With its four engines singing a song of power that would be sweet music to the ears of any pilot the Flying Fortress thundered its way southwestward through the night-darkened Pacific sky. The aircraft was on the automatic pilot, and both Dawson and Freddy Farmer sat outwardly relaxed at the controls, but inwardly on the alert for the slightest miss in any of the engines, or for anything that would indicate that all was not as it should be. The Los Angeles Air Forces base was six hours behind them. Another six and they should be over Hickam Field, on Oahu Island, waiting for the permission signal to land.
Suddenly, with a little chuckle, Dawson broke the silence that had existed for some minutes between them. Freddy Farmer glanced across at him with a questioning frown.
"What now, Dave?" he asked.
"Us," Dawson replied, and chuckled again. "I guess we're getting old, Freddy. I mean, we seem to scare pretty easy these days. And I'll admit that I was as jittery as a hen on a hot stove until we got this Fortress off the ground, and into the air. I actually had little chills running up and down my back, as though I expected to feel a nice white-hot bullet cut into it at most any second. But heck! Not a thing happened. I didn't see a thing that looked Jap, did you?"
"No, I didn't," Freddy Farmer replied. "But my imagination certainly gave me a lot of trouble. Every time one of those mechanics put a bag of mail aboard, or a case of those medical supplies we're taking over, I had a brief moment of feeling positive that he was a Japrat, buck teeth, and all. But, as you say, nothing happened."
"Yeah," Dawson murmured, and peered out at the wall of night darkness that completely circled the aircraft. "Just another airplane ride for us. And that doesn't make me mad at all. I wonder if the field radioed Dago when we got off? Vice-Admiral Carter sure sounded plenty worried on that phone."
"Yes, he ..." Freddy Farmer said, and then cut himself off short.
"What's the matter, Freddy?" Dawson asked, as a sudden clammy sensation rippled through his chest.
"Down there," young Farmer replied, and pointed off and down to the left. "Is that a light blinking, or am I seeing things?"
Dawson leaned forward slightly and stared in the direction of Freddy's pointing finger. A couple of seconds later he saw the unmistakable flashing of a light. Because of the Flying Fortress's altitude it was no more than a pin-prick of light. But it was very real just the same.
"Yes, I catch," he finally grunted. "Probably one of our ships requesting us to flash our identification signal. The heck with them. They should know that no Jap plane could possibly be in this neck of the woods."
"But what if they open fire, if they have flak guns aboard?" Freddy murmured as they both continued to watch the blinking light far below. "There's such a thing as a lucky hit, even at our altitude."
"Okay, if you insist, pal," Dave grunted, and started to reach out his hand. "But ... Hey! Did you catch that, Freddy? That looked like the old SOS to me."
"It was!" young Farmer replied with a nod, and hunched forward a bit more on his co-pilot seat. "Wait a minute! He's trying to send something else. K ... D ... J? K, D, J? Wonder what that means?"
"Take a look in that signal book in the pocket beside you," Dawson said. "I think those things have surface ship signals as well as aircraft signals. Take a look anyway."
It didn't take young Farmer more than a few seconds to find what he was hunting for. Excitement rang in his voice as he spoke to Dawson.
"Here it is, Dave!", he cried. "K, D, J. Attacked by enemy force! Please give assistance."
"Attacked by enemy force?" Dawson echoed sharply, and squinted hard down at the still blinking pin-point of light. "Must be some ship nailed by a Jap submarine. Maybe we'd better slide down for a look. At least that should scare the Jap sub away, if there's one still lurking around. A Jap submarine east of Pearl Harbor? Well, what do you know? Get back at the port gun slot, Freddy, just in case we get the chance to take a crack at something. And I think I'll drop a flare so's we can get a good look."
"No, don't, Dave!" young Farmer said sharply, and gripped his arm as though to restrain him.
"No?" Dawson echoed. "Why not? We won't be able to see much in this dark. And certainly not a Jap submarine, if there's one on the surface."
"I know," Freddy said with a shrug. "But I've got a funny feeling. A flare would light us up nicely, too, you see? Let's play it cautious, what say?"
"Okay, okay," Dave said with a grin. "Maybe you have got something there. Anyway, get back to the port gun slot, and I'll slide us down a bit."
"Right you are," Freddy said, and slid out of the co-pilot's seat and made his way aft.
Dawson had already throttled the four engines, and was sending the Flying Fortress sliding down through the Pacific night sky in a series of ever widening circles. He circled to port so that he could continually keep his eye on the blinking light that grew bigger and bigger as the Fortress lost altitude. And the light kept on sending two sets of letters. The standard SOS and KDJ. A couple of times Dawson was tempted to signal back that they had caught the signals and were coming down to find out what they could do to help. Each time, though, something seemed to stop him from showing the bomber's signal light. He had even switched off the cockpit light, and he was not allowing the engines to show any exhaust plumes that might reveal the Fortress' exact position.
"Guess I must be as jumpy as Freddy!" he grunted to himself. "But maybe it is best to play it safe, even if it must be one of our surface ships down there. There's no telling what can happen next in this cockeyed world. And, boy, Freddy and I should sure know that by now. Yeah! So we'll sneak down and only let them know where we are by what sounds of our engines they can catch."
With a nod for emphasis, he flipped up the switch of the Fortress' inter-com system, and put his lips to the mike.
"Have you hooked this thing up at your end, Freddy?" he asked into what he guessed was a dead wire.
But he was wrong. Young Farmer's voice was in his earphones instantly.
"Yes, Dave. Can you see anything yet, besides the signal flashes?"
"Nope," Dave replied. "But we're only at eight thousand now. Whoever's signalling is sure a persistent guy, isn't he? Is he so deaf he can't hear us coming down, do you suppose? You haven't caught any different signals, have you?"
"The same two groups of signals over and over again," young Farmer replied. "I fancy they'd stop, though, if we acknowledged. But I wouldn't, Dave, if I were you. I still have a funny feeling about this business. It just doesn't seem quite right to me, but blessed if I know why. I ..."
Freddy never finished the rest. He never did for the reason that at that exact moment a stab of orange red flame showed down by the blinking light. Dawson saw it and had only time to stiffen slightly in the seat before the night darkness all about the Fortress was lighted up as brilliantly as high noon by a bursting star shell. And hardly had the white light virtually exploded in front of Dawson's face before the air all about was filled with the roaring thunder of bursting flak shells.
For the infinitesimal part of a split second Dawson sat as a man struck dead. Then with a wild yell he shook himself out of his trance, rammed all four throttles wide open and threw the Flying Fortress up and around in a steep climbing turn. The first star shell had died out by then, but a second and a third one had taken its place, and the silvery brilliance that seemed to flood everything was punched red and orange here and there by flak shells seeking out the Fortress.
"A trap, a trap, and I all but flew right down into it!" Dawson yelled angrily. Then as he looked down over the side of the plane, cold rage shook him from head to toe. "Freddy!" he shouted into his inter-com mike. "Do you see what I see, Freddy? It's a submarine. A Jap submarine. The dirty rats! They pulled us almost down to the muzzles of their cocked anti-aircraft guns. The stinkers. If they'd waited just a minute longer they couldn't possibly have missed. Hey, Freddy! You okay, kid? Did we get hit by anything?"
"Not that I can see from here!" young Farmer called back. "But I guess my feeling meant something, what? The dirty beggars! I wonder how often they've pulled this killer's trick on lone planes flying out to the Islands? Praise be they're rotten shots. Look! They see that they can't get us now, so they're preparing to dive. They're ... I say, Dave! What the devil's wrong? Is the plane out of control?"
"Out of control, nothing!" Dawson roared as he sent the huge bomber over on wing, and down. "I mean it to go this way. Show me some of that sweet shooting of yours, Freddy! I'll take you right down on top of them, and nuts to their flak fire. Boy! If we only had a depth charge or two, or a bomb. But give them what you can, Freddy!"
"Right you are!" young Farmer's voice echoed in Dawson's earphones. "Just get me a little lower, and level us off. I'll make the dirty blighters dance."
The Jap submarine's fire was still pretty heavy, but Dawson sent the Fortress thundering right down through it as though it didn't even exist. The submarine was getting under way, and one by one the deck guns ceased fire as the gun crew quit them and scampered along the wet decks to the conning tower. Two or three of them reached the ladder leading up to the bridge, but that's as far as they got. Freddy Farmer's port-slot fifty-caliber guns started to speak their piece, and the running Japs were knocked flat as though invisible hands had jerked their feet out from under them. Those behind the ones that fell kept on coming like men crazed by fear who didn't know any better. Anyway, they ran straight into the withering fire that had cut down the others, and their rotten lives were promptly snuffed out in exactly the same way.
Not a gun fired back at the Fortress, now, as Dawson kept circling the target so that Freddy could work his slot guns continuously. The undersea craft was driving hard through the water with its diving planes undoubtedly all set to be run out for a crash dive the instant those who survived the death that sprinkled the deck were inside and the conning tower hatch closed tight. But Freddy Farmer was seeing to it that none of those scampering Japs on deck survived his withering fire. He relentlessly cut them down one after another like tenpins. And then as Dawson veered the Fortress even closer to the trapped submarine, young Farmer sent a hail of explosive bullets practically straight down the still partly opened conning tower hatch.
"Have some of those, you filthy beggars!" Dave heard Freddy's voice screaming over the inter-com. "Pull a trick like that on us, what? Well, how do you like some of the same? How do you like it, what?"
"They don't like it even a little bit, pal!" Dawson shouted impulsively into his own flap mike. "Not even a ... Hey! Ye gods! You've hit something, Freddy!"
Hit something was right! A column of livid red flame suddenly belched up out of the conning tower hatch. The silver light from the floating exploded star shells had just about died away, but now the sky and the sea were bathed in a blood red glow as the column of flame mounted higher and higher, and then fountained outward in all directions. It came so close to the circling Fortress that Dawson gasped out a strangled cry of alarm and quickly banked off in the opposite direction. As soon as he was clear of the area of falling fire he banked the Fortress again so that he could look back at the doomed Jap submarine.
And doomed it was. Even as he saw it again there was another violent internal explosion that seemed to lift the craft clean out of the water. It actually seemed to hover motionless in mid-air for a moment, and although Dawson was not sure, he thought he saw the thing break in half, and both halves fall back into the water with mighty splashes, and then disappear completely beneath the flame-tipped waves. At any rate, an instant later the submarine just wasn't there any more. There was nothing but a blazing whirlpool of oil to mark the spot where it had been. There was not even a single piece of floating wreckage in that ever widening circle of blazing oil.
"And that's one Tojo can sure mark off as gone for good!" Dawson muttered, and nosed the Fortress up for altitude. "What a way to die, even for a dirty Japrat."
With a little shuddering shake of his head he took his gaze off the blazing patch of oil slick, and turned his attention forward.
"Okay, Freddy, boy!" he called into his inter-com mike. "Come on up front and get your cigar for hitting the bull's-eye. And how you did, pal. How you did!"
There came no reply from Freddy over the inter-com, nor did the English youth come up forward in person.
"Hey, Freddy!" Dave shouted, this time even louder. "Can you hear me? Anything wrong back there? Hey, Freddy!"
Ten full seconds of silence ticked by, and an eerie chill started to close about Dawson's heart. Why hadn't Freddy at least answered if he wasn't coming forward just yet? Was something wrong? Had a chance shot from that rotten Jap submarine nailed old Freddy? But that couldn't be. He'd heard Freddy's port-slot guns still slugging away long after the last gun on the submarine had gone silent. Then what was wrong?
Those, and a hundred and one other torturing thoughts raced through Dawson's brain as he put the Fortress back onto the automatic pilot, unhooked his safety harness, and scrambled out of the seat and went aft. As he pushed through the door leading into the bomb bay he stopped dead in his tracks and then instantly dropped flat on his hands and knees. A sea of acrid smelling smoke had come swirling through the compartment door opening, and although his own heart seemed to be pounding against his very eardrums he was able to hear the faint crackling of flames. And he could see that the swirling smoke inside the bomb-bay was tinted by fire.
"Freddy! Freddy!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Are you trapped in there? Can you hear me? Where are you, Freddy?"
"Back here, Dave!" came the muffled reply through the swirling smoke. "Give me a hand, quick. The mail sacks. The blasted things are on fire. Mind the bomb-bay doors, Dave! I've opened them to toss these things out. Give me a hand, Dave. I don't think I can make it alone. Blast! That thing's hot!"
Long before Freddy Farmer had stopped speaking Dawson was crawling through the door opening on his hands and knees. It was like crawling into the middle of a blast furnace. The acrid smoke stung his eyes and almost blinded him. It seemed to pour down his throat and gag him, and he was frightfully afraid that he might misjudge his movements and go hurtling down through the opened bomb-bay doors.
But he did not misjudge, and after what seemed an eternity spent inside a hot stove, he reached Freddy Farmer, who was hauling smoking and flaming mail sacks along the floor of the compartment and then dropping them down through the opened bomb-bay doors. Young Farmer looked like a smudged-faced ghost in the red glow of the burning sacks. His helmet and goggles were gone, and his flying suit was badly scorched in a couple of places.
"What happened, Freddy?" Dawson choked out as he grabbed a smoking mail sack off the pile and hurled it down toward the night-shrouded Pacific. "We stop some of their flak? But how the dickens did these sacks catch on fire?"
"Don't know!" Freddy choked through the smoke. "Can't understand it. Just happened to look back in here to check if anything had been hit, and found the whole blasted place full of smoke. Saw a couple of stabs of purple light, and then the whole business broke into flame. Didn't dare waste time calling you. Think the fire got the inter-com wires, anyway. Boy! Suppose I hadn't happened to look in here!"
Dawson simply shuddered and dragged another sack off the pile. He didn't bother to make any comment. It was horrible enough just to think about the whole rear end of the Fortress catching fire. Besides, there was too much of the stinging smoke in his nose and throat to permit any unnecessary talk. They still weren't out of danger. No, not by a jugful. At that very moment, as Dawson kicked a smoking sack toward the bomb-bay opening, a tongue of purple white light shot out of its heavy canvas covering. A hissing sound filled Dawson's ears, and then the mail sack went tumbling down through the air. Dave's breath seemed to stick in his throat, and his heart turn to stone, as the terrible realization came to him. He heard Freddy Farmer cry out in stunned amazement but he could not have turned his head Freddy's way at that moment, even if not doing so had cost him his life. Half frozen with fear, he stood gaping at the bomb-bay opening down through which the flaming mail bag had just disappeared.
Then, snapping out of his trance, he whirled around and practically threw himself at the three or four smoking mail bags left. Fire burned his hands a little, but he hardly felt the pain. His only thought at that moment was to get every last one of those mail bags out of the plane. And a few moments later the last one of them went spinning down through the opening out of sight. By then an up-draft had cleared away most of the smoke. For a moment Dawson and Freddy Farmer stared at each other in the pale glow of a single bulb in the compartment ceiling that had not been reached by the flames. Then, as though still in a trance, Dawson reached out and pushed the button that closed the bomb-bay doors. And then the two of them more or less reeled back to the pilot's compartment and dropped gasping for air into their seats.
"The first aid kit, beside you, Freddy," Dawson finally managed to force the words from his lips. "Better get it out and use some of the tannic jelly on our hands. No sense taking chances. Good grief, Freddy! There were time fire bombs in some of those sacks. Somebody figured to make us bail out, and flame this thing down onto the deck!"
"Yes!" Freddy Farmer said in a tight voice. "A little Jap friend of ours. Who else could it have been? It couldn't have been anybody else, Dave. The dirty blighter. He probably didn't trouble to use his gun. Didn't even have to get close to us ... But, good gosh, Dave! How in the world did he get the chance to do it? How did he know when he shadowed us up to Los Angeles that we were going to take the very first plane off, and that we'd carry the mail?"
"I don't know," Dawson mumbled, and rubbed some of the tannic jelly on his smarting hands. "It's like one of those impossible cockeyed things you read in dime thrillers. Maybe he didn't do it, himself. Maybe he has pals at the L.A. Base. He certainly had one at Dago. Maybe he didn't even show his face to anybody, except a pal or two of his. And maybe we're just kidding ourselves. Maybe he didn't have a thing to do with it. Maybe it was just plain sabotage by some other rats he never even met. I—gosh! I'm almost beginning to feel sorry that you belted that submarine down to the bottom, Freddy. Believe it or not, those rats, while trying to knock us down with their little trick, actually saved our lives."
"What's that?" Freddy asked sharply. "Dirty Japs save anybody's life? Not a bit, they would!"
"Not knowingly, no," Dawson said, and absently checked the course of the Fortress that was still droning along on the automatic pilot. "But those submarine birds did, just the same. Supposing that sub hadn't showed at all? Supposing you hadn't gone back to work the guns, and looked into the bomb-bay? We would suddenly have found ourselves sitting on the front end of a flying ball of fire. See what I mean?"
"Too vividly!" young Farmer said with a violent shudder. "Why, the blasted fire might even have reached the gas tanks before we could have bailed out. Gosh! maybe I am a little sorry that I sent the lot of them to the bottom."
"Well, don't be too sorry," Dawson said grimly. "They're still Japs. And there's still a lot of their cutthroat brothers on the face of the earth that need the same kind of treatment."
"And will get it, too, if I have anything to do with it!" Freddy Farmer echoed, tight-lipped.
The new dawn sun was well up over the eastern rim of the world and was driving the shadows of night over the western lip in a hurry when Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer sighted the flight of American patrol planes. They were Navy long-range Catalina flying boats and they were coming straight on toward the Flying Fortress.
"Nice!" Dawson grunted with a nod of his head. "That's something I was hoping that we'd see just about now. Asleep at the switch once, maybe, but not twice. Nope, not a chance."
"All of which sounds very interesting," Freddy Farmer murmured, and rubbed a dirty hand over his tired-looking face. "But do you mind explaining what you mean? I'm afraid I'm a little bit too done in this morning to bother making guesses. What about those Catboats, Dave?"
"That they're there, and coming toward us on a beeline," Dave replied with a nod toward the approaching flying boats. "It means that they are sure on the alert at Pearl Harbor, these days. Obviously they picked us up on radar, and radioed those patrol planes to come out for a look at us. In other words, there'll never be a second sneak attack on the Hawaiians."
"Oh, I see," Young Farmer grunted. "Yes, I guess you're right. I fancy that ... oh-oh. Half a minute, Dave. They're on the radio. I'll handle it, if you wish."
Dawson nodded and watched the three Catalinas move into line formation. The request for an identification signal was already sounding in his earphones.
"Sure, go ahead, kid," he said. "But watch your English accent. They might wonder, and start to get funny. And I don't want to play around any more. I want just to get my feet on firm, hard ground for a change."
Freddy Farmer made a face at him, and then put his lips to the radio mike.
"Fortress to Catalinas!" he barked. "Plane XFT, Captain Dawson in command. Request permission to proceed to destination Four-Seven-Six. Over!"
There was a moment of silence; then they both heard the reply.
"Patrol to XFT! Proceed to destination. Welcome. Did you have a nice trip? Over!"
Freddy Farmer glanced at Dawson out the corner of his eye, and grinned impishly.
"XFT to Patrol!" he called out. "A jolly fine trip, old tin of fruit. Top-hole, really, what? Really a bit of all right, I fancy, old bean! Off!"
Young Farmer started to switch off but at that instant came sharp words from the Catalinas.
"Patrol to XFT!" the voice crackled in their earphones. "Who is that talking? I thought you said Captain Dawson was in command."
Dave quickly shook his head as Freddy started to reply. He spoke into the radio mike, instead.
"Captain Dawson speaking, sir," he said. "And I am in command of this aircraft. That was an English refugee who gave you our identification. Name of Captain Farmer. Sorry he hasn't been able to master the language yet, sir. If you were to meet him, and see what he looks like, you'd understand."
Laughter burst out in the earphones, and thunderheads clouded up in Freddy Farmer's eyes. He glared at Dawson, but after a moment or two he smiled sheepishly.
"All right, all right," he said in a resigned voice. "I should have known that I couldn't top you blasted Yanks in such a situation. I'll not forget it, my lad, though. Just remember that!"
Dawson chuckled, and made a face. Then the two of them watched the three Catalinas swing gracefully away and go back onto their patrol course. Some twenty minutes later they picked up Diamond Head on the Island of Oahu, and shortly after that they were circling slowly over Hickam Field, waiting for permission to land.
"You know, Freddy," Dave murmured as he stared down at the huge military aviation base, "in a way the Japs almost did us a favor by pulling that sneak attack. Take a look down there. That's really something, now, isn't it? The very latest of everything. No long lines of planes, now, to make perfect strafing targets. Every single plane dispersed just as it should be. And look at those flak batteries, will you! Boy! A mosquito's life wouldn't be worth a thin dime around here, once those guns opened up."
"Yes, the chaps are certainly ready and prepared for anything and everything now," Freddy Farmer said softly, and let his gaze wander. "But what a blasted shame they had to be caught off guard that day. The one thing that amazes me, though, is the way you Yanks can dig in and clear up things. I declare you'd never guess, now, that such terrible damage had been done that way. It's positively amazing, really."
"Just an old American custom, Freddy," Dave said lightly. "When we really start to do a thing, we do it, trimmings and all. We don't kid around. We roll up our sleeves, and ..."
"I know, I know!" Freddy cried with a wave of his hand. "You Yanks are positively wonderful. That is, next to the British, of course. Now, there is a people who ..."
"And there is the signal to come on in!" Dawson interrupted. "And praise Allah for that! But tell me about the British people again sometime, will you, pal? Say about ninety-nine years from now, huh?"
"What a shame I haven't my usual strength this morning!" young Farmer growled. "If I had, you'd go down by 'chute, and I'd take this thing in."
Dave laughed, and then concentrated on circling into the wind and sliding the Flying Fortress down to a perfect landing on the strip ordered by the officer in the control tower. As soon as the huge craft came to a full stop both youths breathed deeply, and then grinned at each other.
"Feels good, doesn't it, Freddy, huh?" Dawson said.
"Don't think it ever felt so good before," young Farmer agreed instantly. "English-born I may be, but I'm afraid I'm definitely not a follower of the sea. I always feel much better when there is the ground underneath me."
"Well, it's there under us now, and both of us are stationary, praise be!" Dawson said. "And between you and me, if there wasn't anybody looking, I'd get down on my hands and knees and kiss it, I feel so good to be here. Frankly, this flight's one that I'd like to forget in a hurry. And that's no kidding, either."
"Definitely not!" young Farmer echoed. Then with a frown he said, "But that business last night still bothers me. Somehow, I just can't see how that Japrat we met at San Diego could possibly have had anything to do with it. Just sabotage, I think, and we happened to be the two unlucky ones who took this aircraft off the L.A. base field."
"Maybe," Dawson said with a shrug. "But until I get a better explanation I'm going to continue to pin it on that Japrat. Anyway, here we are, and that Japrat back at Dago is a forgotten issue, as far as I'm concerned. Now it's for that dirty Nazi in a Yank Naval Aviation uniform, the stinker."
"Quite," Freddy Farmer murmured. "And here comes the reception committee, or something. Looks like they don't trust you to taxi this thing in. The signal tower says for us to stay put. Just as well, too. You can mess up an airplane even on the ground, you know."
Dawson had a fitting crack to that remark, but he sighed and let it go unspoken. An Air Forces jeep had come rocketing out to the Flying Fortress, and braked to a stop just under the left wing. Dave half waved at the occupants of the jeep, three Air Forces officers and a Navy commander, and then slid out of his seat, and made his way aft to the belly exit of the plane.
A couple of minutes later they were facing the wide-eyed stares of the jeep's riders.
"I'm Captain Larkin, duty officer," one of the Air Forces officers said. "But, what happened to you two? You run into trouble? From here you look like you bumped into the whole Jap air force."
"We had a little trouble," Dawson said with a grin. "But ..."
That's as far as he got. The Navy commander gave a sharp shake of his head, and stepped forward.
"Sorry, Captain Larkin," he said with a pleasant smile, "but these two are to report to Vice-Admiral Stone at once. Any report is to be made to him."
Captain Larkin frowned, then shrugged and returned the other's smile.
"Yes, of course, Commander," he said. "I understand. But ... well, let it go. Welcome to Hickam, you two. If you get the chance, drop back over here and tell us what's new on the mainland, eh?"
"We'll do that, if we get the chance," Dawson assured him.
"Oh, quite," Freddy Farmer murmured.
And then the Navy commander took charge of them. He introduced himself as Commander Drake, and he talked pleasantly of everything save their flight to Oahu as he led them off the field and over to a waiting Navy car, with a rating at the wheel.
"Sorry to choke things off that way," he said as they climbed in. "But the vice-admiral's orders were that you were to talk to no one. Not even to me. So we'll get going, and then you can report all to the vice-admiral. And from the looks of you, I hope he permits me to remain and hear it."
"Where is the vice-admiral, sir?" Dawson asked as the Navy rating behind the wheel shifted the car into gear, and got it rolling.
"The Kaneohe Naval Air Station on Mokapu Point," the commander replied. "It's a few miles, but one of the prettiest drives on the Island. You'll see some of the real Hawaiian scenery."
They did. But reaction was catching up with Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer. And fatigue, too. And so they were really too worn out from their harrowing experiences of the night to be able to pay proper attention to the gorgeous scenery that rolled by on either side of the car. As a matter of fact, Freddy Farmer fell sound asleep twice. And Dawson caught his own eyelids sagging a few times. Obviously Commander Drake noticed these signs, because when they rolled through the gates that opened onto the Kaneohe Naval Air Station, he ordered the rating at the wheel to drive them to his own quarters, instead of to the commandant's office.
And when they reached the commander's quarters they were treated to that special brand of thoughtfulness and courtesy for which the U.S. Navy is so famous. Commander Drake played the magician in the fullest meaning of the word. He produced warm baths for the two dead tired pilots, clean fresh uniforms for both of them, a pharmacist's mate to check their burns and fix them up, and last but not least as far as Freddy Farmer was concerned, a breakfast such as you probably wouldn't get even in the White House. And not once did he bother them with questions, or even act as though he couldn't keep his tongue still any longer. In short, by the time the Navy officer took them over to meet the station commandant he had made himself their friend for life, and they both felt as though they had just got up from a perfect night's sleep, instead of having just completed a nerve-racking twenty-four hundred and two mile flight.
"If you don't mind my saying so, sir," Dawson said as he breathed deep of the invigorating Hawaiian air, "you're a miracle man, if I ever met one. I was dreading trying to keep awake while I made my report to the vice-admiral, but now I feel like a million dollars. And not a cent under it."
"Quite, sir!" Freddy Farmer echoed instantly. "I only hope that some day Dawson and I will have the opportunity to do the same for you."
"Well, thanks, but I hope not," Commander Drake said with his pleasant laugh. "Of course, I'd love to be your guests at your air base some day. But definitely not in the condition you two were in. You sure gave me a start when you climbed down out of that Fortress. You gave all of us a start for that matter."
Dawson grinned, and then his grin faded as memory started to return.
"Well, it was sure one of the happiest landings I ever made, I can tell you that, sir," he said soberly.
"Amen," Freddy Farmer echoed just as soberly.
That ended the conversation between them, for they had reached Vice-Admiral Stone's office, and the station commandant had risen from behind his huge desk and was smiling his greeting while at the same time faint puzzlement played about in his steel blue eyes.
"Glad to meet you, Captains Dawson and Farmer," he said, and shook hands with them both. "Be seated, please. No, Commander, don't leave. I think you'd better listen in on this. You had some trouble, Captains?"
As the station commandant spoke the last he glanced down at the hands of the two air aces, and the strips of surgeon's plaster that showed white against the sun- and wind-bronzed skin.
"A little trouble, sir, yes," Dawson answered for both of them. Then, lifting his hands a little, "But luckily we came through it with no more than these, and a pretty ticklish few minutes."
"I'm glad of that," the vice-admiral replied. Then as he seated himself at the desk, he said, "But we'd better keep things in order. Naturally, I know something of what happened. I mean, over on the mainland. Vice-Admiral Carter radioed me in code. It would be better, though, for you two to tell it to me in your own words. Begin right at the beginning, and don't leave out anything, if you can possibly help it."
Twenty minutes later Vice-Admiral Stone and Commander Drake knew as much of what had happened as Dawson and Farmer knew themselves. Silence settled over the room, and all four frowned deep in thought.
"There's a question I'd like to ask, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Something that's been bothering me. Probably unimportant, but ... well, I'd like to ask it, if you don't mind, sir?"
"Of course I don't," came the instant reply. "Go right ahead, Captain Farmer. What is the question?"
"The business during the flight across, sir," the English-born air ace said. "Do you...? I mean, do you think it was just accidental sabotage? That is, as far as Dawson and I are concerned? Or do you really think that that Jap followed us north and was instrumental in having those time fire bombs put in the mail sacks?"
The frown that already knitted the vice-admiral's brows deepened and he did not answer for a moment or two.
"We will probably never learn one way or the other, Captain Farmer," he finally said slowly. "But my personal feeling is that the Jap is, or was, the skunk in the woodpile. The longer this war goes on the more amazed I become at the fiendish, devilish ingenuity of the Japs, once they put their minds to it. In countless things they are unquestionably the stupidest people on the face of the earth. But for devilish tricks that have to do with torture, maiming, and ruthless slaughter, they are the world's best. They could give lessons to the Nazi Gestapo and Secret Service any time. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the Nazi cunning in the matter of booby traps actually originated in Tokyo. So I'd say, yes, Captain Farmer. I'd say that mail sack business was definitely linked to that Jap spy."
"Thank you, sir, for your opinion," Freddy Farmer said with a smile. Then he added in a brittle voice, "I sincerely hope that I meet up with that blighter again. Under more favorable circumstances, of course."
"And I hope you do," the vice-admiral said with a grave nod. "But there is something you must keep in mind every minute of the time until your special mission is accomplished. It's that that spy is but one of many. Bluntly, you two are marked men. I don't mean to alarm you unnecessarily, but you both bumped into something that is of vital importance to the Japanese command in the western Pacific. Youknowthat there is a dangerous Nazi spy, serving as a fighter pilot aboard one of our newest and most powerful carriers. We must accept the undoubted fact that the Jap at Dago, and that Nazi, now at sea, believe you two heard much of their conversation there in that shack. That the Nazi was not arrested when he went aboard his ship simply proved to them that you did not know his name. But remember this! The Jap in question obviously followed you to the Los Angeles base. Maybe he did put those time fire bombs in the mail sacks, hoping that you both would lose your lives en route to Hawaii. And maybe he didn't. But either way it doesn't make much difference. I mean, we have got to assume that the Jap knew you were heading for Hawaii, and why! In short, to identify this Nazi when his carrier arrives."
"But why does that make us marked men, now that we are here, and not back on the mainland, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked with a frown.
"I think I can answer that, Freddy," Dave Dawson spoke up with an apologetic glance at the senior naval officer. "Because of what Vice-Admiral Stone just told us. That our little Japrat is not the only Jap around. He may have spies of his own right here in the Hawaiians. And there's such a thing as short-wave radio, you know. To play it safe ... I mean, in case we did reach Hawaii, which we have, he might radio one of his pals to do what he wasn't able to do. And to do it before that Nazi carrier put in to Pearl. Isn't that what you had in mind, sir?"
"That is it, exactly, Captain Dawson," the vice-admiral said, giving him a nod of approval. "You two, and you two alone, can block this thing. So until the force puts into port, which will be the day after tomorrow, you are marked men. At least we have got to assume that such is the case, until we know better. And that brings us up to the matter of the carrier force arriving, and you identifying this Nazi for us ... if you can."
The senior officer paused and stared at them both a little hopefully. Dawson grinned and nodded.
"We'll spot him, sir," he said with all the assurance in the world in his voice. "We didn't get much of a look at him, and nothing that we saw of him stood out in a noticeable sort of way. But I know very well, sir, that I'll recognize him when I see him again."
"And so will I, sir," Freddy Farmer echoed with a confident nod. "It's just one of those things that a chap can't put into words. I mean, I couldn't for the life of me tell youwhyI'll be able to recognize him, but I know that I will."
"Well, you'll both certainly get all the chance in the world to do just that," Vice-Admiral Stone said.
"And it will be a happy moment when we see your men take him in charge, sir," Dawson said grimly. "I'll er—no, sir?"
Dave stumbled, and mumbled the last as he saw the station commandant shake his head.
"No, we're not going to do it that way," the Navy officer said. "Oh, we'll grab him in time, but not the very next moment after you point him out to us. You're forgetting that address over in Honolulu, whatever it is. You will point him out to us, but in such a way that he'll never suspect. We plan to let him leave ship unmolested. It is our plan to trail him to his destination, and ... well, the rest is obvious, isn't it? We'll catch the lot of them. Instead of catching just one Nazi spy, we'll clean out an entire nest of them that is still causing us concern here on Oahu, almost three years after Pearl Harbor."
As Vice-Admiral Stone spoke the last he glanced over at Commander Drake, and nodded. The junior officer returned the nod.
"Let us hope so, sir," he said quietly, but with a certain grimness in his voice. "Nothing I'd like better than to smoke them out into the open."
Vice-Admiral Stone saw the questioning looks that came to Dawson's and Farmer's faces, and he hastened to explain.
"Commander Drake is chief of Naval Aviation Intelligence, here on Oahu," he said. "During the last few months a couple of things have happened that shouldn't have happened. Sabotage, missing papers of importance, and that sort of thing. The commander has been in charge of breaking the thing, and has made some arrests. Japs every time. Born and raised here in the Islands, but still Japs. Didn't do any good, though. Every one of them killed himself rather than talk and save his life. They actually killed each other. A suicide pact. I'll spare you the gory details. All we were able to learn was that the root of the whole business, the main nest, is somewhere in Honolulu. But Honolulu is a fairly big place. So, naturally, we are hoping that your lead will take us straight to that spot, and make it possible for us to wipe out the menace once and for all."
"I see, sir," Dawson said after a moment's silence hung over the room. "But you spoke of pointing him out so's he wouldn't suspect. Just how, sir? He probably got a look at us, at the time that Jap was scared off before he could finish us. So when he sees us come aboard his carrier, whichever one it is, he'll know us instantly. I mean, even if no move is made toward him, he'll certainly knowwhywe are there. And later he's bound to guess that we pointed him out so that he could be followed. Or am I getting this all mixed up?"
"No, you make your point clear enough," the vice-admiral said with a smile. "But we're not going to advertise it as much as that. You two will see him, I hope. But he certainly won't see you. I've got all that arranged, so don't worry. You'll get a good look at every fighter pilot in the three-carrier force, but not one of them will even know that either of you are aboard. Just leave that part to me, and don't worry. I'll explain my little plan later. Right now, I guess we've talked things over enough for the first meeting. You two could do with some rest and relaxation. So I'll say again that I'm very pleased to meet you, and express my sincere hope that we can clean up all this very dirty business within the next seventy-two hours. Meantime, I'm turning you over to Commander Drake. He'll act as the Navy's official host during your stay here on the Islands."
The vice-admiral stood up, and smiled. The other three stood up, saluted, and then went outside.
"Well, what will it be first, Captains?" Commander Drake asked when they reached the golden sunshine. "Feel like a sight-seeing tour about the Station, a little nap, or what?"
"Those eggs we had for breakfast, sir," Freddy Farmer said with a sheepish smile. "The way they were cooked. I've never tasted anything so delicious. I ..."
Dave Dawson groaned aloud and shook his head sadly.
"Here we go again, Commander," he said. "You might just as well get used to it. There are perpetually three things that Farmer always wants to do most. One is eat, two is to eat some more. And three is to eat again. It's a habit that will never be broken, I'm afraid. So we might just as well humor him, or we'll have a terrible grouch for company."
"Rubbish!" Freddy Farmer snapped angrily. But just the same, he looked hopefully at Commander Drake. And then grinned broadly when the Naval officer nodded, and started leading the way over to his quarters.
"What do you say, Dave; stop this blasted thing for a moment, what?" Freddy Farmer said. "I'm coming loose at the joints. Besides, this is a beautiful spot. What is it anyway, do you know?"
"The beach at Kahuku Point," Dawson replied as he guided the jeep in which they were riding to the side of the road, and braked it to a stop. "And you're right, Freddy, this is some spot. With that half-moon hanging up there in the sky, it's just like a picture from the brush of a great artist."
"Well, strike me pink!" young Farmer gasped as he climbed out of the jeep and gazed at Dawson. "The chap seems to have some beauty and romance in his soul after all!"
"And nuts to you!" Dave snapped as he climbed down, too. "Can't a fellow admire something without being taken for a guy with long hair who lives in a garret?"
"But the way you said it, Dave," Freddy Farmer said with a sly look in his eyes. "So soft and so deep. Do you write poetry, too, my good man?"
"Look, dime a dozen!" Dawson grated. "It was your idea to take this jeep trip around the island. So don't start any of that stuff with me. I simply said that this was quite a spot. And it is,see?"
"Right you are, Dave, right you are, old thing," young Farmer laughed. "I simply couldn't pass by the chance to pull your leg a bit. First time I ever heard you admit there were such things as moons, and what not. Just shows there is another side to you. And I like that side,too. So am I forgiven?"
"Aw, go spin a wing!" Dawson growled, but he grinned and gave Farmer a playful punch in the ribs. "Fact is, Freddy, nobody can be hard-boiled in the Islands. There's something about them that would break down the toughest egg that ever came down the pike. I've seen a few places in this old world in my few years, but somehow the Hawaiians always remain at the top of the list."
"Yes, they really are quite something, I must admit," Freddy murmured as he gazed about at the faintly silver-washed scenery. "I'm fair to being in love with them myself. What say we take a walk back along the road a ways? Or should we be getting on back to the Kaneohe Naval Air Station?"
Dawson glanced down at his wrist watch and shook his head.
"It's early," he said. "We've got lots of time. And I don't think Commander Drake will be mad at all if we stay out of his hair for a spell longer. Now, there is one swell guy, isn't he, Freddy? I went for him one hundred per cent the moment I laid eyes on him."
"A very pukka chap, and no doubt of it!" Freddy Farmer agreed instantly, and dropped into step. "We've probably bored him to tears, but he hasn't shown it for a single second. Always ready to please. Always eager to do anything to help us pass the time. That day yesterday with him is one I'll always remember. Don't believe there's a blasted thing left on this island that he hasn't shown us. A very, very top-hole gentleman, for fair."
"That, and more," Dawson grunted. "But I've a hunch he got a kick out of it too, taking us on the sight-seeing rounds. If only because it got his mind off other things. The commander is worried about the spy business here in the Islands. There are no two ways about that. If we don't spot that Nazi tomorrow when the carrier force comes in, he's going to take it like a mule's kick in the face."
"I fancy we'll feel much the same way ourselves," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Makes me almost afraid to have tomorrow come. And for two reasons, too."
"One is maybe we won't find the guy," Dawson said. "What's the other?"
"That we'll find him, and then that will be that," young Farmer replied after a moment's pause. "I mean, our job will be all washed up. I gathered that Vice-Admiral Stone expects us to go back to the mainland on the next plane, after this business is all taken care of."
"Yeah, I got the same idea," Dave said gloomily. "And it's been bothering me. I'll hate like sixty to go back to instructing. To tell you the truth, once this business is all settled, I'm going to go to the vice-admiral and see if I can't get him to arrange for us to be sent to the Southwest Pacific war zone. Anyway, some place other than back to the mainland."
"I doubt that you'll have any luck," Freddy Farmer sighed. "Technically, the vice-admiral hasn't anything to say about where we go next. We are Air Forces, you know. Loaned to Naval Aviation for instruction duty. Orders for us to proceed to any fighting zone would have to come from the Air Forces Command, not the Navy."
"Right, but did you have to bring it up?" Dawson groaned. "However, this business isn't cleared up yet. I've got me a funny feeling, I have."
"Was there ever a time when you hadn't?" young Farmer shot right back at him. "What's it this time? That we're going to fail tomorrow?"
Dawson didn't reply for a moment. He walked along the moonlit and shadowed road, hands jammed in his pockets, and a faraway look in his eyes.
"Yeah, Freddy," he eventually said slowly, "I guess you could put it that way. I've been making the old brain wheels spin over in high gear on all this business. And I stumbled on one little item that maybe throws the whole thing out of whack. Time."
"Time?" Freddy Farmer questioned with a frown.
"Yeah, time," Dawson said. "No matter how you look at it, the carrier force was far at sea when you and I stopped hearing the birdies sing. And ..."
"But you said...!" young Farmer began.
"I know," Dawson stopped him. "I said that being as how things were all arranged, they probably took a chance and had that Nazi spy go back aboard his ship. But later, when the Jap guessed that we were going to do things about it, he stopped taking chances."
"You certainly don't make sense," Farmer growled. "But if you're referring to the Nazi spy, no matter what the Japrat decided, or didn't decide, the Nazi was far at sea by then. And on his way to Pearl Harbor."
"Correct," Dave grunted. "But there was the item of that guy in Honolulu. Oh sure, we may spot the Nazi tomorrow, but I don't thinkhe'lllead Commander Drake and his men to the Honolulu address. And even if he should, Commander Drake won't find anybody there."
"You're crazy!" Farmer snorted.
"Okay, so I'm crazy," Dave said placidly. "But that's the way I feel just the same. Doggone it, Freddy, the thing is just too open and shut, as far as we're concerned. I mean, we hold all the cards. And nothing ever works out that way. The stakes are too high for it to come off that way!"
"Rubbish!" young Farmer snorted again.
"You think so?" Dawson murmured, and turned his head to look at him. "Okay, then. Figure it this way. One, that Japrat was smooth enough to hear us outside that shack, and catch us with our flaps down. Two, he was smooth enough to swipe a plane and chase us up to L.A. Three, he was smooth enough to slip time fire bombs into the mail sacks aboard the Fort we were to fly. Four ... But skip the rest. Do you think he's not also smooth enough to somehow get word to his Honolulu man, so that this end of the business won't go boom along with that Nazi spy? Do you think he's dumb enough to risk the loss of an important spy contact here in the Islands by just hoping that his Nazi spy won't be nailed? If you do, you're nuts, is all I've got to say. And what's more, I'd like to lay a little bet that healsogets word to the Nazi spy. Maybe not until the Nazi sets foot on shore, but darn soon after that, and don't kid yourself."
"About the beggar in Honolulu, yes," Freddy Farmer said. Then with a shake of his head, "But about that Nazi spy, no. He wouldn't be bothered with that, because if he's as smart as you say he'll know that his Nazi spy will never be able to set foot on shore. I mean, if he has such communication with his Honolulu chap then he'll obviously be informed that his mail sack business failed. That we did arrive. So he'll naturally realize that his Nazi spy will be identified by us before he even steps ashore."
"Nuts!" Dawson snapped. "If you give the guy a little brains, then for cat's sake go all the way, and figure him for a lot of brains. Figure him to be able to figure it the way we have. Vice-Admiral Stone's plan, I mean. In short, that we won't grab the guy aboard ship. That we'll let him go ashore, and trail him. Don't you see, Freddy? If that Jap figures that we heard all about his Nazi spy sailing on one of the carriers, then healsofigures that wealsoheard about the meeting in Honolulu. And he will act accordingly, believe you me!"
"Well, it's rather involved, but perhaps you're right," young Farmer said with a shake of his head. "But if we spot the chap tomorrow, I wouldn't call that failing."
"I would!" Dawson said quickly. "Nailing that Nazi spy is just part of the thing. There's the Honolulu angle. Now that we're in it, we're in it all the way, as far as I'm concerned. Our big mistake was to be caught flat-footed way back at the start. So unless the whole thing is cleaned up one hundred per cent, it'll be a failure for me, is the way I look at it."
"Yes, I see your point," Freddy Farmer mumbled. "But not to change the subject, what do you think of Vice-Admiral Stone's plan for us to spot the chap?"
"Okay, I guess," Dawson replied with a shrug. "The entire force is to anchor inside the submarine nets while the vice-admiral makes his inspection of all three carriers. We'll go aboard with his party not as officers, but as gobs. Nobody ever looks at a couple of gobs in a vice-admiral's inspection party. Besides, we won't be trailing along with all the gold braid. We'll be stationed at the gangway ladder where we can get a look at everybody, and still be noticed. All pilots will be lined up on deck, and so forth. Yeah, I think the plan is okay."
"Wish I thought so," Freddy Farmer grunted. "Strikes me as a bit too fancy, though. I can think of a lot of ways that would be just as good, and much simpler."
"Well, I'll tell the vice-admiral when he comes in," Dave said with a chuckle.
And with that they both lapsed into silence and strolled slowly along the road that paralleled the Kahuku Point beach. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing things. What was to happen tomorrow when the carrier force arrived, would happen. And that would be that. So they strolled along, one or both of them pausing every now and then to admire the moonlight on the palm trees, or the way it danced over the broad expanse of the Pacific like billions and billions of spinning silver coins. At one spot the sight was particularly awe-inspiring, and Dawson stared at it intently like a man in a trance.
Eventually, he heaved a long sigh, stretched his arms over his head, drew in a deep breath, and then let it out in another long drawn out sigh of complete contentment.
"Some night, hey, Freddy?" he grunted. "Boy, this is sure one swell spot, war or no war. Me for this place in my old age, and no fooling. After I make my million in civilian life, of course. How about you, little man?"
There was no comment from Freddy Farmer. Dawson turned and started to open his mouth to repeat his words, but he snapped it shut instead. For perhaps five full seconds he stared pop-eyed at the spot where the English-born air ace had been walking by his side. But Freddy wasn't there anymore. He had disappeared; completely vanished as though the ground had swallowed him up. Shadowed moonlight all over the road, but not a sign of Freddy Farmer.
"Hey, Freddy!" Dawson suddenly let out a yell. "Where the heck are you, fellow?"
The silence of the night swallowed up the echo of his words. He slowly turned all the way around and searched with puzzled eyes in all directions. A wave of annoyance suddenly flooded through him. He had the urge to go on walking along the road, but on second thought he curbed it.
"Okay, funny man!" he snapped. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come on, Freddy! I don't feel like playingthatkind of a game! Snap into it, fellow!"
And the silence again swallowed up the echo of his words. There was nothing but the moonlight, the shadows, and the soft velvety silence of a Pacific night. Real anger flamed up in Dawson, and then suddenly the anger was touched by the finger of cold fear. A clammy, eerie sensation rippled across the back of his neck. For no reason at all he suddenly remembered when once as a kid he had fallen out of bed and awakened on the floor of his room. The room was black as pitch, and the feel of the carpeted floor as frightening to him as the feel of a rattlesnake. His yells that night had been heard five houses down the block. But he didn't make a sound now. The very air that he breathed seemed to clog in his throat.
And then without warning the strangled cry came to him from out of the depths of the night-shrouded trees that bordered the road on the left.
"Dave! Help! Come quick! Dave! Dave!"
The last was choked off by what seemed like a gurgling moan that made Dawson's heart stand still, and the blood in his veins turn to ice. For perhaps two seconds he stood paralyzed, and then he spun and plunged into the dark trees. But he had taken only half a dozen steps when something caught him sharply across the forehead. Something else slammed into his right side. And as his head seemed to spin off his shoulders, and the rest of his body to go crashing downward, he was vaguely conscious of hissing sounds, and the dank, musty smell of something crawling and loathsome!
When he again opened his eyes, a smell that was something like that of dead and rotting flower blossoms filled Dave Dawson's nose, and seemed to clog up his throat. For several seconds he stared bewildered at a world of murky shadows. Then suddenly he realized that he was in some kind of a room, and that he was lying on his side on the floor of that room. And the air he was breathing was heavy with the smell of rotting sweet things. Like perfume that had turned bad. Or still more like cheap perfume mixed with a dash or two of ether. It stung his nose, and his eyes, and made him gag.
"What the heck?" he heard his own voice mumble.
The sound of his own mumbling voice gave him the idea to sit up and take immediate stock of his crazy, cockeyed surroundings. But the idea remained just an idea. That is to say, he soon found that he could not sit up. And he couldn't because his wrists were bound tightly behind his back. His ankles were bound tightly, too. And a rope connecting his bound wrists and ankles was drawn so taut that the only movement he could make was to roll over on his face. And that didn't do any good because then he couldn't see anything. And the strain on his wrists and ankles made white dots of pain dance about in front of his eyes.
Gasping and panting for breath, he managed to flop back onto his other side. But for a couple of minutes he could see nothing but blurs because of the dancing white spots. Then as his vision cleared he saw the huddled form of Freddy Farmer on the floor not four feet from him. Freddy was trussed up, too, and his eyes were closed tight as though in deep sleep. A terrible fear gripped Dawson as he stared at his flying pal, and then his heart began to beat again when he saw that Freddy was breathing regularly.
Over beyond Freddy on the opposite wall was a small window. But it was so high up from the floor that it was more like a skylight. And when Dawson twisted his head back so that he could look up at it, he saw four pale squares of light. The pale light from outside seeped down through the four small panes of glass that made up the window.
"Dawn," he muttered. "It must be close to dawn, or else that glass is plenty dirty. I'll ...Dawn?But it was early evening when it happened. Well, not later than nine o'clock, anyway. Yeah! Freddy disappeared, and then yelled. I went hunting for him, and ... bingo! I got clouted, and there was a funny smell. Something like this, and ..."
He cut off the rest with a groan and closed his stinging eyes tight as he tried to force his brain back in memory and recall what else had followed. But he couldn't remember anything else. Yes, a sort of hissing sound, that dank, musty smell, and then ... and then the lights had gone out for him.
He groaned again, opened his eyes and looked at Freddy Farmer. He tried for a moment or two to wiggle and edge closer, but the white pain in his wrists and ankles made him give it up.
"Freddy, Freddy!" he called out softly. "Can you hear me, Freddy? Open your eyes, pal. This is Dave. Can you hear me, Freddy?"
Young Farmer's eyelids seemed to flutter a bit, but they did not open immediately. A tremor ran down the youth's body. Dave saw him quiver, and then heard him sigh. Then presently young Farmer opened his eyes, and just gaped blankly.
"Freddy, it's Dave!" Dawson said sharply. "How are you, Freddy? Okay, pal? Say something, won't you?"
The English-born air ace continued to stare blank-eyed for a moment or two longer. Then he blinked rapidly, and frowned.
"What's the matter, Dave?" he asked. "Where are we? What are we...? Ouch! I say, what the heck is up? I can't move. My feet and hands are tied! I say!"
"Me, too, Freddy," Dawson said quickly, and tried to grin but without much success. "But I don't know any of the answers. I just woke up. Look, what happened to you last night?"
"To me, last night?" young Farmer murmured. Then in a startled voice. "Last night, you said? You mean...? I mean, this isn't last night? I mean, this isn't tonight. I ... Oh, good grief, what do I mean?"
"Take it easy, son, take it easy," Dave soothed him. "Right now it's early dawn, I think. Last night you suddenly faded out of the picture. We'd parked the jeep at Kahuku Point beach and were taking a stroll. Remember? You disappeared, called out to me, and I ran smack into a kick in the face, or something. Why did you call out? Where had you gone, and why?"
Freddy Farmer scowled, and slowly moved his head from side to side in a bewildered gesture. Then suddenly he stiffened, and his eyes flew open wide.
"Good gosh, yes, Dave!" he gasped. "It was the queerest thing. Happened so suddenly that I don't even know now exactly what did happen. Something got me from behind, quick as a wink. Around the throat and over the nose and mouth. I swear I smelled ether, but I'm not sure. Everything sort of went spinning like, and black as pitch. Later I seemed to come to. I was being carried by a couple of chaps. Maybe there were more than just a couple. Anyway, I guess it was instinct, I knew that something was wrong. I remember now yelling to you. And then everything went black and smelly again. But where are we, and how in the world did we get here?"
"And I still don't know the answers, Freddy," Dawson said to him. "As I said, I came running when I heard you yell, and the next thing I knew I was falling down a great big black hole full of hissing sound, and a funny smell. Like the smell that's in the air now. Boy! if I could only get a lungful of fresh clean air then maybe I could think straight for a second or so. The old brain is whirling so fast it's going to burn out a bearing sure as shooting. But are you hurt, or wounded, or anything, Freddy?"
"Nope," the other replied. "Nothing wrong with me except that I'm trussed up like a blooming pig ready for roasting. I wonder what it all means? Have you heard any sounds, or anything like that?"
Before Dawson could so much as open his mouth to say, "No," they both heard the drone of aircraft engines up in the air outside. They listened to the sound grow louder and louder until they could tell that the aircraft was directly over them. Then it grew fainter and fainter and presently died away altogether. Neither of them spoke. It was like a mockery of fate to be a couple of air pilots trussed up helpless on the dirty floor of some strange and smelly room listening to an airplane thunder by outside.
"Well, that was a Yank plane, anyway," Dawson eventually grunted, as though that fact would help them a little. "I could tell."
"So could I," Freddy Farmer said in a wistful tone. Then, "I'm afraid we've been a couple of blasted fools again, Dave. Blind, thoughtless, stupid fools. And after the warning Vice-Admiral Stone gave us."
"You mean that doom caught up with a couple of doomed guys?" Dawson asked. "But that's nuts, Freddy!"
"Nuts?" young Farmer came back sharply. "Why, you were the one who had the hunch that our Japrat friend probably could communicate with his pals in the Islands. So it was ..."
"I know what I said," Dave growled. "But if it was that, we wouldn't be here. Alive, I mean. We'd be dead. Why kidnap us in the dark of night, and at a lonely spot like the one where we were? Why not just give us both the works, and be done with it? With us dead they haven't a single thing to fear about that Nazi spy being identified. Or ... oh my gosh!"
"What, Dave?" Freddy Farmer asked quickly when Dawson let out the sudden exclamation and then lapsed into a sort of breathless silence.
"Nothing, nothing, Freddy," Dave replied. "Let's skip it. I wonder where the heck we are, anyway. Sure is a mixed-up business, isn't it? I wonder ..."
"Here, none of that, Dave!" young Farmer snapped. "I can see through you like glass, old thing. You suddenly thought of something that gave you a fair jolt. You want to spare me by not telling me. I want none of that sort of thing, and you know it, Dave. So come on. Out with it, old chap. What was the sudden thought?"
"Oh, look, Freddy, let's just skip it and ..."
"Dave!" Freddy cut him off again. "That's not being quite fair to your pal, don't you think, what?"
Dawson didn't reply for a long moment. He struggled with himself, and then sighed softly.
"Okay, Freddy," he said slowly. "But of course it's a crazy, screwy thought. Doesn't make any sense at all. Really, to tell the truth, it ..."
"Just tell it to me, Dave," young Farmer said quietly, and fixed his eyes on Dawson's face.
"That maybe this isit, Freddy," Dawson finally said, and gave a jerk of his head to include the room in which they were bound prisoners. "Maybe they didn't want to leave any signs, such as a couple of bodies, and so forth. Maybe they decided that it was best for you and me just to disappear, and ... and here we are. But I tell you, pal, it's really a screwy thought. Absolutely absurd. You shouldn't have forced me, kid."
Freddy Farmer didn't say anything when Dawson finished speaking. He closed his eyes for a moment, licked his lips, and then opened his eyes and appeared to stare thoughtfully into space. Dawson started to speak again, but Freddy smiled a little and shook his head.
"That's all right, Dave," he said quietly. "Perhaps you are right, and then again, perhaps you are wrong. And I do think you're wrong. As I look at it they simply wouldn't take the chance."
"Take what chance?" Dawson demanded.
"That we'd escape from this place, wherever it is," the English-born air ace replied. "They'd kill us and leave us here, never to be found perhaps. They wouldn't let us go out the slow way, knowing that we might possibly escape by some miracle. They'd make sure, don't you see?"
"Yeah, I get your point, Freddy," Dave said with a nod. Then, grinning broadly, he added, "Well, didn't I just get through saying that it was probably a cockeyed thought?"
"But I wonderwhythey want to keep us alive?" Freddy Farmer murmured as though he were too busy with his own thoughts to hear Dawson's question.
In the next moment, though, all conversation between them ceased abruptly. A door opened and two shadowy figures came into the room. At the sound of the latch and the soft footsteps that followed immediately, Dawson screwed his head around, fully expecting to see the leering, buck-toothed face of some son of Nippon. Neither of the two figures who came into the room were Japanese. At any rate they certainly didn't look like Japanese. They looked more like a couple of ragged Hawaiians, although their cheek bones were unusually high. And when Dawson took a second look at their faces he was instantly struck with the impression that both were a trifle scared. One of them carried a tray of food, while the other carried a snub-nosed automatic, and acted as though he expected the thing to blow up almost any second. The one with the tray of food placed it on the floor, and then, while the other stood guard with his "nervous" gun, he moved around by Dawson's head, and motioned for the Yank air ace to roll over on his stomach. Dawson hesitated an instant and then did as signalled. Hands fumbled with the rope about his wrists, and presently his half numbed wrists were free. He pulled them down by his sides, and with his head turned that way he watched the man free Freddy Farmer's wrists, also. That done, the brown-skinned man leaped quickly backward and pushed the tray of food between them with one bare foot.
"Food," he said in a strange husky voice. "You eat. You eat food."
Not all of the circulation had returned to Dawson's wrists and his arms from finger tips to shoulder sockets felt stabbed by a billion needles as he shifted over on his back, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He heard Freddy Farmer gasp as he, too, sat up. He shot a quick glance at his English-born pal, saw that he was suffering the same kind of pain, and then looked at the food. It was of the Hawaiian variety and didn't look bad at all. His prime interest at the moment, however, was not in food, regardless of the growling that had started up in his stomach. He looked at the two raggedly clad brown men, of very uncertain origin no doubt. They returned his look with all the intelligence of a bottle fly showing in their high cheek-boned faces.
"Where are we?" Dawson asked, and smiled at them.
Like a rehearsed act the two brown men shook their heads, and pointed long forefingers at the tray of food.
"You eat," they said in the same breath.
Dawson shook his head, smiled again, and made a gesture with his tingling right arm that included the house where they were.
"What place is this?" he said slowly, spacing his words. "Where is boss man? Me make talk with boss fella, yes. You savvy?"
The two brown men, with jet black hair, shook their heads as one again and pointed.
"Okay, skip it!" Dawson said quickly. "I get the idea. Me eat. Okay, me eat."
He turned to the tray of food, picked up something that looked like a messy salad and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted surprisingly good. In fact, it tasted exactly like a highly spiced salad.
"Not bad," he grunted.
"Definitely good," Freddy Farmer said with his mouth full. "Which of course adds to the crazy mystery. Why do the blighters feed us, I'd like to know?"
"And I'd like to know who theyare!" Dawson said with emphasis. Then, reaching out his hand, he said, "Wonder what this stuff is in this cup? Looks like pineapple juice. I ... well, what do you know, itispineapple juice! But good, too!"