“How should I know?—Something nasty, without doubt. Got a rifle handy?”
“You bet.”
“Then get it out. See that your safety-belt is on tight, too. I’m going to worry them some when we catch up. Don’t fire unless I give the word, though.”
Osceola grunted something that Bill didn’t catch. The little Ryan was racing in level flight once more, roaring through the misty fluff balls with a thirty mile wind from behind. Far below, Long Island Sound appeared, a strip of dazzling silver between the Connecticut shore and the long narrow island from which it takes its name. Beyond, the blue Atlantic shimmered in the bright sunlight.
The Fokker, still flying at the same low altitude continued to head out to sea. Bill knew that he was lessening the distance between the two planes with every revolution of the Ryan’s propeller. He figured their ground speed at not less than one hundred and sixty-five miles per hour.
In amazingly short time the little ship closed up on the big one.
“Get ready for a nose over!” Bill’s voice was steady and strong.
Zing!!!
The streamline steel tubing of the forward wing strut on the port side buckled slightly.
“Fire at will,” barked Bill into his transmitter and pushed forward the stick.