CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Little Bit Of England!
Dave didn't bother looking at the redhead as the man pushed words off the tip of his tongue. He kept his nose pressed against the cabin window and watched with beating heart as the area of tableland came sweeping up closer and closer to the plane. The nearer the plane got to the ground, the more weatherbeaten and deserted the two shacks looked. In fact, Dave knew that if he should be flying over them at even a thousand feet or so, he would instantly take them for a couple of prospectors' shacks abandoned to the wind and the rain years and years before.
Another couple of minutes and the Stinson went up on wing, cut around in a dime turn, and then leveled off and settled to earth between two rows of sun-bleached rocks. Hardly had the plane braked to a halt than the redhead was at the cabin door, pushing it open with one hand behind him, and backing out. Every second of the time, though, he kept his blue green eyes fastened on his prisoners.
"I'll take them inside while you put the job away," he said to the pilot. "Stick her way under the trees with that Waco, just in case some nosy guys come flying over. Nuts to take chances, you know. We'll—"
"Can it!" the pilot snarled. "Who are you, giving orders? Take them inside. I'll be along in a minute, and help tie them up. But keep that gun ready, and use it if you have to. We can't risk anything, see?"
"I see, sure I see!" the redhead snarled back. "What's eating you, anyway?"
"Nothing, and shut up!" the pilot said in a brittle voice.
The redhead nodded, and motioned with his gun to Dave and the other two.
"Out!" he snapped. "And watch it. And keep your hands in sight, too."
Dave obeyed to the letter, but his heart was thumping against his ribs. He had a sneaky feeling that Colonel Welsh's words had had a profound effect on the pilot. Sure, he had snarled, and boasted, and cursed the United States, the land of his birth. But like all rats of his ilk, deep down in his black heart he was scared stiff of the Old Man With the Whiskers. Deep down in his heart he knew that he might get by with this back stabbing for a little while—just like the Japs—but not for long. In the end he would be caught in the wheels of right and justice and be ground to a pulp.
With the pilot feeling as he obviously did, snapping and snarling at his own partner in this dirty work, perhaps something could be made of it. Perhaps—
Dave didn't finish the rest. Without realizing it he had sort of stopped to mull things over as he climbed down from the plane. He had unconsciously started to push one hand into his tunic pocket. He didn't even realize he was making the movement, but the redhead saw it, took it for the wrong thing, and moved with the speed of light. The barrel of the automatic was slapped against the left side of Dave's jaw just hard enough for him to see stars and stumble. He ended up by falling the rest of the way out of the cabin doorway and landing flat on his face on hard dirt.
"And stay there!" he heard the redhead growl. "I'll take that gun just as soon as your two pals are down. Okay, you two. Out, and keep your hands where I can see them. Okay! Now, flat on your bellies and hands outstretched. Either of you move, and you get it."
A moment later Dave felt the muzzle of the automatic pressed against the back of his head, and felt the redhead's other hand going through his pockets. He didn't move a muscle, and presently an angry curse told him that the redhead realized he was wrong. Then the gun tapped him lightly on the head.
"Stay put, with your hands out!" the redhead said. "I'll just make sure about your pals."
Dave kept his throbbing face buried in the dirt until he heard the redhead's voice again.
"Okay, on your feet, and inside! And no more kidding moves like that last one, Dawson. My trigger finger's getting plenty itchy. Okay, move!"
Dave got slowly to his feet, blinked from his eyes water caused by smacking the ground with his face, and walked stiff-legged in through the door of the nearest shack. He expected to step into a room heavy with age, and dust, and dirt, and all the countless smells of the years. But he didn't. He stepped into a large sized room that was comfortably furnished and fitted out like a hunting lodge. No, not exactly a hunting lodge. Rather, it looked more like an arsenal. There were guns all over the place, of all types: pistols, automatics, rifles, and machine guns. Along the entire right wall were heavy wood boxes that obviously contained thousands and thousands of rounds of ammunition.
But what caught Dave's eyes and held them was the powerful gas engine operated short-wave radio receiving set and transmitter that took up most of the space at the rear of the room. One glance told him that every part of it was of the finest equipment, and that its operator could contact points thousands and thousands of miles away. One look at the set and he guessed instantly that one of its chief uses was to send weather data to listening Axis ears. This was probably one of several such stations hidden in the vastness of the United States. In time they would be smoked out and destroyed. Meantime, though, they were serving the Axis powers well, and, unquestionably, in a dozen different ways.
"Not bad, huh?" he heard the redhead's voice with its taunting note. "We have lots of fun here, Mike and Ike. See what I mean, Colonel? We got it all doped out. You Army and Navy guys are suckers. You don't stand a chance, what I mean. When the time's right, we'll move in. And that's all there'll be to it, see? Steady, Colonel! Steady, pal. Rushing me will just get you a bullet in that belly of yours. Take it easy, and relax. Back up, and sit down on that case. You two kids, too."
As the redhead grinned and made motions with the gun, Dave, Freddy, and the Colonel slowly backed up until they were sitting on a couple of gun cases. Once they were settled, with their hands carefully kept in sight, the redhead hooked one leg over a nearby table and absently stroked the palm of his other hand with the barrel of his automatic. Dave heard Colonel Welsh's tight, rasping breathing beside him, but he didn't look at the man. Nor did he glance at Freddy Farmer, who hadn't spoken a word since they had entered the Stinson. Instead, Dave kept his eyes fixed on the redhead—and waited, and hoped, and prayed.
"Yeah, we have us some fun here," the redhead went on, and looked straight at Colonel Welsh. "But soon we're going to have some real fun. See all these guns, Colonel? Lots of people are going to hear them pop off, soon. People east in Washington, too. The boys running this show have it all doped out. It'll be a cinch."
"Do you know what you are?" the Colonel suddenly asked with an effort.
"No, you tell me, Colonel," the redhead said with a chuckle. Then, before Colonel Welsh could get a word in edgewise: "You know, I'd never tab you for head of the Intelligence, Colonel. You don't look the part to me at all. But maybe that's what's made you the great man of mystery, eh? Well, the mystery is over as far as I'm concerned. And to tell you the truth, I'm kind of disappointed. When we got the radio flash that you were aboard a plane heading west with these two kids, I got kind of all excited. I got kind of sorry, too, that I'd have to shoot you down without having a look at you. But—well, I did get that look after all. And I'm disappointed."
"And you are a complete and utter fool!" Colonel Welsh said, tight-lipped. "I told you once, and I tell you again! You'll never get away with this. You'll be caught and either strung up, or shot. You'll get—"
"Didn't I tell you to shut up? Well, do it. We can't be bothered listening to your junk. Shut up! Do you hear me!"
It was the voice of the pilot, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. He stood glaring at Colonel Welsh out of eyes that held a wild, glassy glitter. Two white spots appeared on either cheek, and as the last left his lips they came together to form a thin cruel line. Then before Colonel Welsh, or Dave, or Freddy Farmer could so much as move a muscle, the man leaped forward and slammed his upholstered gun against the Colonel's left temple. The chief of U. S. Intelligence slumped over, but caught himself and straightened up slowly. A trickle of blood ran down from the cut on his temple, but he made no effort to raise his hand to it. He looked at the pilot and smiled grimly. Dave marveled silently at the man's courage and ability to take it. The blow he had received was enough to knock over a horse.
"Swing again, you rat traitor!" the Colonel got out evenly. "You know in your heart that you're sunk. And it's making you lose your grip."
For an instant Dave thought the pilot was going to go stark raving mad with rage and hurl himself at the Colonel. But he didn't. With a visibly tremendous effort he regained control of himself and forced a harsh laugh off his lips.
"That's what you think!" he snapped. Then out of the corner of his mouth to his partner: "Get that rope, and we'll tie them up. We'll gag this big slob. I'm sick of hearing his yapping."
Less than five minutes later Dave and Freddy were bound hand and foot. Colonel Welsh was bound hand and foot, too, but he was also gagged. The pilot made sure that the ropes were tied right, then turned his back on them and walked over to a table on the other side of the room. He picked up a whiskey bottle there, took a long drink and choked on it. He coughed so hard he almost dropped the bottle. He would have if the redhead hadn't jumped quickly forward and grabbed it.
"Hey, what's the matter with you?" the redhead demanded angrily. "You getting the jim-jams? This is no time to fall apart. Snap out of it. Get hold of yourself. Boy! Wouldn't the big boss like to see you, now. I knew he should have put me in charge of this station."
The pilot suddenly went white about the corners of his mouth, and there was cold murder in the eyes he fixed on the redhead. He reached out and tapped the redhead on the chest with the barrel of his automatic.
"Just say that again, lug," he grated. "Go on! Just say it again!"
The redhead seemed to wilt like a flower tossed into a blast furnace. He gulped and swallowed hard, and backed away a couple of steps.
"Okay, okay!" he got out hastily. "I was only kidding. But I only thought—"
"Nobody wants you to think!" the pilot snarled, and took a step forward. "Get it? Cut out the thinking. Now, get on that key and contact Frisco. Tell them we've got them on ice, and what do we do now? Tell them this place is cooked, if either of these three should get away. Find out where he wants them delivered, or what. He was nuts to have us go hunting them, and bring them back here. They'd have been stuck there a week, anyway. And that's more time than we need to fly these guns and stuff to the other places. But skip that last. Don't tell them that, understand. The big boy wouldn't like it."
"I'll say he wouldn't!" the redhead said with a tight laugh, and went through the motions of slitting his throat from ear to ear. "Okay. I'll find out what we do now. Fun, I hope."
The redhead flung the trio of prisoners a leering look, then went to the back of the room and sat down at the radio equipment. A moment or so later the crackling of the spark gap of a wireless set filled the room. Dave closed his eyes and strained his ears. He caught the signal being sent out. It was S-T. It was repeated a dozen times or more. Then the man stopped sending, and there was silence as he listened to whatever was coming through his earphones. After twenty seconds or so he started sending again. Dave caught all the signals, but that's all the good it did him. He glanced at Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh, and knew that they were catching the signals, too, and that the code going out over the air was just as meaningless to them as it was to him.
For five minutes the redhead "talked" with the man at the other end of the wave length. Then he switched off his set, got up and turned around with a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear.
"He thinks we're great guys," he said to his partner. "He thinks we're the nuts."
"Horses to what he thinks!" the pilot growled, and ran a nervous tongue tip along his lower lip. "What do we do now? What are his orders?"
"To sit tight," the redhead said. Then, after flashing Colonel Welsh a smirking look, he went on, "He's coming up here sometime tonight. He didn't say, but I've got a hunch he wants to work on our three friends here. But he's tickled silly about it all. What a break for us we were bum shots last night. This little job puts us in good, I'm telling you. Boy! You can't top the big boss, can you? He knows his onions right down the line. Yeah! Old blabber mouth, there, is going to have plenty of chance to work his yap. And I mean, but plenty! Maybe he won't want to, but I've seen the big boss's way of getting guys to talk. He's got a technique, he has!"
"Coming up tonight, huh?" the pilot echoed with a happy smile. "Swell! That means you and me will be shifted to some other station. And that'll suit me okay. This neck of the woods is giving me the creeps. Thirty days here. It's been like thirty years. Let's have a drink on getting out of here soon."
"Yeah!" the redhead said, and licked his lips. "Let's have a couple of them. I'm dry as a bone."
With that moment began an hour and a half that was just about the toughest ninety minutes Dave Dawson had ever spent in his life. The two unshaven men went over to the table and dropped into chairs and proceeded to ignore their prisoners. That didn't bother Dave in the slightest, though. He was quite content to have the two ignore him, for he was too busy with his thoughts—thoughts that tumbled and spilled around in his brain like little red hot stones. A hundred times at least he strained at the ropes that held his wrists bound behind his back. And a hundred times circles of white pain about his wrists convinced him that he didn't stand a chance in the world of freeing his hands, to say nothing of his ankles. A hundred times he cursed himself bitterly for not getting away from that attacker last night—and without damage to the Lockheed's engines. A hundred times he thought of the Aircraft Carrier Indian and the unknown doom that hovered over her; the unknown doom that was aboard her in the form of some rat Axis spy who had killed and obtained vital information that could easily spell disaster for many of Uncle Sam's fighting men of the sea if it reached Japanese hands soon enough.
A hundred times he thought of many things, and each time his utter helplessness to do anything about them was like a hot knife twisting in his heart. But the most torturing thing of all was the realization that he and Freddy had been stopped cold before they had even been able to get started. The Carrier Indian was over three hundred miles away, riding at anchor in San Diego harbor. Who knew when they would see it? Who knew if they would ever see it? Caught cold before they had even got started on the very first of the special assignments they were to carry out for Uncle Sam. What a sweet beginning! Yes! What a sweet beginning that could well be the end, too. And that end might come when the man referred to as the big boss arrived.
Thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts that walked, raced, cut and slashed their way through Dave's brain. Seconds dragged on into minutes, and the minutes seemed to drag on into an eternity of time. Then suddenly sound forced its way through Dave's thoughts and brought him back to the present. The sound was soft moaning and groaning. And it came from Freddy Farmer's lips.
The English youth was sitting on a gun case just beyond where Colonel Welsh sat, but out in front of him so that Dave could see his pal. And the look on Freddy's face was one of great pain, and not a little of terror, and fear. His eyes were half closed, and he seemed to be staring at nothing at all as he rocked jerkily back and forth like some African savage praying to his idol gods. For a brief instant Dave could hardly believe his eyes or his ears. Then a wave of sympathy mingled with just a little annoyance swept through him.
"Pull up your socks, Freddy!" he said in a low voice. "Show these rats you can take it. Come on, Freddy. Chin up, pal!"
The English youth groaned louder and opened his eyes a little. The look he flung Dave burned with scorn.
"Blast you and your chin-up rot!" he grated. "I've had enough of this. Gangster stuff, this is, not war. I know now I should never have left England. This is a madman's country. I tell you I've had enough of it!"
Freddy fairly screamed the last, and had Dave not been tied hand and foot he would have leaped over and slapped his pal's jaw. Something had happened to Freddy Farmer. Something had snapped inside of him. Dave had seen his pal in a hundred tight corners, every bit as tight as this one. He knew full well that Freddy was red-blooded courage from his head to his feet. But something had happened, and the English youth was ready to crack up like an hysterical old woman.
"Freddy, cut it out!" he snapped. "Buck up, old man. Show them. Come on, Freddy. The old R.A.F. stuff. We're not licked yet, and we won't be. You know that!"
The English youth didn't answer at once. He sat swaying and groaning, and staring at Dave out of half closed eyes. Then suddenly he began to laugh softly. The laugh grew and grew until it was almost a scream. The pilot and the redhead had put down their whiskey glasses and were staring at him in wide-eyed amazement.
"R.A.F., my hat!" Freddy suddenly shouted. "This isn't war. This is gangster business, like I've seen in your American movies. Well, I've had enough of it. I can't stand it, do you understand. I can't stand it! These ropes are killing me. I feel as if I were all on fire!"
Freddy stopped short, looked over at the unshaven pair and spoke again before Dave had time to open his mouth.
"I say, a drink of water, please!" he gasped. "I must have a drink of water. I'm dying, really. I can't stand the pain. A drink of water, please!"
The pair stared for a moment longer; then the redhead burst out with laughter.
"The tough English, huh?" he jeered aloud. "Look at the brave R.A.F. pilot, I don't think! Well, what do you know? The English can't take it. I always said they couldn't. Mama! Mama! Sonny boy wants a drink of water. Here! Pour a slug of this whiskey down his throat and make a man of him. Okay, I'll do it!"
The redhead laughed some more and splashed whiskey from the bottle into his glass. He pushed up from the table and came swaggering over to Freddy Farmer.
"Here you are, sonny boy," he said, and leaned over to put the glass to the English youth's lips. "Be Papa's great big man. Have a drink. Go on, take some!"
Freddy Farmer groaned just once more, then leaned forward as though he were going to drink. But he didn't drink. He became an exploding ball of chain lightning, instead. Almost before Dave Dawson's startled eyes could register what was taking place, Freddy Farmer whipped his right hand around from behind his back and plucked the redhead's automatic from its holster. In what was practically the same motion, the English youth stood up and clubbed the gun down on the redhead's ear. At the same time Freddy brought up his left clenched fist and landed solidly on the man's jaw. The man closed his eyes, and folded up like an old army cot to the floor.
The English youth didn't so much as watch the redhead crumple. Instead he brought the automatic down into line with the pilot sitting stunned at the table on the other side of the room.
"Don't even wink an eye!" Freddy barked, and slowly sat down again. "I can put a bullet in your rotten heart from here with my eyes closed. Keep your hands just as they are on the table. Don't move them an inch, you dirty blighter!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Westward To War
As Freddy Farmer hurled the words at the pilot, he reached down with his other hand and fumbled with the ropes tied about his ankles. In less than a minute he had them free. Still keeping his eye on the pilot, who now was practically green with terror, he went over and around in back of the man. In less time than it takes to tell about it, he had his gun. Then he jerked him from his chair and spun him around.
"Sorry, old thing," he said, tight-lipped. "But you shouldn't say things like that about America. Next to England, it's the grandest country on earth."
The pilot blinked stupidly. Then he closed his eyes for good. He did so because Freddy Farmer slugged him on the jaw, putting every ounce of his one hundred and fifty-five pounds behind the blow. The pilot turned slowly around twice, then fell flat on his face alongside his unconscious pal. And it was then Dave realized he was not dreaming, and was able to find his tongue.
"Holy jumping jellyfish!" he gasped. "I—I thought you'd blown your top, Freddy. But it was a gag, huh? Boy, oh boy! Me for you, pal, every day in the week, and twice on Sundays. Gee, Freddy! I'm a no good bum for thinking—"
"Quite!" the English youth said with a wide grin. "But I'll forgive you this once. But speaking of gags. I'll free the Colonel, and then see about you. Just cool your heels a bit, my little man."
Moving over to the Colonel, Freddy took the gag away and freed the senior officer's hands and feet. It wasn't until he was completely free that the Intelligence chief was able to speak.
"I'll never forget this, Farmer, never!" he exclaimed in a rush of words. "One of the finest things I ever saw in my life. I can hardly believe it even now. It—well, it was like magic. It must have been. How in blue blazes did you manage to free your hands? Mine were tied so tight they still feel broken in a dozen places."
As the Colonel spoke he rubbed his hands and wrists vigorously. Freddy blushed to the roots of his hair, but there was a pleased grin on his lips.
"They tied me pretty tight, too, sir," he said. "But a chap in England once showed me a trick of holding your hands so that there's still a little slack no matter how tight they're tied. It doesn't work with most people. I mean you have to have thin hands, and be able to sort of fold them up so's they're no thicker than your wrists. Then you can slide the ropes off, if you work at it long enough. I—well, I was able to do it. The moaning and the request for a drink was just to get one of them close enough. I hope you don't think I meant the things I said, sir."
"Don't worry," the Colonel said, and slapped Freddy on the shoulder. "You can say anything you want, at any time, and it will always be okay with me, after this. I mean it! You make me feel like an amateur, Farmer. It was wonderful. But let's get these two tied up while they're still listening to the birdies. What a sweet punch you've got, Farmer. And at your weight, too! You'd keep Joe Louis busy any time. But let's get at these two, and get going."
Freddy and the Colonel bent over the two prostrate forms and started roping them up hand and foot. Dave watched for a moment, then made sounds in his throat.
"Hey!" he shouted. "I'm here, you know!"
Freddy turned his head and looked at him. Bright lights danced in the English youth's eyes.
"Why, so you are," he murmured, and gave the Colonel a quick wink. "Just who are you? And when did you come in?"
"Cut the comedy!" Dawson howled. "Get these confounded ropes off me, or I'll fan your breeches plenty next time I get my hands on you, young fellow!"
Freddy shrugged, pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow at the Colonel.
"Bit violent, isn't he?" he grunted. "Think we should let him loose, or wait a bit until he cools down?"
"I don't know," the Colonel said with a chuckle. "You're the boss. Do as you think best. Maybe, if he said 'pretty please,' or something."
"Quite," Freddy said, and turned to Dave. "Say 'pretty please,' and I'll consider it," he grinned.
Dave looked daggers, and pressed his lips tightly together. Freddy sighed, stood up and started brushing dust off his uniform.
"What do we do now, sir?" he asked, and deliberately turned his back on Dawson. "Want me to fly you to San Diego, and have somebody come back for these three? Or—"
"Okay, okay, you win, you sawed off made in England little runt!" Dave roared. "Pretty please, confound you. Now untie me, for cat's sake."
Freddy walked over to him and leveled a reprimanding finger.
"Such a tone of voice!" he admonished sternly. "Say it nicely, just as you were taught in school, now."
Dave turned forty different colors of the rainbow, but he finally managed to swallow his wrath.
"Pretty please," he said. "I will remember this moment always. And I mean always, you cluck!"
Freddy laughed, and in half a minute had Dave free. As he pulled the last rope loose, he stepped quickly backward and set himself for the expected rush. But Dave simply rubbed his hands and wrists and glared at him.
"Relax!" he growled. "I'm going to save this one up, you betcha! And when the right time comes, will you sing a song and dance a dance for me! Kidding aside, though, Freddy, that was something. I really mean it. Boy! Can you always come up with something new! But don't think that means I'm going to forget, you little bum. My turn will come."
Freddy grinned at him impishly, and then both stopped their horse play and turned serious eyes toward the Colonel.
"We can still make San Diego with time to spare, sir," Dave said with a glance at his watch. "Are we going to take those two along with us?"
"We certainly are," the Colonel said, and pointed a finger at the pilot. "That one is just ripe to be cracked wide open. He'll blab everything he knows to save his own neck. I've met his type often. Hard as nails on the surface, but completely yellow underneath."
"It's pretty hard to believe that a couple of Americans would stoop this low," Dave said, tight-lipped. "But I suppose the Axis has a fifth column working here in the States just as they had in every other country they tackled."
"True enough," the Colonel replied with a nod. "And as the saying goes, some men will sell their souls for gold. Those two are the type. Country and flag don't mean a thing to them. Something twisted inside of them. They weren't put together right in the first place. But this is a big thing for my bureau, boys! And for the F.B.I., too. I have a hunch I know who their big boss is—a man the F.B.I.'s been after for weeks. There'll be a welcoming committee waiting for him tonight. Have no fear of that. Before we get going, however, I want to have a quick look around here. Give me a hand. Maybe we'll find something of importance. We've got an hour or so, haven't we?"
"Easy," Dave replied. "Shall we hunt for something special?"
"Hunt for anything!" the Colonel said grimly. "And pray for a miracle find."
Exactly one hour and six minutes later they had finished going over the room with fine tooth comb thoroughness. The net result was a batch of papers that the Colonel clutched in his hand. A couple of them had lists of names and addresses. The others were covered with messages that were all in code, and couldn't be broken down right at the moment. The Colonel was pleased with the results, but there was just the slightest gleam of disappointment in his eyes. Dave saw the gleam and wondered.
"We didn't find the miracle, sir?" he asked. "What was it?"
The Colonel tapped the papers and shook his head.
"It could be in this stuff, but I doubt it," he said. "I mean a clue that would help us with the Carrier Indian business. However, I don't think—"
The chief of U. S. Intelligence suddenly stopped, and a cold hard glint came into his eyes. He turned around and stared down at the two trussed up men on the floor. Both had recovered consciousness and were watching him out of eyes brimming with terror. The Colonel eyed them for a moment, then stepped forward and deliberately picked up one of the two automatics Freddy had placed on the table. Turning, he sighted the gun and pulled the trigger. The gun roared sound and flame. A hole appeared in the floor a half inch from the redhead's left ear, and the man screamed like a stuck pig. Colonel Welsh leveled the gun again and drilled a hole in the floor a half inch from the redhead's other ear.
"See?" he barked. "I know a little about trick shooting, myself. Okay. How's this for a bull's-eye? Right between those two. Right on the end of your nose!"
The man screamed and writhed about on the floor.
"Don't, don't!" he gasped. "Oh, please don't, Colonel! Don't let me have it."
"Then what about your brother rat aboard the Carrier Indian?" Colonel Welsh thundered. "Who is he? What name is he using? What's his rank? Speak up, you! I've got an itchy trigger finger, too!"
The redhead gasped, and gurgled, and choked, and sobbed in a desperate effort to get the words out of his mouth in a hurry.
"I don't know, I don't know!" he cried. "We don't know anything about the Carrier Indian. Honestly, we don't, Colonel. We just got orders to stop you and these two kids from getting to San Diego. We only got orders to stop them from going aboard the Indian. We don't know nothing about her, honest to Pete. We don't even know why our boss didn't want them two kids to go aboard. That's the truth, on my word of honor."
"You have no honor!" the Colonel told him coldly. Then he slowly sighted the gun on a point between the pilot's eyes. "Well?" he demanded. "You tell me then!"
The pilot turned white as a sheet under his beard, and looked as if he were going to faint. His eyes popped way out, and spittle drooled out the corners of his mouth.
"I don't know either!" he cried hoarsely. "So help me, Colonel, I'm willing to spill everything I know. But I don't know a thing about the Indian business. Go on, shoot me right between the eyes if I'm telling you any lie. We just manned this station. And like he said, we got orders to stop those two from going aboard the Indian. So help me! That's the truth!"
Colonel Welsh hesitated, then shrugged and stuck the gun in his pocket.
"It was too much to hope for, anyway," he muttered more to himself. "Let's get going. You lads get the plane started while I lug these two outside. A mighty big day for America so far. Now, if only you two can—"
The senior officer sighed and let the rest hang in the air. Then he bent over, caught each man by the heels, and hauled them out into the brilliant sunshine like a couple of logs. They yelped and babbled with pain, but the Colonel had deaf ears. Twenty minutes later the two fifth column prisoners were stowed aboard the Stinson, and the plane's props were ticking over. Dave and Freddy had refilled the tanks from tins of gas they found in the second shack. The shiny thing that Dave had seen under the trees from the air proved to be a high speed Waco fitted with two machine guns. For a moment they debated whether or not one of them should fly it back. On second thought, though, they decided it was best for them all to stick together in the same ship, and let somebody else pick up the Waco later.
"Okay, all aboard!" Dave finally announced, and gave Freddy a friendly slap on the back. "Go on and fly her, pal. You've sure earned the honor. And, heck, my nerves can stand anything, now."
"I knew the compliment would have a nasty ending to it!" the English youth growled, and shook his head. "No, fly her yourself. I've done my share of work today. Besides, you know this neck of the world. I don't."
"Well, somebody fly it!" Colonel Welsh shouted from inside the cabin. "We've still got to get to San Diego, you know. Come on, snap it up, you two!"
"Okay!" Dave growled, and shouldered Freddy Farmer out of the way. "If I must I must. Who was your slave last year, Mister?"
"Same chap," Freddy said with a chuckle. "And his good manners haven't improved a bit. San Diego, my good man! And in a bit of a hurry, please!"
"Very good, sir!" Dave grunted and made a face. "And you can guess what I'm thinking!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Death Strikes Often
A huge ball of gold and red hung balanced on the western lip of the world. Shafts of shimmering fire radiated out from it in all directions. They filled the sky with a mixture of shades that ranged from a delicate pink to blood red. They bathed the earth with the same hues, and seemed actually to creep into every nook and corner. The line of planes on the San Diego field looked like the work of an imaginative artist on nature's canvas rather than the real thing. It was a sight to hold the eye and catch the breath—but Dave Dawson stared at it and wasn't even conscious of what he was looking at.
He and Freddy Farmer were in the field Commandant's office, waiting for Colonel Welsh to show up. But that was just the trouble. They had been waiting for three solid hours for the Intelligence chief to return from wherever he had gone. Three hours before Dave had put the Stinson down on the field. At Colonel Welsh's order he had taxied it straight into an empty hangar and cut the engines. The Colonel had jumped out and disappeared for five minutes. He had returned with the field's C.O. and a half dozen mechanics, and a closed car. The two fifth columnists had been dumped in the car, and driven away. After hasty introductions to the field Commandant, the Colonel had led them over to the field office and told them to wait for him to return.
That had been three hours ago, and they were still waiting.
"Stop worrying, and come finish this food they sent over," Freddy Farmer presently broke the silence. "Good grief, Dave, it doesn't do any good to wear out the floor like that. Come on and have some more to eat. Eggs, mind you! I haven't had an egg since I don't know when."
"You and your stomach!" Dave grated, and half turned from the window. "You should choke on them. Look out there. The Indian! If they're not getting ready to weigh anchor, then I'm nuts! Where is that guy, anyway? He should have told us that—Jeepers!"
Freddy stopped some egg halfway to his mouth and looked up.
"What?" he demanded. "What's the matter?"
"The Colonel," Dave said with an effort. "I mean—I sure hope nothing's happened to him."
Freddy Farmer considered that for a moment, then shrugged and carried the egg the rest of the way to his mouth.
"Not likely, I think," he finally said. "Probably got those two chaps to talk. Maybe it's made a difference. I mean, maybe he's decided to call off this Indian show. Wouldn't mind that at all. They might post us here at this field. Wonderful food, you know."
"It certainly sounds good!" Dave cracked. Then, glancing out the window again: "I sure hope they don't call off the show. That Indian looks pretty nice to me out there. I could go for a trip on her. Besides, I'm itching to take a whack or six at those dirty Japs. I think I hate them worse than the Nazis, Freddy."
"Me, too, if that's possible," the English youth replied. "But I was really talking just to hear myself. I'd like a trip on the Indian, too. She's the latest of her class, and should have everything. Also, according to the Colonel, she's steaming out to do battle. I could fancy a little combat work. Doesn't pay to get rusty. My, but that meal was good!"
"What a man!" Dave sighed at the window. "On an empty stomach he's not worth a dime. Fill him up and he's a one man air force, and raring to go. He's—"
Dave stopped short and wheeled quickly as the door opened and Colonel Welsh came inside. The man's face was grim, and there was the look of angry defeat in his eyes.
"Sorry I took so long, fellows," he said, and dropped into a chair. "I had to check up on a few things, and get a few things underway. Took longer than I figured."
"Those rats told the truth, eh?" Dave grunted. "They still don't know a thing about the Indian?"
The Colonel shook his head and clenched his two fists in a helpless gesture.
"Not a thing!" he got out savagely. "But they seem to be the only two who don't."
"What do you mean by that, sir?" Freddy asked.
"Well, I don't mean it exactly the way I put it," the Colonel said with a shake of his head. "But it seems the entire Axis organization in this country has found out that their agent aboard the Indian has stolen the battle plans of the carrier, and that I was to put four men aboard to try and trap him and nail him to the mast. Those two agents of mine, and you two."
"Your two agents got aboard last night, sir?" Dave prompted as the senior officer stopped talking abruptly.
"No," was the bitter reply. "They were shot and killed as they stepped into the waiting tender at the Navy pier."
"Shot?" Dave gasped. "Gee! That was tough. I hope the killers were caught."
"They were, and captured dead," the Colonel said bluntly. "Two waterfront rats. Looked that, anyway. One a Jap, obviously. The other looked like a German. No papers or anything on him, though. So he could have been almost any nationality. But the important thing is, that I found the leak in my own organization. I put through a call to Captain Lamb and he told me. He'd sent word to our San Diego office last night for me to contact him at once. I called him, and—"
"The bloke reading the book in your outer office!" Freddy Farmer cried.
"The man who ran the elevator!" Dave exclaimed.
Colonel Welsh caught his breath and shot a hard look at Dawson.
"How did you know?" he demanded.
"I didn't," Dave replied. "But I had a hunch it might be one of those two. It had to be somebody close to you, and—well, Freddy had already picked the one in the outer office."
"It was the one who brought you up in the elevator," Colonel Welsh said with an effort. "It's—it's things like this that almost make me lose faith. That man had been in the bureau for six years. For four years before that he was connected with Secret Service. His record was spotless. And the amazing part is that he had performed some valuable services for me. But that goes to show you the finesse of the Gestapo and Nazi agent technique. Shows you how long ago Hitler laid plans for America. I would have staked my life on Babson, but—"
The officer paused and gestured despairingly.
"But of course I would have lost my life!" he suddenly bit off. "But for an accident I'd never have found out, perhaps. And who knows what else that would have cost us? He was taking Lamb down late last night. As he opened the doors a slip of paper fell out of his pocket. Lamb caught it in mid-air, and was starting to hand it back when he saw what was on the paper. It was a bit of code, obviously jotted down in a hurry. But it was a code that only Lamb and I knew, not another soul in the world. For years he and I have been working on a code that can't possibly be broken down by any of the experts. We thought we had found it. Kept our papers on it in a safe. Only Lamb and I knew the combination—we thought."
"What happened, sir?" Freddy asked eagerly as Colonel Welsh let his voice trail off into silence. "Did Captain Lamb make the dirty beggar confess?"
The chief of U. S. Intelligence shook his head.
"He didn't have time," he said. "Babson realized instantly that he'd never in the world be able to explain his possession of that bit of copied code. His only hope was quick action, and flight. He went for his gun. Lamb didn't give me the details of the fight. He won, and Babson is dead. Then Lamb got busy. He began with the little office Babson used on the ground floor. He—It seems incredible! I thought that Lamb was crazy, or blind drunk, and making it up. But he wasn't, of course. Babson had actually installed a dictograph in our working room. The other end was in his office. The wire led out behind the files, under the corridor boards and down the elevator shaft, and under the lobby floor to his office. He could hear every word we said up there. How he learned that safe combination, we'll probably never find out. In his Washington hotel room Lamb found enough stuff to hang the man a dozen times over. Too bad we won't be able to do it. I feel like going out and shooting myself. I'm the one responsible, of course. One of my own trusted men! That's the worst of it!"
The Colonel gave a bewildered shake of his head, and groaned heavily.
"That's war, I guess," Dave murmured sympathetically. "And the same thing has happened in other countries, sir. It isn't going to help any to take it too hard, you know. Anyway, the rat is dead, and the leak is plugged up. That's something, at least."
"But mighty little!" the Colonel said bitterly. Then, stabbing a finger at the window facing the harbor, he grated, "There's the Indian out there. In an hour she weighs anchor. Aboard her is the most dangerous rat of all. He possesses information that could well mean the difference between victory and defeat if it falls into Jap hands. We can't hold the Indian. She's got to sail. Without her the whole battle plan is mixed up. Yet if she sails and we don't catch that scoundrel, who knows what will happen? I had hoped, but—well, now that's all shot, too."
"What's all shot, sir?" Dave asked quickly.
"The job I had planned for you and Farmer aboard the Indian," the Colonel replied. "It was a wild hope even at best, but now it isn't even that. The rats know why I wanted you two aboard her. True, maybe the man you're after doesn't know. I've a feeling, though, he does. The way things have gone, I feel certain they got word to him somehow. If they did, he'd know exactly why you were there the moment you came over the side. And—well, to put it bluntly, he's killed twice already. Twice more wouldn't bother him if he suspected you were getting close to him. He'd—"
"We can watch our step," Dave cut in grimly.
"Too great a risk," the Colonel replied. "You see, it wouldn't be a matter of your actually getting close, but the matter of his thinking that you were close. He'd know who you were, and why you were aboard. The advantage would be all his. It would be unfair to ask any man to tackle a job like that."
"I don't fancy so, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up quietly. "After all, rats usually do have all the advantage until you get them cornered. Supposing he does know why we're there? Let him, I say. It's a job to be done, and somebody's got to tackle it, sir. Good grief! If somebody doesn't go after the blighter, it's like letting the Indian sail with a lighted fuse leading to her powder magazine."
"I check on that, too, sir!" Dave cried eagerly. "Freddy and I aren't trying to toot our horns, Colonel. Maybe we'll fall flat on our faces. But maybe we won't. However, at least we'll be aboard in case something does turn up that gives us a clue."
"Yes, of course," the Colonel grunted, and frowned. "That's quite true. But you could be throwing your lives away—and uselessly, too. You two helped accomplish something almost as big today, perhaps even bigger. I can't say yet. But capturing those two American born rats was a mighty big step toward smashing a lot of the Fifth Column business in this country. I mean that, too. That place was one of their arsenals where they've cached guns to be used when Berlin sends the order to strike at the United States from within. It's one of several arsenals located about the country. Those papers contained names and addresses of key men in their organization. And right now some of my agents, and F.B.I. agents, are waiting in that shack for the so-called big boss. His capture alone will be something mighty big. Yes, you two played a major part today in nipping something big in the bud. So it isn't fair to ask you to—"
"Okay, okay!" Dave suddenly snapped. "If you don't think we rate a crack at it, then have the Indian sail without us. I'm willing to take the chance. So's Freddy. But if you think we'd mess up things, then skip it. Let it slide."
The Colonel blinked and gave Dave a startled look. It wasn't every day that a junior officer flung words into his teeth, and it caught him completely off balance.
"But it's you I'm thinking of!" he blurted out. "I—"
"Oh, quite!" Freddy snapped him off. "We understand perfectly! We bungled it last night, Dave and I, not getting away from that beggar in the Waco. Shouldn't let him hit the engine. Yet, we'd probably make a worse mess of things if you sent us aboard the Indian."
"Now, that's not true!" the Colonel shouted. Then, sucking in his breath: "You two are making me mad. You're taking it the wrong way. I—"
"And how do you think we feel?" Dave stepped right in on him. "Last night you had a job for us to tackle. We might click on it, or we might muff it. You didn't have a thing for us to work on. But at least we were going to have a crack at it, and be aboard a ship that's going into action. Well, have you any more for us to work on, now, than you had last night? No. Not a thing more. The only difference is that the rat aboard knows we're coming aboard. At least we think he knows. But we're not even sure of that! Yet—well, holy catfish! Now you want to call everything off because the other guy holds more cards than we do; because we might get hurt. Look, Colonel! What do you think Freddy and I have been doing with the enemy ever since we got into the Royal Air Force? Playing snowball with them? We run the risk of being blacked out for keeps. So what? Doggone it! We've seen enough of this war to know it's no tea party."
"Exactly, and absolutely!" Freddy Farmer echoed vigorously as Dave ran out of breath.
Colonel Welsh glared at them for a full ten seconds. Then his stern face slowly broke into a grin, and he gave a little baffled shake of his head.
"Wild men!" he grunted. "I don't believe either of you knows even how to spell common sense. But maybe that's been the secret of your war success. That, and cold courage. All right, you win. You sail with the Indian. I'll see that you're put aboard the tender and taken out to her. The least I can do is spare your lives as long as I can."
"You mean because of what happened to your two agents last night?" Dave asked with a grin.
Colonel Welsh stood up and shook his head.
"No," he said. "The tender will leave in secret from a point up the shore, and the Indian's Captain will be informed of your coming. No, I mean sparing your lives for a while by sending you out officially. Otherwise, you two would probably try to swim out to her and be shot in the water by the deck watch. So I'll send you officially, and—well, God bless both of you—and keep you in His shadow. Amen!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Invisible Walls
Her engines turning over at close to top speed, the Aircraft Carrier Indian sliced her bow through the sky blue waters of the Pacific on a southwesterly course. To port and to starboard her destroyer escort scooted and twisted about like little smoke-belching water bugs having a field day. High in the air and several miles out in front, the advance scouting section winged along with all eyes on the watch for the first sign of possible enemy interference.
For eight days, now, the Indian had been racing across the vast Pacific for her rendezvous with the cruiser squadron and other navy craft that were to make the surprise attack on the Jap-occupied Marshall Islands. For eight days, and eight nights, racing westward and southward toward a well planned blow, and victory. Yet it might not be victory but disaster and death. For eight days and eight nights Freddy Farmer and Dave Dawson had played an active part in the life aboard that mighty ship of eagle's wings. They had made new friends, they had thrilled to the thunder and the power of their Douglas Devastator torpedo bomber as they went ripping off the carrier's flight deck and up into the blue Pacific sky for their daily practice patrol trick. They had felt once again the tingling excitement of the alert alarm, and the hunt for possible enemy craft in adjacent waters.
It had been eight days and nights of new things, a new routine, new orders, new faces, almost a new language in a new world. They were a part of what would be in not so many months to come the mightiest fighting force in all the world's history. It was perfect, it was tops—but it was not enough. Not enough, because with each passing hour, each passing day, their own personal defeat drew closer and closer. Eight days, and eight nights, and they were no nearer to accomplishing their special mission than they had been the very first moment they heard details of it fall from Colonel Welsh's lips way back in Washington, D. C.
"It really is an invisible wall this time, Dave," Freddy Farmer muttered bitterly as he and Dawson sunned themselves in the flight deck crash nets on the starboard side. "We might as well admit it. We haven't the faintest idea who the blighter might be. For all we know, he's already passed on his blasted information to the Japs; tossed it over the side at night, with a delayed flare bomb, for some trailing Jap submarine to sight and pick up. Blast it all! For all we know, the blighter may not be aboard at all."
"You're telling me?" Dave groaned, and rolled over on his stomach. "For all we know he's been watching us every minute, and laughing his darned head off. When I let fly at Colonel Welsh back there in San Diego—and it's a wonder he didn't knock me kicking for my lip—I felt sort of cocky. I had a hunch that we'd be sure to trip over a break. What, I had no idea. But we've gone into things before with our heads down, and nothing else but a prayer. And somehow we managed to barge or stumble into something that paid off. But this? We're just a couple of guys without a prayer. Doggone it, Freddy! I haven't even met a guy aboard this ship I didn't like at once. And that goes for the ratings, as well as the officers. Nuts! I guess I must have expected to see some ugly-faced bird with dark glasses and a fake mustache sneaking around the flight deck at night. It's got me stopped cold."
"Me too!" Freddy said with a heavy sigh. "I heard a story once of something that happened in the last war. It was in a camp in England, an infantry training camp. A spy was sabotaging things, causing gun accidents, and several chaps were hurt. Well, they hunted high and low for the lad, but no go. Then one of the chaps working on the case got an idea. One evening when all the men were in barracks, and lights were out, he went from barracks to barracks, popped open the door, switched on the lights and yelled, 'Attention!' in German. In the third barracks a chap leaped out of his bed and sprang to attention. He was the blighter they wanted. German Army training drilled into him, you know. He reacted to the German command automatically."
"I get it!" Dave snorted. "So we should go all over the ship yelling 'Attention!' in German? Nice, but I've got a better idea. We dress up to look like Hitler and cover the ship. The first bird who gives us the Nazi salute we throw to the deck and nail him down. Then we search his quarters and find the stolen plans. It would be a cinch, but I guess there aren't any Hitler uniforms aboard. Too bad! We'll have to think up something else."
"Well, I certainly didn't offer it as a suggestion!" Freddy Farmer muttered. "Frankly, the best thing we could do would be to throw ourselves overboard. It would at least put an end to our worries."
"Nope, that's out," Dave grunted. "The darn thing would still haunt me wherever I went. And no crack, now, about where I'd go! Nope! We're stuck. Our only hope is a break, some kind of a break—any kind. Heck! I wonder if I'd be able to recognize a break even if it stepped up and kicked me in the face. Oh-oh! Something's going to happen, maybe!"
As Dave spoke the last he sat up and watched the young watch officer come striding across the deck toward him. The youth was about their age, and held an ensign's rank. He grinned as he approached and jerked a thumb aft.
"All pilots wanted in the Ready Room, Lieutenants," he announced. "Executive Flight Officer's orders."
"Something up?" Dave asked eagerly.
"Could be," the Ensign said with a shrug. "But maybe the flying's been sloppy, too. You never can tell when the Exec gets in the mood to crack down. Luck, anyway."
Dave and Freddy thanked him and went scurrying aft and down the steps to 'tween decks and the Ready Room. The place was already half filled, and other pilots came hurrying in after them. There was an air of eager expectancy about the room that seemed to charge it with high voltage electricity. The Executive Flight Officer, and the Senior Section Leader, stood waiting on the little raised platform at the far end of the room. Behind them hung a huge detailed chart of that section of the Pacific west and south of the Hawaiian Islands. Colored pins dotted its surface, and the bright light hung above it made the little pins glitter and sparkle like so many precious stones. Five minutes after Dave and Freddy arrived the room was packed, the doors were closed, and a hushed silence had settled down. The Executive Flight Officer cleared his throat, stepped to the edge of the platform, and grinned faintly.
"Don't get in too much of a sweat," he said. "This doesn't mean that Battle Stations is going to sound in the next hour or so. However, we're getting close to the rendezvous point, and there's some work for us to do. In short, we're steaming into Jap waters now, more or less, and we don't want to be caught with our wings folded. In fact, if we are to run into unexpected action, we want to be ready to throw the first punch, and make it count."
The senior officer paused, walked back to the map and touched a little gold-headed pin.
"That's the Indian," he said. "That's our position right now. We're a day's run from the cruiser squadron we are to meet, but we're plenty near some of the Pacific islands that the Japs may be using for submarine fuel bases. In the air, or on deck, we've got to be on our toes every minute from now on. A torpedo or two in us now, and the whole operation would be in danger of complete collapse. Also, we've got to watch out for any Jap surface ships that may be on the hunt for us. That's where you fellows come in. You've got to find any such ships, and give them the works, before they can get the chance to spot the Indian and her escort. In short, you fellows have got to see to it that nothing gets near the Indian from here on in."
The Executive Flight Officer paused again, and shrugged.
"Of course it's quite possible that we won't run into any trouble at all," he said presently. "Maybe we'll just waste gas and oil maintaining a constant patrol. That's unimportant, though. The point is, we can't run any risks of getting snarled up in any kind of an engagement before we make the rendezvous. So from now on every one of you is on constant twenty-four-hour duty. The section patrols are all plotted. Your own Section Leader will give you your chart copy each time you take the air. Stick to the course plotted for you, and don't worry about what the other fellow is doing. Just tend to your own knitting. Now, here's one thing to remember every second of the time you're away from the carrier."
The Executive Flight Officer stopped talking again, and took time out to rake the room full of pilots with his steel grey eyes.
"Keep your radios silent all the time!" he finally said. "If you are shot down, or forced down on the water, then it'll be just too bad for you. Somebody else will have to pick you up. Neither the Indian nor any of its escorting destroyers are turning back for anybody. So don't expect help if you go down. You won't get it. The chance of meeting enemy ships in these waters, particularly submarines, is too great to warrant risking any rescue work. So keep your radios silent, and—well, keep your wings up out of the wet stuff. That's all, except that Commander Brattle, here, has rearranged the sections, and made up a new flight board. He'll give you all the dope on the patrol schedules. Thumbs up, to all of you!"
Half an hour later Commander Brattle had had his say and the patrol schedules were perfectly clear to all concerned. Dave and Freddy were to fly the Number Two plane in Section Eight. Their first patrol trick was due in three hours. They were to fly a patrol course due north of the steaming carrier, cover an area of several hundred square miles, and be back on the flight deck just before darkness. It was the toughest patrol trick of any, for the simple reason that it was the last one before darkness set in, and flying was washed-out until early dawn. If by any chance they got lost and were forced to spend precious time locating the Indian, they would be out of luck. They wouldn't be able to land after dark. And if by any chance they went down in the water, they would first have to survive many hours of darkness floating about on the water before they could even begin to hope for rescue.
It was a tough patrol trick to fly, but the very fact that it was tough set Dave's heart thumping in eager expectation. Luck alone had placed them in that section, because the section members and patrol schedules had been arranged by drawing lots. In that way every man stood an equal chance to get a tough assignment or an easy one. And all possibility of favoritism went completely out the porthole. Luck, yes, but it made Dave and Freddy feel good just the same to be handed one of the tough patrols.
As they trooped out of the Ready Room along with the others, they winked happily at each other, and for the moment forgot the real reason for their presence aboard the Indian. The Executive Flight Officer had not said much about the possibility of meeting action, but he didn't have to. Every pilot knew that the constant patrol schedule wouldn't have been set up if it weren't pretty certain that enemy sea and air forces were lurking about in the immediate vicinity of the Indian and her destroyers, if not directly in her path ahead. Come nightfall and at least some of Uncle Sam's Navy eagles would have gone into action.
"And I sure hope it means us!" Dave echoed the thought aloud, as he and Freddy walked forward along the flight deck. "And how, I do!"
"Do what?" Freddy asked. "What's buzzing in that brain of yours now?"
"That we see some action," Dave replied, and jerked his thumb toward the north. "You know, Freddy, I've got a hunch. I've got a hunch, sure as shooting."
"You usually have," the English youth sighed. "What is it this time?"
Dave stopped walking, half turned, and faced his pal.
"The break we've been hoping for, praying for," he said in a low voice that was tight and full of excitement. "I have a hunch we're going to get that break. Wait, now! As the Exec said, we're in enemy waters now. From now until tomorrow night when we make the rendezvous, that unknown skunk aboard this Carrier is going to try and make contact with the Japs. I feel dead certain that he hasn't made any effort yet. He's been lying doggo until the Indian got into enemy waters. Beginning with now, though, he's going to try and make that contact."
"Well," Freddy muttered with a scowl, "as you would say, so what? How's he going to make contact? How are we going to know it? How are we going to be able to spot him? We haven't the faintest idea who he is, one of the officers, or one of the men. Maybe he's just an engine wiper buried down deep below decks. Maybe—"
"No, you're wrong there," Dave interrupted. "I've figured it out that he is either one of the pilots, or one of the mechanics. Nobody but pilots and mechanics have access to the flight hangar, you know. And that's where Commander Jackson and Lieutenant Commander Pollard were killed. No, I've figured all along that the man we're after is connected with the actual flying end aboard ship."
"Again, so what?" Freddy grunted. "Even suppose that he's one of the pilots? And I personally have the feeling that he is. What help is that? We're flying in only one section, one patrol trick. He could be in one of the other sections. He could take off, make his contact when out of sight of the Indian, and return on schedule, and neither you nor I be one bit the wiser."
"You're such a help!" Dave growled. "I know. Heck! Maybe I'm talking just to make myself feel good. I don't know. Just the same, I've got a hunch that that break is going to pop for us, and soon. A mighty strong hunch, too."
Freddy Farmer pursed his lips, and then let a little sigh slip between them.
"Well, I'm certainly not pulling against you," he murmured. "You have more hunches than a stray dog has fleas. But if I ever hoped and prayed that one of them would come true, it's certainly this one. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart."
"Then keep praying!" Dave said grimly as an eerie chill suddenly rippled through him. "And meantime, it might be a good idea for us to watch our step. I've got another hunch somebody's been watching us!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Battle Stations
It lacked twenty minutes to take-off time, and Dave was hurrying through the hangar deck to go top side and report to his Section Leader, when suddenly a groan off to his left slowed him up. He heard the groan again, and stopped in his tracks and stared hard into the shadows beyond some parked bombers. An instant later he saw two feet sticking out from under a wing. He bent over and scrambled under the wing. A man lay stretched out on the deck. His eyes were closed, there was a blood-smeared cut on the left side of his head, and he was groaning as he struggled weakly to force himself up to a sitting position.
Dave cried out in sharp alarm and gave the man a helping hand. The man was Freddy Farmer, and he was acting as though a building had just dropped down on top of him.
"Easy, Freddy, old pal!" Dave soothed, and put his arm about his chum. "Take it easy. Lean on me. It's Dave. Gosh! What happened, Freddy? Are you okay?"
The sound of Dawson's voice pried open the English youth's eyes. It was a few seconds before he could focus his eyes on Dave's face, and even then they held a blank, befuddled look.
"I don't know," he mumbled, and gingerly touched his fingers to the cut on his head. "Ouch! My blasted head feels in six different pieces. I don't know what happened, Dave. Some chap bashed me, but I don't know who. I didn't see him. I—"
Freddy paused and glanced about as though to make sure where he was. His eyes opened wide in surprise.
"But I was way over there on the port side!" he gasped. "Just about to go up that companion ladder to the flight deck when suddenly I got a terrific bash on the head. I didn't hear anything, or see—Wait, Dave! I didn't see his face, but I remember seeing his legs as I fell down. He was wearing pilot's jumpers, so it must have been one of the pilots. It—Good grief, Dave!"
"Check!" Dave breathed excitedly. "Our rat friend has made himself known. This is the break, Freddy! This is the break!"
"Break, my hat!" the English youth growled, and slowly got up onto his feet. "You call having my head practically bushed in, a break? The beggar probably thought he'd killed me, and didn't bother to make sure. Just dragged me over here and left me to be found a corpse."
"And what a lucky corpse you turned out to be!" Dave said with a tight chuckle. "Hold everything, pal. Don't take things too fast. You got a nasty crack. A clean one, though. The ship's surgeon will fix you up in no time. Here, hang on me, and we'll go hunt him up."
"I'm all right!" Freddy protested, and hung back. "Stick to the subject. How do you figure my coming a cropper was a break? I certainly don't follow you there!"
"Sure it's a break," Dave said excitedly. "The luckiest break you and I ever bumped into. And it was certainly luck, all of it. Don't you see, Freddy? Our little rat friend is worried. He's not sure whether we've got him spotted or not. He's got a job to do, see? He wants to be sure he'll be able to do the job, so he tries to remove us from the picture by crowning you. Get it?"
"Of course I don't get it!" Freddy Farmer snapped. "You're talking in blasted riddles, Dave. Make sense!"
"Look, pal!" Dave said slowly. "We know darn well now that he's a pilot, don't we?"
"Well, the lad who bashed me was, and is, a pilot," the English youth admitted with a nod that made him wince.
"Okay, he's a pilot," Dave continued. "That means he plans to make contact with the Japs by air, when out on patrol. He doesn't know if we are keeping an eye on him, so he slugs you so that we won't go on patrol this trick. See?"
"But what if we don't make the patrol?" Freddy cried. "What's that—?"
"For cat's sake, get it, Freddy!" Dave almost shouted. "It means that he is in our section! It means that he is in our section and tried to make sure that we wouldn't be aloft to keep our eye on what he did. Don't you see? It has to be that. If he were flying with some other section, it wouldn't matter to him whether we flew our patrol trick or not. But we're in the same section. So he lays you out just before take-off time, figuring that before I can be assigned somebody else to fly with me our section will be off and on its way. And I'll have to wait over, or go off with the next section."
"Good grief, yes, of course!" Freddy Farmer breathed fiercely as his eyes got as big as dinner plates. "For once, you're absolutely right, Dave. The beggar is in our section. He has to be."
"Doggone right!" Dave echoed, and took hold of Freddy's arm. "Now you come on aft to the sick bay, and get fixed up. I've got to work fast and get the Exec to assign me somebody else to take your place. Perhaps—"
"Somebody to take my place!" Freddy Farmer cried angrily. "Over my dead body! That's rot. I'm making the patrol with you. I—"
"But, Freddy, you got slammed pretty—"
"You can shut your trap, Dave Dawson!" the English youth snapped viciously. "After all this waiting, if you think I'm going to go on waiting while you make this patrol and perhaps get yourself into no end of trouble, then you're completely balmy. Now, let go of my arm, and stand aside, or you'll be the one to get bashed. And I mean it, Dave. I'd still make this patrol even if the blighter had broken both my arms and both my legs."
Dave hesitated a fraction of a second, then shrugged and sighed.
"You always were a hard-headed cuss," he grunted. "So I guess maybe he didn't do so much damage as that. Okay, you old war horse. No sense our breaking up the furniture. Come along. But let's both keep our eyes skinned as we go topside. Look for a show of surprise on anybody's face. Do you suppose he's two guys? The pilot and the rear gunner?"
"I don't care if he's a whole blasted squadron!" Freddy Farmer growled as he pulled his helmet over his wounded head. "All I want is to see the beggar make a slip, and be able to get at him. Nobody can bash my head, and least of all some skunk Axis spy. Let's go."
Keeping step, the pair hurried across the hangar deck and went topside. Six Douglas Devastator torpedo bombers had been rolled into take-off position, and were waiting with props ticking over. There was a pilot and gunner in each of five of the planes, and as Dave and Freddy trotted toward their plane they cast keen glances at the flying members of their section. But it didn't gain them a thing. As a matter of fact, not a helmeted and goggled head was turned as they loped across the flight deck and legged into their Devastator that was parked in number four take-off position.
Two minutes later they were all set and ready to go. A minute after that a flight officer came along the line of planes and handed each pilot a copy of his patrol chart. And five minutes after that the Flight Operations officer on the flight bridge pointed his finger at the Number One plane, and nodded. The engine of that Devastator roared up in full throated song, the deck mechanics stepped back from the wing tips, and the plane rolled forward, picking up speed with every revolution of its propeller. In less than nothing flat it was a moving battle grey streak that finally let go of the deck and went curving upward over the bow of the Indian toward the blue heavens above.
Hardly had the Number One plane cleared its wheels before the Flight Operations officer stabbed his finger at the Number Two plane. It streaked off in a thunderous roar, and the finger was pointed at the Number Three plane. Then Four, then Five, and then Six, and the patrol was in the air climbing for altitude before taking up formation for the flight far out over the reaches of the Pacific.
Flying with the nonchalant ease, yet constant alertness, that comes with experience, Dave held the Devastator steady and twisted around to glance back at Freddy Farmer. The English youth was just a wee bit pale about the gills, but there was a bright look in his eyes, and a tight grin on his lips. Dave winked and nodded down at the Indian.
"Want to change your mind, pal?" he called out. "I can take you down with no trouble at all. How do you feel?"
"Never better!" Freddy shouted. "Just take me down, and it'll be the last landing you'll ever make. I'm up here to stay, my little man!"
Dave laughed, but there was just a little tightness to it.
"And do I hope that's the truth!" he cried. "Didn't see anything as we went to the plane, did you?"
"Not a sign," Freddy replied. "I don't think any of them even looked at us. Maybe he figured he'd done the job good on me, and that only five planes would take the air."
"Well, the rat knows different now!" Dave grated, and turned front. "He knows there are six ships up here, and that we're in one of them."
As Dave spoke the words he let his gaze wander from plane to plane in the formation. Oddly enough, a lump formed in his chest, and there was an empty feeling in his stomach. He had met and talked with every member of that patrol in the air. Kidded with them, played cards, and done all of the things one does with one's shipmates. It was hard, terribly hard to believe that one of them, possibly two, were earning blood money from Berlin or Tokio. Every one of them had struck him as being a swell guy. A swell guy, or one of the best actors that ever stepped on a stage. It didn't seem possible that savage hatred for the United States, for the whole civilized world, was flying along in the formation. It just didn't seem possible. Could he be wrong? Could both Freddy and he be all wet in their deductions? Had Freddy actually been slugged by accident, perhaps by a blundering mechanic carrying something heavy? Had he got scared at what he'd done, and dragged Freddy under that wing and taken to his heels? And had Freddy made a mistake about his wearing pilot's garb? Could it have been simply that?