Originally published in the June, 1934 issue of Operator 5TM
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Copyright ã 1934 by Popular Publications Inc.
Copyright renewed (c) 1962 and assigned to Agrosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
Operator 5 is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
By CURTIS STEELE
One moment good-will bound the United States and the great Power across the sea . . . the
next, shells screamed their death wails into Coast homes and factories. No citizen was safe
from the bloody holocaust when the Yellow Empire struck without warning from the Pacific.
With fiendish artifice the world was turned against us. And somewhere in this country, covertly
completing the terrifying work of wholesale destruction, lurked the ruthless agent of the
invading hordes. Operator 5 alone guessed the dread secret and matched his individual might
against a million war-drunk terrorists-while the nation trembled on the brink of red wreckage!
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CHAPTER ONE
Destruction on Parade
In the blue waters of San Diego Bay, off the
California coast, the naval fleets of two great
world powers were drawn into review formation.
Smoke poured darkly into the basalt sky from
the funnels of parading capital ships, cruisers,
destroyers and aircraft carriers while low-dipped
submarines trailed alongside. Their big guns
sparkled in the clear sunlight and rainbowed
spindrift floated across the spotless decks where
immaculately uniformed crews stood at stiff
attention. In the wind whipped the Stars and
Stripes of the United States and the brilliant
tricolor of the Yellow Empire.
Side by side in the bay there lay at anchor
the Houston, flagship of the Pacific Fleet of the
United States Navy, and the Noa, flagship of the
United Fleets of the Yellow Empire. Before them
in majestic review was passing the greatest
display of armed sea-power ever witnessed in the
history of the world.
The eyes of the world were turned upon the
spectacle-a sight both reassuring and terrifying.
From the California coast countless yachts,
sailboats, motorboats and sight-seeing steamers
had put out, carrying thousands eager to witness
the display. From Catalina and the Santa Barbara
Islands hundreds of other small vessels had
sailed. From the shore thousands more peered
through field glasses. It seemed that the whole
world had paused to watch.
To the millions living inland in the United
States, and to the millions living in the far-away
Yellow Empire, the picture was carried by the
invisible lightning of radio waves.
High on the conning tower of the Houston a
radio announcer spoke into a microphone that
sent his voice flashing around the girdle of the
globe.
"Below me, ladies and gentlemen, stand
officers of the United States Navy in company
with officers of the Yellow Imperial fleet. I see the
Secretary of War shoulder to shoulder with
Counselor of Naval Affairs Otuski of the Yellow
Empire. There is present also Rear Admiral
Neasham, Commander of the Pacific flagship
Houston, and Chief of Imperial Naval Operations
Adossi. Our own chief of naval operations, Rear
Admiral Monroe, is conversing with the
Commander-in-Chief of the United Fleets of the
Yellow Empire, Admiral Ogoro.
"Beside the Houston lies the Yellow Imperial
Flagship Noa, where again officers of both navies
are witnessing the review. I can see Vice-Admiral
Ugatto beside our Chief of the Bureau of
Aeronautics, Rear Admiral Ledyard. There is also
Chief of the Operations Section of the Yellow
Imperial fleet, Admiral Agranda, side by side with
our Director of Naval Communications, Captain
Jacoby. These are only a few of the officers
present, ladies and gentlemen, on the occasion
of this tremendous gesture of friendship between
two great world powers."
The announcer's voice lowered confidentially.
"As a side-light, ladies and gentlemen, I want to
tell you of a young man in civilian clothes who is
standing at the rail of the Houston. He is the only
man present not in uniform, the only man not an
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officer of either of the two navies. He stands
aside, alone, with a pair of binoculars at his
eyes, intently studying the Yellow battleship Kora
which lies at anchor alongside the Houston. He is
apparently a person of privilege, but his identity is
cloaked in mystery."
The young man standing at the rail of the
Houston was entirely unaware that the entire
world had been told of his presence. He stood
motionless, binoculars pressed hard to his eyes,
a straight, lithe, smoothly garbed figure. He did
not move until a uniformed officer stepped close
to him, smiling, and tapped his arm.
When he lowered the glasses, his face was
disclosed to be clean-cut, his eyes a deep,
shadowed blue. He was, plainly, American to
the very marrow. The smile that formed on his
lips was warm and charming.
"You seem very interested in the Kora, Mr.
Wakeley," remarked Lieutenant Commander Hall
of the Houston.
"I have been wondering," answered the
young man called Wakeley, "why the Kora is
drawn alongside the Houston."
Lieutenant Commander Hall shrugged. "The
desire of Chief of Naval Operations Adossi," he
answered.
"And I have been wondering," the young
man added, "how it ever managed to cross the
Pacific from the Yellow coast."
"Why?"
"It is a rust-eaten, obsolete hulk-a ship that
is falling apart-such a wreck that it could not
possibly be an accredited ship of the Yellow
Imperial Navy."
Lieutenant Commander Hall looked startled.
"Are you sure of that?" he asked. "The Kora,
you know, was built only last year."
The young man passed his binoculars. "See
for yourself," he said. "Look through the fresh
paint and you'll find plentiful evidence of
corrosion. The guns in the turrets are hopelessly
antedated. Even the crew-it's scarcely more
than a skeleton of what it should be. The Kora,
as a battleship, is worth absolutely nothing.
Except," he added in a lower tone, "as a target
for artillery practice."
Lieutenant Commander Hall lowered the
binoculars puzzledly. "You're right," he said. "I
hadn't noticed that. I'm sure Commander
Neasham hasn't, either. What can it mean?"
The young man made no answer. The blue
of his eyes grew darker as his fingers strayed to a
tiny gold ornament hanging from his watch-chain.
Lieutenant Commander Hall's gaze dropped to
the little ornament held in the tips of the young
man's fingers. It was a golden skull with eyes of
bright-red rubies.
"I say-this is damned strange!" Hall
exclaimed. "I'm going to report this to
Commander Neasham-but who are you,
anyway?"
The young man's engaging smile returned.
"My name is Wakeley. That's enough, isn't it?"
He took the binoculars from Hall as he
spoke. The lieutenant commander turned
puzzledly and left him. He peered again through
the glasses at the Kora.
He might have answered, were it not that a
pledge of secrecy sealed his lips, that his name
was really James Christopher; that otherwise he
was known as Operator 5 of the American
Intelligence Service.
In the secret archives of the American
Intelligence Service in Washington, D.C., the
name of James Christopher, Operator 5, was
signed to the reports of investigations of amazing
espionage activities. Working almost singlehandedly,
his identity unknown save to his
immediate superiors, he had, as the ace
operator of the service, directed the handling of
cases which had involved the fate of the United
States.
Secrecy had covered his every move, even
following his amazing successes. Operator 5 was
unknown to the very people he had saved from
disaster. Fame could never be his reward; no
citation could ever be granted him. The President
of the United States had, privately, thanked him
in the name of the people of the nation;
Congress, in joint secret session, had voted him
an unrecorded resolution of gratitude; with these
expressions of thankfulness he was content.
While others were given public credit for the
achievements he had won, Jimmy Christopher,
Operator 5, moved in secrecy.
His presence on the flagship Houston was in
the nature of an award for services rendered his
country; he was the guest of the Secretary of
War, and his real identity was known only to the
Secretary and Commander Neasham. To all
others he was a certain Mr. Wakeley, nothing
more. He had come to the great naval parade
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seeking respite from the strain of intense work;
but now the strange condition of the Kora
beguiled him and set his mind to working.
He swept his binoculars seaward, looking
past the gliding cruisers at the vast spread of blue
beyond. After a long moment he lowered the
glasses, and stood frowning, his blue eyes again
clouded.
Suddenly the air began to tremble with a
droning sound that grew swiftly louder. It was
difficult to hear through the brassy beating of the
Naval band, and Jimmy Christopher alone gave
evidence of hearing it at all. He raised his glasses
again to peer out across the Gulf of Catalina.
He glimpsed swiftly-moving winged forms.
They were sweeping into sight above the horizon.
First one, then three, then five, then seven
airplanes became visible as a V formation rose
into sight. Their wings flashed in the sun while
they drove high into the sky, toward the lane of
parade.
Jimmy Christopher's body tightened as he
peered. His eyes sought markings on the flying
fuselages. He lowered his glasses quickly,
walked forward on the deck, and stepped close
beside Commander Neasham of the flagship
Houston.
"Those airplanes, sir," he said. "Have you
noticed them?"
The commander turned curiously. "Yes, I've
noticed the planes. They are United States Navy
ships and-"
"I beg your pardon, sir. They are not United
States Navy ships."
"No? What are they, then?"
"Their markings are counterfeit. Their lines
do not conform strictly to the lines of our Naval
planes. Notice the position of the undercarriages,
through these glasses, sir-a little too far back.
Also, the ring airfoils of the motors are deeper."
Commander Neasham raised his glasses,
studied the planes sweeping closer to the parade
lane, then gazed again at the surprising young
man.
"I see what you mean, but-"
"They're coming directly toward the flagships,
sir."
The formation of planes had already passed
the lane, and were swinging into a bank. Seven
pairs of wings teetered as the formation swung.
Jimmy Christopher raised binoculars to his eyes
again and said quietly: "They're bombers, sir.
Look out there beyond the submarine flotilla!"
The startled commander's glasses revealed
something black riding above the waves-
something the like of which he had never seen
before. It was dome-shaped and it glistened wetly
in the sun. Around it, standing at attention, tiny
black-garbed figures were visible.
"What the devil is that craft?" the
Commander blurted.
"Watch those planes!"
Jimmy Christopher's warning brought a
startled response from the officers of two nations.
Their eyes rose as the wings of the airplanes
flashed into a dive. First the formation-leader,
then the pairs following, dipped sharply. At the
same time tiny black spots appeared beneath
them-spots that spun and fell swiftly.
"Bombs!"
Like winged streaks of black light the bombs
plunged. The surprising sight held paralyzed the
officers on the deck during the swift seconds of
the bombs' fall. As the rest of the strange
formation of planes dipped, more of the black
spots appeared in the air. Through the roaring of
the motors sounded the soft, shrill shrieks of the
plunging projectiles.
Suddenly, in the swiftness of their flight, the
lowest bombs disappeared. An instant afterward
a terrific concussion shook the sea. A blinding
splash of fire spattered across the deck of the
Kora; a wreath of writhing, yellowish-white
fumes sprang up. Swift destruction struck the
deck of the Yellow cruiser with a power that
seemed to shake the very basin of the sea.
With a discordant wail the Navy band aboard
the Houston went silent; and during the first
echoing concussion there could be heard the
rending crash of tearing steel, the shrill cries of
dying men aboard the Kora. The billowing fumes
of the explosives closed down over the shaken
hulk and rolled out over the lashing water. And
immediately the mind-stunned confusion was
stirred again as more bombs hit.
Four deafening reports followed each other in
lightning succession, each rending the hulk of the
Kora. Steel plates, ripped from their thick rivets
like sections of wet cardboard, whirled into the air
and splashed into the water. Human forms, torn
and broken, were hurled over the twisted rails of
the Yellow cruiser.
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Its after fighting tower crumpled with a
resounding crash. Lost for a moment in the fury
of the attack was the heavy drone of the airplane
formation in the sky.
One instant transformed the tranquillity of the
sea into a stormy, strife-torn scene that spread
instantly to envelope the Yellow Imperial Flagship
Noa that lay anchored opposite the Houston.
An explosion rocked the stern of the Noa,
crumpling a gun-turret like a cardboard box,
hurling sections of the rail into the sea and with it
scores of screaming men. Lung-stinging fumes
tore on the wind and whipped across the deck of
the Houston as it swayed in the lashed water, as
the officers on her deck whirled to stare in
stunned dismay.
Smoke streaked off the decks of the Noa,
frantic officers shouted commands to man the
anti-aircraft guns; gunners scrambled into turrets;
the crew ran to battle stations. Yet the move to
answer the attack of the swooping planes was
doomed to futility; for already the gray wings
were sweeping high into the sky, circling, driving
out to sea.
A groaning of wrenched steel plates came
from the bomb-torn hulk of the Kora. It was listing
heavily, spilling more of its crew from its tilted
deck into the churning waters. Its stern was
already awash; tons of water were pouring in
through burst plates and torn seams. The Kora
was sinking rapidly while the fumes of destruction
swirled about it.
Then, through the air, as the thunder of the
attacking planes rolled across the sky, a shrill
wail sounded. It chilled the nerves of every officer
who heard it-the wail of a shell coursing on its
trajectory across the sky. Every instant loudened
it until it was an ear-piercing shriek. And suddenly
the sound disappeared in another rending
concussion that shook the Kora from stem to
stern.
Catastrophic destruction struck the hulk that
was already swiftly settling into the waves. Flame
spewed high and water geysered as the shell
drove into the trembling cruiser close beneath its
deck. A great black, ragged hole appeared
instantly, water sucking into it with terrific force.
It sent the Kora sliding under-sent it down
beneath the surface as bewildered officers on the
flagships watched.
Now the V formation of planes was sweeping
out of sight-now the air was trembling again with
another ear-piercing wail.
Commander Neasham of the Houston
shouted hoarse commands. Review formations
broke as the panic-stricken crew rushed to obey.
Officers echoed orders as they came from the
numbed lips of the Commander. Standing back,
binoculars still in his hands, Jimmy Christopher
watched the fleeing planes with dark-clouded
eyes.
A motor burst into a roar. An airplane on the
Houston's catapult was preparing to take off. A
pilot climbed to the gear and scrambled into the
pit swiftly. Jimmy Christopher turned smartly and
spoke to the dismayed Secretary of War. "With
your permission, sir, I'll go with that pilot."
"Yes-yes-if you wish!"
The whine of the second shell had risen to a
deafening intensity. Every man within hearing
cringed as its tone lowered toward the instant of
impact. Suddenly the explosion came with terrific
closeness, ripping through the forward conning
tower of the Houston, driving into the sea
beyond.
The Houston quaked with the rending power.
The torn lacing of the conning tower buckled
swiftly. High up in its nest men clung
desperately-the radio announcers abandoned
their microphone and their world-wide audience at
that moment of impending death. Metal
screamed as the tower collapsed, crashing
against the rail, spilling its men into the water.
Signals were flashing. Orders from
Commander Neasham were speeding like
lightning to the ships of the Pacific Fleet. On the
spotless decks men were scattering to battle
positions. Across the waves the commands
reached to the deck of the aircraft carriers
Lexington and Saratoga.
On the launching deck of the Lexington and
Saratoga airplane motors were already roaring.
Pilots were legging into their pits. Officers were
barking commands which repeated those of
Commander Neasham. Preparations to answer
the surprise attack were being swiftly made.
On the deck of the Houston, Commander
Neasham turned to peer at the Yellow Imperial
Flagship Noa. Its guns were manned, but it was
not firing; the attacking planes had sped out of
range. The anchor was being weighed. On the
after deck mutilated bodies were strewn-victims
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of the bombing. The Noa was badly damaged;
but it was not going to follow the Kora to the
bottom of the bay.
Commander Neasham turned again, this
time to peer into the glittering black eyes of the
Counselor of Naval Affairs of the Yellow Imperial
Navy, Admiral Otuski.
"My compliments, Commander Neasham,"
Admiral Otuski said in a whisper. "My staff and I
will withdraw at once."
Commander Neasham turned pale as death.
He saluted smartly. He spoke no word because
words were beyond him. The stiff-backed officers
of the Yellow Imperial Navy returned the salute
with a snap. They marched quickly across the
deck intent on descending to the waiting tender,
their purpose to return at once to the Yellow
Imperial Flagship Noa. Commander Neasham
stepped close to the Secretary of War as they
descended.
"Good God-what's happened? This gesture
toward peace has turned into a promise of war!"
The pale Secretary of War pressed white lips
tightly together. The roaring of the motor on the
ship's catapult was now a deafening din.
Commander Neasham's eyes rose to it. He saw
the pilot hunched at the controls; and, in the rear
pit, a young man in civilian clothes-Jimmy
Christopher. The Commander exclaimed
breathlessly: "He knew it was coming! He
suspected it-he warned me!"
A fresh burst of power came from the plane
on the catapult. The terrific force of the launching
mechanism exerted itself swiftly. One instant the
plane was resting on its channels; the next it was
whipping through the air, plunging away from the
Houston. It sank toward the water as its airfoils
bit into the air; then, its motor snarling at its
highest pitch of power, it streaked out across the
waves toward the strange black craft in the gulf
toward which the seven attacking airplanes were
now spiraling and settling. Commander
Neasham's eyes clung to the U.S. Navy plane
roaring low above the water.
"By God, sir," he blurted, "I'm glad he's
here! By God, sir, that young man is worth more
to us at this moment than all these battleships on
parade!"
The sea-plane zoomed high as it sped
across the dark blue waters of the Gulf of
Catalina. Behind it lay the two fleets in review,
their flags still fluttering, their guns glistening; but
now their crews, responding to swift orders, were
at their battle stations. The war dogs of the sea
were straining at their leashes, waiting for a
signal that would transform the gesture of peace
into a gesture of war!
Nearer the shore, the thousands of small
craft which had put out to watch the great naval
parade were scattering like frightened geese.
From the North came thunderous roars as
planes swept off the broad decks of the Lexington
and the Saratoga. Swift orders were throwing the
power of the aircraft carriers into the sky.
Snarling planes were speeding from them,
swinging into formation, driving out from shore
while, in the ears of the pilots, orders still rang:
"Attack on sight the craft which fired on the
flagships, with the purpose of sinking it at once!"
Jimmy Christopher peered across the blue
expanse of water. The troubled darkness in his
eyes had grown deeper. They shone like clouded
blue stars as he watched the strange black craft
that was dimly visible, riding close above the
chopping waves.
It exposed a superstructure amazingly broad
and long, indicating that a hulk of tremendous
proportions lay beneath the surface. That it was
some type of submarine, Jimmy Christopher
could not doubt; yet it could be like no other
submarine ever constructed. It displayed no
markings to identify its nationality; it lay in the
water like a grotesque, sinister monster.
And toward it the attacking formation of
planes was settling. As Jimmy Christopher
watched, one of them leveled out of the smooth
spiral; its pontoons dipped and slashed through
the water. It ran swiftly toward the kiosk which
dominated the superstructure of the weird
submarine, until it was bobbing only a few yards
away. Then, as Jimmy Christopher peered
through his binoculars, as his plane whisked him
swiftly closer, a strange thing happened.
The pontoon-equipped plane was drawn
forward until it passed out of sight within the
kiosk. Immediately it entered, a second of the
planes swooped to the waves, drove closer, and
entered. One after another the remaining planes
spiraled and dropped. The amazing sight became
clearer in Jimmy Christopher's glasses as his
plane swooped low.
Now, toward the rear, the United States
planes which had been launched off the
Lexington and the Saratoga were swarming
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down. Their exhausts rolled like thunder across
the sky. Pilots coaxed their motors to the limit as
they plunged to attack.
Through his binoculars, Jimmy Christopher
watched operations on the superstructure deck of
the tremendous submarine. Six of the attacking
flight of planes had disappeared within the kiosk
which was large enough to hold only one of them;
the last plane of the attacking formation was
swinging down to follow. On the wave-washed
deck three black-uniformed officers were peering
at the onsweeping U.S. planes, signaling orders.
Suddenly they turned, running into the kiosk.
Swiftly the black metal doors leafed together.
The single attacking plane swooped swiftly,
like a bewildered bird, its entrance to the
submarine suddenly cut off. The rushing U.S.
Navy planes howled down as waves washed over
the superstructure of the grotesque submarine.
Its kiosk disappeared first, telescoping flat
against the deck. Suddenly it became nothing
more than a vague, dark shape in the water that
blurred away. Jimmy Christopher's plane passed
directly over it at that moment; and peering down,
he could see nothing but the chopping waves.
Within the space of one second by the clock,
the unknown submarine had submerged-and
disappeared.
Bomb-releases tripped, and vaned projectiles
streaked down from the underside of Jimmy
Christopher's plane. They spun and twisted; they
struck the surface, and water geysered high as
rolling thunder crossed the waves. The next
moment the Navy planes from the Saratoga and
the Lexington swarmed over the spot where the
submarine had submerged.
A rain of bombs plunged. The water
whitened with foam; smoke tore on the wind;
giant waves rolled; terrific power struck again and
again as the high explosive flew down from the
sweeping planes. Overside, pilots peered grimly.
Jimmy Christopher's plane circled swiftly as he
watched. But no spot of oil appeared on the
water-no indication came that the vanished
submarine had been hit or damaged.
Jimmy Christopher whacked his pilot's
shoulder and shouted: "Watch that plane! It's
going down!"
The one crate which had been shut out of the
submarine had, for a moment, circled in
bewilderment; then it had swung low over the
waves, during the quick bombardment, and now
it was shooting toward the shore. Jimmy
Christopher's plane swung after it swiftly.
Bending over the cowling, he could see its pilot
twisting back, peering up. That pilot was, as
Jimmy Christopher had warned, bringing his
crate down to the waves.
It passed out of sight a moment, as
Operator 5's plane banked; then he could see it
again, riding the swells, its prop motionless. The
pilot was slumped forward in the seat. Again
Jimmy Christopher shouted orders, and his plane
lowered. It dipped, slashed to the surface, and
swung toward the other craft.
Closer inspection indicated again that the
attacking bomber was not in reality a U.S. Navy
plane, though its color and its markings had been
cleverly counterfeited. When the wing-tips drew
close together, Jimmy Christopher eased out,
bracing against the struts; a quick leap took him
across. He worked his way to the bomber's pit as
his pilot watched puzzledly.
He became motionless as he peered over
the cowling. He reached down, caught the lax
pilot's chin, and raised it. A white face lifted.
"Chet Galway!"
Jimmy Christopher peered back at his pilot.
"You know him?" he asked quietly.
"Know him! Everybody knows him! He's one
of the best damn' stick-wrestlers that ever heaved
a crate through the air. Ace Navy flyer. God-
what happened to him?"
Jimmy Christopher peered at a round, black
hole in Chet Galway's right temple. He lowered
the lolling head, reached deeper, and brought up
a service automatic from the bore of which a wisp
of powder-smoke still curled. "Dead," he said
softly, "by his own hand."
He looked up slowly. Over the Gulf the
swarm of U.S. Navy planes from the Lexington
and the Saratoga was circling, searching the
depths for some sign of the mysterious attacking
submarine, but searching hopelessly. Toward
the California coast lay the ships of the United
States Pacific fleet and the main body of the
Yellow Imperial Navy, their funnels spewing black
smoke that clouded the sky.
The sun shone dimmed through the murky
haze, as though already the darkness of war was
descending.
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CHAPTER TWO
Secret Orders!
Out of the night sky a plane swooped toward
the flood-lighted field of the Glendale Airport near
Los Angeles. As it trundled to a stop it was seen
to be a ship of the United States Navy Training
Station at San Diego. From it Jimmy Christopher
stepped.
Alertly he strode to a waiting sedan, pausing
to buy an armload of late afternoon newspapers.
He gave no directions to the solemn-faced
chauffeur, but he was whisked quickly along
broad streets toward the heart of Los Angeles.
By the dome-light of the car he read the shouting
black headlines and his eyes grew dark and
grave.
The sedan swung to the curb in front of a
building on Olive Street. Jimmy Christopher
strode into the lobby, and from the directory found
the location of the United Film Booking Company.
An elevator took him to the twenty-fifth floor. He
stepped into an office where a pretty girl sat at a
secretarial desk.
"Mr. Wakeley," he said, "calling to see Mr.
Webster."
Jimmy Christopher, directed by the girl,
entered an adjoining office and for a moment was
alone.
Presently a door opened and a young man
came toward him. "You want to see Mr.
Webster?"
"No."
"Your name?"
"Mr. Webster."
"This way."
Jimmy Christopher entered another office. In
it, at a corner desk, sat a man with snow-white
hair. His face was creased and kindly; the blueveined
hand he extended to Jimmy Christopher
trembled slightly. He said: "You want to apply for
a position?"
"Not at all. I am leaving Los Angeles tonight
by plane."
"When?"
"Number four-sixty."
The dark-veined hand tightened on Jimmy
Christopher's. "Very good. These precautions
and these codes are highly necessary to protect
this secret headquarters, you know, Operator 5.
Please be seated. I am V-3."
The white-haired man, Chief of the Pacific
Division of the American Intelligence Service,
studied Jimmy Christopher's face.
"You received my orders?"
"Immediately I returned to the Houston."
"Can you verify the information I have
already received? The plane captured by our
flyers is of foreign manufacture, painted to look
like a United States Navy ship. It is, in fact, a
plane from the Yellow Imperial Air Corps?"
"Yes."
"Yet it was flown by one Lieutenant Chester
Galway, who resigned from the U.S. Navy only a
few months ago?"
"Yes."
"Good. That information is being held in strict
secrecy by us, on orders direct from
Washington."
Jimmy Christopher spread the newspapers
on the desk; and his eyes grew troubled. "What
does this mean? The Imperial Council of the
Yellow Empire has issued a statement declaring
that the submarine which fired on the naval
parade this afternoon is an instrument of war of
the United States."
"It is true."
Jimmy Christopher blurted: "What?"
"It is true. The submarine which attacked the
flagships today is a vessel of the United States
Navy."
Operator 5's face turned white. "Good Lord-
it isn't possible!"
V-3 leaned forward tensely. "The
submarine," he said, "is an entirely new type of
undersea craft which was built secretly in a
special yard off Mare Island, by the United States
Navy. The work was done under such close
cover that many of our highest ranking officers do
not know of it. It was the intention of the War
Department to hold the craft, the Neptune, in
readiness as a surprise defense in case of
attack."
"Then the statement of the Imperial Council
is correct?"
"Only too correct, as far as it goes. The
Council does not state, however, that the vessel
had been stolen by secret agents of the Yellow
War Office."
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Jimmy Christopher lowered himself to a
chair, staring stunned across the desk. "This
puts an entirely different complexion on the
attack!" he exclaimed. "I came here under the
impression that it was an enemy ship. But if it is
our own-"
"It means international complications of the
utmost gravity," V-3 declared. "For months the
Neptune has been under construction in a secret
underwater dock off Mare Island. The United
States has been able to build it without violating
any international treaty, since it is an entirely new
type of craft, and can be classified only under the
submarine quota which, in our case, has not
been filled. Only a few days ago the construction
of the Neptune was completed. It was about to
take its maiden cruise.
"It is the only craft of its kind in existence. It
has been constructed along lines never attempted
before. It is, essentially, a submarine airplane
carrier. Inside it there is storage space for two
flights, of seven planes each, of wing-folding
amphibians. It is also equipped with twelve
torpedo tubes, and it is capable of thirty knots an
hour on the surface, fifteen submerged. It is able
to dive within thirty seconds, which establishes a
new submersion record for undersea craft.
"It is able to remain under the surface for far
longer periods than any other submarine ever
built. It can blow its ballast tanks ten times, as
compared with the usual three for ordinary
underwater boats, due to specially constructed
cannon-tanks.* Its storage batteries deliver
power incomparably greater than any other
submarine's. What is most important, in the
Neptune, we have overcome the greatest
handicap of undersea vessels-blindness. The
Neptune is equipped with a newly developed
camera-type periscope which utilizes infra-red
rays for visibility.
The ordinary compressed-air tank is made of rolled
sheet-steel, riveted so as to be air-tight. A cannon-tank,
so called, is made from a single block of steel, bored
exactly the same as a cannon-barrel. Having no rivets
and no seams it is capable of withstanding tremendous
pressure-7500 pounds to the square inch as
compared with 2500 for the old-style riveted tank.-
AUTHOR.
I do not need to tell you that, in time of war,
a weapon of the type of the Neptune would be
tremendously powerful-able to destroy a whole
fleet of an enemy navy. But now, Operator 5,
we have lost control of it, and it actually is in the
hands of an enemy. It is being used against us!"
Jimmy Christopher sat silent, peering into the
faded blue eyes of V-3.
"Secret agents of the Yellow Empire,
somehow," the Pacific chief of the American
Intelligence continued, "learned of its
construction. They carefully laid their plans to
seize it, unknown to us, of course. Late last
night, the Neptune was captured and spirited
away from its underwater dock. This was
accomplished by poison gas-the attack came
without warning, as a complete surprise. When
the Neptune dove, for the first time, it was under
the command of a Yellow officer."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes sought headlines
in the newspapers. "Then that explains-?"
The headlines read:
20 UNIDENTIFIED BODIES
WASHED ON VALLEJO BEACH
"Some of the construction crew of the
Neptune-killed by poison gas when the
submarine airplane carrier was seized," V-3 said
quietly. "Poor chaps, they hadn't a chance!
"It was the intention of the War Department,
Operator 5, to keep the existence of the Neptune
a secret, but we counted on no such
development as occurred this afternoon. It is
obvious now that the seizure of the Neptune was
the first move in a deep laid plan of attack on the
part of the Yellow War Office."
"Then their participation in the naval parade
was only an empty gesture!"
"Yes. The reports I have here show
conclusively that the Yellow Empire has acted in
bad faith. Their war office talked of peace and at
the same time planned the opening attack of a
war. The overthrow of the military party has in
reality put into power another faction which
desires war with the United States even more
strongly."
"Then they are still desperate to save
themselves from uncontrolled currency inflation,"
Jimmy Christopher observed. "Their intention is to
overthrow the United States and confiscate our
gold holdings, the largest in the world, in order to
save their own financial life."
"Exactly. Their first attack came this
afternoon-as devilish a strategic move as has
ever been known. While the naval review was in
progress the Neptune, in the control of its Yellow
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commander, was lying in wait in the Gulf of
Catalina. It had taken aboard it, secretly, a flight
of Yellow naval planes, disguised to look like
American ships. At the same time an obsolete
cruiser of the Yellow fleet was anchored alongside
the Houston in San Diego Bay-yet we are
positive now that this cruiser was not in reality the
ship whose name it bore-the Kora."
"I suspected that!" Jimmy Christopher
exclaimed.
"The real Kora was constructed only last
year, as you know. Where it has disappeared,
no one knows; but another cruiser, which was
intended to be scrapped, was hastily painted and
partially conditioned to look like the Kora, and it
was this counterfeit Kora which lay beside the
Houston this afternoon. It was there for only one
purpose-to be sunk.
"You know, Operator 5, that the Neptune,
under the command of a Yellow officer, might
easily have destroyed half our Pacific fleet this
afternoon, with its bombers, its deck guns, and
its torpedoes. But it did nothing of the kind. It
attacked the counterfeit Kora and sank it. It
dropped a bomb on the Yellow Imperial flagship,
the Noa. To all appearances-and this is the
devilish part of the strategy-it was an American
vessel firing upon the Yellow fleet!"
Jimmy Christopher was leaning forward
tensely.
"And now the Yellow Council has announced
to the world that the Neptune is an American built
vessel-and we can't deny it!"
"Exactly. They have contrived to make it
seem that the United States has made the
opening attack of a war in the midst of a
demonstration of peace! It has placed us in a
dangerous international situation. Our treatyallies
will certainly file protests in Washington.
This strategy of the Yellow War Office is costing
us the respect of the world!"
"But-can't we prove-?"
"We can prove little. The counterfeit Kora
lies now at the bottom of the Bay of Catalina. The
Yellow airplane we captured, flown by Lieutenant
Galway, is insufficient as proof compared to the
bombing of the Yellow ships. We cannot deny
that the Neptune was constructed by us, and we
cannot prove that it is now under Yellow
command. In short, the Yellow Empire has
committed an international crime, and has
fastened the guilt on us as an excuse for an open
declaration of war."
Through the wall of the office came a sharp
clattering sound. It continued as V-3 resumed.
"We are making a desperate effort to locate and
recapture the Neptune. All along the coast,
planes are hunting for it-ships from France Field,
Boeing, Seattle, from Crissy Field at the Presidio
at San Francisco, from Hamilton Field at San
Rafael, in fact from every California field, as well
as from Albrook Field in the Canal Zone. The
Dirigible base at Sunnyside has sent out lighterthan
aircraft for the search. Submarines have
been put out, also searching, from San Pedro,
from Astoria, Oregon, and from Keyport,
Washington. But it's hopeless.
"Our own shrewdness in constructing the
Neptune has turned against us, for it is able to
make itself invisible in the water. All its power is
directed against us, and we are almost helpless
to regain control of it."
A door opened, and a shirt-sleeved man
entered. He placed on the desk in front of V-3 a
yellow sheet covered with the pasted strips of a
teletype message. V-3 read it swiftly and silently
passed it to Jimmy Christopher.
...YELLOW GOVERNMENT DEMANDS
FROM U.S. REPARATIONS OF FIVE MILLION
DOLLARS AND SURRENDER OF OUR PACIFIC
FLEET... U.S. CANNOT ACCEDE AND
DECLARATION OF WAR MAY RESULT... SEIZE
AT ONCE ALL KNOWN SECRET AGENTS OF
YELLOW ESPIONAGE OFFICE... DETAILED
ORDERS FOLLOW....
V-3's fist crashed to the desk. "That's the
damnable cleverness of the Yellow Empire! They
strike first and declare war afterward. They have
no difficulty finding a suitable casus belli when it
is needed. It's part of their devilish strategy-to
attack us, make it appear that we attacked them,
then deliver demands upon us which it is utterly
impossible for us to accept!"
Jimmy Christopher said slowly: "It means
that war is inevitable!"
The door connecting with the outer
partitioned space opened quickly. The girl who
acted as "secretary" for the United Film Booking
Company stepped in quickly.
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"Chief, a man purporting to be a repairman
from the telephone company has again gone up
to the office above us."
"Thanks," V-3 said. "That's all."
As the door closed he looked intently at
Jimmy Christopher. "I have suspected," he
explained, "that this headquarters has been
spotted by a Yellow agent. I believe that attempts
have been made to tap our telephone lines and to
overhear conversations held in this room. I'm
positive that the man who has rented the office
above has not yet learned our secret. But he is
trying.
"This 'telephone repairman' has appeared
upstairs frequently, according to our Operator Y-
4, who is handling one of the express elevators.
The office above must be watched closely; this
headquarters must be kept secret at all costs.
Quick work is essential."
"Leave it to me, Chief," Operator 5
suggested quietly. "I'll handle it." And he stepped
toward the corridor. The door clicked softly behind
him as he headed for the banks of elevators.
The door of the office located directly above
Secret Intelligence Headquarters PL was lettered
"Shantung Tea Importers, Ltd." Behind the
pebbled pane, while all other offices on the floor
were dark, a light was shining.
It was almost midnight when the light blinked
out, and the door opened. The man who
emerged into the corridor was lean and tall, his
face a dried saffron color. He wore thick eyeglasses;
he looked a quiet, dignified Oriental
businessman thoroughly Americanized. Carrying
a briefcase, he strode to the elevator shafts and
punched a button.
A grille clacked open, and he stepped
through. He was alone in the car as it began its
descent. The uniformed man of the cage yawned
sleepily as floor-levels flicked past. To all
appearances he was a bored and tired young
man. In reality he was alert, tense: he was
Intelligence Operator Y-4, acting under orders of
Operator 5.
Suddenly the lights in the cage blinked out;
there was a bounding jounce, and the dark car
slid to a stop.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Y-4. "The power's off!"
"Let me out, then!" the businessman
exclaimed. "I will walk."
"Can't let you off, sir," Y-4 answered.
"We're stuck between floors."
Muttering came from the dried lips. "How
long must I be held here?"
Y-4 yawned. "That," he said truthfully, "I
can't tell you." He could not say, he might have
explained, as he did not, that the elevator cage
was going to hang imprisoned between floorlevels
until a certain signal came from above-
from Operator 5.
Jimmy Christopher hurried again into the
building on Olive Street; took an elevator to the
twenty-second floor, then climbed flights of stairs
quickly. At the twenty-sixth floor, he strode along
the gloomy corridor toward the door of the
Shantung Tea Importers, Ltd. He drew a packet
of keys from his pocket, tried one after another,
heard a click, and stepped through.
Knowing that a watch might be maintained
on these offices from a building across the street,
he did not snap on the lights. It appeared to be
an ordinary business layout. He opened an inner
door, walked across a quiet office where, on a
table, glass jars of tea samples sat, and then
into one beyond.
In the third room he paused. In one corner
lay a heap of crumbled concrete. The thick
linoleum had been peeled back, disclosing a
black emptiness beneath it. Operator 5 stepped
close, peering at tools which lay alongside. A
moment's inspection told him that the occupant of
this office had been attempting to burrow down
behind the wall of Secret Intelligence
Headquarters PL, one floor below.
The sound-proofing which protected
Headquarters PL had at the same time dulled the
noise of the chipping-tools which had eaten
through the concrete. Down into the cavity ran
two thin wire strands. Operator 5 pulled on them,
and lifted from the wall cavity a small microphone.
Smiling quietly, he twisted one wire in his fingers
until the delicate filaments of copper inside the
insulation broke and parted. He lowered the
microphone again, and turned.
He spent quick moments opening desk
drawers, looking into filing cabinets, searching
thoroughly, but he found no scrap of evidence
indicating that Yellow agents had rented these
offices. Leaving each leaf of paper as he found it,
he strode into the corridor, locking the door
behind him.
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He walked quickly down the flights of stairs
that opened into the lobby at the ground floor. As
he appeared, he flicked dust from a lapel of his
coat. The night starter in the foyer saw the
movement, and punched an electric button. The
button flashed a signal in the basement, and an
overalled electrician reached for a switch, and
threw it.
Far up, lights appeared in the imprisoned
elevator cage. Y-4 sighed, threw his control
switch, and sent the car shooting downward. His
fidgeting passenger stepped quickly into the
lobby, still muttering, and walked into the street.
Jimmy Christopher stepped from a telephone
booth and followed.
Along Olive Street Operator 5 trailed the lean
Asian man. The tea importer circled a block, then
another, in an attempt to throw off any possible
shadow. Jimmy Christopher drifted far behind
him. The man finally turned again and walked
quickly toward that quaint old Spanish section of
Los Angeles which is the original settlement of the
city.
The streets grew narrower; shop windows
gleamed dully; dark figures lounging in doorways
muttered Spanish. The task of trailing the man
became more difficult. Jimmy Christopher stepped
into a taxi, and rolled along quietly while, unseen
within it, he peered through the windows. He was
ahead of his man when the Oriental turned to a
door and disappeared.
Jimmy Christopher left the cab and trod
back. At the dark, scarred doorway through which
the Oriental had passed, he hesitated. He
stepped through into a dark hall, facing stairs that
rose to an odorous second floor. Quiet steps took
him upward.
Three doors opened on the landing. Jimmy
Christopher believed that they opened into
separate rooms, that two of them must be false
leads. He brought from his pocket an envelope,
tore off a corner, stepped close to a knob, and
dusted a brownish powder over it. Stooping, he
smelled it.
Again he did this; and the second time his
nostrils caught a faint, pungent odor. He
straightened, smiling. The reaction of the powder
with the extremely faint traces of human skin-oil
and perspiration on the knob told him that a hand
had touched it only a few seconds ago.
Again he brought from his pocket his packet
of keys. There was not the slightest sound as he
tried first one, then another, in the lock. His
fingers moved as surely, as deftly, as those of a
master surgeon. The third key turned slowly,
soundlessly. Jimmy Christopher twisted the knob,
poised-and stepped through.
At a table in the center of the room the lean
Oriental was hunched; peering at letters and
papers taken from his briefcase. Jimmy
Christopher's step brought him to his feet in a
flash. He whirled, his eyes glittering darkly; his
hand shot deep into the leather case. When it
flashed out, it was gripping the hilt of a brightbladed
knife.
Jimmy Christopher swung close. The knife
slashed up as the man lunged. Jimmy
Christopher's left hand flew up, clenched; his
wrist clicked against the wrist of the Yellow agent.
The blade hissed downward, slashing the fabric
of his coat. Swiftly he stepped again, whirled,
hooked his arm around the man's neck, and
crushed.
A muffled scream came from dry lips.
Jimmy Christopher's hand slipped to his vest
pocket. His thumb-nail pressed the catch of a
cigarette case. He rolled one of the white paper
tubes into his hand, dropped the case, and bent
the cigarette between his fingers as he thrust it
close to this man's face.
There sounded the crack of splintering glass
as the thin walls of the tube contained in the
cigarette broke. A sweet, sickish odor came into
the air. The man went limp in Jimmy Christopher's
arms. He lowered the lax form, stepped to the
window, and opened it.
Quietly he took up the papers from the table,
and stuffed them back into the briefcase. He
searched the room quickly, and found nothing
else. Pausing again, he peered intently at the
Oriental's features, then he stepped out the door
and ran down the flight of steps.
From a telephone booth he called Secret
Intelligence Headquarters PL. He exchanged
signals, and read an address.
"He's sleeping soundly, V-3," he said quietly,
"and he'll keep on sleeping until you take him into
custody. His papers indicate that he's Da Fonda-
one of the cleverest agents of the Yellow
Espionage offices."
An hour later Jimmy Christopher was
bending over the stained table of a chemical
laboratory hidden deep in a building in downtown
Los Angeles. It was the secret ink laboratory of
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the Intelligence Service on the West Coast. He
had come directly from the room of Da Fonda.
A man in an acid-eaten smock was bending
over the letters taken from the spy's briefcase.
Across each of them he had drawn a brush
dipped in chemicals; each had been treated in
this way three times. The reagents had stained
the paper with dark streaks, and the chemist was
wagging his head. "No invisible writing so far,"
he said.
V-3 had come to the secret ink laboratory on
word from Operator 5. He frowned in
bewilderment.
"Those letters," Jimmy Christopher declared,
"are neither in code nor cipher. They appear to
be business letters-but Da Fonda was ready to
kill me to keep me from getting them. They must
contain some secret writing."
Under his directions the chemist prepared an
airtight glass cabinet. Flaky crystals of
sublimated iodine were placed in a tube. As it
was heated over a Bunsen burner a rich, purple
vapor rose, flooding into the glass case, and over
the letters.
"You see," Jimmy Christopher explained to
V-3, "no matter what secret ink was used, the
pen and invisible ink has disturbed the fibers of
the paper. The disturbance is so minute that it is
invisible to the naked eye. Instead of trying to find
the correct developer for the secret writing-which
might be impossible, and we might ruin the
hidden writing trying to find it-the iodine vapor is
used. It settles into all the microscopic disturbed
places in the fiber and- There it is!"
Quickly Jimmy Christopher slipped the
stained paper from the case. Writing had
appeared on it as if by magic-faint but
decipherable. He read the message quickly:
Chief Secret Agent Kara Vizna is aboard the
Alhambra docking at San Francisco night of the tenth.
Await orders from her.
"Kara Vizna!" Jimmy Christopher exclaimed.
"The Yellow woman spy!"
V-3's eyes shone. "A perfect tigress!" he
said. "Attempting to enter the country-the
tenth-tonight! I'll get verification from our agent
in Shanghai at once!"
V-3 took up the telephone and spoke quickly
as Operator 5 subjected others of Da Fonda's
letters to the iodine-vapor test. As he finished V-3
turned from the telephone.
"Our agent in Shanghai furnished San
Francisco with a report days ago, but it was so
vague that they have not acted upon it," he said.
"They did not believe that Kara Vizna would dare
attempt to enter this country. They are radioing
him now for further details.
"Operator 5, you are to proceed at once to
San Francisco and attempt to seize Kara Vizna
when she lands. She must be held
incommunicado. A plane will carry you to San
Francisco and another operator is to meet you at
the Embarcadero. He will be B-10. You may
trust him implicitly, but be careful-Kara Vizna is
the most dangerous secret agent alive!"
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "I don't relish this
assignment, V-3. I've never tackled a woman
espionage agent before."
"You may be sure you've never tackled an
adversary as dangerous as the woman Kara
Vizna. She is a human fiend, merciless,
heartless, shrewd beyond words to describe.
And she has behind her the most cunning
intelligence organization in the world."
"That organization," Jimmy Christopher
remarked quietly, "may explain why Lieutenant
Chet Galway, one of the Navy's finest flyers,
turned traitor to his country."
V-3 nodded gravely, extending his gnarled
hand toward Operator 5. "She'll stop at nothing-
absolutely nothing. A dangerous adversary," he
repeated grimly, "particularly because she is
beautiful-one of the most beautiful women who
ever lived!"
CHAPTER THREE
The Human Tigress
The high powered sedan which met Operator
5's plane at Crissy Field, the Presidio, San
Francisco, carried him swiftly to the famed
Embarcadero. A swirling fog hung over the waterfront.
Telegraph Hill loomed a black hulk in the
mist; out on the Bay twinkled myriad lights.
Among them glimmered the colored beacons of
an approaching steamer. The time was shortly
before ten, when the Alhambra, putting in from
Shanghai and Asiatic ports, was due to dock.
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Jimmy Christopher entered the enclosed pier
and walked toward a group waiting near a
gangplank not yet raised. He noticed a young
man waiting at one side alone, a newspaper
folded under his arm. He stepped close, and
noted that the date of the newspaper was
February 10-months past.
"Waiting for someone?" he asked softly.
"Perhaps."
"February," said Jimmy Christopher, "is the
second month of the year, and likewise the
second letter of the alphabet is B. In other words,
B-10. I prefer a plain five."
The young man turned abruptly, and strode
off the pier. Jimmy Christopher followed him at a
distance toward another. They stepped through a
dark doorway, onto a pier that was lightless and
deserted. The young man's hand sought Operator
5's.
"Glad to see you. I'm B-10-Carl Elliot."
"Good. I'm Jimmy Christopher."
They walked along the pier to its outer end.
There the fog swirled in, enveloping dark figures
that stood silently. No word was spoken as
Jimmy Christopher climbed down to a motorlaunch.
When B-10 stood beside him a motor
snorted and a propeller churned the inky water.
The boat nosed out into the bay, toward the
colored lights of the approaching steamer.
Carl Elliot said: "Our operator in Shanghai
radioed that Kara Vizna boarded the Alhambra
there and didn't get off, but I have advice direct
from the boat saying no woman of her description
is aboard. She's traveling in disguise. That
means we've got to look sharp."
"Who did you radio aboard the Alhambra?"
"My sister. Funny thing-she's on the boat
now, just coming back from a two month's
vacation in China. She's a swell kid, a star
reporter for the Amalgamated Press, and clever
as a witch. You'll see her, probably, and she'll try
to pump you. She's ravenous for anything that
looks like news."
"A dangerous kind of a sister for an
Intelligence man to have," Jimmy Christopher
smiled.
The launch was cutting through the mistlayered
water rapidly. Ahead loomed the black
hulk of the Alhambra. As the motor-boat swung
close, Carl Elliot signaled with a flashlight, and
an answering gleam came from the steamer's
bridge. They veered as a rope ladder rattled
overside and hung against the moving wall of
steel.
A half hour later, puffing tugs had nosed the
Alhambra to her dock. Crowds were lined along
the pier, shouting to voyagers at the rail.
Hawsers clanked and winches whistled; the
gangplank rose. Mist floated across the deck,
about the scores waiting to disembark, as Jimmy
Christopher and Carl Elliot left the bridge.
Ship's officers were keeping the passengers
from the gangplank, as they walked close.
Suddenly there was a glad cry-"Carl!"-and a
girl rushed from the group. Operator B-10 turned
to find himself embraced by twining arms and a
faint aura of familiar perfume.
"Carl, darling!"
"Diane-hello! " Jimmy Christopher paused,
signaling the officers at the head of the gang
plank to wait a moment. He stood aside
unnoticed while Diane Elliot hugged her brother
and chattered gleefully. She was in her early
twenties, with a softly modeled face and eyes
that snapped with brilliant lights.
"What a glorious surprise-your meeting me
on the boat, Carl!"
Carl Elliot laughed softly. "Well, Di, I'll join
you later, what do you say? First, meet Jimmy
Christopher."
She turned her face and the beauty of it
struck Jimmy Christopher like a spell. Her fingers
curled tightly into his; her red lips pursed and her
eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Important business? I think I know what
that means. It's-"
"Hold on, Di!" her brother cautioned. "Take
your things down to the customs, and we'll join
you shortly. Right now-we're busy!"
She turned to Jimmy Christopher. "You want
me to fade out of the picture, I know," she said
quickly. "I'm continually hearing it from Carl.
Well-" her eyes shone with excitement and she
withdrew a little distance with her brother.
Jimmy Christopher strode toward the
gangplank, signaling the officers to allow the
passengers to disembark. Diane Elliot's eyes
followed him brightly. There was a look of
pleased amazement in them.
"Carl," she said softly, "I like that young
man. He's nobody's fool."
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"If you knew who that young man really is,
my dear," her brother answered cryptically,
"you'd pass out!"
"I would not!" she said. "I'd interview him!"
Carl Elliot strode quickly to Jimmy Christopher's
side, while Diane eagerly followed. She
ignored Carl Elliot's gestures to leave and studied
Jimmy Christopher's face intently. Her rich lips
pursed with approval, and she smiled to herself.
She found something pleasing in the fact that
Jimmy Christopher, now, was entirely unaware of
her presence.
Officers standing at the head of the
gangplank allowed the disembarking passengers
to pass only in single file. Jimmy Christopher
scrutinized each face. The features of each
woman he examined swiftly, more intently than
those of the men. Carl Elliot sighed and softly
remarked, "How the hell are we going to spot
her? The captain swore she's not aboard.
Nobody's seen her. Di surely would have spotted
her-but there's nothing doing."
"She's here, all right," Jimmy Christopher
answered quietly. "She'll slip past us if we give
her half a chance."
The file of passengers continued. At the
bottom of the gangplank hysterical greetings were
being exchanged. Whistles shrilled, and the work
of unloading the freight cargo had already begun;
winches were hissing, cables creaking. One after
another the passengers stepped past Jimmy
Christopher as his expression remained
unchanged.
"Looks hopeless to me," Carl Elliot sighed.
At that instant Jimmy Christopher's hand
shot out. It closed upon the arm of a passenger
who was stepping past. He looked into a dark
face shaded by a black felt hat, into black eyes
that looked dull and lusterless. The passenger he
stopped was apparently a small, rather stupid
and harmless little man.
"Your passport?" Operator 5 asked quietly.
Jimmy Christopher examined the document
quickly as the man produced it. It stated that the
bearer was one Juan Ridegez, a resident of the
Philippine Islands. The seal-stamped photograph
on the first page was unquestionably that of the
person carrying it. Jimmy Christopher said:
"You'll return to your cabin with me, won't you,
Senor Ridegez?"
The answer was thickly accented. "Yes, but
why must I do so? My friends are waiting for me.
My passport is in good order. There is no need-"
"To your cabin, please."
Juan Ridegez stepped from the line of
disembarking passengers. Carrying two
suitcases, slight shoulders bending under their
weight, Ridegez walked across the deck. Carl
Elliot fell in step with Jimmy Christopher as they
followed.
"You've made a mistake, haven't you? That
little man can't be Kara Vizna. He's small, but
otherwise there's nothing womanish about him."
"Which speaks for the cleverness of Kara
Vizna," Jimmy Christopher answered quietly.
"Because Juan Ridegez is not a man."
Carl Elliot glanced back to see that Diane
was following. Jimmy Christopher strode more
rapidly as the brown-faced passenger entered a
cabin on the deck. He stepped through, and Carl
Elliot closed the door. The passenger faced them
meekly.
"Now, what is it you wish?"
"We wish you, Kara Vizna."
"What? I do not understand."
Jimmy Christopher smiled slowly. "An
excellent disguise; I compliment you. You might
have slipped past me, except for one thing-one
thing that tells me you're not a man at all. And
since you're not a man, you're Kara Vizna"
The dark eyes, no longer lusterless, flashed.
"I do not understand," the brown lips mumbled
again.
"You are wearing, you see," Jimmy
Christopher pointed out, "a double-breasted topcoat.
It is buttoned from right to left. Women
button their coats in that direction, Kara Vizna,
but not men. A slight mistake-but it gave you
away."
Now the dark eyes glittered malevolently.
The little passenger straightened; and when the
lips moved again there was no accent in the
spoken words.
"That is very clever of you-Operator 5."
Carl Elliot blurted: "Good Lord! It is she!"
Jimmy Christopher thought he saw a quick
flash pass from the eyes of the disguised woman
to those of B-10, yet it was gone in an instant.
He was fascinated by the excellence of her
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disguise. There was no beauty in her face, no
semblance of feminine characteristics about her.
"You are to consider yourself under arrest,"
Jimmy Christopher said quietly. "You may come
with us as-Juan Ridegez."
The disguised woman's throaty voice was
scarcely a whisper: "Perhaps not."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "I've heard that
you are very beautiful," he said. "I'm glad that
you've disguised it so completely, for then the job
might be harder than it is. I don't like to think of
what will happen to you, Kara Vizna, if war is
declared between your country and mine."
"Very clever of you, Operator 5," the
woman's throaty voice came again, "but not quite
clever enough."
One small, brown hand flashed upward from
the pocket of the top-coat. Jimmy Christopher
moved quickly to grasp it; but his move was not
swift enough. From Kara Vizna's brown fingers a
small, glistening sphere flew. It crashed against
the wall and splattered liquid that instantly
changed into a heavy white gas.
"Look out!" Carl Elliot called, and his voice
ended in a choking sputter.
Jimmy Christopher leaped backward. His
one hand shot out to B-10's shoulder, dragging
back. They stumbled into the open air as Diane
Elliot recoiled in surprise from the stateroom
window. Tears were streaming down their faces;
they were choking, gasping for breath. As they
stumbled on the deck, the small, disguised figure
of Kara Vizna darted after them.
"Stop her!" It was a stifled shout from Carl
Elliot. "God's sake-stop her!"
Jimmy Christopher staggered, peering
through bleared eyes, as he glimpsed the quickmoving
form of the woman. He sensed a
movement past him, and saw Diane Elliot
passing the cabin door. As the disguised Kara
Vizna turned to run, the girl's hand gripped one of
the woman's arms. Kara Vizna whirled, hands
flying upward.
"Stay back!" Jimmy Christopher gasped as
he saw the move.
Kara Vizna's stiff fingers drove hard against
Diane Elliot's body. The girl whimpered with
sudden pain as a jujitsu blow sent a paralyzing
numbness through her arms and legs. The
woman tore out of her grasp as she swayed
backward. Jimmy Christopher sprang forward,
peering through scalding tears.
Kara Vizna ran swiftly toward the rail. She
gripped it and paused an instant, peering back.
A tight smile was formed on her stained lips, a
smile of cool triumph. She sprang over the rail
swiftly. Jimmy Christopher stumbled against it,
groping through empty air as far below, a splash
sounded.
Jimmy Christopher cleared his eyes,
gasping, at the instant the small figure of Kara
Vizna broke the waves. He clung motionless,
peering down through the drifting fog, while Carl
Elliot crowded beside him. Grimly he brought his
gun to his hand, and his finger tightened on the
trigger as he waited for the woman to reappear at
the surface of the water.
A long minute passed-a second one-and
empty waves chopped past.
"Good Lord!" Carl Elliot gasped. "She's not
coming up!"
Jimmy Christopher breathed deeply of the
damp air, and straightened. For a long time he
did not move. His clouded eyes searched the
black, steaming surface of the water.
"Drowned herself-the she-devil!" Elliot
exclaimed. "Drowned herself rather than take the
chance of facing a firing-squad!" He choked.
"What the devil did she throw at us, anyway?"
Jimmy Christopher answered grimly, still
peering out over the water. "An advanced type of
tear-gas, probably. Lucky for us she wasn't
counting on being picked up, or we'd be lying
dead in that cabin now. If there had been Yperite
or telluride in that flask-"
He broke off as Diane Elliot hurried toward
the rail, her face ashen. He took her shoulders in
his hands firmly.
"Hurt?"
"No-I'm not hurt a bit!" she gasped. "I
know perfectly well it's my own fault," she
declared. "I-I tried to stop her, but-"
"Good girl! You took a terrible risk. That
same jujitsu blow, delivered a little harder, might
have paralyzed you for life. Now, listen. You're a
newspaper reporter, but you can't report this. It's
strictly secret Government business."
"As a newspaper reporter," Diane Elliot
answered, "it's my business to tell the public all
about it, and-"
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Jimmy Christopher's hands tightened on her
soft shoulders. "You're not going to do that!"
Suddenly she smiled. "There's something
about you," she said quite frankly "that I like very
much."
He took a deep breath. "I may say the same
for you, young lady, but-"
A sudden gleam, shining out on the water,
turned his head quickly. He leaned across the
rail, peering at a brilliant spark of light glittering
low against the surface, radiating dimly through
the fog. Around it the water was lashing; a dark
form was moving Jimmy Christopher blurted:
"There she is!"
The sudden bubbling of a boat's motor boiled
out of the distant mist as he turned quickly. He
snapped a command to B-10 and sped across the
deck. Over the port rail the rope-ladder was still
dangling; beneath it the motor-boat was bobbing.
Jimmy Christopher swung over as B-10 crowded
after him.
He scrambled down the ladder and jumped
into the boat. Carl Elliot followed quickly. Jimmy
Christopher was ordering "Out into the bay-
around the steamer!" when the ladder rattled hard
again against the steel hulk of the Alhambra. He
grabbed at it and pulled.
Diane Elliot was climbing down, the wind
whipping her skirt, one trim oxford and slender
silken ankle reaching into space. Jimmy
Christopher caught her and swung her aboard as
the launch veered. She fell breathless into his
arms and raised her sparkling brown eyes.
"You're a pest!" he growled at her.
"You can't leave me behind!"
Now the launch spurted, slashing through
the waves and the fog. It swung swiftly around
the stern of the Alhambra as wind tore the mist
past it. Peering across the bay, Jimmy
Christopher saw that the gleam of light had
disappeared. But now, cutting swiftly through the
fog, a dark shape slashing through the waves, a
speed-boat was driving toward the spot, where
the light had shown.
"Swam under water!" Jimmy Christopher
exclaimed. "She set off a waterproof flare,
signaling that boat. It's picking her up!"
His gun leveled steadily as the launch tore
out into the bay. Lights glittered from Goat Island,
where the U.S. Naval School of the Pacific was
located, and from Alcatraz Island, site of the
U.S. Prison. Against the misty darkness the
speed-boat was slowing, bearing into a quick
circle. Jimmy Christopher's craft slashed toward it.
Suddenly his eyes raised, as a dull, throaty
broom beat through the fog. It came from the
sky, a quickly loudening drone, the exhaust-noise
of a plane sweeping low. Still out of sight, it was
approaching rapidly.
Dimly, as he gripped the launch rail, Jimmy
Christopher could see the speedboat bobbing.
Black figures were bending over its side,
reaching into the water. From the dark waves a
form rose a small slight figure that quickly
scrambled in. Kara Vizna!
The motor of the speedboat snarled high
again. Jimmy Christopher leveled his automatic
and squeezed the trigger once, sending a slug
whistling above the craft as a warning. Instantly
there was an answer-the chopping, biting report
of a machine-gun!
Flame licked from the muzzle of the weapon
leveled over the side of the speedboat. Slugs
slapped into the water and clicked against the
shell of the launch. A sharp cry came from Carl
Elliot and he dropped to his knees. Jimmy
Christopher snapped a warning at the girl, and
fired again.
The first burst from the machine-gun was a
prelude to a withering hail of bullets. Slugs
swarmed across the waves, clicking hard into the
launch at the water level. Spray flew and wood
splintered. Through a split in the hull water
gushed.
"Bail!" the man at the wheel roared.
Water poured around Jimmy Christopher's
feet as the second man snatched up a rusty
bucket. They huddled, watching the speed-boat
cut out across the Bay. The machine-gun
chopped again, and bullets whistled low. The
motor-boat trembled with the power of the impact.
Wood splintered again; a torrent of water spilled
inward.
"Keep following that boat!" Jimmy
Christopher ordered sharply.
The speed of the other craft was greater than
that of the launch; it was tearing away like mad.
At the same time, from overhead, came the
singing roar of the circling airplane. High in the
mist a light kindled and fell, like a flaming meteor.
A flare had been thrown overside. White smoke
trailed after it as it plunged, struck the water and
bobbed on the waves, still gleaming.
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In the blinding white light, the swift
movement of the speedboat became clearer.
Jimmy Christopher fired again, grimly, at the
huddled dark figure of the machine-gunner.
Another slashing burst of fire answered. He
crouched while water lapped about his knees.
"We'll have to swim for it!"
Materializing out of the mist like a winged
ghost, the plane swooped low. Its gray color
made it seem like a U.S. Navy plane, and its
markings bore out the impression it gave. Yet
Jimmy Christopher noted instantly its peculiar
lines, its nonconformity with true Navy planes.
It was another counterfeit craft-one of the
flight which had attacked the naval parade that
afternoon!
The launch was rolling violently in the waves;
its motor snorting, choking. Jimmy Christopher
looked back once, with deep concern, at Diane
Elliot. She was huddled, the light of the flare
shining whitely in her widened eyes. He turned
again, and fired, as the pontoons of the
counterfeit Navy plane cut through the waves.
The speedboat was far out now; the plane
teetering toward it was a vague shadow in the
mist. Jimmy Christopher fired three times, swiftly,
and again the machine-gun blasted a counterattack.
Eyes raised just far enough to see beyond
the wave-washed rail of the launch, he discerned
a black, slight figure crawling from the speedboat,
climbing upon the wing of the amphibian.
Kara Vizna was transferring to the plane.
A wave struck the side of the launch at that
instant, flinging cold water in and across it. It
lurched, settling swiftly. The two boatmen yelled
and leaped. Jimmy Christopher rose grimly,
peering back at Carl and Diane Elliot.
"Swim for it!"
The solidity of the boat melted away beneath
him. He struck out powerfully, first holstering his
gun, keeping his eyes on the vague forms on the
distant water. Icy chill enveloped him; he twisted
to see the two boatmen swimming frantically,
toward the distant lights of the Embarcadero.
Diane Elliot's head was dimly visible; she was
swimming with firm, even strokes, B-10 at her
side. Jimmy Christopher sobbed as the new snarl
of a motor beat through the mist.
The winged ghost was rising; the speedboat
was scurrying off. The floating flare blinked out
and thick darkness closed down. One moment
Jimmy Christopher trod water, peering grimly at
the rising plane. It swooped high; it melted away
into the mist; and suddenly there was nothing left
of it save the pounding of its motor. The sound
diminished rapidly as the craft banked toward the
Pacific.
Jimmy Christopher kicked off his top-coat,
disregarded the impediment of the rest of his
clothing, and began a swift crawl. Ahead of him
he saw the four heads on the surface, rising and
falling with the swells. He stroked alongside the
girl and gasped: "Can you make it?"
"I'm all right!" she called to him.
In the air the drone of the escaping
amphibian was still audible. It melted away slowly
as Jimmy Christopher swam the lead toward the
Embarcadero. At the edge of an open pier he
saw dark forms moving and he called. As he
came nearer, a rope snaked down. He gripped it
and hung, reaching out to grasp an arm of Diane
Elliot.
She seized the rope. As she was lifted,
water trailed from her clothing into the waves.
Another rope dropped, then a third. Jimmy
Christopher clung to a moss-greased pole for
support until Carl Elliot was being hoisted to the
pier, until both boatmen were being pulled out.
When a rope fell for him he climbed hand over
hand.
The girl and B-10 were shivering in the cold
mist as Jimmy Christopher swung onto the pier.
Ignoring the startled dockmen, he trotted away,
leaving trailing wetness behind him. Jaws
clamped with the cold, he shouldered into a
telephone booth, fumbled a soaked code-book
from a secret pocket, found a telephone number,
and called it. His connection went through swiftly
to secret Intelligence Headquarters PS in San
Francisco. He snapped out code words and
followed with a swift message. "Operator 5
reporting. The craft Neptune is somewhere
outside the Golden Gate! Send planes out on
reconnaissance!"
When he returned to the edge of the dock,
Diane Elliot, her brother and the two boatmen
were covering themselves with blankets. Jimmy
Christopher pulled another across his shoulders,
and peered through the fog blanketing the bay.
Now the sound of the plane which had whisked
Kara Vizna into the sky had vanished.
A long moment passed while Jimmy
Christopher stood motionless. Then the sky
began to tremble with a concerted, powerful
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droning. Through the mist colored lights gleamed,
the wing and tail beacons of a formation of planes
sweeping low, beginning to climb. Word had
been flashed swiftly to Crissy Field at the
Presidio. A flight of Navy crates was beginning the
search.
"Hopeless!" Jimmy Christopher thought
grimly. "She's aboard the Neptune by now-by
now it has submerged."
He turned slowly. Close beside him Diane
Elliot was standing. Her clear, brown eyes were
sparkling, looking deep into his.
CHAPTER FOUR
Blood-Red Dawn
Thirty minutes later Jimmy Christopher
consulted his wet code-book, lifted the receiver of
a telephone, and put through a long-distance call
to Los Angeles.
During those thirty minutes a quick ride in
Carl Elliot's car had brought the three of them to a
modest house. Jimmy Christopher had changed
to a suit loaned him by B-10. Elliot and Diane
were still changing, in their rooms, when Jimmy
Christopher seized the opportunity to telephone
unheard. He sat in a corner of the Elliot livingroom,
while a fireplace blazed, waiting for his
connection to be completed to the Los Angeles
headquarters.
Jimmy Christopher spoke softly, yet his
voice carried distinctly to the Pacific chief of the
American Intelligence in Secret Headquarters PL,
four hundred miles away.
"Kara Vizna was aboard the Alhambra,
disguised. She escaped me, Chief. She jumped
into the water, was picked up by a speedboat,
transferred to a plane, and by now is aboard the
Neptune."
"The Neptune! Good Lord, are you sure of
that?"
"Positive. A flight of planes from Crissy Field
is searching for the submarine, but they can't
possibly find it. Sorry, Chief, but you were right.
That woman's clever as the devil himself."
A startled silence followed. "It serves to
show how valuable she is to the Yellow cause,
Operator 5! Her escape was planned out in case
of an emergency, and her safety was important
enough so that the Neptune played a part in it."
"I have a feeling," Jimmy Christopher said
softly, "that Kara Vizna and I will meet again."
V-3 spoke quickly. "Hold the wire-a
message from Washington, coded 'urgent': 'All
American consuls-stationed in the-Yellow
Empire-have been ordered home. Likewise-
Yellow Consuls-in United States-are
withdrawing-tonight following-United States'
refusal-to grant reparations-to Yellow Empire.'
"
The chattering of the teletype receiver
carried over the wire as V-3 waited. Jimmy
Christopher asked tensely: "Yes!"
"'The Yellow Empire ambassador just
presented himself-to President-tendering-'
Good Lord!-'formal-declaration of war!' "
Jimmy Christopher snapped: "Go on!"
" 'Proclamation of declaration-received by-
President ten post meridian-Eastern Standard
Time.' Only a few minutes ago, Operator 5! More
coming!
"'Congress called-in extraordinary joint
session to pass resolution-that state of war-
between United States-and Yellow Empire-
thrust upon-this country-be formally declared.
It will be affirmed by President-within the hour.' "
Jimmy Christopher asked tersely: "Orders,
V-3?"
"Yes. The United Yellow Fleet began to
withdraw immediately following the attack today.
They are reported lying far off the California
Coast. Our Pacific Fleet is awaiting orders from
the War Department. They will-"
V-3's voice broke off suddenly. Jimmy
Christopher's hand tightened about the telephone.
Over the wire came a shrill, prolonged sound-a
wail that grew swiftly into a shriek-a shriek that
rose in intensity until the whole world seemed to
throb with it. And suddenly, over the trembling
lines, came a dull, resounding crash.
Rumbling reverberations came over the wire,
mixed with V-3's strained voice: "Now another's
coming! I can hear it! It's coming from the West!
Another shell is falling!"
Jimmy Christopher rose, muscles tightening,
scarcely breathing. The shrill whine carried to his
ears. It became a deafening scream that ended
suddenly in another crashing roar. In the turmoil
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that carried over the wires V-3's voice shrilled
again.
"Los Angeles is being bombarded! Return to
this headquarters at once!"
Into the trembling night sky, from the very
center of the "City of Angels," rolling, writhing
clouds of fumes rose darkly. The earth shook
with the rending explosions of the first two shells
that had fallen. In the main business streets, in
the very heart of the city, the flickering light of
rising flames flared high.
Into Figueroa Street spilled masses of
masonry as the cornices of tall buildings split
away and fell. From the sidewalks rose the
shrieks of the terrorized and the injured. The
terrific power of the exploding shells seemed to
shake the very foundations of the world. Now, as
the air clouded with the fumes of spent explosive,
stone-dust swirled, street-lights blinked out, and
the sky began to shake with the screams of
another shell fIying through its trajectory.
Out of the motion-picture houses, the
restaurants and the night clubs in the heart of the
city, crowds poured. Frenzied people fought their
way from the exits, into the fume-misted streets.
Men and women ran wildly toward cars left in
parking-spaces, only to find scores of them
crushed under masonry which had fallen from
walls now broken and ragged. Terrorized crowds
milled through streets as the scream of the falling
shells pierced the sky.
The earth rocked. Flame spewed high,
flashing from the openness of Griffith Park. Earth
sprayed, and thick fumes tore out of a
tremendous raw crater born of the thundering
explosion. Even while the rumbling echoes rolled
into the hills, and down the avenues to the sea,
another whine came trembling on the dark air.
Destruction streaked down at Wilshire
Boulevard west of Westlake Park. A crash like
the coming of doom shook that glistening, black
main artery of traffic. Flame flashed high above
the buildings. White-stone walls crumpled and
crashed into the streets. Automobiles were flung
into the air like tin toys, tossed crushed upon the
piles of dust-clouded debris. For blocks around
windows turned into flying splinters of glass as the
earth shook under the power of the explosion.
And still the air grated with the shrill warning
that another shell was falling!
Down into the Hollywood hills it streaked. A
sparkling path marked the arc it made across the
sky, a rainbow of doom stretching from far out on
the Pacific, ending over the close-packed
community of Hollywood. The jarring shock bored
deep into the marrow of the hills. Houses burst
their walls and hurled crumbling fragments down
the slopes. An avalanche of destruction spilled
over the twining roads. A cloud of choking fumes
rolled out across the sky.
Into the rumbling echoes of the explosion,
came the roaring of spilling water. From the
broken-walled Hollywood Reservoir rivers leaped
away, tearing aside houses that lay in their paths,
dumping tons of lashing power into the streets.
Darkness passed like a wave over the broad
boulevards below as the flood descended.
Now the wave of destruction passed swiftly
seaward. A shrieking shell plunged into the
checker-boarded houses of Beverly Hills, south
of Wilshire Boulevard. Homes disappeared in
clouds of dust as a cone of flame sprang into the
sky, as cataclysmic thunder rocked the earth.
The black spires of oil wells rose from the earth
and fell twisted upon others. Beyond Culver City,
other falling shells flattened the forest of towers
like ten-pins.
From far out at sea, the thunder of the big
guns rolled-barking out projectiles that traced
their paths of doom across the sky-paths ending
in the quaking night that hovered over a terrorized
city.
Far out of sight of the shore, the battle fleet
of the Yellow Empire was drawn into line
formation. One after another, along the file of
black-shrouded ships, the big guns roared and
recoiled while bursts of smoke tore away and
clung to the dancing waves. Blinding flashes
were all that marked the position of the fleet; no
other lights shone anywhere along the menacing
formation.
The Yellow flagship Noa quaked as a longsnouted
sixteen-inch gun blasted another
projectile on its way. On the operations bridge
officers of the Yellow Navy stood clustered,
reading radio reports from inland, and from other
ships in the attacking line. Their eyes shone with
grim triumph as the effects of the bombardment
were revealed to them.
Commander-in-Chief of the United Fleets,
Admiral Ogoro, smiled tightly at the Counselor of
Naval Affairs, Admiral Otuski. "Our first gun," he
said softly, "was fired the instant our ambassador
delivered our proclamation of war to the President
of the United States."
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Vice-Admiral Ugatto was peering across the
smoke misted waves through powerful binoculars.
"The Pacific Fleet of the United States," he
declared, "is not in sight."
Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Adossi,
permitted himself a sly smile. "They will be
unable to approach us. Submarines are lying in
wait for them. We have laid mines behind our
course. And-other factors are delaying them, as
you know."
Other factors were, indeed, delaying the
attack of the Pacific Fleet of the United States
Navy.
Black smoke billowed into the night sky as
the sea-warriors of the United States Pacific fleet
steamed away from a coastline that was breaking
under the terrific bombardment of the Yellow
guns.
Aboard the Houston, Admiral Neasham
stood tensely beside a table, peering at messages
placed before him with electrical rapidity-
messages brought by wireless, messages flashed
by blinking searchlights from ship to ship:
Firing-pins of all guns aboard the Maryland
and West Virginia have broken and must be replaced.
Sabotage is evident everywhere.
Two boilers of the California have burst,
disabling her.
Lexington reports a propeller lost. Planes aboard
the Saratoga unable to take-off due to watered fuel.
"By God, they've prepared for this!" Admiral
Neasham growled. "Lieutenant Hall! Is the
enemy fleet in sight?"
"Not yet, sir. We are proceeding under full
power!"
"Signal all ships to remedy damages under
weigh if possible. If not-by God, we can't reach
them!"
"Signal of distress from the Idaho, sir!"
"What?"
"The Idaho has been fired upon by a Yellow
submarine! It has been struck by a torpedo
amidships, sir! It is sinking!"
Admiral Neasham's lips pressed hard. "By
God!" he roared. "Signal all flights of the
Lexington to take off at once. They are to sight
the Yellow fleet and bomb it to hell!"
Signals crackled. On the dark launching deck
of the Lexington motors roared. The giant
airplane carrier was rocking helplessly in a heavy
sea, dragged to a stop by the loss of her screw.
In the dim starlight propellers flashed. Flags
flapped the take-off, and birds of battle roared
into the night in droning V formations.
Through binoculars, Admiral Neasham, from
the operations bridge of the Houston, watched the
dark wings flit overhead. "Pray that they stop the
bombardment! By God, those devils are using
guns beyond the caliber allowed by international
agreement. They should be out of range of the
coast, but they're blowing hell out of it wherever
they please!"
The Yellow fleet was so far out at sea that
not even the flashing of their guns could be seen
beyond the horizon. But, probing deeper, the
winged warriors from the Lexington plunged in
search.
Before the eyes of Admiral Adossi on the
Noa a report was laid. "Bombers driving toward
us, sir!"
"Man the anti-aircraft guns!"
Out of the vastness of the night came the
roar of the searching U.S. Naval planes. Dark
lines against the sky, they moved high,
searching. On orders from the flagship Noa, the
big guns of the fleet grew silent lest the flashing
fire disclose to the hovering airmen the positions
of the attacking ships. Yet, at the anti-aircraft
batteries-guns which had been concealed during
the naval parade, guns of a power outlawed by
international treaties-gunners waited for the
signal to fire.
It came.
Blasting explosions rocked over the waves.
Screaming shells mounted high into the black sky.
The zenith quaked with the terrific explosions that
broke among the U.S. Naval planes. Shrapnel
whined in the wind, tearing through wings,
ripping fuselages apart. Once the attack began, it
mounted swiftly to a savage intensity.
The sky was ripped asunder by the fury of
the exploding anti-aircraft shells. In the flashes of
lightning fire, U.S. Naval planes could be seen
spilling out of the air, their wings ripped off, all
airfoils shattered. The V formations broke before
the savage power that thundered through the sky.
Scattering planes swung south. Through the
night, from their bomb-racks, projectiles flashed.
First on the water surrounding the Yellow Fleet,
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then upon the deck of a cruiser, explosions
sounded. Even while merciless fire raked the
skies around them, the United States flyers
jockeyed to drop their bombs. Across the sea
and across the sky swept cataclysmic destruction.
The Yellow cruiser Ural listed heavily against
a tearing swell. Details of its fate were flashed
aboard the Noa from the Nova, a sister-ship, and
Admiral Adossi peered grimly at the report, jerked
up his head and commanded: "Drop all attacking
planes!"
The fury of the anti-aircraft attack grew
fiercer. The sky became a flashing mass of
explosives, the space between all the worlds
seemed to rock with their power. Out of the
darkness spilled the shattered U.S. Naval planes.
On the swells rode the broken remains of the
birds of war. No winged thing could withstand the
savage force of the guns which blasted
destruction into the sky.
Motors screamed, then grew still. The
swells splashed white where wrecked airplanes
fell. Yellow gunners waited at their stations, while
officers searched the sky for gliding wings. Now
there was no drone from above; the air was
quiet.
Then, from far across the water, came the
rolling boom of a greater explosion. It jarred
through the swells that lashed against the Yellow
Fleet. The sky was lighted by a glare that
instantly passed.
Swiftly another report came to Admiral
Adossi: "One of the United States ships has been
destroyed by our mines, sir."
Aboard the Houston, Admiral Neasham
stood erect, chilled, his face ashen. "The
Tennessee has been mined, sir! It sank instantly.
There must be a bank of mines separating the
U.S. from the Yellow Fleet. Submarines have
been sighted ahead."
Admiral Neasham sighed deeply. "The
Yellow Fleet is no longer firing, is it?"
"No, sir."
He uttered a command. It was echoed up
and down the smoke-spewing line of the Pacific
formation-a fleet staggering under the handicap
of diabolical sabotage. The giant ships swung
slowly out of formation, changing their course
northward. They strung out slowly, taking a
position to bombard, no longer advancing to sea.
Now over the Houston, the air hummed with
the exhaust of a single motor. "A plane passing
above, sir! A Yellow naval crate!"
"Drop it!"
Anti-aircraft guns aboard the U.S. ships
swung high. Flame spat from them; the higher
air rocked with the rending force of exploding
shells. Through the echoing reports, the motor of
the lone airplane continued to hum. Already it
was passing beyond the line, proceeding toward
the shore. Blasting explosions followed it as it zigzagged
to avoid the bursts.
Minutes passed; the drone of the motor
vanished in the air toward the coast; the antiaircraft
guns aboard the U.S. Pacific Fleet grew
still.
Swiftly the lightless plane drove landward. It
winged above the coast, where avalanched earth
had spilled from the palisades into the sea; it
soared above debris-filled streets; it swung into a
giant circle above the fume-misted city of Los
Angeles.
From it a voice spoke-a booming voice
which issued from a gigantic loudspeaker on its
under side, amplified to a strength that carried
into the shell-broken streets below.
"The Yellow Empire calls for unconditional
surrender by the United States Government. You
the people are that government. Demand that
your representatives yield. Demand an
unconditional surrender! If surrender does not
come-"
Terrorized fear-frenzied thousands in the
streets of Los Angeles paused to listen as the
booming tones rang from the sky like the voice of
doom itself:
"If surrender does not come at once you will
learn that our first attack has spared you
mercifully! If the war continues, poison gas will
turn your cities into open tombs filled with dead.
Incendiary bombs will burn them to the ground.
Utter destruction win spread over your country. It
is your only choice: Destruction, or surrender!"
While the black plane circled, while the
booming voice roared from the heavens, the
strident song of other motors rose into the night
air. Swarming through the sky came a formation
of Army pursuits. Directly above the city, the
flying ghosts spread their wings-barricading the
retreat of the propaganda ship, swirling around it
like wolves of the air.
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Machine-guns stuttered. Slugs whistled.
Motors thundered. In the zenith above a burst of
fire. Flame washed back from the motor-housing
of the Yellow Propaganda ship, spreading to its
wings, transforming it into a falling phoenix. The
guns of the U.S. Army ships blasted it down. Hot
lead answered the call to surrender!
The Yellow propaganda plane plunged, a
falling arch that lighted the way to its own
destruction. In Griffith Park it crashed, flying to
fiery fragments near the still-fuming shell-crater.
There it lay and flamed.
In the sky above, the motors of the Army
crates sang a song of grim triumph. When, at
last, they drew again into formation, when they
skirted through the night toward their base, they
left the sky a black, hovering, silent menace.
A blood-red dawn came slowly to light a
broken city-a city rife with terror.
CHAPTER FIVE
One Against the World
Jimmy Christopher, as a veiled sun rose,
stepped from a taxi near Pershing Square, Los
Angeles, and peered about at the ruins of the
bombardment. Great holes gaped in white-stone
walls. Olive Street was blocked by a mound of
broken masonry that had crumbled from a
toppling wall. Quiet, gaunt-faced throngs were
being held back by ropes as firemen and police
dug the crushed bodies of victims from the
destruction. Over the city hung a cold pall of fear.
Jimmy Christopher walked quickly, along a
street that reeked of the fumes of high-explosive,
a street of ruins. Traffic was almost at a
standstill; business was suspended. Newsboys on
the corners shouted shrilly the latest
developments of the bombardment:
"Thousands killed! Thousands fleeing
the city!" "Pacific Fleet suffers heavy
losses!" "New bombardment feared!"
An elevator whisked Jimmy Christopher to a
floor high above the street. The building which
housed Secret Intelligence Headquarters PL had
not been struck, but in it countless windows and
office doors were shattered. That of the United
Film Booking Company was glassless.
Immediately he entered he was escorted to
the rear room. V-3 rose quickly; his blue-veined
hand trembled as it pressed Operator 5's. The
white-haired chief of the Pacific Coast Division of
the Intelligence looked worn after a sleepless
night.
"You have seen-?" and the gnarled hand
waved.
"Yes," Jimmy Christopher nodded. "The
bombardment might have broken the entire city-
but it was stopped. Why? Because the Yellow
War Office believes we will surrender?"
"No doubt. There are factions which are
clamoring for surrender now, but they are in the
minority. We're in a mood to fight, Operator 5-
and fight we will. This bombardment has stirred
the people as nothing else could.
"They've already organized private groups
which have seized and held prisoner scores of
Yellow Aliens. Unfortunately, they can't touch
any of the secret agents-the Yellow spies are
too well covered. There must be hundreds of
them here-the Yellow Empire has been
preparing for this for years."
"And the most dangerous of them all-Kara
Vizna-escaped me. I'm sorry, Chief," Jimmy
Christopher said.
"If she slipped you, my boy, she would have
slipped anyone. We are battling a devilish clever
espionage-machine. Sabotage all but crippled our
Pacific Fleet!
"The Yellow United Fleet is now
maneuvering on the high seas, out of reach.
They're protected by mines and submarines, and
they're out of range of our coast-defense units.
They're lying in wait, ready to strike again."
"No sign of the Neptune?"
"None."
A buzz came from the dictaphone on V-3's
desk. He clicked a cam and answered the call. A
voice said, "Mr. Cortez calling." V-3 snapped
"Show him in!" and leaped to his feet. His faded
blue eyes brightened into Jimmy Christopher's.
"Z-7!"
The door opened quickly. The man who
strode in was tall, keen-faced, with eyes of
snapping black hair that glistened like a raven's
wing. He paused on the sill, lips pressed to a
firm line-Z-7, Washington Chief of the United
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States Intelligence-director of all secret service
activity in the country.
Z-7's hand gripped that of Operator 5. His
black eyes snapped as he peered out the broken
window, into the wreckage-strewn street below.
"God-we're in it now. A war to the finish! A
war that might bring every other nation in the
world at our throats!"
"Chief!" Jimmy Christopher exclaimed again.
"Lord, I'm glad to see you here."
Z-7 turned briskly. "I came by plane from
Washington in twelve hours flat-a new record
that can't be publicized. I'm here, Operator 5,
principally because you're here. I'm here because
you're facing the most important job of your life.
The United States is in the most ticklish position
in its history. Not only because a trick has
brought an enemy fleet to our door-but because
all our friendly international relationships are
threatened."
V-3 said slowly: "We have received no recent
messages, Z-7. One of the shells broke our
teletype line. It's being repaired now."
Jimmy Christopher and V-3 listened intently
as Z-7 spoke: "It's fairly obvious what the Yellow
plan of attack must be. First, their naval air forces
will attempt to destroy ours-which means they
intend to sink our aircraft carriers and bomb our
coastal air fields off the face of the map. So far
as naval tactics go, they will cover themselves
with smoke screens and put themselves
anywhere they damned please along the Western
coast so long as our Pacific Fleet is separated
from our Atlantic. They'll seize the Philippines,
and our naval bases at Guam and Pearl Harbor,
crippling us irreparably on the Pacific.
"At this very moment Yellow forces, armed,
and hidden until today, are mobilizing in Costa
Rica, Colombia, the Republic of Panama and
Mexico. Those in Mexico are moving now
northward toward the border, and we in turn are
mobilizing to repulse the advance. A new
revolution is due to break out in Cuba at any
moment, fomented by Yellow agents. Trouble is
rising all over the face of our possessions like
boils. We can't ignore them, but handling them
will draw off a good part of our naval and military
strength.
"I tell you, gentlemen, this is war-a far
greater war than we ever dreamed would occur!
"The Atlantic Fleet has been ordered to the
Pacific-but valuable time will be lost before it can
arrive here. If, in the meantime, Yellow agents
succeed in crippling the Panama Canal, as they
most certainly will attempt to do, it will imprison
the Atlantic Fleet and leave our Pacific Fleet
definitely overpowered.
"As it is, we are almost completely isolated
on the Pacific side-all steamship service is
suspended. Reports from Admiral Neasham
indicate that most of the coast has been mined by
the enemy. Our trawlers are attempting now to
sweep the lanes clear-but it's a dangerous
threat, gentlemen-highly dangerous!"
"At least," V-3 said gravely, "the Neptune
has not yet been used in direct attack against us."
"The most confidential information I have to
bring you," Z-7 said crisply, "is that we are
building a successor to the Neptune. Every
possible means of rushing the job is being taken.
At this moment the work on it is progressing in the
secret underwater dock off Mare Island. Give us
time, and we will match the Neptune with another
submarine exactly like it-even better!"
Z-7's eyes turned to Jimmy Christopher
smolderingly. "In the meantime, the United
States finds itself facing the enmity of the world."
From the deep pocket inside his coat he
removed shears of yellow flimsies. "They'll tell
you in detail of the devilish strategy of the Yellow
War Office. Their first statement, disclosing that
the Neptune is an American-built ship, was only a
means of starting the war. Now they are working
to make us the enemy of our allies.
"In every foreign newspaper this morning,
were published copies of what purport to be
secret documents of the United States. The story
accompanying these documents states that they
were stolen from the State Department by Yellow
espionage agents, and translated. They furnish a
further excuse for hostilities, for the Yellow War
Office declares that their declaration of war was
made in self-protection.
"These documents purport to disclose our
policies, and they declare that the United States
has definitely launched upon a program of
territorial expansion. These communications
state that the United States has plans to seize the
Yellow Mandatory Islands in the Pacific; that we
plan to send an invading army across the borders
into Canada and Mexico; that it is our intention to
violate every international treaty, to maintain the
largest standing army on the face of the globe, to
build a navy twice as powerful as all others in the
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world combined. These documents have created
a furor all over the globe.
"They're fakes-forgeries perpetrated by the
Yellow War Officer but those faked documents
are being believed, gentlemen!
"Already Britain, France, Germany, Canada
and Mexico have filed protests with our State
Department. Already the situation is extremely
grave. Tinder for a second World War is set and
needs only a spark to ignite it-a second World
War which, if it comes, will make the first seem
like a church sociable!
"This comes at a time when all Europe is
armed and ready to fight. It comes at a time
when the United States is caught by surprise and
totally unprepared for hostilities. If that war
breaks out, it will mean the United States must
fight the World-with inevitable defeat looming in
the very near future."
"Can these so-called secret documents be
proved forgeries?" Jimmy Christopher asked
quickly.
"We can protest they are forgeries, but that
is all at the moment. Remember, they were
published in foreign countries, in a press over
which we have no control. It can be done through
diplomatic pressure, but it must be done
conclusively. That is why I am here, Operator
5-bringing you orders.
"I have no leads to give you. I have no
suggestions to make. I can assure you only that
our first attempts to prove the 'secret' documents
forgeries have met with failure. But your orders
come direct from the President-to find that proof
that they are faked."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes darkened. "It's a
big order, Chief," he said quietly.
"It's an order so big, Operator 5," said Z-7,
"that we dare not give it to any man but you."
In the pause that followed, a sudden clicking
sounded from the next room. The door opened,
and a shirt-sleeved man looked out excitedly.
"The break in the teletype wire has been
repaired, Chief. There's a message coming in
now, coded 'Attention Z-7 and Operator 5'."
V-3 rose quickly, as Z-7 strode into the
adjoining room. Operator 5 followed toward a
table in the corner, where a teletype machine
was chattering. A yellow tape was curling out of it,
carrying a message that was automatically
decoded as the instrument received it. Z-7,
Operator 5 and V-3 bent over the twining ribbon,
watching the words form.
. . . CODED RADIO REPORTS FROM OUR
AGENTS AT VLADIVOSTOK AND HONGKONG . .
.QUOTE-U.S. NAVY CRUISERS OPENED FIRE
AND SUNK EARLY THIS MORNING AN ENGLISH
MERCHANT STEAMER SURAMIA . . . ALSO OFF
HONGKONG ONE DUTCH VESSEL CITY OF
AMSTERDAM . . .PROTESTS FILED BY ENGLISH
AND DUTCH CONSULS. . . ASIATIC FLEETS OF
RESPECTIVE NATIONS SEARCHING FOR U.S.
CRUISERS WHICH ESCAPED IN SMOKE
SCREEN-UNQUOTE
. . .FOLLOWING MESSAGE FROM SAIGON
RECEIVED FOLLOWING THE ABOVE. . . QUOTE-
FRENCH MERCHANT VESSEL L'AIGLON BLOWN
UP OFF HERE THIS MORNING. . .TOTAL LOSS. .
.FRENCH GUNBOAT MARSEILLES SIGHTED U.S.
CRUISERS... FIRED UPON AND REPORTED
CRIPPLED... FRENCH ASIATIC SQUADRON
REPORTED STEAMING FOR SHANGHAI TO
ATTACK U.S. SHIPS STATIONED THERE PENDING
ORDERS FROM PARIS. . .SAIGON POLICE SEIZED
SIX MEN FOLLOWING L'AIGLON EXPLOSION AND
FORCED CONFESSIONS FROM THEM. . .THEY
ADMIT BOMBING . . . DECLARE THEMSELVES TO
BE AMERICAN AGENTS ACTING UNDER ORDERS
DIRECT FROM WASHINGTON-UNQUOTE.
Jimmy Christopher raised startled eyes to Z-
7's as the teletype resumed chattering.
. . . LONDON PARIS THE HAGUE ADVISED
ATTACK DIRECTED BY DEPARTMENT OF WAR
LINKED WITH SO-CALLED SECRET DOCUMENTS
PUBLISHED THERE TODAY.. .COLONIAL NATIONS
MARSHALING AIR FORCES TO COMBAT
THREATENED ATTACKS BY UNITED STATES. .
.DEMANDING EXPLANATION THROUGH U.S.
AMBASSADORS. . .SITUATION GRAVE. . . PROOF
OF DUPLICITY OF YELLOW WAR OFFICE
NECESSARY TO AVOID WORLD HOLOCAUST. . . .
The machine clattered to a stop.
Z-7's eyes were glowing coals. "More of the
devilish strategy of the Yellow War Office!" he
declared. "It is absolutely positive that there are
no United States cruisers at present in those
waters." He consulted a wrinkled chart spread
before him on the desk.
"It's another move of the Yellow War Office
directed at turning the entire world against us!
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Yellow naval airplanes have been painted and
marked to look like ours-and now they've done
the same with some of their cruisers. If the secret
agents who bombed the French ship L'Aiglon are
Americans, they've been tricked into turning
traitor! By God, by Kara Vizna-she just left
China!"
Z-7 strode quickly into the forward office. V-
3, opening a locked cabinet, drew from it a large
photograph. He passed it to Jimmy Christopher
slowly.
"Kara Vizna," he said, his faded eyes
lingering upon it.
Jimmy Christopher gazed at the likeness of
an amazingly beautiful face. The eyes of the
woman Kara Vizna were large and opalescent,
with veiled lights shining in them-eyes that lured,
yet threatened. Her mouth was full and sensuous
betraying grim determination for all its curved
beauty. Nowhere else in the softness of her face
was the fierceness of her nature revealed; yet
Jimmy Christopher, peering at the photograph,
felt his blood grow cold and his pulse quicken.
Z-7 was still speaking rapidly: "The same
devilish trickery may make everlasting enemies of
the nations who once fought with us as allies. An
attack on the British and Dutch ships by the
counterfeit U.S. cruisers; the blowing up of the
French vessel . . . It is useless to try to reason
now; the fire of war is in the veins of every nation.
We've got to fight our way out of this situation, to
prove our integrity to the world-or we're lost."
Jimmy Christopher raised eyes to Z-7's.
"This woman-Kara Vizna-is the key to the
situation, Chief. Her espionage office must have
planned the propaganda, the sabotage, the
counterfeit attacks the betrayal of our men. She
knows the secret."
Z-7's lips thinned. "Then above all else,
Operator 5, Kara Vizna must die! It's you against
Kara Vizna, Operator 5-exactly that. If she
survives, the world collapses. Your orders are
to-render her powerless."
Jimmy Christopher placed the photograph
slowly on the desk. He walked slowly to the door,
his eyes darkly shadowed, and went out.
CHAPTER SIX
Spell of the Beast
Jimmy Christopher, head erect, steps brisk,
strode into the resplendent lobby of the most
exclusive hotel in Los Angeles. Men were still
clearing away wreckage made by distant shell
concussions. He passed the desk. The men
behind it bowed and smiled. "Good afternoon,
Mr. Victor."
Jimmy Christopher smiled his acknowledgment
and stepped into an elevator. The grille
clicked shut softly. At the top floor he stepped out
and walked down the corridor. He turned a knob
and entered a room decorated in quiet luxury.
When he passed the sill of that door, he
ceased to be Jimmy Christopher of the American
Intelligence Service and became, in an instant,
Carleton Victor, renowned photographer. To be
photographed by Carleton Victor was considered
a mark of distinction. Royalty, members of the
peerage, world-famous dignitaries, men and
women whose names were household words,
sought the favor of his portrait camera. No living
soul but his chiefs knew that the identity of
Carleton Victor cloaked that of Operator 5-not
even the cool-faced Crowe, the man-servant,
who came to take his coat and hat.
Crowe bowed. "I have been quite distressed,
sir," he said. "Your not returning last evening
upset me considerably."
"I'm sorry, Crowe. I hope the bombardment
didn't frighten you."
Crowe's eyebrows arched. "The bombardment,
sir? What bombardment, may I ask?"
Carleton Victor looked astonished. "You
noticed nothing amiss late last night, Crowe?"
"I took the liberty of dozing in the chair, sir,"
Crowe answered. "Nothing ever disturbs me, sir,
except your step. I know nothing about any
bombardment."
"Then it's best not to tell you," Carleton
Victor smiled. "I was busy all night."
"Photographing motion-picture stars, sir? I
hope you won't overdo it, sir. It's not worthy of
you. Some of them are-" there was a
perceptible sniff- "not quite our sort, sir."
"Perhaps, Crowe," Jimmy Christopher
smiled. "I shall change."
Jimmy Christopher stepped into the adjoining
bedroom. He noticed an amazed expression on
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Crowe's face, upon beholding the suit that
belonged to B-10, but there was no audible
comment. He transferred quickly to an exquisitely
cut suit of his own. He was knotting his cravat
when a buzz sounded at the door.
Crowe answered the summons and returned
to announce: "A young lady to see you, sir. I
sent her away."
"No," said a voice, "you didn't."
Jimmy Christopher spun on his heel and
stared at the communicating doorway. In it a girl
was standing. She was very pretty, a shade
older than twenty; she was smiling, and her
brown eyes were sparkling. Her name was Diane
Elliot.
Crowe stiffened. "Do you know this young
woman, sir?"
"No, Crowe, I don't."
"I will show her out, sir."
"I'll do it," Jimmy Christopher said briskly.
"Stay here, Crowe."
He stepped into the living-room and closed
the door tightly. He found it an effort to keep a
smile from his lips, in spite of his dismay, for that
of Diane Elliot was extremely contagious. He
asked quickly: "What're you doing here-how'd
you learn?"
"Aren't you going to say you're glad to see
me, Jimmy Christopher? Or shall I call you
Carleton Victor?"
"Look here!" he exclaimed in alarm. "My
servant doesn't even know I'm Jimmy
Christopher. No one else does, except my
chiefs-and now you. You've got to forget it!"
Diane Elliot kept smiling. "I'm perfectly
delighted!" she said. "I've found out something.
You see, you left your wet suit at my home, and
in it there was a telephone call-slip with the name
of this hotel on it. I came here, asked for you,
was told you weren't here, and so I just settled
down to wait, and a minute ago I saw you come
in."
"You," said Jimmy Christopher with a frown,
"are a most tenacious young woman."
"I'm a reporter, and my business is news. I
had a devil of a time making the desk-clerk talk
about you. But I gathered that-"
"You've gathered enough," he told her
sternly. "You've got to get out of here. You've got
to forget I'm both Carleton Victor and Jimmy
Christopher."
"I can't," she said. "I find it a very pleasant
thing to remember."
In spite of himself Jimmy Christopher smiled.
"Look here-you know I'm an Intelligence
operator, exactly the same as your brother. It's
necessary for me sometimes to hide myself, and
Carleton Victor is the way I do it. If the news got
out that I'm both men, it would destroy years of
careful work. I want your promise that you'll print
not a word about it-not even say anything about
it to anyone, including Carl."
"Is it really that important?"
"It's vital."
Diane Elliot smiled again. "Very well, I'll let
you in on a secret of mine. Carl thinks I went to
China for a vacation. I didn't. I was sent there by
my boss. I went on a secret assignment-to learn
as much as possible about a certain woman. I
didn't come back on the Alhambra because my
vacation was ended, but because that woman
was aboard the ship."
"Kara Vizna!"
"Kara Vizna," said Diane Elliot firmly. "I
admit, she fooled me completely; I didn't see
through her disguise. But-"
"Good Lord, you can't print a story about
her!"
"That's exactly what my boss expects me to
do. She's a glamorous figure. She's news. I'm
after news. If I don't turn in a story about Kara
Vizna, and do it while the news is hot, I'll fall
down on the most important assignment ever
given me. I certainly don't intend to do that."
"That's why you followed me here? Because
you know I'm on the case?"
"Yes. And I'm going to keep right after you,
Jimmy Chris-Mr. Victor-until I learn what I want
to know."
Jimmy Christopher moaned. "God! I can
never tell you anything about her!"
"I wouldn't expect you to divulge confidential
Government information, of course," Diane Elliot
said. "Carl has made me see that. But
something-enough to make a good story-I want
it desperately!"
"I'm sorry," Jimmy Christopher smiled. "Not
one word."
"Ever?"
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"Never a syllable."
Her eyes sparkled. "Very well," she said.
"Then I'll have to get it in my own way. I warn
you-I will!"
She turned quickly. The door closed upon
her. Jimmy Christopher stood stock still, staring
at the panels, listening to the soft footfalls
vanishing down the corridor. He did not move
until, faintly, he heard the elevator grille click
open and shut.
He sighed.
"Why," he asked himself softly, "did she
turn out to be, of all things, a newspaper
woman?"
A powerful roadster, Carleton Victor at the
wheel, swung from La Brea boulevard in
Hollywood to the high iron gates of the Classical
Productions Studio. They swung open to admit
him. He left the car, climbed a flight of steps,
and entered a spacious room.
It was elaborately outfitted as a photographic
studio. A myriad of artificial-light reflectors
glistened around a gigantic camera. No effort had
been spared in supplying the equipment assigned
to the use of Carleton Victor. Into this room, to
sit for him, had come the loveliest of women
stars, and the most popular of actors, in all
Hollywood.
An assistant stepped toward him as he
entered. "My appointment this afternoon is with
Merte Noire, I believe," he said.
"Yes, sir; but she telephoned a few moments
ago to break the appointment."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes rose. "Why?" he
asked.
"The bombardment upset her, she said."
"Get me a photograph of her, please."
He continued to ask questions while the
assistant searched through voluminous files in
green metal cabinets. "Merte Noire has not been
in Hollywood long?"
"A year. She's made just two pictures, but
they've been big hits."
"Yes. Lately she has been away from
Hollywood, hasn't she?"
"For two months; yes, sir. She went to
Europe, no one knew just where. She's like
that-mysterious about herself. The studio tried
to locate her while she was away, but they
couldn't. The cables we sent were received, all
right, but they weren't answered."
"Very," Jimmy Christopher mused,
"mysterious!"
The photograph was put into his hand. He
studied it intently, through narrowed lids. His right
hand dropped, and his long, supple fingers
played gently with the tiny gold ornament dangling
from his watch-chain-the golden skull with eyes
of rubies.
The photograph was that of the actress who
had recently taken Hollywood by storm. Merte
Noire, backed by dramatic triumphs in Europe,
had been brought to the California film capital at
enormous expense. It was rumored that she was
of royal lineage. She had been acclaimed as the
greatest actress living. She had, what was more
important, just distinguished herself by being the
first sitter ever to break an appointment with
Carleton Victor.
"Her address?"
He wrote in a small notebook the address
given him by the assistant. He turned slowly,
toward the door, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Pausing, he asked:
"Upset because of the bombardment, eh?"
"Yes, sir. So she said."
"Strange," he murmured, "very strange that
such a thing would upset-Merte Noire!"
He left the assistant blinking.
It was midnight when Carleton Victor,
sartorially perfect, stepped from the elevator into
the lobby of the exclusive Los Angeles hotel. He
paused, drawing on spotless gloves, and gazed
at the late newspapers spread upon the sparkling
cigar counter. Black headlines loomed large on
them:
YELLOW ARMY ADVANCING
ON MEXICAN BORDER AS
U.S. TROOPS MOBILIZE!
ATLANTIC FLEET RUSHES
PANAMA CANAL!
DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS
TENSE WITH EUROPE!
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The pretty girl behind the counter remarked.
"It's frightful, Mr. Victor-frightful!"
"I really," said Jimmy Christopher quietly,
"know very little about it."
PACIFIC COAST FEARS
RENEWED BOMBARDMENTS!
Carleton Victor sighed and strode from the
entrance of the hotel. A garage attendant brought
his gleaming roadster to a stop at the steps. He
took the wheel, and the powerful engine
whispered as he swung along the drive past palm
trees, into the broad, black lane of Wilshire
Boulevard.
He drove slowly westward. Along the
magnificent thoroughfare, the ravages of the
bombardment of the night previous were everywhere
in evidence, promising worse destruction to
come. He passed the busy intersection of La Brea
and Wilshire, then the car tracks which mark the
boundary of Beverly Hills. He turned into winding
roads, climbing high.
Once off the main artery, quiet closed down.
There was no moon, no stars; the sky was
shrouded with a hovering mist, yet the dim glow
of the streetlights filled the air. Even this shine
was left behind as Jimmy Christopher turned his
car onto a lonesome road.
Presently the roadster was rolling beside a
high, iron-spiked fence. On the crest of a hill
sprawled a sumptuous hacienda. Jimmy
Christopher passed its gate, then swung into a
raw-dirt side-road which flanked it.
He blinked out the headlights, eased aside
in the darkness, and stopped. Slipping from the
wheel, he studied the shadow of the hacienda on
the hill-crest. Sparks of light shone from its
curtained windows; there was a subdued air of
furtive activity around it. Jimmy Christopher deftly
touched his clothing here and there, making sure
of the contents of certain secret pockets, and
stepped toward the forbidding fence.
His hands gripped hard; a swift swing lifted
his feet over the needle-pointed spikes. He
dropped silently, glanced about at dark masses
and carefully tended gardens, and began to
move away.
Abruptly he paused. A swift rustle sounded
from a hedge nearby. Jimmy Christopher swung
as two dark forms materialized from the gloom.
They rose quickly from crouching positions and
leaped. Converging upon him, two men sped;
and the faint glow glittered on guns gripped in
their hands.
Jimmy Christopher dropped almost to his
knees. Suddenly, supporting himself on his
hands, his legs shot out. One foot hooked behind
the ankle of one of the men; the other drove hard
against the knee of the same leg. There was the
sharp gritting sound of a shattered joint; a muffled
cry of pain.
It was a swift jujitsu counter, terrible yet
elementary, which flung one of the attackers
unconscious into the grass.
Jimmy Christopher whirled to his feet as the
other dark figure rushed close. A gun was leveled
at him. His toe swung and clicked against it; he
leaped, spinning, drawing the right arm of the
assailant under his. Again bone grated, and a
moan of pain gasped into Jimmy Christopher's
ears. The gun dropped.
He released the man. The side of his hand
slashed sharply against his attacker's neck. The
dark form tumbled into the grass and lay still.
Jimmy Christopher bent over to make sure the
second man was unconscious. The deadly jujitsu
blow of Hi-Koa, he knew, would keep that man
unconscious the remainder of the night.
He rose, sighing, the two guns in his hands.
He tossed them out of sight into the garden. He
brushed his fingers and adjusted his top-coat.
Stepping away again, a slight sound again
halted him. He stopped, peering back. Beyond
the fence his roadster was a long, dark shadow;
startled, Jimmy Christopher saw the rumble
compartment lid raising. It swung up, and a
black form seemed to unfold from the space
inside.
Quick steps and a crouch put Jimmy
Christopher out of sight behind a clump of cacti.
His narrowed eyes followed every move of the
black figure as it dropped from the rear of the
roadster. Surprise filled him when he saw his
unsuspected passenger climb to the top of the
high spiked fence as nimbly as a monkey. The
slight form made Jimmy Christopher suspect a
Yellow agent. His muscles tightened as the figure
dropped to the grass.
It came forward slowly, one silent step after
another. Jimmy Christopher tensed, and made a
swift bound. His hands gripped two arms, his
fingers pressed nerve-centers that rendered his
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captive powerless. A moan came from the figure
as it squirmed against him.
"Jimmy Christopher-let me go!"
Cold surprise filled Operator 5. His fingers
loosened; he looked into a pale, upraised face.
His captive was not, after all, a Yellow man. It
was a girl-a girl whose bright eyes pleaded with
his.
"Diane!"
"Thank you," she said breathlessly as she
wriggled loose. "Where do you learn these
tricks?"
He moaned. "Good Lord! What the devil are
you up to-following me here?"
She glanced about warily. "I told you that I'm
not going to fall down on my biggest assignment.
If you won't tell me what I want to know, I'll find
out for myself!"
He gestured impatiently. "Look here. I
admire your persistence and your nerve-but
you're exposing yourself to danger unnecessarily.
Besides that, you're mixing into important
Government business. You've got to go back!"
"I'm not going back."
"You're not coming with me!"
"I'm coming with you."
Jimmy Christopher was silent. Diane Elliot's
firm determination dismayed him, and at the
same time, oddly, it pleased him. He glanced
anxiously toward the looming hacienda on the hillcrest,
then at his watch. His fingers tightened on
her wrist.
"Listen," he whispered. "Don't be a damn
fool! You've got to go back at once. You can't
learn anything here, anyhow."
"I happen," she answered firmly, "to know
my Hollywood. I wrote studio gossip before I
went with Amalgamated. I know that this house
was Lloyd Garton's, and now it's Merte Noire's.
Why are you interested in her?"
He swore under his breath. "I'd take you
away from here if I had time, but I haven't. I
ought to tie you up and leave you right here, but I
don't think I could bring myself to do it. I want
you to promise me-"
He broke off suddenly and turned. From the
main road in front of the hacienda came the
sound of a car. Its headlights shafted white
beams across the slope as it turned to the gate.
Jimmy Christopher whirled, ducking low, bringing
the girl after him as the glare shot past them. He
listened and heard the gate-hinges creak.
The car swung from the road and crawled, a
silhouetted shadow, toward the hacienda. There
it stopped. From it a dark figure alighted. Jimmy
Christopher saw a man stride to the front
entrance. It opened and closed, and he was
gone.
"Please," he begged the girl anxiously, "stay
here!"
He rose quickly. Fast, silent steps took him
toward the hacienda. He passed into its shadow
and darted to the wall. He moved soundlessly;
but suddenly he paused, hearing quiet footfalls
ahead. He pressed flat, and waited, his hand
rising slowly toward his arm-pit holster.
A dark figure moved slowly into sight-a
man. He paused, glanced about, then drifted
on. Jimmy Christopher stood motionless until he
had disappeared.
Operator 5 stepped to a window and
attempted to peer through. Heavy drapes baffled
him. He tried the casement, and found it
fastened. Silent as a ghost, he passed to other
windows in the wall. Each was locked.
He paused. Stepping back, he glanced at
the hacienda roof. Quickly, then, from a secret
inner pocket of his topcoat he removed a coil of
silk rope that weighed no more than a few
ounces. He whirled a slightly weighted loop above
his head; it flew upward, a writhing circle. It
dropped around a chimney directly above and
snapped tight.
Jimmy Christopher stepped to the base of
the wall, seized the strong strand, and raised
himself hand over hand. A few seconds brought
him to the level of a second story window. No
light was shining through it. His fingers pressed
firmly and the sash rose. He thrust a leg through,
pulled himself over the sill, and stood in
darkness.
It was a bedroom, furnished with white and
chromium modernistic pieces; faint perfume hung
in the air. At the bottom edge of a door in a side
wall, a line of light was shining. Jimmy
Christopher trod silently toward it, listened,
twisted the knob, and drew it open. The hallway
beyond was empty.
From below a woman's quiet voice said:
"You're so upset, darling. Do have a drink."
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"Just one," a man answered. There was
something strained, peculiar in the timbre of his
voice.
Jimmy Christopher went down the steps
slowly. Amber light filled a hallway below. He
paused, hearing movements in an adjoining
room, through an open doorway. He turned back
quickly, saw another door standing ajar, and
eased into the darkness of a library.
Across it light shafted from the room in which
the voices were sounding. Jimmy Christopher
moved close enough to see through. The
spacious living-room was decorated lavishly.
Near a burning fireplace a golden screen stood,
and past the edge of it Jimmy Christopher could
see part of an easy chair from which a man's legs
were visible, and one hand, holding a highball
glass. The glass disappeared behind the screen
as he raised it to his lips.
"You are so foolish to be worried," the
woman's voice came again. "I am all alone; I
have missed you so."
She moved into view, her back turned to
Jimmy Christopher. She was wearing a trailing,
misty white gown; her exposed back and
shoulders were smoothest ivory upon which
nestled Titian hair that glistened with deep lights.
Her one slender arm extended beyond the
screen, and her beautifully formed body leaned
forward, half hidden.
"Of course, darling-I love you very much,"
Their voices died to whispers.
Jimmy Christopher turned to glance at a
large, carved desk in the library and stepped
toward it. He found its drawers locked, and
brought from his pocket a leather folder of master
keys. Not a sound disturbed the silence of the
room as he tried first one, then another, in the
locks.
From the adjoining room the man's voice
carried: "I'll do anything for you, Merte."
"Perhaps-" and the woman's tones were
almost a whisper-"perhaps I shall ask you to
help me."
"Anything, Merte-anything!"
A drawer slid open under Jimmy
Christopher's eyes. From it he removed a steel
bond-box. Again his keys came into play. In a
moment the lid rose.
Suddenly a buzzer sounded-three times,
quickly, then once, as if in signal. Jimmy
Christopher jerked up. Through the doorway he
saw the woman straighten and turn. Clearly
visible in the light now was her face.
She was enchantingly beautiful,
unbelievably beautiful. The widening of her eyes
disclosed depths of darkness as luminous as
black diamonds. She moved quickly, gracefully,
across the room and called: "Mioti! What is it?"
The curtains of a doorway flicked aside, and
Jimmy Christopher saw a man appear-a huge,
broad-shouldered man with a dark, sinister face.
He was an Eurasian; and in the slant of his eyes
Jimmy Christopher glimpsed the man's heritage.
His voice rumbled throatily; he spoke in the
language of the Yellow Empire.
"We've caught someone prowling about the
grounds-a girl."
"Take her into the conservatory," the
woman answered quickly in the same tongue.
Jimmy Christopher sat motionless, chilled,
watching. The woman turned quickly to the man
hidden behind the screen. Her voice was dulcet,
soothing: "Finish your drink, darling. I will be
back in a moment." Her gown trailed, her
sandalled feet moved quickly, and she was gone.
Jimmy Christopher half rose anxiously, but
his eyes dropped again to the steel bond-box he
had opened. Quickly he fingered through the
leather-jacketed books it contained. He glimpsed
cabalistic symbols on the pages. He unfolded
several documents, and saw that they too were
covered with code-writing. Swiftly he stuffed the
contents of the box into his top-coat pocket,
returned it to the drawer, closed the drawer and
locked it.
Quick steps took him toward the living-room.
Behind the screen the man was still sitting.
Jimmy Christopher risked a move outward. He
crept over the thick rugs, toward the door through
which the woman had gone. Listening, he heard
her speak; again in the strange language: "Who
are you? What are you doing here?"
The answer came: "Tell your men to let me
go! Why have you got this place guarded like a
fortress?"
The voice of Diane Elliot!
Jimmy Christopher's throat tightened. He
realized that the girl had tried to follow him; that
she had been seen and seized. He could picture
her held by several of the sentinels while the
woman known as Merte Noire faced her.
"You came alone?"
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A hesitation, then: "Yes." A slow smile
formed on Jimmy Christopher's lips.
Suddenly the woman spoke. Her voice was
like the hissing of a deadly snake: "You little
fool-to come here!"
There was silence for a moment. Then a
man's voice asked in the Yellow tongue: "What is
to be done with her?"
"What is to be done?" the woman repeated
shrilly, in the same language. "Need you ask?
She suspects something, or she would not be
here! She must never speak again. We must kill
her!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Pit of the Black Leopard
Soft footfalls sounded in the room beyond.
Jimmy Christopher whirled and darted to the door
of the library. He passed into the darkness as a
latch clicked, and the exquisitely gowned woman
appeared.
She paused. Now the beauty of her face
was vanquished-yet was heightened-by the
sheer, cold ferocity shining in her eyes. Her mouth
had become a red, evil thing. But as she paused
to gaze at the screen behind which the unknown
man sat, her features changed.
The alluring warmth returned, her mouth
softened, her eyes became luminous, dark
temptations. She crossed the room slowly, and
paused to face the man sitting behind the golden
screen. His hand reached for her exquisite
fingers; she lowered herself to the arm of the
chair.
"You feel rested now, don't you, darling?"
"It is like a dream to be near you, Merte."
"Rest. With all your body. With me you find
ease-"
The man's voice was scarcely a whisper:
"Your perfume-is like-a drug."
One of the woman's hands was visible to
Jimmy Christopher. He saw it tighten into an
ivory-white fist. Her voice was scarcely audible.
"Can you hear me? Can you still hear me?"
"Yes," slowly.
"You will help me?"
"Ye-es."
"There is a man," the woman said softly. "A
man who is known as James Christopher. You
know him?"
Jimmy Christopher's body tightened. He
strained to hear. A chill was coursing through his
body-a chill brought by the soft, spell-weaving
voice of the woman.
The man in the chair answered, slowly
again: "Yes."
"James Christopher is going to die."
A whispered assent.
"You are going to kill him."
Assent again, scarcely audible.
"You will learn immediately where he is. You
will go to him. Tomorrow exactly at midnight, you
will kill him."
"Ye-es."
Amazement filled Jimmy Christopher. He
strove to combat the dreamy spell brought by the
woman's slumberous voice. He listened, standing
motionless in the dark.
"You will go away-at once-after you have
killed him. Once you leave the room in which he
lies dead, you will forget. You will remember
nothing of what has happened. Nothing. Do you
hear me still?"
"Ye-es. I will-do as-you wish."
Jimmy Christopher straightened. There was
a motion behind the golden screen as he stepped
silently into the room. For a moment both the
man and the woman were out of sight. He heard a
slight grating noise, a dull thump. He stepped
beyond the screen. . . .
The woman was standing alone in the room,
facing a blank wall-alone.
Jimmy Christopher said softly: "Good
evening."
The woman was a flash of glittering white as
she whirled. She stood motionless-an exquisitely
carved figure, her wide, ebony-dark eyes peering
at Jimmy Christopher.
"Good evening," he said again quietly, "Kara
Vizna."
Slowly Kara Vizna smiled. The beauty of her
face was a radiant light dimmed now by the
ferocity shining in her eyes. Yellow sparks
flashed in them, gleaming like those in the eyes of
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an angry tigress. She took slow, gliding steps
toward Jimmy Christopher.
"Perhaps," she said softly, "you will not die
tomorrow night after all, Operator 5. Perhaps you
will die tonight."
The corners of Jimmy Christopher's lips
tucked in tightly. "You are amazing, Kara Vizna.
You are everything I have been told you are-and
more. The devil himself must have given you your
beauty and your ability to use it-to use it to turn
men into traitors."
Her scarlet mouth curved. "Perhaps," she
said.
"No one but a consummately daring woman
would do what you have done-appear before the
public while maintaining a disguise, by posing as
an actress, and appearing behind the footlights to
thousands nightly. Most daring of all, you
multiplied your audience when you came to
Hollywood to appear in pictures."
"Well?"
"Your trip to Europe, after making two
pictures is not difficult to explain. From Europe
you hurried to China to resume espionage
activities-not as Merte Noire, but as Kara Vizna.
Because you could return to this country from
Shanghai as neither Merte Noire nor Kara Vizna,
you were forced to assume still another disguise
aboard the Alhambra."
"You are very clever, Operator 5."
"Not so clever as you, Kara Vizna. You and
a man known as Juan Ridegez boarded the
Alhambra at Shanghai. The man managed to
disappear. You took his place. You were hurrying
here to resume your role as Merte Noire. Each
time you have altered your features completely.
You are not Juan Ridegez now, nor the woman
whose photograph was shown to me-Kara
Vizna. Only one thing betrays you-the utter
cruelty in your eyes."
She asked softly: "What do you wish with
me, Operator 5?"
"I have been given orders which determine
your fate."
She came closer. "You are a wise man,
Operator 5. You must realize that you are fighting
overwhelming odds. Your country cannot hope to
exist more than a few weeks longer. The triumph
of the Yellow Empire over the United States is
written in the Book of the Heavens. In that book
too is written your death."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. Kara Vizna
leaned closer, her black eyes fiery with dark fury.
Her one hand had moved gracefully to the edge of
the golden screen.
Space opened instantly beneath Jimmy
Christopher's feet. He felt the first yielding as a
section of the floor dropped away. His muscles
flexed as he leaped back, but his spring came an
instant too late to completely clear the black
hollow that appeared beneath him.
He twisted sharply, feeling himself falling,
and desperately flung out his arms. He dropped
five feet, fingers gripping the rug weighted by the
heavy easy chair. Arms outspread, his body
dangling in blackness, he hung one instant.
Damp coldness gusted up about him, as, from the
emptiness below, sounded a throaty snarl.
Swift footfalls slipped across the floor, and
the voice of Kara Vizna called sharply:
"Mioti! Kazuh!"
Jimmy Christopher swung his body swiftly.
He hooked a knee over the edge of the fallen trap
and dragged himself up. Breathless, he glimpsed
down into the hollow. A black, lithe form was
moving below; two glaring yellow eyes were
shining up. Suddenly there was another snarling
cry, and the dark thing leaped.
Half out of the underground den it sprang-a
leopard of glistening black, fangs gleaming, talons
scraping at the floor. The savage ferocity of its
growl shook the room as Jimmy Christopher
leaped back. The beast was clawing up, flaming
eyes fixed on him, as his hand flashed to his
arm-pit holster.
Fire spat. One yellow eye blinked out; a
horrible, rending shriek shook the house. The
black leopard's claws dug again as it struggled to
spring out of the pit; Jimmy Christopher's gun
spat a second time. The animal screamed,
sinking back; it dropped into the darkness; and
Jimmy Christopher stepped close, shuddering.
A fall into the pit would have meant horrible
death under the fangs and the talons of that
untamed beast.
He glanced up quickly. In the wall on the
opposite side of the room a panel was closing.
Through it was trailing the white of Kara Vizna's
gown. Jimmy Christopher leaped, clearing the
pit, flinging himself toward the settling panel. His
fingers dug into the crack as powerful weights
closed it, crushing it down upon his hands.
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Biting pain filled him as he wrenched back.
Grinding gears sounded beyond while he resisted
the pull of the mechanism which operated the
hidden panel. He twisted back quickly, hearing
heels pound on the floor, as two men dashed into
the room through the flicking drapes of a doorway.
In their hands glistened guns.
Jimmy Christopher thrust a foot into the
widened crack of the panel and fired swiftly. His
numbed fingers scarcely felt the pull of the trigger.
The brute-like Mioti fired an instant before a bullet
slapped into his body. He whirled down to the
floor as the second man rushed.
Jimmy Christopher fired and, realizing that
his bullet had flown wide, slipped into the
darkness beyond the panels as the grinding gears
reversed. Backing, he slammed bullets into the
room beyond as the man sprang aside. He turned
quickly, peering along a passageway that sloped
downward.
Swift steps took him along it. Through the
dank air a reverberating thump sounded. He
rounded a bend and stopped, facing a door that
glistened blackly in the light. He seized a huge
metal ring that hung from it and pulled but all his
strength was not enough to move it. Beyond that
door, he knew, Kara Vizna had passed-and now
it blocked his way with immovable steel.
Shouts rang along the passage and heels
scraped the floor. Jimmy Christopher whirled
back. In the darkness rushing figures loomed.
Three-four sprang into sight around the bend.
Jimmy Christopher backed against the steel door
grimly, his automatic leveled.
Guns spat. Bullets spanged against the
metal behind him. He moved swiftly from side to
side, a bewildering target in the darkness, as the
black figures crouched, blocking his way out,
trapping him. Swiftly his gun spoke. One of the
forms crumpled forward, another spilled against
the wall and tumbled down. Echoes clashed in
the passage as the gun-lightning flashed and
powder-smoke gusted.
Four men spilled dead to the floor of the
passage-and Jimmy Christopher's automatic
clicked on an empty chamber.
Two more black, giant figures loomed
around the bend. The light flashed against metal
as a saber swung high. Its keen edge sliced the
air and Jimmy Christopher sprang aside like
lightning. He dropped his gun; his hands clicked
loose, in an instant, to the buckle of his belt.
When he whipped the belt away, it flew
straight. It was a long, narrow sheath of leather
which sped from a blade of specially forged
steel-a blade as supple as a whip, sharppointed
as a needle, keen as a razor. He lashed
it, lunging toward the two dark figures.
A second saber was flashing in the air with
the first.
Swiftly steel clashed steel, the heavy blades
slashing against the light rapier. Sparkling metal
kindled the air.
The two men bore down, crowding Jimmy
Christopher against the steel door. He tensed,
and with the swiftness of lightning, executed a di
Grassi lunge. His blade whipped up again and
red drops flicked from it.
A saber clattered to the floor. Jimmy
Christopher's rapier sparkled about the other as it
swung. Magical power seemed to course along
his bright steel whip, twisting the saber in the
man's hand. Jimmy Christopher lunged, and
missed; he recovered swiftly. His blade whipped
about the saber in a swift parry of semptime-
then, brilliant as a lightning stroke, came his
riposte.
He straightened, reddened blade lowered,
as the second black man dropped.
He leaped ahead along the passageway,
hearing shouts and calls above. As he sped into
the living room, the blast of exploding guns
rocked the air. The room was empty; he
hastened across it to the far door. He shouldered
through and paused, breathless-peering at
Diane Elliot.
Her wrists were lashed behind her, her
slender ankles were bound; a gag was plastered
across her mouth. She lay on a couch, her
widened eyes imploring Jimmy Christopher. He
stepped close, and the blade of his rapier flicked
gently, hissing through the strands that pinioned
her. She struggled up, gasping.
Shots rang again in the room beyond.
Jimmy Christopher stepped quickly into the livingroom,
picked up a revolver dropped by Mioti, and
pressed it into the girl's hand.
"Stay here. If anybody comes at you, use
that gun!"
He crossed the sill again. Through a dark
doorway he saw crouching forms. A man was
huddling against the wall of the entrance, firing
low; beside him crouched a smaller figure.
Outside waited two others. Jimmy Christopher
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turned sharply when he heard a movement.
Diane Elliot was hurrying from the conservatory.
"Stay back!" he ordered.
She ran toward a rear door. Amazed, he
followed her swiftly. He caught her arms and
turned her. "Diane! What are you doing?"
"I'm going to get out of here quick! I've got
my story just who Merte Noire is!"
Now the blasting of shots had ceased. There
were quick voices in the hallway. Jimmy
Christopher glanced back, shifted position so that
he could face the door, and took the gun from the
girl, He said swiftly: "You can't, Diane! You can't!"
"They'll print it-every word I give the
Amalgamated!"
His eyes dropped swiftly. He stepped very
close to her. His words crackled. "If you turn in
what you know about Kara Vizna it will finish me
as an Intelligence operator." She was silent, her
eyes defiant.
"Do you hear? It means the end-of
Operator 5."
Her red lips parted. "You're Operator 5?"
Now black movements filled the doorway.
Jimmy Christopher jerked his gun level. Into the
light stepped two figures. One was a man, his
face gray and grimacing with pain; the other was
a boy of fourteen, his tough little Irish face
spotted with freckles, his mouth twisting into a
broad grin.
A cry broke from Jimmy Christopher.
"Dad! Tim!"
Tim Donovan rushed toward Jimmy
Christopher with arms outflung. He stopped
short, his grin battling tears that formed in his
eyes.
"Jimmy! Jimmy, gosh-you all right?"
Behind him strode John Christopher, ex-
Intelligence Operator Q-6, his hand extended.
"Jimmy, my boy!"
"Dad-Tim!" Jimmy Christopher stood
paralyzed with surprise. "Where'd you come
from? I-I thought you were in New York!"
Tim Donovan blurted: "We had to come,
Jimmy! We flew out! Z-7 told us where you were
staying, and we tried to find you-"
"We saw your car leaving the hotel, Jimmy,
just as we came!" John Christopher exclaimed.
"We followed you-came here-heard shots-"
"Gosh, Jimmy! We couldn't keep out of it!
Those two mugs tried to stop us-but they
couldn't!"
Jimmy Christopher blurted: "Oh, God, it's
good to see you, Tim, old boy! Dad! You kept
'em off of me, didn't you-the last of 'em!
Where's Nan-did she come West with you?"
"She's still in New York, Jimmy. What-
what happened? You're not hurt, are you,
Jimmy?"
Jimmy Christopher smiled warmly at Tim
Donovan's anxious question. His fist pushed
gently at the nervy Irish lad's chin. "Tim, boy, I'm
all right. I was never so glad to see anybody in
my life!"
"That girl, Jimmy-where'd she go?"
Jimmy Christopher turned quickly. Diane
Elliot was no longer in the doorway. She was not
in the room beyond-not in any of the rooms
beyond. When Jimmy Christopher ran outside,
searching the darkness for her, he saw no sign of
her.
She had gone-gone to put her story on the
wires? He stood motionless, numbed with
dismay, cursing himself for a bungler.
Diane Elliot, at that moment, was hurrying
along the twining road which led downward into
Beverly Hills. She ran until she sighted a taxi;
she signaled it and gasped quick orders to the
driver. It carried her swiftly to a hotel in downtown
Los Angeles.
She hurried to her room. Breathlessly she
sat before a portable typewriter. Her swift fingers
tapped the keys. She studied her lead, and went
on:
. . . for the notorious spy Kara Vizna, and
the famous actress Merte Noire are one and the same
person. . . .
She covered three yellow sheets quickly.
She snatched them out of the machine, and
hurried from the hotel. Another taxi whirled her
along a dark street. She ran into a building, into
a vast room where scores of desks sat, where
teletype machines were clattering.
Toward a shirt-sleeved man working under a
green-shaded light, she pushed her sheaf of
copy.
"I'm working out of San Francisco. There's
my story-it'll set the wires on fire!"
Her face turned pale in a flash as the copy
left her hands. A voice rang in her ears-the
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voice of Jimmy Christopher: "It will mean the end
of Operator 5!"
The eyes of the Los Angeles wire editor were
dropping to the opening lines of her story. Her
hand shot out; she gripped the yellow sheets,
and tore them away. For a moment she stood
frozen, appalled at the thing she had almost done,
while the puzzled, green-lighted eyes peered at
her.
"I guess-" her voice faltered-"I guess I'm
mistaken. It's no good after all; not worth
sending."
She ripped the sheets in two, then in two
again. She stuffed them into the pocket of her
coat and turned without looking back at the
amazed wire editor. Tears glistened in her eyes
as she opened the door and hurried out-tears
that stung.
At a desk on the lower floor she paused.
She quickly addressed an envelope to Carleton
Victor at his hotel. She wrote quickly on one torn
sheet:
I'd never do it for anyone else, Jimmy
Christopher!
DIANE
Her lips pressed hard as she signed her
name. She took stamps from her purse and
applied them to the envelope. She slipped it half
into a mail-box and hesitated. Slowly her fingers
let go; it dropped.
When she left the building her eyes were dry;
her proud chin was lifted. . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Hour of Death
The brilliant sunshine of a California morning
streamed through the window of Secret
Intelligence headquarters PL.
At a desk in a corner, Jimmy Christopher
was poring over the intricate code records
discovered in the desk in Kara Vizna's library.
Sheets closely covered with elaborate notations
surrounded him. An electric clock on the wall
twirled its red hand as he worked. He had been
striving to penetrate the secret of Kara Vizna's
records since dawn.
At another desk Z-7 sat, rapidly reading a
report prepared by Operator 5. His dark eyes
smoldered at the last page:
The tunnel leading from Kara Vizna's hacienda
has an outlet in the valley behind the estate. She was
able to slip out of it quickly, once past the steel door.
There was no hope of stopping her escape once that
door closed.
V-3's gnarled hand was gripped around a
telephone; he was talking quickly: "Very well,
then, a search of the hacienda discloses nothing,
but it must be watched. Keep it under constant
guard. Anyone attempting to enter it is to be
arrested. Make your reports to this headquarters
hourly." Z-7 tossed the report aside and gazed at
Operator 5. "Any headway?" he asked.
Jimmy Christopher sighed. "It's a hard nut,
Chief. A numerical-substitution code that looks
simple, but it's as complex as the devil. The first
trouble was discovering what language it is written
in-but now I'm sure it's a dialect of the Yellow
Empire."
Z-7 peered over his shoulder as Jimmy
Christopher explained, "letter combinations are
substituted for ideographs, and each ideograph
may have as many as fifteen different meanings.
The thing is complicated further because there is
no use of certain letters in the language, but it's
coming, Chief."
A telephone clattered, and V-3 answered the
call. An exchange of signals was followed by
monosyllabic comments from the Pacific chief.
He hung the receiver and paused thoughtfully.
"Strange, Z-7," he mused. "R-16 has just
reported from Santa Monica. Three persons were
found this morning, dead on the beach-one a
life-guard, the others a man and a woman. Their
car was located, and they are identified. No
marks on them, but an autopsy has revealed that
they died of poison gas."
"But there was no poison gas attack reported
last night."
"I know, but this was dichlorasine
vinylchloride. R-16 reports that they were
evidently at the beach to swim, though the beach
has been almost deserted since the
bombardment. Of course, if there had been a
poison gas attack along the beach last night,
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there would be widespread deaths this morning.
Yet those three were gassed, killed instantly."
"What else?"
"Footprints on the sand, very strange. Partly
wiped out by the waves, but the lowering tide
saved the rest. Two pairs of prints-not bare feet,
but feet clad in shoes. Both lines come directly
out of the water, and there are no prints leading
down."
"What? Footprints coming out of the water
but not going in?"
"Just that. I wonder. . . "
V-3 picked up a pad of notes and studied it.
"Here is information phoned in by E-9 from Long
Beach an hour ago. He states that some sort of
projectile floated ashore there during the night. It
has the appearance of a torpedo, but is obviously
not one. He is to telephone full details later. It
may link up with the deaths at Santa Monica
Beach."
"Hell!" Z-7 snapped, "I want full reports from
R-16 and E-9 as soon as possible."
Again the telephone clattered. V-3 answered
the call. He listened intently, and his pencil
scribbled notes. When, after ten minutes, he
turned away from the phone, it was to speak to
Jimmy Christopher: "Here is the report of the
analytical chemist on the liquid you brought from
Kara Vizna's place last night, Operator 5-the
stuff that was left in the highball glass by her
unknown visitor."
Jimmy Christopher looked up alertly. "Yes?"
"It is found to be dhatura. It is a vegetable
poison easily obtained in India. The chemist tells
me that the white, bell-shaped dhatura flower
grows wild in the fields of India, almost as
generally as the daisy and the buttercup in
America, although the poison is little known here,
and he had to refer to obscure sources for his
information.
"The leaves, the seeds and the stalk all
furnish the poison. It can be readily mixed with
food, especially sweets, with opium and
tobacco-and it can be mixed into drinks. A small
dose of it has the extraordinary effect of robbing
the victim temporarily of his memory and of
rendering him highly susceptible to suggestion. A
man drugged with dhatura is unconscious of what
happens to him while under the influence of the
drug, and may be made to commit acts of which
he ordinarily would be incapable. Also, he is
unable to tell how he came to be poisoned.
"Larger doses cause insanity and death but,
unlike mineral poisons, dhatura leaves no trace
which can be detected in the body after death."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes had narrowed
thoughtfully.
"In other words," V-3 continued, "dhatura
produces a kind of hypnotic effect. Kara Vizna
had evidently brought about this mesmeric
condition in her unknown visitor last night, and
was giving him directions."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes lighted. "I
understand. She was making use of a kind of
post-hypnotic suggestion. You know, of course,
how that functions. A person, when in a condition
of susceptibility, is told that at a certain time and
at a certain place he will do a certain thing. Once
the temporary condition of susceptibility passes,
he will not remember having been given the order;
but when the time comes, he will do precisely
what he was told!
"Whoever he is, the man Kara Vizna told to
kill me is not aware at this moment of what
happened last night. But when midnight comes
tonight, he will be seized with a craving to kill-to
kill me. Don't doubt that! He will unconsciously
prepare for it. Nothing will stop his attempt. He
will seek me out with the intention of killing me,
and he will not know why he is doing it-but the
peculiar, powerful effect of drug will force him to
it."
"Good Lord-you've got to watch yourself!"
Z-7 exclaimed. "That man may be known to you-
someone you would never suspect of such a
thing."
"If we had means of proving it," Operator 5
answered, "we'd find that Merte Noire must have
influenced, in the same way, Lieutenant Chet
Galway-and the six men captured near Lake
Saigon after the bombing of the French merchant
steamer-the six who claimed they were
Americans, and probably were. Americans forced
to turn traitor by the power of that human tigress."
"At midnight tonight, Operator 5," Z-7
declared grimly, "I'm going to see to it that you
are well protected."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "Perhaps," he
said quietly, "work will prevent."
He returned to the puzzle of the
cryptograms, while the teletype in the next room
clattered. Reports were brought to V-3's desk;
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the two chiefs studied them while Jimmy
Christopher worked.
. . .E-9 LONG BEACH . . .TORPEDO WASHED
ASHORE HERE DURING NIGHT CARRIED NO
EXPLOSIVE. . . A WATER-TIGHT SHELL LARGE
ENOUGH TO CONTAIN A MAN. . .CONTROLS
PROVIDED FOR MOVEMENT THROUGH WATER
AFTER POWER SUPPLIED FROM SOME
EXTERNAL SOURCE SUCH AS TORPEDO TUBE
OF SUBMARINE. . . AFFIXED INSIDE ALSO IS
TANK FOR COMPRESSED GAS PROBABLY
OXYGEN ALSO A RELEASE VALVE. . .INDICATES
TORPEDO USED TO BRING ASHORE UNKNOWN
AGENT. . . .
Z-7 exclaimed: "Be damned! They're sending
secret agents ashore from Yellow submarines.
It's probably the way Kara Vizna returned after the
Neptune carried her off."
"And that," V-3 declared, "seems to explain
the deaths at Santa Monica and the foot prints
that led from the water without returning. The
three who were killed by poison gas were
evidently unfortunate enough to see one or two of
these torpedoes float onto the beach. They were
killed because they saw something the Yellow
agents wish to keep secret!"
"Lord! In that way they can send scores of
agents into the country! It's impossible to watch
every foot of the entire coastline closely enough to
spot them!"
V-3 said quietly: "I've already instructed E-9
that the torpedo is to be kept strictly under cover.
So long as their means of getting secret agents
ashore seems to remain undiscovered, they'll
keep on using it. That means-a constant
watch-an almost super-human job!"
The scratching of Jimmy Christopher's pencil
turned Z-7's eyes. He was writing feverishly. A
quick glance up and he said: "I've got it!" Z-7
stepped behind him and peered over his shoulder
as he translated:
Plan of Operations
Prepared: copies of documents supposed to
have been stolen from U.S. State Department.
Details in Order 453, Code XVII.
These documents to be released to press in
Britain and continental Europe immediately
opening attack is made by our fleet during
international naval parade.
"Great Scott! That admits their guilt! Kara
Vizna prepared the forged documents! It's almost
conclusive proof!"
Jimmy Christopher continued to write swiftly.
Order 453 trailed out under the point of his pencil.
Z-7 read each word as it formed.
"It follows line by line the forged documents!"
he exclaimed.
When Jimmy Christopher sat back he had a
thick folder of sheets covered with his
handwriting. He raised darkly clouded eyes.
"To make the proof conclusive, Chief," he
said, "further details must be brought out. First,
that this paper was manufactured in the Yellow
Empire. Second, that the ink is peculiar to that
country. Third, that these documents were
written prior to the opening attack. Fourth, that
they were written by a Yellow hand. Experts can
do that-and I suggest that you allow the proof to
be established by experts other than our own."
"Yes-exactly!"
"Dr. G. S. Collinbroke is England's foremost
secret ink chemist-the documents might be
turned over to him. It will take time, but it must
be handled so that there is not the slightest doubt
that these documents are forgeries originating in
the Yellow Empire. If you have any other
samples of Kara Vizna's handwriting-"
"Yes. I have several specimens in File X, in
Washington. Great Scott, young man, you've
done it! Yellow codes are the most difficult in the
world to tackle. Yardley spent a year deciphering
one cipher during the World War-an entire year,
and you've-"
"The full proof will take time, Chief."
"Yes, valuable time. The President himself
must present these documents to ambassadors of
the European powers-they've got to be taken to
Washington. I'm going to do that myself-
immediately.
"V-3, I'm leaving for the field within a few
minutes. Teletype to Washington that I am
bringing these codes. Inform the President that a
secret meeting of all European ambassadors is
urgent immediately following my arrival."
V-3 stepped quickly into an adjoining office.
Operator 5 took from Z-7's hand the reports of E-
9 and R-16 and studied them.
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"Every minute is precious!" Z-7 exclaimed.
"Yellow troops will march closer to the Mexican
border before this proof can be presented to the
European dignitaries. The Yellow Navy may
choose to bombard this coast again. They may
attack our allies, under the guise of United States
armament, and make the task immeasurably
more difficult. At this moment they're waiting-
waiting for the entire world to turn against us
before they strike again! The counterfeit U.S.
cruisers used by the Yellow forces in Asiatic
waters against the neutral merchant ships may
strike again before this proof can be presented. I
am urging reports from our agents in the Yellow
Empire, in the hope of learning facts about that
counterfeit fleet."
"Its whereabouts are unknown?" Jimmy
Christopher asked.
"Absolutely. After each attack it withdrew
under cover of a smoke-screen-simply
disappeared. So far our agents have been unable
to wireless any information concerning it. But
when that information comes, it's going to
necessitate a daring, dangerous move-an
attempt to destroy the camouflaged fleet."
Z-7 folded the translation of the Kara Vizna
codes; he tucked them into a secret pocket and
grimly examined his automatic. At the door he
paused, turning. "Watch yourself, my boy, when
midnight comes-" He went out.
Operator 5 turned slowly back to the desk,
again taking up the reports of E-9 and R-16.
"The three bathers who died on Santa
Monica beach," he said slowly, "were killed
sometime past midnight by-Kara Vizna! You
remember my orders, she is my case. Tonight,"
Operator 5 paused in thought. "Please order an
army blimp sent from Sunnyside immediately. It
should be disguised as an advertising ship. I will
want the use of it tonight. I'm going to patrol the
shore."
He rose, stepped to the door, and called
through. From an outer office came John
Christopher and Tim Donovan. Operator 5 waved
them in.
"V-3, my father," he said. "Once known as
Q-6-one of the best Intelligence operators who
ever lived."
John Christopher smiled, grasping V-3's
gnarled hand. "My son is worth ten of me,
Chief-you know that well. I'd give my soul if I
could reenter the service, but apparently-
according to the doctors-I'd give my life if I did."
"I know," V-3 said softly. "Z-7 has told me
about you. Bullets embedded near your heart.
Take care of yourself, fellow."
The tough little Irish lad grinned broadly as
the hand of the Pacific Intelligence chief seized
his. "And I've heard of you too, Tim Donovan.
You'll be one of us some day, my boy."
Jimmy Christopher's arm crossed the little
Irish lad's shoulders. "Those Yellow Naval guns,
out there," he said, "don't seem so terrible now
that you're here with me. I don't know what I'd do
without you both-and Nan."
He turned toward the door. John Christopher
and Tim stepped through ahead of him. The door
closed; they were gone.
CHAPTER NINE
The House of the Dead
At eleven-forty-five p.m. the telephone in the
sumptuous living-room of Carleton Victor's hotel
suite rang shrilly. Jimmy Christopher answered it.
A voice said softly:
"Your order will be shipped from Glendale."
(The Army blimp will take off from Glendale
Airport.)
"What weight?" (What time?)
"Twelve and a half." (Twelve-thirty.)
"Thank you."
"I suggest you exercise great care in
handling this matter. The night air is apt to
damage the consignment." (There is danger of
poison gas.) "And Mr. King has not reported from
his voyage." (The Neptune has not been located.)
"I will let you know the condition of the
shipment." (I will communicate from the blimp.)
As Jimmy Christopher disconnected, the
door buzzer sounded. Crowe strode stiffly to
answer the call. He returned with a sniff.
"The same persistent young lady, Mr.
Victor," he said. "And a young man."
"I think, Crowe, that you are very busy in
the bedroom, aren't you?"
"Extremely busy, sir."
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Crowe withdrew and Jimmy Christopher
strode into the foyer. Waiting there were Diane
Elliot and her brother. Jimmy Christopher's eyes
studied the girl's as he greeted them and invited
them in. Diane stepped close as her brother
entered the living room first.
"Carl doesn't know you're Carleton Victor,"
she whispered.
His hand tightened warmly upon hers. "I
found a very interesting communication in the mail
this morning-and I'm more grateful than I can
say."
"You've ruined my career as a newspaper
woman, but-I couldn't do anything else."
Carl Elliot turned. "Diane told me you were
stopping here, and she insisted on coming along.
It's official business, Di-you know you can't
stay."
"You might," she answered, "make me your
official business some evening, both of you.
Anyway, I've got to go to work. My boss is on my
neck. Good-bye."
Her small hand slung warmly to Jimmy
Christopher's; she kissed Carl and hurried out.
Jimmy Christopher stood watching the door after
it closed and turned to find Carl Elliot smiling.
"She's a swell kid, Jimmy."
"She's a very forthright and charming young
woman . . . You said official business?"
"Orders from V-3," B-10 answered. "He's
keeping me on the Kara Vizna case since I
started it with you. I'm directed to go with you
tonight."
"V-3 didn't tell me." Jimmy Christopher
glanced at the clock. It read a few minutes of
midnight. He turned slowly, saying, "We'll be
leaving in a jiffy."
He strode to the door, and clicked the latch
in place. When he returned, he saw Carl Elliot
eyeing him strangely. Jimmy Christopher
paused. "Is that clock right?" Operator 5 asked.
Carl Elliot answered without glancing around.
"It's three minutes of twelve."
"How did you know, without looking?"
Elliot did not answer. Jimmy Christopher
gazed at him a long moment. Into B-10's eyes
there was creeping an unnatural brilliance,
tranquil yet alert. Jimmy Christopher strode to the
window, peering at Carl Elliot out of the corners of
his eyes. Suddenly he turned. A glance at the
clock told him it was exactly one minute of twelve.
Carl Elliot was peering at him fixedly. A quick step
took Jimmy Christopher toward him.
"Have you a gun?"
Elliot did not answer.
"Have you a gun? Give it to me!"
There was no response in the glazed eyes.
Jimmy Christopher glanced up once. The minute
hand of the clock was creeping slowly toward the
second of midnight. Grimly he watched it, feeling
Carl Elliot's eyes on him. And suddenly-
Elliot leaped up. His hand swung under his
coat, toward the bulge of a pit-holstered gun. A
fiendish fury blazed in his eyes as the gun flashed
out. Unreasoning hatred twisted his face into an
ugly mask-and the weapon came level.
Swiftly Jimmy Christopher stepped aside.
His fingers clamped hard about Carl Elliot's wrist.
A quick twist, a pull-and a moan of pain crossed
B-10's lips. His finger twitched on the trigger of
the gun and a slug blasted out, drilling into the
floor between Jimmy Christopher's feet.
Quickly Jimmy Christopher thrust Carl Elliot
into the chair. He slumped weakly. From the side
of the room came the click of a quickly opening
door.
Crowe asked sharply: "Sir! Is anything
wrong?"
Jimmy Christopher smiled at him. "Wrong,
Crowe?"
"I thought I heard a shot, sir!"
"No, Crowe. You were mistaken."
Crowe's startled eyes dropped to the
automatic glittering in Jimmy Christopher's
fingers. He saw the gust of powder-smoke drifting
on the air. His eyebrows arched.
"Quite right, sir," he said. "I was mistaken."
He turned, and the door closed behind him.
Jimmy Christopher stood tensely over Carl Elliot.
B-10's eyes were raising pleadingly, fearfully to
his.
"You," said Operator 5 slowly. "You were
the man who was with Kara Vizna last night!"
The sound of the name sent a shudder
through the body of Carl Elliot. Jimmy
Christopher leaned close.
"You wanted to kill me, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"You don't know why?"
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"No!"
"It is because Kara Vizna told you to do it."
"No, no! Not Kara Vizna! Merte-Merte
Noire!"
"You don't know that Kara Vizna and Merte
Noire are the same woman?"
"No-it isn't possible!"
Jimmy Christopher was speaking softly. "It's
true. She is very beautiful, isn't she, Carl-very
beautiful?"
Carl Elliot's body sagged despondently. "She
is the most beautiful woman in the world-the
loveliest woman in the world."
"You were flattered by her attention, weren't
you-the favor of such a beautiful woman? You
yielded to her, without knowing it. When she told
you to kill me, you accepted it as a natural
request, a trifling favor to do for her. Your mind
didn't work then as it is not working now. Do you
understand me, Carl?"
"Ye-es."
"Do you remember everything she told you?"
"Ye-es."
"Has she taken Intelligence secrets from you,
Carl? Has she?"
"No-never!"
Jimmy Christopher straightened. "I am going
to give you your gun," he said. "You're going to
put it back in its holster. You are going to forget
instantly that you have it-you will forget it until
you leave this room. Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
Carl Elliot's hands rose trembling to the
weapon. He seized it-for one tense moment
held it-then, slowly, he returned it to the arm-pit
holster. Suddenly he spoke brokenly: "Oh, God-
if you tell them-if you tell the Chief what I've
done!"
Jimmy Christopher nodded. "I know that," he
said softly. "Listen. Kara Vizna-Merte Noire-
gave you further instructions last night. You are
going to follow them implicitly. Do you
remember-and understand?"
"Yes."
Jimmy Christopher commanded: "Get up!"
B-10 rose swaying to his feet.
"You will come with me."
Quickly he put on hat and coat, and B-10
followed his actions. They moved together toward
the door. With his hand on the knob, Jimmy
Christopher paused, gazing straight into Carl
Elliot's eyes.
"You won't recall what I'm about to say,
Carl," he declared gently, "but somewhere, deep
down in your mind, it will make its impression.
You realize the penalty you might pay for what
you have done-in time of war."
B-10's flushed face faded to pasty white. He
mumbled, "Yes."
"You realize that even now, though you have
a splendid record behind you, though you are
loyal to the last-Kara Vizna has worked her spell
on you and never again can you be completely
trusted?"
B-10's face turned even whiter. "Yes."
"If ever you face the woman Kara Vizna
again, you are going to remember Diane. You
are going to think only of Diane-as I am thinking
of her now."
Jimmy Christopher was peering deeply into
Carl Elliot's eyes. He opened the door, and B-10
stepped through; he followed, and closed the
door quickly, watching Elliot's face. A strange
expression of bewilderment shone in B-10's eyes.
He gazed around; he smiled confusedly at Jimmy
Christopher.
"I-I feel a bit dizzy," he said slowly. "How
long was I in there with you? All of a sudden, I
don't seem to be able to remember."
"We've been alone in there only a few
minutes," Jimmy Christopher answered, "talking
about-nothing."
Carl Elliot blinked. "Do-do you remember
why I came here? Did I say?"
"You came because you're a damned good
Intelligence man-and I need you tonight."
Carl Elliot smiled. "I remember now. Orders
from V-3."
Jimmy Christopher nodded. "Let's go, Carl."
Arm in arm they walked down the hall. Carl
Elliot was quiet, undisturbed. Jimmy Christopher
was thinking again of-Diane.
A black midnight hovered over the California
coast. The night was deep and silent, disturbed
only by the threshing of the surf on the smooth
shore. Yet an electrical tension tightened the
air-a fearfulness that had been born of the
bombardment, a terror nourished by the very
silence that lay over the troublous waters of the
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ocean. Somewhere out on the Pacific lay the
fleet of the Yellow Empire, waiting to strike.
The Palisade road near Santa Monica had
been dug clear of the earth that had been spilled
down by the exploding shells, yet few cars were
moving along it. The beach was deserted. The
threat of attack had turned the popular shore into
a lonely, deserted stretch. Miles of white beach
lay lonesome in the night.
High in the air, unseen, unheard, a dark
form moved. It was a shadow crossing the sky. It
drifted slowly, a U.S. Army blimp with its
markings disguised, its carriage lightless. Special
mufflers silenced the exhaust of its motors,
diminished the sound of its propeller.
Inside the gondola, binoculars pressed to his
eyes, leaning to peer through a window, Jimmy
Christopher stood. Operator B-10 was beside
him, also scanning the strip of beach below. With
them were John Christopher, Ex-Operator Q-6,
and Tim Donovan; they too were using glasses,
gazing down intently at the white-foaming surf.
Two officers stood by for orders while the craft
drifted along the coast.
For a long hour it had patrolled the deserted
beaches, while the men in the cabin maintained
silent sentry in the sky.
B-10 sighed. "It's like trying to find a certain
grain of sand on the beach."
"It's our only chance," Jimmy Christopher
answered gently.
The operator of the blimp's radio equipment,
who had been sitting motionless before his panel,
stirred and touched a button. The hum of a carrier
wave came from a loudspeaker, and a voice
spoke: "V-3 calling Craft S-78. Is there any
report?"
The operator saw a wag of Jimmy
Christopher's head and spoke into a microphone:
"S-78 calling WQ. No report."
At intervals during the past hour the same
interchange had taken place. As the minutes
crept past, the voice of V-3 spoke the same
question again; and each time the answer was
negative. At the windows of the gondola the men
scarcely moved, except to swing their binoculars
over a wider stretch of the shore below.
The wave of Station WQ sounded again. "A
special report for Operator 5."
Jimmy Christopher touched a cam and the
loudspeaker was disconnected. He fitted phones
to his ears, and when the voice of V-3 continued,
no one save Jimmy Christopher could hear it.
"Operator 5, I have just been in
communication with Z-7, en route to Washington.
He asked me to advise you of a serious new
situation arising here.
"We have had no reports from our operators
within the Yellow Empire for almost twenty-four
hours. It's possible that they are known to the
Yellow Espionage Office, and that they have
been captured. If not that, then their means of
communication have almost certainly been cut
off."
"Yes?"
"This leaves us absolutely blind; working
under a terrific handicap. If our operators within
the Yellow Empire have been uncovered, it is
imperative to re-establish our secret posts at
once. It will have to be done from outside-a very
dangerous task. Z-7 has ordered me to hold you
in readiness for the emergency."
The carrier-wave hummed off.
Jimmy Christopher stood in thought, his
fingers straying unconsciously to the tiny gold
charm of his watch-chain. He was aroused by B-
10, who had lowered his glasses and turned from
the window.
"Is that your good-luck piece, Jimmy?"
Jimmy Christopher smiled slowly. "My badluck
piece," he answered. "I've been very
fortunate in my work so far, but some day my
luck may change. If it ever does-"
His thumbnail touched a tiny hidden spring
on the golden skull. Though not the slightest
crack had been visible, a lid flew up, disclosing a
silver pellet lying within a cavity in the death'shead.
He lifted it gently, and rolled it between his
fingertips.
"This little sphere contains diphenylchlorasine,"
he explained softly. "It is a liquid
which turns to vapor instantly on exposure to air-
one of the deadliest poison gases known to
science. The shell is very fragile. A pinch of my
fingers will crush it-a fall to the floor will splinter
it. If I broke it now, every one of us in this
gondola would die-instantly!"
B-10 exclaimed: "Good Lord! Why do you
take the risk of carrying it?"
"It might be necessary to use it, if there
should happen to be no other way out of a tight
situation," Operator 5 answered.
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"It would kill you too, as well as-"
"I would probably die first."
Tim Donovan was gazing at Jimmy
Christopher wide-eyed. "Gosh, Jimmy, you'd
never do that, would you? Break that thing, and-
"
"If it ever becomes necessary, Tim, I won't
hesitate. That's why I always carry it with me."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. He gently
replaced the little sphere in its cavity, and clicked
the golden lid shut. His hand curled snugly about
Tim Donovan's arm. "Tim, boy-dying wouldn't
be so bad, but-well, I want to stick around a
while you know, with you and Dad and Nan
and-"
"And-somebody else, Jimmy?" Tim
Donovan asked in a curious whisper.
He nodded slowly. "Somebody else, Tim.
There's somebody else now."
A sudden exclamation came from John
Christopher. He bent closer to the window,
peering through his binoculars. "Jimmy!
Something down there, on the water!"
Operator 5 swung glasses to his eyes. At his
father's shoulder, his muscles tightening, he
peered downward at the irregular, lapping edge of
the water. He swept his glasses slowly.
"Notice those three lights forming a triangle.
Directly off shore from them, on the water. See
it?"
"I see it, Dad," Operator 5 answered slowly.
On the blackness of the water he glimpsed a
movement-something glistening, riding with the
swells, yet floating through them. Its shape was
uncertain, but behind it a trail of whitened water
was left in a drifting wake. For a moment
Operator 5 watched the strange thing in the water
course shoreward.
"Lower above it!" he commanded over his
shoulder. "Report to V-3 'transport torpedo
sighted'!"
The muffled motors of the gliding bag
hummed smoothly. The craft dipped, coursing
through a slow circle, swinging over the shore,
then back again as Jimmy Christopher shifted
from window to window to watch the black shape
on the water below. No word was spoken in the
gondola except the whispered report of the
wireless operator at the microphone.
The porpoise-like object was still moving
slowly toward the waterline. Jimmy Christopher's
glasses swept their circles of vision over the
surging black.
"Two of them! Three!" he exclaimed. "And
there's a fourth!"
The white wakes betrayed the objects
floating in slow parade toward the sands. Surf
washed over the first as it slowed, then stopped.
A sudden foam of white at its sharp-pointed,
vaned tail drove it higher onto the sand as a wave
carried it. It lay on the sand-a glistening, sleek
torpedo.
The gondola dipped low, and Jimmy
Christopher watched alertly. A leaf on the upper
side of the torpedo lifted quickly. From the hollow
interior a black form rose. It stood on the sand a
moment, peering about. Bending, then, it drove
the torpedo out into the water. The surf splashed
into the exposed cavity; it sank from sight.
Now the three others, one after another,
were slipping onto the beach. As each grounded,
the same strange procedure followed. Black
forms lifted from inside them; the figures thrust
the torpedoes out into the water and waves
engulfed them. Now, on the otherwise deserted
beach, four men stood.
Jimmy Christopher saw guns glinting in their
hands as the soundless bag swung lower. They
turned and moved together, walking away from
the water. In the line of beach-houses which sat
on the sand, near the road, there was an empty
gap, and into this they walked. They paused at
the pavement, waiting.
Jimmy Christopher uttered crisp orders which
sent the blimp swinging silently toward a point on
the opposite side of a fenced beach-house. The
four men were still waiting when the gondola
dipped and the cottage blotted them from sight.
Jimmy Christopher was at the door as the bag
hovered low, almost at a standstill.
He leaped down. Tim Donovan was first
after him. The Irish lad's face shone eagerly as B-
10 and John Christopher followed. The blimp
hovered while they walked silently across the
sand, to the corner of the fence. Peering past,
Operator 5 glimpsed the four men, dark shadows
against the black of the road and the Palisades
beyond.
He paused. "They're armed," he warned,
"and dangerous. Last night they used poison gas
on three people who saw them." His hand
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reached inside a pocket hidden in the lining of his
coat.
He brought out four squares of fine gauze;
he moistened them with an oily liquid from a vial.
He fastened one over his nose and mouth with
tabs of adhesive, while the others complied.
Once the improvised gas-masks were affixed,
Jimmy Christopher's hand stole to his automatic
and brought it level.
He signaled and led the way into the open.
Tim Donovan kept at his one side, B-10 at the
other. They were soundless shadows approaching
the spot where the four men stood. Jimmy
Christopher's hand shot out in a gesture of
caution when he saw a dim light flash.
It came from an electric torch in the hand of
one of the four; it blinked a quick signal. At the
same time the hum of a motor came down the
road. Into sight swung a low-slung, heavy sedan.
It decelerated quietly, and the four near the road
moved toward it.
Jimmy Christopher sprang forward. Sand
crunched under his heels as he ran with Tim
Donovan matching step for step. The four dark
figures were herding outside an opened door of
the big sedan. A few yards separated Jimmy
Christopher from the car when a guttural voice
exclaimed loudly. The man at the wheel shouted a
quick warning.
Instantly the four whirled. A hand thrust out
the front window. A glistening object whistled
through the air-a teardrop-shaped glass bulb
that flashed toward the sand and shattered with a
dull reverberation. Like magic a swell of white
vapor exploded to enormous volume, blotting
away for an instant all sight of the car and the
passengers of the torpedoes.
A muffled cry of warning sang from Jimmy
Christopher's lips as he dashed closer. Two more
dull crashes sounded; two more gas-shells flew
to bits on the sand. The blinding fumes became a
sticky, baffling cloud from which throaty cries
sounded. Into the midst of it Jimmy Christopher
leaped as the engine of the sedan snarled.
He sprang to the running-board, scarcely
daring to breathe, scarcely daring to trust the
makeshift gas-mask which covered his mouth and
nose. Through the swirling mist he glimpsed
huddled figures within the body of the sedan.
Three men were already inside; the fourth was
following. A dome light was burning, casting a
ghostly glare over their faces. In the fog glittered
quick reflections on metal as the four turned their
automatics.
Blasting reports blended in a fierce attack.
Bullets spanged through the open door. From
behind Operator 5 came the alarmed shouts of B-
10 and John Christopher. A slug slashed through
the fabric of Tim Donovan's cap; he whirled
aside, with a sob. He saw Jimmy Christopher's
vague figure moving swiftly, close beside the
open door.
"Jimmy-look out!"
Operator 5's hand gripped the arm of the
fourth man, and his fingers pressed hard to a
nerve-cord. A sharp cry of rage answered and
the supple-muscled figure whirled. A hard-gripped
automatic slashed through a semi-circle. Caught
off balance Jimmy Christopher lost his hold on the
slippery arm. The gun cracked hard against the
side of his face.
Tim Donovan saw him lurch aside, stunned.
He saw the yellow-faced man thrusting the
glittering automatic straight toward Operator 5's
head. The tough little Irish lad sobbed as he
leaped forward, arms out-thrust. He struck down
at the gun desperately. It blasted once, and the
bullet slammed against the metal of the runningboard.
Frantically Tim Donovan drove his fists
toward the yellow, evil face.
Jimmy Christopher lurched back through the
eye-stinging mass of white vapor. The motion of
the car hurled him away. Through the door, still
open, the automatics blasted again. The yellow
man who had fired ducked back to escape the
flying fists of Tim Donovan. The boy made a
desperate attempt to save Jimmy Christopher
from the spinning fall. His hands gripped clothing,
and were torn off instantly. He instinctively hung
to the door of the sedan as a fresh burst of power
came from the motor, and the wheels spun.
Unreasoning rage flung Tim Donovan into
the body of the sedan, toward the Yellow man
who had struck Operator 5. The Yellow man had
whirled again and turned his gun on the Irish boy.
A single, sharp report sounded. Tim Donovan felt
a tug at his left arm, a sensation like a sharp
pinch. Stunned, he felt warm blood trickle to his
elbow; he sprawled forward.
Claw-like hands fastened on him as he
fought, dazedly, to rise. He was thrust down,
held motionless. The car was rushing now, its
engine singing with power. Wind whipped in
through the opened windows. Above Tim
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Donovan guns spat and, from far behind, came
the snap of answering reports.
One swift moment, and the gun-fire stopped.
Then came no sound save the humming of the
motor of the sedan, and the rushing of the wind.
Tim Donovan lay face downward, pinioned. He
squirmed a protest, and fingers bit again into his
flesh, forcing him to submission. Tears streamed
from his eyes; burning pain coursed from his
wounded arm. He blinked once at his own fist
which was pressed to the floor of the car in front
of him.
Dimly he saw a slender golden chain trailing
through his fingers. He opened his handstand
perceived the thing he held-a tiny golden skull-
a death's head-that peered at him with redflashing
eyes. Unconsciously, when trying to
save Jimmy Christopher from the attack, he had
gripped the watch-chain and torn it loose.
His mind whirled, and tears of rage blinded
him. A sob choked past his lips-and his fingers
closed hard over the glittering, golden skull.
CHAPTER TEN
Pellet of Doom
Into the deep gloom of the deserted beach
road the fleeing sedan, its path marked by the red
spot of its taillight.
Jimmy Christopher's automatic spat its last
slug. He turned, and in the mist saw Operator B-
10 and John Christopher aiming to fire again. He
sprang past them, out of the drifting vapor, and
called: "It's out of range! Stay with me!"
Above the dark beach-house the floating bag
of the Army blimp was a black cloud. He sprinted
toward the swaying gondola as Carl Elliot and
John Christopher hurried after him. A rope-ladder
was trailing over the sand. Jimmy Christopher
seized it and climbed.
He heaved through the gondola door,
glanced down to see his father and B-10 laddering
up and snapped orders at the officers. "Follow
that sedan! Keep it in sight!"
John Christopher was crawling into the
gondola, and B-10 was still clinging to the ladder,
when the engines of the craft surged out sudden
power. The bag lifted, driven into a swift semicircle
by the drive of the flashing propellers.
Jimmy Christopher hooked hands under B-10's
arms and helped him into the gondola; he
slammed the door, peering down as the blimp
shot over the shore road.
"That's it ahead-the red light! It's turning
onto Ocean Avenue. Watch it!"
He clicked the empty clip out of his
automatic, substituting a full one, as he stepped
close to the radio operator. "Signal V-3!"
John Christopher's hand gripped his son's
arm. "Jimmy-where's Tim?"
"In that car! They've got him!"
A moan came from the lips of ex-Operator
Q-6. He peered down at black streets passing
beneath the blimp. In the spread of darkness was
a shine of light-headlights shafting ahead of a
swiftly moving car. Jimmy Christopher pressed
beside him, watching it. "That's the car!"
From the radio operator: "V-3!" Operator 5
turned quickly to the microphone. "Reporting from
Craft S-78. Four passenger torpedoes just came
ashore, carrying four Yellow agents. That means
there's a Yellow submarine lying off the coast-
possibly the Neptune. Signal a search!"
He turned from the microphone quickly,
leaving the officer at the radio to communicate
further details to the Pacific Intelligence chief.
The blimp was rising higher above Santa Monica.
Black masses of buildings, lightless because of
the wide-spread fear of another naval
bombardment, were floating below.
The shafting headlights of the speeding
sedan were still visible. The officer behind Jimmy
Christopher spoke quickly. "It's following Ocean
Avenue, but it's going to turn. There-it's
swinging into San Vincente. It's going to be a
devil of a job, following it! We can't hope to equal
its speed."
"Then rise higher and keep it in sight as long
as possible!"
Again Jimmy Christopher brought binoculars
to his eyes. As the bag tilted to ascend, the red
light glimmered brightly through his lenses. The
sedan was traveling swiftly over the boulevard;
the blimp was circling to follow. Ahead lay vast
darkness that threatened to engulf the car.
Jimmy Christopher's lips tightened. The
sedan was gaining, driving swiftly inland.
Motionless except for the slight shifting of the
binoculars, he kept in sight the red star flashing
through the blackness below.
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On the vibrating floor of the speeding sedan,
Tim Donovan lay, still pinioned by the sharpnailed
hands of the Yellow man. The roar of the
powerful motor drummed in his ears, muffling the
guttural voices of the four men. He was
conscious of quick turns when the sedan lurched
and the tires whined. He could see nothing
through his bleared eyes save the glittering,
golden strand trailing through the fingers of his
clenched fist.
It seemed an endless ride to Tim Donovan.
When at last the car slowed, he sensed that
lonesome country spread all around. There was
another turn, and the wheels of the sedan gritted
over loose gravel. Presently he felt the brakes
take hold and the car stopped.
Feet moved around him. The hands
tightened on him; he was dragged across the
mat, and lifted out. As he was forced to his feet
and dragged across a grassy slope, he saw a
white building loom out of the gloom. Its marble
columns shone with a ghostly glow, and an eerie
silence blanketed it. Tim Donovan could read, as
he was hurried closer to it, words carved above a
rearing arch:
ETERNAL LIGHT MAUSOLEUM
His small fists still clenched the tiny golden
skull. He twisted back once to peer into the sky
before the portico blotted it away. He glimpsed
nothing but black emptiness before a metal door
ground on heavy hinges, and he was thrust into
deeper darkness.
Behind him the entrance swung tightly shut.
A faint glow shone through the colored glass of
arched windows. A ringing silence pervaded the
interior of the mausoleum, a silence that held for
long moments until heels clicked on the marble
floor.
Then light appeared as another door was
swung open. In the ghostly luminescence Tim
Donovan perceived white statues standing like
frozen ghosts. Behind them reared a marble wall
patterned with the bronze doors of rows of crypts.
Nameplates glistened dimly. Tim Donovan's eyes
widened as he peered around, as he realized that
he was within a house of the dead. He was
pushed on, and again a door thudded behind him.
A quick muttering of guttural voices echoed
within the cold room. Released, Tim Donovan's
right hand sought the injury in his left arm. The fist
that clenched the golden skull of Jimmy
Christopher was reddened with sticky blood. The
tough little Irish lad's jaw clenched hard with the
throbbing pain that filled him. He peered defiantly
into the saffron, evil faces of the four who had
brought him as their voices shrilled excitedly.
Abruptly, from behind Tim Donovan, a
woman's voice spoke, silencing the others. The
four turned, made gestures of respectful
obeisance, and peered toward another door
through which light was shafting brightly.
Turning, Tim Donovan saw the woman. She
was standing in the light, her slender body
silhouetted, her eyes glittering in the glow
reflected from the marble walls. Her gaze shifted
sharply to the Irish boy. She took slow steps
toward him-slow, gliding steps that reminded
Tim Donovan of the stalking of a beast.
The woman's red lips worked evilly as she
asked in a tone of merciless coldness: "Who is
this?"
Immediately another burst of the strange
tongue blurted from the lips of the four. The
woman did not move; she continued to gaze at
Tim Donovan. There was no sign that she heard,
except that her scarlet mouth turned into a slow,
cruel smile. She gave a signal that brought
silence, and said throatily: "It is good. He will be
glad to hear what we have to say, comrades.
Take him in!"
She turned quickly, and strode into the
brighter light beyond the door through which she
had entered. Again the hands seized Tim
Donovan's arms. He grimaced with pain as he
was thrust forward, through the door, and jerked
to a standstill. Again blinking, he peered around,
at walls checkered with the bronze doors of
closed crypts.
The woman had gone to the end of a long
table; she was standing erect, her eyes fixed
upon the boy. At her right and left men sat-men
whose faces were expressionless masks, whose
eyes glittered darkly. One of the four closed the
heavy metal door, and with its click it seemed to
Tim Donovan that the world was shut far away.
The woman said slowly, "We will speak in
English, so that he may understand."
One of the parchment-faced men assented:
"It is as you wish, Kara Vizna."
"It pleases me that he will understand-
before he dies. I know of this boy. He is a dear
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friend of the man known as Operator 5-of the
man whose fate we are deciding tonight.
Perhaps, when he hears what we have to say,
he may talk."
Tim Donovan's jaw squared pugnaciously.
"You can't make me say anything-no matter
what you do to me!"
The merciless light in Kara Vizna's eyes did
not change. Her gaze was a frigid shaft upon Tim
Donovan. He returned it without flinching, yet he
felt a coldness gathering around his heart.
Kara Vizna spoke to the four without turning
her beautiful, implacable face from Tim Donovan.
"You were seen coming ashore, and you are
positive that the gas did not kill the men who tried
to capture you?"
"Yes."
"You are sure one of these men was
Operator 5?"
"He could be no other, Kara Vizna."
"Then," she said slowly, "he lived-past
midnight."
"Unfortunately."
The woman's tapering hands curled into
tight, white fists; she pressed them hard upon the
table.
"We are here tonight for one supreme
purpose, a purpose that must be accomplished at
the soonest possible moment, at any cost. That
is the death of Operator 5! The strategy of the
Yellow Empire is complete, save for the execution
of Operator 5. His death is more important than
all other plans. He is the most dangerous threat
we face. He must-he will die!"
The woman seated herself. She continued
to gaze at Tim Donovan as she spoke; and her
mouth formed into a merciless smile.
"Look at him," she said. "See the fear in his
eyes. He is afraid-afraid for Operator 5. He has
heard doom pronounced upon his friend. It
pleases me to watch him suffer."
Tim Donovan blurted frantically: "You're
crazy if you think you can even touch him!"
Kara Vizna's answer was slow and
deliberate: "His death, I promise you, is
inevitable. It is written in the Book of the
Heavens. He is doomed."
Tim Donovan stood motionless. Within the
moist palm of his left hand he felt the smooth
hardness of Jimmy Christopher's death-charm.
His heart began to beat swiftly, heavily. His eyes
clung with fearful fascination to those of Kara
Vizna.
"Yesterday," she said softly, speaking to the
men at the table, "our secret agent Xaros,
shadowing signal corps repairmen, succeeded in
discovering the wires which lead to the secret
headquarters of the American Intelligence in Los
Angeles. Xaros, working carefully last night, was
able to tap the special line. We already know all
the details of the U.S. Code XVII which is used
between Washington and Los Angeles by the
American Intelligence."
"Yes, Kara Vizna."
"I have supplied Xaros with a message,
written in Code XVII, addressed to Operator 5,
and before dawn he will send it. Operator 5 will
not suspect that it has come from any source but
Washington. He will obey the orders without
question. Obeying them, he will die."
Tim Donovan's throat tightened. His hot fist
clamped about the golden skull as his breath
came faster.
"His orders will direct him to investigate
suspicious circumstances surrounding a certain
house at Malibu beach. He will be told that it is
thought to be a rendezvous of Kara Vizna. He will
go to it promptly, you may rest assured-and in it
he will meet his death."
There was silence around the table. Tim
Donovan placed his hands slowly behind his back.
The movement brought a throb of pain into his left
arm; his fingers were stiff as he opened them.
Carefully he felt of the smoothness of the golden
charm. His thumbnail pressed the metal as he
searched for the hidden spring.
Kara Vizna's voice continued, each syllable
ringing. "His orders will bring him to the house
alone, and once he passes its door there will be
no escape for him. You will be lying in wait-all of
you. You will riddle him with bullets until no drop
of blood remains in his body. You will dig out his
heart with the sharp blades of knives, then you
will carry him to the water, and hurl him into it,
and know that the fish of the sea will prey on him."
"Yes, Kara Vizna."
"You will bring his heart to me in a glass
vessel-you will say to me, 'This, Kara Vizna, is
the dead heart of Operator 5'."
"Yes, Kara Vizna," the men chanted.
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"And I will send it to the Yellow Emperor,
saying in my message, 'Kara Vizna has again
triumphed'!"
Tim Donovan scarcely breathed. The spell of
the woman's eyes chilled him to the marrow, so
that even his numbed fingers ceased for a
moment to search for the hidden spring in the little
golden skull.
Kara Vizna rose slowly, still gazing at the
little Irish lad. She moved with slow, gliding steps
toward him. As she reached the closer end of the
table, she extended one white hand, and uttered a
sharp command in the Yellow tongue.
One of the men answered with a movement
that brought into the light, from a hidden sheath,
a narrow-bladed knife. Kara Vizna's slender
fingers tightened about its hilt. Again, with slow
steps, she glided toward Tim Donovan.
Another snapped command brought two
Yellow men springing from their chairs. They
rushed upon Tim Donovan; they seized his
shoulders, and pressed him back. The coldness
of the marble wall penetrated his coat and chilled
his blood as he was pinioned against it. Squarely
facing him stood Kara Vizna, the slender-bladed
knife glittering in her alabaster hand.
A sob broke through Tim Donovan's lips.
Unseen by the Yellow men who held him he
fumbled again with the golden skull. Desperately
he sought the spring which would release the
pellet of death into his fingers. The hard, golden
shell still imprisoned it as Kara Vizna advanced.
Suddenly she turned the knife. It flashed
toward Tim Donovan's chest. Breath locked hotly
in his lungs as its needle-point came to rest
against him, directly over his heart.
The woman's voice was an almost inaudible
purr.
"Operator 5 will join you in death before the
dawn shines over the sea."
The sharp point of the blade parted the fabric
of Tim Donovan's shirt; he felt its coldness eat
into his skin. He peered with horror-stricken
fascination into the dark, smoldering eyes of Kara
Vizna eyes coming closer and closer, shining
with a promise of doom.
Frantically Tim Donovan sought the elusive
spring. His mind was ringing-ringing with
remembered words that Jimmy Christopher had
spoken: "My bad-luck piece . . . One of the
deadliest gases known to science"
At that instant he felt one tip of a golden
crossbone shift. He felt the flick of the little
golden cap. He felt a round pellet roll into his
fingers. His lips pressed hard as he peered into
the eyes of Kar Vizna. And again he seemed to
hear Operator 5's voice ringing in his ears: "A
pinch of my fingers will crush it, and I would die
first. . . "
Between the trembling fingertips of Tim
Donovan the little pellet rested. Tim Donovan
blurted: "You aren't going to hurt Jimmy! I'm not
going to let you touch him!"
His numbed fingertips pressed on the shell.
His eyes closed tight. A sob sank into his lungs.
Silently he cried: "Jimmy-Jimmy! So-long,
Jimmy-!"
The blade pressed harder to his body.
Now!
Suddenly guttural exclamation sounded in
Tim Donovan's ringing ears. A gasped word came
from the woman. Quick movements followed.
The piercing coldness of the razor-edged blade
left Tim Donovan's chest.
His eyelids flew up. He saw that Kara Vizna
had turned away; that the men had whirled, and
were peering at the metal door of the marble
room. Through the hush came sounds from
above. A crashing of glass, the sharp report of
an exploding gun, a shrill cry of pain.
Kara Vizna uttered orders sharply. The
Yellow agents sprang toward the metal door and
flung it open. A gun blasted again. Muttering
cries followed. Heels clicked upon marble
flooring, feet rattled down the steps. A voice
shouted, "Follow him!"
Tim Donovan's heart leaped. "Jimmy!"
In the numb fingers hidden behind his back
he still held the tiny silver pellet of death-
unbroken.
"Jimmy!"
Kara Vizna whirled toward the door. She
cried commands that sent the Yellow agents flying
through it. At the same instant another man
appeared beyond, his eyes shining with terror.
He shouted something which became lost in the
clattering echoes of another shot above.
Quick steps took Kara Vizna to the door.
Her small hands thrust it shut upon her agents
who had dashed through. She clicked a latch in
place. Her slender finger touched a switch that
brought thick darkness.
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Tim Donovan crouched low, bringing his
hands in front of him. He dared not attempt to
return the fragile shell to its receptacle in the
golden skull in the darkness. He closed a hand
over it gently.
Beyond the metal door shots blasted. Tim
Donovan heard, from close at hand, a swift
rustling; then a dull, metallic thud. He groped into
the room. His throat tightened as he heard Jimmy
Christopher's voice again, as his one hand
touched cold marble and crept toward the metal
door. His fingers sought the heavy latch and
found it.
Halfway down the marble stairs Jimmy
Christopher dropped to a crouch. His automatic
barked at the darting figures of the Yellow men in
the room below. Shrill cries mixed with the
echoing of the explosions. He sprang again,
closer to the guns in the Yellow hands.
B-10 ran after him. John Christopher gave a
leap that sent him over the marble railing, down
into a corner below. His gun spat as his feet
slapped against the floor. A Yellow agent
screamed and fell as he sprang toward Operator
5.
Gusting powder-smoke, clashing echoes,
filled the room. Slugs spatted against the marble
walls and chips flew. Jimmy Christopher led the
way toward the corner in which the Yellow men
were backed. Four lay on the floor amid splashes
of red; three attacked with the fury of trapped
rats.
Jimmy Christopher heard his automatic click
upon an empty chamber. Shots blasted on both
sides of him as his hand plucked at the buckle of
his belt. In the glow flashed the supple blade of
his rapier. He sprang nimbly as the steel
whipped.
A gun dropped out of a lashed Yellow wrist.
The needle-like blade sank, then whipped higher.
Twice Jimmy Christopher lunged, quickly
recovering. He paused, his blade weaving,
whipping from wall to wall, peering down at
huddled bodies. Behind him guns blasted again.
B-10 shouted: "Got 'em!"
Jimmy Christopher turned as he heard a
moan behind him. His father was standing with
sagging shoulders, gun lowered, face gray, one
hand clutched over his heart. He dropped his
rapier and gripped John Christopher's shoulders.
"Dad!"
"I-I'm all right, Jimmy," John Christopher
mumbled. "My heart-hurts a little, that's all."
"Dad-you shouldn't have come in here with
us! You took a terrible risk!"
John Christopher straightened himself with
an effort. His eyes shone brightly into his son's.
"No greater risk than you took, Jimmy."
A metallic click turned Operator 5's head
quickly. In the side wall a door was opening.
Behind it appeared the face of Tim Donovan. His
eyes were wide, his lips parted. He shouldered
through, his one arm dangling uselessly, his fist
clenched.
"Tim!"
Jimmy Christopher flung arms around the
tough little Irish lad. Tim Donovan clung to him,
sobbing. He asked anxiously: "Tim-you're
hurt-your arm!"
"It doesn't hurt!" Tim Donovan blurted.
"Jimmy-in there. That woman-Kara Vizna!"
Jimmy Christopher sprang up. His hand rose
gripping the hilt of the rapier. Fast steps took him
to the door. He paused, peered into the
darkness beyond-and stepped through.
There was silence. . . He moved aside
quickly. In the dim light, reflecting through the
doorway, he saw no movement, nothing save
emptiness. His fingers stroked the light-switch,
and a brilliant shine filled the room.
Emptiness. Kara Vizna was gone.
"Outside, Carl! Look for her!"
Operator 5 moved swiftly to the bronze doors
of the crypts in the wall. He tried one after
another, finding each one tightly sealed. He
paused, peering around grimly; but his face
softened when he saw Tim Donovan standing in
the doorway.
"Gosh, Jimmy! I thought I'd never see you
again!"
Operator 5 came to the little Irish lad quickly.
"We had a tough time following the car in the
blimp, Tim. Lost it once, then picked it up. We
came down and found this place guarded like a
fort."
Tim Donovan blurted: "She talked about
killing you, Jimmy, till I couldn't stand it! I wasn't
going to let her do that. I-I was just going to
break it, Jimmy!"
He extended his moist palm, and the little
silver sphere of death lay on it. Jimmy
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Christopher's eyes shone with a startled light. He
took up the pellet gently. He returned it to the
cavity inside the golden skull-and dropped the
skull into his pocket. He looked at Tim Donovan
solemnly.
"You were going to use it, Tim-to save me,
even though you knew it would kill you too?"
"I wasn't going to let 'em touch you, Jimmy!"
Operator 5's arm crept across the Irish lad's
shoulder. His throat tightened. "I'm glad you
didn't, old-timer. I'm glad you didn't do that."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wings Over the Pacific
A heavy pre-dawn darkness lay over the
almost lightless city of Los Angeles when Jimmy
Christopher and Carl Elliot entered the building on
Olive Street in which Secret Headquarters PL was
located.
Operator 5 had made a quick search of the
isolated mausoleum without finding a trace of
Kara Vizna; he had been forced to accept the
unpleasant truth that again she had eluded him.
When other operators had appeared to relieve
him of the search, following his report by wireless
to V-3 from the gondola of the army blimp, he
had returned by air to the Glendale field.
John Christopher had been weakened by the
nervous strain of the night's encounter, and
Operator 5 had insisted that he return to his hotel.
Jimmy Christopher, having received orders from
V-3 to report to Headquarters PL, had waited long
enough to see that Tim Donovan's wounded arm
was dressed. Now, with B-10, he was reporting.
The girl at the secretarial desk in the outer
office rose as they entered. "V-3 didn't expect you
quite so soon-he's stepped out," she told them.
"Please wait, and I'll call him."
Jimmy Christopher followed Carl Elliot into
the room beyond. B-10 sank wearily into a chair,
wagging his head. There was silence until the
door of the teletype room opened and the shirtsleeved
assistant to V-3 entered. He left a yellow
sheet on the Pacific chief's desk, and went out
again.
Jimmy Christopher stepped close to read the
message.
...RPT W-4, SAN FRANCISCO... YELLOW
AGENT KARA VIZNA KNOWN IN HOLLYWOOD AS
MERTE NOIRE... REFLECTS DOUBTFULLY ON
OUR OPERATOR B-10. . . B-10 KNOWN TO HAVE
BEEN FRIENDLY WITH MERTE NOIRE... GRAVELY
SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. . . ARREST B-10
AT ONCE PENDING INVESTIGATION. . . K-2, SAN
FRANCISCO. . . .
Jimmy Christopher's breath stopped. He
glanced quickly at Carl Elliot, who was still sitting
with head bowed. His hand hovered over the
message.
"Carl," he said softly.
Elliot looked up. "Yes."
"Your sister, Diane, means a great deal to
you, doesn't she?"
"Everything in the world, Jimmy."
"And you," Jimmy Christopher said slowly,
"mean everything in the world to her."
Elliot smiled. "I've tried to make her proud of
me."
Again there was silence, while Jimmy
Christopher peered at B-10. Into the quiet came
the sound of a quick step, a click of a latch
beyond the partition. A voice carried in: "The
chief is waiting for you, Operator 5."
Swiftly Jimmy Christopher's hand closed over
the message from San Francisco, crumpling it.
The door opened as he thrust it deep into his
pocket. V-3 strode in briskly.
B-10 and Operator 5 gripped the Pacific
chief's hand. Jimmy Christopher left the wadded
message in his pocket. V-3 turned to the desk
quickly, picked up several other messages which
had come in during his absence, shoved them
aside, and gazed fixedly at Operator 5.
"I've called you here," he said levelly, "to
execute the most important orders that have yet
been handed you. They're dangerous-highly
dangerous-and yet there is no other man we can
trust with the mission."
"What is it, Chief?"
V-3 slipped from a desk drawer a sheet
covered with pasted teletype strips, and handed it
to Jimmy Christopher.
"This," he said, "is the first word that has
come to us from our undercover agents in the
Yellow Empire since communication was
suspended. It was received by wireless at San
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Francisco, from one of our secret radio stations
and relayed here. It tells its own story. Read it!"
Jimmy Christopher read rapidly.
. . . REPORT FROM S-9 STATIONED AHAB
YELLOW EMPIRE... IMMEDIATELY WAR
DECLARED YELLOW FORCES SEIZED ALL U.S.
INTELLIGENCE MEN WITHIN EMPIRE . . . FOUR
KILLED. . .OTHERS MISSING. . .I MANAGED TO
ESCAPE WOUNDED NOW UNDER COVER AT
THIS STATION . . . MAY BE DISCOVERED ANY
MOMENT. . .HIGHLY IMPORTANT INFORMATION
FOLLOWS. . . ENTIRE PORT OF AGUSKO UNDER
GUARD . . . APPROACH IMPOSSIBLE EXCEPT TO
KNOWN OFFICERS OF YELLOW FLEET. . .TEN
CRUISERS OF YELLOW FLEET DISGUISED AS U
S SHIPS IN THIS HARBOR DEFINITELY THOSE
WHICH SHELLED DUTCH AND ENGLISH
MERCHANTMEN NOW AWAITING FURTHER
ORDERS... STRUCTURAL PECULIARITIES
IDENTIFY THEM BEYOND DOUBT AS YELLOW
SHIPS BUT OTHERWISE APPEARANCE OF U.S.
SHIPS CLEVERLY COUNTERFEITED . . . ALL
NEWLY BUILT, ONE RECENTLY CONSTRUCTED
KORA . . . PROOF OF THIS WILL AVERT CRISIS
BETWEEN WORLD POWERS AND U.S. But. . . .
The message ended abruptly. Jimmy
Christopher's eyes shifted alertly to those of V-3.
"It's very possible," the Pacific chief said
gravely, "that S-9 was discovered sending the
report by Yellow agents. If so he is dead and the
wireless station has been destroyed. Our last
means of communication within the Yellow
Empire is lost."
The telephone chattered. V-3 took up the
instrument and, after an interchange of signals,
listened intently. His forehead furrowed; he
muttered exclamations. When he replaced the
instrument his lips pressed firmly.
"Report from the operators searching the
mausoleum," he informed Operator 5. "Almost
all the crypts have been broken open. Inside them
are stores of bombs-high-explosive, poison-gas
bombs, incendiary machines as well as cultures
of deadly germs. The building is an arsenal!"
"Kara Vizna-?"
"One of the crypts opened into an
underground room. From it a tunnel led outside.
Kara Vizna provided herself with another escape!
The devil, she-"
V-3 broke off in wordless fury. Then he said
quietly: "I have here a long message from Z-7
who is still flying toward Washington. I informed
him by wireless of S-9's report, and his answer is
these orders.
"Pending the message of the President to
the European ambassadors, we must make a
desperate attempt to establish incontestable proof
that the cruisers which shelled the merchant ships
are not U.S. ships. Unless we do, the crisis
which has risen between the European powers
and the United States may precipitate a
declaration of war. If the declaration comes, it will
be too late for proof. The proof must come first.
"The task of obtaining that proof, Operator 5,
rests entirely in your hands."
Jimmy Christopher listened silently.
"This, then, is the plan evolved by Z-7,
preparations for which are under way at this
moment. At Crissy Field, in San Francisco,
fourteen special Martin bombers are being made
ready. They are being provided with a capacity
for fuel great enough to carry them across the
ocean to the shores of the Yellow Empire."
"A flight across the Pacific!"
"Exactly. It is a foregone conclusion that
only a few of the fourteen super-bombers will
cover the entire distance. Some of them will
inevitably fall. It means certain death for most of
the pilots who attempt the flight, yet the sacrifice
is necessary."
"I will accompany this flight, V-3?" Jimmy
Christopher asked quietly.
"You will lead the flight, Operator 5. We are
depending on you as we can depend upon no
other operator in the Intelligence Service.
Included in the two flights, of seven superbombers
each, will be several photographic
ships. Their equipment is of the most advanced
design, and their cameras will be able, if
necessary, to pierce smoke-screens by utilizing
infra-red rays. It is our intention, however, to
time the flight so that the flotilla arrives at Agusko
at night.
"Several other planes will be provided with
flashlight bombs in their racks. Every provision
will be taken so that, if it is humanly possible,
photographs will be obtained of the disguised
ships lying in the harbor of Agusko. These
photographs must prove that the ships are not in
reality U.S. cruisers, but part of the Yellow fleet.
"Assuming that the photographic planes
reach Agusko, the making of these pictures will
be hazardous in the extreme. It is known that the
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port is heavily protected by anti-aircraft batteries
which will certainly attack. Once the photographs
are taken, if the attempt is successful, there will
follow the almost insurmountable problem of
returning the films to the United States.
"Our undertaking is not simply a non-stop
flight across the Pacific to the Yellow Empire,
Operator 5-it is a non-stop round-trip flight!
"This can be accomplished, we hope, by
provisions for refueling. One of the two flights of
seven super-bombers each will carry no
armament. Their entire load-capacity will be
given over to fuel. Once the flotilla flies near the
Yellow Empire, it will land upon the water. The
one flight will refuel the second for the remainder
of the journey."
Operator 5 leaned forward tensely. "It means
that at least half the bombers will necessarily be
abandoned on the high seas-with their pilots!"
V-3 nodded gravely. "There is no other way.
Already, in spite of the certain destruction facing
these men, we have volunteers for the detail in
greater number than we have planes to be flown.
To get back to our preparations: Once a flight is
refueled, the trip toward the Yellow Empire will be
resumed. It will consist of the photographic ships,
and planes carrying heavy loads of bombs.
"After the photographs are taken, the
explosive-carrying bombers will attempt to sink
the counterfeit ships while the camera planes
begin their return hop. Their supply of fuel should
carry them, barring accident, almost to the Pacific
Coast of the United States. Radio communication
with our air-fields here will be maintained
constantly. At the proper moment, depending on
your signal, Operator 5, another flotilla will take
off, flying westward, to meet the returning camera
ships.
"Again, somewhere on the high seas, the
process of refueling will take place. Once that
point in the journey is reached, the possibility of a
successful return, with the films, is far greater
than before. But until that point is reached, there
will be steadily increasing peril every foot of the
way.
"The flotilla will fly under your orders,
Operator 5. You will direct all maneuvers. It will
be your task first to obtain, then to return to this
country, the photographs which will prove beyond
all doubt the treacherous strategy of the Yellow
Empire in using ships camouflaged as U.S.
cruisers."
Jimmy Christopher asked: "If I don't get
through-?"
V-3 answered: "As a precaution, we will
send a second operator with you. Should you be
stopped, somehow, it will then devolve on him to
obtain and return the photographs. I have not yet
selected the man-for a terrific responsibility will
rest on his shoulders in case you are prevented
from carrying out your orders."
"May I suggest the man to go with me,
Chief?"
"Certainly."
"B-10."
Carl Elliot had been listening intently; now
he sprang to his feet.
"Good Lord! You can't mean that, Jimmy!"
"I mean it, Chief," Operator 5 answered
quietly. "B-10 is my choice." His hand, thrust into
his pocket, closed over the teletyped message
ordering the arrest of Carl Elliot. "I consider him
the man for the job!"
He could not put into words the thoughts
lying deep in his clouded blue eyes. "I choose B-
10 for this task," he might have said, "because, if
he succeeds, there will be no possible doubt of
his faith to the Intelligence service or of his
integrity as a secret operator. And because, if he
fails, it will be far better than the disgrace which
faces him now."
V-3 hesitated, during a moment of silence,
then nodded. "Very well. B-10 will fly with you."
Carl Elliot's eyes sparkled as he peered at
Jimmy Christopher. "Say-thanks! I-I know it's
a terrific responsibility, pinch-hitting for you,
Jimmy-but I'll do my best!"
Operator 5 said quietly: "I know you will,
Carl."
V-3 rose. "The fourteen Martin superbombers,
all convertible amphibians, are of an
advanced type never before used. They are now
being made ready on Crissy Field. We hope that
the take-off can be made soon after dark tonight.
In the meantime, our plans will be perfected.
"I will discuss them with you minutely,
supplying you with all possible data and maps,
prepared under the direction of the Chief of Naval
Aeronautics, Rear Admiral Ledyard. By the time
you are ready to leave here for San Francisco, Z-
7 will have arrived in Washington, and I'll have
been in touch with him. Now-
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"Neither of you has slept tonight. Once this
flight begins, there will be no such thing as sleep.
You've got to rest, both of you. Come back here,
at say, three this afternoon."
Jimmy Christopher grasped V-3's gnarled
hand. Carl Elliot linked arms with him as they left
the secret Intelligence Headquarters. B-10's voice
rang eagerly.
"Jimmy, I-I'm damned proud to be going
with you!"
Jimmy Christopher was solemn as they
waited for the elevator cage. "Better not tell Diane
all about it, Carl."
Elliot nodded slowly. "I know. No, I won't tell
the real risk. But whatever happens, Jimmy-
she'll be glad."
Jimmy Christopher's hand was still thrust in
his pocket, still closed tightly about the wall of
yellow paper. Before his eyes danced the
mocking black words he had read upon it- "B-10
. . . to be arrested at once . . ." His fingers
tightened on the crumpled sheet and he smiled.
"She'll be glad," he said quietly.
At a few minutes before three p.m., Carleton
Victor, smartly dressed, stepped from his superb
living-room into the vestibule of his hotel suite.
He glanced back at the cool face of his valet,
Crowe.
"I shall be absent indefinitely, Crowe," he
said. "And your instructions are-not to worry
about me."
"Really sir?"
"If a week passes, and I don't return, Crowe,
I suggest that you pack and return to New York
without me."
"Without you, sir?" Crowe looked startled. "I
shouldn't think of doing it, sir, unless-"
"And if," Carleton Victor continued soberly,
"after a month I do not return at all, I suggest that
you look for another position, Crowe. You will find
letters of recommendation in the center drawer of
my desk in New York."
"Why, sir," Crowe protested. "You startle
me. Is something apt to happen to you, sir? Is it
such a dangerous undertaking-making photographs?"
"In some cases, Crowe," Carleton Victor
replied, smiling quietly, "it is not the safest
occupation in the world."
He left the amazing manservant standing
bewildered at the door. His swift roadster carried
him to Olive street. Carleton Victor stepped out of
the elevator high above the thoroughfare; and
Jimmy Christopher had entered Secret
Intelligence Headquarters PL.
Three hours later, he sat hunched at a desk,
shoulder to shoulder with B-10, facing V-3 across
a spread of carefully drawn and scaled aerial
navigation maps. No detail had been left
undiscussed. They had talked rapidly, quietly,
planning the flight of the flotilla across the Pacific.
"The devilish thing about it," V-3 declared,
settling back wearily in his chair, "is that there are
no possible emergency stopping-places between
our coast and the Yellow Empire . . ."
Jimmy Christopher nodded. It was in the
minds of all of them that upon that flight and the
men controlling it rested the fate of a nation.
They gazed at each other silently.
The Pacific chief of the Intelligence said
quietly, "The plane waiting for you at Glendale
now will carry you directly to Crissy Field. You will
immediately assume command of the flotilla,
Operator 5."
The telephone jangled. V-3 took it up. His
face lighted; quickly he touched a cam which
threw into the circuit a frequency-distorter.
Hidden in the desk, the vacuum-valve device
functioned to make eavesdropping over the line
impossible. He said, as he touched the tiny lever,
"Z-7 calling from Washington."
He listened. "Yes, Operator 5 is here. He is
about to leave for Crissy Field. Plans are
perfected . . . Certainly."
He passed the telephone to Jimmy
Christopher.
"I have just come from a conference with the
President," the Washington chief informed
Operator 5. "I have turned over to him the codes
of Kara Vizna, and he has arranged a meeting of
the European ambassadors. The meeting is in
session now. We are hoping for a
reestablishment of friendly relations, although the
situation is most threatening-and we're
depending on you to save us from an open break
which would be disastrous. But such a break is
inevitable if proof of the duplicity of the Yellow
War Office does not come through."
"I'll do my best, Chief."
"Most dangerous of all is the threat to the
Panama Canal. Our secret agents in Mexico have
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advised us of the capture of several Yellow spies
on the Isthmus. More Yellow troops are marching
toward it from the south. The Atlantic Fleet of the
United States Navy is under full steam to join
Admiral Neasham in the Pacific. But if the Yellow
forces succeed in destroying the canal, the way
will be blocked and it will mean inevitable defeat
on the Pacific.
"I am calling you chiefly on that account,
Operator 5. In your workshop you have been
constructing your radio rocket. We had hoped to
count on it as a means of defense in case of
attack, but I know the surprise tactics of the
Yellow Empire have caught you with the device
unperfected. Still, if we can bring it into use-"
"Only minor details of the radio rocket need
working out, Chief," Operator 5 answered. "All
major problems are solved. By fast work, we will
be able to use the rockets in the defense of the
Panama Canal if necessary.
"Turn the model over to the War Department
at once. You know where my keys are kept. They
will unlock the compartments containing the plans
and full specifications. The rockets can be built
quickly, as well as the launching towers. If the
rockets are to be used at all, it will be necessary
to begin construction of the launching towers at
once, especially near Colon and Balboa, as well
as Panama City."
"I will give orders for their immediate
construction."
"Full directions for the use of the radio
rockets are also contained in the safe," Jimmy
Christopher went on quickly. "They will be able to
reach farther than the largest guns of the Yellow
Navy, in case an attack comes."
There was a brief silence. And then, from
Washington came the words, "Good-bye, and
God bless you, Jimmy Christopher."
He rose. B-10 straightened beside him. V-3
faced them across the desk, his faded eyes
shining. Operator 5 spoke quietly again. "Let's
go," he said.
Glendale Airport, commandeered as an Army
Air Field following the first bombardment of the
Yellow guns, lay dark under the night sky.
Sentries patrolled it. On the gloomy field the only
spark of light was the flashing of flame from the
exhaust stacks of a swift pursuit which sat, motor
hot and ready to hop, on the line.
A heavy sedan rolled past armed guards and
stopped near the waiting plane. Out of it stepped
Jimmy Christopher, followed by B-10 and V-3.
They strode briskly toward the ship; and as they
moved, dark figures hurried toward them.
"Jimmy!"
It was the anxious voice of Tim Donovan.
The little Irish lad ran eagerly toward Operator 5,
John Christopher following. With them came a
girl, her eyes sparkling in the light of the exhaust
flames. Diane Elliot had found Tim Donovan and
John Christopher waiting on the field when she
had come in response to a message from her
brother. Operator 5 turned quickly to greet them.
Tim Donovan gripped Operator 5's hand in
both of his, and raised a pale, drawn face. John
Christopher's arm crept across his son's
shoulders. "Luck, my boy. I wish I were going
with you."
Jimmy Christopher smiled. "I'll be thinking of
you, Dad. You, too, Tim, old fellow. I'll be seeing
you again." But doubt shaded his voice. "It'll bring
me through-thinking of you and dad and Nan.
Say so-long to Nan for me, Dad."
Jimmy Christopher turned to see Diane Elliot
standing beside B-10. Her eyes were gazing into
his. She extended her hand slowly.
"Happy landings, Jimmy Christopher."
"Thanks, Diane." They were quiet, almost
inaudible words. "I'm glad you've met dad and
Tim. I've wanted them to know you."
The tough little Irish lad was still gazing
widely into Operator 5's face. Jimmy Christopher
smiled, and thumped Tim's shoulder. "Want
something to think about while I'm gone, Tim?
Watch this."
Smiling, he brought a box of safety matches
from his pocket. He displayed it silently, then
drew out a match, and struck it. Holding the box
level, he placed the match vertically upon it. The
light shone in his eyes as he slowly withdrew his
hand, and the burning match remained standing
upright on the box.
"Gosh, Jimmy!"
"Watch it, Tim!"
Operator 5 made mystic passes about the
match. Slowly it rose in the air. Tim Donovan
gasped again as the match rose into space, still
burning. His smile widening, Jimmy Christopher
passed his free hand over and under and around
it.
"Gosh, Jimmy-it's floating, and there's
nothing keeping it up!"
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Then, as mysteriously as it had risen, the
match, still vertical, still burning, descended to
the box. Jimmy Christopher puffed it out, closed
fingers about it, and passed both box and match
to Tim Donovan.
"Try figuring that out until I come back, Tim."
The boy sniffled, gulped, cleared his throat
and then a brave grin twisted his homely, freckled
face. "How'd you do it, Jimmy?" he asked with a
catch in his voice.
"Easy, Tim. Just this." Jimmy Christopher
brought from his hand a length of light, stiff, black
wire, and put it into Tim's hands.
"You see, there's a loop at one end just large
enough to go around my little finger. The wire is
straight for about five inches, then there's a rightangle
bend in the same direction as the loop for
about three-quarters of an inch, and then there's
another right-angle bend, back to the original
direction. The last bent piece is only about an
eighth of an inch long."
"I see, Jimmy."
"Before I start the trick I have the loop
around my little finger, and the wire hidden in my
hand. I hold the match-box level, and place the
wire so that the bent parts lie on top of it, with the
shank running down over the side of the box,
held in place by my thumb. Then I light the match
and stick the end of it on the point of the wire.
"Then I just raise my little finger, and the
match seems to rise in the air. You can't see the
black wire, even in good light, because the flame
of the match affects the eyes that way. I seem to
pass my hands all around the match while it's
floating in the air, but in reality I avoid touching
the wire below it. Then I just move my little finger
downward again, and the match lowers. Simple,
isn't it?"
"It's swell, Jimmy. Gosh . . ."
His hand closed about the little Irish lad's,
and Tim Donovan blinked down. Jimmy
Christopher turned from them toward the plane.
B-10 and V-3 had gone ahead. Carl Elliot was
already in the second cubby of the pursuit when
Jimmy Christopher heard quick steps behind him.
He turned-and looked into Diane Elliot's pale
face.
"Jimmy Christopher, I'm not going to let you
go without-"
She brought her face close to his, and their
lips met. He felt a tear steal across her cheek,
and he breathed deep of the sweet perfume of her
hair. His throat grew tight; the warmth of her lips
still clung to his as he turned away.
He stepped into the plane without looking
back. The thunder of the motor rose into the night.
Swift wind whipped back across the tarmac during
a short, agonized moment. Then, with a rush, the
pursuit shot off into the wind. Black wings
rocked-black wings that rose into the air-that
disappeared in the sky . . . .
On the field Diane Elliot watched the plane
go. Standing silently beside John Christopher and
Tim Donovan, she watched the wings until they
vanished. When she looked down it was because
she felt a small hand stealing into hers. Tim
Donovan's fingers were curled and trembling in
her palm, and his teary eyes were raised to
hers-and he was smiling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Night Attack
Blanketing darkness lay over Los Angeles.
Only a few dim lights marked the location of the
city. Fear still tightened the air; terror lay
dormant, ready to waken and scream through the
streets. Darkness and silence-and a torturous
sense of waiting for doom to strike.
High in the building on Olive Street, in a rear
room of the Secret Intelligence Headquarters PL,
the Pacific chief sat before the panel of a shortwave
radio receiver with earphones clamped tight,
his blue-veined hands pressing them close.
Through the ether a voice vibrated. Ever
since his return from Glendale airport, V-3 had
been listening to that droning voice speaking out
of the void of space. Now it brought the news he
had so anxiously awaited.
"CF calling PL. CF calling PL. San Francisco
calling Los Angeles. Our sky-sounder has picked
up the signal of Craft D56. It is nearing the field."
V-3 sighed. Craft D56 was the code
identification of the swift pursuit which was
carrying Jimmy Christopher through the night at a
speed greater than two hundred miles an hour.
The voice from the air continued muffled: "The
plane is directly over the field. It is circling down
for a landing. Our beacons are momentarily
turned on. The flotilla is in readiness, waiting for
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Operator 5. The plane is now taxiing to a landing.
It is stopping operator 5 is getting out of it."
V-3 scarcely moved. A long silence followed;
no voice sounded in the earphones. The red
second hand of an electric clock above the radio
receiver in Headquarters PL twirled on.
Then again: "Operator 5 has been issuing
orders to the pilots of the flotilla. He has given the
signal, and they are returning to their ships. He
is now garbed in coveralls, and helmet. He is
going toward the plane which will fly point in the
formation of Flight A. Operator B-10 is also taking
his position with Flight A. The fourteen ships are
about to take-off."
Over the air, faintly, came the rumbling of
motors-a sound carried to the microphone on
Crissy Field the Presidio, and shot out over the air
on the lightning beams of the radio. It rose to a
wave of thunder that rolled a long minute.
The voice sang loudly, tensely now.
"Operator 5 has signaled. The flotilla is taking off!
The ships are rushing into the air! There they
go-out over the water. Operator 5's ship, flying
point in Formation A, is leading the way. They
are traveling swiftly after a perfect take-off.
They're driving out to sea-two perfect V's.
"A Flight is disappearing and B Flight follows.
It can no longer be seen. The motors can be
heard still, but even the sound is vanishing . . .
They're off!"
V-3 signaled quickly. The radio technician at
his elbow made a quick adjustment of dials. Into
a microphone the Pacific chief spoke crisply. "PL
calling 5 in A. PL calling 5 in A."
"Take-off perfect," came Jimmy Christopher's
answer. "All ships functioning beautifully. Morale
high. Every man in the flotilla is determined to
make it. Going off your wave-length now, Chief.
Calling CF now. Further reports later. So long!"
V-3 started as a hand touched his arm. He
twisted to peer at a second radio technician who
had been bending before the panel of another
receiver. The man's face was white, his eyes
widened: he blurted syllables that made V-3 tear
the phones from his ears.
"-being bombed!" the Pacific Chief heard.
"What?"
Again the technician gasped the startling
news. "The attack just started. San Diego's
being bombed!"
Over the darkness that lay above San Diego
Bay the savage snarl of motors sounded. Out of
the expanse of the night black wings came
sweeping. Second by second the roar of engines
rolled into menacing thunder. Air attack!
Instantly the ether carried the warning. Into
thousands of homes the strained voice of radio
announcers boomed: "All lights out!"
Thunder in the air above as threatening
wings swept reddened skies. Birds of war
swooping to spread destruction! And again the
crescendo of warning: "All-lights-out!"
Windows went dark, houses became black
shells. In the power-stations quick hands grasped
master switches and jerked. Street lights
vanished. Through the spreading, white city the
gloom of night flooded. Blackness covered San
Diego as the snarl of the oncoming planes flung
their threat through the sky.
Orders snapped across the field of the Naval
Training Station as the alarm came: "All planes
up!"
Even as pilots raced across the tarmac, as
waiting planes burst into life, as the air-force of
the training station marshaled to combat the
menace sweeping across the sky-the first bomb
struck.
A terrific concussion shook the air. Sand
spewed up from a corner of the Naval Training
Field. In the flare of a brassy light flung across
the heavens, terrorized men saw torn planes
flying before the blast of the explosion. Instantly
reverberating darkness closed down, while fumes
ripped on the wind from a crater that yawned
blackly.
"All planes up!" Through the ether a voice
shrieked-a voice that carried through the night to
the ears of V-3.
"The field is being bombed by enemy planes
and a corner of the field has already been
destroyed. Enemy ships are sweeping over the
entire city!"
Behind V-3 a telephone clattered. He stood
stiff, scarcely hearing it, until a shirt-sleeved man
whacked his arm. He turned, snatched up the
receiver, and barked out an exchange of signals.
"Z-7 calling from Washington. The damned devils
must have learned of the result of the President's
conference with the European ambassadors.
Kara Vizna's codes were presented to them and
brought an immediate change of face. They
accepted without question the possibility of
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proving the duplicity of the Yellow War Office.
Except in the case of France, in which some
doubt remains, friendly relationships have been
reestablished. Our continued relationship with
France depends entirely on Operator 5 now!"
"He's taken off, Z-7."
"The Yellow forces have abandoned their
Iying-in-wait tactics. They realize that their
undercover strategy is defeated, that there is
small hope of tricking other nations into declaring
war on us, except in the case of France. By
God, Operator 5 has got to get through!"
"Reports are still coming from San Diego.
The Yellow ships are dropping incendiary bombs.
Our planes have taken off to repulse the Yellow
craft."
"It's war now-open war! We're vulnerable
on the Pacific until the Atlantic fleet joins Admiral
Neasham. The Yellow War Office must have
ordered an attack upon the Panama Canal by
now. And if the Atlantic Fleet is cut off-!"
"Part of San Diego is afire!"
"We will endeavor to keep in touch with the
flotilla and Operator 5 here in Washington. I'm
flying to the Canal Zone at once. Orders have
been flashed to Albrook and France Fields, there,
to be on the alert for an attack. Work on the
erection of Operator 5's radio rocket platforms has
already begun."
Z-7's connection clicked off. V-3 again
affixed phones to his ears. Through the night
came the rushing voice from San Diego: "Our
Army planes are battling the Yellow ships above
the Bay and above the city. A battery of sixtyinch
anti-aircraft searchlights is aiding the fight.
The attacking planes are identified as having
flown from the Yellow aircraft carrier Ormungo.
There are hundreds of planes in the air."
The sky above San Diego was boiling with
the fury of the attack, with the savage repulsion of
the United States Navy and Army planes. Into the
zenith swept the beams of the powerful antiaircraft
searchlights, each probing three miles
high into the night, each swinging through battletorn
air with a candlepower of eight hundred
million. Among the radiating beams, black wings
flashed past gray as the sky-fight reached a
demoniacal fury.
Beneath, from the broken-walled city, flames
leaped. Incendiary bombs, spewing unquenchable
thermite, crashed into the streets. Mixed with the
crackling of the flames came the earth-rocking
roaring of high explosive as walls crumbled, as
buildings collapsed. Into the street from brokenroofed
homes thousands ran terrorized, while
death thundered across the earth.
Still the voice screeched through the ether
from San Diego: "Admiral Neasham has sighted
the Ormungo and is firing upon it! United States
trawlers have opened a way through the mines,
and the Houston is approaching the Yellow
aircraft carrier. The Lexington and the Saratoga
have launched two hundred planes each into the
air. They are flying to attack the Ormungo, and to
add to the counter-attack above San Diego.
"The Yellow ships are out-numbered!
Already half of them have fallen, and more
American planes are swarming into the sky,
repulsing the others.
"Report from the Houston: Admiral Neasham
has registered direct hits on the Ormungo and the
Yellow aircraft carrier is sinking. None of the
other Yellow aircraft carriers are close enough to
aid the planes which launched off the Ormungo!
The Yellow planes are being driven out to sea.
"San Diego has been badly damaged, but
the city has been saved from complete ruin by our
swift counter-attack. The Yellow attack has failed
of its objective to cripple our air-forces. The
Yellow planes are still sweeping out to sea. Some
of them have been forced down to the water. All
of them face destruction. The bombardment of the
Yellow planes has failed!"
V-3 stood pale, motionless, as the strained
voice singing through the night from San Diego
grew silent. Long moments passed before it
sounded again. "All Yellow planes are knocked
down! With the Ormungo lost, the Yellow forces
have suffered a decisive defeat!"
V-3 straightened as a hand touched his arm
again. He turned, slipping off one pair of phones,
fitting on another. In them there was a hum. A
muffled voice came out of it.
"Operator 5 reporting. All's well."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Eagles Above Agusko
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A long night passed while spread-winged
eagles flew deep into the darkness of sky and
ocean.
Purring motors rolled their thunder out of the
zenith and down across the deserted waters.
Wing lights twinkled in empty space. Throughout
the long night the flotilla had sped on its way.
Dawn came slowly out of the East,
spreading a glow across the sky, melting the
darkness off the surging sea. Gray wings glinted
in the shafting rays. Disclosed in the light of day
for the first time, the two V formations swung
deeper into space.
From the super-bomber flying point in A
Flight, Jimmy Christopher looked back. His face
was drawn and solemn. No moment of sleep or
rest had come to him. He had studied his charts
intently; he had read each flicker of the indicators
on the dash; he had flashed frequent, regular
reports to the radio stations left far behind on the
coast. Now, as light came, he peered at the
swinging echelons of the flotilla.
His eyes saddened. Both V's were ragged.
From B Flight two bombers were missing. From
A Flight one was gone.
He spoke quietly into the microphone held
before his lips by a metal spider.
"5 in A calling CF. 5 in A calling CF.
Verifying earlier reports, three of the planes have
gone down, due to motor trouble. Eleven carrying
on."
He peered ahead, at blue emptiness. The
rolling expanse of water stretched away to meet a
cloudless sky. With props slashing the air, with
wings speeding incredibly fast, the monotony of
the sky and the ocean persisted. All around there
was nothing but empty air and empty water.
Jimmy Christopher's gaze swung to a plane
flying in the left echelon behind him. A helmeted
head was peering over the cowling, a jacketed
arm swung in signal to him. It was Carl Elliot,
Operator B-10. Jimmy Christopher wagged an
answer, and as he did so he thought of Diane . . .
A muffled voice spoke in the earphones
affixed inside his helmet. "PL calling 5 in A. PL
calling 5 in A . . . V-3 speaking, Operator 5. The
center of attack from the Yellow forces has moved
southward and the Yellow Fleet will certainly
attempt an attack on the Panama Canal. Z-7,
flying to the Canal Zone, has issued orders for
the erection of launching platforms for the radio
rockets, and the work of construction has already
begun."
"The relationship between the United States
and France-?"
"Continues strained. The French government
is waiting delivery of the proof of Yellow duplicity
which is the object of your orders. If the proof
fails to come through, if further propaganda is
released and directed against the United States,
if further attacks are made by the counterfeit
cruisers, war may be declared again. You must
prevent that."
Jimmy Christopher listened, straightened,
and looked back. The deep blue of his eyes grew
shadowed when he glimpsed a plane in B Flight
staggering out of formation. He watched it
closely-watched the bent head of the pilot, the
teetering wings. His voice barked into the
microphone: "One of the fuel-supply carriers is
falling out of formation. It is going down!"
The struggling ship was drifting far behind
the roaring flotilla. The helmeted heads of the
other pilots turned down and then forward again.
Jimmy Christopher, in the point ship, and B-10 in
the left echelon, saw the disabled plane drop into
the vast maw of the ocean. Its shadow was
trailing close ahead of it now, on the surface of
the swells-and suddenly the shadow and the
plane were one.
"It's down!"
Faintly, Jimmy Christopher saw the pilot of
the disabled crate rise in the pit as its pontoons
bobbed over a swell. The jacketed figure waved
both arms wildly-waved encouragement to his
winging comrades. Swift minutes passed, while
the plane and the man melted into the distance.
Then they were gone-lost in the blue vastness.
Jimmy Christopher's eyes shone darkly as he
peered ahead, lips pressed tight, into the Eastern
distance toward his perilous destination.
Throughout the night V-3 had remained at
his post in the radio room of Secret Intelligence
Headquarters PL. He had heard the voice of
Operator 5 carrying from the illimitable stretches
of the night that lay over the Pacific. Dawn found
him sitting with phones still clamped over his
head, his face pinched, his eyes weary but
glittering. A touch on his arm, and he transferred
to another set of phones.
"CZD calling PL," a voice came ringing
hollowly. "CZD calling PL." Another voice sang
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through. "V-3! This is Z-7 talking from the radio
station at Balboa, Canal Zone. I have just arrived.
Report to Operator 5 that his radio rockets are
being pressed into immediate use."
"Operator 5 has already given me a message
for you concerning the radio rockets, Z-7," V-3
answered. "Use helium instead of air in the
compression tanks of the radio rockets."
"Very well. Inform him that rockets are being
constructed as swiftly as possible now. They will
be brought here by air as soon as each one is
completed. We are racing against time, until the
Atlantic Fleet begins to pass through the Canal.
Already several launching platforms have been
erected. Our agents have informed us that the
Yellow Fleet has split, that part of it is proceeding
southward, evidently with the intention of
attacking the Canal with long-range guns in time
to prevent the U.S. Atlantic Fleet passing through
the locks."
V-3 looked up as a radio technician tapped
his arm, and listened to a quick, reassuring
message: "Operator 5 has just reported, stating
his position. He is keeping to his course and
maintaining top speed, about three hundred miles
per hour. Our calculations fix the time of his
arrival at Agusko at about midnight, if the flotilla
does not encounter adverse weather."
Z-7 spoke quickly. "Please inform Operator
5," he said, "that the President himself is listening
to the flotilla's reports as it crosses the Pacific."
Throughout the day, reports carried, more
and more faintly, from the space above the
Pacific. Each word brought tense silence to the
far-flung rooms in which it echoed. Each report
was awaited with dread, and received with relief,
even when the news brought a sense of tragedy.
"A seventh plane has fallen!"
In the White House the President listened; in
Balboa, Canal Zone, Z-7 listened; in Los
Angeles, V-3 listened; and they were not alone.
The world was not aware that eagle wings were
spreading over the Pacific while the shadow of
doom hovered over them; those who knew were
only a scattered few. Only they realized that
Operator 5 was carrying into the Western sky
their hope of averting national disaster.
And at last, shortly after sunset came the
words, "5 in A reporting. Our position approximately
two hundred miles from Agusko. I am
ordering a descent for refueling."
First maneuver in the attack!
Black wings settled to the water. Seven
planes dipped their pontoons in a dark, desolate
realm of sky and water. Birds of war coming
down to roost.
In the darkness props swung and engines
chattered. From the tanks of the ships of Flight B,
petrol gushed into the tanks of Flight A.
From the cockpit of his crate, Jimmy
Christopher watched until he saw the ships
drifting apart. Then the black wings lifted.
Pontoons dripping, swinging high, the four
planes remaining in Flight A hurled themselves
into the air. Jimmy Christopher peered back as
the rolling water dropped away in the darkness.
He saw the three refueling crates still bobbing
below, their tanks drained of every drop. Planes
being left behind with their pilots-men and ships,
sacrifices to the God of War.
Jimmy Christopher gazed at them until they
disappeared behind the flight in the misty gloom.
In the deep black of the night sky the four
super-bombers that remained leaned on their
wings, circling. Their motors were throttled down.
Their pilots hunched tense at their sticks. In the
point ship Jimmy Christopher leaned over the
cowling, striving to pierce the blackness shrouding
the ground.
"Agusko below!"
Suddenly-a swooping dive! Four engines
snarling out terrific power. Four pairs of wings
slashing the air in answer to a signal from
Operator 5. Thousands of miles of bleak ocean
lay behind them, and now the zero moment had
come.
Black, vaned bombs streaked down from the
underside of a gray-winged ship. Dark lightning
through the night, they plunged toward the harbor.
When they burst, the night was split wide by
blinding brilliance spread from the air. Flashlight
bombs exploding!
Swiftly the hollow reports sounded while
white fumes tore on the wind. In the flickering
glare, the harbor lay revealed, black water framing
the anchored cruisers. From the sky a great
crystal eye looked down, registering the scene on
sensitive film. The disguised boats were directly
beneath the camera ship.
The flaring of the flashlight bombs was a
signal which brought a roaring hell into the sky.
Guns spat from the ground. Thunder rolled up
through the air as shells screamed high. Hollow
explosions rocked across the heavens, throwing
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out a rain of shrapnel. With appalling rapidity the
anti-aircraft batteries of the Yellow forces burst
into action.
In the pit behind Jimmy Christopher a man
shouted shrilly. The plane swung, driving out
toward the open sea. From a gun in Operator 5's
hand a red signal flared through the smoke-laden
air. Swiftly the two explosive-carrying planes
swung high, maneuvering for position.
Beside Jimmy Christopher's crate raced the
plane carrying Operator B-10. The air above was
criss-crossed with streaks of death shooting up
from the shore below. The two crates swayed
from wing to wing, zig-zagging to avoid the
bursts, driving deeper into the night. And behind,
over the harbor, the two explosive-carrying superbombers
released deadly loads.
Spinning destruction streaked down toward
the dark waters, toward the ghostly ships lying at
anchor. Deafening concussions rocked skyward
as bombs unleashed their power. Rending
destruction tore across the decks of the disguised
cruisers, displaying in blinding flashes of light the
havoc of twisted steel and torn human bodies.
The planes carrying Operators 5 and B-10
whipped swiftly out over the black Pacific with
their motors snarling out every available ounce of
power. They were beyond the slashing attack of
the anti-aircraft guns now, but the two bombers
above the harbor were rocking in the blasting air.
"Four ships sinking!" Jimmy Christopher
sang the report into his microphone as the instantshort
flashes of the bombs lighted the scene.
"Port almost entirely destroyed. The ships which
have sunk have locked others in the harbor. The
bombers are going down!"
In the steaming air above Agusko savage
power tore at the wings of the two circling
bombers. Dimly Jimmy Christopher saw the
wings fly from them, saw their fuselages drop
nose-first and plunge into the fogged water below.
He turned forward. The man in the pit behind
him signaled with a wild, jubilant waving of arms.
Jimmy Christopher's lips moved before the microphone.
"We have the photographs! We're coming
back!"
Two lone birds of war, stripped of everything
but the precious films-all that remained of
fourteen-were winging their way again across
the restless desert of the Pacific!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monster of the Deep
The day wound slowly around the clock-a
day seeming even more torturously long than the
last. Throughout the sunlit hours the reports of
Operator 5 continued to come.
"All's well."
His position was checked carefully on charts
as his reports came. Each hour brought him
closer to the Pacific coast, yet an endless stretch
still remained. There was no hope that he could
reach land before the next dawn. His reports
declared that a headwind was diminishing the
speed of the two planes. Their progress was a
steady, if slower sweep across the Pacific.
In a room of the powerful radio station at
Balboa, Canal Zone, Z-7 paced nervously. In
front of glittering black panels, technicians were
bent, adjusting knobs, pressing ear-phones
close, seeking signals in the ether. Each time they
moved Z-7 jerked to a stop, peering at them,
anxious for news.
"Operator 5 approaching West Coast! Both
planes still in the air. He reports fuel running low,
sir!"
Z-7 sighed and resumed his pacing.
Presently he paused again, as another technician
looked up. "Message from Washington, sir. A
wireless message was intercepted late this
afternoon and has been deciphered by MI-8. It
originated from the Neptune. Kara Vizna has
come aboard the craft. From it she is directing
espionage activities in the Canal Zone. The
submarine is lying off the Pacific Coast near the
thirty-eighth parallel, sir."
Z-7's face flashed white. "Good God!
Directly under Operator 5's route! Flash to Crissy
Field and direct them to relay it to Operator 5.
Warn him that the Neptune is lying in wait for
him!"
Out on the Pacific darkness spread, and
through it, wing to wing, driving hard toward the
West Coast of the United States, there plunged
two planes carrying Operator 5 and Operator B-
10. In the pit of his plane Jimmy Christopher
reported. "5 in A calling CF. Fuel running low-
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unable to reach the coast. Dispatch second flotilla
at once!"
Over the air Jimmy Christopher heard his
orders acknowledged, heard the faint drumming
of motors. It continued a long moment, rising to a
crescendo, and then the steady roar diminished.
Again the ether grew silent and Jimmy
Christopher peered ahead. Somewhere, far
beyond in the night sky, the formation which had
launched off Crissy Field was plunging toward
him. Miles of empty air and water still remained
to be covered until the flotilla could meet the two
super-bombers.
Operator 5 peered across at the plane
bobbing alongside his. Over its cowling the
helmeted head of Carl Elliot was visible. B-10
signaled reassurance, and Jimmy Christopher
answered. He smiled slowly; and his hand thrust
into his coat-pocket, through a slit in his lined
jacket; his fingers closed again about the yellow
sheet he had carried with him across the Pacific:
"B-10 . . . to be arrested at once . . ."
Through binoculars Jimmy Christopher swept
the horizon. The eternal darkness had held
steadily, but now faint spots of light were
appearing-sparks so dim that Jimmy Christopher
scarcely dared believe they existed. He waited
long minutes, and they grew brighter, like stars
shining through thinning fog. Glimmering in the
sky, the wing-beacons of the formation which had
sprung off Crissy Field were sweeping closer.
Suddenly, from below, a shaft of light
appeared, like the blade of a sword unsheathed
from a scabbard of darkness. It was a silent bolt
of lightning, a beam sweeping high from the
surface of the water. Jimmy Christopher peered
down at the brilliant spot from which it sprang. He
snapped into the microphone: "Unknown craft
below!"
Through the ether a startled voice answered.
"Avoid it at all costs! It is the Neptune!"
Into the words blasted a shattering explosion.
From the water destruction sprang into the sky. A
tearing concussion vibrated through the darkness.
Shrill sounds sprang far into the depths of the
night as shrapnel rained.
"The Neptune is firing anti-aircraft guns!"
The two planes weaved apart as their frantic
pilots banked to avoid the rain of shrapnel. Swiftly
another shell streaked high from the invisible craft
lying on the surface of the sea. As it exploded, a
third rose, and a fourth. Swiftly the sky became a
pandemonium of roaring explosions, flashing light,
shrieking shrapnel.
The beam of the search-light was swinging. It
swept past the plane carrying Jimmy Christopher;
it wavered; and suddenly gray wings glinted in
the glare. The shaft had picked up the crate
carrying B-10! The plane swung swiftly to escape,
but the beam followed as fast. It was a fluttering
thing impaled upon a glittering white needle-point
of luminescence.
Shattering explosions again! Jimmy
Christopher peered across space as the plane
carrying B-10 became engulfed in a mass of
boiling fumes. An anti-aircraft shell had rocketed
near it. One instant it was wiped from Operator
5's sight; then it became visible again-brokenwinged,
shattered, a wrecked plane tumbling
down through the night.
"B-10's crate is hit and falling!" Operator 5
gasped.
"The flotilla will attack with bombs," came
back the answer.
But they were still miles distant. Operator 5's
face was white and drawn as he glimpsed, in the
glare of light from another shell, a pilot lolling
dead in the pit of B-10's plane. Behind the dead
man B-10 was rising. Jimmy Christopher saw the
parachute pack strapped to Carl Elliot's back.
Darkness engulfed the plunging ship again as the
searchlight swung, probing for Jimmy
Christopher's crate.
Another rocking explosion, and Operator 5
saw a circle of white floating beneath him-the
bell of a parachute. B-10 had bailed out of the
doomed ship; he was coating toward the sea
under the tight silk of the chute. The search-light
flicked across his swinging body, held him a
moment, then swung on.
From beneath sounded the roar of a motor.
Jimmy Christopher's binoculars turned downward.
Against the ebony background of the water he
saw black movements-planes sweeping out of
the kiosk of the Neptune. The tremendous
submarine was dimly visible now, a great black
hulk lapped by rolling water. From it one plane
shot, then another, then a third. They drove
swiftly, springing off the swells to meet the flotilla
racing from the east.
Jimmy Christopher's crate was swinging in a
wide circle, wings tilted. Peering down, he
followed the white spot floating through the
night-the parachute carrying B-10. He saw the
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Neptune move as more planes launched from its
metallic maw.
Now the flotilla from Crissy Field was
swarming close. Up to meet it zoomed the planes
which had sprung from the interior of the
submarine airplane carrier. Fire sparkled from the
snouts of machine-guns, and chopping reports
carried through the night air. Wings swept swiftly;
motors thundered; and over the depths of the
Pacific, birds of war clashed.
The circle of B-10's parachute drifted low
over the waves. From the kiosk of the Neptune,
then, another form emerged. It darted over the
swells-a light speed-boat. A swift swing brought
it beneath the fluttering parachute.
Another instant, and B-10 was threshing in
the water. Jimmy Christopher ignored the guns
clashing in the sky, ignored the sweeping wings
of the U.S. bombers and watched the speed-boat
below. In it black figures were moving quickly.
They reached into the water and, grasping B-10,
dragged him aboard. A boiling circle of white
formed while the speed-boat circled back and
disappeared within the kiosk of the Neptune.
Instantly the swinging searchlight blinked out. A
last shell screamed high and spattered its
shrapnel. Then the U.S. bombers plunged low,
and bombs streaked from their racks. But there
was no sign of the Neptune.
"5 in A reporting! B-10 has been taken
aboard the Neptune! It has submerged!"
All around Jimmy Christopher's plane the sky
was shaking with the fury of winged attack. The
Crissy ships were pouring round after round from
their machine-guns while the Neptune crates
answered with withering blasts. Broken wings
were flinging the out-numbered Yellow ships down
toward the ocean. The U.S. planes were ringing
them like savage wolves, tearing them to pieces.
Operator 5's ship was spiraling low. "Going
down to the water! The films are intact! I am going
to transfer them to a bomber. Going down!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Radioed Death
The first golden light of dawn was streaking
across the sky when gray-winged bombers circled
smartly above Crissy Field. Leading them in
ragged V formation came the crate carrying
Operator 5. It swung low, dipping for a landing.
On the field, wearied with sleeplessness,
yet jubilant at the sight, stood John Christopher
and Tim Donovan. They scarcely moved while the
planes shot down, engines snorting. When the
point ship trundled to a stop, when they saw a
familiar figure legging over the cowling, they
hurried toward it.
"Jimmy!" Tim Donovan shouted.
Operator 5 turned quickly and grinned. The
tough little Irish lad rushed to him, clinging tightly.
John Christopher's hand went out, trembling, and
Operator 5 seized it.
"My boy-!"
"It's all right, Dad. Tim, old fellow! I'm back!
I said I'd come back!"
Tim Donovan grinned through streaming
tears as Jimmy Christopher turned to shout
orders to the officers who rushed toward him.
They moved quickly, transferring from the huge
bomber the precious roll of films that had traveled
twice across the ocean. It was lodged quickly in a
compartment of a freshly-fueled pursuit plane,
and a signal was snapped.
The pursuit's engine roared; it shot across
the field, lifting. It swung high into the sky,
driving toward the East.
Jimmy Christopher hurried into the
operations office while officers crowded around
him, slapping his shoulder, blurting congratulations.
Wearily he stepped alone into a soundproofed
room while a connection to Los Angeles
was put through for him. He took up a telephone,
exchanged signals, and began his report.
V-3's strained voice answered. "Thank God
you're back! I have word for you from Z-7 in the
Canal Zone. Launching-towers for the radio
rockets have been erected. A store of rockets
has been brought to them by air. Your instructions
have been followed carefully, but you are needed
there at once to handle the controlling mechanism
of the radio rockets. Report to Z-7 at Balboa."
Operator 5 left the telephone and stepped
from the sound-proofed room. He trudged wearily
through the door, and out upon the field. In the
glowing dawn, Tim Donovan and John
Christopher were waiting for him. He smiled
slowly, looking around; and he asked:
"Where's Diane Elliot?"
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"We've got word from her, Jimmy! She sent
a telegram to you and her brother. I've got it
here!"
Tim fumbled in his pocket, while Jimmy
Christopher's eyes darkened. He read the words
of the message:
LEAVING AT ONCE AS SPECIAL
CORRESPONDENT FOR AMALGAMATED WHEN
YOU RECEIVE THIS I WILL BE ABOARD
FLAGSHIP HOUSTON.
DIANE
He peered stunned at the eager message
while a chill gathered around his heart. Aboard
the Houston! The Houston at that very moment
was steaming southward under full power in a
desperate attempt to repulse the impending attack
of the Yellow Fleet upon the Panama Canal!
Into Limon Bay, through the bright sunlight,
steamed the Atlantic Fleet of the United States
Navy. Black smoke pouring from their funnels, a
majestic procession of gray ships drew close to
the entrance of the Panama Canal. Leading them
came the Oklahoma, flagship of the fleet. Before
it lay the narrow passageway through which the
ships must pass in order to reach the Pacific.
The world watched.
Seven hours must pass before the first of the
ships to enter from Limon Bay could reach the
Bay of Panama on the Pacific. Seven hours of
slow progress through the locks, being lifted and
lowered, winding their way across the narrow
Isthmus. Seven hours while the threat of attack
hung heavy in the air.
Past the breakwaters in Colon Harbor the
Oklahoma steamed. Its sister ships lay waiting
while it passed slowly through the Gatun Locks,
lifting eighty-five feet, facing then the twenty-four
miles of water which stretch between the three
locks at Gatun to those at Gamboa, where
Culebra Cut begins. Creeping, crawling-working
its way toward the Pacific.
At the torturous speed of two miles an hour
the "electric mules"-towing locomotives crawling
over cog tracks-dragged it along. Water gushed
in and out of the huge locks; the tremendous,
floating gates swung open and shut as the slow
progress continued, creeping slowly toward the
Pacific.
The officers on the bridge of the Oklahoma,
as it was towed toward Balboa, saw the strange
sight of rearing towers rising into the sky-
skeleton-like frameworks that had sprung into
being magically, topped by huge platforms on
which strange mechanisms could be seen.
High on the platforms men worked frantically.
Electric cables snaked upward to devices
connected with huge cradles on which rested
torpedo-shaped projectiles. Winches on the
ground below whistled and snorted, cables
strained and glittered in the sunlight, as others of
the strange projectiles were lifted and cradled
ready for use.
From the tops of the towers at Balboa, the
spreading Bay of Panama could be seen-the
concrete buildings of the permanent Army
headquarters, the streak of breakwater stretching
three miles out to Noos Island. In the air hovered
the threat of the dreaded attack-a threat that
loomed as a certainty as the ships of the Atlantic
Fleet crept on their way through the locks of the
Canal.
On one of the four platforms erected behind
Balboa, Z-7 stood. Around him officers were
busy, checking intricate electrical connections to
the radio rocket cradles, consulting copies of
memoranda prepared by Operator 5, listening
through ear-phones to reports being sent from
planes shuttling back and forth along the Canal.
Anxiously Z-7 peered out across the blue water
through binoculars which brought the horizon
startlingly close. Suddenly he lowered his glasses.
Through the air came a shrill whine-a sound
that grew swiftly louder-the note of a siren that
swelled to shake the heavens. Z-7 stood
motionless an instant while the scream sent a
paralyzing power through the air. The men on the
platform paused, peering at him. His face turned
white as death as he blurted:
"The Yellow Fleet is attacking! Launch the
rocket!"
High in the sky a plane was spiraling, swiftly
gathering altitude. It leveled and streaked out
across the blue of the Pacific as the scream in the
air grew to ear-piercing intensity. A shell was
flying through its trajectory-a shell driven toward
the Canal by Yellow ships out of sight behind the
horizon!
The shrilling note lowered-and out on the
Bay of Panama an explosion rocked the water.
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Falling short of its objective, the shell spewed
a roaring geyser high into the sky. Smoke
billowed, a cloud forming swiftly, ripping to
shreds as the wind whipped at it. Over all the
world the reverberating echoes of the blast
spread-the first shell of the Yellow attack!
Z-7 shouted again: "Launch that rocket!"
He whipped about, affixing phones to his
ears, as the men on the platform tensely took
positions. His smoldering black eyes peered far
across the sky at the single plane which was
speeding across the ocean. Out of the air a voice
called-the voice of the observer in that plane:
"Yellow Fleet sighted steaming toward Panama!"
An officer barked: "Rocket-ready!"
"Ready!"
"Fire!"
Cut of the huge cradle on the platform roared
a blast of compressed gas. The shock of its
release was so terrific that men fell flat, stunned.
Z-7 staggered, blinded by the burst of power.
The entire tower swayed as an ear-splitting
scream sounded. One instant of swift confusion
followed; and then Z-7 glimpsed, streaking
through the air, the rocket flying high across the
water, glistening black lightning.
In the ear-phones the aerial observer's voice
called: "Sighting the Noa!"
On the platform men huddled before black
panels, eyes fast to flickering indicators, trembling
fingers touching knobs. The flight of the radio
rocket was registering before their eyes. It had
vanished in the sky almost instantly, its airfoils
controlled by radio impulses flying even more
swiftly through the ether.
In the single plane shuttling above the blue of
the waters, another man sat hunched with earphones
pressed hard to his head, his eyes on
flickering needles, his hand on a knob. Swift,
deft touches sent varying impulses through the air
which flipped the rudders and elevators of the
radio rocket as it streaked. Scarcely a second
was given in which to guide the trajectory of the
projectile-a second which spelled success or
failure of the shot.
Far out over the Pacific, a black mass on the
horizon, the Yellow Fleet moved. Black fumes
pouring from the stacks of the ships, white smoke
drifting on the wind as a screen formed before it, it
was advancing toward the Canal through which
the Atlantic Fleet was still slowly winding its way.
Eastward of the thickening smokescreen an
explosion tore the water. Surging swells broke
away from the surface as the power of the radio
rocket expended itself, driving deep. From the
high-flying radio control plane the observer
peered; he turned to the microphone and droned
a cryptic message. The radio rocket had missed!
On the platform of the tower behind Balboa,
Z-7 heard the words sing down from the sky. His
face turned ashen; he peered at the men
gathered around the cradle.
"Check your readings!" he snapped, as
further details of the first rocket shot carried to his
ears. "Correction two zero! Number three two
seven four zero! Left five, two nine hundred!"
"Yes sir!"
For God's sake, check your readings! If only
Operator 5-"
He turned swiftly. From the northward the
howl of a motor was passing through the sky.
Gray wings shone in the sunlight as a plane drove
swiftly closer. Z-7's dark eyes kept on it as it
swung low along the canal, settling toward the
ground. He did not move until it shuttled down,
trundled, and stopped.
Out of it three figures climbed swiftly. The
first whirled, peering up at the peak of the
launching tower where Z-7 stood. He waved a
quick signal and ran on. Z-7 took a deep, slow
breath. "Okay," he snapped. "Operator 5's here."
Jimmy Christopher sprinted toward the base
of the launching-tower, fastened hands upon the
metal ladder which reached up its side to the
platform, and climbed swiftly. Below him Tim
Donovan followed; John Christopher climbed
more slowly, his pounding heart protesting the
effort. Over the railing of the platform Z-7 peered,
his black eyes smoldering with grim hope.
Across the sky a swarm of planes came
sweeping. The signal of the Yellow attack had
brought the war-birds of the Army roaring off their
fields. They flocked past swiftly, driving out across
the Bay of Panama, plunging toward the spot
where the Yellow fleet lay.
At the same time, darkly from across the
horizon, other winged forms appeared. Swooping
high, Yellow planes rose to meet the onrushing
formations of the U.S. Army. Howling with fury,
the birds of battle rushed to meet above the
surging blue of the water. Their exhausts shook
the sky as another high explosive shell screamed
from the guns of the Yellow Fleet.
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"The Noa firing!" rang through the radio
receiving apparatus on the launching platform,
from the radio control plane shuttling high above
the bay. "Cruisers swinging into broadside
formation for bombardment!"
The land jarred with the shock of exploding
big guns. The coast-defense units of the Panama
Canal near Balboa began blasting their wrath
upon the attackers. The whining of the shells
flying seaward discorded with the high-pitched
note of projectiles arcing from the Yellow guns.
Far out at sea explosions blasted as the coastguard
shells strove for their targets. At almost the
same time the Yellow shell hit.
Rending power tore into the earth. All of
Balboa trembled with the force of the explosion.
At the foot of Sosa Hill the marine and railway
repair-shops splintered under the blast. The
fumes tore inland, casting a pall above the Prado,
over the governmental buildings. The second shell
from the Yellow guns had reached closer to the
Canal, and the next would fall still closer.
The Oklahoma, first through the last lock at
Pedro Miguel, was steaming out into Panama
Bay, its great guns swinging. Behind it, still
passing through the canal, came the parade of
capital ships and cruisers. The peril of the
destruction of the canal by shell-fire had not
diminished; a single explosion could block the
way, imprison the remainder of the Atlantic fleet
from the Pacific.
Out over the Bay, the Army planes and the
Yellow ships which had launched off their aircraft
carriers, were swarming into a gigantic dogfight
that seemed to spread over the entire sky.
Machine guns chattered angrily; motors snarled
their wrath; wings whirled swiftly through
desperate maneuvers. And, from the Isthmus,
more formations of Army crates swept, driving at
top-speed across the water, flocking to keep the
Yellow swarm from reaching the vital neck of land.
Again, along the coast, the defense batteries
blasted. The big guns spat out their shells, and
recoiled spewing smoke; and the air shrilled with
the voices of the screaming projectiles.
The armed power of two nations was
clashing above the narrow strip of water belting
across Panama-a tiny, vital spot, the fate of
which spelled the fate of the entire United States.
On the platform of the launching-tower
behind Balboa, as Jimmy Christopher peered
across the water, an officer's command rang.
Again terrific force tore through the air; again
men were flattened on the platform by its force;
again the tower swayed. A second radio rocket
streaked up into the sky, a glistening line of
blackness, a rainbow of doom reaching toward
the approaching Yellow Fleet.
"The radio rocket missed!"
Z-7 heard the report and turned, whitelipped.
"We're wasting the rockets! You've got to
control them, Operator 5. It's our only chance!"
"Order a control ship here as fast as it can
come! I'm going up!"
"The Yellow Fleet is getting the range; the
next shell might block the canal. Get into the air,
Operator 5!"
Behind them, an officer was barking the
orders into a microphone. He straightened and
snapped:
"A report from the Pacific Fleet, sir! They
have run into a trap of mines! All of them are
stopped except the Houston, which managed to
avoid them. The Houston is steaming toward the
Yellow Fleet, intending to attack!"
"Alone?" Z-7 gasped.
"Alone yes, sir!"
Jimmy Christopher's eyes clouded as he
peered across the sea. He remembered the
words of Diane Elliot's telegram. She was on the
Houston! "Good God!" he muttered. "Our Pacific
Fleet trapped by mines, our Atlantic Fleet caught
passing through the canal!"
Through the air came a surge of roaring
power as a plane swept low. Jimmy Christopher
turned as Z-7 exclaimed: "The control ship!" The
crate dropped rapidly, touched three-points, and
trundled toward the plane that had whisked
Operator 5 from Crissy Field. As Jimmy
Christopher reached for the ladder, Tim
Donovan's hand gripped his.
"Jimmy!"
"So long, Tim!"
"Jimmy!"
Operator 5 went down the ladder swiftly.
Tim Donovan's wide eyes followed him; then,
desperately, the boy scrambled over the rail and
began to follow. He was still crawling downward
when Jimmy Christopher reached the ground and
began sprinting toward the waiting control ship.
A roar shook the air as the pilot in the pit
goosed the motor, as Jimmy Christopher
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clambered over the cowling. Swiftly the blocks
went free, and the plane rushed, lifting, as Tim
Donovan ran wildly after it.
He saw Operator 5 turn back in the pit-saw
a wave that meant "So long!"-and stood
motionless, watching the plane sweep high above
the Bay.
On the launching platform Z-7 snapped
orders that brought another radio rocket into its
cradle. Swift adjustments were made as the
Washington chief watched the control plane climb,
spiraling high to avoid the dogfight which was still
tearing the air beyond the shore. He fitted phones
over his ears as a voice sang in them.
"Follow my instructions. Take range!"
The swift control plane flitted high in the
zenith, swinging out above the blue. Against the
horizon, Jimmy Christopher saw the smokeshrouded
Yellow Fleet, in position to bombard.
Far to the north, a gray dot on the horizon
approached-the Houston. Guns were rearing
toward it as Jimmy Christopher signaled the first
control ship to leave the sky. He settled quickly to
his instrument board.
He lifted from the pit binoculars with special
lenses. Through a pattern of criss-crossing lines
he peered at the distant Yellow Fleet. The
Horizontal Zero he superimposed on the sky-line;
the Vertical Zero he fixed upon his mark. Into the
swinging microphone he snapped orders: "Right
three zero!"
On the launching platform officers obeyed
swiftly, making adjustments.
From Operator 5's control ship: "Up one
five!"
On the platform: "Up one five!" And then-
"Fire!"
The launching platform rocked as the
explosion followed. Across the sky streamed the
black line of the flying torpedo. One swift second
passed.
Through the binoculars he saw an explosion
jar the side of the Yellow flagship Noa. Flame
sheeted; the great hull lurched; and when the
fumes tore away a gaping black hole was visible.
Through it the sea poured.
"Hit!"
On the launching platform the officers moved
frantically. Signals flashed from tower to tower.
Z-7 stood motionless, cold to the marrow,
listening to the singing reports. Again rockets
fired.
Two platforms swayed at once. Two
streaking black rockets arced across the sky.
Two notes sang into Jimmy Christopher's ears as
he listened and, by swift adjustments, kept them
true.
Havoc rocked in the midst of the advancing
Yellow Fleet. His lenses showed Jimmy
Christopher flaring fire and clouding smoke, with
two conning towers crumpling. The wind cleared
the fumes to disclose a cruiser with a broken
stem, another with a gaping hull.
"Both hits!"
Blasting reports again on the launching
towers; black streaks again tracing across the
heavens. Screaming destruction flew through the
air, guided by the deft fingers of Jimmy
Christopher. Then two more shocks striking the
midst of the Yellow Fleet-two more boats
staggering under the power of the radio rockets.
Through the glasses Jimmy Christopher saw
the Yellow cruisers rearing toward the north.
They swung and grew still as range was taken-
range on the approaching Houston. Quickly he
snapped into the microphone corrections which
would send a radio rocket flying toward the Yellow
ship, but before he could utter the command to
fire, the big guns blasted.
Terrific power struck the Houston as the
explosive struck across the deck. A gun turret
went flying into the sea; a conning tower bent and
sagged. Over the decks washed the oily fumes of
the explosive as Commander Neasham uttered
commands that sent the Houston's sixteeninchers
swinging.
Through a shattered port a girl peered, whitefaced,
across the steaming waters. Far in the
distance she could see the Yellow Fleet. In her
one hand she clenched a sheet of copy paper; in
her other a pencil. Now she had forgotten about
them as, peering across the ocean, she felt the
shell of the boat still trembling with the shock of
the fallen projectile. Diane Elliot closed her lips
tightly on a sob.
A hoarse voice called: "They've got our
range If they strike us lower they'll sink us!"
She closed her eyes. . . .High in the zenith
sped the control plane carrying Jimmy
Christopher. Again he peered through the crisscrossed
binoculars. Carefully he was registering
the Zero Lines. His voice rang into the
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microphone. And then a blast more terrific than
any other rocked the air above the Pacific mouth
of the Canal. At the same instant four rockets
traced their glistening paths across the sky.
Jimmy Christopher hunched in the control pit
motionless except for his quickly moving
fingertips. The screams of the projectiles were
vanishing in the distance when he looked up.
Far against the horizon, the Yellow ship was
gripped in power that tore it out of the water.
Flame enveloped it an instant, leaving a tornado
of smoke. A moment Jimmy Christopher peered
until he glimpsed the surging swells where the
Yellow cruiser had lain.
"All hits!"
On the bridge of the Houston Admiral
Neasham stared dumfounded across the water.
"The boat that was shelling us was sunk and the
Yellow Fleet is being ripped apart!" he signaled
shoreward.
Still swinging through the sky, Jimmy
Christopher snapped orders into his microphone.
Again and again weird-looking launching towers
swayed as radio rockets leaned into their
trajectories. Again and again destruction struck at
the Yellow Fleet. Over and over he signaled the
result. "A hit!"
Into his ear-phones the voice of Z-7 rang.
"Withhold fire! The radio station at Balboa is
receiving a message from the Noa!"
Jimmy Christopher peered back tensely.
Two more cruisers had slipped into the Bay of
Panama, to join the Oklahoma. The shell-fire of
the Yellow Fleet had not reached the Canal. In the
air above, Yellow planes were fleeing before the
terrific attack of the U.S. fighting ships.
Suddenly Jimmy Christopher stiffened,
peering down. He saw a vague movement
beneath the waters of the Bay-a black form
drifting. Almost as quickly as he saw it, it slipped
to the surface. Black, tremendous, glistening, it
bobbed into sight not far from the Oklahoma.
The Neptune!
Swiftly, from the superstructure of the
submarine, the kiosk rose. Almost instantly a
plane shot out of it , slashing its pontoons, rushing
into a take-off. With incredible speed another
appeared, then a third. The black bombers swept
high swiftly, streaking toward the coast.
"Withhold fire on the Yellow Fleet but attack
the Neptune! Corrections! Down five six!"
Operator 5 signaled.
On the launching platforms the words were
repeated breathlessly. Then silence through the
ether-silence while Jimmy Christopher peered
down at the sleek black body in the water.
Z-7's voice rang in his phones. "Operator 5!
Kara Vizna reported aboard the Neptune!"
Operator 5 answered, "Our Operator B-10 is
also aboard the Neptune, Chief."
"You will give the order to fire?"
For a moment no answer came from the
control ship, and then: "Yes. Check your
readings!"
Planes were still launching out of the
Neptune's kiosk. Wireless warnings flashing
through the air were bringing toward the bombers
a swarm of U.S. crates. Machine guns began to
stutter their angry protests at the renewed attack.
"Range checked!" rang in his ears.
On the black back of the floating submarine
glistened plate-glass windows. Through several
of them Yellow officers peered at the planes
sweeping across the sky above. In the control
room other officers were at their stations. In a
metal-walled compartment near the torpedo
rooms, a man stood, peering up through another
plate-glass pane. He was Carl Elliot, B-10.
His eyes dropped as he heard a sound at the
door. It opened slowly. The face which looked in
at him was indescribably beautiful-and
indescribably cruel. The luminous black eyes of
Kara Vizna prodded deep into Carl Elliot's. Her
voice was throaty and soft. "You still refuse to talk
to me?"
His eyes blazed. "Certainly not! I know what
you've done to me. You've taken the soul out of
me-turned me into a traitor. You're-"
Kara Vizna smiled slowly. "If you talk like
that," she said, "you shall die. Do you want to
die-while I live?"
B-10 said softly: "Yes."
The woman's eyes grew cold as black ice.
"Then-"
She brought forward a hand which had been
hidden behind her slender body. She raised
toward B-10 a glittering automatic. Her slender
fingers tightened on the trigger. "Then-die!"
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Operator 5TM THE YELLOW SCOURGE JUNE, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
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A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
67
The report that sounded was not the feeble
snap of the gun. It was a terrific roar that shook
the whole hull of the Neptune-a clap of thunder
that rocked it from the water, lifted it with terrific
power, and flung it back into a sea that surged
over it and into it through split seams.
From the launching platforms, in answer to
Jimmy Christopher's command, four radio
rockets had sped to the glistening hulk of the
Neptune. Jimmy Christopher peered at the rolling
waves which washed over the sinking submarine.
He watched with glazed eyes, his heart stilled and
cold. Watched while a voice rang sharply in his
ears.
"The message from the Noa, Operator 5!
The Yellow Fleet is asking for an armistice!"
Jimmy Christopher still peered down at the
water from which the black shell of the Neptune
had vanished. His hand trembled as it reached
into his pocket. He brought up a sheet of
crumpled yellow paper and read slowly the black
words traced upon it: "B-10 . . . to be arrested at
once . . ."
He tore the paper to shreds and let them
flutter from his fingers upon the smoky air. He
saw them float down to the oily water-to the
deep blue shroud that now enveloped the most
dangerous woman spy who had ever lived-and
the brother of the girl he loved.
Around the world the news of the battle
flashed, while over the secret network of cables
connecting Washington with the United States
Intelligence Headquarters throughout the country
came a message that kept the teletype receivers
clattering for long, tense minutes:
. . . FOLLOWING CABLEGRAM FROM
YELLOW EMPEROR RECEIVED BY PRESIDENT
AT 3.45 PM . . .QUOTE-TO THE PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES I OFFER MY COMPLIMENTS
AND PRESENT MY SINCEREST FELICITATIONS
AND DEEPEST REGRETS AT THE
UNWARRANTED OUTBREAK OF HOSTILITIES
BETWEEN OUR TWO GREAT NATIONS. . .I
GRIEVE OVER THE LOSS OF HUMAN LIFE AND
DESTRUCTION OF PUBLIC PROPERTIES . . . MY
PROFOUNDEST HOPE IS THAT A FRIENDLY
RELATIONSHIP MAY BE RESUMED BETWEEN US.
. .I DEDICATE MY EVERY THOUGHT AND EFFORT
TO THE ACHIEVEMENT OF THIS NOBLE
PURPOSE.... EXPOSURE BY YOUR SECRET
AGENTS OF THE APPARENT DUPLICITY OF OUR
STAFF OF WAR HAS PROMPTED ME TO
INVESTIGATE THESE REPORTS PERSONALLY. . .I
OFFER MY ASSURANCE THAT THE GOVERNMENT
OF THE YELLOW EMPIRE PLAYED NO
PART IN THIS REPREHENSIBLE TRICKERY... NOT
UNTIL TODAY DID I BECOME COGNIZANT OF THE
TREACHERY OF CERTAIN OF MY NAVAL STAFF
OFFICERS WHO BY THEIR SECRET ACTIVITIES
BROUGHT ABOUT THE STATE OF WAR.
I AFFIRM THAT DOMINANT IN THE
UNFORTUNATE SITUATION WERE THE
MACHINATIONS OF THE WOMAN KARA
VIZNA. . .THAT THROUGH HER INFLUENCE
CERTAIN OF MY NAVAL OFFICERS WERE MADE
TO BETRAY MY DESIRE TO MAINTAIN PEACE
WITH THE UNITED STATES. . . THAT THE WAR
BETWEEN THE YELLOW EMPIRE AND THE
UNITED STATES WAS BORN OF THEIR SECRET
AMBITIOUS INTRIGUE... THAT THESE TRAITORS
FORCED THE YELLOW GOVERNMENT TO
DECLARE A WAR WHICH IT DID NOT DESIRE....
I HAVE TODAY ORDERED THE EXECUTION
OF ALL WHO PARTICIPATED IN THE BETRAYAL
OF MY EMPIRE... I WISH TO CONVEY TO THE
PRESIDENT MY PROFOUNDEST REGRETS AND
MY SINCERE HOPE THAT WE MAY ENTER
UPON AN EPOCH OF ENDURING PEACE
BETWEEN HIS NATION AND MINE . . UNQUOTE
THE NAME SIGNED TO THE MESSAGE IS
THAT OF THE YELLOW EMPEROR.
There was silence in Secret Intelligence
Headquarters PL as the teletype machine
chattered to a stop. Operator 5 fingered the strip
of paper that carried the momentous message,
gazing at Z-7 and V-3.
"A war born of a woman!" the Washington
chief exclaimed. "The world is well rid of her!"
The teletype operator wagged his head
ruefully. "Easy enough for all this to be said now,"
he remarked. "How do we know this is so?
They're licked and-" He broke off suddenly,
gazing into the dark, burning eyes of Operator 5.
"You are not quite the man," Jimmy
Christopher said slowly, "to doubt the Emperor's
word."
The man's eyes fluttered; his smug smile
faded.
"It was my honor," Jimmy Christopher added
quietly, "two years ago, to meet the man who is
the Yellow Emperor. I had several private
audiences with him. I saw him many times while I
was in the Yellow Empire. His is of an integrity
which may never be questioned. The Emperor
has spoken the truth . . ."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Operator 5TM THE YELLOW SCOURGE JUNE, 1934
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
A production of Vintage New Media(tm)
www.vintagelibrary.com
68
Over the United States rang the glad cry of
peace. The world-wide hysteria that followed
overshadowed the frantic demonstrations of
November 11, 1918. Jubilant peoples shouted
their joy-joy that another World War had been
averted. The whistles of the world blasted their
salutes. Around the world went the cry of peace
returned!
Everywhere was delirious turmoil that lasted
through nights and days-and yet there was one
small spot in the United States which was not
touched.
In a room in Los Angeles quiet reigned.
There stood Z-7, chief of the American
Intelligence Service. There was V-3, chief of the
Pacific units. There, too, was Operator 5. Beside
him stood John Christopher and Tim Donovan.
They faced each other under shaded lights.
On the desk lay shears of telegrams-copies
of messages sent from the rulers of European
kingdoms and republics and dictatorial states-
felicitations from renowned dignitaries, and,
above all, a personal message expressing
heartfelt gratitude from the President of the United
States to Operator 5.
He had received them, read them-and now
he had forgotten them. Now, in that quiet, dimly
lighted room, there was no jubilation, no smile.
The five men faced each other, holding in their
hands glasses of wine. And there was silence
until Z-7 raised his glass.
"I give you, gentlemen," he said solemnly,
"the memory of a comrade-a comrade whose
heart was filled with faith. I give you the courage
and integrity of-Operator B-10. He lived in
secret, and in secret he died."
They drank . . .
Tim Donovan, his eyes shining proudly, and
John Christopher, his head bent solemnly,
followed Operator 5 from the secret Intelligence
Headquarters. Jimmy Christopher walked ahead,
Diane at his side, his hand clasping hers.
The night lay quiet over the city-a night of
peace.
THE END