Part 8 (2/2)
A procession of lead slugs, gnas.h.i.+ng angrily at his left wing, was his first warning of disaster. The leaden stream made a quick march for the c.o.c.kpit.
It was the hammer of these slugs which Doc Savage had heard over the radio.
Long Tom was not flying a gyro, but another of Doc Savage's s.h.i.+ps -- a rather nondescript-looking biplane. Doc used this type of craft when not wis.h.i.+ng to attract attention by being seen in his distinctively-designed speed s.h.i.+p, or the gyro.
The crate heaved over on a wing tip as Long Tom trod the rudder and cornered the stick. It got away from the hungry lead.
He jerked a lever in the c.o.c.kpit. On the cowl, hatches rolled back; a disappearing machine gun jumped into view. This was synchronized to fire through the prop.
Out of the van top, more bullets climbed. Every third or fourth slug seemed to be a tracer. The metallic threads waved like a deadly, windblown gray procession of raindrops.
Long Tom's gun fired from Bowden controls on the stick. He ringed the van in his sight; his hand clamped the Bowden trip. The gun on the cowl shook its iron back, and smoked.
Like cobweb spun by an invisible spider, Long Tom's tracers ran down through the late afternoon sunlight to the van. Against the steel van body, however, they only made splotches of chemical fire, or spattered into shapeless blobs.
Long Tom felt his s.h.i.+p jar under him. The stick waggled in his hand as bullets lashed at the control services. He jockeyed the stick madly to evade the fire.
His plane had never been intended for combat It handled sluggishly. A procession of slugs beat against the engine. Their sound was like rapid hammer blows.
The engine stopped.
Long Tom booted the s.h.i.+p into a flat glide, then looked overside. What he saw made him grind his teeth.
The only field suitable for a landing was one near the road. To plant the plane anywhere else would mean an almost certain crackup, for all around were trees, rocks and abrupt hills. Long Tom slowed the plane by fish-tailing. He three-pointed perfectly on the clearing. While the s.h.i.+p was still rolling, he dived out and ran for the nearest bush.
He had hardly taken a dozen leaps when a machine gun stuttered behind him. He saw hazy tracer lines near his head. Dust gushed on a hillside in front of him. A dozen feet to the left he saw a shallow ditch.
Long Tom dived into it.
The machine gun stilled its noisy chatter.
”Take the guy alive if you can!” shouted a man.
Take him alive they did. The ditch was not deep enough to permit Long Tom to crawl away. It chanced that he was at the moment unarmed.
Four men ran Up. They were unsavory fellows, men who had followed the path of crime so long that it was reflected in their voices and actions.
”Lamp the guy!” snorted one of the quartet. ”He looks like a case for the hospital!”
This statement about Long Tom was caused by the electrical wizard's unhealthy appearance. Long Tom was slender and only fairly set up. He was very pale, as if no sunlight had reached him for a long time.
His appearance, however, was deceptive. Few men were healthier than he.
The four men pointed machine guns at Long Tom. These weapons were an airplane type, firing full-sized cartridges. Recoil was taken care of by an elaborate bracing device, which each man wore harnessed about his middle.
Long Tom arose from the ditch. He was searched.
”Who are you?” asked one of the gang.
The electrical wizard ignored the query. A man lunged forward and gave him a painful kick.
”Maybe that'll give you a voice!” the fellow growled.
The last word was still rattling his vocal cords when Long Tom's fist collided with the point of his jaw.
The blow had the sound of a loud handclap. The man's eyes rolled, showing the whites. He sagged to hands and knees and began shaking his head fish.
”I ought to snuff your wick!” one of the other men snarled, and jutted his rapid-firer at Long Tom.
”Keep your s.h.i.+rt on!” growled a red-necked thug. ”We'll drag him along. The boss may want to juice him for information. The punk had some reason for taggin' us with the sky lizzie.”
”I'm in favor of giving him a lead pasting, Hack,” grumbled the blood-thirsty one.
”Dummy up!” said Hack. ”The big shot may not want him rubbed.”
They placed stout handcuffs on Long Tom's wrists and his ankles. Then hurried him over to the big red van.
A man stood beside the machine, dancing about in his impatience. He was tall and waspish, and had freckles and dark hair and a mustache.
Doc's story, coming to Long Tom over the radio, had included a description of this man. The fellow wasthe murderer of Carl MacBride, the electrical wizard realized.
”Why didn't you smear him?” he yelled, indicating Long Tom.
”We thought the big greezer might want to put the screws on him, Caldwell,” said the florid-necked Hack.
Caldwell -- he had evidently not troubled to give Carl MacBride a fake name on the plane -- considered this.
”No good! Too risky. Croak 'im!”
The men lifted submachine guns. For an instant Long Tom stared death in the face.
”Wait!” Caldwell rapped. ”We'll plant 'im in the truck. That's better.”
The van cab was commodious. It accommodated Long Tom and the four men who had seized him.
Caldwell clambered into the rear.
The engine started; the van swung into motion. It traveled swiftly, taking tremendous runs at the hills.
THE ELECTRICAL wizard listened. The monster, whatever it was, which had broken through the floor of Griswold Rock's house, must be in the rear of the van. He hoped to ascertain, from some sound, what the thing might be.
He heard nothing in the nature of a clew.
Hunched down in the seat, Long Tom surveyed the heavens. Twice, he saw planes. They were too distant for him to tell whether they were Doc's s.h.i.+ps.
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