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.”
XIII
WINGS OF DESTRUCTION
The Scorpion pilot sat chewing his lips in silence, while Red tied his wrists behind him. Mixed anger and admiration showed on the man’s darkly handsome face.
“If you mean you’re going to shoot it out with our bombers, you’re a couple of suicidal nuts!” he exclaimed finally. “They’ll outnumber you three to one, and they all mount one-pounder guns, firing through a hollow prop shaft. Who do you guys think you are, to buck odds like that?”