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MARCAS REDONDA, peppery little Dictator of Chiliana, rubbed his hands complacently at the European governments' rivalry over development and mining rights in his strategic little country. The treasury was well-padded with taxes from them.
"Now, we must have a real Army, a Navy, and what is more, an Air Force," he snapped at the pudgy old General. "We must be prepared!"
General Manuel Moriera, figurehead President of Chiliana since the Izaura revolution, peered suspiciously at Redonda and readjusted his great bulk in the chair. "Prepared for what, Senor Dictadar," he puffed over the four-inch stockade of his military collar. "The bandit, Miguel Villegas, could be our only worry, and he is hiding in the Chico hills. If he puts in an appearance—you have only to shoot him."
Redonda bounced impatiently on his toes. "An Army and a Navy to protect our shores. An Air Force to protect our boundaries along the north and west. Europe is at war. We must be prepared. Fashions have changed. No longer do smart governments put their capital into schools, public buildings, and highways."
"Ah, yes," breathed the President, beginning to get the point. "The boundaries, of course. The unsettled ones could be very firmly established to our satisfaction. With an Army, a Navy, and a squadron of airplanes, we might even extend them, eh?"
"A squadron!" gagged the little Dictator. "Senor Presidente, please be rational. A Wing, a Group, an Air Force that will dominate the whole of South America."
The word was soon flashed to all the aeronautical centers of the world. Chiliana needed airplanes, and lots of them. Men and machines from all over the world began to gather at Rolario, military capital of Chiliana. The test airport hummed with the activity of bombers, fighters, and ships of all types trying to prove their worth to the government officials. It was a glorious heyday for every adventurer and super salesman in the flying world.
This was the day for testing dive bombers. And Punch Woodward, ace salesman for Vulcan Aircraft of California was determined to come off first best. But competition was keen, and Punch was very much afraid that some of his competitors had done some palm-greasing on the side.
Old man Vulcan would never stand for any bribery. They tried it once in China but lost out to the Italian Bredna, reportedly because they were outbid. Punch Woodward had good reason to believe that here in Chiliana a little palm-greasing would do a lot more towards getting the order than the famed Vulcan Slotted wings and supercharged engines.
The Bredna was in the thick of this, too, and looked like copping the 300- plane order. Little Franz Werfel, the German racing pilot, was in there pitching for the German Starck. The 1,000 h.p., stub-winged job streaked through its required paces like a thoroughbred. Young Werfel was a happy-go-lucky soul, blonde and bubbling with life. Inherent discipline made him stay within certain bounds, but at times he acted more like a school boy out on a lark, rather than 3 high-pressure salesman trying to peddle twelve million dollars' worth of flying equipment.
"That guy is either a prep-school nut, or else he's the smoothest article on this field," Punch Woodward argued with himself as he watched Werfel bring the Starck in over two standards in an exhibition of picking up messages, stimulating certain conditions in the field of active service.
Boppo Blaine, the friendly Britisher who was representing Hamilton of Hen-don with a Hamilton "Harrier" tried to comfort Punch.
"Look here, Woodward," he muttered, peering past the bowl of a massive briar pipe, "you and I are only down here for the trip. Bloody Cook's tour, if you ask me. We haven't a chance."
"You've got a neat job," argued Punch, his square jaw firm, but willing to concede a point. "I'd sooner fly your bus than the Bredna." She doesn't have enough fin surface for my money."
"Granted," nodded Blaine, "but unfortunately, that isn't the point. We can't beat this set-up."
"What do you mean?" demanded Woodward, drawing up his long slim legs. "We're both offering them a job that fills all their requirements."
"Correct," agreed Blaine. "But if you get the order, what's the most important clause in the contract?"
"You mean the dough? These guys have got plenty. They cleaned up their national debt last year on oil alone."
"Granted!" said the hawk-faced Englishman again. "But you know what the German Starck firm will take, don't you?"
Woodward's jaw clamped tight.
"I was wondering about that," he said finally. "I tried to get it out of that little guy with the high heels—er, Redonda. He wouldn't answer straight-forward."
"If Starck gets the contract they'll take payment in petroleum," said Blaine. "Hitler is begging for high octane fuel. We can't beat this barter game, Punch, my boy!"
Without turning his head Woodward asked, "What are we going to do, Blaine?"
"You'll do something, but I'm damned if I know what I'll do," Blaine said.
"I wish you'd tell me," Woodward got up suddenly.
"You next?"
"Yeh! Dummy—bomb dive with a straight pullout below 200. Be at least a'7-G. Hope my belly stays in."
"S'truth! I'd forgotten that," the Britisher gasped. "Oh my hat . . . 7- Gs . . . and no chance to sell, if you win."
"Be seein' you," Woodward growled over his shoulder and strode off toward the Vulcan "Vortex."
BOB PLUM (sometimes known as Plum-Bob to his associates, because of his deliberate and exacting demands where fitting, rigging, and mechanical adjustments were concerned) was vetting the port wing.1 He closed one eye and screwed his hopeless horse face into an atrocious mask of dissatisfaction.
1: Vetting the wing means to bring both wings into perfect alignment. This is done when the plane is on a perfectly level floor and the fuselage is equidistant from the floor at all corresponding points. Perfect alignment demands that the plane be mounted on blocks. However, if blocks are not available, it is important that both tires are evenly inflated.
"Yer can't vet a wing if yer ain't got an air pressure gauge to check the wind in the tires," he argued as Punch came up. "How do I know whether they's 29 or 30 pounds in them wheels?"
"Where's yours? You had one when we came down here."
"I had a lot of things. If we stay here another week we'll walk home in our shorts. Someone's swiping everything we got."
"Go over and borrow that Limey's. He's okay. He'll let you have one." "They got his, too. I was just talking to his greaseball."
"They all bin swiped?" asked Punch.
"Seem to. Yer can't vet a wing right unless. . . . "
"I know . . . I know. Let it go. I'm doing the dummy dive in five minutes. Just check the elevators."
Punch wandered into the shed that had been reserved for the foreign manufacturers. Boppo Blaine was going over his job with a dismal mug, while his mech, a veteran from the old Brooklands track, worked with the calm, emotionless effort that is the mark of all Britishers.
Punch took a wide roll of adhesive tape from his valise. He let down his breeches, pulled up his outer shirt, and began binding his stomach over his undershirt. Roll after roll he wound on and then, drawing a deep breath, he tucked in his shirt and adjusted his clothing again.
"I hope that keeps my gizzard in," he said with a knowing glance at the Englishman.
"Mine is forcing its way out at the very thought," Blaine muttered. "We keep losing things, Punch. How are they treating you?"
"We lost a tire gauge, as far as I can make out. Anything else?"
"A special sparking-plug socket wrench and another bit we use to adjust the blower fan. Mucky work going on eh?"
"It wouldn't be young Werfel, would it?"
"I don't think so. He seems all right."
"Capello. . . . The Bredna guy?" asked Punch snapping the thigh straps of his 'chute harness.
The Englishman said nothing, and in saying nothing he suggested a wealth of suspicion.
"Oh, well. If you need anything, you know where our stuff is," Punch said striding off with that strange stiff stride of a man who is wrapped in dive-bomber test bindings.
"Thanks. Best of luck!"
THE Vulcan Vortex was run out to the checking stand set up by the aviation officials of the Chilianan government. They were doing the thing right, even Punch Woodward had to admit that. They had every known device for examining and testing military planes. Mechanics went over the plane measuring the oil, fuel, and position of the 400 kilogram bomb. Nothing was overlooked and for the tenth time the details of the plane and its equipment were jotted down on test-check charts.
"You will wait a few minutes, Mr. Woodward," a gaunt man with a heavy moustache said. "Adjutant Capello is about to make his test dive."
"Yeh. I see him. He ought to hit it straight in the middle with that mid-wing job. She's built for that particular stunt."
The Chilianan official ignored the statement and went back to the desk and listened in on the reports coming down from the fast Bredna plane, poised for the dive from about 10,000 feet. A loud speaker on the long table was barking a series of reports.
It was in Spanish, but Punch knew enough to catch the general idea. The Italian pilot was putting on a show. He was an actor and his lines had been well rehearsed beforehand.
"I am simulating an actual attack on an enemy strong point," he, barked through his muzzle-mike. "We will presume that the enemy has a concrete redoubt below which commands an important strategical position. A heavy gun emplacement, perhaps—or an antitank post. Now we shall see what a Chilianan airman could do were he flying the Bredna D'assalto armed with a suitable projectile. Are you ready, Colonel Neuquen?"
A gun was fired nearby and a signal rocket spat up and scrawled a beautiful white plume of smoke against the background of the test field.
There was an answering statement over the loud speaker and all eyes were turned skyward. A dozen pairs of binoculars swept the blue above and watched the silver and scarlet Italian dive bomber snap up into a dead stall, fall off smartly and then start down like a wide-feathered dart.
The bellow of the Alfa-Romeo radial stiffened everyone below. The beautiful mid-wing job came down as though it were sliding down a steel wire. The scream of the engine made every man on the field cringe and draw his skull a little deeper into his shoulder blades.
Punch Woodward watched, his critical eye taking in every move of the lightning fast dive-bomber. He sensed that the chesty Italian pilot had plenty on the ball and was putting on a swell show. He knew his stuff and was putting it over. A touch of theatricalism was not out of place here and the Italian was pouring it on.
Then, when it seemed that the Bredna would plunge into the canvas and timber framework of the target, the long black 400 kilogram bomb fanged out from the cradle and sped dead into the bulls-eye.
There was a breathtaking howl, a retch prop and slip-stream, and the Bredna pulled out of the almost vertical dive, gasped, and screamed up in an unbelievable zoom.
There were cheers and handclapping from the test table. The Chilianan officials were frankly impressed. The Bredna was brought around, steadied into level flight, sideslipped gently, and brought in for a landing. The retractable gear lowered to its position only a few seconds before the wheels dabbed at the oil-parched turf.
There was no question about it, the Italian had done a swell job. He had scored a perfect hit, yanked out with plenty of prop scream, and had given them a grand show. Punch admitted that.
Punch was there to congratulate the little chesty Italian, but the Bredna 'pilot had no eyes or response for him. He was playing the gallery for an order and he knew he had turned in a swell job.
The Italian ship was checked again and then for the first time, Punch sensed that something was wrong. "Where's his sandbags to make up for the 175-pound observer?" he demanded of Colonel Neuquen. "He was flying light!"
"Ah yes," the Colonel agreed. "It was unfortunate, but we allowed Adjutant Capello to go into the air before we checked that point. We have decided to let his last effort stand."
"Okay with me," agreed Punch. "Then I can toss my bags out, eh?"
"Oh, no. That is not the meaning. We demand that the test be made with all-up weight carried. In subsequent tests, Adjutant Capello will have to carry an observer or the equivalent in sand. There will be speed tests and an exhibition of fighting tactics."
"Wait a minute," argued Punch. "Did Werfel carry sandbags?"
"No. It was not until you came up to the bench that we realized that the others had not complied with the rules, but since they have carried out their dives—"
"You mean, because I came to the bench, properly loaded, I am to be penalized with the extra weight. That isn't fair, Colonel."
"They are the rules and we shall have to live up to them from now on. You wouldn't want to make Werfel and Capello do their dives again, would you?"
"No. But I think I should do mine under the same conditions," argued the enraged American.
"Are you afraid to do it with 175 pounds more?" the Colonel taunted.
"Okay! I can see what we are up against here. Tell me one thing, Colonel. If we get this contract, how is it to be paid?"
The Colonel made a deprecatory gesture with his long slim hands: "That," he said slowly and with a slit-eyed smile, "is a matter for the Minister of Finance."
"I get it. Here goes."
PUNCH climbed into the Vortex, snapped on the safety straps. He glanced into the observer's position and assured himself that the sandbags had been properly fastened. Then he gave the Allison engine the gun and thundered out to take-off.
The Vulcan Vortex was an all-metal job powered with a 2,000 h.p., inline Allison. The design of the engine had given the Vortex a sharp streamline nose and with her extra weight, Punch knew she would dive much faster than the Bredna. Punch also knew that the Italian ship had accomplished her showing mainly on noise and cheap theatricalism. She had probably fulfilled the 7-G pullout as per contract, but the Vortex would hit the accelerometer at something nearer 10 of 11 Gs.
"Still, I got to go through with it now," he argued with himself. "That Spic Colonel tried to kid me out of it. Figured I was afraid to do the dive with the extra load. I'll show that mug, if I pull her wings off! "
Punch climbed the Vortex and circled the field. He glanced down at the target. There were two black holes in it already; one on the right-hand corner where Franz Werfel had managed to register a hit, the other was plunk in the middle—Capello's effort.
Punch snarled as he studied the target. The Italian had certainly given him something to shoot at.
"I gotter hit that thing to stay in this business," he argued with himself again. "Tomorrow we get a speed test and the Limey has it on me by a few miles. Jees!" he gasped. "What was that he said? An exhibition of fighting tactics? That wasn't on the list originally. I wonder what the hell they are pulling there. This is a dive bomber, not a pursuit!"
He pondered on that all the way up to 10,000 and tried to figure out what they were pulling on him. The Bredna might be pretty hot in turns and the German Starck was comparatively light and might be hot stuff in tactical maneuvers. She had been designed from an original acrobatics job.
"I don't like that," muttered Punch Woodward as he snapped his switch and began calling the ground.
"All clear, Mr. Woodward," came from the ground. That was Colonel Neuquen, the Chilianan who had taken air training with the French. " "Make sure your barograph and accelerometer are Working, please."
Punch checked both. They were swinging in gimbals behind him and would register his height and the degree of gravity pull when he yanked her out.
"All ready up here, Colonel," reported Punch. "Coming down!"
The signal rocket flashed in to the air and assumed an ominous curve. He glared at it, hoiked the Vortex up, yanked her over hard, and let her fall off.
She fought to get her head, but he steadied her and stiffened on the rudder pedals. He straightened the wings and peered along the sight bar mounted along the top of the cowling.
She fought him again and Punch instinctively cursed Plum-Bob.
"What the hell—! " he snarled. "Bad rigging somewhere."
His jaw was tight, his back teeth rammed together like the jaws of a vice. The Vortex was behaving badly. She jerked and tried to get her head again, and he fought to get her nose straight. She wouldn't dive clean.
THE pressure was terrific now, and he was getting the first blast of a blackout. He closed his eyes a second, hitched a bit in his seat and stared forward again, blinking. The noise was thunderous and she was swerving off again, trying to swell around into a cross-Wind dive.
"Damn you!" Punch screamed.
The Vortex fought, snagged her head like an enraged stallion and he struggled to get her around. He nosed her over tighter, watched her flap her wingtips. He expected to see a wing tear away. Something had betrayed Plum-Bob. Air in the wheels—stolen air gauge—no way to carefully check the wings before the tight dive.
"Got to straighten her," he gagged through his clenched teeth. "Got to straighten her."
The Vortex was partially out of control now. She had her nose down but the sight bar was yards off the target.
He stood on the rudder pedals, fighting against the pressure to bring her around. A wing was off line somewhere and she wouldn't dive straight. At this speed and under such conditions the slightest error in rigging was magnified a hundred times.
At last she came around, but Punch had no idea how he was approaching. He was half-blind, his vitals were threatening to burst through the adhesive tape binding. Then he sensed suddenly that he was well within the limit of the dive. He saw the shapeless target below, fumbled for the toggle lever and yanked.
The Vortex, relieved of her load, jerked as the 400 k/g bomb went out of the rack. Punch dragged her out and felt every ounce of blood surge from his head, threaten to burst through his chest. The blackout came and he was blind for seconds. He held the stick back, let her scream up the arc and hoped she would hold it long enough to give him a chance to get his sight back. Seven thousand rockets burst against a cheese-green sky. He saved her just as she was about to stall. He eased her around, still flying blind and flew in a simple circle until his eyes stopped crisscrossing and normal vision returned.
"Whew!" he gasped, opening his mouth to gulp down a breath of normal-pressure air. "Whew!?
Then he remembered. The test dive, the target, the bomb—the Bredna and the Starck-the chestly little Italian— Colonel Neuquen—and the target. He peered over the side—and let out a quiet oath.
His bomb had missed the north corner of the target by inches. A round black hole marked the turf a few inches—it was only inches—just outside the limitations of the target. Had it been a live bomb the explosion would have been considered a "hit," but under these conditions it would be marked a "miss."
PUNCH accepted his fate and hoped against hope that his accelerometer would show the power of his dive and pullout and give him an even break on this portion of the competition—but he knew it wouldn't.
He brought the Vortex around and, still shaking his head to get the pressure from behind his eyes, made a careful regulation landing.
When he reached the bench, the Chilianan officials were bending over their charts and books. They took no notice of him, but a junior officer was told to check his equipment and instruments, with all the air of "just as a matter of routine."
"Very unfortunate," Colonel Neuquen stated. "You appeared to be having trouble in your dive."
"Wait until you see what I registered on that accelerometer," Punch growled. "I'll bet I hit well over 11 Gs on that one. I never had a blackout like that."
"But you missed the target!"
"By how much? Had that been a live bomb, it would have blown the walls of that bombproof in. I'm telling you, Colonel, if you buy these jobs you'll have to fit extra dive-bomber flaps, like the Germans do, to kill the dive."
"Yes. Adjutant Capello pointed that out to us. We feel sure the Vortex is too fast a ship under dive conditions. Even you, a skilled test pilot, almost lost control. They are hardly the machines for us."
"But, you aren't gonner 'kill us off that way, Colonel!"
"I beg your pardon?" the Colonel stiffened.
"I was carrying 175 pounds more than the others. My accelerometer will show the difference in speed and pullout. I missed the target by inches, but I can ?ap the Vortex to do any dive speed you require."
"We are conducting a military test, Mr. Woodward," reminded the Colonel.
"Look here. I'll set my flaps on the Vortex, take twenty ten-pounders up there to 5,000 feet and write your initials all across the field!" steamed Punch. "You wanted a dive-bomber test and I gave it to you, to show you that you can dive clean off the clock, pull out, and still keep her wings on!"
"But you missed the target, Mr. Woodward," reminded the Colonel with a sibilant hiss on the word "missed." He turned away to the table to end the exchange.
During the conversation Boppo Blaine had taken off with the Hamilton Harrier2 and Punch stayed near the Vortex to watch the Englishman's effort. He was secretly rooting for Boppo, who had a splendid mount, a far better all-around job than either the Starck or the Bredna. But Punch knew that Boppo had lost-much of his original interest in the military trials, knowing full well that they were competing against a barter proposition rather than military plane efficiency.
*The Harrier was a low-wing all-metal job fitted with a 1,500 h.p. Napier "Cutlass" engine of the H-type inline. The "Cutlass" was supercharged to a high degree and the blower fitted was worked with an alluminum-alloy impeller mounted co-axially with the crankshaft and fitted with "slipper" gears to prevent damage during sudden acceleration or deceleration.—Author.
THE Harrier performed beautifully on the takeoff and registered her altitude fast.
"What happened?" a voice behind Punch quaked.
It was Plum-Bob, wild-eyed, half-frightened, and plainly scared.
"I thought you were trying to kill yourself. You looked like you were gonner do a corkscrew dead into that target."
"She was off somewhere," said Punch. "Couldn't keep her straight"
"I knew it! I knew it!" raged Plum-Bob. "I knew she wasn't vetted right. That tire gauge—"
"Sure. I know, Plummie," soothed Plum-Bob. "Not your fault. We're getting the runaround. Watch Blaine."
"I'm afraid to," Plum-Bob moaned. "His mechanic says they got blower trouble. They can't find some sort of an extension wrench thing to adjust the fan. If that thing ain't set right, Punch she'll—"
"Shut up! Take a gander at this. Here he goes. They've given him the signal."
They heard the Harrier whip up into her stall to come down and watched through a pair of glasses Plum-Bob had brought with him. The British plane flashed her dural in the sun and then belched a gigantic blob of black smoke.
"What's up?" snapped Punch. "Did he choke her?"
"I hope that's all he did. If that blower went out—"
"Jees!" gasped Punch. "She's breaking up!"
Plum Bob stood behind Punch with his hands on the test pilot's hips, peering up past his ear.
"The blower broke up!" half screamed Plum Bob. "She'll rip that engine clean out."
"Will? She has!" Punch yelled. "The motor mount ripped out clean!"
They saw a shapeless chunk of something come twirling down from the sky. The Harrier ?oundered, flashed her wings, and ?uttered off like a winged mallard. Sunshine glinted off the swordlike blades of the prop as the motor, clear of the frame work, came hurtling down toward a chincona thicket half a mile away.
"Get clear! Get clear, Boppo!" yelled Punch.
The Harrier fluttered again, fell into a sloppy dive, zoomed up and fell off on one wingtip. She boot-laced3 down for a thousand feet, then lost a wing and went over on her back. They saw the figure of Boppo come tumbling away, all arms and legs. His triangular 'chute opened and he hung there swaying in the sky.
3: The expression "boot-laced" means to zigzag either up or down much in the same manner that the lace of your boot travels if you laced up only one lace.
The motor hit with a thump that seemed to shake the earth. The smell of burned oil fanned across the parched field. The winged Harrier was making its own way down in a series of flat spins, boot-laces and flutters.
"Boy! Are we getting the works?" scowled Punch.
"We ain't getting no orders," moaned Plum-Bob.
They watched Blaine flutter down, hit fairly hard and throw himself into the billowing folds of his 'chute. The Harrier, or what was left of her floundered into some treetops just outside the field. A fire engine and an ambulance charged out, kicking up a dust.
"YOU go ahead, Punch," said Plum-Bob when they were in the hangar. "I'm staying here to get her up on horses and straighten her out. I'm staying here if it takes all night. You get some rest. You must be dead after that pull out."
"Maybe. We'll see," said Punch quietly, going back in to the hangar to take off his 'chute and the adhesive bindings.
Boppo Blaine came along in a few minutes, carrying his parachute over his arm. He had a sickly grin on his face and was ignoring the two Army medical orderlies who were trying to get him to submit to an examination.
"Buzz off," he snapped. "There's nothing wrong with me that a good double brandy and soda won't fix up in a few minutes. Hi, Punch! How did you like the fireworks?"
"Gee, Boppo. I was glad to see you get clear of that mess. Blower?"
"Right! Needed adjusting but no adjuster. Result! Boppo comes down, boppo! Oh well."
"You got jobbed too. Well, there's nothing much we can do but celebrate, eh?"
"Granted! Dinner and all the doings at La Luna, eh?"
"What's that?"
"Bit of a supper club on the Prado in Rolario. Beautiful women, sparkling wine, and the jangle of South American music. After that, back home again, doing night-flying shows with the bloody Air Force, waiting for Hitler to come over with his bloody Starcks. Wonderful future in the Air Force, Punch."
Punch grinned: "You hope!"
"That's all that's left to live for. A bloody good war, such as my old gent enjoyed. He seems to have liked it while it lasted. I wonder what it was really like, Punch."
"I don't know, but I have a hunch I'll find out tomorrow when they pull this fighting maneuver gag on me."
"Lucky devil! I'd like to have a go at young Werfel and that chesty bloke Capello."
"Oh, I suppose it will only be blanks, with weak return springs in the guns to take 'em," said Punch. Then he stopped and stared across the field and added: "I wonder."
"I hadn't thought of it like that, Punch," the Englishman said turning and staring across the hangar where the German and Italian planes were standing. "I don't like it, either."
"What was that about La Luna?" snapped Punch trying to change the subject.
"Love, life and the pursuit of happiness, eh?"
"I can think better in a gin-mill.
Plum-Bob considered the two reflectively, scratching the barbs of his chin with a horny forefinger.
"Do you think there's any use in my going on with this?" he asked with a mournful mug.
"Why not? She needs the bends taken out of her," chugged Punch with a series of snappy barks.
"Yeh, but who's gonner take the bends out of you when you come back?" Plum-Bob replied.
LA LUNA is something you only see in the classy advertisements put out by travel and cruise organizations. They have waiters who ape the flunkies aboard the Ile de France and an orchestra that would make Paul Whiteman turn in his Equity card. The walls are pale blue, splashed with silver. The ceiling is covered with polished mirrors. The tables are topped in teak, covered with linen, and decorated with crystal and silver.
Punch Woodward and Boppo Blaine arrived at La Luna dressed in trim evening clothes.
"I wish you didn't have to do that bloody dog-fight tomorrow," said Boppo. "I don't trust that Capello bloke or young Werfel for that matter."
They made their way through the throng of color, dress, and perfume. The orchestra was beginning the opening bars of "Spanish Serenade" and couples were blossoming up from their tables and moving gracefully toward the glistening dance ?oor.
At the bar they had two White Monkeys and began a concerted examination of the crowd with ideas for possibilities of the evening. The men were of various types, well dressed, polite, and typical of Rolaria's social whirl. The woman were mostly brunettes, with well chiseled features, lovely eyes, and all knew how to wear clothes.
"Looks like those two are heading our way," said Punch putting down his glass. "One seems familiar. Hello! They seem to know us."
Boppo turned and twisted full into a double blaze of feminine beauty. They wore short silver fox capes, stick-outy summer frocks with a dash of Paris, and smiles that made a White Monkey lose all its flavor. One was blonde, the other something out of the book with burnished chestnut hair.
They came up to the two airplane salesmen daintily shy but not uncertain of their moves.
"You are some of the gentlemen from the aviation trials?" the chestnut haired girl asked.
"I was. He still is," beamed Boppo bowing. "Allow me, Mr. Woodward of Vulcan Aircraft. Somewhere in the United States. Big place the United. States."
"Thank you. I am Senorita that is, Miss Redonda, my companion, Miss Derwent."
"Charmed, Senorita," bowed Boppo again. "I am Boppo Blaine, of Hamilton. I lived up to my name today—went Boppo."
"He got the works," added Punch.
"It was worth it," beamed Boppo again. "Look what we won!"
The girls smiled and Miss Redonda chirped, "We are looking for Herr Werfel and Adjutant Capello. They were to meet us here."
BOPPO let out a decided howl, wrapped his head in his arms and knocked his noggin on the edge of the bar. But Punch thought quick.
"That's too bad. They won't be here. They both piled up in the dive tests this afternoon."
Boppo swished back smartly. He added, taking up where Punch left off. "It was terrible! But I suppose they will get lovely funerals. Guns going off, soldiers with reversed arms and flags on their coffins. I rather like that touch, eh Punch?"
The two young ladies went white and stared at each other. The chestnut girl recovered first.
"But my Father said nothing of it when he returned. You did not hear of it, Doreen?"
"But they called the Palace, not much over an hour ago," Miss Derwent countered. There was a twinkle in her eye.
"The Palace?"
"Your father?"
"You wouldn't be any relation to Marcas Redonda, the Chilianan Dictator would you?" Punch asked with a mouthful of dry cotton.
"Wait a minute," suggested Boppo. "We need more White Monkeys to stand this. You will join us for cocktails, at least."
The girls smiled and Miss Redonda explained: "I am Zilda Redonda. My Father is the Dictator, yes. Miss Derwent is my companion. She's English."
"Owoo!" howled Boppo, clutching at the sleeve of a bartender.
"We will have cocktails with you until—" she added.
"We'd love it," added Miss Derwent.
"But you don't look like—your hair isn't black," argued Punch.
"My mother is an American. She came from Baltimore. She is a grand person."
"She must be," said Punch. "But your old man. He's giving us the works."
"Not here," warned Boppo, handing out the drinks. "This is no time for business. We're out for pleasure. Cheers!"
"Anything wrong?" asked Miss Redonda.
"Two things. Werfel and Capello," snapped Punch. "Why did they have to he the lucky guys. Here we are, a Yank and a Limey out on the loose and you two are dangled before us, then those two guys come along and grab you."
"Anyone who is this late," suggested Boppo," should be penalized one dinner, at least."
"Yes," argued Blaine. "We're going to have dinner. We have a table. You must be starved by now—you are starved, aren't you? So why not join us. And if your escorts come along later—"
"But they piled up, you said," the girls smiled.
"Oh, that. Well they might take a little time scraping off the mud and dust, and you can't be expected to wait all this time. Why not stave off starvation for a few minutes at any rate?"
They required little coaxing, and in a few minutes they were seated together at a table.
THEY gave their orders and Punch and Miss Redonda went through the tables to the dance floor. Boppo and Miss Derwent sat and talked about "home". They had much in common.
Then their conversation switched to the military trials and Boppo's crash. The girl was plainly worried as Blaine told the full story of the afternoon. He added a few details of the dog-fight events, also.
"Neither of you have a chance," explained the English girl. "The Italians and Germans have it all tied up. It's oil and oil leases you know."
"I understand," nodded Boppo, "but it's damned unfair. Woodward's kite is a beauty. It's the best on the field. Better than mine because it has a better supercharger system for this high altitude business here in the Andes. He deserves the contract. They'll put it across him, though."
"Pm afraid so. These South American republics work that way."
Punch and Miss Redonda returned beaming and glowing with happiness.
"Look here, Boppo," Punch explained. "All set for tomorrow. We're going to do it up right. Start here and then make the rounds. Miss Redonda has promised to show us the country."
"What about your show at the field?"
"Oh, after that business. The girls are going on some sort of a boating picnic up the Chico River. They'll be back in time. Okay?"
"Splendid! But hello! Here's the bad news."
They all glanced around and spotted Capello and Werfel heading toward them. The Italian was black with fury and Werfel was pale with frustration.
They came up to the table, clicked their heels, bowed, and Capello said coldly, "Good evening, gentlemen. We will now relieve you of your charges. We have been unfortunately delayed."
Punch and Boppo stood up and glanced at the girls.
"Won't you join us?" asked Blaine trying to be diplomatic. "We can get more chairs."
"Sorry! You are ready Senorita?" snapped the Italian.
"You must excuse us, Adjutant," said Miss Redonda, and she said it right. "We have ordered and these gentlemen have been very kind. We waited long enough. Good night, Adjutant Capello."
"My regrets, Senorita," hissed the Italian. "Perhaps we can have the pleasure tomorrow at the same time?"
"I am sorry. We shall be engaged."
"With these gentlemen?" the Italian went black again. "I hope they won't be delayed. There is a possibility, of course. There is another trial tomorrow. Perhaps I shall call you, eh?"
Punch flamed up at that. "You needn't worry, Capello. We'll be on hand, trial or no trial, and if there's any funny business, you better plan to take to the silk. We took plenty from you guys today."
"Take it easy," warned Boppo with a whisper.
THE Italian stood stiff and straight in his trim Warrant Officer's Regia Aeronautica uniform. He was trembling with rage.
"Pah! You will not be here, after the dog-fight demonstration tomorrow," he flamed. "I'll chase you out of the sky. I have chased hundreds like you out of the sky in Spain. I'll bite your tail off!"
"As long as you confine it to biting, that's okay with me," grinned Punch, "but if you try any funny work with those blanks."
"Dog! Filthy Ameri—"
"There are ladies present," said Boppo, just before he swung.
His fist crashed on the Italian's chin. He bounced against the German, and together they bounced to the gleaming surface of the dance floor.
That was the beginning. Punch was too amazed at first to move, but he quickly snatched the girls out of their chairs and shoved them to safety behind a broad pillar.
"Play fair!" he bellowed at Boppo. "I was entitled to the first smack."
"You can have the rest. There'll be plenty."
The Italian and the young German came charging back through the tangle of dinner guests. A water bottle twisted through the air and splashed against the pillar. Punch went to work and caught Capello under the chin. The Italian went straight up in the air with his toes pointing to the floor. The German slid past, bashed at Boppo with a swinging right that knocked the Englishman across the table. Punch pivoted like lightning and curled a right at the German, catching him high on the temple. Young Werfel screamed, did a nosedive into another table, and didn't move.
Punch yanked Boppo up to his feet and barked at him. Boppo said nothing but swung a right at the Italian who had started to get up from his knees. The punch caught him full in the nose and splashed it all over his face. He rolled over, kicking another table into the dance floor, and crawled on his hands and knees leaving a trail of blood across the black surface.
"Stinker!" argued Punch. "That's another one you did me out of. This was my fight."
"Sorry!" said Boppo, rearranging his decorations. "I'll get another table."
The head waiter, dolled up in something that looked like a matador's costume, brought his minions in. They dragged Werfel out from his tangle and rushed him away. Another shoved the Italian into a cloakroom and in ten minutes the uproar had ceased. The manager loudly proclaimed his regrets to Miss Redonda, who was maintaining her calm like a lady.
"Bravo!" said Boppo enthusiastically. He moved a new chair behind Miss Derwent. "I must apologize for my—"
"For not calling your shots. That Woppo was mine. You softened him up," snapped Punch with a grin from behind Miss Redonda.
"Well, at least we shall be well taken care of," said Miss Redonda. "Our escorts usually wind up under the tables. This at least is a change."
"Wait until tomorrow. We'll try to stage a real battle royal for you, Zilda," said Punch.
"Zilda?" gasped Miss Derwent.
"That's all right. We're pals now, eh, Miss Redonda?"
"Right, Punch," grinned the girl.
And the rest of the evening went off according to schedule, or what corresponds to schedule when two aggressive pilots spend a few romantic hours with a couple of gay Senoritas.
THE activity about the test table at the Rolario field the next afternoon would have warmed the cockles of any test pilot's heart.
It was very satisfactory to Punch Woodward. His Vortex, thanks to the motherly ministrations of Plum-Bob, was in splendid shape for any further test demands Colonel Neuquen might devise.
The Chilian mechanics and experts "borrowed" from the Army Engineers Corps, went over the three competing ships again and checked them for the nineteenth time. Fuel was weighed, measured, and tested. The oil was inspected and this time the Starck and the Bredna were forced to carry sandbags to make up for the weight of the observer.
Punch had done a short test flight shortly before noon to check the controls. He was taking no chance on either Werfel or Capello this time. If they were going to "play for keeps" as Punch suspected, he intended making sure that his Vortex would be in shape for any dog-fighting they might try to pull on him.
The fighting maneuvers event had been thought up by Colonel Neuquen mainly as a spectacular climax to his program of tests. It was to be staged before the chief officials of the government. Special flag-bedecked stands had been erected behind the test bench.
Colonel Neuquen explained the details to Dictator Redonda and President Moreira.
"You see, Señor Presidente," Neuquen started for the third time. "We have demanded that these planes can dive and attack a strong point. We have demanded a cruising speed of 250 miles per hour. So far the German Starck and the Italian Bredna appear to be equal in performance attainment. I feel sure we can get either with very little trouble at our terms."
"And the American entry?" Redonda snapped.
The Colonel made a deprecatory gesture.
"So far, it has not come up to the standards set by the others. In the dive test yesterday, it acted badly and the pilot missed the target with his dummy bomb. Not by much, but he missed, you understand. And then again, we cannot make the same terms with American firms. They will demand payment in actual gold."
"Unreasonable!" the President spluttered.
"I am glad you understand, Mr. President."
"Fully. Go on."
"Today we shall ask the entrants to stage a dog-fight. Their guns are loaded with blank cartridges, fitted with wax bullets. We adjust the return springs of the guns so that they will fire although the ammunition is blank and does not offer the same recoil forces. They simply simulate actual fighting conditions. A Williamson gun camera will register on a special film the actual position of one plane . . . the plane being fired on, and so records the possible hits. The German Starck and the Italian Bredna will perform first. After that the American Vortex will engage the Italian. We shall begin, eh?"
Redonda waved a small white hand and scowled.
"Those two the competing pilots?" he asked as his field glasses poised at the bruised faces of the two men.
"Herr Werfel and Adjutant Capello," said Colonel Neuquen.
"Have they been in difficulty? A crash? They appear to be somewhat damaged. I thought it was the Englishman who had crashed."
"You had not heard? They were to have escorted your daughter and her companion last night to dinner. There seems to have been something of a scene involving the American Woodward and the Englishman, Blaine. In other words, a fight at La Luna," explained Colonel Neuquen.
"Perhaps that is why my daughter declined to grace the Presidential box," mused Redonda, rubbing his chin and peering down at the bandaged and patched Werfel and Capello. "She said she preferred to go on a boating picnic up the Chico." Then as an afterthought he added, "I should have liked to have seen that fight. One misses much these days."
"At any rate, it should make the dog-fight exhibition very interesting," said Neuquen. "I will start it at once."
BOPPO BLAINE and Punch Woodward stood by the leading edge of the gleaming Vortex and watched the Starck and the Bredna take off. Neither one missed the meaningful grimace and the raised fist that Capello waved at them as he rumbled his ship away.
"I wonder what that guy has up his sleeve," said Punch, his eyes in narrow slits again.
"I wonder what he has in his ammo boxes," corrected Boppo.
"They were all loaded the same. Kynochs blanks with wax bullets," said Punch. "I watched them stick them in."
"So did I, but I'm damned if I can tell the difference unless I pick them up and weigh them. They could load the first 200 rounds with wax bullets and the rest with ball."
"You're right, they do look alike. The wax is tinted the same color as cu-pro-nickel."
"But damn it all, they wouldn't stoop to that," the Englishman argued with himself. "That would be murder!"
"Almost the same as they did to you. This time they have a personal reason to pick me off."
They were blanked out by the shriek of loud speakers announcing the details of the test. Spanish-speaking announcers gave the details, fairly accurately, and the crowd leaned back to study the action which was being staged above them.
The two planes went through all the routine maneuvers and tricks. Their guns rattled and they put up what to the civilian population appeared to be a very satisfactory display.
But to Punch and Boppo it was a clever bit of you-help-me-and-I'll-help-you gag. They went through a list of dives, spins and wing-overs which might have been rehearsed for weeks, so smoothly did they carry them out. They took turns on the offensive and the two pilots on the ground sensed that they were pulling a beautiful barney to get good results on their films.
Then, amid the raucous blat of motor horns and quiet hand-clapping, the German Starck came down in a tight corkscrew spin and landed. The Italian Bredna stayed upstairs and waited for the Vortex to come up.
"Go ahead. I'll wait by the test bench near the microphone," said Boppo. "And remember, if that bloke starts firing ball, ram him and take to the silk; we've got a very promising date tonight."
Plum-Bob had the Allison engine ticking over when Punch climbed into the pit and hooked his belt. He glanced up at the circling Bredna and started to shut the hatch when there was something of a furore near the test bench. He could see Boppo, somehow, all mixed up in it. There was a Staff car, dusty enough to have just completed a Pike's Peak climb. Dictator Redonda was bouncing around and appealing to military men. The loud speakers barked and thudded again and Punch frowned and forgot all about Capello upstairs.
Then out of it all came Boppo yanking Redonda after him. Boppo had a map in his hand and a gleam of startled triumph in his face. He tugged Redonda up to the step of the Vortex and Punch snapped off the engine.
"What the hell—" he started to say. "It's Miss Redonda and Miss Derwent," screeched Boppo.
"My daughter!" Redonda added with a high-pitched screech.
"What the hell's up?" Punch demanded again.
"She—they've been snatched by bandits up the Chico River!"
"That foul bandit, Miguel Villegas," screamed Redonda again. "He was Minister of Finance once, but I was too smart for him. Now he gets his revenge. My daughter!"
"Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" argued Punch. "What's it to do with me? You got an Army. I'm busy selling planes and there's a guy up there who think's he's good. I gotter go up there and trim his tail feathers."
Boppo stared at Punch in amazement.
"BUT the Army—it is—Poof! They could not get up the Chico River, Amigo! Too much water and that foul swine Villegas is on the famous Chico—how you say—ledge, shelf."
"It's right here," Boppo was yelling holding up a map. "Right here, Punch!"
Redonda belched again with a mixture of Spanish, French, and bloodcurdling English while Punch studied the map. The contour lines gave the show away. The Chico Ledge appeared to jut out over the river and was part of the famous Chico chasm. A band of cutthroats on that ledge could hold out there for months. There was only one narrow road up to it. Redonda's ragtime army would be picked off in ten minutes if Villegas had any ammunition.
"He demands two hundred thousand gold pesos!" wailed Redonda.
"That's a lot of jack. You could buy a few Vulcan Vortexes with that, Redonda," said Punch still studying the map.
"Bah! That is nothing to my daughter!"
"No? Okay, send that German—or that Italian up after them. They got this order sewn up. Let them go up and try to get Miss Redonda out," said Punch without looking up.
"But what about our date tonight, Punch?" argued Boppo. "We can't leave them up there."
"They were just picnicking, the guides say," wailed Redonda, "when the foul—"
"The foul Villegas came down and put his hooks in," added Punch. "I get it. You don't have to draw pictures, Redonda."
The little Dictator put his hands over his eyes to shut out the picture. Soldiers clumped around in helpless circles. Redonda appealed to young Werfel who had come up to see what was wrong.
"But such a flight I cannot make," the young German muttered. "What would one do?"
"Bah!" spat Redonda. "You should start fights in La Luna, and get your nose biffed. Such fighters, bah!"
"One could not land on that ledge, Herr Redonda.," sputtered Werfel.
Redonda banged his head with his clenched fists.
"Come on," whispered Boppo. "I'll get a gun. We'll take a chance, eh, Punch. Golly, we've got to get them out."
"Don't worry, I'll get them out. I'm just playing Redonda."
"I'll see if they have any ball ammo," Boppo said.
"I don't want ball. Get clear!"
"Don't want ball?" gasped Boppo.
"No! You can beat these Spics with wax. Get clear!"
Redonda stared up as Punch settled back again, the folded map between his teeth. "You are going, Señor?"
"Give it a whirl. Get that guy Capello out of the air. He might start to play tag and gum the works. Get these sandbags out of here!"
"Get that Italian down!" screamed Redonda. "Clear the sky. The American is going to save my lovely Zilda."
But Werfel had beaten them to the microphone. He was bending over it and holding a frightened announcer clear with one large hand. He had swung the wavelength lever over to Capello's set and was barking excited words to him. Boppo ran over to the German and smashed a stiff right to his jaw. Herr Werfel never saw Punch Woodward take off.
PUNCH WOODWARD took off across wind with a roar that made everyone in the grandstand cringe. He ripped the Vortex over hard, slapped her around with screaming prop-wash against the rudder and steadied her for another gut-retching zoom. She redone a swell job.
Then suddenly, Brat-t-t-t-t-t-t-t!
The Bredna was slamming at him from above. He could see the twinkling of the muzzle-cups of the Darn guns in the Bredna's wing boxes. The guns were ?ring ball ammunition! There could be no question about that. Look at those perforations just forward of the port aileron hinge!
The Vortex leaped, canted over on one wing, zipped around and steadied.
Punch leaned out, waved to the Bredna pilot, then stuck his finger toward the ground.
"Get out of the sky! The test is over. Get out!"
But the Italian pilot swished around again and sprayed the air with another concentrated burst that fanged past the Vortex's steel prop.
"I get it. You're playing out the hand, regardless, eh? Well, you've got live stuff and I'm on the dirty end, but we'll see."
The Vortex squealed as Punch yanked her around and brought her steel noggin on the Bredna. He held her there. The Italian ship was hoiked up hard and the Vortex slammed through, piling hard into a zoom and a half-roll.
Punch came out, peered over, and saw the fluttering Bredna slither into a sideslip. With a low oath he shoved his stick forward, pelted at the Italian job again and slammed directly at the glint of the cockpit cover. The Adjutant glanced up, saw his roaring Nemesis, and was fully convinced that the mad American was about to ram him. He ducked, tried to kick his rudder and the Bredna, half stalled, slithered into a flat spin and went out of control.
"Now jump, you spaghetti-bender!" cursed Punch. "Let's see how you like taking to the silk!"
He plunged madly at the Bredna again and saw Capello fighting to save her. She was well out of control now. In his excitement the Italian had cut his engine and she was spinning fast. The Vortex slammed at her and Punch zipped off a short round of blank ammunition . . . Just to put the Williamson camera into action and to get certain evidence he required.
As he plunged past with only inches to spare, he saw Capello slam his hatch back and hurl himself clear, There was the evidence. The Bredna would not pull out of a flat spin with the engine off and her pilot had abandoned her at 1,000 feet!
THE Vortex with a song of joy thumping from her steel nostrils headed west for the outskirts of Rolario where the Chico river curled around and formed a headscarf of foam for the city. Ten miles further up, the river crawled out of the grim chasm after which it was named, a deep dignified waterway that wound down from the foothills of Mt. St. Lorenzo. He swung over, picked out the town of Chunkeaikea, and set his course for Chico Ledge. According to his map it was twelve miles further to the northwest.
Punch studied the river below and realized what a beautiful layout certain sections of the gorge might be for a picnic. As the gorge swung its tortuous way through the range, swirling waters through the centuries had carved out nooks and pools.
"They probably were nailed enjoying themselves in one of those spots," reflected Punch. "This guy Villegas could have sent a patrol down the side of the mountain, snatched the girls, and hurried them back up to the Ledge through the only pass this side."
The Vortex was booming along the rim of the canyon now. Punch studied the layout of the gorge and sought the ledge where Villegas was waiting for Dictator Redonda to turn up with his two hundred thousand gold pesos.
The gorge suddenly twisted snakelike, and he came out into a bluish-gray opening that was notched with cruel-looking peaks and rampart gashes. Three hundred feet below the saw-toothed bastion lay Chico Ledge. There was no question about it now. It looked like a massive slab of silver-blue granite stuck in the side of a mountain. Above it, in a majestic curve, bowed the headwall of the mountain forming a natural shelter for the almost level rock.
A plume of smoke crept up the headwall and painted a delicate scarf drapery against the harsh rampart. Punch could see horses picketed out along the far side near the wall. Groups of men in gay gaucho costumes stood in small groups, and he could see arms gesticulate and flash their gay serapes. One or two hurried across the ledge and disappeared into other groups near the wall. There might be a cave there.
"They've got their pickets out at the top of the rise and along the pass," mused Punch. "No one will ever get in that way. There seems to be only one chance at all . . . and me with wax bullets!"
THERE was plenty of activity down on the ledge now, but Punch was too busy keeping his wingtips out of the canyon walls to notice everything. Miguel Villegas turned out the guard, uncertain whether this winged visitor had come to deliver the ransom or to attack them.
The Vortex screamed her wrath as Punch swished her over at the other end, ballooned on his own air pressure off the far wall, and tore back again up the gorge. He saw the girls hurry out from the group and wave anxiously. A number of the gauchos hurriedly joined them and jerked them back near the wall.
"Keep your dirty maulers off those girls," snarled Punch.
Then with a grimace, he throttled back, did another dangerous wing-over, and let the Vortex slam herself toward the ledge. He peered along his sight bar, drew back the interrupter-gear lever, and pressed the gun controls on top of his stick.
The guns rattled and spat streaks of fire. Much of the effect was caused by the ignited wax of the fake bullets, but the gorge echoed the scream of the at-tack.
The girls were left standing well in the clear as the bandits hurried back to the wall and huddled against boulders and low thicket. The roar of the Allison added to the effective din. Punch pulled out just in time and bounced off the headwall on the ballooning effect of his wings. He saw the girls run out again and huddle together in the clear, near the edge of the ledge.
"Good!" beamed Punch. "If they can only remember what we were telling them about the wax bullets."
He screamed around on one wing tip, settled the nose of the Vortex on the far end of the ledge, and let off another long burst of blank cartridges. The bandits scurried like rabbits for the narrow pathway oat led up the rocks to the pass.
He smoothed out, raced past them, and sensed the flac-flac-flac of rifle fire from behind the rocks. He zoomed, half-rolled at the top, and came around again just missing a particularly jagged pinnacle as he slithered out of trouble.
He reached forward, jerked the retracting gear lever down, and watched the light on his instrument board change from red to green. He saved her again as an updraft of air came somewhere below and threatened to slither him into the headwall above the ledge. He peered over, saw the hungry green waters hurtling over the rocks.
He twisted her again and got another long burst off, directly over the heads of the two girls who huddled together near the edge of the ledge. The bandits at the other end scurried for shelter and he saw the wall of the canyon loom up at him once more.
"Wheels down now," he gasped. "Can't cut it so close. Going to try this time."
The Vortex came around and Punch swore he could feel her bounce one wheel off the wall. He took a wild chance, lowered his flaps to the full, throttled back to a mere murmur and headed back for the edge of the ledge which was now forty or fifty feet above his line of vision.
"Got to make it somehow," he half groaned as he sensed the Vortex mushing along under the effect of the air brakes. He was flying on the throttle now, easing her up, the air-speed needle slipping back dangerously close to the stall point. He was slowing fast.
The green waters below—the jagged rocks—a series of slow hopeless spins—wing-tips being crushed against the cruel walls—the death cry of wrenched dural—any minute now.
The rim of the ledge came toward him. His stomach muscles tightened and almost strangled him. One hand on the throttle, the other with the fingertips resting lightly on the top of the control column.
Then, with the rim of the ledge threatening to slice the Vortex through the middle from prop shaft to fin-post, Punch started to say a prayer, eased the stick back, lifted her over, and then fish-tailed like mad on the rudder-pedals.4
4: Fish-tailing is a landing maneuver frequently used to rapidly reduce the speed of a ship which is going too fast for a safe landing. The pilot really skids his ship by alternately using the right and left rudder-pedals. This throws the side of the fuselage into the slipstream and rapidly slows down the forward motion.—Ed.
She flipped over, held a stall for a fraction of a second and bounced hard. The oleos screeched and the pneumatic chambers let out a wail. Rifle shots somewhere, the ?utter of dainty dresses, the gleam of chestnut hair, and the happy cries of two feminine voices.
Following came the hoarse cries of Villegas' men. They swarmed forward from the caves and rushed the plane, in full pursuit of the girls. Punch swore and lifted his sights. He pressed the levers, the Brownings roared. Fiery steamers lanced from the muzzles, and screams of fright and pain came from the leading bandits. Several of them dropped in their tracks, scalded by hot wax full in their faces, and the others, seeing what apparently was bloody slaughter, dropped hastily to the ground. They whipped up their rifles and began ?ring.
Steel-jacketed bullets whined and howled off the body of the ship, ripped through the fuselage.
"Down, girls!" screamed Punch hoarsely. "Get down!"
The two girls, white-faced, flung themselves prone, and Punch swung his ship around sweeping; the attackers' positions with his hail of wax. Dust spurted from the ground and the rifle fire ceased. Villegas' men, panic stricken, turned and raced back toward the caves.
"Yellow-bellies!" exulted Punch, sending a final burst after their fleeing forms.
He let the Brownings rattle every shot left in the cans as the girls came running up. They climbed on the wing root and scrambled over the edge of the rear cockpit. More rifle shots and more flashes of gaudy serapes, but they were aboard, ruffled, perspiring, and squealingly excited.
"Hang on!" bellowed Punch. "Here we go!"
THE Vortex stiffened again as the throttle went forward. She fought to get her head and hurl her cargo at the grim curved wall. Punch held her nose dead on the curve of the headwall, hoiked her a trifle and then let her lift on the flaps until her wheels were clear. With a last few words of a prayer, he dipped the starboard wing down over the edge of the ledge, rammed the throttle up the last segment of the quadrant, and closed his eyes.
Somehow there was just room. The wing tip went down on one side and pointed down into the gorge. The other raised sufficiently gave her clearance off the wall and they were floundering out into the gorge.
There was another squeal from behind, Punch gave her Mick and rudder. The Vortex cleared the end of the gorge and hurtled around climbing madly to get over the edge of the flinty sentenels. One more turn up and down while the bandits frantically peppered at them with their rifles. They were over the edge in the clear.
"You remembered!" bellowed Punch over his shoulder, to the girl who was standing up with her hands on his shoulders.
"Remembered what?" Zilda Redonda asked puzzled.
"I was shooting wax bullets!" gasped Punch clearing the effects of the swirling winds that came up from the gorge. "We told you about the dog-fight business, last night."
"Wax bullets? No, we didn't know. I just figured you wouldn't shoot at us."
"Oh, my sister's cat's aunt!" said Punch drawing his hand across his brow. "Do you mean to say you stood out there like that believing I was actually shooting bullets?"
"Weren't you? The bandits though you were," explained Zilda.
"I know. That was the idea, but, I thought you would remember what we were telling you last night. You're a couple of brave, nutty kids, if you ask me."
"We had to stand out there, if you were going to rescue us, didn't we?"
That was too much for Punch. He steadied the Vortex, headed her for Rolario and half turned in his seat. "Look here! Do you mean to say you knew I would try to get on that ledge and get you off?"
"Certainly! That was the only way we could be taken off, wasn't it? I knew you'd do it that way," Miss Redona said sweetly and Punch gave it up as a bad job.
"You win," he said. "The guy who marries you is certainly in for a swell time!"
"You should know, Mr. Woodward," she said in his ear. "You should know."
What a future!" said Punch completely surrendering.
They arrived back at the Rolario air field and rolled up to the test bench as the amazed Staff, uniformed troops, and Dictator Redonda walking on rubbery legs surged toward them.
Punch was actually all in, but the two young women bounded out of the Vortex cockpit with very little ceremony. Redonda clutched at his daughter, held her before him and burst into tears.
"You are safe?" he spluttered, trembling but supremely happy.
"Of course. Mr. Woodward only used wax bullets!"
Redonda let out a muffled squeal, hung on to his daughter, and started all over again. Miss Derwent explained what had happened and how Punch had actually made a landing on Chico Ledge to rescue them after chasing Miguel Villegas' bandits to cover with wax bullets. Even Boppo Blaine was amazed at that, but he had retained his presence of mind long enough to have rushed back to the hotel to get Punch's order book and a brand new fountain pen.
Of course," snapped Redonda. "Of course. We must have the Vortex. It is a very good plane. It shoots down the Italian Bredna without firing a shot and then it chases that Miguel Villegas to the hills with nothing but wax bullets. You will dine with us tonight, Mr Woodward?"
"You sign that order first. We'll talk about eating later. And don't forget, we get paid in gold pesos. We're dining at La Luna tonight and they don't take gasoline coupons there, remember!" said Punch climbing out.
Dictator Redonda took the blank turned to Punch with a smile. "We'll buy 200 of your ships, Senor Woodward, on one condition."
"And that is?" queried Punch suspiciously.
"That you deliver them yourself, and sign up with our War Department to take personal charge of an aerial campaign to liquidate this bandit Villegas who dares to kidnap my daughter."
"It's a deal," responded Punch almost before Redonda had finished. "But I take it for granted that kidnapping your daughter is not a capital offense to be applied universally."
At the laughter that followed Punch knew everything was going to be mighty rosy.
THE END