CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Satan Laughs
When Dawson reached flight deck level he slowed up his pace as though waiting for the big Jap to give him the order to continue on toward the flight bridge. As a matter of fact, though, that was not his real intention. He slowed up a little to give Freddy Farmer time to catch up closer, and, also, to take a quick furtive look around. What he saw caused his heart to pound harder than ever. Not thirty yards away, and right smack in take-off position, was a Jap Mitsubishi two-seater, long range "Karigane" MK-11. And what's more, its prop was idling over! And if that wasn't enough to make Dawson's heart sing with wild happiness, there was not a single Jap anywhere near it. Not even a member of the deck crew.
"Hot dog, hot dog!" Dawson whispered inwardly. "Almost as though we'd requested these slant-eyed rats to set the stage for us, and they had done it. An MK-11, no less. Boy, oh boy! Do Freddy and I know that Jap crate, and how! Lady Luck, you're my dream girl for life, and I don't mean perhaps!"[B]
Hardly daring to risk it, Dawson shot a quick glance at Freddy Farmer just the same. And that one quick look was enough to tell him that Freddy had spotted the MK-11, and was simply waiting for him to make the break. In fact, Dawson was positive that he had seen his English-born pal give a faint nod of his head in a signal as their eyes met.
"You will walk toward the flight bridge, please!" the big Jap snapped and pointed. "The Honorable Admiral is waiting."
Dawson nodded, shrugged, and turned forward to start walking a little faster. But he took only six or seven steps; then he suddenly half whirled, ducked down fast, and went under the wing of a parked plane. As he came out on the other side of the wing he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder and felt like yelling with joy. Good old Freddy Farmer was so close behind that the English youth was practically running up his back.
But even as he snapped a glance back to make e that Freddy was right there with him, Dawson was in high gear again. Like a broken field runner going absolutely haywire he dodged this way and that, and ducked under wings, or around parked planes. Every split second of the time he expected to hear the big Jap let out a scream of rage, but if there was a scream he didn't hear it. Nor, praise be to God, did any other Japs pop up in his path.
As a matter of fact nothing popped up to stop either of the youthful air aces as they zigzagged through the parked planes at top speed, and then reached the MK-11 and virtually hurled themselves into the pits. No sooner was Dawson in the plane than he kicked off the wheel brakes, and hand heeled home the throttle. The one thousand horsepower engine in the nose roared out its song of mighty power, and the two-seater fairly leaped forward along the narrow lane on the deck that permitted room for taking-off. With every revolution of the prop the plane picked up more and more speed, so that in no time at all the parked planes that formed the two sides of the take-off lane were little more than blurred streaks rushing past either wingtip.
No wild cries from the Japs, and no bursts of machine gun or pistol fire? Dawson was surprised by the absence of fire from the Japs for maybe a whole split second. And then he forgot all about it. The MK-11 had cleared the flight deck of the Jap carrier and was prop clawing upward. However, Dawson checked the climb instantly. In fact, he actually nosed the aircraft downward until the belly of the plane was practically kissing the tops of the long blue-green rollers of the Southwest Pacific. To climb for altitude would make him an even better target for the shipboard anti-aircraft guns that were bound to go into action in another second or two. Also, to climb would mean to sacrifice speed, and speed with which to get away from the whole darn task force in a hurry was what he wanted most. And so he hugged the wave tops, headed straight for an escorting cruiser, and went past it with his wingtips almost kissing the cruiser's mast top.