“How much flying have you done, Graves?” he inquired impulsively.
“I made my second flight today, coming down from Washington. What do you say, gentlemen?”
“Can’t get you off the track a minute,” said O’Malley genially. “I’ll subside.”
There was silence for a moment. Hinkley smoked a cigaret, blowing rings at the ceiling with an air of complete indifference. Broughton was gazing steadily at Graves, his scrutiny untroubled by the fact that Graves noticed it. The stocky, slightly stolid-looking pilot was the first to speak.
“A deal of that kind is ticklish business without those in it knowing their helpers a ⸺ sight better than we know each other, sir, but one thing and another about it sort of sells the proposition to me. Count me in, I guess.”
“Suits me,” declared Hinkley. “When do we go?”
“The first minute that the ship is ready. From Washington I got this dope—tell me if I’m wrong. A Martin lasts around five hours in the air if you take a chance and win on the oil staying with you. Fifty extra gallons of gas in each motor, and approximately fifty per cent. more oil than usual, will assure us of seven hours in the air if we need it. It may take time to find our man.”
Broughton nodded.
“When can the extra tanks be installed, general? Major Jenks of the Engineering Division said that it was a comparatively simple job. As I understand it there is plenty of room in a Martin, and of course to any ship that can lift your two thousand pounders the extra weight will be a bagatelle.”
“For a landsman you’re pretty wise,” the general complimented him. “I’ll have the exact estimate in about ten minutes.”