by Lee Falk
First Koy, now this. Too much. Pilot's legs sagged. His eyes closed. If only he could faint. He tried, but couldn't. The stranger straightened him up and shook him.
"Pull yourself together," said the deep voice. "We're going to the plane. We stop for no one. Understand?"
Pilot nodded dumbly, trying to get his bearings. Where was the man with the sunglasses? But he was given no time for questions or answers. The stranger gave him a slight shove, and started him toward the wharf, following a step behind with the girl. Pilot couldn't see or feel the gun, but he sensed it was pointing at the back of his head.
They reached the wharf without being seen. Then a man stepped out of the shadows with a rifle. It was Fats, the former wrestler.
"Hey, Pilot," he called in his raspy voice. "Who's that with you?"
"I dunno," grunted Pilot, continuing to walk.
"Hey! That's the girl! Stop right there," said Fats, raising his rifle.
Pilot jumped a foot in the air as the gun behind him exploded. The noise made his ears ring. Fats was even more startled when the bullet hit his rifle, knocking it out of his hands. He stood for a moment, staring at his hands to see if they were bleeding. They weren't hit. Another bullet whistled near his head. Fats got the message, turned, and ran. Pilot, the stranger, and the girl raced onto the wharf toward the plane. The gunfire started a clamor of voices in the
background, and some of the riflemen rushed out from behind buildings into the street.
"Where are they? Who fired? Turn on the searchlights. Down at the wharf," the voices shouted. Men ran back and forth. Someone reached a switch. The wharf area was suddenly brilliantly lighted in time to see Fats diving into an open warehouse doorway. Farther away, a strange, tall figure was seen for a split second jumping into the amphibian plane. As the crowd rushed to the wharf, the motors roared, the propellers whirred, and the plane started to move away from the wharf. Koy rushed out of the inn. Others were already nearing the dock. As the plane moved within easy range, they held their fire. What to do? The plane was Koy's million-dollar beauty, his pride and joy.
"What's happened? Where are they?" shouted Koy, reaching the vanguard of men. They pointed to the moving plane.
"Who's in there?" he yelled.
The men were vague. Pilot, some guy.
"The girl?"
No one knew. Koy hesitated for precious moments. If it was only Pilot, why damage the amphibian? He could always catch up with that crazy flyboy. Then Fats came out of the warehouse.
"The girl—some guy—with Pilot—in the plane," he shouted.
"Stop them," yelled Koy.
"You mean shoot at the plane?" the men asked.
"Yes. Shoot! Shoot!"
But it was too late. The amphibian was in the air, already out of range. In a moment, it was out of sight in the darkness. Then, as if correcting an oversight, the green and red wing lights flashed on briefly. Then they were gone. Koy looked around at his riflemen, at the rest of the inhabitants of Killer's Town who had poured out of the casino and the bar, out of their rooms, at the sound of the gunfire. He was stuttering with frustration, almost apoplectic. Finally, he recognized one familiar face, one who might make sense.
"Fats, you saw them. Who were they?"
"Pilot, with the girl—and some guy."
"What guy?"
"I don't know. Not like an ordinary guy. Different."
"What do you mean different?"
"Just—different. Big, weird. Shot the gun right out of my hand. Could have killed me, but didn't."
Koy grabbed Fats by the lapels of his sweater jacket.
"Talk sense, you idiotic walking tank. Who was it?"
A voice came out of the crowd. The words came slowly.
"He told you. Different. I told you before. You wouldn't listen. That was that Phantom—the Ghost Who Walks—the Man Who Cannot Die."
All the men turned toward the speaker, Moogar. It was an awesome moment under the searchlights in the quiet jungle night. Koy stared at Moogar, then turned and walked to the end of the wharf, staring into the night, wondering confused thoughts about his lost million-dollar beauty. Pretty, standing next to Moogar, shivered.
"You're a kook, a real kook, jungle boy," he said, trying to make a joke. Nobody laughed.
Randolph Weeks paced back and forth in his office as he had done all day. The agonizing bind he found himself in had not changed since those lights blazed in his eyes at the gates of Killer's Town. The sound of his daughter's faint voice, "I'm ... I'm all right, daddy," echoed in his head. In response to his question, "Caroline, have they hurt you?", her frightened answer, "No, daddy." And then that arrogant mocking male voice, "No, daddy—not yet." Those words—not yet—were torturing him. All he had to do, they said, was remove the Patrol observers and they'd free her. Or had they actually said that? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. He knew that blackmailers were never satisfied, that one surrender would be followed by a further demand. Yes, he knew all of this so well, but his lifetime of knowledge and experience wasn't helping Caroline. Not yet. His child—with those killers in a cage! So he paced and talked to himself, trying to find an answer, but there was no good answer. Then his phone rang.
It was a report from the Patrol observation post outside Killer's Town. There had been sporadic gunfire, a plane had taken off, now all was quiet. Gunfire? Caroline in the middle of a gang war? That settled it. If the Patrol or police couldn't help her, he would. Quietly, and methodically, he took an automatic rifle from the wall rack, and loaded it with ammunition from his desk. While getting extra ammo clips from his closet, he noticed some grenades brought in from a raid on a railroad robber gang. Grenades. He'd blow down those gates. He stuffed the ammo clips and grenades into his bush-jacket pockets, and strode to the door. Two patrolmen waiting there grabbed him. They'd been keeping an eye on their leader.
"No, Colonel, you can't go out there."
"Let go of me. That's an order, Morgan," shouted Weeks, struggling to reach the door. The men held him.
"We're not going to let you go out and get yourself killed," shouted Sergeant Morgan as they struggled with him in the middle of the room.
"They've got my child out there, goddamn you. Let mego," shouted Weeks, managing to pull back from the two. He pointed the automatic rifle at the two panting men.
"Stand aside."
Morgan, a sturdy Patrol veteran, stepped before the open
door.
"No sir," he said. "You'll have to shoot me, Colonel!"
"May I come in?" said Caroline Weeks.
For a split second, the men remained frozen in place like a scene in a moving picture that suddenly stops. Then Morgan stepped aside as Caroline rushed into her father's arms. The corridor beyond the door was filled with noisy patrolmen who'd seen Caroline come in. All had been living with the anguish of the Colonel, and now they laughed and cheered.
When the noise subsided, Weeks stepped back to look at her. Beyond a slight accumulation of dust—she hadn't had a chance to wash since her jungle ride the day before—and ever so faint new worry fines near her young eyes, she looked the same as ever.
"It's a miracle," said Weeks. "How did you get here?"
Caroline was still trying to catch her breath.
"Let me rest for a minute," she said.
Weeks nodded to the patrolmen. They left the room, closing the door, leaving father and daughter together. Then slowly, Caroline told him the whole story right to the dash for the plane.
"Did you know who the masked man was?" he said.
She laughed and shook her head.
"He said he was a friend of yours. I must say he was charming, though rough. But he was masked. You know, like a crook. I thought he must have been one of them, who'd fallen out with the rest and decided to get away."
Weeks nodded. That would all make sense to her.
"But where is he now?"
"Oh," she said, looking perplexed, "he said he was going back there. To that awful
place. If he had a fight with them, why would he go back?"
"Caroline, how did you get to my office?"
"The plane landed at the Patrol wharf. The guard there brought me here in his car."
"Did anyone back there hurt you?"
"Not really. They said some awful things. But I don't know what would have happened to me if he hadn't come," she said. And she suddenly burst into tears. He put his arm •around her.
"Have a good cry. You've been a brave girl, but you've earned a good cry," he said softly.
"Excuse me. I just suddenly ■" she said, still sobbing.
She took a tiny kerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
"Daddy, who was that masked man?"
"Are you certain he was masked?"
"Oh, yes. And some kind of odd costume."
"Odd. How?"
"Unusual."
"Caroline you've seen a man I've wondered about for forty years," he said.
"Forty years? He's a young man," she said.
"How young?" he asked, suddenly inquisitive.
"I don't know. Twenty-five. Maybe thirty but no more."
"Tell me more about him."
"I've told you all I know. Who is he?"
"Caroline, for two hundred fifty years, jungle patrolmen have been asking the same question. In all that time, you're the only one who has knowingly seen him."
"Two hundred fifty years? What are you talking about, daddy?"
He led her to the wall, to the organization chart of the Jungle Patrol, and pointed to the name at the top. Commander.
"Caroline, you've been with the unknown leader—our Commander."
In the amphibian plane, Pilot glared at the Phantom.
"Who in hell are you?" he asked angrily.
"That doesn't matter," said the Phantom.
Pilot was at the controls as they flew over the dark sea near the coast.
"Are you out of your mind, wanting to go back to that place?" he said, watching closely as his masked captor put the gun back in his holster.
"What's your part in all this dirty business at Killer's Town?" said the Phantom.
"Nothing. I'm a pilot—a truck driver. I bring them in and take them out. Who they are or what they do is none of my business."
"Just an innocent chauffeur, you might say."
"Yeah. Innocent. Say, this crate is loaded with gas. We can make Naples or Lisbon. We can sell her for a quarter million, maybe a half million, easy. What do you say?"
The Phantom smiled.
"Innocent pilot? Would you risk stealing from Killer
Koy?"
"He'd have to find me first," continued Pilot casually, noting they were near their destination, the wharf of Killer's Town. With his free left hand, he casually took hold of a heavy monkey wrench that was concealed next to his seat.
"Look, mister, don't you want to change your mind? Killer will finish you for sure. Probably me too for letting that girl get away."
"If you choose to work for hoods, you have to take your chances."
"I've been taking chances all my life. This is one I don't want. Have you seen Killer when he gets sore? He goes crazy, berserk. He uses a knife. What do you say, pal, do we turn around and blow?" t ,
"We do not. Keep on course."
"You're the boss, pal," said Pilot, suddenly swinging the heavy monkey wrench at the back of the hooded head.
In Killer's Town, the sound of the approaching plane was heard. Koy rushed out of the inn with Eagle and his escort of armed men. (Koy no longer moved without Fats and Sport or other riflemen with him at all times. There was no safety in this den of thieves.) Koy stared unbelievingly into the dark. Could that be his million-dollar beauty? Impossible. Who would bring it back? Not Pilot. Then who? Maybe it was another plane, a military plane. He waited behind a corner of the warehouse with his men, just to make sure. Then it came out of the darkness, white and gleaming in the reflected wharf lights and hit the water with a big splash. It was the amphibian. Shouting, they rushed to the wharf.
A minute before, inside the plane, Pilot had swung at the hooded figure. He never quite knew what happened next. The figure moved so fast the action was blurred. Pilot's swinging arm was halted in midair by a grip of iron. The impact was as though he'd hit a stone wall. At the same moment, a fist crashed on his jaw and the scene ended in darkness for Pilot. He slumped over the controls. The Phantom quickly threw him to one side, grabbed the controls, and guided the plane safely onto the water near the wharf. Then while the plane was still moving slowly, he opened the door on the seaside and slid into the dark water.
The plane floated about fifty yards from the wharf, rock-
ing slowly on the gentle waves that rolled into this protected harbor. Searchlights from the land shone on the white surface. The interior was unlighted, dark. Koy and his men stood on the wharf staring at it. The others—boarders, workers, waiters, cooks—watched from the background. There was silence, broken only by the sound of water lapping at the wharf posts. All seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.
"Hello out there," shouted Koy.
The plane did not answer.
"Maybe it's empty," said Fats.
"You lunkhead. Can a plane land by itself?" said Koy.
"I dunno. Maybe it can," said Fats defensively.
"Can it, Eagle?" demanded Koy.
"Possible. Not probable," said Eagle.
"What kind of an answer is that? Can it, or can't it?" shouted Koy.
They all seemed to be playing for time, waiting for something to happen. The white plane, rocking on the water, seemed ominous, mysterious. Koy finally made the decision.
"Three of you guys—Sport, Slim, Banana—row out there. Pull it in."
The three big men, holding rifles, looked reluctantly at Koy, then climbed into the small dingy which sank almost to the gunwhales under their weight. Banana rowed, and all watched as they approached the plane.
"Can you see in there?" yelled Koy. "Stand up, you fathead."
Sport stood up with difficulty, almost capsizing the little craft as he grasped the heads of his companions to keep his balance. They squirmed as his fingers dug into their scalps. He peered at the plane quickly, then sat down.
"Too dark," he called. "What'll we do now?"
"Tie on a line, pull her in, you idiot," shouted Koy, using a corrosive blast of profanity that startled even this hardened crowd. There was a line in the dingy. They tied it to a strut on the plane and headed back to shore. The big plane dwarfed the dingy and its occupants, but it floated lightly on the water in their wake. The three men climbed onto the dock and tied the line to a post. Koy and his men formed a semi-circle facing the plane. The other inhabitants of Killer's Town watched intently. This was better than a movie.
"What are you waiting for, Koy?" shouted Pretty. "Go in and have a look." He was standing with Moogar.
Koy glared at him. That mad dog, he'll get it one of these days. Then he turned to his riflemen.
"Sport, Fats, Spaghetti, look in there."
The swarthy Spaghetti, veteran of many a street fight in his native Brooklyn, hesitated,
"Maybe they got a bomb planted, Killer. You know, you open the door, it goes up."
"You yellow dogs, what's there to be afraid of? Give me that flashlight," said Koy, pulling a gun out of his shoulder holster.
He turned on the light and stepped to the plane.
"Open that door, Spaghetti."
Spaghetti opened the plane door. Koy peered in, shining his beam.
"Pilot?" he said. "Pilot!"
He stepped in and shook the body lying over the controls. He touched the face. Still warm—not dead.
"Pull him out of there. It's Pilot, knocked cold." Fats and Sport pulled him out and stretched him out on the dock.
"Man, whoever hit him wasn't fooling," said Sport.
"How could he land that plane, out cold like that?" asked a voice.
"Anybody else in there?
"
"No, empty."
There was a sharp gasp from Moogar.
"Look. On his jaw. Like Greasy and Gutsy. The Death's Head!"
There it was, the inch-high mark, blue, like a tattoo or a bruise. As skulls appear to do, the small mark seemed to grin derisively.
