"Steady, Freddy!" he whispered. "Take it a bit easy, if you can. You've been aces, what I mean, pal. And now it's my turn to do some fast and heavy thinking. And get results like you did. Look, Freddy! Do you see anything different about those planes?"
"Different?" young Farmer echoed softly, and scowled hard at the scene before him. "No! And that's what tears me up so inside. Why, this is just like it is in England. Just before the take-off for a raid on Germany. But, good grief, Dave! This is Germany, right here!"
"I know, kid, I know," Dawson soothed him gently. "But let's skip that part for a moment. Now look. I don't see any difference either, so that means that their fire bombs, or whatever they really call them, are stowed away in the bomb bays just like any TNT eggs. And if so, they are to be released from the bombardier's nook, just like regular eggs. Now here's what I mean. They don't plan for any air fighting, so the chances are that each ship isn't taking along more than, say, three men. A pilot, a navigator, and a so-called bombardier. Call it four, and make the fourth a flight engineer. But it's to be a one-way flight, so maybe a flight engineer isn't going along."
"Yes, yes, you're probably right, Dave," Freddy said with an impatient nod of his head. "But what difference? It's unimportant to us. The important thing is, how can we possibly stop them? How in the world could we start a fire of any kind? The blighters are all over the place. Even though we did manage to sneak up and fire one of the planes, that wouldn't mean the lot would go. They must have fire equipment here, in case of accident. Dave, we're as helpless as Weiden was. We—"
"Shut up, and let me finish!" Dawson muttered, and pressed Freddy's arm hard. "Okay. I'll agree that even though we got away with touching off the gas tanks of one plane, it might not do us any good. I mean, that those cockeyed fire bombs may have to be dropped, and detonated before they really do their stuff. Maybe heat doesn't affect them at all, though I've got my doubts about that. Anyway, just setting one of them afire is out. Okay, then, we set the whole darn bunch afire! In short, we wipe out the works. Maybe you and me, too. But we still wipe out the works."
"Don't, Dave!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "You're talking insane. How can we possibly wipe them all out? Heaven knows I'd give my life, and gladly, if there were any way—"
"And I keep trying to get it through your head that there is!" Dawson cut in, tight-lipped. "Look at that end plane, Freddy. Do you see many of them milling around that ship? No. Only a couple, and they're mechanics. 'Most everybody is up front, where the goodbyes are being said, I guess. Gosh! Do you suppose Hitler and Himmler are in that bunch?"
"Hitler!" Freddy Farmer echoed in a strangled gasp, and started to push up on his hands and knees. "If I could just get close enough to that filthy baby killer, I'd—"
Dawson grabbed him and hauled him back.
"Don't go haywire!" he snapped. "Ten to one he's miles from here. But supposing he was here, and you got close enough for a shot—which you darn well wouldn't! You'd get nailed, too. And these planes would take off! Stop it, Freddy, and bend an ear. That end plane. That's our baby, see? You and me! With a couple of good breaks we can roll it down and onto the runway, and still have room to get off and pass through the hill opening on the west. It's a Fortress, Freddy, and we know all about those sweethearts. Well? We've swiped a couple of Nazi planes in the past, so how about swiping one of our own for a change, huh?"