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DAVE DAWSON
AT
CASABLANCA
BOOKS BY R. SIDNEY BOWEN
DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R. A. F.
DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA
DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL
DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE AIR CORPS
DAVE DAWSON ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT
DAVE DAWSON FLIGHT LIEUTENANT
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE COMMANDOS
DAVE DAWSON WITH THE FLYING TIGERS
DAVE DAWSON ON GUADALCANAL
DAVE DAWSON
AT
CASABLANCA
_by_
R. SIDNEY BOWEN
THE WAR ADVENTURE SERIES
CROWN PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1944 BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
_All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce this book, or portions
thereof, in any form._
Printed in the United States of America
DEDICATED TO
JOHNNY BOGARDUS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MAN IN GRAY 13
II JUST IN CASE 23
III SILENT LIPS 37
IV ORDERS FOR EAGLES 46
V WHISPERING DEATH 58
VI CHANGED ORDERS 76
VII BLACKOUT 90
VIII EAGLES CAN TAKE IT 103
IX DEATH STRIKES 112
X INVISIBLE EYES 125
XI MIDNIGHT RAIDER 138
XII FIGHTING HEARTS 149
XIII LURKING WINGS 163
XIV GOERING'S SNOOPERS 179
XV DEATH TAKES WINGS 194
XVI BLAZING DOOM 207
XVII VULTURES' NEST 224
XVIII EAGLES COME THROUGH 236
DAVE DAWSON
AT
CASABLANCA
CHAPTER ONE
_The Man in Gray_
The four-faced clock over the information booth on the Upper Level of
the Grand Central Station in New York City showed exactly twenty-five
minutes after three. Dave Dawson paused in his restless pacing up and
down to look at it for the hundredth time in the last half hour. He
glared at it, sighed heavily, and made noises deep in his throat.
"Where is that Freddy Farmer guy, anyway?" he grated to himself. "For
half an hour I've been pounding shoe leather here waiting for him.
Darned if he isn't worse than a woman, not being at a place on time. But
he's probably lost. And if he is, he can stay lost for all I care."
With a sharp nod for emphasis, he walked over to the newsstand and
bought a bar of candy. The Union News lad back of the counter glanced at
the row of decoration ribbons under Dawson's wings, and gave him a smile
and the kind of look that said he'd like to hear about some of Dawson's
experiences. Dave ignored the look, however, and turned away. He didn't
want to talk about the war. In fact, he didn't even want to think about
it. Freddy and he were enjoying a much-deserved leave, and they still
had four days to go. And until those four days had come and gone, the
war could be on another world as far as he was concerned. Right! The
heck with it for four more days!
For the hundred-and-first time Dawson looked at the information-booth
clock. The hands said twenty-seven minutes of four now, and Dave made
noises in his throat once again. He pulled two hockey-game tickets out
of his tunic pocket and looked at them.
"For two cents I'd leave him flat and get somebody else to go with me!"
he muttered. "I should have drawn the bum a map so he could use it to
get over here from Times Square. He--"
He let the rest trail off as he saw Freddy Farmer hurrying toward him
from the direction of the IRT shuttle train to Times Square. He fixed
the English-born air ace with a disgusted eye and watched him approach.
Freddy came up to him all smiles and slightly flushed.
"Waiting for somebody, old thing?" he greeted Dave.
"No!" Dawson snapped. "And my mother taught me never to speak to
strangers. So scram, before I call a cop."
"Speaking of your New York cops," Freddy Farmer chuckled, "I wouldn't be
here now, if it hadn't been for a bobby in the Bronx."
"Bronx?" Dawson exploded. "What the heck were you doing up there? This
morning you said you were going to hear Benny Goodman's band over at the
Paramount Theatre."
"And so I did," Freddy replied with a nod. "And it was absolutely
topping. But--"
"Topping, he says!" Dawson snorted. "You should show your passport when
you use words like that. You mean keen, or in the groove, or on the
beam, or strictly the nuts. But what about the Bronx? Did Goodman lead a
parade?"
"If you'll be so kind as to shut that big mouth of yours, I'll
explain!" Freddy snapped. "After the show I had something to eat, and--"
"As if I couldn't guess _that_!" Dawson grunted. "And so?"
"And so when I came out of the restaurant it was snowing," the English
youth said. "And--"
"Snowing, in _January_?" Dawson mock-gasped and widened his eyes. "Well,
what do you know about that? So you just stood there and watched it
snowing in January, of all times, while I cooled my heels here waiting
for you!"
"Do you want to listen, or would you rather give that tongue of yours
exercise?" Freddy Farmer bit off.
"Okay, okay, but make it good!" Dawson sighed. "I've got two tickets for
the Ranger-Chicago Hawks hockey game tonight. Make your story good, or
somebody else goes with me!"
"What?" Freddy cried. "You've got--Good grief! Now we've got four!"
"Four what?" Dawson demanded. "Or am I supposed to guess?"
"Four tickets to the hockey game," Freddy Farmer said, and produced two
from his own pocket. "I couldn't remember who was to get the tickets. So
after I came out of the restaurant, I walked up to Madison Square
Garden and got two tickets just to be sure. And--What's the matter,
Dave? You suddenly sick, or something?"
The last was because Dawson had made a face, groaned, and clapped one
hand to his forehead. With the other he reached out and grabbed Freddy's
hand that held the hockey-game tickets, and jerked it up until the
tickets were about an inch from the end of the English youth's nose.
"Boy, are you something!" he groaned. "Take a look, Bright Eyes! Take a
good look! You went to the wrong window. Those tickets are for the
Ranger-Boston Bruin game next Wednesday!"
"Oh, good grief, no!" Freddy cried. "I didn't know there was any special
window. I just went to one and asked the chap for two good tickets to
the next game. And he gave me these. I'll take them back and--"
"No, you won't, sweetheart!" Dawson interrupted, and shook his head.
"You'll just be out that dough, and maybe it will teach you to use your
head next time. We'll give the tickets to the first two soldiers we
meet. But let's get back to the Bronx. Did the ticket fellow send you
up there?"
"No, it was one of your blasted tube trains!" Freddy Farmer growled. "I
asked the chap what tube I should take to get to Grand Central. He
didn't understand me until I remembered that you call the _tube_ the
subway. So--"
"You mean you English guys call the _subway_ the tube," Dawson cut in
again. "How many times have I got to tell you that when in Rome shoot
Roman candles! So you went to the subway, and--? Now what?"
Freddy Farmer didn't reply. He stood staring at something behind Dawson.
Dave turned impulsively, but all he saw was a lot of people hurrying
toward their respective destinations. He turned back and looked at
Freddy.
"Okay, come up for air!" he growled. "What's eating you, anyway?"
"That chap over there by the ticket window," the English-born air ace
finally said. "The chap in gray. I've seen him half-a-dozen times
today."
"So what?" Dawson grunted. "It's a free country and a small world. What
of it?"
"Nothing, except that the first time was in the lobby of the hotel as
you and I were leaving," Freddy said. "And the next time he was three
seats away from me in the Paramount. And the next time was in the
restaurant; then at Madison Square Garden; and up in the Bronx, too."
"No kidding?" Dawson echoed, half expecting his pal to pull some kind of
a gag.
"No kidding at all," Freddy replied promptly. "I'm certain that the chap
has been following me around."
"Could be," Dawson murmured, and casually turned around so that he could
get a look at the man in gray. "Frankly, though, you _do_ look like a
guy with itchy fingers, and we've got a lot of expensive things in this
town. He's probably a plain-clothes detective from Police Headquarters."
"Then I'm definitely in a mess now!" Freddy Farmer snapped right back at
him. "I'm sure it's a crime in any country to be caught talking to the
likes of you! See him, Dave?"
"Yeah," Dawson grunted, turning back. "A nice-looking guy. And he didn't
get that overcoat with cigarette coupons. We'll check up in a couple of
minutes and see if he continues to trail you. Right now, though, I can
hardly wait. What about the Bronx, anyway?"
"I took the wrong tube train, that's all," Freddy said. "And I went
right to the end of the line, which was in the Bronx, but not a single
station said Grand Central. I got off and asked a bobby how to get
there. He was a very fine chap, and straightened me out. But, good
grief, I've certainly seen a lot of New York today!"
"Well, don't ever take a subway to Brooklyn!" Dawson advised. "You
wouldn't be back for a week. What shall we do now? Where'll we go, I
mean. Want to take a subway ride?"
"Deliver me!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "Definitely, no! Personally, I'm
hungry. Let's go find a nice restaurant and fuel up, what?"
"Okay," Dawson sighed. "I suppose you've got to have a nine-course snack
to keep you from fainting until supper. Okay. But let's go to the dining
room in the Biltmore Hotel next door. If your friend in gray follows you
there, we'll know he's up to something. Ten to one, though, you've been
having a pipe dream."
"Perhaps," Freddy Farmer admitted as he dropped into step with Dawson.
"But that's definitely the same chap I've been seeing all day long. I
wonder why the blighter _is_ following me around? No, no, my little man!
Just keep your opinion to yourself. I--I say, wait a minute, Dave!"
Freddy Farmer left Dawson's side and went over to two Yank soldiers who
were obviously going no place, but just taking in the sights. They
saluted him as he came up and stopped in front of them.
"I say, you two on leave, what?" he asked with a grin.
"Yes, sir," they replied together, and gave him a funny look.
"Will you be in town come next Wednesday?" Freddy asked again.
"Yes, sir," they replied in the same breath.
"Good!" Freddy beamed, and held out the hockey tickets. "Use these, if
you like. And half a minute! Here, buy yourselves some little thing,
what? And good luck."
Freddy Farmer added two one-dollar bills to the hockey tickets and
walked away. The two soldiers gaped down at the two tickets and the two
dollars.
"What's the matter with that guy; is he touched?" one of them mumbled.
"And did you hear him, Fuzzy? He didn't even speak English!"
"Who cares?" Fuzzy asked as he came out of his trance. "Two
four-buck-forty hockey tickets, and two bucks in cash! Who cares if the
guy is touched? He's okay by me!"
"Well, well!" Dawson chuckled when Freddy joined him. "Darned if the kid
didn't at that! And even let go of two bucks."
"All I had on me," Freddy said with a smile. "So that makes you the one
to pay for our meal, see?"
"Oh, yeah?" Dawson jeered. "Well, don't look right now, but standing in
your shoes is a guy who's heading for a lot of dish washing in the
Biltmore kitchen!"
CHAPTER TWO
_Just in Case_
"Well?" Freddy Farmer demanded as he leaned across the dining table
toward Dawson. "Did I have a pipe dream, or not? Did you see who just
came in and sat down?"
"Yeah," Dawson grunted, and buttered a roll. "Your pal in gray. I wonder
what's the big idea?"
"So do I!" Freddy echoed instantly. "And I've half a mind to go over
right now and ask him. The beggar is beginning to give me the creeps. He
doesn't look foreign, though."
"Hey, come out of your spin, pal!" Dawson chuckled. "What do you think
this is, Gestapo stuff?"
Freddy Farmer looked at Dawson and smiled slowly.
"I wouldn't know, old thing," he said. "You see, this isn't England, so
I wouldn't know for sure _what_ kind of funny business was afoot."
"Ouch!" Dawson yipped softly, and flung up an arm in front of his face.
"Right in the eye, that time. You're improving each day with your snappy
come-back, my young friend. Keep it up, and you'll be the life of the
party some day. Well, I guess that's all the fodder I want right now.
How's for a stroll around in the beautiful January snow, huh? But it's
probably slush by now, and--Hey! I almost forgot! You think I'm paying
for your meal, don't you? Well--"
"Of course not!" Freddy Farmer cut in quickly. "And just to show my
heart's in the right place, I'll even pay for both of us."
"I wonder if there's a doctor in the house?" Dawson murmured, and stared
hard at the English youth. "Sure you feel all right, Freddy?"
"Never felt better," the other replied. "Wait just a moment, will you,
old thing? I'll be right back."
Before Dawson could ask questions, Freddy got up from his chair and
walked quickly across the dining room and down the broad flight of
carpeted steps to the lobby. Dawson blinked, then took a sip of water,
and glanced over at the man in gray. The mysterious stranger was looking
toward the lobby, and was in the act of pushing himself up out of his
chair. He seemed to change his mind, however. He shot a quick look over
Dawson's way, then settled back in his chair and went to work on a piece
of pie the waiter had placed in front of him.
"That bird sure is plenty interested in Freddy," Dawson muttered to
himself, and frowned. "I wonder what the heck's cooking around here,
anyway?"
He played with that thought for two or three minutes, but was unable to
get any place. And then as he happened to glance toward the dining-room
lobby entrance, he saw Freddy Farmer standing there and beckoning to him
urgently. Dawson raised questioning eyebrows, took a look toward the man
in gray, got up from his chair, and started to leave the table. He had
taken but two steps when the waiter appeared at his elbow.
"The check, Captain," the waiter said politely.
"Oh, yeah," Dawson murmured absently, and glanced at the total. He
pulled some money from his pocket and gave it to the waiter. "There you
are," he murmured again, and hurried over to the lobby entrance to the
dining room where Freddy was waiting.
The English-born air ace greeted him with a grin like a Cheshire cat.
"And let that be a lesson to you, my good fellow," Freddy said with an
emphatic nod of his head.
"Says which?" Dawson grunted, and gave him a blank look.
Freddy Farmer patted his stomach and licked his lips.
"A delicious meal, quite!" he breathed. "I hope you gave the waiter a
decent tip. But, knowing you, I doubt it."
Dawson started violently, and his jaw dropped.
"Well, you little I-don't-know-what!" he eventually exploded. "Stuck me
for the meal, didn't you? I knew darn well you must have had something
in mind when you gave your last two bucks to those soldiers. You play
the big-hearted big shot to them, and _I_ get stuck for your two bucks'
worth of food!"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Freddy Farmer chuckled. "Just say it's your
share in the lease-lend agreement between America and England. I'll pay
you back some day, too."
"Yeah!" Dawson sneered. "When I'm a hundred and six and have lost all my
teeth. When I can eat only soup instead of a thick steak like I just
bought for you. But you just wait, my little bowlegged pet! I'll--Oh-oh!
The man in gray, eh?" Dawson added the last because of the flinty look
that had suddenly leaped into Farmer's eyes.
"Quite!" Freddy murmured. "And I'm jolly well sick of this hide-and-seek
business. I'm going to find out what the blighter's up to. I detest
shadows, excepting my own."
With a grim nod Freddy Farmer stepped past Dawson and walked over toward
the man in gray who was just leaving the dining room. Dawson impulsively
swung around and followed him. The man in gray acted as though he did
not see Freddy, but the English youth stopped in front of him, barring
his way.
"Have you been wishing to speak to me, sir?" Freddy asked quietly. "Is
that why you've been following me all over town all day?"
The man in gray looked blank for a moment. Then he shrugged and gave
Freddy a friendly smile.
"It _has_ been rather obvious, hasn't it, Captain Farmer?" he said as
both Freddy and Dawson stared at him, dumbfounded. "But you went to a
lot of places where I couldn't help but show myself. I guess you've had
enough experience to guess when you're being trailed. The name is
Carter, Captain."
As the man in gray introduced himself, he slipped something out of his
pocket and held it cupped in his hand so both youths could see it. They
took a good look at the gold F.B.I. badge and quickly raised their eyes
to the man's face.
"The F.B.I. no less!" Dawson breathed. "What's up? Is Farmer wanted by
the F.B.I.--I hope?"
The man chuckled and shook his head.
"No," he said. "Neither of you are, in fact. The two of us just had
orders to keep an eye on you both."
"'_Two_ of us'?" Dave echoed sharply. "You mean--" He let the rest go as
the F.B.I. agent nodded.
"That's right, Captain Dawson," he said quietly, and made a faint
gesture toward the other side of the lobby. "My partner has been looking
after you, while I tried to keep up with Captain Farmer here. If
Captain Farmer hadn't returned to the dining room, I'd have taken on the
job of sticking with you, and my partner would have tackled Captain
Farmer. Frankly, I would have enjoyed the change. But now--"
The F.B.I. agent grinned and shrugged.
"But now that the cat's out of the bag," he said, "suppose we stop
playing cops and robbers and make it a foursome? My partner got tickets
right behind your seats for the hockey game tonight. We're also staying
at your hotel. Or would you rather be alone? Now don't be afraid that
you'll hurt my feelings. I'll understand. After all, a couple of fellows
on leave have their rights, you know."
"Yeah, sure, of course," Dawson mumbled absently, not quite sure if he
was in the middle of a dream or not. "Sure, sure it's okay by Freddy and
me. But--but look, sir. I mean, what's all the big idea? Why should the
F.B.I. want to follow us around? I don't get it."
"To be perfectly frank, neither do I," Agent Carter made the amazing
reply. "All I know is that two days ago we were given orders to come up
from Washington, register at your hotel, and keep an eye on you two."
"But for what?" Freddy Farmer asked. "You mean you were to guard us
from harm, or some such silly rot?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it silly rot, Captain," the F.B.I. man said
gravely. "After all, you two are marked men, in a way. I mean by that,
you've been thorns in the side of Axis Intelligence more than once since
this Second World War started. Not that personal revenge by enemy agents
in this country is to be expected. Yet, on the other hand, there's no
sense in regarding it as impossible."
"Well, I'll be darned!" Dawson gulped. "But that's just plain screwy.
Why, I can name several dozen famous soldiers in this war that the Axis
would love to get a million times more than they'd want to get us. Do
you mean that everybody who's got in a few pokes at the Axis has an
F.B.I. escort when he goes on leave?"
"Hardly," Agent Carter said with a smile. "Let's say that you two happen
to be special cases. Why, you can search me. Lots of times we're given
orders, and we have no idea what's behind them. Let's go over and meet
my partner. Or is my suggestion of a moment ago out?"
"No," Dawson replied. "I told you it was okay by us. Besides, maybe your
partner can tell us things."
"If he can, he won't," Agent Carter said. "You can count on that, I'm
afraid. His name is Hickson, and it so happens that he's a rabid Ranger
fan. He comes from this town. Let's go over."
Still not quite sure that he wasn't being made the goat of some crazy
gag, Dawson walked with Agent Carter and Freddy Farmer across the lobby
to where a thin, almost sickly-looking man of uncertain years was seated
in a chair reading a newspaper. He put down his paper and smiled as the
trio approached. It was then Dawson had a vague feeling he had seen that
thin face somewhere quite recently. Then as Agent Carter made the
introductions, it came to Dawson. Agent Hickson had been the man next in
line behind him when he had bought tickets for the hockey game. As he
shook hands and mumbled some pleasantry, Dave realized he had seen that
thin face other places, too, during the day.
"Did I give you as much trouble, Agent Hickson," he asked, "as Farmer
seems to have given Agent Carter?"
"No, Captain," the other replied with a twinkle in his eye. "And don't
ever go in for crime. You'd be a cinch."
"With those big flat feet, it would be obvious!" Freddy Farmer chuckled,
as the red climbed into Dawson's face.
"Okay, okay!" Dave growled and grinned at the same time. "I'm not like
you, with things on your conscience! So naturally I wouldn't even give
it a thought that anybody was following me. But look, Agent Hickson, can
you add anything to what Agent Carter has told us? Which was absolutely
nothing."
"I'm afraid I can't, Captain." Hickson smiled, and shook his head.
"Carter and I are just a couple of slaves who do what we're told and ask
no questions."
"But you do know _something_, only you won't tell us, what?" Freddy
Farmer pressed the issue.
The F.B.I. man shook his head again and made a little cross mark over
his heart.
"I honestly don't know a thing," he said, "except that I like this
particular job. I'm from New York, you know. And I'm a hockey fan, in
case Carter hasn't told you."
"He has," Dawson grinned, and glanced at his wrist watch. "And I sort of
go for the game, myself. It's hours, though, before game time. Anybody
have any suggestions what to do until then? Listen, Freddy! Eating is
strictly out, at least for a couple of hours!"
"You don't have to shout, old thing; I hear you," the English youth
replied. "Yes, I have a suggestion. I've been meaning to see that United
Nations display they have at Radio City. What say we go back to the
hotel and clean up a bit? These blasted American shoes I bought
yesterday are killing me."
Dawson started to shake his head, but instantly checked the movement. A
gleam leaped into his eyes.
"Fair enough," he said. "I could do with a clean shirt myself. Come on.
We'll take a cab."
During the cab ride across town to the hotel, they talked of this and
that and nothing in particular. When the cab pulled up in front of the
hotel, Dawson opened the door, let the two F.B.I. men get out ahead of
him, and got out quickly himself, leaving Freddy Farmer the last to
alight. Without so much as a look over his shoulder, Dawson linked arms
with the two F.B.I. men and hurried them up the steps into the hotel.
"Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer call out. "Oh, I say, _Dave_!"
The two F.B.I. men wanted to stop, but Dawson practically pushed them
through the doors.
"It's okay," he chuckled. "Just his turn to be left holding the bag.
He'll be right in. You'll see."
That was exactly the case. A moment later Freddy came hurrying inside,
flush-faced, with a very hard-eyed taxicab driver right at his heels.
"I say, Dave!" the English youth panted. "You know I haven't a bean on
me. Let me have--"
"We're all broke!" Dawson said coldly. "You were last out, anyway. Go
over to the desk, borrow the fare, and have it put on your bill. I'll
see if there's any mail for us. Meet you upstairs in our room."
Freddy Farmer glared and pursed his lips as though he were striving to
hold back the blistering words that rose in his throat.
The cab driver looked at him and scowled darkly. "How's about it,
General?" he growled. "I can't keep my hack out front all afternoon!"
"Oh yes, quite," Freddy said. "Come along!"
After giving a look that should have raised third-degree burns on the
Yank pilot's face, Freddy went over to the lobby desk and spoke to the
clerk. Bursting with inner laughter, Dawson watched Freddy's face grow
redder and redder as the desk clerk gave him the fishy eye. Then the
clerk went into the manager's office. He came right out, though, yanked
open a desk drawer, and handed a bill to Freddy.
"Now I have got to watch _my_ step, and how!" Dawson chuckled, and
walked over to the mail window.
There was something in the box. It was a telegram addressed to them
both. Dave ripped it open and was reading the message just as Freddy
Farmer came over. The wire read:
"Take seven P.M. plane for Washington La Guardia Airport. Report my
office War Department on arrival.
COLONEL WELSH"
"And so what?" Dave asked, looking at Freddy Farmer.
"So leave it over, I fancy," the English youth murmured with a frown. "I
wonder what now?"
"You do the guessing; I'm stumped," Dawson said, glancing up quickly as
Agents Carter and Hickson came over.
There was a telegram in Agent Carter's hand. Agent Hickson looked as
though he had just lost his last friend.
"So we all take an airplane ride instead, eh?" Agent Carter said, and
nodded at the wire in Dawson's hand.
"You too?" Dave questioned.
"Right," Agent Carter replied. "There are four reservations waiting for
us at La Guardia."
"Wouldn't you know!" Agent Hickson groaned and shook his head sadly.
"Wouldn't you know I was nuts to think I could mix pleasure with
business!"
CHAPTER THREE
_Silent Lips_
"Well, I guess this is the parting of the ways, Captain," Agent Carter
of the F.B.I. said as the taxicab rolled to a stop on front of a War
Department Building in Washington. "Hickson and I will keep the cab for
the ride over to the Bureau. Sorry we all missed an evening in New York
together, but there'll come another day, I hope. Best of luck, you two.
It's been nice knowing you."
"Same thing, the other way around, sir," Dawson said as he shook hands
and climbed out of the cab. "And thanks for the protection--or whatever
it was supposed to be."
Agent Carter laughed and raised a protesting hand.
"Now let's not go into that again!" he said. "The answer is still that I
don't know. Maybe Colonel Welsh will tell you. We can't, because we
simply don't know. What's the matter, Captain Farmer?"
Freddy was just straightening up after sticking his head back in through
the cab door opening. He shrugged and grinned.
"Just looking to see if you had your fingers crossed, sir, while you
said that," he replied. "But I see you didn't, and so that's that. Well,
cheerio, and good hunting, and all that sort of thing. Sorry I didn't
speak to you sooner."
"That's the kind of tough break we get in our kind of job," Agent Carter
said, and made a flip wave with his hand. "So long, until we meet
again."
"And let's hope that'll be soon!" Dawson called out as the cab rolled
away.
The two air aces stood on the curb until the taxi turned the corner
toward Pennsylvania Avenue and was lost to view. Then they impulsively
turned and looked at each other.
"Swell fellows, those two," Dawson said. "Wish we could have had more
time together. I've always wanted to ask a real honest-to-goodness
F.B.I. man a few questions."
"Then those two will never know how lucky they are," Freddy Farmer came
right back. "But speaking of questions--"
"Check, and double-check!" Dawson echoed, and started across the
sidewalk to the main entrance of the War Department Building. "The
sooner we ask them, the sooner we _may_ get an idea as to what the heck
is going on."
The door guard stopped them and requested identification papers. They
complied by producing their leave papers and the wire from Colonel
Welsh. The guard referred to a book on his table desk, and nodded.
"Third floor, Captain," he said, and gave them each a building pass that
had to be turned in when they left. "Room Three Twenty-Nine."
The two youths nodded, returned the guard's salute, and headed for the
stairway. The door of Room 329 was just like all the other doors on that
floor except that it had "Colonel Welsh, Private" painted on the glass.
Dawson rapped his knuckles on the glass, and immediately received the
summons to enter. Colonel Welsh, Chief of U. S. Armed Forces
Intelligence, was seated behind a huge desk that seemed to take up most
of the office. He was practically hidden behind a mass of papers, bound
reports, and such, piled up all over the desk top.
He glanced up, smiled, pushed back his chair, and rose to come around
the end of the desk.
"Welcome to Washington again, you two," he said, and shook hands. "A
nice flight down?"
"Fine, sir," Dawson replied. "We had a couple of swell air companions,
too. You in charge of the F.B.I. now, Colonel?"
"F.B.I.? Me?" Colonel Welsh echoed. "Hardly! Not as long as J. Edgar
Hoover continues to run it so perfectly. But what do you mean?"
Dawson stared hard at the senior officer, and then gave a little sigh.
"Oh, so it's like that, eh?" he murmured. "I thought that maybe you
might have had something to do with the two F.B.I. agents who trailed
Freddy and me all over New York. I suppose you didn't?"
Colonel Welsh didn't reply at once. He motioned them to chairs and then
reseated himself at his desk.
"No, not directly," he said in reply to Dawson's question. "But of
course I knew all about it. So you spotted them, eh?"
"Freddy did," Dawson replied. "I didn't, because _I_ have a clear
conscience. We--or Freddy, I mean--called the turn on one of them. He
'fessed up and introduced us to his partner. Naturally, we asked
questions, but they didn't, or wouldn't, admit they knew what it was all
about."
"If you'll only explain, sir," Freddy Farmer chimed in, "maybe I'll be
able to sleep tonight."
"Of course I'll explain, Farmer," the Colonel said with a smile. "As for
sleeping tonight, I wouldn't count on it, if I were you. Those F.B.I.
men were following you around simply to see if anybody _else_ was
following you around, that's all."
"That's _all_?" Dawson echoed. "Who else would be following us around?
And why, for cat's sake? Don't tell me, Colonel, that you really believe
some Axis agent might try to get in a bit of personal revenge just
because Freddy and I have been lucky on a couple of things! Why,
that's--"
"No, that wasn't the idea," the Chief of Intelligence interrupted
quietly. "Though I have had that fear more than once. Your being lucky a
couple of times, as you so wrongly call it, was most disheartening to
certain Japs and certain Nazis, who have long memories. But this recent
F.B.I. business was a bit different. I'm not going to give you details,
because I'm pledged to utmost secrecy. So don't waste breath asking
questions. This much, though, I can tell you. A list of names, compiled
by the War Department, was recently turned over to the F.B.I. Your names
were on that list, and you've been watched over by F.B.I. men ever
since. The reason, as I said, was to see if anybody was following you."
"You mean, sir--" Dawson frowned and hesitated. "You mean--because if
they were, it would indicate that the mysterious list of names wasn't as
secret as it was supposed to be? That it, sir?"
"That's it exactly, Dawson," the Colonel said. "Nice work to have
figured that out, too. That's right--that list is most secret. It has
the President's approval, the Secret Service's approval, as well as the
okay of the Army, Navy, and Air Forces. It is most secret, and it was
the F.B.I.'s job to make absolutely sure by maintaining a constant check
on every man on that list. Now does that satisfy you?"
"No, sir," Dawson said with a grin. Then with a shrug: "But you said
something about not wasting breath asking for details. However, I could
do with a hint, if that's in order."
"It isn't," the Colonel told him instantly. "For once it's my job to
assign you to a certain mission without the right to tell you a thing
about it. You'll learn soon enough, and when you do, you'll realize why
I have to keep my lips silent. This I can and will tell you, though.
It'll be a most pleasant mission, and you'll both get a tremendous
thrill out of it."
"Well, that's something, anyway," Dawson said. "I'm all for it, whatever
it is."
"Quite," Freddy Farmer echoed. Then, with an almost sly look at the
Colonel, he asked, "A mission in this country, sir?"
"A mission that will take in several countries, Farmer," the
Intelligence Chief replied. "And that _is_ the very last bit of
information I'm going to give you. Now just excuse me a couple of
minutes while I tend to some of this stuff. Then we'll get along out to
Bolling Field."
"Bolling Field, sir?" Dave cried, and leaned forward.
For all the good it did him, he might just as well have yelled at the
man in the moon. Colonel Welsh seemed to forget that either Dawson or
Farmer existed as he gave all his attention to the paper work on his
desk.
It was almost ten minutes later when he signed his name to the last of
the papers, collected them, and slipped them into one of the desk
drawers which he locked with one of many keys he took from his pocket.
"Sorry it took so long, boys," he said, and reached for his service cap.
"All done now, though. So let's go."
The colonel led the way outside, locked his office door, and touched
Dawson on the arm as the Yank air ace started along the corridor toward
the main stairway.
"No, not that way, Dawson," he said, and pointed a finger the other way.
"We're still not taking any chances. Follow me, you two."
Dawson and Farmer did just that. They came out into the Washington night
by a small rear door on the ground floor of the War Department Building.
There was no guard there, and Colonel Welsh used another key from his
bunch to unlock the door. From the door they followed him through a
shadow-filled alley, down another one that crossed the first at right
angles, and finally out onto a narrow, poorly lighted street, where a
car was parked in the deep shadows of some overhanging tree branches.
"Jump in, you two," Colonel Welsh said, and opened the door. "I think we
can all sit in front. I'll be your pilot this time. But on four rubber
tires, instead of wings."
"What about our building passes, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked. "Won't the
guard--"
"I'll take care of that," the colonel said. "You can explain to him, if
you want, when you come back."
"Come back from where, sir?" Dawson asked before he could choke off the
question.
"From a lot of places, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said with a chuckle. "From
a lot of places. Now, hop in, and enjoy the ride."
CHAPTER FOUR
_Orders for Eagles_
The usually active, buzzing Bolling Field was shrouded in darkness and
looked almost completely deserted as Colonel Welsh wheeled the car up
toward the main gates. When he came within twenty yards of those gates,
however, there was instant proof that not everybody was asleep. Two
small-sized searchlight beams cut the darkness and focused square on the
moving car. Dawson, from past experience, knew that up in the little
towers that housed the searchlights were a couple of machine guns that
were also trained dead on the car. In addition, the captain on duty and
two armed guards suddenly appeared and closed in on the car in nothing
flat. And as if the twin searchlight beams were not enough, the captain
snapped on a flashlight and played it straight into Colonel Welsh's
face, then into Dawson's, and then into Freddy Farmer's. Just to make
sure, the captain turned the light on the colonel's face once more, and
then snapped it out.
"Your pass, please, sir," he said quietly.
The colonel produced it, and the captain was completely satisfied. He
stepped back, saluted, and gave an order. As the heavy gates swung open,
Colonel Welsh slipped the car into gear and rolled on through. Looking
back, Dawson noted that the guns of the guards, and the searchlight
beams, too, followed the car well inside the field. The idea seemed
silly to him for a moment. Then he realized that it would be quite easy
for somebody who wasn't wanted to hook a ride on the rear bumper, and
thus get inside where he didn't belong.
"Yes, sir!" he murmured as he turned front again. "This is one place
that would stop even Superman cold."
"I hope that's true, and I believe it is," Colonel Welsh stated.
Dawson turned his head and glanced sharply at the Intelligence Chief.
An undernote in the officer's voice had a queer ring. Before he could
ask questions, however, Colonel Welsh turned the car in through the
wide-open doors of one of the hangars, braked it to a stop just inside,
and switched off the engine. A single rafter-light threw a pale glow
about the interior, and in one sweeping glance Dave saw that the hangar
was empty of planes except for a single Army-Air-Forces, Wright
Cyclone-powered, Vultee V-12C, attack bomber. A couple of mechanics and
a technical sergeant were standing by the wing. They came over to the
car at once, and gave the colonel a snappy salute.
"All set and ready, as you ordered, sir," the technical sergeant said.
Colonel Welsh climbed out of the car, and nodded.
"Very good, Sergeant," he said. "Roll her out and start her up, will
you? We're going to use Captain Billings' office for a few minutes. If
anybody happens to wander in, no matter who, you have my authority to
send him right along on his way."
"Right, sir," the technical sergeant answered, and grinned as though he
could name two or three high rankers he would just love to toss out on
their ears, now that he had the permission to do so.
However, he didn't mention that little item. Instead, he snapped orders
to the two mechanics, and all three of them began rolling the attack
bomber out onto the hangar apron. Meanwhile Colonel Welsh led Dawson and
Farmer into Captain Billings' office in a rear corner of the hangar. He
snapped on the light, closed the door, waved them to a couple of chairs,
and sat down at a desk. He drew six envelopes from an inside pocket of
his tunic. Each envelope was heavily sealed with wax, and each was made
of a peculiar-looking paper. At first glance it struck Dawson that it
was oil paper, or shark's skin. At any rate, he had a sudden thought
that each envelope was absolutely waterproof.
The colonel placed them in a pile on the desk in front of him, and then
rested a hand on top of the pile, almost as though he expected a
non-existent wind or an invisible force to snatch them away.
"You two are headed for Natal, Brazil," he began, speaking quietly.
"With stops on the way at Miami, Puerto Rico, San Fernando in British
Trinidad, Paramaribo in Dutch Guiana, Belem in Brazil, and Natal. You
will land on the government airport at each of those points.
Officially, you are making a survey flight for the Army Air Transport
Command. At Miami and Puerto Rico you will contact the American
commanding officer, and deliver to him _in the presence of no one else_
the envelope that bears his name. On the authority of a letter which I
shall give you to take along, you are to instruct him to guard his
envelope with his life, and _not_ to open it until the sixteenth of this
month. At San Fernando, Paramaribo, Belem, and Natal, of course you will
contact the officer in command of the American staff, and not the
commanding officer of the airport."
The colonel paused for a moment as though permitting time for his
instructions to sink in. Then he tapped the pile of heavily sealed,
waterproof envelopes with his fingers.
"These contain information on perhaps the most important secret of this
war!" he continued, speaking in a grave tone. "The Axis would gladly
give up half a dozen divisions of troops for the possession of any one
of these envelopes. And that doesn't even begin to describe how
important they are. I am the only man in the world who knows of the
flight you two are to begin in a few minutes. At least, I pray to God
that I'm the only one. However, in view of the fact that absolutely
nothing is _sure_ in this war, I must give you this order: Under no
circumstances, not even under the threat of the most horrible kind of
death, is either of you to permit a single one of these letters to get
into the hands of anybody but the American officer whose name is typed
on the front of each envelope. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dawson said with a nod.
"Definitely, sir," Freddy Farmer echoed.
"And I'm sure you do," the colonel said. "I can't help, though, but
stress that point. _Don't let any of these envelopes out of your sight
until each has been delivered to the proper person._ Make doubly sure
that each of those proper persons understands what he is to do.
Naturally, you'll be asked questions by those officers as to what the
envelopes contain. That is one reason why I'm not even telling you, so
that you can truthfully reply that you do not know. Just remember, this
is the most secret mission you have ever undertaken. Guard these
envelopes with your lives and see that they are delivered to the proper
parties. If the commanding officer does not happen to be there when you
arrive, do _not_ give the envelope to the next in command. Stay there
until the commanding officer does arrive. If you have a forced landing,
play up the fact you are on a survey flight. If your plane is damaged, a
wire sent to me in Washington will get an immediate reply ordering the
commandant of the airfield nearest the scene of your crash to turn over
a plane to you. If one of you happens to be injured in the crash, the
other will carry on alone as soon as possible, without creating
suspicion that the flight is not for survey purposes."
The colonel suddenly stopped talking and drew from his pocket two small
vials containing a brownish liquid. He placed them beside the pile of
envelopes, and looked at the two air aces again.
"If both of you are hurt badly," he said, "or if--and I pray God it will
not happen--you should fall into the hands of enemy agents, or
force-land on the water and be approached by a lurking U-boat, you are
to take the caps from these vials and pour the contents over the
envelopes. The powerful acid they contain will completely destroy the
envelopes and their contents in a matter of seconds. In short, it is
your sacred trust to destroy these envelopes before you die--or are
captured. Now, to make sure, repeat to me the instructions I've just
given you."
Dawson spoke for the pair and repeated almost word for word everything
the colonel had told them.
"Well, that's all I've got to say," the Intelligence Chief said with a
nod. "Here, Dawson. Three of these and a vial are for you. And the other
three and a vial are for you, Farmer. Naturally, my prayers go with you
for a safe and very uneventful flight. If it helps any, I personally
chose you two for this flight, because--well, you've come through for me
several times in the past, and I know you will again. One thing, though.
If any of the envelopes fall into Axis hands, I might just as well put a
bullet through my brain, because I wouldn't want to go on living. Have
either of you any questions?"
"Yes, sir, I have one," Freddy Farmer spoke up.
"Then let's have it," Colonel Welsh said with a nod.
The English-born air ace hesitated a moment, and a slight flush crept up
into his sun-and-wind-bronzed face.
"These chaps to whom we deliver the envelopes, sir," he said with a
frown. "What if they--Well, what I'm trying to say, sir, is supposing
_they_ don't follow the orders we give them? What if they should lose
their envelopes or--well, you know."
"They won't, Farmer," Colonel Welsh said with a grim shake of his head.
"Each of the six officers that you will contact is not only an officer
in our Armed Forces, but a carefully selected member of Intelligence as
well. In short, each is one of my own men. And after you show them this
letter of authority, you need not worry that they won't follow orders
right to the letter."
As he spoke, the colonel drew a seventh, but unsealed, envelope from his
pocket and handed it to Freddy Farmer. Then he turned his head and
looked at Dawson's frown.
"Yes, Dawson?" he asked. "You've a question, too?"
"A couple, Colonel," Dave replied. Then with a shrug, "The first may
strike you as stupid."
"How can I say, until you ask it?" the Intelligence officer demanded as
the Yank air ace didn't go on.
"These officers we're to contact--" Dawson said presently--"is there any
way we can make sure that each _is_ the one we believe him to be? In
other words, we've just got six names, Colonel. I haven't read them yet,
but it's possible that neither Freddy nor I know the men from Adam as
far as looks are concerned."
"A mighty good question, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said with an emphatic
nod. "Just shows you've got your eye on the ball right at the start.
Contact the officer, show him my letter of authority, and demand his
identification. It will be a copper disc with some numbers stamped on
it. Every set of numbers will add up to forty-one--the year,
incidentally, of Pearl Harbor. If the numbers don't add up to forty-one,
then he is not your man."
"And if they _don't_ add up to forty-one, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked, and
leaned forward.
Colonel Welsh's lips stiffened, and an agate-hard glint came into his
eyes. He pointed to the letter of authority Freddy held in his hands.
"Use that to have the man placed under close arrest at once!" he said
harshly. "And get in radiophone communication with me as soon as
possible. _If_ the man tries to evade arrest, tries to escape--shoot him
dead on the spot! Yes, that's an unusual order, but this is an unusual
mission. Now, the other question, Dawson? What is it?"
"When we reach Natal, sir," Dave said, "what do we do? Fly back and
report to you?"
"No," the senior officer said with a shake of his head. "I'm allowing
three days for you to make this stop-over flight to Brazil. That should
get you in Natal by the fourteenth, the fifteenth at the latest. Put up
at the Pan-Am Hotel. I will join you there on the fifteenth. I'll have
another little mission for you when I get there. Well, any other
questions?"
Dawson and Farmer looked at each other. Then they looked at Colonel
Welsh, and each shook his head. The senior officer stood up, and as
though the gods had waited for that exact instant, the Vultee's
Wright-Cyclone outside broke forth with its song of mighty power.
"Then that's that," Colonel Welsh said. "There's some flying gear over
there on the wall. Select what you want, and then let's get outside to
the plane. I'll stake my life that not a soul has heard what we've been
talking about, but four walls always get on my nerves. I like it better
out in the open where I can see in all directions, and for some
distance, too. But don't pay any attention to me. I'm under a slight
strain, and it's trying its darnedest to get me. Stupid, of course. So
select your stuff, and let's get out to the plane. God bless you, and
all kinds of happy landings until we meet again in Natal, Brazil."
If they happened to be listening to the colonel's parting words, the
gods of war, and death, and doom, must have had quite a laugh for
themselves!
CHAPTER FIVE
_Whispering Death_
Shifting to a slightly more comfortable position in the Vultee's cockpit
seat, Dave Dawson absently drummed the fingers of one hand on the side
of the cockpit and stared down at the sky-blue Caribbean Sea rolling far
beneath his wings. Behind him was Puerto Rico, and a considerable way
ahead of him was the British-owned island of Trinidad. Several miles off
the Vultee's left wing tip were the Leeward and Windward islands of the
West Indies jutting up out of the blue water. High above him was a
cloudless sky with a shimmering ball of gold in the center.
All in all, it was a scene that would have made poets rave, and the
hardest of hearts melt. However, if the truth must be known, it left
Dawson cold. Not because he did not possess an eye for Nature's beauty;
it was rather because, though he was looking at it, he wasn't actually
seeing it. His mind was too filled with other and more personal
thoughts.
The previous night he and Freddy Farmer had taken off from Bolling Field
and had flown directly to the Army Air Forces base at Miami. There,
after making sure, they had delivered the first of the sealed envelopes.
Later they had flown on to the base at San Juan, on Puerto Rico, and
delivered the second envelope. Now they were winging their way farther
south to the Air Transport Command base at San Fernando on Trinidad.
"After Trinidad, Paramaribo, and Belem, and Natal," Dawson said, and
scowled down at the beautiful Caribbean. "That's just the point, too. A
couple of air-mail pilots, that's all we are!"
"What's that, Dave?" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice in the inter-com
phones. "What are you mumbling about?"
"Mumbling?" Dawson snorted. "I was shouting with joy! I'm so excited
that I can hardly keep from jumping overboard. And now that I think of
it, maybe that _would_ be a good idea!"
"Then go right ahead, old thing," the English youth in the rear pit
chuckled. "Nothing I want more than for you to have your own way, you
know."
"Don't look right now, but you can go fly a kite to the moon, pal!"
Dawson growled. "I suppose you're enjoying this here-to-there hop in the
sky?"
"Well, I _have_ seen better piloting," Freddy came right back. "But,
considering one thing and all, I'm not too fed up--yet. On the other
hand, it is a bit boring. I mean--"
"You mean what?" Dave asked as Freddy let the rest hang in mid-air.