_Wings Westward_
The sun was a solid red ball of flame balanced perfectly on the western
lip of the world, as the Army Air Forces Flying Fortress eased down
to a perfect landing at Hickam Field, on the island of Oahu, in the
Hawaiians. On the way down, both Dawson and Freddy Farmer took a good
look at Pearl Harbor, where on December Seventh of the year before
treacherous Jap wings had left their mark of death and destruction. By
now, however, practically every visual reminder of that terrible day
had disappeared. Sunken and half sunken ships were once again on the
surface, or in dry dock, receiving last-minute repairs before steaming
out to join the Pacific Fleet and pay back ten times over what they
had suffered. And the shambles that had been made of Hickam Field that
day was also just a blood-boiling memory. New shops, new hangars, new
barracks, and so forth, had sprung up like mushrooms almost overnight.
In fact, even to Dawson and Farmer, who had seen that airfield at its
worst, it seemed well nigh incredible that it was actually one and the
same place. And it was Freddy Farmer who made the first comment.
"Our navigator didn't get us off course, did he, by any chance?" he
grunted at Dave, with a gesture of his hand earthward. "I mean, that
really is Hickam Field down there, isn't it?"
"It is," Dave grinned back at him. "And some miracle, too, hey, pal?
Boy! When they roll up their sleeves around here and get to work,
they sure get to work. Last time we saw it a fly couldn't have landed
without running into a bomb crater, or a section of blasted hangar, or
something. Yup! The Navy and Army boys have sure done a wonderful job
here at Oahu. And how!"
"Quite!" the English-born air ace echoed the compliment, and
unconsciously braced himself as the Flying Fortress touched ground and
trundled forward to a full stop.
A few moments later it had taxied up to in front of the Administration
Building, and one of the crew had opened the fuselage door. Dawson
winked at Freddy, and grinned.
"Well, so far so good, kid," he said, and pushed up out of his seat.
"Just another eight or nine thousand miles, and we'll be there."
"Hardly worth thinking about, what?" Freddy groaned. "Gosh, but the
Pacific is a big ocean."
"Yeah, and we've been looking at only the _top_ of it!" Dave chuckled.
"Anyway, there's one thing we can be thankful for. We didn't have to
make any War Bond speeches in Frisco. Major General Hawks was a good
guy, and got us out of there fast."
"And if we can get away from here just as fast, it'll suit me fine!"
Freddy Farmer grunted. "Not that I don't like flying, you understand.
But being a blasted passenger really isn't much fun."
"Check with me, too," Dawson said, and groaned softly as he thought of
the countless over-water miles they still had to travel before they'd
reach Australia, and the countless miles from Darwin to Calcutta,
India. "Oh, well, this trip can't last forever."
"For me, it's jolly well lasted that long already!" Freddy sighed, and
climbed down out of the Fortress.
Hardly had both of them reached the ground before a headquarters
captain came up to them and saluted courteously.
"Captains Dawson and Farmer?" he asked with a smile. "I'm Captain
Drake. General Stickney wants to see you right away, please. I've a
jeep right over here."
"Fair enough, Captain," Dawson said with a grin and a nod. "Lead the
way, sir."
A few minutes later the captain ushered them into the office of the
Commandant of the Hawaiian Area. He was a big man, and looked every
inch his rank, did General Stickney. As a matter of fact, as the
general's coal black eyes bored into his, Dawson had the sudden, crazy
sensation that he had done some wrong, and was being dragged up "on the
carpet" for punishment. It was just a crazy thought, of course, and was
gone almost as it was in his mind.
"Sit down, Captains," the general said, and waved them to chairs. "I've
been waiting for you. Received a message from the War Department at
Washington. Had it decoded for you, and--well, here it is. It probably
makes sense to you two."
The senior officer held out a slip of paper. Dawson took it and leaned
over so that Freddy could read it, too. It was from Colonel Welsh, and
read:
"Boy friend disappeared. Possible he is wise. Suggest utmost
caution. Suggest you alter plans of route. Suggest you keep on
constant alert. All Army, Navy, and Air Forces units instructed to
give you any help requested. Good luck to destination. Secrecy
absolutely essential."
Dawson read the decoded message through twice, and experienced the very
familiar, and very unpleasant sensation of cold lumps of lead beginning
to bounce around in the pit of his stomach. It was easy enough to read
between the lines. The Nazi agent had not trailed the colonel back
to Washington. And he had obviously shaken off the man trailing him.
In short, he had disappeared in thin air. That could mean one of two
things. One, that he had given up. And two, that he had not been fooled
by the bluff trick, and was somewhere close to Freddy's and his heels.
Yet somehow that last didn't quite seem to check. Nothing had happened
during their short stay in San Francisco. Nor had anything happened
during the flight down the coast to the emergency field, or during the
flight to Pearl Harbor. It seemed just a little crazy to think that
the enemy would let Freddy and him get this far without showing their
hands. It must be that the colonel had been mistaken about a Nazi agent
sticking close to them in New York.
"Maybe, and maybe not!" Dawson grunted softly. "But the colonel's not
one to yell wolf unless he feels he has darn good cause."
"Then it is bad news, eh?"
It was General Stickney who asked the question. Dawson looked at him,
smiled, and shrugged.
"Not too bad, sir," he said. "But we certainly weren't exactly
expecting it."
"Well, I've received those orders mentioned," the senior officer said
with a faint frown. "So if you've any requests to make, go ahead and
make them. It's obvious that you're on some kind of an important
mission, so we'll do all we can to cooperate."
"Thank you, sir," Dawson said. "Right now, though, I can't think of a
thing to request. Fact is, sir, I guess the first thing is for Farmer
and myself to go into a huddle. To talk things over, I mean."
General Stickney nodded and stood up.
"My office is yours, Captains," he said with a wave of his hand. "Go
ahead and talk. And when you've reached some kind of a decision, I'll
be waiting in the mess lounge. All right, Captains. I'll leave you to
your huddle. Good luck, on whatever it is."
The two air aces saluted smartly and waited for the senior officer to
leave. Then they relaxed and looked at each other.
"And what do you make of it?" Dave asked, and tapped the paper still in
his hand.
"Don't just know for sure," Freddy Farmer replied with a frown. "But it
certainly doesn't make me happy. The colonel's not the one to scare a
chap, so I take it that the business is more than just serious. I mean,
that that bloke wasn't fooled, and that he's got his eye on us. Yet--"
The English youth came to a halt and gestured helplessly.
"Just what I think, too," Dawson grunted. "If that's true, why did he
let us get away out here?"
"Maybe he was forced to," Freddy Farmer murmured, and stared absently
out the office window. "Maybe we were a bit too fast for the blighter.
_And_ maybe his job was turned over to some other chap!"
"Huh?" Dave blinked at him. "How's that?"
Freddy pointed a finger at the message.
"The colonel suggests we alter our route," he said. "There are still
such things as secret radios, you know, Dave. But--well, it does seem
a little fantastic and story-bookish, doesn't it? After all, the only
thing the colonel knows is that the beggar has disappeared."
"Sure," Dawson grunted. "He could have been clipped by a New York
taxi, and be in some hospital right now. I wouldn't want to bet on it,
though. For my money, I think we'd better take the colonel's warning as
real, and act accordingly. Frankly, it would suit me to take off from
here and fly non-stop to Chungking, and get it over with."
"In what?" Farmer asked bluntly. "It's only about sixty-five hundred
miles from here to the Jap-occupied coast, you know. And several more
inland to Chungking!"
"I know, I know!" Dawson growled. "I was only saying what I'd like to
do, not what we can do. That's out, of course. Too far, and too many
Japs in the way, of course. But we've got to get there somehow, and not
by the route we've planned. I--Hold everything!"
"What now?" Freddy Farmer wanted to know.
"The Navy is our best bet, Freddy!" Dawson said as excitement mounted
in his voice. "There's a chance that maybe the Navy can make things
easy as pie for us. Let's go!"
"Go where?" the English youth demanded. "And what's on your mind,
anyway?"
"Later," Dawson snapped, and turned toward the door. "If you should put
up an argument, it might convince me that the idea really is dizzy.
Besides, I want to mull it over a bit. Come on. Let's get General
Stickney to take us to the Navy commandant's office here. He's the one
who can make it possible, or impossible. Let's go!"
Freddy Farmer scowled and hesitated, but finally decided that any
questions would only fall on deaf ears, and went tagging along after
Dawson as the Yank barged out through the office door. And a half-hour
later they had the ears and the attention of Admiral Wallace, Naval
Commandant for the Area.
"I'm sorry that secret orders forbid us from revealing our destination,
or intentions, sir," Dawson spoke for both of them, "but it is
essential that we get to the Far East as quickly as possible. And not
by way of Australia. Naturally, the trip must be made by air. Can
you tell me, sir, if any of your carrier task forces are located at
present between here and the China coast?"
The senior naval officer didn't answer directly. He pursed his lips,
and quietly eyed the two youths. Then, perhaps, he remembered that
he also had received cooperation orders from the Navy Department at
Washington. At any rate, he presently sighed, and nodded.
"Yes, two task forces," he said, and pointed at the huge pinpointed map
of the Pacific that covered one whole side of the room. "There is one
now operating three hundred miles north of Wake Island. And there is
another, of lighter strength, west of Jap-held Marcus Island, and just
about on the One Hundred and Fiftieth Meridian."
"Perfect!" Dawson cried, and snapped his fingers. "That would be apple
pie for one of the Army's North American B-Twenty-Fives. They can land
and take off from a carrier."
"What's that?" General Stickney spoke up. "You plan to reach the China
coast by hopping from carrier to carrier in a B-Twenty-Five?"
"Not the China coast, sir," Dave told him quickly. "Our hop from
the last carrier will be to some spot in the Philippines. There are
still spots there that the Japs haven't taken yet. I mean, a couple
of our secret emergency fields. We can sit down there for our final
refueling."
"Well, I was about to say you'd not have the gas to reach the China
coast from that last carrier," Admiral Wallace spoke up. "And you're
right, there are still one or two of our emergency fields in the
Philippines that the Japs haven't found yet."
"Correct," General Stickney said with a nod. "Received the latest on
that matter from MacArthur only this morning. The best one still held
by us is just south of Legaspi."
"Fine, sir, fine!" Dawson beamed. "Now, if you'll be good enough to
loan us a B-Twenty-Five from Air Forces here? And if you, Admiral,
will be kind enough to advise your task force commanders to be on the
look-out for us, and to give us fuel, Farmer and I will be getting
under way."
"Under way?" General Stickney gasped. "You mean tonight, now? But what
about your crew?"
"No crew, sir," Dawson said quietly. "Farmer and I will handle it
alone. Don't worry, sir. We'll manage okay."
"Well, you two certainly have the reputation for such things," Admiral
Stickney said, and gave them both a hard stare. "But, personally, I'd
feel better about this crazy flight, if I knew a little more about
what you hope to do."
"Sorry, sir," Dawson said, and smiled.
"Don't worry, didn't expect you to say anything," the other growled.
"Orders are orders, and we've both received them. Very well, then. I'll
do my part. And you, General, can take care of the rest of it. When do
you want to leave, Dawson?"
Dave turned his head and stared out at the shadows of night that had
closed down on the Hawaiians.
"Within the hour, if it's possible, sir," he replied, and gave each of
the senior officers a questioning look.
They scowled, and seemed not to like it at all, but they finally nodded.
"In an hour, then," General Stickney grunted, and put on his service
cap. "I'll go tell Air Forces command to make ready a plane. But you
two had better have something at our mess before you take off. You've
at least got time for that, haven't you?"
"Oh, quite, sir, and thank you!" Freddy Farmer spoke up before Dawson
could open his mouth.
"Then, come along in my car," the Army commandant ordered, and headed
for the door.
And it was just five minutes later when it happened!
Just five minutes later when General Stickney was driving them along a
dirt road that curved about a dense palm grove. As a matter of fact,
the dim shadow of a figure streaked up off the side of the road so fast
that Dawson saw the flash of the gun, heard its roar of sound, and felt
the white hot spear of pain cut across the top of his left shoulder
before his brain could grasp what had taken place. Then, as the gun
barked the second time, and the car swerved violently and went hurtling
off the road into the ditch, Freddy Farmer, sitting next to Dave,
seemed to rise right straight in the air and turn completely over, and
his outflung right hand stabbed the darkness with red flame and sharp
sound three times in rapid succession. And then the car was in the
ditch and flopping over onto its side, as the engine roared in protest,
and the rear wheels spun furiously.
A sharp crack on the head had filled Dawson's brain with colored stars
and comets. And then the next thing he realized he was sitting on soft
ground, and Freddy Farmer was shaking him by the shoulders.
"Are you all right, Dave?" Freddy was demanding. "Did you get hit by
that blighter?"
Dawson didn't answer. Reaction brought him up onto his feet fast, and
had him reaching for the small automatic he always carried in his tunic
pocket. He almost had it out before Freddy Farmer grabbed his arm.
"Years late, old thing," the English youth said quietly. "The dirty
beggar is stone dead. Almost got the general, though. You sure you're
all right, General?"
"As good as could be expected!" a voice growled close by in the
darkness. "Felt the wind of his bullet, though. Confound it! What goes
on here, anyway? That would-be killer was one of the Jap farmers from
one of the other islands. How the devil did he get over here? And why
in thunder was he trying to kill us off?"
Freddy didn't offer an answer, and neither did Dawson. Instead, Dawson
walked up out of the ditch, and across the road to where General
Stickney, flashlight and gun in hand, was bending over the crumpled and
motionless figure of a Hawaiianized Japanese farmer. And three tiny
blue holes in his forehead were silent and perfect tribute to Freddy
Farmer's deadly marksmanship. Dawson took a good look, was conscious
of the slight burning sensation at the top of his left shoulder, and
shivered unconsciously.
"Pick out your prize, pal," he grunted at Freddy, as the English youth
joined him. "The best is none too good for that kind of shooting. Me, I
sure was asleep at the switch."
"Well, it had to be done, so I did it, that's all," Freddy grunted. "A
nasty-looking beggar, isn't he, what? Very glad he's dead."
"Well, I've got to look into this right away!" General Stickney
snapped. "The man must have gone mad, and escaped, and was running
amuck. Darn good shooting, Farmer. Thank God, you got him in time. But
why in thunder he came after us--?"
The senior officer finished the rest with just unintelligible sounds in
his throat.
"We can walk the rest of the way," he said. "It isn't far to Air Forces
H.Q. I'll leave you there, and get right on with this confounded
business."
Dawson and Farmer simply nodded, and said nothing as they dropped into
step. Perhaps it was all a cockeyed mystery to General Stickney, but it
was the handwriting on the wall to them. The confirmation of Colonel
Welsh's message, and warning to be on the alert. How that Jap killer
had received his orders, and who had given them to him, were two
little items that even history would never reveal. But the hows, and
the whys didn't matter. The hand of death had reached halfway around
the world to get them both by the throat. And only Freddy Farmer's
lightning-like action, and perhaps too hasty a trigger finger on the
killer's part, had prevented it. But out of the darkness of night the
enemy had struck again. Struck to wipe them out, and gain possession of
that precious document Chungking-bound.
"And the sooner Freddy and I are air-borne, the better I'll like it!"
Dawson echoed the thought softly to himself. "And how! Upstairs, a
fellow can at least see what's cooking."