Read Online The Dive Bomber by L. Ron Hubbard - Free Book Online

Stripes?
    Listlessly, flying as mechanically as a robot, Lucky cut the gun and slid earthward on dismal, moaning wings.
    He let down the wheels and floated until they caressed the earth.
    â€œShe stayed together,” said Smith to Bullard, just as though Bullard had been in China during the dive.
    â€œOf course she did. The pins were sound this time,” said Bullard. “Okay, Martin, hop her back to the plant field. I’ll meet you there.”
    Smith still stayed in the pit and Lucky, feeling worse than ever, again took off and clipped hedges on his way back.
    Dixie was on the tarmac and, inevitably, Two-Finger was puffing a cigar at a respectful distance. Lucky’s pair of leeches immediately fastened themselves to him.
    â€œIt worked,” said Lucky.
    â€œThen it’s a success after all!” cried Dixie, forgetfully happy about it.
    â€œYes, damn the luck. I could sell them to the Navy in spite of what Lawson says. He couldn’t afford to overlook them.”
    â€œOh, Lucky, if you could just afford to tell him about those wing pins…But Lucky! It’s not too late. They said they’d give you money. All you have to do is build another after they leave—”
    â€œYeah?” said Bullard, getting out of his car. “That’s okay by me, Martin.” The fat wrinkles about his eyes almost hid the amused brilliance of the unsavory orbs.
    â€œYou said you’d give me the dough,” said Lucky. “My job is finished. All you have to do is load the rest of these crated ships and deliver them to collect yours.”
    â€œOh, so you want the money,” said Bullard. “Well, Martin, in spite of what you think, I’m a pretty good fellow after all. I’ll make that three hundred thousand bucks, and I’ve got them right here.”
    He produced them, a staggering number of thousand-dollar bills—but he did not hand them over.
    â€œBefore we go into this,” Bullard said, “you still have to test the cross-country ability to make it official. I’ll want to know if I need any more of your engineering advice and if we have to make any changes before we ship. I’ll put these bills in your safe, just to make sure you get them and I’ll send Smith with you to see that you don’t run off. Is that clear?”
    Flynn, in the doorway, stabbed a warning glance at Lucky.
    â€œThat’s clear,” said Lucky, ambiguously.
    â€œAll right, you,” said Bullard, indicating Flynn. “Fill this crate’s tanks to the brim, see she’s got plenty of oil, and take a listen at her engine. You’ll have a fine flight, Martin.”
    â€œWill you be gone long?” said Dixie.
    â€œIt all depends,” said Bullard.
    â€œYeah,” muttered Flynn, nursing a gas hose, “it all depends!”

CHAPTER NINE
    With a Machine Gun
at His Head
    T HE sensations of a man who knows definitely that he is to be shot in the back of the head are not nearly as acute as those of a man who is in doubt as to both the deed and the time it will be performed.
    In the latter case there is still hope of salvation, in the former there is only fatalistic resignation. According to Sing Sing guards, members of firing squads both Chinese and Russian, and the accounts of executioners, a condemned man is docile only when he knows definitely that there is no chance of being spared.
    Darting south at six miles a minute, four thousand feet up, presumably testing the cruising range of the ship at full throttle, Lucky Martin, the man who always rode the skies with death’s scythe an ever-present shadow in the clear blue about him, rode now with a jittery skeleton of a man less than four feet behind him, a man who held the butt of a machine gun throwing slugs the size of a pecan with enough power to somersault an elephant.
    Desolate, rolling, brown hills were stretched below the scudding belly of the dive bomber. Spring had not yet