On the white sand of a jungle bordered cove, two men and a girl stood
gazing seaward, their eyes shielded against the rising sun’s first
beams. To judge by their torn, mudstained clothing, they had been
meeting hardship in large, tough chunks. Out here on the beach they
would soon face more of it, when the sun grew hot enough to broil a
white man’s skin.
The slim, dark-eyed girl had suffered less, apparently, than her two
companions. Yet her stout whipcord breeches showed rough wear, and her
face, under a mass of wind blown curls, bore traces of weariness and
jungle dirt. The society columnist who had described her coiffure at a
Washington ball, six weeks ago, would have been startled to recognize
Mercedes Colby, daughter of a retired Navy Admiral.
Even more sharply would that columnist have been astonished by the
identity of Miss Colby’s present escorts. For United States Naval
Commanders are not ordinarily found in beachcombers’ rags, on the shore
of a tropical island. And nothing in the book of Navy Regulations (which
covers everything) decrees that even a lieutenant must tackle the
Haitian jungle barefooted, with half a shirt tucked into the remnant of
once-white trousers.
The truth was that ordinary duties had never been the lot of Don Winslow
and his husky shadow Lieutenant “Red” Pennington since their appointment
to the Naval Intelligence Service. In a few adventure-packed months they
had learned to take hardships as a daily ration, with danger for spice.
Hunger, exhaustion, blistered skin and bleeding feet, were small matters
compared with the importance of their present job—the stamping out of a
vast international crime ring, whose deliberate aim was to plunge the
whole world into war.
To combat this secret menace the United States Government had needed an
officer of rare courage and ability for its chief field operative, a man
able to match wits with the world’s greatest spymaster—and win! He must
be highly skilled in all forms of combat, an expert with every type of
weapon. He must be tireless, self-reliant, and prepared to give his life
in the line of duty, without warning and without regret. With these
qualities in mind, the Navy Department’s final choice had fallen upon an
already distinguished young officer—Commander Don Winslow.
Not all of history’s great adventurers have looked their parts; but Don
Winslow in the ragged ruin of his uniform whites was still a man to draw
attention. The lithe swing of his powerfully muscled body, from
shoulders to lean hips—the unconscious air of command which marks a
Navy officer—the clear, level gaze and the strong line of his jaw—all
stamped him as a superb product of American birth and training.
Red Pennington, Don’s inseparable companion, cut a far less heroic
figure. Except for gorilla-like strength evident beneath his fat, the
young lieutenant would have resembled a chubby clown. Just now his
naturally tender skin was tortured by sunburn and insect bites to the
consistency of raw beef; yet its lumpy redness gave an irresistible
effect of comic makeup. Fortunately Red’s own sense of humor was
unconquerable and almost as deep as his loyalty to Don Winslow. These
two traits, plus real ability as an officer and fighting man, had won
him the coveted job of Don’s most trusted assistant, and the envy of
every young naval officer who preferred adventure to routine.
Time and again, both Don Winslow and Red had been marked for death by
the secret organization of Scorpia, whose war-making plots they had more
than once uncovered and wrecked. Their great hope was to capture or
destroy the crime ring’s despotic master—that evil, elusive genius who
called himself merely “The Scorpion” and sucked in through a thousand
agents the war-poisoned wealth of nations. Wherever war, or the fear of
it, created topheavy armaments the Scorpion’s brood took their fat share
of graft and hush money. War and murder were Scorpia’s stock in trade,
and to enlarge them its members’ perverted souls were pledged.
So great had the Scorpion’s secret power become when the United States
Government first realized its danger, that only by a miracle could the
threat of war be lifted from our own and neighbor nations. In this
crisis Don Winslow was chosen to go out, like David against the giant
Goliath, and end the Scorpion’s menace.
Flying over the Windward Passage, Don and Red finally spotted and bombed
the Scorpion’s submarine which had been torpedoing United States war
vessels. A short time later mysterious anti-aircraft fire brought their
plane down in the coastal jungle of Haiti. Neither officer was hurt,
however, and the gunners from the Scorpion submarine base found the
tables suddenly turned when Don and Red surprised them and seized their
hidden stronghold. In the fight one Scorpion agent was killed. The
others escaped, under cover of darkness.
Amazement struck the two young officers when they discovered their close
friend and childhood playmate, Mercedes Colby, a prisoner in the enemy’s
underground quarters. Mercedes had blundered upon the Scorpion base,
after being shipwrecked on the wild Haitian coast. With her had been
taken prisoner a Spanish-American, Yanos, two native fishermen, and an
ex-Navy seaman by the name of Jerry Ward.
At the present moment all but Mercedes, Don and Red were asleep in the
immense underground tank which the enemy had used as supply base and
living quarters. Knowing that the Commander had radioed for a gunboat to
pick them up, they took it for granted that their troubles were over.
However, the three young persons now looking out to sea knew better than
to take anything for granted where the evil power of Scorpia was
involved. By this time the failure of his men to report would have
warned the Scorpion that his submarine base was captured. His
counterattack might be delayed, but it was certain to be deadly.
With real relief therefore the two officers and Mercedes recognized the
trim lines of the United States Gunboat _Gatoon_, just rounding a nearby
headland. As the converted yacht’s bower anchor splashed down at the
cove’s mouth, her launch swung outboard from the davits, manned by a
boatswain and two armed sailors. At the same time a two-seater flying
boat roared in out of the dawn to land like a white gull in the offing.
“That was quick answer to your radio call, Don!” observed Red Pennington
as the _Gatoon’s_ launch drove swiftly shoreward. “I didn’t count on
their raising this little jungle cove till noon. But, say! I sure hope
Cap’n Riggs has got more than Java and sinkers for breakfast!”
Don Winslow nodded, watching the launch’s bow touch lightly on the white
beach. It seemed that for a little while the three of them could
exchange dangers and hardships for a well-earned rest aboard ship. The
Navy boatswain who had just leaped ashore was a welcome symbol of
America’s armed yet peace-loving might, ready at all times to protect
its loyal citizens.
Answering the warrant officer’s salute, Don indicated the anchored
seaplane.
“Whose craft is that?” he queried. “It’s not a Navy boat!”
“It’s Mr. Splendor’s private plane, sir,” answered the boatswain. “A
young fellow called Panama is piloting him. They spotted you at first
crack of dawn and led us in to this cove.”
“That sounds like Michael Splendor!” exclaimed Mercedes Colby. “He’s
always one jump ahead of everyone else in the Naval Intelligence. Except
Don, of course. The man is a wonder....”
She broke off in alarm, as the drone of an approaching airplane grew on
the morning air.
“There’s another plane!” she cried, clutching at Commander Winslow’s
arm. “Don, do you think it could be a Scorpion scout, coming back to
investigate?”
“It could be!” the young officer decided swiftly. “In any case, this
changes our plans. Boatswain! Shove off at once in the launch with Miss
Colby. Get her safely aboard the gunboat and then come back. Lieutenant
Pennington and I will evacuate the other men from the underground base.
Hurry, Red!”
He turned and raced up the beach, followed by the stocky junior officer.
Two minutes later he paused at the rim of a huge steel cylinder whose
bulk appeared to be sunk deep in the earth. Thick jungle growth had
sprawled across the great tank’s top, hiding it completely from the
beach.
One hand on the hatchway leading to the cylinder’s interior, Don Winslow
waited for his friend to catch up.
“What in thunder’s all the hurry, Don?” the red-headed lieutenant
gasped, stumbling through the underbrush. “Even if that is a Scorpion
plane up there, it wouldn’t dare attack the gunboat!”
“Maybe not,” replied Don Winslow, jerking open the hatch. “But I
wouldn’t be surprised if they tried dropping a bomb on this secret base,
now that we’ve captured it. There’s a lot of priceless equipment
here—new gadgets of the Scorpion’s own invention. He’d rather destroy
that stuff than let us take it away. That’s why I want to get every man
out of here before it’s too late!”
A narrow steel ladder led down into the cylinder. In the darkness, its
slender rungs offered tricky footing, but the two Navy men made short
work of the descent. Thirty feet below the hatchway, they reached a
dimly lighted landing, from which two doors opened.
“Take the berth deck, Red,” Don directed curtly. “Get Yanos and the two
native fishermen out of their hammocks and up the ladder. I’ll bring
Jerry from the chartroom. If he’s still unconscious I’ll carry him
top-side.”
“Aye-aye, Skipper!” muttered Red Pennington, pushing through the
left-hand door. “If you need any help, just sing out!”
A short corridor led Don Winslow to the cylinder’s crowded chartroom,
where the seaman, Jerry Ward, lay on a cot between two banks of
electrical apparatus. Don glanced with envious eyes at the array of
super-sensitive instruments.
“If only we had time to get some of this stuff aboard the gunboat!” he
muttered. “No time to think about that now, though. That plane overhead
may lay an 'egg’ on this place any minute!”
Bending over the unconscious Jerry, he shook the man gently. There was
no response. A head wound, received at the time of his capture, had left
the plucky fellow hanging between life and death.
Carefully Don lifted the limp body in his arms and turned to the door.
As he did so, a muffled explosion shook the steel walls about him.
Bursting out onto the lower landing, Don Winslow collided with
Lieutenant Pennington.
“Quick, Red!” he barked. “Take Jerry on your back, and get up that
ladder. I’ll lash his wrists together, so you’ll have both hands free to
climb with. Where are Yanos and the others?”
“They’ve just gone up!” Red answered, stooping to take Jerry’s weight.
“And say! That _did_ sound like a bomb overhead, just now! We’d better
get out of here in a hurry!”
“Right!” grunted Don, pushing the other toward the ladder. “You take
Jerry up and get him down to the boat. I’ve got a little job to do
before I follow you; so don’t wait.”
“But, Don!” protested the red-haired officer. “I can’t leave you
here....”
“On your way, Lieutenant!” snapped the young commander. “Obey orders and
get that seaman down to the boat. Lively, now!”
Talking to himself in a bitter undertone, Red Pennington toiled up the
ladder with his heavy burden. He’d obey those orders, all right, but Don
hadn’t forbidden him to return after seeing Jerry safely in the boat. If
his commanding officer was going to stick around where the bombs were
dropping, a certain husky lieutenant meant to share the danger with him!
Meantime, Don Winslow had returned to the chartroom, and was hastily
disconnecting the main electric cables leading to the Scorpion’s weather
mapping machine.
The invention was priceless, if it could be salvaged. Heavy as it was,
Don thought he might be able to carry it up the ladder.
As he worked, with flashlight and screwdriver, wrench and pliers, two
more bomb explosions shook the underground base.
Little by little, a stifling, smoky odor filled the air of the
chartroom. Tears filled Don’s smarting eyes, inflamed by the acrid
fumes. His breath came raspingly between dry coughs.
Reluctantly he dropped his tools and fumbled for the doorknob.
“Those were _gas_ bombs, not TNT!” he mumbled thickly, as he stumbled
from the room. “Smoke’s coming down the hatch. Got to get up where
there’s some—uh—air to breathe!”
As he groped toward the ladder a bulky form emerged from the smoke above
him.
“Don! Don, old man!” came Red Pennington’s choking cry.
“Right here, Red!” coughed Don Winslow, clinging to the ladder’s lower
rungs. “I’m—uh—all right. Coming up now. But you shouldn’t have come
back!”
“Thank heaven, you’re okay!” the redhead replied. “Want me to give you a
hand?”
“No! I’ll make it. Hustle, now, or the smoke is going to—uh—get us
both! Where’re Mercedes and Jerry?”
Pennington’s answer was a coughing fit, which shook the steel ladder.
Just below him, Don Winslow gripped the narrow rungs and gasped for
breath. After a moment the two men resumed their painful climb, fighting
against a growing dizziness.
“Mercedes—Jerry—on the beach!” came Red’s muffled words. “Smoke too
thick to see—see the boat. Got to save breath now, and—uh—climb!”