Читать книгу Raiders of the Red Death - Emile C. Tepperman - Страница 9

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In the army plane, which was soon lost to sight in the engulfing darkness to the south of provisional headquarters, the pilot sat grim-lipped at his controls. Behind him, his passenger stared ahead through the night. Jimmy Christopher, known in the Secret Service only as Operator 5, had taken off his own helmet and goggles, and was gazing ahead, regardless of the furious wind that lashed at him. His sharp, intelligent, clean-cut face was like that of some young god, riding the skies fearlessly toward whatever fate might hold...

Down below he could see, faintly in the night, the terrain of Texas—broad, parched fields upon which there was no life whatsoever. But soon the panorama changed. Little, motionless dots flecked the landscape below —thousands of them. Jimmy Christopher's pulse raced. He knew only too well what those little dots were—the pitiable, torn remains of what had once been stalwart United States Army soldiers, and their officers; all horridly mangled and torn by this strange force that Montezuma controlled.

Far to the east were dark moving specks—the remnants of the first line divisions, In retreat. And soon there came into the range of Operator 5's vision the forces of the Aztecs, encamped in a huge circle upon the plain.

He tapped the pilot on the shoulder, motioned to him to attempt a landing. The pilot nodded, and the plane veered down. And almost at once the twin motors sputtered, grew silent!

Jimmy Christopher felt a strange tightness in the atmosphere; breathing became more difficult. Frantically the pilot fought his controls, managed to keep the plane level. And in a moment, the motors coughed, resumed their rhythmic beat. The plane spurted ahead, and the pilot turned his head to Jimmy, his lips formed panicky words: "They won't let us land! We've got to go on!"

Operator 5 nodded. His face was eager with expectation. He motioned the pilot to continue along the same course. They had enough fuel to keep them in the air for hours. There was no immediate danger.

Below them there passed in swift panorama the huge encampment of the Aztec invaders—thousands upon thousands of orderly tents, with watch fires burning brightly. Those invaders, he reflected bitterly, were safe from attack by the troops of the United States. Every detachment that had advanced against them had been destroyed by the invisible force—the same invisible power that was compelling this plane to continue on its southward course.

They passed a thin, twisting silver band that bisected the earth below; Jimmy Christopher knew it was the Rio Grande. Now they were over Mexico...

Several times the pilot tried to descend, and each time the same phenomenon occurred—the motors went dead until he brought the plane up again, in the path of its southward flight. It was uncanny, chilling; the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them, driving them along.

At last, Jimmy's sharp eyes discerned the gleaming sheen of water. He drew in his breath sharply at the beauty of the scene below him—Mexico City, sitting high on its natural plateau, on the edge of Lake Tezcuco.

The white macadam roads leading toward the city were covered with moving lines of men and trucks, marching northward. More forces for the invasion of America! And far over the plateau were more moving masses of men; a mere handful against the vast armies which the United States could muster, but invincible now with the aid of the terrible weapon that their master had acquired...

And now, when the pilot attempted to veer into the wind and land, there was no dying of motors. The plane dropped slowly under his skillful manipulation toward a field to the east of the city, illuminated by huge incandescent bulbs...

A LINE of Aztec infantry was drawn up to meet them as the plane coasted to a stop, and mechanics ran out to help them.

When the motors were shut off, Jimmy Christopher said to the pilot: "Here we are, lieutenant. Keep a stiff upper lip. They didn't bring us here just to sacrifice us on their altars. But if we have to die, let's go out like men!"

They shook hands, descended from the plane. A tall man in brilliant uniform stepped forward, saluted gravely. He was lean-featured, thin-lipped, with sharp eyes that roved over Jimmy's well-knit figure like those of a hangman. There was a note of wonder in his voice as he said: "Are you then, that so dangerous person who is known as Operator 5? I expected an older man."

Jimmy said curtly: "I am Operator 5."

"That, my friend," the officer said, "is but a number. What is your name?"

Jimmy grinned. "Operator 5 will have to do you. Only my friends call me by name."

The officer smiled thinly. "You are another of those who need coaxing, no? No matter. At the palace we will know how to make you loquacious. Come!"

He turned, stalked across the landing field. A file of soldiers opened, took position on either side of Jimmy. Jimmy said to the pilot: "They don't want you, old man. Stay by the plane if you can."

The two men shook hands, and the pilot said earnestly: "Good luck, Operator 5!"

At the edge of the field, a large closed car was waiting. The Aztec officer got in first, then Jimmy was motioned in. Two soldiers sat on the rear seat, on either side of him, while the officer sat on one of the forward folding seats. The car got in motion.

Jimmy said: "Would it be too much, sir, to ask where we are going?"

The officer turned his head, gazed at him a moment, then answered: "You are being taken to an interview with our emperor—Montezuma the Third. Be careful how you speak to him. If you are wise, you will answer his questions more fully than you have answered mine."

Jimmy relaxed in his seat, thoughtfully. Why Montezuma should have gone to this trouble to bring him here, he could guess. As Operator 5 of the United States Secret Service, it might well be assumed that he was in possession of all the secrets of defense of the country. If they should torture him...

Jimmy Christopher's lips set firmly.