"Don't worry about that!" young Farmer cut him off. "This plane isn't empty. All bomb racks are filled with those cylinder things such as you saw being welded. Each is fitted with a detonator bomb. I got a quick look as I came by. Get us off, Dave. I'm going down into the bombardier's nook. Cheerio. And if we don't meet again—"
Freddy Farmer didn't finish the rest. He didn't because at that exact instant he saw what Dawson saw. The running figure of a man, well out in front of the troops. A tall figure garbed in the uniform of a colonel in the U. S. Army Air Forces. His face was in a shadow, so neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer could see his features. But they didn't have to. The very silhouette of the running figure was enough for them.
"Herr Baron, the rat!" Dawson shouted wildly. "Look at him wave his arms for us to stop! If he only knew who was in this ship I bet he'd throw a fit and drop dead right in his tracks. Nuts to you, Herr Baron No-Face. You lose again. And this time, by gosh, you really lose. Just a minute, you stinker, and we'll give you something for Hitler. Yeah! Something for the whole rotten bunch of you. Hang on, Freddy. Now, we're really going to roll. Tally-ho!"
Shouting the last Dawson swerved the Fortress around until it was headed west along the take-off runway. Above the thunder of his engines he could hear bursts of machine gun and rifle fire behind him. In fact some of it was coming from the right, and he heard the bullets thump and clunk into the sides of the Fortress. But naval guns trained dead on him could not have stopped him, then. Shouting and yelling at the top of his voice, he opened all throttles wide, and thrilled to the core as the propellers "bit" into the air and started pulling the Fortress forward faster and faster with every rev they made.
Hunching forward, air clamped in his lungs, hands gripping the controls with every ounce of his strength, he guided the Fortress forward straight for the opening between those two western hills that actually seemed so terribly, terribly close. Seconds whipped by into time's eternity, but each seemed an hour to Dawson as the Fortress still clung to the runway, and still hurtled full out toward the end of the runway.
As a matter of fact, though, time as something definite had ceased to exist for him. It was as though he were in a world of one, himself, and riding a thundering monster toward the opening between two hills at the far end of a white-painted cement strip on the ground. If there was still shooting behind him, he didn't hear it. Or if bullets were pounding into the Fortress, he wasn't conscious of it. He wasn't even conscious of the fact that Freddy Farmer was no longer in the co-pilot's seat at his side. That Freddy had gone halfway down toward the bombardier nook in the glass nose, and was waiting there until Dawson got the plane clear. He just wasn't conscious of anything, save his hands and feet on the controls, and the powerful engines that were driving the Flying Fortress forward.
And then as though invisible hands had pulled the ground away from beneath the wheels the Fortress cleared and went mounting up higher and higher. In a rapid succession of movements Dawson trimmed ship, adjusted propeller pitch, and re-set engine fuel feed. And then the crest of a hill was just off each wingtip and the black sky of night was ahead.
"Chalk another up for us, kid!" he shouted wildly at Freddy Farmer.
But Freddy Farmer wasn't there to reply. He had ducked down into the bombardier's nook, and was getting set to carry out his share of the job. And when Dave didn't receive any reply he remembered the inter-com system. Still climbing at maximum pitch for altitude, he hooked the inter-com phones over his ears, plugged in the jack and threw the switch.
"Freddy, Freddy!" he called. "Can you hear me?"