Larry unfastened the hatch cover and hurried up on to the bridge. Scoot was behind him in a second, followed by March and two enlisted men who manned the machine guns at once. Everyone moved swiftly and noiselessly.
Scoot was already sliding down the ladder to the deck, with March right behind him. Larry stayed on the bridge, looking sharply toward shore at every minute.
“So long March,” Scoot whispered as he slid into the water. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“Good luck, Scoot,” March whispered back. And that was all. For just a second he watched Scoot strike out toward the plane, holding aloft his bundle of clothes and making no splashing sound. Then March turned and went back up the ladder to the bridge.
There he stood quietly beside Larry, who said nothing. March picked up Scoot’s dim figure in the water, listening at the same time for the sound of an alarm on the beach in case a sentry saw the black hull of the submarine offshore.
“He’s reached it,” March whispered to Larry.
“Good.”
“Must be unfastening the buoy now,” March said. Again they waited in silence.
“Can’t be sure, but I think he’s climbing up on the pontoon,” March said. “Yes—I can just barely make him out. Can’t be seen from shore.”
Then there was a long silence, tense, expectant. March tried to picture Scoot slipping into trousers and shirt, climbing into the plane’s cockpit, feeling for the switches and controls in the dark. He’d probably have to wind up the starter. And suddenly at this moment, March wondered how much gas the Jap plane had in it.