DAVE DAWSON
WITH
THE AIR CORPS

Freddy Farmer scooped up a handful of sand
and let it trickle down between his fingers as he
stared thoughtfully out at the broad expanse of
the sky-blue Pacific Ocean. He and Dave Dawson
had been granted seven days’ leave from
special duty with the U.S. Armed Forces, and
they were spending it at Laguna Beach, just a
few miles south of Los Angeles, in California.
Only three days of swimming and taking it easy
in the sun had passed into time history, but
Freddy was beginning to get restless. With the
whole world at war, somehow he just couldn’t
relax and enjoy a well earned and much deserved
rest.

“Dave, know something?” he grunted presently.
“I’ve got a feeling.”

The dark-haired, well built youth sprawled
face down on the sand beside him didn’t make
a sound. He didn’t so much as move a single
muscle. Freddy looked at him, made a face, and
jabbed him in the ribs with a thumb.

“I said, I’ve got a feeling,” he repeated.

Dave Dawson groaned, rolled over on his
side, and gave his English born pal an exasperated
glare.

“There I was winning the war all by myself,
and ten of the most beautiful girls in the world
waiting to hang medals on my manly chest!” he
growled. “So now, what?”

“For the third time,” Freddy Farmer said
evenly, “I’ve got a feeling!”

“Well, have it for the fourth time, and see if
I care!” Dawson snapped. “Wake a guy up from
a beautiful dream just because you’ve got a feeling?
Well, go buy some flea powder, or something!”

Freddy grinned and held his thumb up, ready
to jab it to the ribs again.

“One thing I like about you, Dave,” he said.
“You’re always cheerful and gay. Never a scowl
or a sharp word. Going to stay awake, or must
I give you this again?”

“Do, and you’ll have a three mile swim!”
Dave muttered, but sat up just the same. “Because
that’s how far out I’ll heave you. But very
well, my little man. What’s bothering you today?
Tell Papa, and then he’ll go buy you a nice
big lollypop, all coated with arsenic! Shoot!”

Freddy Farmer didn’t reply at once. He
played with the sand some more, and took another
look at the blue of the Pacific.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be here very long,
Dave,” he finally said slowly. “I have the feeling
that something is brewing, and about to pop,
as you would say. Did you stop at the desk for
mail when we left the hotel this morning?”

“I did not!” Dawson replied quickly. “And
if you must know the truth, my bothersome
friend, I had a feeling that there was something
there I didn’t want to see. So I sailed right on
by without giving the mail box a look. But it’ll
be there when we go back this noon. So what, so
what, I always say.”

“I wonder what kind of a job Colonel Welsh
has lined up for us next time,” Freddy murmured.
“He didn’t drop any hint to you, did
he?”

Dave Dawson snorted and made gestures
with his two hands.

“Listen to the guy!” he grunted. “Did Colonel
Welsh drop any hints? My dear young man, for
your education, Colonel Welsh is chief of all
U.S. Intelligence Services—Army, Navy, and
Air Corps. Very few people know that, however.
He—”

“Yes, yes, go on!” Freddy Farmer cut in sarcastically.
“He is mostly known as a colonel of
infantry, but that is just a cover for his real job.
It was Colonel Welsh who arranged for us to be
transferred out of the Royal Air Force to duty
with the American forces. Our first job was with
the Pacific Fleet, and—and although you did
your best to get our necks broken, I did manage
to save the day for us.^[1] Right you are! So much
for Colonel Welsh’s personal history. What I
want to know is, did he give you an inkling of
what our next job would be?”

“As I was about to say,” Dave said patiently,
“Colonel Welsh is the kind of a man who
wouldn’t even let his own shadow know when
he was going to take another step. So that means
he told me absolutely nothing. Of course he did
mention—but skip it. Let it slide.”

“No, certainly not!” Freddy Farmer cried
eagerly. “What did he mention? Go on, Dave!
Tell me!”

“Well, he is a very understanding man,”
Dawson said gravely. “He knows the load I
have to carry when you are around. So—well,
he mentioned something about how if I’d like to
leave you behind next time—why, it would be
okay by him. He—Hey! Watch it! I’ve only got
two arms! Don’t break both of them, you wild
man!”

The last was caused by Freddy Farmer dropping
down on top of him, and for the next few
minutes the sands of Laguna Beach were flying
in all directions. Eventually Dave broke free
and leaped to his feet.

“Just what I mean!” he panted. “A very
dangerous guy to have around. Never can tell
when he’s going to go nuts. See you in the
Pacific, Apple Cheeks!”

“Call me Apple Cheeks?” Freddy roared.
“Why, I’ll—”

Freddy didn’t finish. By then Dave was a
streak of sun-tanned lightning heading for the
water. The English born ace sped after him,
and for the next fifteen or twenty minutes they
forgot the war cares of the world and were just
a couple of red-blooded fellows having a swell
time in the water. But when they came up onto
the beach again and dropped down on the sand,
a tiny cloud seemed to steal across the face of
the warm sun and they unconsciously looked at
each other, grave-eyed and grim.

It was Dave who finally broke the silence.

“If I live out this war,” he said with a short
laugh, “I’m going to set me up in the crystal
ball gazing business. I should make a million
the very first year. I get the strongest hunches
sometimes.”

“I think I’ll go into partnership with you,”
Freddy Farmer grunted. “I’m getting your
habit of getting blasted hunches, myself. Just
now—I had one. I mean—well, that is—”

“That there is some kind of a message for us
at the hotel?” Dave asked softly. “Well, that’s
just the way I feel, pal. And you know me and
my hunches. You can bet on them!”

“Well, once in a while, yes,” Freddy nodded.
“And I fancy that this is one of those times.
What say we go up and find out, Dave? I think
I’d go a little balmy just sitting here wondering.
Wouldn’t you?”

“Check on that,” Dave said with a nod and a
sigh, and picked up his bathrobe. “Let’s go.
Know something, Freddy?”

“Several things,” the English born youth replied.
“What is it now?”

“A hope of mine,” Dave told him. “A hope
that there really is a message for us at the hotel.
I mean—for us to go back to work. This is a
swell place, and all that…. But—well, it
makes me feel kind of a heel to be taking it easy
here when there are so many others fighting and
dying all over the world. Don’t get me wrong,
Freddy. I’m not trying to act the old medal
snatcher, I just—”

“I know exactly, Dave,” Freddy Farmer interrupted
quietly, and flung one arm across
Dawson’s shoulders. “When there’s still so
blasted much to be done, it sort of gets a chap
not to be doing something about it. Yes, Dave,
I hope, too, that there’s a message waiting for
us at the hotel. And if there isn’t—”

Freddy let the rest slide and shrugged.

“Yes?” Dave prompted. “And if there isn’t
any message for us there?”

“Then I jolly well think I’ll wire Colonel
Welsh,” Freddy said, “and request that I be
returned to duty.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth!”
Dave cried. “That’s just what I was going to
suggest we do. Well, keep your fingers crossed,
kid. There’s the hotel bus waiting. It won’t be
long, now—one way or the other.”

“And, please, Allah,” Freddy Farmer murmured,
“let it be the way we want it!”

Hunches or no hunches, when the two ace
airmen entered the hotel lobby a bell hop came
over to them on the double quick. There was a
mile wide grin on his freckled face, and in his
hand he held an official War Department
envelope.

“Just off the wires not ten minutes ago, Lieutenants,”
he said. “I was going to hunt you up
on the beach. Thought you might want it
pronto.”

“You thought right,” Dave grinned, and
swapped a quarter for the War Department
wire.

He waited until the bellhop had gone on his
way, and then feverishly tore open the envelope.
Freddy Farmer looked over his shoulder. It was
addressed to them both, and it read:

“Arriving Oakland Base, San Francisco,
tonight at eight. Take plane or train but be
sure to meet me. Important.

Dave read the wire through twice, then
smiled and sighed happily.

“Well, there you are, Freddy,” he said.
“Dreams do come true.”

“I certainly hope so,” the English born youth
echoed. “But he doesn’t say anything except for
us to meet him.”

“He doesn’t have to!” Dave growled. “Holy
smoke! He says it’s important. That’s good
enough for me. Look, let’s get dressed and
packed and go to the L.A. Base. I’d like to borrow
a ship and go up there by air, wouldn’t
you?”

“Quite!” Freddy replied instantly. “Almost
a week, now, since I’ve been up. Yes, I could do
very nicely with an odd spot of flying. But I
wonder what he’s got lined up for us—if anything?”

“Stop wondering,” Dave chuckled, and
headed for the elevators. “It doesn’t get you any
place. We’ll know tonight—and then maybe
you’ll be sorry you did find out.”

“Not if it’s action, I won’t!” Freddy said
fervently. “I’ll be the happiest chap in the
world.”

“Next to me,” Dave said. “And I’m still keeping
my fingers crossed.”

It was just under two hours later when the
two youths, wearing the uniforms of Naval
Aviation Lieutenants, entered the Field Commandant’s
office at the Los Angeles Air Base
and saluted smartly. This was not the first time
they had been at the Base, nor the first time,
either, that they had met the Commandant. He
returned their salute, and then came forward to
greet them warmly.

“Welcome, Lieutenants,” he said as he shook
hands. “But save your breath. I know why
you’re here. Got a wire from Washington not
more than an hour ago. I’m to loan you a plane
on request. Okay. There’re three or four hundred
out there. Take your pick. Or do you want
one apiece?”

“No, a two seater, please, sir,” Dave said,
straight-faced. “Lieutenant Farmer, here, hasn’t
flown for a week. So I’d better take him along
as passenger. Get him used to the air again.”

The Commandant laughed as the red rushed
into Freddy’s face, but there was frank admiration
in the eyes he focussed on the English
youth.

“A two seater it will be then,” he said. “But
I’m well acquainted with Farmer’s air record.
A week’s lay-off, or a year’s lay-off, wouldn’t
hurt his piloting skill any. And of course, that
goes for both of you. So stop trying to put me in
the middle, Dawson. You’re both tops in my
book. And that’s that. Well, I suppose you want
to get going?”

“If we may, sir,” Dave said. “We really have
all kinds of time, but—well, it would sort of feel
good to coast around for a spell. But I guess you
know how we feel?”

“Don’t I, though!” the Commandant exclaimed,
and sighed heavily. “I don’t often give
advice, but here’s a tip for you two lads. Don’t
ever let them promote you to the job of a Base
Commandant. All desk work, and mighty little
flying. Keep in the air, boys. Keep in it as long
as you can. Believe me, I know what I’m talking
about when I say that. Well, let’s go out and
get your plane warmed up. I’ve got a Vultee
two seater out there that’s a sweetheart. But I’ll
loan it to you chaps. Let’s go.”

The two youthful air aces murmured their
thanks and followed the Commandant outside.
But there was a warm tingling glow in their
chests, and a pleased and happy light in their
eyes. The L.A. Base Commandant could have
praised them to the skies, but all his words
would not have been half the compliment that
was his offer to loan them a Vultee two seater
that was “a sweetheart.” That meant that the
plane was the Commandant’s own personal ship,
when he could use it. And he was doing them
high honor to offer it for their use.

Half an hour later they thanked the Base
Commandant again and took off in the Vultee
with Dave at the controls, and Freddy Farmer
riding the rear gunner’s pit. Dave took them up
to eight or nine thousand, and then started tossing
the ship around a little, just to get the feel
of the air again. That off his chest, he twisted
around in the seat and grinned at Freddy. The
English youth shook his head, made a wry face,
and held up both hands with the thumbs extended
downward.

“Simply terrible!” he shouted above the
sound of the Wright radial in the nose. “Go
back and do it all over again. And you call yourself
a pukka pilot? Rubbish! But I say, Dave,
now that we’re up here, and have lots of time
on our hands, mind doing something?”

“Certainly, if it’s not for you!” Dawson shot
back at him. “What is it?”

Freddy raised a hand and pointed eastward.

“Let’s go inland a bit and follow the mountains
northward,” he said. “They’re very picturesque,
and I’d like a good look at them.
Mind?”

“Okay by me,” Dave replied with a nod. “Always
did like mountain flying. Fair enough,
then. Hang on, little man. Here we go.”

Banking the plane eastward, Dave headed for
the long range of towering peaks, then turned
northward when he was over them, and throttled
slightly. For a good half hour they flew along
about the peaks, not saying more than half a
dozen words to each other. The wild rugged
beauty of the scene below was something that
made words seem empty and futile. It was a
scene that moved the heart rather than the
tongue.

Suddenly, though, Freddy Farmer leaned
forward and rapped Dave sharply on the
shoulder.

“Off there to the right, Dave!” he called out.
“About a mile, and down in that valley shaped
like an S. I think—Dave! That’s a crashed
plane down there, or I’m crazy. Look! Do you
see it?”

Dave stared hard off his right wing and down
at the valley indicated by Freddy Farmer’s
pointed finger. It was several seconds, though,
before he spotted the crumpled wings of a
wrecked plane, and the broken tail that was
sticking straight up in the air. But for Freddy
Farmer he could have flown over the spot a hundred
times, and not sighted anything but the
trees. But now that Farmer’s eagle eyes had
picked it out for him, the crashed plane was as
clear as day to him. He took a quick glance back
at Freddy, nodded vigorously, and impulsively
hauled the throttle all the way back.

“Check!” he cried. “And from the wing color
and markings, that looks like an Army Air
Corps ship to me. My guess is that it’s a Curtiss
P-Forty. I’m going down for a better look—and
a landing, if we can make it.”

“Of course it may be an old crash,” Freddy
said as he kept his gaze fixed on the wreck.
“And the pilot has been rescued. But good
grief, in this wild country a chap could be lost
for weeks.”

“You’re telling me?” Dave echoed. “That’s
why I’m going to make plenty sure before I try
and sit down. We’ve got an important date in
San Francisco tonight, you know.”

Freddy Farmer nodded absently, and then
both boys shut up and concentrated all of their
attention on the crashed plane. Dave took the
Vultee downward, held it steady against the
ever changing wind currents in among the
mountain, and eventually was no more than a
couple of hundred feet over the wreck. It was
then that Freddy Farmer’s sharp eyes went to
bat again.

“It isn’t an old crash, Dave!” he cried. “And
there is the pilot chap, on the ground close to
that buckled left wing. See him? He’s alive, but
hurt. He can’t get up. He’s waving to us. Dave,
think you can make it?”

Dawson didn’t reply. He had already seen the
injured pilot waving for help, and he was now
stabbing the ground with his eyes for a suitable
place in which to sit down. He finally picked a
spot no more than a quarter of a mile away. It
was small, and mighty narrow, but he was sure
that he could make it. If he didn’t? He didn’t
bother to answer that question. Right now there
was an injured man down there on the ground
who seemed to need help badly. And that was
the important thing.

“This is it, Freddy!” he called out grimly.
“That narrow strip dead ahead. I’m going to
shoot for it. Be ready to stick out your hands
and push the tree trunks away!”

“Never mind the funny remarks!” Farmer
barked right back at him. “Just get us down in
one piece. That’s all you have to worry about.”

“A mere detail!” Dave growled, but didn’t
bother to turn his head. “Just a mere detail.
Consider it as good as done!”

Perhaps it was sixty seconds, or maybe it was
sixty years before Dave felt the wheels touch,
and was able to start braking the Vultee to a
gentle stop. Only when the plane was motionless,
and just the prop was ticking over, did he
let the trapped air from his lungs. He did it
with a long shrill whistle and wiped beads of
cold sweat from his face.

“I think it’s safe to look, Freddy,” he said.
“Is that the ground we’re resting on? Boy, oh
boy! I’m still not sure whether I should believe
it or not.”

“It’s true enough,” Freddy said, and gulped.
“But how you ever made it, don’t ever ask! Very
top-hole, just the same, Dave. One of the best
bits of flying I ever saw you do. And I mean
that, old thing!”

Dave wiped some more sweat from his face
and legged out and down onto the ground.

“Thanks, pal,” he said. “But I did it by making
believe it was you at the controls. Okay,
let’s—”

Dave didn’t finish. At that moment came the
agonized cry of an injured man through the
trees.

“Help! Help! Over this way! Can you hear
me? Can you hear me? Over this way—hurry…!”

Dave and Freddy simply glanced at each
other. Then they spun around as one man and
went plunging blindly back through the heavy
valley growth.

They came upon the crashed plane unexpectedly.
One moment a solid wall of trees and
heavy undergrowth loomed up in front of their
paths, and in the next they were bursting
through into a small clearing, and there was the
wrecked plane. A single flash glance told Dave
that his original guess has been correct. The
plane was an Air Corps P-Forty. But he wasted
just that single glance on the plane. With
Freddy Farmer right at his heels, he dashed
around to the other side of the crash and
dropped to his knees beside the sprawled figure
of the injured pilot.

The man’s cries for help had obviously taxed
much of his remaining strength. He was in a
dead faint, and his face was the color of old
parchment, save where it was smeared with
blood. As Dave looked down at him he felt his
heart turn icy, and then it seemed to loop over
in his chest. The pilot was hurt badly, very
badly. His chest was horribly crushed, and the
fact that he was stretched out on the ground
seemed to indicate that crash impact had thrown
his body clear. He couldn’t possibly have
crawled from the wreck in that condition. That
he had summoned up enough strength to call
out had been a miracle in itself.

“The poor blighter,” Freddy Farmer said
softly. “There isn’t anything we can do for him.
I wonder what happened? He’s wearing his
‘chute. Why didn’t he bail out?”

Dave started to speak, but he checked himself
as the injured man opened his eyes. There was
pain and bitter misery in them. And something
else, too. Something in their depths. Dave had
seen that in the eyes of other men on the far
flung battlefields of the world. And he recognized
it now as the Shadow of Death.

“Oxygen tank. Something haywire. Smelled
funny. Passed out like a light. Woke—up—here.”

The words were spoken in a whisper, and
both Dave and Freddy had to strain their ears
to catch them. As the man made gurgling
sounds in his throat, Dave shook his head.

“Don’t try to talk, old man,” he said gently.
“Just try and relax. We’ll do something for you.
Just take it easy. We’ll get you out of here and
in a nice hospital in no time at all. Just relax
and don’t waste your strength.”

Dave knew that he lied as he spoke the words,
but the injured pilot’s suffering justified all the
lies in the world. But the pilot knew that he was
lying. The corners of his mouth twitched in a
faint grin, and he shook his head a little.

“It’s okay—know this is it. I don’t mind, but—I
must be in Frisco tonight. Urgent. Must see
Colonel Welsh—must see Colonel Welsh—must
see—him….”

The man tried to go on talking, but the hand
of death was close. He did mumble sounds, but
they made no sense to either Dave or Freddy,
though they both strained their ears to the utmost.
A terrible dryness was in Dave’s mouth,
and his heart was hammering against his ribs.
For a crazy instant he wanted to shake the injured
man back to consciousness and find out,
what about Colonel Welsh? But of course he
didn’t do anything like that. He simply squatted
there on the ground with Freddy Farmer and
stared helplessly at the dying man. Would he
go, now, or would he revive again long enough
to speak more? Much as he wanted to know
what the injured pilot had to say, Dave could
not but hope with all his heart that the man
might be spared more pain and suffering, and
be taken to his heavenly reward in peace.

However, the spark of life burned fiercely in
the injured pilot. Once more he came back to
consciousness, once more he looked up into Dave
Dawson’s face, and once more his lips moved
and whispered words.

“Tell—Colonel Welsh—Seven-Eleven—I’m
sure—oxygen! Passed—out. Tell—tell him—”

The whispering started to fail, and Dave put
his ear close to the man’s trembling lips.

“Yes, old fellow?” he pleaded. “Go on! What
do you want us to tell Colonel Welsh? We’re
meeting him in Frisco tonight.”

The dying man’s eyes lighted up with a sort
of wild joy.

“Thank God!” came the faint sound. “Tell
him—southern—southern al—bar—cur—keys.
Understand? Southern al—bar—cur—keys.
Seven-Eleven—there…. Strike—soon!
Hurry—hurry—hur—”

The whispering sounds faded away. The injured
pilot’s eyes seemed to give off showers of
sparks. He heaved himself up on one elbow,
tried to speak again, but failed. A long soft sigh
slid out from between his lips. Then he slumped
back on the ground. His eyes fluttered closed.
And he lay still. Dave started to speak again,
but he checked himself. He knew that this pilot
would never again hear a human voice in this
world. He was gone forever, leaving behind the
jumbled up sounds of words that represented
some secret now forever locked in his brain.

Dave and Freddy slowly got to their feet,
stood silently at attention, and solemnly saluted
the dead pilot on the ground. On impulse Dave
took off his tunic and reverently placed it over
the dead man’s head and shoulders. Then he
turned and looked at Freddy.

“Did you catch all that?” he asked. “Did it
mean anything to you?”

The English born youth slowly shook his
head.

“I heard it, yes,” he said. “But I haven’t the
faintest idea what he was trying to tell us. There
were four words. He spoke them twice, slowly.
He desperately wanted us to tell them to
Colonel Welsh. I got them as Al, and Bar, and
Cur, and Keys. Perhaps that’s some sort of a
code that Colonel Welsh will understand.”

“Yes, it probably is,” Dave said with a frown.
“And I guess that means he was one of Colonel
Welsh’s agents. Gosh! This makes me feel like
a grave robber, but I guess I’ve got to do it.
Give me a hand, Freddy. I think we’d better
search his pockets, and deliver the contents to
Colonel Welsh.”

“Quite,” Freddy murmured, and dropped to
his knees again. “I hope the poor chap will
understand, wherever he is. Did you get that
first bit he spoke about, Dave? I think he was
trying to explain that his oxygen tank had been
sabotaged. Somebody tampered with it, and he
passed out when he took a bit. Phew! He must
have come down at least eighteen thousand before
he hit. A miracle the ship didn’t catch on
fire. Blast war, I say! How I hate the whole
rotten business!”

“You can say that again!” Dave muttered
grimly. “Okay. You take the things as I hand
them to you.”

Some ten minutes later the two youths stared
at a tiny pile of personal belongings on the
ground. There was a handkerchief, with no
initial, a pocket knife, a pack of cigarettes, and
a clip of matches. But there was one other
article that caused them to stare hard and frown
in puzzled wonderment. It was a plain copper
disc about the size of an American quarter. It
was absolutely smooth, and contained not a
single scratch or mark.

“A lucky piece, eh?” Freddy Farmer grunted
as he met Dave’s eyes.

“Maybe,” the Yank born flying ace said with
a shrug. “But do you notice something kind of
strange, Freddy? This poor lad hasn’t got a cent
of money on him. Not a thing, except this
copper disc.”

“And not a single bit of identification!”
Freddy Farmer breathed.

“So it’s certain that he was one of Colonel
Welsh’s agents,” Dave said, and bounced the
copper disc in his hand. “And my guess is that
this will identify him to Colonel Welsh. Gosh!
How I hate, now, to keep that date in Frisco
tonight.”

“Why?” Freddy wanted to know.

“Because we’re going to have to deliver some
tough luck news to Colonel Welsh,” Dawson
said quietly. “And, maybe—and maybe this will
wash out his reasons for wanting to see us. I
hope not. I hope that—”

Dave shrugged and let the rest hang in thin
air. He got to his feet, and nodded at Freddy.

“Time we got going,” he said. “We’ll mark
this spot on our maps so Frisco Base can send
an ambulance plane back for him. If we got in
and out, so can an ambulance plane pilot. Happy
landings, old man. You can count on all the rest
of us carrying on for you until those Axis rats
are finished for keeps.”

“Amen!” Freddy breathed softly, and
dropped into step.

Not another word was spoken between them
until Dave had skillfully lifted the Vultee clear
of the small narrow strip of ground and was
nosing up into the California sky. Then Freddy
reached forward and tapped him on the
shoulder.

“Tip-top bit of flying, as usual, Dave!” he
called out. “But tell me something. You started
to say you hoped something, but you didn’t
finish. What was it?”

Dave flew on a bit before he finally twisted
around in the seat and looked back at Freddy.

“Just a wild hope, and probably a crazy one,”
he said. “But I sort of hope that Colonel Welsh
will give us the job of picking up where that
poor fellow left off. Somehow I’d like to try
and finish whatever it is he’s started.”

“And that makes two of us who are hoping!”
Freddy Farmer echoed back instantly.

It was exactly five minutes to eight o’clock in
the evening, and Dave Dawson and Freddy
Farmer were seated on the observation platform
of the Administration Building at the San Francisco
Air Base. In the tower above them the
Control Officer was bringing in Air Corps
planes, and sending them off, with clock-like
regularity. For the last half hour they had enjoyed
watching ships of all types and sizes come
and go, but now that the time for Colonel
Welsh’s arrival was drawing near, an eerie
tightness seemed to grip their bodies, and the
huge minute hand on the tower clock seemed to
stop dead and not budge a fraction of an inch.

“If I start screaming, don’t let them lead me
away to a padded cell,” Dave broke the silence.
“But this waiting is getting me down for a fare-thee-well.”

“You’re not alone in that!” Freddy echoed
grimly. “I swear I’ve been watching that clock
up there constantly for the last hour. It’s
stopped, I’m positive. But blast it, my own wrist
watch says exactly the same time. Phew, how I
wish he’d come!”

“I do, and I don’t,” Dave said. “There’s a
chance, you know, that we may be all wet. Maybe
what we have to report to the Colonel won’t
mean a thing to him.”

“But he mentioned the Colonel’s name!”
Freddy protested.

“I know, and that seems to clinch it,” Dawson
said with a shrug. “But this war is so absolutely
cockeyed it’s sometime hard to believe anything,
even your own name.”

“You’re just getting jittery, Dave,” Freddy
soothed. “Relax, old man. There’s absolutely
nothing we can do but relax. We’ve reported
the crash to the Commandant here. And the
ambulance plane left long ago. So relax, old
thing. Get hold of yourself a bit.”

“Like you are?” Dave said, and grinned. “If
you don’t stop yanking on those fingers of your
left hand, pal, you’re going to pull them right
off. And besides, you drive me bats when you
do it.”

“Do I?” Freddy Farmer snapped at him.
“Then let’s make a bargain. I’ll leave the fingers
of my left hand alone, and you stop snapping
and unsnapping that blasted wrist watch of
yours, what?”

Dave stiffened and glanced down at his wrist
watch dangling by the loosened metal strap. He
snapped it shut for the last time, and looked at
Freddy. They both laughed, and a good bit of
the tension from waiting was eased off. Then
they instinctively glanced up at the tower clock,
and felt even better. The big hands pointed
exactly to eight o’clock.

“Well, that passed the time, anyway,” Dave
murmured, and got up and walked over to the
railing. “Now, if he hasn’t force landed, or
something!”

“What a cheerful chap to have for a pal!”
Freddy growled as he joined Dawson. “Fact is,
he’s right on time. A penny to a crumpet that’s
him up there just starting to circle and come
down.”

Dave sighted along Freddy’s pointed finger
and his heart leaped. An executive cabin type
of plane was sliding toward the near end of the
central runway. It had no markings other than
the new Air Corps insignia of a white star on a
blue field, with the old red disc missing. But
staring at it, Dave felt certain that Colonel
Welsh was aboard.

The two youths watched it slide down to a
perfect landing, and then taxi directly over to
the Base Commandant’s office. That was all the
proof they needed. When you taxied directly to
the tarmac in front of the Base office, you were
somebody important. If you weren’t, you got the
hide singed off you for not going to the arrival
check-booth farther along the field. A moment
or two after the plane had braked to a final stop,
the cabin door opened and a tall, thin-faced man
in the uniform of an infantry colonel stepped
out and hurried into the office.

“You win a whole bag of your English
crumpets, Freddy!” Dave cried. “That’s him.
Come on. I guess we’d better go down and let
him know we’re here.”

“As though the Base Commandant won’t tell
him!” Freddy murmured. “Bit of a testy chap,
wasn’t he, telling us to come up here and wait?
That we were waiting for a Colonel Welsh
didn’t seem to impress him a bit.”

“Why should it?” Dave replied. “We both
know that the Colonel doesn’t advertise. Besides,
if you were commandant of a Base this
size you’d be testy, too!”

“I would not!” Freddy snorted. “I’d be way
past that stage. I’d be completely balmy, and
don’t think I wouldn’t!”

“Who says you haven’t been, for years?”
Dave cracked, and started down the observation
platform stairs fast.

On the ground he waited for Freddy; then
the two of them started over toward the Commandant’s
office. They had gone but halfway
when Colonel Welsh came out of the office, saw
them and hurried over. He smiled faintly, then
gave Dave a sharp look.

“Too hot for a tunic, Dawson?” he asked.
“That’s not a very military appearance you
make. What’s this I hear about you reporting a
plane crash? No, never mind. I don’t want to
talk here. Follow me.”

Dave nodded, but grinned inwardly, and
dropped into step with the senior officer. The
same old Colonel Welsh! He talked like a
machine gun, and did things even faster. No
wonder he got results where others had failed.
He was a ball of fire on legs.

As though the two youths were not with him
and he were trying to catch a train, the Colonel
walked quickly over to the motor park, selected
an Air Corps Staff car, and climbed into it. He
motioned Dave and Freddy in back, tossed a
slip of paper at a guard who hurried over, and
stamped on the starter button.

“Car requisition signed by your Commandant!”
the Colonel barked at the guard, and
shifted into gear.

Dave and Freddy had ridden with the
Colonel before, so they were already braced,
and were not thrown completely out of the car
as it streaked forward. A little under thirty
minutes later the Colonel braked to a stop in
front of an office building in downtown San
Francisco, and got out.

“Follow me, you fellows,” he said, and
hurried into the building.

The elevator let them off on the fourteenth
floor. The Colonel led the way along the corridor
and stopped in front of a door that was
marked, “Civilian Defense, Third Division.”
He tried the door, found it locked, and seemed
strangely surprised.

“So?” he muttered to himself, and fished out
a bunch of keys. “Must be late. But he should
have been here hours ago.”

He stuck a key into the lock, twisted it, and
pushed the door open.

“Inside, you two,” he grunted. “Select a
couple of chairs and sit down. Maybe a couple
of messages waiting for me. No questions. I’ll
answer them all later.”

Dave and Freddy stepped into a fair sized
office that smelled of dust and dead air. It was
as though the office hadn’t been used in weeks.
But it was all in a tidy condition. There were
three desks, twice that number of chairs, an
entire wall lined with filing cabinets, a two-way
radio, a bank of half a dozen phones, and a lot
of hanging maps of San Francisco and the West
Coast areas. The two youths sat down and
watched Colonel Welsh go straight to the biggest
of the three desks. He picked up a small
pile of mail, riffled through it, and then dropped
the lot disgustedly on the desk.

“That’s funny!” he muttered in a low voice.
“Closed tighter than a drum. Nobody here. No
messages. I don’t get the picture at all. I
don’t—”

Colonel Welsh stopped short and stiffened.
Dave and Freddy jerked up straight in their
chairs, and all three swung quickly around and
stared at the door of a closet at the rear end of
the office. For a brief second or two no one dared
breathe. They had all heard it: the soft thump
of something against the inside of the door.

“Sit tight, you two!” Colonel Welsh suddenly
said in a low voice. “I think I have an idea what
that was. Sit tight, though, and be ready for
action just in case.”

Dave snapped his gaze back to the Colonel,
and saw a small but deadly looking automatic
appear in the senior officer’s hands as though by
magic. The Chief of all U.S. Intelligence Services
went across the office with all the noise of
a chicken feather brushing across a strip of
velvet. He froze at the door, then grasped the
key that was in the outside of the lock, twisted
it, and jerked the door open. He had stepped
back quickly, but he checked himself in mid-stride
and flung out his free hand and caught
the body that fell out the door opening like a
fence post. It was a man wearing civilian
clothes, but with Civilian Defense insignia on
his sleeves. He was bound round and round by
ropes, and there was a handkerchief gag
jammed in his mouth.

“Strike me pink!” Freddy Farmer gasped,
and came up out of his chair like a shot.

“Sweet tripe!” Dave echoed, and got up also.
“This is like a murder mystery, or something.”

“Never mind the comments!” Colonel Welsh
snapped as he gently eased the bound man down
onto the floor. “Hand me that knife on the desk,
one of you. And you’ll find a small bottle of
brandy in the lower right door of the middle
desk. Confound my luck. This makes a mess of
things, I’m afraid!”

A hundred and one questions hovered on
Dave’s lips, but he had sense enough to keep
them there. Explanations would come later—probably.
But right now the idea was to act, not
talk. He got the knife while Freddy fetched
the bottle of brandy. Colonel Welsh prodded
the gag from the bound man’s mouth, then
slashed the ropes and pulled them off. Then all
three of them started rubbing the man’s wrists
and neck. He groaned slightly, and a moment
later his eyes fluttered open. He looked up at
Colonel Welsh, and seemed to recognize him,
for the blood started coming back into his face.

“Don’t talk yet, Rigby,” Colonel Welsh said
gently. “Take a sip of this, first. Just a sip. I
don’t want you choking to death on me.”

The man smiled weakly and took a tiny sip of
the brandy the Colonel held to his lips. The
fiery liquid seemed to do wonders when it hit
the bottom of his stomach. He panted a couple
of times, gave his head a shake or two as though
to clear away the cobwebs, and then started to
hoist himself up on his feet.

“Getting okay by the minute, sir,” he said.
“If you’ll just help me to one of those chairs.
The underpinnings are still a little rubbery.”

Colonel Welsh helped him across the office
to one of the chairs. Then he let the man take
another sip of the brandy. The second sip
doubled the work of the first. The man pressed
his hands to his face for a moment, but when he
took them away there was plenty of color in his
cheeks, and a clear light replaced the dazed
glaze that had been in his eyes. He started to
speak, but checked himself and looked down at
his wrist watch. A worried frown creased his
brows as he looked up again at Colonel Welsh.

“A good three hours ago, sir,” he said in a
rueful tone. “I guess I must wear cotton stuffed
in my ears. I didn’t—”

The man called Rigby stopped short and shot
hard quizzical glances at Dave and Freddy.

“It’s all right,” Colonel Welsh told him
bluntly. “Two of my men. Now, what about
three hours ago? What happened? Give me all
the details.”

As the senior officer spoke, he swept the entire
office in one searching glance, then brought his
eyes back to Rigby’s face.

“I was sitting there, as usual,” the man finally
said, and jabbed a thumb at the center desk,
“doing some Civilian Defense work, but waiting
for contacts from you. Got your word that
you would arrive this evening. Got your word,
also, that Copper was coming up from Albuquerque.
Well—I heard the door open a while
later, but I thought it was some Air Raid
Warden, and didn’t pay much attention until he
reached the desk. But—then it was too late. He
came to the desk like a shot of lightning, and
the building fell down on top of my head. I
guess—I guess, sir, you’d better dismiss me and
send me back to laying brick, or something.”

The Colonel was silent a moment; then a soft,
sympathetic sadness seeped into his thin face.

“We all fail to touch second base every once
in a while, Rigby,” he said quietly. “Of course,
it’s a mark against you, but your past service
record can stand it. What about this man who
slugged you? Get a look at him?”

“Just a look, sir,” Rigby said with a heavy
sigh. “Medium height, medium build, and I
think he was on the fair side a little. Ten million
like him, I’m afraid. It was only a flash look I
got. I—By George! Seven-Eleven, sir, do you
suppose?”

Colonel Welsh’s face darkened with anger,
but he slowly shook his head.

“No, I think not,” he said. “In fact, I’m sure
it wasn’t. The pickings around here would be
too small for Seven-Eleven. Besides, I have
good reason to believe that Seven-Eleven isn’t
even in the country.”

“But why slug me?” Rigby said in a low voice
as though to himself, and stared around. “Can’t
see that anything’s been touched. Besides,
there’s not a thing here that would be of any use
to anybody.”

“My message in code?” Colonel Welsh asked
evenly. “You had destroyed it?”

Rigby’s face went pale as death. He clutched
the sides of the chair seat for a moment, then
shot out of it and over to the middle desk. When
he turned around again his face was the color
of chalk, and there was the blaze of a madman
in his eyes.

“That’s what he got,” he said in a hushed
voice. “I was just putting a match to your code
note when he came in. I remember, now. That’s
why I didn’t look up at once. I—I was trying to
get the sheet burning.”

“But you didn’t,” Colonel Welsh said in
almost a groan. “Well, and so that’s that. You
better go drop in at a hospital, Rigby, and have
them take a look at that lump on your head.
Take a cab. I’ll contact you later.”

There was the hint of tears in Rigby’s eyes,
and in his voice.

“Perhaps I’d better go jump off the Golden
Gate Bridge instead!” he said with an effort.

“Don’t be a fool!” Colonel Welsh said not too
unkindly, and went over to him. “It was just one
of those things, old man. A mighty tough break,
but it could just as well have happened to me,
or to anybody in the Service. If you feel up to it,
chase along to the hospital. I’ll contact you later.
Now, don’t be a fool, Rigby. Don’t really get
me mad, will you?”

“No, sir,” the other said as he walked toward
the door. “But I don’t see why you’re not, now.
Anyway—thanks, sir. I’ll make it up some day,
I hope and pray.”

“I’m sure you will, Rigby,” Colonel Welsh
said, as he unlocked the door and let him out.
“See you later.”

The senior officer closed the door, locked it
again, and walked slowly back to the middle
desk. He dropped into the chair like a man who
has aged twenty years in as many seconds. The
gaze he fixed on Dave and Freddy was bleak,
and laced with bitterness and misery.

“I wish I were a courageous man,” he said
heavily. “I wish I had the courage to go jump
off the Golden Gate Bridge myself. It surely
would remove a lot of woe from my life!”

Dave and Freddy didn’t say anything for a
moment or two. They simply sat still and looked
at the Colonel as their hearts bled in sympathy
for his visible suffering. Then Dave slowly
licked his lips, and put a faint sharp edge to his
voice.

“That’s one way out of it, sir,” he said. “But
it still wouldn’t help Uncle Sam much. Uncle
Sam, and the rest of the United Nations.”

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer echoed evenly.

Colonel Welsh stiffened a little, and a hard
brittle light leaped into his eyes. Then he suddenly
relaxed, and one corner of his mouth went
down in a faint grimace of self-reproach.

“I deserved that,” he said. “And thanks, you
two. Trust you two to snap a man back to his
proper mood. Among ten million other things,
you’re certainly a pair of tonics. Too bad all of
us can’t have you around at the same time. Seriously,
though, I am in the middle of a horrible
mess, the worst one I’ve ever got tangled in. And
the rotten part of it is that I was so close to
ironing everything out as nice as can be.”

The Colonel paused, brightened visibly and
made a little waving gesture with one hand.

“But things are never as bad as they seem at
first look,” he said. “Almost any minute, now,
one of my agents may arrive. And then we can
all get down to brass tacks and slug this thing
through to a satisfactory finish.”

Dave and Freddy looked at each other.
Freddy bit his lip and then nodded.

“Go ahead, Dave,” he said quietly. “He
should be told, of course.”

“Told?” Colonel Welsh echoed sharply.
“Told what? What now?”

“I don’t think the man you expect, sir, will
arrive,” Dave said slowly. “That’s why I haven’t
got my tunic. I left it spread over his face. He
crashed in a P-Forty. Told us his oxygen tank
had gone haywire. Thought somebody had fixed
it. We spotted the crash on the way up here, in
the mountains near El Prado. He—died shortly
after we landed and got to him. Was his code
name Copper? Did he carry this copper disc for
secret identification, sir?”

As Dave ran out of breath momentarily, he
took the copper disc from his pocket and handed
it over. The Colonel took it as though it were a
red hot coal. He dropped it on the desk top
twice and had to pick it up. Suddenly he picked
up the knife and dug the point into the surface
of the copper and made a long scratch. Leaning
way forward, Dave and Freddy saw that there
was silver under the copper. The Colonel
dropped the disc on the desk for the third time
and looked as if he were going to collapse and
come apart in chunks.

“Tell me everything,” he said in a hollow
voice. “Give me all the details, every single bit
you can remember. Did he say anything? Did
he give you any message? Anything that
sounded like a code word?”

Dave didn’t answer at once. He half closed
his eyes and thought back to that scene in the
mountain valley. Then slowly he related word
for word everything that had taken place, and
every word, or syllable of a word, that had been
spoken. When he came to the end he half
turned and looked at Freddy.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked. “Leave
anything out?”

“Not a thing that I can recall,” the English
born youth said. “I’d swear that was all of it.”

“Well, there you are, sir,” Dave said, turning
to Colonel Welsh again. “If there were any
code words, they must have been that Al, Bar,
Cur, and Keys that he spoke. Do they mean
anything to you?”

The Colonel plucked hard at his lower lip,
and stared hard and savagely at the top of the
desk. Finally he made noises in his throat, and
shook his head.

“Nothing,” he grunted. “Those four words
don’t mean anything to me. I—What’s the
matter with you, Farmer?”

The last was because Freddy had suddenly sat
bolt upright and was staring at one of the wall
maps as though it were an ancient ghost come
out of the past. He started as the Colonel spoke
to him sharply. The blood rushed into his face,
and he frowned in embarrassed indecision.

“Well, out with it!” Colonel Welsh snapped.
“You’ve come up out of nowhere with good
ideas before. What’s it now? What are you
thinking about?”

Freddy Farmer hesitated a moment longer,
and a look of sorrow and regret came into his
face.

“Perhaps it isn’t a mystery, sir, those four
words that poor chap spoke,” he said. “That
chap, Rigby, spoke about receiving your wire
about Copper coming up. The place he was
coming from, sir. I just happened to notice it
there on the map.”

“Albuquerque,” Colonel Welsh said. “Well,
what about it?”

“Well—well, he had trouble forming words,”
Freddy said. “Say those four words together.”

“Eh?” Colonel Welsh echoed.

“Freddy’s right!” Dave cried. “Al-bar-cur-keys!
Albuquerque! It sounded to us like bar,
instead of ba. And we got it keys, instead of que,
pronounced key. He was trying to tell us where
he’d come from, and—Yet, doggone it, I
wonder?”

“Yes, Dawson?” the senior officer prompted,
as Dave hesitated and fell silent. “You wonder
what?”

“He repeated those four syllables several
times,” the Yank born air ace replied with a
frown. “And he kept saying, ‘Southern.’ And he
said … ‘Seven-Eleven—there…. Strike
soon.’ Did he mean that this Seven-Eleven is
south of Albuquerque? Or did he mean something
that we haven’t got yet? And—well, is it
all right to ask you about this Seven-Eleven,
sir?”

Colonel Welsh didn’t reply for a couple of
minutes. He seemed to go off into a thought
trance. He stared at Dave and Freddy, and also
right through them. He played with the gashed
copper disc with his right hand, and continually
clenched and unclenched his left fist.

“Yes, it’s all right for you to ask,” he finally
said in a gloomy voice, “but there’s blessed little
I can tell you about him. At least, blessed little
that’s definite and concrete. Back in Washington
my biggest Axis agent file happens to be on this
Seven-Eleven. But if you want to know the
truth, I have a hunch I could throw the whole
confounded thing into the ash can, and I
wouldn’t lose a thing of real value. In a few
words, Seven-Eleven is Mystery Man Number
One. He is Mystery Man X. And for the past
couple of months he has been the biggest and
sharpest thorn in the side of U.S. Intelligence.
And for all I know right now, this Seven-Eleven
may be a dozen persons, and not just
one.”

Colonel Welsh paused for breath, and fell to
playing with the gashed copper disc again.

“Seven-Eleven,” he continued eventually, “is
only the name we’ve tacked on him. If you play
dice you know that seven and eleven are the two
lucky numbers. So we call him Seven-Eleven
because he seems to have double luck in every
single thing he does. In my file I have a report
that states he was born in Germany under the
name of Karl Bletz. That he came to this
country shortly after the last war, and became a
naturalized citizen under the name of Paul
Benz. The report goes on to state that he returned
to Germany in 1933 and hooked up with
Hitler’s movement. He’s been back here several
times, but the last time he was here was in 1938.
He went back for good then, and went out to
South America to boost German trade there, but
actually to do Gestapo work that would estrange
the South American countries from the United
States. He made out all right on that job, particularly
in Argentina and Chile.”

The senior officer paused again, shrugged,
and then continued with his story.

“Since then he has been like a lighted fuse
ready to touch off anything that would hurt
England’s cause, and ours. Cargos arriving
from U.S. ports have mysteriously burned up
on South American docks. And our ship owners
have had to take the loss. Many England-bound
ships leaving South America never arrived. In
fact, they were never heard of again. And lately,
many of our own ships have gone down, and
crew members drowned, because of him. I even
have a report that he was at Pearl Harbor on
that back-stabbing day of December Seventh.
We feel sure that certain mysterious munition
plant explosions in the U.S. were planned and
carried out by his sub-agents. He—”

Colonel Welsh stopped short, gestured
slightly, and dragged down both corners of his
mouth.

“I realize that all this may sound just a little
on the fantastic side,” he said. “How could we
possibly tell that he had a hand in all these
things? Well, simply the way police forces can
tell that a certain known criminal had a hand in
several robberies, or murders, or what have you.
The man’s mark. His trademark, you can call
it. A definite little touch to each crime that tags
it as having been committed by the same man.
Well, we’ve run into that same thing with this
unknown, Seven-Eleven, as we call him. A
couple of things here and there that are identical
with things discovered at other mysterious explosions,
and so forth.

“In other words, there is one man behind
most of the Nazi spy doings in the U.S., and
Central and South America. He is the cleverest
agent ever to come from Berlin, and the luckiest.
But he is also the most deadly. Get in his way,
and you’re a dead man. I’m sure he’d slay his
own mother if it would help him any. But this
I do know! Twelve of my crack agents, stretching
from the Canadian border to the bottom tip
of the Argentine, have been after him for
months trying to trip him up, and catch him.”

Colonel Welsh cut off his words with a harsh
sound, and there was the glitter of highly
polished steel in his eyes.

“That man, Rigby, who just went out,” he
said between clenched teeth, “is the only one of
the twelve alive today. Eleven trained Intelligence
agents dead, and we are no nearer to
getting our hands on this Seven-Eleven than we
were weeks and weeks ago. It’s enough to make
me want to cut my own throat!”

The senior officer gave a savage nod of his
head for emphasis, then rested his elbows on the
edge of the desk, cupped his chin with his
hands, and stared flint-eyed off into space.

Dave waited a few moments for him to speak
again, but when the man remained silent he
leaned forward a bit in his chair.

“You sent for Farmer and me, sir,” he said
gently. “Did the job you had in mind for us
have any connection with—with this Seven-Eleven?”

The Colonel looked at him, and grunted.

“Yes, it did,” he said. “The pilot you saw die
was named Tracey. He was in charge of all our
agents stationed in Central America, though he
was working on the Seven-Eleven business
alone. Officially he was assigned to the Ninety-Sixth
Attack Squadron in the Canal Zone, but
his unofficial job was to pick up any leads on
this Seven-Eleven if he could, and follow them
through.”

“And did he, sir?” Freddy Farmer asked
eagerly.

“Yes, and no,” Colonel Welsh replied. “I
mean by that that he ran across something pretty
hot, I think. At least he sent word to me in code
to arrange for his recall to the States for a short
time. What he wanted, according to his code request,
was leave of absence from his Squadron
to follow up something. That was three weeks
ago. Last night he sent word to me in Washington
that he had flown out of Mexico into Texas,
and up to Albuquerque. He asked me to meet
him here, and to have two qualified Intelligence
men present who were also pilots. I was unable
to contact him direct, so I couldn’t learn more.
I sent word to Rigby to expect him, and to expect
you two, and myself. And of course, I sent
you word to report at the Frisco Air Base. And—well,
as to what happened after that, you
know as much about it as I do.”

“Something big in our hands, almost,”
breathed Freddy Farmer softly. “What rotten
luck!”

“That’s putting it mildly!” Colonel Welsh
growled. “God knows what Tracey’s death may
have cost us—cost the whole world!”

“Maybe,” Dave murmured softly. “Maybe.
But I made a kind of promise to Tracey. More
of a hope, it was. A hope that Freddy and I
might have the chance to carry on where he left
off.”

A long silence settled on the office after Dave’s
words had died away in the echo. The room was
as quiet as a church, yet there seemed to be a
sort of tingling vibration in the air. Dave felt
it, and so did Freddy Farmer. And so did Colonel
Welsh, from the intent and set look on his
face. Presently he nervously cleared his throat
and pressed his two palms flat on the desk.

“And we’ve got to carry on where Tracey left
off!” he bit off, tight-lipped. “We owe that
much to his gallant memory. We owe it to Uncle
Sam. We owe it to ourselves. But—but there’s
nothing to get our hands on, nothing to get our
teeth into. Tracey died without telling you two
a thing that we can use, or work on. It’s a cold
trail, a dead end street!”

Dave Dawson leaned back his head, and
stared unseeing at the office ceiling.

“Let’s draw a few word pictures,” he said
more to himself than to the others. “Let’s put it
like this. While serving with the Ninety-Sixth
Attack Squadron, Tracey came on something
hot. He couldn’t do anything about it because
of his Squadron duties. His actions would look
funny, and—his Intelligence identity wasn’t
known to his C.O., was it, sir?”

“No, it wasn’t,” the senior officer replied
quickly. “It—Hold everything! Good Heavens,
the death of Tracey must have done something
to my mind. There is one of his under-agents in
Ninety-Six, a young Second Lieutenant Marble.
It was Tracey who got Marble into the service
about a year ago. Tracey trained him, and
worked with him on a few unimportant jobs.
But I don’t believe Marble was in on the Seven-Eleven
business. That was strictly a confidential
thing among handpicked agents, all of them
picked by myself.”

“Well, maybe it worked a little differently in
this emergency,” Dave murmured, and stared at
the office ceiling again. “Let’s see. After stumbling
across something, Tracey requested you to
see that he got a bit of recall-leave. He left this
Marble in charge—or at least with some kind of
instructions—and started north for the States.
He got into Mexico. Maybe the trail led him
that way, or maybe it worked out quicker that
way. We may never know the reason. All we
know is that he entered the States through
Texas, went on to Albuquerque, and—Just a
minute! Colonel, there’s an Air Corps Base at
Albuquerque. Can you call them and find out
how he arrived? I mean, was it in a Curtiss
P-Forty such as we found? Or did he arrive in
some other kind of plane? Can you get Albuquerque
on the wire, and find out?”

“I can, and I will!” Colonel Welsh snapped,
and scooped up one of the phones.

Just seven minutes later he hung up and
looked at Dawson.

“He arrived in Albuquerque in a Vultee
attack ship, alone,” Colonel Welsh said. “It was
one of Ninety-Six’s planes. His papers were all
in order for having landed on Mexican fields
for gas. His ship wasn’t armed, so technically
he didn’t fall under the internment law. Not
that Mexico would have enforced it. The plane
wasn’t in such hot shape, however, so he borrowed
a P-Forty from the Albuquerque Base.
So much for that. Go on, Dawson. What are
you leading up to?”

“I don’t know,” Dave replied. “Just sort of
feeling around. Guessing at a lot of things just
to hear how they sound. But here’s one thing
that strikes me odd. And it may have a reason.
You say, Colonel, that he asked you to meet him
here. Right?”

“Right,” the senior officer grunted.

“And you also say,” Dave went on, “that you
could not contact him direct. Right?”

“Right again,” Colonel Welsh said. “So
what?”

“Well, why did he say to meet him here?”
Dave asked softly. “Why not fly directly to
Washington to report to his senior officer? That’s
not strictly military—to wire your superior to
meet you some place three thousand miles away.
So it was important. Important that he meet
you here. Why? I don’t know. Now the other
item. Your not being able to contact him direct.
Why? Probably because he wasn’t around.
Probably because he discovered that there was
somebody on his trail. That somebody had
found out from whoever visited Rigby today
that Tracey was flying up from Albuquerque.
So—well, measures were taken so that he would
never arrive. Somebody at Albuquerque did
something to Tracey’s P-Forty oxygen tank so
that actually he was gas poisoned and knocked
cold when he took the first sip as he flew at altitude
over the mountains. And—and, by the
best of luck, Freddy’s sharp eyes spotted his
wrecked plane. Do those guesses sound a little
reasonable to you, sir? To you, Freddy?”

“It could be a mighty close to the truth account
of what actually did happen!” Colonel
Welsh said softly to himself. “But it still doesn’t
get us anywhere. It still doesn’t give us anything
to jump on.”

“I don’t agree with you there, sir,” Freddy
Farmer spoke up quietly.

The senior Intelligence officer looked across
the desk at him as though he were a long lost
brother with a precious family secret.

“Well, thank Heavens, you don’t!” he
breathed. “Go ahead and tell me why you don’t
agree.”

The English born flying ace took a couple of
seconds out to think up the words he wanted to
use.

“I believe I know what is in the back of Dawson’s
mind,” he eventually said. “We have got
something. It may prove to be nothing; to be
absolutely worthless. But we don’t know about
that yet. I’m speaking of this Second Lieutenant
Marble with the Ninety-Sixth Squadron down
in the Canal Zone. Perhaps there is the chance
that he can give us a lead on what Tracey was
working on. Is there any way you can contact
him, sir?”

“Why, certainly!” Colonel Welsh replied
quickly. “I can—”

“Contact him, nothing!” Dave cut in harshly.
“I mean, not unless it is a personal contact. But
Freddy’s only come up with half the stuff I had
in mind. Right here in Frisco—right here in
this room—we have a perfect lead.”

Colonel Welsh sat up straight and quickly
glared about the office as though he expected it
to fill suddenly with people.

“Here in this room?” he demanded, fixing
Dave with his steady eyes. “What in the world
do you mean?”

“Not in the room, exactly,” Dave said with a
faint grin, “but the man who went out of the
room. I mean, whoever it was that slugged
Rigby and stole your decoded message to him.
He’s here. And it’s a cinch he’s been keeping an
eye on this place. So who says he won’t continue
to keep an eye on it? You follow me, sir?”

“Not exactly,” the senior officer grunted.
“But you’re right when you say he’s been keeping
an eye on this place. I could name on the
fingers of one hand the men who know this is
not strictly a Civilian Defense office for this
section of the city. And they’re all trustworthy.
Yet somebody else found out, either Seven-Eleven
in person, or somebody in his pay. Anyway,
that’s the end of this place for Intelligence
contact work. I’ve got to dig up a new spot now,
one that I hope will be fool-proof. No, I mean
spy proof, I guess.”

Dave frowned and gave a little shake of his
head.

“Naturally, you know best, sir,” he said
slowly, after a moment or two. “As the saying
goes, it’s not for the likes of me to tell you your
business. But—well—I mean—”

The Yank born air ace floundered to a stop,
and a faint flush stole into his face. Colonel
Welsh stared at him for a moment, and then
suddenly chuckled softly.

“I seem to remember a couple of times when
you weren’t so polite to your senior officer,
Dawson,” he said. “And I was the senior officer.
I understand, but forget it, Dawson. All this is
just between the three of us. So give it to me
right from the shoulder. What’s wrong with my
closing up this place as far as Intelligence work
is concerned?”

“Everything, Colonel,” Dave told him
bluntly. “Close up this place and open another,
and you’ll lose the only contact you have with
the enemy agent, or agents, working in Frisco.
Of course you haven’t what you’d call a real
contact with him now. He’s just a man Rigby
saw for a split second before he got slammed
on the head. But maybe we could make a real
contact with him.”

“What’s your idea on how to do it?” the Chief
of all U.S. Intelligence asked quietly. “And
what would we gain by making a definite
contact?”

Dave looked at him, and grinned faintly.

“Maybe this one is going to hurt, Colonel,”
he said. “What made him come here in the first
place?”

The senior officer stiffened slightly, and
looked puzzled.

“What’s that?” he echoed. “Aren’t you making
it a little complicated, Dawson?”

“Perhaps I am,” Dave said with a shrug.
“Perhaps I am, because it’s not very clear to me.
Let’s put it this way. The object of our unknown
enemies was to put poor Tracey out of the way,
wasn’t it?”

“Yes, of course!” Colonel Welsh replied
sharply. “So what?”

“So this,” Dawson said evenly. “It was done.
But it wasn’t done from this end. At least, I’d
bet my shirt on it. Tracey’s death was caused by
somebody at Albuquerque! So why did that
slugger come to see Rigby?”

“To get my code message,” Colonel Welsh
said. “I think that fact’s obvious.”

Dave leaned forward and held the senior
officer with his steady eyes.

“And what did your message say?” he demanded.

“I’ve already told you!” the other replied
with a scowl. “I wired Rigby in code that
Tracey was on his way here to meet me.”

“I follow your line of reasoning, Dave!”
Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. “He simply
found out something he already knew!”

“Bright lad!” Dawson beamed at him. “Go
to the basket and pick yourself a nice red apple.
You catch on quick, pal!”

“I do more than that, my little man!” the
English youth shot back at him. “That chap’s
visit here had no connection at all with Tracey’s
death. Correct?”

“Now, wait a minute, you two!” Colonel
Welsh shouted before Dave could speak. “I’m
supposed to be the expert on riddles, but, by
Heaven, you’ve got my brain tied up in knots.
What in thunder are you talking about anyway?”

“Why, that lad’s visit here, sir,” Dave replied
with an innocent grin. “Why he came here. This
is just a wild guess, of course, but I think he
came here hoping to find out more from your
wire.”

“Ah!” Colonel Welsh breathed as his face
brightened. “I get it now, of course. Just another
bit of proof that I must be slipping in my old
age. Maybe I should resign from the Service.
Anyway, I see what you mean. The rat in Albuquerque
found out about Tracey’s wire to me.
He then contacted his rat co-worker here in
Frisco and told him to keep a keener eye on this
office, because I would undoubtedly be wiring
instructions here. Which I did. But, thunderation!
What else did he expect me to say in my
wire to Rigby?”

“That’s anybody’s guess,” Dave said with a
frown. “But somehow it spells WORRY to me,
in big letters.”

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer echoed, and gave
an emphatic nod of his head.

Colonel Welsh flushed and threw up his
hands.

“Confound it, there you go again!” he bit off.
“Worry? What the blue blazes has worry got to
do with it?”

“Plenty!” Dave threw the word at him.
“Worry that maybe you did make telephone or
telegraph contact with Tracey before he left
Albuquerque, and that he gave you a good idea
of why he wanted to see you here. So maybe you
wired certain instructions to Rigby. But you
didn’t wire any such instructions to Rigby. So
our rat friend learned nothing. So he’s still in
the dark about your knowing anything of poor
Tracey’s secret. So he must still be worrying.”

“I get it, I get it!” Colonel Welsh murmured
softly.

“I spoke about maybe something hurting,
awhile back,” Dave said, and pointed a finger.
“I meant that maybe your phones here are
tapped. Maybe this place is full of leaks. Well,
there’s one way to find out, and maybe get some
results.”

Colonel Welsh just looked at him with raised
eyebrows as Dave paused.

“So let’s put out a bit of bait, and see what we
catch,” Dawson continued. “Phone some cooked
up message back to your Washington office.”

“Such as?” Colonel Welsh grunted.

Dave didn’t reply at once. He sat frowning
off into space and absently tapping a fingernail
against his top front teeth. Suddenly he took his
hand down and snapped his fingers, and flashed
a grin at Freddy Farmer before he gave his
attention to the Colonel.

“Got it, I think!” he breathed excitedly.
“Wire your office, in code of course, that Tracey
is dead, but that his message got through! And
that you are sending two of your agents to Albuquerque
to begin operations there!”

“What operations?” Colonel Welsh demanded.

Dave laughed and snapped his fingers again.

“That’s just it!” he cried. “That’s just what
our rat friend will wonder—and wonder plenty.
So he’ll probably do something about it, and
you can nail him. If nothing else, that will put
an end to the Number One Man here in Frisco.
And there’s just the chance that we may also
grab the lad—whoever he is—at the Albuquerque
Base.”

“Yes, that’ll be something,” Colonel Welsh
said grimly. “That will be a lot, in fact. And
your words aren’t riddles to me now. The two
agents who are supposed to be going to Albuquerque
with information? They wouldn’t be
you two, by any chance, would they?”

“They’d be anybody else over our dead
bodies!” Freddy Farmer spoke up. “Quite. And
I think that’s rather a clever idea. It coming
from Dawson, I’m no end surprised. He’s been
reading books, I fancy, when I haven’t been
looking.”

“See that window, pal?” Dave said softly,
and pointed.

“Certainly,” Freddy replied. “Why?”

“It only happens to be fourteen floors above
the street!” Dave said darkly. “And you’re not
wearing your parachute now. Just keep that
little item in mind, sweetheart!”

“If I go, there’ll be two of us!” the English
youth snorted, and then grinned.

“Okay, okay!” Colonel Welsh growled,
though there was a smile at the corners of his
mouth. “Recess is over, children. Let’s get back
to serious things. And it is mighty serious. We
know what happened to poor Tracey, and I
wouldn’t want—”

The senior officer hesitated and gestured with
one hand.

“Neither would we, sir,” Dave spoke up
quietly. “But this isn’t any pink tea. And Freddy
and I have played plenty of long shot chances
before. So there’s no sense talking about the
danger part. Now, here is my idea. We’ll go to
Albuquerque by air, of course. And don’t
worry! We’ll keep low enough so that we won’t
have to sip oxygen at all. So that angle’s out.
And we’ll also give the plane a darn good going
over before a throttle is opened wide. On the
way, we will keep our eyes open. And every
minute after that.”

“You could be attacked from the air,” Colonel
Welsh said with a scowl. “It’s happened before.
And this time it might be odds that you two sky
scrappers couldn’t match.”^[2]

“That’s one of the chances we take,” Freddy
Farmer said gravely. “But I’ve got an idea. Why
not have another plane follow us—one piloted
by one of your agents, sir? Then if Dave and I
bump into trouble, he can give us a hand. Then,
too, he might spot the chap hiking after us,
scare him off, and trail him back home. Then
you’d have him, nice as can be. And in his secret
drome hide-out, no doubt.”

“Somebody else has been reading books on the
sly, too!” Dave said with a chuckle. “Pick yourself
another apple, Freddy. That was tops for
an idea. Don’t you think so, sir?”

“Well, it would make me feel a lot better to
work it that way,” the Chief of U.S. Intelligence
said. “And of course, I’ll arrange—and
not from this office—for a couple of my men
to keep an eye on you when you arrive in Albuquerque.
Then if somebody gets on your tail
down there my agents can close in and grab him.
But—”

Colonel Welsh let the rest hang in mid air
and sat chewing on his lower lip in brooding
silence.

“So what?” Freddy Farmer said. Then catching
himself and blushing slightly. “I mean, sir,
what were you going to say?”

“Supposing we have all the luck in the
world,” the senior officer said, as though talking
to himself. “Supposing we catch, the Axis rat at
this end, and at the Albuquerque end. What
then? Notwithstanding what we read in the
papers lately, I don’t think we’ll be able to learn
a lot from our two prisoners. Most certainly,
nothing that would make it possible either to
get our hands on this confounded Seven-Eleven,
or to learn the secret poor Tracey was never
able to reveal. And that, of course, is our real
goal. That is, if it’s possible to have a goal in
this mess.”

“Well, we’ve just been talking about this end
of things, sir,” Dave said. “Just a way to clear
up a couple of puzzling details. When Freddy
and I reach Albuquerque, we certainly don’t
intend to stop there.”

“What’s that again?” Colonel Welsh asked
sharply.

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer echoed. “I don’t get
the point of that one, myself.”

Dave turned to him, and grinned.

“Ever see the Panama Canal, Freddy?” he
asked.

“Eh?” the English youth ejaculated as his
eyes flew open wide. “Why, no, never. But I’ve
always heard it’s quite a wonderful sight to
see.”

“It’s more than that,” Dave said firmly.
“You’ll get a big kick out of seeing it, particularly
from the air. You see the whole works that
way, from end to end. Oh, sure—”

“Just a minute, now!” Colonel Welsh cut in.
“Why should you and Farmer go to the Canal
Zone? What in thunder do you—?”

The senior officer stopped short, clenched his
teeth in a gesture of self-exasperation, and
whistled air between them.

“Of course, of course!” he grated. “What in
thunder is the matter with me today.”

“You get the idea, sir,” Dave said with a grin.
“Second Lieutenant Marble, of the Ninety-Sixth
Attack Squadron, is in the Canal Zone.
Can you arrange with Army Air Corps H.Q. in
Washington to have us assigned for duty with
the Ninety-Sixth?”

“I can do much better than that,” Colonel
Welsh replied. “If you were assigned strictly
to the Squadron for active duty, your chances
of getting around—in the event you did get hold
of something—might be a bit limited. And that’s
not even mentioning the suspicions you might
create. I’ll see that you are assigned to Ninety-Six,
but for special duty, we’ll say. It will appear
that you’re making some kind of an inspection
trip on orders from Washington. That
way you can come and go as you please, and
nobody will think anything of it.”

“Swell!” Dave breathed. “It couldn’t be
better.”

“If, and when, you arrive in the Canal Zone,”
Colonel Welsh said almost in a tone of prayer.

“Oh, we jolly well will, sir!” Freddy Farmer
spoke up. “Now that I’ve the chance to see that
wonderful feat of engineering, no blasted Axis
agents are going to stop me. At least, not if I can
help it!”

“Atta boy, Freddy,” Dave chuckled. “We’ll
give them the works, hey, kid? Well, Colonel,
I guess that’s about all, isn’t it? Isn’t now as
good a time as any to make that Washington
call, and bait our little trap?”

The Chief of all U.S. Intelligence Services
drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment,
and then nodded.

“Yes, I guess it is,” he grunted. “And I hope
you’re right, Dawson. I hope our friend did put
a smooth one over on me, and that he tapped
into these things.”

And on saying that, the Colonel reached out
a hand and pulled one of the phones to him.

It was early the next morning and the first
flaming rays of the new day’s sun were just
shooting up over the peaks of the mountains
to the east. The last of the thin night fog was
drifting out across San Francisco Bay, leaving
the air washed and crisp and tangy. Though it
was still early, activity at the Frisco Air Corps
Base was in full swing. Swarms of wings flashed
back and forth across the robin’s-egg blue sky,
and the air was filled with the thunder and
power whines of many engines.

Down on the field, Dave and Freddy stood
beside the Vultee they had flown up in from
Los Angeles. Colonel Welsh was with them, and
although the pilots’ faces were bright with eager
expectation of new adventures before them,
there was no eagerness in the Colonel’s face.
There wasn’t even so much as the ghost of a
smile. His eyes were somber and brooding, and
there was a tightness about the corners of his
mouth. Dave glanced at him, and grinned.

“Chin up, white tie, and all that sort of thing,
as Freddy would say, sir,” he said. “This will
probably turn out to be nothing more than a
swell joy ride. Who knows? Maybe my ideas on
the wire tapping were as wet as the Bay over
there. Please don’t feel so tough about it,
Colonel.”

The senior officer forced a smile to his lips,
made a little gesture with his hands, and sighed.

“I know, I know,” he said. “I always act like
an undertaker whenever I see any of my agents
off on a mission. Can’t seem to change, or get
used to it. I guess it’s because it gets me inside
that I’m not going along, that I’ve got to stick
here and take care of all the confounded paper
work. Makes me feel useless, like a doddering
old man too old to take part in the tough jobs.”

“Oh, I say, hardly, sir!” Freddy Farmer said
with a laugh. “If there weren’t the brains for
the paper work, as you call it, there wouldn’t
be any jobs for the agents to tackle. And I fancy,
sir, there was a time not so long ago when you
were the one who was being seen off by some
other senior officer.”

“Yes, you’re right, Farmer,” Colonel Welsh
nodded sadly. “There was a day like that. But
it seems centuries ago. I swear, if I had it all
to live over again I’d never let them push me
up to a post of important command. When
you’re on the way up you never stop to think
how lucky you are you haven’t reached the top
yet. But I suppose that comes under the heading
of ambition, or something.”

“That makes two,” Dave chuckled. “Only
yesterday the Base Commandant at L.A. was
telling Freddy and me the same thing. And by
the way, sir, is that why you made us a couple
of captains in the Air Corps, instead of colonels
or generals?”

Colonel Welsh laughed out loud and shook
his head.

“No, not for that reason,” he said. “True, despite
your youthful looks, you might get by as
colonels. But not generals. We don’t make them
that young, yet. No. As captains you can mingle
with the higher ranks if you have to, and not
appear as though you were reaching for the
moon. And as captains you can mingle with the
lower ranks, and enlisted men, and not appear
as though you were out sticking your noses into
things. Matter of fact, I’ve always regarded a
captaincy as the halfway mark in a man’s military
career. As a captain he still has close contact
with those on the bottom of the ladder, and
new contacts with those on the top. But—here
I stand gabbing, and you two are just busting
to get away. Right?”

“Well, it has to happen sometime, sir,” Dave
said kindly. “And—well, count on us to stay in
there pitching to the very end, regardless of
what the end may be.”

“Here, drop that sort of talk!” Freddy Farmer
cried scornfully. “You’ll have me flooding
that rear cockpit with tears. One thing, sir.
You’ll be sure to make it all right with the Base
Commandant at Los Angeles? I mean, about
our taking his plane? After that bit of luck
yesterday—well, the ship is sort of a good fortune
charm, if you understand what I mean.”

“Perfectly,” Colonel Welsh said gravely.
“And don’t worry about the L.A. Base Commandant.
He happens to be one of the whitest
men in the Air Corps. Besides, when he loaned
you his ship in the first place, that meant it was
yours as long as you wanted it. He’s that way.
Now—well, get out of here before I change my
mind! I feel like the executioner at Sing Sing
waiting to throw the switch. Get off with you.
Good luck…. And may He watch over you
as He has in the past.”

“Thanks, sir,” Dave said with an effort. “And—so
long.”

“Quite, sir,” Freddy Farmer murmured.
“Happy landings until we meet again—which
of course will be very soon.”

The two flying aces clicked their heels, saluted
smartly, then turned abruptly away and climbed
into the Vultee’s pits. Dave ran his eye over the
instruments in an automatic check, opened his
throttle a bit to “blow” his engine and clear
the cylinders of dead gas fumes. Then he opened
it all the way and sent the Vultee streaking
straight out along the cross-field runway. He
had it off and in the air in no time, climbing
smoothly up toward the dawn sun-flooded
heavens.

At five thousand he leveled off, circled the
field a couple of times in an air salute to Colonel
Welsh down on the ground, then dipped his
wings and cut around to a crow flight course
across the mountains and southeastward to
Albuquerque, New Mexico. Not until San
Francisco was out of sight behind the tail did
he turn around and grin at Freddy.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Freddy,” he said above the
roar of the engine in the nose. “I didn’t even
give it a thought. But it’s not too late yet. If you
want to, it’ll be perfectly okay by me pal.”

The English born youth looked surprised,
and then slowly suspicion crawled into his eyes.

“What would be perfectly okay by you?” he
demanded. “What didn’t you think of this
time?”

“Why, you, of course!” Dave replied as
though Freddy should know it. “I didn’t once
ask if you’d rather not come along with me. I—I
guess I just sort of took it for granted. But I
can still skip back, and land, and dump you off,
you know.”

No anger showed in Freddy Farmer’s face.
He just looked at Dawson in sad sympathy, and
sighed heavily.

“Listen to the bloke, will you?” he groaned.
“Of all the cheeky ideas he gets. Didn’t ask me
if I’d rather not come! Well, I like that. When
the truth is that Colonel Welsh said to me, out
of your hearing, he said—’I say, Farmer, if you
don’t think Dawson would be of any value to
you this time—!’”

The English youth cut off the rest and made
a little significant gesture. Dave glared daggers
at him, and then chuckled.

“Chalk one up for you, pal!” he cried. “I
walked into that one with my eyes wide open,
and got clipped. Okay. Kidding is off the books
from here on in. Have you seen any sign of that
agent who is supposed to tag along after us—just
in case? He’s flying a Navy Grumman job
with Air Corps markings. I saw his ship over
on the other side of the field.”

“So did I,” Freddy replied. “But I haven’t
seen him since. And I’ve been looking. Perhaps
he decided not to get close enough for us to see
him. Then the other bloke wouldn’t see him
either. I say, Dave, do you really think that
baited trap idea will work?”

“I don’t know,” Dawson replied with a scowl.
“Right now the hunch department isn’t working.
But I hope he does show up. When I think
of poor Tracey—”

Dave lifted a hand and slowly closed it into
a rock hard fist to indicate the rest of his
sentence.

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer echoed, and patted
the butts of his rear cockpit guns. “And right
now I’m not sure I’d hold my fire if the blighter
jumped out with his parachute. But it’s the dirty
rotter at the Albuquerque end I’d rather meet.
He’s the beggar who really did in poor Tracey.”

“Well, let’s hope this is our lucky day,” Dave
said. “Let’s hope we get a good fair crack at
both of them, or the six, or the dozen of them,
if there are that many!”

With a nod for emphasis, Dave turned front
and stared flint-eyed at the banks of clouds that
were beginning to pile up above the eastern
slopes of the mountain range. After a while the
flinty look died out of his eyes, and was replaced
by a look of thoughtful speculation. Then suddenly
he grinned to himself.

“Guess this is the way with war,” he murmured
softly, “at least with Intelligence work.
You get faced with a mystery that hasn’t any
strings hanging out of it at all. So you grab at
what you hope is a string, and follow it through.
If you’re lucky, one thing leads to another, and
you begin to get results. If you’re not lucky, you
get kicked in the face, and most times end up
in a hole six feet deep. So here’s hoping Lady
Luck is still smiling on Freddy and me!”

“What’s that you said, Dave?” came Freddy
Farmer’s voice. “Or is it just this morning sun
that makes you mumble in your beard?”

“I haven’t a beard,” Dave slapped back at
him. “And besides, I don’t mumble. I was just
telling myself that Intelligence work is all pretty
much alike. I mean, you start with nothing, and
hope you’ll end up with all the correct answers.”

“Absolutely right,” the English youth agreed
readily. “And I fancy the insane asylums are
full of chaps who took up Intelligence work.
I say! Aren’t those mountains beautiful? You
certainly do have wonderful scenery over here
in America. No wonder you fought so hard in
the Revolutionary War.”

It was too perfect an opening for Dave to
pass up. He twisted around in the seat and
grinned broadly at his closest pal.

“Fought hard?” he echoed scornfully. “Nuts.
It was a cinch. Why, I’ve read in history books
where the American soldiers only used their
right hands. Kept the left ones tied behind their
backs.”

Freddy Farmer made a face and stuck his
nose in the air in a sniffing gesture. But as soon
as he did that he stiffened slightly, narrowed
his eyes and peered hard off to the right.

“Look at that plane over there, Dave!” he
cried, and pointed. “It’s one of your light plane
affairs, one of your two-cylinder Grasshopper
ships, as you call them. The chap’s crazy to fly
that thing around these mountains. Wind currents
can bash him against a slope in no time.
However, you Yanks!”

Dave didn’t comment on the last. He had
picked out the small plane silhouetted against
the towering banks of clouds. It was one of
those puddle-jumping Taylor Cubs, and it was
dangerously close to the wind and squall-swept
mountain sides. He could see it hit air current
after air current and bounce about in the rough
air like a cork in a heavy sea. The plane reminded
him of a swimmer going against the
tide. The plane was staggering forward, staggering
toward a point that would take it across
the Vultee’s path of flight.

“Maybe he’s some guy who got disappointed
in love,” Dave ventured the guess aloud. “Or
maybe he just doesn’t give a darn. But he seems
to be getting clear of the mountains okay. So we
should worry. I guess he must have slipped
through from the other side. What was that
crack about us Yanks?”

“I don’t remember,” Freddy grunted absently.
“I wonder about that chap over there,
though. What do you suppose he could be doing
in among those jagged sloped mountains?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dave replied with a
chuckle. “But being as how you’re such a curious
cuss, I’ll ask him when he comes in.”

“Eh?” Freddy echoed.

“Skip it, pal!” Dave laughed. “I was only—Hey!
The guy’s in clear air, now, and he’s making
a beeline for us. And from here it looks like
he’s half standing up and waving at us out the
side window.”

“That’s right!” Freddy cried, squinting across
the mile or so of air space that separated the two
planes. “The blighter is waving his arm off for
fair. Now what, I wonder?”

“Search me,” Dave said. “But keep your eyes
skinned, Freddy. This may be the beginning of
some funny business. It’s up to us to be cagey
of even a guy on a bicycle.”

“Have no fear of that!” the English youth
said grimly. “But I imagine he’s pretty harmless.
Can’t say that I see his dinky little air kite
bristling with machine guns.”

“But you can’t see into the cabin!” Dave
barked. “So don’t go taking things on face value.
Be ready to grab hold of your hat in case he
starts pulling something out of the air.”

Dave wasn’t sure whether Freddy snorted or
not. Besides, he was too busy watching the small
light plane draw closer and closer. A very familiar
tingling sensation had come to the back
of his neck. It made him a little annoyed to
experience the sensation, because it undoubtedly
was crazy to think that that little winged sky
kite could give the well gunned Vultee any
trouble. Still, the feeling was there at the back
of the neck, and too many times in the past had
it served as the advance warning of trouble for
him completely to ignore it. And so he watched
the small plane wing in close, but he sat stiff and
taut in the seat, and every nerve and muscle was
tensed for instantaneous, lightning fast action.

When it got in real close he could see that
only the pilot was in the small cabin. There was
no passenger in the other seat. For a second his
heart looped over, and he got set to bank the
Vultee off, when the smaller plane continued to
head dead for him. However, in the last moment
allowed the light plane swung around until it
was flying wing tip to wing tip with the Air
Corps ship. Dave automatically eased back the
throttle to let the other keep pace, and stared
across the air space at the light-complexioned,
flaxen-haired man in the Cub’s cabin.

At that moment the Cub’s pilot put his hand
out the cabin window, made frantic motions
with it and pointed eastward and down.

“He seems to want us to go down, Dave!”
Freddy said.

“He’s got another think coming!” Dawson
grunted back, and shook his head.

Then on sudden thought he motioned to the
Cub pilot to cut his throttle completely, and at
the same time eased the Vultee’s Cyclone down
to a murmur. Then he shoved back his glass
hatch and cupped a hand to his lips.

“What’s the matter?” he roared at the top of
his voice.

Both planes were nosing down into a flat
glide, but the Vultee was slowly drawing ahead
of the butterfly type of plane. The pilot’s voice
came to Dawson’s ears as a distant echo.

“Trouble—other side of mountains. Need—help—bad!
A crack-up! Need help—bad! My—plane—too—small!”

Dave thought the other pilot shouted something
more, but he couldn’t tell for sure because
the Vultee had pulled down way ahead of the
smaller craft. Still keeping the engine idling,
Dave pulled up the nose and hovered close to
the stalling point while the Cub pilot used his
engine and came up alongside again.

This time the light plane’s pilot almost fell
through the cabin window, so wild and frantic
were his signals to Dave. And his voice rose as
high as the scream of a woman.

“Crash! Crash! People hurt! Need help!
Need help! Other side of range! Follow me
down. Need help bad!”

“What shall we do, Dave?” came Freddy
Farmer’s voice close behind Dawson. “Think
the chap really means it? Or is this some kind
of a funny game? He certainly looks excited
enough. What do you think?”

Dave just shrugged and didn’t answer for a
moment. He stared hard across the mountain
peaks as though that would permit him to see
what was on the other side. He saw nothing but
tree-covered slopes, and jagged rocks, and deep
ravines, of course. On impulse he twisted around
in the seat and looked back in the general direction
of San Francisco. There was nothing there
but blue sky and blooming patches of pure white
clouds.

“Wonder how far back Colonel Welsh’s
agent is?” he spoke the question aloud, “By
rights he should be near enough to see this light
plane lad, and get curious and close in for a
better look.”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering, too!”
Freddy called out. “Strikes me as a bit strange
we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since we
left. Maybe he didn’t get off.”

Freddy Farmer’s last words caused Dave to
stiffen slightly, and a tingling ripple passed
through his body. He looked at the English
youth and half closed one eye.

“Maybe you’ve got something there, pal,” he
muttered. “Maybe our escort didn’t get off
Frisco Air Base. But if this lad’s not kidding,
and there is a crash with injured people over
there beyond the mountains—”

Dave let the rest trail off and scowled at the
banks of clouds. If there was a crash and injured
people in need of help, he wanted to
lend that help even though he and Freddy
were on an important military mission. After
all, injured people—Yet, confound it, there
seemed to be something inside of him that
wouldn’t agree. A tiny voice kept yelling for
him to ignore this pleading pilot and fly on to
Albuquerque.

“Perhaps a look wouldn’t hurt any, Dave,”
Freddy spoke up. “We could take a look, and if
there is a crash send a radio to the nearest air
field. What do you say to that?”

Dave didn’t say anything to that. In fact, he
hardly heard what Freddy Farmer was saying.
At that moment he had suddenly spotted two
dots high up in the banked clouds to the east,
two moving dots that were hugging the shadows
cast by the lumpy clouds. And he didn’t need
anyone to tell him that they weren’t just a couple
of soaring eagles!

For perhaps ten full seconds Dave stared
brittle-eyed at those two moving dots. Then he
took his eyes off them and looked at the Cub
cabin monoplane. The little craft was doing its
best to keep pace with the Air Corps plane, and
its pilot was still waving his arm out the window
and trying to make his screamed words of pleading
carry across the air space that separated the
two planes. As Dave looked at him he suddenly
realized that he had been automatically swerving
the Vultee to the left. This was because the
Cub pilot kept swerving in a little too close for
comfort, and Dave wasn’t taking any chances
of a mid air tangle of wings.

But now that he had seen those two moving
dots, the Cub pilot’s maneuvering meant something
entirely different. Without appearing to
do so, the Cub pilot was forcing the Vultee eastward
and toward a point directly under those
two moving dots high in the air. Dave grinned
faintly, but a steel hard look crept into his eyes.
He suddenly turned his head toward the Cub
pilot and nodded it violently. Then he cupped
both hands to his mouth.

“Okay!” he roared, “Get out in front and lead
the way!”

The Cub pilot stopped waving instantly, and
his face beamed with gratitude. He gave his
small engine all the power it could take and
pulled out in front of the well throttled Vultee.

“I guess this is best, Dave!” Freddy said.
“Might as well take a look, just in case, what?”

Dave waited until the Cub light plane was a
good bit in front and bearing around to the east.
Then he looked back at Freddy and winked.

“One up on you this time, sweetheart,” he
said. “The old Farmer eagle eye missed the
pitch this time. I think we’re in for a bit of
action. Anyway, I kind of hope so. Take a gander
up and to the east, Freddy. That darker
bank of clouds. See what I mean? And they’re
not a couple of sparrows, either. Can you make
out the types?”

The English youth blinked, looked puzzled
for a brief instant, then lifted his eyes and
fixed them on the cloud bank. Dave, watching
him, saw amazement and then anger flood
Freddy’s face. When Farmer lowered his gaze
his eyes were startlingly cold and hard.

“The dirty blighters, if that’s what they’re up
to!” he bit off. “Get us started on a supposed
mercy errand, and then try to drop down on our
necks.”

“Try, is right!” Dave chuckled. “But we’ve
seen them first. Okay, Freddy! There’re only
two of them. Get set to teach somebody a little
lesson he won’t be forgetting for a long time.
We’ll let them come down close, but not too
close. Look! They’re banking around and starting
down. Well, knock me for a loop! A couple
of Waco biplane speed jobs! Think we should
go through with it, Freddy? Or should we pull
out and tend to our own knitting?”

There was no answer from Freddy Farmer
for a couple of seconds. Dave watched the two
Wacos come rushing down in almost a vertical
dive. Instinctively he slid his hand up the control
stick and took off the safety catch of the
firing button.

“Eh, what?” came Freddy Farmer’s sudden
reply. “Pull off and leave the blighters? Leave
them perhaps to get somebody else like poor
Tracey? Not a bit of it, Dave. Let’s give it to the
beggars, and give it to them good!”

“Words right out of my mouth!” Dave cried
gayly. “And to make sure it’s no mistake, we’ll
let them smack out the first burst. I still wonder
where Colonel Welsh’s agent is. Too bad he’s
going to miss this!”

“His hard luck,” Freddy grunted. “But he
isn’t here, so he isn’t here, and that’s that. He—On
guard, Dave!”

The last wasn’t necessary. Dawson hadn’t
taken his eyes off the diving Wacos for so much
as a split second. Even as Freddy yelled, he saw
twin jetting streams of orange red flame come
spurting out the nose of the leading plane. And
in that same split second he slammed his weight
on the Vultee’s controls and sent the Air Corps
ship cartwheeling off to the left and up as
though it had been slapped by a bolt of
lightning.

So unexpected and so swift had been his maneuver
that when he yanked the Vultee out of it a
good thousand feet higher in the air, the two
Wacos were still diving earthward and still spitting
out bullets from all their guns. A harsh
laugh rattled off Dave’s lips as he kicked rudder
and dropped the nose a hair.

“Go back to flight training school, chumps!”
he shouted. “Who do you think we are—a couple
of two hour solo cadets? Here! Here are a
few kisses from Uncle Sam!”

As Dave spoke the last he sticked the nearest
of the two Wacos into his sights and jabbed the
electric trigger button. His two forward fixed
guns yammered out flame and sound, and the
Waco suddenly acted as though its pilot had
flown it straight into a meat grinder. The left
wings came off clean as a whistle. The fuselage
buckled in the middle, and smoke and flame
belched out from under the engine cowling, and
went whirling backward to envelop the plane
completely. Dave watched it closely, but when
no figure tumbled down out of that smoke to
become a man dangling at the ends of parachute
shroud lines, he shuddered slightly and
licked his suddenly dry lips.

“Tough!” he muttered, “even if he is an Axis
rat. But he asked for it. And he had the chance
to get in the first licks, too!”

Hardly had the last left Dave’s lips before
Freddy Farmer’s rear guns spoke their piece.
The second Waco had come out of its wild dive,
and its pilot—perhaps a little jarred by the sudden
death of his flying mate—had tried the absolutely
crazy maneuver of cutting around and
getting in under the Vultee’s tail. With a sharp-shooter
like Freddy Farmer, that maneuver was
just about as sane an effort as stepping out a ten
story window and trying to walk across the air
to a building on the other side of the street.

The English youth’s rear guns slapped out no
more than a two second burst each. But that was
more than enough. It was as though a giant’s
steel fist crashed down, and one ripped up, and
the Waco were caught between the two. The
biplane simply came apart at the seams and the
pieces were showered all over the place. Unlike
the other Waco pilot, however, the second Waco
pilot managed to get away with his life. Both
Dave and Freddy saw him arc out from the
shower of wreckage as though shot from the
mouth of a cannon. A moment later, though, as
he went slowly spinning head over heels downward,
a puff of white shot up past his head. And
in another moment he was swinging like a
clock’s pendulum at the ends of taut shroud
lines. Dave glanced back at Freddy and nodded.

“Nice shooting, Freddy!” he cried. “Help
yourself to a cigar, my little man!”

“You didn’t miss, yourself!” the English
youth shouted back. Then, casting his eye down
at the dangling parachutist, he muttered, “At
times like this I almost wish I were a Nazi.
Then I could do plain murder, and it wouldn’t
come back to me in my dreams. That lucky
blighter will probably be up to more dirty Axis
business tomorrow.”

“No, not tomorrow!” Dave echoed as he
stared downward. “He’s got one awful long
walk out of those mountains. And if you must
know how I feel about it, I kind of hope that
he doesn’t make it, if you get what I mean.”

“I do,” Freddy said grimly. “And the feeling
is mutual. I see that our light plane friend isn’t
around. As soon as his work was completed he
got away in a hurry. How about tooting around
a bit to see if we can pick up the beggar? I’d at
least like to give him the scare of his rotten
life.”

“I’d like to give him just a little more than
that!” Dave echoed as he cast his narrow-eyed
gaze about the surrounding air. “But I guess
we’ll have to pass up that little pleasure. I don’t
see hide nor hair of him, and we’ve got places to
go, anyway. Well, Freddy how’s for handing
me that fur-lined propeller I won?”

“Fur what?” Farmer gasped. “What are you
raving about?”

“Colonel Welsh’s tapped phone lines!” Dave
said, and grinned at him. “Kind of close to being
right, wasn’t I?”

“You modest blighter!” Freddy snapped.
“When will you learn your manners, and wait
for praise to come, instead of asking for it?”

“Who, me?” Dawson chuckled. “Wait for
praise from a jealous guy like you? And get it
maybe when my beard is way down to here, and
I’m in a wheel chair? Not a chance! But thanks
for them kind words, pal! After all, it was just
a hunch. I could have been wrong.”

“Not a bit of it!” Freddy cried, and then
grinned. “I knew definitely that you were right,
because, you see, I suspected those phone lines
being tapped long before you even thought of it.
I knew how pleased you’d be to bring it up, so
I simply remained silent. That’s how it really
was, old thing.”

“Okay, okay!” Dave groaned, and gave a sad
shake of his head. “We’re both a couple of very
wonderful guys. Let’s leave it like that, huh?”

“Oh, quite!” Freddy said, and then, giving
his right hand a snap wave, he added, “And
now, my good man, stop wasting Government
high octane. Take me to my destination, and be
quick about it, will you? I’ve much more important
things to do than sit here chitchatting
with the likes of you—Hey, there!”

When Freddy shouted out the last he was upside
down and hanging on his safety harness,
and clutching at the sides of the cockpit for
support. Grinning back at him like an ape, Dave
whipped the Vultee back onto even keel and
banked southeast again.

“Quite, quite, my lord!” he chirped. “Lovely
weather for flying, isn’t it? The air as smooth
as a mill pond. Oh, yes, yes, and pip-pip, old tin
of fruit!”

Freddy Farmer was unable to make any reply.
He was still struggling to get back his
breath, and swallow his heart into place.

The sun was a glittering bronze disc in the
heavens when Dave eased back the throttle and
sent the Vultee coasting down toward the surface
of the Albuquerque Air Corps Base. The
rest of the trip had been completely uneventful.
It had been nothing but a scenic joyride that
both boys had enjoyed to the limit. But now that
Albuquerque was down there their minds put
aside the beauty of the trip and came back to
more serious things. One attempt on their lives
had been made. Would there be another at
Albuquerque? Also, would Colonel Welsh’s
agents at Albuquerque have anything new to report?
The Chief of U.S. Intelligence had not
described his two agents at Albuquerque, but
both Dave and Freddy would know them instantly—that
is, when the identifying sentence
was spoken to them.

As he guided the ship down Dave impulsively
slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out
the slightly gashed copper coin he had taken
from the dead Tracey. Colonel Welsh had given
it to him just before they went out to the Frisco
Air Base. He had also given one to Freddy Farmer.
It was, Colonel Welsh had explained, a
special SOS signal for U.S. Intelligence agents
located in and around the Canal Zone. It identified
its holder as a member of the Service, and
all agents seeing it were to drop whatever they
were doing and lend instant assistance, regardless.
When found on the body of a wounded
man, the copper disc was a silent order for the
wounded man to receive medical assistance at
once—as he might possess valuable military information
that approaching death was striving
to cheat him out of delivering.

Dave fingered the silver-filled copper disc,
and stared down at it thoughtfully.

“I hope I never have to flash you,” he
grunted. “You’re certainly no lucky charm. Not
to poor Tracey, you weren’t. Yet—you did tell
Colonel Welsh who Tracey was, didn’t you?
Well, here’s hoping you don’t have to tell him
the same thing—about me. And how!”

“I say!” Freddy Farmer suddenly screamed
in his ear. “Land on the field, not under it, will
you?”

Dave snapped his gaze front, gulped, and
eased up the nose of the Vultee. He was unconsciously
coming in very “hot,” and the surface
of the field was much closer than he’d realized,
so absorbed had he been with his thoughts about
the copper disc.

“Just giving you an extra thrill, free of
charge, pal!” he shouted back to Freddy.
“Always aim to please the customer, you know.
Okay! Mother Earth coming up. End of the
line. There! Was that to your liking, sir?”

Dave settled the Vultee in a beautiful three-point,
and gently braked it to a full stop. He sat
there for a moment with his eyes on the Operations
Tower. He got the flash to taxi in and sent
the Vultee trundling along and down the cross
runway toward the seemingly mile-long tarmac
lined in back by an equally long row of massive
hangars.

He finally slipped the Vultee in between a
couple of bombers and killed the engine.

“I mean it, this time,” he said, turning around
to Freddy. “End of the line, and all out. But sit
here, if you like. Me, I’m going to report to the
check-in officer, and then get me a bottle of pop,
or something.”

Freddy Farmer brightened and scrambled
down from his cockpit.

“I say, do you suppose I could get a spot of
tea?” he asked.

Dave frowned and looked at him. In fact, he
cocked his head first on one side, and then on the
other.

“What size skirt do you take, and blouse?”
he murmured, straight-faced. “As a girl you’d
get it easy. These guys are very polite. But to
ask for tea in that uniform, with pilot’s wings
and all—”

Dave paused and sighed heavily. Freddy
glared and took a quick step forward.

“That, my good fellow, is the last straw!” he
cried. “Now your countrymen here will see
what happens to a bloke who insults the honored
and traditional drink of the English. I shall—”

Freddy stopped as a couple of mechanics
came running over to the plane. They came to
a halt and saluted.

“The check-in booth is over there, sir,” one
of them said to Dave. “If you hurry, you’ll make
it by two after one. We’ll take charge of your
ship, sir. Nice trip?”

Two after one! Those three words were like
three bombshells going off in Dave’s brain.
They were the code words that would identify
Colonel Welsh’s two agents who would meet
them in Albuquerque. But only one, the taller,
had spoken them. Dave looked at the shorter
one and smiled apologetically, and touched a
finger to his ear.

“Engine deafened me a little,” he said. “What
was that?”

“The check-in booth, sir,” the shorter of the
two mechanics said. “It’s close to two after one.
You’d better step on it.”

Dave grinned and winked.

“Right,” he said. Then, arching one brow,
“And after we’ve checked in?”

“You can remember something you left in the
ship,” the tall mechanic said. “We’ll both be
here wiping her off. Was it a quiet trip?”

“Not for two Waco pilots, it wasn’t,” Dave
said grimly, and beckoned a finger at Freddy
Farmer. “See you soon.”

“That’s the pair, right enough!” Freddy
breathed softly as he and Dave headed over to
the check-in booth. “And did you see how your
news startled them?”

“As I remember, it startled us, too!” Dave
said with a chuckle. “Come on, step on it! I
want to get back and find out if those two have
learned anything new.”

Freddy quickened his step to keep pace with
Dave, and together they hurried over to the
check-in hut and through the door. A young
Air Corps lieutenant looked up from a desk and
greeted them with a smile.

“Sign here, Captains,” he said, and pushed
a loose-leaf book across the desk. “Passing
through, or are you reporting for duty?”

“Passing through,” Dave said as he signed his
name, and gave the pen to Freddy. “Have any
orders come through while we’ve been in the
air?”

The young Air Corps lieutenant swung the
book around, looked at the two names, and shook
his head.

“No sir,” he said. “Nothing for either of you.
We received word you’d taken off from Frisco
Base. You landed on the way down?”

“No, why?” Dave asked.

The young lieutenant grinned and nodded his
head at the clock.

“A Vultee is a pretty fast ship, Captain,” he
said.

Dave frowned, and then suddenly the light
dawned.

“Oh, sure, I get it,” he said. “We went sight-seeing.
This is my Chinese friend’s first visit to
this country. I took a little time out to give him
a good look.”

The young Air Corps lieutenant was staring
puzzle-eyed at Freddy Farmer as the two aces
walked out of the office. Outside, Dave took a
quick step away from Freddy, and waited for
his pal to go into action. But Freddy just kept
on walking.

“Be calm, old thing,” Freddy said quietly.
“That was a compliment you paid me. The
Chinese are a wonderful people. They’ve been
proving it to the world for the last five years.
So, trot along with me, my funny boy. I won’t
hurt you.”

“Smack-o!” Dave grunted as he flushed a
little. “I guess that one sort of upped and backfired
in my face. Darn right the Chinese are
okay. Let’s forget the whole thing, huh?”

“Done with, already,” Freddy grinned. “And
how about you stepping on it this time? I’m
anxious to hear what those two agents of Colonel
Welsh’s have to say. But I can’t say they look
much like agents.”

“And just what does an agent look like?”
Dave chuckled.

“Oh, rather homely looking,” Freddy said.
“Flat-headed, flat feet, and bow legs. Just an
ordinary horrible looking chap. You’re an agent,
aren’t you—of a sort?”

“Why, oh why do I keep opening my big
mouth?” Dave wailed. “That’s twice in as many
minutes. You’re catching on too fast, my little
man.”

“Could be I was really ahead at the start, you
know?” the English youth shot back at him.

Dave made noises in his throat and clamped
his lips shut tight. In silence the pair walked
the rest of the way to where the two Intelligence
agents in mechanics’ garb were wiping off the
wings of the Vultee. When Dave and Freddy
came up they continued wiping the wings, but
both edged over so that they could talk in low
tones without appearing to be talking at all from
more than fifty feet away.

“What’s that about the two Wacos?” the tall
one asked. “What happened?”

Dave bent over to inspect a section of the wing
and in rapid sentences told of the little adventure
on the way down. The two mechanics
whistled softly and shot both Dave and Freddy
looks of frank admiration.

“I say, anything new at this end?” Freddy
murmured.

“Nothing yet,” replied the shorter of the other
two. “We’ve checked and rechecked, but as yet
we haven’t got a nibble.”

“Nibble?” Freddy echoed, and frowned in
perplexity.

“An idea of who, and how, about Tracey,”
the mechanic explained. “And—well, the two
of us feel like going out and cutting our
throats.”

“And how, we do!” grated the taller mechanic.
“Of course we didn’t know who he was.
It’s part of our job to meet all foreign ships
landing here. I mean, planes that don’t belong
to this field. We met Tracey’s ship, and we serviced
it for him. If I had only known, I’d have
watched it like a hawk until he’d taken off
again. But we didn’t know a thing about him
until a couple of hours ago when Colonel Welsh
got us on the wire to explain about you two
coming down. He didn’t tell us where you were
headed, just that you were two after one, and
that those were to be the identification words.”

The man looked questioningly at Dave, but
the Yank ace just grinned, and shrugged.

“Oh, we’re just out for a bit of fishing, you
know,” Freddy Farmer offered the information
presently. “We’re hoping we have all kinds of
luck.”

“I’m hoping for you,” the tall agent mechanic
said. “We both are. That means you’re just passing
through, huh? When do you want your ship
ready? And I guess we might as well patch up
those two bullet holes.”

The last caused Dave almost to jump out of
his shoes.

“Huh?” he gulped, bug-eyed. “Bullet holes?
Where?”

The tall mechanic pointed to the left side of
the fuselage at a point exactly between the forward
and rear pits. There were two neat bullet
holes in the dural covering, not over an inch
apart. Dave stared at them and felt beads of
sweat break out on his forehead. A foot farther
front and they would have been in his spine.
A foot farther to the rear and they would have
been in Freddy’s legs.

“Holy smoke!” he breathed. “Sweet tripe! I
had no idea!”

“Take a good look, and remember it, old
thing!” Freddy Farmer said dryly. “Next time
don’t be so blasted heroic, and give the other
bloke first cracks. Don’t give him first cracks
at all.”

“Don’t rub it in!” Dave growled. “Besides, I
couldn’t open fire on them first. We weren’t sure
about them until they started shooting.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Freddy said as a sort of
apology. “But just the same, don’t give the next
bloke the same kind of opportunity.”

Dave shrugged and turned to the taller of the
two mechanics.

“We’re heading south,” he said. “Just where,
you can guess. When we leave depends on the
Commandant here at Albuquerque. We won’t
be taking this Vultee. But getting back to poor
Tracey, did you happen to see anybody hanging
around near his ship? Did you see much of him?
I mean, we got the idea that he discovered somebody
was on his tail, and sort of kept out of
sight while he was here. Do you know if that’s
right?”

The two agents, serving at Albuquerque as
mechanics, frowned in deep thought, and then
exchanged glances at each other.

“If we’d only known who Tracey was, we’d
have kept our eyes open,” the tall mechanic said,
and gave a little shake of his head. “It so happened,
though, we did see him around and about
a couple of times. He was with the field Commandant,
Major Larkin, for a while. And we
saw him with a couple of the pilots, whom he
seemed to know. He told us that he was pulling
out of here first thing in the morning. But it
wasn’t until close to noon when he appeared on
the field. Naturally, we didn’t ask any questions.
As I’ve said, we didn’t know a thing—then.”

“I wish we had!” the shorter of the two mechanics
muttered. “He didn’t look so hot to me.
I mean, I thought he’d had a big night with the
boys, and had cracked his head on something.
He had a fair sized piece of plaster on his forehead
over his left eye. He certainly didn’t look
so good. But of course we didn’t say a thing.”

Dave Dawson was silent for a moment. His
brain was turning back in memory to those moments
he had spent with the dying Tracey in
that desolate mountain valley. He remembered
the gash on the man’s forehead. The surgeon’s
plaster had probably been torn off in the crash.
At the time, though, Dave had believed the
head injury to have been caused by the crash.

“So an attack was made on him here?” he
murmured more to himself than the others.
“That’s pretty positive. But he survived it, so
somebody—probably the same rat—doctored
his oxygen tank, knowing that he’d go for altitude
to get over the mountains. Maybe this is a
dumb question, but who here would know he
was headed for Frisco Air Base?”

“Any number of people, I’m afraid,” the tall
mechanic replied with a shrug. “The check-in
officer, the Commandant, the operations officer,
and—well, any of the pilots he happened to
mention it to. Why? Anything special behind
that question?”

“Just grabbing at straws,” Dave said with a
sigh. “It’s pretty certain that somebody here,
who knew his take-off time, sent word to Frisco,
so that the rat, or rats, at the Frisco end could
check and make sure.”

“What’s that, Dave?” Freddy Farmer spoke
up with a frown. “Why did anybody in Frisco
have to know, if the poor chap’s oxygen tank
was fixed up?”

“To make sure the tank did knock him out
and make him crash, and die,” Dawson replied
grimly. “It wouldn’t gain them much to make
that sneak attack on Rigby’s office if Tracey
were going to make contact with Colonel Welsh,
anyway.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Freddy nodded. “So some
blighter here who knew his take-off time is our
man, or at least one of them.”

“Sure,” Dave grunted, and made a sweep of
his hand that took in the entire Base. “So take
your pick. The old needle in a hay stack,
Freddy. A dead end street, I’d say. Well, I guess
we’d better report to Major Larkin, and find
out how soon we’re leaving.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea,” the taller
of the two agents replied. “But here’s a tip. If
you’re staying here for the night, don’t go for
any walks in the dark. I think it would be wise
to stick in the officers’ mess, and relax, if you
get what I mean.”

“I guess I do,” Dave grunted, and gave the
tall one a searching look. “Somebody we don’t
know knows that we have arrived, eh?”

“Yes, that’s the idea,” the tall mechanic said
with a faint grin. “We realize now that Tracey
didn’t bump his head into any door while he was
having a good time with some of his pilot
friends.”

“Not a chance!” the shorter mechanic said
grimly. “My guess is that he got popped at.
Whispering bullets in the dark. And it wouldn’t
be the first time, either. The rats we’re up
against always deal from the bottom of the deck.
So watch your step. And of course, we’ll be
watching you.”

“That’s a deal,” Dave said, and gave them a
friendly grin. “If we stay the night we won’t do
any sight-seeing after dark. Well, we’ll be seeing
you again. So long, for now.”

Major Larkin, Commandant of the Albuquerque
Air Base, was the kind of a man who looked
as if he had been cut out of solid granite, and
fitted up with coiled steel springs. And under
the silver wings on his tunic was a row of decoration
ribbons that proved he was also the kind
of a man who lived up to his looks. But the
smile of greeting he gave to Dave and Freddy
was genuine enough, and his hand shake was
warm and friendly.

“Assigned for duty with the Ninety-Sixth in
the Canal Zone, eh?” he said, and tapped the
official orders on his desk. “Well, that’s a great
spot for flying. A fine bunch of boys down there,
too. Wish I were going along with you. Well,
get an extra U-boat for me, will you?”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” Dave said with a
grin. “And—well, when do we leave, sir?”

“Anxious to get going, eh?” the Base Commandant
echoed with a chuckle. “Well, tomorrow
morning. A half dozen ferry bombers are
sitting down here for refueling tomorrow. Then
from here to Brownsville, Texas. And then the
water jump to the Canal Zone. Will that be okay
with you two? That’s the fastest service I can
give you, to the Canal Zone by ferry bomber.”

Dave and Freddy exchanged startled glances.
It wasn’t usual for high ranking officers to ask
if such and such a thing were okay. Major
Larkin saw the exchange of looks and chuckled
softly.

“I read all the papers, and of course the communiques,”
he said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Seems to me I recall something about two lads
named Dawson and Farmer doing a pretty good
job against the Japs trying to break up that
Marshall Islands show we had a while back.
And I think I remember, too, that long before
that those same two did all right on a couple of
R.A.F. Intelligence jobs. But of course, it could
have been two other fellows.”

Dave and Freddy grinned, and then Dave
nodded.

“That’s right, sir,” he said. “It was two other
fellows. We’re joining Ninety-Six to take a
couple cracks at U-boats in the Caribbean.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe, whatever it
is,” Major Larkin laughed. Then, as his face
became just a little grave, he said, “But I wish
you all the luck in the world with those—U-boats.
I’m not connected with Intelligence, but
rumors get around, you know. It’s an odds-on
bet that something is going to pop down there.
I only hope and pray that you and the others
will be able to slap the cover on pronto.”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” Dave repeated mechanically.
“But as you never can tell what will
be a help, I’d like to ask, what about the rumors
you’ve heard, sir? Anything special about any
of them?”

The Albuquerque Base Commandant scowled
out the window of his office, and absently
cracked the knuckles of his left hand with his
right.

“Nothing that isn’t public property,” he said.
“Just the usual rumors about an impending attack
on the Canal.”

“Why, sir?” Freddy asked. “Why an impending
attack on the Canal?”

“An obvious military operation,” the Major
replied with a gesture. “And impending because
it hasn’t been made long before this. That Canal
isn’t closed up for the duration, you know. We’re
making twenty-four hour a day use of it. And it
isn’t a bunch of canoes that are going through
it on their way to Australia, and India, and the
Middle East.”

“Then you think the Japs are planning another
Pearl Harbor in the Canal Zone, sir?”
Freddy pressed.

The Major looked at him and grinned.

“What do you think?” he countered. “They’d
certainly love to cut that section of the supply
line, wouldn’t they?”

“Oh, quite, sir,” Freddy said with a nod.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added,
“But I’m afraid, sir, that I don’t agree with
you.”

“He’s like that, sir,” Dave said with a
chuckle. “An awful stubborn guy with his ideas.
And you’d be surprised how often he hits the
nail on the head. Yes, sir! Freddy’s a whole
lot more than just a pukka fighting pilot.”

“Oh, I say, drop it, will you!” Freddy
growled as a flush flooded his cheeks. “Everybody
has ideas and opinions of his own, you
know. What Dawson really means, sir, is that
I haven’t sense enough to keep mine to myself.
But we must be taking up your valuable time,
sir.”

“Not a bit of it!” Major Larkin said, giving
Freddy a searching look. “You don’t agree with
me, so that makes me curious. I’d like to know
your opinion, really. Why don’t you think the
Japs would like to close the Canal?”

“I didn’t say that, sir,” the English born ace
replied quickly. “They’d love to, no end. I simply
mean that they wouldn’t attempt it. Too far
to come, too great a cost for the small amount
of damage they’d do. It stands to reason that you
Americans aren’t ever going to let another Pearl
Harbor happen any place. Oh, the Japs would
love to do it, but they can’t. And I fancy they
know that better than we do.”

“Then, personally, you don’t expect any attack
on the Canal?” Major Larkin murmured
with a smile. “The rumors are just hot air?”

“On the contrary, I do expect an attack, sir,”
Freddy Farmer said soberly. “But not by the
Japs. By the Nazis. In a way they have far more
to gain by such an attack than the Japs.”

“How’s that?” Dave broke in. “Make that a
little clearer, will you, Freddy?”

“Oh, never mind,” the English youth said,
and shrugged. “It’s just a lot of words, and probably
not very interesting, or enlightening. Let’s
get going, shall we, Dave?”

“Not yet,” Major Larkin said with a grin.
“I’m giving you an order, Captain Farmer.
Answer Dawson’s question. I want to hear it.”

“Well, sir,” Freddy began, after fixing his
eyes on a point on the desk, and holding them
there, “the answer is Russia, in my humble
opinion. Hitler wants Japan to attack Russia
from the east. Such an attack would simplify
his problem enormously. But before Japan will
tackle that kind of a job, Hitler has got to show
that he in turn will help Japan. He’s been doing
it a little with his intensified U-boat campaign
along the Atlantic seaboard, and in the Caribbean.
But that is not enough, and—well, perhaps
Japan has told him so. It is Japan who is holding
large British forces in India, forces that
could be well used in Egypt. Before Japan does
anything more to help Hitler, the Nips want
something in return from him. So—the Panama
Canal. If Hitler can plug that up he will have
done Japan a tremendously important favor.
That’s the way I look at it…. But I say! Let’s
drop this, shall we? I’m probably just talking
silly rot.”

“You aren’t, Farmer,” Major Larkin said,
and gave him a look of frank admiration. “And
you are most certainly one of the reasons!”

Freddy looked puzzled, and blinked.

“Reasons, sir?” he echoed.

Major Larkin smiled and nodded.

“Exactly,” he said. “One of the reasons why
there’ll always be an England! Well, I’ll be
seeing you two later at mess.”

The two youths saluted and went outside into
the sunshine. Freddy’s face was on fire with a
blush, but there was an intensely pleased look
in his eyes. Dave glanced sidewise at him and
chuckled softly.

“So you won’t talk, huh?” he grunted. “Boy!
Did you lay the words right down the groove!
Pal, I’m right proud of you, I am!”

“Oh, come off it!” Freddy growled, but the
pleased smile was still on his lips. “Major Larkin’s
probably laughing his head off, right
now.”

“No he isn’t,” Dave said solemnly. “And
neither am I. As I remarked in there, you
usually smack the nail right on the head. And
I think you got dead center again this time. It
was okay, Freddy. There’s just one question you
didn’t answer. And I sure wish you would. It
would help you and me a lot to know the
answer.”

“And the question?” Freddy demanded, and
shot him a suspicious look. “An impossible one
to answer, no doubt?”

“How—” Dave said, and there was no kidding
in his face—“how do they figure to plug up
the Canal?”

“An impossible question, as I suspected,”
Freddy said, but there was no scorn in his voice.
“Yes, how? And will we find out?”

Dave’s lips came together to form a thin grim
line. He unconsciously clenched his two fists and
squinted narrow-eyed ahead.

“We’ll find out!” he grated softly. “We’ve got
to! But—but will we find out in time! Seven-Eleven.
You know, Freddy, I don’t think I’ve
ever wanted to meet anybody as much as I want
to meet this mysterious bird they call Seven-Eleven!”

“Quite, me too!” the English youth answered.
“But speaking of meeting people, right now I’d
much rather meet the mess cook here. Feel like
I haven’t eaten for hours. What say we try to
get a bite or two of lunch, eh?”

“Freddy Farmer of the mile wide, and deep,
stomach!” Dave sighed. “Okay, or you’ll be
weeping on my shoulder from here on in. That’s
the Officer’s Mess over there. Chase along. I’ll
be with you in a couple of minutes. It just occurred
to me that we’d better let Colonel Welsh
know that we’ve arrived. Probably those two
agents of his will tell him. But I’ll trot over
and tell them to be sure to do that little thing.”

“Right-o,” Freddy said. “And I say, take a
final look in both cockpits, just to see if we left
anything behind, will you?”

“That, too,” Dave said with a nod, and
swerved over toward the hangar line.

When he reached the Vultee the two agent-mechanics
were nowhere to be seen. He climbed
up and had a good look into both cockpits, but
he failed to find anything that belonged to either
Freddy or himself. Then, on second thought, he
began giving the entire plane and engine a
thorough look-see inspection to see if other
lucky bullets had done it any damage. He felt
very guilty about the two bullet holes in the
fuselage, and he wanted to make sure that the
plane wouldn’t be returned to its owner with
any other damage that had been overlooked.

A fifteen minute inspection, however, brought
to light no further evidence of the air battle,
so he turned away and headed over to the check-in
office. The young Air Corps lieutenant wasn’t
there. A sergeant was in charge, and he gave
Dave a respectful nod as the pilot entered.

“Yes, Captain?” he inquired politely.

“Captain Farmer and I just pulled in from
Frisco Base,” Dave said. “I’d like word sent
back that we arrived. Do you send that sort of
thing out, or do I go to the operations officer?”

“We send it out from here, sir,” the sergeant
said. Then, after thumbing through his book
of records, he added, “Frisco has been notified,
Captain. Half an hour ago, by Second Lieutenant
Miller, who was on duty.”

“Okay, thanks,” Dave said with a grin, and
turned away. “I just wanted to be sure that—”

He cut the rest off short as he heard the clanging
of the field ambulance bell. He turned all
the way around and snapped a look out onto the
field. There wasn’t any crash out there, nor was
there any plane coming in that looked as if it
were in trouble. He shrugged, made a face at his
own nervousness and started down the hangar
line toward the Officers’ Mess. It wasn’t until
he had passed a line of bombers that he was
able to see the ambulance. It had come to a stop
in front of the Officers’ Mess. There was a small
group of uniformed men gathered about.

An eerie feeling of terror suddenly struck
Dave, and he broke into a run. He pounded over
the one hundred and fifty yards of flying field
ground in less time than it takes to tell about it.
When he reached the fringe of the group and
peered past them and down at the huddled figure
on the ground, his heart shot up into his mouth
and choked off the cry that tried to get by. It was
Freddy Farmer on the ground. His eyes were
closed, his face was white, and there was blood
on the left side of his head just above the ear.
One look, and then Dave was through the group
and on his knees beside Freddy.

“What happened?” he demanded of anybody
who might have the answer.

“I’m not sure,” spoke up a pilot captain who
had just a touch of grey in his otherwise jet
black hair. “I was just coming out of the Mess,
and saw him headed over this way at a pretty
fast clip. He tripped on a stone, started to save
himself, and then spun around and went flat as
something smacked him. Looks like a bullet
crease to me.”

“And not bad,” said a field medico in white.
“Just nicked him, fortunately. Look, he’s coming
around now. Hold still, son. Just relax while
I swab this a bit and stick something on it.”

Freddy had opened his eyes, and was trying
to struggle up, but the field medico gently forced
him back on the ground, and went to work on
the bullet crease. Freddy’s eyes met Dave’s, but
he didn’t seem to recognize his pal for a second
or two. Then recognition came in a flash, and
he grinned.

“Hello, Dave,” he said. “What happened?
What am I doing here?”

“By rights you should be praying your thankfulness,”
Dave told him with a grin. “It seems
you got clipped by a bullet. But you had stubbed
your toe first. That saved you. How do you
feel?”

“Why, right as rain!” Freddy replied, and
gave the medico an annoyed look. “A bit of an
ache, but that’s all. A bullet, you say? What bullet,
and who shot at me?”

“Nobody shot at you, I don’t guess,” the jet
black-haired pilot captain said with a smile.
“We’ve got a rifle and pistol target range over
there. I guess it was a ricochet bullet that nicked
you. But that still makes you one lucky lad. And
I’m not kidding!”

“A ricochet!” Dave echoed sharply, and
stared at the pilot hard. “You mean this sort of
thing happens often?”

“No, I don’t mean it happens often!” the other
replied, and returned his steady stare. “It hasn’t
happened once in the year I’ve been here. What
are you driving at? You think somebody took a
deliberate shot at your buddy?”

Dave popped open his mouth, but checked
what he wanted to say in time. Instead, he
grinned and shook his head.

“No, of course not,” he said. “We only just
arrived. Don’t know anybody here. Why should
anybody?”

“That’s what I mean,” the other pilot captain
grinned, and gestured with his hands.

By then the medico had finished with Freddy,
and helped him up on his feet. As soon as he was
upright the color came back into Freddy’s face,
and he seemed none the worse for his little adventure—that
is, save for the patch on the side
of his head over his left ear.

“Just take it easy for a little while, Captain,
and you’ll be as good as new,” the medico advised.
Then with a grin as he dumped his stuff
into his bag and snapped it shut, “Sorry I
couldn’t give you a ride. Maybe next time,
though.”

“Thank you, no!” Freddy grinned back at
him. “I detest ambulances. Something too definite
about them, you know.”

“And how I know!” the medico grunted, and
climbed into the ambulance. “Well, it broke the
routine, anyway.”

The ambulance drove away, and the group
slowly broke up, leaving Dave and Freddy
alone.

“Well, shall we eat, eh?” Freddy said.

“You’re okay, that’s a cinch,” Dave growled,
but softened it with a grin. “But, boy! My
heart’s just going back into place. Let’s get out
of the open spaces. A ricochet? Nuts! Somebody
on that target range got off the target quite a
bit, and took a bead on you, Freddy.”

“I think so, too!” the English youth replied
as his eyes flashed fire. “Never mind lunch. Let’s
go hunt out the blighter. I’ve got a bit I could
say to him—and do, too!”

“No, we eat,” Dave said firmly, and took hold
of Freddy’s arm. “It stands to reason he’s not
there waiting for us. And the sooner we get under
cover, the better. No sense inviting pot shots.
But I’m sure thankful you have big feet!”

“I’ll remember that when I get my strength
back!” Freddy Farmer snapped, and allowed
Dave to lead him into the Officers’ Mess.

With her four Wright “Cyclone” engines
thundering out their synchronized song of
power, the giant Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress
lifted clear of the Albuquerque Air Base runway
and nosed up for altitude and the start of
the nine hundred odd mile flight to Brownsville,
Texas. Back aft by the middle bomb bay, Dave
Dawson and Freddy Farmer relaxed comfortably
and watched the falling ground through
one of the side ports.

“Nice!” Dave grunted. “This is the life, at
times. Let somebody else do the flying for a
change, hey, Freddy?”

“A fine thing to ask me!” Freddy snorted.
“I’m usually a passenger anyway. But it does
make a chap feel good not to have any flight
responsibility for a change. These are certainly
wonderful airplanes.”

“Plenty good, plenty good,” Dave agreed. “I
bet before long that Hitler will shoot anybody
who mentions ‘Flying Fortress’ in his presence.
And the day will come, too, and soon, when
these babies will be regarded as the smaller type
of bomber. We’ll have six and eight engine jobs
dumping them off on Adolf’s head. But, by the
way, during all the rush this morning I forgot
to ask you how the old head was. You look okay
from here.”

“I’m fine,” the English youth replied with a
smile. “Had a restless night, though. No pain.
Just dreams, crazy ones. I dreamed that little
cross-eyed men were shooting at me from all
directions, and not missing by much.”

“But they missed, like that rat yesterday,”
Dave murmured, and squinted down back at the
Albuquerque Base that was fast losing itself in
the general landscape. “In a way I’m sorry to
leave Albuquerque. I mean, it’s sort of like unfinished
business. There’s a dirty rat down there,
and we didn’t even get close to him. He knows
we were there, and he knows we’ve taken off
for Brownsville. But there’s one thing in our
favor—if you could call it that.”

“And you mean?” Freddy Farmer prompted
when the Yank air ace lapsed into silence and
didn’t continue. “Go on, finish it.”

“We’ve at least got them worried,” Dave
finally said, and nodded for grim emphasis.
“Colonel Welsh’s faked message to Washington
H.Q. has got them standing on their ears. They
think we know something mighty important,
when in truth we don’t know a darn thing. And
that little fact has me standing on my ear, if you
must know.”

“I’m with you there,” Freddy sighed, and
gave a little shake of his head. “And if you must
know, I’m more than a little worried. I mean,
things have happened, but—well, not a thing to
our advantage.”

“We’re still alive and kicking,” Dave reminded
him. “You could class that as an
advantage.”

“Oh, I do!” Freddy said instantly. “Quite!
But apart from still being alive, what have we
gained? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And to
get down to brass tacks, as you Yanks say, what
have we ahead?”

“Who knows?” Dave grunted, and shrugged.
“We’ll just have to stay in and pitch, and hope
for a break. But there is Second Lieutenant
Marble with the Ninety-Sixth Attack Squadron.
He’s our ace card, you know. All this business
just leads up to him. You might say that
now we’re just running the gantlet of enemy
agents, who are trying to cut us down. But Marble
is at the end, and when we get to him—”

Dave finished the rest by winking and snapping
his fingers. Freddy Farmer nodded, but
the expression on his face indicated that he was
not very much impressed.

“Yes, quite so,” he murmured. “But, supposing
Marble can’t help us any? Supposing he
doesn’t know a thing about what poor Tracey
was working on? What then?”

“Then we know for sure we’ve got to start
from scratch,” Dave said quietly. “And, Freddy,
I’ve been thinking.”

“Good lad,” the English youth said with a
smile. “Splendid! You’ll be surprised in how
many ways it will improve you!”

“Nuts, I’m serious!” Dave snapped. “I’ve
been doing an awful lot of thinking about poor
Tracey. There is the key, Freddy. Poor Tracey.
No matter how much I try to get away from it,
I keep coming back to the firm belief that he
gave us the key to the whole business, in
those four words that we think added up to
Albuquerque.”

“You don’t think so, now?” Freddy asked.

“I don’t know what to think!” Dawson muttered
savagely. “He probably was just pronouncing
Albuquerque slowly so’s we’d be sure
to get it. But why? Tell me why.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Freddy replied
with an unhappy shake of his head.

“So that’s what gets me,” Dave said. “Why
use his last bit of strength to tell us to tell
Colonel Welsh that he came from Albuquerque,
when Colonel Welsh already knew that? And
that word, southern? Why southern Albuquerque?
It doesn’t make sense, Freddy. I’m darned
afraid that we didn’t get it right, that we muffed
what was really the key to this whole mystery.”

“Well, now that you bring it up,” Freddy
Farmer said slowly, “I must confess that I
haven’t been at all satisfied with our deductions
on what he said. But he repeated it several
times, and it sounded the same each time.”

“I know,” Dave said heavily. “But let’s both
keep it in our minds. I have a hunch that we
were all wet on that. I think that something
will come to us out of the blue, and then poor
Tracey’s dying words will make sense.”

“Well, there’s still Second Lieutenant Marble,”
Freddy Farmer grunted. “I refuse, though,
to let my hopes get too high about him. But of
course there is a chance that he can explain a
lot of things, or at least enough for us to get
working on.”

The two youths lapsed into mutual silence
and were content with their own thoughts as the
big Flying Fortress drilled its way through the
air toward Brownsville. As a matter of fact,
neither of them spoke for some fifteen minutes
or so, and then only when the big bomber’s
Flight Engineer came past them on his way aft.

“Anything we can do to help, Lieutenant
Kelley?” Dave asked with a smile. “We sort of
feel as if we were cheating on the job, just sitting
back here and taking it easy.”

The Flight Engineer paused for a moment
and grinned down at him.

“No, there isn’t a thing, thanks,” he said.
“Glad to have you two aboard for company.
These ferrying jobs are pretty dry. I’m just
about to rustle up some coffee, and a sandwich
or two. Can I interest you?”

“Oh, quite!” Freddy Farmer said, and
beamed. “I say, that would be splendid. This
American air, you know, makes me frightfully
hungry quite often.”

“Quite often, he says!” Dave groaned. “He
really means no more than twenty-four hours a
day. You don’t happen to have a whole cow
aboard for him to nibble on, do you, just as a
little snack in between his regular meals? But
I could go for a cup of java. Here, let me give
you a hand with the business.”

Dave scrambled up on his feet and followed
the Flight Engineer past the flare chute compartment
and further aft to the bomber’s galley.
They had the little electric stove going in
nothing flat, and it was not long after that before
the pleasing aroma of coffee was mingling with
the one hundred and one equally pleasant (to
pilots) smells inside the bomber. Freddy sliced
bread and Dave buttered it, and the Flight Engineer
got out the various things to put in between
the buttered slices. It was when he was
cutting the first sandwich cornerwise that he
suddenly straightened up and sniffed.

“What’s that smell, or is it my imagination?”
he asked.

“I smell nothing but nice things to eat,” was
Freddy Farmer’s reply to the question.

Dave didn’t make any reply for a moment.
He sniffed hard and was suddenly conscious of
a very strange smell in his nose. And it didn’t
come from the cook stove, either. He tried to
identify the smell, but the best he could do was
to guess it was burning rubber, or the smell of
scorched paint.

“I get something,” he grunted, and turned to
look forward. “It smells something like—”

The last froze on Dave’s lips, and for a second
or two he couldn’t move, let alone speak. Just
forward at the front end of the flare compartment
a tiny thread of yellowish smoke was seeping
out under a locker door. Even as he stared
a tongue of blue-white flame licked out. And
there was instantly a hissing sound in the inside
of the bomber.

“Fire!” Dave yelped, and snapped out of his
trance. “Something’s going up close to the flare
compartment!”

Even as Dave spoke the words he was in full
action. With a single sweep of his hand he
grabbed one of the many placed special fire extinguishers
down off the galley wall, and
bounded forward. He was but a few steps from
the yellow smoke curling up from under the
locker door when suddenly a sharp explosion
blew the door off its metal hinges. Instantly the
whole interior of that part of the bomber was
filled with flashing light and acrid yellow smoke
that choked and clogged up his throat.

Instinctively Dave dropped flat on the compartment
catwalk with the extinguisher thrust
out in front of him. Yellow smoke now swirled
all about him. It was in his mouth, his nose, and
in his eyes. It smarted and stung like the pain
of a whip lash. He couldn’t see. He could only
feel. And he felt as though he had suddenly
been plunged through the wide open door of a
roaring blast furnace. He also felt somebody
behind grab his feet and start to drag him backward,
but he kicked savagely and got his feet
free.

“Don’t!” he heard his own voice, which came
to him as a faint whisper. “I’m okay. Got to put
that out. If it reaches the flare compartment
we’ll go up like the Fourth of July!”

As he gasped and panted out the words, he
worked the fire extinguisher furiously. For a
couple of seconds it seemed that he must be
pumping the fire-smothering liquid right out a
bomber port. The hissing rose to a roar, and
puddles of white and blue flame seemed to come
sweeping along the catwalk toward Dave. The
heat on his face and hands was terrific. The skin
all over his body seemed to shrivel up and curl.
But he clenched his teeth and pumped harder.

Maybe it was a few seconds, or maybe it was
a few years, before the pools of blue-white flame
started to fall back and simmer down to a weird
glow. That he was gaining on it filled Dave
with new strength. He wiggled up onto his
knees, sprayed the fire-smothering liquid for all
he was worth, and went creeping forward little
by little. The blue-white flames on the catwalk
died out completely, and Dave raised the nose
of the extinguisher and sprayed the walls on
both sides of the compartment. It was not until
he got to his feet that he realized that Freddy
was at his side pumping away with an extinguisher
of his own, and that the Flight Engineer
was right behind them spraying his fire killer
over their shoulders.

And then finally all signs of live flames were
gone. There was nothing but thin choking
smoke, and a whole section of the interior of the
bomber black and charred by flame. The char
marks reached to a point no more than four
inches from the flare lockers, and there they
stopped abruptly. Dave stopped pumping, lowered
his extinguisher and reached for one of the
compartment ports to shove it open and let some
of the acrid smoke escape. He missed the port,
however. Things spun furiously for a moment.
When they stopped spinning he was slumped
down on his knees, and Freddy and the Flight
Engineer were bending over him anxiously.

“You all right, Dave?” Freddy asked. “You’d
have cracked your head a fine one, if I hadn’t
caught you in time.”

“Knew you’d be right there, pal, so I didn’t
worry,” Dave said with a grin and got to his
feet. “Boy! That was something while it lasted,
huh? Darnedest fire I ever saw.”

“Thank God, and you, Dawson, it didn’t reach
the flare compartment!” the Flight Engineer
said fervently. “That would have meant curtains
for this baby—and us.”

“But that’s just like Dawson!” Freddy said
proudly. “Always there in the nick of time.”

“Nuts!” Dave snorted. “I wasn’t thinking of
the bomber, or you fellows. I was thinking of
just me, if you’ve got to know the truth. But how
did the thing get started? What was in that
locker?”

“Nothing,” the Flight Engineer replied in a
puzzled tone.

Something seemed to turn over in Dave’s
chest. His heart became a little icy, and countless
cold shivers went rippling down his spine.

“Nothing?” he echoed, tight-lipped. “You
mean—nothing? Nothing at all?”

“Positive of it!” the Flight Engineer replied,
and gave him a sharp look. “That locker’s for
an extra gunner’s kit when the bomber is fitted
out for active service. I know it was empty because
I took a look before we left Seattle yesterday.
But stick here. I’ve got to relieve Major
Hawks at the controls so he can come back. And
as I said, thank God, and you, Dawson. That
was one of the nerviest things I ever saw pulled.
Why you aren’t burnt to a crisp—!”

The Flight Engineer let the rest go unsaid
and, squeezing Dave’s arm, stepped past him
and hurried forward. For a long minute Dave
stood perfectly still, staring down at the smoke
and flame marks. Then he looked at Freddy,
and there was smouldering rage in his eyes.

“The dirty low-down rat!” he got out viciously.
“The—the—Nuts! There aren’t the
right words in the language to say what I’m
thinking right now. He’d not only have finished
us off, but probably the skeleton crew aboard
this bomber as well.”

Freddy returned his gaze and slowly widened
his eyes as the full meaning of Dave’s words
sank home.

“You really think—?” he began, then stopped
and began again. “You really think this wasn’t
an accident?”

“What else?” Dave demanded, and pointed a
finger at the locker with the blown off door.
“He swears that locker was empty. I believe
him. So you tell me how an empty locker can
explode, blow off its door, and splash that weird-looking
blue-white fire all over the place?”

Freddy Farmer stared down at the explosion-damaged
locker, too, and shivered slightly.

“Of course, you’re right,” he muttered. “A
time set incendiary bomb, with just enough explosive
in it to blow off that door so the flames
could spread. Good grief, Dave, if it had
reached that flare compartment with all those
flares—”

The English youth stopped and shuddered
violently.

“Yes, it wouldn’t have been fun!” Dave said
grimly. “It would have been a sweet mess, or
worse. We’d—”

Dave cut off the rest. Major Hawks, in command
of the ferry bomber, was hurrying aft.
The senior officer took a few more steps, then
pulled up short and stared wide-eyed at the fire
damage. His jaw was set like a chunk of granite,
and his eyes glittered like highly polished steel.
After a moment or so he glanced up and sought
Dave’s eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched
in a faint grin, and he gave a little nod of his
head.

“Lieutenant Kelley says we owe you a vote of
thanks, Captain,” he said. “And by Jove, we
certainly do!”

“That has to include Lieutenant Kelley, and
Farmer, too, sir,” Dave said. “I’d never have
put it out alone. I just happened to see the
smoke first, and got first crack at it. As a matter
of fact, it was Lieutenant Kelley who attracted
my attention by saying he smelled something
funny. Personally, I’m thankful he came aft to
get some eats ready. If he hadn’t, we probably
wouldn’t have noticed anything until it was too
late to do much about it.”

The Major grunted, started to say something,
but checked himself, and took a step toward the
explosion-damaged locker. Sticking out one
foot, he toed out a small black object from the
floor of the flame-blackened locker. When he
bent down to examine it both Dave and Freddy
were right there with him. The black object was
about two inches long, round, and about as thick
as a man’s middle finger. It was open at both
ends, and it was obviously made of metal.

“What in thunder?” Major Hawks breathed,
and tried to touch it with a finger, but found it
was too hot. “This looks like a piece of small
pipe.”

“It is, sir,” Freddy Farmer said quietly. “It’s
one end of a pencil incendiary bomb that wasn’t
melted by the terrific heat, I fancy.”

The bomber’s commander snapped his head
up sharply.

“Huh, what’s that?” he barked. “A pencil
incendiary bomb? This?”

“What’s left of it, sir,” Freddy said with a
nod. “They are usually about four or five inches
long. It is divided in the center by a copper disc.
One kind of eating acid is poured in one end,
and sealed with wax. Another kind of acid is
poured in the other, and sealed up. The two
acids eat into the copper disc in the middle, and
when they mingle they explode and give off a
terrific heat.”

“Oh, yes, I remember about reading of these
things in the last war,” the Major said absently.
“German spies in the States used to toss them
into cargos going aboard ship. When the ship
got out to sea, it caught on fire.”

“That’s right, sir,” Freddy said. “And the
thickness of the copper disc in the middle determined
the time the fire would occur.”

“Yeah, sure,” Major Hawks grunted. Then,
stiffening slightly, he barked, “But what’s one
of these things doing aboard my Fortress? Holy
smoke! Sabotage! Sabotage in the air! I’ll radio
the rest of the flight to go through their ships
with a fine toothed comb. God grant me time!”
This last breathed as a prayer.

Dave opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly
thought better of it. He let the Major
whirl around and dash back toward the radio
nook.

“Perhaps it’s better to let him go,” Freddy
Farmer murmured. “To let him think that, eh?”

Dave didn’t answer at once. He stepped over
to one of the ports, and peered out into the surrounding
sky. Though he was sure that he
would spot them, nevertheless a great feeling of
relief surged through him when he counted the
five other Flying Fortresses winging along behind
in loose formation. Presently he turned
from the port and looked at Freddy, and slowly
closed his hands into rock hard fists. He gave a
vicious nod of his head as he spoke.

“This is the end!” he grated out. “I’m fed up
to the teeth with being a clay pigeon for unseen
sharpshooters.”

“What do you mean?” Freddy asked with a
faint trace of anxiety in his voice.

“What I said!” Dave grunted. “First it was
Frisco, then it was Albuquerque, and now it’s
practically Brownsville. Well, that’s enough of
that business for me. Now we’ll give those rats
something to really think about!”

“Oh, quite!” Freddy echoed, tight-lipped.
“Quite. But would you mind telling me just
what’s in your mind? Or is it too great a secret?”

“Keep your shirt on, and come back to earth!”
Dave snapped at him. “It’s no secret between
you and me. When we get to Brownsville, we’re
borrowing a plane and we’re going back to
Albuquerque!”

The English born air ace couldn’t speak for
a moment. He could only stare at Dawson in
dumbfounded amazement.

“Going back to Albuquerque?” he finally
managed to choke out. “Are you mad?”

“I’m plenty mad!” Dave told him. “But not
the way you’re thinking, pal. Just relax and
leave everything to me. I’ve got an idea, I have.
Just follow my lead, and maybe everything will
turn out swell.”

“Which, of course, means not to question you,
eh?” Freddy murmured. “Right-o, then. I don’t
see why I agree with you so often, but I do. I
suppose that means you have one or two good
points. Very well, I’ll just relax and let you lead
the blasted parade.”

Dave just looked at him, grinned, and winked.

In due time the ferry bomber flight circled the
Air Base at Brownsville, and then dropped
down one by one to land and trundle over to the
hangar line to be taken over by the mechanics.
The Fortress in which Dave and Freddy were
passengers dropped down first. A crowd of officers
and mechanics gathered about it instantly,
for Major Hawks had radioed ahead. When
Dave and Freddy climbed down they were the
center of all eyes. It was obvious that Major
Hawks had made more than just a cut and dried
report.

No sooner were their feet on the ground than
Colonel Bates, Commandant of the Base,
stepped over to Dawson and saluted smartly.

“Congratulations, and thank you, Captain
Dawson,” he said, and smiled. “Major Hawks
gave me a full report, and—well, the whole Air
Corps is grateful. That was a fine display of
courage.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dave replied, blushing a
little. “But as I told Major Hawks, my efforts
would have been a waste of time if it hadn’t
been for Lieutenant Kelley and Captain
Farmer. They deserve as much praise as I do,
and considerably more, I guess.”

“Well, it was a darn good job by everyone
concerned,” the Base Commandant responded.
“We surely can’t afford to lose a single ship
through accident. And, by the way, just what
caused the accident, anyway? You didn’t say in
your radio report.”

Colonel Bates turned and spoke the last to
Major Hawks, who had climbed down out of
the Flying Fortress. The big bomber’s commander
held out the flame-blackened length of
pipe for the Colonel to see.

“This, sir,” he said. “Captain Farmer says it’s
part of a melted pencil incendiary. I think he’s
right. Looks like somebody didn’t want us to
arrive here in one piece. I ordered the others to
search their ships. They did, but didn’t find
anything.”

“An acid bomb!” Colonel Bates breathed
fiercely and bent over to inspect the short length
of small pipe in Major Hawks’ hands. “Well,
by George! What do you know about that? The
war right in our laps! I guess they picked on
just one ship, Major, so’s we’d think it was a
short circuit, or something. Why, the black-hearted
skunks. I wonder when it was put
there?”

“It must have been at Albuquerque, sir,”
Lieutenant Kelley spoke up. “It wasn’t there
when we took off from Seattle. And Albuquerque
was our next stop.”

“Well, I’ll make a report to Intelligence about
this!” Colonel Bates said grimly. Then, smiling
at Dawson, “But I guess you want to clean up a
bit, don’t you, Captain? Your little adventure
sort of mussed up your uniform a bit. And
yours, too, Farmer. We’ll hunt up something for
you to wear while the field cleaners fix up your
uniforms. And is there anything else I can do
for you, to show how grateful I am for your
job?”

“Thanks, sir,” Dave said. “Farmer missed his
lunch on account of the fire, so I know he’s
starved. He has six meals a day, sir, you know.
Doctor’s orders, I think he once said. But, seriously,
I guess we all could do with a bite, if it
wouldn’t be much trouble. And later—later,
could Farmer and I have a word with you?”

“All the words you want, Captain,” Colonel
Bates said lightly, but shot Dave a keen stare.
“First, though, a little food all around. And if
you can stand a Base Commandant eating with
you, I think I’ll join the party. It’s for all the
bomber crews, of course, Major Hawks.”

“I accept for all of them, Colonel,” Major
Hawks said with a laugh. “Even if the others
ate en route, it wasn’t more than just a light
lunch. Thank you very much, sir.”

A little over an hour later the ferry bomber
crews and their two distinguished passengers
had eaten their fill. Inwardly Dave breathed a
great sigh of relief when Colonel Bates pushed
back his chair and stood up. Not that he hadn’t
enjoyed eating with the pilots and bomber
crews. It was simply that he and Freddy were
the two heroes of the day, and the other bomber
members made them repeat their stories over
and over again. Of course that led to much talk
about sabotage, and how the pencil incendiary
had gotten in there in the first place? And particularly
who could have done it?

Dave didn’t have a correct answer to the last,
of course. But both Freddy and he certainly
knew why. And to sit there and shake their
heads and look as puzzled as the next man was
the kind of an ordeal they didn’t want to go
through every day, or every week, or month, for
that matter.

Finally, though, Colonel Bates signalled that
the meal was at an end by pushing back his
chair and standing up. He glanced down the
table at Freddy and Dave.

“And, now,” he said, “you two want to chat
with me? Let’s get along to my office. Excuse us,
Gentlemen.”

Everybody else rose and stood at attention
while the Base Commandant led Dave and
Freddy out of the mess. He went through the
outer door and across one corner of the field
toward his office. As he kept step with the senior
officer Dave took a quick look at the planes lined
up on the field. When he spotted a couple of
Vultees a happy smile flitted across his lips.
Freddy saw the sudden smile but didn’t say anything.
He simply gave Dave a half angry frown
and walked along.

When they were inside his office, Colonel
Bates dropped into his desk chair, and waved a
hand at a couple of other chairs.

“Sit down, you two,” he said. Then, giving
Dave a keen look, he added, “I suppose it’s
about that pencil incendiary business, isn’t it?
I’ve had the feeling there was more you could
tell me about it. Well, go ahead, because my
curiosity is getting more altitude with every
second.”

Dave hesitated, looked at Freddy for a moment,
and thought he read complete agreement
in his pal’s eyes.

“Well, there isn’t much else we really can tell
you, sir,” he said. “Except that the thing was
unquestionably slipped aboard at Albuquerque.
It was, of course, after the bombers had been
there awhile, and Farmer and I had been
assigned to Major Hawks’ plane.”

“I see,” Colonel Bates said quietly, when
Dave paused for breath. “Go on. You have an
idea who did it? And of course, you know why,
don’t you?”

“I don’t know who, and neither does Farmer,
sir,” Dave replied. “But we do know why.
Frankly, it was to stop us from arriving here.
Because of the request I wish to make, sir, I
think Farmer and I should admit to you that we
are on an Intelligence job. The details, of
course, we can’t reveal. But—well, things are
getting just a bit too hot for comfort, and—”

Dave hesitated and shot a quick side glance at
Freddy. But the English youth wasn’t looking
at him. He was staring at the opposite wall, and
his youthful face was a complete blank.

“And what, Dawson?” Colonel Bates encouraged.
“Let’s have it.”

“I would like to borrow one of your Vultees
out there for a return flight to Albuquerque,”
Dave finally said. “If you wish authority for the
request, sir, you can radio Colonel Welsh at the
Frisco Air Base.”

“I don’t need to radio Colonel Welsh,” Colonel
Bates said with a faint smile. “You see—I’ve
already received my orders, while you were in
the air on the way down from Albuquerque. Oh,
don’t look so alarmed, Dawson. My orders were
simply to grant any request you put to me. On
my honor, I haven’t the faintest idea why you
are—were on your way to the Canal Zone by
ferry bomber. But, well—well, you two have a
bit of a reputation, you know.”

“Only too well, sir,” Dave said with a groan.
“Maybe we’ve served our usefulness in Intelligence
work! We don’t seem to be recognized
any more than Santa Claus would be. Maybe
we’d better wear false beards and wigs, or
something.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it was as bad as that yet,”
the Base Commandant said with a laugh. “I
wouldn’t say that anybody here at the Base connects
your arrival here with Intelligence work.
It’s simply that when I received Colonel
Welsh’s code message I put two and two together,
and got four. So you want to return to
Albuquerque, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Dave said, and ignored the searching
gaze Freddy Farmer was now giving him.
“Not right at this minute, of course. An hour
or two before midnight, tonight, will be plenty
of time. But we do wish to return.”

“Naturally your wish must be granted,” the
senior officer said, and grinned. “I don’t suppose
you could give me a reason, eh? Something
happened en route that gave you ideas about
Albuquerque?”

Dave grinned at him, and nodded.

“Something did happen en route, sir,” he
said. “That pencil incendiary fire. And it did
give me ideas. I’m sorry, sir, but that’s as far as
I’d care to go.”

“Then it’ll have to be far enough for me, I
guess,” the Base Commandant said with a sigh
of disappointment. “A little before midnight,
eh? Okay, then. The Vultee will be all gassed
and ready for you then. One more question,
though—that is, if you’d care to answer it. Was
this the first attempt made on your lives?”

“It was the third,” Dave said quietly. Then
he added, “And I’m hoping there won’t be a
fourth before we leave.”

Colonel Bates’ eyes popped, and he whistled
softly.

“The third?” he echoed in amazement.
“Well, that shows that the third time isn’t a sure
thing, as the saying goes. And as regards there
being a fourth time here at Brownsville—”

The Base Commandant paused. A thin smile
touched his lips, but his eyes were as hard and
cold as chiseled ice.

“Then they’ll get me, too,” he said presently,
“whoever they are, because I’m not going to
leave you two for an instant until you’re off the
ground and in the air, and on your way north.”

“Thanks for the protection, sir,” Dave said
with a short laugh. “But I don’t look for, or
expect any trouble here. I think our rat friends
were counting on that bomber fire being a sure
thing.”

“Quite.” Freddy Farmer nodded for emphasis.
“Good grief, how close it came to being
just that! Every time I see a flare locker after
this I’m sure I’ll break out in a sweat. But I
agree with Dave, sir. I don’t think we’ll have
any trouble here. I certainly hope not.”

The Base Commandant chuckled and made a
little gesture.

“Well, it’s been pretty dead around here,” he
said almost wistfully. “I think we could do with
a little excitement, provided, of course, that nobody
on our side gets hurt. But just the same,
I’m going to stick close to you two. How about
a look around the field as a starter? We’ve got
some pretty interesting stuff here.”

“I’d like that very much, sir,” Dave said
eagerly. “I saw that you have quite a few of the
new types.”

“Yes,” Freddy echoed, his face brightening.
“I’d jolly well like to look around a bit.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Colonel
Bates grinned, and got to his feet. “Let’s go!”

Then began a most pleasant afternoon for the
two young air aces. They saw everything there
was to see at the Brownsville Base, and it was
all so terribly interesting that they almost forgot
the ever present mystery menace that hung over
them like a dark cloud. But not quite. Every so
often, in a flash of memory, stark reality would
return to one or the other of them, and they
would have to try hard not to let it show in their
faces.

Just before evening mess the six ferry bombers
took off on the last lap of their journey to
the bomber base in the Canal Zone. Freddy
watched them with a faint sadness in his eyes,
and a sort of empty, hollow feeling inside of
him. He constantly shot sneak side glances at
Dave, but there was nothing but a grin and a
contented look on Dawson’s face. Each time
Freddy would switch his gaze away, frown, and
bite at his lower lip. Could it be that Dave—?
Not once would he let himself finish the
thought. It most certainly wasn’t a question of
courage with Dave—that he was getting the
wind up after so many escapes from death, and
in such rapid succession. It was something else,
and Freddy wished to high Heaven that Dave
would please break down and let him in on his
secret—if there was a secret.

When the last of the ferry bombers had lost
itself in the growing dusk far to the south,
Freddy half turned toward Dave, but didn’t
look at him.

“Don’t you wish we were aboard one of
those?” he murmured so nobody else could hear,
“heading down toward the Canal Zone to learn
what we can from Second Lieutenant Marble?”

Dave looked at him, and shrugged.

“Aboard one of those?” he echoed. “Nix!
Once is enough for me. Too darn dangerous.
Well, let’s go eat.”

Freddy Farmer’s jaw dropped, and a hurt
look flooded into his eyes.

“Dave!” he began, and couldn’t go on.

Dawson just grinned at him, and then suddenly
winked.

“Remember your stomach, little boy,” he
chuckled a moment later. “It’s a long ride back
to Albuquerque. Let’s go fill it up.”

At mess there was a lot of general talk, but
very little of it came from Colonel Bates’ lips.
Dave caught him glancing his way several
times, and there was a look of puzzled disapproval
in the Base Commandant’s eyes. Dave
had a pretty fair hunch that the Colonel had
heard him make that crack to Freddy about it
being too darn dangerous in bombers. Oh well,
it didn’t matter what anybody thought. Yet, on
the contrary, it mattered a lot. Yes! Just so long
as they thought the things he hoped they would
think.

Eventually the time for Dave and Freddy to
take off rolled around. Colonel Bates and a
couple of the other officers walked out with
them to where the Vultee was waiting. But
when Dave reached it he didn’t climb up into
the pit. Instead he walked deliberately to the
next Vultee in line, and climbed aboard it.
Colonel Bates stopped dead in his tracks, and
gaped.

“But this is your plane, Dawson,” he said, and
pointed to the first Vultee.

“I know, sir,” Dave said easily, and motioned
to Freddy to leg in back. “But I suddenly want
to take this one. It’s all right, isn’t it, sir?”

The Base Commandant gulped, looked angry
for a moment, and then shrugged.

“I guess it is,” he said. “They’re both all set
for flight. Yes, go ahead and take it, if it makes
you feel any better.”

“It does, and thanks, sir,” Dave said, and
jabbed the starter button. After he got the
Wright Cyclone kicking over, and throttled
down to warm up revs, he looked at the Base
Commandant and smiled again. “Thanks for
everything, sir!” he called out. “Is there anything
I can do at Albuquerque for you?”

“Nothing that I can think of,” Colonel Bates
replied dryly. “Just tell them we can handle all
the ferry planes they send along. And we hope
they’ll send along a lot.”

“I’ll tell them that, sir,” Dave said. Then,
twisting around in the pit, he called out, “All
set, Freddy? All strapped in, and got your hot
water bottle handy?”

“Quite!” the English youth replied in a flat
tone. “And I don’t think I need a hot water
bottle!”

Dave kept the grin on his face, but there was
suddenly a tiny ache in his heart. That last from
Freddy had hit just a trifle below the belt. Guess
Freddy was getting ideas that maybe he was
losing his grip. Well—what else should he
think? Dave shook such thoughts from his head,
and reached for the throttle.

“All aboard for Albuquerque!” he shouted,
and raised a hand to his helmet in salute to
Colonel Bates and his officers. “Thanks again
for everything, and I hope we come through
here again some day.”

Without waiting to see if his salute was returned,
or to give anybody a chance to say anything,
Dave eased the throttle open and sent the
Vultee rolling out to the head end of the lighted
runway. He swung around into the wind, got
the green light from the signal tower, and fed
the Cyclone all the high test hop she could take.
As though it were something human, and desperately
eager to get into the air, the Vultee
streaked forward and picked up more and more
speed with every revolution of its steel-bladed
prop. Presently Dave lifted it clear, got the
wheels up, and the nose pointed toward the
crystal-dotted night sky over Texas. He kept on
going up until he was a good seventeen thousand
above the earth. Then he leveled off and put the
plane on a crow flight course for Albuquerque.

He relaxed a bit in the seat, letting the ship
fly herself, and sort of waited for words to come
from Freddy Farmer’s lips. But the English
born air ace said nothing. He sat slumped down
in his seat, staring at the vast array of twinkling
stars overhead. Dave shrugged, grinned in the
glow of his instrument panel light, and let the
plane fly onward toward Albuquerque.

That is, he flew toward Albuquerque for
about ten minutes; then he touched the stick and
rudder pedal and veered way around until the
Vultee was heading due east. For a second
Freddy Farmer didn’t notice the abrupt change
of course. But when he did he sat up straight,
leaned forward a bit and rapped Dave on the
shoulder.

“Do you know you’re ninety degrees off your
course?” he called out.

“No I’m not!” Dave called back, only half
turning his head. “I’m right on it, pal. Right on
the old beam!”

“Heading due east?” Freddy cried. “Just
where in the world do you think Albuquerque
is? Out in the Gulf of Mexico?”

“Albuquerque?” Dave echoed, thoroughly
enjoying himself. “Who the thunder said anything
about Albuquerque? I didn’t have any
ideas about going to Albuquerque!”

Dave waited for what he fully expected. And
he wasn’t disappointed. Suddenly both of
Freddy’s hands were about his neck, and there
was just a suggestion of pressure in the English
youth’s fingers.

“Blast you, you blighter!” Freddy grated.
“And you had us all thinking—You really
mean—”

“What else?” Dave chuckled, and lightly
knocked Freddy’s hands away. “Not that I don’t
trust you, pal. I just thought it would be a good
idea not to say anything to anybody. Albuquerque?
Nuts! This train is an express for the
Canal Zone. We’re due in in about eight hours.
So lean back and enjoy yourself, apart from
your navigation duties, of course. We’ve got
plenty of gas to make it, but we’re not overflowing
with it, so don’t kick your calculations
around. You’ll find charts, and stuff, in that side
pocket. I slipped them in there just after mess.
I don’t think the Colonel will miss them. Not
sore any more, are you, sweetheart?”

“I should be, but I’m not,” Freddy growled.
“But I see your point. I guess it was the best
idea to say nothing to no one. But why couldn’t
we have gone by bomber, just the same?”

“Freddy, Freddy!” Dave groaned at him.
“And you’re attached to Intelligence? I think
I’m a little ashamed of you, my boy. Put on your
thinking cap, and use some of that stuff you’ve
got in that thick head of yours.”

“I already have!” Freddy replied with a faint
laugh. “And I’m embarrassed for myself, no
end. Of course! It was to throw everybody off
the trail, eh? Particularly our rat friends?”

“Check,” Dave replied. “There seem to be
too many of them, at too many different places.
Maybe there wasn’t one of them at Brownsville.
But there was no way for us to tell for sure.
So the best thing to do was to play it safe, to get
the word spread around that we were going
back to Albuquerque.”

“And a double reason, that,” Freddy spoke
up. “It will not only throw our unknown and
unseen friends off the trail, but, no doubt, it
will make them wonder just a bit if we have
suddenly learned something quite definite about
those goings on at Albuquerque.”

“That’s just the idea!” Dave said with a
laugh. “Just one bright little guy, me, huh?”

“On occasion,” Freddy snapped. “Only on
occasion. But I suppose you realized that our
rat friends aren’t the only ones you’re going to
upset?”

“I know,” Dave replied gravely. “But nothing
can be done about it. When we don’t show
up at Albuquerque there’ll be a lot of planes out
looking for our crash. Hate to have all that gas
and oil wasted. But our job is to get to the Canal
Zone, and get there in shape to start swinging at
this confounded mystery with both fists. Gosh!
I sure hope and pray it doesn’t turn out that we
might just as well have gone back to Albuquerque.”

“Perish the thought!” Freddy Farmer
groaned. “Don’t even think of it. But you can
start bearing south now. We’re well east of
Brownsville, and they can’t hear our engine.
Canal Zone! Here we come, and jolly well keen
to make the best of things, and win through in
pukka style.”

“And you can say that again!” Dave breathed
fervently, and banked the Vultee around until
it was headed south and slipping out over the
night-darkened waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

The new sun had been up for a couple of
hours and its pure golden rays played tag on the
wings of the Vultee as the two seater attack craft
droned steadily onward. Long ago Dave had
tired of watching the deep blue Caribbean roll
by beneath him. He had also tired of spotting
the little groups of cays that stuck up out of the
water here and there. An hour ago they had
skirted the most eastern tip of Nicaragua, and
now they were thundering straight down the
world toward Panama. An hour at the most and
they would be sliding down to a landing on the
Air Corps Base at Colon, on the Caribbean side
of the Canal.

An hour at the most. Dave sighed, pushed up
his goggles and dug knuckles into his tired eyes.
It had been a pretty monotonous trip. Just drilling
along in the dark of night well off shore of
the Central American countries, so that they
wouldn’t be mistaken for enemy aircraft and get
a few anti-aircraft shells tossed up at them. Just
drilling along with nothing to break up the
flight and make it more interesting. Of course,
in his heart that was the last thing Dave wanted.
Or Freddy Farmer, either, for that matter. Still,
it was nice to imagine that it would help a little
if a Messerschmitt or two should come streaking
out of nowhere with all guns blazing.
Nothing so soul-satisfying as smacking a couple
of Nazis before breakfast.

Dave pulled the string on his crazy, rambling
thoughts, and shifted his position in the seat.

“You still there, Freddy?” he called out. “Or
was that air bump a ways back you jumping
out?”

“It wasn’t,” Freddy replied. “But I’ll admit
I’ve been toying with the thought. Too bad this
isn’t a seaplane. Then we could at least land
down there and have a swim.”

“And maybe a shark or two for company?”
Dave laughed. “No thanks, pal. Those things
can go a whole lot faster than I can. When it
comes to swimming down there, I like it fine up
here. Well, say something! Keep the conversation
going before I fall asleep, and we do land
down there—in a heap.”

“Keep the conversation going yourself!”
Freddy growled back at him. “I’m quite content
just to listen to the sound of your voice. Though,
of course, I’ve heard much better voices, not so
much like pebbles rattling around in a tin can.”

“Bum!” Dave snorted. “For that I should
keep my trap shut and let you go quietly screwy
by yourself. But seeing it’s you, I won’t. What
do you know about the Panama Canal,
Freddy?”

“A fair amount, I fancy,” the English youth
replied. “I studied geography in school, you
know.”

“Oh!” Dave echoed. “Then you did go to
school? I’ve often wondered. Fine, then. Tell
me this, student. Supposing you entered the
Canal at the Colon end? Where would you be
headed?”

“For the Pacific,” was the instant reply. “Or,
to be exact, for the Bay of Panama.”

“Nuts to you!” Dave barked. “I mean, what
direction?”

“What direction?” Freddy echoed. “The
bloke must be mad, and completely off his
topper. Why, west, of course!”

Dave twisted around in the seat and made a
face.

“See?” he cried. “No brains, as I’ve always
said. Or at least, what goes in there doesn’t stay
for long. Stand in the corner for a while, my
little man. Then take a good look at those map
charts of yours back there.”

“Eh, what?” Freddy grunted.

“What I said,” Dave replied. “Take a gander
at those map charts back there. Then come
around front, here, and beg me to let you remain
in the classroom.”

“Rot!” Freddy muttered. “You’re talking
crazy rubbish, and I fancy—”

The English youth’s voice trailed off, and it
became obvious that he was studying his map
charts of the Canal and surrounding area. Dave
took a quick look back to make sure, then turned
front and waited for the explosion. It came at
the end of perhaps twenty-five seconds.

“Good grief!” the words burst forth from
the English youth’s lips. “Why—why, I always
thought—!”

“You, and a few million other people!” Dave
said with a laugh as Freddy stumbled. “The
Panama Canal does not run from east to west.
It’s from west to east. Or if you want to get
technical about it, the Canal runs from the
northwest to the southeast. It’s the cockeyed
bend in the Republic of Panama that makes it
that way. Remember that little item, Freddy. It
may help you to be the life of the party some
day.”

“Thank you, no!” the English youth grunted.
“But that certainly is amazing! I mean, it’s certainly
something new I’ve learned.”

“Stick around,” Dave chuckled. “I’ll get you
educated, if it kills me. But pass over one of
those charts, will you? One you’re not using. I
want to have a look at it myself.”

Freddy Farmer did as he was asked. Dave
took the chart tacked to the board, rested it
against the top of the joy stick and began to
study it. Perhaps two minutes later a white light
seemed to explode in his head. He let out a wild
yell, lurched in the seat, and unconsciously sent
the Vultee nosing down into a crazy power dive.
Freddy Farmer’s voice in his ears was a scream.

“Dave, good grief! What’s happened? Are
you all right? What’s the matter?”

Dave’s eyes were bulging out, and his heart
was hammering furiously against his ribs as he
recovered from the sudden dive and brought the
Vultee back onto even keel.

“I knew it, I knew it!” he choked out.

“Knew what?” Freddy cried angrily. “For
Heaven’s sake, what’s got into you?”

“Another hunk of the mystery puzzle,
Freddy!” Dave shouted as he twisted around in
the seat. “Remember how I said we should both
keep chewing over poor Tracey’s four words
that sounded like Albuquerque? Well, that’s just
what he meant, Freddy. But not Albuquerque,
New Mexico!”

“No?” the English youth cried breathlessly,
and leaned way forward so that he could see
the map chart Dave Dawson held in his hands.
“Then what did he mean?”

“He said ‘southern Albuquerques‘!” Dave
cried. “Get it? Plural! That’s what he meant—right
there!”

As Dave spoke the last he touched a fingertip
to a point on the map chart. It was a group of
tiny islands about a hundred and twenty-five
miles due east of the central east coast of
Nicaragua. And right underneath the group of
tiny dots was printed:

Freddy had been holding his breath while he
stared at the map chart, and when he let it out
it was close to the whistle of a locomotive.

“Good grief, you’re right, of course, Dave!”
he cried. “If he mentioned the words ‘Cays,’ we
must have missed it completely. But I’ll swear
I didn’t hear any word that sounded like cays,
did you?”

“No, he didn’t speak it,” Dave replied with a
vigorous shake of his head. “He just said
‘southern Albuquerques.’ And I’ll eat my shirt
if those southernmost cays there aren’t what he
was trying to get over to us.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to have that kind
of a meal,” the English youth said with a grin.
“I’m sure you’re right. But what about it?
Those cays are quite a bit in back of us now.
Think we should turn around and have a look?”

Dave glanced at the fuel gauges before he
replied. He shook his head.

“No, I don’t think we’d better, Freddy,” he
said. “It would mean shaving our gas supply too
close for comfort. Now that we feel sure we’ve
got our teeth into something, the last thing we
want to do is sit down in the middle of the
Caribbean. Nope! I think our best bet is to
carry on to Colon and contact Second Lieutenant
Marble. There’s just a chance he might
give us a whole lot of dope on this. He—Now
what’s the matter?”

Freddy was scowling out across the air space
and absently shaking his head.

“Nothing, probably,” he said eventually.
“But about this Marble—I’m afraid I have a
very definite opinion about him, Dave. Call it a
hunch, if you like.”

“I like,” Dave grunted. “So what’s the
hunch? Tell me.”

“That Second Lieutenant Marble is going to
turn out an awful big disappointment to us,”
the English youth said. “I can’t suppress the
feeling that we won’t learn a single thing from
him. Why I feel this way, I haven’t the faintest
idea. But I do, just the same.”

“Well, now that we’re letting down our hair,
I might as well admit that I’m clamping down
on my own hopes,” Dave said. “I figure it this
way. If Marble was working hand in glove with
Tracey on this business, I think Marble would
have been sent north to contact Colonel Welsh,
and not Tracey. If the thing was red hot, I can’t
see him leaving the scene of action. But—but,
darn it, maybe I’m just talking through my hat.
Maybe this Tracey business and the southern
Albuquerque Cays doesn’t add up to a single
thing of importance.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” Freddy grunted with a
shrug. “Just the same, I think I’d be willing to
bet my life that it does. Blast it, Dave! Too
many attempts to wash us out were made, not to
have this thing be at white heat.”

“Yes,” Dave said with a nod. “You’ve got
something there, pal. You definitely have. Well,
we shall see what we shall see. Right now we’re
getting close to the edge of the air patrol area
of the Canal Zone. We should be bumping into
Army or Navy planes most any minute now.”

“Well, see that you don’t actually bump into
them,” Freddy added grimly, and settled back
in his seat.

It was just exactly eleven minutes later when
two U.S. Naval Aviation patrol amphibians
came into Dave’s range of vision. He raised his
hand to attract Freddy’s attention and then
pointed at the two craft off the left wing and a
few miles ahead.

“Yes, I saw them,” the English youth called
out. “And as we’re arriving down here unannounced,
I hope those blighters don’t do anything
serious about it. I hope they don’t take us
for a couple of Jap spies on our way to take
pictures of the Canal.”

“If they do, I’ll never forgive them!” Dave
said with a laugh.

Just the same his eyes narrowed slightly as
the two amphibians broke wing tip formation
and sheered away from each other so that they
would come up on the Vultee, one on either
side. And his heart wasn’t exactly beating peacefully
in his breast, either. In fact, for a fleeting
instant he wondered whether he had been wise
to make this sneak flight down to the Canal
Zone. Right! There was a very good chance that
maybe the gunners aboard those patrolling amphibians
might have itching trigger fingers.

So he decided to do something about it first.
He banked the Vultee sharply so that he presented
a broadside view to the oncoming amphibians,
and also showed his Brownsville Base
markings. Then he cut around back to present
the other side, and stuck his hand up through
his opened greenhouse and waved it in greeting.

Then followed a few anxious moments. The
two amphibians came plowing onward. They
swept past the Vultee one on each side, and
Dave could almost feel the pairs of eyes aboard
them boring out at him. He waved his hand
again, and then throttled to give the two Navy
aircraft plenty of time to bank around and come
up on him from the rear.

“Unsociable blighters, aren’t they!” Freddy
Farmer grunted. “Not a return wave of greeting
from either of them.”

“You can’t blame them,” Dave defended
them. “They’re on a job that doesn’t call for any
kidding around. They have to play it close, and
not stick their necks out. But I guess we’ve
passed muster. They’re just going to ride herd
on us the rest of the way to the Base.”

“Oh, quite!” Freddy growled. “And their
guns aren’t pointed at the sun, either. Gives a
chap a creepy feeling, as though he weren’t to
be trusted.”

“There goes your conscience again!” Dawson
laughed. “It’s your past coming up to slap you
in the face, my boy. But don’t worry! They’ll
wait until they get a good look at you on the
ground, before they do anything drastic. Of
course, when they do—well, it’s your face. But
I’ll put in all the good words I can.”

“I just bet you would!” the English youth
snapped. “Just enough to get me shot at sunrise.
And—I say! There’s the Canal. My word! Isn’t
that a wonderful sight? You can see both oceans
at the same time.”

“Just the way Nature and Old Father Time
arranged it so you could,” Dave murmured, and
feasted his eyes on one of the most fascinating
and thrilling air views in all the world: the
Colon entrance of the Panama Canal, and the
rest of the Canal clear across the Isthmus to the
Balboa entrance on the Pacific side.

Some ten or fifteen minutes later he eased
back the Vultee’s throttle and sent the plane
sliding down to a landing on the surface of the
huge Air Corps Base at Colon. The two amphibians
circled about until his wheels had
touched, and then they veered off out over the
Caribbean to resume their watchful patrol.
Freddy Farmer watched them go, and made a
face.

“Thanks awfully for the company!” he
growled as Dave taxied over toward the check-in
office. “Delightful chaps, all of you.”

“Right!” Dave barked back at him. “Also,
great guys with plenty of what it takes. Give
me trouble and I’ll welcome help from Navy
Aviation boys any day in the week. And so
would you!”

“Of course; sorry,” Freddy said with a sheepish
grin. “I just feel a bit touchy today. After
all, I’ve been subjected to your flying for hours,
you know. A frightful ordeal for even the most
stout-hearted.”

“Coward!” Dave jeered at him. “You
wouldn’t have dared say that when we were in
the air, would you? But it is nice to get back on
solid ground again. Sweet tripe! Look at the
planes they’ve got down here! All types from
everything to everything, what I mean. Well,
get your papers ready, Freddy. They’ll want to
know who we are, and why.”

That fact was indeed true. When Dave finally
cut his engine and climbed down to stretch his
stiffened legs, there was a questioning-eyed
group of Air Corps high rankers gathered in
front of the check-in office. Dave waited for
Freddy and then walked over and saluted the
highest rank smartly. He was a Brigadier General,
and, of course, Dave knew that his name
was Kirwood.

“Captains Dawson and Farmer, arriving
from Brownsville Base, sir,” Dave said. “Here
are our identification papers.”

“Glad to welcome you, Captains Dawson and
Farmer,” the Brigadier said, though there was
a distinct lack of warmth in his voice. “I was
informed of your coming yesterday. I thought
it was to be by ferry bomber, though. The
bombers landed at France Field hours ago.”

“We stayed over in Brownsville, sir,” Dave
explained truthfully. “Borrowed the Vultee.”

“I see,” the senior officer grunted, and took a
moment out to examine the papers the two air
aces handed him. When he glanced up there
was a slightly brittle look in his eyes. “Down
here on an inspection for Washington H.Q.,
eh?” he said pointedly. “Well, Gentlemen, I
hope you’ll find everything in order.”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, sir,” Dave
said with a disarming smile. “But I’ll admit it’s
not stated clearly in our papers. It’s not exactly
an inspection trip, sir. A survey study, rather.
There are plans of making some changes in the
attack bomber school of instruction. Frankly,
it’s our job to pick up all the pointers we can
down here with active service squadrons, and
make our report direct to Washington. We are
simply seeking to learn a few things, sir.”

The Brigadier General’s suspicious stiffness
floated away from his face. He seemed greatly
relieved when he smiled.

“Well, I’ll admit that’s better,” he said. “I
was afraid that you were just two more Staff
officers to get in our hair, and then return to
Washington with all kinds of darn fool ideas
and suggestions.”

“Well, frankly, sir,” Dave said with a laugh,
“if we were we wouldn’t be here. Both Farmer
and myself would have chosen the guard house
rather than an assignment like that. We—something
the matter, sir?”

The last was caused by the Base Commandant
staring hard at Dave’s tunic and then at
Freddy’s. Presently he shook his head, and
smiled.

“No, not a thing, Captain Dawson,” he said.
“I just happened to notice that you both wear
the decoration ribbon of the Distinguished Flying
Cross. You saw service in the Royal Air
Force?”^[3]

“Yes, sir,” Dawson replied. “But of course,
that was before Pearl Harbor. Well, it’s good
to be down here, sir. I hope you won’t treat us
any differently than you would any two replacements.
After all, the main job for all of us is to
win the war.”

“Don’t worry,” the General chuckled. “I
don’t plan to extend you two any special privileges,
though, of course, you are at liberty to
come and go as you please.”

“I say, thanks very much, sir,” Freddy
Farmer spoke up for the first time. Then, after
a long moment’s hesitation, he suddenly blurted
out, “I believe, sir, there’s a chap here I know.
He is Second Lieutenant Marble. Does he
happen to be about?”

A dark shadow passed across Brigadier
General Kirwood’s face. A hard, bitter look
came into his eyes, and he unconsciously
clenched both his fists.

“He was, but no longer,” the senior officer
said harshly. “Two days ago he took off on a
check flight alone. Something haywire with his
engine, I believe it was. We haven’t seen hide
nor hair of him since. I am afraid he crashed
into the water out there, and sank with his
plane.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir!” Dave murmured as the
blood seemed to drain right down out of his
body. “I knew Marble slightly, myself. I’m
sorry to hear that he is missing. But—well,
maybe he force landed some place and will turn
up alive and kicking in a day or so.”

“I sincerely hope that’s true,” the Brigadier
said gravely. “But I doubt it. Marble is the
eighth pilot we’ve lost on solo flights in the last
month. It’s—it’s the most confounded thing I’ve
ever come up against. I can’t understand it.”

Neither Dave nor Freddy said anything.
They simply looked at each other silently. But
the thought in their minds was identical. The
most promising clue of all had been snatched
from their grasp. It was a worthy foe that they
battled, even though a dastardly one. A clever,
cunning, ruthless foe who always seemed to
strike first, and strike where it hurt the most.

Exactly thirty-six hours had passed since the
arrival of Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer at
the Air Corps Base at Colon in the Canal Zone.
Thirty-six hours, during every minute of which
they both yearned and longed for decisive action,
or at least action of some kind. However,
they had parts to play, and they played them
for all they were worth. As two special pilots
from Washington G.H.Q. they stepped right
into the war activities of the Attack Squadron.
They attended brush up classes, they took part
in the many patrol conferences held in the
field’s Ready-Room, and they went out and flew
formation look-see patrols that carried them far
out over the Caribbean, and to the north and
south of the Canal Zone.

In short, they did everything to make it look
as though they really were down there to learn,
and report their knowledge later to Washington.
But it was simply a part they were playing,
and on the morning of their third day with the
Attack Squadron they just couldn’t wait any
longer. They were on the field, dressed for flying,
and watching the routine dawn patrol take
off, when Dave mentioned the thought that was
ever constant and uppermost in their minds.

“We’ve got just one more card to play,
Freddy,” he said in a low voice that didn’t carry
beyond the ears for which it was meant. “I
think we should play it. Take a chance, anyway,
and try to find out if we’re right or wrong. I’ll
go plain, raving nuts if we put it off any longer.
What do you say?”

“I say, absolutely!” the English youth replied
instantly. “One more day and I, too, will be fit
for a padded cell, or something. What rotten
luck! I mean, Marble being missing.”

“And how!” Dave grated softly, and stared
up at the cloud-streaked Panama sky. “But pick
up first prize. It’s yours, Freddy. You certainly
called it right on Marble. We sure won’t learn
a thing from him, because he isn’t here. But,
gosh! I’m almost afraid to start out.”

“The southern Albuquerque Cays, you
mean?” Freddy asked, and stared at him wide-eyed.
“Why?”

Dave shrugged and gave a little shake of his
head.

“Like going down to the post office to find out
if the all important letter you hope is there is
there,” he said after a moment or two. “I mean,
if the southern Albuquerque Cays turn out to
be just a bust, then where are we? Right behind
the old eight ball, and a complete wash-out to
Colonel Welsh. Darn it, Freddy, I can take a
licking with the best of them, and come up grinning—I
hope. But if I fall down on this job I
think I’ll just walk into the ocean and keep
going.”

“I know just how you feel, Dave,” Freddy
said, and sighed heavily. “The fact that we
haven’t made any headway to speak of in this
blasted mess makes it all the more important to
us. But, good grief! We had so blasted little to
start with in the first place. Of course I’m not
complaining, nor trying to make excuses. Just
the same, I think this is the first Intelligence
job we’ve tackled where we absolutely bumped
head on into a brick wall.”

“You’ve got something there, pal!” Dave
grunted. “It’s been like shadow boxing, and trying
to knock your shadow cold. You start a haymaker
up from the floor, and suddenly your
shadow isn’t there any more. Oh well, we’re not
going to find out a thing just standing around
here gabbing. That’s a cinch. Put on your bib
and tucker, Freddy. We’re going to do a little
sky cruising, and see what there is to see. And
you know what I’m hoping, I guess?”

“Quite,” Freddy breathed softly, and tightened
the chin strap of his helmet. “Right-o.
Let’s get on with the blasted business. If we
don’t find a thing, we can at least dive straight
into the water, and make an end of our
troubles.”

“And that’s an idea, if!” Dave grunted, and
climbed up into the forward cockpit of the
Vultee attack plane. “All aboard!”

A few moments later Dave took the Vultee
off, got himself a bit of altitude, then started
circling the field to create the impression to any
watching eyes below that he and Freddy were
just taking a breather hop, and checking their
plane. Eventually he let the plane slide away
from the Air Base, and guided it out over the
reaches of the Caribbean Sea. Presently he
spotted the dawn patrol ahead and a little to the
south of his position. He climbed the Vultee to
high altitude and brought it around and put it
on a course that led toward the Albuquerque
Cays. They were some two hundred and thirty
miles away, and so it was lacking a few minutes
of an hour when he finally sighted them ahead
and low down on the horizon.

Sight of them made little shivers start rippling
up and down his spine. His heart began
to hammer, and his mouth and lips went
slightly dry. For a moment he was filled with
the insane and utterly ridiculous desire to bank
around and fly away in the opposite direction.
Fear that this last hope would fall through took
charge of his nerves, and tiny beads of sweat
began to break out on his forehead. He shook
his head in an angry gesture and took a tighter
hold on the control stick, as though in so doing
he could prevent that other half of him from
turning the plane away.

“Come on, stop being a silly dope!” he grated
at himself. “You’re worse than a fellow with his
first date with the beautiful girl who just recently
moved into the neighborhood. Snap out
of it, kid! What is to be, will be. And if it isn’t—then,
so help me, it’ll be up to you to do something
about it!”

“Do something about what, Dave?” he heard
Freddy Farmer call to him.

He turned around and grinned at his English
born pal.

“Just giving myself the old pep talk,
Freddy,” he said. “Just promising myself that
everything’s going to turn out okay. And how
are all your friends?”

“I’ve known happier and more contented moments,”
Freddy replied. Then, lifting a hand
and pointing a finger forward, “Well, there
they are, old thing, for what they’re worth.
Better lose some of our altitude so’s we can take
a good look around. These patches of cloud
aren’t made of glass, you know.”

Dave nodded, turned forward, and throttled
the Vultee’s Cyclone and let the plane nose
down toward the expanse of deep blue Caribbean
sea below. When he was at around five
thousand feet he leveled off and headed straight
for the Albuquerque Cays. Coming up on them,
they looked like lush green and brown dots on
a field of blue. And when he was directly over
the first dot of the short curving chain of islands
they didn’t look like very much more. He
counted six of them, the biggest being the most
northern one. But nowhere did he see any signs
of life. For all you could tell a subterranean
volcanic disturbance might possibly have
pushed them up above the surface of the water
overnight. Just patches of green and brown on
a field of blue. Patches of green and brown that
were edged here and there by strips of yellowish
white, that were actually beaches.

For a good half hour Dave drilled up and
down over the Albuquerque Cays searching
every square inch of them with his eyes. However,
as each second clicked away into the history
of time, his heart sank lower and lower,
and the flame of hope in him grew smaller and
smaller. He didn’t dare turn around and look
at Freddy, for he knew that he would only see
his own misery reflected in his pal’s eyes. So he
kept his face front and continued to circle about
over the Cay chain. More time passed, and the
hope in him died down to a tiny spark.

Throttling the Wright-powered Vultee
V-12C attack bomber to cruising speed, Dave
licked his dry lips, twisted around in the seat,
and winked at Freddy Farmer in the gunner’s
pit.

“How’s it go, pal?” he called out, and motioned
downward. “Not nervous, or anything
like that, are you?”

“Certainly not!” the English boy shouted
back. “I stopped being nervous hours ago. Now
I’m simply scared stiff that we’re wrong! How
do you feel?”

Dave shrugged and made a little gesture with
his free hand.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “but I guess it’s something
like the way a clay pigeon must feel. You
know, hoping the guy with the trap gun will
miss. But—but I’m afraid this is a waste of time,
and that we’ve struck out.”

“Not any more!” Freddy shouted, and
pointed to the left. “Look! Do you see it?
Recognize the type?”

Dave instantly turned his head to face east,
and peered hard at the cloud-dotted blue sky.
For a second or so he didn’t see a thing but
clouds and blue sky. Then suddenly he saw a
dot moving along the underneath side of one of
the clouds. But it was just a moving dot to him.
A plane, of course. But as far as he was concerned,
it could well be a free balloon at that
distance. He looked back again at Freddy and
was startled by the wildly excited look on his
pal’s face.

“Recognize the type?” he echoed. “What do
you think I’ve got here? An X-ray machine for
distance. And what’s eating you? What’s making
you so excited, for cat’s sake?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” the English youth yelled
back at him, and stabbed the air with his
pointed finger. “You should get some glasses.
Dave, that plane up there is one of the new
Nazi Arados! The folding wing type that they
can carry aboard the larger type of German
U-boats. You know, they use them for scouting
convoys and stragglers left behind. That’s what
that is up there—one of the new Nazi Arados!
I could spot one of those in the dark. So I know
I’m absolutely right!”

Dave’s mouth fell open in dumbfounded
amazement, and for a second or two he couldn’t
move, much less speak a word.

“What?” he finally bellowed. “A Nazi U-boat
plane? You’re sure?”

“Yes!” Freddy barked at him. “Yes, for goodness’
sake, let’s do something about it before the
blighter sees us, and hides away in one of those
clouds.”

Long before Freddy Farmer had finished his
words, Dave had whirled around front and was
feeding the thundering Wright Cyclone every
ounce of high test octane it could take. He
hauled the Vultee around and stuck the nose up
toward the clouds in the distance. He leaned
forward against the controls and strained his
eyes upward. It wasn’t until a few seconds had
ticked by that he really got a good look at the
plane’s silhouette stamped on a background
cloud. But when he did get that good look,
there was no longer the slightest doubt that
Freddy had been seeing things.

It was a Nazi U-boat Arado, right enough.
He could see the biplane wings, the rounded
fuselage with the radial engine in the nose, and
the war painted pontoon fitted underneath. He
stared at it for several moments as the Vultee
went prop screaming upwards. Then he impulsively
lowered his gaze and swept the
stretches of the Caribbean below him. But to his
disappointment he didn’t see any U-boat on the
surface of the water, or below it, for that matter.
Nor was there any telltale thread-like wake of
a periscope going through the water. There was
nothing but just blue water, and not the sign of
a single vessel of any description.

“More speed, Dave!” came Freddy’s excited
cry to his ears. “I think the beggar has seen us.
Yes, he has! And there he goes for that big
cloud. Blast it! If only he were in range!”

Dave made no comment. His eyes were again
on the tiny Nazi seaplane, and he could see it
scooting upward toward the white fluffy belly
of a great big cloud.

“Let him hide in it!” he presently growled.
“We’ll go in after him and smoke him out. Get
those rear guns ready, Freddy!”

“Think I’d forgotten them!” the English
youth snapped. “You just get us up there. That’s
all you have to worry about!”

Dave had to grin in spite of himself. Good
old Freddy Farmer! As meek as a mouse when
nothing special was happening. But let action
show up and at the drop of a hat he was like a
snarling tiger.

“If we don’t find him,” Dave grunted as he
saw the tiny Arado slide up into the cloud and
disappear, “I’ll probably have my hands full
stopping Freddy from getting out and looking
around. Well, here we go in after him. And if
we smack into him, it’s going to be his job that’ll
break up like toothpicks, not this tough Vultee.”

As Dave spoke the last he lifted the nose a
bit more and then went slashing up into the
cloud. In nothing flat he was tearing through
a glistening white world that seemingly tried to
crowd right down into the cockpit. Hand steady
on the stick, and body bent well forward, he
peered hard into the glistening mist, ready at
an instant’s notice to fire his forward guns and
swerve off sharply if the shadow of the other
plane should suddenly loom up in front of his
propeller.

However, no shadow loomed up before him,
nothing but white mist that glistened in the
blazing rays of the tropical sun. And then, suddenly,
the Vultee went ripping up out of the
cloud and into clear air. No sooner was he out
in the open than Dave leveled off from his
zoom, and twisted around and stared down back
at the top of the cloud. It seemed almost to wink
at him mockingly. There was no sign of hide
nor hair of the Arado.

“Lost him, blast it!” Freddy Farmer grated.

“Keep your shirt on!” Dave snapped. “We’ll
find him. He can’t be far. Just take it easy, and
be ready to smack him when he comes up
through.”

“If he does!” the English youth groaned, and
then fell silent.

Dave didn’t say anything, either. He simply
tooled the Vultee back and forth over the cloud
and kept his eyes riveted on its fluffy crest.
Presently he slid down through it again to clear
air below. In fact, he practically combed the
cloud with the Vultee, but that was all the good
it did him.

“Well, that’s a horse on me, Freddy,” he was
eventually forced to admit sadly. “Sorry,
Freddy. I guess he put one over on me and
sneaked over to some other of these clouds. The
darned plane is so small you could hide it under
your hat.”

“Anyway, the venture had a promise of excitement,”
Freddy grunted. “What now? I don’t
think there’s any sense hunting around for the
blighter. We could run out of gas trying to find
him in all these clouds. Just our blasted unlucky
day, Dave, I’m afraid.”

“It isn’t over yet!” Dawson grated, and
banked the Vultee westward. “I’m going to
have another look at those Albuquerque Cays.
I—I refuse to give them up as a lost cause. I
swear they’re right in the middle of this confounded
mystery.”

With a savage nod for emphasis, Dawson sent
the attack bomber rocketing back toward the
short chain of green and brown islands sticking
up out of the blue water. He was still half a
mile from the most southern one when suddenly
Freddy Farmer’s hand came crashing down on
his shoulder, and the English youth’s voice
cried out wildly in his ears.

“On this side of that first island, Dave! To the
right! That strip of beach. There’s a crashed
plane there. Can you see it? Its tail is sticking
up out of the sand. And, I say! There’s something
white on the beach. It looks like a letter—the
letter H! What in the world is that supposed
to mean?”

Dave was too excited to speak for a moment.
He had picked out the wreck of the plane on the
beach, and the big letter “H” on the sand close
to it.

“That’s H for help!” he cried. “The pilot of
that job must be still alive. Crashed and got
marooned. And, Freddy! Unless I’m nuts, that
broken off tail sticking up is the tail of a Vultee.
Holy smoke! We must be blind not to have seen
it before.”

“Worse than that!” Freddy shouted. “But I’d
almost swear it wasn’t there. That’s impossible,
of course. But I don’t see how we could have
missed it. I—”

The English youth cut himself off short, and
both of them stared down at the tattered figure
of a man who came stumbling out of the thick
underbrush waving both hands in a beseeching
gesture.

“That settles it!” Dave cried. “That fellow
does need help. And we’re going to give it to
him.”

As Dave spoke the words he hauled back the
Cyclone’s throttle and began to lose altitude
fast. He let the Vultee glide out to sea for a bit,
then banked around and headed toward the far
end of the beach, away from the crash. There
he banked once more until he was in line with
the strip of packed sand beach. Then he let his
wheels down, and glided gently forward and
down.

His landing was perfect. Not a single bounce.
He undid his safety and ‘chute harness, and
legged out of the plane with Freddy. The man
in tattered clothes was stumbling toward them
head down.

“Take it easy!” Dave called out cheerfully.
“No rush, now. We’re here to take you off.”

“But there is a rush, my two little friends, a
most urgent reason for speed. But first you will
both put your hands in the air!”

For a second the sandy beach seemed to fall
away from beneath Dave’s feet. He heard
Freddy Farmer’s tight gasp, but he didn’t
bother to glance at his pal. His eyes were glued
to the man in tattered clothes before him. The
man had jerked up his head at the last moment,
and a small but very deadly Luger had suddenly
appeared in his right hand as though by
magic. And the muzzle of the Luger moved
back and forth from Dave’s stomach to
Freddy’s.

It seemed to Dave that he stood there for hours
staring dumbfoundedly at the man holding the
Luger. The man was light-complexioned and
had flaxen hair. His smile was more of a leer,
but when he spoke it was perfect English that
came out from between his lips.

“So you did consent to help me this time!” the
man said, and broadened his smile. “That was
very nice of you. I had no idea the plane carried
you two, but I had to put up my little trap, anyway.
You were much, much too interested in
that Arado. And its pilot hasn’t enough gas to
keep him flying around forever. So! And of
course, I am delighted with what I’ve caught in
my trap. Don’t move, either of you, or it will
be death now, and not later!”

Dave heard the man’s words as though they
came from a thousand miles away. His head was
spinning. Guns were pounding in his brain, and
great bells were clanging furiously. For a crazy
instant he tried to tell himself that this was all
just a weird nightmare, and that he would wake
up in a nice safe bed ‘most any minute. A nightmare
it was, indeed. But it was reality, nevertheless—cold,
stark, heart-chilling reality. On
what they had believed was an errand of mercy,
Freddy and he had flown right straight into the
jaws of death.

Stunned beyond movement, he remained perfectly
still while the man with the Luger slid
around behind and removed his service automatic,
and Freddy’s, too. Through eyes that
seemed to ache with his own misery, he glanced
down the beach at what he had thought was a
crashed Vultee. It wasn’t a Vultee at all, only a
make-believe one fashioned out of strips of
wood with war painted cloth stretched over
them to give the desired effect from the air.
Then the man circled around back front and
was facing them again. Dave stared at the almost
peaches and cream skin of the face and
hands, and at the flaxen hair.

“The Cub’s pilot!” he heard his own voice
gasp out. “You were flying that Taylor Cub and
tried to get us in under those two armed
Wacos!”

“Quite true,” the man said, and beamed.
“And congratulations on your gunnery, Captains
Dawson and Farmer. Those two fools deserved
what they received. They flew their aircraft
like two children. But we mustn’t waste
time here.”

The man gestured with his gun for Dave and
Freddy to walk in front of him. But Dave was
still gripped by his trance. He couldn’t move.
He could only stare at the man he had seen
across the air space thousands of miles from this
spot, and only a week ago. Less than a week, in
fact!

“Walk!” the man with the Luger barked,
though the smile remained on his lips. “Colonel
Welsh sent you down here to find out things,
didn’t he? Well, then, let’s find them out. But
of course, there’ll be no report made to the dear
Colonel. You American Intelligence men! Such
stupid fools. Every bit as stupid as the British!”

The man leered at Freddy Farmer as he spoke
the last. The English youth regarded him
coldly, face expressionless.

“A matter of opinion, Seven-Eleven,” he said
quietly. “And that’s who you are, isn’t it?”

The man with the Luger looked pleased. He
lost his sneer for a moment while he beamed
all over the place.

“I like the name the Americans give me,” he
said, as though he were tasting something good.
“It is very nice. But in Germany—there, and to
all my agents, I am Captain Karl von Stutgardt.
You have heard of that name, no?”

Heard of it? Dave wished he had a penny for
every time he had heard the name, Captain Karl
von Stutgardt, mentioned! He’d be a very rich
man. Von Stutgardt was a name as famous, or
as infamous, as that of Himmler. From Norway
to Libya, and from Dublin to Bucharest, Karl
von Stutgardt had reaped human lives as a
farmer might reap wheat, by the thousands upon
thousands. So this was the ruthless Nazi agent
who could well be Satan’s roommate? Red rage
smouldered in Dawson as he eyed the man. And
perhaps some of that rage showed in his face,
for von Stutgardt’s eyes suddenly narrowed
slightly, and they took on a vicious gleam.

“If you wish, Captain Dawson,” he said
softly, and pointed the Luger straight at the
Yank ace’s heart. “Though you may not realize
it, you, and your swine English friend, have
given me much trouble in the past. It is my personal
desire to make you suffer a little before I
remove you from this war forever. However, if
you wish to be foolish, then you will die
quickly.”

The words sounded like chunks of ice clicking
against each other. Dave forced a grin to
his lips and held the man with his eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said evenly. “Pull the trigger.
We both know, now, that it isn’t going to be very
long for you, von Stutgardt.”

The Nazi started slightly, and he seemed to
shoot a fearful glance out to sea. But he
had control of himself almost instantly. He
shrugged, grinned, and gestured again with the
Luger.

“Talk is cheap,” he sneered. “And you came
here to see things, didn’t you? Then let us not
waste any more time. Walk ahead of me to that
path leading away from the beach.”

Von Stutgardt pointed toward a beaten path
that led off through a break in the heavy undergrowth
that lined the beach. As the two air aces
started walking toward it they saw three figures
come out of the undergrowth at the far end of
the beach and trot over toward the faked airplane
crash. In a matter of seconds they had it
dismantled, and were carrying the parts away
out of sight.

“Just a couple of babes in arms, we are,
Freddy!” Dave murmured bitterly. “We took it
hook, line, and sinker. I could sure kick myself
plenty, right now.”

“All my fault, Dave,” the English youth
grunted. “After all, I spotted it first, you know.”

Dave started to speak, but at that exact moment
he caught a flash glimpse of von Stutgardt’s
face out of the corner of his eye. The
Nazi agent was grinning like an ape, and obviously
tickled silly over the mental discomfort
of his prisoners. Dave grinned also, but
inwardly.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much, Freddy,” he
said to his English pal in a low voice. “When
we don’t return X-62 will know that we were
right. And he’ll start the wheels turning at once,
of course.”

Freddy Farmer blinked and a blank expression
spread over his face, but only for a brief
instant. He either caught Dave’s quick wink,
or caught onto the play of words by himself.

“Yes, that’s true,” he grunted. “Too bad we
can’t be in on the climax of things, but that’s
the way with a blasted war, I fancy. However,
we did manage to get our part of the job completed,
so that’s something, I guess.”

“It’s a lot,” Dave said. “In my book, it’s
plenty. But it was nice to have known you, pal.
We’ve had some swell times together.”

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer replied. “It was all
top-hole while it lasted. And, who knows? Perhaps
it isn’t over yet. For us, I mean.”

Dave nodded, but didn’t say anything. He
had sneaked another flash look at von Stutgardt
out the corner of his eye. And there was no
longer a pleased look on the Nazi’s face. On the
contrary, the man now wore a look of sullen
rage tempered just a little by a glint of worry
in his eyes.

Then Dave stopped sneaking quick glances
at the man, for they had passed through the
rim of underbrush and were approaching a
series of man-made clearings in the tropical
trees that covered the island. At first glance
Dave could hardly believe his eyes. And when
he took a second look he was sure that he must
be dreaming. But it was not the results of any
dream, or mirage, that he saw spread out before
him. Instead, it was the most perfectly camouflaged
flying field he had ever seen in his life,
a flying field that had been built in sections so
that enough trees would be left completely to
hide everything from the air.

To be exact, the flying field really consisted
of two long runways cut through the trees, and
packed down firm. The runways ran from east
to west across the island, and the take-off end
was blocked off by strips of painted camouflage
cloth. The strips of cloth had only to be pulled
to the side and there was an opening that looked
right out onto the beach and the blue Caribbean
beyond. At the other end of the two runways
was a group of huts built under the trees.
Staring at them, Dave saw that a couple of
them, the fronts being open, were filled with
H.E. bombs of five hundred to a thousand
pound size. There were also aerial torpedoes,
and an unlimited quantity of German made incendiary
bombs.

All that, however, he simply gave but a
sweeping glance. What brought him up to a
dead stop, and caused him to gasp in dumbfounded
amazement was the sight of ten Vultee
attack bombers pulled in in line under the trees.
Two of them were still without wings, but a
group of bull-necked, head-shaven men were in
the very act of fitting the wings in place. A couple
of other bull-necked figures were busy
painting U.S. Air Corps insignia on the eight
other Vultees. And not only that, they were
painting on the Squadron insignia of the Ninety-Sixth
Attack Unit, based at Colon.

“Interesting sight, isn’t it?” Dave heard von
Stutgardt’s jeering voice in his ears. “It has
taken us a long time to collect those planes, and
more trouble than I care to talk about. But we
have them at last, and so that is all that matters.
Yes, indeed! A most interesting sight. Most
interesting.”

Dave made no comment. He didn’t dare let
himself speak. He was pretty sure that the mystery
he and Freddy had been tracking down
was no longer a mystery. There it was in plain
view before his eyes. In spite of his efforts to
control his jangled nerves, a shiver ran through
him, and von Stutgardt’s mocking laugh made
the blood pound in his temples.

“What a shame you cannot report all this to
dear Colonel Welsh, Captain Dawson!” the
German murmured with feigned sadness in his
voice. “He would be so pleased! But as one of
you just mentioned, that’s the way with war.
Victory goes to the strongest side. And Germany
is the mightiest nation on the face of this earth.
And we shall own all of this earth in a very
short time.”

“That’s taking in a lot of territory,” Dave said
to him coldly. “I wouldn’t bet on it, if I were
you. It might backfire in your face. Or maybe
you haven’t caught on—yet?”

The anger and worry flashed in the German’s
face again. He stared hard and long at Dawson.
He seemed about to speak several times, but
each time he clamped his lips shut, and said
nothing.

“We will talk more of that, later,” he finally
did speak out. “For the present you two can
rest, and spend a little time with your thoughts,
which I do not believe will be very pleasant.
I have other things to do. The hour of my greatest
triumph is close at hand, and I—”

The Nazi let his words trail off. He just
shrugged to convey their meaning, whatever
that might have been. He nodded his head and
motioned with his Luger for Dave and Freddy
to walk over toward the nearest of the huts built
in under the trees. They were some twenty-five
yards from it when a figure garbed in the uniform
of a Luftwaffe lieutenant pilot came running
out of one of the other huts and up to von
Stutgardt.

“The contact plane radioes it must land at
once, Herr Captain,” the man spoke in German.
“He asks if it is now safe to approach the secret
landing basin.”

“Perfectly safe, now!” von Stutgardt snapped
back at him. “Tell him to come on in, and see
that the men place camouflage over his seaplane
the instant he has landed and has taxied up the
inlet.”

Both Dave and Freddy understood the words
spoken in the German tongue, but they only half
listened. They were staring agate-eyed at the
young Luftwaffe lieutenant.

“So a lot more is clear, now!” Dave grated
impulsively.

“Quite!” he heard Freddy Farmer echo.
“And the blighter was right in front of our
eyes!”

The young Luftwaffe pilot turned and regarded
them with grinning lips and hate-filled
eyes.

“Your good luck has come to an end at last,
you two war-mongering dogs!” he snarled.
“Now it is our turn. When we—”

“That is enough, Herr Leutnant!” von Stutgardt
cut in harshly. “You talk too much. Go
contact the U-boat’s plane at once!”

The young Luftwaffe pilot gulped, flushed,
then saluted stiffly and beat a hasty retreat back
to the hut. Dave stared after him and felt ice
cold anger in his heart. The last time he had
seen that youth had been at the Air Corps Base
at Albuquerque, New Mexico. The youth had
not been a Nazi pilot then. He had been a U.S.
Air Corps pilot—and the officer in charge of
the check-in booth!

Dave Dawson’s thoughts were like so many
rats gnawing away at his brain. His whole body
was filled with icy shivers, and his stomach felt
full of lumps of cold lead. But it was not fear
that caused that conglomeration of emotion. On
the contrary it was the sense of defeat, and of
seemingly utter helplessness and hopelessness,
that caused him to feel as he did.

He was sitting with Freddy Farmer on the
rough board floor of one of the frontless huts
under the trees. From there he could look out
and see everything that was going on; look out
and see many things that were like white hot
knives turning in his heart. He watched bombs
being fitted to some of the Vultees, and aerial
torpedoes being fitted to the others. And watching
over the efforts of the bull-necked mechanics
were nine Luftwaffe pilots, and von Stutgardt.

Yes, both he and Freddy could look out and
see all that was taking place, but neither of
them could do anything about it, that is, unless
they wanted to die instantly. Stationed some ten
yards in front of the hut, and each a little to one
side, were two Nazi guards. Each guard was
armed with the deadly Nazi portable machine
gun. And both guns were trained dead on them.
So were the eyes of the two guards. They
watched unwinking, like a couple of cobras
waiting to strike, Dave told himself.

Sure, they could look out and see all that was
taking place. They could even get up and try
to go closer for a better look—if they wanted to!
Von Stutgardt had not had them bound up.
Their legs and their arms were free of ropes,
or anything like that. It was strictly up to them
whether they wished to live a little longer—or
die at once.

“That dirty blighter who was at the Albuquerque
Base!” Freddy Farmer suddenly broke
a five minute silence between them. “I think I
could almost die happy, if I could only give
that beggar what he deserves first. We’ve certainly
made a mess of things, Dave. But goodness
knows, we had little enough to go on.”

Dave nodded absently and stared out beyond
the group of planes at an eleventh plane partly
hidden by the tree growth beyond. It was a seaplane,
a Nazi Arado. In other words, the same
seaplane Freddy and he had lost in that flock of
fluffy clouds high in the air. Not over half an
hour ago he had heard it come down to a landing.
And he had seen it taxi up a small inlet of
water and come to a stop where it now rested,
completely hidden from any patrolling eyes
above. As he stared at it the gnawing ache in his
heart increased. The Nazis were so darn cunning,
so confoundedly clever and thorough.
They left nothing to chance. Not they! This
secret base here was a perfect example of Nazi
war technique. Everything built out of sight. An
expert job of camouflaging. U.S. planes could
patrol the skies above, and U.S. Navy ships
could control the waters all about—and nobody
would even begin to suspect that the Nazis had
this powerful air unit secretly based within a
two hundred and fifty mile striking distance of
the so very vital Panama Canal!

The Panama Canal! Dave groaned and shivered
again as the name flashed through his
brain. He could only guess, of course, but he
was positive he could guess the right answers.
Von Stutgardt’s plans were as simple as they
were terrifyingly disastrous in extent. One swift
devastating blow that would completely fool the
Canal Zone defense until it was too late—

Dave shook his head savagely and refused to
complete the horrible thought picture. He
looked at Freddy and saw that the English
youth was watching him closely. Freddy smiled
and winked.

“Chin up, old thing,” Freddy murmured. “I
seem to recall we’ve been in one or two tight
spots before. At least the blighter hasn’t shot us
yet. That’s something. Wants to crow over us, of
course. Nazi vanity when he believes he’s on
top. More satisfying than food and drink to
those rotters. Perhaps something—”

Freddy gestured the last, and Dave returned
his smile.

“Perhaps something will!” he said grimly.
“It’s got to. The old brain is spinning pretty
much right now. But one of us has got to come
up with something. And I don’t think we’ve got
much time to work the think box, either. Boy!
What I wouldn’t give for three minutes in that
hut over there!”

Freddy looked in the direction of Dave’s
pointed finger, and then back at him.

“Why that hut?” he asked. “Personally, I’d
choose that one still half filled with bombs. I
could make a beautiful noise, and have things
knocked about no end, if I could be left alone
in that hut for a bit.”

“I’ll still take my hut,” Dave grunted. “It
happens to be their radio shack. Give me three
minutes and I’d have a couple of hundred
bombers and ground fighters on their way out
here. Just three minutes at the mike, or the key.
Maybe two would be all I’d need.”

“In that case,” Freddy murmured, and stared
across at the hut indicated, “we’ll have to see if
we can’t arrange something along that line.”

“Yes, sure,” Dave sighed. “We might ask von
Stutgardt, even. Here he comes over to start that
crowing you were talking about. Boy! Wouldn’t
I love to push him right in that ugly face of his.
The majority of Nazis certainly were behind
the door when the good looks were passed out,
weren’t they?”

“Down in the cellar, no doubt,” Freddy
grunted, “plotting fresh carnage and chaos.
Well, here he comes, anyway.”

Von Stutgardt strode up to their hut with a
smirking smile on his face that stretched from
ear to ear. He came to a halt a little distance
away so that he was not in line with either of
the guards’ guns, and stood there staring at them
for a moment.

“You are perfectly comfortable?” he suddenly
spoke in his mocking voice. “Sorry I can’t
let you move about at will. But that might prove
a little dangerous. Of course, now that you have
had the chance to observe things, you realize
what is about to take place, eh?”

“Sure!” Dave shot at him. “We’ve guessed
what you think is about to take place. But that’s
a different kind of cheese, von Stutgardt. Plenty
different!”

The German looked at him, and laughed.

“Stop trying to bolster up your courage, Captain
Dawson,” he jeered. “There is nothing that
can stop us, keep us from our great triumph,
now. Yes, I will admit that a few days ago,
when you two were receiving your orders from
Colonel Welsh, I was a little worried about just
how much you knew. And the other day when
another one of your stupid agents came poking
his nose about here, I wondered if my well laid
plans were really in danger. I tricked him
down, the same way I tricked you. He was a
fool, and put up a fight. Naturally, I was forced
to kill him, and have him buried.”

“Poor Marble,” Freddy Farmer murmured.
“Then he did know something.”

“Yes, that was his name,” von Stutgardt
grunted. “We knew he was working with an
agent named Tracey, in the Canal Zone. I had
Marble watched, while I trailed Tracey northward.
Tell me something! Why did he make
that trip north so suddenly? I have wondered
a lot about that since—since I ordered his
finish.”

The question was directed at Dawson, but the
Yank ace didn’t reply at once. He wondered,
too. But what did it matter now? Tracey was
dead, and his real reason for making that sudden
trip northward to contact Colonel Welsh
would remain another of the war’s unrevealed
secrets. Perhaps it was to arrange for a small
force attack on this secret Nazi base, or, perhaps
for some other reason. Who could tell? And
what did it matter? Tracey was dead—and von
Stutgardt was about to strike his Panama Canal
paralyzing blow. But Dave didn’t let any of that
show in his face as he returned the Nazi’s look.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he grunted.
“Well, don’t worry! You’ll find out soon
enough!”

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer exclaimed quickly,
picking up Dawson’s lead. “And no doubt you’ll
find out sooner than you think.”

But it all seemed to have no visible effect on
Captain Karl von Stutgardt. He continued to
sneer, and there was haughty disdain in his glittering
eyes.

“Very amusing,” he said. “But I, too, am
very well acquainted with the art of bluffing.
You little fools! Have I not had you watched
every minute of the time? Have I not been able
practically to read your thoughts? Bah! If it
had not been necessary to get rid of you so that
the U-boat contact plane could land and give
me my final orders from Berlin, I would have
let you fly back to your Colon Base—and die
with the others there. But I had to let that contact
plane land. And also—I could not find it
in my heart to let you two die without having
found out anything. That is one of my weak
points. The Fuehrer has often told me that I am
too generous to my enemies. But it will all be
over soon, so I can afford to be a little generous.
Of course, not too generous, you understand?”

The German thought that was a great joke,
and threw back his head and laughed loudly.
Dave measured the distance between them with
his eyes, but savagely fought down the almost
berserk urge for action. This wasn’t the time for
action. At this moment von Stutgardt held all
the cards, and he was playing them close to his
chest. Later, please God! But not right at this
moment.

“Okay, have it your way, von Stutgardt,” he
said, and shrugged. “You’re a pilot, I suppose?
You’re going to lead this sneak bomb and
aerial torpedo raid, in American planes, on the
Canal?”

“Of course I am!” the German cried wildly.
“And how your swine American comrades there
will be surprised! They will see us come over,
believe us to be from their Ninety-Sixth Attack
Squadron, and before they realize what has
happened—!”

The German paused and gestured a series of
mighty explosions with his two hands.

“So!” he shouted. “There will be no more
Panama Canal. We will return here as soon as
possible, and there will be U-boats waiting to
take us away to other fields of battle. But I have
neglected to mention the part you two will
play.”

The Nazi paused again and leered at them,
his two eyes like burning coals of hatred.

“I will arrange for you two to be able to make
a complete report to the dear Colonel Welsh,
when you three meet again after death!” the
man suddenly cried. “You will be able to tell
him everything, then. All the details on how
the Canal was destroyed. An eye witness account
it shall be, because you two are going to see it
all with your eyes. Yes, as my personal guests.”

Von Stutgardt had another laughing spell,
and it was a couple of moments before he
continued.

“That is very good, my personal guests!” he
chuckled. “In a Vultee there is room for three—a
pilot, a radio man, and the rear gunner. So I
shall take you two along with me. And when it
is all over, when you have seen all there is to see,
I will dump you out over Ninety-Six’s field.
Or course you will not be wearing parachutes,
and you will be bound hand and foot. But you
will reach the ground, of course, and there
should be enough of you left to be identified.
You know, I wonder if dear Colonel Welsh will
weep very much when he finds out. You have
failed him miserably this time, you know.”

“This time isn’t over yet, you dirty rotter!”
Freddy Farmer blurted out. “But continue with
your little speech. We are amused, too. Very
much indeed. Go ahead, you blasted murderer!
Have your sport while you may!”

Von Stutgardt’s eyes seemed to shoot off
sparks as he glared at Freddy. For a moment
Dave feared the Nazi was going to use his
Luger, and he got set to hurl himself at the man.
Von Stutgardt’s face was white with rage, and
his upper lip was trembling. But he did not use
the Luger he clutched in his right hand. With
a tremendous effort he gained mastery over his
emotions. He slowly lowered the Luger and
twitched one corner of his mouth in what was
supposed to be a mocking smile.

“I will dump you out last, my swine English
friend!” he bit off at Freddy. “That will add to
my pleasure, to watch you die last. But I waste
too much time here. Ask the guards for anything
you like. You won’t get it, of course. Sweet
dreams, then, you two stupid little fools—until
tomorrow at dawn!”

With a curt nod for each of them, and a parting
smirk, von Stutgardt swung around on his
heel and walked rapidly away.

“So it’s tomorrow at dawn, eh?” Freddy Farmer
murmured, and stared squint-eyed off into
space. “Nasty beggar, what?”

“A low-down bum of the first water,” Dave
grunted. “But I’ve got the feeling that he’s not
as happy as he’d like to be. That bird is worried,
Freddy. He tried to cover up with his tough
words, but he’s worried. We got under his skin,
and he doesn’t feel so good.”

“No doubt,” Freddy said with a sigh and a
wry smile. “But I could name two others who
don’t feel so good about things, either.”

“Don’t bother!” Dawson groaned. “I can get
it on the first guess!”

The tropical sun was still a way above the
western lip of the world, but because of the
canopy of dense trees and other growth that
covered the island the light on the ground was
pale and silverish, and long slender shadows
crisscrossed each other. Slumped down on the
rough wood floor beside Freddy Farmer, Dave
closed his eyes tight for the umpty-umpth time,
and searched his tortured brain for a possible
way out of this tightest of all traps that had ever
caught him between its jaws.

But once again his aching brain was unable
to conjure up anything that wouldn’t result in
practically instant death. It was just no use, it
seemed, even to try to think, for the stone wall
was ever there in his brain. On the other hand,
though, it was impossible not to think, and
so the countless soul-stabbing thoughts went
around and around in a vicious circle.

Hardly realizing that he was doing so, he
went back in memory and retraced every step
of this mad, fruitless journey that had begun in
Colonel Welsh’s office in San Francisco. What
had happened to the agent who was supposed
to follow Freddy and him to Albuquerque? Had
he perhaps had engine trouble, and been unable
to get off in time? And had it been accidental
trouble? But why wonder about that small item?
What good would it do him now to know? None
at all. But he hoped Colonel Welsh’s agent came
out of it all right.

And that fake message the Colonel had sent
to Washington as a means of baiting the trap
for whoever had tapped the phone lines. Had
it worried those listening in? He thought it had.
And he was certain that Captain Karl von Stutgardt
was still worried. That was one thing
Colonel Welsh had figured wrong, however.
Seven-Eleven had been in the States all that
time. And how bitter to realize now that he
had been the pilot of that Taylor Cub! If
Freddy and he had only known! What a terrible
menace to the civilized world they could
have removed right then and there. But why
think of that now, either?

And that supposedly Second Lieutenant Miller
who had served as check-in officer at Albuquerque!
He had fired at Freddy from that rifle
range. He had that Sergeant take over his post
and slipped over there. And it had been Miller,
of course, who had hidden that pencil incendiary
bomb aboard the Flying Fortress. Easy for
him to have done that, for he had the run of
the Base. Nobody would have wondered about
the movements of a check-in officer. Second
Lieutenant Miller? More likely it was Oberleutnant
Meuller, of the Nazi Luftwaffe!

And now this place! A secret base of the most
hated nation in the history of the world. A secret
base within easy striking distance of the Panama
Canal. How simple it all would be for von
Stutgardt and his nine other vultures. Their
planes would of course be taken for Ninety-Six
aircraft returning from patrol. Then before anybody
realized the truth of things, these devil
men would strike. Their bombs and their aerial
torpedoes would go hurtling down, and in one
blinding flash every lock from Colon to Balboa
would be destroyed, and the Canal put out of
use for months and months to come—and maybe
for all time!

Dave groaned in spite of himself and hitched
up on one elbow. He stared at the two armed
guards, and they stared back unwinkingly at
him. Just looking at them made him see red, and
caused a wild, completely insane recklessness to
steal through his body. He forced himself to
look the other way. He twisted around a bit and
absently stared at the back of the hut. There
were two windows, but only the frames. Neither
glass nor netting had been put in as yet. Beyond
the windows he could see the tangle of untouched
tropical growth. It was bathed in weird
light and grotesque shadows. He stared at it,
and the reckless spirit within him grew stronger
and started his heart to thumping against his
ribs.

He glanced at Freddy, but the English youth
sat with his arms folded on his knees, and his
bent head resting on his folded arms. He might
be asleep, but Dave knew that wasn’t so. Freddy
was simply sitting there suffering the tortures
of the doomed, too. Dave took a deep breath and
then slowly got up onto his feet.

“Got to stretch my legs,” he said. “They feel
ready to snap off any second.”

He spoke the words with a smile, but he was
watching the two guards closely out of the corner
of one eye. They stiffened to the alert as he
stood up, and he could almost see their hands
tighten on their sub-machine guns. But he paid
them no visible attention, however. He stretched
both hands above his head, and yawned loudly.
His heart was well up in his throat by now.
Were the guards going to do something, or
weren’t they? He looked down at Freddy again,
shrugged for the benefit of the ever watching
guards, and then jammed his hands in his
pockets and started to saunter about the limited
amount of floor space. He walked with his head
bent and his eyes fixed on the floor boards, as
though he were fed up with everything, and
just didn’t care a hoot what happened next.

As a matter of fact, though, he kept darting
glances in all directions, particularly out the
two rear windows. He saw then for sure that
there was nothing but heavy jungle growth to
the rear of the hut. And because of the heavy
growth the shadows out there were deepening
more and more by the minute. His heartbeat
was hitting full speed when presently he sauntered
back to Freddy and slumped down on the
floor.

“You’re a lazy bum, pal!” he said with a
laugh. “Why don’t you stretch your legs? Just
sitting there moping won’t change a thing. The
party’s all over as far as we’re concerned.”

Freddy lifted his head and shot him a hard
glance. Dave slowly winked the eye that the
watching guards couldn’t see. Then, leaning forward,
he balanced both elbows on his knees and
put his two hands up to his face with the fingers
spread apart. He could look out between the
spread fingers, but his two palms completely
concealed his mouth. He stared vacantly off
into space for a long time, until he saw the
guards relax a bit, though they did not remove
their steadfast, unwinking gaze.

“There’s just one play we can make, Freddy,”
he then whispered into his two palms held in
front of his mouth. “Just one play. It may fall
flat and get us nailed deader than frozen fish.
But, Freddy, we’ve just got to do something!
We just can’t sit here and let von Stutgardt dish
it out at dawn! Right?”

He heard Freddy groan and roll over on
his stomach. The English youth’s movement
brought his head close to Dave’s knees. Freddy
rested his forehead on his two palms so that
he was looking down between his forearms at
the floor boards.

“Right!” Dave presently heard the faint whisper.
“I’m willing to try anything, and blast the
cost to us. I’ll even charge those two blighters
out there, if you think that’s best. But have you
any idea, Dave? Anything that offers a little bit
of a chance?”

“Just an idea, that’s about all,” Dave breathed
into his palms. “And we’ve got to play it soon,
while they’re still keeping us here. When it gets
dark they’ll probably truss us up for the business
at dawn. Freddy! The two rear windows. We’ve
got to dive through them before those guards
can pull their triggers. We can try it, this way.”

Dave paused and took away one of his hands
to scratch the top of his head. He yawned and
stretched both arms, and then braced his spread
fingers against the upper part of his face again.
The guards still watched him, but there was no
suspicion or uneasiness in their pig-like eyes.

“This way, Freddy,” he whispered again.
“We get up to stretch our legs. I tried it, and
the guards didn’t seem to mind. We act tired
and fed up, and not caring what happens next.
We slouch around for a good ten minutes,
enough time to get the guards used to us moving
around. Then when you’re in front of one window,
and I’m in front of the other, I’ll sneeze.
That’ll be the go signal. Freddy. When I sneeze,
we both dive head first through a window in
nothing flat. Got that?”

“Got it.” The two words just barely reached
Dave’s ears. “And then what?”

“Then it’s up to you, pal,” Dave breathed.
“That radio hut, I mean. Our first hope is to
radio to Colon and get bombers out here on the
jump. You know the usual SOS signal. Get word
to Colon Base. And maybe some Navy ships
close by will pick it up, too. Now, I’ll cover
for you so that you can sneak around back and
get into that radio hut. As soon as we land outside
the window I’ll turn sharp left and make
a lot of noise getting away. You hug the ground
until they’re in full flight after me. And then—then
do your stuff, Freddy. And good luck to
you. Okay?”

“Definitely not!” came the instant reply. “I’ll
do the covering up—if we escape the guards’
bullets. The radio idea was yours in the first
place. Besides, I can’t operate those gadgets the
way you can. No, Dave! You work the SOS
business. I’ll draw the blighters away from you.
No arguments, please. I honestly can do that
best, Dave. I’d stand a much better chance of
throwing them off and circling back to joining
you than you would. You know that’s true, too.”

Dave didn’t reply for a moment. He realized
full well that Freddy Farmer did speak the
truth. He knew it from experience in the past.
English though he was, Freddy Farmer was
almost the equal of an American Indian scout
when it came to moving about in woods and
heavy undergrowth. His movements were those
of a shadow, and twice as silent. Yes, Freddy
could do better drawing off the pursuers. And,
too, he wasn’t so hot at the radio business, particularly
a key wireless. But drawing off the pursuers
was the most dangerous job. He stood
about one chance in a hundred of not being
spotted and brought to earth by gun fire. Still—

“It must be that way, Dave!” came the whisper.
“I insist! We’ve got to do it my way. Blast
it, Dave! It’s the only way possible. This is no
time to think of each other. Don’t you see?”

Dave bit his lips, but the absolute truth of
Freddy’s words was too much for him. After
all, what mattered most was the fate of the
Panama Canal.

“Okay,” he finally said. “But if anything happens
to you, pal, I’ll—”

He couldn’t finish. Then he felt Freddy’s
head pressing lightly against his left knee, and
he knew that Freddy understood without being
told. Dave swallowed hard and wondered if the
guards could see tears showing in his eyes. For
a crazy moment he was tempted to call it all off.
Perhaps there was some other way out. Perhaps
at dawn he could add to von Stutgardt’s obvious
worries, and get the Nazi to postpone striking
his terrible blow. Maybe that crack about X-62
could be used again. Of course, Dave didn’t
know of anybody who was known as X-62. But
mentioning that, as von Stutgardt herded them
up from the beach, had made worried lights
flash in the Nazi’s eyes. The Nazi didn’t know
the truth about X-62, and maybe—just maybe—

Dave let the rest slide as Freddy Farmer
groaned again and rolled over on his back, and
then up to a sitting position.

“Did stretching your legs help any?” the
English youth asked in a loud voice. “Very well,
I’ll try it. But, frankly, I think it’s silly to worry
about our health now. It’s all over for us. We
two are finished, blast it!”

Freddy spoke the last in distinct German, and
openly glared at the two guards. If they didn’t
understand the English words they most
certainly understood the German words, and
Freddy’s glare. They both grinned wolfishly and
nodded their heads slightly. Freddy glared at
them for a bit longer, then coldly turned his
back on them and started slouching about the
hut floor. Dave glanced at the guards, saw them
chuckling in amusement at Freddy’s obvious
discomfort of body and mind, and hoped he
could put on as good an act as his pal.

He remained where he was for a couple of
minutes, a perfect picture of dejected defeat and
misery. Then he sighed and got slowly up on
his own feet. But he didn’t start walking immediately.
He just stood there a moment absently
rubbing his two hands up and down the sides
of his face, and staring sad-eyed out past the
guards. When he could tell that they were no
more on the alert than usual, he stopped rubbing
his face, jammed his hands in his pockets,
grunted, and started shuffling about the place
in a circle.

One minute—two minutes—three minutes
ticked slowly by, and it was all that Dave could
do to stop from screaming at the top of his
voice. Every nerve and muscle in him was
drawn tight, close to the snapping point. Each
second had seemed an hour longer, and each
minute a whole eternity. With every step he took
he was seized with the wild desire to sneeze the
signal and dive headlong through one of the
windows. Anything, anything to break this
torturing suspense. Anything so long as it meant
action. That was all he craved, now, and nuts
to the results.

He maintained a steely grip on himself, however.
Three minutes weren’t half enough to
soothe away any sneaking suspicions that the
two guards might have. Every time he snapped
a glance their way from up under his brows
he saw that they were tensed and watching
Freddy and him as two cats might watch a couple
of mice. Not time, yet, for the do or die
effort. Not until the guards got used to their
shuffling around and relaxed a little. They were
still on the alert too much. Their trigger fingers
were still too itchy and ready.

Four minutes—five—six—seven! When had
he started this slouching around to get exercise?
Had it been yesterday, or last week, or last
year? He didn’t dare look at Freddy for fear
the guards would see his look and take it for
some kind of a signal. It was only seven minutes.
Only seven? That was all the minutes there were
in the world, wasn’t it?

Eight minutes—nine! Praise be to Allah!
The guards were relaxing a little. One of them
had shifted his feet to a more comfortable
stance. And his sub-machine gun was pointing
a little more toward the ground. The other
guard, too, was seemingly getting just a little
bored with the prisoner parade. He let go of his
gun with one hand to slap at a fly buzzing
around his face. It was making him wink for
the first time.

Ten minutes—eleven! Dave saw Freddy close
to one of the windows—real close. He took a
quick side step that took him to within two feet
of his window. He shot a quick glance at the
two guards—and sneezed!

In the next couple of seconds a hundred different
things seemed to happen at the same time.
His whole body seemed to explode like many
firecrackers as his coiled spring muscles let go,
and his feet left the floor and he dived headlong
through the window. He misjudged the opening
by a hair and felt sharp pain as his shoulder
cracked against the jamb. He caught a flash
glimpse of Freddy going out the other window
like a flying fish above the crest of a wave. Then
there was a roaring blast of noise in back of
him. It was as though the three-sided hut were
crashing down about his ears. And his head was
suddenly filled with the whistle and zinging of
many unseen bullets. Slivers of wood flew past
him, and then—and then he was landing like a
cat on all fours on the ground below the window,
and heavy tropical growth was clutching out at
him.

For a brief instant there was no air in his
lungs, and there were dancing lights before his
eyes. Then somebody grabbed his arm. It was
Freddy Farmer, and the English youth’s voice
was in his ears.

“Good luck, old man! I’ll take care of the
blighters!”

And in the next flash second Freddy Farmer
was gone. He wasn’t there any more. There was
just heavy tangy-smelling tropical island undergrowth.
And from a good distance away came
the calling voice.

“Over here, Dave! Run! There’s a path…!”

The last was drowned out by the thunderous
roar of gunfire—gunfire that seemed to come
right out of the top of Dave’s head!

“Over there! Hurry! The swine will get to the
beach! Fire your machine gun, Fritz! Perhaps
our bullets will reach them through these cursed
trees. Goot! They are like two shafts of lightning,
only faster!”

The words were screamed in German, and
seemed inches from Dave’s ringing ears. They,
of course, came from the mouth of one of the
guards who stood not three feet from Dave’s
body hugging the ground underneath heavy undergrowth.
He could even see the booted foot
of one guard, and his heart seemed to jam up his
throat as he waited in fear that the guard would
turn and step right on him. Hugging the ground
though he was, and completely covered by undergrowth,
he felt as though he were standing
right in the middle of a glass house. And with
every ticking second he expected to hear one of
the machine guns snarl, and feel the white hot
bullets biting into his body.

Then suddenly the guards started plunging
off through the thick tropical growth. They
called out to one another in the bad light, and a
few seconds later there were other voices. Other
Nazis had taken up the chase.

“Dear God! Don’t let them get Freddy. Protect
him, dear God! Please!”

Dave didn’t speak the words. His heart spoke
them as he slid up onto his hands and knees.
He crouched there for an instant and listened
to the sounds that now seemed far away because
of the thickness of the island growth that
blanketed all sound. Then he got up to his feet,
sucked air into his aching lungs, and shot off
in the opposite direction, body bent and head
held well down. He traveled through the
growth in a straight line for perhaps fifty yards.
Then when he saw that he was well beyond the
rim of the group of huts at the head of the
double runway, he veered off to the right, and
stole close to the nearest hut. It was one that
served as living quarters, but there was no one
there. He turned slightly and started forward
again, but dived forward instead!

One of the bull-necked mechanics had come
running around the far corner of the hut. He
saw Dave, but a split second too late. Dave had
taken Commando training in England, and he
thanked God for that training in this moment.
The top of his head hit the Nazi’s chin a terrific
crack. At practically the same instant Dave’s
iron hard fists slammed deep into the Nazi’s
stomach. No man could take that kind of
punishment, and the bull-necked mechanic was
no exception to the rule. He grunted just once
and went toppling over backward. If he needed
a further knockout blow he got it when Dawson’s
body came crashing down on top of him.

As Dave scrambled up onto his feet he took
a quick look down at the prostrate mechanic
and grinned, tight-lipped. The slob of a Nazi
would be hearing the birdies for several hours
to come. Dave started forward again, but
checked himself long enough to snap a hand
down and jerk free the Luger the German carried
stuck in his belt.

“Seeing as how you’ll not be using it for a
while!” he murmured, and went darting forward
again.

In just two minutes by anybody’s clock he was
hidden in the undergrowth that backed the
radio hut. He strained his ears for sounds from
within, but if there were any he couldn’t hear
them because of the distant roar of sound that
came from German throats hot in pursuit of the
still (thank God!) elusive Freddy Farmer.

“Keep him safe, dear God!” Dave whispered
softly, and crawled around the rear corner of
the hut on his hands and knees. “Keep him
safe!”

Another few seconds and he was at the front
door. He hesitated a fraction of an instant and
shot a sharp look around. He thought he saw a
moving figure over on the other side of the
runways, but he couldn’t tell for sure because
of the bad light. Above the treetops there was
still blue sky and sunshine, but down under
the trees the light was fading fast.

Anyway, there was no time to bother about
moving shadows, and so, clutching the Luger
butt tighter, Dave took one quick step forward,
then whirled and went inside the hut in a single
leap. A figure bent over the radio started up
and spun around as Dave entered. It was the
former check-in officer at Albuquerque Base.
Stark fear registered on the youth’s face for an
instant. Then it became flooded with blazing
anger and hatred.

“Swine dog! I’ll—”

“Shut up, and hold everything, rat!” Dave
grated.

But the young Luftwaffe pilot was too engulfed
in his own rage. He swung around,
yanked open a table drawer and started to snatch
out a gun that was inside. Maybe his fingers
touched it, but maybe they didn’t. Dawson
didn’t wait to see. He leaped forward and swung
his own gun. There was the crunch that metal
makes when it strikes jaw bone. And the Luftwaffe
pilot simply folded up like a weary army
cot and sank silently down onto the floor.

There was no need for a second blow, and
Dave didn’t waste a single split second delivering
one for good measure. He simply shoved
the limp figure aside with his foot and dropped
into the chair. There were both mike and wireless
key in front of him. The switch for the key
set was thrown shut. He opened it, however,
and closed the radio switch because he could
talk faster than he could send by key. A second
later the room was filled with the hum of the
generators. Another few seconds and the tubes
were warm enough for transmitting. Dave
hooked the earphones over his head, and put his
lips to the mike.

“SOS Colon Base!” he barked. “Emergency,
Colon! Dispatch attack force at once to southern
Albuquerque Cays. Nazi secret plane base here.
Preparing to strike at Canal at—”

Crack!

The sound of the gun’s bark, and the shower
of hissing blue sparks in Dave Dawson’s face,
seemed to come almost simultaneously. For an
instant he was completely blinded by the radio
panel that had virtually exploded in his face.
He kicked his chair and blindly reached for
the Luger he had placed on the panel table close
to his hand. But in that instant there was a
second shot, and the Luger he saw through
smarting eyes seemed to take off like an airplane
and go falling down onto the floor.

“The third shot will be for you, of course!”

Shock fled, and common sense returned to
Dave. The radio episode was finished—that is,
as far as the set itself was concerned. The first
bullet had smashed the main tube, and the whole
panel was now giving off dirty blue smoke. He
turned slowly and stared into the brittle, deadly
eyes of Captain Karl von Stutgardt, who stood
framed in the hut doorway. The Nazi’s lips
were pulled back over his teeth in a vicious
snarl, but his shoulders were shaking a little.
It was as though he were silently chuckling to
himself. He was, for it suddenly rose to a harsh
laugh.

“Too bad, Captain Dawson!” he cried. “That
was a noble effort. But I couldn’t allow you to
complete your little broadcast, you know. That’s
a very low powered transmitter, and your voice
couldn’t possibly have been heard in Colon. You
should have used the key wireless. But of course
it’s too late for that now. In fact, it is too late
for everything, as far as you’re concerned, Captain
Dawson!”

Dave only half listened to the words. He
knew that he was not going to die this very instant.
Maybe in a minute or two, but not right
now. Von Stutgardt’s vanity had to be satisfied
first. The rat from Berlin had to enjoy his crowing
before he continued with his job of murder.
And murder it would be. Dave knew that he
stood as near death as he ever would. The Nazi’s
Luger was pointed straight at his heart, and the
man had just proved that he was an expert shot.

But what about Freddy Farmer? That was
the thought that raced and circled about in
Dave’s brain as he stood there tensed in front
of von Stutgardt’s Luger. Had they caught
Freddy finally? Had they chased him clear
across the island to the beach on the other side
and then shot him down as one would shoot
down a mad dog? He couldn’t hear any sounds
of voices calling out, nor the sound of gun fire
either. Freddy! Freddy, old man! I’ve failed
you. Failed you completely. Have you paid for
it with your life? Have I brought certain death—to
us both? Oh, dear God!

Dawson’s agonizing thoughts were as spoken
words in his brain. They came from all sides to
haunt and to taunt him. He felt the blood seem
to drain out of his body, leaving only the seething
flames of berserk anger within him. Unconsciously
he let his eyes meet von Stutgardt’s
again, and he saw that the Nazi was chuckling.

“Your swine English friend?” the Nazi
echoed, as though he had read Dave’s thoughts.
“You can forget about him. I can promise you
that he is dead, or soon will be. This is not a
large island, you know. As a matter of fact, that
is why I gave you as much freedom as I did,
why I didn’t tie you hand and foot. Knowing
your record of stupid deeds in the past, I
thought you might try some foolish move like
this. So I simply waited. Why? To give us a
little sport, of course. A little sport before our
great day tomorrow. It is good for one’s nerves
when they are too tight, you know, a nice little
man hunt. We Germans enjoy man hunts, you
know.”

“Sure!” Dave flung at him. “If the man you’re
hunting is unarmed. Well, I’m unarmed, von
Stutgardt. Why don’t you shoot? Go ahead and
get your big thrill. There’ll still be X-62 left,
you know.”

Dave spoke the last on the spur of the moment,
just to see how von Stutgardt’s expression
would change. He was disappointed. The German
just stood there with his sneering smile on
his face. Dave looked past him and out at the
first of the Vultees at the head of the double
runway.

“So you had trouble getting those planes, von
Stutgardt?” he said just to keep the German
talking. “I don’t think it was much trouble. I
saw how you got ours. You got the others the
same way, didn’t you?”

“That’s right,” the German said, and beamed.
“The trouble was to get pilots from the Colon
Base on solo patrol to come this far north. But
we managed it, after a fashion.”

“And their pilots?” Dave asked, and stared
the Nazi straight in the eye.

“We wanted the planes, not the pilots!” von
Stutgardt snarled back. “You think we play at
war like children? Like you Americans, and the
swine British? The life of an enemy to us?
Nothing! I spared your life, and that dog
Britisher’s, simply because I wished to amuse
myself, and to let you see how stupid you were
in your efforts to trap me, the greatest secret
agent of them all. But—”

The German paused and made a little gesture
with the hand that did not hold the Luger.

“But now that I have had my little sport, and
one of you is already dead, or is dying at this
very moment, I tire of it all,” the German said
presently. “You are mere children, and we Germans
have a man’s work to do. So—so give my
best wishes to your dear Colonel Welsh when
you meet him, Captain Dawson. And you will
be meeting him soon—for that dog is the next
on my list.”

Dave saw the Luger in von Stutgardt’s hand
come up an inch. He saw the Nazi’s grip on the
butt tighten. He thought he saw the knuckle of
the trigger finger go white as the man started
to shoot. But he didn’t hear the shot, though
there was a shot. He didn’t hear it because it
came from outside the hut, and there was a ringing
in his ears that drowned out all distant
sounds. He simply saw von Stutgardt twist
around as though spun by giant invisible hands.
He saw the man’s Luger drop from his limp
fingers. And he saw the spurt of blood on von
Stutgardt’s neck as the Nazi agent fell in
through the doorway and down onto the floor.

And in the next split second he saw a figure
garbed in the work uniform of a German mechanic
come leaping in over the fallen von
Stutgardt.

“Phew, Dave! I was afraid that he had already
shot you! You sure you’re all right?”

It was three long seconds before Dave could
snap himself out of his stunned trance, and pry
words out of his mouth.

“Freddy!” he gasped. “Freddy Farmer? You
got away from them?”

“Of course not!” Freddy panted. “This is my
twin brother! Certainly I got away. Those beggars
couldn’t find anything unless it was stuck
on the end of their big noses. I got up close to
one stupid ox, and bashed him silent, and took
his uniform and gun. After that it was as easy
as pie. I was trying to sneak up on this blighter
when I saw him raise his gun. So I had to shoot.
I hope he bleeds to death. I—Good grief! The
radio! Dave, did you—?”

“I didn’t!” Dave groaned. “Not powerful
enough. I was halfway through when he came
in and shot the thing into flames right in front
of my face. But let’s cut this gab. I’ll bless you
and give you a big kiss later, pal, for saving my
hide. Right now we’ve got a job to do all alone.”

“What I’ve been trying to explain!” Freddy
snapped, and spun around. “They’re all down
at the other end hunting for me in the grass.
That first Vultee, eh, Dave? What say?”

“Stop asking questions!” Dave barked. “Just
pick up your feet, and get going with me. Gee,
Freddy! What a sweetheart and a honey you
always are in the clutches!”

The English youth didn’t make any comment
to that. He was too busy picking up his feet, as
Dave had suggested, and laying them down
again. Shoulder to shoulder the two air aces
raced out the door and across the clearing to the
first of the bomb-loaded Vultees. Without wasting
words talking it over, Dave leaped into the
forward pit, and Freddy leaped into the rear
pit and unhooked the swivel guns. As soon as
his pants hit the seat Dave rapped open the
throttle, and punched the starter button with
his other hand. For a couple of seconds the
starter made a grinding sound and the steel-bladed
propeller rotated in a series of slow jerks.
Then it caught in a rush of power and the dimly
lighted clearing seemed to tremble and shake
in the thunderous roar of the Wright Cyclone
in the nose.

“Hang on, and be ready with those guns,
Freddy!” Dave bellowed at the top of his voice,
and rammed the throttle wide open.

As though the word guns had been some sort
of a signal for which the unseen gods of war
were waiting, the savage yammer of gunfire suddenly
broke out to the left rear of the Vultee
now lunging forward. Dave jerked his head
around in time to see von Stutgardt coming reeling
out through the radio hut door clutching a
machine gun in his hands. He blazed away at
the Vultee, and countless hornets of death
whined by Dave’s head. Then von Stutgardt
stumbled and fell, and his gun stopped spitting
out flame and sound.

Dave didn’t wait to watch the German go
sprawling. He had snapped his head front, and
was biting down hard on his lower lip. The
Vultee was a comet roaring along the runway
now. But more guns were shooting at it from the
heavy undergrowth on either side. And directly
ahead was the camouflage screening for the
opening out onto the beach. Dave had forgotten
all about that until this moment. How strong
was the screen? Would it crack them up? Would
it catch on the prop blades, and bind about them,
and slow up the Vultee’s speed so that the plane
wouldn’t take off until it was down the beach
and in the water? Would it—?

But there wasn’t any time to answer any of
those questions, much less do anything about
them. Like a streak of greased lightning the
whirling prop of the Vultee slashed into the
netting. Things flew off in all directions for a
brief instant, and then there was clear air and
sunshine ahead, and Dave was hauling the plane
up over the blue surface of the Caribbean.

“Like razor blades through a hair net!” Dave
shouted joyfully as the aircraft mounted higher.
“Always did say these Vultees were the toughest
thing with wings. I—”

“Never mind the talk!” came Freddy Farmer’s
scream in his ears. “We got a bomb or two
to drop. And there’s a couple of the blighters
coming up after us. It’s our turn, now, Dave!
And for the love of Saint George, let’s get
going!”

“And how!” Dave shouted, and hauled the
Vultee off its climb and over and around in a
dive. “And how! You keep those Nazi mosquitoes
off our necks, Freddy, and I’ll dump the
eggs where they’ll do the most good. A secret
base, huh? Well, not for long. Not for long!”

As Dave roared out the last he pointed the
Vultee’s nose straight for the spot of lush green
on the island that hid the far end of the runways,
and the little cluster of huts. Two Vultees came
ripping out of the opening as he went rocketing
down, but he didn’t waste any time dropping
his nose more and bringing them into his forward
gun sights. Freddy would take care of
those Vultees. He had a job of his own to do!

So, holding the attack bomber steady, he took
it earthward at terrific speed, leveled off in the
last split second allowed, and went streaking
forward just off the tops of the trees. At the
right instant he yanked back the bomb release
lever and sent the one thousand pounds of death
and doom hurtling downward. No sooner did he
release the bomb than he banked sharply to the
right and hauled the Vultee’s nose up toward
heaven.

For some strange reason everything seemed
to become deathly still for a moment. It was the
pressure in his ears, of course, from the violent
bank and steep climb. But in a crazy sort of
way it struck him as though heaven and earth
had suddenly stood still, and were waiting for
that bomb to hit.

Well, heaven and earth, and Dave Dawson,
didn’t have to wait long. Suddenly invisible
giants’ hands seemed to grab hold of the belly
of the Vultee and fling it far out across the sky.
Then came the roar of sound. It was as though
the very earth had split apart in two sections and
belched up all the fire and seething lava in their
depths. For a moment red and white balls of
light spun around before Dave’s eyes, and when
he could see, it was a tremendous effort to turn
his head and look back down.

When he did, though, his breath caught in
his throat, and cold shivers of horror shook his
body from head to foot. There was no more
lush green and brown on the Albuquerque Cay.
There was nothing but a small ocean of seething
flame and mountain clouds of yellow white
smoke, edged all around by the blue of the
Caribbean. A bull’s-eye shot with a bomb, if
there ever had been one! Dave didn’t even need
one guess to know that his one thousand pounder
had unquestionably smacked right down on that
hut that housed all the other high explosives.
No, not just a thousand pound bomb exploding,
but tons of high explosives, and not a few aerial
torpedoes for good measure. That horrible flaming
chaos down there was just a picture of what
the Nazis had been holding in store for the
Panama Canal.

“There won’t be a blade of grass, even, left
alive down there!” Dave heard his own lips
mutter in awe. “And as for von Stutgardt, and
his vulture brood, they’ll never murder another—”

He didn’t finish the rest. At that moment the
yammer of aerial machine guns cut through his
whirling thoughts. He jerked around in the seat
and saw the two escaped Vultees curving up toward
him with all guns blazing. He also saw
Freddy Farmer snap out of his obvious trance
and stop gaping down at the horrible sight below.

“Get to work and earn your pay!” Dave
roared, and threw the Vultee into a snap roll.
“I’ve done my part. Now you do yours, kid!”

The English youth didn’t reply, that is, not
with his lips. Instead, he spoke with his two
swivel mounted machine guns. Though almost
upside down, and practically standing on his
ear as Dave whipped the Vultee over and down,
Freddy drilled one of the Nazi flown planes
dead center. It seemed to fly straight into an
invisible rubber wall in the sky. It hit it and
actually bounced back. Then as flames belched
out and engulfed it, the plane went tumbling
down into the Caribbean.

“Nice shooting!” Dave shouted, and cut the
Vultee around in the opposite direction.

The remaining Nazi pilot saw him coming
and tried to get out of the way. When he saw
that he was trapped, he simply fired his guns
blindly and then went down into a steep dive.
Dave dropped down after him, but there was no
need for either Freddy or him to shoot. The
fear of the devil must have been in that diving
Nazi’s heart, because he never pulled out of his
dive. He hit the surface of the Caribbean like
three tons of flying brick. There was a great
splash of water, but when the foam of the froth
had disappeared there wasn’t a sign of the plane.
It, too, had disappeared, straight down.

Hauling out of his dive, Dave took one last
look back at the still seething sea of flame and
smoke that had been lush green, and brown, and
silvery strips of beach, just a short time ago.
Then with a slight shudder he turned front and
put the Vultee on a crow flight course for the
Air Corps Base at Colon. Then he twisted in the
seat and grinned back at Freddy Farmer.

“Well, Lady Luck is still our sweetheart,
Freddy!” he called out. “Your courage, and my
dumb luck made it turn out swell.”

“It was luck all the way!” the English youth
called back. “We came much, much too close
to missing this time. Fact is, I’m wondering
just how we’ll be able to explain things to
Colonel Welsh, and make it appear we did use
our heads a little.”

“Who cares?” Dave laughed. “We’ll just say
we did it with mirrors, or—”

Dave paused as he became conscious of a
bruise ache on his right chest. He glanced down
and then went pop-eyed when he saw that the
right top pocket of his tunic had been ripped
open. He stuck his finger in through the tear
and felt a piece of metal. He pulled it out and
gulped. It was the silver-filled copper disc. But
it wasn’t flat and smooth now. And there was
more than just a pen knife scratch in the copper.
The disc was bent double, and there was a big
gash where the bullet had struck and ricocheted
away. From von Stutgardt’s gun, or one of those
Nazi Vultee pilots? Dave didn’t know, and he
didn’t care. He put the bent disc to his lips and
kissed it.

“And I said you were no luck charm?” he
grunted. “Brother! I’m carrying you around
for the duration. And I don’t mean maybe!”

A faint sound broke the silence of the black
night. Was it the wind in the trees? Was it a
night animal stalking his next meal? Or was it
one of Adolf Hitler’s uniformed killers?

Dave didn’t know. Perhaps it was just his
imagination. Perhaps it was just his taut nerves
snapping, and his brain playing him tricks. According
to the report he had received he
shouldn’t run into any of the enemy for another
twenty minutes at least. Just to make sure he
pressed himself close to the ground, turned his
cork-blackened face toward his left wrist, and
with his right hand inched up the cuff of his
sleeve so that he could see his radium dial wrist
watch that circled his forearm halfway to the
elbow.

Twenty minutes? His watch must be wrong!
It must have gained two hours in the last ten
minutes, for he was certain that it was only ten
minutes ago when he had looked at it. Yet the
watch said it was exactly five minutes of the
hour. Twenty minutes? No, not twenty. There
were only three minutes left! So that faint sound

Obvious spelling errors and missing punctuation have been corrected. Some printer inconsistencies have been silently corrected.