The blood began to pound at Dave's temples, and for one awful instant every muscle and nerve in his body seemed to turn into water. He wanted to look at Freddy, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Baron von Khole's face. Gone was the smirk, the scorn, and the look of delighted triumph from the German's face. It had become set, hard and cruel, and the light of a born killer glowed in his eyes. Dave knew that it was only a matter of split seconds. Perhaps not even that length of time. He tried to speak, but the horrible moment froze his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Then with desperate effort he tore his eyes from von Khole's face and shot a quick glance out the side compartment window.
"Planes coming!" he cried in a hoarse voice.
Von Khole stiffened and half turned his head. In that infinitesimal split second of time Dave Dawson staked his life, Freddy's life, and the success or complete failure of their mission, on a single lightning-like action. With every ounce of his strength he shoved forward the foot he had eased up to rest against the control column of the plane. The mighty effort rammed the column forward, and sent the craft lurching down by the nose. As a result the tail surged upward and the cat-walk practically fell away from under von Khole's feet.
The German half toppled over backwards and then seemed to rise right straight up in the air. A horrible curse of rage spilled from his lips, and the Luger in his hand barked three times. His backward movement however had tilted the gun barrel upward and all three bullets ripped harmlessly through the roof of the compartment. Then the German crashed the top of his head against the strong cross brace girder of the top section of the fuselage. Even above the howl of the engines Dave heard the sickening crunching sound. Baron von Khole's eyes went glassy. Then they closed shut, and he tumbled down on the cat-walk, limp and still as a wet dish rag.
"At him, Freddy!" Dave screamed and hurled himself backward out of his seat.
[CHAPTER SIXTEEN]
Atlantic Madness
Dave's cry to Freddy Farmer was just a waste of breath, for the English youth was already out of his seat with all the speed of a bullet leaving the muzzle of a gun. And it was also a waste of effort for either of them to dive down on the limp Baron von Khole. The German was completely unconscious and the deep bleeding cut in the top of his head made by contact with the fuselage girder was proof positive that he would remain unconscious for a long, long time to come. Just the same, the two fighting aces of the Royal Air Force took no chances. They took the Luger from von Khole's limp fingers, and then trussed him up tight with a length of spare mooring line.
"Beautiful, Dave!" Freddy panted as they got to their feet. "I never dreamed you had that in mind. I saw you inching your foot up but it didn't even dawn on me that you were trying to get it braced against the control column so that you could shove the nose down and spill him off his feet."
"Thank goodness it didn't even dawn on von Khole, what I was up to," Dave said with a big sigh. "But just a tap would have laid him out cold. He was still a bit punch drunk from that other crack he got on his dome."