“Trust me,” said his mystified friend, lifting a nervous gaze to stare at the great steamer they were approaching so swiftly.
The Orleans was a beautiful sight; a racing greyhound of the seas, tearing through a glassy ocean, bound for Europe with mail and passengers.
The Flying Fish came upon her from the south. As he drew nearer the leviathan, Bill decreased the plane’s altitude to a meager five hundred feet. Below the belching funnels he could see passengers and crew crowding the starboard rails, for even the most blasé traveler is still thrilled by the sight of an airplane in mid-ocean.
The great plane circled the ship. Then Bill dropped behind for a moment, did a flipper turn to port, levelled off and came racing up from the rear. When the Flying Fish was directly over the steamer’s stern, Bill spoke to Osceola.
“Get ready!” he said.
“Good Lord! You can’t do it, Bill. It’s murder!”
“Shut up—and obey orders!” commanded his pilot. “This is my funeral—not yours.”
Osceola grasped the bomb release, his brain whirling in consternation and confusion.
Slowly they forged ahead, over the stacks, the foremast, the bow, and on until they had gained a lead of possibly two hundred yards on the Orleans.
“NOW!”