"What?" Colonel Welsh exploded as he looked from Dawson to Farmer, and back again. "What's this?"
"Farmer, sir," Dave explained. "We made about six million guesses apiece as to what this was all about. One of his was that the President was going to North Africa, or beyond, for a conference with Prime Minister Churchill and Stalin."
"Nobody heard you make that guess, did they?" the colonel asked, tight-lipped, as he fixed his eyes on young Farmer.
"No, sir!" the English youth replied. "Nobody."
"He's right, sir," Dawson spoke up quickly. "I remember when he made that guess he spoke so low I could hardly hear him, and I was lying right next to him. In case you're wondering, Colonel, it wasn't until we were on our way back to the base that Colonel Baron von Steuben slugged us. So it's certain he didn't hear Freddy."
"Yes, of course you're right," the colonel said, and smiled at Farmer. "So don't feel bad. It just gave me a start that you had hit the nail on the head. You were partly wrong, though. Joseph Stalin will not be among those present this time."
"And those envelopes, sir?" Dawson asked when the colonel fell silent and stared out the compartment window at the darkness of night sweeping by. "They are still very hush-hush stuff, as far as we're concerned? Could I ask if they contained information about the President's trip?"
The senior officer turned from the window and looked straight at him.
"You can, and I'll tell you," he said. "Each envelope contained the route the President's plane is to fly, the exact time schedule, and thecodes to be used in case the aircraft runs into trouble, or danger, and all that sort of thing. In short, as I told you in Washington, the Nazis would give almost anything to get hold of one of those sealed envelopes. With that information in their possession, they could have delivered a terrible blow to the United Nations. Think of it! The death of the President and members of the American High Command! It would be like setting our war effort back to the day of Pearl Harbor!"
The horrible thought made Dawson shiver in spite of himself, and he thanked God that Freddy and he had destroyed their letters before von Steuben had smashed them both to the ground. The President's death would have been loss enough, but to have added the loss of the great leaders of our military, naval, and air forces would have been world shaking indeed.
"And now, sir?" Dawson asked after several moments of silence. "Now another plan is to be carried out?"
Colonel Welsh didn't answer for a moment. He stared down at his two hands folded on the edge of the little table, and the expression on his thin face seemed to show a reluctance to answer that question. Presently, though, he liftedhis head and looked straight at the two youthful air aces.
"We are now headed for Casablanca," he began quietly. "With the extra tanks of fuel we have aboard, we can make it easily. If we reach Casablanca without any trouble, I will be as sure as a man can be that the enemy has not learned anything of the President's plan to fly there himself. If we don't—"
The Chief of all U. S. Intelligence let the rest trail off into thin air and made a little gesture with one hand. Dawson frowned and looked at him earnestly.
"I don't think I get what you mean, sir," he said slowly.
"And neither do I, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up.
For a moment the colonel held his lips pressed together in a thin, grim line, and a hard light glittered in his eyes.
"In a thing like this," he said presently, "you can't afford to takeanychances. You've got to be dead sure; as dead sure of everything as it is humanly possible to be, from start to finish. I had utmost confidence in your making the complete flight to Natal. And the way you two did handle yourselves, when the odds were actuallyall against you, proves that the confidence I had in you was justified. But in everything there is ever present the little item of fate. A tiny little something that is beyond man's power to see in advance, or even to counteract when it happens. For example, that technical sergeant at Bolling Field. I would have staked my life on that man. But, as things turned out, I was completely mistaken. And so with you two, or with each of my agents at the stops you were to make. Because of something you couldn't guard against, or prevent before death came to you, the contents of one of those sealed envelopes might have fallen into enemy hands. What I mean is, one of the envelopes might have been opened, the contents read, and then the envelopes resealed."
"But, Colonel," Dawson protested, "one of us would—"
"I know, I know," the colonel said, stopping him with a gesture of his hand. "But look at it this way. Suppose von Steuben had knocked you both out while you still had the envelopes? Suppose he had opened one, read its contents, and resealed it so that you'd never have guessed? What then? When you came to and found you still had the envelopes, you'd never dream that they had been touched."
"But I'd be plenty suspicious, sir!" Dawson interrupted. "I'd—"
"Would you?" the colonel's quiet but firm voice stopped him again. "But von Steuben was no fool! What if he stole your money and Farmer's money, too? What then?"
"I see what you mean, sir," Dawson said, and grinned sheepishly. "We would have thought we'd been victims of some holdup."
"Exactly," the colonel agreed. "A crazy little twist of fate over which you had no control whatever. Yet the damage would have been done. So I had to do what I could to find out if there had been any crazy twist of fate. In other words, each of those sealed envelopes contained the information, in code of course, that thenextbombing plane to pass through would carry the President, and members of his party."
Dawson blinked, and suddenly the truth hit him between the eyes.
"What, sir?" he gasped. "You—you mean this B-25 issupposedto be carrying the President?"
"I mean just that!" the colonel confirmed grimly. "Ifenemy agents have learned what was in those envelopes, they will believe that this bomber is carrying the President as a passenger. The President has already left Washington in secret, and it wouldn't take much checking by enemy agents to find out that he isn't at the White House. Naturally they'd believe he was aboard this plane."
"Anything funny happen on your flight down, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked, as the senior officer paused for breath.
"Nothing that I noticed," Colonel Welsh replied with a shake of his head. "But just because things don't happen doesn't mean that theywon't, in time. So, as I said, we won't know for sure until we arrive at Casablanca."
"And maybe not even then," Dawson mumbled to himself.
Colonel Welsh gave the Yank air ace a sharp look, and then nodded his head.
"That's right," he agreed. "And maybe not even then. Just another reason why an Intelligence man gets gray hair so early in life. You never can tell about a job until it's all finished and you're working on another. Then it's the same thing all over again."
The trio lapsed into silence, but not for long, because the question that had been plaguing Dawson just had to come out.
"Supposing we make it to Casablanca okay," he said, "and you feel sure that the enemy hasn'tlearned a thing about the President's trip, what then? The sealed orders Farmer and I were to have delivered at the rest of the stops are destroyed, and you say you collected the envelopes we left at Miami and Puerto Rico. How will they know about the President's plane when it does come through?"
"A good question, but I've got the answer, Dawson." The colonel smiled and pointed to a brief-case on his little table. "In there are duplicates of the orders,withoutthe part about the next bomber through being the President's plane. If we reach Casablanca safely, we'll turn around and head south for Liberia, cross the South Atlantic to Natal, and deliver one of those sealed envelopes to each of the stops as we fly north to Washington. I've allowed sufficient time for us to do that, in case that's the way it works out."
"Well," Dawson remarked, and shifted to a more comfortable position on his chair, "there's nothing like a two-way hop across—"
But he never finished his sentence, because at that moment the pilot of the B-25 came back into the made-over bomb compartment and spoke to Colonel Welsh.
"A surface ship just ahead, sir, sending updistress flares," he reported. "Probably a merchantman with a torpedo in her plates. We're about three hundred and fifty out, due east of Barbados. Do you want me to radio the ship's position? You gave orders, you know, to maintain radio silence."
"Sending up distress flares?" Colonel Welsh queried with a frown. "What good does she think flares will do? The captain of any other ship near by would be a fool to come close to her. The U-boat might still be lurking around."
"I know, sir," the pilot said. "Maybe she hears us and wants us to send out her position because her radio shack is gone. Maybe she thinks we're a flying boat on patrol."
For some unknown reason a sudden eerie chill rippled across the back of Dawson's neck. He looked at Colonel Welsh and tried to convince himself that this was none of his business, but that eerie chill forced him to blurt out, "And it could be somethingelse, sir! I mean, if we send out the ship's position, our radio will revealour ownposition."
The pilot of the bomber glared quickly at Dawson, and the corners of his mouth stiffened. "It isn't fun to be torpedoed at night," he said quietly. "I lost a brother that way."
Dawson flushed slightly, but he didn't drop his eyes before the other's stare. Before he could say anything, though, Colonel Welsh addressed the pilot.
"Circle her and continue to maintain radio silence, Captain," he said. "Just before you pass her to port, drop a flare so that we can get a good look at her. If she seems in trouble, then maybe we'll do something for her. Meantime, though, I want all members of the crew to go to battle stations."
The bomber pilot's eyes widened in surprise, but he had sense enough not to ask any questions. He nodded, glanced at Dawson, turned and went forward to his compartment. Dawson waited until he was out of earshot, and then gave Colonel Welsh an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, speaking out of turn like that, sir," he said. "I guess the captain must think I'm a little cracked."
"Let him think so," the colonel remarked quietly. "All he knows is that he's flying me to Casablanca for a meeting with my agents, and that it's up to him and his crew to get me there. If he'd been through what you have, he'd be the first to agree with you. Maybe the flare will tell us something. If it is a torpedoed ship,I think I will take a chance and have her position radioed. Poor dev—"
That was as far as the colonel got. The savage yammer of aerial machine-gun fire interrupted him. An instant later they all heard a yell of pain from the pilot's compartment. Even before the echo had died away, the North American B-25 heeled over on one wing and started to slide off and down with both engines wide open.
"The pilot's hit!" Dawson yelled, and lurched to his feet. "Pilot hit and his co-pilot, too, I guess. By what? How the heck—"
Dawson didn't finish, either. At that instant the night outside was lighted with a brilliance like that of high noon. A terrific roar seemed to slam into the B-25 from all sides and spin her around until she was as helpless as a dried leaf in a gale.
The crazy motion of the bomber knocked Dawson off balance and sent him lurching heavily against the flare rack as he reached the navigator's nook just aft of the pilot's compartment. The air whistled out of his lungs, and balls of colored fire danced before his eyes. Fortunately, though, his outflung hands caught hold of something, and he was able to prevent himself from pitching headlong on his face.
The B-25 was still flooded by brilliant light, and above the screaming roar of the over-revving Wright-Cyclones, Dawson could hear the chatter of aerial machine guns. He gave nothought to the thing that was happening. He had but one idea in his head, and that was to fight his way forward to the pilot's compartment. As he dived past the navigator's nook, a hand grabbed him by the arm, and he heard voices, but he could not understand the words above the din of other noises. With a savage wrench of his arm he freed himself, and piled forward into the pilot's compartment.
One glance gave him a complete picture, and his racing heart seemed to stand still. The glass of the pilot's compartment was shattered to bits. The pilot was slumped over against the Dep wheel, and the weight of his limp body was pushing the control forward so that the bomber remained in its mad dive. Beside the limp pilot was the co-pilot, flopped over against the side of the compartment and looking for all the world like a man dead tired who had simply leaned over to brace himself and catch a couple of minutes of sleep. That is, he looked like such a man except for the crimson blood that gushed from a gaping wound in his neck just below the left ear.
After one look at the hideous sight Dawson flew into action. Bracing himself behind the pilot's seat, he grabbed the limp figure by theshoulders and pulled him back on the seat. Holding him upright with one hand, he reached around and opened the catch of the pilot's safety harness. That done, he braced himself again and eased the man to the floor boards. The pilot's eyes fluttered open, and his lips sprayed drops of blood as he tried to speak. Dawson didn't have time to listen. He leaped into the pilot's seat, grabbed the control wheel with one hand, hauled back on it steadily, and eased off the throttles with his other hand.
Little by little the crazy downward plunge of the B-25 eased off. The plane began to climb back into the sky. There was still brilliant white light all about. It had a silverish tint to it, and Dawson had the impression that he was flying straight through a phosphorescent ocean. In an abstract way be realized the white light was caused by flares that had been dropped from high above the bomber and were bringing it out in clear relief for a mysterious aerial night raider.
"Where is it, and what?" Dawson gasped as he squinted his eyes in the brilliant glare. "It's just one ship. I can tell it from the guns. But what—"
He cut the rest off short and heeled the B-25way over on its wing and brought it around and up in a climbing turn with the engines wide open. He did so because he had caught a glimpse of a shadow boring in and up at him from the left. Just a shadow, but he knew instinctively that it was another plane. At the top of its climb, he whipped the bomber over and around in the opposite direction. The bomber was neither a P-40 nor a Lockheed Lightning, and his heart seemed to stand still in his throat as he waited for the big craft to come around. With each passing second, he expected to hear the savage yammer of guns blazing away at him.
As a matter of fact, a moment later he did hear guns, but they came from the B-25, not from the other plane. They came from the port side, and impulsively he jerked his head around in that direction. As he did so, he saw a sight that brought a wild cry of joy from his lips. Silhouetted against the brilliant background of light was a Nazi-marked Arada AR-95 twin-pontoon seaplane. He could see the silverish disc described by the spinning propeller, but the aircraft seemed to be standing still. Rather, it seemed to be held motionless in the air by twin streams of tracer smoke that reached out to it from the B-25.
It was motionless for only a moment, and then suddenly a sheet of flame spewed out from under its engine cowling. Fire mushroomed out in all directions, and in the wink of an eye, the Arada completely disappeared, and there was just a great cloud of fire hanging in the flare-lighted heavens. To Dawson the cloud seemed to hang not for seconds, but for minutes. And then, as though an invisible cable had been cut, the cloud of fire dropped straight downward.
"Sweet shooting! Pretty!" Dawson heard his own voice yell. "And I've got a hunch that it was good old Freddy who nailed her! If it—"
He stopped short, as he happened to glance ahead and to the left. By now the flares were burning out, and were down close to the water. Because of that he was able to see the seven-or eight-thousand-ton tramp steamer that was leaving a broad, churning wake as it made off at top speed toward the darkness to the north. The surface vessel flew no flag, and there was little to distinguish her from any of the thousands of tramp steamers.
She was no mystery to Dawson, however. One look at her racing away from the light of the fading flares was all he needed to know the truth. That ship was one of the few Nazi searaiders left, and the Arada seaplane had come from her decks. By looking carefully he could see a cradle on the forward deck, and a huge hoisting crane that must have lifted the seaplane over the side.
"The dirty dogs!" Dawson grated as he glared down at the fleeing vessel. "If only we had some bombs or depth charges aboard, what a finish we could put to that sea murderer! We'd—"
"Dawson! Thank God!"
The words seemed to explode in his ears. He jerked his head around and saw the strained features of Colonel Welsh. The Intelligence Officer's eyes were wide with both anger and amazement. His lips moved silently for a couple of seconds before he spoke again. "That was close! It would have been too close, but for you, Dawson! What's that down—"
"A Nazi raider that was carrying the seaplane," Dawson cut him off. "We can't do anything about her now, though. Even our radio is smashed, so we can't send out her position. But the pilot and co-pilot, Colonel! Get help and get them aft. The pilot is still alive, I think, but this chap—"
Dawson stopped as he turned and looked at the co-pilot in the seat next to his. Cold ragefilled his heart, and his bitter hatred of all things Nazi flared up again. Too many times had his youthful eyes looked upon death not to recognize it now. Nothing in the world could help the co-pilot. He had passed on to join his buddies in the airmen's Valhalla.
"Better get to work on the pilot behind me!" Dawson said with a sharpness he didn't realize was in his voice. "There must be a medical kit aboard this bomber. I'll stick here and keep us going. Or do you want to turn back?"
"No, keep going!" the colonel replied. "It wouldn't do to turn back now. Here, Corporal! Give me a hand with your pilot. Where's the medical kit?"
The last words were directed to one of the aircraft's crew who had come forward into the compartment. Dawson paid no attention to him, for at that moment the port engine started to kick up a bit, and he had to give all his attention to getting it to run smoothly again. By then the glow of the flares had faded out, and the B-25 was thundering on through the darkness of the night. Dawson switched on the small-instrument light so that he could keep a careful check on engine performance and hold the aircraft to her course across the Atlantic. Only oncedid he take his attention from his flying, and that was when the dead co-pilot was lifted from his seat and taken aft. Once again red rage burned within Dave, as it always did when one of his countrymen was killed. He gripped the control wheel hard to prevent his hands from shaking.
Presently somebody slid into the co-pilot's seat and touched him on the arm. It was Freddy Farmer.
"Well done, old thing!" the English youth said in a voice that shook with feeling. "Fancy we've all got you to thank for saving our hides. Personally, I was too scared to move for hours, and—"
"Nuts!" Dawson interrupted with gruff affection. "Anybody can haul a plane out of a dive. If it hadn't been for your sweet shooting, that rat might have nailed us!"
"Good grief, how did you know?" Freddy gasped. "You couldn't see me from here!"
"I didn't have to look back," Dawson chuckled. "I simply saw the kind of shooting it was and knew at once you were behind the guns. How's the pilot making out, or don't you know?"
"Not too bad, for which he can thank hislucky stars," the English youth replied. "He'll pull through all right, but I guess the chap will be out of the war for some time. What kind of blasted business was it, anyway, Dave? That beggar was waiting for us right up on top, with his confounded flares. We were—well, as you would say, a sitting duck."
"Yeah, and we were darn near a dead pigeon, too!" Dawson said grimly. "But how, and why? Don't ask me, pal! I just haven't got the brains it would take to figure out this crazy mess. To me it looks like one of those little items of fate the colonel was talking about. Unless—"
"Unless what, Dave?" Freddy Farmer pressed as Dawson fell silent.
"Unless there's no connection at all," the Yank air ace finally remarked.
"I'm afraid that doesn't make much sense to me," young Farmer said. "What do you mean, no connection?"
"Well, figure it this way," Dawson replied. "Say that the President's forthcoming trip to Casablanca is as much of a perfect secret as ever. That—"
"But that's silly!" Freddy Farmer cut in. "The fact that this plane was mysteriously attacked means that some blasted Nazi agentfound out what was in one of those sealed envelopes. I mean, that the next bomber through would have the President aboard."
"Are you all through sounding off?" Dave snapped. "Or don't you want to hear the rest of what I have to say?"
"Sorry, and all that!" the English youth snapped right back at him. "I'll be still. What were you going to say, Dave?"
"Figure the President's trip businessout," Dawson went on speaking again. "Okay. So for what other reason should we be attacked by a mysterious plane from a mysterious raider in the middle of the Atlantic? I can think of only one, and this is it. Take it or leave it. The Nazi U-boats aren't doing so hot for Hitler these days. We're sinking his steel sharks left and right, and he's going to run out of them before long. Okay. Where is a lot of our stuff going these days? To North Africa. And a lot of it is beingflownover. Okay. The Nazis don't stand a chance of going after our transports with their planes, like they can on the supply route to England. So what do they do? They send a sea raider out, fitted with a scout seaplane. The sea raider's detector picks out one of our planes crossing at night, and the seaplane goes up to high altitudeand waits. Maybe those distress signals are part of the gag to get our plane to go down for a look. Anyway, the seaplane pilot drops his flares. They light up the target for him and also blind those aboard the transport plane long enough for the Nazi rat to do his stuff with his guns. And there you are. Take it or leave it!"
"Just the point, Dawson," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke in. "I don't knowwhetherto take it or leave it. I certainly don't!"
"Oh, you there, sir?" Dawson gulped as he turned his head around. "I was just—well—"
"I know, and I'm glad I heard what you said," the colonel interrupted him. "I was certain that they were laying for us because they believed the President to be aboard. Yet I swear I don't see how they could possibly have found out. I'd stake my life that only we three know the contents of those sealed envelopes."
"If I may say so, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up, "I have a feeling that Dawson has come very close to the truth, if he hasn't hit it exactly. Frankly, sir, it was just too perfect for the Nazis to have planned it this way. There—there just wasn't enough time, I'd say."
"What do you mean by that last?" the colonel asked him.
"I mean that if we had been attacked by a land-based plane, we could take it that the Nazis had got wind of the truth and had come after us," the English youth started to explain. "But that aircraft was from a surface ship—a surface ship that wasdirectlyin our path. Tell me this, sir, if you will. On the way down, what did you plan to do when you reached Trinidad?"
"Eh?" the senior officer grunted. "Why, see you two, of course, and find out what had happened, if anything. After I had heard what you had to say, I'd decide what to do next. Why?"
"Well, there you are, sir!" young Farmer cried. "That proves that Dawson's idea must be right. Don't you see? Evenyouweren't sure as to where this aircraft would go next. You didn't even give the pilot his course instructions until the very start of the take-off. So how could the Nazis possibly have found out and radioed that surface vessel to sail to a pointdirectly in our pathin the time it took us to fly out here from Trinidad? It's—it's silly, if you'll forgive me, sir."
The colonel said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a long-drawn-out sigh.
"Yes, I guess you're right, both of you," hesaid. "The secret of the President's trip must still be as safe as ever. Yes, it must be that way. We just happened to bump into something that any plane flying this route would have bumped into."
"I sure hated to see that sea raider get away!" Dawson grumbled. "Talk about lucky shots! That first blast got the radio set cold, unless the radio man can fix it up, sir? I saw the shambles it was as I dived by the navigator's nook."
"No, no such luck," Colonel Welsh replied. "I asked him quite a while back, and he said it was hopeless. The navigator, of course, has a record of the exact position at the time, so we can report it when we reach Casablanca."
"How's the pilot, sir?" Dawson asked. "Were there any other casualties besides that poor co-pilot?"
"The pilot will pull through," Colonel Welsh replied. "The only casualty was the co-pilot. Well, I'll go aft now to see if I can do anything for the pilot. You two can get us through all right, eh? I mean—"
"If the engines keep ticking over, we'll make it, sir," Dawson said quietly. "The tanks were spared, praise be! So I think it will be all good flying from here in."
"Then I'll leave you to it," the colonel said. "And—and God bless both of you!"
Neither Dawson nor Farmer had a chance to say anything, because the Intelligence officer quickly turned and went aft.
"Well, you convinced even me with that swell sales talk of yours, Freddy," Dawson eventually broke the silence between them. "I guess maybe I did hit on the right idea, at that."
"I think you did," the English youth echoed. Then with a chuckle he added, "But I suppose I'll never hear the end of it from now on!"
"Now ain't that gratitude for you?" Dawson groaned, and shook his head sadly. "So help me, why I keep getting that food-craving hide of yours out of tight spots, I'll never understand. I must be nuts, I guess!"
"And for once," Freddy Farmer laughed, "I won't argue with you!"
For the hundredth time Dawson dug knuckles into his tired eyes, stifled the yawn that struggled to get up out of his throat, and took a quick glance at Freddy Farmer seated in the co-pilot's seat. And for the hundredth time he wondered how the English-born air ace could go through so much and still look as fresh as a daisy.
"Boy, oh boy!" he finally blurted out. "How do you do it, anyway, Freddy?"
The English youth glanced his way with arched eyebrows.
"How do I do what?" he wanted to know.
"Look so doggone full of pep," Dawson told him. "Here I feel like the last rose of summer after a steam roller has run over it, and you look like a million bucks, or more. How come? Are you taking some very secret vitamin pills that I don't know anything about, huh?"
"Certainly not!" young Farmer replied at once. "I haven't gotthatold, yet. But would you like to know the truth?"
"Well, if you insist on telling me, I suppose I've got to listen," Dawson grunted. "So shoot."
"Well, don't let my looks fool you," Farmer replied. "I may look fresh, but I definitely am not that way inside. Fact is, I'm not quite sure whether I am awake or asleep. And if you insist on knowing everything, I'd be jolly glad if we would sight land."
Dawson started slightly and shot him a keen look.
"Meaning?" he asked.
Young Farmer made a faint motion of his hand toward the milky sort of world through which the B-25 was flying. The sun had been up for a long time, now, but haze blurred the sun's rays and turned both sea and sky into a drifting milky-tinted mass that made instrument flying absolutely necessary.
"Meaning that I'm wondering if my navigation has gone haywire," Freddy said. "We should have made landfall half an hour ago, Dave. But there is nothing but blasted water down there. How's our fuel?"
"Okay, we've got plenty in the tanks," Dawson said. "If your navigation is all cockeyed, then I'll eat this ship. Of course, you are a funny sort of gink in lots of ways, my little man. But when it comes to navigating, I'll take you every time. So relax, pal. What's a half hour on an ocean hop? We probably bumped into a head wind, that's all."
"Thanks, old thing," Farmer smiled at him. "And I certainly hope that you're right. However, this whole blasted business has been so balmy right from the start that I'm willing to expect almost anything. And, in fact, I do."
Dawson ignored that remark. Freddy had certainly hit the nail on the head. Of all the jobs they had tackled, this one was certainly the most mixed up and involved. It seemed so for the very simple reason that not one thing had gone along as planned. At every turn something had popped up to toss a monkey wrench into the works and necessitate a complete revision of plans. Realization of that caused littlefingers of ice to pluck at Dawson's heart. The object of all this business was a safe journey by air to Casablanca for the President and the American High Command. With everything going haywire from the start, what other blows of Fate might be struck once the President was on his way?
"But I'm just tired, and letting myself get off the beam!" Dawson mumbled. "The colonel's secret is still his secret. And—and that raider business was just one of those things. Darn it! Nazi agents just couldn't have found out anything!"
"Just what I've been trying to convince myself of for hours," he heard Freddy Farmer say. "But I'm still finding it a bit of a difficult job. As you say, though, we're both so blasted tired. I feel as though I've been in this aircraft all my life."
"Yeah, me, too!" Dawson agreed. "I—"
He stopped speaking, straightened up in the seat, and peered into the milky-colored sky off to the left and a little bit ahead. He stared until his eyes ached and smarted.
"What's the matter, Dave?" Freddy asked presently. "Are we making landfall?"
"No," Dawson replied slowly, with a littleshake of his head. "I guess I'm just seeing things. I could swear that I saw a group of planes show off there for a split second or so."
"Planes?" young Farmer echoed excitedly. "What type? Maybe it's an escort come out to meet us, and—But no, that couldn't be. Nobody knows we're coming. Did you recognize them, Dave?"
"That's just the point," Dawson complained as he continued to stare into the milky mass that was the sky. "I'm not dead sure, but I think—Well, if you want to know, they looked like Junkers Ju-88's to me. Yeah, the big long-range babies the Nazis used against England and shipping in the Atlantic. But maybe I was just seeing things."
"You must have been, Dave!" Freddy said sharply. "It's my guess the Nazis haven't any long-range bombers to spare against shipping in this part of the Atlantic. We have far, far too much aerial cover for our boats. Besides—"
The English-born air ace didn't continue. He stared off to the left. Dave sensed the sudden movement and impulsively turned his head to look in that direction, too. As a result, they both saw the milky sky split apart for a brief moment and reveal six Nazi Junkers Ju-88'swinging along on a course almost parallel with theirs. The haze and the milky overcast parted just long enough for them to see the six-plane formation, and then it promptly closed down and hid all from view. But they had seen the ships and before Dawson took another breath he piloted the B-25 down and away on a detour course toward the north.
"You were right, Dave!" Freddy Farmer spoke first. "Absolutely right! Those were Junkers, or I've never seen one in my life. And I've seen plenty of them!"
"Junkers, right enough," Dawson repeated with a nod of his head. "And that bunch was thesecondgroup! In short, there must be a whale of a big Yank convoy that they are hunting for, or else—"
Dawson stopped and shrugged, but Freddy Farmer wouldn't let it remain that way.
"Or else what?" he demanded.
"Or else they are hunting forallplanes headed for Casablanca," Dawson replied slowly. "Go aft and get the colonel, will you, Freddy? I think he should be told what's going on."
"Definitely!" young Farmer replied, and quickly slipped out of the co-pilot's seat.
During the next couple of minutes Dawson virtually "explored" every square inch of the milky air all about the B-25 but he didn't sight any planes. Then Freddy returned with Colonel Welsh, and Dawson reported what they had seen.
"They seem to be all around our course, sir," Dawson added. "Do you want us to plow right on through, or continue to detour around this area and come into Casablanca from the north? We've the fuel left to do it, if that's what you want."
The colonel didn't reply at once. It was very plain from the expression on his thin face that the news of sighting Nazi aircraft disturbed him greatly.
"It can't be a convoy they're after," he finally said, "because there isn't one this far south. And they can't be looking for any plane, such as this one, because—"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence paused a second, shook his head, and ordered, "Get on course for Casablanca, Dawson, and plow right on through! With our radio gone, we're helpless to find out what's what—if anybody happens to know. The sooner we get to Casablanca, the better. So bang on through, but avoid actionif it's possible."
"Very good, sir," Dawson replied, and pulled the B-25 back onto her original course. "By the way, sir, how's the pilot?"
"Getting better by the minute," the colonel replied. "Lost a lot of blood, but we'll take care of that as soon as we get to Casablanca. Push on through, and I'll order the crew to remain at battle stations. This is the darnedest mess I ever bumped into!"
"If I've ever met up with anything more tantalizing, then I sure don't remember it," Dawson remarked by way of agreement. "Okay, sir! Casablanca it is, and on the run!"
Colonel Welsh murmured something that Dawson didn't catch and, giving the Yank air ace a pat on the shoulder, he swung about and returned to his battle station aft. For the next twenty-two minutes Dawson and Farmer didn't speak as the twin-engined North American B-25 prop-clawed its way forward through the milky-hued heavens. Neither of them spoke because anything they might have said would only have served to increase their fears. Both feared they were lost, and not even headed toward Casablanca. They feared that at any second a whole flock of those mysterious Junkers mightsuddenly appear in the air before them and open up with all guns. They feared that once more their plans were about to be knocked into a cocked hat.
"Jeeper, jeepers!" Dawson finally muttered. "I couldn't have a worse case of jim-jams than I've got right now, even if I was actually piloting the President's plane. I—"
"Dave!" Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. "I'll be blessed! Look!"
The English youth's exclamation was quite unnecessary because Dawson was already staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles of weather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cut off by a knife. One instant the B-25 was plowing on through the stuff, and the next it was roaring out into clear air filled with brilliant sunshine. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port of Casablanca glistening white in the sun!
"So this guy Farmer is a punk navigator, huh?" Dawson shouted joyously. "Like heck he is, what I mean!"
"Luck, blasted luck, I swear it!" Freddy breathed, but there was a happy smile on his face just the same. "Man! I never was so gladin all my life to see a place as I am to see that spot ahead. Luck, absolutely nothing but luck!"
"Okay, have it your way," Dawson laughed. "But just keep right on having this kind of luck. That's all I've got to say. Boy, oh boy! Dry land ahead, and something to eat, and a place to lay down my weary head. Oh-oh! Here come some of the boys to give us a look-see. See them, Freddy?"
"Of course," the English youth replied with a nod, and fixed his gaze on the flight of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings that were sweeping gracefully up off North African soil and streaking out to sea toward the B-25.
In less time than it takes to tell about it, those high-speed fighter aircraft were right on top of the B-25 and skipping and sliding all about it as their pilots investigated. It took them but a couple of moments to satisfy themselves. Then they throttled and dropped into escort position. That is, all except one pilot. He slid out in front to lead the way to the American-built air base on the north side of the city. A few minutes later Dawson throttled his engines, and slid the B-25 down to a feather-bed landing. At a signal from the Operations Tower, he trundled the bomber in toward the small AdministrationBuilding. There he killed his engines completely, took a deep breath, and relaxed in the seat. A glance at the instrument clock showed that he had been in the air for a little over twelve hours, but the way his numbed body felt, it was as though he had been in the air for over twelve hundred hours.
"So this is Casablanca," he murmured, and absently unsnapped his safety harness. "Well, I sure want to give it a look, but not right now. No, sir! For the next thirty-six hours, and maybe longer, all I want is a nice soft bed!"
"Make that two, if you please!" Freddy Farmer added, and put a hand to his mouth to cover the yawn he could no longer hold back. "Just a—Oh-oh! Here comes a high-ranker in very much of a hurry. Now what, I wonder?"
Dawson looked toward the Administration Building and saw a trim major general of the Air Force running toward the B-25. By the time he reached it, Colonel Welsh was out of the plane. The two officers exchanged hasty salutes, and the major general started to take Colonel Welsh by the arm and lead him away. The colonel held back, however, nodded at the bomber and said something. The major general nodded in reply and made a waving motionwith one hand. Then the pair turned and hurried over to the Administration Building and disappeared inside.
"Well, how do you like that?" Dawson gasped. "What about that wounded pilot aft?"
"That's why the colonel stopped," Freddy Farmer replied, and poked a finger to the right. "Here comes the ambulance now. Let's get back and see if we can lend them a hand. After all, this is his aircraft."
"Right; let's go," Dawson agreed, and pushed his stiff body out of the seat. "The least we can do is wish him all kinds of luck."
They made their way back to the compartment where the wounded pilot was resting on blankets laid out on the floorboards. There was some color in his face, now, and his neck and the upper part of his chest was swathed in bandages. Gathered about him were the members of his crew, each trying to keep from looking at the blanket-covered body of the co-pilot that lay on the far side of the compartment.
Dawson crouched beside the wounded pilot and grinned cheerfully.
"Lucky guy, Captain," he said. "A nice hospital, pretty nurses, and swell food for you. How's for changing places, huh?"
"I'll let you know after I've tried it for once," the other said, and matched the grin. "And, Dawson—"
"Yes, fellow," Dave prompted.
"I'm a dope, Dawson," the pilot said. "I want to apologize for that crack I made about losing a brother in a night torpedoing. It sure turned out different. I didn't know the score, you see, so I thought you were just—Well, I mean—"
"Skip it, fellow, skip it," Dawson smiled, and gently pressed the other's arm. "I didn't know the score myself, so I was just whistling in the dark. But forget it, Skipper! You had a perfect right to think as you did. Now here's the ambulance, so I'll stop talking. Good luck, fellow. And if we can work it, we'll come say howdy to you in the hospital. Good luck, anyway!"
"Yes, a million in luck, old thing!" Freddy Farmer added as he stood smiling down at the man.
"I've already had the million in luck, thanks to you two," the pilot said, as the ambulance medico came climbing into the B-25. "Be sure and come see me, if you can. I want to thank you for bringing the ship through. I'm kind of fond of her, you see, and—Well, you know how it is, eh?"
Both Dawson and Farmer nodded gravely. Being pilots, they knew exactly how a fellow felt about his aircraft. Made of metal, and plastics, and wood, and fabric, to be sure. But to its pilot, it was something human and full of understanding. Something that couldn't be put into words, because there are no words in any language that can adequately describe the feeling a pilot holds in his heart for his plane. Dawson and Farmer simply nodded gravely, and gave a hand in lifting the wounded man out of the bomber and putting him in the ambulance.
"A nice guy," Dave murmured as the ambulance pulled away. "I sure am going to visit him if I get the chance."
"Yes, and me too, if!" Freddy Farmer murmured.
The remark caused Dawson to turn his head and glance sharply at his pal.
"And just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
Young Farmer shrugged and nodded toward the Administration Building. "That chap headed our way," he said. "I've a bit of a hunch that something is up."
"Huh?" Dawson gasped. "What—"
He let the rest go as a field orderly came upon the run and saluted smartly. "Colonel Welsh's compliments, Captains Dawson and Farmer," the orderly said. "He asks that you report to him in the commanding general's office in an hour."
"Anhour?" Dawson choked out, and then caught himself. "Very good, Sergeant," he said hastily. "We'll be there."
The orderly saluted and retreated toward the Administration Building. Dawson groaned softly.
"One hour, and off we go again! How much sleep can a fellow catch in an hour, I'd like to know?"
"About sixty minutes' worth," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Frankly, I prefer to spend that time eating. Let's go hunt up the Officers' Mess."
Dawson started to speak, thought better of it, and dropped into step with Freddy. One hour, huh? And then what? But he was much too tired and hungry to bother guessing up some answers. What would happen, would happen. And, after all, what was one more hour in this mysterious business?
What was one more hour? The gods of war on high could havetold him. They could have told him it was just one more hour in which the Grim Reaper could steal closer and make ready to strike a blow that would stun the entire civilized world!