Part 4

“Lawsy-me, C’mandah!” he quavered. “Ah sho’ thought you-all was de killah. Yassah! But ah raickon he was de one dat scooted by de po’thole, right aftah de shot! Ah jes’ happened ter look out....”

“Which way did he go?” Don snapped, turning back to the doorway.

“He was haided aft, C’mandah,” answered the colored man. “Ah jes’ seen somethin’ white scootin’ past!”

“Come on, Red!” said Don, stepping out on deck. “We’ll try the radio shack. It’s part of this same superstructure, and our last bet. Hope you kept an eye on it, while I was in the galley!”

“I did,” answered Red. “The only door is on this side, too. Got your flashlight ready? The place looks pitch dark!”

By this time, shouts and the sound of running feet were closing in from all sides. The twin pistol shots had roused the whole ship’s company.

And now, quite unintentionally, Red Pennington made a grandstand play.

Thinking only to save Don from the killer’s bullets, he slammed open the radio shack door and charged through, head down, like a football tackle. There followed a yell and the thud of heavy bodies striking the deck. An instant later half a dozen men headed by Don Winslow piled into the narrow compartment.

No shots greeted their rush, though for a moment there was plenty of confusion. With some difficulty, Red Pennington was pulled off from the kicking body of his victim, who turned out to be the _Gatoon’s_ radio operator. The man was breathless, battered, and evidently furious beneath his show of respect for gold braid.

He gave his name as A. Corba, Electrician First Class, and he told a reasonably straight story. He had been sitting half asleep in his chair, he said, listening in to the radio conversations between other ships in the Caribbean.

Suddenly he’d heard two pistol shots, and the sound of men running. He was still wondering what it was all about, when the door burst open and two hundred pounds of fighting man landed on him. Naturally he’d tried to fight back, but his attacker, who turned out to be Lieutenant Pennington, had him licked from the start.

Don Winslow heard the story through, without a change of expression.

“Why,” he asked, “did you have the deadlights screwed over the portholes. Is that customary aboard this craft?”

“Captain Riggs’ orders, sir,” replied the radio operator instantly. “That is, we were all warned to let no lights show our position to any passing boat.”

“He’s right, Commander!” spoke up the _Gatoon’s_ captain, from the doorway. “I did give that order; and it strikes me that this man’s account holds water. Whoever shot at you must have gotten away, at least for the time being. What puzzles me is the reason for such an attack.”

“Suppose we talk that over in your quarters, sir,” Don suggested, moving toward the door. “If I’m not mistaken, we’re due for more surprises before the night is over!”

IX

RED NABS A SPY

Don Winslow’s brief account of the two attacks on Red and himself did little to clear up the mystery which hung like a dark cloud over the _Gatoon’s_ after guard. Both assaults appeared to have the same object, however—to get back the stolen enlistment records which Don had found hidden in the lifeboat. For some reason the enemy was afraid to have those records examined.

“That’s how I’ve figured it out,” Don told the little company gathered in the captain’s cabin, “either the records of Scorpion agents among the crew are missing, or they’ve been forged. In any case, a careful check should tell the story.”

Spreading out the rumpled enlistment papers on the captain’s table, he commenced a swift search, while Riggs and Red Pennington looked over his shoulders. All at once he picked up one of the documents and smoothed it out. The name on the outside read: “Anton Corba,” with the rating noted as “Radioman, First Class.”

“But why pick that one, Commander?” asked Captain Riggs sharply. “What reason have you to suspect....”

“Look, Captain!” Don Winslow interrupted. “The signatures on this record show signs of tracing. Forgery, all right, but a mighty clumsy job. Just study it for a minute and give me your opinion.”

Handing the paper to Riggs, he whispered rapidly in the officer’s ear:

“I have a hunch we are being overheard now. Corba or some other spy may be the eavesdropper. I’m sending Pennington out to check up. Meantime we must all keep talking naturally, so the fellow will not suspect.”

With a nod of understanding, Riggs moved over to Michael Splendor’s chair.

“I see what you mean, Commander,” he said loudly. “At least one of these signatures looks smeary, but I’m no handwriting expert. Tell me what you think of it, Mr. Splendor. As chief of the Haitian Naval Intelligence, you should know about such things.”

Stooping quickly, he whispered Don Winslow’s plan to the cripple. At the same instant Don was muttering advice in Red’s ear.

“Take off your shoes,” he told the wide-eyed lieutenant. “Sneak up topside and try to locate anyone who may be eavesdropping. If you don’t spot anyone, come back in five minutes. Here’s my flashlight. Shove off now, and good luck! We’ll carry on the show down here till you report or signal us.”

As Red silently closed the cabin door behind him, he heard Michael Splendor’s voice within, taking up the mock discussion. The “show” as Don called it, would be quite convincing to any eavesdropper.

And if Don was right in his guess, the spy should be easy to surprise at his work. At that hour of night, no enlisted man would have any legitimate business hanging around the cabin ventilators.

Silent as a shadow, for all his bulk, Red Pennington emerged onto the starlit deck. Slipping aft, he rounded the cabin skylight and probed the shadows under the port rail.

No glimpse of a furtive lurker rewarded him, however. With a grunt of disappointment, he padded forward, heading for the midship’s superstructure.

“I’ll just take a look inside the radio shack,” he muttered under his breath. “Don seems to think that guy Corba’s enlistment was forged—which means he may be the guy who shot at us, too. He’s got a fishy mug, anyway, and his story was a little too slick when we jumped him a few minutes ago!”

The door of the radio shack was on the port side. Therefore, as an extra precaution, Red circled the superstructure to starboard, halting at the corner of the galley.

The space between the deck house and the rail was empty, yet something about it looked queer. For a moment Red stood blinking in puzzlement, trying to make out what was wrong. All at once it came to him.

The radio shack door was open at least two inches; yet no light shone through onto the white deck.

Since Navy men do not go about leaving doors ajar, this suggested one of two things: either Corba had left in a desperate hurry, or he was still inside, _with the lights out_! Red Pennington intended to find out which.

With the utmost caution, he crept past the galley, noting that the door beyond him did not sway with the gentle roll of the ship. That meant it was propped open deliberately. But _why_?

Just as his hand was reaching for the knob, the door swung shut. Red froze in his tracks, his mind racing. Whoever had closed that two-inch opening could not have seen him. The door itself had hid his approach. The thing proved simply that the radio shack was occupied.

Before Red could plan his next move, a faint, metallic ticking caught his ear. Pressing his ear close to the shack’s steel wall, he made out the familiar chatter of a wireless key, sending in International Morse Code.

“—REPORTING—EMERGENCY—ABOARD—GATOON” Red silently spelled out the message. “AGENT SC-21 SEIZED. WINSLOW AND PENNINGTON HAVE DISCOVERED FORGED ENLISTMENT PAPERS IN LIFEBOAT WE PREPARED FOR OUR GETAWAY. THIS WILL LEAD ANY MOMENT TO MY ARREST AND THAT OF AGENT SC-17. PLEASE ADVISE NEXT MOVE. SC-3.”

While listening, Red Pennington had slipped Don’s flashlight from his pocket. As the message ended, he wrenched open the door and shot the bright beam into the radio shack. It’s spotlight steadied on the tense figure of Corba, seated beside the room’s small tool bench.

“Just hold that pose, sailor!” gritted the stocky lieutenant. “No—keep your left hand under the bench! Don’t move a muscle——”

Whipping out his pocket gun, Red slammed two shots at the steel decking, close to Corba’s feet. Instantly the white-faced radioman froze in his chair, his pose still as a statue’s.

“That’s better!” clipped the lieutenant, as shouts and the stamp of feet sounded from the cabin country. “In just a moment you’re going to tell your story over again; and it had better be the right one this time. Do you get me, _Agent SC-3_?”

Warned by Red’s sharp call, Don Winslow halted the captain and Lieutenant Darnley outside the radio shack. Stepping inside alone, he snapped on the lights.

“Great work, Red!” he approved, when the red-haired lieutenant briefly outlined what had happened. “We’ve caught our eavesdropper this time, and....”

He broke off as a harsh whisper rose, seemingly from beneath the workbench.

“AGENT SC-3 AND SC-17, ATTENTION!” the weird voice rasped. “YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO LEAVE THE SHIP AT ONCE, USING LIFEBELTS. SEAPLANE WILL PICK YOU UP AT DAWN. SC-21 WILL PAY PENALTY FOR HIS FAILURE WHEN WE BOMB GATOON FROM THE AIR. THAT IS ALL!”

A gasp from the unhappy Corba gave Don Winslow the cue for his next play. Ignoring the startled questions of Captain Riggs and Lieutenant Allen, he faced the radio operator.

“All right, Corba!” he said tightly. “That message shows you just where you get off. Like SC-21, you’re going to pay the penalty for failure, when and if bombs start dropping on this vessel! Is your loyalty to Scorpia strong enough to stand up under that?”

Hollow-eyed with fear, the Scorpion spy shook his head.

“You’ve named it, Commander!” he said hoarsely. “The Scorpion don’t have much mercy for them that are fools enough to get caught. But what good’ll it do, sir, if I tell you what I know? We’re all bound for Davy Jones’ locker, now!”

Don Winslow’s laugh rang as hard as the slap of bullets on steel armor plate.

“We _were_, maybe, but we’re taking a new tack, sailor!” he barked. “Now we know what your murderous pals are up to, we can outthink and outfight them too. The only man aboard who’s bound for Davy Jones is——”

“Captain!” cried a breathless voice on deck. “The prisoner, Durkin—the man you put in the brig, sir—he’s dead! Hanged himself, with a loop of wire he’d made fast to a steampipe. We found this note, written on an old envelope. Here it is, sir!”

After a startled pause, Captain Riggs stepped inside to hold a crumpled envelope under the light.

“What do you make of this, Commander?” he growled. “Things are happening a bit too fast for me to keep my bearings tonight, this note, for instance! It says: 'I queered your engines and killed the Chief Machinist’s Mate. When the Scorpion strikes, you’ll think I did Ahern a favor. _Signed_, Durkin.’”

“And so exit Scorpion Agent SC-21!” observed Don Winslow harshly. “He killed himself rather than go down later with the ship. That leaves one enemy agent still unidentified. Who is he, Corba?”

“Seaman Second Class, by the name of Mink,” replied the radioman sullenly. “He’s just a tough gorilla we brought aboard for strong arm work. As it turned out, we didn’t have to use him.”

“Which means _you_ were the bird who shot at us tonight from the corner of the galley!” put in Red Pennington. “You sure hated to let us get a look at those forged enlistment records, didn’t you, Mr. A. Corba?”

With a snort of anger, Captain Riggs turned to the door.

“The whole business smells like plain mutiny to me!” he declared. “While you’re questioning this man, Commander, I’m going to hunt up Seaman Second Class Mink, and throw him in irons! Join me in my quarters, gentlemen, when you’re ready to compare notes.”

X

A DESPERATE SCHEME

The questioning of Anton Corba, Electrician First Class, took less than twenty minutes; but it laid bare the whole Scorpion plot to destroy the gunboat.

Corba and the other two spies had come aboard at Guantanamo. The Navy men whose places they took, had been kidnapped by other Scorpion agents, and held until the gunboat sailed.

“The rest was easy, sir,” the prisoner stated, with a nervous glance at Red Pennington’s gun. “I rigged up a special sending key and an extra short-wave receiver with the help of stuff I’d smuggled aboard. I kept in touch with the Scorpia headquarters by tunin’ into a new wave length they gave me each day. And I listened in to any talk aboard ship with this electric 'ear’ which they say the Scorpion himself invented. Here it is, if you want to look at it.”

Slipping a hand inside his blouse, Corba produced the tiny amplifier and earphone. Don Winslow took it from him, with a smile.

“Clever!” he nodded, noting the hairlike wires and fine workmanship. “I suspected something like this, Red, when I sent you up on deck to look around. With his door ajar, Sparks here could get every whisper coming up the cabin ventilators.... Well, Corba, if that’s your name, I guess that explains how you knew we were going to search the enlistment records. The minute I was alone in the Captain’s quarters, you just slipped in and bopped me on the head, eh?”

“Yes, sir!” gulped the radio operator, squirming unhappily on his chair. “You see, I had to, sir. I mean, I was afraid you’d....”

“Stow it!” rapped Don, his tone suddenly hard. “Get down to brass tacks, and give us the rest of this program for sinking a Navy vessel on the high seas. Putting the engines out of commission was only a starter, of course. Let’s hear what comes next.”

Corba’s black eyes slid away from the impact of Don’s steely gaze.

“Why—why, there ain’t no 'next,’ sir,” he answered, nervously. “Not until daylight, when a couple of fast bombin’ planes dive outa the sky and drop about a ton of high explosive down your fiddley hatch. What happens then don’t need no imagination to figure out, sir! And no man aboard can do a thing to prevent it.”

“Horse feathers!” burst out Red Pennington. “We’ve got anti-aircraft guns, mounted fore and aft, that can blow half a dozen fast bombers clean out of the ozone. What’re you trying to do, punk? Throw a scare into us?”

Drawn-faced, the radio operator shook his head. For a second, he seemed about to reply, but instead merely licked his lips and looked away.

Don Winslow sensed that the man was half-crazy with terror, every time he thought or spoke of the coming air attack. And for that fear there could be only one good reason.

“You might as well tell it straight, Corba!” he told the fidgeting prisoner. “Go on and admit that the ship’s guns have been damaged, as well as the engines! Unable to fight or run, this ship will be just a helpless target—or so you believe. Is that it?”

The radioman’s jaw dropped. He nodded weakly.

“I don’t see how you guessed it, sir,” he whimpered; “Mink fixed every gun two nights ago. He used an explosive metal plug that’ll make the gun blow up the first time it’s fired. I’d have told you before, only there ain’t a thing you can do to fix ’em, sir. We’re gonna be sunk, with all hands, and that’s all there is to it!”

“Great jumpin’ catfish!” gurgled Red Pennington. “I never thought once about the guns being jimmied too! What can we do now, Don?”

“First put this man in the brig with his gorilla shipmate!” clipped out the young commander. “After that, we’re going to move a lot farther and faster than the Scorpion expects. You stay by the radio until I send up a regular guard, Red. And, Corba! March yourself straight through that door and forward to the brig. Lively now! My gun will be right at your back the whole way!”

Back in the radio shack, after seeing the lock turned on both Scorpion spies, Don Winslow sat down to compose a code radiogram to Navy Intelligence Headquarters at Washington. A trusted boatswain’s mate armed with rifle and bayonet stood outside to guard against interruptions.

The message, as Red Pennington translated it aloud, read: “GATOON SABOTAGED. STOP. NOW DRIFTING OFF THE COAST OF HAITI WITH GUNS AND ENGINES DISABLED. STOP. EXPECT ATTACK BY ENEMY BOMBERS AT DAYLIGHT. STOP. SEND FAST ATTACK PLANES TO OUR ASSISTANCE AT ONCE. STOP. OUR POSITION IS....”

“Here’s what I make it, Winslow!” interrupted Captain Riggs entering the room with sextant in one hand and a sheet of penciled figures in the other. “Good thing it’s a clear night, for 'shooting’ the stars. By my reckoning, we’re just ten miles off the coast, and ninety more from Port-au-Prince.”

“Thank you, Captain!” said Don, glancing at the other’s notes. “Shall I sign your name now to this radio message? If we send it at once, those Navy planes will have barely time to get here before the fun starts!”

“Sign it yourself, Commander,” replied Riggs quickly. “Your name will carry twice the weight of mine with Washington. But, blow me under if I like this idea of lying here useless till help comes! Isn’t there any trick we can work out to defend ourselves with?”

“I think there is, Captain,” answered Don Winslow, rising from his chair. “I’d like to talk it over first, though, with Michael Splendor. Suppose we join him, below, while Pennington is sending this radio I’ve just coded. Red’s an expert operator, so there won’t be any mistakes!”

Below, in the captain’s quarters. Lieutenant Darnley had just finished outlining the situation to Splendor and Mercedes Colby. The girl was taking the latest news of sabotage and sudden death with cool courage, as became the daughter of a Navy Admiral. Even the likelihood of being bombed and sunk by a Scorpion airship failed to terrify her.

“Now that I know the worst, I’m not scared at all,” she smiled pluckily. “It was _not_ knowing what fiendish thing the Scorpion was planning, that was the hardest to bear. There are lots of worse deaths than drowning. And anyhow, I can’t believe it will come to that!”

“Neither can I!” put in Michael Splendor, quietly. “With Don Winslow on deck, our chances of making port are better than the enemy’s. He’ll find a way to fight back, never fear! Besides, there’s me own seaplane we took aboard last night. She has two machine guns and——”

Without knocking, Captain Riggs flung open the door and entered, with Don Winslow at his heels.

“I have a few plans to talk over with you, sir!” the latter announced, halting before the cripple’s wheel chair. “Lieutenant Darnley has told you the latest trouble, I suppose—about our anti-aircraft guns being jimmied?”

“He has that!” replied Splendor. “And I knew you’d have a plan to overcome that difficulty, Commander. 'Tis honored I am that ye wish to discuss it with a useless old man like me!”

“You’ve been called 'the brains of the Haitian Intelligence Service,’” Don retorted. “And if brains are useless, it’s news to me! Joking aside, sir, there are three good reasons against our being bombed and sunk at daylight. I’ll name them over, and see if you agree with me. Perhaps Captain Riggs and Lieutenant Darnley may have some valuable suggestions to make, too.”

“Go ahead. Commander!” nodded the crippled man, as the others grouped themselves closer about Don. “I had a couple of schemes in me own mind, but three sounds better yet!”

In short, rapid sentences, Don Winslow outlined the hopes of the _Gatoon’s_ company.

First was the message now being radioed by Red Pennington to Captain Holding of the Naval Intelligence in Washington. A squadron of light bombing planes would be taking off within an hour to come to the _Gatoon’s_ rescue.

Whether or not they would arrive in time was another question, of course. The distance of the nearest fighting ships, the weather they might meet on the way, and various other difficulties made the answer uncertain. Less than three hours now remained before daybreak and the Scorpion’s attack.

Pursuit type planes, Don explained, could have made the distance quicker, but could not carry enough gas for a round trip.

Don’s second plan was for Panama and an expert machine gunner to take Splendor’s armed seaplane up at crack of dawn to watch for enemy aircraft, and fight them off. Even if hopelessly outnumbered, the pilot and his gunner could delay an attack upon the _Gatoon_.

“And that,” boomed Michael Splendor, his eyes gleaming eagerly, “is the very job I picked for meself! I’ll need no legs to use a machine gun, ye see. I’ve already talked it over with my pilot. The lad is anxious to try his luck in a real air fight, whatever the odds. And now, Commander, let’s have your third scheme. I’ve no doubt it includes yourself, and that redheaded lieutenant. If so, it will be the most dangerous job of all, and the most difficult, too.”

“I’m not so sure of that, sir,” Don protested. “In fact it’s as simple as jumping overboard with a life preserver on. That’s what the Scorpion’s gang expect their two spies to do; so what’s to keep Red and me from taking their places?”

“And then what, Don?” asked Mercedes Colby in a strained tone. “I suppose you think a Scorpion pilot will pick you up without asking questions or bothering to recognize you? More likely he’ll turn his machine gun on you and leave you for the fishes. Oh, Don, don’t try anything so desperately foolish!”

XI

JAWS OF DEATH

It was Michael Splendor whose reasoning finally calmed the girl’s worst fears for Don and Red. It was a known rule of “Scorpia,” he pointed out, that only agents who had to work in close contact should know each other, even by sight. Therefore, dressed in seamen’s uniforms, the two young officers would run little risk of discovery until they actually boarded the pickup plane.

After that, things would begin to happen fast, with probably fatal results to someone!

“You see, Mercedes,” Don added, “we’ve simply got to capture that enemy ship! It’s bound to be armed with one or more machine guns. In any case, it would double our chances of beating off enemy bombers until our own squadron shows up. And, by the way—we’ve got just two hours now to sunrise. We’d better get started without any more delay!”

Returning on deck, the officers found Red Pennington just signing off a code conversation with Captain Holding in Washington. The Intelligence Officer had been routed out of bed and was personally directing the despatch of fighting planes to the _Gatoon’s_ rescue. It seemed doubtful, however, that the squadron could arrive in less than three hours.

“We can only hope,” Captain Riggs remarked, anxiously, “that something will delay the enemy’s arrival, too. The best I can do aboard is to muster the crew on deck with loaded rifles. If the bombers try diving at us, our bullets _might_ take effect.”

After a brief discussion, it was decided to take Don and Red in one of the lifeboats, about half a mile to leeward of the _Gatoon_, and there drop them overside. The water was fairly warm off the coast of Haiti. The only real danger they would face, while drifting about on the black, mile-deep water, would be from sharks.

The question of uniforms was quickly settled, by new outfits drawn from the ship’s “slop-chest.” Don was to impersonate Corba, with the red and white rating badge on his blouse sleeve placing him as a Radioman, First Class. Red, being husky and heavily built, would take the part of the “gorilla” seaman, Mink.

The change of clothing was quickly made; but first, both young officers strapped on pistol holsters under their blouses. The weapons themselves, fully loaded, were sealed in watertight oiled silk. Life belts, clumsy but buoyant, made their outfit complete.

Just before they took their places in the ready lifeboat, Lieutenant Allen came hurrying from the engine room to report a piece of good luck.

“We’ve repaired the steam line, sir,” he said, approaching Captain Riggs, “and we had an easier job of cleaning out that emery dust from the machinery than I had expected. We’ll be ready to get under way in half an hour.”