Don Winslow of the Navy

They would soon face more of it on the beach when the sun grew hot enough to broil a white man’s skin. Apparently, the slim, dark-eyed girl had suffered less than her two companions. Yet her stout whipcord breeches showed rough wear, and her face, under a mass of wind-blown curls, bore traces of weariness and jungle dirt. The society columnist who had described her coiffure at a Washington ball six weeks ago would have been startled to recognize Mercedes Colby, daughter of a retired Navy Admiral. Even more sharply would that columnist have been astonished by the identity of Miss Colby’s present escorts.

United States Naval Commanders are not ordinarily found in beachcombers’ rags on the shore of a tropical island. And nothing in the book of Navy Regulations (which covers everything) decrees that even a lieutenant must tackle the Haitian jungle barefooted, with half a shirt tucked into the remnant of once-white trousers. Since their appointment to the Naval Intelligence Service, the truth was that ordinary duties had never been the lot of Don Winslow and his husky shadow Lieutenant “Red” Pennington. In a few adventure-packed months, they had learned to take hardships as a daily ration, with danger for spice. Hunger, exhaustion, blistered skin, and bleeding feet were small matters compared with the importance of their present job—the stamping out of a vast international crime ring whose deliberate aim was to plunge the whole world into war.

To combat this secret menace, the United States Government needed an officer of rare courage and ability for its chief field operative, a man able to match wits with the world’s greatest spymaster—and win! He must be highly skilled in all forms of combat and an expert with every type of weapon. He must be tireless, self-reliant, and prepared to give his life in the line of duty without warning and regret. With these qualities in mind, the Navy Department’s final choice had fallen upon a distinguished young officer—Commander Don Winslow.

Not all of history’s great adventurers have looked their parts, but Don Winslow, in the ragged ruin of his uniform whites, was still a man to draw attention. The lithe swing of his powerfully muscled body, from shoulders to lean hips—the unconscious air of command that marks a Navy officer—the clear, level gaze, and the strong line of his jaw—all stamped him as a superb product of American birth and training.