The BEACON of Airport Seven
by Harold S. Sykes
"The plane at the last moment climbed upward and to the right as the watchers breathlessly waited for it to clear the upper corner of the tower. There was a collision and the mass settled to the ground and burst into flames."
One of the most important and quite indispensable necessities for night flying is, of course, the aerial beacon. The aviator's life and the safety of property, depends on such beacons.
The author in the present story has woven a very clever adventure around this theme, which is as interesting as it is notable, from a scientific viewpoint.
We are accustomed to think that light rays travel only in straight lines. This is, of course, not the case. Light rays are refracted, when, for instance, they pass through the atmosphere of the earth. Thus we see the sun rise actually before it does, due to this refraction. On the other hand, Einstein in his theory, which has been proven, has shown us that light waves are bent when they pass the gravitational field of a star.
You will find the scientific part of this story particularly interesting.
CHAPTER I
A Close Shave
AS Royce picked up the flash of the huge revolving beacon at Wayside he breathed a sigh of satisfaction, and slowed his motors fifty revolutions. It had been a tiresome climb to the divide all the way from Airport Six, with gusty headwinds threatening to put him behind schedule. But now the grind of another trip was over. There remained but forty miles from the summit to Airport Seven almost under the light, and a relief crew there would take charge to set the plane down at San Francisco long before daylight.
A passenger in the saloon leaned back in his leather-covered chair and yawned. "We must be getting close to Seven. I wish I had taken a berth this trip, instead of trying to sit up most of the night. There's a hard day ahead of me in 'Frisco."
"Yes, we know all about the hard days you traveling men have," a cattle buyer answered from across the big cabin. "Hopping from one city to another on these liners is a joke. Now when I hired a little dilapidated taxi-plane at Ogden one time to inspect a herd over in the Hidden Valley country, that was a ride to write home about."
"Let's finish the rubber; I want to get out and stretch my legs at Seven," spoke up a man at one of the card tables.
"Here, give me the cards; is that a pun or . . ."
"Say, just listen to those motors; I thought we were over the divide." The score of saloon passengers grasped tables or the arms of their chairs as the huge plane banked and swerved upward at an ever increasing angle. The five motors, after responding madly to wide-open throttles, now were laboring terribly under a heavy load. Bluish wing lights flashed on, reflecting upon the faces of the forward passengers peering from the long windows. Shades were being flicked up far aft of the huge wings as those in the sleeping compartments were roused by the sudden deviation.
A blinding flash drove the portside passengers back from the windows to their places and the motors eased to their customary monotonous undertone.
"What was that?" Someone asked.
"Just the big beacon light, but man, we were right on top of it!" They looked at one another in alarm.
Explanations
"MR. McCrea will see you now," said the secretary.
Tommy Royce, chief pilot, quickly arose nervously and weary from his chair in the waiting room and strode into the division traffic manager's office with the air of one anxious to get through an ordeal as quickly as possible.
McCrea was standing at an east window, gazing out in the direction of the beacon tower on Sentinel Hill, half a mile away. He whirled as the young man entered, and fixed him with a glowering look.
"Well, Royce, out with it. Let's see what excuse you have for trying to come in under the beacon last night with the west bound passenger plane. Jameston, in the watch tower last night, told me you were flying fully fifty feet below the light until you almost reached it. The field crew thought you were going to land in the houses over there, but they heard your motors, so that won't do for an excuse."
Finally given an opportunity to speak, the pilot answered, "I don't know what the matter was."
"You don't? Well, why not? Were some of your motors going bad, or did you want to land on Sentinel Hill?"
"No sir, I picked up the beacon at the pass, and followed it in. Relief Pilot Tillotson was in the forward cockpit with me. You can ask him about it."
"Yes," barked McCrea, "I most certainly can ask Tillotson about it, and I will. But first I want an explanation from you, and it had better be a good one."
Royce stood in the center of the big room, nervously twisting the ring he wore on his left hand. "After I picked up the beacon at the pass--"
"Yes, yes, I heard that, go on."
"Well, coming toward Seven here, I looked at the altimeter and it seemed to read about right, perhaps a trifle low, but I saw the light well ahead of and below me, so I knew I had plenty of altitude. I cut the motors to sixteen-fifty at the summit, and closed the throttles a trifle more when we were near the beacon in order to lose enough altitude to make a landing here."
"Yes, yes, but why did you lose so much altitude? Jameston says you were flying low all the way from the point where he first picked up your flying lights. Why, why?"
"I wasn't flying low, for I had the beacon well below me until I was almost over it. Then--then I glanced at the instrument board for a moment, and when I looked back the light on its next swing around was almost above me! I saw it as soon as Tillotson did, and by opening the throttles wide we just managed to scrape over the top of the hill."
"Well, of all the--. Royce, I'm going to put you on as second relief pilot for a month, under 'Ace' Howard, and we'll see if your eyes get any better. If Tillotson swears you were not asleep last night, that will be letting you down easy. If you were asleep, then you are through, understand?" and McCrea pounded the mahogany top of his desk to emphasize his words. "Good gravy! Don't you realize the plane carried more than fifty passengers and a ton of valuable express?"
"Yes, sir."
Tommy Royce turned to leave but stopped when McCrea called, "Wait, just one thing more." The manager reached into his desk for a blank form. "Take this to the company doctor and let him test you again. I want a full report from A to Z. Tell him to test your eyes particularly."
The tests were entirely favorable, although Tommy had begun to have some doubts regarding his ability as a crack pilot, after so nearly wrecking the giant air liner.
The Two Confer
TILLOTSON came back to the barracks from his interview with McCrea, wearing a very serious and thoughtful expression on his face. He hunted up Tommy and the two talked during the rest of the afternoon without arriving at any definite reason for the contretemps.
"I was watching the light out of the corner of my eye at the time it changed, old man, and I swear it suddenly blurred and then shot into the sky."
"Did you tell McCrea that?" Royce asked, as they sat on his cot in his room.
"No, I knew he wouldn't believe me; would insist we were both asleep, but I did tell him the old beacon changed her position. Little good it did. He gave me an awful raking over, and said he couldn't promote me to your place--I didn't want him to--but would leave me on as second man, and to see that some stray mountain didn't jump up and hit me in the face some day. He claimed the passengers had received the scare of their lives and that it was bad for the company, considering the new competition from the True Course line over the northern route. He expects a wigging from the 'Frisco offices."
"Probably he will get it too," Tommy answered somberly. "I wish I could understand it." Then after a pause he looked at his wrist watch. "Let's hunt up Jameston at Number One hangar and try to get him to tell us just where we were flying last night. We just have time before the west bound freight comes in."
Boundary and hangar lights at the field were flashing on as the two men made their way from the barracks past the transcontinental offices to the southwest corner of the huge landing area. A crew of ground men was making preparations for servicing the huge twenty-ton freight plane, while the two pilots who would fly it on to Field Eight were seated on the bench before the communications building, smoking and talking.
One of the freight pilots called through the open window to the clerk on duty. "Phone up and ask Jameston if he's picked up the old wagon."
"We're too late to see Jameston tonight; he must be on duty now," Tommy said to his companion as they stopped before the building. The gathering dusk was suddenly broken by the dip and swoop of the Sentinel Hill beacon as it started on its nocturnal swing around the sky at the rate of nine revolutions per minute. The far-reaching beam dropped low to the east and west, with an upward swing of thirty degrees as it traversed the north and south, describing two giant arcs on the furthermost confines of the sky. The men watched it in silence.
The communications clerk leaned out of the open window above the pilot's bench. "Jameston phoned down that he has picked up a plane way to the south, but no sign of the freighter yet. Says this ship is headed about west and will miss the field by three miles."
George Boyer, the larger of the two freight pilots, regarded Royce and Tillotson severely as they stood in front of the bench, waiting. "What's this I hear about you guys? The Field 'Supe tells me that you swiped the beacon when you came in this morning and tried to tow it home on your landing gear."
"Aw, go fly a kite." Tillotson answered. "I hope it don't fool you the way it did us, that's all."
"Boy, no ten million candle-power torch is going to fool me. When it starts jumping around off its tower I'll quit flying."
Another Mystery
THE low drone of a multi-motored plane was heard, steadily increasing in volume. As all eyes were turned to the now dark sky, Tommy perceived the red and green wing lights of a huge monoplane. The clerk called to the ground crew. "That's the freighter, boys, she's nine minutes late, and Jameston says she almost missed us."
The outline of the wings was now clearly visible to those at the field as the ship came onward at its one hundred mile an hour cruising speed and passed over the hangers. Cutting the western boundary of the airport, the craft settled in a graceful circle into the gentle evening breeze. It was once illumined sharply by the swinging beam from the beacon. A brilliant blue-white radiance had flashed over the field as the battery of landing lights were switched on and the plane settled into it with throttled motors.
"There's another good pilot gone batty," Boyer remarked plaintively, as he picked up his helmet and moved toward the craft, now coming to a stop beside the fuel hoses. "Here he comes staggering in from due south like he's been out on a scouting expedition or a picnic. How we can make up the time he lost without a tail-wind is more than I can see." His last words were lost as he approached the plane.
"Come on, Tommy," Tillotson invited. "Let's see if he had trouble with the beacon too."
It was a bewildered chief pilot who stepped out into the radiance of work lights turned on by the ground crew. He was followed down the ship ladder by his relief and mechanic a moment later.
"Boys, I'll swear I followed the beacon true as an arrow, but when I got close it suddenly switched around to my right and I found I was way to the south."
"You re not the only one," Boyer answered with heavy sarcasm. "Last night Royce had it jumping up and down and now you've got it wiggling side-ways. Of all the dizzy ideas! Here, climb in," he continued to his relief man. "I'll have to make up ten minutes that was lost by somebody playing tag with a fire-fly. Snap in to it, you ground men."
"All set."
"Fuel and oil O.K."
"Condition and controls O.K."
As the men gave their reports the Service Chief called, "Clear the props!" and then gave the starting signal to Boyer who was peering down from his high seat in the nose of the craft. The whine of the starters gave place to increasing roars of sound as each additional motor took hold. Locking his starboard wheel brake, the pilot gave full throttle to the port wing motors and whirled on the concrete service area. Under the response of wide throttles the plane moved forward with increasing momentum, showing Boyer's intention of taking off with the wind in order to save time. After a quick run the lumbering craft left the ground in a gradual upward curve, quickly banking to the west in an effort to save precious minutes. The burden of sound lessened to a hum and then died away in the star-lit sky.
