Just as a crash seemed certain, twin streams of fire ripped from Don’s forward guns. In the same split second he zoomed, bringing the second and third Scorpion planes briefly in front of his sights.
On, up and over in a complete loop he flew the snarling little ship. As yet he was unable to see the effect of his surprise attack. Had he crippled one or more of the enemy, or had his bullets missed their vital spots?
Don’s answers came all in a bunch, as he leveled out, less than three thousand feet above the sea. Directly below him a heavy concussion rocked the air. White water geysered upward alongside the Gatoon.
The first enemy plane had pancaked, and had been blown to bits by its own bomb load. But the others?
A row of bullet holes appeared suddenly in Don’s left wing surface, creeping toward the cabin. As Don zoomed, a dial on his instrument board smashed to bits.
The machine gun in the plane’s after turret fired two short bursts, followed by Red Pennington’s shout.
“Two of ’em, diving at us from port and starboard!” yelped the lieutenant. “They’ve got us bracketed—”
The sudden jerk of his safety belt cut off Red’s speech, as Don threw his ship into a barrel roll. It was a desperate attempt to dodge the deadly cross-fire of the two enemy planes until he could bring his own guns to bear.
But now another ship had joined the dogfight. Michael Splendor’s open seaplane, diving from ten thousand feet, unleashed a stream of bullets at the enemy.
Coming out of his roll at barely a hundred feet, Don climbed his ship in a furious effort to get back in the fight. But already the Scorpion pilots had had enough. One after another, they fluttered down like wounded birds, their wings and fuselages pierced in a hundred places.