“Don’t be so modest,” Hap broke in. “Why not a plane while we’re about it? I’d rather take a chance of getting shot down by our own fighters than be potted like a sitting duck on the water by Jap Zeros.” “Hold it down, fellows!” Barry Blake ordered brusquely. “We’re hitting the pond in a very few minutes. Get out of your parachute harness, and grab a brace. Fred, you and Soapy Babbitt loosen the topside hatch so it won’t jam when we come down. Mickey Rourke will come forward so he won’t be trapped in the tail if things go wrong. Hap, stand by those levers that spring the rubber rafts. Curly, the minute you give the signal, we’ll cut the engines and nose down.” There were no more wisecracks. Barry’s crew obeyed orders without wasting a motion, and waited quietly for the next development. Only Hap Newton spoke during those last minutes of flight. “I’ll take care of Crayle, Skipper,” he said. “He’ll be easy to handle, dazed as he is. I’ll inflate his lifejacket and boost him through the hatch.” “Ready, Skipper,” Curly’s warning came a few moments later. “Time to go downstairs.” Hap Newton cut the throttles. As the engines’ roar died out the plane’s nose dipped seaward. When they broke through the low ceiling the water rolled barely a thousand feet beneath. The ocean, Barry noted with thankfulness, was calm, except for a long, smooth ground swell. He must time his landing so as to set his ship down in the middle of a watery valley. Thus he could kill her forward motion against the waning slope of the swell ahead, and the shell-torn bomber might float for a good many seconds. If he should miscalculate and strike a crest, his plane would dive like a fish. One glance only he spared for the island that lay nearest, a full six miles away. It was tiny—little larger than a city park. The Japs might have posted a guard or two on it, but at this distance they could easily fail to notice a bomber landing on the water with a dead stick. The long, oily swells now swept along barely a hundred feet below him. Barry picked the valley where he must try to set down. “This is it, fellows!” he warned. Every man in the plane except Crayle held his breath. The next seconds seemed age-long. Then came the shock. Fixtures flew from the bulkhead above the radio panel. Green water poured in through the shell holes in the bomb bay. It roused the half-stunned men to desperate action. Hap Newton had already sprung the rubber life rafts. These were now floating on either side of the plane, attached to it by light lines. Soapy Babbitt and Fred Marmon were first through the topside hatch, by Barry’s orders. Next came Mickey Rourke, the little tail gunner. Before climbing out, Mickey tossed a queer-looking bundle to the men outside. It was a long, oilskin covered parcel wrapped in a Mae West lifejacket. “Don’t let it get away from yez,” he grunted, as he pulled himself up. “That bundle may be worth the lives of all of us before we’re through.”