Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (13 page)

"Static effects?"

The question answered itself as a new voice made itself heard over the headphones. "Tom Swift, Swift
Sky Queen,
listen carefully. Do you read?"

Tom cautiously confirmed, and the voice continued:

"Then I think you will like to know this. An explosive device has been placed aboard your aircraft. You are now at two-thousand three-hundred feet. If you descend below two-thousand feet, the device will automatically activate itself and blow your plane to—what do you say?—
the smithereens!"

"WHO ARE YOU? What is it you want from us?" demanded Tom Swift over the microphone, having matched the incoming frequency.

"Excellent questions," answered the voice. "To the first, I say nothing. To the second, I answer the question with one of my own:
What is your business here in Montaguaya?"

"We’re on a scientific expedition. I imagine you already know that we’re testing an experimental device to locate radioactive ore, as well as testing the capabilities of the new aircraft."

"And along the way, you happen to be aiding the government in its campaign of oppression against the Puyachay
indios,"
declared the voice.

"Listen to me," said Tom firmly, "we’re not here as politicians. That’s for others. You’re holding some members of Hemispak captive; release them to us and we’ll leave immediately."

Tom could sense a sneering tone in the response. "Oh, I think not, young genius professor. You will be leaving sooner than immediately! I wonder, how long can your miracle-ship stay in the air before it runs out of fuel? Another hour, another day? Now I say to you, farewell and
viva los Veranistas!"

"He’s broken off," said Bud.

"It’s your call, Tom," Rip Hulse declared softly. "What do you want to do?"

The young inventor tossed aside his headset and ran his hand through his hair. "Depending on various conditions we have fuel for about three more hours of continuous use of the jet lifters, and maybe forty more minutes for the main jets. Of course we could double that by using only two of the four engines at a time. If we have to ditch the
Sky Queen
—" Here a look of agony crossed his face. "—then it would be best all around to do it in the ocean, which is… do-able."

"Obviously, we have to get away from the city," said Hank Sterling.

Tom nodded silently and grasped the throttle. The ship ascended rapidly toward the clouds, while Bud explained the emergency to the airport control tower. At twenty thousand feet, Tom throttled forward on the main jets and guided the
Queen
at half-power toward the Pacific. When they were several miles from shore, with no boats beneath them, Tom descended to three thousand feet and resumed hovering on the lifters.

"Luckily there’s just the few of us on board," he said. "We can transfer to the
Skeeter
and the
Kub,
then fly on, maybe to Chile…" His voice trailed off listlessly.

"Man, would I love to pound those rats!" Bud burst out.

Rip Hulse stood up. "There’s another possibility, of course. We could try finding and deactivating the bomb."

Tom nodded. "And we have some clues as to where it is, I think. Remember, just before takeoff Security went over the inside of the
Queen
absolutely thoroughly. Admittedly, they managed not to find a whole person; but a person, unlike a bomb, can move around nimbly and take advantage of areas already searched."

"Then you don’t think the device is actually inside the fuselage?" Sterling asked.

"Right," replied Tom. "In fact I suspect it’s fastened to the underbelly of the ship somewhere. After being activated by its internal timer or a signal, it probably uses an air pressure sensor to determine when the ship passes the two-thousand-foot mark—assuming he’s not just toying with us."

"Okay then, it
has
to be outside," Rip agreed. "But where exactly?"

In his mind’s eye Tom reviewed the blueprints of the Flying Lab. To prevent the device from being discovered prematurely, it would have to be somewhat hidden, or made inconspicuous. But the underside of the craft was designed to be an effective lifting surface, and thus was perfectly smooth. Indeed, anything attached to the outer hull would disrupt the airflow and be detected almost immediately. Furthermore, an object fastened in those places would stand out visually.

Unless…

"It’s camouflaged!" Tom burst out excitedly. "The device is painted to blend in with the American flag decal on the upsweep of the hull, just beneath the viewport here!"

"Sure!" said Bud. "Because of the pattern there already, the bomb and its shadow wouldn’t catch the eye."

"Great symbolism, kids," commented Rip. "He blows up the American flag,
plus
he shreds everyone at the controls!"

"And right under our nose all the time—literally!" Hank added.

"Hank, take my place here," Tom directed. "C’mon, Bud. I want to eyeball the situation in the
Skeeter
."

Tom and Bud scrambled down to the Flying Lab’s hangar deck, where the jetrocopter rested in its hydraulic cradle. Taking their places aboard, Tom activated the hangar door controls by remote signal. Instantly the deck below began to slant downward, while the wide door panel swung upwards. The ocean gleamed below as the cradle swung the
Skeeter
out into the open air, far enough from the fuselage for the rotor blades to be used. Tom gunned the engine and the midget craft lifted smoothly away from its restraints.

The young inventor guided the jetrocopter forward along the length of the
Sky Queen,
carefully avoiding the backwash and heat from the jet lifters. "Coming up on the nose," he radioed.

"We can see you now, chief," came Hank’s voice in reply.

Tom swung the craft around so the pilot’s dome would be facing the Flying Lab’s fuselage. "I see it!" cried Bud. "Right where you said!"

A round, flat object, about the size of a dinner plate, was affixed to the upper left corner of the large flag decal. It appeared to have been expertly painted, and was perfectly positioned amidst the stars and stripes.

Tom’s eyes darted back and forth. "How close do you think we can get to the hull?" he asked Bud.

"The rotor limits it."

"True," Tom said, thinking hard. "But the tail extends beyond the radius of the blades!"

"Yeah, but what—" Bud’s eyes widened. "Tom, you’re not thinking of trying to crawl over!"

In answer Tom began to slowly pivot the
Skeeter
. In a moment the tail section of the craft—which, unlike most choppers, lacked a secondary rotor—was banging lightly against the hull of the
Sky Queen.

"What’s going on out there?" demanded Rip Hulse over the radio. "All we can see is your front end." Bud, ashen-faced, did not bother to reply. He looked at Tom as the young inventor unlocked the cockpit hatchway and leaned forward. Then, abruptly, Bud grabbed Tom’s safety harness and yanked him back into his seat.

"Bud—!"
Tom protested.

"I’m stronger, pal," declared Bud with a wild grin. "I’ll knock you out if I have to!"

Bud kicked open his own hatchway and swung his legs around, pausing for a moment to activate his televoc pin. "Keep in touch, genius boy!"

Muscles flexing, Bud stood and twisted his body around, grabbing at an emergency rung on the top of the
Skeeter
. He pulled himself up and wriggled onto the roof of the cockpit section, lying perfectly flat. "Man," he televoc’d, "those blades are cutting it kind of close!"

"Make like a snake, Bud," said Tom.

"Don’t worry!"

Bud slowly worked his way back along the tail section, moving toward the hull of the
Sky Queen
. He knew that if he should become dizzy or lose his grip, the three-thousand-foot dive into the Pacific would be fatal.

"Tom," radioed Hank Sterling, "we’ve only got a little more than an hour of lifter-time remaining. I hate to say it, but wouldn’t it be better to come back inside and start the evacuation process?"

"No!" hissed Tom. "Just keep the ship nice and steady!"

"Okay, Tom, I’m at the end of the tail," Bud televoc’d. "The bomb is a little out of reach. Think you can take her up about four feet?"

"Done," responded Tom, accelerating the rotors very slightly, then quickly slowing them again to hover-rate. The tail of the jetrocopter rasped along the Flying Lab’s fuselage. Suddenly a slight jolt ran through the
Skeeter!

"Bud!" cried Tom. "All right?"

"Steady as she goes, Skipper," replied the quavering voice. "We’ve bounced a little apart. Just hold it—I’m going to stand!"

Bud thrust the toes of both shoes under the rungs he had been using to hold on to. Then with a gulp he rose to his feet and leaned both hands against the cold hull of the
Sky Queen.
The bomb was now at chest level.

"Bud?"

"I’m up," he said. "Just doing a little dance with the palms of my hands as we shift side-to-side. What do you want me to do?"

"Try to take a look at where the device touches the hull. See any daylight?"

Suddenly aware that his palms were sweating and might well start sliding, Bud pressed his cheek against the
Queen’s
hull. "It’s separated from the hull just a little. I can’t see all the way through, but… I think I’m seeing globs of glue or something."

"Okay, it’s cemented on—quick and dirty."

"Want me to try to pry it off?"

"No!"
shouted Tom. "It might go off in your hands as soon as it breaks contact. Look behind you. See that u-shaped docking ring?"

Bud twisted his head and looked. "I see it. Just a couple feet back. Part of the coupling assembly for the hangar cradle."

"Right," Tom replied. "Now there’s also a flat metal brace in the middle of the ring, bent at the end at about a 45-degree angle. See it?"

"Yep."

"It’s adjustable and geared up to a motor. I’m going to extend the brace from inside the cockpit to its greatest length. Is it moving? Tell me when it stops."

"It’s stopped, Tom."

"At that extension it’s not very stable. Pull it toward you with slowly increasing force. It should give fairly easily, and twist free of the ring as well. But Bud—don’t yank on it, like you did on me!"

Bud feigned a weak laugh. "Right." There was a long pause. Suddenly a
ping!
echoed through the craft. "You were a little optimistic, pal, but it’s in my hand."

Tom explained the rest of his plan. It took Bud a few minutes to comply, and another few minutes to worm his way back into the cockpit. Finally he plopped down into the copilot’s seat.

"Nice to see you!" said Bud. He turned away, but Tom could see that he was white and trembling. "So when do we leave?"

Tom gunned the jetrocopter and pulled away. As he rotated the craft, he formed a clear mental image of the bomb device. The angled section of the flat metal brace-bar, which was only as thick as three playing cards, was solidly jammed into one of the glue-free spaces separating the disk from the hull. It stuck out into space about two feet like a lever or crowbar.

Tom inhaled sharply. "Hold on." Rotating the Skeeter again, he backed it up toward the Flying Lab, using a radar sensor to make certain that he approached no closer than a foot or so. "Here goes!" he cried.

Shifting the rotor axis, Tom caused the jetrocopter to dip its tail, clanging against the protruding bar. In his mind’s eye he could see the sturdy bar prying the bomb off the hull, cracking its cement and sending it tumbling through the air. In the same instant, Tom gunned the
Skeeter’s
forward jet. The craft lurched forward.

There was no explosion. Had the maneuver worked at all?

"Over there!" cried Bud, looking downward. "It’s falling!"

Suddenly the
Skeeter
and the
Sky Queen
were rocked by a powerful blast!

"Two-thousand feet," Tom declared grimly. "Give or take a dozen!"

Tom made a wide circle, passing the command deck viewport as he did so. Rip, Arv, and Hank waved jubilantly and flashed him the victory sign.

As the jetrocopter made its final approach to the Flying Lab’s hangar, Bud broke the silence. "Tom?"

"What?"

"I have something to tell you."

"What is it, pal?"

"You may not believe this, but—
that was the very first time I ever did that!"

TOM AND BUD entered the Flying Lab’s cockpit to a chorus of whoops and backslaps from Rip Hulse, Hank Sterling, and Arvid Hanson.

"Brand my foghorns, what’s all the hubbub up here?" came a growly voice from the doorway.

"Chow!" Tom exclaimed. "Where have
you
been?"

The weathered ranchhand was rubbing his eyes. "Wa-aal, I heard tell about that there jet-lag, so I figgered I’d beat it with some shut-eye on my bunk. Then I thought I hear’t thunder, so’s I got up to see. So are we there yet, boss? In Monta-whatcha-callit?" Chow yawned and stretched.

Tom squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "Pard, we got
quite
a story to tell you!"

After recounting the details to Chow and the others, Tom radioed Señor Rigoledo in the government offices in Cristobal, providing a shortened version of the crisis.

"Most disturbing!" said Rigoledo. "All things considered, perhaps it would be best for you and your ship to return to the United States. It is possible that we will be able to negotiate the release of the Roberts party on our own. There have been several exchanges of prisoners over the years."

"I intend to continue, Señor," Tom replied firmly.

"Then let us proceed with caution," urged Rigoledo. "Do not land at the airport in Cristobal. Our army maintains a base in a small and secluded
cañon
perhaps twelve kilometers distant. There is room for your ship to make a vertical landing there, in a cleared area. We will announce to the press that you have returned to your country in view of unforeseen difficulties."

Tom couldn’t help but frown, though Rigoledo wasn’t there to see it. "I don’t like misleading the public."