The Dive Bomber by L. Ron Hubbard

out the best gliding angle and started their descent. After the steady shriek of wind and the bellow of the engine and the racketing blast of guns, the quiet was very welcome.
    The molten, scarlet sun was down, leaving a twilight haze. Lucky tried not to think about Dixie. He was not sure that all the bombs had gone where Flynn had tried to place them. A dull dread filled him.
    The freighter was very much afloat, though it was easily seen that she would cruise no further until a dry dock had repaired her stern. Steering engines, possibly the shafts themselves, were blown away.
    Floating with a high bow and showing no signs of sinking, the vessel rolled a little to the south of the spot where Lucky was landing.
    Without letting down his wheels, choosing to take a crest and try it crosswind, Lucky settled into the spray.…

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Dixie’s Fate
    T OSSED alternately from tip to trough, the bomber lurched drunkenly, shipping water, nose up, then tail up, with the black combers cleaning their fangs for the final bite.
    Lucky had little hope of ever knowing Dixie’s fate. His own was definite.
    â€œSorry?” he asked Flynn.
    â€œWe got them, didn’t we? They won’t go noplace now.”
    â€œLook, what’s that?” said Lucky.
    He slid back his hood and stood up in the giddy cockpit, salt spray biting at him.
    A lifeboat from the freighter was coming in toward them. A man who held a submachine gun yelled, “Take this line!”
    Lucky was astounded, until he bethought himself that Bullard would hardly let a bomber go to waste in this shameful fashion.
    The lifeboat, motor-driven, took the slowly sinking bomber in tow. Lucky did not think they would reach the bobbing hull of the vessel. But fate was being either kind or unkind, depending upon the reception.
    They came abreast of the forward deck, and a boom with slings dangling was lowered down to them. Lucky and Flynn, getting very wet in the process, made the best of things and secured the ropes to the plane. The boom lifted away and in a moment the dripping wings were over the ship, swinging in toward the big, square hatch.
    Bullard roared, “You’ll get yours, Martin—and you too, Flynn. No guys are going to— Hey, Svenson, you got that jury rudder rigged yet?”
    â€œYust about,” somebody said from the bridge.
    Jury rudder? Then the ship could still proceed? They hadn’t stopped them? Lucky’s heart sank.
    Men dragged him down from the cockpit and Bullard ranged up. But before Bullard said anything more, Dixie brushed him aside and threw her arms around Lucky.
    â€œGet away from him,” cried Bullard, thrusting her aside.
    Lucky saw Bullard’s face plainly for the first time. Bullard had a scratch which ran diagonally from his left eye to his thick mouth. Dixie turned to face him, and Bullard dodged.
    â€œYou got Smith, did you?” said Bullard. “And you tried to blow us out of the water, did you? Okay, Lucky Martin, you and Flynn stand over there against that bulkhead. I said stand over there!”
    Lucky looked around him and saw no escape.
    â€œGive me that Tommy gun ,” snapped Bullard, yanking it out of the bosun’s hands. “Come on, you two. Snap it up!”
    Dixie tried to speak. Flynn swallowed hard, staring at the weapon. Lucky promised himself a good crack at Bullard’s jaw before he went out.
    â€œWhat’s that?” said the bosun.
    A steady, even, drumming sound came faintly to them.
    Lucky knew what it was. Bullard also knew. Savagely he sought to throw his targets into position. He had only one chance to squash the evidence.
    Another sound came up on the port side.
    â€œAhoy! Ahoy the bridge! What the devil’s going on here?”
    An instant later a deadly little hundred-and-sixty-five-footer swept up to the steamer’s rail. Gold braid and white caps and web-belted .45s came in a swift torrent over the side, as though the