The Stingaree's Tail
"This is the plan," Steve Ames said. "Joe and Chuck will approach from
upriver and go around the mansion fence by wading downstream. They'll
stay under cover somewhere at the edge of the mansion grounds until they
hear my signal on the radio to close in--or until they see the balloon
launched. I'll go in the way I did before."
The two JANIG agents nodded, and bent over the chart borrowed from the
houseboat.
"Cobb will set up his equipment here at my house," Steve continued, "and
try to intercept all signals from the mansion. McDevitt will set up here
too, and track the balloon through my telescope--if it rises--watching
until the rocket fires. McDevitt also will keep in touch with Wallops
Island by radio, and notify me on the walkie-talkie when the countdown
reaches thirty minutes."
Steve turned to Rick and Scotty. "Before I go to my post, I'll take you
two to the creek mouth in the runabout. Then you will swim up the creek,
underwater, and take up stations in the weeds directly in front of the
house."
Rick's pulse stopped. "They'll see our bubbles," he protested. "It would
give the whole show away!"
Steve motioned to Joe Vitalli. "Show 'em."
Joe walked to the car in which he and Chuck had driven from Washington,
and opened the trunk. He brought out a pair of riot guns, automatic
shotguns, which he handed to Chuck, then he reached into the trunk and
brought out a pair of small cylinders with full face masks attached.
"Rebreathers!" Rick exclaimed. He grinned at Steve. "You planned this
before you ever told us what was on your mind!"
"I thought it was best to be prepared," Steve said. "You know how these
work?"
Rick nodded. "We both do." The rebreathers, unlike Scubas, which were
filled with compressed air, used oxygen which was recycled through a
canister of chemicals that removed water vapor and carbon dioxide. They
were completely self-contained; no bubbles were emitted.
Cobb was already opening a pair of leather-covered cases, exposing
electronic gear. He had also brought a portable antenna, which he began
setting up. McDevitt had a radio in his car with which to talk to
Wallops, and Steve handed him one unit of a walkie-talkie radio network.
Another unit went to Chuck, and Steve retained one.
Steve glanced at his watch. "Let's get going. Time your travel so you
will be in place at eight o'clock on the nose." He looked at the boys.
"Get into your gear, and take spear guns with you. When we move into
action, I want you to bring that balloon down if you can."
The boys ran to the houseboat. Rick was excited, and he knew Scotty was
feeling the same way. It was the first time they had been in on a JANIG
operation as full partners. Their previous adventures had either been as
accidental participants or as observers.
They got into full gear, including their skin-tight neoprene helmets and
footgear. Then, leaving their fins and rebreathers, they hurried back to
the others. Joe and Chuck were in their own car, the riot guns and
walkie-talkie out of sight. McDevitt had the telescope set up next to
his car and was practicing with it by tracking a high-flying osprey.
Cobb was finishing work on his electronic setup. His antenna was in
place, the dish on top of the collapsible pole aligned on the compass
direction to Calvert's Favor.
Steve shook hands with Joe and Chuck. "On your way. See you when the
balloon goes up." He motioned to the boys. "Got spear guns?"
"We left that till last," Rick said. "Ready to go?"
"Ready."
The three hurried down the pier to the houseboat, where the boys took
guns from their spear box. Each chose a high-powered gas gun, operated
by a carbon dioxide cartridge, and selected the spears that would cut
the biggest holes. There would be time for only one shot.
"Get on the floor in the runabout when we cast off," Steve directed. "If
there are any watchers, I want them to see only one man."
The boys cast off, then climbed in as Steve backed into the creek. They
crouched on the floor and adjusted the straps on their face masks until
the fit was tight. There was no conversation. Rick was so excited it was
hard to sit still. As they began the crossing of the Little Choptank
River, Steve gave them instructions. "When we get opposite the creek
mouth, the engine is going to stutter and kick up a lot of smoke. The
boat will drift into the smoke and out again. You'll have a few seconds
to go over. I'll pretend to work on the motor, and finally get it
started, but running rough. Then I'll take off and pretend I'm heading
home. Okay?"
"How are you going to make smoke?" Rick asked.
Steve reached into his breast pocket and produced a small bottle. "These
are chemicals that smoke when they touch water. Got your plans all
made?"
Rick looked at Scotty. "We'll have to stick our heads up once in a
while. I'll lead, since I know the creek as far as the cove. When I
think I'm lost, I'll head for the north bank, making a sharp turn. That
will be your signal to stay put, while I look. What I'd like to do is
bring us out in back of the duck blind. We can pick our spots then and
cross the creek when we're ready."
"Got it," Scotty agreed.
Steve reached down a hand and squeezed their hands in turn. "Good luck,
kids. And no unnecessary chances. If shooting starts, get underwater
again. We'll have guns, but you'll have only single-shot spear guns."
"Good luck," the boys said in unison. They put on the masks and turned
the valves that started the oxygen cycles. Rick grinned at Scotty
through the glass, and knew that his grin was strained. Scotty grinned
back and held up his hand with thumb and forefinger making the signal
for "Okay."
"Be ready," Steve said.
Rick checked himself once again to be sure all was in order. Weight
belt, knife, compass, spear gun with safety cap on, mask fitting
tightly, and the pack in place. He got ready to jump on Steve's command.
The outboard slowed, raced, slowed, raced, back-fired, slowed. Steve's
hand went over and trailed chemical in the water. The boat turned, and
Rick saw the smoke cloud rising. The boat went into it, and the motor
cut out.
"Go," Steve said.
Rick stood upright and went over the gunwale in a dive, knifing toward
the bottom. He felt the pressure wave as Scotty followed and reached a
hand upward to meet his pal. His hand touched Scotty's arm, found the
hand, and gave it a squeeze. Then, with a glance at his compass to
orient him, Rick started the long swim.
It was odd to be wearing the oxygen lung. The sound of bubbles from the
customary compressed-air Scubas was missing, and the silence was
strange. Then Steve started the motor of the runabout and Rick heard the
broken rhythm as the motor skipped. He knew that Steve probably had
turned the carburetor mixture to too lean or too rich. Either would
cause the motor to run rough. He kept moving, his fins keeping a steady
stroke. The motor sound grew distant, and finally faded entirely.
Rick usually depended on pressure to tell him location, but the creek
was too shallow for any strong indication on his ears. He kept going
until the visibility and brightness told him he was in the shallows,
then steered out into the middle of the stream again.
He thought they must be halfway to the mansion, but wasn't sure. He gave
a pair of swift kicks to alert Scotty, then turned sharp left, rolling
over on his back. He could see the water surface clearly. Rising a
little, he lifted his face above the water for a brief second, then went
back under.
Now was the time to get behind the duck blind. Rick swam back to where
Scotty waited, and plucked at his shoulder. This time he started off
close to the north shore, heading directly for the duck blind. His
course was straight. In a few moments he found himself among the pilings
and turned to put the blind between himself and the mansion on the
opposite shore. Scotty followed.
Rick lifted his head cautiously. He saw only the marsh grass and the
back of the blind. He tapped Scotty, who rose until his head was level
with Rick's, his face only a few inches away. They pulled off their
masks.
"We can swim under the blind and look out the front," Rick whispered.
"There's enough brush to give us cover. We'll each pick our own spot and
go to it. Sound all right?"
"Okay. Better fix our guns right here, though."
It was good advice. Rick removed the safety cap from his spear, making
sure the barbed shaft was properly seated. Now he needed only to flick
off the safety catch and fire. Scotty did the same.
"You go right and I'll go left," Scotty suggested softly. "Be better if
there's a little spread between us. We'll also want to find places where
we can look out. There's some weed along the shore, and I think I
remember a brush pile around a stake near the right-hand edge of the
lawn. One piling is there. There's a bunch of old pilings off to the
left where the original pier was. I can see if there's cover there. If
not, I'll find something."
Scotty had worn his waterproof watch. It was just four minutes to eight.
Time to get going.
The boys shook hands, grinned at each other, and pulled their masks back
on. They ducked under the blind, side by side, and swam to the front of
the structure where brush from last year's cover remained.
Cautiously Rick peered out, then sucked in his breath. A truck had been
wheeled out of the barn. It had a dish antenna on top. And next to the
truck, a mass of black plastic was slowly inflating. A flying stingaree!
Rick looked quickly for a spot to which he could swim. Near the edge of
the cut lawn was the piling Scotty had mentioned. It was tall, with a
light on it for night navigation. Rick realized he had seen it on
earlier trips, but had not noticed it particularly because his attention
had been on the house and its occupants. Slightly upstream from the tall
piling were a series of stakes, saplings pushed into the bottom to
indicate the limits of water deep enough for a boat. Around three of the
pilings brush and grass had gathered, picked up from the current. The
middle pile was highest. Rick decided to head for it.
Scotty was also searching for a hiding place. Apparently he found one
that was satisfactory, because he gripped Rick's shoulder for a moment,
then submerged. Rick saw him as a shadow, hugging the bottom.
Now was the time. Rick took a deep breath to quiet his taut and shaky
nerves, then sank to the bottom and began the last leg of the trip. It
was only a few dozen yards to the sapling he had chosen. He reached it
and glanced upward. The mass of debris made a black blotch on the bright
surface of the water. Moving with infinite caution and using the sapling
as a guide, he swung his legs under him and rose to a sitting position.
The debris was still above the level of his eyes, so he swung his legs
back again and knelt. The kneeling position brought his head to just the
right level. He lifted his face and looked at the debris. Working
cautiously, he brought a hand up and poked a hole through. His fingers
enlarged the hole until he could see sufficiently.
The flying stingaree was tugging at the rope that held it! The shape was
almost perfect, Rick thought, but he doubted that it had been designed
to look like a sting ray. More likely it had been picked to look as
little like a conventional balloon as possible. Well, it had served its
purpose.
Merlin, alias Lefty Camillion, and his electronics wizard were fitting a
rocket into a loop on a plastic strap that dangled from the balloon.
Rick couldn't see it clearly, but thought it was a replica of the one he
had recovered.
There was sound from the truck containing the dish antenna. Rick pulled
his mask away to hear a little better and heard a loudspeaker,
rebroadcasting something.
"... reports no aircraft within range limits. We are now at thirty-one
minutes and counting. On my mark the time will be zero minus thirty
exactly."
There was only the crackle of the loudspeaker. The set was tuned in on
the Wallops Island command frequency, Rick realized. That was how
Camillion and company knew when to release the balloon, and when to
trigger the rocket!
Camillion's bodyguard was manning the rope holding the balloon. It was
attached to a ring on the truck. As Rick watched, the bodyguard let out
more line and the balloon rose slightly, tugging at the rope, and moving
toward Rick. The tail hung down almost to the ground, the rocket hanging
at an angle at its end.
The loudspeaker voice said, "Stand by. Mark! Zero minus thirty."
The bodyguard reached up and cut the rope!
Rick saw the flying stingaree heading directly toward him, rising
slowly, caught by the ground wind. He brought his spear gun into
position and rose to his full height, snapping off the safety catch.
Oblivious to the yells from the lawn, he aimed and fired. With a sharp
hiss, the spear flashed through the air--into the balloon and right
through it!
The balloon didn't even falter. It would take time to lose sufficient
gas to bring it down. The wind swept it right toward Rick, still rising.
As it passed over him, the dangling rocket would be almost within reach.
Rick didn't hesitate. He saw the track of the balloon curving, as the
wind shifted direction downstream over the water. He threw himself to
one side and forward, dropping the spear gun, one hand outstretched. The
rocket slapped into his palm and his fingers closed around it. The jerk
pulled him forward and he grabbed with his other hand, missed, and
grabbed again. This time he caught the rocket, and both hands gripped
tight.
The flying stingaree lifted him, dragging him through the water. Rick
spun around at the end of the line, and caught a glimpse of the
bodyguard raising a pistol to shoot at him! Then the scene whirled and
he saw Scotty, standing in water to his waist, spear gun lifted to fire.
[Illustration: _The flying stingaree lifted him!_]
Rick saw the spear leave his pal's gun, and he whirled his head in time
to see the bodyguard looking down with horror at the shaft protruding
from his side.
The boy didn't see the piling. His last quick impression was of the
bodyguard falling forward, then there was a stunning impact as the side
of his head met creosoted wood and darkness flooded in.