CHAPTER VIII SIX MILES UP IN THE AIR

For an instant the hearts of all the boys stood still and each looked at the other in consternation.

“In the name of the United States of America!”

That meant that in some inexplicable way their project had leaked out and that the federal government had sent officers to prevent their going.

The heavy pounding on the great gate had resumed and now the same commanding voice shouted:

“Are you going to open to us, or is this intended as resistance of the law? I give you two minutes to open these doors before we smash them in!”

“That fellow means business,” whispered Alan. “Whatever can we do? We dare not oppose them, yet to let them in means the indefinite postponement of our flight.”

“We’ll go anyway,” said Ned, his eyes lighting with determination. “This is only another scheme to delay us. Are you all ready there, Mr. Engineer?”

“Whenever you say the word,” answered Bob up through the tube.

“Then start your engines! We’ll be a mile up in the sky before they can break in those heavy doors.”

So saying, Ned jammed down hard on his starting lever, the whir of the big turbines swelled forth. But not a tremor shook the _Ocean Flyer_. It did not budge an inch.

Someone had been tampering with the pilot room apparatus.

With a groan of desperation, Ned bent over the complexity of gears. He located the trouble almost immediately and was relieved to note that it was merely superficial--a matter of minutes to repair. But too late! At that moment the big yard gates were burst open forcibly and in strode four burly federal plain-clothes men, displaying their badges of authority. One other man accompanied them. Alan, who went out on the lowest exposed gangway of the _Flyer_ to meet them, recognized him in an instant. It was Mr. Geisthorn, the local correspondent of the _Berliner Tageblatt_.

“Is this Mr. Napier?” growled the leader.

“No, I am Mr. Hope. Mr. Napier will be here presently.”

The officer pulled an official looking document from his breast pocket and extended it towards Alan.

“We have a warrant for the arrest of both of you gentlemen. Also for that of one Stewart, said to be connected with the New York _Herald_.”

“Mr. Stewart will also be here presently,” said Alan. “Upon what charge are we to be detained?”

“Conspiracy--attempting to violate the federal neutrality by lending aid to one or another of the warring nations in Europe.”

“That is untrue.”

“I have nothing at all to do with that. My instructions are simply to place a man on guard over this vessel and to escort you gentlemen to the secretary of state at Washington.”

Alan’s wits were working fast. He was fighting to gain time, and the taffrail beneath his fingers was aquiver with subtle tremors; he could feel the premonitory hum of the engines as first one and then the other of the big turbines began moving. Ned had fixed the damage and things were going down in the engine room. The hum became a whir, a buzz and steady purr. The _Ocean Flyer_ trembled momentarily from stem to stern. The eleven-foot “moon” propellers began to whirl with rapidly increasing velocity. Then suddenly the streams of compressed air began to sing in a way that was like the terrifying moan of a cyclone near at hand. Then the tornado burst. Driven irresistibly forward by the most powerful propellers ever devised by man, that vast mass of steel surrendered and slid jolting forward for twenty yards or so, scattering the spectators wildly. With a bound the huge craft rose into the still air and plunged forward and upward on a forty-five degree angle at rapidly increasing speed.

“Stop, in the name of--” The official’s thunderous voice was lost in the distance. The factory buildings and the little group of detectives seemed to be dropping farther and farther down below, and, were it not for the rush of the wind, the _Flyer_ might have seemed to be stationary. The figures on the aviation field already were dwarfed by distance and half obliterated in the darkness. A sudden flash of red light stabbed the shades far beneath, and the report of the officer’s revolver was faintly audible.

Already the airship was sailing out over Greater New York. The lighted streets far below checked the area into rectangular figures like a gigantic chessboard. Broadway became a hazy blur of white, and the atmosphere took on a different quality--biting, hardy, more rarified. The stars which sparkled coldly down there on earth, became blazing, golden jewels in a setting of black velvet, which was the sky. The noise of the engines was now a low, steady drone.

The trip to Europe and the great war had begun.

* * * * *

There is nothing in particular to tell about the three-thousand mile air voyage across the Atlantic. To Alan, Ned and Buck, snugly encased within the automatically heated interior of the _Ocean Flyer_, the sense of aloofness from solid earth was lost, and it seemed much as if they were seated at their office desks back on Fifth Avenue.

The height of six miles from earth level at which they traveled, blotted out all sight of tangible objects, the comparative distance from which might have made the altitude terrifying to less experienced aviators than the Airship Boys. Sometimes the _Flyer_ cut its way through clouds, but the main strata of these even lay far below them. All that was visible through the heavily glassed portholes was a dull, grayish void. The terrific rate of speed at which they were traveling was not at all apparent.

The young aeronauts were kept too busy managing the ship to have spent much time star-gazing if there had been something of outside interest. Ned and Alan took turns in steering the course and taking hourly observations upon one or another of the exceedingly delicate instruments at their command. Buck stood to the engines in the hold, being relieved by one of the other boys when it came his turn to sleep or prepare meals.

Speaking of eating; those little repasts that Buck Stewart prepared in the cook’s galley were absolutely mouth-watering. Had he not been so able a newspaper reporter, he would have made a better chef. Oh! those luscious, thick, juicy steaks, oozing such odoriferous steam and a-swim in milk gravy from the same pan; hashed, golden-brown potatoes, one mouthful of which was to implant an insatiable craving for more; little green pickles with a real tang to them and flavored by the cinnamon, nutmeg and tasty spices in which they were bottled; flap-jacks, rich with molasses; sugar cakes and rich coffee that warmed one down to the very toe tips; and _fruits_! Well, there were big, rosy-cheeked apples, that kind of oranges which can be smelled all over the room, nuts, raisins and what not. The larder was well stocked, and Buck Stewart certainly knew how to prepare it appetizingly if ever anyone did.

Fortunately the weather continued fair and no dangerous air-pockets or unexpected whirlpool wind currents were met with. The eighteenth hour of their flight found everything going as well as possibly could be wished. Their watches were still set to New York time; it was now six P. M. in America, but midnight in London. There was a full moon, and it was quite light.

“By this time,” observed Ned, “we ought to be pretty near the English coast, so I would suggest that we drop the _Flyer_ down to an altitude where we can locate ourselves more definitely by actual landmarks.”

This was done. With the huge wing-like planes expanded to the full, the _Ocean Flyer_ coasted aslant the air-waves. The cloud belt encircling the globe was penetrated and passed through, leaving small drops of moisture glistening all over the glass of the portholes. The moon’s rays made the metal body of the vessel glitter like so much silver. As they dropped lower and lower, the world became dimly visible, seeming to be literally rising to meet the descending aviators. At an altitude of three thousand feet, the downward planing was discontinued and level flight again maintained.

To the one hand stretched the seemingly endless expanse of gray, breaker-crested ocean, but on the other, due ahead, lay the rock-bound, irregular coast of the British Isles. Not so very far away now, was poor Bob Russell on trial for his life.

All three boys were thinking about him. It was not necessary to mention his name.

“Not long now,” said Ned.

“No, not long,” agreed Alan and Buck.