up!” he said, almost savagely.

  She wavered, tried and then succeeded. “I’m sorry, Johnny.”

  They stood in silence for some time and then heard footsteps approaching. It was the captain, smiling, hissing and bowing.

  “Good evening. We come to Nagasaki very soon now. I regret that I shall be forced to deliver you over to other agencies. Is there anything which I can do?”

  “You’ve done quite enough,” smiled Johnny. “We appreciate your kindly hospitality. But there is one favor I might ask.”

  “Yes?”

  “You might,” snapped Johnny, “give me those pictures back and let me go free. You’ll never succeed in covering this up. How do you know that pilot didn’t get away? Must you add crime to crime, and hold neutrals prisoners? What if the world hears about that?”

  “The pilot,” said the captain, sadly, “was mistaken by our airmen for Mr. Wu and was sent, I trust, to his fellow birdmen in heaven. I saw him sink. It is to be regretted. Military expediency, Mr. Brice, is a God difficult to serve. There is one thing I can do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Naturally you are interested in your pictures. They are very excellent. We have, of course, complete facilities aboard, and we took the liberty to finish them. It has become customary for us to record our activities, and perhaps foreign works and vessels, wherever possible, and we are indebted to you for your aerial views of our diving battle planes. We can learn much from them. The technique of our pilots was most ragged and, with the aid of your pictures, may be pointed out. Perhaps, if you would like to see them—”

  “It’s the sadist in him,” growled Johnny. “All right, I’ll look at them.”

  “It is I who offer the favor,” quietly reminded the captain.

  He led the way down into the officers’ salon where, copying the fashion of the United States Navy, motion pictures took up part of the burden of morale. After the evening show, the projector was still in place and the captain rang for the operator. With some pride he indicated the projector.

  “It is much different from the day of the samurai, eh, Mr. Brice? Japan has come far. Our Navy is every bit as modern as your own and, who knows, may some day be as large.”

  The operator came and went away again to bring back Johnny’s film. There was no positive print, only the negative, and though black and white were reversed, making the diving planes like weird ghost ships against a black sky, the excellence of the photography was apparent even to the Jinx.

  Johnny sat very still. He watched the planes coming down, watched the water coming up, saw his shot of Mr. Wu’s secretary getting hit, witnessed the testimony of his own news sense in every foot of that film. It was all there, the man-o’-war, the ship’s gig, the rising sun insignia on the warplane wings. It was, he knew, the action shot of the year, done in brilliantly clear photography. As the film whirred out, he felt a little sick at his loss, realizing that, in his pride, he had forgotten it for a moment. He heard the operators clattering the reel into its flat can and then gathering up all his equipment.

  “Lovely, eh?” said the captain.

>   The Jinx stifled a sob. She knew what Johnny was thinking and feeling. She got up and started toward the hatchway at the rear of the salon, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. The operator failed to see her, and his arms were so loaded that he failed to realize his course. He bumped her and the cans clattered in every direction. The ship was rolling so that many went far, and the sailor, with one tortured eye on the captain, hastened to pick them up. The Jinx was quick to help him, stacking the cans into his arms. The operator glanced at that most precious of the containers—Johnny’s—to make sure it was still there. Then he stumbled out into the passageway and was gone.

  Johnny went up on deck, following her. They stood at the rail once more.

  “If I’d had a chance like that!” snapped Johnny. “You dope! Why didn’t you try to grab that can?”

  “He checked it. It wasn’t any use. You saw him look at it. Besides . . . I felt so bad . . . I didn’t even think—”

  “Bah!” snarled Johnny. He was aware of Irish standing morosely in the dimness. “You know what happened? She had her hands on our film and didn’t even make an effort to steal it!”

  Irish looked sadly at the Jinx. “There’s one thing you’ve got to learn in this business,” he said. “If we was all honest, how do you think we’d ever get any pictures?”

  “I’m sorry,” wept the Jinx.

  “We couldn’t have gotten away with it anyhow,” said Johnny, feeling guilty for taking out his rage on her. “He looked at the container to make sure. Oh, well,” he sighed, “it’s been a long time since I saw Nagasaki.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE Jinx awoke in frozen terror, well knowing that somebody was in her room. She would have screamed if a hard hand had not bruised her lips.

  “Shut up!” whispered Johnny. “We’re in Nagasaki. The anchor just went down and we’re waiting for dawn to dock.”

  She saw that it was still dark.

  “Get dressed, and make it snappy,” said Johnny.

  She heard him close the door and knew he was waiting on the other side. She slid out and got into her clothes without turning on a light. She was both frightened and hopeful by his manner.