Across the East river the lights of Manhattan glowed brightly while in the Laidlaw yard last minute preparations for the voyage of the S-18 were being rushed. Supplies were being checked and every possible test of equipment was made.

In the radio room Ike Green got in contact with the New York Journal station and Tim filed his last story. The next would be sent when the S-18 was out to sea.

A whistle shrilled on the deck overhead and Tim mounted the ladder and climbed through the main hatch. Riding lights of the submarine were on. Yard workers were casting off the lines which held the S-18 to the towering dock.

The huge Diesels came to life and the submarine pulsated gently to their song of power. Commander Ford was at his station in the conning tower while near him at the auxiliary controls was Pat Reynolds. Half a dozen other members of the crew were on deck.

Down in the inky waters at the rear of the S-18 the propellers churned. Slowly the submarine nosed away from the boatyard, heading out toward the East river. There was no sound from the workers on the dock; no sound from the men on deck. This business of hunting sunken treasures was deadly serious.

There was little traffic on the river after the midnight hour and the S-18 felt its way out into mid-stream and then dropped down toward the open sound.

Somewhere behind them a ferryboat hooted dismally and a tramp steamer, just swinging out of its wharf, answered.

“Any chance that that vessel may be Sladek’s?” Tim asked Pat.

“There’s more than a chance. It probably is,” replied the first officer.

The submarine moved down the bay at a steady eight knots an hour and Tim watched the lights of Manhattan fading into a haze. They stood well down the bay for the Sea King factory was on the south shore of Long Island.

Above him in the conning tower Tim could hear Commander Ford conversing with Pat. Then the commander leaned over the edge of the tower and called to the men on deck.

“Everyone down below,” he said. “We’re going to submerge and run underwater to the Sea King plant. That may throw Sladek’s ship off our trail.”

They tumbled below, the main hatch was sealed, and Pat checked every gauge before Commander Ford gave the order to submerge. The S-18 went down twenty feet and then levelled off, the electric motors pushing it smoothly underwater.

With his eyes glued to a periscope, Commander Ford scanned the surface of the sound for another craft. At almost an instant’s notice the S-18 was ready to dive lower.

At the microphones, Ike Green was listening intently for the beat of the propeller of the tramp steamer. He grinned as Commander Ford entered the tiny room.

“They’re puzzled,” said the radio man, “and they’re zig-zagging all over the lower bay.”

The S-18 continued to run underwater at a bare four knots an hour. It was three hours later when they came to the surface and the sky was lighter in the east. Sunrise was less than half an hour away. To their left was the factory of the Sea King company and the S-18 nosed slowly toward the dock.

As the sky brightened they saw the smudge of a steamer well out to sea.

“Unless I miss my guess there goes Jack Sladek and his treasure-hunting expedition,” grinned Pat.

The seaplane purchased for their trip was on the dock ready and it took less than half an hour to load the craft on the deck of the S-18 and make it fast.

“There’ll be no more diving with that sky-hopping bug on deck,” said Pat.

“Which will suit me all right,” replied Tim. “Anytime you want to do a little exploring under water in this tin fish just let me know and I’ll cruise around in the clouds for a couple of hours.”

“You may have to do that when we get down into the Caribbean if we find Sladek too close to our trail,” put in Commander Ford who had come up behind them. “He’s going to be a hard customer to lose and he’ll probably use that seaplane of his to do a lot of scouting.”

Breakfast was served by Al Hardy, who was the cook, and they enjoyed the morning meal before casting loose from the Sea King dock. Then, with all hands on deck and a bright sun shining down on them, the S-18 resumed its southward voyage. The next port of call was to be Key West, where the fuel tanks would be replenished for the voyage across the Caribbean.

Once out to sea, half of the crew turned in, for there had been no sleep aboard the S-18 during the hours they had been submerged. The Jersey coast gradually dropped from view and they moved southward at a steady ten knots an hour.

Tim sought his bunk in the after quarters. Ahead the Diesels pounded steadily, but the air was clean and sweet and in spite of the noise he was soon asleep.

The clatter of pans as Al Hardy prepared the noon meal awoke him and he rejoined Pat in the conning tower. Commander Ford was down in the diving room talking with the chief divers and Tim and Pat were alone.

“Do you think we’re going to be in for trouble before we get through?” Tim asked as he watched the sharp bow of the S-18 cut through the gentle swells.

“Commander Ford told me this morning that Sladek had rounded up about the prize gang of cutthroats on the New York waterfront. You’ll get all of the excitement you want before this shindig ends.”

“Just give me time enough to get aloft in the plane and I’ll be ready for anything that comes along,” said Tim, nodding toward the trim seaplane lashed securely on the forward deck.

Mess was served in relays that noon and shortly after that Tim sighted the seaplane winging up from the south.

“Company coming,” he informed Pat, who was back in the conning tower.

Commander Ford was summoned and they watched the approach of the fast craft. The plane was flying high, but as it neared the S-18, the pilot put it into a dive.

“That fellow knows how to handle a plane,” said Tim, half to himself.

The seaplane came out of the dive at a thousand feet and circled the S-18.

“The answer to that is plain,” said Commander Ford grimly. “That’s Sladek’s ship and it won’t be long until his dirty old tramp steamer is on our trail again.”

The seaplane winged away again and in less than two hours they saw a smudge of smoke on the horizon. Before sundown the tramp steamer, the Iron Mate, was riding a half mile off their port bow.

“There’s no use trying to sneak away from them now,” said the commander. “When we get out of Key West and head across the Caribbean we’ll find some way to give them the slip.”

Down the east coast the S-18 made its leisurely way with the Iron Mate a constant companion. The sky was clearer, the air warmer, as they neared the southern tip of Florida and nosed into the harbor at Key West. The Iron Mate stood out to sea, waiting for the return of the S-18, for Sladek was taking no chances on getting into trouble with federal officials.

The S-18 replenished its fuel oil tanks, fresh supplies were taken aboard, and the crew stretched its legs before the voyage into the Caribbean.

Pat and Tim strolled along the wharfs. It was a picturesque city and they enjoyed the walk at the sunset hour.

A small boat was coming in from the sea. They watched it curiously for the men at the oars were particularly vicious looking.

“I wouldn’t want to meet them on a dark night,” said Pat.

When they returned to the S-18, Commander Ford divulged his plans for eluding the Iron Mate and its crew of cutthroats.

“Tim,” he said, “we’ll hoist your seaplane overboard at once. Then we’ll slip out of the harbor and run submerged until we are well away from the coast. You fool around here all day tomorrow. The next morning hop early and rejoin us at this joint.” The commander indicated a spot in the Caribbean approximately two hundred miles west of Key West.

“Sladek will probably set his pilot to watching you when he finds we’ve given him the slip, but I’ll expect you to elude him and join us at the rendezvous without being followed. A great deal will depend upon your success.”

“It may take some time to shake him off my trail,” promised Tim, “but I’ll see that he doesn’t follow me too far.”

“That’s good,” said Ford. “Now we’ll drop your seaplane overboard and prepare to slip out of the harbor. I’ve special clearances which will allow our departure at any hour we care to leave.”

Tim directed the unloading of the Sea King and made sure that trim little craft was fast to the dock before he returned to the deck of the S-18.

Pat was checking over the crew list. Everyone answered present except Al Hardy, the cook.

“Anyone see Al?” demanded Pat.

“He left just before sundown to get some supplies he needed,” said Erich Gaunt. “He should have been back half an hour ago.”

“We’ll wait a few minutes more,” said Pat, hurrying below to inform Commander Ford that the cook was missing.

A half hour elapsed and Al was still among the missing. At Commander Ford’s Order, the crew scattered along the docks, seeking their missing cook. By ten o’clock, with still no trace of Al, the commander gave the order to clear the lines. The S-18 was going without its cook.

“Maybe you can find him in the hoosegow in the morning,” Pat told Tim. “If you do, load him in your plane and bring him along. We need a good cook.”

“I’ll do my best to find him,” promised Tim as the S-18 slipped away from the dock.

Tim watched the submarine until its lights faded into the night. He made arrangements with the watchman at the dock to keep an eye on the seaplane. Then he turned away from the waterfront. He was unfamiliar with the city and he stumbled along a poorly lighted street. From an alley to his right came a groan. Tim hesitated. It sounded like a human being in agony, but it might be a waterfront trap of thugs to lure him from the street.

The sound came again. There was no mistaking it this time. Someone was in great pain. Tim ducked into the alley. Along one wall was a huddled form. He bent down and lifted the man’s head. It was too dark to distinguish the features and Tim lugged the man to the head of the alley where the rays from a street lamp half a block away gave him some light.

He bent down again and looked into the battered face of Al Hardy, the missing cook.