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Meanwhile, the sonarman was probing the surrounding waters. "Any pings?" Tom asked. The man shook his head without taking his eyes from the sonarscope. "Nothing yet." Hank Sterling donned a hydrophone headset and listened intently. The silence deepened in the Sea Hound's cabin. Suddenly Hank stiffened and the sonarman cried out: "A blip, skipper! At two o'clock!"
"We've picked up nothing on sonar!" "Check again," Tom ordered. The sonarman bent to his scope and Hank listened intently over the hydrophones. Neither could detect any sign of another craft. "Probably the same one that fired on us the last time," Tom said grimly. "We'd better clear out before they take another pot shot at us."
Tom's pulse quickened. "Moving straight toward us," the sonarman added. Tom surrendered the controls to Zimby long enough to dart over and study the sonarscope. "I've a hunch it's Bud," he told the others. His guess proved correct when the unmistakable outline of a jetmarine loomed into view. Tom flicked on the search beam for a moment, and Bud could be seen waving through the cabin window.
The automatic developing film would record any trace of fluorescence, and a red light would signal this result to the pilot's cabin. Minutes went by as the Sea Hound nosed slowly along through the gray-green gloom, its sister craft flanking it a hundred yards on either side. They were moving only a fathom or so above the bottom. "A blip at eleven o'clock!" the sonarman called out suddenly.
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