Tim flashed across the surface of the bay and into the air. He made a
half circle into the west and lined away for a fast flight to overhaul
the _S-18_.
It was better than two hours later and fifty miles beyond their
rendezvous when Tim finally sighted the submarine, sliding through the
water at a strong twelve knots an hour.
He brought the Sea King down to an easy landing and then taxied
alongside the _S-18_, which was now lying motionless. Willing hands
helped fasten the crane and its rigging to the seaplane and the craft
was soon lodged safely on the deck of the submarine. Then they were
under way again, the thin nose of the _S-18_ cleaving its way toward
the sunken treasure in the hold of the Southern Queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Isle of the Singing Trees
While Pat was on duty in the conning tower, Tim recounted in detail to
Commander Ford just what had taken place in Key West. When he was
through the Commander looked extremely grave.
"Now that Sladek knows we are bound for an island off the coast of
Yucatan, our only hope is for speed. It may take him several days to
locate us after we are there, but with his seaplane he is certain to do
that. We'll continue ahead as fast as possible and once over the wreck
of the Southern Queen we'll lose no time in going down and getting what
we can."
Only Commander Ford knew the exact location of the island they sought
off the coast of Yucatan. As the hours rolled into days, the tension
aboard the _S-18_ grew. There had been no further sign of the _Iron
Mate_ and they wondered whether Sladek was ahead or behind.
Tim wrote a story each day and Ike Green flashed it over his powerful
set to the station of the New York Journal, where it was relayed to
Tim's own paper at Atkinson.
The third night after Tim joined the _S-18_ out of Key West he felt the
pulse of the diesels slowing down. He tossed on his clothes and made
his way to the control room and climbed the ladder to the conning
tower. Commander Ford and Pat were intently scanning the horizon.
Pat turned toward Tim.
"We'll reach the island about dawn," he said.
Commander Ford was looking at a chart with a hand torch. One finger
stopped at a tiny island off the coast of Yucatan.
"That's our destination," he said. "If Crazy John knew what he was
talking about, the Southern Queen went down on a reef just off the Isle
of the Singing Trees."
"What island?" asked Tim.
"The Isle of the Singing Trees. It's marked here on the chart and is
uninhabited."
The _S-18_ crept through the thinning night at half speed and with the
coming of the dawn, they saw the outline of the island. It was small
and seemed barely able to keep its head above the restless Caribbean.
Breakers, indicating the danger of hidden reefs, fringed the isle.
Through the powerful glasses they could see a dense tangle of
vegetation and beyond the Isle of the Singing Trees the dim outlines of
the mainland, which was still shrouded by the morning mists.
The pulses of the men aboard the _S-18_ quickened. They were within
sight of their goal.
Tim scanned the surface of the ocean. There was no sign of the _Iron
Mate_, not even a faint smudge of smoke to cause them apprehension.
Commander Ford ordered the Diesels stopped. A piping hot breakfast was
served to every member of the crew and then the slow, creeping trip
toward the island was resumed.
As they neared the desolate spot, Tim could understand why Crazy John
had not cared to return. There was nothing beautiful about the Isle of
the Singing Trees. The beach was rough and strewn with rock and as they
approached the island they heard the singing of the wind through the
tangled growth. Truly the island had been well named.
The island had never been adequately charted, and Commander Ford was
feeling his way past the dangerous reefs, one of which had brought a
sudden end to the Southern Queen eleven years before.
Jagged splinters of rock reached up from the ocean bottom to impale the
hull of the _S-18_, but each time the skilful hands of her commander
directed the submarine past the danger spot. There was a brisk wind,
and waves broke sharply over the hull, but at last the _S-18_ was past
the outer rim of rock which encircled the island and safely into the
smoother water. Everyone breathed easier as the order to let go the
anchor came from the conning tower and the mud hook was dropped sharply
away.
Two sturdy boats, both collapsible, were brought up from the diving
compartment and assembled on the deck. Charlie Gill and Russ Graham,
the chief divers, checked over their equipment and Pat gave Tim a hand
in loosening the fastenings which held the seaplane to the deck.
Joe Gartner even found time to polish his beloved four inch gun and Tim
felt that Joe was secretly praying for a chance to get into action
against the _Iron Mate_.
When the first boat was lowered into the water, Commander Ford stepped
into the stern and Charlie Gill and Russ Graham manned the oars. The
commander was going to waste no time in attempting to locate the wreck
of the treasure ship.
The crew of the _S-18_, clustered on deck, watched the progress of the
small boat as it bobbed about inside the reefs. Both Gill and Commander
Ford were busy making soundings while the other diver handled the boat.
Back and forth they crept along the reef, their lines dragging the
bottom for some sign of the Southern Queen.
The hours slipped away and the other boat, in charge of Pat, joined the
first in the quest for the location of the old vessel.
Tim remained on deck, squatting in the shadow of the seaplane. Ike
Green joined him.
"Why don't they take the _S-18_ down and creep along the bottom until
they find the Southern Queen?" asked Tim.
"Commander Ford's afraid of the currents around the reef. He wants to
know something about the bottom before he takes the _S-18_ down."
The remainder of the afternoon was spent with the two small boats
dragging their grappling hooks along the bottom. At sundown the weary
crews returned to the submarine. There was no use to ask whether they
had found any trace of the Southern Queen. The tired, disappointed
faces were enough.
"What about the bottom?" Tim asked Pat.
"It's going to be a tough proposition even if we find the old ship.
Lots of rock down there and queer currents. There must be all kinds of
holes in the outer reef."
Commander Ford was silent, planning the activities for the next day,
and everyone aboard the submarine, except the watch, was in their
blankets early.
The next morning at dawn the men of the _S-18_ were on deck, preparing
for another day of grappling for the wreckage of the Southern Queen.
"I wonder if Crazy John could have been mistaken?" Tim asked Pat.
"It's possible, but I don't believe Commander Ford would have fitted
out an expensive expedition like this if he hadn't been pretty sure of
his facts. We've got a lot of territory inside the reefs to explore
before we give up hope."
"Or before Sladek and the _Iron Mate_ arrive," put in Tim, searching
the sky for a possible trace of the seaplane from the tramp steamer.
There was a bright, burning sun and throughout the morning hours the
boat crews toiled, dragging hooks on the uneven bottom. After a hasty
lunch, they returned to the gruelling task. Tim, confident that the
seaplane could be made ready for flight in a minimum time, squatted on
the deck and watched the operations.
It was late afternoon when a joyful shout from Pat rang across the
water.
"We've snagged something!" he cried.
Commander Ford in the other boat hastened toward the spot and more
grapnels were dropped.
Fifteen minutes later the men waiting on the deck of the submarine knew
that the Southern Queen had been found. Commander Ford dropped a line
with a buoy and the two boats headed back for the _S-18_. Fatigue was
miraculously wiped from the faces of the boatmen as they pulled
alongside, and Commander Ford gave them the information they all sought.
"Diving operations will start in the morning," he said.
There was a joyous whoop from the crew of the _S-18_. This was what
they had been watching for, a chance to get the treasure of the
Southern Queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Battle with the _Iron Mate_
Plans for the recovery of the treasure of the Southern Queen were
talked over fully at mess that night.
"The wreck is in about 185 feet of water," said Charlie Gill. "That's
not a bad depth in itself but the currents down there are tough. They
might sweep a diver into a hole in the hull and he'd never get out."
"Then you think we'd better take the _S-18_ right down beside the old
ship so you can work out of our own hull?" asked Commander Ford.
"From the standpoint of the diver, that's going to be the safest way,"
said Charlie, "and it will be a whole lot faster. Once we get our hands
on the gold we'll be able to transfer it directly aboard the _S-18_"
Commander Ford nodded thoughtfully.
"You're right. The currents you speak of can cause trouble even for a
submarine the size of the _S-18_, but I guess that's the only solution.
We'll make our first dive in the morning."
Turning to Tim, he added: "You'd better get your seaplane off the deck
tonight. Make it fast to the beach. I don't want to lose any time when
daylight comes."
Members of the crew aided Tim in getting the Sea King off the deck and
into the water. It was night before the task was completed, and he
taxied the trim little craft up to the beach under the guiding rays of
a searchlight on the conning tower. While Tim was making the plane fast
for the night, Pat rowed in from the _S-18_ to take him back.
The Isle of the Singing Trees was living up to its name that night. The
tangled mat of underbrush came down close to the water's edge and from
it came a mournful melody. Now and then a vagrant breeze, skipping
through the tree tops, added a higher note and Tim shivered at the
loneliness and the desolation. The lights of the _S-18_, a bare 200
yards from the shore, looked far away. He was glad when Pat's boat
grated on the rocky beach.
Pat also felt the weird atmosphere of the island.
"It isn't healthy here," he said. "Let's get back to the _S-18_."
Tim jumped into the boat and they pulled lustily toward the safety and
comfort of the submarine.
Men slept restlessly on the _S-18_ that night. Tomorrow they were going
to the bottom of the bay. If fortune favored them, they would come back
to the surface with a wealth of gold.
Tim was as restless as any of them, turning and tumbling around in his
narrow bunk. An hour before dawn he slipped out of his blankets,
dressed, and went up on deck. Commander Ford was in the conning tower
and Tim wondered whether he had slept any during the night.
"I'm a little anxious about the Sea King," said the flying reporter.
"I'd like to turn the searchlight on the beach."
"Not right now," said the commander softly. "There are lights of some
kind over to our left."
Tim turned sharply. Low in the water, and far out, he caught the faint
glow of lights.
"The _Iron Mate_?" he asked breathlessly.
"Perhaps. We'll have to wait until dawn to know the truth."
"It may be some passing steamer."
"These are dangerous waters. Regular traffic keeps away from this
section of the coast."
Tim watched the lights intently. They were barely moving, but it seemed
as though they were coming nearer.
There was a faint glow in the east when Commander Ford spoke again.
"Go below and rout out the crew. Tell Joe Gartner I want arms issued to
every man. As soon as that is done I want him up here for final
instructions."
Tim shot down the ladder into the control room, landing with a bang
that resounded through the interior. He raced back to the crew's
quarters. Men, only half awake, tumbled from their bunks.
"Everyone out!" cried Tim. "Joe, you're to issue arms at once. Then
Commander Ford wants to see you on deck."
"Glory be," croaked Joe. "It must be the _Iron Mate_. Maybe I'll get a
chance to unlimber my gun after all."
They tumbled into their clothes and went forward where Joe issued
ammunition belts and revolvers. A stack of rifles was placed in a
special rack in the control room with a box of ammunition beside them.
The _S-18_ was getting ready for trouble.
On deck Joe Gartner tore the tarpaulin off the four inch gun. From the
depths of the _S-18_ a half dozen shells were brought on deck and the
gun was trained on the cluster of lights.
The sky lightened and a few minutes later the tense group on the deck
of the _S-18_ made out the outlines of the ship which was beyond the
reefs. It was the _Iron Mate_, rolling gently in the swell.
Through field glasses they could see men clustered along the rail of
the tramp steamer and Tim thought he could see Sladek on the bridge.
The first move was up to the _Iron Mate_ and it was not long in coming.
From the far side of the steamer came the roar of an airplane engine
and the seaplane took wing, its colors flashing in the bright rays of
the sun.
"Better get ashore at once and have your own plane ready to take off,"
Commander Ford advised Tim. "Take Pat with you and be sure that you
have a light machine gun."
Pat got the gun and plenty of ammunition from Joe Gartner and they
tumbled into one of the small boats and started for shore.
Out to sea the other plane was climbing rapidly, circling over the
_Iron Mate_. It was up 2,000 feet by the time Tim and Pat reached the
Sea King and had torn off the motor coverings and loosened the moorings.
Tim piled into the after cockpit and snapped on the starter. The motor
awoke with a roar and he warmed it up thoroughly, keeping an eye on the
plane above. There was little wind and he could take off in a straight
dash across the water.
Pat, the light machine gun in his arms, climbed into the forward
cockpit. There were parachutes for both pilot and passenger and Tim
instructed his companion in the operation of the chute.
"If we go aloft I'll get even with you for some of the unhappy hours
I've spent in that tin fish," chuckled Tim.
Pat, a little white around the lips at the thought of his first trip
aloft, grinned gamely.
"I can take it," he said.
The plane from the _Iron Mate_ was darting toward the Isle of the
Singing Trees. The ship was coming down now in a terrific power dive.
Tim estimated the speed at nearly 150 miles an hour. The air was filled
with the roar of the motor.
Then the oncoming plane levelled off and flashed over the _S-18_.
Something black hurtled over the side.
Tim tried to shout, but his throat closed and he could only gasp.
Automatically he leaped into action, his hand jamming the throttle on
full. The Sea King scuttled across the water, angling away from the
_S-18_ while down from the sky plummeted the black object. It struck
the water a good hundred yards away from the _S-18_ and a fountain of
water arose in the air. The noise of the bomb could be heard even above
the roar of the Sea King's powerful motor.
Tim lifted the finely trimmed craft into the air and set out in pursuit
of the bomber. Below them on deck of the _S-18_ Gunner Joe was training
his sights on the _Iron Mate_. Tim, looking down, saw a puff of smoke
and a fountain of water leap into the air beyond the _Iron Mate_. Joe
had overshot his target.
But there was no time to watch the Iron Mate now. Tim concentrated on
the task of bringing down the other plane. Ahead of him, Pat crouched
in the cockpit, the machine gun ready.
The seaplane was making a desperate attempt to get under the shelter of
the _Iron Mate_ but Tim drove on relentlessly on the tail of the other
ship. There was no chance for the pilot to land and taxi back to the
steamer.
The Sea King was fast and easy to handle. In less than two minutes Tim
had overhauled the bombing plane and Pat, sighting with a steady hand,
pulled gently on the trigger of the light machine gun. It chattered and
jumped, but he got his aim again and poured a stream of bullets at the
target ahead.
Tim, watching intently and matching every move of the fleeing pilot,
saw the bullets ripping into the wings. Then Pat got the range on the
fuselage and the line of bullets crept nearer and nearer the cockpit.
Sensing that death was near, the pilot tried to loop and get onto the
tail of Tim's plane, but the flying reporter guessed the maneuver
almost before it started and he placed Pat in a position to pour a
stream of bullets into the motor of the other plane.
Suddenly there was only the sound of their own motor. The other
seaplane was falling away with its prop turning idly. Pat, thoroughly
angered at the attempt to sink the _S-18_ with a bomb, trained his gun
on the other pilot but Tim pulled the nose of the Sea King up and
spoiled his aim.
"He's all through," he shouted. "They'll never be able to repair that
motor."
Spread out below them was a strange panorama. Against the green
background of the Isle of the Singing Trees the _S-18_ was throwing
shell after shell at the _Iron Mate_, and the tramp steamer was
responding. One good, solid shot would sink the _S-18_, while the _Iron
Mate_ could stand a lot of shelling without going down.
Tim noticed that the _S-18_ was moving slowly back and forth behind the
reef and that the submarine was ready to submerge at a moment's notice.
Only Gunner Joe and the men he had selected to help him load the gun
were on deck.
"Joe's using a lot of ammunition," cried Pat.
"He'd better get a direct aim soon or they'll get us after all."
A white line of bubbles streaked the water.
"Joe's fired his torpedo!" cried Pat.
A lookout on the _Iron Mate_ saw the torpedo and the old tramp swung
its stern into the clear just in time. The torpedo streaked on out to
sea.
Tim's attention shifted back to the pilot of the crippled seaplane. It
was landing at least a mile away from the _Iron Mate_ and he admired
the cool nerve of the other pilot, who brought his craft down to a safe
landing. With motor dead, the flyer would have to wait for a boat from
the _Iron Mate_ to pick him up.
Tim sent the Sea King into a dive while Pat shouted questions at him,
landed and taxied alongside the disabled plane.
Pat covered the other flyer with his machine gun. Tim recognized the
pilot as the man who had flown the amphibian for Sladek on the trip to
Cedar river valley.
Fierce anger glowed in the eyes of the other pilot, but he remained
silent as Tim scrambled onto the right pontoon and made his way toward
the rear cockpit.
"Don't try any funny business," Tim warned. "My partner's got an itchy
trigger finger."
"You'll never get away with this," snarled the other.
"Don't let that trouble you," retorted Tim. "You'd better worry how
you're going to get away from here. You know if we decided to put a few
holes in your pontoons it would be a long swim to the _Iron Mate_ and
the sharks might be hungry."
"You wouldn't dare do that."
"You tried to sink the _S-18_," snapped Tim. "Now get out of that
cockpit and crawl down on the other pontoon."
"What are you going to do?"
"Shut up and get down on the pontoon like he told you," roared Pat,
waving his gun menacingly.
The pilot of the disabled plane obeyed the command and Tim scrambled
into the cockpit. In the bottom was what he had hoped for, half a dozen
small, high-explosive bombs.
In less than five minutes he transferred the deadly cargo to his own
plane.
"Thanks a lot for the pineapples," he yelled at the disgruntled flyer
clinging to the pontoon. "I guess we won't sink your plane after all."
"Give me those surprise parties," said Pat.
"You can't gauge air speed," replied Tim. "I can fly and handle the
bombing at the same time. We'll go low and you may be able to rake the
deck of the _Iron Mate_ with your gun."
Pat grinned and gave voice to a wild, Irish battle cry as the Sea King
leaped into the air.
There was a gun both fore and aft on the _Iron Mate_, and both of them
were firing steadily at the _S-18_ when the Sea King flashed over the
first time.
Pat, leaning over the edge of the cockpit, let a blistering blast of
fire loose and Tim dropped one of the bombs. It struck a scant 25 yards
beyond the _Iron Mate_, sending a great spray of water into the air.
Banking the Sea King sharply, they swept back toward the tramp steamer.
Men were running excitedly about the deck for the attack from the air
had taken them by surprise. Again Pat raked the deck with fire while
Tim, working rapidly, dropped two bombs overboard.
The first one missed, falling short, but the second struck only a few
feet from the gun on the fore deck. There was a shattering blast of
flame and smoke, the scream of rent steel, and the cries of frightened
men.
Relentlessly the Sea King bore down again. This time Tim aimed at the
after deck. There were only three bombs left. He swooped low, dropping
only one of the missiles, but he had the range and scored a direct hit.
In less than a minute both guns had been put out of commission and the
ship badly damaged.
"We'll plant another 'egg' midships and then call it a day," yelled Tim.
Once more the Sea King, struts and wires screaming vengeance, swept
down. Again Tim scored a hit, the blast from the third bomb leveling
the stubby masts and the funnel. The deck of the ship was strewn with
wreckage and the _Iron Mate_ was definitely out of commission as far as
any more fighting was concerned.
Tim landed the Sea King inside the barrier of reefs and taxied
alongside the _S-18_.
"Splendid work," shouted Commander Ford, and the others in the crew
were loud in their praise.
Tim and Pat made the Sea King fast again at its moorings and rowed back
to the submarine. In the distance the _Iron Mate_ was painfully limping
away from the scene.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Trapped
With the menace of the _Iron Mate_ definitely removed from their
thoughts, the crew of the _S-18_ turned their full attention to the
task of retrieving the treasure in the Southern Queen.
Mess that noon was a hasty meal with Commander Ford and the chief
divers, Charlie Gill and Russ Graham, taking just time enough to grab a
sandwich and gulp a cup of hot coffee.
There was a haze over the mainland and the air was heavy, surcharged
with tension. The song of the Isle of the Singing Trees was high
pitched and Tim would be glad to see the last of the dismal island.
Plans for the dive down to the hull of the Southern Queen were
completed. Members of the crew hurried to their stations, hatches were
made fast and the warning bell echoed throughout the interior.
Tim was in the diving compartment. Charlie and Russ had already donned
their diving suits and entered the special compartment. Telephone
cables, protected by a steel sheeting, ran into the main compartment,
giving the divers instant communication with their helpers. Earl Bell
was at the phones as chief assistant with Roy Gould standing by.
Commander Ford hurried up.
"Everything all set?" he asked Bell.
"Charlie and Russ are ready and everything in the special diving
compartment seems to be all right."
"Tell them we're going down."
Commander Ford hastened back to the control room. From the rear of the
_S-18_ came the hum of the powerful electrics. Tim felt the submarine
move slightly. They were going down, going to the bottom of the
treacherous bay in search of a fortune in gold, a fortune which had
been under water for eleven years.
The special diving compartment in which Charlie and Russ were seated
filled with water. Gently the _S-18_ eased toward the bottom, scarcely
more than a foot at a time.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty feet they went down. Tim watched the gauges
fascinated.
The two divers, in their heavily armored suits, sat quietly in their
compartment as the pressure increased with the depth.
The 100-foot mark was passed. Still the _S-18_ was going down. Roy
Gould snapped on a switch. Powerful searchlights set in the outer hull
especially for this operation cut the blackness of the water. Strange
fish blinked their eyes and scuttled away from this monster which was
invading the deep.
Now Tim was at one of the quartz windows. In spite of their high power,
the searchlights were effective for only a few feet. While he watched
the gaunt mast of a ship came upward from the depths. They were
descending almost on top of the Southern Queen.
A stubby funnel, rising at a crazy angle, was next, and ahead of that
Tim thought he could glimpse the battered bridge.
The motion of the _S-18_ was almost imperceptible now. The divers,
watching the descent closely, were giving orders which Earl Bell
relayed on to the control room.
The main deck of the Southern Queen, now heavily encrusted with sea
growth, came into view and the _S-18_ slid lower. There was a gentle
bump as it touched the bottom.