“Any idea who he is?”
“No. He’s still masked.”
“How about the plane itself?” Tom inquired.
“A Hammond Jayhawk, probably souped up.”
“Keep your chin up, Bud. I’ll come after you in a fast jet!”
“Don’t bother, skipper. I think I can-”
Bud’s voice faded and Tom waited no longer. Orders to the radio operator tumbled from his lips and he was out the door like a shot. He sped to the hangar in a jeep. An emergency jet, always kept on ready stand-by, had been rolled out into position for takeoff.
Tom hastily donned a flight suit, climbed aboard, and was soon roaring down the runway. Once airborne, he set a course for Fearing.
“Tom Swift to Bud Barclay!” he called over the mike. “Can you read me.
Bud?”
There was no response! Had Bud been forced down by the masked pilot?
Would he be taken captive and flown to some undisclosed place? If so, was it because of Bud himself or because of the electronic brain he had on board?
Tom thrust these unpleasant thoughts aside and tuned his radio to the Fearing private wave length. “Any news of Bud?” he asked anxiously.
SOS TO ENTERPRISES 17
“No,” came the answer. “After we got the message about him, we sent up a plane. Haven’t had any word from the pilot yet.”
Clenching his jaw grimly, Tom flicked on his search radar and kept his eyes alert for aircraft. But there was no sign of either Bud or the mystery plane.
Minutes later, Tom was over the Atlantic. Fearing Island loomed ahead through the clouds. The Swift rocket base was a thumb-shaped stretch of sand dunes and scrubgrass, closely guarded by drone planes.
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