DON WINSLOW OF THE NAVY
I
BOMBED!
On the white sand of a jungle bordered cove, two men and a girl stood gazing seaward, their eyes shielded against the rising sun’s first beams. To judge by their torn, mudstained clothing, they had been meeting hardship in large, tough chunks. Out here on the beach they would soon face more of it, when the sun grew hot enough to broil a white man’s skin.
The slim, dark-eyed girl had suffered less, apparently, than her two companions. Yet her stout whipcord breeches showed rough wear, and her face, under a mass of wind blown curls, bore traces of weariness and jungle dirt. The society columnist who had described her coiffure at a Washington ball, six weeks ago, would have been startled to recognize Mercedes Colby, daughter of a retired Navy Admiral.
Even more sharply would that columnist have been astonished by the identity of Miss Colby’s present escorts. For United States Naval Commanders are not ordinarily found in beachcombers’ rags, on the shore of a tropical island. And nothing in the book of Navy Regulations (which covers everything) decrees that even a lieutenant must tackle the Haitian jungle barefooted, with half a shirt tucked into the remnant of once-white trousers.
The truth was that ordinary duties had never been the lot of Don Winslow and his husky shadow Lieutenant “Red” Pennington since their appointment to the Naval Intelligence Service. In a few adventure-packed months they had learned to take hardships as a daily ration, with danger for spice. Hunger, exhaustion, blistered skin and bleeding feet, were small matters compared with the importance of their present job—the stamping out of a vast international crime ring, whose deliberate aim was to plunge the whole world into war.
To combat this secret menace the United States Government had needed an officer of rare courage and ability for its chief field operative, a man able to match wits with the world’s greatest spymaster—and win! He must be highly skilled in all forms of combat, an expert with every type of weapon. He must be tireless, self-reliant, and prepared to give his life in the line of duty, without warning and without regret. With these qualities in mind, the Navy Department’s final choice had fallen upon an already distinguished young officer—Commander Don Winslow.
Not all of history’s great adventurers have looked their parts; but Don Winslow in the ragged ruin of his uniform whites was still a man to draw attention. The lithe swing of his powerfully muscled body, from shoulders to lean hips—the unconscious air of command which marks a Navy officer—the clear, level gaze and the strong line of his jaw—all stamped him as a superb product of American birth and training.
Red Pennington, Don’s inseparable companion, cut a far less heroic figure. Except for gorilla-like strength evident beneath his fat, the young lieutenant would have resembled a chubby clown. Just now his naturally tender skin was tortured by sunburn and insect bites to the consistency of raw beef; yet its lumpy redness gave an irresistible effect of comic makeup. Fortunately Red’s own sense of humor was unconquerable and almost as deep as his loyalty to Don Winslow. These two traits, plus real ability as an officer and fighting man, had won him the coveted job of Don’s most trusted assistant, and the envy of every young naval officer who preferred adventure to routine.