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 proceed
to Vignall Air Base under our escort or take the consequences!"
The mystery pilot, evidently bewildered by the sudden onslaught, made a
frantic effort to escape. But the fighters, with almost contemptuous
ease, 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'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.
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