under the sun," Dave said. "But that's barring the yellow races, of
course. And that's just what I mean. A Jap aboard an American ship
can't pass for a Yank. He's out and out of the yellow race. And you
haven't any Americanized Japs on the Indian, have you, sir?"
Dave directed the last at Colonel Welsh, who instantly shook his head.
"None," the senior officer said. "Not a one. And you've got the
right idea, Dawson. It couldn't have been a Jap who killed Jackson
and Pollard. So it must have been one of Hitler's men, or maybe one
of Mussolini's. I doubt that, though. Italians just haven't got the
brains to be that clever. So a Hitlerite is our man. Naturally he's
cooperating with the Japs, and will pass on what he has the first
instant he can. That's our job, though: to nail him, and nail him good,
before he has that chance."
"I suppose you've checked the Indian's list of officers and lesser
ratings, haven't you, sir?" Dave asked.
"Backwards and forwards!" the Colonel said savagely. "And up and down
as well. We've dug into every man's life with pick and shovel, you
might say, and didn't come up with so much as a single suspicion.
That's the devilish part of this kind of a thing. It's quite possible
that this particular rat, or rats, has served in our navy for years.
The whole civilized world is learning more and more each new day, to
its sorrow, how thoroughly Germany and Japan planned for this thing
long, long ago. When Hitler was somebody we just laughed at and made
jokes about, he was sending his confounded spies to the four ends of
the earth, and getting them all set to do their part when _Der Tag_
arrived. But I don't have to tell this to you. You two have no doubt
seen countless examples of that sort of thing."
The chief of Intelligence paused for a moment and slowly closed his
long tapering fingers into rock hard fists.
"I'm a spy myself," he said eventually, "so I think I have a good
idea of both sides of the picture in this kind of business. A spy is
regarded as the lowest form of worm in wartime, and he's usually shot
five minutes after he is caught. But there have been a lot of spies
who were brave and gallant men, and they took the job of going behind
the enemy lines because that was the best way they could serve their
country. But the type of spy such as we're dealing with now--the
slinking rat who in peace-time becomes the citizen of another country,
enjoys all of its advantages, and then turns on that country when his
former country goes to war--well--he is in my opinion the rottenest
form of vermin that ever existed. He doesn't rate the privilege of
being shot when caught. He should be strung up by the thumbs, and
skinned alive."
"And even that's too good for him!" Captain Lamb echoed viciously.
"Those who bite the hand that's feeding them deserve the worst of the
worst. And man! Would I give my life just to get my hands on that skunk
aboard the Indian, whoever he is!"
Dave was slightly startled by the almost berserk rage in the redheaded
Captain's voice. He glanced at Colonel Welsh and saw a look of pity and
sympathy flit across the chief of U. S. Intelligence officer's face.
That expression told much to Dave, and he glanced at Captain Lamb again.
"You knew Jackson and Pollard, Captain?" he asked quietly.
The Captain nodded and licked his lower lip.
"I knew them both well," he said in a low voice. "Pollard was my
dearest friend. We came from the same town. Played football together at
Dartmouth before he changed over to the Naval Academy. They don't make
them better than Jake Pollard was."
"If it helps any," Dave said quietly, "I'll be thinking of you,
Captain, _if_ and _when_ Farmer and I catch up with that dirty rat
aboard the Indian."
"Thanks," the redhead mumbled, and lapsed into brooding silence.
Dave started to say something else to him, changed his mind, and turned
back to Colonel Welsh.
"I suppose you've got a plan of operation you want Farmer and me to
follow, sir?" he asked.
"I have the _start_ of a plan of operation," the senior officer replied
gravely. Then with a helpless shrug: "But from there on you two will be
on your own."
CHAPTER FIVE
_Silent Wings_
Dave waited for the man to continue, and when he didn't he put another
question to him.
"We start from scratch, sir, you mean?" he asked. "There isn't any kind
of a clue for us to work on? You're stationing us aboard the Indian, of
course?"
"That's right," the chief of U. S. Intelligence replied with a nod.
"The Indian is shy two flying lieutenants, and you two are going
to fill the vacancies. Matter of fact, the Indian is also shy two
machinists' mates, and they'll be put aboard too before she weighs
anchor sometime the day after tomorrow."
"Two of your men, sir?" Freddy Farmer spoke up, giving the Colonel a
keen stare.
"Right," the senior officer said briskly. "But, I'm not going to tell
you who they are, any more than I'm going to tell them who you are.
That may sound strange, but it's been my experience that agents working
in pairs accomplish more than agents working in a group. As officers
you two will have the run of the ship, you might say. At the same
time, though, you might tip your hand if you went poking around in the
non-com and enlisted men's quarters. It works the other way around,
too. So I'm planting men in both departments of the ship. You won't
know who the other two are, and they won't know who you two are. But
here's a very important point to remember. This Intelligence work I'm
counting on your doing is, in a way, over and above the call of duty.
"I mean by that that you two will be aboard ship as flying lieutenants.
That will be your main job, and you'll take orders from your Section
Leader, or higher ranks, just as though we'd never had this talk at
all. You'll have no special privileges any more than anybody else
aboard ship will have. You won't because not a living soul aboard will
know the real reason why you are there. Not even the Indian's captain
will know. As they say in England, this is going to be a strictly
hush-hush job. Yes, you'll be starting from scratch. All I can arrange
is for you to be assigned to the Indian to fill the two flying officer
vacancies. What happens after that is up to you. A tough one, eh?"
"The odds aren't so good," Dave said with a faint grin. "But I see your
point, sir, and its advantage. If nobody knows why we're there, then
there's no chance of the truth leaking out."
"I say, one point, though," Freddy Farmer spoke up with a worried
expression on his face. "What about me? My accent, I mean. Won't it
seem a bit odd for me to be put aboard an American aircraft carrier?"
"Not a bit, so stop worrying about that," Colonel Welsh said with a
smile. "A month or two ago, yes, but not now. You have only to pick
up the papers to see that both American and British airmen are being
trained in this country. We're not keeping things separate any more.
Take Java, for example. There are Yanks, British, and Dutch over there
all fighting together, and under the Dutch Command. We're the United
Nations now. And we'll become more so before this thing is over. No,
Farmer, it won't seem odd at all for an English youth to have been
trained in this country and be assigned aboard a U. S. Navy aircraft
carrier for sea duty. True, you may get a bit of ribbing--about your
English accent, and stuff. But I guess you can take that, eh?"
"Farmer has learned fast, sir," Dave said with a chuckle. "He can dish
it right back with the best of them. Snappy come-backs are apple pie
for him. I even have to bear down myself at times. Fact is, I wouldn't
be surprised but that in six months or so you won't be able to tell him
from a Yank."
"Goodness, no, if the Yank is you!" Freddy said with a groan.
Dave laughed and cocked an eye at Colonel Welsh.
"See what I mean, sir?" he grunted. "Right on top of the ball all the
time. He's good!"
"Well, I don't think any of us have anything to worry about on that
score," the Colonel said. "And I've a hunch, Farmer, that once your
shipmates see you in the air they'll realize that how a chap speaks is
pretty small potatoes, considering. Well, I guess that's all. You leave
tonight for San Diego. There's a Navy plane out at Alexandria Field.
You can take that. And there'll be a passenger on your trip west, if
you don't mind."
"Glad to have company," Dave said. "Who is he, sir?"
"Me," Colonel Welsh said with a grin. "I've got some business out on
the Coast. So I might as well hitch-hike on your plane. Oh! In case
you're wondering, you'll be fitted with uniforms and gear before we
leave. For this job you'll have the rank of lieutenants. That's below
your R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant's rank. Our Navy Lieutenant is equal to
your rank of Flying Officer. An R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant is equal to
our Lieutenant Commander, or an Air Corps Captain. But I don't think it
wise to put you aboard the Indian as Lieutenant Commanders. Fact is,
too, the vacancies are for lieutenants. So I hope you don't mind, eh?"
"Not a bit, sir," Dave replied instantly, and laughed. "As a matter of
fact, just a few minutes ago you told us that we weren't even R.A.F.
any more, so any rank you give us is bound to be okay. But, speaking
for both of us, what rank we hold doesn't mean a thing. If we can pull
this thing off, it's okay by us if we go aboard the Indian as a couple
of seamen, third class. But--well, there are a couple of questions I'd
like to ask. Or are you in a hurry, sir?"
"No hurry except to nail that rat aboard the Indian before she gets
into the Marshall Island attack," Colonel Welsh said bluntly. "No. For
heaven's sake, go ahead and ask all the questions you want. I certainly
don't want you to go into this thing not knowing everything you
should, or at least everything I can possibly tell you. What's your
first question?"
"Something I hope won't happen, but might," Dave said with a frown.
"Supposing Farmer and I catch onto something--get a line on this rat,
or rats--but really need help. Is there anyway we can contact the two
mechanics you're putting aboard to help us?"
Colonel Welsh glanced at his three junior officers and smiled before he
looked back at Dave.
"A good question, Dawson," he said. "I was going to tell you about that
as we flew west tonight, but now that you've brought up the point, I
might just as well do it now."
The chief of U. S. Intelligence paused long enough to pull open one of
the countless drawers of the huge desk. When he took his hand out of
the drawer, he held two pins. They were common ordinary looking pins
save that the top was painted a bright orange. He gave a pin to each of
the former R.A.F. aces.
"Many, many times my agents have worked on a case and didn't know who
else was working with them," the Colonel began presently. "And often
they got in tight corners and needed help badly. So--But hold it a
minute. Let me mention something else right here. When I say tight
corner, I don't mean that the agent is about to be caught, or about to
be killed. I mean _more than that_! I mean when he gets in a spot where
_valuable_ information he has collected may be lost unless he gets
help. Or when something is about to happen that will seriously harm his
country unless he gets help. That sort of thing. _Not_ the present or
future welfare of the individual agent. You see what I mean?"
"Yes, sir," Dave replied, as his stomach suddenly felt a little hollow
and empty, and his mouth went just a little bit dry. "Help to save your
country, but not to save your own life, eh?"
"Exactly," the senior officer said, and nodded at the two orange-headed
pins. "That pin is an agent's SOS sign when _all else has failed_. Keep
that hidden on your person at all times. If the occasion ever does
arise when you need help in the way I described, take that pin out and
stick it in the right side of your shirt collar. If you're not wearing
a shirt, then in the right side of the top of whatever garment you're
wearing. In short, so that the orange head of this pin is nearest the
right side of your face. If there is another agent near by, he will
immediately make himself known by placing his pin in the exact place
where you have put yours.
"Remember that. Don't forget it for an instant! If you need help, place
this pin at the top of whatever garment you're wearing where it will be
nearest the right side of your face. Even if you've only got a pair of
pants on, put the pin in the right side of the pants at the very top.
That clear?"
The two youths nodded. Then Freddy Farmer leaned forward a bit, and
stared questioningly at the Colonel.
"Supposing, sir, you see the SOS pin on another chap," he said. "In the
right place, of course. But supposing it may interrupt your own work to
make yourself known to him. What then?"
"Establish your identity, regardless," Colonel Welsh replied bluntly.
"That is a fixed rule in this department. And here is why. Because of
what the SOS pin stands for: a last appeal for help when the welfare of
the U. S. is in serious peril. I know what you're thinking. Your own
case may be just as important as the agent's who is appealing for help.
That is the chance we have to take, though. That is why the SOS pin can
only be shown as a desperate last resort to forestall a great military
and naval calamity. And to give you an idea of what I mean, I know of
only two cases when the SOS pin was shown during the fifteen years I
have been in this department. True, the coming of war will increase
the possibility of the SOS pin being shown. But--well, that's for the
future to bring to light. Now, let's have another question."
The Colonel glanced at Dawson, but it was Freddy Farmer who asked the
question.
"If this skunk chap is still aboard the Indian, sir," he said slowly,
"and if the aircraft carrier is to put to sea the day after tomorrow,
what harm _can_ be done by that chap? Do you believe that while at sea
he will make some effort to get in touch with Japanese forces? And is
our job to stop him from doing that?"
The senior officer thought over the answer to that for a moment, and
scowled hard at the opposite wall.
"The best answer to that," he finally said, "is what I told you a
moment ago. I mean that I can see that you are put aboard the Indian,
but from then on you are absolutely on your own. Frankly, you will be
doing no more than punching in the dark. I feel certain that the spy
is still aboard, but _I don't know for sure_. If he is aboard, and
the Indian puts to sea, the information he has collected may be just
a beautiful white elephant on his hands. He may not be able to do a
single thing about it until it is too late, and his information not be
worth a darn. But the point is, we can't take chances on anything.
"You see, we have no idea whether our man is a seaman, a mechanic, or a
flying officer. Suppose for a minute that he is a flying officer. Think
of the opportunities he'd have to contact the Japs. On patrol he could
sneak a message over the side that would drop down to be picked up by
a Jap submarine. He might even break formation and scoot off to some
point where he knows Japs naval vessels are on patrol, and contact them
that way. He might not even return. No, Farmer, the fact that he goes
to sea with the Indian doesn't make anything certain for us."
The senior officer paused, looked very unhappy, and sighed heavily.
"That is the rotten part of Intelligence work," he grunted presently.
"Nine cases out of ten you have absolutely nothing to work on. You've
just got to make blind stabs in the dark, and trust that you'll connect
with something that will get you somewhere. The only suggestion I
can give you is to keep your eyes and ears open every minute of the
time--particularly your eyes. It seems certain that the murderer
isn't going to keep his secret any longer than he has to. It's plain
dynamite, and he knows it. He's going to try somehow to get that
knowledge to the Japanese Fleet. If you can spot him and nail him, you
will be everlastingly blessed by the Navy, from the President on down."
"Well, we'll do our best," Dave said grimly. "And I hope and pray it
will be good enough."
"Amen, to that," Colonel Welsh said softly. Then, pushing up onto his
feet, he said, "Well, we can start now by finding you two uniforms that
don't look as if they were picked out in the dark. Then we'll go on out
to Alexandria Field--and head west."
CHAPTER SIX
_Midnight Menace_
With her twin engines roaring full out, the Navy Lockheed R40-1, a
"cousin" of the famous Lockheed Hudson bomber, shook the dust of the
airport runway at Albuquerque, New Mexico, from her wheels, and went
climbing up into the night sky on the last leg of the trans-continental
flight to San Diego. At the controls was Dave Dawson. In the co-pilot's
seat was Freddy Farmer, and between them and just aft in the
navigator's seat was Colonel Welsh.
For quite some time now conversation between them had been at a very
definite stand-still. At the start of the trip they had talked on this
and that to help pass the time, but long before Albuquerque was reached
all three of them had run down like clocks. There wasn't anything more
to talk about, and each was quite content to sit with his own thoughts
and hope for a speedy arrival at San Diego.
However, when Dave had lifted the Lockheed high enough to clear the
mountains ahead by a good margin, he got fed up with the silence, and
nudged Freddy in the ribs.
"Say something, pal," he said. "Tell me the story of your life, before
the silence puts me to sleep. Don't be bashful. Colonel Welsh won't
mind. Will you, Colonel?"
"Certainly not," the senior officer said with a chuckle. "Fact is, I'll
bet it's mighty interesting, and well worth listening to."
"There you are, Freddy!" Dave cried. "Both the Colonel and I are all
ears, and eager to hear about it."
"Very well," the English youth said. "If you insist. There isn't very
much to tell, though. Up to May, Nineteen Forty, I led the usual
English boy's life. You know, school, play, and all that sort of thing.
But in May, Nineteen Forty--it was May Tenth to be exact--I met an
American chap named Dave Dawson. Well, that was the turning point in my
life. _Downwards_, you know. I've rued the day ever since. And there
you are!"
"Ouch!" Dave cried. "A bull's-eye for the young man. And he has the
nerve to say that after all I've done for him. He's--Hey! What's that?"
"What's what?" Freddy demanded as Dave spoke the last sharply.
The Yank born war ace took a hand off the controls and pointed off to
the right.
"Over there," he said. "Thought I saw a flash of light. Guess it was a
falling star."
"Probably was an airways beacon," Colonel Welsh spoke up. "There's one
up that way a bit, I believe. That was all right, Farmer. Now it's your
turn, Dawson. See if you can match it."
"Fat chance, but I can try," Dave said with a grin. "Well, up to that
never to be forgotten May Tenth, when Hitler really started to try
and drown the world in human blood, I too had led pretty much the
average boy's kind of life. But May Tenth changed everything for me,
too. In a different way, though. Up to then I had all kinds of ideas
about fighting my way through life and maybe up to the top in whatever
profession I chose to follow. No soap, though. That meeting with Farmer
on May Tenth changed everything. Since then I've had to carry him on my
back, and try to make the grade for _two_ people instead of just for
myself. However--"
"That _is_ some kind of a light over there!" Colonel Welsh interrupted
sharply. "And it isn't the flash from any beacon. Sort of a blue kind
of light. Saw it for a second, just now, and it was slanting upwards."
"Could be another plane," Freddy Farmer opined. "Engine exhausts show
blue in the dark, you know. Might be one of your transport planes."
Colonel Welsh glanced at his wrist watch in the glow of the cabin
light, and shook his head.
"No," he said. "At least, not one of the scheduled planes. Besides,
we'd see the red and green navigation lights."
On impulse Dave reached out his hand and switched off all of his own
lights, save the wing-tip navigation lights. Then all three of them
stared hard off to the right. For a full two minutes nobody spoke. The
three of them simply strained their eyes at the vast array of night
shadows in the heavens. But all that it got them was aching eyes.
"Nothing there evidently," Colonel Welsh eventually broke the silence.
"Perhaps it was just a falling star, but I never saw a star fall _up_."
"Maybe it was some of that Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said with a
chuckle. "I never heard of it being seen in this part of the country,
though."
"Saint _what_?" Freddy Farmer echoed. "What in the world are you
talking about? And what is it?"
"Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said. "Didn't you ever hear of it, Freddy?"
"Would I be asking, if I had?" the English youth snapped. "Go on. Stop
waiting to be encouraged to show all your knowledge. Just what is Saint
Elmo's Fire?"
"Well, I can't give you a scientific answer to that one," Dave said.
"But Saint Elmo's Fire is the name given to globular electric light
often seen on the spars and rigging of ships at sea during a storm.
And of recent years it has been seen on the wing tips of airplanes
flying through electrically charged air. Frankly, I've never seen any
of the stuff in my life. But I knew a pilot once who used to fly over
the Andes in South America, and he said they used to see it often.
Little bright balls of fire that seemed to roll right along the leading
edges of the wing, and then disappear just when you thought they were
going to bump into the gas tanks, or something. The first few times he
witnessed such a display he lost a dozen years off his life. He said,
though, that after a while he got used to it--even looked forward to
it every time he took off."
"You're pulling my leg!" Freddy snorted.
"No, Farmer, that's true," Colonel Welsh said. "I've seen some Saint
Elmo's Fire myself. And I can tell you that it scares the pants off you
the first time you see it. Ever fly through a thunder storm, and see
lightning playing around your wing tips?"
"Yes, I've seen that," Freddy admitted. "And I was sure I'd never live
to land safely on the ground again."
"Well, then, you know how it feels to see Saint Elmo's Fire," the
Colonel chuckled. "Only I think the Saint Elmo stuff gives you a worse
scare when you see it actually come rolling along the wing toward you.
But that light I saw just now wasn't shaped like a ball. More like a
streak, or like the powdered tail of a comet. It was strung out in a--"
If Colonel Welsh finished the sentence, nobody heard it. At that moment
the night skies shook and trembled with the savage yammer of aerial
machine gun fire. And the cabin window not eighteen inches in front of
Dave's eyes seemed to crack in a trillion places and then melt away
into oblivion.
"My word!" Colonel Welsh cried. "What was that?"
Dave didn't bother to answer for a second or so. His heart had zoomed
up his throat to jam hard against his back teeth, and his eyes had
bulged out of their sockets like marbles on sticks. Instinct took split
second charge of his movements, however, and almost before he realized
what he was doing he had booted the Lockheed up over on left wing tip
and was slicing down through the air. At practically the same instant
he whipped out his free hand and switched off the navigation lights.
Then as the craft went slicing down through the night sky, he dragged
air into his aching lungs.
"Those were aerial machine guns!" he cried. "And whoever was working
them was in earnest. Look at that window! Just a shade improvement on
his aim and it would have been curtains for the three of us."
As the last left Dave's lips, he pulled the plane out of its wild
sideslip and went curving up and around to the left.
"Aerial machine guns?" Colonel Welsh echoed in blank amazement. "You're
crazy, Dawson!"
"Could be, and maybe!" Dave snapped. "But I've heard those sky
choppers often enough to recognize them every time. And do you think an
eagle or something flew into that window, sir?"
"No, of course not," the Intelligence chief grunted. "Sorry I sounded
off. You're right, of course. But it doesn't make sense. Who the devil
would want to take a crack at us?"
Dave shrugged in the darkness, and for a moment or so as the plane
roared heavenward he strained his eyes for a glimpse of some other
shadow cutting about in the air. He saw nothing, however, and then
turned his head and spoke back over his shoulder.
"Maybe not _us_, sir," he said, "but I guess the Axis would be pretty
tickled to see _you_ put out of circulation. If you want my guess, some
rat saw you take off with us. Maybe he used a hidden radio and sent
word ahead. This mountainous country is a swell place to hide a plane,
you know, sir."