_Atlantic Mirage_
With its twin engines thundering out a mighty song of power, the R.A.F.
Lockheed Hudson bomber cut a straight and true path westward at some
eight thousand feet above the long rolling grey-green swells of the
North Atlantic. Higher up, a billion twinkling stars looked down on
a crazy world at war out of a cloudless night sky, and served as a
billion guiding beacons to that lone aircraft pointed dead on for the
Newfoundland coast.
Stretched out comfortably in the empty bomb compartment of the
Lockheed, Dave Dawson absently lifted a hand and pressed it against the
upper left part of his tunic. Underneath the cloth he could feel the
sealed envelope tucked safely away in the inside pocket. A moment later
he let his hand drop down into his lap and sat scowling faintly at
the rack of signal flares on the port side of the compartment. Then,
suddenly, as though he could actually feel it, he turned his head to
meet Freddy Farmer's curious stare. The English-born air ace nodded and
grinned.
"I've been combing my brains, too, old thing," Freddy said, "wondering
what in the world that envelope contains. Blasted odd that it should
be turned over to us for delivery. And to your Secretary of State, no
less."
"Yeah, screwy, all right," Dawson grunted. "Funny thing, though. The
way it was handed to us, it makes me feel as though I were smuggling
something into the States. You haven't got enough fingers on your two
hands to count the number of aircraft that are flying back and forth
across the Atlantic these days. And not a few of them are strictly
courier planes, too. So why wasn't this sent by one of the usual
courier planes, I ask you?"
Freddy Farmer sighed and shook his head.
"You can ask me," he grunted, "but I haven't the faintest idea what's
the correct answer."
"And you can say that again for me!" Dawson muttered. "Unless it's
because--Oh nuts! I'm just letting the old brain go for a stroll."
"Unless what, Dave?" the English youth prompted. "I know, I know! It's
probably another one of those crazy hunches of yours. But some of them
have come pretty close to the real thing in the past. So what's this
one about?"
"Come _close_, huh?" Dawson snorted, and gave Freddy a hard look.
"Plenty of them have smacked the nail right on the head. And you know
it, pal. But anyway, the only reason I can see why they handed this to
us is because they didn't want it to go by the usual method."
"Obvious!" Freddy Farmer snapped. "A ten year old child could reason
that out, silly! I thought you had a hunch on _why_ they didn't want it
to go the usual way. And while you're on the subject, just who do you
mean by _they_?"
"For a little guy you can sure ask plenty of big questions!" Dawson
growled. "Sweet tripe! How do I know? They could be most anybody. Maybe
the Yank Embassy in London. Maybe Yank G.H.Q. in London. And maybe the
Queen of Sheba, too! How do I know? I had lots of questions I wanted to
ask the group captain back there at Croydon, but after taking a look at
his face, I could tell it wouldn't get me to first base. Maybe he knew,
but it was my hunch he wasn't going to tell us."
Dawson paused a moment to lick his lips and shrugged.
"So who sent it is anybody's guess, and I'm not even bothering to
guess," he continued. "But about it not going through the usual
channels, here's what I think. The powers that be were afraid it would
be spotted, maybe even swiped, or lost. Maybe they knew that somebody
was wise to the fact that this was headed for Secretary Hull. So to
throw whoever it was off the beam, they sneaked it out to Croydon to
be taken across and delivered by us. Who would guess that a couple of
guys going to the States on leave would be carrying a letter to the
Secretary of State? See what I mean?"
"Yes, that's a possibility," Freddy Farmer grunted with a frown. "But
here's a funny thing, Dave. I didn't exactly _plan_ to pop on down to
Washington to say hello to Colonel Welsh. Did you?"
"To tell the truth, I hadn't even thought of it yet," Dawson replied.
"Of course, if we should be passing through D. C. I sure would drop in
to see the colonel. But it was just one of those things I'd probably do
while on leave."
"But Group Captain Bainsworth seemed to think that was just what we
were _going_ to do," Freddy argued. "And right after we reached New
York."
"Yeah," Dawson grunted, and looked at his English pal. "Or else it was
a left-handed order, and we're just catching on now."
"And that's a possibility, too," Freddy Farmer said with a grave nod.
"But--blast it!--we're supposed to be going on leave, and to forget the
confounded war for a spell--if we can. Which we won't, of course. But
there should be a law against filling up a chap going on leave with
mystery. There really should!"
Dave opened his mouth to speak. Instead, though, he bent his head and
faked a cough while he wiped the grin from his face. When next he
looked at Freddy, his eyes were bright and eager.
"Know what, Freddy?" he said. "I just thought up a way to find out all
the answers. Yes sir! And it's foolproof. We can't miss!"
"Really, Dave?" the English youth echoed excitedly, and leaned forward
a little. "How?"
Dawson winked very confidentially, and started to slip a hand inside
his tunic.
"A cinch way!" he said in a stage whisper. "And are we dumb not to
have thought of it until now! Tell you what, pal! We'll rip open the
envelope and see for ourselves. I bet you all the stored up coffee in
Brazil that it will be mighty interesting, too!"
Freddy Farmer sat up straight. The blood drained from his face, his jaw
sagged, and a look of utter horrified amazement came into his eyes.
"Good grief, Dave!" he gasped out. "Are you mad? Are you absolutely
balmy? Open that envelope? When it's addressed to Secretary of State
Cordell Hull? Good grief, Dave! Why--why--why, they could shoot you for
a thing like that. And besides, it was entrusted to us. For Heaven's
sake, Dave, don't you dare open--"
The English youth broke off short and choked and sputtered over his own
words as he saw the broad grin spread over Dawson's face.
"Boy! Do I get a kick out of the way you can change expressions on that
mug of yours!" Dave laughed. "Okay, sweetheart. Just for you I'll let
the envelope stay right where it is. But, pal, did you rise in a hurry
to the bait that time! Boy, oh boy!"
Deep red flooded Freddy's face, and he could only go on sputtering for
a moment or two longer.
"You no-good blighter!" he finally got out. "You almost had me
believing you for a moment. Blast you! For sixpence I'd take that
envelope away from you, and make sure that nothing happened to it!"
"Well, of course you could _try_, pal!" Dave grinned at him.
"But maybe they wouldn't like us to make a wreck out of this bomb
compartment. So let's skip it, huh? Besides, I think I'll go forward
and ride with Squadron Leader Hixon for a while."
"Do that, by all means!" Freddy Farmer snapped at him. "And observe him
closely. Perhaps he can teach you something about flying. Nobody else
has been able to, though, Lord knows, they tried hard enough and long
enough!"
"Smacko!" Dave chuckled, and pushed up onto his feet. "I walked right
into that one. So that evens us up. See you later, pal."
"Much later, if I get my wish!" Freddy snorted, and squirmed around to
a more comfortable position. "Now, run along, my little man. I've got
important things to think about."
Dawson let the conversation hang on a nail right there, and went
forward and into the pilots' compartment. The co-pilot's seat was
empty, and he caught Squadron Leader Hixon's eye in the rear view
mirror, and cocked a brow.
"Mind if I ride with you for a bit, sir?" he asked.
The pilot grinned, nodded, and jerked his head at the empty seat.
"Do that, Dawson, please," he said. "Been on the point of calling
somebody up here to help me keep awake. Blasted uninteresting flights,
these. Too much water, and too little anything else. But I fancy you're
just as keen to get it done with as I am, what?"
"It will be swell to get back home, and how!" Dave grunted, and slid
into the empty co-pilot's seat. "I've got a million things I want to
do, but I probably won't have the time to do even half of them. Time
flies too darn fast when you're on leave."
"How right you are!" the Squadron Leader echoed. "A chap no sooner
settles down to have a bit of sport and fun than it's time to pack up
and catch a train or bus back to the drome. But war's like that, of
course. Good times go by in a hurry. And--well, flights like this one
seem to take years and years."
"Well, dawn's busting over the horizon, anyway," Dawson consoled him.
"And it looks like we'll have sunshine and blue sky for the rest of the
trip. That--"
The Yank air ace cut himself off short, leaned forward and peered out
through the window glass on his side.
"See something?" Squadron Leader Hixon inquired casually.
Dawson didn't reply for a moment. He thought he saw something on the
surface of the water a few miles ahead and a couple toward the north.
It seemed to disappear from view, however, when he strained his eyes.
Then, suddenly, he saw it again, and his heart leaped up in his throat
to hit hard against his back teeth. Without taking his eyes off the
distant object, he reached and rapped Squadron Leader Hixon on the arm.
"Take a look up ahead there, and a couple of degrees to the north,
sir!" he cried out. "That looks to me like a submarine on the surface.
Yes, it is. But I can't tell from here whether it's one of theirs or
one of ours."
"By Jove, you're right, Dawson!" the Squadron Leader's voice boomed
close to Dave's ear. "A sub, right enough. And not making headway,
either. It's--Oh, blast our luck!"
"What do you mean?" Dawson shot at him.
"Not a U-boat," the pilot said with heavy disappointment in his voice.
"Can tell from the shape of the conning tower. It's one of our undersea
boats. Should know I'd never have the luck to come across one of
Hitler's U-boats on the surface like that. I'm--I say! Seems to be a
bit of trouble, what? They've sighted us and sent up a signal."
Dawson didn't make any comment for the moment. His gaze was fixed on
the submarine awash on the surface, and he saw the red distress flare
arc up into the air from the conning tower bridge. Squadron Leader
Hixon had changed course and was drilling the Lockheed Hudson down
across the sky straight toward the motionless submarine. In a matter
of seconds Dave was able to see the groups of men on the bow and stern
decks. And as a second and a third red distress flare arced upward, he
saw the men on deck start waving their hands wildly. And a split second
later he saw a thin column of smoke come up out of the conning tower
hatch.
"Trouble is right!" he grunted. "Must be a fire inside, which forced
them all up top-side. Nothing we can do for them, though, is there,
sir? This Hudson can't land in the water to pick them up."
"Certainly can't!" the pilot grunted with a frown. "Too many of them,
anyway, even if we could. The chaps are just out of luck, too. My
orders are for radio silence, regardless. I can't even send out a flash
to any of our navy boats that may be close by."
"That is tough!" Dave groaned, and watched the trickle of smoke come up
out of the conning tower hatch. "But we could change course, sir. I
mean circle around a bit and perhaps spot one of our patrol destroyers,
or something. Then we could drop a note giving them the location of
these poor devils."
"Yes, of course we can do that, and will," the pilot said. "A good
suggestion, Dawson. First, though, we'll slide down over them for a
closer look. There's just the chance that it isn't as bad as we think.
Maybe they just want to give us some kind of a message, and that fire
aboard is really under control."
"Well, here's hoping, and how!" Dawson breathed as the Lockheed went
sliding down lower and lower. "There's only one thing worse in my book
than fire in the air, and that's fire on the water."
"And aren't you right!" the Squadron Leader echoed, tight-lipped.
"Well, here goes for a better look at the chaps."
"What a sweet spot to be in, I don't think!" Dawson grunted. "A fire
right under their feet, and about four miles of ocean under the fire. I
hope--Hey! What gives?"
Dawson hardly realized that he had choked out the last. As a matter of
fact, the words he spoke were simply automatic, for in the next split
second his brain was in a mad whirl. The forward gun of the submarine
had suddenly spat red and orange flame upward. And in practically
the same instant the starboard engine of the Lockheed exploded in a
thunderous roar of sound, and a sheet of vivid red flame went sweeping
back over the wing!