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"Spies!" Zimby exclaimed. "What do we do now?" piped up Mack Avery, the third man in Bud's crew. "Hadn't we better radio the Coast Guard and the FBI?" Bud wrenched away from the eyepiece. "I have another idea! Any of you fellows game to go with me and capture those spies?" All three of his companions volunteered eagerly. Bud chose Mel Flagler, then took another sight through the periscope.
"We'll give it a shakedown tomorrow morning," he told Bud. The duplicates of the ion drive and density control were ready and waiting when the boys arrived at the plant next day. They immediately flew to Fearing Island and embarked in a motor launch, with Zimby Cox again at the helm. This time they cruised out to deeper water.
Too playful, Tom concluded, after vainly trying to tease it into chasing them. Instead of following, it would "tag" Tom or Mel quickly, then swim away, evidently expecting to be chased in turn! "I give up!" Mel snorted in disgust. Tom grinned and bobbed to the surface. He waved his hand several times in a prearranged signal. Zimby at last spotted him and brought the Sea Hound to the scene.
After lunch Tom flew to Fearing Island with Bud, eager to tackle their interrupted job of rooting the space plants into the undersea silt beds. Zimby Cox, a sandy-haired, freckle-faced jetmariner, volunteered to pilot a motor launch for them. They sped across the water, then dropped anchor at the farm site.
Bud nodded grimly. "But staying just out of sonar range from the base." The jetmarine closed steadily on its quarry. In a few minutes they were able to make it out dimly through the cabin window, dead ahead. "That's sure no U.S. Navy sub that I know of," Bud said. "Probably an enemy snooper." "What if they spot us?" Zimby asked. Bud chuckled. "That's the beauty of it, pal! Don't forget.
Tom joined in the fun, and soon a rollicking game of underwater tag was in full swing. The dolphins seemed as playful and mischievous as small children. Twenty minutes later the boys surfaced and hauled themselves aboard. Both tore off their masks and flopped into the boat, shaking with laughter, surfacing and diving. "What was so funny down there?" Zimby asked.
Tom dashed out of the shed and scanned the sea to the southward. Sure enough, a jetmarine had surfaced and was speeding toward the sub docks. Minutes later, Tom was shaking hands warmly with Zimby Cox and Mack Avery. "Is Bud okay?" was Zimby's first question. "Right! I just heard from him," Tom replied. "He and Mel captured those enemy frogmen and a copter's on the way to pick them up.
Then he turned over the controls to Zimby and began stripping down to don a hydrolung suit. "Gallopin' guppies! What're you aimin' to do?" Chow exploded. "Go out and look for that missile," Tom said calmly. "It's what we came for." "Are you loco, boss? What about that sub Bud just spotted? Mebbe it's Mirov's bunch!" Tom refused to be dissuaded.
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.
Zimby Cox related that a man had transferred from the undetectable submarine to the one they had been following. The first sub had then headed out to sea, as if to cross the ocean back to its home base. The other had departed on a course toward the South Atlantic. "Probably back to the lost missile area. At least that's the way we figured it," Zimby added. "And neither sub spotted you?"
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