“I hope so,” Tom replied. “We have his position. But we’ll have to get there on instruments if this fog continues.”
Tom divided his attention between the altimeter and the radarscope. The plane was skirting a jagged range of mountains, and he knew that an error in judgment could spell quick disaster. Suddenly he hauled up the nose of the plane and jerked open the throttle.
145
146 TOM SWIFT AND HIS ATOMIC BLASTER
The upward swoosh took Faber and Blake by surprise. As they clawed for balance, they saw that Tom’s face was blanched.
“What was it-a traffic cop or a tall building?” quipped Blake, trying to make his voice sound casual.
“Almost clipped a peak,” Tom replied, swallowing hard. To avoid further risk, he continued his steep climb for several thousand feet. Then he throttled down the horizontal power, so that the ship nosed through the fog at a snail’s pace.
Tom snapped on the intercom and spoke to the radioman. “We’re almost there, I think. Tell Hanson to listen for the sound of our engines. Soon as he hears us, ask him to shoot up a couple of signal flares for a landing marker.”
“Roger!”
BLIND RESCUE
147
It was not long before a shower of sparks burst into view about a hundred yards to starboard. A moment later came another.
“Okay! We’ve got the spot!” Tom spoke into the mike.
Banking sharply, he wheeled the plane around to the position indicated, then shut off all horizontal power. For a moment the ship hung suspended in the fog, like a gigantic toy in a frosted shopwindow.
As Tom eased off the jet lifters, the plane began to sink earthward, settling on a snow-covered rock shelf of ground.