from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004)

by L'amour, Louis

  Turk slipped into the pilot's seat, and took the plane out on the field. There he turned into the wind, and in a few seconds they were aloft. Madden banked steeply, and flew west. Arseniev and Powell were surprised at the direction taken.

  "If anyone's watching, that may keep them guessing awhile," he said, "even if not for long."

  "If we find these planes, what then?" Powell asked.

  Arseniev indicated the two-way radio. "We'll contact Khabarovsk, and they will send out a fleet of bombers. We'll show them a thing or two. Besides," he indicated the lockers, "we have a few messages for them ourselves, if necessary."

  After flying a dozen miles due west, Turk swung the Grumman and started north, reaching for altitude. At twelve thousand feet he leveled off and soon left the hamlets and cultivated fields behind. He swung away from the railroad, and headed for the coast.

  "I'll follow the coast to the Nahtohu, then follow it west to the forks. After that, finding the lake should not be hard."

  He checked his guns. The Grumman mounted four machine guns forward; .30 calibers. Aft, there were three gun ports and two automatic rifles available.

  "What have you been doing with this crate?" Powell demanded. "I thought you were flying express in the Indies?"

  Turk grinned. "I was, but those East Indies are a long way from tamed yet. Lots of times I was flying gold, pearls, rubies, diamonds. Flying over wild country, over Moro, headhunter and cannibal country, and there's lots of renegades. Sometimes I had trouble."

  Below them a cold gray sea was running up on the shore, boiling among worn black rocks, and curling back in angry white foam along the huge cliffs that lined the sea. The forest below them did not seem green, it seemed black, lonely and forlorn like the woods of a dead planet. Here and there on the heights there was snow, and down below in the occasional clearings they could see it too.

  Turk studied the dead gray of the sky. "Storm making up," he said, "but there's plenty of time. That's the Nahtohu coming up." He swung the Grumman to cut over the woods and intersect the river trail.

  "Madden!" Arseniev's voice was sharp. "A Nakajima fighter is coming down toward us!"

  "Okay," Turk replied. "Get those automatic rifles and stand by aft. But don't shoot unless I give the word, or he starts. Then pour it into him!"

  He flew right straight ahead. His mind was working swiftly. It would have to be quick, it would have to be surprise. The fighter's armament was no better, but his speed and maneuverability were much greater.

  He glanced around. The fighter hadn't offered to open fire. It must be that he was uncertain. Turk slowed up suddenly to let the Nakajima overtake him. It did, coming at such a terrific rate that when the Grumman abruptly lost speed the fighting plane drew ahead. Madden suddenly banked steeply toward the Nakajima, and at the same instant, opened fire with his full forward armament.

  The savage blast of fire caught the uncertain Japanese unprepared. A shell exploded against his instrument board, riddling his body with fragments. As he sprang up in the cockpit, a hurricane blast of machine-gun fire swept the ship from wing to tail assembly, and the Nakajima rolled over and started for earth, screaming like a dying eagle.

  Turk pulled the ship into an Immelmann and wheeled back over the spot where the plane had been. But the pursuit ship was a gone gosling. It was headed for earth with a comet's tail of fire streaming out behind. Paralleling it fell the black body of the pilot, turning over and over in the air.

  He'd had no chance to think, let alone to act.

  "Nice work," Powell said, coming forward. His eyes were narrow, and he was sweating. "You don't gamble much, do you?"

  Madden looked up quickly. "Gamble? With a war at stake?"

  Powell laughed, his voice a little harsh. "Some would. You had me worried there for a minute!"

  Turk eased back on the stick and began to climb. He glanced at the altimeter. Slowly the needle left ten thousand behind, then twelve...fifteen...sixteen....

  Powell looked uncomfortable, and loosened his collar. Arseniev, who had rejoined them, was watching Powell curiously.

  At twenty thousand Turk leveled off and continued west. "What now?" Powell's breathing was heavy in the thin air. "Better land and look around on foot, hadn't we? If they see us we'll have a flock of pursuit jobs around us faster than we can think, and they'll do what you do, shoot first, then talk!"

  "No," Turk said. "If they are down there, we're going to call Khabarovsk, then attack."

  "Attacking twelve pursuit ships?" Powell said, his face getting red. "You're no combat pilot! You're mad!"

  "Didn't you know that?" Turk grinned. "And that's not true, I flew in Spain."

  Powell turned, looking at Madden. "You flew in Spain?"

  "That's right," Turk nodded. "And I was a prisoner for a while during the siege of the Alcazar at Toledo. Remember?"

  "Remember..." Suddenly, Powell's hand flashed for a gun, and Turk shoved the stick forward. The Grumman's nose dropped and Powell, overbalanced, plunged forward, his head smashing against the wall. He slumped in his safety belt, and Turk eased the stick back and brought the ship to an even keel. Arseniev's eyes were bright.

  "All the time he was a traitor!" he whispered hoarsely. "All the time!"

  "Sure," Madden agreed. "I couldn't place him at first. He's a German, lived in England for several years, but he was with Franco. You'd better tie him up."

  Arseniev glanced down as Turk banked the ship. On the shores of a small lake were lined a long row of planes. Half of them were in the process of being camouflaged with branches and reeds. The others still were uncovered. There must have been a hundred.

  Arseniev, his face white, bound Powell hand and foot, then he stepped over to the radio. "Calling Khabarovsk...calling Khabarovsk...enemy airdrome located...between the forks of the Nahtohu...position 138 degrees east, 47 degrees 2 minutes north....Approximately one hundred planes."

  Turk glanced down again. Below them the airdrome was a scene of mad activity.

  "Heard us!" he snapped. "Get set, I'm going down! Get on those bombs!"

  Turk pulled the Grumman into as steep a dive as she would take and went roaring toward earth. When the ship was built she had been fitted with a bomb rack, and he had taken her just that way. Now it would come in handy.

  Roaring toward the ground he saw one of the pursuit ships streaking along the field, and he opened up with the guns. The ship was just clearing the trees at the end of the field when it dipped suddenly, smashed into the timber and burst into flame.

  The Grumman dove into the field so close that frightened Japanese scattered in every direction, then Arseniev pulled the bomb release, and Turk brought the ship out of the dive. For an instant he didn't think the wings would stay with her, but they did, and the ship was shooting away over the trees when the thunder of the bursting bombs reached their ears. He did a quick wingover and started back, his forward armament chattering wickedly.

  He strafed the field from beginning to end, and a pursuit ship that had started to make the run for a takeoff spilled over into flame. He saw men start across the field.

  Behind him, Arseniev was busy dropping incendiary bombs, then the Grumman began to climb, and Turk looked back over his shoulder. Several blazes were burning furiously around the field, two planes had definitely crashed there, and several were on fire.

  He turned south. "We're getting out of here, Fyodor. Better inform your boys!"

  Madden heard the voice replying behind him, then Arseniev switched off the radio.

  "There's a force coming!" he yelled.

  Turk tooled the Grumman on south, then swung away from the mountains toward the marshes. Suddenly the motor stuttered, coughed, and Turk worked, his face changing. The motor sputtered again, missed, then died.

  "What is it?" Arseniev demanded.

  "Gas!" Turk indicated his fuel gauges. "Must have winged us as we were leaving."

  He put the Grumman into a slow glide, studying the earth below. It was marsh
land, with occasional ponds and lakes. But all were small. Suddenly, just ahead, he saw one that was somewhat larger. He pushed the stick forward, leveled off, and landed smoothly on the lake water. With what momentum remained, Turk tooled the ship into a small opening in the marsh. Nearby was a small island of firm ground.

  "Better get on that radio and report," Turk said. "I'm going to look around."

  He tried a hummock of grass near the plane, and it was solid. A flock of birds flew past, staying low. Turk turned to look at them, scowling. Then he looked up, studying the sky. There were clouds about, and the wind was picking up, but not much yet. Along the horizon there was a low black fog.

  Suddenly, complete stillness fell over the marsh. Above, the clouds had ragged edges, and the black fog along the horizon suddenly lifted, and then the sun was covered.

  "Arseniev!" Turk shouted. "Quick! We've got to get the ship lashed down. We're going to have a storm!"

  In a mounting wind they labored desperately, furiously. There were no birds in sight now, and it was beginning to snow. When the ship was lashed down, Madden turned, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  "Come on," he said. "We've got to make some shelter!"

  "What about the ship?" Arseniev protested. "That will do, won't it?"

  "Might be blown out on the lake. Start cutting reeds, and work like you've never worked before." Turk glanced around hastily. "Don't cut them there, or there. Just over there, and work fast!"

  The wind was blowing in gusts now, cold as ice, and the snow was lifting into the air. Turk bent his back and slashed reeds with the bolo he always carried in the ship, sweat broke out on his face despite the cold, but he labored on, swinging with his bolo like a madman. Uncertain, Arseniev followed suit, not sure why they were cutting, but working desperately against time.

  Leaping back to the bunches of reeds left uncut, Turk began binding them together with stout cord brought from the plane. Then he wove the long reeds closely together among the clumps, drawing them down low above the ground, and working the gathering snow close around the edges. Running to the plane, he caught up a canvas tarp and raced back, doubling it over on the ground under the covering of the reeds that was partly a hut, partly just a low shelter.

  Suddenly there was a shout from Arseniev. Turk looked up, wondering. Powell had somehow broken his bonds, and had leaped from the plane. Turk went for his gun, but his hands, numbed by cold, fumbled, and before he could draw it the man had leaped to a hummock of grass, dodged behind a clump of reeds, and when they next saw him he was running at full tilt over the marsh. Once he fell waist deep in water, then scrambled out, and trotted on.

  "Let him go," Turk said. "Maybe it's better than a firing squad, at that."

  "What do you mean? You think--" Arseniev began.

  Turk shrugged. "He's partly wet, he has no shelter, no weapons. What do you think? He'll die before this night is out. Feel that wind, and imagine yourself wet--in that."

  Arseniev shivered. "I can't." He looked around. "What now?"

  "Crawl in between the canvas," Turk said. "I'll join you in a minute." He walked back and forth, piling the reeds over the canvas and feathering them against the wind. Then he trampled the snow down, and after a while, lifted the canvas and joined Arseniev.

  The instant he was inside it felt warmer; over them they could hear the lonely snarl of the wind, and out on the lake the lashing of the waves, but over their covering of reeds the snow sifted down, gathering over them in a thick, warm blanket.

  IT WAS MORNING when he awakened. He turned over slowly, warm and comfortable. No wind was blowing, but he knew that it was cold outside. He touched Arseniev on the shoulder, then crawled out.

  The world was white with snow everywhere. The lake was crusted with ice, and even the reeds bent heavily under the weight of the snow. The plane was almost covered with it.

  "We've got to make a fire," Turk said, "and then uncover the ship. The way it is, a searching plane couldn't find us."

  Sweeping the snow from a place on the ground, Turk went back to the shelter and brought out a handful of dry reeds. Arseniev collected some driftwood from the edge of the lake, and soon a fire was ablaze. Then they went to work, clearing the snow from the ship. It was a job, but it kept them warm.

  Arseniev stopped once, looking over the white, empty expanse. "I wonder what his real name was?" he said.

  "I don't know," Turk said. "I never heard."

  It was an hour later when they heard the mutter of a plane. Soon it was circling above them, and then it leveled off and landed on solid earth not far away from the island where they'd spent the night.

  Two men came running to them over the frozen marsh. "Marchenko!" Arseniev yelled. "It is good to see you, believe me!" The other man was Bochkarev, a flyer noted for his Polar exploits. They shook hands all around.

  Two hours later, the Grumman was towed to solid earth and repaired. The big Russian ship took off, then the Grumman. Turk headed the ship south, toward Khabarovsk. They were flying low over the snow when Arseniev suddenly caught his arm.

  Powell.

  They knew him by the green scarf that trailed from his neck, a bright spot of color on a piece of ground swept clear by the driving wind. The man lay where he had fallen, frozen and still.

  Turk Madden eased back on the stick and climbed higher. Ahead of them, the sky was blue, and the sun was coming out from the clouds. In the clear cold air the sound of the motors was pleasant, a drumming roar of strength and beauty.

  -

  Too Tough to Kill

  THE BIG TRUCK coughed and roared up the last few feet of the steep grade and straightened out for the run to Mercury. Pat Collins stared sleepily down the ribbon of asphalt that stretched into the darkness beyond the reach of the lights. Momentarily, he glanced down at Ruth. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. Even Deek Peters, the deputy sheriff detailed to guard him, had been lulled to sleep by the droning of the heavy motor and the warmth of the cab.

  Pat shook himself, and succeeded in opening his eyes wider. He had been going day and night for weeks it seemed. The three-hundred-mile run to Millvale and back was to be his last trip. Two weeks off for his honeymoon, and then back at a better job. Right now he and Ruth would have been on the train headed west if it hadn't been for that killing.

  Why couldn't Augie Petrone have been given the works somewhere else than right in front of his truck as he left Mercury! Because of that they had detained him several hours for questioning in Millvale, and now, knowing him to be the only witness, they had detailed Peters to guard him. He wished Tony Calva and Cokey Raiss would do their killing elsewhere next time. It had been them alright. He remembered them both from the old days when he had often seen them around, and had seen them both clearly as they pumped shot after shot into Petrone's body as his car lay jammed against a fire hydrant. There had been another man, too, a big gunman. He hadn't recognized him, but he would remember his face.

  Suddenly a long black car shot by the truck and wheeled to a stop. Almost in the same instant, three men piled out into the road. Two of them had tommy guns. For an instant Pat hesitated upon the verge of wheeling the truck into them, full speed. Then he remembered Ruth there beside him, Ruth the girl he had just married but a few hours before. With a curse he slammed on the brake as Deek Peters suddenly came to life.

  "Alright," Calva snarled, motioning with the .45 he carried ready. "Out of that cab! One wrong move an' I'll blast the guts out of you!"

  Peters let out an oath, and whipped up his shotgun. The .45 barked viciously, and then again, and the deputy sheriff slumped from the seat to the pavement. Shakily, Pat helped Ruth down and they stood to one side. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she avoided looking at the tumbled body of the deputy.

  "Well, would you look who's here!" Raiss grinned, stepping forward. "The smart boy who talks so much has brought his girlfriend along for us!"

  "Alright, you two!" Calva snapped. "Crawl in that car and don't let's have
a single yap out of you!"

  Pat's face was white and tense. Reassuringly, he squeezed Ruth's hand, but his mouth felt dry, and he kept wetting his lips with his tongue. He knew Tony Calva and Cokey Raiss only too well. Both were killers. It was generally believed that Raiss had been the man behind the gun in most of the gang killings around Mercury in the past three years. Tony Calva was bodyguard for Dago John Fagan. There were two other men in the car, one sat at the wheel, and the other had stopped in the door, a tommy gun lying carelessly in the hollow of his arm.

  Ruth got in, and the man with the tommy gun gave her a cool, thin-lipped smile that set the blood pounding in Pat's ears. The gun muzzle between his shoulders made him realize that there was still a chance. They hadn't killed him yet, and perhaps they wouldn't. As long as he was alive there was a chance of helping Ruth.

  "You guys got me," he said suddenly. "Let my wife go, why don't you? She'll promise not to talk!"

  "Fat chance!" Raiss sneered. "We've had too much experience with you talking. Why didn't you keep your trap shut? If you hadn't spouted off to those coppers in Millvale you might have picked up a couple of C's some night." He paused, and turned to stare at Ruth. "No, we'll keep the twist. She's a good-lookin' dame, and we boys may have to hide out somewhere. It gets kinda lonesome, you know."

  Pat's muscles tightened, but he held himself still, watching for a chance. The car swung off down the paving in the direction from which he had come, and then, wheeling suddenly into a rutted side road. Sitting in the darkness of the car with a gun behind his ear, Pat tried to think, tried to remember.

  THE ROAD THEY were on was one he hadn't traveled in years, but he did know that it led to the river. The river!

  Suddenly, the car stopped. While the thin, white-faced gunman held a pistol to his head, he was forced from the car. Raiss was waiting for him, and Calva sat in the car watching Ruth like a cat watching a mouse.

  They were on the bridge. Pat remembered the current was strong along here, and the river deep. There were four of them, and they all had guns. He might get one, but that wouldn't help. They might turn Ruth loose, they might just be talking that way to torture him.