XIV.

There was at Mitchel Field on that night of January 18 a tensity that had never been known in American aviation circles before. The commandant, closeted with Wilbur Gaylord and John Keller, pointed out certain locations on the map and hurried to answer the telephone; in turn, he made many calls. Most of these consisted of “What is your report? . . . . Good . . . . Three? At not less than ten thousand . . . . Right. You understand what is expected of you . . . . O. K.”

“It’s going to hang up a record,” the officer told Gaylord. “I did not think it could be done on such short notice, if at all. Certainly our lads are game to the core.”

“I’ll say they are,” rumbled Keller. “Ah, here is Creighton.”

The tall, lanky flyer strode into the office.

“Twenty minutes to go,” he remarked. “Will everything be set, sir?”

“All set—forty-one, so far,” the commandant told him.

“Whew!” exclaimed the pilot. “Forty-one!”

When, with his strangely burdened and strangely lighted plane, Creighton took off at exactly three minutes before eleven o’clock, and nosed his machine to cover the new route laid down by the arbitrary Mr. Starbuck, he was far from being the lone eagle he was supposed to be.

He flew at five thousand feet, but as his machine swung over Manhattan, from south, east and west other planes took up their positions, timing their arrival over New York to a nicety, so that when Creighton headed up the Hudson he was escorted, although at an altitude twice that of himself, by forty-one other machines, mobilized by an official order from Washington and carefully instructed as to their duties.

The eyes of every pilot were fixed intently on the ground, but from below the navigating lights of only one machine, that of Creighton, showed. Besides the pilot, each of the other machines carried a passenger, a volunteer who was keen for the game.

Above Tarrytown, to be exact, on the golf links of a famous oil magnate, three lengths of stovepipe stood upright in the turf. They were about forty feet apart and formed a triangle. Each of these improvised screens housed a light—one red, one white, one blue. Only from above could these be discerned.

Huddled by a powerful motor car, drawn a bit off the highway, were the three men, Markowski, Dimes and Rolphs. Eagerly they searched the skies to the south. At last the count breathed: “Ah!”

Dimes said: “There she comes, by cripes!”

The third man said nothing, only watched intently the white light pointing upward.

“She must be a walloper, by the noise she makes,” Dimes whispered agitatedly.

“She would be,” the count replied. “So! So! Here she is. Now!”

From the lighted plane what looked like a tiny point of light dropped, then another—the two parachutes with torches attached. Down they floated, true and gently.

A perfect arrangement, so easy to follow and locate when they should strike the ground. The three men immediately hastened off toward the points where the descending lights would land.

They had just reached the first of the two, were about to pounce upon it, when an astonishing thing happened. The sky above seemed to burst into sudden flame.

A terrific roaring filled the air as the rays of more than forty powerful searchlights turned the world white and left the three men staring and shaken at the phenomenon they were witnessing.

But that was not all.

Drifting down through this brilliance came a perfect shower of parachutes, from each of which dangled a form—the form of a fighting man eager to ply his trade. And as the trio stood, terrified, from all about sounded the thud, thud of landing airmen.

In a trice, parachutes were cut away, and the bewildered, trapped minions of Miles Starbuck could do nothing more than jabber and plead for mercy as the horde swept upon them.

Above, the planes circled, and drenched the land with light. Below, the delighted flyers danced about their quarry. It was done—the most sensational air stunt in history.

And when the report of it all reached the office at Mitchel Field, Wilbur Gaylord was himself ready to do a war dance. For his trembling hand held a cable just received from the far-off Isle of Skye.