"Listen!" Curtis said, and spoke rapidly for the next few minutes.
Lancaster began to maneuver the helicopter, throttling down the frontal engine, and reversing the lateral engine, so that the plane glided in slow circles, like a swooping hawk, till it was about three hundred feet above the Comerford's mastheads.
Curtis shook hands with Lancaster. The latter murmured "Good luck!" and Curtis crawled out of the cockpit and back into the plane's small cabin. He loosened the fastenings of his 'chute pack, saw that his automatic was safe in its holster.
Then he pushed open the escape hatch and jumped out into space.
From the plane's cloud-gas valves, a mass of opaque vapor streamed, enveloping him in a fog-like cloud that combined with the blackness of the night to render him invisible to those on the ship below.
The 'chute opened out, and Curtis found himself descending on the Comerford. By kicking with his legs and manipulating the cords, he maneuvered the 'chute so that he would land in the mizzen-mast turret. From what Androka had once told him—perhaps in an unguarded moment—he felt certain that the radio silence was projected from this point.
The cords of his 'chute tangled with the basket-like structure of the mast. Curtis got out his knife, cut himself free of the 'chute, then scrambled down the mast till he was at the entrance to the turret.
He pushed his way into the small chamber and found himself facing two sailors, in United States naval uniforms, but they uttered harsh exclamations in German at sight of him, and went for their holstered automatics.
Curtis brought his gun up, pointed it, and squeezed the trigger—once—twice—three times—four—
The first German sailor's face took on a look of surprise, the guttural curses died on his lips, as he slumped forward in a bloody heap. The second man uttered a scream and clutched at his chest, as Curtis' lead tore into him. Then he fell beside his companion.