“Bombs,” said Hinkley.
“Two cadets from the 18th Squadron,” yelled Covington from the hangar door.
“Tough luck,” said Broughton, his tanned face somber.
Graves, still white, looked at the flyers curiously. In his eyes there was suddenly sympathy, and understanding, but no trace of fear.
“I suppose there is no chance for either of them?” he asked.
“Not a bit.”
“Words are rather futile, aren’t they? But if you don’t mind, let’s make sure we understand each other now so that there will be no question of our procedure, insofar as we can lay it out ahead of time.”
Mechanics had resumed their work after the brief flurry caused by the accident, and several of them swarmed over the Martin, supplying it with gas and oil in each motor. There was very little to be said by Graves, except to emphasize previous instructions.
“I am banking on their respect for the United States Army—something which no class of people ever loses. I hope it will be fear and respect mingled, and that not even Hayden, suspicious as he will be, will dare fool with army officers. You both have shoulder holsters as well as your belts?”
Both men nodded.