“The controls won’t answer!” Tom said, working the stick desperately.
Part of the fuselage had been shattered, and one wing almost shot away.
The craft was yawing and swooping crazily.
Bud gulped. “What about the rotor?” Tom had already thumbed the switch for this, and the blades were now knifing out into flight 154
THE AMIR’S MINE 155
position. But the pulse jets coughed and died, after giving the rotor a quick spin.
“Oh-oh! The fuel line must have been hit!” Bud’s face was pale as he added, “Radio’s conked out, too!”
“We’ll have to land,” Tom said.
The slowly whirling rotor eased the descent as they sank helplessly toward the valley floor. After long moments, the boys touched down to a bumpy landing.
“Still in one piece, anyhow,” Tom muttered.
“So far. But what about those jokers who winged us?”
The boys climbed out and hastily scanned the valley. “We must be a mile from the ack-ack gun placement,” Tom told Bud. “Come on! Let’s scram before they send out a mop-up squad!”
The two youths took off at a sprint, heading for the nearest slope.
“Plenty of timber up there!” Tom said on the run. “If we can reach higher ground, at least we’ll be able to find cover!”
They had gone scarcely a hundred yards when a rifleshot cracked on their right. The shell ricocheted from a boulder just ahead with a loud whine! The boys stopped short with white faces.
“Don’t move!” barked a voice. “And put up your hands!”
As the boys obeyed, a man stepped into view, his finger on the trigger of a powerful-looking
156 TRIPHIBIAN ATOMICAR