“Thank you, but it is serious!” the Chinese youth said. “Very serious, and we must do something quickly. There will be many planes looking for us. The Kanazawa Base is only a hundred miles away.”
“And that bunch of clouds,” Randall said pointing “is less than twenty-five. If we can hit those before any Jap planes get near enough to spot us, we’re okay. They stretch quite a bit north, so we can just stick in them and fly blind. It will be up to you, Harry, to see that we hit Takahara on the nose before it gets dark. We don’t want to barge into some of those six-thousand-foot mountains they’ve got around those parts. Can you do it, Harry?”
“I can, and I will,” the Chinese youth replied, with a lot of the nervousness gone from his voice. “You get us to those clouds in time, my friend, and I will promise you the rest.”
“Then hold your hats, everybody!” Randall shouted. “This baby is really going to travel now!”
With a grim nod for emphasis Randall whipped the fighter-bomber around in a wing-screaming turn, and concentrated upon gaining every additional ounce of power possible from the roaring engine in the nose. This, of course, meant using extra gas, but he could not help that now. If Japanese planes came into view and spotted them before they reached the protection of those clouds stretching northward over the Sea of Japan, it would not matter how much gas they had in their tanks.
And so he nurse-maided the Jap engine as he had never nurse-maided any other engine before, and sent the Showa Sho rocketing across the sky. Six minutes later the spinning propeller bit into the frayed edges of the nearest cloud, and an instant after that fluffy milky whiteness engulfed the plane.
“Did we make it in time?” Randall shouted into his intercom mike. “Anybody spot any of the enemy coming after us?”
“I didn’t see a single plane! Harry Chan cried out. “And I was looking all around every second of the time.”
“Nothing but empty sky when we barged in here,” Jimmy Joyce called. “I guess you made it, Red. We win!”
“Well, so far, so good,” Randall breathed and relaxed a little. “Okay, Harry! From here in, she’s all yours!”
Chapter Thirteen – Agent Six
KEEPING AN IRON grip on the control stick, and the other hand resting on the throttle, Randall eased the Showa Sho down out of the clouds, and then leveled off. The sun was now well down below the western rim of the world, and the air through which Randall was flying was bathed in shadowy gray. As Harry Chan’s instructions came to him over the intercom, he banked slightly toward the northeast until he had lined up the nose with a towering mountain peak less than fifteen miles away. He knew that he was well above its altitude but in the strange gray light of half day and half night the mountain seemed to magnify itself until it filled most of the sky ahead.
Taking his eyes from it for a moment, he glanced downward at what was his very first look at the soil of Japan. He saw little but blurs and shadows in the eerie light. Once again he thanked his lucky stars that General Ling Chan had sent Harry Chan along. The detailed photographs that Colonel Denton had shown him meant nothing now. If Jimmy and he were on their own at this moment, they would be in the toughest spot of their entire war careers. It would be simply a hit-and-miss affair for them.
“Start the glide, Red,” the Chinese youth’s voice cut into his rambling thoughts. “Bear four degrees east of that mountain ahead. It happens to be Komanago, by the way, one of the lowest peaks in this region. Can you see that river to its right? See that hairpin bend in the river? That light patch that’s round shaped? That’s where we’ll land. Keep to the left of it. There are some trees that will help us hide the plane in daylight.”
Randall leaned forward and strained his eyes in the direction Harry Chan had indicated. At first the ground was just a great conglomeration of shadows. Then suddenly he was able to make out the narrow ribbon of river and its almost perfect horseshoe bend. In the middle of the bend he saw the round-shaped patch of lighter shaded ground.
The goal at Takahara!
The very thought seemed to lift him up off the seat and set his heart to pounding madly. He and Jimmy had traveled thousands of miles over the ground, under the sea, and through the air. They had reached the end of the trail at last.
“Yes, I see it all, Harry!” he spoke into the intercom in a voice that shook and trembled with unleashed emotions. “I see it, fellow. I’ll land close to those trees. Don’t worry about hiding this plane in daylight. Come daylight, we’re going to be well away from here on our way back, I hope!”
Randall stopped talking to laugh slightly. He was suddenly giddy with joy.
“Don’t forget your parcels, please!” he sang out crazily. “End of the line. All out most any minute now. Wait until the train stops!”
He half heard Jimmy and Harry call back equally crazy comments, but there was a strange roaring in his ears that muffled their words.
The bend of the little river was just ahead and below. Red let down his retractable landing gear and eased the plane lower and lower. Two minutes later he was leveling off with the soil of Japan but a dozen feet beneath his wheels. Out of the corner of his eye, in the distance, he thought he saw the crooked silhouette of a farmhouse. The wheels and tail wheel touched lightly, the plane once more left the ground for perhaps six inches and then it settled back and clung fast to roll forward until Randall eased it into a turn and braked it to a gentle halt, with one wing tip almost touching the trees on the left.
For a few seconds Randall sat perfectly motionless while his heart beat went down and his breathing became more normal. Then he unsnapped his safety straps and parachute pack harness, shoved open the glass hood over the cockpit, and climbed out onto the wing and down onto the ground. A moment later Jimmy Joyce and Harry Chan were on the ground with him. Nobody spoke. This was not the time for words. They would be useless, meaningless. The three simply shook hands with each other, and the pressure of their fingers bespoke far more than words.
Then Randall half turned and pointed to the little farmhouse a good two hundred yards away.
Night was settling fast, and the farmhouse was little more than a lump of shadow against a darker background of trees and high ground.
“That must be the farmhouse,” he said. “I don’t see anything else around here that looks like a building.”
“It has to be!” Jimmy Joyce said grimly. “And it must be, because it’s right where it was on those photographs Colonel Denton showed us.”
“Yes, I know,” Randall murmured and wet his lips as a tingling nervousness passed through him. “The point is, though, is Agent Six there, or will he be there later? Colonel Denton seemed so certain, so positive. Somehow I almost hate to go over there for fear the whole business will blow up in our faces.”
“Let me go alone,” Harry Chan spoke up. “After all, I speak Japanese, and...”
“No, Harry,” Randall stopped him. “The three of us are in this together, all the way. Okay, let’s go. There’s only one way to find out.”
“Wait, listen!” Jimmy Joyce said fiercely and grabbed Red Randall’s arm.
Randall froze. He could hear the drone of an airplane high up in the night sky. The three of them stood motionless, with ears tuned to the distant sound. It gradually grew louder and louder as the plane drew nearer. Then it began to fade until finally the sound of its engine drone was gone completely.
“Probably some Jap getting in a little night flying, I hope!” Randall said as he let the air out of his lungs. “Well, let’s get going this time.”
“One minute!” Harry Chan Said sharply. He turned back to the plane and climbed up on the wing.
Randall and Joyce watched the Chinese youth lean over and reach down into the cockpit. When he straightened up he held the short-barreled, portable machine gun in his hands.
“Side arms are most useful,” he said as he jumped to the ground, “but one of these is always better. Now, we will go over there.”
“Nice headwork, Harry
,” Randall said and pressed his arm. “It’s always a bright idea to play it the safest way.”
The trio set out across the patch of level ground toward the farmhouse that was now almost completely lost in the darkness of night. Only by having first lined up the direction with a cluster of stars low down on the eastern horizon was Randall able to hold to a straight course. Presently they were standing within the shadow of the house itself. That is, if the weather-beaten, knocked-together collection of wood, bamboo, and roof thatching could be called a farmhouse.
Stopping just a few feet from the front door, which hung half open on one rusty hinge, Randall peered hard at the even darker opening. Excitement mounted up through his body like endless storm waves. What would they find inside? Would Agent Six be there or had he long since abandoned this place of secret hiding?
“You won’t find the answer standing out here!” a little voice cried within him. “Go on inside and find out! Go on!”
He hesitated a moment, nervously fingered the service automatic he had taken from his holster, and then shook himself and bent his head toward Jimmy Joyce and Harry Chan.
“Softly does it!” he whispered. “Stick behind me, and be ready with your guns. Okay! Let’s go.”
Holding a small pocket flashlight in his left hand, and his automatic in his right, Randall stole up to the door opening. He eased inside without making a sound. The other two came in right at his heels. Each one held his breath, strained his eyes against the darkness, and strained his ears for the slightest sound.
Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds of absolute silence dragged by. Then suddenly there was a creaking sound, which to Randall’s taut nerves was akin to a bomb exploding. Almost instantly a voice hoarse with pain mumbled words.
“Mustn’t go like this. Must live. Things...to do. Lots of things. Oh-h-h-h... God!”
The last made a knife tear through Randall’s heart, and his body broke out in a cold sweat. For a moment he could not move a muscle, could not force the thumb of his left hand to press down on the button of his flashlight. The paralytic spell passed in a flash, however, and he was able to press the button and cut the inky darkness with a thin finger of light.
He had aimed the flashlight in the direction from which the mumbled words had come, and now he saw a huddled, gray-haired figure writhing in pain on a boxlike bed of rags and strips of straw matting. The man’s face was turned to the wall when Randall pressed his flashlight button. Obviously the man saw the reflection of light, for he let out a gasp and rolled over to blink black eyes at the light. His eyes were sunk deep in his thin, pinched face. His face was caked with dirt and dust, and creased with many wrinkles from the point of his chin to the top of his high forehead. The thin, parched lips opened, and a string of Japanese came pouring out. Randall understood not a word, but the man’s voice was so shrill and vehement that Red knew it was no message of welcome.
“He thinks we are Japanese soldiers!” Harry Chan whispered in Randall’s ears. “He is cursing our ancestors and demanding that we leave an old man to die in peace. He must be very sick, because he does not finish his sentences. He just jumps from one word to the next. If he is Agent Six, you must hurry. I can tell when death is close.”
Randall did not wait to hear any more. He walked across the filth-covered floor of the room to the blinking black eyes on the bed of rags. He started to speak, but instead he reached down, grasped the right hand of the old man and turned it palm upward. The palm was dirty, but his heart gave a great leap when he made out the tiny blue dot impregnated in the skin between the third and fourth fingers.
“Agent Six!” he choked out. “Agent Six! Look! Look at my hand. We’re Americans. We’ve come from Colonel Denton. Agent Ten died before he could give Colonel Denton the information. Look! Look at my hand, Agent Six!”
As Randall choked out the words, he pocketed his automatic, held up his right hand and played the beam of his flashlight on the palm, holding both close to the man’s eyes so that he could not possibly miss seeing the identifying blue dot. Randall held his breath as the sunken black eyes just seemed to stare and stare without a single flicker of emotion showing in their depths. And then suddenly a tiny tear trickled out of the comer of his eyes, and his parched lips opened to give forth a dry, hollow laugh.
“From Colonel...Denton? Up here...to...Takahara? Now I know...I’m dying. My...my mind’s going. Go away...you ghosts. Nobody...could come here... Impossible! Rotten Japs...everywhere. Go...away…go...away!”
Randall dropped to his knees by the bed of rags and gently took hold of the raving man by the shoulders.
“No, no, you’re wrong, Agent Six!” he cried. “It’s not ghosts, but real people. Two Yanks, Agent Six. And General Ling Chan’s son. We flew from Kiaochow. Our plane is out on the field. Listen to me, Agent Six! We’re from Colonel Denton. You’ve got to tell us the information Agent Ten tried to get through. We’ve come from Australia, you hear me? Australia, and Colonel Denton. Colonel Denton! Your chief, Agent Six. Don’t you understand?”
A glassy look seeped into the black eyes, and then as they closed Randall’s heart sank. He could hear Jimmy and Harry breathing heavily just behind him. He kept his gaze fixed on Agent Six’s closed eyes, and prayed as he had never prayed before in his life. Slowly the eyelids opened, and the black eyes were clear and free of their glassy look. They looked past the light into Randall’s face.
“I’m finished, done for, the parched lips whispered. “The fever...and disease. All eaten away...inside. Thought I could fight it off, like other times. I’m not so young any more. All must meet the Grim Reaper, sometime.”
“You’re not going to die, Agent Six!” Randall cried. We’ll get you away from here...somehow. To China, and a good hospital where you’ll…”
He stopped short as the gray head rolled from side to side.
“No,” Agent Six said. “It’s too late for doctors or hospitals. I know. I’ve lived in Japan too long. Thousands die every year like this. I know. I’ve seen them. But they were Japs...so that was good. All Japs...better dead, and...”
The voice sank into a whisper, then into silence, and the glassy look returned to the black eyes. Randall simply stood waiting by the doomed man’s bed of rags, utterly helpless to do anything to save him. If the man died, all that he and Jimmy Joyce and Harry Chan had gone through would be in vain.
“Please, God!” Red whispered to himself. “Please let him live a little longer!”
A long moment dragged by, and then the fervent prayer was answered. Agent Six’s eyes opened again. He stared at Randall, whose face showed in the beam of the flashlight, and smiled wanly.
“Almost went that time,” he spoke in a clear voice. “But something seemed to pull me back. It will not be long now, so do not interrupt. Listen to what I have to say. And do as I tell you. Then leave here at once. Don’t bother about me. The Japs can’t hurt me now. They can’t hurt a man who has died.
“There was an American raid on Tokyo yesterday, and the Japanese officials are going crazy. They believe that someone inside Japan must have sent out information on what targets to bomb. They are right, but never mind about that. They are making arrests by the thousands. Searching the islands from one end to the other. The soldiers may come into this neighborhood any minute.”
The dying man paused. Excruciating pain was reflected in his eyes, but reflected there, also, was the look of grim defiance of death. Then presently he spoke again.
“The Japs are going after Pearl Harbor again, while it is still crippled,” he said. “They are going to throw seven aircraft carrier task forces at us. The attack is scheduled for the first week in June. A little over a month from now. They are going to make the attack look like one against Midway. They plan to draw in our main forces toward Midway, and then their carrier task forces will bypass Midway to the north and strike at Pearl Harbor. If they get Pearl Harbor, our forces at Midway will be trapped. The Japs can wipe them out at will. You must get word to Colonel
Denton. Do not let the fake attack of Midway fool you. The Japs will bypass Midway. It is Pearl Harbor again. And this time they mean to take all the Islands. You must...”
The rest of Agent Six’s words trailed off in unintelligible sounds. He clawed at his chest with his two hands, and his eyes seemed to sink deeper into his head. Then he slid one hand off his chest and weakly patted his bed of rags.
“Under here,” he said in a whisper that Randall had to bend close to catch. “The whole Jap battle plan...all written out. All the carriers...the escort ships...sailing dates...probable courses. Everything. All complete. You must get it through. Promise me...promise me! It is the...the last thing...I...can do...for my...country. I...I...”
The voice faded away. A wild, almost mad look blazed up in the man’s eyes. With his two hands he tried to push his frail body up off his bed of rags. He failed and fell back as dry sobs shook his body.
“God bless...and protect the...United States of America!” he gasped.
And then his eyes closed for the last time.
Chapter Fourteen – Tokyo Bound
WITH THE ARRIVAL of death a heavy silence settled down over the filthy room of the little Japanese farmhouse tucked away in a comer of the Takahara region. Randall’s eyes smarted and unashamed tears trickled down his cheeks. He gripped Agent Six’s shoulders tight and reverently bent his head.
“And God bless you, Agent Six,” he said softly. “Happy landings, and lasting peace to you.”
“Amen!” Jimmy Joyce and Harry Chan murmured in the same breath.
For a moment longer Randall remained by the bed with head bent, and then slowly he straightened up and got to his feet.
“Help me lift him, fellows,” he said, “We’ll hunt for what he said was hidden in the bed. Those damned Japs! The whole rotten empire of them isn’t worth his little finger. I only hope...”
Randall’s seething rage choked up in his throat, and he was unable to go on. The three youths gently lifted the dead man to one side. Randall plunged both hands into the rags and strips of straw matting and began the feverish hunt. It was five minutes before he found a two by three inch flat packet sewn inside one of the dirty rags. Only by chance be found it, so cleverly was it concealed in the pile of bedding. And when he drew it out, with a gasp of relief, he was quite sure that his fingers had touched it several times, only to pass on with their probing.
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