DAVE DAWSON
WITH
THE AIR CORPS

by

R. SIDNEY BOWEN

Author of:

“DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK”

“DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R.A.F.”

“DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA”

“DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL”

“DAVE DAWSON, FLIGHT LIEUTENANT”

“DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE”

“DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET”

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Transcriber’s Note

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE
Hangar Flying

Freddy Farmer scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle down between his fingers as he stared thoughtfully out at the broad expanse of the sky-blue Pacific Ocean. He and Dave Dawson had been granted seven days’ leave from special duty with the U.S. Armed Forces, and they were spending it at Laguna Beach, just a few miles south of Los Angeles, in California. Only three days of swimming and taking it easy in the sun had passed into time history, but Freddy was beginning to get restless. With the whole world at war, somehow he just couldn’t relax and enjoy a well earned and much deserved rest.

“Dave, know something?” he grunted presently. “I’ve got a feeling.”

The dark-haired, well built youth sprawled face down on the sand beside him didn’t make a sound. He didn’t so much as move a single muscle. Freddy looked at him, made a face, and jabbed him in the ribs with a thumb.

“I said, I’ve got a feeling,” he repeated.

Dave Dawson groaned, rolled over on his side, and gave his English born pal an exasperated glare.

“There I was winning the war all by myself, and ten of the most beautiful girls in the world waiting to hang medals on my manly chest!” he growled. “So now, what?”

“For the third time,” Freddy Farmer said evenly, “I’ve got a feeling!”

“Well, have it for the fourth time, and see if I care!” Dawson snapped. “Wake a guy up from a beautiful dream just because you’ve got a feeling? Well, go buy some flea powder, or something!”

Freddy grinned and held his thumb up, ready to jab it to the ribs again.

“One thing I like about you, Dave,” he said. “You’re always cheerful and gay. Never a scowl or a sharp word. Going to stay awake, or must I give you this again?”

“Do, and you’ll have a three mile swim!” Dave muttered, but sat up just the same. “Because that’s how far out I’ll heave you. But very well, my little man. What’s bothering you today? Tell Papa, and then he’ll go buy you a nice big lollypop, all coated with arsenic! Shoot!”

Freddy Farmer didn’t reply at once. He played with the sand some more, and took another look at the blue of the Pacific.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be here very long, Dave,” he finally said slowly. “I have the feeling that something is brewing, and about to pop, as you would say. Did you stop at the desk for mail when we left the hotel this morning?”

“I did not!” Dawson replied quickly. “And if you must know the truth, my bothersome friend, I had a feeling that there was something there I didn’t want to see. So I sailed right on by without giving the mail box a look. But it’ll be there when we go back this noon. So what, so what, I always say.”

“I wonder what kind of a job Colonel Welsh has lined up for us next time,” Freddy murmured. “He didn’t drop any hint to you, did he?”

Dave Dawson snorted and made gestures with his two hands.

“Listen to the guy!” he grunted. “Did Colonel Welsh drop any hints? My dear young man, for your education, Colonel Welsh is chief of all U.S. Intelligence Services—Army, Navy, and Air Corps. Very few people know that, however. He—”

“Yes, yes, go on!” Freddy Farmer cut in sarcastically. “He is mostly known as a colonel of infantry, but that is just a cover for his real job. It was Colonel Welsh who arranged for us to be transferred out of the Royal Air Force to duty with the American forces. Our first job was with the Pacific Fleet, and—and although you did your best to get our necks broken, I did manage to save the day for us.[^[1]] Right you are! So much for Colonel Welsh’s personal history. What I want to know is, did he give you an inkling of what our next job would be?”

“As I was about to say,” Dave said patiently, “Colonel Welsh is the kind of a man who wouldn’t even let his own shadow know when he was going to take another step. So that means he told me absolutely nothing. Of course he did mention—but skip it. Let it slide.”

“No, certainly not!” Freddy Farmer cried eagerly. “What did he mention? Go on, Dave! Tell me!”

“Well, he is a very understanding man,” Dawson said gravely. “He knows the load I have to carry when you are around. So—well, he mentioned something about how if I’d like to leave you behind next time—why, it would be okay by him. He—Hey! Watch it! I’ve only got two arms! Don’t break both of them, you wild man!”

The last was caused by Freddy Farmer dropping down on top of him, and for the next few minutes the sands of Laguna Beach were flying in all directions. Eventually Dave broke free and leaped to his feet.

“Just what I mean!” he panted. “A very dangerous guy to have around. Never can tell when he’s going to go nuts. See you in the Pacific, Apple Cheeks!”

“Call me Apple Cheeks?” Freddy roared. “Why, I’ll—”

Freddy didn’t finish. By then Dave was a streak of sun-tanned lightning heading for the water. The English born ace sped after him, and for the next fifteen or twenty minutes they forgot the war cares of the world and were just a couple of red-blooded fellows having a swell time in the water. But when they came up onto the beach again and dropped down on the sand, a tiny cloud seemed to steal across the face of the warm sun and they unconsciously looked at each other, grave-eyed and grim.

It was Dave who finally broke the silence.

“If I live out this war,” he said with a short laugh, “I’m going to set me up in the crystal ball gazing business. I should make a million the very first year. I get the strongest hunches sometimes.”

“I think I’ll go into partnership with you,” Freddy Farmer grunted. “I’m getting your habit of getting blasted hunches, myself. Just now—I had one. I mean—well, that is—”

“That there is some kind of a message for us at the hotel?” Dave asked softly. “Well, that’s just the way I feel, pal. And you know me and my hunches. You can bet on them!”

“Well, once in a while, yes,” Freddy nodded. “And I fancy that this is one of those times. What say we go up and find out, Dave? I think I’d go a little balmy just sitting here wondering. Wouldn’t you?”

“Check on that,” Dave said with a nod and a sigh, and picked up his bathrobe. “Let’s go. Know something, Freddy?”

“Several things,” the English born youth replied. “What is it now?”

“A hope of mine,” Dave told him. “A hope that there really is a message for us at the hotel. I mean—for us to go back to work. This is a swell place, and all that.... But—well, it makes me feel kind of a heel to be taking it easy here when there are so many others fighting and dying all over the world. Don’t get me wrong, Freddy. I’m not trying to act the old medal snatcher, I just—”

“I know exactly, Dave,” Freddy Farmer interrupted quietly, and flung one arm across Dawson’s shoulders. “When there’s still so blasted much to be done, it sort of gets a chap not to be doing something about it. Yes, Dave, I hope, too, that there’s a message waiting for us at the hotel. And if there isn’t—”

Freddy let the rest slide and shrugged.

“Yes?” Dave prompted. “And if there isn’t any message for us there?”

“Then I jolly well think I’ll wire Colonel Welsh,” Freddy said, “and request that I be returned to duty.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth!” Dave cried. “That’s just what I was going to suggest we do. Well, keep your fingers crossed, kid. There’s the hotel bus waiting. It won’t be long, now—one way or the other.”

“And, please, Allah,” Freddy Farmer murmured, “let it be the way we want it!”

[1]. “Dave Dawson with the Pacific Fleet.”

CHAPTER TWO
Orders For Action

Hunches or no hunches, when the two ace airmen entered the hotel lobby a bell hop came over to them on the double quick. There was a mile wide grin on his freckled face, and in his hand he held an official War Department envelope.

“Just off the wires not ten minutes ago, Lieutenants,” he said. “I was going to hunt you up on the beach. Thought you might want it pronto.”

“You thought right,” Dave grinned, and swapped a quarter for the War Department wire.

He waited until the bellhop had gone on his way, and then feverishly tore open the envelope. Freddy Farmer looked over his shoulder. It was addressed to them both, and it read:

“Arriving Oakland Base, San Francisco, tonight at eight. Take plane or train but be sure to meet me. Important.

Colonel Welsh“

Dave read the wire through twice, then smiled and sighed happily.

“Well, there you are, Freddy,” he said. “Dreams do come true.”

“I certainly hope so,” the English born youth echoed. “But he doesn’t say anything except for us to meet him.”

“He doesn’t have to!” Dave growled. “Holy smoke! He says it’s important. That’s good enough for me. Look, let’s get dressed and packed and go to the L.A. Base. I’d like to borrow a ship and go up there by air, wouldn’t you?”

“Quite!” Freddy replied instantly. “Almost a week, now, since I’ve been up. Yes, I could do very nicely with an odd spot of flying. But I wonder what he’s got lined up for us—if anything?”

“Stop wondering,” Dave chuckled, and headed for the elevators. “It doesn’t get you any place. We’ll know tonight—and then maybe you’ll be sorry you did find out.”

“Not if it’s action, I won’t!” Freddy said fervently. “I’ll be the happiest chap in the world.”

“Next to me,” Dave said. “And I’m still keeping my fingers crossed.”

It was just under two hours later when the two youths, wearing the uniforms of Naval Aviation Lieutenants, entered the Field Commandant’s office at the Los Angeles Air Base and saluted smartly. This was not the first time they had been at the Base, nor the first time, either, that they had met the Commandant. He returned their salute, and then came forward to greet them warmly.

“Welcome, Lieutenants,” he said as he shook hands. “But save your breath. I know why you’re here. Got a wire from Washington not more than an hour ago. I’m to loan you a plane on request. Okay. There’re three or four hundred out there. Take your pick. Or do you want one apiece?”

“No, a two seater, please, sir,” Dave said, straight-faced. “Lieutenant Farmer, here, hasn’t flown for a week. So I’d better take him along as passenger. Get him used to the air again.”

The Commandant laughed as the red rushed into Freddy’s face, but there was frank admiration in the eyes he focussed on the English youth.

“A two seater it will be then,” he said. “But I’m well acquainted with Farmer’s air record. A week’s lay-off, or a year’s lay-off, wouldn’t hurt his piloting skill any. And of course, that goes for both of you. So stop trying to put me in the middle, Dawson. You’re both tops in my book. And that’s that. Well, I suppose you want to get going?”

“If we may, sir,” Dave said. “We really have all kinds of time, but—well, it would sort of feel good to coast around for a spell. But I guess you know how we feel?”

“Don’t I, though!” the Commandant exclaimed, and sighed heavily. “I don’t often give advice, but here’s a tip for you two lads. Don’t ever let them promote you to the job of a Base Commandant. All desk work, and mighty little flying. Keep in the air, boys. Keep in it as long as you can. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about when I say that. Well, let’s go out and get your plane warmed up. I’ve got a Vultee two seater out there that’s a sweetheart. But I’ll loan it to you chaps. Let’s go.”

The two youthful air aces murmured their thanks and followed the Commandant outside. But there was a warm tingling glow in their chests, and a pleased and happy light in their eyes. The L.A. Base Commandant could have praised them to the skies, but all his words would not have been half the compliment that was his offer to loan them a Vultee two seater that was “a sweetheart.” That meant that the plane was the Commandant’s own personal ship, when he could use it. And he was doing them high honor to offer it for their use.

Half an hour later they thanked the Base Commandant again and took off in the Vultee with Dave at the controls, and Freddy Farmer riding the rear gunner’s pit. Dave took them up to eight or nine thousand, and then started tossing the ship around a little, just to get the feel of the air again. That off his chest, he twisted around in the seat and grinned at Freddy. The English youth shook his head, made a wry face, and held up both hands with the thumbs extended downward.

“Simply terrible!” he shouted above the sound of the Wright radial in the nose. “Go back and do it all over again. And you call yourself a pukka pilot? Rubbish! But I say, Dave, now that we’re up here, and have lots of time on our hands, mind doing something?”

“Certainly, if it’s not for you!” Dawson shot back at him. “What is it?”

Freddy raised a hand and pointed eastward.

“Let’s go inland a bit and follow the mountains northward,” he said. “They’re very picturesque, and I’d like a good look at them. Mind?”

“Okay by me,” Dave replied with a nod. “Always did like mountain flying. Fair enough, then. Hang on, little man. Here we go.”

Banking the plane eastward, Dave headed for the long range of towering peaks, then turned northward when he was over them, and throttled slightly. For a good half hour they flew along about the peaks, not saying more than half a dozen words to each other. The wild rugged beauty of the scene below was something that made words seem empty and futile. It was a scene that moved the heart rather than the tongue.

Suddenly, though, Freddy Farmer leaned forward and rapped Dave sharply on the shoulder.

“Off there to the right, Dave!” he called out. “About a mile, and down in that valley shaped like an S. I think—Dave! That’s a crashed plane down there, or I’m crazy. Look! Do you see it?”

Dave stared hard off his right wing and down at the valley indicated by Freddy Farmer’s pointed finger. It was several seconds, though, before he spotted the crumpled wings of a wrecked plane, and the broken tail that was sticking straight up in the air. But for Freddy Farmer he could have flown over the spot a hundred times, and not sighted anything but the trees. But now that Farmer’s eagle eyes had picked it out for him, the crashed plane was as clear as day to him. He took a quick glance back at Freddy, nodded vigorously, and impulsively hauled the throttle all the way back.

“Check!” he cried. “And from the wing color and markings, that looks like an Army Air Corps ship to me. My guess is that it’s a Curtiss P-Forty. I’m going down for a better look—and a landing, if we can make it.”

“Of course it may be an old crash,” Freddy said as he kept his gaze fixed on the wreck. “And the pilot has been rescued. But good grief, in this wild country a chap could be lost for weeks.”

“You’re telling me?” Dave echoed. “That’s why I’m going to make plenty sure before I try and sit down. We’ve got an important date in San Francisco tonight, you know.”

Freddy Farmer nodded absently, and then both boys shut up and concentrated all of their attention on the crashed plane. Dave took the Vultee downward, held it steady against the ever changing wind currents in among the mountain, and eventually was no more than a couple of hundred feet over the wreck. It was then that Freddy Farmer’s sharp eyes went to bat again.

“It isn’t an old crash, Dave!” he cried. “And there is the pilot chap, on the ground close to that buckled left wing. See him? He’s alive, but hurt. He can’t get up. He’s waving to us. Dave, think you can make it?”

Dawson didn’t reply. He had already seen the injured pilot waving for help, and he was now stabbing the ground with his eyes for a suitable place in which to sit down. He finally picked a spot no more than a quarter of a mile away. It was small, and mighty narrow, but he was sure that he could make it. If he didn’t? He didn’t bother to answer that question. Right now there was an injured man down there on the ground who seemed to need help badly. And that was the important thing.

“This is it, Freddy!” he called out grimly. “That narrow strip dead ahead. I’m going to shoot for it. Be ready to stick out your hands and push the tree trunks away!”

“Never mind the funny remarks!” Farmer barked right back at him. “Just get us down in one piece. That’s all you have to worry about.”

“A mere detail!” Dave growled, but didn’t bother to turn his head. “Just a mere detail. Consider it as good as done!”

Perhaps it was sixty seconds, or maybe it was sixty years before Dave felt the wheels touch, and was able to start braking the Vultee to a gentle stop. Only when the plane was motionless, and just the prop was ticking over, did he let the trapped air from his lungs. He did it with a long shrill whistle and wiped beads of cold sweat from his face.

“I think it’s safe to look, Freddy,” he said. “Is that the ground we’re resting on? Boy, oh boy! I’m still not sure whether I should believe it or not.”

“It’s true enough,” Freddy said, and gulped. “But how you ever made it, don’t ever ask! Very top-hole, just the same, Dave. One of the best bits of flying I ever saw you do. And I mean that, old thing!”

Dave wiped some more sweat from his face and legged out and down onto the ground.

“Thanks, pal,” he said. “But I did it by making believe it was you at the controls. Okay, let’s—”

Dave didn’t finish. At that moment came the agonized cry of an injured man through the trees.

“Help! Help! Over this way! Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Over this way—hurry...!”

Dave and Freddy simply glanced at each other. Then they spun around as one man and went plunging blindly back through the heavy valley growth.

CHAPTER THREE
Fate Laughs Last

They came upon the crashed plane unexpectedly. One moment a solid wall of trees and heavy undergrowth loomed up in front of their paths, and in the next they were bursting through into a small clearing, and there was the wrecked plane. A single flash glance told Dave that his original guess has been correct. The plane was an Air Corps P-Forty. But he wasted just that single glance on the plane. With Freddy Farmer right at his heels, he dashed around to the other side of the crash and dropped to his knees beside the sprawled figure of the injured pilot.

The man’s cries for help had obviously taxed much of his remaining strength. He was in a dead faint, and his face was the color of old parchment, save where it was smeared with blood. As Dave looked down at him he felt his heart turn icy, and then it seemed to loop over in his chest. The pilot was hurt badly, very badly. His chest was horribly crushed, and the fact that he was stretched out on the ground seemed to indicate that crash impact had thrown his body clear. He couldn’t possibly have crawled from the wreck in that condition. That he had summoned up enough strength to call out had been a miracle in itself.

“The poor blighter,” Freddy Farmer said softly. “There isn’t anything we can do for him. I wonder what happened? He’s wearing his 'chute. Why didn’t he bail out?”

Dave started to speak, but he checked himself as the injured man opened his eyes. There was pain and bitter misery in them. And something else, too. Something in their depths. Dave had seen that in the eyes of other men on the far flung battlefields of the world. And he recognized it now as the Shadow of Death.

“Oxygen tank. Something haywire. Smelled funny. Passed out like a light. Woke—up—here.”

The words were spoken in a whisper, and both Dave and Freddy had to strain their ears to catch them. As the man made gurgling sounds in his throat, Dave shook his head.

“Don’t try to talk, old man,” he said gently. “Just try and relax. We’ll do something for you. Just take it easy. We’ll get you out of here and in a nice hospital in no time at all. Just relax and don’t waste your strength.”

Dave knew that he lied as he spoke the words, but the injured pilot’s suffering justified all the lies in the world. But the pilot knew that he was lying. The corners of his mouth twitched in a faint grin, and he shook his head a little.

“It’s okay—know this is it. I don’t mind, but—I must be in Frisco tonight. Urgent. Must see Colonel Welsh—must see Colonel Welsh—must see—him....”

The man tried to go on talking, but the hand of death was close. He did mumble sounds, but they made no sense to either Dave or Freddy, though they both strained their ears to the utmost. A terrible dryness was in Dave’s mouth, and his heart was hammering against his ribs. For a crazy instant he wanted to shake the injured man back to consciousness and find out, what about Colonel Welsh? But of course he didn’t do anything like that. He simply squatted there on the ground with Freddy Farmer and stared helplessly at the dying man. Would he go, now, or would he revive again long enough to speak more? Much as he wanted to know what the injured pilot had to say, Dave could not but hope with all his heart that the man might be spared more pain and suffering, and be taken to his heavenly reward in peace.

However, the spark of life burned fiercely in the injured pilot. Once more he came back to consciousness, once more he looked up into Dave Dawson’s face, and once more his lips moved and whispered words.

“Tell—Colonel Welsh—Seven-Eleven—I’m sure—oxygen! Passed—out. Tell—tell him—”

The whispering started to fail, and Dave put his ear close to the man’s trembling lips.

“Yes, old fellow?” he pleaded. “Go on! What do you want us to tell Colonel Welsh? We’re meeting him in Frisco tonight.”

The dying man’s eyes lighted up with a sort of wild joy.

“Thank God!” came the faint sound. “Tell him—southern—southern al—bar—cur—keys. Understand? Southern al—bar—cur—keys. Seven-Eleven—there.... Strike—soon! Hurry—hurry—hur—”

The whispering sounds faded away. The injured pilot’s eyes seemed to give off showers of sparks. He heaved himself up on one elbow, tried to speak again, but failed. A long soft sigh slid out from between his lips. Then he slumped back on the ground. His eyes fluttered closed. And he lay still. Dave started to speak again, but he checked himself. He knew that this pilot would never again hear a human voice in this world. He was gone forever, leaving behind the jumbled up sounds of words that represented some secret now forever locked in his brain.

Dave and Freddy slowly got to their feet, stood silently at attention, and solemnly saluted the dead pilot on the ground. On impulse Dave took off his tunic and reverently placed it over the dead man’s head and shoulders. Then he turned and looked at Freddy.

“Did you catch all that?” he asked. “Did it mean anything to you?”

The English born youth slowly shook his head.

“I heard it, yes,” he said. “But I haven’t the faintest idea what he was trying to tell us. There were four words. He spoke them twice, slowly. He desperately wanted us to tell them to Colonel Welsh. I got them as Al, and Bar, and Cur, and Keys. Perhaps that’s some sort of a code that Colonel Welsh will understand.”

“Yes, it probably is,” Dave said with a frown. “And I guess that means he was one of Colonel Welsh’s agents. Gosh! This makes me feel like a grave robber, but I guess I’ve got to do it. Give me a hand, Freddy. I think we’d better search his pockets, and deliver the contents to Colonel Welsh.”

“Quite,” Freddy murmured, and dropped to his knees again. “I hope the poor chap will understand, wherever he is. Did you get that first bit he spoke about, Dave? I think he was trying to explain that his oxygen tank had been sabotaged. Somebody tampered with it, and he passed out when he took a bit. Phew! He must have come down at least eighteen thousand before he hit. A miracle the ship didn’t catch on fire. Blast war, I say! How I hate the whole rotten business!”

“You can say that again!” Dave muttered grimly. “Okay. You take the things as I hand them to you.”

Some ten minutes later the two youths stared at a tiny pile of personal belongings on the ground. There was a handkerchief, with no initial, a pocket knife, a pack of cigarettes, and a clip of matches. But there was one other article that caused them to stare hard and frown in puzzled wonderment. It was a plain copper disc about the size of an American quarter. It was absolutely smooth, and contained not a single scratch or mark.

“A lucky piece, eh?” Freddy Farmer grunted as he met Dave’s eyes.

“Maybe,” the Yank born flying ace said with a shrug. “But do you notice something kind of strange, Freddy? This poor lad hasn’t got a cent of money on him. Not a thing, except this copper disc.”

“And not a single bit of identification!” Freddy Farmer breathed.

“So it’s certain that he was one of Colonel Welsh’s agents,” Dave said, and bounced the copper disc in his hand. “And my guess is that this will identify him to Colonel Welsh. Gosh! How I hate, now, to keep that date in Frisco tonight.”

“Why?” Freddy wanted to know.

“Because we’re going to have to deliver some tough luck news to Colonel Welsh,” Dawson said quietly. “And, maybe—and maybe this will wash out his reasons for wanting to see us. I hope not. I hope that—”

Dave shrugged and let the rest hang in thin air. He got to his feet, and nodded at Freddy.

“Time we got going,” he said. “We’ll mark this spot on our maps so Frisco Base can send an ambulance plane back for him. If we got in and out, so can an ambulance plane pilot. Happy landings, old man. You can count on all the rest of us carrying on for you until those Axis rats are finished for keeps.”

“Amen!” Freddy breathed softly, and dropped into step.

Not another word was spoken between them until Dave had skillfully lifted the Vultee clear of the small narrow strip of ground and was nosing up into the California sky. Then Freddy reached forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Tip-top bit of flying, as usual, Dave!” he called out. “But tell me something. You started to say you hoped something, but you didn’t finish. What was it?”

Dave flew on a bit before he finally twisted around in the seat and looked back at Freddy.

“Just a wild hope, and probably a crazy one,” he said. “But I sort of hope that Colonel Welsh will give us the job of picking up where that poor fellow left off. Somehow I’d like to try and finish whatever it is he’s started.”

“And that makes two of us who are hoping!” Freddy Farmer echoed back instantly.

CHAPTER FOUR
Dead End

It was exactly five minutes to eight o’clock in the evening, and Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer were seated on the observation platform of the Administration Building at the San Francisco Air Base. In the tower above them the Control Officer was bringing in Air Corps planes, and sending them off, with clock-like regularity. For the last half hour they had enjoyed watching ships of all types and sizes come and go, but now that the time for Colonel Welsh’s arrival was drawing near, an eerie tightness seemed to grip their bodies, and the huge minute hand on the tower clock seemed to stop dead and not budge a fraction of an inch.

“If I start screaming, don’t let them lead me away to a padded cell,” Dave broke the silence. “But this waiting is getting me down for a fare-thee-well.”

“You’re not alone in that!” Freddy echoed grimly. “I swear I’ve been watching that clock up there constantly for the last hour. It’s stopped, I’m positive. But blast it, my own wrist watch says exactly the same time. Phew, how I wish he’d come!”

“I do, and I don’t,” Dave said. “There’s a chance, you know, that we may be all wet. Maybe what we have to report to the Colonel won’t mean a thing to him.”

“But he mentioned the Colonel’s name!” Freddy protested.

“I know, and that seems to clinch it,” Dawson said with a shrug. “But this war is so absolutely cockeyed it’s sometime hard to believe anything, even your own name.”

“You’re just getting jittery, Dave,” Freddy soothed. “Relax, old man. There’s absolutely nothing we can do but relax. We’ve reported the crash to the Commandant here. And the ambulance plane left long ago. So relax, old thing. Get hold of yourself a bit.”

“Like you are?” Dave said, and grinned. “If you don’t stop yanking on those fingers of your left hand, pal, you’re going to pull them right off. And besides, you drive me bats when you do it.”

“Do I?” Freddy Farmer snapped at him. “Then let’s make a bargain. I’ll leave the fingers of my left hand alone, and you stop snapping and unsnapping that blasted wrist watch of yours, what?”

Dave stiffened and glanced down at his wrist watch dangling by the loosened metal strap. He snapped it shut for the last time, and looked at Freddy. They both laughed, and a good bit of the tension from waiting was eased off. Then they instinctively glanced up at the tower clock, and felt even better. The big hands pointed exactly to eight o’clock.

“Well, that passed the time, anyway,” Dave murmured, and got up and walked over to the railing. “Now, if he hasn’t force landed, or something!”

“What a cheerful chap to have for a pal!” Freddy growled as he joined Dawson. “Fact is, he’s right on time. A penny to a crumpet that’s him up there just starting to circle and come down.”

Dave sighted along Freddy’s pointed finger and his heart leaped. An executive cabin type of plane was sliding toward the near end of the central runway. It had no markings other than the new Air Corps insignia of a white star on a blue field, with the old red disc missing. But staring at it, Dave felt certain that Colonel Welsh was aboard.

The two youths watched it slide down to a perfect landing, and then taxi directly over to the Base Commandant’s office. That was all the proof they needed. When you taxied directly to the tarmac in front of the Base office, you were somebody important. If you weren’t, you got the hide singed off you for not going to the arrival check-booth farther along the field. A moment or two after the plane had braked to a final stop, the cabin door opened and a tall, thin-faced man in the uniform of an infantry colonel stepped out and hurried into the office.

“You win a whole bag of your English crumpets, Freddy!” Dave cried. “That’s him. Come on. I guess we’d better go down and let him know we’re here.”

“As though the Base Commandant won’t tell him!” Freddy murmured. “Bit of a testy chap, wasn’t he, telling us to come up here and wait? That we were waiting for a Colonel Welsh didn’t seem to impress him a bit.”

“Why should it?” Dave replied. “We both know that the Colonel doesn’t advertise. Besides, if you were commandant of a Base this size you’d be testy, too!”

“I would not!” Freddy snorted. “I’d be way past that stage. I’d be completely balmy, and don’t think I wouldn’t!”

“Who says you haven’t been, for years?” Dave cracked, and started down the observation platform stairs fast.

On the ground he waited for Freddy; then the two of them started over toward the Commandant’s office. They had gone but halfway when Colonel Welsh came out of the office, saw them and hurried over. He smiled faintly, then gave Dave a sharp look.

“Too hot for a tunic, Dawson?” he asked. “That’s not a very military appearance you make. What’s this I hear about you reporting a plane crash? No, never mind. I don’t want to talk here. Follow me.”

Dave nodded, but grinned inwardly, and dropped into step with the senior officer. The same old Colonel Welsh! He talked like a machine gun, and did things even faster. No wonder he got results where others had failed. He was a ball of fire on legs.

As though the two youths were not with him and he were trying to catch a train, the Colonel walked quickly over to the motor park, selected an Air Corps Staff car, and climbed into it. He motioned Dave and Freddy in back, tossed a slip of paper at a guard who hurried over, and stamped on the starter button.

“Car requisition signed by your Commandant!” the Colonel barked at the guard, and shifted into gear.

Dave and Freddy had ridden with the Colonel before, so they were already braced, and were not thrown completely out of the car as it streaked forward. A little under thirty minutes later the Colonel braked to a stop in front of an office building in downtown San Francisco, and got out.

“Follow me, you fellows,” he said, and hurried into the building.

The elevator let them off on the fourteenth floor. The Colonel led the way along the corridor and stopped in front of a door that was marked, “Civilian Defense, Third Division.” He tried the door, found it locked, and seemed strangely surprised.

“So?” he muttered to himself, and fished out a bunch of keys. “Must be late. But he should have been here hours ago.”

He stuck a key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

“Inside, you two,” he grunted. “Select a couple of chairs and sit down. Maybe a couple of messages waiting for me. No questions. I’ll answer them all later.”

Dave and Freddy stepped into a fair sized office that smelled of dust and dead air. It was as though the office hadn’t been used in weeks. But it was all in a tidy condition. There were three desks, twice that number of chairs, an entire wall lined with filing cabinets, a two-way radio, a bank of half a dozen phones, and a lot of hanging maps of San Francisco and the West Coast areas. The two youths sat down and watched Colonel Welsh go straight to the biggest of the three desks. He picked up a small pile of mail, riffled through it, and then dropped the lot disgustedly on the desk.

“That’s funny!” he muttered in a low voice. “Closed tighter than a drum. Nobody here. No messages. I don’t get the picture at all. I don’t—”

Colonel Welsh stopped short and stiffened. Dave and Freddy jerked up straight in their chairs, and all three swung quickly around and stared at the door of a closet at the rear end of the office. For a brief second or two no one dared breathe. They had all heard it: the soft thump of something against the inside of the door.

“Sit tight, you two!” Colonel Welsh suddenly said in a low voice. “I think I have an idea what that was. Sit tight, though, and be ready for action just in case.”

Dave snapped his gaze back to the Colonel, and saw a small but deadly looking automatic appear in the senior officer’s hands as though by magic. The Chief of all U.S. Intelligence Services went across the office with all the noise of a chicken feather brushing across a strip of velvet. He froze at the door, then grasped the key that was in the outside of the lock, twisted it, and jerked the door open. He had stepped back quickly, but he checked himself in mid-stride and flung out his free hand and caught the body that fell out the door opening like a fence post. It was a man wearing civilian clothes, but with Civilian Defense insignia on his sleeves. He was bound round and round by ropes, and there was a handkerchief gag jammed in his mouth.

“Strike me pink!” Freddy Farmer gasped, and came up out of his chair like a shot.

“Sweet tripe!” Dave echoed, and got up also. “This is like a murder mystery, or something.”

“Never mind the comments!” Colonel Welsh snapped as he gently eased the bound man down onto the floor. “Hand me that knife on the desk, one of you. And you’ll find a small bottle of brandy in the lower right door of the middle desk. Confound my luck. This makes a mess of things, I’m afraid!”

A hundred and one questions hovered on Dave’s lips, but he had sense enough to keep them there. Explanations would come later—probably. But right now the idea was to act, not talk. He got the knife while Freddy fetched the bottle of brandy. Colonel Welsh prodded the gag from the bound man’s mouth, then slashed the ropes and pulled them off. Then all three of them started rubbing the man’s wrists and neck. He groaned slightly, and a moment later his eyes fluttered open. He looked up at Colonel Welsh, and seemed to recognize him, for the blood started coming back into his face.

“Don’t talk yet, Rigby,” Colonel Welsh said gently. “Take a sip of this, first. Just a sip. I don’t want you choking to death on me.”

The man smiled weakly and took a tiny sip of the brandy the Colonel held to his lips. The fiery liquid seemed to do wonders when it hit the bottom of his stomach. He panted a couple of times, gave his head a shake or two as though to clear away the cobwebs, and then started to hoist himself up on his feet.

“Getting okay by the minute, sir,” he said. “If you’ll just help me to one of those chairs. The underpinnings are still a little rubbery.”

Colonel Welsh helped him across the office to one of the chairs. Then he let the man take another sip of the brandy. The second sip doubled the work of the first. The man pressed his hands to his face for a moment, but when he took them away there was plenty of color in his cheeks, and a clear light replaced the dazed glaze that had been in his eyes. He started to speak, but checked himself and looked down at his wrist watch. A worried frown creased his brows as he looked up again at Colonel Welsh.

“A good three hours ago, sir,” he said in a rueful tone. “I guess I must wear cotton stuffed in my ears. I didn’t—”

The man called Rigby stopped short and shot hard quizzical glances at Dave and Freddy.

“It’s all right,” Colonel Welsh told him bluntly. “Two of my men. Now, what about three hours ago? What happened? Give me all the details.”

As the senior officer spoke, he swept the entire office in one searching glance, then brought his eyes back to Rigby’s face.

“I was sitting there, as usual,” the man finally said, and jabbed a thumb at the center desk, “doing some Civilian Defense work, but waiting for contacts from you. Got your word that you would arrive this evening. Got your word, also, that Copper was coming up from Albuquerque. Well—I heard the door open a while later, but I thought it was some Air Raid Warden, and didn’t pay much attention until he reached the desk. But—then it was too late. He came to the desk like a shot of lightning, and the building fell down on top of my head. I guess—I guess, sir, you’d better dismiss me and send me back to laying brick, or something.”

The Colonel was silent a moment; then a soft, sympathetic sadness seeped into his thin face.

“We all fail to touch second base every once in a while, Rigby,” he said quietly. “Of course, it’s a mark against you, but your past service record can stand it. What about this man who slugged you? Get a look at him?”

“Just a look, sir,” Rigby said with a heavy sigh. “Medium height, medium build, and I think he was on the fair side a little. Ten million like him, I’m afraid. It was only a flash look I got. I—By George! Seven-Eleven, sir, do you suppose?”

Colonel Welsh’s face darkened with anger, but he slowly shook his head.

“No, I think not,” he said. “In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t. The pickings around here would be too small for Seven-Eleven. Besides, I have good reason to believe that Seven-Eleven isn’t even in the country.”

“But why slug me?” Rigby said in a low voice as though to himself, and stared around. “Can’t see that anything’s been touched. Besides, there’s not a thing here that would be of any use to anybody.”

“My message in code?” Colonel Welsh asked evenly. “You had destroyed it?”

Rigby’s face went pale as death. He clutched the sides of the chair seat for a moment, then shot out of it and over to the middle desk. When he turned around again his face was the color of chalk, and there was the blaze of a madman in his eyes.

“That’s what he got,” he said in a hushed voice. “I was just putting a match to your code note when he came in. I remember, now. That’s why I didn’t look up at once. I—I was trying to get the sheet burning.”

“But you didn’t,” Colonel Welsh said in almost a groan. “Well, and so that’s that. You better go drop in at a hospital, Rigby, and have them take a look at that lump on your head. Take a cab. I’ll contact you later.”

There was the hint of tears in Rigby’s eyes, and in his voice.

“Perhaps I’d better go jump off the Golden Gate Bridge instead!” he said with an effort.

“Don’t be a fool!” Colonel Welsh said not too unkindly, and went over to him. “It was just one of those things, old man. A mighty tough break, but it could just as well have happened to me, or to anybody in the Service. If you feel up to it, chase along to the hospital. I’ll contact you later. Now, don’t be a fool, Rigby. Don’t really get me mad, will you?”

“No, sir,” the other said as he walked toward the door. “But I don’t see why you’re not, now. Anyway—thanks, sir. I’ll make it up some day, I hope and pray.”

“I’m sure you will, Rigby,” Colonel Welsh said, as he unlocked the door and let him out. “See you later.”

The senior officer closed the door, locked it again, and walked slowly back to the middle desk. He dropped into the chair like a man who has aged twenty years in as many seconds. The gaze he fixed on Dave and Freddy was bleak, and laced with bitterness and misery.

“I wish I were a courageous man,” he said heavily. “I wish I had the courage to go jump off the Golden Gate Bridge myself. It surely would remove a lot of woe from my life!”

CHAPTER FIVE
Seven-Eleven

Dave and Freddy didn’t say anything for a moment or two. They simply sat still and looked at the Colonel as their hearts bled in sympathy for his visible suffering. Then Dave slowly licked his lips, and put a faint sharp edge to his voice.

“That’s one way out of it, sir,” he said. “But it still wouldn’t help Uncle Sam much. Uncle Sam, and the rest of the United Nations.”

“Quite!” Freddy Farmer echoed evenly.

Colonel Welsh stiffened a little, and a hard brittle light leaped into his eyes. Then he suddenly relaxed, and one corner of his mouth went down in a faint grimace of self-reproach.

“I deserved that,” he said. “And thanks, you two. Trust you two to snap a man back to his proper mood. Among ten million other things, you’re certainly a pair of tonics. Too bad all of us can’t have you around at the same time. Seriously, though, I am in the middle of a horrible mess, the worst one I’ve ever got tangled in. And the rotten part of it is that I was so close to ironing everything out as nice as can be.”

The Colonel paused, brightened visibly and made a little waving gesture with one hand.

“But things are never as bad as they seem at first look,” he said. “Almost any minute, now, one of my agents may arrive. And then we can all get down to brass tacks and slug this thing through to a satisfactory finish.”

Dave and Freddy looked at each other. Freddy bit his lip and then nodded.

“Go ahead, Dave,” he said quietly. “He should be told, of course.”

“Told?” Colonel Welsh echoed sharply. “Told what? What now?”

“I don’t think the man you expect, sir, will arrive,” Dave said slowly. “That’s why I haven’t got my tunic. I left it spread over his face. He crashed in a P-Forty. Told us his oxygen tank had gone haywire. Thought somebody had fixed it. We spotted the crash on the way up here, in the mountains near El Prado. He—died shortly after we landed and got to him. Was his code name Copper? Did he carry this copper disc for secret identification, sir?”

As Dave ran out of breath momentarily, he took the copper disc from his pocket and handed it over. The Colonel took it as though it were a red hot coal. He dropped it on the desk top twice and had to pick it up. Suddenly he picked up the knife and dug the point into the surface of the copper and made a long scratch. Leaning way forward, Dave and Freddy saw that there was silver under the copper. The Colonel dropped the disc on the desk for the third time and looked as if he were going to collapse and come apart in chunks.

“Tell me everything,” he said in a hollow voice. “Give me all the details, every single bit you can remember. Did he say anything? Did he give you any message? Anything that sounded like a code word?”

Dave didn’t answer at once. He half closed his eyes and thought back to that scene in the mountain valley. Then slowly he related word for word everything that had taken place, and every word, or syllable of a word, that had been spoken. When he came to the end he half turned and looked at Freddy.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked. “Leave anything out?”

“Not a thing that I can recall,” the English born youth said. “I’d swear that was all of it.”

“Well, there you are, sir,” Dave said, turning to Colonel Welsh again. “If there were any code words, they must have been that Al, Bar, Cur, and Keys that he spoke. Do they mean anything to you?”

The Colonel plucked hard at his lower lip, and stared hard and savagely at the top of the desk. Finally he made noises in his throat, and shook his head.

“Nothing,” he grunted. “Those four words don’t mean anything to me. I—What’s the matter with you, Farmer?”

The last was because Freddy had suddenly sat bolt upright and was staring at one of the wall maps as though it were an ancient ghost come out of the past. He started as the Colonel spoke to him sharply. The blood rushed into his face, and he frowned in embarrassed indecision.

“Well, out with it!” Colonel Welsh snapped. “You’ve come up out of nowhere with good ideas before. What’s it now? What are you thinking about?”

Freddy Farmer hesitated a moment longer, and a look of sorrow and regret came into his face.

“Perhaps it isn’t a mystery, sir, those four words that poor chap spoke,” he said. “That chap, Rigby, spoke about receiving your wire about Copper coming up. The place he was coming from, sir. I just happened to notice it there on the map.”

“Albuquerque,” Colonel Welsh said. “Well, what about it?”

“Well—well, he had trouble forming words,” Freddy said. “Say those four words together.”

“Eh?” Colonel Welsh echoed.

“Freddy’s right!” Dave cried. “Al-bar-cur-keys! Albuquerque! It sounded to us like bar, instead of ba. And we got it keys, instead of que, pronounced key. He was trying to tell us where he’d come from, and—Yet, doggone it, I wonder?”

“Yes, Dawson?” the senior officer prompted, as Dave hesitated and fell silent. “You wonder what?”

“He repeated those four syllables several times,” the Yank born air ace replied with a frown. “And he kept saying, 'Southern.’ And he said ... 'Seven-Eleven—there.... Strike soon.’ Did he mean that this Seven-Eleven is south of Albuquerque? Or did he mean something that we haven’t got yet? And—well, is it all right to ask you about this Seven-Eleven, sir?”

Colonel Welsh didn’t reply for a couple of minutes. He seemed to go off into a thought trance. He stared at Dave and Freddy, and also right through them. He played with the gashed copper disc with his right hand, and continually clenched and unclenched his left fist.

“Yes, it’s all right for you to ask,” he finally said in a gloomy voice, “but there’s blessed little I can tell you about him. At least, blessed little that’s definite and concrete. Back in Washington my biggest Axis agent file happens to be on this Seven-Eleven. But if you want to know the truth, I have a hunch I could throw the whole confounded thing into the ash can, and I wouldn’t lose a thing of real value. In a few words, Seven-Eleven is Mystery Man Number One. He is Mystery Man X. And for the past couple of months he has been the biggest and sharpest thorn in the side of U.S. Intelligence. And for all I know right now, this Seven-Eleven may be a dozen persons, and not just one.”

Colonel Welsh paused for breath, and fell to playing with the gashed copper disc again.

“Seven-Eleven,” he continued eventually, “is only the name we’ve tacked on him. If you play dice you know that seven and eleven are the two lucky numbers. So we call him Seven-Eleven because he seems to have double luck in every single thing he does. In my file I have a report that states he was born in Germany under the name of Karl Bletz. That he came to this country shortly after the last war, and became a naturalized citizen under the name of Paul Benz. The report goes on to state that he returned to Germany in 1933 and hooked up with Hitler’s movement. He’s been back here several times, but the last time he was here was in 1938. He went back for good then, and went out to South America to boost German trade there, but actually to do Gestapo work that would estrange the South American countries from the United States. He made out all right on that job, particularly in Argentina and Chile.”

The senior officer paused again, shrugged, and then continued with his story.

“Since then he has been like a lighted fuse ready to touch off anything that would hurt England’s cause, and ours. Cargos arriving from U.S. ports have mysteriously burned up on South American docks. And our ship owners have had to take the loss. Many England-bound ships leaving South America never arrived. In fact, they were never heard of again. And lately, many of our own ships have gone down, and crew members drowned, because of him. I even have a report that he was at Pearl Harbor on that back-stabbing day of December Seventh. We feel sure that certain mysterious munition plant explosions in the U.S. were planned and carried out by his sub-agents. He—”

Colonel Welsh stopped short, gestured slightly, and dragged down both corners of his mouth.

“I realize that all this may sound just a little on the fantastic side,” he said. “How could we possibly tell that he had a hand in all these things? Well, simply the way police forces can tell that a certain known criminal had a hand in several robberies, or murders, or what have you. The man’s mark. His trademark, you can call it. A definite little touch to each crime that tags it as having been committed by the same man. Well, we’ve run into that same thing with this unknown, Seven-Eleven, as we call him. A couple of things here and there that are identical with things discovered at other mysterious explosions, and so forth.

“In other words, there is one man behind most of the Nazi spy doings in the U.S., and Central and South America. He is the cleverest agent ever to come from Berlin, and the luckiest. But he is also the most deadly. Get in his way, and you’re a dead man. I’m sure he’d slay his own mother if it would help him any. But this I do know! Twelve of my crack agents, stretching from the Canadian border to the bottom tip of the Argentine, have been after him for months trying to trip him up, and catch him.”

Colonel Welsh cut off his words with a harsh sound, and there was the glitter of highly polished steel in his eyes.

“That man, Rigby, who just went out,” he said between clenched teeth, “is the only one of the twelve alive today. Eleven trained Intelligence agents dead, and we are no nearer to getting our hands on this Seven-Eleven than we were weeks and weeks ago. It’s enough to make me want to cut my own throat!”

The senior officer gave a savage nod of his head for emphasis, then rested his elbows on the edge of the desk, cupped his chin with his hands, and stared flint-eyed off into space.

Dave waited a few moments for him to speak again, but when the man remained silent he leaned forward a bit in his chair.

“You sent for Farmer and me, sir,” he said gently. “Did the job you had in mind for us have any connection with—with this Seven-Eleven?”

The Colonel looked at him, and grunted.

“Yes, it did,” he said. “The pilot you saw die was named Tracey. He was in charge of all our agents stationed in Central America, though he was working on the Seven-Eleven business alone. Officially he was assigned to the Ninety-Sixth Attack Squadron in the Canal Zone, but his unofficial job was to pick up any leads on this Seven-Eleven if he could, and follow them through.”

“And did he, sir?” Freddy Farmer asked eagerly.

“Yes, and no,” Colonel Welsh replied. “I mean by that that he ran across something pretty hot, I think. At least he sent word to me in code to arrange for his recall to the States for a short time. What he wanted, according to his code request, was leave of absence from his Squadron to follow up something. That was three weeks ago. Last night he sent word to me in Washington that he had flown out of Mexico into Texas, and up to Albuquerque. He asked me to meet him here, and to have two qualified Intelligence men present who were also pilots. I was unable to contact him direct, so I couldn’t learn more. I sent word to Rigby to expect him, and to expect you two, and myself. And of course, I sent you word to report at the Frisco Air Base. And—well, as to what happened after that, you know as much about it as I do.”

“Something big in our hands, almost,” breathed Freddy Farmer softly. “What rotten luck!”

“That’s putting it mildly!” Colonel Welsh growled. “God knows what Tracey’s death may have cost us—cost the whole world!”

“Maybe,” Dave murmured softly. “Maybe. But I made a kind of promise to Tracey. More of a hope, it was. A hope that Freddy and I might have the chance to carry on where he left off.”

CHAPTER SIX
Battle Plans

A long silence settled on the office after Dave’s words had died away in the echo. The room was as quiet as a church, yet there seemed to be a sort of tingling vibration in the air. Dave felt it, and so did Freddy Farmer. And so did Colonel Welsh, from the intent and set look on his face. Presently he nervously cleared his throat and pressed his two palms flat on the desk.

“And we’ve got to carry on where Tracey left off!” he bit off, tight-lipped. “We owe that much to his gallant memory. We owe it to Uncle Sam. We owe it to ourselves. But—but there’s nothing to get our hands on, nothing to get our teeth into. Tracey died without telling you two a thing that we can use, or work on. It’s a cold trail, a dead end street!”

Dave Dawson leaned back his head, and stared unseeing at the office ceiling.

“Let’s draw a few word pictures,” he said more to himself than to the others. “Let’s put it like this. While serving with the Ninety-Sixth Attack Squadron, Tracey came on something hot. He couldn’t do anything about it because of his Squadron duties. His actions would look funny, and—his Intelligence identity wasn’t known to his C.O., was it, sir?”

“No, it wasn’t,” the senior officer replied quickly. “It—Hold everything! Good Heavens, the death of Tracey must have done something to my mind. There is one of his under-agents in Ninety-Six, a young Second Lieutenant Marble. It was Tracey who got Marble into the service about a year ago. Tracey trained him, and worked with him on a few unimportant jobs. But I don’t believe Marble was in on the Seven-Eleven business. That was strictly a confidential thing among handpicked agents, all of them picked by myself.”

“Well, maybe it worked a little differently in this emergency,” Dave murmured, and stared at the office ceiling again. “Let’s see. After stumbling across something, Tracey requested you to see that he got a bit of recall-leave. He left this Marble in charge—or at least with some kind of instructions—and started north for the States. He got into Mexico. Maybe the trail led him that way, or maybe it worked out quicker that way. We may never know the reason. All we know is that he entered the States through Texas, went on to Albuquerque, and—Just a minute! Colonel, there’s an Air Corps Base at Albuquerque. Can you call them and find out how he arrived? I mean, was it in a Curtiss P-Forty such as we found? Or did he arrive in some other kind of plane? Can you get Albuquerque on the wire, and find out?”

“I can, and I will!” Colonel Welsh snapped, and scooped up one of the phones.

Just seven minutes later he hung up and looked at Dawson.

“He arrived in Albuquerque in a Vultee attack ship, alone,” Colonel Welsh said. “It was one of Ninety-Six’s planes. His papers were all in order for having landed on Mexican fields for gas. His ship wasn’t armed, so technically he didn’t fall under the internment law. Not that Mexico would have enforced it. The plane wasn’t in such hot shape, however, so he borrowed a P-Forty from the Albuquerque Base. So much for that. Go on, Dawson. What are you leading up to?”

“I don’t know,” Dave replied. “Just sort of feeling around. Guessing at a lot of things just to hear how they sound. But here’s one thing that strikes me odd. And it may have a reason. You say, Colonel, that he asked you to meet him here. Right?”

“Right,” the senior officer grunted.

“And you also say,” Dave went on, “that you could not contact him direct. Right?”

“Right again,” Colonel Welsh said. “So what?”

“Well, why did he say to meet him here?” Dave asked softly. “Why not fly directly to Washington to report to his senior officer? That’s not strictly military—to wire your superior to meet you some place three thousand miles away. So it was important. Important that he meet you here. Why? I don’t know. Now the other item. Your not being able to contact him direct. Why? Probably because he wasn’t around. Probably because he discovered that there was somebody on his trail. That somebody had found out from whoever visited Rigby today that Tracey was flying up from Albuquerque. So—well, measures were taken so that he would never arrive. Somebody at Albuquerque did something to Tracey’s P-Forty oxygen tank so that actually he was gas poisoned and knocked cold when he took the first sip as he flew at altitude over the mountains. And—and, by the best of luck, Freddy’s sharp eyes spotted his wrecked plane. Do those guesses sound a little reasonable to you, sir? To you, Freddy?”

“It could be a mighty close to the truth account of what actually did happen!” Colonel Welsh said softly to himself. “But it still doesn’t get us anywhere. It still doesn’t give us anything to jump on.”

“I don’t agree with you there, sir,” Freddy Farmer spoke up quietly.