The intelligence officer took out his own automatic and examined it, making sure that the firing mechanism was working perfectly. Bob did likewise and shifted the gun into his right-hand coat pocket. He knew that with the gun there he could shoot through his pocket if necessary.
The village of Rubio dropped behind them and a desolate stretch of shore unfolded before their eyes.
Lieutenant Gibbons was the first to sight the Haskins place, a rambling old structure well out on a neck of land that projected into the Atlantic. He signalled to the pilot that this was their destination and the naval airman banked the amphibian gracefully.
The plane dropped low, flying not more than a hundred feet above the shore. The expansive old house, which had several long wings, was badly in need of paint, as were the outbuildings clustered to the rear. A long, low boathouse was built as a part of the run-down pier and one door was closed, but as the plane flashed by Bob caught a glimpse of a black motorboat and his heart leaped. He seized Lieutenant Gibbons’ arm.
“I saw a boat in the shed!” cried Bob. “Let’s get down as soon as possible.”
But already the flyer was dropping the amphibian low. They spattered down on the water and their speed dropped off as they neared the old wharf.
Bob watched the house closely for some sign of life. The windows, many of them broken, betrayed no movements. From all outward appearances the house had not been occupied in years.
The amphibian, now less than 50 yards from the beach, lost headway and drifted.
“Looks like some bad rocks ahead,” said the pilot. “I don’t dare get any closer. You’ll have to swim if you want to land here unless I taxi out and down a ways. It looked better further down.”
But Bob had no intention of wasting any more time.