  While they had been talking, Bill saw the conning tower lower itself until it stood not more than a foot above the deck aft of the huge wings. “This certainly is the most remarkable ship I’ve ever seen, or ever hope to see,” he exclaimed as they descended into the hull through the conning tower hatch. “I designed most of these gadgets before the close of the last war,” replied the Baron in his usual pompous manner. “The armistice interrupted my experiments and as there was no government that amounted to anything in my country then, I kept the results of my work for myself. Some little time ago, speculation in your American stocks gave me sufficient capital to build that ship with added improvements. Now I am cashing in on her.” The Diesel engines were drawing air from an intake valve just under the small bridge as they dropped into the control room where Bill and the Baron studied the charts for a while, and he was given the course he was to fly. They passed through the battery room where the walls were lined with the crews’ bunks and into the pilot’s glassed-in cockpit. “Hello!” Osceola beamed at them from one of the pilot’s seats. “It’s sure good to see you again, Bill, old boy. How do you do, Baron?” The Baron was annoyed. “It is customary aboard my ships for a superior officer to receive a salute when spoken to. And the salute should be rendered standing.” Osceola smiled, stood up, clicked his heels together and brought the fingers of his right hand smartly to the edge of the soft helmet he wore. “Thank you.” The Baron punctiliously returned the salute. “Good afternoon, Chief.” Then he turned his back on the young Seminole and spoke again to Bill. “When the buzzer rings in here, Mr. Bolton, you will start idling your engines and take off as soon as possible immediately afterward. You know your course and you have instructions with regard to landing. Further orders will be sent to you should I consider them necessary.” “I understand, sir,” said Bill. Both young fellows saluted. The Baron returned their salutes and left the cockpit, sliding the door to behind him. “Gosh!” exploded Osceola. “That lad gives me the jim-jams with his confounded bowing and saluting. I’ll turn into a Prussian Yunker myself if we don’t get out of this soon!” “Reckon you weren’t cut out for a Naval man,” laughed Bill, “I admit I’ve had my fill of that stuff at the Academy, but the Herr Baron certainly goes the whole hog. Let’s see what kind of a crate I’ve got to run,” he mused—“ten motors—dual control—aeromarine inertia starter!” He studied the layout thoughtfully and glanced at the instrument board. Then he turned to Osceola again. “Thank heaven, they’ve fitted this bus with the wheel and column type of control. The clever bird has stolen some of the Fokker features. That worm gear, operated by a crank and shaft from the pilot’s seat to adjust the stabilizer in flight proves it.” “Maybe,” grinned his friend. “That’s all Greek to me. The joke of it is that these bozos think I understand—that I’m an aviator like you!” “Well, I’ve given you some pointers, haven’t I? You ought to recognize a few of these gadgets.” The Chief snorted. “Few is right. Your amphibian is one thing—but this bus is fitted out like the engine room of an ocean liner!” Bill laughed and picked up a soft helmet. “Ever been in one?” “An engine room?” “Yes.” “Not yet—and I hope never.” “I thought so. Well, Mr. Assistant Pilot, get into your seat and look pretty. I’ll do the work. Confound, there goes the buzzer!” He slipped into his seat and his hand sought the inertia starter. With her multiple engines roaring in deafening crescendo, the Flying Fish leapt through the water and was jerked onto her step, quite as easily as the smallest seaplane. A few seconds later she was in the air, nosing upward into the ether. Bill ran her up to thirty-five hundred feet, leveled off, did a sharp bank to port, then straightened out once more and spoke to Osceola. “Some bus! Runs like a ladies’ wristwatch.” “Aren’t you keeping pretty low?” “There’s no sense climbing higher. The skipper wants to get there in a hurry.” “Er—you know this is rank piracy?” “I do, Osceola. But it’s a long chance—and a darned sight better for our plans than being cooped up in the brig. If I wasn’t driving this plane, the Baron would be. Friend von Hiemskirk is so sure of himself he says that we have his permission to escape—if we can. I’d like to give him a run, you know.” “Yes, nice of him, isn’t it? Still, we got away from the Shell Island gang, didn’t we?” “Sure did—and put those guys in a place where they belong.” “Well, I’m entirely willing to try it with this bunch—but between you and me, I’m almost inclined to agree with the Baron—I don’t think we’ve the ghost of a show.” “Maybe not. But we’ll make a good stab at it, just the same. First of all, we’ve got to know how they work their game. That’s the principal reason why I took over this job. It’s not only escape I’m after, but it’s busting up this organized piracy, as well.” “Ambitious, aren’t you?” “Well—hello! there’s smoke on the horizon!” “Oh, yes, I see it. Dead ahead. Think she’s the ship we want?” “Hope so. We’re following the course. Herr Pomposo plotted it himself, so he can’t strafe us if it isn’t.” Osceola clapped a pair of glasses to his eyes and studied the distant smudge of black that was curling up a blue horizon. “Three funnels. Looks like a pretty big ship—and she sure is moving along.” “The Orleans is a three-stacker. Also, she’s plenty big and fast. Push that button on the instrument board marked ‘C.R.’, will you?” Osceola complied. “What’s C.R. mean?” “Control room. I want to let his high-mightiness know we’ve sighted his prey.” “This,” said Osceola, “begins to get exciting.” “It will,” said Bill, “get a good deal more exciting than we bargained for unless you pipe down, old man. There’s some ticklish business ahead of us and I can’t afford to crack it. Now—get these instructions, and get ’em right. That handle yonder works the bomb release. When I say the word, take hold of it—but don’t pull until I tell you to.” “But—Bill!” protested the Seminole. “You surely aren’t taking orders from von Hiemskirk or anyone else to bomb that liner!” “Not if I know it,” Bill answered curtly. “Get your mind on the job. When I say NOW—you pull. Not one instant sooner, or an instant later. It’s a matter of life and death—so be careful.” “Trust me,” said his mystified friend, lifting a nervous gaze to stare at the great steamer they were approaching so swiftly. The Orleans was a beautiful sight; a racing greyhound of the seas, tearing through a glassy ocean, bound for Europe with mail and passengers. The Flying Fish came upon her from the south. As he drew nearer the leviathan, Bill decreased the plane’s altitude to a meager five hundred feet. Below the belching funnels he could see passengers and crew crowding the starboard rails, for even the most blasÉ traveler is still thrilled by the sight of an airplane in mid-ocean. The great plane circled the ship. Then Bill dropped behind for a moment, did a flipper turn to port, levelled off and came racing up from the rear. When the Flying Fish was directly over the steamer’s stern, Bill spoke to Osceola. “Get ready!” he said. “Good Lord! You can’t do it, Bill. It’s murder!” “Shut up—and obey orders!” commanded his pilot. “This is my funeral—not yours.” Osceola grasped the bomb release, his brain whirling in consternation and confusion. Slowly they forged ahead, over the stacks, the foremast, the bow, and on until they had gained a lead of possibly two hundred yards on the Orleans. “NOW!” Back came Osceola’s hand, yanking the handle and at the same time Bill banked the plane in a sharp left turn. Osceola descried an object darting seaward beneath them. He glimpsed it strike the water and a geyser shot upward in front of the racing liner. Then as the Flying Fish came about and landed, he saw that the Orleans was slowing down. By the time their own craft was moored to a sea anchor, the liner’s propellers no longer turned and she lay like a “painted ship upon a painted ocean.” Both lads stripped off their headgear as the Baron walked into the cockpit. “I am about to board the Orleans,” he stated in that overbearing tone that was so irritating to Osceola. “You young gentlemen will accompany me. We leave directly. Once aboard, it will be your duty to make note of the quantity of gasoline and lubricating oils carried by the liner and render a report to me. I shall probably be found in the First Class dining salon, where passengers will be interviewed. Come now, it is time we were off.” When Bill and Osceola came out on deck they saw that a three-inch gun had been brought topside and was trained on the Orleans. Signals had evidently passed between the Flying Fish and the liner, which lay motionless a few hundred yards off their port quarter. Even as the boarding party, armed to the teeth, stepped into a small launch, a gangway was let down from the side of the leviathan. The journey across took but a very few minutes. Bill had only time to note that the Orleans no longer flew her colors and that the decks were still crowded with passengers, when the seaman in the bow of their launch caught the grating at the bottom of the steep flight of steps with his boathook. The Baron immediately sprang onto the grating and, followed by another officer, Bill, Osceola and four seamen bearing rifles, mounted the gangway. The launch in the meantime hastened back toward the Flying Fish to pick up another load of men. An indignant officer, whose uniform proclaimed him to be the ship’s captain, met them as they stepped on deck. “This is an outrage!” he thundered, addressing the Baron. “By what right do you threaten my ship and board her?” Von Hiemskirk smiled cynically at the scowling captain, and bowed, including the row of ship’s officers and men who stood close behind him, in his salutation. “You make a mistake, Captain,” he replied affably, “when you say ‘my ship.’ Allow me to inform you that she is no longer yours—but mine—by right of conquest!” “But this is—piracy!” “I am glad,” said the Baron, “that you realize the fact.” He changed his tone abruptly. “Permit me to inform you also that unless my orders are obeyed—obeyed on the instant,—it will be my unpleasant duty to sink this ship.” A man in the uniform of the ship’s wireless operator pushed his way through the crowd of protesting passengers and saluting the Orleans captain, whispered a few words in his ear. “No secrets,” snapped the Baron. “Operator, what message have you brought?” It was now the captain’s turn to smile. “I will answer your question,” he returned. “We have been in touch with the United States Cruiser Stamford. At the present moment, she is steaming at full speed to this spot!” |
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