Ramey needed no prodding. The first slashing finger of light had quickened into action the trained reflexes of an airman; already the small pursuit 'plane was lifting, bobbing and weaving away from the telltale beams. Now he gave it the gun; the snub-nosed Curtis flattened and streaked away like a startled swallow.
None too soon. Whatever shortcomings the Japs might have as warriors, they were speedy little devils. The Yankee fliers gained but a few minutes, a few short miles, advantage before their pursuers were in the air.
Even so, it should not have been difficult to escape in the dark. If it had only stayed dark as it should at this time of year, as it would have in any other place imaginable. But—this was the Orient, the semi-tropical topsy-turvy Land that skirts the China Seas.
Over the eastward horizon toward which they fled, an edge of ochre crept. Thin haze and hesitant; then deepening, widening, spreading, into a pearly, crepuscular veil. A cold and cheerless light against the backdrop of which their ship, both men knew, loomed as a perfect target!
Ramey gasped his dismay.
"Dawn! But—but that's impossible! It's only four o'clock. The sun shouldn't rise until—"
"False dawn!" corrected Barrett with sudden, comprehending savagery. "The famous 'dawn-before-sunrise'—that's what it is! I've read about it. It's possible anywhere, but it happens mostly in this part of the Orient. Result of flat country ... heat ... wide expanse of Pacific ... refraction. You're heading the wrong way, pal."
Ramey nodded tightly.
"I know. I headed southeast to confuse them; didn't want to tip off our base. I thought we could swing back when they gave up. But now—"