If it had been daylight, or if he had been sure of the terrain below, he would have landed and made sure what had happened. But a landing was too great a risk right now. His best bet was to keep going, nursing the right outboard engine as much as he could, and hoping and praying that it would continue to tick over and produce power.
"Yes, I guess your reasoning is sound enough," he heard the Colonel say. "It's rather hard to believe, though. I mean, why go about it in such a—well, in such a story book thriller style, you might say? I'm not going to San Diego on any vital mission. Fact is, I could make this trip tonight or next week, and it wouldn't make much difference. That's what makes it seem so—so utterly crazy."
There was a moment of silence, and then Dave laughed a trifle flat-toned.
"I don't mean to be conceited," he said. "But what you've just said, sir, doesn't make me feel so good. Or maybe it should make me feel important as heck. How about you, Freddy? Catch on?"
"I think so," the English youth replied. "But it's a bit—er, fantastic, you know. However, I would feel a bit better if we had been able to shoot the beggar down. Always did say night attacks weren't quite the sporting thing, you know."
"Not the sporting thing, huh?" Dave echoed with a snort. "Pal, that's only putting it by half. In my book they're plain murder."
"Of course, I'm only the passenger," Colonel Welsh spoke up sharply. "So don't mind me. However, I would like very much to know what the devil you two are jabbering about. What's it all about, anyway?"
"You tell him, Freddy," Dave said. "I—I feel too modest."
"Rubbish!" the English youth snapped. "You couldn't be if you tried. Besides, you brought it up."
"Listen, you lads!" the chief of U. S. Intelligence boomed in exasperation. "Have I got to use my authority as a Colonel? What in blue blazes are you two talking about?"