The Phantom Airman

"Message from the Scorpion, sir!" cried Keane, a little before midday, from the little key-board where he had been patiently waiting for the last hour.

"Good! What does the brigand say?" asked Tempest.

"Expects to be here within an hour."

"Then we haven't a moment to lose," replied the colonel. "At the same time, I am glad we have had this message, for to be forewarned is to be fore-armed."

Then, turning to Keane, whom he knew to be his best and most brilliant pilot, he said, "Where would you like to be stationed, boy?"

A sudden gleam came into the youth's eyes, for he saw that his chance had come.

"Let me have all the spare petrol from the other machine, and let me get up above the clouds in that new No. 7 Bristol Fighter which you brought over, sir."

"I'm afraid it means certain death for you, my lad," replied the chief, after a pause, unwilling to permit the youth to take such unknown risks, and yet still more unwilling to deny him his request. "This Scorpion, according to Captain Watson, must be some stunting machine."

"I am willing to take the risks, sir," replied Keane. "It is not my first fight with a Hun."

"Don't I know it, boy!" replied the other, gazing with fond admiration into the frank and pleasing face of the pilot. "The ribbons which you gained speak for themselves, but they don't tell half the story. Don't I remember the morning when you went over the line by yourself, and encountered seven enemy machines, how you fought with them for an hour and brought five of them down, chased the others till your machine threatened to break up, then turned and staggered home with your wings shot to ribbons?" and the colonel fondly patted the youth's shoulder.

"Then let me go, sir. The brigand will be not a little confounded to find himself attacked both from the ground and the air at the same time."

"You shall go!" said the colonel after another pause. "Will you take a gunner with you?"

"No, sir. I would rather go alone."

And while the petrol was drawn off from the other machine, No. 7 was brought out, filled up, and tested, ready to start at a moment's notice. The Vickers gun, fixed forward to fire through the propeller, was carefully examined, and several drums of the new armour-piercing bullets placed in position. Another moment was given to the alignment of the gun-sight, a matter of supreme importance in an aerial duel like this one promised to be, for the slightest error in this respect would be like courting disaster.

Ten minutes later the signal was given to stand clear, the colonel himself swung the propeller, and, instantly, the powerful 350 H.P. Rolls-Royce burst into life with a crackle and a roar, and, when the chocks were withdrawn, the Bristol dashed across the ground, leapt into the air at sixty yards, and by a steep climb just cleared the tops of the trees on the edge of the forest.

"What are his chances, Colonel?" asked Captain Hooper.

The chief shook his head as though doubtful of the result, then, after watching the machine for a moment, as it climbed in rapid spirals up into the clouds which half covered the sky at four thousand feet, he said:–

"There is no pilot aboard the Scorpion, or any other machine for that matter, who can hold a candle to Keane, but–it is the amazing speed and climbing powers of the other machine that I fear. Still, it will be some fight, and if we fail to trap the brigand down here, well, it is just possible, despite his disadvantages, that Keane may bring the rascal down. He'll have to keep well out of sight, though, and run at less than half-throttle behind that cloud bank till the moment comes to strike. And now to stations, all of you, and keep well out of sight. Professor Verne, I am afraid you will have to take charge of the two prisoners. Don't let them get away for heaven's sake. You must shoot them first."

"I'll take care of them, Colonel," replied the eminent man, "though it is a somewhat unusual occupation for me."

"Needs must when the devil drives, Professor! I told you it would be some desperate adventure. Have you had any luck with that evil genius, yet?"

"Not the slightest, so far. He is prejudiced against the English mind, and is secretly rejoicing over the expected arrival of the Scorpion."

"Tell him from me, Professor, that if he attempts to escape, I shall shoot both him and his accomplice without the slightest compunction," said the colonel, as he turned away to re-examine all his defensive posts, and to alter the position of one of the machine guns, which had been entrusted to Captain Sharpe.

Fifteen minutes passed away, and the Bristol, hidden away behind the cloud bank, kept its engine well-throttled down, lest the roar of the powerful motor should reveal its presence, when, suddenly, from one of the watchers, the cry arose:–

"Aeroplane approaching from the south-east."

"Is it the Scorpion, Captain Watson?" the colonel asked, as soon as the machine had been located.

"Yes, it is the same brigand, sir."

Then, with amazement bordering on the supernatural, the little garrison saw the Scorpion moving across the sky at a miraculous speed, and making directly for the secret aerodrome. Once or twice it circled around at three thousand feet, then dived a clean two thousand five hundred upon its objective, silently, like a mysterious phantom bird. At five hundred feet it flattened out, rode gaily above the tree tops, then swooping like a falcon, once more touched the ground lightly, and came to rest within thirty yards of the secret hangar.

"Haende in die hohe!" cried Colonel Tempest, stepping out into the open, and confronting the visitors with a couple of revolvers, as they prepared to leap from the armoured conning-tower.

"Ach Himmel! We are betrayed!" cried Spitzer. "The verdammt English have captured the aerodrome."

Without thought of surrender the brigands tumbled swiftly back into the armoured cell, just as a shower of bullets from both revolvers swept the upper surface of the cockpit.

"Fire!" shouted Tempest, stepping back, as the daring bandits, regardless of the danger, started the propellers once more by means of the self-starting knob, within the conning-tower.

And the next instant, even as the machine turned and raced for safety, a terrific hail of bullets from the two machine guns swept the Scorpion from stem to stern. One of her machine guns was swept from its mountings, and it is believed that one at least of her crew was wounded, probably by the Colonel's revolver shots, but as for surrender, the pirates would have none of it, as, apparently unhurt in any vital spot, the Scorpion recrossed the aerodrome, staggering once or twice under the fierce welter of bullets, managed to leave the ground, and sail over the tree tops out of immediate range.

"Confound it! She's absolutely bullet-proof!" shouted the colonel, who was furious at his failure, for his object had been to capture the machine and its crew wholesale, because of its valuable secrets.

"We shall see no more of her!" exclaimed Captain Hooper.

"Just wait a moment," said the skipper of the air-liner. "She'll have something to say presently. You don't know these infernal brigands."

The last speaker was right, for a moment later the infuriated Spitzer, sweeping round at a frightful speed, swooped down upon the little hangar, where he presumed the English were in possession, swept the place with a burst of machine gun fire from his remaining gun, then dropped a bomb filled with high explosive right into the middle of the structure; whilst he, himself, was screened by the trees from the enemy's fire.

The roar of the explosion was deafening, and several trees in the vicinity of the workshop were blown to fragments, whilst the workshop was now a tangled mass of wreckage. It was also burning furiously, and a thick pall of dense smoke already hung over the spot.

"The professor!–we must save him!" cried Tempest, who was already limping from a bomb splinter which had pierced his leg.

Captain Watson ran to help him, but the two machine gunners, Sharpe and Hooper, stuck to their posts ready for the next attack, which they knew would not be long delayed, for Spitzer, during his last circuit, had marked the position of the two machine gun posts.

As the rescuers hastened to the assistance of the prisoners, they came upon Professor Verne, bleeding from the hands and face, dragging the prostrate form of the German from amid the burning wreckage.

"Ah, you are wounded?" cried the colonel.

"It is nothing," replied the other. "See to the mechanic. I fear he is killed, poor fellow, by his own countrymen."

It was so; his mangled form was found buried under the débris of the workshop. The German professor and his rescuer were both helped to safety; then the battle began again.

"Here comes the Scorpion!" shouted Captain Watson. "Look out there!" and instantly the air resounded with the sharp, short crackle of the air brigand's gun–

"Rep-r-r-r-r-r–!" as the raider swept the machine gun posts.

At this very instant, however, the sound of whistling wires came suddenly from overhead, as something swooped down from the dizzy heights upon the attacker. Then the sharp crackle of a Vickers gun rent the air, as, in a headlong dive of two thousand feet, the Bristol Fighter hurtled down, spitting fire through the whirling propeller, and driving its quarry almost to the ground by its unexpected onslaught.

By a miracle almost, the Scorpion escaped a terrible crash, flattening out within two feet of the ground in the middle of the glade, then started its upward climb to out-manoeuvre its new opponent, for the rest of this terrific combat was confined to the air.

The little garrison below came out to see this thrilling spectacle, and even the wounded German raised himself to watch the Scorpion, as he expected, give its coup de grâce to its clumsy opponent. The fight now was for altitude, dead angles, and the blind side of each opponent, but more especially for altitude, for this is the equivalent in an aerial duel of the windward position, in the days of the old frigates.

Once, after climbing on the turn, the two machines approached each other dead on, and each opened a burst of fire simultaneously on its opponent. Carl, the scout pilot, was handling the solitary gun, and, if his aim had been more steady, that would have marked the finish of the fight. On the other hand Keane's bullets pattered with unerring aim upon the armoured conning-tower, but with little effect, for so far the finely-tempered steel resisted even these armour-piercing bullets.

The watchers down below trembled with rage–all save the German–when they saw this fearful waste of markmanship, but up there, calm and collected, the British pilot clenched his teeth and muttered:–