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.”
“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?”