Part 5

“Splendid! Great work, Lieutenant!” cried the _Gatoon’s_ skipper. “That gives us an extra chance in case we are bombed. A ship steaming in zigzag is a harder target to hit. We’ll just drift until daylight; but see that you have full steam up by then!”

“_Before then_, if you don’t mind, Captain!” put in Michael Splendor, rolling his wheel chair up to the rail. “The steam winch will be needed to lower yon seaplane overside. 'Tis a heavy weight to handle by manpower alone.”

Captain Riggs muttered a brief consent, and turned to grip the hands of the two departing officers. Quickly, Mercedes, Splendor, and the _Gatoon’s_ afterguard followed suit. There were no formal good-bys; but the words spoken were packed with meaning:—

“Good luck, Don! So long, Red!”

“See you later, Commander!”

Expertly manned, the lifeboats touched the water with scarcely a sound. The boat falls were quickly released; strong arms pushed the little craft clear of the _Gatoon’s_ looming side. Above, the dim blur of faces at the ship’s rail faded from sight.

“Out ... oars!”

The coxswain’s low spoken order came from the lifeboat’s stern sheets. It was answered by the soft thudding of oars into rowlocks. Don and Red, in their seamen’s uniforms, each gripped one of the long ash blades, “feathered” it by a drop of their wrists, and held it poised above the black water.

“Altogether.... Give way!”

At the coxswain’s word, six tough muscled bodies tensed; six oar blades hit the water at the same precise instant. The little craft leaped forward like a startled fish.

Steering only by the light wind astern, it covered the half mile to leeward of the _Gatoon_ in about five minutes. As there was no moon the ship could not be seen. Only the starshine, reflected from the ocean’s heaving surface, showed where water ended and air began.

To a landsman, it would have given a queer sensation; adrift in a small boat at night, with nothing to see but starshine above or below; to know that a mile beneath that black water lay the hills and valleys of the ocean’s bottom; to think that, in just a minute, one would be _in_ that water up to one’s neck, with the lifeboat pulling away, out of sight and sound!

Even the seasoned sailors in the boat with Don and Red must have had some such thoughts, though Navy discipline kept them from saying anything. When the two young officers stood up in their life belts, ready to bail out, the coxswain alone spoke up.

“Is there anything else, Commander?” he asked huskily. “Sure you don’t want us to stand by for a while after you and the lieutenant go overboard?”

“Of course not, Coxswain!” replied Don with a quiet laugh. “This isn’t a sea burial. It’s just a job Lieutenant Pennington and I have to do. You’ll probably be in more danger aboard the _Gatoon_ than we will be here. Steady, now! We’re going over the bow.”

“Aye-aye, sir!” answered the petty officer, with a catch in his voice. “And here’s wishin’ you and the Lieutenant good luck!”

The lifeboat pitched and swung off as two heavy splashes sounded over her bow.

“Good luck to you, Coxs’n!” sputtered Red Pennington from the water. “Sheer off now and head for the ship! They’re showing a signal light to give you your bearings.”

When the last faint splash of oars faded out, Don Winslow spoke.

“Feel lonesome, Red?”

A gasping breath from the darkness gave evidence of Red’s position, even before he answered.

“G-gee, Don!” he stuttered. “I wondered for a minute if you’d drifted out of hearing. Sound off again, Skipper, so I can paddle closer! I’d certainly hate to float around here in the darkness and know I was all alone.... Say, where are you, anyhow?”

“Here!” answered Don, shortly.

“Huh? Where? I thought you were over _there_!” burbled Red Pennington between frantic splashings. “Are you swimmin’ circles around me, Skipper, or is it the darkness? Dawggone....”

“It’s your life preserver, Red!” Don chuckled. “Don’t try to swim fast in that thing, or you’ll just spin round and round. Paddle over here slowly, and I’ll pass you an end of marline I brought along to lash us together.”

There was some more splashing, and a final grunt of relief as Red found Don’s hand holding the length of tarred cord. For a while neither of them spoke. The feeling of being suspended in wet, black space rather dampened the wish to talk.

An hour passed in gloomy, uncomfortable silence, before the first hint of daylight showed across the tossing wave tops. Little by little the night sky paled, making the water look all the blacker by contrast. Then, a mile to windward, the two officers made out the ship they had left—a faint, gray shadow breaking a wave-notched horizon.

“We’ve drifted quite a distance, shipmate,” Don observed, gazing toward the _Gatoon_. “Too far for anybody on board to sight us! I suppose they’re wondering whether or not the sharks have gotten us by now.”

“What _I’m_ wondering is whether that Scorpion seaplane is going to spot us or not,” responded Red Pennington. “And something else just occurred to me—Will the pilot have orders to pick us up before or _after_ they try the bomb the _Gatoon_? We didn’t think to ask Corba that one, did we?”

“He might not have known, anyhow,” Don shrugged. “Quit thinking up so many different kinds of hard luck, Red, and tell me how your appetite is. I’ve got some chocolate and a couple of sea biscuits stowed away in a waterproof envelope. There’s no telling whether we’ll eat breakfast today....”

“Or be eaten _for_ breakfast!” Red cut in with a yell. “Look! Isn’t that a shark?”

XII

TIGERS OF THE SEA

One glance at the black, triangular fin slicing through the water was enough. It was a shark of the man-eating variety.

“Get out your gun, Red!” barked Don Winslow, reaching for his own weapon. “Hold it ready, but don’t use it until the last possible moment. The smell of blood—even shark’s blood—will drive the other sharks mad!”

Biting his lips, the stocky lieutenant ripped the waterproof silk from his Navy Colt’s revolver. Though he could have led a landing party in the face of machine gun fire, without a qualm of fear, the idea of becoming shark meat while still alive was hard for Red Pennington to get used to.

“Here’s hopin’ there aren’t any other sharks around!” he gulped. “If I don’t see any in the next two minutes, I’m gonna shoot this one so full of holes....”

“Hold it!” Don Winslow rapped out. “I see another fin—no, it’s three more! And more coming, off there to port. Great guns, Red! We’re right in the middle of a school of them!”

Calmly, he took a squint at the chambers of his revolver making sure they were all loaded.

“You see now, Red, why I wouldn’t take automatic pistols,” he said. “Those things jam up after a little exposure to salt water. These revolvers can take it.”

“Yeah!” responded Red bitterly. “But what good’s all that goin’ to do us if they come too fast for us to shoot? HEY! LOOK OUT! HE’S COMING FOR YOU, DON!”

Twenty feet to starboard, a huge fin was driving straight toward them. In another second the killer shark would roll over for the bite, Don knew.

Instead of firing, however, he brought both arms down flat on the water, with a tremendous splash. At the same time, he yelled like a trapped hyena.

With a quick swirl, the shark changed his course; but even so, it was a close call. So close that the killer’s mighty tail slapped against Don’s legs with numbing force.

“Wha-what’s the big idea?” gurgled Red, twisting his neck to watch the shark’s departure. “You had time to shoot him, Skipper!”

“But not time to stop him!” replied Don. “Anyhow, we don’t want any blood in the water as near to us as that. I guess our best bet is to serve these sharks a breakfast, but keep them as far away as possible. Like this!”

Snapping up his Colt, Don Winslow fired at a circling fin, about forty yards distant. There followed the brief flurry of a wounded shark. Then, without warning, the ocean round about was lashed to a froth. Great bodies whirled and plunged in a circle of bloodstained water. From all sides, the sharp, triangular fins of the other sharks came streaking toward the center of disturbance.

“And _that_,” gritted Don Winslow, “is the way they’d be bearing down on us, if I’d shot that first would-be man-eater, instead of scaring him! How’d you like to be in the middle of that ring-around-the-rosie, Red?”

“G-golly, no!” shivered the junior officer. “I’ve heard that sharks were cannibals; but I never thought they were such fast feeders. Look, Don! They’ve finished that one already. Eaten him alive!”

“In which case we’d better give them some more breakfast bacon,” agreed the young commander. “Go ahead and shoot, sailor! It’s your turn.”

“Uh-uh, Don! It’s your turn all the time,” the redhead responded. “As a marksman, I’ll never be in your class, and we’ve got to save our bullets. That way, we might keep those sea tigers busy eating themselves until the plane shows up.”

Carefully Don picked his next target and fired. This time his bullet merely clipped through the shark’s back fin, but the wound was enough for its blood maddened fellows. A second savage feast churned the water’s surface, fifty yards away.

One by one Don’s precious cartridges were expended, until only half a dozen were left. The dawn light had grown stronger now, and Red, glancing toward the distant _Gatoon_, detected movement aboard her.

“They’ve spotted us aboard ship!” he cried. “They’re lowering a boat!”

Don Winslow’s revolver cracked again.

“They’ll get here just about in time,” he commented. “That is, provided I don’t miss any shots. Every shark in ten square miles must have smelled this party and joined it. A number of them have been looking us over, too.”

“I’ve noticed that, Skipper, don’t worry!” Red Pennington exclaimed. “It’s too bad the Scorpion plane didn’t get here sooner, but.... Say! Am I hearing things, or is that a plane’s motor, over to the east?”

Above the splashing rose the snarl of an airplane motor warming up. The sound rose in pitch, then faded abruptly.

“That’s Splendor and his pilot taking off!” remarked Don, his eye on the circling man-eaters. “They’ll climb to ten thousand to start their watch for the bombers. Right now, I envy them!”

For a long, listening moment, there was no sound but the lapping of waves and the occasional splash of a feeding shark. Very gradually the drone of an approaching plane grew louder.

“It’s not Splendor’s motor,” Don decided at last. “Besides, it’s flying too low and straight to be on patrol. It’s the Scorpion seaplane, all right, and headed straight for us!”

“It’ll be here before the boat from the _Gatoon_!” cried Red Pennington. “Probably the pilot thinks the boat is after a couple of spies. If he does, he’ll beat ’em to it and pick us up! Where is he, though, Don? That motor’s getting close, but there’s no plane in sight!”

“That’s because he’s flying low, right in the 'eye of the sun,’ as they say,” replied the other, whipping up his gun for another shot.

The bullet missed, just as the target dived under. Another slug from Don’s nearly exhausted supply furnished more living “breakfast” for the ravenous sea tigers. Two sharks swirled dangerously close to the two officers in the turmoil.

“Better start splashing and keep it up, Red!” Don Winslow advised. “Those finny devils are getting more curious about us every second. If we can keep them off just a few more minutes....”

CR-RASH! SLAP! SWISH!

The school of sharks scattered in all directions, as a seaplane’s pontoons smashed down into the water close by.

“Ahoy, you two!” cried a voice almost over the swimmers’ heads. “Climb aboard, and make it snappy! Those sharks will be back in a minute.”

Looking up, Don and Red saw that a few strokes would bring them within reach of the plane’s starboard pontoon. So skillfully had the pilot maneuvered his craft in the choppy waves that he was now drifting past almost within arm’s reach. The man’s head and arms were just visible through the cabin door which he had slid back.

Don gripped the pontoon’s wet surface, heaved himself up, and reached an arm down to Red Pennington. His revolver was back in its shoulder holster, but the bulge of it was plain, he knew, under his wet blouse.

“Those sharks nearly got us at that!” he observed, imitating Corba’s whining tones. “We’ve been shootin’ at ’em since daylight, but they was gettin’ uglier every second. An’ then that boat put off from the _Gatoon_. Between it and the sharks, we wouldn’t have lasted five minutes longer!”

“I know all that, sailor!” snapped the pilot, glancing back at the approaching lifeboat. “Stow the gab and climb up here, so I can take off. They’ve got rifles in that boat!”

Muttering under his breath, the fake Corba clambered into the cabin, with his dripping companion at his heels. As they did so, the seaplane’s motor burst into full-throated sound. Gracefully the ship circled, straightened out over the slapping wave tops, and took off into the wind.

“You, Mink!” called the pilot above the motor’s steady roar. “They tell me you’re good with a machine gun. If you want some practice, move over and man that turret piece!”

“Okay!” replied Red Pennington, taking the role of the gorilla seaman. “But wot’s the idea now? We ain’t gonna attack the _Gatoon_ all by ourselves, are we?”

The seaplane listed steeply in a sharp bank. As it swung back toward the drifting yacht, the pilot laughed harshly.

“We’re going to put a few holes in that lifeboat, just for the fun of it!” he said. “I’ll give ’em a burst from the wing guns, and you finish the job as we leave ’em astern.”

“This job,” cut in Don Winslow’s voice, “is already finished, pilot! Ease over and give me those controls, or take a bullet through your ribs!”

The Scorpion pilot stiffened under the hard pressure of Don’s gun muzzle. His lips drew back in an animal snarl.

“You’re not Corba!” he grated, as the young Navy Commander pulled back on the joystick. “And this other guy isn’t Mink. What’s the game, anyway?”

Red Pennington’s revolver prodded gently between the man’s shoulder blades, as Don banked the seaplane for a fast climb.

“Just a couple of Navy lads taking over for Uncle Sam,” the grinning lieutenant answered. “Your precious pals, Mink and Corba are locked up in the _Gatoon’s_ brig. That’s where we’re going to put you, if we’re lucky in the coming dogfight.”

XIII

WINGS OF DESTRUCTION

The Scorpion pilot sat chewing his lips in silence, while Red tied his wrists behind him. Mixed anger and admiration showed on the man’s darkly handsome face.

“If you mean you’re going to shoot it out with our bombers, you’re a couple of suicidal nuts!” he exclaimed finally. “They’ll outnumber you three to one, and they all mount one-pounder guns, firing through a hollow prop shaft. Who do you guys think you are, to buck odds like that?”

Don pushed the sturdy ship to its steepest possible climb.

“See that other plane, right above us?” he asked. “It’s ours, and it’s armed like this one, with guns fore and aft. The odds won’t be too bad for us, when your three ships show up. And if they don’t get here pretty quick they’ll run into some more of the United States Navy. There’s a squadron of fast attack bombers due here in half an hour.”

“Which is going to be just half an hour too late!” remarked Red Pennington in a strained voice. “Here come the Scorpion bombers right on our tail! And—”

“SC-25, acknowledge!” blared a voice from the seaplane’s radio. “Ahoy, Count Borg! Explain presence of second seaplane. Also, why _Gatoon_ has steam up. Is anything wrong?”

Don Winslow’s response was instantaneous. In a flash he realized that the question he’d heard came from the leading bomber. His hand darted to a switch just below the plane’s radio dials.

“Borg speaking!” he said, in excellent imitation of his captive’s voice. “Second seaplane is okay. _Gatoon_ appears defenseless except for rifles on deck. Come ahead!”

Still climbing, Don Winslow’s captured seaplane was already above the Scorpion ships. They were, he saw, closing up on a course that would bring them directly over the _Gatoon_ at about three thousand feet. Not fearing the gunboat’s crippled anti-aircraft, they were going to dive bomb—from a height that would insure direct hits!

A plan of attack grew swiftly in the young commander’s mind. It would require perfect timing, and if it failed....

But this was not the moment to think of failure. Circling back Don headed for the first enemy ship just as it commenced its deadly bombing dive.

The seaplane’s air speed mounted. Under full throttle it plunged to intercept the Scorpion bomber.

Just as a crash seemed certain, twin streams of fire ripped from Don’s forward guns. In the same split second he zoomed, bringing the second and third Scorpion planes briefly in front of his sights.

On, up and over in a complete loop he flew the snarling little ship. As yet he was unable to see the effect of his surprise attack. Had he crippled one or more of the enemy, or had his bullets missed their vital spots?

Don’s answers came all in a bunch, as he leveled out, less than three thousand feet above the sea. Directly below him a heavy concussion rocked the air. White water geysered upward alongside the _Gatoon_.

The first enemy plane had pancaked, and had been blown to bits by its own bomb load. But the others?

A row of bullet holes appeared suddenly in Don’s left wing surface, creeping toward the cabin. As Don zoomed, a dial on his instrument board smashed to bits.

The machine gun in the plane’s after turret fired two short bursts, followed by Red Pennington’s shout.

“Two of ’em, diving at us from port and starboard!” yelped the lieutenant. “They’ve got us bracketed—”

The sudden jerk of his safety belt cut off Red’s speech, as Don threw his ship into a barrel roll. It was a desperate attempt to dodge the deadly cross-fire of the two enemy planes until he could bring his own guns to bear.

But now another ship had joined the dogfight. Michael Splendor’s open seaplane, diving from ten thousand feet, unleashed a stream of bullets at the enemy.

Coming out of his roll at barely a hundred feet, Don climbed his ship in a furious effort to get back in the fight. But already the Scorpion pilots had had enough. One after another, they fluttered down like wounded birds, their wings and fuselages pierced in a hundred places.

Both managed to take the water safely, though they began to sink a moment later. Their crews plunged overboard, swimming toward the _Gatoon_.

Immediately a boat was lowered by the yacht. Glancing down Don Winslow cut his throttle.

“We’ll land on the other side of the _Gatoon_, Red, and taxi in under the stern. Splendor will moor his plane near the bow until they hoist it aboard, and....”

“Wait, Don!” Red Pennington cried sharply. “Splendor’s waggling his wings to signal us. He’s trying to tell us something.”

Don Winslow, banking in a slow turn squinted out over the sunlit ocean. Against the horizon, just over the tail of the other seaplane appeared a V-shaped group of dots.

“It’s the Navy squadron we radioed for!” the young commander chuckled. “I’d forgotten all about them, Red! And, say—will those boys be peeved at having missed the fight!”

He was still grinning at the thought when he set the captured seaplane down on the bumpy water, in a cloud of spray. His expression changed, however, as the craft developed a sharp list to port, which grew steeper every second.

“Hey, Skipper!” cried Red Pennington, in alarm. “Those bullets must have made a sieve of our left pontoon. The wing’s goin’ to 'catch a crab’!”

As he spoke, the left wing tip caught a wave and went under. The whole plane shuddered, swung about and lost the remainder of its speed. Another wave slapped loudly against the listing fuselage.

Don Winslow unsnapped his safety belt and faced around.

“Water’ll be coming through those holes under our feet in a moment,” he said tersely. “We’d better unlash our prisoner and get him out of here, quick!”

“Aye-aye, Skipper!” gulped Red, bending over the Scorpion pilot. “I made him fast on the deck here, seeing there were only two safety belts, and—great guns, Don! He’s wounded! Bleeding from the head! Help me....”

Whipping a seaman’s knife from under his blouse, Don quickly cut the lashings which held the unconscious man. Turning, he slid open the metal door of the cabin.

“You go through, Red, and wait for me to pass him out,” the young commander said. “The fellow’s still breathing. Put on your life belt first, and make it snappy. This crate’s going to end over in a minute!”

Red obeyed instantly. Without waiting even to fasten the life belt, he plunged through the open door into the water. There, clinging to the fuselage, he waited for the pilot’s body to be passed out.

It came, suddenly heaved through the wave washed opening, _with Don’s life belt lashed in place_!

Startled, Red Pennington lost his grip, and drifted free. A second glance at the white face bobbing above the cork belt made the man’s identity certain. It was the pilot, all right. But why didn’t Don come?

Before Red could more than shout his friend’s name, the seaplane listed more sharply than ever, forcing the cabin door under water. Don Winslow was trapped inside. He could still dive down through the doorway and swim clear, Red thought, but the air in the cabin now wouldn’t last for long.

“Don’s hurt, or caught in there!” Red groaned, stroking back to the half-submerged fuselage. “If he weren’t he’d be out by now. There’s just one way to get him, and if that fails, we’ll both go down together!”

Slipping out of his unfastened life belt, he dived under the plane’s wave-battered fuselage, groping for the door. A moment later he found it.

The cabin was dark, half full of water, and almost upside down. It took a few seconds for Red to get his bearings. As his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he made out the pale blur of Don Winslow’s face.

The young commander was clinging weakly to a seat, his eyes closed. As Red Pennington reached him, he stirred and mumbled vaguely, but did not release his grip on the seat. A bloody gash on his temple explained his half-conscious condition.

“Must have struck his head, just before the plane turned over!” the stout lieutenant groaned. “Come on, Don, old man! Leggo that seat, and lemme take you out. Leggo, I say! This plane is sinkin’ lower every minute!”

Don Winslow’s fingers were locked as if in a death grip. By main force Red pried them loose and dragged his friend down toward the submerged door.

“If only he doesn’t breathe in a couple lungfuls of water!” the worried lieutenant muttered, “but I’ve got to take that chance.”

The shock of cold water closing over his head seemed to rouse Don’s fighting instincts. Halfway through the doorway, he clutched at the jamb and got a grip. Red, also under water, struggled until he thought his lungs would burst.

Just in time, Don’s muscles relaxed. With his last strength Red Pennington dragged him free and up to the surface. Then, all at once, strong hands were hauling the two half-drowned officers into a boat.

The next thing Don Winslow knew, he was back in his own berth aboard the _Gatoon_, with Michael Splendor, Red, and the ship’s doctor crowding the little stateroom. His head still ached from the wallop he’d got inside the plane’s cabin, but the bandage which the doctor had just applied felt cool and comfortable.

“Say, Doc,” he grinned, trying to sit up, “who was it that beaned me this time?”

XIV

THE MYSTERIOUS CAPTIVE

It was the medical officer who actually spilled the story of Red’s heroic act, in dragging Don from the sinking seaplane. The stocky lieutenant himself would never have let the real facts be known. He hated to be made a hero. As it was, he could only shake his head and scowl while the ship’s doctor heaped praises upon him.