The Chief of all U.S. Intelligence Services drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, and then nodded.
“Yes, I guess it is,” he grunted. “And I hope you’re right, Dawson. I hope our friend did put a smooth one over on me, and that he tapped into these things.”
And on saying that, the Colonel reached out a hand and pulled one of the phones to him.
[2]. “Dave Dawson with the Pacific Fleet.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Missing Wings
It was early the next morning and the first flaming rays of the new day’s sun were just shooting up over the peaks of the mountains to the east. The last of the thin night fog was drifting out across San Francisco Bay, leaving the air washed and crisp and tangy. Though it was still early, activity at the Frisco Air Corps Base was in full swing. Swarms of wings flashed back and forth across the robin’s-egg blue sky, and the air was filled with the thunder and power whines of many engines.
Down on the field, Dave and Freddy stood beside the Vultee they had flown up in from Los Angeles. Colonel Welsh was with them, and although the pilots’ faces were bright with eager expectation of new adventures before them, there was no eagerness in the Colonel’s face. There wasn’t even so much as the ghost of a smile. His eyes were somber and brooding, and there was a tightness about the corners of his mouth. Dave glanced at him, and grinned.