“We’d better clear out before they take another pot shot at us.”
Hank sent the Sea Hound zooming toward the surface while the boys changed quickly into slacks and T shirts. Then Tom took over the controls for the flight home.
“Brand my vitamin vittles! Are we just goin’ to turn tail an’ run every time them varmints come skulkin’ around?” Chow fumed as the seacopter arrowed northward.
“Not if I can help it,” Tom vowed. “But first I must figure out a way to make our own craft invisible, so to speak. It’s the only way to protect our American crews, Chow, if we hope to do any secret digging for that lost missile.”
“Want another suggestion, skipper?” Bud put in. “This one is about the hydrolung.”
“Sure. Speak up.”
“How about putting some sort of communications system into our hydrolung gear? If I hadn’t been close enough to grab you when I DATE TROUBLE 75
spotted that sub, it might have been curtains, pal!”
“You’re right,” Tom agreed. “I’ll get to work on it.”
It was sunset when Fearing Island came into sight. The boys flew a Pigeon Special back to Enterprises, where Tom phoned a full report on the mystery sub to the Navy Department. Then the two chums drove to the Swift home for a late supper.
Phyl Newton was visiting Sandy that evening, but the girls displayed a marked coolness toward Tom and Bud. Instead of engaging in conversation, they retired to Sandy’s room upstairs to play records, while Mrs. Swift served the boys a warmed-up but tasty meal of roast beef and mince pie.
“What’s wrong? Are we repulsive or something?” Bud asked as they ate.