At Tom’s words, the watchers and crewmen who were crowded into the Recoverer’s control room stirred restlessly. Its bulkheads were banked with radar and telemetering devices. Tension had been mounting throughout the morning aboard the ships and observation planes of the task force as everyone awaited the return of the planet-circling missile-scientists’ deepest penetration into space so far.
“What do you mean, a total loss?” Bud argued. “Even if the recovery operation’s a flop, the shot will still pay off in valuable information, won’t it?”
Tom shook his head grimly. “The purpose of this unmanned, exploratory flight around Jupiter was to take and record all kinds of data. But none of the info is being radioed back to us.”
“How come?”
“If we had put in radio gear strong enough to relay signals back, it would have cut down the amount of information-gathering equipment aboard,” Tom explained. “We had to make every ounce count.”
PIRATE MISSILE 13
Outwardly calm, Tom was seething with inner excitement. Although only eighteen-the same age as his husky, dark-haired pal and copilot, Bud Barclay-Tom had been given the job of directing the recovery phase of the United States government’s Project Jupiter survey. The Swifts and their rocket research staff had built the missile and engineered the space probe for the government.
“Whew!” Bud gave a nervous whistle. “I see what you mean, pal. With all our eggs in one basket, we sure can’t afford to get butter-fingered with the Jupiter prober.”
Admiral Walter, a tall, distinguished man, graying at the temples, smiled. “It’s what we call in warfare a calculated risk, Bud,” he said. “But with Tom in charge, I believe we have nothing to worry about.”