CHAPTER V
A HUNCH PAYS OFF
Dismayed, Tom and Bud stared at each other. Apparently the enemy shiphad blanked out their radio communication to all points except themystery plane.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Tom said into his microphone.
The voice replied crisply, "_You'll find out when the time comes!_"
Tom flicked off his mike and exchanged another worried glance with Bud."We seem to be in a spot, pal!"
"And how! Especially if that crate's armed!" Bud muttered. "But what arethey after?"
Tom shrugged. "The space plants maybe--or possibly our jet."
"Might even be _us_ they want," Bud said. "Got any tricks under yourmagician's hat?"
Tom's brain was already racing to figure a way out. Suddenly he snappedhis fingers. "Hey! I almost forgot!" he exclaimed. "Look in the locker,Bud, and see if we have the radio set that neutralizes allinterference!"
Bud's face brightened. "Now you're talking!"
The set had been perfected during Tom's _Cosmic Astronauts_ adventure,in defense against an Oriental enemy's jamming-wave generator. Bud foundit in the locker, dragged it out joyfully, and plugged it into the powersupply.
Meanwhile, the mystery jet had banked in a wide circle and headed west.As Tom stalled for time, it swooped back again and the same voice camesnarling over the speaker.
"_I warned you to follow us! Or would you prefer to be shot down?_"
As if to back up the threat, a burst of tracer fire grazed Tom's plane.
He hastily switched on his mike. "Okay, hold your fire! I guess we haveno choice!"
The jet turned back on its westerly course, and Tom followed obediently.Meanwhile, Bud had warmed up the other radio and contacted Enterprises.Tom switched mikes long enough to report their position, course, andspeed, adding:
"Tell Security to alert Vignall Air Force Base pronto!"
"Roger Wilco!" the Enterprises operator responded. Even if the enemyship detected the call, Tom knew the automatic scrambling device wouldprevent the message from being understood.
Minute after minute, the flight continued. "Where are they taking us?"Bud muttered.
"Some out-of-the-way landing spot probably," Tom conjectured. "I wonderhow soon those fighter boys will--"
Bud suddenly grabbed Tom's arm and pointed to starboard. "There theycome, skipper!"
Three gleaming specks had just burst through a cloud bank to the north.Closing in rapidly, they were soon visible as Air Force fighter jets,flying in V formation.
"Fighter One to unmarked jet!" came the sharp command over the radio."Can you read me?... You'd _better_ read me, pal! I order you to proceedto Vignall Air Base under our escort or take the consequences!"
The mystery pilot, evidently bewildered by the sudden onslaught, made afrantic effort to escape. But the fighters, with almost contemptuousease, quickly surrounded the plane and forced him to comply with orders.
Bud whooped with laughter. "Just a sheep in wolf's clothing, eh,buster?"
Minutes later, all the planes, including Tom's, landed at the airfield.Four sullen-faced men, their hands up, emerged from the mystery jet.Military police with drawn automatics herded them to the commandant'soffice. Tom and Bud followed.
"Attempted aerial piracy, eh?" the commandant said when he heard theboys' story. Turning to the prisoners, he snapped, "Who are you, andwhat's the meaning of all this?"
The crew captain, a hard-looking, stockily built man of aboutforty-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 captainwas carrying a private pilot's license on which he was identified as"Jack Smith." The names of the others, as shown on identification papersof one kind or another, sounded equally false.
"Probably all forged," the commandant muttered, "but we'll check themout."
He tried again to glean something from the prisoners, but they repliedwith sneering evasions. The commandant reddened with anger at theirstubbornness. "All right. Take them to the guardhouse," he ordered.
As the MP's marched the hijackers off, Tom asked how their case would behandled.
"The crime is a federal offense," the commandant explained. "Air ForceIntelligence will co-operate on the case, but the prisoners will beturned over to a federal marshal."
Tom briefed him on the background of the situation, including theJupiter-probing missile mystery, then asked, "Could those men betransferred to the Shopton jail for the time being so our own securitysetup can take a hand in the investigation?"
The commandant nodded. "I'll arrange it."
As the boys flew back to Enterprises, Bud threw Tom a quizzical glance."How come you mentioned the Jupiter prober, skipper? Do you think thosehijackers were after information?"
Tom shrugged. "I'm wondering myself, Bud. If they were, it could meanour enemy hasn't found it yet!"
When they arrived at the experimental station, Tom made a full report toHarlan Ames, the slim, dark-haired security chief. Ames listenedthoughtfully but was as baffled as Tom.
"Are the men Americans?" he asked.
"I doubt it," Tom said. "They speak English well enough, but with afaint accent. Somehow, I have a hunch they're Brungarians."
Ames whistled. "That could spell trouble, skipper." More than once,Brungarian rebel agents had engaged in brazen plots against America andthe Swifts.
"Let's hope I'm wrong," Tom said wryly.
"Art Wiltessa--and the Navy--called again," Ames added. "Still no luckon the missile search."
The gloomy news did nothing to lift Tom's spirits. The next day, hopingto verify or disprove his suspicion, he drove to Shopton PoliceHeadquarters with Harlan Ames. The two talked briefly with Chief Slater,an old friend. Then a turnkey took them to the cell block.
The four prisoners had been confined in a single large cell. They seemedtense and angry--as if they had been quarreling among themselves.
"Ready to talk yet?" Ames asked. Getting no reply, he repeated thequestion in Brungarian.
Ames's ruse failed. "What language is that?" asked "Captain Smith"mockingly. "Pig Latin?"
As his cellmates grinned, Tom's eyes roved over their faces. Oneman--wavy-haired with penetrating dark eyes--seemed oddly familiar. Why?Suddenly the answer hit Tom like a flash. He resembled Streffan Mirov,the brilliant Brungarian rocket scientist who had tried to oust Tom'sexpedition from the phantom satellite Nestria.
Playing a hunch, Tom said to him, "You know what your government does torebels and bunglers, Mirov."
The man stiffened and paled. "We have not b-b-bungled!" he stutteredangrily.
"Shut up, you fool!" their leader shouted.