“Just some pilot up early,” she said lightly, but her heart was far from feeling that way.
Their own plane dove sharply, and Mrs. Van Verity Vanness gasped and clutched the arms of her seat.
“The morning air is a bit rough at times,” explained Jane reassuringly, but she knew all of the time that the quick dive had been a maneuver of Charlie’s to give them more time. She wondered about the army planes which had taken off from Des Moines. If their radio was working, they should arrive soon.
“The pilot of that plane’s acting queerly,” said Mrs. Van Verity Vanness. “He seems to be waving at us.”
The light was better and Jane looked at the black biplane. Mrs. Van Verity Vanness was right. They were being waved down and Jane’s heart went sick as she saw the snout of a machine gun sticking over the nose of the other craft. If Charlie refused to comply with the order, it was plain they would be the target for machine-gun bullets.
Jane looked at the altimeter with sinking heart. They were down to 7,000 feet and dropping lower steadily. She scanned the country below for some sign of a city. There were plenty of small towns within range, but no large ones where an adequate police force could be assembled to aid them.
Mrs. Van Verity Vanness did not appear alarmed. Charlie stalled at 5,000 feet and Jane saw the pilot of the other plane wave at them angrily.
It was agonizing, for Jane knew that once they were on the ground there would be no chance of escape. Her passenger would be whisked away in the black plane, to be held for a fabulous ransom and a desperately ill man in New York would be without the sympathy of his mother at his bedside to help him through his illness.
They were down to 3,000 feet and Charlie Fischer was hunting a good place to set down when death roared down out of the sky.
Two army planes, their machine guns spitting flame, hurled themselves at the black biplane.