The colonel didn't reply at once. It was very plain from the expression on his thin face that the news of sighting Nazi aircraft disturbed him greatly.
"It can't be a convoy they're after," he finally said, "because there isn't one this far south. And they can't be looking for any plane, such as this one, because—"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence paused a second, shook his head, and ordered, "Get on course for Casablanca, Dawson, and plow right on through! With our radio gone, we're helpless to find out what's what—if anybody happens to know. The sooner we get to Casablanca, the better. So bang on through, but avoid action if it's possible."
"Very good, sir," Dawson replied, and pulled the B-25 back onto her original course. "By the way, sir, how's the pilot?"
"Getting better by the minute," the colonel replied. "Lost a lot of blood, but we'll take care of that as soon as we get to Casablanca. Push on through, and I'll order the crew to remain at battle stations. This is the darnedest mess I ever bumped into!"
"If I've ever met up with anything more tantalizing, then I sure don't remember it," Dawson remarked by way of agreement. "Okay, sir! Casablanca it is, and on the run!"
Colonel Welsh murmured something that Dawson didn't catch and, giving the Yank air ace a pat on the shoulder, he swung about and returned to his battle station aft. For the next twenty-two minutes Dawson and Farmer didn't speak as the twin-engined North American B-25 prop-clawed its way forward through the milky-hued heavens. Neither of them spoke because anything they might have said would only have served to increase their fears. Both feared they were lost, and not even headed toward Casablanca. They feared that at any second a whole flock of those mysterious Junkers might suddenly appear in the air before them and open up with all guns. They feared that once more their plans were about to be knocked into a cocked hat.
"Jeeper, jeepers!" Dawson finally muttered. "I couldn't have a worse case of jim-jams than I've got right now, even if I was actually piloting the President's plane. I—"
"Dave!" Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. "I'll be blessed! Look!"
The English youth's exclamation was quite unnecessary because Dawson was already staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles of weather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cut off by a knife. One instant the B-25 was plowing on through the stuff, and the next it was roaring out into clear air filled with brilliant sunshine. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port of Casablanca glistening white in the sun!