"A pleasure to take orders from you, old chap," he said easily. "But what are they? Do we go, or do we stay?"
"We go," Dave said quietly. "And the sooner the better."
"Right you are, Skipper!" Freehill said happily. Then with a faint frown, "But the course?"
Dawson opened his mouth to speak, but on second thought checked the words about to come out of it.
"I'll give you the new course as soon as we are in the air," he said. Then turning to the Adjutant, he said with a grin, "Thanks for delivering the message. Will you please communicate to the Air Ministry that we are continuing as originally planned, but will make changes in the flight course?"
"Quite, of course," the Adjutant replied, and turned toward the belly door. "Good luck, chaps."
As soon as the Adjutant was clear of the plane, Squadron Leader Freehill went forward and got the Wellington into motion again. Dave went forward with him and dropped into the co-pilot's seat. Neither spoke a word until the bomber was clear of the ground and prop-clawing up through the dirty grey fog. At five thousand it came out into a tunnel of clear air between two layers of overcast. There Freehill leveled off, pointed his aircraft in a general easterly direction, and turned in the seat to look at Dave.
"Well, what's the decision on the course, Skipper?" he asked. "Better let Parsons know as soon as possible, so he can begin plotting for us."
Dave looked across at him and grinned.
"There's no new course, Squadron Leader," he replied. "Hop her along just as you'd planned."