A HUNCH PAYS OFF 53
them to the commandant’s office. Tom and Bud followed.
“Attempted aerial piracy, eh?” the commandant said when he heard the boys’
story. Turning to the prisoners, he snapped, “Who are you, and what’s the meaning of all this?”
The crew captain, a hard-looking, stockily built man of about forty-five, rasped back, “We have nothing to say.”
The commandant wasted no words. “Search them,” he told the MP’s.
Their wallets and various other items revealed little. The crew captain was carrying a private pilot’s license on which he was identified as “Jack Smith.” The names of the others, as shown on identification papers of one kind or another, sounded equally false.
“Probably all forged,” the commandant muttered, “but we’ll check them out.”
He tried again to glean something from the prisoners, but they replied with sneering evasions. The commandant reddened with anger at their stubbornness.
“All right. Take them to the guardhouse,” he ordered.
As the MP’s marched the hijackers off, Tom asked how their case would be handled.
“The crime is a federal offense,” the commandant explained. “Air Force Intelligence will cooperate on the case, but the prisoners will be turned over to a federal marshal.”
54 THE ELECTRONIC HYDROLUNG
Tom briefed him on the background of the situation, including the Jupiter-probing missile mystery, then asked, “Could those men be transferred to the Shopton jail for the time being so our own security setup can take a hand in the investigation?”
The commandant nodded. “I’ll arrange it.”
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