“Just giving myself the old pep talk, Freddy,” he said. “Just promising myself that everything’s going to turn out okay. And how are all your friends?”
“I’ve known happier and more contented moments,” Freddy replied. Then, lifting a hand and pointing a finger forward, “Well, there they are, old thing, for what they’re worth. Better lose some of our altitude so’s we can take a good look around. These patches of cloud aren’t made of glass, you know.”
Dave nodded, turned forward, and throttled the Vultee’s Cyclone and let the plane nose down toward the expanse of deep blue Caribbean sea below. When he was at around five thousand feet he leveled off and headed straight for the Albuquerque Cays. Coming up on them, they looked like lush green and brown dots on a field of blue. And when he was directly over the first dot of the short curving chain of islands they didn’t look like very much more. He counted six of them, the biggest being the most northern one. But nowhere did he see any signs of life. For all you could tell a subterranean volcanic disturbance might possibly have pushed them up above the surface of the water overnight. Just patches of green and brown on a field of blue. Patches of green and brown that were edged here and there by strips of yellowish white, that were actually beaches.
For a good half hour Dave drilled up and down over the Albuquerque Cays searching every square inch of them with his eyes. However, as each second clicked away into the history of time, his heart sank lower and lower, and the flame of hope in him grew smaller and smaller. He didn’t dare turn around and look at Freddy, for he knew that he would only see his own misery reflected in his pal’s eyes. So he kept his face front and continued to circle about over the Cay chain. More time passed, and the hope in him died down to a tiny spark.
Throttling the Wright-powered Vultee V-12C attack bomber to cruising speed, Dave licked his dry lips, twisted around in the seat, and winked at Freddy Farmer in the gunner’s pit.
“How’s it go, pal?” he called out, and motioned downward. “Not nervous, or anything like that, are you?”
“Certainly not!” the English boy shouted back. “I stopped being nervous hours ago. Now I’m simply scared stiff that we’re wrong! How do you feel?”
Dave shrugged and made a little gesture with his free hand.
“I’m not sure,” he said, “but I guess it’s something like the way a clay pigeon must feel. You know, hoping the guy with the trap gun will miss. But—but I’m afraid this is a waste of time, and that we’ve struck out.”
“Not any more!” Freddy shouted, and pointed to the left. “Look! Do you see it? Recognize the type?”