Scotty drew back until his lips were close to Rick's ear. "I'm going to circle the house once. Keep watching."
When Montoya would have followed Scotty, Rick put a hand on his arm and whispered that they should wait. The two concentrated on watching the windows and the guards. Rick guessed that Guevara was not at home. So far as he could tell, no one was inside the house, at least on his side. There was light in one upstairs window, but the angle was wrong; he couldn't see inside.
The two guards on the front porch stayed there. That was probably their station. Another guard seemed to have the rear corner of the house. The fourth also seemed to be assigned to the rear, but he moved around more than his compatriot. Rick could see that the four were not soldiers. At least they were not in uniform. Probably they were Guevara's personal employees. Bodyguards, perhaps.
Scotty returned, silent as a wraith in the night. He sank to the ground between the two and whispered, "I don't think there's anyone home. Just the four guards. If the governor is here, he's in that upstairs room."
"What do we do?" Rick whispered.
"We'll have to take it from the rear. It will be tough, because there's not much cover."
Scotty began to outline his plan, then stopped suddenly. Rick had a strange feeling in his stomach again, and he realized that the earth was trembling under him. The tremor grew in strength, and from close by there was a snapping sound as a dead limb broke under the vibration and dropped to the jungle floor.
"Now!" Scotty whispered sibilantly. "Come on!"
Instantly Rick and Montoya followed the ex-Marine's lead, withdrawing into the denser brush, then rising and hurrying after him, crouched over and careful not to make a sound.
Scotty led them in a wide circle that brought them finally to the rear of the house. Rick sized up the situation and saw only two trees that offered any cover. The ground was still trembling, although slightly. Then, as he crouched, the temblor increased again.
The guards were disturbed. The two in the rear moved back, away from the house, as though expecting it to fall on them. One of them spoke in Spanish and the other replied curtly.
Montoya sucked in his breath. He whispered, "The first one asked if they should not get the old man out, and the second said let him fall with the house."
The two guards were well back from the house now, staring upward at the second floor. If the stucco started to go, it would be high on the house wall at the roof line.
Scotty touched Rick on the arm, then rose and moved like a dark ghost, straight across the open glade toward the guards. Scotty reached the tree nearest the house and slipped into its shadow.
Rick sized things up. The other tree was perhaps thirty feet away from Scotty, and about ten feet closer to the jungle's edge. The guards were still looking at the house. Rick moved, bent low, night stick firmly clutched in his hand. He sensed that Montoya was close behind him.
He straightened up in the shadow of the tree, his eyes on Scotty. His pulse was speeding and his breathing was short and shallow. Montoya crouched next to him, ready to move.
Rick saw Scotty bend and pick up something. He saw Scotty wave toward them, then saw Scotty throw something. The object crashed into the stucco of the house high on the second floor, then it tumbled to the ground. Scotty had thrown a rock!
The guards stiffened, thinking that the sound was the first evidence that the house was falling. Scotty moved like a streak, and Rick charged forward with club held high. Montoya was even faster.
The two guards, interested only in the house, never knew what hit them. Rick eased one to the ground as his knees crumpled after Montoya's vicious swing. Scotty had the other; he had knocked him out and caught him before he fell.
The three left the guards and hurried to the back door. Montoya motioned, and took over the lead. He snaked the pistol out of his shoulder holster and held it ready.
For an instant they paused in what seemed to be a pantry, then moved into the kitchen beyond. Rick could see a hallway leading straight to the front door. The door was solid wood, and it was closed.
Montoya gestured with the pistol and led the way. Then, motioning the boys back, he boldly opened the door and strode out.
The surprised front guards stared into the pistol muzzle. Montoya spoke in crisp Spanish that Rick couldn't follow, but the meaning was amply clear. The guards' hands shot high. Montoya stepped aside and the guards walked into the house like lambs.
"Tie them!" Montoya snapped.
A cord from the Venetian blinds was the most convenient tie material. Scotty cut it loose with a sweep of his scout knife and slashed it into two pieces. While Montoya held his pistol on the guards the boys tied their arms behind them, lashing their elbows together.
"Now," the police captain said, "let us find my uncle."
The stairs led up from the hallway. Montoya took them two at a time, the boys close behind. At the top of the stairs, the officer called in Spanish. There was an answer from a room on the left.
The door was locked, but the key was hanging from a hook on the wall. In a moment the two Montoyas were greeting each other with a warm embrace, and then with a more formal handshake.
The governor greeted the two Spindrifters with a bow and a handshake, and then inquired, "What good providence brought you here, nephew mine?"
"We knew you were here," Montoya said, "because there was no other place where Guevara could have hid you."
"Let's discuss it later," Rick urged. "Those guards out back will be coming to, and we want to be out of here."
"You are right," Montoya agreed instantly. "We are not yet in the clear, señor uncle. We must hurry."
"Into the jungle," Scotty said. "Once in the brush and we're okay. They'll never catch us then."
Montoya hefted the pistol he still held in his left hand.
"It will be better for them if they do not," he said quietly.
Governor Luis Montoya paced the floor of his office. Seated in the comfortable chairs were the Spindrift scientists, Captain Montoya, and the boys.
"We are in a difficult situation," the governor stated. "Guevara controls the army, and the army controls the area in which you must work. We need the army if we are to evacuate the island. My nephew and his fellow police are efficient, but their number is too small."
"Is there any possibility of getting outside help?" Hartson Brant asked.
"I am afraid not. Our difficult political situation makes it almost impossible to obtain any fast action. We would need to approach three governments at the same time. They would have to have conferences, to agree on how the help was to be given. Each would be afraid to let the other help, you see, for fear of giving up its claim to sovereignty over us. No, I'm afraid we must find our own solution."
"You are the governor," Hobart Zircon pointed out. "Wouldn't the troops respond to your orders?"
The governor shrugged. "You can be sure our efficient lieutenant governor has his own men in key positions. But what you suggest has occurred to me, and I must make the attempt. First, however, I must alert the people of the island. The danger must be described to them."
"How?" Julius Weiss asked.
"By radio. We have our own government radio here. I think Esteben and I should go on the air at once. He can describe what is going on under El Viejo. I will ask the people to assemble at the docks." He turned to his nephew. "Ricardo, send two of your most trusted men to Redondo and San Souci. They must persuade the fishermen to load their families and villagers, then come to Calor. We will need to crowd all fishing boats for many trips if we are to get the people off."
"At once, señor," Montoya replied. He hurried to the door and gave orders to the police guard. The handful of police were now the sole security force of the island. The chief of police was personally supervising the government's safety, somewhere outside the building. Only two officers were still on regular police duty. The rest were either guarding the executive office or awaiting orders.
"Where can the people be taken?" Balgos asked.
"I think we will send them to Curaçao and Bonaire. Those islands are close, and they belong to the Netherlands. The Dutch are hospitable, no? And we avoid entanglement with England, Venezuela, and Colombia."
It sounded reasonable to Rick. He asked, "Aren't there ships in the harbor? I mean, big ships?"
"One freighter, and two interisland cargo ships of the C-1 class. All three fly the flag of Panama. We will have the harbor master speak to their captain and attempt to hire them. I am sure they will co-operate."
"I'm sure that if you asked for help from the United States they'd send all available U. S. Navy ships in the area," Dr. David Riddle said.
The governor smiled warmly. "That is our ace in the hole, as you would call it, Señor Riddle. The world knows that the Americans are always ready to help. But perhaps there will be no need. We will see."
The building shook slightly and Rick waited, holding his breath. But the temblor subsided. It was the third one within an hour, he thought. The magma must be moving fast.
"Now, gentlemen, I must get busy. Ricardo, I leave the details of moving our people in your hands. I will go to the roadblocks and see if these soldiers can be persuaded that their governor speaks for the people. But first, Esteben, you and I will go to the government radio and speak to the people. Our talk will be put on tape, and repeated over and over. Vamos. Let us go. Time is getting short."
At Montoya's request, Rick and Scotty had agreed to remain with the governor, in company with two police sergeants. The scientists returned to the hotel, to continue their attempts to predict the magma movement based on data already in hand. New data would be obtained as soon as the situation cleared up.
The governor, Balgos, Rick, Scotty, and the governor's secretary drove in the official car, a huge American import. The two police sergeants led the way in one of the island's two police cruisers.
The radio station was only a few blocks away. These were the studios. The transmitter was on the coast a mile south of Calor. Rick was pleased to see that the equipment was modern, the staff apparently efficient.
A musical program was interrupted and the governor and Balgos put on the air at once. Rick's Spanish was too poor to permit him to follow the discussion, but he gathered that the governor told the people of the scientific mission, and then Balgos described the situation. The governor returned to the mike with a plea for instant evacuation.
Tape recorders rolled while the speech was on. At the governor's orders, the tapes would be replayed every hour on the hour from now on.
It was getting very late. The night was warm and pleasant, and the clouds had vanished leaving a brilliant moon shining down on San Luz. It was a lovely island, Rick thought. The greed of two men, Connel and Guevara, had prevented any possibility of action to save it. Now, evacuation of the people was the only possibility.
Ricardo Montoya met the governor's party as they emerged from the studios. He reported rapidly to his uncle, speaking English in courtesy to the Americans.
"Men are on the way to the fishing villages, señor. The harbor master is speaking to the ships in the harbor, and already one C-1 is agreeing to take the people. I have spoken with the airlines managers at the airport, and they are trying to obtain many aircraft from the nearby cities. Your own aircraft is being made ready for instant take-off."
It was the first Rick had heard of a government plane. "What kind is it?" he asked.
"A very ancient, but very reliable Douglas, of the DC-3 type. We hold it in reserve, Rick. Your scientists, the governor, and our police will be the last to leave the island. I have counted the numbers. If you can carry four, our plane will carry the rest."
Rick nodded. It was nice to know there would be a way out, even though he hadn't considered the necessity until that moment. He was glad Ricardo Montoya was thinking ahead.
"Now," the governor stated, "I must visit the army."
"I will go with you," the police captain said instantly.
"No, Ricardo. There is too much for you to do. I will be safe. There is no enemy but Guevara. No soldier would harm me."
Rick admired the little governor's courage, but he wasn't as sure of their safety as the old man seemed to be. "I think we'd better be armed," Scotty said.
Ricardo Montoya had met them in the island's other police cruiser. He said, "Wait," and hurried to the car. Pulling down the rear seat, he disclosed a gunrack. From it he drew two riot guns, automatic shotguns with short barrels.
"Can you use these?" he asked.
Scotty nodded an affirmative. "Both Rick and I have fired automatic shotguns on a skeet range. These can't be much different."
"They are not. The safety is behind the trigger guard. There is no shell in the chamber now, but there are nine in the magazine. Go with God, señores."
The governor's car with its police escort rolled through the streets of Calor, en route to the roadblock at the hotel road. Rick and Scotty held the riot guns, both hoping that they would not be needed.
The governor chatted calmly, as though this were simply a routine sightseeing trip. "Few Americans come to San Luz. We had hoped that perhaps an advertising campaign might bring more of you to our island. We have much to offer, you will agree. Have you tried our swimming yet? I appreciate there has been little opportunity for pleasure."
The boys answered politely, but neither could really get into the swing of the conversation. It took a kind of experience they did not yet have, to talk of casual things while en route to what might be genuine danger.
The governor's secretary called over his shoulder, "There is the roadblock, señor. How shall I approach?"
"Drive up to it, Juan. Be very casual."
Rick fingered the safety on his riot gun. He could see dark figures at the barricade fence.
The car drew to a stop. The governor said quietly, "Perhaps you had better stand by the car. Do not let your guns be seen. If necessary, you will know what to do."
One boy got out on either side, leaving the car doors open. The doors shielded them and the riot guns. The governor got out and walked briskly to the barricade and spoke in Spanish.
It was light enough so Rick could see the men at the barricade clearly. He realized suddenly that they were not dressed as the soldiers had been earlier; these men seemed to be farmers. But they had rifles, and two hand grenades hanging from their belts.
He couldn't follow the exchange in Spanish. The governor was talking in a quiet voice with one man who was better dressed than the rest. The man's voice was cultured, but mocking in tone.
Rick heard the secretary draw in his breath sharply, and he surreptitiously got ready to pump a shell into the riot gun's chamber. But nothing happened. Esteben Balgos muttered, "This is unbelievable!"
Then the governor was coming back. He got into the car and spoke quietly. "Back to Calor, Juan."
The boys got in and closed the doors. The secretary swung the big car around and headed back the way they had come. Governor Montoya took time to light an aromatic cigar. Only when it was going well did he speak.
"An interesting talk, señores. Those were not soldiers, but the peons—how do you say it?—tenant farmers of Jaime Guevara. The man with whom I talked is his foreman. They have replaced the troops at all barricades, and their loyalty is only to Guevara."
"But the troops?" Balgos asked.
"Either guarding the volcanic pipe or working in it. I am told that Guevara is now the governor of the island. He has taken over. If I try to resist, it will mean bloodshed. If I leave the island, all will remain quiet and peaceful."
"That's nonsense!" Rick exploded. "Guevara can't get away with it!"
"No? He is getting away with it, Señor Rick. We have a dozen policemen; he has the army. He also has his own men, at key points. So what can we do? We haven't enough force to fight. Besides, there is no time. We can't arm the people because we have neither weapons nor time."
"But what can we do?" Scotty demanded.
"I do not know. At least we can continue our efforts to get the people off the island. Without the ability to make scientific readings, we cannot know how much time is left, so we must hurry. We will do the best we can. After that—well, you had a Spanish song in America that says it well. You recall the title? 'Qué será será.'"
Rick remembered. An expression of fatalism. What will be, will be.
The magma drove upward, melting its way through the fractured rock of the channels under the western side of the island. Now and then it struck rock with a higher water content, and the island shuddered under a new explosion as the steam expanded.
Rick felt the bed shake under him and sat upright. A new day had dawned, and there was much to do. He and Scotty had volunteered to help Captain Ricardo Montoya plan the evacuation of the island, and the youthful officer had accepted with pleasure. He had agreed to meet them for breakfast.
The scientists had worked late, trying to extrapolate their data into some kind of prediction. Rick and Scotty, tired after an exhausting day, had gone to bed while the light still burned in Hartson Brant's room.
Scotty awoke as Rick's feet hit the floor. "I'm getting used to these little earthquakes," he said. "Don't know if I'll be able to sleep on steady ground after this."
"The ground is going to get unsteadier," Rick reminded. "Until—boom!"
"I'm not forgetting," Scotty said grimly. "Let's get dressed and eat. I'm famished."
"It's ham and eggs for me," Rick told him. "If I had to watch milk slosh around in a cereal bowl I'd get seasick."
The boys dressed rapidly and hurried down to the hotel coffee shop. They were just in time. Ricardo Montoya walked in just as they were seated.
The officer joined them. Rick noted that his face was drawn and tired, and thought Montoya had probably been up a good part of the night. "How's the evacuation going?" Rick asked.
Montoya shook his head. "Poorly. My uncle's radio broadcast continued all night and through the morning hours. A few families have come to the harbor, and the stevedores are organized now to get them aboard ship. A few fishing boats have come, with fishermen's families, but there is no big exodus."
"Don't they realize the danger?" Scotty exclaimed.
"Perhaps. You must understand my people. They have lived with earthquakes all their lives. Not so often, perhaps, but these temblors are not unusual. What is there to be excited about? Who believes El Viejo will explode? It never has, so it never will."
Rick thought it over. "Maybe not enough are hearing the broadcasts."
"That is possible. I have put volunteers to work going from house to house, asking people to turn on their radios to hear the governor, and also to explain the urgency. But it will take a long time, even in Calor."
"If we only had the troops," Rick said thoughtfully. "Trained manpower is what's needed for a job like this."
"True. And I think if my uncle could only talk to the troops they would believe him. But he cannot reach them. Guevara's peons would never let him by."
The hotel loud-speaker system drowned out his last words as a soft feminine voice paged someone in Spanish.
"If only the troops could listen to the radio," Rick commented. "Perhaps they'd believe him and turn on Guevara."
"Perhaps. But soldiers cannot afford radios, and they are away from their barracks now. There is no way for my uncle's voice to reach them."
There had to be, Rick thought. There had to be some way. The loud-speaker sounded again, paging a Señor Alvarez. Rick sat bolt upright. Why not use a loud-speaker?
"Listen," he said excitedly. "If the government radio station has a loud-speaker system, or can make one, we can put it in my plane. I can fly the governor over the troops and he can talk to them direct. My plane can go slowly enough, and low enough for that!"
"How about power supply?" Scotty asked.
"There must be an inverter on the island somewhere. We can use automobile batteries, and the inverter will give us 110 AC for a while, until the batteries run down. Just twenty minutes of power would be enough and we can get that with enough batteries!"
Scotty chuckled. "The Brant approach," he said. "There always is one. How about it, Captain?"
"We will try," Montoya said decisively. "You have not eaten?... Then do so, while I make a phone call to the radio station. I have had coffee and rolls, and perhaps there will be time to join you for more breakfast while the radio engineers get the equipment together."
The boys were just finishing ham and eggs when Montoya returned. There was a broad smile on his tired face.
"The engineers say it can be done. They have a portable loud-speaker system, and there is an inverter, as you call it, at the transmitter. What is this inverter?"
"It's an electric generator," Rick explained. "Battery current turns it, and it produces 110-volt alternating current. But inverters aren't very efficient, and they take a lot of battery current. That's why we'll need as many batteries as we can carry."
"The chief radio engineer said he understood exactly what was needed. He will gather the materials and meet us at the airport. Now, I think we have time for coffee, and perhaps I can follow your example with ham and eggs. It will take an hour for the equipment to be ready. Also, I called my uncle. He will be waiting for our call."
"Did you get any sleep last night?" Scotty asked.
Montoya smiled. "Sleep? I have forgotten what it is. But perhaps if this plan of yours works, I will remember, eh? Then I can sleep tonight."
A check with the hotel desk told Rick that the scientists had left word that they were not to be disturbed until later in the morning except for an emergency. They had worked a good part of the night, apparently with no satisfactory results.
The boys waited until Ricardo Montoya had breakfasted, then rode with him to the airport. There was another wait while the radio engineers arrived, bringing the loud-speaker equipment.
Rick supervised the placement of the amplifier in the rear seat. The inverter was placed on the floor, and wedged into place with scrap lumber. The automobile batteries were put into the luggage compartment behind the rear seat and were also wedged in place.
Wires were run from the amplifier through the rear-seat windows, which were opened just enough to take the thin cables. The leads were then brought out to the plane's struts. Two large loud-speakers were attached to the struts. At first there was some difficulty in figuring out a secure attachment, but the chief engineer, a resourceful type, managed to find a pair of U bolts somewhere in the hangars. They did the job nicely.
The chief engineer connected up, then hung the microphone between the two front seats. He threw a switch and the inverter started up with a whine. At the throw of a second switch, the loud-speakers broke into a hum. The engineer tapped on the microphone, and the tap, greatly amplified, reverberated across the airstrip.
"It works!" Rick exclaimed, delighted.
"Cómo no?" the engineer said with a smile. He spoke to Montoya in Spanish. The officer translated. "There is one more thing. He has rigged a cable with a switch box so you can operate the controls from the front seat. When the cable is attached, you will be ready. I will go call my uncle."
Rick and Scotty watched as the engineer got busy, hooking the remote-switch cable into the amplifier.
"Room for only two," Rick pointed out. "Want to toss for it?"
Scotty shook his head. "It was your idea. I'll stay on the ground. Take the governor and talk those troops into submission."
"Maybe," Rick said. "We'll see. I think it depends on whether or not they know the real story. If they have any idea there are diamonds around, they won't be interested in anything else."
"Guevara wouldn't dare to let them in on it," was Scotty's opinion. "I'll bet they're just following orders, with no idea what's behind all this. Most of them probably think there really is a national security conference going on."
Rick thought Scotty was probably right. Time would tell. He waited until the engineer signaled that the job was done, then climbed into the pilot's seat. He checked the plane over. Plenty of gas. Everything seemed okay. He tried the loud-speaker switches, then spoke into the microphone. He could hear his voice boom out with thunderous amplification and saw Scotty clap his hands to his ears.
Finally, he started the motor and let the plane warm, keeping an eye on his gauges. When the manifold temperature got high enough he cut the switch. He tested the control surfaces and he was satisfied. Now all he needed was the governor.
Governor Montoya arrived within ten minutes. He inspected the plane and its equipment and nodded his approval. "Very ingenious. Shall we try it?"
"Yes, sir." Rick helped the governor in, buckled his safety belt, then ran around and got into the pilot's seat. He started the motor, waved to Scotty and the others, then taxied out to the runway. The tower gave him clearance and he took off.
"We'll make a swing over the area and locate the troops," he explained, "then I'll slow down as much as I can, and you can talk."
Rick climbed to a thousand feet and set a course directly for the Hot Springs Hotel. He asked, "Sir, how many troops are there?"
"Our army numbers three companies, of about two hundred and fifty men each. Then we have a few special units, including the transportation platoons. Perhaps nine hundred in all. We do not need a large army. But we need some kind of force. These are troubled times, and there is always some danger that a revolutionary force might consider us an excellent staging or training base for an invasion of a nearby country. So, we keep prepared."
The Sky Wagon was over the hotel within minutes. Rick spotted a large group of soldiers—he estimated about two hundred—dispersed around the hotel. They probably thought they were guarding the conference.
He banked left and followed the contour of the mountain, and found another group of soldiers camped near the pumice works.
"That is two companies accounted for, more or less," the governor stated. "Now, can we find the third?"
It wasn't difficult. Rick followed the dirt road to San Souci, and found the third large group marching in the direction of the mountain, apparently about to join forces with the group at the pumice works.
"Let's take a look at the diamond pipe," he suggested, and pulled the Sky Wagon around in a tight circle. He had his bearings, and the third shot station was not difficult to locate. There was considerable activity. Earth-moving machinery had been moved into place and was operating. The yellow ground was already gone, and the equipment was cutting into the blue kimberlite below.
Military trucks were lined up, apparently waiting to be loaded with the blue earth.
"Where are they taking it?" the governor wondered.
Rick had talked with David Riddle about the process. "They need water. The blue earth is run down long wooden tables with cleats on them, like washing out gold. The table is coated with grease. The diamonds stick in the grease and the blue earth washes away. They've probably set things up at the pumice works if there's water there. Otherwise, it may be the hotel."
"It has to be the hotel, then," the governor explained. "There would not be enough water at the pumice plant. Well, I think we have found all our troops. Those who are not with the three companies are below us, digging diamonds. I wonder if they know what they are digging?"
Rick told the governor what Scotty had said.
"That is probably right," the governor agreed. "Guevara would not dare to let too many in on the secret. Well, shall we get to work?"
"Yes, sir," Rick said. He handed the governor the microphone and swung into position for a run over the troops on the road. He throttled down, and then gave the plane a few degrees of flaps. He kept an eye on his air-speed indicator. If he got too slow, the plane would stall and he'd be too low to recover. "I'll make as tight a circle as I can," he said. "Be ready."
The troops came into sight. Rick lost altitude and began a slow circle only a few hundred feet over the marching soldiers. He turned on the switches and nodded.
The governor began to talk in slow, clear Spanish. Rick understood that he identified himself to the men below, but then he lost the trend of the talk. He concentrated on flying. The loud-speakers were operating perfectly, and he knew the troops could hear.
He could see them looking up and pointing, but they kept marching. Apparently the governor wasn't making much of an impact. The governor paused, and Rick cut the switches.
"Maybe they don't believe it's you," he suggested.
"Perhaps not. But my voice is well known. I speak over the radio at least once a week. More likely the whole idea is just too much for them. Who can believe that mountain over there is about to blow up?"
"Let's try the troops at the pumice works. Maybe you can tell them that all who care about their homeland should march at once to Calor."
"I'll try it," the governor agreed.
Rick circled low over the pumice works while the loud-speakers blasted at the troops below. They watched the plane, they pointed, some ran out for a better look. But when the governor pleaded with them to hurry to Calor to help save the people of the island, nothing happened.
"If El Viejo started smoking, they'd move fast enough," Rick said bitterly. "But then it would be too late. They just don't believe there is any danger, and maybe they're not sure it's you. I guess no one has ever given them orders from the air before."
"They are simple people," the governor agreed. "I think most of them have never heard of a volcano. They don't even know what an eruption is. How can they be excited? If I ever succeed in getting good schools here, this may change. But it won't help us now."
Rick considered. It would do little good to repeat the announcement to the soldiers at the hotel. He wondered if Guevara and Connel were somewhere below, and with that thought he turned toward the diamond pipe.
"Let's see if we can do any good with the truckmen," he suggested. "Tell them the trucks are essential to the safety of their families."
The governor tried, while Rick held the plane in in a tight circle over the blue ground. Again, there was interest in the flying loud-speaker plane itself, but the message made no impact. Then Rick noticed tiny spurts of fire from one edge of the diamond field and cold sweat started on his forehead as he suddenly realized what they were.
"They're shooting at us!" he exclaimed, and gave the plane the gun, taking evasive action as the distance widened.
"I saw," the governor said wearily. "It was not the troops. It was the peons. Our friend Guevara is down there, I think. But he need not be afraid of our effect. We have had none."
Rick had seldom felt so frustrated. He was tempted to call the San Luzians a stupid bunch of cattle, but he realized the governor had stated the case accurately. They just didn't understand the danger. What would they understand?
His lips formed the word. "Diamonds!" At least they would understand treasure.
"Sir," he said excitedly, "we can break this up, at least enough so we can start collecting data again. If we tell them the whole story, they'll at least understand that Guevara is after great treasure. They'll flock to the diamond field and disrupt the operation, and we can move back in to some of the shot stations. The people won't be any worse off than they are now, and it will give us a chance to do something!"
The governor considered. "Perhaps that is the only solution. It will not get my people to safety, but it will at least give us a chance to find out the exact situation. When I talked with your father this morning he said they needed more data or they could tell nothing about the timing of the eruption. If we get that data, then I will ask the Americans for troops. If we must, we will take the people off by armed force and save their lives in spite of themselves!"
Rick circled and lost altitude again. He got into position over the marching troops and turned on the switches, then gave the governor the signal.
Later, the governor told him what he had said:
"Soldiers of San Luz! Do you know why you are protecting this area? It is not because of a great conference. It is because Lieutenant Governor Guevara has found a great treasure! He is using you to help him to become the wealthiest man in the world! But what will you get out of this? Nothing! He will give you nothing! Go for yourself and see the blue earth. It is found only near mountains like El Viejo. Do you know what it contains? Diamonds! The most valuable gems in the whole world! Will you let Guevara use you to make himself rich while you get nothing? Do not be fools! Help yourselves to this wealth. Look for the crystal pebbles, the ones like cloudy glass, among the blue stones. Go! You are soldiers! Take your share!"
"They're running!" Rick pounded on the control wheel with excitement. "Look! They're breaking ranks and running!"
"Excellent," the governor said calmly. "Now the other groups. Then, in spite of the rifle fire, let us go and tell those at the diamond pipe what they are doing. They will not hit us with those rifles."
Rick knew that was true. A lucky shot might hit them, but it took practice to hit a fast-flying plane, even with automatic weapons. "Let's go," he said.
San Luz was in a state of complete chaos. The majority of the island people dropped everything as the word of treasure spread, and the slopes of El Viejo were covered with treasure hunters using everything from shovels to pointed sticks in an effort to find los diamantes. Only a bare handful even knew that the diamonds occurred only in a small volcanic pipe on the western slope.
If the hunt continued, Rick thought, the slopes would be denuded of vegetation.
There was intermittent fighting around the volcanic pipe, the police reported. Guevara's peons had succeeded in holding the diamond pipe, but were surrounded by soldiers. Now and then Guevara attempted to clear the entire area, but with the entire army struggling to dig diamonds he wasn't having much success. The police officer who investigated also reported that an American was with Guevara. That would be Connel, of course.
The scientists had moved at once to start shooting again, with the police pushing back the diamond seekers until the dynamite could be set off in safety. The crazed hunters assumed that the explosions were also means of seeking the diamonds, and rushed to the craters before the smoke had cleared.
No one really cared. The data was being collected, and it showed that the situation was growing extremely serious.
"Ten days maximum," Zircon said. "Maybe less. The magma has about reached that rock dike, and once it melts through, there goes the mountain."
"We must get the people off," Governor Montoya insisted. "That is the first thing. I shall call at once for help from the Americans. They have forces at the Canal Zone and also in the West Indies. They will send help."
"Yes," Hartson Brant agreed. "But first, we have a proposal. We will need the troops, but we may also need other help."
Governor Montoya looked at him keenly. "This proposal is perhaps a solution for El Viejo?"
"Perhaps. Let me outline the situation." The scientist pointed out the magma on Dr. Williams' sketch. "This is where the magma is now. Above it is a very thick layer of rock in which we can find no major weakness. It may hold the magma for a while. At least it probably will melt slowly."
He pointed to a little line running from the western slope of the mountain down to the rock dike. "This was where we wanted to dig a channel. Now it is too late to go all the way to the rock. The heat would be too great. But if we could drive a hole through, with great suddenness, the magma would be released and the eruption would be away from the island and into the sea."
"How would you do this?" the governor asked.
"By getting help from the U. S. government, from Army Engineers and Seabees, who are U. S. Navy engineers. We would drive the tunnel as far down as time permitted. Of course we would keep track of the magma constantly. Then, as time ran out, we would place a charge in the hole—a shaped charge, as it is called—which would drive the hole most of the way to the magma. It would also crack the rock dike. The magma would seek the weakest spots, of course. It is under enormous pressure. And we would have the result we want."
"But what kind of explosive would be enough for such an undertaking?" Montoya demanded. "Not enough dynamite could be packed into the tunnel to do the work."
"We weren't thinking of dynamite," Hartson Brant said quietly. "We were thinking of a nuclear explosion."
Rick gasped. He had no warning of this. The scientists had evidently arrived at the conclusion while he was flying around over the diamond seekers.
Montoya gasped, too. "But that would kill everyone on the island!"
"Not at all," Zircon boomed. "It would kill no one. Of course we would clear the area with troops."
"But the radioactivity," the governor protested. "I have read it is deadly!"
"Only if it can reach people," Hartson Brant explained. "This shot would be far underground. There would be no fall-out, as it is called, at all. Of course the earth around the explosion would be greatly radioactive. Some of the activity would be trapped in the magma. But where would it come to rest? On the bottom of the sea. There might be some danger to bottom fish in the vicinity, but I think the water would get so hot from the lava that fish would avoid it, anyway. And eventually the radioactivity would decay of itself to low levels. Sir, I see no other way."
The governor raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. "I know nothing of these matters, and it is your business to know. I accept your assurances without reservation. Now, what do we do?"
The scientists had not only conceived the solution, but had a detailed plan of action. Within a half hour, the loud-speaker had been removed from the plane, and Rick was flying Governor Montoya, Hartson Brant, and Esteben Balgos to Trinidad.
Arrangements had been made by phone while they were en route. A car, sent by the President of the West Indies Federation, picked them up at the airport and whisked them to the Federation's headquarters.
The President listened to the story with intense interest, then summoned the American ambassador and the representatives of Venezuela and Colombia.
After a detailed discussion by Hartson Brant of the properties and limitations of nuclear explosions, the conference agreed. Immediate action was called for. The Venezuelan and Colombian representatives hurried off to notify their governments, while the President of the Federation put in a conference call to the United States, to the Chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission, the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of State, and the President's Special Assistant for Science and Technology, who happened to be an old friend of Hartson Brant's.
A personal phone call from a head of state was without precedent—especially a conference call. The U. S. officials were located within an hour, and the call put through. On the West Indies end were the Federation's President, the U. S. ambassador, Governor Montoya, and Hartson Brant, speaking from four different rooms. Rick hung over his father's chair, listening.
The Federation's President introduced himself and described the problem briefly. Then he introduced the governor. Montoya said briefly, "Gentlemen, we must have help or the island of San Luz will perish. I ask help on behalf of my 32,000 people."
The Federation's President then introduced Hartson Brant. Rick gathered that the U. S. President's Special Assistant and the Chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission both greeted him warmly as an old friend.
The scientist outlined the problem and its solution. He continued, "According to our estimates, we will need ten kilotons in order to have a margin of safety. It will take as many Seabees or engineers as necessary to drive a tunnel. The tunnel dimensions will depend on what machinery you can get to us. I leave that to your experts. We will also need about five thousand sea-based troops to handle the island population. We may have to carry them bodily to safety. Now, can it be done?"
There was silence as the scientist listened. Rick stood on one foot, then the other, waiting. He could hear the mumble of voices through the earphone but could make no sense out of it.
Presently Hartson Brant said, "Yes. I believe the runway at San Luz could handle a C-124." There was silence again. Finally, the scientist said, "I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow, then." He hung up and turned to Rick with a grin.
"Our President will put pressure on the local Venezuelan and Colombian ambassadors here for an immediate decision from their governments, and our own Secretary of State will instruct our ambassadors in Venezuela and Colombia to camp on the doorsteps until they get agreement. He will also notify the United Nations, and invite observers from the Security Council. The AEC will fly in a 10-KT nuclear charge and a group of experts. The Secretary of Defense promised that a battalion of Seabees with full equipment would arrive in San Luz within twenty-four hours. The Military Air Transport Service will airlift in enough troops to handle the crowd. Any questions?"
Rick grinned back. "It sounds as though everyone's in the act but the British."
"Oh, they're in it, too. The Federation's President will represent their political interests, but we'll also have a British cruiser standing offshore for help as needed. And I forgot an important addition. Our President's Assistant for Science and Technology is notifying the proper committees of the National Academy of Sciences. We'll have a planeload of geophysicists down here in a few days to get all the scientific data possible out of this event. So we're well covered."
"I guess we can relax now," Rick said with relief. "The job is out of our hands."
"Not quite," Hartson Brant corrected. "They all agreed that the Spindrift Foundation should be placed in over-all charge. So we've got our work cut out for us!"
The sea off the west coast of San Luz was alive with ships. Rick counted up to twenty-five and then gave up. Some of the ships were moving, and he was sure he had counted the same one three times. He identified cruisers, destroyers, one aircraft carrier with a squadron of helicopters aboard, and landing ships of several kinds.
One huge landing ship was nosed right up to the shore, and from it rolled tons of heavy equipment. From an attack transport, the equipment's operators, a U. S. Naval Construction Battalion—Seabees—were disembarking by the hundreds.
Scotty asked, "How many different kinds of flags can you see? I've counted six so far. U. S., British, Dutch, Venezuelan, Colombian, and Panamanian."
"It's an international job, all right," Rick agreed. "And when the UN observers arrive tonight you can run up a few more flags, too."
"Reminds me of the amphibious exercises we used to have in the Marines," Scotty commented to Rick.
Nearby, Hartson Brant and the other scientists were deep in conversation with a group of civilians and Navy officers. The officers were the engineers, from the Naval Construction Battalion. Last night had been spent in working with them on the details of the problem. It would be their job to drive the big hole down into the earth below El Viejo, working against time to intercept the rising magma.
Scientists had arrived, too, and they were taking over much of the detail of keeping track of the magma. Each scientist had his own special field of interest, but all were anxious to have the data from tracings. There were geophysicists, including volcanologists and seismologists; mineralogists and more geologists.
"Nothing much left for us to do," Rick said, a little sadly.
"Except watch," Scotty corrected. "That's enough! Great crumbling craters, what do you want? A mystery every day?"
Rick had to grin. "I guess this is enough. But one thing I want to do is go over to the volcanic pipe and see how Guevara and Connel are making out."
"You will have an escort," a voice said from behind them. They turned to greet Ricardo Montoya. "Now that we can turn our attention to that pair, I think we should have a talk with them. To make the talk easier, we will put bars between us."
"You're going to arrest them?" Rick asked.
"Of course! What did you think?"
"Right now?"
"If you want to come along, join me. Now is as good a time as any. If we can find them, of course."
The boys joined Montoya in the front seat of a military vehicle. The back was loaded with his men. Montoya at once steered for the trail to the volcanic pipe. It was only a thousand yards to the north from the point selected for the big hole. Even around the site of the hole there were diamond seekers, and it was hard to find a piece of ground that had not been tried with a shovel.
As they got closer to the diamond field the numbers of treasure hunters increased until, as Scotty remarked, they were thicker than fleas at a mutt show. Montoya had to lean on the horn continually, and even then the San Luzians paid little attention.
Finally the group got out and walked. It was easier to move on foot through the frantically digging mob. Strangely, there was little noise. Each individual seemed intent on his own little hole. But the digging was futile. There was no yellow ground under the flying shovels.
Then the group did reach yellow ground, and met rifles in the hands of Guevara's peons. Evidently Guevara had put a ring of men around the volcanic pipe and planned to hold it by force of arms.
Rick looked at Montoya. What would he do now?
The young officer looked haughtily at the nearest peons and demanded in Spanish, "Do you know me?"
One of them nodded respectfully. "Sí, Señor Capitán Montoya."
"Good. You will stand aside. I am inspecting Señor Guevara's mine." He stalked through as though there was not the slightest question that the peons would allow it. The boys and the police officers followed on his heels.
A shelter had been erected on one side of the volcanic pipe. Only blue ground showed, and there was a power scoop digging out more. Watching the shovel were Guevara and Brad Connel.
Montoya walked up to the pair before they were even aware of his presence.
"Good afternoon, señores," he greeted them courteously.
Guevara snapped, "What are you doing here, Montoya?"
"Arresting you, señor," Montoya replied calmly.
Connel looked worried, but Guevara gestured toward the ring of men with rifles. "Don't be a fool. We outnumber you five to one. You haven't a chance."
Captain Montoya smiled affably. "But, señor, it is you who haven't a chance. Consider, señor. The honor of the Montoyas requires that I take you to my uncle, eh? Well, I allow the chance that perhaps I will not survive to take you to my uncle, but I can assure you that you will become a lifeless body on the instant a rifle is raised. Surely you do not doubt me, señor?"
Guevara looked at the officer, looked at the capable hand on the cocked gun in the holster. Then he looked into the fierce Montoya eyes, and his swarthy face turned pale.
"Not even a Montoya would throw his life away for so small a thing," he said harshly.
The captain smiled gently. "Call my bluff, señor."
Rick had no doubt whatever that Montoya was not bluffing. Apparently Guevara was convinced, too. But he tried once more. "How do you expect to get us out of here?"
"Simplicity itself. You will walk to my truck, arm in arm with Señor Connel. That is all. Of course if you should be so unfortunate as to have a peon lift his rifle, you would never reach the truck alive. But perhaps you are lucky. Shall we try, señor?"
Guevara hesitated, then shrugged. "Very well."
Connel spoke for the first time. He demanded hoarsely, "Are you going to let him get away with this when our men have all the rifles?"
Guevara smiled wryly. "You do not know the Montoyas, Brad. Call his bluff yourself—only not if you wish to live."
The ex-lieutenant governor walked slowly toward the ring of men. After a moment Connel joined him. Montoya stepped behind them as though taking a stroll through the Calor public gardens. The ring opened and let them through. Rick breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been quite as confident as Ricardo Montoya appeared to be.
Guevara paused. "May I make an announcement?" he asked.
"Certainly, señor."
Guevara called, "Amigos!" Montoya translated the Spanish for the boys. "You know what you have been guarding. Now I must leave. What is left is yours. Work as fast as you can and find many diamonds. May good fortune be yours!"
The ring broke as the peons rushed to grab shovels. Guevara led the way to the truck.
It was all so easy, Rick thought later, if you were an aristocratic Montoya with a code of honor that permitted no yielding, even unto death. No one else he had ever met could have carried it off quite so superbly.
So fast had the Seabees swung into operation that work on the big hole already was in progress when Montoya dropped the boys off. Pneumatic drills hammered into the congealed lava, cutting holes in which charges would be placed. As the boys watched, explosive was thrust into the holes, a warning was yelled through a portable loud-speaker, and the charge fired. Tons of rock were loosened.
Even before the dust had begun to settle, huge machines were lifting the rock out, or dragging big chunks, and dumping them down the mountainside. Bulldozers kept the rock moving, keeping the entrance clear. Within minutes the hole was empty of rock and the pneumatic drills were hammering again. The cycle was repeated.
The Seabees joked as they worked, and warned each other against shoving a hole right through into hot lava, but the pace never slowed for an instant.
Hour after hour the big hole deepened until the Seabees ran into noxious gases. Then they donned gas masks and continued. Deeper and deeper the hole was driven, until the temperature at the hole's end was over a hundred degrees. The Seabees merely shortened working time and operated in relays so efficiently that no time was lost.
Rick and Scotty got back to the hole as often as they could, but there was much doing elsewhere. The Hot Springs Hotel swarmed with scientists and observers, and there were heated conferences and late evaluation sessions. The Spindrift scientists were always in demand, and their faces grew gaunt as the days passed.
The hole gave its own location because of the shock waves it sent through the earth to the recorders, and even Rick's untrained eye could see the traces slowly closing with the magma front.
Earthquakes increased in frequency until Rick and Scotty felt as though the ground never ceased shuddering.
The air became noisy with planes as the Military Air Transport Command began ferrying in troops. Flight after flight of huge transports roared in for a landing at the Calor airport, discharged the soldiers, and took off again at once.
And still the diamond hunt continued.
Then, at one o'clock in the afternoon, Hartson Brant called a halt.
"The magma's moving up through the dike," he reported. "It's now or never. Captain Montoya, we will ask the troops to clear the area. Commander Jameson, withdraw all men and equipment except those necessary for the final packing. Dr. Cantrell, please be ready to place the charge at dawn tomorrow."
The final phase of the operation swung into action. The troops gathered at Redondo and marched shoulder to shoulder southward along the mountain slopes. They herded the diamond seekers before them, sometimes with enough roughness to overcome protests, but mostly with little difficulty. They herded the population entirely around El Viejo, and established a perimeter from Calor northward, with the population confined to a narrow segment of the island along the seaward side.
Loud-speaker trucks roamed along the perimeter, reassuring the people. Military disaster units cooked huge quantities of food and prepared thousands of gallons of coffee and reconstituted milk. American soldiers played with cute little San Luzian kids and—after the diamond seekers became convinced they had never had a chance to find diamonds—the whole affair became one big picnic.
But it was a picnic with overtones of fear.
Rick and Scotty watched the placement of the nuclear explosive—a simple steel can, from the outside—in the big hole. They watched the remaining handful of Seabees load tons of rock in after it. Only the wires connecting the device to a radio firing unit on the beach gave evidence that an explosion equal to ten thousand tons of TNT was about to take place.
Rick asked, "Won't all those rocks keep the volcano from erupting?"
Hartson Brant smiled. "Rick, compared with the force of the volcano, that atomic device is like a firecracker compared with a hurricane. But even to the nuclear explosion those rocks won't mean much. They're just to confine it a little."
The night passed. San Souci was empty of people. The Seabees were back aboard ship. The scientific instruments were in place. Only a small group of scientists remained, their helicopter standing by. They checked out the radio firing unit, threw switches according to their check list, then announced:
"We're ready!"
Rick banked the Sky Wagon over the fleet. Scotty, in the front passenger seat, had the camera ready. Hartson Brant, in the rear seat, had a motion-picture camera poised. Governor Montoya, the fourth in the party, even had his personal camera along.
Their cameras were not the only ones. Nearly every ship had its official photographers, and there were photography planes in the air.
Directly under the Sky Wagon now was a U. S. destroyer. Aboard her was the nuclear firing party from Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, and the UN Observer Group. On other ships of the fleet were the representatives of the interested nations and the Seabees.
Rick turned up the volume of his plane radio. By agreement, the countdown was to be broadcast to all aircraft over one of the airport frequencies.
"Thirty seconds!" the voice said.
"Won't we need dark glasses?" Scotty asked.
"No," Hartson Brant replied. "The nuclear fireball won't emerge. If it gets a little too bright, squint and turn your head."
"How long after the nuclear shot will the volcano go?" Rick asked.
"We don't know. Anywhere from seconds to hours. It depends on how much of a path the nuclear shot cracks."
"Ten seconds!"
Rick made sure they had a good view of El Viejo's western slope, and held the plane on course.
"Five, four, three, two, one ...
"Zero!"
There was an instant of quiet, then dust spurted from the deep hole, followed by billowing clouds of pulverized rock. Down below, the earth heaved as though from another earthquake, and a line of waves appeared, running from shore outward!
The dust settled slowly, hanging in the air like a great gray ball.
The nuclear explosion, deep underground, had gone off.
"Now what?" Rick wondered.
Hartson Brant said quietly, "We may have to wait a while."
"That explosion sure didn't look like the pictures I've seen of shots in Nevada," Rick told him.
"No, Rick. This was too far underground. They've had those in Nevada, too, but the pictures don't get much publicity because they're not spectacular."
Far below, where the end of the big hole had been, the huge chamber blown by the atomic explosion was white-hot with trapped heat and radioactivity. Below the chamber the earth was shattered, with myriad tiny cracks reaching far down.
Some cracks reached the white-hot magma. Instantly the magma exploited the new weakness, pressure was released until ...
"Look!" Even in the plane Scotty's yell was loud.
Rick turned in time to see the side of El Viejo blow off in an explosion that made ten kilotons of fission seem puny indeed. For an instant he saw thousands of tons of white-hot lava rise into the air, then it fell into the sea. Instantly steam clouds blanketed the area, but the steam was mixed with traces of red and gray from the rock carried upward.
A great boulder, weighing many tons, was hurled high in the air to fall into the steam cloud. The great rift in the volcano widened, and the molten lava was visible until steam rose again.
Under the steam cloud was an inferno, but it was only occasionally visible as the wind tore rents in the vapor. The noise must be deafening, Rick knew, but only a low rumble and an occasional hissing could be heard in the plane.
"Well," Hartson Brant said wearily, "it worked."
Governor Luis Montoya spoke gently. "Yes, my friend. It did indeed work. And it has saved our island. I doubt that a single life was lost, thanks to you and your associates."
"We'd better be sure." The scientist smiled. "Rick, suppose you fly us around the island?"
"Yes, sir." Rick instantly swung the Sky Wagon onto a northward course that would take them past the erupting volcano and on to the north. He kept well out to sea, because now and then he could see big rocks flying through the air as the volcano spouted.
Only the immediate area was affected. The new outlet was about a half mile wide, stretching from sea level and possibly below, to about a quarter mile up the slope. Beyond the crater San Luz seemed normal, although Rick knew there were no human beings in the area.
Not until he passed Redondo did signs of life appear, and then the beach became black with people. The wave of humanity extended inward to the slopes of El Viejo and along the beach to Calor. Past Calor, at the airport, troops not needed on the perimeter waited for their planes. Already there were planes landing.
Rick completed the circuit of the island, then on impulse moved past the volcano and took a good look at where the diamond pipe had been. A momentary wind blew the area clear long enough for him to glimpse white-hot lava.
"Well," he remarked, "there go Connel's diamonds. Either buried, or burned."
"Cheer up," Scotty said with a grin. "Maybe El Viejo is making some new ones."
Governor Montoya added the final word. "I hope not. But if so, I can only hope they will not be discovered just before the next eruption!"