to horizon the rolling blue Pacific was flooded with gold from the sun
hanging on high. In addition to it being a perfect day the mighty Yank
carrier force steaming westward was a sight to catch the throat of even
the most self-centered landlubber. In perfect battle array, with
cruisers out on both sides, and the destroyers darting about like water
bugs, the mighty armada traced a pattern of creamy white wakes on the
gold-tinted blue that looked like a painting from another world.
It was indeed something to see and remember always, but Dave Dawson and
Freddy Farmer hardly noticed. Slumped down in one of the crash nets
aboard the Carrier Trenton, they stared out at the rest of the force
with gloomy eyes and furrowed brows. They were depressed, unhappy, and
licked. Only sheer doggedness would not let them admit the latter
truth. But it seemed true just the same. For three days, now, they had
been with Vice-Admiral Macon's force, and for all the good they were
doing themselves, or anybody else, they might just as well have been
back at San Diego teaching Navy fledglings to fly.
"Well, what now, little man?" Dawson suddenly broke the long brooding
silence between them. "Shall we start all over again for the umptieth
time? I mean, check on the fighter pilots once more?"
Young Farmer didn't reply for a moment. He rubbed a hand down the side
of his face, shook his head, and sighed heavily.
"What's the blasted use?" he groaned. "That Nazi rat we're looking for
can either make himself invisible, or else he just isn't with this
force. And that last is what makes me feel like such a fool. What a
beautiful trick of fate if that lad is actually thousands and thousands
of miles from where we are right now. You know, Dave, we've seen a lot,
and we've done our full share of things, but this business is the
queerest ever. The trailing destroyers haven't even reported sighting a
single water flare. Maybe _we_ just dreamed everything!"
"You're telling me?" Dawson growled. "For two cents I could dive right
over the side and do the world and the war a big favor. What saps we've
been, and still are! Things are certainly screwy in life. Just imagine,
a little suggestion and, bingo, all this is the result. It's enough to
drive a man nuts, permanently."
"It is, and it has, as far as I'm concerned," Freddy Farmer muttered.
"But what did you mean by a little suggestion?"
"The one I made," Dawson said. Then with a shake of his head, he
continued, "And just how many centuries ago was it, anyway? Oh well, it
was back in San Diego. It was raining, remember, and I suggested that we
take a little walk? That's what I mean. If I'd only stuck to reading my
book, and not listened to you crab about the California weather, we
wouldn't be here."
"Oh, so it's all my fault, is it?" young Farmer flared up. "Well, let me
jolly well tell you that I...!"
"Easy, Freddy, easy," Dawson cut him off and laid a hand on his
shoulder. "I don't mean that at all, pal. We both started this business
together, and we both stubbed our toes. Let's not go flying at each
other's throats, huh? That would make us a pair of fine guys, I don't
think. I'm sorry if you got me wrong, kid. But let's not blow our tops,
huh?"
Freddy Farmer smiled, and there was far more than apology in it.
"Of course, Dave," he said. "I forgot myself, and I ask you to forgive
me for being such a blasted fool. I certainly don't deserve your
friendship when I act like that. And I guess you know, Dave, that your
friendship means more to me than anything else in the world. That's the
truth, old thing."
"I know it is, Freddy," Dave told him quickly, "And it is the way I feel
about you. So ... well, that's that, kid. And now we're back where we
started. What do you think we should do now? Start making the rounds of
the carriers again, with a prayer? Or should we go to Vice-Admiral
Macon, and tell him we're a couple of flops, and ask him to assign us to
active flight duty with these boys, and maybe earn our board and keep a
little?"
"Whatever you say suits me," Freddy Farmer replied with a shrug. "The
vice-admiral has been awfully decent giving us the run of the entire
force as he has. Frankly, though, I think that everybody else is not
only getting fed up with us popping in and off their flight decks, and
snooping around, but they are also becoming very suspicious. Much more
of this and we'll upset the morale of the force. After all, they're
going into battle soon. And chaps about to go into battle don't want a
couple of mysterious nobodies flitting about them. But if you think we
should pay another visit to the other carriers, then I'm with you, no
matter what anybody thinks. Well, what do you say?"
"Well, I guess ...," Dawson began and then stopped.
He stopped because he caught sight of the vice-admiral's aide hurrying
toward them across the flight deck.
"Oh," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "I guess what we do next
has already been decided for us. Here comes Lieutenant Commander Clarke,
and he's not just out getting the sunshine. You and I, Freddy, are about
to go see the Old Man of this carrier force."
And the truth of that statement was proved a couple of moments later
when the lieutenant commander reached them.
"The vice-admiral sends his compliments to you two gentlemen, and
requests that you come to his quarters at once," the Naval officer said.
"Follow me, please."
A few minutes later the two air aces were alone with Vice-Admiral Macon,
a short, thick-set man with a face that could look hard as nails one
minute, and all custard pie and sunshine the next. Right now his
expression was sort of in between. He nodded politely as Dawson and
Farmer presented themselves, and with a friendly wave of his hand
indicated that they were to be seated. Then after searching their faces
for a moment, he spoke.
"No luck yet?" he said.
"No, sir, I'm sorry to report," Dave replied for both of them. "And
frankly, sir, I cannot understand it. We have visited every carrier
several times, as you know, of course. And we have seen every fighter
pilot at one time or another, yet I will swear that the man we want was
not one of them. There's just one thing that occurs to me now, sir. Is
every fighter pilot who was with the force in San Diego still with it? I
mean by that, sir, because of the mission now being carried out, have
any fighter pilots been transferred to torpedo or scout-bomber or
dive-bomber squadrons, since the force put to sea?"
The force commander thought a moment, and then shook his head.
"No," he said bluntly. "Every man is serving just as he did when the
force was at San Diego. The only changes have been the fighter pilots
that were taken aboard at Pearl Harbor. I'm afraid that you're wasting
your time, gentlemen. And I do know that you are causing a considerable
mystery among the flying officers of the force. I do not like that, and
something must be done about it. That is one of the reasons why I sent
for you."
The vice-admiral paused as though to take time out to select his next
words.
"Another reason," he went on a moment later, "is that by sundown tonight
we will be within eight hundred miles of Truk. Unless you find your man
by then ... if such a man _does_ exist in my force ... you will be
assigned to one of the squadrons for active duty, and are to forget all
about this other business. We will be going into action tomorrow,
and ... well, nobody in my command is taking this cruise just for the
ride. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dawson replied instantly. "As a matter of fact, sir, just
before your aide summoned us to your quarters, we had decided to request
permission to see you so that we could ask to be put on active flying
status. We admit it, sir. We just have been along for the ride. And we
appreciate more than we can say the freedom of movement that you have
permitted us. So if we still haven't accomplished anything by sundown,
sir, we both will be willing and eager to serve in any capacity you deem
fit."
The vice-admiral nodded, and then glanced questioningly at Freddy
Farmer.
"Captain Dawson speaks for both of us, sir," the English-born air ace
said at once. "I am not only willing and eager to serve in any way you
wish, but I will consider it a great honor, sir."
For the first time since their entrance the vice-admiral gave them a
smile. It was warm, sympathetic, and full of understanding. "Thank you,
gentlemen," he said. "The entire force will be glad to have you flying
with us. Your past records are not exactly secrets, you know. Very well,
then, you can carry on as you have been until sundown. After that you
are flying and fighting for the Navy. That is all, and thank you again."
The two youths took their leave of the force commander and returned
thoughtfully to the Trenton's flight deck.
"Until sundown," Dawson murmured, and squinted at the sun sliding down
the western sky. "I'd say two hours, or maybe two and a half. Well,
back to the old question. What do we do about it now, Freddy? A swell
suggestion hasn't suddenly hit you, has it, by any chance?"
"What suggestion?" young Farmer sighed. "All I'm thinking about right
now is that I hope tomorrow I get a crack at a hundred of the Jap
beggars when we hit Truk."
"Well, it will take more than a hundred cracks at them, and successful
cracks too, for me to feel even one degree better," Dave said. Then, as
though talking to himself, he murmured, "We'll be eight hundred miles
from Truk in a couple of hours or so? That means we must be about eight
hundred and eighty miles from there right now."
"You're probably correct," Freddy Farmer said. "But why all the sudden
figuring? What of it?"
"Only this," Dawson said, and gazed along the deck at the planes of the
sundown patrol being made ready for flight. "It means that this carrier
force is plenty close enough right now for our Nazi spy to get there in
his Grumman Hell Cat, if he's flying one of those babies."
"And close enough, too, even if he's in a Grumman Wild Cat squadron,"
Freddy Farmer echoed. "But you're leading up to something, Dave."
"In a way, yes," Dawson replied slowly, and made a gesture with his hand
that included all three carriers. "A last hope, you might call it. I
mean, the sundown patrols for all three flat-tops are getting set to go
aloft. There isn't time, and it would be foolish of us to try and pay a
visit to all three carriers for a look at the pilots taking off. With
preparations getting under way to launch planes we'd probably be refused
permission to land on the other two flat-tops, anyway. But here's an
idea, Freddy. Let's you and I take our Hell Cats up and sort of cruise
around."
"Why?" young Farmer demanded. Then as his face suddenly lighted up, "Oh,
you mean...?"
"Exactly that!" Dawson cut in on him. "These sundown patrols are simply
top-cover protection in case there is a surprise raid by planes from
some Jap carrier that maybe has sneaked in close during the day. In
other words, the sundown patrols don't go wandering off. We can keep our
eyes on all the ships in the air. So if our Nazi friend is flying one of
them, and suddenly breaks away from his section and goes sailing off on
his own, then we'll see him at once and do something about it. See what
I mean?"
"Perfectly!" Freddy Farmer said excitedly. "And it's a swell idea, Dave.
At any rate, it's much better than standing here on this blasted flight
deck eating our hearts out. Right-o, then. Let's go get our flying gear
and get into the air. I ..."
The English-born air ace suddenly stopped short, licked his lips and
swallowed hard.
"What's up, pal?" Dawson demanded.
"Nothing," Freddy told him. "I just think I have a sudden feeling. You
know, one of your crazy hunches. Oh, blast it, I mean that I have a
queer feeling that things are going to happen before this day is done."
"Praise Allah they'll be _good_ things!" Dawson breathed fervently, and
headed toward the companion ladder leading below decks. "Let's go, kid!"
With considerable of their sense of usefulness and futility replaced by
new-born hope and renewed determination, the two air aces hurried below
to the quarters that had been assigned them aboard the Trenton, and
collected their flying gear. From there they went to the Ready Room
where all the up-to-the-minute flight data was posted on the huge
black-board. They quickly copied it down on their flight navigation
boards, and then went out of the Ready Room and along the companionway
leading to the hangar deck, and the short way topside.
They were skirting the planes that were grouped on the hangar deck when
suddenly Freddy Farmer gasped aloud and grabbed hold of Dawson's arm.
"Dave!" he whispered hoarsely. "Look! That chap walking past that dive
bomber over there. The one just under the light. Good gosh, Dave! It
can't be. I ... But it is! It is! That's the beggar, I swear. It's ..."
Young Farmer didn't finish the rest. He let go of Dawson's arm and
started racing across the hangar deck at top speed. By then Dave had
taken a look at the man Freddy had pointed out, and his heart was
striving to explode right out between his ribs. The man was garbed in
flying gear, but he carried his helmet and goggles in his hand so that
his head was bare. And he was across Dawson's line of vision so that
only the side of his face was presented. But that was enough. It was
more than enough. In an infinitesimal part of a split second Dave
Dawson's memory raced backward, and once again he was peering through a
narrow crack in the side of a weather-beaten shack at a Navy ensign
with straw-colored hair, eyes that must be blue, and a neck that was
slightly thicker than the average neck of a man of that height. And once
again, now, he could see no outstanding feature.
"Our man!" he heard his own voice choke out. "The Nazi rat. On this
flat-top all the time? Right under our noses, and we haven't spotted him
until now? Good grief, how did that happen? How...?"
He cut off the rest because by then he was sprinting after Freddy
Farmer, and he needed all of his wind for that. Freddy was halfway
across the hangar deck, and the Nazi spy was walking casually toward the
companionway on the other side. Suddenly, though, perhaps because he
heard Freddy's running footsteps, or perhaps because Freddy called out,
he turned his head. For the bat of an eyelash he pulled up short and
stared, and then he broke into a mad run.
"That man!" Freddy Farmer's voice seemed to fill the entire hangar deck.
"Stop him! Stop that man!"
Young Farmer's cry was directed at an aviation machinist's mate just
coming out of the companionway on the other side. The Naval rating
stopped, blinked, and stared at the man running toward him.
"A Nazi spy!" Farmer shouted. "Stop him!"
But Freddy's cries were just a waste of breath. The aviation machinist's
mate started to put out a hand to signal the Nazi spy that somebody
wanted him, but that's as far as he got. The running spy slugged him a
terrific blow on the jaw and the Naval rating went down as though the
deck had dropped out from beneath him. And in the next instant the spy
had dived into the companionway and disappeared. Freddy Farmer was a
good fifteen yards from the companionway opening, and Dawson was another
twenty yards or so behind his pal.
In an effort to cut down the distance Dawson ducked under the wing of a
plane, but he didn't duck low enough. The tip of the wing caught his
shoulder, threw him off balance, and sent him sprawling onto the deck.
He wasn't even dazed, though, and he was up on his feet almost
instantly, but by then Freddy Farmer had disappeared into the
companionway, too.
Choking and gasping for breath, Dawson plunged forward and went over the
prostrate aviation machinist's mate in a leap and tore into the
companionway. The sudden change of light blinded him for a split
second, but he knew that the companionway turned sharp right at the end
of twenty yards, and that at the end of the right turn there was the
companionway ladder that led directly topside to the flight deck.
By the time he reached the turn he was used to the fairly dim light. But
even at that he didn't see the figure sprawled on the deck until too
late. The figure of Freddy Farmer. Dawson heard his own voice cry out
his pal's name as he strived desperately to swerve off to the side. But
his efforts were not enough. His left foot struck one of Freddy's legs
and he went flying over young Farmer, and down in a heap.
All the colored lights in the world flashed in his brain. There was so
much fire in his lungs that he couldn't breathe. He could only lay
motionless, his face pressed against the companionway deck as the
vibrations of the carrier's engines went through his whole body. The
vibrations of the ship's motions plus the dry sobs of rage and fury that
shook him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_Avenging Eagles_
After what seemed like a million years spent in a world of torturing
paralysis, the power to move and to act came back to Dave Dawson. And
even as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees he heard bitter
words spill from Freddy Farmer's lips as the English born air ace began
to pick himself up off the deck.
"Fool that I am! The dirty beggar! Waited for me and copped me on the
topper as I came around the corner. I ... Good grief! You, Dave? I
say...!"
"Save it!" Dawson gasped as he got all the way onto his feet. "I haven't
time, Freddy. He's topside, now. You stay here and rest that head. I'll
get him for us. I'll get him, or it'll be the last thing I ever do!"
And no sooner had the last word burst from Dawson's lips than there came
a mighty sound from the flight deck above to mock his words. The
roaring thunder of planes taking off.
"Wait here, nothing!" Freddy Farmer cried, "We'll both get the
blighter!"
Perhaps young Farmer said more. If so Dawson didn't hear it, for he was
streaking toward the companionway ladder. He reached it and probably set
a new ship's record for reaching the flight deck in jig time. As he
leaped out on deck a hundred and one things met his gaze, but only two
of them registered on his whirling brain. One was that Grumman Hell Cats
were tearing off like a string of beads. And the other that weather,
that practically unpredictable feature of the Southwest Pacific, was
closing down. The sun was a blood red ball balanced perfectly on the lip
of the world. Dark, ugly clouds were sweeping up dead on to the Trenton,
which was now turning up maximum knots.
That some five or six Hell Cats had already gone off was like a mule's
kick in the stomach to Dawson. Maybe the pilot of one of them was the
Nazi spy. If so, in the matter of a couple of minutes he could lose
himself in that weather and probably never be seen again. Maybe. And
then again, maybe not. Dawson didn't pause to moan or groan over the
situation. Instead he sprinted down the side of the deck to where his
own Hell Cat was standing with its prop ticking over, and waiting to be
run into the take-off line, in case it was needed aloft.
Dave reached his plane in the matter of split seconds, but just before
he reached it Lady Luck smiled upon him for the first time in centuries
and centuries. In other words, as the last plane of the sundown patrol
swept by him he caught a flash look at its pilot. The pilot had his
helmet on, and his goggles and oxygen cup were in place, but Dawson knew
in a flash that it was his man. As a matter of fact, as the Hell Cat
streaked by the pilot turned his head as though to look at Dawson, and
Dave was sure he saw the eyes light up with a glare of triumphant hate.
Perhaps that last was simply a trick of his imagination. He didn't know.
All he knew was that the pilot of the last Grumman to take off was the
straw-colored haired man he had seen through the wall crack of that
shack back in San Diego. That was certain, it was absolutely definite,
and it put wings on his feet for the last few yards to his plane.
Members of the deck crew saw him coming, and naturally assuming that he
was to take part in the patrol just as he had on other occasions, they
sprang forward to aid him. That was another lucky break. It saved many
precious minutes of explaining and making ready for flight. And so it
seemed that he had hardly settled himself in the Hell Cat's pit before
the signalman was motioning him to gun his engine and taxi into the
take-off line. He did that and as soon as he got into position he
received the signal to go ahead.
He gunned his powerful Pratt & Whitney full, and the Hell Cat seemed
fairly to leap out from under him. Out the corner of his eye he caught a
flash glimpse of Freddy Farmer racing toward his plane, but he didn't
take time out for a good look. Not once all this time had he really
taken his eyes off the plane flown by the Nazi spy. Its identification
letter and number were burned in his brain. F Dash Fourteen. That was
it. F Dash Fourteen. The mark of a perfect fighter plane flown by one of
Hitler's killers.
"But you won't be flying it for long, you dirty rat!" Dave grated as his
wheels cleared and the Trenton's deck swept away out of sight beneath
him. "It's been a long, long time patching up with you. But that's all
ended now. This is the pay-off! And how it is the pay-off!"
As he spoke the last he took his eyes off the other plane for the first
time to snap a quick glance back down over his shoulder. He saw another
Hell Cat streaking off the Trenton's deck, and he knew at once that
Freddy Farmer was at the controls. A tight grin stretched his lips as he
turned forward.
"Good old Freddy, always right there with me," he grunted. "Of course
it'll be two to one, you Nazi rat, when usually the odds are the other
way around. However ..."
And that was as far as he got with that. The Nazi's plane, that had been
climbing up to get into formation with the rest of the sundown patrol,
suddenly cut off to the left and started down in a long power dive. The
maneuver brought Dawson straight up in the seat. Had something happened?
Had the Nazi gone mad? Why was he losing precious altitude by slicing
downward? To do that simply made less sky for Dawson to cover to catch
up with him, or at least to get into gun range.
A brief instant later, though, all those questions were answered. As
Dave glanced down to the left he saw the thin but thick enough blanket
of fog that was already sliding in over the outer ships of the carrier
force. Just one look and he knew all the answers, and once again heard
the mocking laughter of defeat in his ears.
Yes, that sea level fog layer, was thin, but it was thick enough for a
plane to lose itself in very nicely. Perhaps it even grew thicker
farther to the south. Dawson couldn't tell as he glanced that way. But
he could see that farther south there were banked storm clouds.
"No, no, not now!" he groaned as he kicked his Hell Cat around and down
toward that layer of fog. "Not at this late date, please, Lady Luck!"
But if Lady Luck answered it was simply the mocking laughter that he
still imagined to be ringing in his ears. And then a moment or two later
the Nazi's Grumman was in the fog layer and no more than a faint shadow
ripping forward. A shadow that grew fainter and fainter as precious
seconds slipped by. In the frantic hope that he could keep track of the
speeding plane by not plunging down into the fog layer, Dawson pulled
out a few hundred feet above it and held his course to the south. But
presently there was no more moving shadow to be seen. The fog had
thickened, and the Nazi was gone! As a matter of fact, when Dave took an
impulsive glance back over his shoulder he discovered that he was in an
aerial world all his own. There was no longer any sign of the carrier
force, nor was there any sign of carrier planes in the air. There
seemed to be fog and clouds all about him, yet curiously enough the
light from the setting sun seemed to cut through and lend a pinkish glow
to everything in that part of the world.
"Freddy, Freddy Farmer!" Dawson suddenly gasped, as he suddenly
remembered his pal taking off. "Didn't Freddy see this bird and me go
down? Didn't ... You dope! Find out!"
He snapped the last at himself when it occurred to him there was such a
thing as a radio. He had neglected to hook it up during the excitement
of his take-off. He did so now, but before he could call out over the
air to Freddy he heard the flight officer aboard the Trenton recalling
the planes. The planes that had taken off from the other two carriers
were being recalled, too. In code, of course, so that no listening Jap
ears anywhere on the broad expanse of the Pacific would understand what
it was all about.