XXVIII
PULLING DEATH’S WHISKERS
Red Pennington made a desperate spurt to catch up. His feet and hands were still numb; his head ached fiercely; his stomach was seasick for the first time in years. But that crack about the Marines was too much to swallow.
“You got it wrong, lady!” he puffed, stumbling at Suzette’s heels. “You mean run like we were chasin’ the Marines, don’t you? No gob ever yet ran away from a leatherneck...”
“Pipe down and save your breath, sailor!” warned Don. “Suzette’s leading this patrol, and it’s not over yet by a long shot!”
As he spoke the fleet-footed French girl darted into another branch tunnel. This one doubled back after a few feet, then branched again, and continued at right angles. In the next few minutes the young officers realized they were deep in an underground maze. Here anyone but a guide with an exceptional memory would lose the way.
And now another danger made itself apparent. From time to time distant shouts and the clatter of a machine gun echoed through the rocky labyrinth. In quick whispers tossed over her shoulders Suzette urged greater speed. The noticeable dimming of Don’s flashlight gave added warning.
Despite aching muscles and tortured lungs, Red forced himself to a swifter pace. As a result, he tripped and fell. Before Don could help him, he was running again, ignoring a pair of gashed knees. Sheer fighting courage kept him up, defying the weight of a body built more for comfort than for speed.
All at once Suzette slowed and stopped, throwing back a warning arm.
“Put out your torch, Monsieur Winslow!” she hissed. “Around the next corner is a machine gun in a 'pill-box.’ It stands between us and freedom. Either we mus’ silence it or be trap here where we stand!”
“I see,” muttered Don. “But you must have made some plan for doing that, Suzette. What’s our best play?”