“You tried to sink the S-18,” snapped Tim. “Now get out of that cockpit and crawl down on the other pontoon.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Shut up and get down on the pontoon like he told you,” roared Pat, waving his gun menacingly.
The pilot of the disabled plane obeyed the command and Tim scrambled into the cockpit. In the bottom was what he had hoped for, half a dozen small, high-explosive bombs.
In less than five minutes he transferred the deadly cargo to his own plane.
“Thanks a lot for the pineapples,” he yelled at the disgruntled flyer clinging to the pontoon. “I guess we won’t sink your plane after all.”
“Give me those surprise parties,” said Pat.
“You can’t gauge air speed,” replied Tim. “I can fly and handle the bombing at the same time. We’ll go low and you may be able to rake the deck of the Iron Mate with your gun.”
Pat grinned and gave voice to a wild, Irish battle cry as the Sea King leaped into the air.
There was a gun both fore and aft on the Iron Mate, and both of them were firing steadily at the S-18 when the Sea King flashed over the first time.