"Good grief, how did you know?" Freddy gasped. "You couldn't see me from here!"
"I didn't have to look back," Dawson chuckled. "I simply saw the kind of shooting it was and knew at once you were behind the guns. How's the pilot making out, or don't you know?"
"Not too bad, for which he can thank his lucky stars," the English youth replied. "He'll pull through all right, but I guess the chap will be out of the war for some time. What kind of blasted business was it, anyway, Dave? That beggar was waiting for us right up on top, with his confounded flares. We were—well, as you would say, a sitting duck."
"Yeah, and we were darn near a dead pigeon, too!" Dawson said grimly. "But how, and why? Don't ask me, pal! I just haven't got the brains it would take to figure out this crazy mess. To me it looks like one of those little items of fate the colonel was talking about. Unless—"
"Unless what, Dave?" Freddy Farmer pressed as Dawson fell silent.
"Unless there's no connection at all," the Yank air ace finally remarked.
"I'm afraid that doesn't make much sense to me," young Farmer said. "What do you mean, no connection?"
"Well, figure it this way," Dawson replied. "Say that the President's forthcoming trip to Casablanca is as much of a perfect secret as ever. That—"
"But that's silly!" Freddy Farmer cut in. "The fact that this plane was mysteriously attacked means that some blasted Nazi agent found out what was in one of those sealed envelopes. I mean, that the next bomber through would have the President aboard."
"Are you all through sounding off?" Dave snapped. "Or don't you want to hear the rest of what I have to say?"