We've _got_ to turn it over to General Kashomia. Nothing happens until
we do. And _we_ can't do anything until something _does_ happen. We've
sort of got to pay out more rope, and pray we can take up the slack
fast when we have to. If you get what I mean?"
"Yes, but what a chance we've got to take!" Freddy said in a voice that
trembled slightly. "If we fail, Dave.... I mean, if things go through
as the blasted Japs seem to be planning, the blood of Singapore will be
on our hands. It will be because we failed. It...!"
Dave stuck out an elbow and jabbed the English youth in the side.
"Cut it!" he hissed. "That's not Freddy Farmer talking! Let's beat
our brains out after we've failed. And, pal, that's something you and
I just ain't going to up and do. Not while we can stand up and keep
punching. So, heave that kind of talk in the river, Mister!"
Dave felt pressure on his arm, and heard Freddy's emotion choked voice.
"Thanks, Dave. I'm all right, now. I wish you'd kick me, and hard."
"I'll take a rain check on that invite," Dave said with a chuckle. "But
forget it, Freddy. Heck! You'd up and leave me flat, if you knew some
of the thoughts that have been breezing around in _my_ head. So skip
it. I guess it's this waiting that's getting us. I wish Serrangi's boys
would hurry up and start the fireworks so's we can get started. You
know, this sort of thing is darn near getting to be a habit."
"What is?" Freddy wanted to know.
"Posing as Axis agents, and swiping a British plane," Dave said.
"Remember that time when we were on convoy patrol, and had to waltz off
with that Catalina? We were plenty lucky then, and I've got a hunch
we're going to have to be twice as lucky this time."[2]
[Footnote 2: _Dave Dawson On Convoy Patrol._]
"Lucky to get off without British bullets in our backs," Freddy Farmer
murmured. "And lucky if _all_ the gas tanks are filled. It will
certainly be a blasted mess if our gas gives out and we have to force
land somewhere in Thailand, or Burma."
Dave didn't make any reply to that for the simple reason there wasn't
anything to be said. Perhaps the most pronounced fear of all regarding
the wild, crazy venture into which they were plunging blindly was
the fear of their fuel running out on them before they had reached
the hidden airdrome in the wild Burmese mountains. If it was to be a
Wellington or Whitley bomber they were to take aloft there wouldn't be
any worry at all. But stealing a bomber was definitely out. It took
time to get those babies off the ground, and possible British fighter
planes giving chase could catch a bomber in short order. So it had to
be the fastest two seater type at the Base. And as luck would have it
they had spotted the six Bristol "Taurus" powered Fairey "Albacores"
on the tarmac but a few seconds after they had reached the place
where they now hugged the ground. They could make the distance in an
Albacore. It might be close, but everything would be in their favor.
They could get one off fast, they could gain altitude in the night sky
fast, and an Albacore had a level flight speed that wasn't too much
under the speed of a single seater fighter plane. Yes, it might be
close, but an Albacore was their best bet. So they had picked the one
they would rush for just as soon as Serrangi's men created the planned
"disturbance" on the far side of the field.
But it was the body tingling waiting that dragged you down. It was like
rats inside of you gnawing and gnawing at your nerves until you had to
sink your teeth deep into your lips to stop from screaming and mentally
flying apart in small pieces. Waiting! Waiting for what? A chance to
rush out across the night shadowed drome, and smack into the withering
fire of British guards? To steal a plane and race madly up into the
night sky ... and be caught by British planes and sent hurtling
earthward a ball of raging fire? To reach Raja and turn over the
secret code data, and then stand by helpless as a gigantic, treacherous
blow by the Nazi backed Japanese was struck at England in the Far East?
To....
Dave shook his head savagely to blast the taunting thoughts from his
brain. Many, many times in the past had he and Freddy tackled a problem
that seemed hopeless, but never anything so seemingly utterly hopeless
as this. It wasn't a case of just ferreting out the enemy's secret,
and then smashing him. On the contrary, it was actually the direct
opposite. Freddy and he were going to _give the enemy what he needed_,
and then attempt to smash him _before he could make use of it_! Pure
and simple, it was no more than handing a killer a loaded gun, and then
taking it away from him before he could shoot you between the eyes. It
was crazy, it was ridiculous, it was absurd, and it was insane. Yet it
was the only thing they could do. They had to play it this way. There
was no other loophole, and no chance to dive through it if one should
suddenly present itself. It....
The rest of Dave's whirling thoughts spun off into oblivion as gun fire
and wild shouting suddenly broke out on the far side of the field. It
was like high voltage cutting through both of them, and they came
up on their toes and fingertips as one man. For a brief instant they
poised motionless eyes fixed on the tongue of flame that suddenly shot
up from some building way over beyond the hangars. Then a silent signal
passed between them and they went tearing bent well over out across one
corner of the field toward the nearest Fairey Albacore some seventy
yards away.
Seventy yards? It seemed seventy miles to Dave as he and Freddy Farmer
fairly flew over the ground like a couple of frightened deer. With
each racing step he took he half expected to see a British soldier
rise right up out of the ground and level a rifle at him. No British
soldier appeared, however, and hope zoomed in Dave as he saw the tarmac
guards start running in the direction of the shouts, the shots, and the
flames. The thought of death was not something that held him in fear
and trembling. But to be mowed down by one of your own kind was a death
no man would desire, if death it must be.
Seventy yards, thirty yards, ten yards, one yard! And then Dave and
Freddy virtually vaulted into the pit of the Albacore. No plans had
been made by them in advance about who would take what seat. It just
happened to work out that Dave popped into the pilot's seat, and
Freddy Farmer popped into the navigator-gunner's seat in back. Heart
jammed up hard against his back teeth, and nervous sweat pouring
off his body in rivers, Dave's fingers flew over the gas cocks, and
starter, and ignition switches on the instrument panel. At the same
time ... it was as though he had twenty hands instead of two ... he
fastened the harness buckles of the seat parachute pack, hooked the
safety belt clamp, opened up the throttle, and booted off the wheel
brakes. The last operation was to jab the starter button ... and pray
as he had never before prayed in all of his young years!
An eternity of heart crushing agony was Dave's, and then the Bristol
Taurus in the nose roared up in its full throated song of power. The
Albacore trembled and quivered for a brief instant and then shot
forward as though ropes holding it back had been slashed through.
Braced for the shock, Dave bent more forward over the stick and grimly
waited for the craft to pick up sufficient take-off speed. With every
revolution of the three-bladed steel propeller the plane tore faster
and faster across the hard sun baked surface of the Base field. A
thousand and one weird, crazy images seemed to pop up out of the ground
just in front of the thundering plane. Dave's imagination went on a
holiday during those few awful moments. He saw squads of British India
troops loom up and blast away at the plane with rifle and machine gun
fire, he saw armored cars rushing toward him from all angles, with guns
blazing, and he saw a half division of tanks move like lightning into
position to bar his way. He saw everything that an excitement quivering
brain could conjure up. But all the plane actually crashed into was the
air of night faintly tinted by the glow of the flames somewhere in back
of the hangars.
And then the wheels lifted and Dave sent the Albacore curving up and
around in the night sky. As he held the craft at its maximum climbing
angle he twisted around in the seat and shot a quick glance down at the
R.A.F. Base. Lights had sprung up all over the place, and he could just
barely see the figures running toward the lines of planes. Some quarter
of a mile in back of the row of hangars red flames were gutting an
equipment stores building. The thing, however, that made Dave's heart
slide down to its normal position in his chest was the utter absence
of gun fire spitting up toward them. They had caught the field guards
flat footed, and they would be well out of sight before British single
seaters could come tearing up after them.
Taking his gaze off the scene below, Dave twisted all the way around
and looked back at Freddy. In the pale light of the cockpit bulb the
English youth's face was tense and set. And there was just a faint
sadness in the eyes that stared down at the R.A.F. Base falling away
from the Albacore's belly at a fast rate of speed.
"What's the matter, pal?" Dave called out. "Sad they didn't pepper away
at us?"
"Don't talk rot!" Freddy snappily flinging him a scornful glance. "I'm
jolly well tickled pink they didn't. I was just thinking that the Japs
must never get Singapore, Dave. It means a lot to England, Singapore
does. Like Gibraltar, and Malta."
"Oh, so that's all that's worrying you, huh?" Dave echoed. "I thought
it was something serious. Well, go on back to sleep. I'll take care of
everything for you, see?"
"That's splendid!" Freddy cracked and nodded downward. "As a starter,
then, you can climb us a little faster. A couple of planes down there
are taking off. And from here they look like Hawker Hurricanes!"
"Huh?" Dave yelled and shoved his head over the side. "My gosh, that's
right. Hang on! I'm going to stick this baby right on her tail and go
right up the pole!"
"Do that, and shut up!" Freddy said as the Bristol Taurus roared out in
maximum power.
Holding the plane up as steeply as possible and toward the south
Dave gave it his undivided attention until top service ceiling had
been reached and the Island of Singapore was just another one of the
blurred shadows thousands and thousands of feet below his wings. At
top ceiling he leveled off and took a suck now and then on the oxygen
tube he had stuck in his mouth to prevent sudden blacking out. Then on
sudden impulse he killed the Albacore's engine and glided southward at
a very flat angle while he spent the next five minutes scrutinizing the
limitless expanse of night air behind and below. At the end of five
minutes he started the engine again and heaved a little sigh of relief.
They were clear of Singapore, and had succeeded in shaking off the two
R.A.F. planes sent up to intercept them. Now, all that remained was
to fly south for a spell, then double back up the middle of the South
China Sea toward the southern tip of French Indo-China, and so on.
"Simple, in the bag!" Dave suddenly grated savagely as reaction set in.
"All we have to do is the impossible. It should be a cinch!"
"What did you say, Dave?" came Freddy's voice.
"I said, I hope it'll be a nice day for something!" Dave grunted and
shrugged his shoulders. "And do I _hope_!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Blue Water Rattlesnake_
Without warning the dawn sun came flaming up over the eastern lip of
the wall, and as though the gods had thrown up millions and millions
of invisible blinds, the shadows of night fled away into eternity and
all was bathed in flashing gold light. For some time now, the Bristol
powered Fairey Albacore had been prop clawing northward high above the
endless rolling blue swells of the South China Sea. With the coming
of the sun there had been a few seconds of wonder and nerve tingling
strain for both Freddy and Dave. Although Freddy had plugged the radio
into the Singapore wave length, and heard searching aircraft report
they had lost all contact with the "stolen" plane, there was always the
possibility that the "thieves" might find a flight or two of British
aircraft right smack-dab in front of them when the new sun drove the
night westward and out of sight.
However, as luck would have it, the exploding dawn light had found them
completely alone in that section of the world's heavens. Both of them
spent minutes staring hard in all directions. But there was nothing to
see but the brassy blue sky above, and the brassy blue water below.
Breathing a silent prayer in thanks of that small kindness, Dave turned
around to Freddy.
"What's our position, Navigator?" he asked. "My rough figuring of wind,
speed, and direction puts us almost within sight of land. Am I right or
wrong, and what do those navigation gadgets back there tell you, huh?"
Freddy Farmer, in the act of bending over the plane's navigation
instruments, lifted a hand for Dave not to bother him. Almost
immediately he jerked up his head, though, pressed his fingertips to
the built-in headphones of the helmet he wore, and stared straight
ahead like a man suddenly sent into a trance. Dave opened his mouth
to speak, but thought better of it. Obviously the English youth was
getting something over the radio. And it was also obvious that he
wasn't going to say anything about it until he had heard it all. And so
instead of speaking, Dave bent down and began fiddling with the radio
panel fitted to his own instrument panel. However, before he could
shove in the radio-jack and tune the set Freddy Farmer was pounding him
on the shoulder with one clenched fist, and yelling words in his ears.
"That was an SOS call to Singapore Base, Dave!" Freddy yelled. "It's
a courier plane coming up from Australia. It's run into some kind of
trouble. I couldn't tell what, because the message is all garbled up.
But the operator says they are going down, and need help. I got their
position signals just before they faded out. I figure that the spot is
not over fifty miles to our east, Dave!"
"That's tough!" Dawson said and gave his pal a questioning look. "But
what can we do about it, Freddy? This isn't a flyingboat. We couldn't
sit down on the water and rescue them, even if we did find them."
"I know, I know!" Freddy said and gave a little shake of his head.
"But, Dave.... But, Dave, it's possible that we're the only ones who
got their signals. They were mighty weak. I almost missed them, myself.
We could at least find the plane, and radio Singapore for them, and
then get away before any R.A.F. Catalinas showed up."
Dave nodded slowly, but screwed up his face in a grimace of doubt and
hesitation as he did so. True it was only fifty miles off their course.
But that meant fifty miles off, and fifty miles back on again. A total
of one hundred air miles. And they would be playing things close enough
with the gas and oil supply, as it was. And, too....
"It's a British courier plane, and needs help, Dave!" Freddy Farmer's
voice cut into his thoughts. "Blast it, we just can't let the lads
down, Dave! We'd never be able to look each other in the face again, if
we did."
Dave was forced to grin in spite of the seriousness of the situation.
Good old Freddy Farmer. He was running true to form. His own neck was
very, very far from being safe, and maybe he wouldn't even have a neck
by this time tomorrow. Yet he wasn't giving that little item a single
thought. Somebody else's life was in jeopardy, and that's all that
concerned him at the moment. Help the other fellow, and then give a
thought to himself ... maybe.
"Okay, okay!" Dave finally shouted and heeled the plane around on
wingtip. "Did I say, no? Can't a guy argue, huh? But if we find out
that they just thought they were being forced down then you're getting
out and walking home, my little man. So here we go. And let's see you
give those cat's eyes of yours a really good workout this time!"
A little over an hour later Dave dug knuckles into his tired, aching
eyes, and once more looked down over the side of the Bristol Taurus
powered Fairey Albacore, of the Singapore Fighter Command, at the
seemingly endless expanse of the South China Sea. The burning rays
of the brass ball, that was the sun hanging in the sky above, beat
downward to turn the rolling swells into one great sheet of shimmering
blue-green glass. To spot anything down there was like trying to spot a
fly walking across the face of the sun, itself.
"Any luck, pal?" he called back over his shoulder to Freddy Farmer in
the gunner's pit.
"No! And I think I'm going blind!" the English youth groaned. "That
courier plane must have crashed in and sunk like a rock at once. This
is the exact spot where they reported going down, but I swear there's
nothing down there but water."
"And you're only looking at the _top_ of it!" Dave grunted. "I wonder
if we should chance calling Singapore Base, and...."
Dave cut himself off short and jerked his head around to the east.
Perhaps it was just his imagination playing him tricks, but he could
have sworn that he'd caught a strange flash of light out the corner of
his eye that was more than just the rays of the burning sun bouncing
up off the water. For a full minute, though, he peered intently at a
point on the shimmering blue surface a good fifteen miles off his right
wings. Then as he made a grimace of disappointment, and was about to
turn his head front, he spotted it again. It was the sun's reflection
on something that rose up out of the water and promptly fell back out
of sight again.
"Hey, Eagle Eyes!" he called to Freddy Farmer and pointed a finger.
"Take a look over there and down. Do you see what I see? And, if so,
what in heck is it?"
It was several seconds before the English youth spoke, but when he did
his voice trembled with excitement.
"That's the wing of a wrecked plane, Dave!" he cried. "Most of it's
submerged ... maybe it's still attached to the plane ... but the swells
are making it poke up out of water. It.... Dave! It has the R.A.F.
bullseye on it. Must be the courier plane we've been hunting. Get us
over there fast, Dave!"
The last was quite unnecessary. Dawson had already heeled the Albacore
around on wingtip and was tearing full out in the direction of the
strange looking object. And then, when they were still a few miles
short of the spot, something else happened. Something that caused both
youths to let out a simultaneous cry of wild excitement. The bow of a
dull painted blue-green submarine came poking up through to the surface
of the water not over a hundred yards from the bobbing wing.
In the matter of a few seconds the top half of the undersea craft was
above water, and riding on an even keel. And once again Dave and Freddy
saw the conning tower hatch open up, and squat little figures pop out
and go scampering forward to the bow gun. It was the sight of that
little bit of action that helped Freddy Farmer to find his tongue.
"That's the same boat as yesterday, Dave!" he cried. "Or an identical
sister ship, anyway. Look out for the beggars. For heaven's sake don't
let them shoot us down two days in a row. Better not get too close to
the blighters."
Dave didn't say anything. The eyes he held fixed on the submarine were
brittle with anger, and memory caused a lump of cold rage to swell up
bigger and bigger inside of him. However, he made no effort to climb
for altitude. As a matter of fact, he reached out his free hand and
deliberately throttled the Bristol Taurus down to a whisper. Freddy
reached forward and rapped him sharply on the shoulder.
"You in your right mind, Dave?" he cried. "What in the world's the
idea? You're making us a perfect target for them. Have you gone balmy?"
"Not yet!" Dave barked and nosed the Albacore down into a long flat
glide. "Shake up the old brains, pal. They don't see us, and can't.
We're right in the sun to them. No! They're breaking out that bow gun
for another purpose. And I've got a pretty good idea what it is, too."
"What?" Freddy demanded.
Dave nodded his head forward and down.
"To get rid of that plane wreckage that's bobbing around," he said.
"Ask me and I'll tell you that the wreckage is all that's left of the
courier plane that sent out that SOS. Remember our little unpleasant
experience yesterday?"
"I'm jolly well not likely to forget it!" the English youth growled.
"What about it?"
"I could be wrong, but I've got a hunch I'm not," Dave said with a deep
scowl. "I mean it this way. This spot isn't far from where we spotted
that strange sub yesterday throwing light signals at us. Well, we went
down for a better look, and what happened? We got clipped before we
had time to take a deep breath. Well, what happens to one guy can
happen to somebody else. No law against it. See?"
"So far," Freddy grunted.
"Well, it's simple," Dave continued. "The courier plane was spotted by
the sub. The sub, thinking it was Serrangi's R.A.F. boy friend, started
flashing signals. Well, the courier plane boys went down to see what it
was all about ... just like we did. And they caught just what we
did ... only worse and more of it ... when the sub commander realized
his mistake. The courier plane had time just to send the word to
Singapore Base it was going down, and give its position, before it
crashed in. Well, the sub heard those signals and after ducking away,
came back to remove all traces of their dirty work. And.... And that's
what they're doing right now!"
Dave shouted the last as the two bow guns aboard the submarine belched
out flame and smoke and hurled a couple of shells at the bobbing wing
at almost blank range. At practically the same instant there were two
white splashes of water not a yard from the bobbing wing. And then a
great column of frothy foam and billowing smoke towered upward into the
air. And for a brief instant the sun drenched blue water seemed to
split apart and spew up a mess of tangled water-logged wreckage. Just
a split second look at the shattered wreckage was all that the boys
were allowed before froth and boiling foam sucked the mess down out of
sight forever. But that split second was long enough for them both to
see that the wreckage had once been an R.A.F. long range Consolidated
Catalina flyingboat. The type that is used all over the world by the
British for courier plane work.
"That was the courier plane, right enough!" Freddy Farmer said in a
choked voice. "Blast their dirty souls. They shot the poor devils down
in cold blood, like they tried to do to us. And, now ... and now,
they...."
The English youth couldn't go on, he was so choked up with blind rage.
A split instant later Dave opened up his engine wide and stuck the
Albacore's nose down in a wing screaming dive.
"Man those rear guns, Freddy!" he thundered at the top of his voice.
"Maybe England hasn't declared war on Japan, but you and I are
declaring war on that stinking Jap pig-boat down there ... and right
now!"
"But we've no depth bombs, or torpedo!" Freddy cried, but nevertheless
swiveling around and unlocked his rear guns.
"Who cares?" Dave roared and hunched forward over the stick. "There's
a few of those brown rats on deck. We can at least cook their goose.
We.... Hold your hat! They've sighted us, and are trying to bring their
guns to bear. No, you don't ... you dime a dozen, slant eye bums!"
As Dave snarled the last he flipped off the guard cap of the electric
trigger button of his forward guns, and jabbed the button home. His
guns yammered out a savage song of death and the group of little brown
figures clustered about the forward guns seem to melt to the deck and
roll off into the water, before either of the two guns could spew its
load of destructive shrapnel upward.
However, no sooner did the bow gunners take their dose of death and
spill into the water than a new crew popped up out of the conning tower
hatch and scurried forward to replace them. Others also popped up into
view, each armed with a portable machine gun. They dropped in back of
the conning tower bridge for what protection it would afford them and
began blazing away. Dave felt the Albacore shake and tremble a little
as a well placed burst went tearing up through the right wings. But he
didn't swerve from his straight downward plunge a hair. He and Freddy
would have to risk the machine gun fire. It was the bow guns he had to
put out of action. Rather, he had to send the second crew spilling off
after the first. Let those two guns get in their licks and the Albacore
would be a mess of metal toothpicks flying about in the air.