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"Big enough, all right," Tom agreed with a grin. "And plenty of water to search in." "No sign of the Navy," Zimby said. Tom nodded. "They pulled out on schedule." "What about them Brungarian sidewinders?" put in Chow. "That's the question!" Tom swooped down to rejoin the other two craft. "We'll keep an eye out for enemy blips while we do our prospecting."
"It's not likely Mirov's Brungarian henchmen would endanger their whole setup by taking any cheap gunmen into their confidence." Chief Slater also reported that Len Unger was still at large. "But the FBI will probably pick him up soon," he added. "I sure hope so," Tom said. A ten-hour sleep that night proved a fine tonic.
Had the missile's precious contents been destroyed by the blast?! Slowly he began making his way back to the Sea Hound. Unknown to Tom, Bud was fighting a desperate battle with his adversary barely fifty yards away. The divers grappled each other in an octopuslike duel. At such depths, their movements were impeded, as if by oil. The Brungarian pulled out the knife at his belt.
"When we took off again in our hydrolungs to go back aboard ship, the jetmarine was gone!" "Maybe she's trailing the enemy sub," Tom conjectured. "That's what I'm hoping," Bud said uneasily. "Trouble is, our subs aren't armed, and who knows about that Brungarian job? The way they sling missiles around, anything could happen if she spots the jetmarine." Tom frowned.
When Tom told him about the dolphins, he too burst into laughter. The porpoises rose into view and convoyed the launch all the way back to the island. The boys were so jubilant over the performance of the new hydrolung gear that Tom decided to press his search for the Brungarian sea-prowlers immediately. Soon after lunch they took off in the Sea Hound and headed for the South Atlantic.
Tom hung up, excited by the thought that the Brungarian might be about to reveal an important secret. "Mind stopping by police headquarters first?" he asked his friends. Minutes later, Bud's red convertible pulled up in front of the gray stone building. Tom jumped out and dashed up the granite steps.
"You can guess why I'm calling, Tom," the editor said. "How about a statement from you Swifts on this Brungarian sub story?" "We found it very interesting," Tom said politely but noncommittally. Parrying further questions, he hung up as soon as possible. Mr. Swift approved Tom's policy of silence.
"Just as we thought!" he snarled. "A couple of low-down Brungarian rebels! And up to their usual amateurish spy stunts!" The raiders' eyes blazed, but they maintained silence. Both, however, kept darting looks of keen interest at the Americans' hydrolung gear.
"How did it happen?" Ames said the Brungarian had somehow fashioned a crude weapon and overpowered the turnkey. Disguising himself in the guard's uniform, he had slipped out before his victim was discovered. "He must have had outside help within close call," Ames ended, "because he seems to have made a clean getaway. The State Police have spread a dragnet, but it doesn't look hopeful."
"What's going on here?" said one, who was wearing a sergeant's stripes. The jeep had the words BEACH PATROL stenciled on it in white paint. "We just nailed these two Brungarian frogmen," Bud explained. "A sub put them ashore probably as spies or saboteurs. They won't talk to us, but maybe you can pump them at headquarters." The startled sergeant turned a cold eye on the two prisoners.
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