“Let me, Skipper!” Fred Marmon said, taking Barry’s place. “I’ve been feeling useless ever since that _Mitsubishi_ torched down.” Despite their awkward burden, they broke into a run, conscious that any second might bring the snarling of Zero engines overhead, and a hail of tracer bullets. Barry, first into the belly hatch, turned to lift Crayle’s shoulders through the low door. Mickey Rourke, the last man, glanced up before ducking inside. “Here they come, sir!” he cried, as he dived through the opening. “Five Zeros, flying low from Tanimbar.” The bomber’s engine pulled her down the runway like a scared shadow. Her guns were spitting before she was in the air. One Jap exploded above her, and the others scattered briefly. As the B-26 climbed, they came in from all angles, stabbing at her with their tracers. Again and again Barry’s plane was needled by bullets. Twice she received shell hits as she roared up toward the sheltering cloud ceiling. A second Zero fell away with his engine smoking. Then a shell hit Mickey Rourke’s tail gun. Barry heard the little Irishman’s yell over the intercom, and guessed its meaning. He zoomed sharply—the last thing that the pursuing Jap expected. Fred Marmon’s gun blasted the Nip plane an instant before the B-26 plunged into the clouds. “We’ll just stay here for a while,” Barry declared. “The Jap bullets missed my instrument panel. We can fly in any direction we choose as long as our gas lasts. What’s your suggestion, Curly?” “Wait till I glance at my chart,” replied the navigator. “There’s a mass of little islands at the southwest of us—part of the Babar group. We might set down there unobserved, especially if the ceiling is low. Of course, we’ll take big chances on finding a place to land.” A moment later he gave the compass course. Barry, who was flying due southwest, made the necessary correction. “How far is the island we’re aiming at?” he asked. “About a hundred miles,” Curly told him. “It’s not one island, but a nest of little ones. The Japs are less likely to have them guarded.” “Good reasoning,” Barry commented. “I’m flying at a steady two hundred m.p.h. Figure out just when we’ll be six or eight miles from the nearest island, and let me know. I’m setting down on the water. If this crate fills and sinks too quickly, we’ll drown with her, but it’s worth the risk. We’ll probably be able to reach our rubber boats. In that case we can keep out of sight of Jap shore patrols until dark, and then paddle to land.” “Skipper,” said Hap Newton solemnly, “I wish I had half of your brains. In your place, I’d probably have tried to land. Of course, the Japs would spot the plane sooner or later, and the hunt would be on. This way we’ll have a swell chance of foxing them.” “We’ll still be three hundred miles from Port Darwin,” Chick Enders spoke up. “Maybe we can swipe a Jap motor launch some night—”