DAVE DAWSON AT TRUK
_by_ R. SIDNEY BOWEN
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE WAR ADVENTURE SERIES
CROWN PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1946, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
JOHNNY GILBERT
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I ON AGAIN, OFF AGAIN 13
II STRANGE BUSINESS 23
III THE TALKING SHACK 31
IV VANISHING DEATH 42
V WESTWARD HO! 58
VI INVISIBLE KILLER 68
VII SPY TRAP 86
VIII BLACK LIGHTNING 106
IX ROOM OF DEATH 118
X UNLUCKY DAY 134
XI FATE LAUGHS 148
XII FLASHING FINISH 161
XIII ALL OR NOTHING 175
XIV SATAN STRIKES 189
XV AVENGING EAGLES 204
XVI KISMET 220
XVII THE DEAD RETURN 234
CHAPTER ONE
_On Again, Off Again_
Freddy Farmer shifted his position in the huge leather upholstered
chair, decided that it wasn't comfortable enough, and shifted again. He
still wasn't satisfied, but he was too bored and too lazy to exert any
further effort. He stared gloomily at the torrents of rain slashing
against the windows of the Officers' Club lounge, at the San Diego Naval
Air Base, and sighed heavily.
"I fancy I'll never learn not to believe a word you say, not ever!" he
groaned.
Hunched down in the next chair, Dave Dawson marked with his finger tip
the place where he had stopped reading, and turned his head.
"Speaking to me, little man?" he murmured.
"Only because you happen to be the only one present," young Farmer
snapped. Then, with a wave toward the rain-swept window panes, he said,
"I was remarking that I should know better than ever to believe a word
you say. Beautiful California? Good grief! Just look at it!"
"Look at what?" Dawson chuckled. "That slight dew that's falling? Think
nothing of it. Good for the crops."
"Dew, he says!" Freddy snorted. And then as a vivid flash of lightning
blinded them both for a split second, to be followed by a bellow of
thunder that seemed to lift the whole building right up off its
foundations, he added quickly, "And that, I suppose, was just some chap
out there striking a match?"
"Could be," Dawson laughed. "California's full of things you'd never
believe unless you saw them. But don't toss the weather at me, pal. I'm
not a native of this state, so you can't get a rise out of me. Anyway,
what the heck are you crabbing about? No good weather, no flying. And
that gives us a chance to catch up on something or other. Now, take this
book I'm reading. I ..."
"You take it, and keep it!" Freddy Farmer growled. "You know, Dave, you
amaze me at times. Blessed if you're not as unpredictable as one of
Hitler's speeches. Really."
"Yeah?" Dawson grinned at him. "How come? Add a few more words to that,
will you?"
"With pleasure!" young Farmer snapped. "Some two or three weeks ago,
when we were included in a bunch of pilots and such to be sent from
England to America to help train Army and Navy pilots, you just about
hit the roof. Why, you were fit to go down to American Air Forces H. Q.
in London and tear the blasted place apart. You train fledglings to fly?
Never, you declared! You belly-ached night and day. Why, when we arrived
here and you learned that we'd been assigned to Naval Aviation, you went
completely off the deep end. You were an Army flier, a fighter pilot,
and all that sort of rot. And now, suddenly, you're as content as a bug
in a rug. Blessed if I get it, Dave? Or did the commandant of the base
here overhear a few of your remarks, and call you up before him for a
blistering?"
"Nope, not that," Dawson said with a chuckle. "That I have calmed down,
and am relaxed, is simply the result of another one of my sterling
qualities that you have overlooked. I mean, the ability to adjust myself
to existing circumstances."
"Oh, quite!" Freddy Farmer jeered at him. "Particularly when you know
blasted well that you can't do a thing about them!"
"Well, maybe you've got something there, pal," Dawson murmured, and
stared at the rain-swept windows. "When I'm posted to some job I don't
go for at all, I sound off just as a matter of habit. I really don't kid
myself that my objections are going to change anything. You and I have
been in this cockeyed war too long to think that everything is all cut
and dried. It isn't. And it never will be. In war anything can happen,
and you can bet your last dime that it will, eventually. So I just get
the steam off my chest, then say, oh, what the heck, and let it go like
that."
"I see what you mean," young Farmer grunted. "And I'll admit that I feel
much the same way. Only I keep my thoughts to myself. Commanding
officers have big ears, you know. And it would just be the Farmer luck
to have my words reach one of those big ears. But this blasted rain!"
"A buck says that there won't be a cloud in the sky at the end of a
couple of hours," Dawson said. "California's like that. But now that
we're letting down our hair, I gather that you're not so hot for this
instructing job, either, huh?"
"Definitely not!" Freddy groaned. Then he added quickly, "Not that I
don't think these Navy chaps are top-hole, and all that. A very keen
bunch of beggars, and they'll make good pilots, all of them. And you and
I have flown enough with the Navy in the past to like it as much as
flying with the Army. It's not that, either. It's ... well, frankly,
it's because I'm so blasted selfish, I'm afraid."
"Yes, you sure are, when it comes to snagging the odd piece of pie,"
Dawson said with a grin. "That, though, is the fault of that bottomless
stomach of yours, and you can't help yourself. Just what do you mean by
that last remark?"
"Just what I said, that I'm selfish," young Farmer replied. "Let some
other chap have this instructing grind. I want to be on one of the
fronts where there's action, and lots of it."
"Freddy, the old fire eater," Dawson chuckled. "But you've also got
something there, too. So would I, and how! However ..."
He let the rest slide and emphasized it with a shrug. Freddy Farmer
frowned at him in a puzzled manner.
"See?" he eventually cried. "That's what I mean. The way you are now.
Completely licked, you seem like. Blessed if it's like you, Dave. Have
you gone sour on something?"
"Heck, no!" Dawson cried, and sat up straight. "And don't get any dopey
ideas that I feel licked about anything. I'm just biding my time, that's
all. I mean, that something's bound to pop. It always has. It's just
that I'm finally getting around to realizing that you can't push things
along. You've just got to keep your shirt on when things get slow, and
realize that there'll be plenty of fireworks sooner or later."
"Well, well, the chap must be growing up, after all," Freddy Farmer
murmured. Then, before Dawson could open his mouth to make a retort, he
said, "There must have been at least a hundred of us that came back to
the States by Army Air Transport planes, wouldn't you say?"
"Yeah, more or less," Dawson grunted with a nod. "So what?"
"So what?" young Farmer echoed sharply. "So why?"
"Ye gods, right back where we started!" Dawson groaned. "The old
rotation idea, that's why. A bit of front line service, and then a bit
of back home service, passing out your knowledge to those who have yet
to see action. For Pete's sake, Freddy! What's so mysterious about
that? Maybe it is a bit odd that we were stationed at a Naval Aviation
base. However, perhaps the idea is to get Army and Navy pilots to know
one another better. Too much rivalry between services is just as bad as
none at all, you know."
"Well, I do, now that you've explained, sir!" Freddy barked at him. "But
you still haven't answered my question. I mean, with the invasion of
Hitler's Europe bound to pop any day now, why in the world send a
hundred or more seasoned pilots _away_ from England? Answer me that."
The corners of Dawson's mouth twitched in a grin, but Freddy didn't see
it.
"I don't know that I've a right to tell you, Freddy," he finally said,
and tugged at his chin with a thumb and forefinger.
"A right to tell me what?" young Farmer demanded. "Come off it, Dave!
Stop being so blasted mysterious. You and I've always shared everything,
haven't we?"
"Everything, except food," Dawson ribbed him. "You never were anybody's
pal when you had the feed bag on. But I guess it's all right to tell
you. It's because of what General Eisenhower said."
"To who?" Freddy asked.
"To whom, is what you mean, little man," Dawson said with a straight
face. "What he said to _me_ when he called me down to London High
Command H.Q."
Freddy Farmer opened his mouth to speak, but a wrathful snort came out
of it instead.
"I might have known!" he growled. "General Eisenhower call you to his
headquarters? Rot! Pure rot!"
"Okay, then, have it your way," Dawson sighed, and returned his
attention to his book.
Freddy glared at him for a few seconds, then gave a little resigned
shake of his head, and took a deep breath.
"Very well," he said, "I might as well let you get it all off your
chest. And what did General Eisenhower say to you, my good man?"
"For two cents I wouldn't tell you!" Dawson grunted. "But I don't really
need the money, so I will. The general told me that we were all being
sent back here for a home stay because the invasion of Hitler's Europe
is _not_ bound to pop 'most any day, as you have just so glibly
remarked."
"Really, Dave?" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Honest? You mean...? Oh, blast
you, stop pulling my leg! I know perfectly well that General Eisenhower
didn't say a word to you. You didn't even see him!"
Dawson grinned, and opened his mouth. But he closed it when he saw the
look on young Farmer's face. Instead, he shook his head gravely.
"No, Freddy," he said. "The general didn't say a thing to me. It's
dollars to doughnuts that he doesn't even know I exist. But I put it
that way so's you'd catch on."
"Catch on to what?" Freddy wanted to know.
Dawson threw up his hands in exasperation.
"Sweet tripe, Freddy!" he cried. "It's past noon! Aren't you awake yet?
It's obvious, pal, isn't it? Obvious that the invasion isn't going to
pop right away. The High Command is marking time while the bomber boys
give Germany a good going-over. So the experienced pilots that aren't
needed in England have been sent back here to help with the training
program. Don't worry, when the big show starts we'll be yanked back
there, but fast. _That's_ why I'm not tearing out my hair because I've
been stuck on this instructing job. Because I know that when it's time
for the balloon to go up I'll be sent there. And so will you. And so
will all the others that flew back from England with us. Now do I make
sense to you?"
Freddy Farmer nodded, but he didn't say anything for a moment.
"Yes, you're quite right, I fancy," he murmured presently. "I must be
slipping way off the beam not to have figured that out for myself. But I
wonder how long?"
"When the Allied High Command is darned good and ready, and not a minute
before," Dawson replied. "Meanwhile we stick here ... and like it!"
"Maybe you can like it, but I don't," young Farmer growled, and glared
at the window glass. "This blasted rain!"
Dave snapped his book closed, and tossed it on a nearby table.
"Check!" he grunted. "It seems to be letting up a little, though, so
let's do something about it. A little of it may do us some good. Let's
take a walk out by those orange groves. They looked pretty interesting
from the air. How about it, huh?"
"Right-o," Freddy Farmer sighed, and got to his feet. "Anything's better
than just sitting here listening to it!"
CHAPTER TWO
_Strange Business_
With an angry gesture Freddy Farmer changed his rain slicker to his
other arm, and pushed his service cap to the back of his head.
"Blast it, I'm going to rest!" he cried, and instantly pulled up to a
halt. "You said a walk, Dave, not a cross-country hike to the Atlantic
coast. You know how far we've come?"
Dawson slowed down and turned around with a grin.
"Who cares how far?" he said. "This is swell. The trouble with you is,
you're falling apart from old age. But okay, if you have to rest. Some
view, huh? Californians sure have a right to brag, don't they?"
"If they like," Freddy muttered, and sank down on a convenient tree
stump by the side of the path. "But it's not my old age, I'll have you
know. It's these blasted new shoes. Only wore them once before. I
certainly wouldn't have worn them if I'd thought you were coming this
far. It's all of five miles, if it's an inch."
"Just the right distance for a nice work-out," Dawson said with a
heartless grin, as he sank down beside Freddy. "But get those gunboats
off and let's see if you've got any blisters. And speaking of blisters
from new shoes, I once knew a guy who got a blister, and two days later,
guess what?"
"What?" Freddy Farmer grunted, and began unlacing his shoes. "What about
two days later?"
"He died, just like that," Dawson grinned, and snapped his fingers. "He
was a swell guy, too. And it was just a little tiny blister. Didn't seem
like anything at all. Let's have a look, kid. Maybe you got a _big_
blister."
"You'll have something big, too, and on the side of your head, if you
don't shut up!" Freddy growled, and held up one of his shoes by the toe.
"One thing I always admired about you, young fellow, you do cheer up a
chap so!"
"Always aim to please," Dawson chuckled, and leaned back on his elbows.
"See that hill over there? How far, would you say?"
"I'm not saying, because I don't care a penny's worth!" young Farmer
snapped, and peeled off his socks.
"About three miles, I guess," Dawson murmured. "I think we can make it
there and back to the base by dark. We'd get a swell view of the sunset
from the top of that hill."
"You would, if you're fool enough to go there!" Freddy Farmer cried.
"But not me, because I'm heading back to the base just as soon as I've
had me a little rest!"
"Aw, don't be a sissy!" Dawson chided. "Come on. It will do you good.
Really break in those new shoes of yours. I was kidding about it being
three miles. It can't be more than a mile. We'll get a swell view of
Dago and Coronado, Freddy. Come on; be a good guy!"
When there was no comment from his flying mate and dearest pal, Dawson
turned his head and opened his mouth to speak again. But no words came
from between his lips, and that was because of the scowling, puzzled
look on Freddy's face. He was sitting up straight, holding a sock in
each hand, and staring intently at the crown of a low hill a short
distance in back of where they sat.
"What are you looking at?" Dawson demanded, and twisted all the way
around.
"That little cluster of shacks up there," Freddy replied. "I just saw a
couple of chaps sneaking along by them. They looked a bit strange to me.
I think one of them was in uniform."
"So what?" Dave grunted as he eyed the group of weather-beaten shacks.
"That's where the pickers live, I guess. For the orange groves, I mean.
They're migratory pickers. They don't stay in one place all year round.
Only for the picking season. Then they move, families and all, to some
other section where a fruit crop has come in. That must be some life, I
don't think. I wouldn't ... I see them, now, pal. And one is in uniform.
And--hey! They're looking around as though they wanted to make sure
nobody was watching them. Crouch down, Freddy. They won't be able to see
us for those bushes there. I wonder what their act is all about anyway?"
"Well, it certainly looks suspicious from here," Freddy Farmer grunted
as he hugged the ground closer with Dawson. "And ... I say, Dave, you
see that?"
"See what?" Dawson demanded.
"The one in civilian clothes, if you could call them that!" the
English-born air ace said breathlessly. "His right hand! He's got a gun
in it. Watch, and you'll see the sun on it as he turns."
Dawson didn't make any reply. He hugged the ground and peered past a
clump of bushes at the two figures standing on the crown of the low hill
no more than a couple of hundred yards away. One was very definitely
garbed in uniform, but because of the position of the sinking sun, and
the rays of light it cast off, it was impossible to tell what kind of a
uniform at the distance. Then the other, the one obviously garbed in
civilian clothes, turned slightly and the sunlight danced off a gun he
held in his right hand. Dave gasped audibly, but it was not caused by
sight of the sun on the gun. Rather, it was because of the figure's
movements with the gun.
"Cat's sake, Freddy!" he grunted. "The guy is waving that soldier inside
that shack with his gun. See? There they go in, both of them. What the
heck do you suppose, pal?"
"Blessed if I know," Freddy breathed back. "Certainly looks deucedly
queer, though. Do you fancy that soldier chap is being held up, or is in
trouble?"
"I wouldn't know," Dawson grunted with a frown. "Maybe we should find
out. But he didn't seem to act as though he were putting up any
objections. I had the feeling there that he sort of smiled."
"Me, too," Freddy replied with a nod. "I was wondering if you had seen
it, or if it was just my imagination. Oh, it probably means nothing at
all. We're just the suspicious type, I guess."
Dawson stared at the crown of the hill for a moment, and then lowered
his gaze to the ground right in front of him, deep in thought.
"What are you thinking about. Dave?" young Farmer presently asked.
"The one thing that doesn't seem to make sense," Dawson murmured after
another moment or two of silence. "That gun ... and it certainly was a
gun, wouldn't you say?"
"Definitely," Freddy assured him. "Looked like a long-barreled automatic
to me. But it was definitely a gun of some sort. Well, what about it?"
"What's a civilian doing with a gun?" Dawson asked. "Particularly in
these parts. This is a military zone, Freddy."
"Perhaps it's the soldier's, and he let him look at it," young Farmer
offered.
Dawson just shrugged at that, and said nothing. He raised his eyes and
stared at the shack into which the two figures had disappeared, and then
presently he turned and looked questioningly at Freddy Farmer.
"Well?" he said.
"Well, what?" the English-born air ace replied innocently.
"You know exactly what I mean!" Dawson snapped. "Do we take a look to
make sure, or do we just skip the whole thing, and start back to the
base?"
"What do you think?" Freddy instantly countered with a question of his
own. "Shall we, or shan't we?"
Dawson hesitated a moment, and then pointed at Freddy's shoes and socks.
"Put them on," he said. "Maybe it'll just be a horse-laugh on us, but
maybe it isn't as it should be. It isn't picking season around here yet,
and by rights I don't think there should be anybody living in those
shacks. I ... Oh, heck! Call me a curious cuss if you want to, but
things like this get my curiosity clicking. I have to find out one way
or the other."
"As though I hadn't known you long enough to realize that!" Freddy
Farmer grunted, and began putting on his socks and shoes. "But for once
I'm with you. It's aroused my curiosity, too. How do we operate? Walk
right up there, or steal from bush to bush, your American Indian style?"
"Neither!" Dawson snapped, and pointed to their right. "We use our
heads, instead! We go back that way and circle up the rise from that
end. Then we walk along with the shacks covering us. That way, if
_we're_ surprised we can say that we were just taking a look at the
lay-out. Just remember, one of them has a gun. And he might be the kind
of a guy who asks questions _afterward_."
"And right you are, for a fact!" Freddy Farmer breathed, and tied the
last shoelace. "Your way suits me quite all right. As you Yanks say,
there's no need to have somebody pull our necks out."
"You and Yank lingo!" Dawson groaned. "But skip it. Let's go, and ...
But, hey! What about your feet, Freddy?"
"They'll last," young Farmer assured him, and stood up. "It was only a
pebble, anyway. Let's get going."
Only a pebble. Just a tiny fragment of stone. Yet the presence of that
pebble in Freddy Farmer's shoe was to send them both into the Valley of
Death, and perhaps even to change the entire course of the war in the
Pacific!
CHAPTER THREE
_The Talking Shack_
"It's the next shack beyond this one, Freddy," Dawson murmured softly as
he laid a restraining hand on his friend's arm. "Just hold it a second,
and see if we can hear anything. Somehow I like this even less. The door
shut, and every shade drawn, such as they are. Or am I just getting
jumpy?"
"Well, anyway, shut up, if you want us both to listen!" Freddy Farmer
breathed back at him.
Dawson grinned, made a face, and then with Freddy standing motionless at
his side, he listened intently for any sounds coming from inside the
shack just beyond the one behind which they crouched. And he did hear
sounds. So did Freddy Farmer. The muffled and completely indistinct
sound of two people talking. A tremor of excitement rippled through
Dawson, and he squeezed Freddy's arm. A moment later, though, he
frowned silently and wondered if perhaps he and Freddy weren't just
being a couple of fools. After all, this wasn't the war zone. They
weren't behind the enemy lines, or even their own lines. This was
California, and what if they did see a soldier and a civilian go into
one of the crop pickers' shacks? So what? And maybe that gun wasn't a
gun after all. Freddy and he would certainly look awfully foolish if the
pair inside that shack should suddenly come out and see them crouched
there gaping wide-eyed like a couple of kids playing cops and robbers.
Those and other disturbing thoughts floated through his brain as he
frowned at the shack. He turned his head and looked at Freddy
questioningly. And the look young Farmer gave him in return indicated
clearly that the English-born air ace was entertaining pretty much the
same thoughts.
"Maybe it's stupid, huh?" Dawson formed the words with his lips.
Freddy nodded slowly, but at the same time a sort of half puzzled and
half stubborn look glowed in his eyes. And then in the very next instant
what indecision either of them may have had was wiped away by a cry of
anger coming from the shack beyond. At least it sounded like anger to
them both, although the sound was still too muffled to permit them to
pick out individual words.
"Well, that tears it as far as I'm concerned!" Dawson grunted. "I'm
going to get a better look, whether it seems screwy or not."
"Me, too, and right with you," Freddy Farmer replied. "There are some
bushes there against the back of the place. No window to peek through,
but we can certainly hear clearly through those loosely fitted boards.
Good grief, what places for people to live in!"
Dawson nodded, and said nothing. He simply left their place of hiding
and eased over to the protection of a line of scrub bushes. Keeping
behind them, he swiftly made his way to the rear of the other shack.
There he crouched down low and pressed an ear to the rough boards.
Freddy Farmer quickly followed his move, and together they heard the
high-pitched voice that was speaking inside.
"... must not fail!" it said. "What I have given you must reach its
destination as quickly as possible. However, not at the risk of your
being suspected for one single minute. Do you understand?"
"Of course I understand!" a harsh voice replied. "Do you think I am a
fool? Do you think I am a baby playing at a man's game?"
"What I think is of no importance," the high-pitched voice replied.
"Both you and I are but cogs in a great wheel that will crush the world.
There is a saying in my native tongue that describes it perfectly, but I
will not bore you by repeating it, as you do not speak the Japanese
language. And when translated into your native tongue, German, it has no
meaning at all. So forget that I mentioned it. You have your work, and I
have mine."
A moment of silence followed, and Dawson was filled with a terrible fear
that the thunder of his pounding heart could be heard beyond the loose
board wall of the shack. He didn't dare turn his head to look at Freddy
for fear that even that slight movement would create a sound that might
be heard inside the shack. A Jap and a Nazi inside there? It seemed
incredible! Like a crazy Hollywood concoction he had seen at the base
movie house only the night before. It was ...
But the one who was obviously a Nazi was speaking again.
"I was told that all my orders would come from Berlin."
"And so they have, in a way," the one of the high-pitched voice replied
smoothly. "To be transmitted to you through me. Your country, and mine,
fight this war together. It does not matter who gives the orders, or who
performs them, so long as the enemy is defeated. Now, tell me, when do
you sail?"
"Tonight," the other replied. "I must be back aboard the carrier within
two hours."
"And so you will be," the Jap assured him. "There is no need for us to
talk much longer. Here is the address of the one you will call on in
Honolulu. Show him this, and he will know you come from me. He will
probably give you additional information. Guard it well until you have
placed it in the hands of Admiral Shimoda at Truk."
"But that is foolish, stupid!" the Nazi snarled. "My carrier force may
not go within a thousand miles of Truk! And ..."
"Do not worry about that!" the other cut him off. "The American dogs
have met him with a few minor successes of late, and it has gone to
their heads. They will act boldly now, and that is what Admiral Shimoda
wishes. Yes, I am sure that your task force will steam to within easy
flying distance of Truk. When your carrier reaches that point you will
see to it that you take off without creating _any_ suspicion and fly at
once to your destination. When you reach Truk you will be under the
direct orders of Admiral Shimoda. It may be that he will desire that you
return to your carrier for future use. If so, you can safely leave it to
him to arrange matters so that your own force will pick you up as a
pilot who unfortunately has been forced down into the water, and has
floated about in his rubber life raft for a day or two."
"I would rather be sent to China to work there!" the Nazi growled. "I am
sick of these swine Americans, and pretending to be one of them."
"I can sympathize with you there," the Jap purred. "I am sick of living
under their rule, too. But at least I have the chance to travel often
across the border into Mexico. There is a country that we will make
great, once we have conquered the world. The Mexicans are ... But I
wander. Speak to Admiral Shimoda of your wish to go to China. Perhaps he
will agree with you. However, there is other work for you to accomplish
first, before carrying information to Truk."
"Other work?" the Nazi asked sharply.
"Important work," was the instant reply. "And very important work. When
you go to that address in Honolulu you will be given a number of water
flares, so small that you could carry them all in one pocket and the
bulge they made would not be noticed. But they give off a powerful light
that burns for four or five hours."
"Water flares?" gasped the Nazi. "For what use?"
"An important use," the Jap replied. "Right now there are three American
carriers in the San Diego Basin. You know that yours will sail tonight.
Perhaps the other two, with their forces, will sail also. It may be,
though, that only your carrier will stop at Pearl Harbor. Later it may
meet the other two carriers at sea. You do not know now, and neither do
I. However, you can keep our Pacific patrol forces informed of your own
position. The water flares. I will explain their use briefly, and the
one in Honolulu will give you detailed instructions. It will be an easy
matter for you to learn the position of your carrier, and its force. An
equally easy matter for you to learn the strength of your force, and
whether others have joined it. So! Each evening you will put all that
information down on special paper that you will be given in Honolulu,
and put it in a watertight pocket attached to the flare. Then, unseen,
you will throw the flare into the water. It is so constructed that it
will not break into light for three or four hours. That is so that your
carrier will be far out of sight range by then. However, come darkness,
all of our submarines will surface to re-charge their batteries. Perhaps
one of them will see the flare. Or perhaps one of our long-range
patrolling Kawanishi flying boats will sight the flare, and land beside
it. Perhaps not the first night you are at sea, or the next, or the
next. But one night a flare will be picked up, and we will know all we
need to know to set our trap of destruction for a future date."
"That sounds very interesting!" the Nazi said eagerly. "I shall enjoy
doing that kind of work. Let us hope that a dozen of their swine
carriers make up the force of which mine will be a part!"
"Let us hope so," the Jap replied, with a little laugh that chilled the
blood in Dawson's veins, "but let us not count on it. The American dogs
are not fools, all the time. We have shown them what happens to fools.
But if it be only your carrier, that will be enough. From the
information you throw into the water each night we will be able to
guess accurately the destination of the force. Then at the right moment
Admiral Shimoda's forces will destroy it completely. The victory will be
just what is needed in Japan, and in Germany, too. And the Americans
will cease to be so foolishly bold. They will hesitate, and that will
give Admiral Shimoda the necessary time he desires to re-enforce his
ground forces and break the American grip on New Guinea and the
Solomons."
"But if we could get several of their carriers!" the Nazi said fiercely.
"We ..."
"We will hope for that," the Jap stopped him, "but we will be content
with one carrier force. It will be enough for the present. Now, before
you go I want you to look at this map of Honolulu. I will show you the
quickest way to reach the address I have given you. Your carrier may not
remain in Pearl Harbor long, so you must not waste time making this
important contact."
There was the crackle of paper, the faint shuffling of feet, and then
nothing but silence. Dave Dawson took that moment to turn his head
slowly until he met Freddy Farmer's wide, angry eyes. But he gazed into
Freddy's eyes for only an instant, for he suddenly noticed not four
inches from the end of his nose a long quarter-inch crack between two
of the wall boards. Young Farmer spotted it almost at the same time. And
holding their breath, the two air aces inched over until they each could
put an eye to the crack.
At first Dawson could see nothing but the shadowy interior of a filthy
room. Dust, dirt, and dried yellow mud were everywhere. Scraps of rags
were strewn all about. And there were several empty rusty cans lying
about on the filthy floor. He gave all that but a passing glance,
because as his eye became adjusted to the bad light inside he was able
to see the head and shoulders of a uniformed figure. His heart leaped up
to clog his throat when he saw that it was the uniform of a Naval
Aviation Ensign. The man was standing side to, so Dave had only a
profile view of the face. And it was a very ordinary face. No single
feature stood out prominently. He had seen thousands of faces just like
it. He could see, though, that the hair below the service cap was
straw-colored, and he guessed that the eyes were sky blue. And the neck,
perhaps, was just a little thicker than the average neck of a man of
that height.
Of the other figure in the room, though, he could see nothing. No matter
how hard he pressed his eye to the crack, a sliver of wood on the other
side of the wall board blocked out everything else.
And then from out of nowhere, it came!
A sixth sense, more than his ears, told him that there was sound and
swift movement behind him. He jerked his head around, caught a flash
glimpse of Freddy Farmer turning his head, and then the California sky
fell down on top of him. All the bombs in the world exploded inside his
head, and the whole world was made up only of dazzling white flashes of
lightning. But unconsciousness did not engulf him at once. He knew that
he was lunging out with both hands, and clawing at rough coarse fabric.
He even heard a snarl, a cry of pain, and the scream of a fiend gone
completely berserk.
But whether that scream came from his own lips, or from another's, he
did not know. A split second later, he didn't know anything at all. The
California sky crashed down on him again and drove him deep into a
yawning chasm of utter darkness and silence.
CHAPTER FOUR
_Vanishing Death_
For a long, long time Dave Dawson stared at the limitless expanse of
cream white. And then little by little the throbbing ache ceased to
befuddle his brain, and he became conscious of the fact that the expanse
of cream white was the ceiling of a room. He also became conscious of
the fact that he was flat on his back in a bed, and that the countless
smells of a hospital were in his nostrils. To his right was a window,
and when he slowly turned his head on the pillow he found himself
staring out at the clear blue, cloudless California sky. He closed his
eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again the scene was still the
same.
"What the heck!" he heard his own voice mumble. "What happened, and what
am I doing in a hospital?"
"Well, it's jolly well time you woke up!" spoke the voice of Freddy
Farmer in his ear. "Don't tell me you got hit that hard. You've been
snoring for hours. How are you, old thing?"
Dawson turned his head to the other side and blinked in amazement at
young Farmer propped up on one elbow in a bed next to his. Freddy's face
was slightly pale around the edges, and there was a patch of surgeon's
plaster just above his right eye, but the English-born air ace was
grinning from ear to ear.
"Boy, what did you stop with that iron skull of yours, kid?" Dave
mumbled. "But never mind that. First tell me what gives around here,
anyway? The old brain seems to have gone off on a little solo flight. I
can't seem to remember a single thing that.... Hey! Wait a minute! That
shack! We ..."
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer interrupted with a grimace. "And here we are. You
and I are a couple of dopes, Dave. We were so blasted interested in what
was going on _inside_ that shack that neither of us gave a thought to
what was going on _outside_. And so we got bashed good and proper. The
blighter wearing civilian clothes did it, I'm sure. The one who was a
Jap. I got just a flash look at him before the gun he held in his hand
bounced off your head and connected with mine."
"The dirty rat!" Dawson grated, as more memories came flooding back. "He
must have heard us, or seen us through the crack in those wall boards,
and slipped out while that other guy was looking at the map. Hey,
Freddy! That other guy! He was a Navy pilot! An ensign!"
"I know," Freddy replied grimly. "I saw that, too. And the dirty
beggar's Nazi. Gosh, we sure made a mess of things, Dave. I feel like a
blasted fool for being caught so easily."
"You don't feel any worse than I do!" Dawson muttered, and gingerly
fingered the patch of surgeon's plaster that he discovered on his left
temple. "But how did we get here? And it's full daylight outside! Have
we been out cold this long, or did we come to and walk back to here?
This is the Naval Base Hospital, isn't it? And ..."
"Slow up, old chap!" Freddy Farmer stopped him with a raised hand.
"Don't ask so many questions at once. In fact, just shut up and I'll
tell you all I know. I woke up earlier this morning, and an hour or so
later Vice-Admiral Carter came in to have a talk with me, and ..."
"Vice-Admiral Carter?" Dawson gasped, and half sat up in spite of the
stab of white pain that cut through his left temple. "Do you mean the
base commandant?"
"Are there two by the same name?" young Farmer snapped. "And will you
please shut up while I try to tell you?"
"Okay, okay!" Dave growled. "Go ahead. But skip the trimmings. Just give
me the facts."
"I'll give it to you as I jolly well see fit!" Freddy shot right back at
him, but tempered it with a grin. "Well, Vice-Admiral Carter came in to
find out from me what had happened. Did you know, Dave, that we're
mighty lucky to be alive?"
"Well, every time I move my head quick, I don't feel so doggone lucky,"
Dawson grunted. "Then what?"
"Well, it seems fairly evident that we both would have been done in
proper by that Jap, if he had been given more time," young Farmer said.
"But it seems that one of the managers of the orange groves happened by
just at that moment. He saw the Jap, but didn't recognize him as such.
Thought he was a tramp trying to find out what he could steal from the
shacks."
"Name one thing that even a tramp would want out of that hole," Dave
said. "You saw the inside, didn't you? And ... Okay, Okay! I'm sorry,
sweetheart. Go ahead and talk."
"Just interrupt me once more with that big mouth of yours, and you can
jolly well sing for the truth!" Freddy warned. "Well, he called out to
the Jap, and the Jap fired a shot at him. He missed, but the manager
didn't give him the chance for a second shot. He dropped flat on his
face, and when he got nerve enough to poke his head up for a look, it
was just in time to see the Jap, and the chap in uniform, disappear over
the brow of the next hill. And when the manager got up enough nerve to
give chase--and blessed if I blame him, in view of the fact that _he_
had no gun--it was much, much too late. So he came back and found us,
listening to the birdies singing, as you would put it. He went down the
valley to the nearest phone and called the base. They sent out an
ambulance for us. The vice-admiral assured me that neither of us has a
fracture of any kind, just a bad bump, so they let us more or less sleep
it off."
"Well, that was white of them, anyway," Dave said. "I suppose you told
the vice-admiral the story?"
"No," Freddy replied. "I started to, but the old brain was still
spinning too much. The vice-admiral told me to rest up some more, and
that he would come back when both of us could talk. I told him about the
ensign and the carrier, though. And that worried him no end, too!"
"And why not?" Dawson said, as his heart began to pound. "If this is the
next day, then the carrier has sailed!"
"I suppose so," Freddy muttered. "I didn't have the chance to ask the
vice-admiral. He left in a hurry, and ..."
Young Farmer stopped short as the door of their room suddenly opened and
the base commandant, followed by a Navy senior surgeon, stepped inside.
The grim look on Vice-Admiral Carter's face faded the instant he saw
they were both awake. A smile flashed across his rugged face, and he
lifted one hand, and gave a little shake of his head.
"Relax, both of you," he said. "We can do without formality here. Well,
Dawson, I see that you have come around, too. How do you feel?"
"Not too bad, sir," Dave replied, and grinned. "I'm sorry I was out of
it the other time."
"Ah, so Farmer told you of my other visit, eh?" the base commandant
murmured, and perched himself on the end of Dawson's bed. "Well, if you
both feel up to it now, I want to have a talk with you. What about it,
Commander? Is it all right?"
The vice-admiral addressed the last to the navy surgeon who had entered
with him, and he received an immediate reply in the affirmative.
"Oh, yes, sir," the officer said. Then with a little laugh, "They both
have pretty tough heads, for which they can certainly be thankful."
"Thankful in more ways than one," the vice-admiral grunted, and Dave had
the feeling he was thinking of how that Jap had been scared away from
completing the job. "Now," the senior officer continued, and looked from
one to the other, "let's have the complete story as nearly as you can
remember it. And try to remember everything, if you possibly can. The
situation is mighty serious. Mighty grave."
Ten minutes later Dave and Freddy Farmer had finished relating every
detail of their experience. Each had confirmed the other's story and had
added one or two overlooked details. Vice-Admiral Carter listened
through to the very end without once interrupting with a question. Now
he sat perched on the end of Dawson's bed balling one clenched fist into
the palm of the other hand, and scowling thoughtfully down at his
movements.
"There's one thing I want both of you to think about hard," he finally
broke the silence. "It's just possible that it may have skipped both
your minds thus far. The name of that pilot's carrier. Did he or the Jap
mention it?"
Dave and Freddy looked questioningly at each other. Then they both
looked at the base commandant and shook their heads.
"No, sir," Dave spoke for them both. "The name of his carrier wasn't
mentioned once. But I can tell you what one it was, sir. I mean, he said
that it was sailing tonight. I mean, last night. So all you have to do
is ..."
Dawson stopped as the vice-admiral shook his head.
"No, sir?" he echoed.
"No, Dawson," the base commandant said bitterly. "We can't find it out
that way, unfortunately. All three carriers sailed last night. That
pilot didn't know. He only knew that his carrier was to sail, naturally.
But all three were scheduled to sail. And they did."
"But his was sailing for Pearl Harbor, sir!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "So
the one that ..."
"That's no good, either," the vice-admiral interrupted. "The entire
three-carrier force is bound for Pearl Harbor. En route they will work
out a battle problem, and then proceed to Pearl Harbor to take aboard
two torpedo and two dive-bomber squadrons, that are waiting there. This
ensign pilot--this rotten Nazi--just what did he look like? If either of
you can give me a detailed description, perhaps a radio to each of the
carriers will make it possible for us to catch our man before the force
reaches Pearl. Just what did he look like?"
"That's just the point, sir," Dave Dawson said sadly, when Freddy Farmer
didn't speak. "We saw him only in profile, and the light was bad. I
didn't see a single thing unusual about him. I mean, sir, he looked just
like hundreds of other pilots in Naval Aviation uniform. What about you,
Freddy? Did you notice any outstanding features?"
Young Farmer frowned, sighed, and shook his head.
"No, sir," he said to the vice-admiral. "I'm sure I'd be able to
recognize him, if I ever saw him again, but I really didn't see anything
about him that would help anybody else to identify him."
"Yes, I'm sure I'd be able to spot him again, too," Dawson murmured.
Then, with a grim note in his voice, "And that Japrat, too, even though
I did only see him at a distance."
The vice-admiral was again scowling down at his clenched fist grinding
into the palm of his other hand, and he acted as though he had not heard
either of them speak. Dawson waited a few moments, and then asked a
question.
"What about the service records of the fighter pilots aboard all three
carriers, sir?" he said.
The base commandant raised his head and looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean?" he demanded. "And why just the fighter pilots?"
"From the way they talked, sir," Dawson replied quickly, "I felt certain
that he was a fighter pilot. I mean, he plans to take off, when the
opportunity presents itself, and fly direct to Truk. Well, sir, if he
were a torpedo plane or dive bomber or scout bomber pilot, he would have
somebody along with him. Gunner, or radio man, or both, I mean, sir. But
neither of them made any mention of anybody else. So I feel certain that
he's a fighter pilot."
"Yes, I guess you're right there, Dawson," the senior officer said with
a nod. "But how would service records help us to find our man?"
"Well, sir," Dave said after a moment of frowning hesitation, "he is
obviously German. He probably has a German-sounding name. His record
sheet would tell about his parents. Where they were born, and so forth.
He may even be a naturalized American, sir. Of course, it's just a long
shot chance, but checking the service records of all the fighter
pilots in that carrier force might turn up something that was
suspicious-looking."
"It might, but I'm afraid it would be even harder than the needle in the
haystack stunt," the base commandant said with a shrug. "Both the Army
and the Navy have men of German birth, and parents. And it would take
time. All that sort of thing is on file at the Navy Department in
Washington. We haven't records that complete here. Of course, though,
I'll get the wheels moving on it, at once. I'd be a fool to leave any
stone untouched, and unturned. If that devil once ..."
The senior officer cut himself off with a groan, and his dismay and
worry showed plainly on his face.
"There's one thing you might try, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up
hesitatingly. "That is, if you don't mind my suggesting it, sir?"
"Mind?" Vice-Admiral Carter barked. "Good heavens, Farmer, don't stand
on formality! If you have anything to suggest, don't hesitate an
instant. Suggest it at once. What is it?"
"Recall the force to Dago, sir," Freddy said. "Then Dawson and I could
have a look at the fighter pilots. I mean, it might be arranged so that
nobody would think anything of it. Perhaps we could pick out your man
for you."
"Well, I had thought of that," the senior officer said in a weary voice,
"but it can't be done. And for several reasons. The force is not under
my command, strictly speaking. I would have to get permission from
Washington, or at least from Admiral Nimitz at Honolulu. Also, the force
is on close battle schedule right now, and the delay its return would
cause would upset plans that have been months in the making. Of course,
the seriousness of the situation seems to justify the recall of the
force, but it doesn't follow that the recall would definitely solve the
problem. You two might not be able to recognize him again. The very fact
that the force turned back might make our man suspicious, and he might
jump ship. You see we want not only to get our hands on him, but we also
want to get our hands on the information that he carries. Then, too,
there is his Jap partner in this spy business."
"What about that Jap, sir?" Dawson asked. "I suppose a hunt for him was
started, wasn't it? And was that orange grove manager able to give you
any help there?"
"None at all," the base commandant said gloomily. "He didn't get close
enough to be able to say definitely whether the man who attacked you two
was a Jap, or a Mexican worker. In fact, we only believe that he was a
Jap from what you two say."
"He was a Jap, or I never heard a Jap talk," Dawson said with an
emphatic nod of his head.
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "The beggar was definitely Japanese,
sir."
"Oh, I'm not doubting you!" the vice-admiral said quickly. "I believe
you completely. But that simply goes to show how hopeless the hunt for
him has been, and will be. He may be a Jap, but he may not look one
hundred per cent Jap, is what I mean. It's simply another case of the
needle in the haystack again. If only you had heard that fighter pilot
mention the name of his carrier."
"Yes, but he did not mention it," Freddy Farmer said sadly. "Of that I
am positive."
"So am I," Dawson said absently. "I ..."
He let the rest trail off into silence, and gazed vacantly into space.
Vice-Admiral Carter looked at him for a moment, and then leaned forward
and tapped him on the knee.
"You've got a peculiar look on your face, Dawson," he said quietly. "Has
anything special come to mind?"
Dave wiped the vacant look from his face, looked at the senior officer
and smiled.
"Nothing on what's already happened, sir," he said. "But I think there's
a pretty fair chance of our catching up with that fighter pilot."
"Then don't beat about the bush with it!" the senior officer snapped.
"What? How?"
"If Farmer and I could be relieved of our base duties, sir," Dave said
presently, "we could fly to Pearl and get there ahead of the force, go
aboard each carrier before any shore leave was granted, and find our
man. Naturally, you would have to radio for such permission to be given
us, and also for Naval Intelligence to be there on hand to arrest the
pilot when we spotted him, and seize his personal effects."
"Naturally I'd relieve you both of your duties here at the base," the
vice-admiral said, "but you both happen to be hospital cases. You're in
no condition for a flight to Pearl Harbor."
"Why not?" Dave blurted out. "I feel fine. I haven't even got an ache in
my head."
"Nor I!" Freddy Farmer spoke up quickly. "Besides, sir, we don't have to
take off today. It will take the force some time to reach Pearl. We can
stay right here for a couple of days and still get there ahead of it. It
would be simple enough to arrange for us to ferry over a Navy bomber, or
something, wouldn't it?"
"Farmer is right, sir!" Dawson said eagerly. "We don't have to leave
today, or even tomorrow. There's plenty of time to beat the carrier
force to Pearl Harbor. And to my way of figuring the thing, we haven't
got to do any worrying until the force _does_ reach Pearl. That Nazi
isn't going to get those water flares until he makes contact with some
men in Honolulu. Of course it's really a Naval Intelligence job, but ...
Well, after all, sir, if anybody can identify that fighter pilot, Farmer
and I can!"