mooring line we didn't see! There.... Oh, thank the Lord, we _are_
moving!"
It was true. The huge flying boat had picked up speed and was now
kicking frothy spray back up over the compartment window as the snub
nose of the hull plowed through mounting rollers. And then, suddenly,
as the big craft came up onto the "step," a beam of brilliant white
left cut out at them from the right rear and filled the compartment
with an eerie shimmering light.
"Now or never!" Dave shouted. "We've got to get off and shake that
beam, or we're in for another swim. Work those fuel adjustments,
Freddy! The port engine's lagging bad, and we need plenty of take-off
speed!"
As Freddy got to work on the adjustments, Dave held the Cat-boat on a
course dead ahead. Though the presence of the searchlight was proof
positive their escape was now known to the entire base, it helped in
guiding the craft by lighting up the waters ahead. A moment later the
port engine started doing its full share and the flying boat thundered
forward at increased speed. But at the same time a second searchlight
beam, this one to the left rear, caught them, and they went roaring out
toward open sea pinned perfectly in the crossed beams of light.
Dave waited until the craft had touched maximum take-off speed, then he
virtually lifted the Catalina into the air and curved up and around to
the east. The two searchlights followed him like two lighted fingers
of glue. But a couple of moments later, when he had gained sufficient
altitude, he suddenly shoved the flying boat down in a steep dive. No
sooner had he dropped out of the searchlight beams than he pulled out
of his dive, curved around toward the west and hauled the hull's nose
up toward the star dusted sky high overhead. It was a near maneuver,
and it was also successful. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to
the change from brilliant light to inky darkness, Dave turned his head
and looked down back. There were three searchlights, now, and they were
frantically probing about just off the surface of the open sea.
"Right-o, very neat, my man!" came Freddy's voice. "But stop patting
yourself on the back. Get us away from here, _not_ high above it!
They're bound to send off land planes, you know."
"Sure as shooting," Dave replied in a tone of apology. "What we do need
is distance, and not altitude. Okay, my fine feathered friend. What'll
it be, South Africa or South America, huh?"
"Further than that will make me feel much better!" Freddy replied.
"Jeepers, it gives you the creeps knowing that your own comrades are
after you, doesn't it?"
"It sure doesn't make a fellow feel happy," Dave said soberly and took
a quick look at the searchlight beams that were fast falling far astern
of the flying boat. "Fact is, if you want the truth from me, I don't
feel so happy about any of this business."
"What's that, Dave?" Freddy cried sharply and turned his head to stare
hard in the darkness. "You mean you don't honestly think there's a
chance in the world for us to do the job?"
"No," Dave said. "Not that. We'll do it, or else. What bothers me is
that it seems too easy. I mean, it's all cut and dried. We do this and
we do that, and such and such happens. Just think back, pal. Did any of
the jobs we've tackled ever go off like clockwork according to plan?"
The English youth didn't answer for a moment. He sat peering out the
forward window at the star dust far ahead on the horizon.
"Okay, sleep, if you don't feel like talking," Dave growled after the
silence had stretched out to over a minute.
"I was just trying to recall, that's all," Freddy said. "No, I can't
think of single job that didn't run into a snag before we had it all
tucked away."
"Well, that's what I mean," Dave said and automatically trimmed ship a
bit finer. "On paper it doesn't look so very tough. True, we may run
into a flock of Nazi planes, but we've met Nazis before. And we may hit
some weather, or maybe get a plastering from the raider's anti-aircraft
guns once she gets wise to us. Then, too, we may stub our toes come
dawn, and run smack dab into a mess of British planes out hunting for
us. And, boy, I wouldn't like that at all. However, it's not those kind
of possibilities that bother me."
"What other possibility is there?" Freddy asked. "Heaven knows you've
named enough to bother me, I fancy!"
"The unsuspected possibility," Dave said and banked slightly more out
toward the broad bosom of the North Atlantic. "I mean, something that
neither of us, or Manners, dreamed would happen, I can't name it. I've
just got a hunch, that's all. You know, the old feeling?"
"I say, cut it!" Freddy groaned. "You and your blasted hunches!"
"Well, they've tinkled the bell in the past a few times," Dave said
with feeling.
"Exactly why I say, cut it!" Freddy moaned. "Your blessed hunches
always turn out to be fact; cold fact, with bullets for trimming! Let's
talk about the weather and let the future bring what it will. I...."
"It's brought something already!" Dave shouted and pointed off to the
right. "See those twin moving lights way over there? Those lights
belong to an airplane, my little man. And between you, me, and the
gatepost that plane belongs to the Royal Air Force. And the lad ain't
out joyriding, nohow! Hold your hat, I'm going down low just so's he
can't spot our moving shadow against the stars. Yes, sir, Manners sure
called the turn when he said they'd come a-running and fast!"
"Do I know what a wild duck in hunting season must feel like!" Freddy
breathed as Dave throttled the engines to reduce the exhaust plumes to
nil, and sent the Catalina sliding down toward the waters of the North
Atlantic.
"Pal, you ain't even begun to feel things, yet!" Dave cried. "Know
something? If we come through this session alive we'll probably be
retired from the Air Force on a pension."
"Not likely!" Freddy said scornfully. "There's loads and loads of chaps
who risk their necks just as much as we do. Stop fishing for another
medal and a visit to Buckingham Palace!"
"Medal, my eye!" Dave snorted. "I don't mean we'll be retired as a
reward for our glorious deeds. Nuts! We'll be retired on account of old
age! Don't know about you, but I've already aged twenty years since we
dived into the mooring basin. Get what I mean?"
"Oh quite," Freddy said with a chuckle. "And you're lucky. I've added
thirty years, I swear! I.... Watch it, Dave! There's some kind of a
surface craft right below us. Maybe one of our Channel patrol boats.
Better pull out!"
Dave, however, had already seen the moving shadow of something down
below them, and even before Freddy had finished shouting he had the
Catalina leveled out of its glide and was climbing up and off toward
the south. Luck or fast action saved them some tight moments, because
a moment later a surface ship broke out its searchlight and started
raking the heavens. Dave zig-zagged, however, and kept out of the beam
and finally passed on beyond its range.
An hour later they were far at sea and high in the air and just under
some patches of clouds. Dave switched on the automatic pilot device,
and then took the copies of the Nazi codes and the data of the British
Fleet units locations from his pocket. He smoothed them out and trained
a single compartment light on them.
"Close to midnight, Freddy," he said. "And we've got some home work to
do before we get going in earnest. So dust your brains out and get all
this stuff down pat. After all, you've got to work the radio, you know.
Besides, your German is twice as good as mine."
"Liar!" Freddy growled. Then with a sigh, "Oh well, just as you say,
then. It's happened before. You get all the fun flying, and I get all
the dirty work!"
"Brain work, chum!" Dave corrected with a laugh. "Me, I'm dumb. That's
why I always have to take you along on these jaunts, see?"
"Next time don't feel you _have_ to!" Freddy sighed and started digging
into the mess of Nazi code signals.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Satan Flies West_
Dawn sunshine rippled along the broad wings of the American built
Consolidated Catalina flying boat, but ominous coal black clouds were
beginning to pile up high in the western sky. Even as Dave Dawson
stared at them they seemed to fling a dark shadow far out over the
rolling swells of the North Atlantic. He gave an angry shake of his
head and impulsively took a tighter grip on the controls of the flying
boat.
"That storm ahead looks pretty bad, Freddy," he said wearily out the
corner of his mouth. "What do you think?"
Freddy Farmer stirred in the co-pilot's seat and glanced haggard eyed
at the altimeter. The needle pointed to exactly nine thousand feet.
"We'll just have to hit it on the nose and pray," he said after a
moment. "If we climb over it we might just as well go back to port and
give up. I'm positive the raider's under it somewhere. Those signals
were so weak I couldn't make head or tail of them. All we can do is
take a chance we're right this time. If we aren't then...."
Freddy shrugged and left the rest hanging in midair, and bent forward
to recheck the radio's adjustments for the umpty-umpteenth time in the
last six hours. Dave nodded absently and kept his gaze fixed on the
mountainous coal black clouds ahead. There was a dull throbbing in
his head, his eyes smarted and ached, and his whole body felt stiff
and sore. But what bothered him most was the bitter, empty feeling of
helpless despair in his heart.
He and Freddy had been aloft in the Catalina for a good eight hours,
and for the last six of those hours they had done everything within
their power to make radio contact with the mystery raider and her
wolf-pack of U-boats somewhere on the vast expanse of the Atlantic
below them. Several times they had received code signals in answer to
their call, but because of a static band the signals had been too weak
for Freddy to understand. The very fact, though, that they had picked
up bits of the same signals several times convinced them both that they
had made contact. No definite proof, however, and hour after hour they
had cruised about in the dark shrouded sky groping like a blind man in
a strange room.
That alone was enough to fray their nerves and put them on edge, but
to add to their helpless misery was the fact that they picked up spots
of other signals they knew did not come from the raider. Some were in
British code, and it was easy to guess that aircraft on the hunt for
them were communicating with each other and their shore bases. And
then there were signals in German code that were obviously being sent
out from Nazi aircraft. Those signals worried them more than the fact
they could not establish definite contact with the raider. The same
question burned through their brains in letters of fire a foot high.
Had scouting Nazi aircraft spotted the all important convoy and were
they establishing contact with the raider? And were the raider and her
wolf-pack already sneaking into position to pounce upon those precious
cargoes destined for England?
Hours of groping blindly about in the dark. Hours when at any minute
they might plow headlong into R.A.F. planes searching them out. Hours
of heart crushing failure to achieve their all important goal, contact
with the raider. Hours during which every tantalizing thought possible
rose up to peck at their tired brains like vultures over a dead steer.
And, now, dawn! Dawn and light. Light that would reveal them to the
pilots of other planes that might come across them in the air. The eyes
of British pilots. And the eyes of Nazi pilots. Dawn and one last hope,
a final prayer. That the mystery raider was hugging the area below
that storm ahead, and the static created by the storm was the reason
they couldn't contact the raider. One last hope. One last fight, not
against aircraft, but against the raging fury of an Atlantic storm. If
they could not find the raider somewhere in that storm area then their
mission was doomed to failure. Time's sands were running out in the
glass. If they did not find the raider this time, it would mean that
the raider was nowhere about. That it was far away, in contact with
a real Nazi scouting plane, and ... and perhaps in the very act of
pouncing upon the convoy.
Dave shuddered and wiped sweat from his brow as the last thought
whipped across his brain. Then almost instantly he gritted his teeth,
got his chin up, and squared his jaw.
"Nuts to that storm!" he muttered. "This Cat-boat can take worse than
that. We'll find that darn raider if we have to hunt it out from pole
to pole. Got your safety belt fastened tight, Freddy? We're going to
get a nice tossing."
"As tight as it'll go," the English youth replied. "I'll be okay as
long as the wings stay on."
"They'll stay on," Dave said grimly. "This job is Yank built, and good.
Make a check on our course. I want to head into that mess ahead in
the direction of the nearest British Fleet unit to our position. The
direction signals you last flashed out to the raider. I'm just banking
on a hope she caught them and is heading that way, too."
"That would almost be too good to be true," Freddy sighed. "But hold
your horses a minute and I'll make a definite check."
Freddy busied himself with his charts and navigation for a moment or
so, then straightened up and nodded.
"Keep her as she goes, Dave," he reported. "We're right on the old
beam, now. And...."
The English youth didn't finish the rest. He didn't for the plain
reason that an invisible express train seemed to come roaring out of
nowhere and crash into the right wing. The flying boat heeled over
drunkenly to that side, shivered and shook from stem to stern, and
then tried to drop by the nose and plunge madly seaward. Dave's face
paled and the cords of his neck stood out like taut steel cables as he
battled with the controls, and by sheer strength fought the flying boat
up onto even keel.
"And that's the starter!" he panted. "Just a puff of air compared to
what's coming. But I'm going straight in to the middle and then down as
low as we dare. We may find a hole underneath that will give us enough
visibility. When we find it, keep your eyes open. Don't close them for
a second. And keep working that radio for all it's worth. Try every
darn code in the book, including the emergency one. The instant you get
a definite contact let me know."
"I'll let you know, never fear!" Freddy Farmer bellowed as a sudden
roaring sound closed in from all sides to make the thunder of the
engines little more than a murmur. "I'll let you know ... but it may be
in the next world!"
Dave hardly heard the last, and he didn't bother to make any comment.
He had no strength to waste trying to yell above the world of sound
into which they had plunged. Every ounce of strength was needed to hold
the controls firm, and keep the crazy crisscross tornado of wind from
spinning the huge Catalina up on wingtip as though it were bit of
torn paper in the air. The sun was now gone, swallowed up behind them,
and the flying boat was rocking, and bucking, and pitching through a
swirling world of slate grey and eerie shades of purple. Every so often
the roaring of the wind would die away as though by magic. There would
be only the powerful roar of their sturdy engines. And the craft would
tear forward without so much as a tremor in either wingtip.
And then just as suddenly a coal black mass of cloud would zoom up
straight in front of the nose of the hull, and the fury of the weather
gods would crash in on them with terrifying force. A wall of slashing
rain would fall down upon them, and it would be impossible to see an
inch ahead or in any direction. The nose of the hull, where the forward
gunner ordinarily sat, would disappear from their view completely.
Tossed and heaved this way and that, they would hurtle onward
completely blind.
A hundred times the flying boat would give a sharp lurch and Dave's
heart would stop cold in fear that something had given way, and that
the Catalina was breaking up in midair. Or a hundred times the engine
instrument needles would go on a crazy rampage about the dials, and
either the starboard or port engine would cough and sputter for a
second or two that was a whole lifetime to Dave Dawson's jangling
nerves. But always, no matter what, the Catalina kept on valiantly
fighting its way toward the center of the storm.
Finally a sudden calm and a flood of grey light told Dave that they had
hit the center. He winked sweat from his eyes, sweat that had streamed
down off his forehead, and took a look below. He saw an expanse of thin
fleecy cloud that was traveling in a slow circle as the result of the
whirling movement at the core of the storm. He shot a quick hopeful
glance at Freddy, but the English youth had phones clamped to his ears
and was working frantically at the radio. His face was grim and set,
but there was a dull, defeated look in his eyes.
Dave turned front, throttled the engines slightly and nosed the flying
boat down toward the layer of fleecy cloud. He could see gobs of black
cloud underneath, but the stuff was not solid, and hope zoomed high in
his breast. There were bound to be holes in the stuff. Holes through
which he could look down into the calm area under the center of the
storm. There, if any place, would be the raider. Stealing along in
the calm center while the real fury of the storm protected her on all
sides.
Would she be there? Would she be heading in the right direction? For a
brief moment Dave was filled with the crazy desire to pull up out of
his dive and ride on through the other side of the storm without so
much as taking a single look for the raider. Crazy, insane? Sure! But
if he did go on down, and the raider was nowhere to be seen, the bitter
defeat might be more than his already singing nerves could take.
"Cut it, you dope!" he grated at himself. "If she isn't there, then she
isn't there. What are you, anyway? A low down dirty quitter? No nerve
to stick your chin out, and take it? Get down there, Dawson, and get
down darn fast!"
The sound of his own voice helped. The crazy desire to quit and run
faded away into thin air. His grip on the controls tightened and he
held the Catalina in its downward plunge. In the matter of seconds he
reached the layer of fleecy cloud. There he pulled out of his dive
slightly, kept the nose down just a hair, and started circling about.
The altimeter read three thousand feet. It was probably correct, but
after what the craft had passed through, every instrument on the panel
might be all cockeyed. And there were still black clouds below him.
For all he knew they might be sitting right on top of the storm swept
water. Death would have the last laugh if he should fly the Catalina
right down into the wet stuff. No, the thing to do was to circle slowly
and drop down foot by foot, and keep both eyes skinned for the first
hole in the black stuff below. And, please God, he would be able to
find a hole! If not....
He didn't finish the thought. At that instant something hit him a sharp
blow on the right arm, and his own name was screamed in his ears.
"_Dave_, I've made contact! Positive this time. I got the raider's
number signal as clear as a bell. She's close by, I'm positive. She
wants a repeat on the convoy's location!"
Freddy Farmer's face was flaming red with excitement, and his eyes
seemed to shoot out sparks as he yelled at Dave and continued to thump
a fist on his right arm. Dave yanked his arm away and scowled.
"Hey, lay off!" he shouted. "But swell, Freddy! Give her direction X
Dash M. That will take her out of this storm. She's moving with it now,
that's a cinch. And it'll be tough for the navy boats to find her in
that sea. The U-boats could scatter and skip away at will. Give her X
Dash M direction signal and get her out into open sea. We'll go on back
up for plenty altitude and pick her up when she comes out of the storm.
Boy, I guess we're tops, huh?"
Freddy grinned like an imp but he didn't say anything. He was hard
at work at his set again, sending out the misleading signals to the
marauder of the high seas somewhere down there below the storm. For a
couple of minutes longer curiosity, burning curiosity, forced Dave to
continue circling downward searching for a hole that would give him a
view of the surface of the ocean. However, before he could find a hole
the sudden realization that he might spoil everything snapped him out
of his trance, and made him pull the nose up, feed full fuel to his
engines and start climbing the Catalina up through the center of the
storm.
"Spoil things, and how!" he echoed the thought aloud. "If that raider
should spot us, ten to one her commander would wonder plenty how-come
we were so close. Use your head, Dave, and keep using it!"
"I quite agree, though I don't know what you mean," he heard Freddy
shout. "A bad sign, though, when a chap starts talking to himself, you
know. That tossing around didn't get you, did it?"
The English youth was grinning broadly and there was the old sparkle
in his eyes. Gone was the haggard, worn out look. That they had made
contact with the raider in their last desperate try had made a new man
of Freddy. Dave grinned back at him and felt ten times better himself.
Now they had something they could dig their teeth into. No more
stumbling around hoping against hope, and meeting with defeat at every
turn. Once they reached high altitude and spotted the raider when she
came out beyond the rim of the storm, everything would be all to the
merry. True, maybe whirlwind action lay just ahead, but that was okay.
It would be action with a purpose, not useless unfinished action.
"I'm okay!" he said to Freddy. "I mean, no more goofy than usual. But
I do feel tops, now. As soon as we sight that baby send her a course
correction and get her headed once again toward that Fleet unit. And
once she's on course get set for anything."
Freddy arched an eyebrow and looked puzzled.
"Meaning exactly what?" he asked.
Dave shrugged and made a little gesture with one hand.
"I feel a million times better," he said, "but I've still got that old
hunch the unexpected's going to suddenly pop up with a bang. Gosh,
Freddy! Just suppose this ship you've contacted isn't the raider at
all!"
The English youth paled but almost immediately he shook his head
vigorously.
"Impossible!" he said bluntly. "I got her call signals as clear as
anything. Don't worry, she identified herself by code. She's the
raider, all right. And at least we've got a full hour."
"Full hour?" Dave echoed and looked blank.
"Certainly," Freddy replied. "From the convoy's position I radioed him
the commander knows that he can't get within striking distance at least
for an hour. So that gives us a full hour to work her dead away from
the convoy's route and into the hands of the Navy. If only the Nazi
planes don't show up. That's what worries me. That they'll show up, and
things will go wrong, and the murdering blighter and her steel fish
will still be able to get at the convoy. I don't want to return to port
if that happens, Dave."
The two exchanged looks, and Dave impulsively reached out his hand and
pressed Freddy's knee.
"Neither of us will be returning to port if things go all wrong,
Freddy," he said in a steady voice. "We're armed, and if the Navy and
Fleet Air Arm lads don't show up in time, then you and I'll fight the
whole lot of them alone ... and keep on fighting to the end. Now, pull
up your socks, my lad, and stop thinking crazy things. In another ten
minutes we should be taking our first look at her. Hang on, now. We're
going to be tossed around a bit, but not as much as before. I'm going
to climb up through to the top instead of barging right through to the
outside. We'll miss the bad part, I hope."
With a nod for emphasis, Dave gave the Catalina's engines full throttle
and steepened his climb up through the comparatively calm area in the
center of the storm. Near the top, at an altitude of some fourteen
thousand feet, they ran into some rough air. The flying boat bucked
and quivered and threatened to fall off on one wing and plunged down.
There was a real pilot at the controls, though. An ace pilot, and he
fought the mad actions of the plane tooth and nail. And he won! Engines
laboring, due to the excess strain, the flying boat finally prop clawed
up through the last of the storm clouds and into a world flooded with
golden sunlight.