internal explosion that seemed to lift the craft clean out of the water.
It actually seemed to hover motionless in mid-air for a moment, and
although Dawson was not sure, he thought he saw the thing break in half,
and both halves fall back into the water with mighty splashes, and then
disappear completely beneath the flame-tipped waves. At any rate, an
instant later the submarine just wasn't there any more. There was
nothing but a blazing whirlpool of oil to mark the spot where it had
been. There was not even a single piece of floating wreckage in that
ever widening circle of blazing oil.
"And that's one Tojo can sure mark off as gone for good!" Dawson
muttered, and nosed the Fortress up for altitude. "What a way to die,
even for a dirty Japrat."
With a little shuddering shake of his head he took his gaze off the
blazing patch of oil slick, and turned his attention forward.
"Okay, Freddy, boy!" he called into his inter-com mike. "Come on up
front and get your cigar for hitting the bull's-eye. And how you did,
pal. How you did!"
There came no reply from Freddy over the inter-com, nor did the English
youth come up forward in person.
"Hey, Freddy!" Dave shouted, this time even louder. "Can you hear me?
Anything wrong back there? Hey, Freddy!"
Ten full seconds of silence ticked by, and an eerie chill started to
close about Dawson's heart. Why hadn't Freddy at least answered if he
wasn't coming forward just yet? Was something wrong? Had a chance shot
from that rotten Jap submarine nailed old Freddy? But that couldn't be.
He'd heard Freddy's port-slot guns still slugging away long after the
last gun on the submarine had gone silent. Then what was wrong?
Those, and a hundred and one other torturing thoughts raced through
Dawson's brain as he put the Fortress back onto the automatic pilot,
unhooked his safety harness, and scrambled out of the seat and went aft.
As he pushed through the door leading into the bomb bay he stopped dead
in his tracks and then instantly dropped flat on his hands and knees. A
sea of acrid smelling smoke had come swirling through the compartment
door opening, and although his own heart seemed to be pounding against
his very eardrums he was able to hear the faint crackling of flames. And
he could see that the swirling smoke inside the bomb-bay was tinted by
fire.
"Freddy! Freddy!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Are you trapped
in there? Can you hear me? Where are you, Freddy?"
"Back here, Dave!" came the muffled reply through the swirling smoke.
"Give me a hand, quick. The mail sacks. The blasted things are on fire.
Mind the bomb-bay doors, Dave! I've opened them to toss these things
out. Give me a hand, Dave. I don't think I can make it alone. Blast!
That thing's hot!"
Long before Freddy Farmer had stopped speaking Dawson was crawling
through the door opening on his hands and knees. It was like crawling
into the middle of a blast furnace. The acrid smoke stung his eyes and
almost blinded him. It seemed to pour down his throat and gag him, and
he was frightfully afraid that he might misjudge his movements and go
hurtling down through the opened bomb-bay doors.
But he did not misjudge, and after what seemed an eternity spent inside
a hot stove, he reached Freddy Farmer, who was hauling smoking and
flaming mail sacks along the floor of the compartment and then dropping
them down through the opened bomb-bay doors. Young Farmer looked like a
smudged-faced ghost in the red glow of the burning sacks. His helmet and
goggles were gone, and his flying suit was badly scorched in a couple of
places.
"What happened, Freddy?" Dawson choked out as he grabbed a smoking mail
sack off the pile and hurled it down toward the night-shrouded Pacific.
"We stop some of their flak? But how the dickens did these sacks catch
on fire?"
"Don't know!" Freddy choked through the smoke. "Can't understand it.
Just happened to look back in here to check if anything had been hit,
and found the whole blasted place full of smoke. Saw a couple of stabs
of purple light, and then the whole business broke into flame. Didn't
dare waste time calling you. Think the fire got the inter-com wires,
anyway. Boy! Suppose I hadn't happened to look in here!"
Dawson simply shuddered and dragged another sack off the pile. He
didn't bother to make any comment. It was horrible enough just to think
about the whole rear end of the Fortress catching fire. Besides, there
was too much of the stinging smoke in his nose and throat to permit any
unnecessary talk. They still weren't out of danger. No, not by a jugful.
At that very moment, as Dawson kicked a smoking sack toward the bomb-bay
opening, a tongue of purple white light shot out of its heavy canvas
covering. A hissing sound filled Dawson's ears, and then the mail sack
went tumbling down through the air. Dave's breath seemed to stick in his
throat, and his heart turn to stone, as the terrible realization came to
him. He heard Freddy Farmer cry out in stunned amazement but he could
not have turned his head Freddy's way at that moment, even if not doing
so had cost him his life. Half frozen with fear, he stood gaping at the
bomb-bay opening down through which the flaming mail bag had just
disappeared.
Then, snapping out of his trance, he whirled around and practically
threw himself at the three or four smoking mail bags left. Fire burned
his hands a little, but he hardly felt the pain. His only thought at
that moment was to get every last one of those mail bags out of the
plane. And a few moments later the last one of them went spinning down
through the opening out of sight. By then an up-draft had cleared away
most of the smoke. For a moment Dawson and Freddy Farmer stared at each
other in the pale glow of a single bulb in the compartment ceiling that
had not been reached by the flames. Then, as though still in a trance,
Dawson reached out and pushed the button that closed the bomb-bay doors.
And then the two of them more or less reeled back to the pilot's
compartment and dropped gasping for air into their seats.
"The first aid kit, beside you, Freddy," Dawson finally managed to force
the words from his lips. "Better get it out and use some of the tannic
jelly on our hands. No sense taking chances. Good grief, Freddy! There
were time fire bombs in some of those sacks. Somebody figured to make us
bail out, and flame this thing down onto the deck!"
"Yes!" Freddy Farmer said in a tight voice. "A little Jap friend of
ours. Who else could it have been? It couldn't have been anybody else,
Dave. The dirty blighter. He probably didn't trouble to use his gun.
Didn't even have to get close to us ... But, good gosh, Dave! How in
the world did he get the chance to do it? How did he know when he
shadowed us up to Los Angeles that we were going to take the very first
plane off, and that we'd carry the mail?"
"I don't know," Dawson mumbled, and rubbed some of the tannic jelly on
his smarting hands. "It's like one of those impossible cockeyed things
you read in dime thrillers. Maybe he didn't do it, himself. Maybe he has
pals at the L.A. Base. He certainly had one at Dago. Maybe he didn't
even show his face to anybody, except a pal or two of his. And maybe
we're just kidding ourselves. Maybe he didn't have a thing to do with
it. Maybe it was just plain sabotage by some other rats he never even
met. I--gosh! I'm almost beginning to feel sorry that you belted that
submarine down to the bottom, Freddy. Believe it or not, those rats,
while trying to knock us down with their little trick, actually saved
our lives."
"What's that?" Freddy asked sharply. "Dirty Japs save anybody's life?
Not a bit, they would!"
"Not knowingly, no," Dawson said, and absently checked the course of the
Fortress that was still droning along on the automatic pilot. "But those
submarine birds did, just the same. Supposing that sub hadn't showed at
all? Supposing you hadn't gone back to work the guns, and looked into
the bomb-bay? We would suddenly have found ourselves sitting on the
front end of a flying ball of fire. See what I mean?"
"Too vividly!" young Farmer said with a violent shudder. "Why, the
blasted fire might even have reached the gas tanks before we could have
bailed out. Gosh! maybe I am a little sorry that I sent the lot of them
to the bottom."
"Well, don't be too sorry," Dawson said grimly. "They're still Japs. And
there's still a lot of their cutthroat brothers on the face of the earth
that need the same kind of treatment."
"And will get it, too, if I have anything to do with it!" Freddy Farmer
echoed, tight-lipped.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_Spy Trap_
The new dawn sun was well up over the eastern rim of the world and was
driving the shadows of night over the western lip in a hurry when Dave
Dawson and Freddy Farmer sighted the flight of American patrol planes.
They were Navy long-range Catalina flying boats and they were coming
straight on toward the Flying Fortress.
"Nice!" Dawson grunted with a nod of his head. "That's something I was
hoping that we'd see just about now. Asleep at the switch once, maybe,
but not twice. Nope, not a chance."
"All of which sounds very interesting," Freddy Farmer murmured, and
rubbed a dirty hand over his tired-looking face. "But do you mind
explaining what you mean? I'm afraid I'm a little bit too done in this
morning to bother making guesses. What about those Catboats, Dave?"
"That they're there, and coming toward us on a beeline," Dave replied
with a nod toward the approaching flying boats. "It means that they are
sure on the alert at Pearl Harbor, these days. Obviously they picked us
up on radar, and radioed those patrol planes to come out for a look at
us. In other words, there'll never be a second sneak attack on the
Hawaiians."
"Oh, I see," Young Farmer grunted. "Yes, I guess you're right. I fancy
that ... oh-oh. Half a minute, Dave. They're on the radio. I'll handle
it, if you wish."
Dawson nodded and watched the three Catalinas move into line formation.
The request for an identification signal was already sounding in his
earphones.
"Sure, go ahead, kid," he said. "But watch your English accent. They
might wonder, and start to get funny. And I don't want to play around
any more. I want just to get my feet on firm, hard ground for a change."
Freddy Farmer made a face at him, and then put his lips to the radio
mike.
"Fortress to Catalinas!" he barked. "Plane XFT, Captain Dawson in
command. Request permission to proceed to destination Four-Seven-Six.
Over!"
There was a moment of silence; then they both heard the reply.
"Patrol to XFT! Proceed to destination. Welcome. Did you have a nice
trip? Over!"
Freddy Farmer glanced at Dawson out the corner of his eye, and grinned
impishly.
"XFT to Patrol!" he called out. "A jolly fine trip, old tin of fruit.
Top-hole, really, what? Really a bit of all right, I fancy, old bean!
Off!"
Young Farmer started to switch off but at that instant came sharp words
from the Catalinas.
"Patrol to XFT!" the voice crackled in their earphones. "Who is that
talking? I thought you said Captain Dawson was in command."
Dave quickly shook his head as Freddy started to reply. He spoke into
the radio mike, instead.
"Captain Dawson speaking, sir," he said. "And I am in command of this
aircraft. That was an English refugee who gave you our identification.
Name of Captain Farmer. Sorry he hasn't been able to master the language
yet, sir. If you were to meet him, and see what he looks like, you'd
understand."
Laughter burst out in the earphones, and thunderheads clouded up in
Freddy Farmer's eyes. He glared at Dawson, but after a moment or two he
smiled sheepishly.
"All right, all right," he said in a resigned voice. "I should have
known that I couldn't top you blasted Yanks in such a situation. I'll
not forget it, my lad, though. Just remember that!"
Dawson chuckled, and made a face. Then the two of them watched the three
Catalinas swing gracefully away and go back onto their patrol course.
Some twenty minutes later they picked up Diamond Head on the Island of
Oahu, and shortly after that they were circling slowly over Hickam
Field, waiting for permission to land.
"You know, Freddy," Dave murmured as he stared down at the huge military
aviation base, "in a way the Japs almost did us a favor by pulling that
sneak attack. Take a look down there. That's really something, now,
isn't it? The very latest of everything. No long lines of planes, now,
to make perfect strafing targets. Every single plane dispersed just as
it should be. And look at those flak batteries, will you! Boy! A
mosquito's life wouldn't be worth a thin dime around here, once those
guns opened up."
"Yes, the chaps are certainly ready and prepared for anything and
everything now," Freddy Farmer said softly, and let his gaze wander.
"But what a blasted shame they had to be caught off guard that day. The
one thing that amazes me, though, is the way you Yanks can dig in and
clear up things. I declare you'd never guess, now, that such terrible
damage had been done that way. It's positively amazing, really."
"Just an old American custom, Freddy," Dave said lightly. "When we
really start to do a thing, we do it, trimmings and all. We don't kid
around. We roll up our sleeves, and ..."
"I know, I know!" Freddy cried with a wave of his hand. "You Yanks are
positively wonderful. That is, next to the British, of course. Now,
there is a people who ..."
"And there is the signal to come on in!" Dawson interrupted. "And praise
Allah for that! But tell me about the British people again sometime,
will you, pal? Say about ninety-nine years from now, huh?"
"What a shame I haven't my usual strength this morning!" young Farmer
growled. "If I had, you'd go down by 'chute, and I'd take this thing
in."
Dave laughed, and then concentrated on circling into the wind and
sliding the Flying Fortress down to a perfect landing on the strip
ordered by the officer in the control tower. As soon as the huge craft
came to a full stop both youths breathed deeply, and then grinned at
each other.
"Feels good, doesn't it, Freddy, huh?" Dawson said.
"Don't think it ever felt so good before," young Farmer agreed
instantly. "English-born I may be, but I'm afraid I'm definitely not a
follower of the sea. I always feel much better when there is the ground
underneath me."
"Well, it's there under us now, and both of us are stationary, praise
be!" Dawson said. "And between you and me, if there wasn't anybody
looking, I'd get down on my hands and knees and kiss it, I feel so good
to be here. Frankly, this flight's one that I'd like to forget in a
hurry. And that's no kidding, either."
"Definitely not!" young Farmer echoed. Then with a frown he said, "But
that business last night still bothers me. Somehow, I just can't see how
that Japrat we met at San Diego could possibly have had anything to do
with it. Just sabotage, I think, and we happened to be the two unlucky
ones who took this aircraft off the L.A. base field."
"Maybe," Dawson said with a shrug. "But until I get a better explanation
I'm going to continue to pin it on that Japrat. Anyway, here we are, and
that Japrat back at Dago is a forgotten issue, as far as I'm concerned.
Now it's for that dirty Nazi in a Yank Naval Aviation uniform, the
stinker."
"Quite," Freddy Farmer murmured. "And here comes the reception
committee, or something. Looks like they don't trust you to taxi this
thing in. The signal tower says for us to stay put. Just as well, too.
You can mess up an airplane even on the ground, you know."
Dawson had a fitting crack to that remark, but he sighed and let it go
unspoken. An Air Forces jeep had come rocketing out to the Flying
Fortress, and braked to a stop just under the left wing. Dave half waved
at the occupants of the jeep, three Air Forces officers and a Navy
commander, and then slid out of his seat, and made his way aft to the
belly exit of the plane.
A couple of minutes later they were facing the wide-eyed stares of the
jeep's riders.
"I'm Captain Larkin, duty officer," one of the Air Forces officers said.
"But, what happened to you two? You run into trouble? From here you look
like you bumped into the whole Jap air force."
"We had a little trouble," Dawson said with a grin. "But ..."
That's as far as he got. The Navy commander gave a sharp shake of his
head, and stepped forward.
"Sorry, Captain Larkin," he said with a pleasant smile, "but these two
are to report to Vice-Admiral Stone at once. Any report is to be made
to him."
Captain Larkin frowned, then shrugged and returned the other's smile.
"Yes, of course, Commander," he said. "I understand. But ... well, let
it go. Welcome to Hickam, you two. If you get the chance, drop back over
here and tell us what's new on the mainland, eh?"
"We'll do that, if we get the chance," Dawson assured him.
"Oh, quite," Freddy Farmer murmured.
And then the Navy commander took charge of them. He introduced himself
as Commander Drake, and he talked pleasantly of everything save their
flight to Oahu as he led them off the field and over to a waiting Navy
car, with a rating at the wheel.
"Sorry to choke things off that way," he said as they climbed in. "But
the vice-admiral's orders were that you were to talk to no one. Not even
to me. So we'll get going, and then you can report all to the
vice-admiral. And from the looks of you, I hope he permits me to remain
and hear it."
"Where is the vice-admiral, sir?" Dawson asked as the Navy rating behind
the wheel shifted the car into gear, and got it rolling.
"The Kaneohe Naval Air Station on Mokapu Point," the commander replied.
"It's a few miles, but one of the prettiest drives on the Island. You'll
see some of the real Hawaiian scenery."
They did. But reaction was catching up with Dave Dawson and Freddy
Farmer. And fatigue, too. And so they were really too worn out from
their harrowing experiences of the night to be able to pay proper
attention to the gorgeous scenery that rolled by on either side of the
car. As a matter of fact, Freddy Farmer fell sound asleep twice. And
Dawson caught his own eyelids sagging a few times. Obviously Commander
Drake noticed these signs, because when they rolled through the gates
that opened onto the Kaneohe Naval Air Station, he ordered the rating at
the wheel to drive them to his own quarters, instead of to the
commandant's office.
And when they reached the commander's quarters they were treated to that
special brand of thoughtfulness and courtesy for which the U.S. Navy is
so famous. Commander Drake played the magician in the fullest meaning of
the word. He produced warm baths for the two dead tired pilots, clean
fresh uniforms for both of them, a pharmacist's mate to check their
burns and fix them up, and last but not least as far as Freddy Farmer
was concerned, a breakfast such as you probably wouldn't get even in the
White House. And not once did he bother them with questions, or even act
as though he couldn't keep his tongue still any longer. In short, by the
time the Navy officer took them over to meet the station commandant he
had made himself their friend for life, and they both felt as though
they had just got up from a perfect night's sleep, instead of having
just completed a nerve-racking twenty-four hundred and two mile flight.
"If you don't mind my saying so, sir," Dawson said as he breathed deep
of the invigorating Hawaiian air, "you're a miracle man, if I ever met
one. I was dreading trying to keep awake while I made my report to the
vice-admiral, but now I feel like a million dollars. And not a cent
under it."
"Quite, sir!" Freddy Farmer echoed instantly. "I only hope that some day
Dawson and I will have the opportunity to do the same for you."
"Well, thanks, but I hope not," Commander Drake said with his pleasant
laugh. "Of course, I'd love to be your guests at your air base some
day. But definitely not in the condition you two were in. You sure gave
me a start when you climbed down out of that Fortress. You gave all of
us a start for that matter."
Dawson grinned, and then his grin faded as memory started to return.
"Well, it was sure one of the happiest landings I ever made, I can tell
you that, sir," he said soberly.
"Amen," Freddy Farmer echoed just as soberly.
That ended the conversation between them, for they had reached
Vice-Admiral Stone's office, and the station commandant had risen from
behind his huge desk and was smiling his greeting while at the same time
faint puzzlement played about in his steel blue eyes.
"Glad to meet you, Captains Dawson and Farmer," he said, and shook hands
with them both. "Be seated, please. No, Commander, don't leave. I think
you'd better listen in on this. You had some trouble, Captains?"
As the station commandant spoke the last he glanced down at the hands of
the two air aces, and the strips of surgeon's plaster that showed white
against the sun- and wind-bronzed skin.
"A little trouble, sir, yes," Dawson answered for both of them. Then,
lifting his hands a little, "But luckily we came through it with no more
than these, and a pretty ticklish few minutes."
"I'm glad of that," the vice-admiral replied. Then as he seated himself
at the desk, he said, "But we'd better keep things in order. Naturally,
I know something of what happened. I mean, over on the mainland.
Vice-Admiral Carter radioed me in code. It would be better, though, for
you two to tell it to me in your own words. Begin right at the
beginning, and don't leave out anything, if you can possibly help it."
Twenty minutes later Vice-Admiral Stone and Commander Drake knew as much
of what had happened as Dawson and Farmer knew themselves. Silence
settled over the room, and all four frowned deep in thought.
"There's a question I'd like to ask, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up.
"Something that's been bothering me. Probably unimportant, but ... well,
I'd like to ask it, if you don't mind, sir?"
"Of course I don't," came the instant reply. "Go right ahead, Captain
Farmer. What is the question?"
"The business during the flight across, sir," the English-born air ace
said. "Do you...? I mean, do you think it was just accidental sabotage?
That is, as far as Dawson and I are concerned? Or do you really think
that that Jap followed us north and was instrumental in having those
time fire bombs put in the mail sacks?"
The frown that already knitted the vice-admiral's brows deepened and he
did not answer for a moment or two.
"We will probably never learn one way or the other, Captain Farmer," he
finally said slowly. "But my personal feeling is that the Jap is, or
was, the skunk in the woodpile. The longer this war goes on the more
amazed I become at the fiendish, devilish ingenuity of the Japs, once
they put their minds to it. In countless things they are unquestionably
the stupidest people on the face of the earth. But for devilish tricks
that have to do with torture, maiming, and ruthless slaughter, they are
the world's best. They could give lessons to the Nazi Gestapo and Secret
Service any time. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if
the Nazi cunning in the matter of booby traps actually originated in
Tokyo. So I'd say, yes, Captain Farmer. I'd say that mail sack business
was definitely linked to that Jap spy."
"Thank you, sir, for your opinion," Freddy Farmer said with a smile.
Then he added in a brittle voice, "I sincerely hope that I meet up with
that blighter again. Under more favorable circumstances, of course."
"And I hope you do," the vice-admiral said with a grave nod. "But there
is something you must keep in mind every minute of the time until your
special mission is accomplished. It's that that spy is but one of many.
Bluntly, you two are marked men. I don't mean to alarm you
unnecessarily, but you both bumped into something that is of vital
importance to the Japanese command in the western Pacific. You _know_
that there is a dangerous Nazi spy, serving as a fighter pilot aboard
one of our newest and most powerful carriers. We must accept the
undoubted fact that the Jap at Dago, and that Nazi, now at sea, believe
you two heard much of their conversation there in that shack. That the
Nazi was not arrested when he went aboard his ship simply proved to them
that you did not know his name. But remember this! The Jap in question
obviously followed you to the Los Angeles base. Maybe he did put those
time fire bombs in the mail sacks, hoping that you both would lose your
lives en route to Hawaii. And maybe he didn't. But either way it doesn't
make much difference. I mean, we have got to assume that the Jap knew
you were heading for Hawaii, and why! In short, to identify this Nazi
when his carrier arrives."