The usually active, buzzing Bolling Field was shrouded in darkness and looked almost completely deserted as Colonel Welsh wheeled the car up toward the main gates. When he came within twenty yards of those gates, however, there was instant proof that not everybody was asleep. Two small-sized searchlight beams cut the darkness and focused square on the moving car. Dawson, from past experience, knew that up in the little towers that housed the searchlights were a couple of machine guns that were also trained dead on the car. In addition, the captain on duty and two armed guards suddenly appeared and closed in on the car in nothing flat. And as if the twin searchlight beams were not enough, the captain snapped on a flashlight and played it straight into Colonel Welsh's face, then into Dawson's, and then into Freddy Farmer's. Just to make sure, the captain turned the light on the colonel's face once more, and then snapped it out.
"Your pass, please, sir," he said quietly.
The colonel produced it, and the captain was completely satisfied. He stepped back, saluted, and gave an order. As the heavy gates swung open, Colonel Welsh slipped the car into gear and rolled on through. Looking back, Dawson noted that the guns of the guards, and the searchlight beams, too, followed the car well inside the field. The idea seemed silly to him for a moment. Then he realized that it would be quite easy for somebody who wasn't wanted to hook a ride on the rear bumper, and thus get inside where he didn't belong.
"Yes, sir!" he murmured as he turned front again. "This is one place that would stop even Superman cold."
"I hope that's true, and I believe it is," Colonel Welsh stated.
Dawson turned his head and glanced sharplyat the Intelligence Chief. An undernote in the officer's voice had a queer ring. Before he could ask questions, however, Colonel Welsh turned the car in through the wide-open doors of one of the hangars, braked it to a stop just inside, and switched off the engine. A single rafter-light threw a pale glow about the interior, and in one sweeping glance Dave saw that the hangar was empty of planes except for a single Army-Air-Forces, Wright Cyclone-powered, Vultee V-12C, attack bomber. A couple of mechanics and a technical sergeant were standing by the wing. They came over to the car at once, and gave the colonel a snappy salute.
"All set and ready, as you ordered, sir," the technical sergeant said.
Colonel Welsh climbed out of the car, and nodded.
"Very good, Sergeant," he said. "Roll her out and start her up, will you? We're going to use Captain Billings' office for a few minutes. If anybody happens to wander in, no matter who, you have my authority to send him right along on his way."
"Right, sir," the technical sergeant answered, and grinned as though he could name two or three high rankers he would just love to toss outon their ears, now that he had the permission to do so.
However, he didn't mention that little item. Instead, he snapped orders to the two mechanics, and all three of them began rolling the attack bomber out onto the hangar apron. Meanwhile Colonel Welsh led Dawson and Farmer into Captain Billings' office in a rear corner of the hangar. He snapped on the light, closed the door, waved them to a couple of chairs, and sat down at a desk. He drew six envelopes from an inside pocket of his tunic. Each envelope was heavily sealed with wax, and each was made of a peculiar-looking paper. At first glance it struck Dawson that it was oil paper, or shark's skin. At any rate, he had a sudden thought that each envelope was absolutely waterproof.
The colonel placed them in a pile on the desk in front of him, and then rested a hand on top of the pile, almost as though he expected a non-existent wind or an invisible force to snatch them away.
"You two are headed for Natal, Brazil," he began, speaking quietly. "With stops on the way at Miami, Puerto Rico, San Fernando in British Trinidad, Paramaribo in Dutch Guiana, Belem in Brazil, and Natal. You will land onthe government airport at each of those points. Officially, you are making a survey flight for the Army Air Transport Command. At Miami and Puerto Rico you will contact the American commanding officer, and deliver to himin the presence of no one elsethe envelope that bears his name. On the authority of a letter which I shall give you to take along, you are to instruct him to guard his envelope with his life, andnotto open it until the sixteenth of this month. At San Fernando, Paramaribo, Belem, and Natal, of course you will contact the officer in command of the American staff, and not the commanding officer of the airport."
The colonel paused for a moment as though permitting time for his instructions to sink in. Then he tapped the pile of heavily sealed, waterproof envelopes with his fingers.
"These contain information on perhaps the most important secret of this war!" he continued, speaking in a grave tone. "The Axis would gladly give up half a dozen divisions of troops for the possession of any one of these envelopes. And that doesn't even begin to describe how important they are. I am the only man in the world who knows of the flight you two are to begin in a few minutes. At least, I pray to God that I'mthe only one. However, in view of the fact that absolutely nothing issurein this war, I must give you this order: Under no circumstances, not even under the threat of the most horrible kind of death, is either of you to permit a single one of these letters to get into the hands of anybody but the American officer whose name is typed on the front of each envelope. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dawson said with a nod.
"Definitely, sir," Freddy Farmer echoed.
"And I'm sure you do," the colonel said. "I can't help, though, but stress that point.Don't let any of these envelopes out of your sight until each has been delivered to the proper person.Make doubly sure that each of those proper persons understands what he is to do. Naturally, you'll be asked questions by those officers as to what the envelopes contain. That is one reason why I'm not even telling you, so that you can truthfully reply that you do not know. Just remember, this is the most secret mission you have ever undertaken. Guard these envelopes with your lives and see that they are delivered to the proper parties. If the commanding officer does not happen to be there when you arrive, donotgive the envelope to the next in command. Staythere until the commanding officer does arrive. If you have a forced landing, play up the fact you are on a survey flight. If your plane is damaged, a wire sent to me in Washington will get an immediate reply ordering the commandant of the airfield nearest the scene of your crash to turn over a plane to you. If one of you happens to be injured in the crash, the other will carry on alone as soon as possible, without creating suspicion that the flight is not for survey purposes."
The colonel suddenly stopped talking and drew from his pocket two small vials containing a brownish liquid. He placed them beside the pile of envelopes, and looked at the two air aces again.
"If both of you are hurt badly," he said, "or if—and I pray God it will not happen—you should fall into the hands of enemy agents, or force-land on the water and be approached by a lurking U-boat, you are to take the caps from these vials and pour the contents over the envelopes. The powerful acid they contain will completely destroy the envelopes and their contents in a matter of seconds. In short, it is your sacred trust to destroy these envelopes before you die—or are captured. Now, to make sure,repeat to me the instructions I've just given you."
Dawson spoke for the pair and repeated almost word for word everything the colonel had told them.
"Well, that's all I've got to say," the Intelligence Chief said with a nod. "Here, Dawson. Three of these and a vial are for you. And the other three and a vial are for you, Farmer. Naturally, my prayers go with you for a safe and very uneventful flight. If it helps any, I personally chose you two for this flight, because—well, you've come through for me several times in the past, and I know you will again. One thing, though. If any of the envelopes fall into Axis hands, I might just as well put a bullet through my brain, because I wouldn't want to go on living. Have either of you any questions?"
"Yes, sir, I have one," Freddy Farmer spoke up.
"Then let's have it," Colonel Welsh said with a nod.
The English-born air ace hesitated a moment, and a slight flush crept up into his sun-and-wind-bronzed face.
"These chaps to whom we deliver the envelopes, sir," he said with a frown. "What ifthey—Well, what I'm trying to say, sir, is supposingtheydon't follow the orders we give them? What if they should lose their envelopes or—well, you know."
"They won't, Farmer," Colonel Welsh said with a grim shake of his head. "Each of the six officers that you will contact is not only an officer in our Armed Forces, but a carefully selected member of Intelligence as well. In short, each is one of my own men. And after you show them this letter of authority, you need not worry that they won't follow orders right to the letter."
As he spoke, the colonel drew a seventh, but unsealed, envelope from his pocket and handed it to Freddy Farmer. Then he turned his head and looked at Dawson's frown.
"Yes, Dawson?" he asked. "You've a question, too?"
"A couple, Colonel," Dave replied. Then with a shrug, "The first may strike you as stupid."
"How can I say, until you ask it?" the Intelligence officer demanded as the Yank air ace didn't go on.
"These officers we're to contact—" Dawson said presently—"is there any way we can make sure that eachisthe one we believe him to be?In other words, we've just got six names, Colonel. I haven't read them yet, but it's possible that neither Freddy nor I know the men from Adam as far as looks are concerned."
"A mighty good question, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said with an emphatic nod. "Just shows you've got your eye on the ball right at the start. Contact the officer, show him my letter of authority, and demand his identification. It will be a copper disc with some numbers stamped on it. Every set of numbers will add up to forty-one—the year, incidentally, of Pearl Harbor. If the numbers don't add up to forty-one, then he is not your man."
"And if theydon'tadd up to forty-one, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked, and leaned forward.
Colonel Welsh's lips stiffened, and an agate-hard glint came into his eyes. He pointed to the letter of authority Freddy held in his hands.
"Use that to have the man placed under close arrest at once!" he said harshly. "And get in radiophone communication with me as soon as possible.Ifthe man tries to evade arrest, tries to escape—shoot him dead on the spot! Yes, that's an unusual order, but this is an unusual mission. Now, the other question, Dawson? What is it?"
"When we reach Natal, sir," Dave said, "what do we do? Fly back and report to you?"
"No," the senior officer said with a shake of his head. "I'm allowing three days for you to make this stop-over flight to Brazil. That should get you in Natal by the fourteenth, the fifteenth at the latest. Put up at the Pan-Am Hotel. I will join you there on the fifteenth. I'll have another little mission for you when I get there. Well, any other questions?"
Dawson and Farmer looked at each other. Then they looked at Colonel Welsh, and each shook his head. The senior officer stood up, and as though the gods had waited for that exact instant, the Vultee's Wright-Cyclone outside broke forth with its song of mighty power.
"Then that's that," Colonel Welsh said. "There's some flying gear over there on the wall. Select what you want, and then let's get outside to the plane. I'll stake my life that not a soul has heard what we've been talking about, but four walls always get on my nerves. I like it better out in the open where I can see in all directions, and for some distance, too. But don't pay any attention to me. I'm under a slight strain, and it's trying its darnedest to get me. Stupid, of course. So select your stuff, and let'sget out to the plane. God bless you, and all kinds of happy landings until we meet again in Natal, Brazil."
If they happened to be listening to the colonel's parting words, the gods of war, and death, and doom, must have had quite a laugh for themselves!
Shifting to a slightly more comfortable position in the Vultee's cockpit seat, Dave Dawson absently drummed the fingers of one hand on the side of the cockpit and stared down at the sky-blue Caribbean Sea rolling far beneath his wings. Behind him was Puerto Rico, and a considerable way ahead of him was the British-owned island of Trinidad. Several miles off the Vultee's left wing tip were the Leeward and Windward islands of the West Indies jutting up out of the blue water. High above him was a cloudless sky with a shimmering ball of gold in the center.
All in all, it was a scene that would have made poets rave, and the hardest of hearts melt. However, if the truth must be known, it left Dawson cold. Not because he did not possess an eye for Nature's beauty; it was rather because, though he was looking at it, he wasn't actually seeing it. His mind was too filled with other and more personal thoughts.
The previous night he and Freddy Farmer had taken off from Bolling Field and had flown directly to the Army Air Forces base at Miami. There, after making sure, they had delivered the first of the sealed envelopes. Later they had flown on to the base at San Juan, on Puerto Rico, and delivered the second envelope. Now they were winging their way farther south to the Air Transport Command base at San Fernando on Trinidad.
"After Trinidad, Paramaribo, and Belem, and Natal," Dawson said, and scowled down at the beautiful Caribbean. "That's just the point, too. A couple of air-mail pilots, that's all we are!"
"What's that, Dave?" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice in the inter-com phones. "What are you mumbling about?"
"Mumbling?" Dawson snorted. "I was shouting with joy! I'm so excited that I can hardly keep from jumping overboard. And now that I think of it, maybe thatwouldbe a good idea!"
"Then go right ahead, old thing," the English youth in the rear pit chuckled. "Nothing I want more than for you to have your own way, you know."
"Don't look right now, but you can go fly a kite to the moon, pal!" Dawson growled. "I suppose you're enjoying this here-to-there hop in the sky?"
"Well, Ihaveseen better piloting," Freddy came right back. "But, considering one thing and all, I'm not too fed up—yet. On the other hand, it is a bit boring. I mean—"
"You mean what?" Dave asked as Freddy let the rest hang in mid-air.
"Don't know just how to put it in words," young Farmer replied. "But—well, after that little talk with the colonel last night, I was quite steamed up, as you would say. Very mysterious, and exciting, and possibly dangerous, if you get what I mean."
"I do," Dawson grunted. "But all it is to me now is mysterious. You can have my share of the excitement and danger, if any. I'm just full of beans, though, I guess. After some of the closeshaves you and I have had, routine stuff just gets me down, but quickly! But there have been two bright spots in this thing so far, thank goodness."
"Bright spots?" Freddy Farmer echoed. "Then I must have been looking the other way at the time. What do you mean?"
"At Miami and San Juan," Dawson replied. "The way those two commanding officers tried to pump us as to what the sealed envelopes contained. It was nice to look very wise and not tell them a darn thing. It was fun to see somebody else floundering around in the dark. Misery loves company. Say! Know what I hope, Freddy?"
"I wouldn't even dare guess!" the English-born air ace replied. "What do you hope?"
"That the lad we contact at San Fernando has a copper disc with numbers that add up to forty-five!" Dawson told him.
"What?" young Farmer gasped. "Forty-five? But, Dave, the number is—"
"Sure, forty-one!" Dawson cut in. "But don't you catch on, pal? If the number is forty-five, it means that the lad is a phoney. And that means that maybe we'll get some excitement out of this aerial messenger boy job."
"Rot, and very much so!" Freddy snapped angrily. "Come off it, Dave! This is very serious business, and you are absolutely balmy to even hope that things will go wrong. Just remember what Colonel Welsh said, Dave. If one of these sealed envelopes should fall into Axis hands, he'd rather put a bullet in his brain than go on living. Stop being a blasted fool, old thing! It's not a bit like you at all!"
"Okay, okay, papa!" Dawson chuckled. "Consider that you have up-ended me and given me the shingle where it counts most. Just the same, I hate to think of going stark, raving mad in the cockpit of a Wright-powered Vultee."
"Well, if that's all that's bothering you, you can put it out of your mind at once," Freddy snapped, "because you were that way a long, long time ago!"
"Oh, yeah?" Dawson shouted.
"Yeah!" Freddy Farmer replied. "But definitely!"
They left it that way for the next fifteen minutes or so. At the end of that time the Vultee was well out of sight of all land, and Dawson was keeping it on course with instruments. At the end of that time, too, the southern part of the heavens began to mist and fog up and graduallychange to a copperish gray. The straight line that marked where the blue of the sky ended and the copperish gray began told Dawson that a line squall was moving across the Caribbean. But five minutes later the little twinge of uneasiness that had come to him melted away, because the copperish gray moved westward and not up northward toward the Vultee. However, because of the silly mood that had gripped him since leaving Puerto Rico, he had to voice a crazy thought.
"Wouldn't you know, not even a storm to give us something extra to do!"
"Eh, Dave?" he heard Freddy Farmer say. Then a second later, he felt Farmer's hand tapping him on the shoulder, and heard his pal's excited voice crackling in his inter-com phones. "Bear ten degrees eastward, Dave! There's something down there on the water. Can't see it clearly yet. Looks like a bit of rag being waved about by somebody."
Dawson changed the Vultee's course, and at the same time twisted around in the seat and glanced back at Freddy. Then he turned front and peered ahead and down in the direction of the English youth's pointed finger. He squinted his eyes slightly and even shielded them againstthe golden sun with his free hand. But for all he could see, he might just as well have kept both eyes shut. There was just blue Caribbean, turned golden here and there by shafts of sunlight dancing off the surfaces of the rolling swells.
"I know you can see through a brick wall, Freddy," he said, "but if you can see anything down there, then I'll eat it!"
"It will be quite a meal!" Freddy Farmer cried. "Because it happens to be a life raft! And there are chaps on it. Yes, four chaps! And one is waving his shirt, or something. Blast those dirty U-boat blighters!"
"Never mind the U-boats!" Dawson growled. "Just stick to the raft. Where the heck is it? I think you're seeing things. I—Hold it, everybody; hold it! I see it now, Freddy! I wasn't looking far enough out. Yeah! That's a raft sure enough. Boy! I bet this sun is doing plenty to those birds!"
As Dawson spoke, he watched the small raft riding the rolling swells of the blue Caribbean, as helpless as a leaf. As he stared at the four figures in the raft, his anger boiled and the blood throbbed in his temples. Dirty U-boat blighters, and how, as Freddy had said. Of all the fighting forces to come out of Nazi Germany, the U-boat commanders and crews were the worst. Human life, and particularly the lives of women and children, meant even less to them than it did to the Gestapo. Steel sharks of the sea, they were called. To call them that was an insult to a real man-eating shark. There just wasn't any name to call those who manned Nazi U-boats, because there is no name in any language that adequately describes them.
Yes, the dirty U-boat blighters! Down there on the bobbing raft were four who were no doubt victims of a terrible life-and-ship-destroying explosion that had probably come in the dark of night. As those and other bitter thoughts raced through Dawson's mind, he impulsively eased back the Wright-Cyclone's throttle and slanted the nose of the Vultee downward.
"How I wish this was a flying boat, and we could pick up those poor beggars!" he heard Freddy Farmer groan.
"You and me both!" Dave agreed. "We have a radio, thank goodness. So we can get help sent out before those fellows have to spend another night at sea. I wonder how long they've been floating around?"
"Quite some time, I fancy," Freddy Farmersaid. "The chap waving his shirt seems to be the only one with any life in him. The three huddled down in the raft might as well be dead. Sights like that one make me thank my lucky stars I'm in the air end of this blasted war."
"You can say that again for me!" Dawson echoed. "At least in the air you get it clean and fast. Mostly, anyway. Check and double-check! The boys that really deserve the medals and the praise in this scrap are the merchant marine fellows. They have nothing to fight back with except a pea-shooter at the stern, and maybe one on the bow. They're perfect floating targets twenty-four hours a day. If their engines break down, heaven help them! Yes, my hat is off to those fellows, and I don't mean maybe. I—Hey, Freddy! See that? He's trying to send us a message with his shirt, isn't he? He seems to be waving it down to the right more than down to the left."
"That's right!" Freddy Farmer cried. "That's the old International Morse code done with a flag. To the right is a dot, and to the left is a dash. And straight down in front means the end of a word. Now, where's my blasted pencil, and I'll put it down. There he put it down in front three times! That means the end of the message.If he'll only repeat it, I think I can get it."
The man standing on the tiny raft seemed to wait a moment or two, as though he were striving to rally his waning strength for another effort. Then he started waving his shirt again. It was a short message, and both boys got it without bothering to jot down each letter. The message signaled was:
FLY OVER LOW PLEASE, IMPORTANT
"What do you make of that, Freddy?" Dawson asked, and dipped the Vultee's nose even more. "Does he think we're a rescue plane that's come to drop food and water, poor devil?"
"I don't know," the English youth replied. "Possibly. Or maybe there's something on the raft he wants us to see. The only thing to do is to go down and find out. I say! I've just remembered! I have some chocolate, Dave. I'll tie it up in my handkerchief and try to drop it right onto the raft, if you get us down low enough. But, for heaven's sake, don't hit the raft, or the water!"
"Aw gee!" Dawson grated at him. "And that's just what I was planning to do, too! You spoilall my fun, you dope! Act your age, will you?"
"Just don't take us down too low," Freddy Farmer reminded him evenly.
Dawson opened his mouth to make a fitting retort. Instead he shrugged, let Freddy's remark slide, and concentrated on getting the Vultee down as low as he possibly could. When he had reached an altitude of some ten or fifteen feet, he throttled the Wright Cyclone until it was just a shade on the good side of stalling. He guided it toward the tiny life raft. The shirt-waver had ceased his signaling and was crouching down on the raft as though he were afraid Dawson was going to bounce the Vultee's belly off the top of his hatless head.
"So you're also silly enough to think I'll come too close?" Dawson growled, as he experienced a moment of annoyance. "Well, relax, fellow! Just relax, and let's have a look at the meaning of that message. Okay, Freddy! Get set to drop that chocolate!"
As he spoke, he impulsively started to jerk his head around. Some inner warning cut short his effort, and it was that inner warning that unquestionably saved his life, and Freddy Farmer's life, too. In other words, just as he was about to turn his head for a look at YoungFarmer, all four men on the raft sprang to crouching positions. Each gripped a sub-machine gun in his hands and blazed away at the coasting Vultee!
True, Dawson's sudden inner warning had helped, but it was his instinctive reaction to sudden danger that actually saved his life and Freddy's. In less time than it takes to bat an eyelash, he had smashed the throttle wide open with one hand and was hauling the Vultee around in a wing tip water-kissing turn with the other. Had he started to climb at that same time, the Grim Reaper still might have claimed them both, because the four crouching figures on the raft had automatically pointed their machine guns skyward.
As it happened, though, Dawson held the Vultee in a tight turn until its tail was toward the raft. Then he quickly flattened out, shot forward for a split second, and banked the Vultee over on its left wing tip. He banked it to the right wing tip and hauled the craft up in a twisting power zoom toward the sun-filled heavens. Only when he was well out of range and had leveled off did he let the clamped air out of his lungs and shake the cold beads of sweat from his forehead.
"Suffering rattlesnakes, Freddy!" he choked out. "Was that a nightmare, or did it happen? Those bums let fly at us, Freddy! All four of them!"
There was no answer from young Farmer, and in the length of time it took Dawson to twist around in the seat, he seemed to die a thousand deaths. His fears were unfounded, however. Freddy Farmer was very much alive. No bullet had snuffed out his life, though the left side of his glass hatch was covered with a million tiny cracks. Amazement and utter bewilderment were all that was wrong with the British-born air ace. He sat rigid in his seat, staring at Dawson as though he had never seen him before in his life. His face was white under his sun-and-wind bronze, and his mouth hung open as though he had intended to yell, but had been shocked into forgetting all about it.
"Hey, Freddy, snap out of it!" Dawson shouted, and rocked the Vultee violently.
The English youth stared blankly for a second longer. Suddenly he blinked, and his whole body shook like a leaf. The breath came from between his lips in a whistle that Dawson could almost hear above the roar of the Vultee's Cyclone.
"The blighters! The low-down dirty beggars! They shot at us; They—they—" Young Farmer choked on his words, and his eyes opened still wider in amazement.
It took a half second or so for Dawson to realize that Freddy was looking at something forward and downward. Automatically, he twisted around front and looked down. He let out a bellow of surprise. Down on the Caribbean was a Nazi U-boat breaking surface not over fifty yards from the floating life raft. Unable to move a muscle, he stared as the conning-tower hatch opened and a couple of men spilled out onto the wet deck and hurried toward the bow. The undersea killer veered over toward the floating raft.
What he saw made Dave fighting mad. He shook with anger, and a red film seemed to slide over his eyes.
"So?" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "So it's like that, huh?"
It was just like that. No sooner had the words left Dawson's lips than the U-boat's bow gun belched flame, and the sky a hundred yards or so off the Vultee's right wing tip seemed to explode in a roar of sound and a great puff of oily black smoke. An instant later, another bit of skyseemed to explode. This time the puff of oily black smoke was high above the Vultee. This was because Dawson had turned the nose of the plane downward and was thundering straight at the U-boat at almost rocket speed.
"So you want to play, do you?" He shouted the crazy words. "Well, so do we! And how! Here, catch, you tramps!"
The Vultee's wing guns punctuated his words with a chattering blast of sound that made the aircraft tremble violently. Straight lines of silver tracers cut down at the two men crouched behind the guard of the U-boat's bow gun. They would have done better had they dived overboard and down under the U-boat's keel. The bullets from the Vultee's wing guns found them and smashed them to the steel deck. Tapping rudder a bit, Dawson veered the plane's nose a shade to the right and blazed away at the open conning tower hatch. A man crawling up out of it was flung head over heels clear of the U-boat's side and down into the water as though by some invisible giant.
By then the Vultee's prop was about ready to chew into the conning tower itself, and Dawson had to haul the nose up and go curving around and away. That maneuver permitted FreddyFarmer to go into action with his rear guns. As Dave jerked his head around for a split second, he saw the four men on the raft trying to scramble up to the U-boat's wet deck, only to go toppling over backwards like tenpins and disappear beneath the surface of the water.
"There, you rotten beggars, you'll not do that again!" the English youth's voice rang loud in Dawson's inter-com phones. "Not by half, you won't!"
"The sub's crash diving, Freddy!" Dawson yelled as he saw the hatch close and the nose of the U-boat slip down under water. "Oh, gosh! If we only had a depth charge or two! Oh, how I hate to let that snake get away!"
As the wishful words spilled off his lips, he was in the act of doing what little he could. That was wheeling around and down for another run over the crash-diving U-boat, and letting fly with all his guns at the top half of the submerging craft. He might possibly hit some part that would check the dive and force the U-boat back to the surface. That was a slim, slim hope, and it died completely as the entire craft slid out of sight, leaving behind an empty life raft and seven bodies.
With a groan Dave cut his fire, and hauledthe Vultee up out of its dive and onto even keel. He stared down at the floating bodies, gulped, shuddered slightly, and drew a hand across his goggles, as though that would wipe away the scene below and make everything as it had been before. It didn't, of course, but when he took another look downward he found it hard to believe that Death had been whispering so close. Then he snapped out of his trance.
"Get the nearest patrol base on the radio, Freddy, and report that U-boat's position!" he spoke into his inter-com mike. "There's just a chance that it may have to surface soon, and somebody else can nail it."
"Right-o!" Freddy Farmer called back. "But, gosh, I would love to be that somebody else! Or—or has this just been a crazy dream, Dave? It doesn't make sense! Those were blasted Nazis on the life raft. Like—like a confounded decoy, or something. I—"
"Decoy?" Dave Dawson gasped, and sat up straight in the pit. "Holy smoke! Do you suppose so? Sure, you must be right. Look, Freddy! Report that U-boat's last position. Then we'll get out of here, but fast! Something is kind of screwy, and I don't like it, but plenty I don't."
As Dawson nosed the Vultee around and ontoits course for San Fernando on British-owned Trinidad, he impulsively lifted his free hand to his chest and pressed it against the two sealed envelopes and the little vial of acid that were in his inside tunic pocket.
The U. S. Army Air Transport Command at San Fernando comprised the entire south side of the Trinidad air base. Dawson spotted the American flag atop the Administration Building from the air. After his recent experience, a great sense of relief and joy flooded through him at the sight of Old Glory waving proudly in the breeze. And not only that, but the sight of Old Glory meant also that this crazy aerial messenger-boy mission was one-half completed. Three more stops and they would be at Natal. There they would meet Colonel Welsh and, please, please, God, find out what in thunder this secret sealed-envelope business was all about.
"And if he doesn't tell me," Dawson muttered as he let down the Vultee's wheels and nosed the craft earthward, "it's going to be the end of a beautiful friendship as far as I'm concerned. Right! He's got to give us a tiny inkling, at least or—or—Well, I sure hope he does, anyway."
"So do I, old chap!" he heard Freddy Farmer echo his hope. "I also want to see his face when we tell him what we have to tell. You haven't any new ideas, have you, Dave?"
"Dawson shook his head. During the remainder of the flight to this next stop, both had taken the U-boat experience apart and had carefully examined it piece by piece. It was all to no avail, in regard to reaching any definite conclusion. True, the logical conclusion was that the life raft had served as a decoy to bring them down so low that its occupants could shoot them into the water. When that had failed, the lurking U-boat had surfaced to try its luck with its bow anti-aircraft gun. If that was the correct conclusion, it made everything even more screwy. Colonel Welsh was the only man living who knew why they were making this crazy flight. He had told them so. How could a NaziU-boat at sea learn the secret they shared with Colonel Welsh? And—
"Gosh!" Dawson gasped. "But no! Heck, no! That would be even screwier!"
"What, Dave?" Freddy asked. "You do have a new idea?"
"Not exactly," Dawson replied. "Just a chilling thought. Do you suppose those birds on that raft werereallytorpedo survivors, and in their crazed state took us for a Nazi plane and—"
"What utter rot, Dave!" Freddy Farmer interrupted. "Don't be silly, old thing! Of course not! Would four torpedo survivors bother to take four sub-machine guns onto a life raft with them? Certainly not! Come out of it, Dave! They were Nazis, sure enough. They were from that U-boat, too, and set adrift to have a go at us."
"But how—" Dawson began and cut himself off short. "Oh, skip it! If I let myself think any more about the crazy business, I'll forget what I'm doing and crack us up."
"Then for goodness' sakes don't think of it!" Freddy Farmer cried in alarm. "I fancy I've had excitement enough for the rest of this day! So forget things and keep your eye on that field down there."
Dawson did just that, and a couple of minutes later he set the Vultee down light as a feather and taxied it over toward the Administration Building. He braked to a stop eventually, unsnapped his safety and parachute harness, and climbed stiff-legged down onto the ground. Freddy Farmer joined him, and they were just starting to get some of the flight stiffness out of their legs when a major came out of the Administration Building and walked over to them.
"Captains Dawson and Farmer?" he asked with a smile.
"Yes, sir." Dave replied with a salute. "I'm Dawson. And you are Major Parker, Yank commandant here, sir?"
"That's right," the senior officer replied. "Welcome to Trinidad. Word came through that you were making a survey flight along our South American bases. I think you'll find we're not doing so badly here at San Fernando. Here, this came through about half an hour ago. It's addressed to you both. Needless to say, we didn't try to decode it. I don't believe we have that code in the base book, anyway."
The major held out a small yellow envelope. Dawson took it, ripped it open, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. His heart did a loop inhis chest when he saw that the coded message was signed, "Tiger." That was the signature Colonel Welsh used whenever he contacted the boys in secret. The major had been quite correct, too. The code used by Colonel Welsh was not to be found in the regular base code book, because it was a special one that the colonel had made up himself. This code was not known by more than half a dozen men, two of them being Dawson and Farmer. The value of such a code was that it was so made up that a decoding book, or decoding wheel, was not needed. Once you knew the code, you could read messages from the memory of what the various letters and numbers and symbols meant.
Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer looked at it together, while Major Parker politely stared off across the base field. The true meaning of the message became instantly apparent to them. Translated in their minds, it read:
"Halt flight San Fernando. Arriving by air midnight. Serious emergency developed. Maintain constant alert. Destroy evidence if necessary. Important!Welsh"
"Halt flight San Fernando. Arriving by air midnight. Serious emergency developed. Maintain constant alert. Destroy evidence if necessary. Important!
Welsh"
Dawson read the coded message three times, absently pulled off his helmet and goggles, ranhis fingers through his hair, and glanced sidewise at Freddy Farmer.
"And that is strictly that," he said. "But I wonder what?"
"I don't know," the English-born air ace replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "Frankly, though, I don't think I'm annoyed by this message. Fact is, I'm just a bit glad. Much rather see him tonight, instead of waiting until we get to Natal."
Dawson grinned faintly, and nodded.
"Yeah, I get what you mean," he murmured. "Maybe there's a connection between this and what happened a while ago, eh?"
"If not, I'll be very much surprised," Freddy Farmer said slowly. "And yet I may be a bit balmy to say that. How could there possibly be any connection?"
Dawson shrugged, but made no reply. He stuffed the coded message into his pocket, and turned to where Major Parker was inspecting the Vultee.
"Thanks for giving us the message, sir," he said. Then he added with a grin, "It sort of looks as though we've been fired, you might say. Our superior officer is joining us here at midnight. Would it be all right for us to eatin the Officers' Club and sort of kill time until he gets here?"
"Certainly, Dawson," the major replied at once. "The place is yours. Help yourself to anything you like. So your survey flight is called off, eh?"
"Well, temporarily, anyway," Dave replied. "But don't ask me why, because I wouldn't know, Major."
"Okay, I won't," the other smiled. "I'll ask you this, instead. What kind of trouble did you run into on the way down here?"
"Trouble, Major?" Dawson echoed, and stared at him hard.
"These holes," the senior officer replied, and pointed to a cluster of four bullet holes six inches in from the Vultee's left wing tip. "Somebody been sticking a pencil through the wing skin, eh?"
"No; Nazi slugs," Dawson told him. "We—we came across a surfacing U-boat about eighty miles out. It crash dived right after it sighted us, but it threw up a few slugs in the meantime. We got a couple of its crew, though. We radioed Puerto Rico patrol base and gave them the U-boat's position. Have you heard any report that she was caught and nailed?"
"None," the major said, and then pointed across the field. "We wouldn't get that sort of thing, anyway. This is a British-owned base, you know. That we're here is a sort of lend-lease in reverse, you might say. And radio stuff such as your call would be picked up by them over there. Too bad, though, you didn't have a couple of depth charges aboard."
"You're telling me, sir?" Dawson echoed with a grim laugh. "I'd have given my right eye for just one! I don't think I hate anything so much as I hate the U-boats."
"You're not alone in that pet hate," the major added. "The U-boat is the one thing we've got to lick, and lick fast, if we hope to win this war. Of course, weareflying a lot of stuff across these days. But it still takes ships to get oil, and gas, and the heavy stuff over where it's needed. Hold everything! Where are my manners? You two could do with a wash-up and something to eat right now, couldn't you?"
"Oh, quite, sir," Freddy Farmer said eagerly.
And for once Dawson had to agree with the perpetually hungry English youth that a little food wouldn't be a bad idea at all. And so, after a quick check of the Vultee to make sure that no stray bullets had damaged anything seriously,they walked over to the Officers' Club with Major Parker. The commanding officer introduced them to a couple of Air Transport Command pilots and then took them into the mess, where a good meal was waiting for them. Major Parker had a cup of coffee while they ate, and conversation was at a dead end for a bit.
Finally, Dawson refused a second cup of coffee and sighed in contentment.
"I guess I was rather starved, sir," he said to the major with a guilty laugh. "Must be that Caribbean air."
"Or the excitement," the major remarked quietly. "A little excitement always makes me hungry enough to eat a horse. You and Farmer are a couple of lucky fellows, you know."
"How do you mean, sir?" Dawson questioned, and gave him a searching look.
The other smiled faintly and appeared to be very interested in something he could see out of the mess window. Then suddenly he turned his head and fixed his calm blue eyes on them both.
"Tiger hasn't givenmeanything to do for a couple of months," he said, "except this job here and orders to keep my eyes and ears open forsabotage, and all that sort of stuff. I think a little real action would just about save my life."
Dawson tried hard to control the start that the unexpected words gave him, but he didn't succeed very well.
"Tiger, Major?" he echoed, as a little note of caution sounded deep within him.
Major Parker smiled, and a little bit of red seeped up into his leathery face.
"I couldn't help but see the signature, Dawson," he said. "But you have my word of honor that I didn't read it. Because I saw that it was addressed to you two. Colonel Welsh taught me that secret code of his just before he sent me down to this place. I haven't been lucky enough, yet, to have had the chance to use it."
Since their messenger-boy mission had been washed out, at least until Colonel Welsh's arrival at midnight, there was no reason to check Major Parker's connection with Intelligence, but Dave somehow couldn't pass it by.
"I see, sir," he said quietly. "Well, Farmer and I were taught something, too, before we left. We were taught to take an interest in copper discs. Are you interested in copper discs, sir?"
"Slightly," the other said with a chuckle. "Atleast I'm interested in one copper disc. It has numbers on it."
"Numbers?" Dawson murmured, and tried to look a little surprised.
Major Parker smiled, and slipped a hand into his pocket.
"That's right," he said as he withdrew his hand. "Numbers. The numbers on the copper disc I'm interested in add up to forty-three. Would you like to see it?"
A cold chill shot through Dawson's chest, and a strange dryness came into his throat. Forty-three? But if Major Parker really was Colonel Welsh's agent down here at San Fernando, the numbers on his copper disc should add up to forty-one.
"Why, yes, yes," he finally got out with an effort. "I'd like to see it very much."
"Then have a look, by all means, Dawson," the major said, and with a slight movement of his hand he tossed a brightly polished copper disc down on the table top.
Dawson picked it up with fingers that were trying desperately hard to stop trembling. He could hear Freddy Farmer's heavy breathing, as the English youth leaned over to take a look. Dave had picked up the disc with the smoothside showing, so he had to turn it over. On the other side stamped into the metal were the numbers 9 1 2 7 8 6 8. He stared at them, and suddenly the truth came to him. The numbers did not add up to forty-three. They added up to forty-one, just as they should have.
The major's soft chuckle made Dawson jerk up his head.
"Sorry I couldn't resist the temptation, Dawson," the officer said. "You just added them up, didn't you? And reached the Pearl Harbor figure, eh?"
"Yes," Dawson said, and handed back the copper disc with a grin. "But you sure had my heart fluttering for a moment there."
"Frankly, I was just about to reach for my service automatic," Freddy Farmer added.
"Well, forgive me my rather flat little joke, and let's skip it, eh?" Major Parker said with a little wave of his hand. "I noticed that Tiger stuff gave you a little start, so I thought I'd kid a bit. Maybe that's what this darn sun down here does to a fellow. To be serious though—and out of order, I guess—anything in Tiger's message that I should know?"
"Just what we told you," Dave replied pleasantly. "Our survey job is held up until ColonelWelsh arrives. Which will be midnight tonight."
Major Parker looked disappointed. Then he sighed, and grinned.
"Okay," he said, "we'll let it go at that. If he had wanted me to know anything, he'd have sent me a message, too. Well, as I said, the place is yours. I've got some paper work to do, so I'll have to leave you for a spell. Don't hesitate to make yourselves at home. If there is anything you want, just yell. See you later."
"Yes, sir, and thanks for everything," Dawson said. He and Farmer also rose as the senior officer got to his feet.
"Think nothing of it," the major said with a wave of his hand. "And have fun, if you can find any fun around this place." With a smile and a nod, he went through the mess door.
Freddy looked at Dawson, and Dawson looked right back at him.
"Nice enough chap, isn't he?" the English youth finally broke the silence.
"Yes, he's okay," Dawson agreed. "I guess he is going bats down here with nothing to do. That is, nothing in his own line of work. Say, Freddy?"
"Yes, Dave."
"How about walking down some of this swellmeal, huh?" Dave suggested. "I could do with a walk around. And like Colonel Welsh, I'm not so keen about four walls."
"A top-hole idea," Freddy Farmer said gravely, and brushed a couple of crumbs off the skirt of his tunic. "I know just what you mean, old thing. I've been thinking about it myself. Yes, definitely a top-hole idea. Let's get along, shall we?"
"Yeah, let's," Dawson murmured, and led the way toward the mess door.