Bill nodded as they walked toward the hill.
“I have orders to meet a squadron of seaplanes from Pensacola Air Station at four o’clock in Whitewater Bay, sir.”
“How long will it take you to fly over there?”
“Something under an hour, sir. With your permission I’d like the small Loening moored out yonder, and take Chief Osceola with me.”
“That’s okay with me, Bolton. But we’ll have to get going with this inspection. Before you leave I’ll give you the admiral’s orders, and another envelope which you will turn over to Commander Thomson when you meet the seaplane squadron.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bill, and the three breasted the winding road up the cliff.
Bill pushed forward the stick, at the same time he cut his gun and the Loening amphibian he was piloting shot downward. Far below, the island-studded waters of Whitewater Bay sparkled in the summer sunlight. Lying on its quiet bosom like great waterbugs with wings spread were the five seaplanes of the Navy Squadron moored in simple V-formation. Even at that distance, Bill could make out the difference in design of the flying boats.
“Three Boeing PB-1’s,” he announced into the mouthpiece of his headphone. “The other two are PN-10’s.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Osceola. “It’s all Greek to me. But how can you tell them apart at this distance?”