the flares were burning out, and were down close to the water. Because
of that he was able to see the seven-or eight-thousand-ton tramp steamer
that was leaving a broad, churning wake as it made off at top speed
toward the darkness to the north. The surface vessel flew no flag, and
there was little to distinguish her from any of the thousands of tramp
steamers.
She was no mystery to Dawson, however. One look at her racing away from
the light of the fading flares was all he needed to know the truth. That
ship was one of the few Nazi sea raiders left, and the Arada seaplane
had come from her decks. By looking carefully he could see a cradle on
the forward deck, and a huge hoisting crane that must have lifted the
seaplane over the side.
"The dirty dogs!" Dawson grated as he glared down at the fleeing vessel.
"If only we had some bombs or depth charges aboard, what a finish we
could put to that sea murderer! We'd--"
"Dawson! Thank God!"
The words seemed to explode in his ears. He jerked his head around and
saw the strained features of Colonel Welsh. The Intelligence Officer's
eyes were wide with both anger and amazement. His lips moved silently
for a couple of seconds before he spoke again. "That was close! It would
have been too close, but for you, Dawson! What's that down--"
"A Nazi raider that was carrying the seaplane," Dawson cut him off. "We
can't do anything about her now, though. Even our radio is smashed, so
we can't send out her position. But the pilot and co-pilot, Colonel! Get
help and get them aft. The pilot is still alive, I think, but this
chap--"
Dawson stopped as he turned and looked at the co-pilot in the seat next
to his. Cold rage filled his heart, and his bitter hatred of all things
Nazi flared up again. Too many times had his youthful eyes looked upon
death not to recognize it now. Nothing in the world could help the
co-pilot. He had passed on to join his buddies in the airmen's Valhalla.
"Better get to work on the pilot behind me!" Dawson said with a
sharpness he didn't realize was in his voice. "There must be a medical
kit aboard this bomber. I'll stick here and keep us going. Or do you
want to turn back?"
"No, keep going!" the colonel replied. "It wouldn't do to turn back now.
Here, Corporal! Give me a hand with your pilot. Where's the medical
kit?"
The last words were directed to one of the aircraft's crew who had come
forward into the compartment. Dawson paid no attention to him, for at
that moment the port engine started to kick up a bit, and he had to give
all his attention to getting it to run smoothly again. By then the glow
of the flares had faded out, and the B-25 was thundering on through the
darkness of the night. Dawson switched on the small-instrument light so
that he could keep a careful check on engine performance and hold the
aircraft to her course across the Atlantic. Only once did he take his
attention from his flying, and that was when the dead co-pilot was
lifted from his seat and taken aft. Once again red rage burned within
Dave, as it always did when one of his countrymen was killed. He gripped
the control wheel hard to prevent his hands from shaking.
Presently somebody slid into the co-pilot's seat and touched him on the
arm. It was Freddy Farmer.
"Well done, old thing!" the English youth said in a voice that shook
with feeling. "Fancy we've all got you to thank for saving our hides.
Personally, I was too scared to move for hours, and--"
"Nuts!" Dawson interrupted with gruff affection. "Anybody can haul a
plane out of a dive. If it hadn't been for your sweet shooting, that rat
might have nailed us!"
"Good grief, how did you know?" Freddy gasped. "You couldn't see me from
here!"
"I didn't have to look back," Dawson chuckled. "I simply saw the kind of
shooting it was and knew at once you were behind the guns. How's the
pilot making out, or don't you know?"
"Not too bad, for which he can thank his lucky stars," the English
youth replied. "He'll pull through all right, but I guess the chap will
be out of the war for some time. What kind of blasted business was it,
anyway, Dave? That beggar was waiting for us right up on top, with his
confounded flares. We were--well, as you would say, a sitting duck."
"Yeah, and we were darn near a dead pigeon, too!" Dawson said grimly.
"But how, and why? Don't ask me, pal! I just haven't got the brains it
would take to figure out this crazy mess. To me it looks like one of
those little items of fate the colonel was talking about. Unless--"
"Unless what, Dave?" Freddy Farmer pressed as Dawson fell silent.
"Unless there's no connection at all," the Yank air ace finally
remarked.
"I'm afraid that doesn't make much sense to me," young Farmer said.
"What do you mean, no connection?"
"Well, figure it this way," Dawson replied. "Say that the President's
forthcoming trip to Casablanca is as much of a perfect secret as ever.
That--"
"But that's silly!" Freddy Farmer cut in. "The fact that this plane was
mysteriously attacked means that some blasted Nazi agent found out what
was in one of those sealed envelopes. I mean, that the next bomber
through would have the President aboard."
"Are you all through sounding off?" Dave snapped. "Or don't you want to
hear the rest of what I have to say?"
"Sorry, and all that!" the English youth snapped right back at him.
"I'll be still. What were you going to say, Dave?"
"Figure the President's trip business _out_," Dawson went on speaking
again. "Okay. So for what other reason should we be attacked by a
mysterious plane from a mysterious raider in the middle of the Atlantic?
I can think of only one, and this is it. Take it or leave it. The Nazi
U-boats aren't doing so hot for Hitler these days. We're sinking his
steel sharks left and right, and he's going to run out of them before
long. Okay. Where is a lot of our stuff going these days? To North
Africa. And a lot of it is being _flown_ over. Okay. The Nazis don't
stand a chance of going after our transports with their planes, like
they can on the supply route to England. So what do they do? They send a
sea raider out, fitted with a scout seaplane. The sea raider's detector
picks out one of our planes crossing at night, and the seaplane goes up
to high altitude and waits. Maybe those distress signals are part of
the gag to get our plane to go down for a look. Anyway, the seaplane
pilot drops his flares. They light up the target for him and also blind
those aboard the transport plane long enough for the Nazi rat to do his
stuff with his guns. And there you are. Take it or leave it!"
"Just the point, Dawson," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke in. "I don't know
_whether_ to take it or leave it. I certainly don't!"
"Oh, you there, sir?" Dawson gulped as he turned his head around. "I was
just--well--"
"I know, and I'm glad I heard what you said," the colonel interrupted
him. "I was certain that they were laying for us because they believed
the President to be aboard. Yet I swear I don't see how they could
possibly have found out. I'd stake my life that only we three know the
contents of those sealed envelopes."
"If I may say so, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up, "I have a feeling that
Dawson has come very close to the truth, if he hasn't hit it exactly.
Frankly, sir, it was just too perfect for the Nazis to have planned it
this way. There--there just wasn't enough time, I'd say."
"What do you mean by that last?" the colonel asked him.
"I mean that if we had been attacked by a land-based plane, we could
take it that the Nazis had got wind of the truth and had come after us,"
the English youth started to explain. "But that aircraft was from a
surface ship--a surface ship that was _directly_ in our path. Tell me
this, sir, if you will. On the way down, what did you plan to do when
you reached Trinidad?"
"Eh?" the senior officer grunted. "Why, see you two, of course, and find
out what had happened, if anything. After I had heard what you had to
say, I'd decide what to do next. Why?"
"Well, there you are, sir!" young Farmer cried. "That proves that
Dawson's idea must be right. Don't you see? Even _you_ weren't sure as
to where this aircraft would go next. You didn't even give the pilot his
course instructions until the very start of the take-off. So how could
the Nazis possibly have found out and radioed that surface vessel to
sail to a point _directly in our path_ in the time it took us to fly out
here from Trinidad? It's--it's silly, if you'll forgive me, sir."
The colonel said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a long-drawn-out
sigh.
"Yes, I guess you're right, both of you," he said. "The secret of the
President's trip must still be as safe as ever. Yes, it must be that
way. We just happened to bump into something that any plane flying this
route would have bumped into."
"I sure hated to see that sea raider get away!" Dawson grumbled. "Talk
about lucky shots! That first blast got the radio set cold, unless the
radio man can fix it up, sir? I saw the shambles it was as I dived by
the navigator's nook."
"No, no such luck," Colonel Welsh replied. "I asked him quite a while
back, and he said it was hopeless. The navigator, of course, has a
record of the exact position at the time, so we can report it when we
reach Casablanca."
"How's the pilot, sir?" Dawson asked. "Were there any other casualties
besides that poor co-pilot?"
"The pilot will pull through," Colonel Welsh replied. "The only casualty
was the co-pilot. Well, I'll go aft now to see if I can do anything for
the pilot. You two can get us through all right, eh? I mean--"
"If the engines keep ticking over, we'll make it, sir," Dawson said
quietly. "The tanks were spared, praise be! So I think it will be all
good flying from here in."
"Then I'll leave you to it," the colonel said. "And--and God bless both
of you!"
Neither Dawson nor Farmer had a chance to say anything, because the
Intelligence officer quickly turned and went aft.
"Well, you convinced even me with that swell sales talk of yours,
Freddy," Dawson eventually broke the silence between them. "I guess
maybe I did hit on the right idea, at that."
"I think you did," the English youth echoed. Then with a chuckle he
added, "But I suppose I'll never hear the end of it from now on!"
"Now ain't that gratitude for you?" Dawson groaned, and shook his head
sadly. "So help me, why I keep getting that food-craving hide of yours
out of tight spots, I'll never understand. I must be nuts, I guess!"
"And for once," Freddy Farmer laughed, "I won't argue with you!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Lurking Wings_
For the hundredth time Dawson dug knuckles into his tired eyes, stifled
the yawn that struggled to get up out of his throat, and took a quick
glance at Freddy Farmer seated in the co-pilot's seat. And for the
hundredth time he wondered how the English-born air ace could go through
so much and still look as fresh as a daisy.
"Boy, oh boy!" he finally blurted out. "How do you do it, anyway,
Freddy?"
The English youth glanced his way with arched eyebrows.
"How do I do what?" he wanted to know.
"Look so doggone full of pep," Dawson told him. "Here I feel like the
last rose of summer after a steam roller has run over it, and you look
like a million bucks, or more. How come? Are you taking some very secret
vitamin pills that I don't know anything about, huh?"
"Certainly not!" young Farmer replied at once. "I haven't got _that_
old, yet. But would you like to know the truth?"
"Well, if you insist on telling me, I suppose I've got to listen,"
Dawson grunted. "So shoot."
"Well, don't let my looks fool you," Farmer replied. "I may look fresh,
but I definitely am not that way inside. Fact is, I'm not quite sure
whether I am awake or asleep. And if you insist on knowing everything,
I'd be jolly glad if we would sight land."
Dawson started slightly and shot him a keen look.
"Meaning?" he asked.
Young Farmer made a faint motion of his hand toward the milky sort of
world through which the B-25 was flying. The sun had been up for a long
time, now, but haze blurred the sun's rays and turned both sea and sky
into a drifting milky-tinted mass that made instrument flying absolutely
necessary.
"Meaning that I'm wondering if my navigation has gone haywire," Freddy
said. "We should have made landfall half an hour ago, Dave. But there is
nothing but blasted water down there. How's our fuel?"
"Okay, we've got plenty in the tanks," Dawson said. "If your navigation
is all cockeyed, then I'll eat this ship. Of course, you are a funny
sort of gink in lots of ways, my little man. But when it comes to
navigating, I'll take you every time. So relax, pal. What's a half hour
on an ocean hop? We probably bumped into a head wind, that's all."
"Thanks, old thing," Farmer smiled at him. "And I certainly hope that
you're right. However, this whole blasted business has been so balmy
right from the start that I'm willing to expect almost anything. And, in
fact, I do."
Dawson ignored that remark. Freddy had certainly hit the nail on the
head. Of all the jobs they had tackled, this one was certainly the most
mixed up and involved. It seemed so for the very simple reason that not
one thing had gone along as planned. At every turn something had popped
up to toss a monkey wrench into the works and necessitate a complete
revision of plans. Realization of that caused little fingers of ice to
pluck at Dawson's heart. The object of all this business was a safe
journey by air to Casablanca for the President and the American High
Command. With everything going haywire from the start, what other blows
of Fate might be struck once the President was on his way?
"But I'm just tired, and letting myself get off the beam!" Dawson
mumbled. "The colonel's secret is still his secret. And--and that raider
business was just one of those things. Darn it! Nazi agents just
couldn't have found out anything!"
"Just what I've been trying to convince myself of for hours," he heard
Freddy Farmer say. "But I'm still finding it a bit of a difficult job.
As you say, though, we're both so blasted tired. I feel as though I've
been in this aircraft all my life."
"Yeah, me, too!" Dawson agreed. "I--"
He stopped speaking, straightened up in the seat, and peered into the
milky-colored sky off to the left and a little bit ahead. He stared
until his eyes ached and smarted.
"What's the matter, Dave?" Freddy asked presently. "Are we making
landfall?"
"No," Dawson replied slowly, with a little shake of his head. "I guess
I'm just seeing things. I could swear that I saw a group of planes show
off there for a split second or so."
"Planes?" young Farmer echoed excitedly. "What type? Maybe it's an
escort come out to meet us, and--But no, that couldn't be. Nobody knows
we're coming. Did you recognize them, Dave?"
"That's just the point," Dawson complained as he continued to stare into
the milky mass that was the sky. "I'm not dead sure, but I think--Well,
if you want to know, they looked like Junkers Ju-88's to me. Yeah, the
big long-range babies the Nazis used against England and shipping in the
Atlantic. But maybe I was just seeing things."
"You must have been, Dave!" Freddy said sharply. "It's my guess the
Nazis haven't any long-range bombers to spare against shipping in this
part of the Atlantic. We have far, far too much aerial cover for our
boats. Besides--"
The English-born air ace didn't continue. He stared off to the left.
Dave sensed the sudden movement and impulsively turned his head to look
in that direction, too. As a result, they both saw the milky sky split
apart for a brief moment and reveal six Nazi Junkers Ju-88's winging
along on a course almost parallel with theirs. The haze and the milky
overcast parted just long enough for them to see the six-plane
formation, and then it promptly closed down and hid all from view. But
they had seen the ships and before Dawson took another breath he piloted
the B-25 down and away on a detour course toward the north.
"You were right, Dave!" Freddy Farmer spoke first. "Absolutely right!
Those were Junkers, or I've never seen one in my life. And I've seen
plenty of them!"
"Junkers, right enough," Dawson repeated with a nod of his head. "And
that bunch was the _second_ group! In short, there must be a whale of a
big Yank convoy that they are hunting for, or else--"
Dawson stopped and shrugged, but Freddy Farmer wouldn't let it remain
that way.
"Or else what?" he demanded.
"Or else they are hunting for _all_ planes headed for Casablanca,"
Dawson replied slowly. "Go aft and get the colonel, will you, Freddy? I
think he should be told what's going on."
"Definitely!" young Farmer replied, and quickly slipped out of the
co-pilot's seat.
During the next couple of minutes Dawson virtually "explored" every
square inch of the milky air all about the B-25 but he didn't sight any
planes. Then Freddy returned with Colonel Welsh, and Dawson reported
what they had seen.
"They seem to be all around our course, sir," Dawson added. "Do you want
us to plow right on through, or continue to detour around this area and
come into Casablanca from the north? We've the fuel left to do it, if
that's what you want."
The colonel didn't reply at once. It was very plain from the expression
on his thin face that the news of sighting Nazi aircraft disturbed him
greatly.
"It can't be a convoy they're after," he finally said, "because there
isn't one this far south. And they can't be looking for any plane, such
as this one, because--"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence paused a second, shook his head, and
ordered, "Get on course for Casablanca, Dawson, and plow right on
through! With our radio gone, we're helpless to find out what's what--if
anybody happens to know. The sooner we get to Casablanca, the better. So
bang on through, but avoid action if it's possible."
"Very good, sir," Dawson replied, and pulled the B-25 back onto her
original course. "By the way, sir, how's the pilot?"
"Getting better by the minute," the colonel replied. "Lost a lot of
blood, but we'll take care of that as soon as we get to Casablanca. Push
on through, and I'll order the crew to remain at battle stations. This
is the darnedest mess I ever bumped into!"
"If I've ever met up with anything more tantalizing, then I sure don't
remember it," Dawson remarked by way of agreement. "Okay, sir!
Casablanca it is, and on the run!"
Colonel Welsh murmured something that Dawson didn't catch and, giving
the Yank air ace a pat on the shoulder, he swung about and returned to
his battle station aft. For the next twenty-two minutes Dawson and
Farmer didn't speak as the twin-engined North American B-25 prop-clawed
its way forward through the milky-hued heavens. Neither of them spoke
because anything they might have said would only have served to increase
their fears. Both feared they were lost, and not even headed toward
Casablanca. They feared that at any second a whole flock of those
mysterious Junkers might suddenly appear in the air before them and
open up with all guns. They feared that once more their plans were about
to be knocked into a cocked hat.
"Jeeper, jeepers!" Dawson finally muttered. "I couldn't have a worse
case of jim-jams than I've got right now, even if I was actually
piloting the President's plane. I--"
"Dave!" Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. "I'll be blessed! Look!"
The English youth's exclamation was quite unnecessary because Dawson was
already staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles of
weather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cut
off by a knife. One instant the B-25 was plowing on through the stuff,
and the next it was roaring out into clear air filled with brilliant
sunshine. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port of
Casablanca glistening white in the sun!
"So this guy Farmer is a punk navigator, huh?" Dawson shouted joyously.
"Like heck he is, what I mean!"
"Luck, blasted luck, I swear it!" Freddy breathed, but there was a happy
smile on his face just the same. "Man! I never was so glad in all my
life to see a place as I am to see that spot ahead. Luck, absolutely
nothing but luck!"
"Okay, have it your way," Dawson laughed. "But just keep right on having
this kind of luck. That's all I've got to say. Boy, oh boy! Dry land
ahead, and something to eat, and a place to lay down my weary head.
Oh-oh! Here come some of the boys to give us a look-see. See them,
Freddy?"
"Of course," the English youth replied with a nod, and fixed his gaze on
the flight of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings that were sweeping gracefully up
off North African soil and streaking out to sea toward the B-25.
In less time than it takes to tell about it, those high-speed fighter
aircraft were right on top of the B-25 and skipping and sliding all
about it as their pilots investigated. It took them but a couple of
moments to satisfy themselves. Then they throttled and dropped into
escort position. That is, all except one pilot. He slid out in front to
lead the way to the American-built air base on the north side of the
city. A few minutes later Dawson throttled his engines, and slid the
B-25 down to a feather-bed landing. At a signal from the Operations
Tower, he trundled the bomber in toward the small Administration
Building. There he killed his engines completely, took a deep breath,
and relaxed in the seat. A glance at the instrument clock showed that he
had been in the air for a little over twelve hours, but the way his
numbed body felt, it was as though he had been in the air for over
twelve hundred hours.
"So this is Casablanca," he murmured, and absently unsnapped his safety
harness. "Well, I sure want to give it a look, but not right now. No,
sir! For the next thirty-six hours, and maybe longer, all I want is a
nice soft bed!"
"Make that two, if you please!" Freddy Farmer added, and put a hand to
his mouth to cover the yawn he could no longer hold back. "Just
a--Oh-oh! Here comes a high-ranker in very much of a hurry. Now what, I
wonder?"
Dawson looked toward the Administration Building and saw a trim major
general of the Air Force running toward the B-25. By the time he reached
it, Colonel Welsh was out of the plane. The two officers exchanged hasty
salutes, and the major general started to take Colonel Welsh by the arm
and lead him away. The colonel held back, however, nodded at the bomber
and said something. The major general nodded in reply and made a waving
motion with one hand. Then the pair turned and hurried over to the
Administration Building and disappeared inside.
"Well, how do you like that?" Dawson gasped. "What about that wounded
pilot aft?"
"That's why the colonel stopped," Freddy Farmer replied, and poked a
finger to the right. "Here comes the ambulance now. Let's get back and
see if we can lend them a hand. After all, this is his aircraft."
"Right; let's go," Dawson agreed, and pushed his stiff body out of the
seat. "The least we can do is wish him all kinds of luck."
They made their way back to the compartment where the wounded pilot was
resting on blankets laid out on the floorboards. There was some color in
his face, now, and his neck and the upper part of his chest was swathed
in bandages. Gathered about him were the members of his crew, each
trying to keep from looking at the blanket-covered body of the co-pilot
that lay on the far side of the compartment.
Dawson crouched beside the wounded pilot and grinned cheerfully.
"Lucky guy, Captain," he said. "A nice hospital, pretty nurses, and
swell food for you. How's for changing places, huh?"
"I'll let you know after I've tried it for once," the other said, and
matched the grin. "And, Dawson--"
"Yes, fellow," Dave prompted.
"I'm a dope, Dawson," the pilot said. "I want to apologize for that
crack I made about losing a brother in a night torpedoing. It sure
turned out different. I didn't know the score, you see, so I thought you
were just--Well, I mean--"
"Skip it, fellow, skip it," Dawson smiled, and gently pressed the
other's arm. "I didn't know the score myself, so I was just whistling in
the dark. But forget it, Skipper! You had a perfect right to think as
you did. Now here's the ambulance, so I'll stop talking. Good luck,
fellow. And if we can work it, we'll come say howdy to you in the
hospital. Good luck, anyway!"
"Yes, a million in luck, old thing!" Freddy Farmer added as he stood
smiling down at the man.
"I've already had the million in luck, thanks to you two," the pilot
said, as the ambulance medico came climbing into the B-25. "Be sure and
come see me, if you can. I want to thank you for bringing the ship
through. I'm kind of fond of her, you see, and--Well, you know how it
is, eh?"