High above the sapphire mirror of the Caribbean, Terry kept her plane in a southwesterly course. The sun was a pitiless ball of flame that sent out long fingers of fire. It was tropic weather.
Above them Allan’s plane was soaring ahead now. The sight of Joe Arnold at Havana had made them fear an attack, and the four flyers were watching to see whether a third plane was following them.
Leaving the islands behind they flew out over the sea, a great expanse of deep blue and purple water.
Suddenly Prim called to her sister. “Look Terry, there’s land over there, away to the left.”
“Yes, I see,” answered Terry. But she was watching the horizon with anxious eyes. That dark purplish mass looked to her like a low-lying cloud. There was something unnatural about it. Its color was changing rapidly to a reddish hue.
“I don’t like the looks of it, Prim,” called Terry. “See how the light is changing.”
A reddish haze had spread over the whole sky, the sun appeared like a great disc of hot metal. The sight was weird and menacing.
“What’s the matter, Terry? Is it a storm?” Prim asked.
“Yes, a tropic storm. We’ve got to race it. Where are the boys?” Prim leaned over the cowling and strained her eyes to the sky, but that strange and terrifying haze had blotted out the other plane. Terry circled and banked in an effort to find their friends. Then, opening the throttle wide, the girl sent her plane straight before the storm. It was her only chance. If she could out-race that storm, she would be saved.
Sending her plane ahead and in a gradual rise, the girl tried to get above the haze. These tropical storms often covered only a small area, but very soon she realized that the cloud was coming on and rising faster than her plane.