Tim put the Good News in a steady climb and they gained altitude rapidly. At 1,200 feet he levelled off and Ralph got busy with the camera.
The oil storage lot, a large tract of level land, was dotted with a dozen large tanks. Five of the tanks had caught fire and exploded, the force of the explosion knocking off the steel tops. These tops, like great black pancakes, had been blown clear of the tract. One of them had hurtled down to crush the roof of the house nearest the fire.
The walls of two of the tanks had given way and Tim and Ralph could see the firemen fighting desperately to stop the spread of the flames. Safety trenches had been a part of the protective system at the tank farm, but some of them had been weakened by the explosion and the flaming gasoline was finding the vulnerable spots.
Tim swung the Good News over the blazing storage tanks and even 1,200 feet in the air they could feel the heat. The plane danced crazily and Ralph, who had been leaning far out, clutched the side of the plane and shook his fist at Tim.
The flying reporter snapped off the throttle and they glided down on a gentle incline, as the propeller turned slowly.
“Got enough pictures?” yelled Tim.
“Three more plates left,” shouted Ralph. “Let’s go down where I can get some close ups. Make a run for the fire at about four hundred feet; then zoom up just before we get there. That will give us some real pictures.”
“Also scorch all the new paint off the ship,” protested Tim.
“Carson said he’d pay for a new coat,” Ralph reminded him and Tim nodded and snapped on the switches again. The motor roared into action and they shot down out of the murky sky.
At four hundred feet Tim pulled back on the stick and the Good News levelled off. They were a mile west of the burning tank farm when he banked sharply and swung back toward the city.