Trouble on His Wings Read online

  A moment later she stepped into his room. Irish leaped up off a bunk, his dark eyes blazing with excitement. Johnny doused the light and cautiously opened the door into the passageway, while Irish took the Jinx by the arm and steered her after him. Only small blue globes were burning in the tunnel of steel. No one was in sight. Johnny cautioned them to silence and crept onward.

  They had reached the door that led to the deck when Johnny stiffened and, sweeping back his arm, slammed his companions against the steel and held them there. A Japanese marine, betrayed by his white bands, was standing just beyond.

  Johnny’s hands slid slowly outward. The sentry moved and Johnny jerked back. Once more he advanced, and then grabbed for the man’s arms and mouth. The marine dropped his rifle, but Irish caught it before it could clatter to the deck.

  The darkness of the floor gave forth struggling sounds and the Jinx supposed that Johnny was having a difficult time subduing the sentry. It seemed to take much longer than it should have, and she began to breathe swiftly as she momentarily expected them to be uncovered by another guard. No marine had been far from them so far on the trip, and now they were in port, it was certain that they would be put in less easily escaped confinement, if found wandering at this hour.

  She almost cried out when she saw the Japanese marine stand up in silhouette against the lights of the shore, which could be seen through the open door. But it wasn’t the marine.

  Irish stepped out to the deck, glancing all around. He walked confidently across the planks to the rail and paused there, casually examining the lights ashore and the water below. He moved along, pausing now and then while Johnny and the Jinx held their breath. An officer came down a ladder and passed Irish, who recalled himself in time to refrain from saluting. The officer disappeared into a companionway and then Irish beckoned stridently to Johnny and the Jinx.

  Silently they rushed to the rail and saw a bumboat below. It had a lantern burning, but the boatman was asleep atop his wares, waiting until the crew and dawn found him.

  Johnny went down the side, gripping the painter. When he stepped on the foredeck of the bumboat, the movement startled the Japanese awake. Johnny dived across the cargo and the clean crack of his blow came faintly to the deck. He put on the straw hat and coolie coat, to make his silhouette better, and then lifted up his arms to receive the Jinx.

  The rope slipped in her fingers and burned them. But, uncomplaining, she came down to the deck of the bumboat. Irish was instantly beside her, slashing the painter with the purloined bayonet of the sentry.

  Footsteps were sounding on the deck and Johnny batted out the bumboat lantern. The footsteps ceased, while the bumboat drifted with the current down the side of the warship. It bumped into others, similarly tied, whose occupants muttered irritably, half asleep, while Irish shoved away from them.

  Suddenly from the deck there came a ringing shout. Johnny seized the sculling oar and the water boiled around the blade. The bumboat shot out away from the man-o’-war and lunged toward the bright lights of the docks far away.

  They had no idea exactly what was happening. They heard commands being fired and, once, a wail of pain, which indicated the sentry’s chagrin. But they had not found out yet that the prisoners were not still aboard the ship.

  “You’re too soft,” whispered Irish, working another oar. “You shoulda dumped him into the boat with us.”

  They were no longer steering toward the docks. The Jinx saw a cluster of colored lights on the starboard and guessed that would be their destination.

  Minutes passed with painful slowness, and the warship’s outlining lights grew farther from them. Abruptly long blades of light reached into the heavens and stabbed down to sweep the water.

  “Pull!” pleaded Johnny.

  “I’ve worn out both arms already,” grunted Irish.

  The lights came nearer and nearer, and then Johnny whispered, “Get down, both of you!”

  They ducked, feeling the bumboat turn in a swirl of foam. Johnny took more time with his stroking on the sculling oar. He was drifting back toward the warship now and, by putting no strength into his work, still kept it far away. The searchlights caught the boat and held it. Johnny put up an arm to keep the light out of his eyes and eased up on his work. The lights went away and then, as though to catch any trick, again focused on the bumboat. But Johnny placidly approached the warship. The searchlights went elsewhere, not concerned with one of many such craft, doubtless on its way out to sell fruit to the sailors.

  A swift heave on the oar almost tipped over the boat and Johnny snapped, “Let’s go!” He turned, and they again darted toward the colored lights.

  After minutes, each one hours long, they neared their goal. The Jinx could see the shape of a cross outlined in lights on the ground, but it was not until they grounded on the concrete of a ramp, and square buildings loomed above them, that she understood that this was a seaplane base.

  Johnny sloshed into the water and then he and Irish lifted out the girl. Johnny pushed a bill into the boatman’s hand who stared stupidly at what was, to him, great riches. Johnny made a motion with his fist and pointed out toward the warship again and the boatman jumped willingly to his sculling oar and made off.

  They went on cautious tiptoe up the ramp toward the hangars. Lights were shining within and the sound of wrenches and hammers came to them above the mutter of voices. The silhouette of a great plane stood against these lights. It was a bomber, destined for service on the Chinese front and being put in readiness for a dawn takeoff.

  The Jinx was afraid that Johnny might attempt to attack these mechanics. There were too many of them. They swarmed over the wings, trailing long gas hoses, checking equipment, testing struts and engines.

  The trio pressed into the shadows of oil drums and crept closer into the hangar. Once they had to cross an open space and the Jinx was certain that they would be seen, in the light now as they were. But with the blinding small bulbs in their hands, the mechanics saw nothing.

  In a moment Johnny was under one of the great wings, pressed against the cart which carried the hull of the seaplane down to the ramp.

  They lay there, hearing men walk over their heads, and waited for something to happen. Shortly, it did. The warship, convinced at last that the quarry had flown, turned on siren and whistle full blast to call all signalmen in the harbor to their posts. Launches were darted away from her hull and the whoop-whoop-whoooooop of the insane siren seemed to drive them away.

  “They’ll comb this town!” whispered Irish.

  Johnny signaled for silence, though nothing could have been heard in the bedlam of that black harbor. The mechanics, curious as to the disturbance, leaped down off the wings and ran out on the ramp to stare at the cruiser, now dimly seen in dawn.

  “Quick!” said Johnny, squirming out from against the truck and leaping to the cabin door. He boosted the Jinx inside and almost threw Irish after her.

  “You can’t take off!” said Irish. “They’d have fighters in the air! These engines—”

  “Grab that wheel!” snapped Johnny, throwing his palms down on the starters and throttles.

  There was no time for Irish to change his mind. The engines ground stridently and then caught with a roaring blast which shivered the hangar. Staring over Johnny’s shoulder through the front ports and down at the ramp, the Jinx was amazed to see that the mechanics only glanced back, and then looked forward once more. They were too intent on the ship’s siren and the flashing messages to read anything but an early arrival of the plane’s crew into the sound. Johnny nursed the throttles. Irish wanted to shout with glee at the stupidity of the crews.

  But they were not allowed more than two or three minutes of grace. A petty officer, suddenly realizing that all was not well, trotted up the ramp toward the ship, frowning concernedly up at the turrets.

  “Now!” cried Johnny, slamming all guns ahead.

  Four engines, too cold to be even, crashed out, their crescendo swelling up, up,
up, until the truck began to move down the rails which led into the sea.

  The crews turned, staring at the moving monster, unable to believe that it was really moving, despite the testimony of their eyes. And then they leaped to the right and left off the tracks, and threw themselves flat to escape the wings.

  Down the track the plane sped to hit the water in a sheet of spray, engines still full on and warming with each passing second. The flying boat wallowed as it plowed through the small waves, gradually rising up higher and higher in the water, until it reached its step. They were skimming across the harbor through dim, gray light, and both Johnny and Irish whipped the controls right and left to avoid bobbing bumboats. Their speed made all the harbor blur, and then they were no longer crashing in the waves, but flying smoothly over the warship they had so lately quitted—the officers of which had no way of knowing that here went their quarry.

  Johnny yelled, “What’s happening at the seaplane base?”

  The Jinx fumbled down the bomb racks until she came to a cross-barred turret, which startled her by swinging with its guns. She looked back at the beach to see a searchlight popping off and on, as its shutter blinked out a strident message.

  “They’re signaling!” she cried.

  Johnny hauled back on the stick. “Stall or no stall, baby, you’ve got to grab yourself some air.”

  “She’s only making a hundred and eighty, full gun!” cried Irish.

  “What do you want for a nickel?” shouted Johnny.

  Belatedly the warship had the message. Two of its sister cruisers, already awakened by the siren’s din, also had the message. An antiaircraft gun far behind them slapped a ball of fire into the air. Others crashed immediately after it.

  Johnny left the controls to Irish and struggled back beside the Jinx, to stare through the turret slits at the harbor, so swiftly falling away from them.

  “There they go!” he cried, and the Jinx followed his finger to see the two plane catapults on their warship’s deck belch white smoke as they were fired. For an instant their planes were going too fast to be visible, and then they bobbed down toward the water and, with engines roaring, began to streak upward.

  “On cold engines,” said Johnny. “Those guys have got guts!”

  The two Navy planes were fighting for altitude and, for the moment, were left far behind. Johnny’s seaplane bomber roared mightily as it curved upward, taking a course eastward.

  “Get forward,” ordered Johnny, taking the machine gun in his hands. Clumsily he fumbled for the loading handle and then pulled it. A moment later the gun stuttered and the belt began to churn through the breach. It was a .50 caliber Matsubi.

  The Jinx, deafened by the roar, went back to Irish. He gave her a grin, and she saw with a shock that he was truly delighted to be in the middle of such a scrape.

  Johnny’s gun kept rattling. Overhead an engine screamed and another series of barks was in the air. Johnny bellowed directions to Irish and the big ship heeled over for a moment. The Matsubi fixed itself upon the nose of the diving Nakajima and let go. The tracer laced a spider web around the Japanese pilot’s head and he pulled up, startled to find opposition.

  The other ship dived and Johnny gave it its medicine. No one knew better than Johnny that he could not hit the sea below, much less a moving plane, but these pilots had great respect for a Matsubi. They had fired the .50 caliber slugs themselves. They drew off from the flying fortress, having no way of knowing how well manned it was, and not half as anxious to greet their ancestors as the government would have other governments believe. The flying fortress itself was impregnable to a pursuit plane. They were sure of that. They had been told it often enough.

  Johnny watched them hang on some thousands of yards astern. The bomber was going into the rising sun, which came swimming out of the mountains ahead and in a few minutes would be shining for them out on the Pacific. Pursuit planes were not likely to love the idea of going straight on out to sea.

  Johnny relaxed as he saw the Pacific reaching endlessly ahead. Yes, the pursuit planes were turning back to Nagasaki.

  What a shock the Army boys would get up in Alaska when a Japanese bomber came roaring into their choicest Aleutian harbor. What a shock!

  And then Johnny’s smile sobered as he thought of what his own reception would be. There wouldn’t be anything for it this time—he was through.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE Army boys were embarrassed, if privately amused, and were suspiciously eager to get Johnny Brice and party out of the Aleutians as swiftly as possible, so that the bomber could be quietly restored to Japan and no questions asked. Accordingly, an Army bomber sped southeastward, via Anchorage, to Seattle where, at Boeing Field, a very discouraged Johnny alighted, his face falling after he had thanked the officer pilot and the need for forced spirits was done.

  “Aw,” said Irish, as they rode in a taxi into urban Seattle, “the worst he can do is fire us.”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny. “But news gets around. Three times is a charm, Irish, and just between you and me, the movie industry, when it hears about it, won’t be having much to do with Brice and Company.”

  They got out, from force of habit, before the largest hostelry, the Olympic Hotel, and Johnny dug up change for the cabbie. The Jinx began to be uneasy, scanning the crowds restlessly, and very anxious to be out of public view. She had a premonition that something was going to happen, and when they entered the lobby and a bluff, derby-hatted individual stopped and gaped at her, she straightened up like a soldier about to face the firing squad.

  “Hey!” said the thick-faced one. “Hey, you!” And he charged toward her.

  Johnny was instantly aware that nemesis had overtaken the Jinx and while he might take refuge in superstition, there was something in him which sprang up now with a maul fist and knocked the big guy kicking.

  “Help!” bawled the detective, struggling up. He surged in toward Johnny again and once more the fist connected. “POLICE!” screamed the detective, once more bouncing to his feet. Johnny set himself for a finishing blow and, suddenly, felt his arms seized from the rear. A patrolman had him, the house detective had Irish and the copper had the Jinx.

  “Come on, you,” said the copper, dragging the girl away.

  “Jinx!” wailed Johnny. “Wait a minute!”

  “Goodbye, Johnny,” she wept. “Goodbye, Irish.”

  Johnny lowered his head to struggle and then, finding the patrolman’s grip too sure, looked up again. But she was out of sight. Bleakly he stared at Irish and, feeling no fight, the patrolman let him go.

  “Y’gonna be good?” said the patrolman, “or do I run you in? Grady gimme the sign to let you go, but I ain’t so sure.”

  Johnny straightened up his bedraggled coat and, with Irish, walked back to the street, escorted by the house detective. The two stood there for a long time, and Johnny finally walked to a drugstore and called the local precinct. Yes, Grady had reported in. No, no information. No, the girl was leaving immediately for the East under escort. Yes, no, couldn’t give out any information. State Department business, maybe.

  Johnny looked at Irish. “Maybe she wasn’t a jinx, Irish. Maybe I’m just a sorehead.”

  “Whatcha gonna do?” said Irish.

  “We’re taking the next plane for New York. We got a scoop for the papers on that China thing anyway. Maybe we can argue Felznick into taking us back. . . . Naw, no chance. But let’s go, anyhow. She’ll need us.”

  Two days later, Johnny and Irish, still looking like something out of a grab bag, walked hopelessly into Felznick’s office. He wasn’t at his desk and so they sat down, waiting, Johnny so distrait he almost forgot himself far enough to start to light a smoke, violating the one necessity of a newsreel office, where celluloid begs for a spark. He recollected himself just as Felznick entered.

  “Hello, boys,” said Felznick.

  “He don’t know,” thought Johnny. “Chief, we got into a little trouble. It wasn’t exactly our fault
, but we couldn’t fight the whole Japanese Navy—”

  “With nothing to fight with,” supplemented Irish.

  “—and what’s done is done. We got a news scoop for the papers—” he cleared his throat nervously, “but the film—”

  “Oh, that!” said Felznick, surprisingly. “Jack, come in here!”

  Irish and Johnny, wondering who Jack might be, looked at the doorway. A moment later there appeared a person who scintillated, a person one hardly ever found off Park Avenue, the finished product of all beauticians and the best dressmakers. In silk and fur and lovely leather, smiling upon them, stood the Jinx.

  Johnny gaped. He leaped to his feet. “Hey! Am I crazy or—?”

  Felznick looked startled and then grinned. “Maybe you haven’t been introduced properly. Brice, this is Jacquelin Stuart, otherwise Jack, my much-abused stepdaughter. I admit I have been wrong about her. She has always maintained that she could learn this business if she had a chance and I’ve always said it was no place for a girl. And when I told her last month that she was crazy, she took advantage of those reserved cabins on the Kalolo to come back and protest by getting a job with some other outfit. She wouldn’t let me know. Now, is what she says straight? Is she savvy enough to learn the business?”

  “Good gosh,” gaped Johnny. “But I thought the cops—”

  “Since she ran away,” said Felznick, “and especially during the past ten days, I’ve been bombarding the country with her picture. Her mother was wild, thinking she was dead or something. How about her ability?”

  “Why . . . gosh . . .”

  Jack’s eyes pleaded with him. Jack’s eyes told him that she had braved the waves of the Atlantic, fire, bullets and jail to see what it was all about.

  “Sure,” said Johnny.

  “Gosh, yes,” said Irish, echoing Johnny’s choice.

  “Johnny,” whispered the Jinx to herself, as though she had voiced a prayer of thankfulness.