"No bet!" Dave called back. "That's one bet I wouldn't want to win. And how, I wouldn't want to win it!"
As Dawson spoke the last a sudden thought came to him, and he caught his breath. The thought was: What if they didn't sight land within an hour or less after dawn? Supposing their drift during the night hours had been double or even triple what they had allowed for, and they were actually lost somewhere above the broad expanse of the Southwest Pacific? What if they were lost, and remained lost until the engine in the nose sucked up the last drop of high test, and then quit cold? There was a rubber raft in the MK-11, but Dawson knew in his heart that he would never survive a single day drifting helplessly on the sun-flooded waters. Yesterday, sure, or the day before—but not now. Not during this day that was now dawning. And so, please, God! Please!
The silent prayer remained on Dawson's lips as he watched the pale line of light low down in the east grow broader and brighter, until, as though invisible doors in the heavens had been flung open, the light of the new day came rushing westward, driving the shadows of night on ahead of it. In a matter of less than fifteen minutes the two youths had perfect visibility in all four directions. First, though, they peered southward. And to Dawson it was like receiving a mule's kick in the stomach. Nothing but dawn-tinted water as far as the eye could see. Not a sign of land. Not a sign of anything but water; endless rolling swells of it. A great sadness, a great bitterness welled up in him until he could hardly breathe. And there was the sting of hot tears at the backs of his eyeballs.
"No land—not a darn sight of it!" he heard himself mumble. "And I had hoped—oh gosh, how I had hoped! Darn it, there has to be land, or we just can't possibly make Port Moresby. And I can't—"
He let the rest trail off and stared bleak-eyed at the limitless stretch of water to the south. He wanted to turn around in the pit and say something cheerful to Freddy Farmer in back. Say any old thing that would take the sting out of what his pal must be thinking, too. But somehow he couldn't turn around. Somehow he couldn't even think of anything to say. He felt absolutely powerless to move. It was as though he were a dead man looking out across a dead world.
And then, suddenly, a bunched fist came down on his left shoulder, and he almost fainted from the pain in his chest as Freddy Farmer's wildly shouted words smashed against his ear drums.
"Dave, look! Off there to port! Dave, look, look, old chap! A lot of ships. A carrier task force. It's Jackson's force, Dave! Jackson's! There's our task force. Dave! It's a miracle, a blessed miracle! There's the task force!"
For one brief instant more Dawson couldn't move. Then he managed to turn his head, but he could see nothing but swimming lights and shadows. The pent up emotions within him had broken their bonds, and hot tears that he couldn't check filled his eyes and blurred everything. That made him angry at himself, and at everything else. And with angry motions he rubbed and brushed the tears from his eyes. And then when he took another look he saw what Freddy Farmer's sharp eyes had seen first. Far, far off to port, and so low down on the horizon that they looked like no more than a cluster of bugs on the water, were the two carriers, the destroyers and the cruisers and supply ships of Admiral Jackson's task force. Even though the distance was great, he could recognize them for what they really were. And a happiness such as he had never known flooded throughout his entire body.
"Jackson's force?" he heard himself echo weakly. "But what the heck? What's it doing over there? That's a night's steaming from the search area! Or—or have we been flying in circles all night long? It's—it's like a dream. A mad, crazy dream! I—"
"Dave, snap out of it, for Heaven's sake!" Freddy's voice cut short his mumbling. "Fly over to them. Fly over to them. That's our task force! Don't you understand, Dave?"