“Now,” Tom muttered hoarsely, as he shut off the motor and they started on a spiral glide, “listen!”
“Listening,” came in a hoarse whisper.
At first no sound reached their listening ears. Then they caught a low, indistinct roar, like the approach of an on-rushing storm.
“A terrible storm coming.” Rosa seemed a little frightened.
“That’s no storm,” Tom’s voice was husky. “It’s the roar of lots of planes.”
“Lots of planes,” Rosa repeated. “They come from an airplane carrier. They will fly to Portland, Boston, perhaps New York!”
“Who knows?” Tom’s eyes were on his instruments. They were still spiraling rapidly.
“Darn!” he murmured, scowling fiercely. Where was the sea? To strike it head-on meant death. At night sky and sea look alike. And yet he wanted to listen to get the direction of that on-rushing squadron. At that moment he saw himself at the controls with Rosa manning the machine gun, surrounded by ghost-like enemy fighters shooting by them in the night. It was a fantastic, but not impossible, scene.
Suddenly a single flash of light appeared beneath them. One instant it was there, the next it was gone.
“Rosa! Quick! The spotlight!” He pulled the plane up so short that blood rushed to Rosa’s head and it was with the greatest difficulty that she set the light playing on the water.