The Scorpion pilot sat chewing his lips in silence, while Red tied his wrists behind him. Mixed anger and admiration showed on the man’s darkly handsome face.

“If you mean you’re going to shoot it out with our bombers, you’re a couple of suicidal nuts!” he exclaimed finally. “They’ll outnumber you three to one, and they all mount one-pounder guns, firing through a hollow prop shaft. Who do you guys think you are, to buck odds like that?”

Don pushed the sturdy ship to its steepest possible climb.

“See that other plane, right above us?” he asked. “It’s ours, and it’s armed like this one, with guns fore and aft. The odds won’t be too bad for us, when your three ships show up. And if they don’t get here pretty quick they’ll run into some more of the United States Navy. There’s a squadron of fast attack bombers due here in half an hour.”

“Which is going to be just half an hour too late!” remarked Red Pennington in a strained voice. “Here come the Scorpion bombers right on our tail! And—”

“SC-25, acknowledge!” blared a voice from the seaplane’s radio. “Ahoy, Count Borg! Explain presence of second seaplane. Also, why Gatoon has steam up. Is anything wrong?”

Don Winslow’s response was instantaneous. In a flash he realized that the question he’d heard came from the leading bomber. His hand darted to a switch just below the plane’s radio dials.

“Borg speaking!” he said, in excellent imitation of his captive’s voice. “Second seaplane is okay. Gatoon appears defenseless except for rifles on deck. Come ahead!”

Still climbing, Don Winslow’s captured seaplane was already above the Scorpion ships. They were, he saw, closing up on a course that would bring them directly over the Gatoon at about three thousand feet. Not fearing the gunboat’s crippled anti-aircraft, they were going to dive bomb—from a height that would insure direct hits!

A plan of attack grew swiftly in the young commander’s mind. It would require perfect timing, and if it failed....

But this was not the moment to think of failure. Circling back Don headed for the first enemy ship just as it commenced its deadly bombing dive.

The seaplane’s air speed mounted. Under full throttle it plunged to intercept the Scorpion bomber.

Just as a crash seemed certain, twin streams of fire ripped from Don’s forward guns. In the same split second he zoomed, bringing the second and third Scorpion planes briefly in front of his sights.

On, up and over in a complete loop he flew the snarling little ship. As yet he was unable to see the effect of his surprise attack. Had he crippled one or more of the enemy, or had his bullets missed their vital spots?

Don’s answers came all in a bunch, as he leveled out, less than three thousand feet above the sea. Directly below him a heavy concussion rocked the air. White water geysered upward alongside the Gatoon.

The first enemy plane had pancaked, and had been blown to bits by its own bomb load. But the others?

A row of bullet holes appeared suddenly in Don’s left wing surface, creeping toward the cabin. As Don zoomed, a dial on his instrument board smashed to bits.

The machine gun in the plane’s after turret fired two short bursts, followed by Red Pennington’s shout.

“Two of ’em, diving at us from port and starboard!” yelped the lieutenant. “They’ve got us bracketed—”

The sudden jerk of his safety belt cut off Red’s speech, as Don threw his ship into a barrel roll. It was a desperate attempt to dodge the deadly cross-fire of the two enemy planes until he could bring his own guns to bear.

But now another ship had joined the dogfight. Michael Splendor’s open seaplane, diving from ten thousand feet, unleashed a stream of bullets at the enemy.

Coming out of his roll at barely a hundred feet, Don climbed his ship in a furious effort to get back in the fight. But already the Scorpion pilots had had enough. One after another, they fluttered down like wounded birds, their wings and fuselages pierced in a hundred places.

Both managed to take the water safely, though they began to sink a moment later. Their crews plunged overboard, swimming toward the Gatoon.

Immediately a boat was lowered by the yacht. Glancing down Don Winslow cut his throttle.

“We’ll land on the other side of the Gatoon, Red, and taxi in under the stern. Splendor will moor his plane near the bow until they hoist it aboard, and....”

“Wait, Don!” Red Pennington cried sharply. “Splendor’s waggling his wings to signal us. He’s trying to tell us something.”

Don Winslow, banking in a slow turn squinted out over the sunlit ocean. Against the horizon, just over the tail of the other seaplane appeared a V-shaped group of dots.

“It’s the Navy squadron we radioed for!” the young commander chuckled. “I’d forgotten all about them, Red! And, say—will those boys be peeved at having missed the fight!”

He was still grinning at the thought when he set the captured seaplane down on the bumpy water, in a cloud of spray. His expression changed, however, as the craft developed a sharp list to port, which grew steeper every second.

“Hey, Skipper!” cried Red Pennington, in alarm. “Those bullets must have made a sieve of our left pontoon. The wing’s goin’ to 'catch a crab’!”

As he spoke, the left wing tip caught a wave and went under. The whole plane shuddered, swung about and lost the remainder of its speed. Another wave slapped loudly against the listing fuselage.

Don Winslow unsnapped his safety belt and faced around.

“Water’ll be coming through those holes under our feet in a moment,” he said tersely. “We’d better unlash our prisoner and get him out of here, quick!”

“Aye-aye, Skipper!” gulped Red, bending over the Scorpion pilot. “I made him fast on the deck here, seeing there were only two safety belts, and—great guns, Don! He’s wounded! Bleeding from the head! Help me....”

Whipping a seaman’s knife from under his blouse, Don quickly cut the lashings which held the unconscious man. Turning, he slid open the metal door of the cabin.

“You go through, Red, and wait for me to pass him out,” the young commander said. “The fellow’s still breathing. Put on your life belt first, and make it snappy. This crate’s going to end over in a minute!”

Red obeyed instantly. Without waiting even to fasten the life belt, he plunged through the open door into the water. There, clinging to the fuselage, he waited for the pilot’s body to be passed out.

It came, suddenly heaved through the wave washed opening, with Don’s life belt lashed in place!

Startled, Red Pennington lost his grip, and drifted free. A second glance at the white face bobbing above the cork belt made the man’s identity certain. It was the pilot, all right. But why didn’t Don come?

Before Red could more than shout his friend’s name, the seaplane listed more sharply than ever, forcing the cabin door under water. Don Winslow was trapped inside. He could still dive down through the doorway and swim clear, Red thought, but the air in the cabin now wouldn’t last for long.

“Don’s hurt, or caught in there!” Red groaned, stroking back to the half-submerged fuselage. “If he weren’t he’d be out by now. There’s just one way to get him, and if that fails, we’ll both go down together!”

Slipping out of his unfastened life belt, he dived under the plane’s wave-battered fuselage, groping for the door. A moment later he found it.

The cabin was dark, half full of water, and almost upside down. It took a few seconds for Red to get his bearings. As his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he made out the pale blur of Don Winslow’s face.

The young commander was clinging weakly to a seat, his eyes closed. As Red Pennington reached him, he stirred and mumbled vaguely, but did not release his grip on the seat. A bloody gash on his temple explained his half-conscious condition.

“Must have struck his head, just before the plane turned over!” the stout lieutenant groaned. “Come on, Don, old man! Leggo that seat, and lemme take you out. Leggo, I say! This plane is sinkin’ lower every minute!”

Don Winslow’s fingers were locked as if in a death grip. By main force Red pried them loose and dragged his friend down toward the submerged door.

“If only he doesn’t breathe in a couple lungfuls of water!” the worried lieutenant muttered, “but I’ve got to take that chance.”

The shock of cold water closing over his head seemed to rouse Don’s fighting instincts. Halfway through the doorway, he clutched at the jamb and got a grip. Red, also under water, struggled until he thought his lungs would burst.

Just in time, Don’s muscles relaxed. With his last strength Red Pennington dragged him free and up to the surface. Then, all at once, strong hands were hauling the two half-drowned officers into a boat.

The next thing Don Winslow knew, he was back in his own berth aboard the Gatoon, with Michael Splendor, Red, and the ship’s doctor crowding the little stateroom. His head still ached from the wallop he’d got inside the plane’s cabin, but the bandage which the doctor had just applied felt cool and comfortable.

“Say, Doc,” he grinned, trying to sit up, “who was it that beaned me this time?”