“What do we do,” March asked, “if Scoot does find the convoy?” “Then we radio,” Larry said. “The Japs may hear us, but we can’t help that. But we’ll go on in to the attack alone. We’ll try to get under and come up in the middle of the convoy so as to scatter it in time for the other subs and the planes that will be coming after they get our radio message.” “All clear,” March said. “Now let’s set our course and select our spot for picking up Scoot.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER SIXTEEN DOWNED AT SEA! “Not a sign of life there,” Larry said as he looked through the periscope. “Beach fires all out. Down ’scope. Take her up.” They moved toward the ladder leading up to the conning tower, Larry first, Scoot immediately behind him, in trunks. He held a bundle in one hand. “Hope I can keep these clothes a little dry,” Scoot said. “I’d like to be dressed when I do this if I can.” Larry unfastened the hatch cover and hurried up on to the bridge. Scoot was behind him in a second, followed by March and two enlisted men who manned the machine guns at once. Everyone moved swiftly and noiselessly. Scoot was already sliding down the ladder to the deck, with March right behind him. Larry stayed on the bridge, looking sharply toward shore at every minute. “So long March,” Scoot whispered as he slid into the water. “I’ll be seeing you.” “Good luck, Scoot,” March whispered back. And that was all. For just a second he watched Scoot strike out toward the plane, holding aloft his bundle of clothes and making no splashing sound. Then March turned and went back up the ladder to the bridge. There he stood quietly beside Larry, who said nothing. March picked up Scoot’s dim figure in the water, listening at the same time for the sound of an alarm on the beach in case a sentry saw the black hull of the submarine offshore. “He’s reached it,” March whispered to Larry. “Good.” “Must be unfastening the buoy now,” March said. Again they waited in silence. “Can’t be sure, but I think he’s climbing up on the pontoon,” March said. “Yes—I can just barely make him out. Can’t be seen from shore.” Then there was a long silence, tense, expectant. March tried to picture Scoot slipping into trousers and shirt, climbing into the plane’s cockpit, feeling for the switches and controls in the dark. He’d probably have to wind up the starter. And suddenly at this moment, March wondered how much gas the Jap plane had in it. “Must be enough for it to get back to its battleship,” he told himself. March jumped. A coughing roar split the silence and the darkness. Flashes of flame came from the exhaust pipes of the plane as the engine roared, subsided, roared again. Scoot had taken just half a minute to warm it up. Then he gave it the gun and March saw the plane begin to move.