Free The Devil—With Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

men on the dredge are too far away to know what happened afterwards and they’ll be too rattled to figure it out. One night of wind will hide the tracks this car is making. If he wasn’t up there to hold them back, do you think, with all this border trouble, that the Japanese would stop on the river’s other side? No. They’d find us and gun us by moonlight—and an easy job it would be. But they won’t suspect, until it is too late.”
    Patricia suddenly hid her face in her hands, weeping. Ching’s glare was merciless upon her shoulders.
    â€œI didn’t know,” she whispered. “I…I thought I hated him. But it wasn’t hate. It wasn’t hate! And now I’ve let him go up there alone without ever telling him.…”
    Ching was looking back. The moon was over the horizon now, bathing the world with an orange flood. Against it, like wasps, the Japanese pursuit ships were framed. And roaring down the sky to meet them went The Devil With Wings.
    Forsythe, crouched in his pit, looked tiredly through his ringsights at the approaching armada. He clamped the phones on his ears and clicked his switch, getting the band of the Japanese.
    He heard Shinohari’s yelping voice crying, “There he is! That is he! Keep in close formation and dive past him in groups of three. Bow guns, then let the gunners get him. Don’t pull up until you’re far below. Turn then and climb above him again. Get him at all costs!”
    Forsythe’s lips curved downward into a twisted grin. He picked up the radiophone.
    â€œShinohari? Akuma-no-Hané speaking. If you’ll let me land and discharge my passengers, I’ll give up.”
    Shinohari’s startled yip cracked through the phones. “Passengers? You say ‘passengers’?”
    â€œBob Weston and his sister,” replied Forsythe to the dot growing bigger in his ringsight.
    He thought he heard a relieved chuckle. He had spoken in English because he was fairly sure no pilot in the squadrons ahead could understand it.
    â€œYou are too tricky,” cried Shinohari in Japanese. “I cannot risk it. Military necessity demands your instant death.”
    In English, Forsythe said, “My death will not help you greatly, worthy Captain. Already word has been passed to certain powers and I think you will be wise enough to listen to their orders. I know you will. The evidence is too great and you cannot even resort to hari-kari.”
    Hurtling at each other across the palely glowing sky, enemy to enemy. And the man who was to die still held the winning hand.
    Forsythe took off the phones. He did not want to hear more, he had nothing more to say. The crackle told him that Shinohari understood and that nothing could stop the hammering slugs which would soon riddle the attack plane.
    He must be careful, Forsythe thought, not to fire. He did not know which ship was Shinohari’s and Shinohari had to live. Living, to the captain, would be a fate far worse than flaming down into the dark earth far below.
    Hands away from his trips, without even trying to get above his foes, Forsythe looked down toward the long silver strip which was the Amur River.
    The exhaust stacks of the coming ships flared blue and red against the moon. The wings were spread out into groups, all compact, getting ready for their dives.
    Forsythe looked up. Over his head a squadron started over the hump and stabbed down, engines screaming, scarlet pom-poms beating through their props.
    Forsythe flew onward, keeping his course straight.
    He was smiling.
    T he car was miles away by now and Bob was driving fast. Ching and Lin saw the exploding muzzles of the diving guns long before they heard the chattering roar.
    By watching the direction of fire they made out the attack plane.
    Ching’s fists were balled tightly. His throat was dry and rasping as he whispered hoarsely, “Take some of them with you. Please take the captain. Please