CHAPTER 22
Dad banked the plane into a sharp, stomach-churning 180-degree turn so we could swing back and land in the ocean, right next to where Tommy dove in. Beck and I called the play-by-play from windows on opposite sides of the plane. Storm was busy with a barf bag. She’d wolfed down a couple churros, too.
“The sub is going under!” I announced.
“They’re getting away!” added Beck.
“Tommy’s fine,” I said.
“Floating on his seat cushion.”
The plane’s pontoons touched down and sliced through the waves.
“Reversing,” said Mom.
And then they both said a bunch more pilot stuff until the seaplane puttered to a stop right next to our bobbing brother.
I tossed a line out the open door.
“You okay, Tommy?”
“Yeah,” he said, catching the rope and pulling himself over to the plane. “But there was no way to ID them. It’s an unmarked submarine.”
Storm looked up from her paper puke bag. “They’re pirates. It’s what they do.”
Beck and I helped Tommy haul himself back into the plane.
“Sorry about the seat cushion,” he said to Mom. “I think I trashed it. It’s soaking wet.”
Mom smiled. “So are you.”
“Chya,” said Tommy with a grin.
And that’s when a mysterious dugout canoe paddled up alongside our seaplane.