All around him in the nearly total darkness, he could make out the dim forms of men sprawled on the beach; and of other men moving about, exploring. He heard the murmur of voices and saw the glow of lighted cigarettes.
A man with a flashlight was approaching him. Its white glare shone for a moment in Curtis' face, and the familiar voice of Ensign Jack Dillon spoke: "Commander Curtis! Are you O. K., sir?"
"I think so!" Curtis' heart warmed at the eager expression in Dillon's face; at the heartfelt concern in his friendly brown eyes. The young ensign was red-headed, impetuous, thoroughly genuine in his emotions. "How about yourself, Jack?" Curtis added.
"A bit of a headache from the gas, but that's all. Any orders, sir?"
Curtis thought for a moment. "Muster the crew, as best you can. We'll try to make a roll call. Is there any sign of the ship?"
There was a solemn note in Dillon's voice. "No, sir. She's been worked off the sandbar and put to sea!"
The words struck Curtis with the numbing shock of a blow on some nerve center. For the first time, he realized fully the tragedy that had swept down on him. He had lost his ship—one of the United States navy's fastest and newest small light cruisers—under circumstances which smelled strongly of treachery and sabotage.
As he thought back, he realized that he might have prevented the loss, if he had been more alert, more suspicious. For it was clear to him now that the Comerford had been deliberately steered to this place; that the men who had seized her had been waiting here for that very purpose.
The pieces of the picture fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle—Androka's zone of silence; the bearings given by radio; Navigating Officer Nelson's queer conduct. They were all part of a carefully laid plan!
All the suspicious circumstances surrounding Nelson came flooding into Curtis' mind. He had never liked the man; never trusted him. Nelson always acted as if he had some secret, something to hide.