The Phantom Patrol

 

Friends of yours?” asked Mac.

 

Johnny whirled. Through the tumble of water he could see a vague shape drawing abreast of them. It was a black low-lying cruiser of ominous proportions.

 

“Get below!” rapped Johnny at the two pilots and the girl.

 

When they had gone, Heinie held on tight and stared at the ship, which was drawing nearer. “Who is it?”

 

“Three guesses, Heinie. The first three don’t count.”

 

“My God, Johnny! You mean that’s Georges Coquelin?”

 

“In person. Run up some shells for the one-pounder and have Haines break out a machine gun. We’re going to have a little party.”

 

“But they’re too close! They’ll blow us out of the—” A towering sea battered Heinie against the side of the deckhouse. He struggled toward the hatch.

 

Johnny gave the black ship a bitter smile. No one knew better than he that the presence of Georges Coquelin was not a coincidence. That line in the SOS about Ferguson . . . Ferguson could be held for ransom—big ransom.

 

“Run out the shells!” bawled Johnny after his retreating exec. “We’ll hold him as long as we can.” He thumped the holstered .45 which banged against his thigh.

 

The pitching black line cruiser began to slacken speed. Its wake still boiling, it swerved around in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn to come back alongside. A tall blond man was holding the bridge rail with tight fists. Two sailors worked at something shiny behind the wheel. A machine gun.

 

Johnny lurched toward the deckhouse. Inside he grabbed the brass tube. “Joe! Get going! Georges sneaked up on us. Full speed!”

 

“Hell!” bellowed Joe, deep in the ship. “We strained a reduction gear while we were laying to!”

 

“Did you take it apart?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why, of all the—! Okay, Joe. If you don’t get it together in five minutes, you won’t have any engines to monkey with. Snap into it!”

 

Heinie struggled up to the dripping one-pounder with a box of shells which he jammed into the rack. Johnny slued the weapon about.

 

A smooth voice drifted across the intervening hundred yards. “Lay off that gun, sailor. We want Ferguson.”

 

The megaphone rolled in the scuppers. Johnny snatched it up. “Go to hell!” he shouted.

 

From the bridge of the pitching black ship came a sound like a thousand hammers beating simultaneously on tin. A window shattered in the deckhouse. Slugs ripped splinters from the planks.

 

Johnny rammed a shell into the breech. He waited until the patrol boat bucked upward. The lanyard jerked and the gun jumped. Heinie slammed another into the breech.

 

“Lower!” bawled Heinie. “Hull him! Don’t try for the bridge!”

 

A sailor came up beside Johnny. “I’ll take it.”

 

Johnny stepped aside and picked up the megaphone. The machine gun had stopped.

 

“Coquelin! Shove off, or we’ll sink you!”

 

The tall blond man on the cruiser’s bridge threw back his head and laughed. Then he shouted through cupped hands, “Look at my forward deck!”

 

The black ship was drawing astern of them. The patrol boat was pitching in the trough, hard to hit and harder to shoot from. On the forward deck of the cruiser, a three-inch gun was menacing them. Beside it a one-pounder was a child’s plaything.

 

“Knock the pants off him,” begged Heinie. “He’s not so tough. We’ll run away from him in a minute.”

 

“The hell we will. That dumb son Joe dismantled the reduction gear while we were taking the people off the plane.”

 

The gray sky met the green sea. The waves smashed and roared over the forward deck. The black ship was astern and coming up on the starboard side. The range was less than fifty yards, but a dozen frowning mountain ranges intervened. The blond man on the bridge gripped the rail and leaned forward expectantly. Behind him two men crouched beside the machine gun, waiting for his signal.

 

Johnny fought his way back to the deckhouse. “Joe!” he shouted into the tube. “Can’t you do something?”

 

“In a few minutes, Johnny—”

 

“Step on it. There aren’t many left!”

 

Back on deck, Johnny heard Coquelin shout, “Lay off that gun or I’ll blast you. Hand over Ferguson.”

 

Johnny turned to Heinie. Past Heinie, the sea was waltzing through thirty degrees. The patrol boat’s bucking made it hard to stick with her.

 

“He means it,” said Johnny. “It won’t be the first time. Hold your fire with that gun, sailor. We couldn’t get him the first shot.”

 

“What you going to do,” raved Heinie, “stand there and let him take Ferguson? We’d be the laughing stock of the base! For God’s sake, Johnny!”

 

“Shut up. We’ve got passengers aboard us and I’ve got to protect them, haven’t I?”

 

Georges Coquelin loomed more distinct as the distance lessened between them. He was Johnny’s height and had Johnny’s blond hair and leathery complexion. “What about it?” He pointed significantly at the three-incher. Sailors were peeling off the canvas lashings and making ready with a shell.

 

Out of the patrol boat’s after hatch, a sailor struggled up with a machine gun.

 

“Hold that fire!” shouted Johnny.

 

“We can’t fight,” Heinie wailed. “The devil’s got the drop on us. If we just—” They were buried again in the green swirl. When the wave had gone, the pitching black ship was still there. The wind screamed through the radio mast of the CG-1004.

 

On the black ship’s bow were the words The Maid from Hell.