The new dawn sun was well up over the eastern rim of the world and was driving the shadows of night over the western lip in a hurry when Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer sighted the flight of American patrol planes. They were Navy long-range Catalina flying boats and they were coming straight on toward the Flying Fortress.
"Nice!" Dawson grunted with a nod of his head. "That's something I was hoping that we'd see just about now. Asleep at the switch once, maybe, but not twice. Nope, not a chance."
"All of which sounds very interesting," Freddy Farmer murmured, and rubbed a dirty hand over his tired-looking face. "But do you mind explaining what you mean? I'm afraid I'm a little bit too done in this morning to bother making guesses. What about those Catboats, Dave?"
"That they're there, and coming toward us on a beeline," Dave replied with a nod toward the approaching flying boats. "It means that they are sure on the alert at Pearl Harbor, these days. Obviously they picked us up on radar, and radioed those patrol planes to come out for a look at us. In other words, there'll never be a second sneak attack on the Hawaiians."
"Oh, I see," Young Farmer grunted. "Yes, I guess you're right. I fancy that ... oh-oh. Half a minute, Dave. They're on the radio. I'll handle it, if you wish."
Dawson nodded and watched the three Catalinas move into line formation. The request for an identification signal was already sounding in his earphones.
"Sure, go ahead, kid," he said. "But watch your English accent. They might wonder, and start to get funny. And I don't want to play around any more. I want just to get my feet on firm, hard ground for a change."
Freddy Farmer made a face at him, and then put his lips to the radio mike.
"Fortress to Catalinas!" he barked. "Plane XFT, Captain Dawson in command. Request permission to proceed to destination Four-Seven-Six. Over!"
There was a moment of silence; then they both heard the reply.