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.”