DAVE DAWSON
WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET

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"

CROWN PUBLISHERS

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

DAVE DAWSON
WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET

[CHAPTER ONE]
Order For Eagles

Very much like a little boy who is seeing his first Christmas tree, Freddy Farmer stared pop-eyed out the Clipper's lounge window and down at the man-made magic that was New York City. For a full five minutes he had been gaping at the sight, not moving a muscle, not making a sound, and practically holding his breath all of the time. At his side and with an arm thrown across the English-born R.A.F. ace's shoulders was Dave Dawson, grinning from ear to ear, and getting the kick of his life out of the spell that a first look at Gotham had cast upon his bosom pal, and hard-hitting flying partner.

Finally he couldn't wait any longer to hear what Freddy had to say.

"Well?" he encouraged.

"Well, what?" Freddy murmured in little more than a whisper.

"What do you think of the old town, huh?" Dave asked with a happy chuckle.

The English youth blinked, swallowed hard, and gave a little uncertain shake of his head.

"Unbelievable, incredible!" he finally got out. "Are—are those really buildings down there? The New York skyscrapers I've heard so much about?"

By way of making his question clear, Freddy pointed at the towering heaps of stone that formed the Wall Street and midtown sections of the city. Dave squinted down and grunted.

"Those little shacks?" he echoed. "Why, those are just the little huts where the poor people live. Wait until you see the real buildings. How high are we, anyway? Hope the pilot of this thing stays over three thousand feet. Be tough to smack into a skyscraper, you know."

Freddy Farmer snorted and dug an elbow into Dawson's ribs.

"Oh, come off it, funny lad!" he snapped. "That one wasn't even worth a quiet smile. Point out some of the buildings, will you? The Empire State Building. Where is it, anyway?"

Dawson pointed it out to his friend, and then went on to point out many of the other buildings of Manhattan that were famous the world around.

"But the Empire State tops them all," he said at the end of his little tourist guide speech. "Funny thing about it, though. The Empire State is the tallest building in the world, but it's not the highest. Ever realize that?"

Freddy took his eyes off the view just long enough to give him a quizzical stare.

"The tallest, but not the highest?" he said. "What kind of rubbish is that?"

"It's a fact," Dawson said gravely. "Didn't you know you've got buildings in England higher than the Empire State?"

The English youth sighed and gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

"I always felt there was something funny about America," he grunted. "But I never knew that seeing your homeland affected you Yanks this way. We have buildings in England taller than your Empire State? What utter rubbish!"

"I didn't say taller, I said higher!" Dawson chuckled. "Take the city hall out in Denver, Colorado. Denver's a mile above sea level, but New York is just about sea level. Catch on? The Denver City Hall is over four thousand feet higher than the Empire State. Try that on your friends when you get back to England."

"Blasted likely I will!" Freddy snorted. "They'd have me locked up sure for a balmy one. But don't talk about getting back to England. Good grief! I've only just arrived in America. And speaking of coming to America, I'd certainly like to know—"

"Yeah, me too," Dave cut in, and suddenly leaned closer to the window glass. "Hello, Sweetheart!" he cried, and threw a kiss. "Have you been lonesome for me, Sweet? Well, here I am, Precious. And am I tickled pink to see you!"

As Dawson talked and went through the motions of throwing kisses, Freddy Farmer paled slightly and glanced anxious-eyed about the Clipper's lounge to see if any of the other passengers were watching. They weren't, however. They were all too busy filling their own eyes with New York. Finally Freddy turned back to Dave.

"Are you all right, Dave?" he asked. "Not air sick, or anything? Then for pity's sake, stop all this rot! Where in the world do you think you are? On the stage? And what in heaven's name are you acting out?"

"Acting nothing!" Dawson snapped. "The real thing, pal! I'm just saying hello to my girl, my sweetheart. I haven't seen her for a couple of years, you know. There she is down there. See her?"

The English youth looked eagerly out the window again, but his eagerness disappeared at once, and he groaned softly.

"As though you could see anybody from this height!" he growled. "You've just gone plain balmy with joy at being back in your own country. But I'm telling you right now that if you keep it up, I'm going to quit you and go back to England even if I have to swim it. Frankly, I think I must have been a little balmy myself to have come over here with you in the first place. See your girl waiting for you? Rot! Matter of fact, I recall your telling me that you didn't have any girl."

"I haven't," Dawson said with a grin. "Only this lady is very special. She's the sweetheart of every returning American. Always waits in the same place, holding up a torch so you can find your way in. There she is, down there. See her? Over two million Yanks threw goodbye and hello kisses at her in the last war. She was born in France, but she's been Yank ever since the day she came over. Freddy, meet my very special sweetheart. Isn't she something, though?"

Pulling the English youth closer to the window, Dave Dawson pointed a finger down at the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. Freddy stared at it long and silently. Then presently he nodded and smiled at Dawson.

"No, I guess you're not so balmy as I thought," he said. "I see what you mean and I quite agree. She is, indeed, the sweetheart of all you Yank chaps. She stands for the most cherished thing in all of your great country: Liberty!"

"Yes," Dave said gravely. "And I hope and pray that before long what she stands for will extend around the world and to each of the Poles."

"Amen!" Freddy Farmer breathed softly. Then, as his young face grew hard and grim: "It will come, Dave. Maybe you, and I, and thousands of chaps like us, may not live to see it. But it will come, just as sure as there is a sun in the heavens by day, and stars by night. I'm not one of those heavy-thinking blokes who can spill out wonderful words by the yard, but ever since this blasted mess started I haven't once had even the tiniest feeling that Hitler and his murderers would win in the end. And now that the United States is in it, I simply feel that victory will be ours just that much sooner."

"Feel the same way," Dave murmured, and stared unseeing out the window. "But it's going to be a scrap, and a tough one. Those dirty Japs got the jump on us. And they're in high gear right now, while Uncle Sam is still shifting into first. But it won't be long before the old guy with the whiskers gets rolling. And when he does, Mr. Jap, and Adolf, and Muzzy the Fuzzy, you're going to catch it from all sides—and plenty! And—Hold everything! I sound like a Congressman dedicating a post office, or something. Let's change the subject. Gosh, Freddy, but you look funny in civilian clothes."

"Oh, do I?" the English youth flared up and flushed. "Well, let me tell you, my little man, you'd never take any prizes at a fashion show for men. You'd—"

"Get down off your ear, pal!" Dave stopped him with a chuckle. "I didn't mean that the way you took it. I mean that I've been so used to seeing you in uniform that it seems sort of cockeyed to see you in civies. They're a swell fit, and you'll knock the ladies of Broadway and Fifth Avenue for a loop. So don't get hot under the collar."

"Well, that's a little better!" Freddy growled. Then, with a sheepish grin: "To tell the truth, I feel just as strange as I must look. It's really a very nice suit of clothes, but I feel all out of place wearing it. That is—"

"I know what you mean," Dave chuckled. "Feel that way, too. As if a Wing Commander, or somebody, were liable to pop up out of nowhere and bawl the pants off me for not being dressed for a rush take-off and a scramble. Well, anyway, never a dull moment for us, hey, Freddy?"

The English youth laughed and shook his head, then ran a fingertip along the bottom of the window and furrowed his brows in a puzzled scowl.

"No, never a dull moment," he said. "But I wish that some of those moments could be explained to us now and then. I—well, I don't mean anything against America, Dave. And I'm certainly willing and anxious to go wherever I'm ordered. But—well, you've got oodles and oodles of pukka pilots over here. Why should we be sent over here to instruct? After the Singapore business, why were we recalled to England and then sent out here? Why not to some other Front? Russia, or Libya, or right where we were in the Far East?"[1]

"Instruct?" Dave echoed sharply, and gave his pal a keen look. "What do you mean, instruct? Were you told something I wasn't told? Holy tripe! If they make a darned instructor out of me, I'll wreck every ship until they realize I'm no good at that sort of thing. Instruct? Why, doggone it, I—"

"I say, don't go sailing off your topper!" Freddy cried in alarm. "Nobody told me anything. I simply said instruct, because I'm blessed if I can think of any other reason why the Air Ministry should send us over here."

"Instruct!" Dave groaned and made a face. "Gosh! Have you spoiled my homecoming by bringing that up. But, heck, Freddy! You must be all wet on that idea. Why ship us halfway around the world to teach Yank fledglings how to fly? That doesn't make sense. Why not at least send us straight to Canada?"

Freddy Farmer pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. But there was a very impish look in his eyes that Dave missed completely.

"Well, of course you're very famous," Farmer murmured. "You have quite a record for bringing down Nazi planes. British ones, too. Crashes, and rotten landings, you know. Come to think of it, perhaps it's because of those crashes."

"Crashes!" Dawson cried as his eyes flashed. "Listen, you little wing crumpler! For every crate I've busted up, you've—"

"No doubt Churchill got in touch with your President," the English youth went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "They often talk with each other by trans-oceanic phone, I understand. Perhaps right after Pearl Harbor, Churchill called up and said, 'I say, Mr. President! That chap, Dave Dawson—he's one of you Yanks, you know.' And your President said, 'Oh, yes, Dawson. Has that blighter crashed again, Mr. Prime Minister?' To which Churchill replied, 'Can't say, Mr. President. Haven't looked over the R.A.F. flight reports for the day yet. It's quite likely, though. But what I called about, Mr. President: Now that you're in this war, do you think you could take the little beggar off our hands? Our aircraft production is on the rise, but—'"

Freddy Farmer cut off the last as he suddenly realized that he was only talking to the Clipper's window. He swung around on his heel, gulped, and blushed to the roots of his hair. Dave Dawson and some dozen other passengers of the Clipper were standing there in a group smiling at him.

"It's the altitude, ladies and gentlemen," Dave said loudly. "On the ground he's really quite a nice guy. But go on, Freddy. I didn't mean to interrupt. Sorry."

His whole face on fire, Freddy Farmer took a step forward, fists bunched. Then he quickly relaxed, and grinned.

"Fancy I asked for it," he said. Then, with a grave bow at the other passengers, he added, "It's undoubtedly the truth, though. He has crashed more than any other pilot in the R.A.F. Just look at his face. Nothing but countless crashes could make it look like that. I ask you!"

"Okay, that evens up!" Dave cried, as everybody joined in the laugh. "But you sounded as if you were set for hours."

At that moment the steward came into the lounge and requested the passengers to take their seats while the landing was being made. As Dave dropped into his seat next to Freddy, a tingle of excitement quivered through his body, and his heart started whanging around in his chest like a broken piston rod. Back home! Back home to the good old U.S.A. He still could hardly believe that it was true. It was more like living out a dream—a wonderful, joy-filled dream. He was afraid that almost any second he would wake up and find himself back in his hut at some Royal Air Force Fighter Squadron in England, or Egypt, or India, or the Far East.

"But it's not a dream, it's true!" he heard his own voice mutter softly. "And that's just why it doesn't make sense! Why should it be true? Why did the Air Ministry send Freddy and me over here?"

[CHAPTER TWO]
Center Of The World

As the giant Pan-American Clipper went sliding down toward the landing basin off LaGuardia Field, that question sounded again and again in Dave's brain like a tolling bell. But each time he could think of no answer that seemed reasonable or logical. And each time he groped for the answer, he mentally kicked himself for not having taken the bull by the horns and found out a few things when he had the chance.

That chance had come just a few days ago; two days after he and Freddy had returned from their special assignment in the Singapore area of the war. They hadn't been appointed to any squadron upon their arrival in London. Fact was, they had been given a week's leave to enjoy themselves in the war-torn but still very much chin-up city. They did have fun for two days. Then came the order to report to a certain room at the Air Ministry. It turned out to be the office of Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham, in charge of Active Service Personnel.

For the first few minutes the high ranking Air Ministry official had inquired about their health, how they liked being back in London, and a lot of other things that were of equal "value" in waging a winning war. Then suddenly he had informed them that they were leaving the next day for the United States. It was with great difficulty that they kept from toppling right out of their chairs. And while each struggled to catch his breath and gain control of his tongue, the Air Vice-Marshal had gone on to say that they would fly to Lisbon by British Airways, and from Lisbon to New York by Pan-American Clipper. Upon arriving at New York they would be met by a member of the British Embassy at Washington who would escort them to the Nation's Capital.

"So there you are, Flight Lieutenants," the Air Vice-Marshal had finished up with a smile while they still tried to get their feet back on the ground. "You can pick up traveling vouchers and what-not on the way out. Good luck, and happy landings, and all that sort of thing. Certainly wish I were going along with you. Wonderful country, America. Of course it isn't England, but it's still quite all right, no end."

Perhaps fifteen seconds after that, Dave and Freddy found themselves accepting travel vouchers and other papers from a junior officer. And another couple of minutes after that they found themselves out on the street and headed back toward their hotel. Gosh, yes! He should have asked a few questions of that Air Vice-Marshal when he had the chance. But that had been the trouble. He hadn't had the chance. Things had happened with such startling suddenness and rapidity that—well, bingo, he and Freddy were on the Clipper flying west.

"I wish I hadn't even said it!"

Dave snapped out of his old thought trance and glanced at Freddy Farmer.

"Wish you hadn't said what?" he demanded.

The English youth sighed, made a face, and gestured with one hand.

"That bit about us coming over here to instruct American fledglings," he said. "The more I think of it, the more I'm afraid that it just might be true. That would be terrible, Dave. Not that I don't want to do everything possible to help, you understand. But instruct? I'd be perfectly rotten at that game. I'm sure of it!"

"Me too!" Dawson groaned as his heart started sinking again. "And it would just be my luck to get some student who didn't know a flat spin from a three dollar hat. But I'm sure it can't be that. Heck! Let's look at the bright side. Maybe they've sent us over here to take charge of American war flying."

"Hardly!" Freddy said with a chuckle. "After all, the United Nations really are very keen to win the war, you know. And with you—"

"Skip it!" Dave cut in. "I was only trying to make conversation."

"Don't bother," Freddy murmured, and looked out the window. "It's quite interesting enough to watch one of these big ladies come down and land. Phew! That LaGuardia Field is certainly a big place, isn't it?"

"Fair, just fair," Dave grunted. "It's really just one of our emergency fields, you know. Why, we've got airports over here that are so big that they serve breakfast at the start of the take-off and lunch when the transport passes over the far end of the field. And—"

"And glide from there to a landing on the next airport, eh?" Freddy Farmer grunted.

"You're learning too fast," Dave said with a grin. "I wonder who'll meet us."

"I wonder if he'll be able to tell us anything!" Freddy added. "For two pennies I'd refuse to budge an inch until I'm told what this is all about."

"Do that and you'll be told!" Dave said with a chuckle. "But not the way you think, sweetheart. Ah, nice! A sweet landing, that one. These Clipper captains sure know their onions when it comes to over-water flying. Well, there's the dock, and customs shed. And I wonder who in that crowd is our welcoming committee. Gee! I hope we can spend a little while in New York so I can show you off to the natives."

"Never mind the natives," Freddy said as the huge Clipper was mushed through the water toward the landing dock. "I'll be perfectly content to see the sights."

"And I'm just the guy who can show them to you," Dave said. "Right from the Battery up to the Bronx Zoo. No. Nix on the Bronx Zoo. Can't take chances."

"Chances on what?" Freddy said as he walked into it with both eyes shut.

"The chances of coming out with the wrong baboon," Dave replied instantly.

Freddy Farmer swung but missed by a mile. Dave had caught up his bag and was out of his seat and heading forward. Five minutes later they had cleared customs and were standing on American soil. They stood there for a minute wondering if the party who was supposed to meet them had missed connections, and if they should go on into the Administration Building waiting room and kill time until he showed up. However, they had hardly started wondering when a neatly dressed man approached them with a smile. One look and you practically saw the map of England stamped on his ruddy face. He wore civilian clothes, but it was easy to see that he was more accustomed to a uniform.

"Flight Lieutenants Dawson and Farmer, eh?" he said, and extended his hand. Then, before they could do no more than nod: "I'm Captain Smith-Standers, attached to the military mission at Washington. The welcoming committee, and all that sort of thing. Have a nice trip, what?"

"A swell one, thanks, Captain," Dave said. "Sure seems good to get back. Of course, Farmer, here, was a little worried coming across. Not used to flying, you know. But we've got a million questions to ask you, Captain. And the first is—"

Dave stopped as the British officer shook his head and raised a restraining hand.

"Don't even bother to ask the first one, you chaps," he said with a laugh. "I'm blessed if I know what the answer is. I was simply ordered to pop up here and pop you two back to Washington. But I say, you mean you don't know why you're here, eh?"

"Quite!" Freddy spoke up. "We haven't the faintest idea. And I can tell you it's been driving us balmy wondering on the way across. Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham simply gave us our traveling vouchers and shooed us out of Air Ministry."

"Well, that's the way they do things these days," the Captain said with a shrug. "Very hush-hush, you know. But you'll find out everything presently, I fancy. I say, do you want something to eat before we push along? We've forty minutes or so before the plane leaves."

"Hey!" Dave yelped. "What do you mean, push along? Farmer, here, isn't going to have a look at New York?"

"Only from the air," the other said with a smile. "I'm to take you to Washington on the very next plane. Perhaps some other time, though. Let's get along, shall we?"

Dave looked at Freddy and shook his head sadly.

"We're either a couple of very important guys," he grunted, "or else somebody doesn't trust you on Fifth Avenue, even under my watchful eye."

"Or else it's to be a court martial, and I'm here as a witness against you!" Freddy snapped. "Which I sincerely hope!"

"Well, you two can carry on with that rot aboard the plane," the Captain said. "Come along. But tell me, how are things in London? Marvelous place, America, but how I wish I were back there. Feel just like I'd run away from the home chaps. Have the Jerries really been letting London alone? The War Office communiques are so blasted uninforming, you know."

That started the two R.A.F. youths off, and by the time they woke up to realize they hadn't asked Captain Smith-Standers a single other question about their status, they had landed at Washington, and were on their way by car to the British Embassy. There they met the Ambassador, and even had lunch with him and his subordinates. It was a very wonderful luncheon, and the conversation was highly interesting to them both. They were treated almost like returning heroes—rather, visiting ones. However, not one word was dropped that gave them so much as an inkling as to why they were in Washington. And although they were both fairly exploding inside with questions, they had sense enough to keep their mouths shut, and wait.

They had to wait until late in the afternoon. Then Captain Smith-Standers escorted them out of the Embassy and into a waiting car. It whizzed them halfway across Washington to a building that was perhaps the most unimposing of all the heaps of Government marble and stone in the whole city. He got out of the car with them, and walked with them up the flight of stone steps as far as the door. There he stopped, and extended his hand.

"Well, I fancy we part for good now, chaps," he said, and smiled at them out of eyes that held just a trace of awe and admiration. "Been wonderful meeting you, and all that sort of thing. Good luck, and worlds of it to you both."

"Sure, thanks," Dave gulped. "And the same to you. But look—what's this place, anyway? And what do we do now? I've seen better jails than this."

"Quite!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Did we do something wrong at the Embassy? I say, can't you tell us anything?"

"Sorry," the British captain said with a smile and a shake of his head. "Fact is, there isn't anything I could tell you. I've been here before, though, and it's no jail. Wish the devil I was in your shoes. Well, I must trot. Go inside. You're expected. And—and good luck!"

Captain Smith-Standers shook hands with them again, saluted, though he still wore civies, turned on his heel and went down the steps to the car. Dave and Freddy watched the car drive away, then turned and stared at each other.

"Have you ever been cockeyed drunk, Freddy?" Dave suddenly blurted out.

"No, never," the English youth replied. "Have you?"

"No," Dave grunted.

"Then why do you ask?" Freddy demanded.

"Just wondering," Dave murmured, and reached for the handle of the door. "Just wondering if it makes you feel the way I do now. In sixteen million pieces, and every doggone thing upside down. Well, I suppose this is our next move, eh?"

"Fancy it is," Freddy replied with a shrug and a frown. "So open the blasted door, and let's go in."

[CHAPTER THREE]
Special Assignment

The first thing the two R.A.F. aces saw as they opened the door and stepped inside was a long badly lighted corridor. It was more of a lobby; the lobby of an office building that hadn't been used for quite some time. The second thing they saw was the figure of a man in civilian clothes who seemed to pop out of nowhere and advance toward them. He was a nice enough looking man, about middle age, and with just the faintest hint of the military about him. He fixed them both with a keen searching stare, then seemed to relax a bit, and smiled.

"Dawson and Farmer?" he murmured. And without waiting for either of them to so much as nod: "Come along with me."

They followed him over to an elevator bank, and into the nearest car. Without speaking a word, or even so much as looking at them, the man took them up six floors. Dave studied the man hard, and the result of his study netted him just one thing. The man wore a shoulder holster, and there was a gun in it.

At the sixth floor he stopped the car, opened the doors, and stepped out, crooking his finger. They went down a hall halfway to the rear wall of the building, and stopped before a door. The man pressed a button three times, then twice more, and then looked at them as the latch made a clicking sound.

"Go on in," he said. "They're waiting for you. Good luck!"

"Same to you," Dave grunted. "What is it, a new slogan for the war? Everybody's been wishing us good luck. But for what, for cat's sake? Do you—?"

"Inside," the man cut him off, but grinned. "I only work here. Good—No, make it 'happy landings,' for you two."

For a brief instant Dave had the wild impulse to stand his ground and get a few explanations before he took another step in this seemingly screwball journey that had begun outside Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham's Air Ministry Office. However, he killed the desire even as it was born, and after a quick side glance at Freddy, twisted the door handle and stepped inside.

He had no idea what he expected to find inside, and what he did find had all the effect of a bucket of ice water dumped down over jangling nerves. In short, inside was just a rather dusty room, a desk, a chair, and another man in civilian clothes sitting in the chair. Oh yes, there were some cleaning mops, and a couple of pails in one corner. And on the left wall was a calendar of the year before, torn off only as far as the month of April. There was a door on the right, and the man behind the desk pointed at it.

"Through there, Gentlemen," he said, and immediately returned to a book he was reading.

Dave hesitated, clenched his fists, and groaned inwardly.

"Am I getting tired of doors!" he grated. "What in thunder gives around here, anyway?"

The man reading the book looked up and pointed again.

"Through there," he said, and went back to his book.

Dave and Freddy walked over to the door, but when he reached it, Dave stepped to one side.

"Your turn," he said, and stabbed a thumb at the knob. "Maybe you'll have better luck."

Freddy shrugged, cast a quick apprehensive look back over his shoulder at the man reading the book, and then turned the knob and pushed open the door. And he did have better luck. The room they entered was huge in size, and it contained so much stuff, and so many things, that it was impossible for either Dave or Freddy to concentrate on anything for several seconds. But by that time a tall, thin-faced man in shirt sleeves had risen from a desk and come over.

"Glad to meet you, Dawson and Farmer," he said in a quiet but warm voice. "I'm Colonel Welsh. Come in. We've been waiting for you."

If the man had introduced himself as Santa Claus Dave couldn't have been more dumbfounded. Colonel Welsh was the man who made U. S. Army and Navy Intelligence click. He was in charge of the intelligence work of both services, and—in a vastly different way, of course—he had as much power in the United States as Himmler had in Nazi Germany. Perhaps no more than a dozen people knew what he was, for he acted as a colonel of infantry as well. But that job was simply a cover for his real work. He was seen and known as Colonel Welsh, of infantry, but few people knew that he was the same mysterious Colonel Welsh who was in charge of all U. S. Intelligence.

But it wasn't so much meeting the man that caused Dave to gasp and stare hard as it was the man's looks. His thin face had a nice smile, but beyond that you somehow didn't expect him even to know the time of day. The eyes had a dreamy, almost vacant look in their depths, the lips of the mouth had a dopey downward droop, and the chin was too pointed, and sort of too country parson looking.

"That's all right," the man suddenly said with a chuckle. "I've had this face all my life, so I'm used to it. Don't worry, I won't bite you."

Dave flushed to the roots of his hair and heartily wished there were a hole in the floor into which he could jump.

"I'm sorry, sir," he managed to stammer. "You see—well, Farmer and I have been going around in circles ever since we left England. And—well, it's sort of caught us off balance, if you know what I mean."

"I understand perfectly," the U. S. Intelligence chief said kindly. "Coming here must make a fellow feel he is acting out one of those crazy pulp paper thrillers. You know: secret doors, and special code-words. Well, we're not as bad as that. However, we find it does help to play just a little on the mysterious side. These are the offices we use when we have work to do. Those over in the War Department Building are just for show. Fact is, I personally would go crazy with all the silly trimmings they have over there. But pardon me. I want you to meet my comrades in this daffy business."

Colonel Welsh turned and led them over to a desk so big that it could have easily been cut up into five desks of the usual size. Three men were seated at the desk, and they pushed up from their chairs as the Colonel and the two youths approached.

"Captain Lamb," the Colonel said, pointing to a chunky redhead. "Next to him, Captain Stacey. And that chap who's as thin as I am is Lieutenant Caldwell, our coding expert. Gentlemen, Flight Lieutenants Dawson and Farmer."

Dave and Freddy shook hands with the other officers, and then dropped into chairs the Colonel pulled up. It was not until then that Dave had an opportunity to take a good look about him, and what he saw set his blood to tingling through his veins, and his heart to pounding against his ribs. He had often been inside the inner offices of British Intelligence, and on each occasion he had been stunned by the number of gadgets of all sorts, and the vast array of equipment they were used to operate. But the stuff he stared at now put the British equipment in the shade. There was every conceivable piece of equipment from ultra-ray flashlights to giant X-ray machines. One whole wall was lined with telephones and short wave radios for both sending and receiving. And along another wall was a row of file cabinets that operated electrically. One had only to push a file button, and the correct drawer slid open and the exact file folder shot up out of its clamps. In truth, Dave believed that Colonel Welsh had at his fingertips complete information of everyone of importance in the war, and that within a matter of seconds he could establish contact with any one of his agents, no matter in what part of the globe he might be. And those two items were but two of the many, many things that could be made possible with the equipment in that huge room. It was like the mechanical wizardry of Scotland Yard and the F.B.I. all set up in the same room.

"Interesting stuff, isn't it, Dawson?"

Dave turned his head to see Colonel Welsh grinning at him. He blushed slightly, and nodded.

"It certainly is, sir," he said politely. "A fellow could have some fun in this place."

"Depends on what you call fun," the Intelligence officer said with a grimace. "There's been more than one death warrant issued from this place. However, you're not here to be taught how to handle this stuff. Matter of fact, though, I suppose you're wondering just why you are here, eh?"

"Decidedly, sir!" Freddy Farmer fairly exploded the words.

"And how!" Dave echoed. "If I don't find out something, and soon, I'm going to dive right out a window, and end it all. For three days, sir, Farmer and I have been living a crazy, cockeyed dream. Maybe it's a nightmare, I don't know. But if you can possibly give us an inkling what it's all about, then consider me down on my knees and begging you to do just that! Honest! I don't know whether I'm coming or going."

The Colonel and the others joined in a loud laugh, and then presently the senior officer's face grew serious.

"You're here at my request, frankly," he said. "Here because I feel that you're just the men we need to help us crack a few tough nuts. Among those who came over with Prime Minister Churchill last December was General Sir John Gately, chief of all British Intelligence. Perhaps you know him?"

"Only of him, sir," Dave replied. "I never had the pleasure of meeting him. A wonderful man, though."

"The very best England has," Freddy Farmer added. "I've never had the chance to meet him, either."

"Yes, Sir John is just about the best in England," Colonel Welsh said with a firm nod. "We had several talks together, and he struck me as being just about the most brilliant man I ever met. He has certainly made it hot more than once for Herr Himmler's Gestapo boys. Well, to get to the point, I talked over with him a plan I had in mind. After a moment's thought he stated that you two were the type of men that I need. Fact is, he said you were the two I needed. So there's a mighty fine compliment for you. And let me hasten to add that it's a compliment well deserved, in my opinion. This is the first time I've met you, but your accomplishments in England and Libya and in the Far East are no secrets to this office."

Dave laughed embarrassedly and glanced at Freddy Farmer.

"It was mostly Farmer, sir!" he said. "I usually went along just for the ride."

"Rot!" Freddy snorted, red-faced. "More often than not it was I who blundered us right up a tree, and you got us out of the mess. Stop being modest, my lad. You're in your own country, you know."

"I'm pretty sure it was fifty-fifty," Colonel Welsh settled the argument with a chuckle. "Anyway, you're the two lads I need, and here you are. When Sir John and I reached an agreement about you, he simply started the ball rolling, and without your knowing it you were released from the R.A.F., and sent over to me. Right now you haven't any rank, and you don't belong to any branch of service of any country. What do you think of that?"

Dave gulped and gave a little confused shake of his head.

"What do I think of it?" he echoed. "I—well—well, it sounds as if we were headed for a firing squad, or something."

"Good grief, yes!" Freddy Farmer said in a hushed tone. "At least that!"

"Well, you can relax; there's no firing squad," Colonel Welsh chuckled. Then as his chuckle died, and his face became grim: "At least not a United Nations firing squad. But let's not think of it as even a remote possibility. I mean, some Axis crowd putting you against a wall. Now, here's the reason I had you sent over to me, and the plan I have in mind."

The chief of all U. S. Intelligence paused, and frowned off into space for a moment as though deliberately choosing the words he would speak next. Finally he brought his gaze back to Dave's and Freddy's faces.

"There are over one hundred and thirty million people in this country," he began slowly. "Over one hundred and thirty million men, women, and children, who have the Constitutional right to be regarded as loyal Americans—until proved otherwise. That for the moment is my biggest, and toughest task: to find out who in our Army and Navy isn't a loyal American. In short, to find out who is working for Berlin, and Rome, and Tokio, instead of for Washington and Uncle Sam."

The Colonel paused, clenched one fist, and a hard agate look came into his dreamy eyes.

"And we're starting off by not kidding ourselves about a single thing," he said. "We know perfectly well that Hitler has some of his spies planted right in our armed forces. Some are buck privates; some are seamen, third class; and others hold commissions. It's not been made known, and I hope it never will be, but only the other day we nailed a Nazi spy who had actually graduated from West Point. So we're not starting off on this gigantic spy hunt by kidding ourselves that the Axis rats are all civilians living near munitions factories, or camps, and that they only go slinking around corners, and down dark alleys. No, none of that! We're going after this job just as though some of them were in the White House, and in the Army and Navy Departments!"

The Colonel paused again for breath and to make a little explanatory gesture with his hands.

"Don't misunderstand me," he continued presently. "Our idea isn't to pull any of this Himmler stuff. I mean, fill the service branches with Gestapo spies ready to cut some poor devil's throat because he gripes at the way Hitler runs things. That isn't our idea at all. We're simply going to try and ferret out the rats Hitler put in our Army and our Navy. Now before you throw a fit wondering how just the two of you could possibly handle a job that size, let me say that you're only going to be given part of the job to do, a little at a time. And your first assignment will be with the Pacific Fleet."

The chief of U. S. Intelligence emphasized the last with a nod, and then fell silent. Dave looked at the man, chewed his lower lip for a moment, then started to speak, but thought better of it and closed his mouth.

"Go ahead, say it, Dawson," the Colonel encouraged. "I'm not through yet, just pausing for breath. Go ahead. What's on your mind?"

"I guess my mind's sort of spinning, but hard, if you want the truth," Dave said. "Things are coming at me sort of in bunches. Naturally, Farmer and I are eager and willing to take a good crack at any job handed out to us. But—well, maybe Sir John blew us up to you too much. I mean, we've done some Intelligence work on the other side, sure. And we were lucky. But I don't rate us as experts. At least, I certainly don't rate myself as an expert. I should think you'd have dozens of men right in your own command who could do that sort of a job a darn sight better than we could."

"Quite! And definitely so!" Freddy Farmer echoed, and shifted nervously in his chair.

"Maybe," Colonel Welsh grunted. "Maybe not. The point is, I think not. Certainly I've got some good men under my command. Mighty fine agents, as far as that goes. But you two have something that unfortunately they all lack. That's youth. Then there is another item, and it's probably the most important item of all: the matter of whether or not Axis agents know who they are. One of the inside stories of Pearl Harbor, that may come out some day, is that Jap agents and Fifth Columnists knew several of our Intelligence agents stationed in the Islands. That's no reflection on our agents. The Japs just knew who they were, that's all—and walked easy.

"But your youth is important, too. Don't get sore, but looking at you two, no one would suspect you were connected with Intelligence. Frankly, you look like a couple of red-blooded kids who skipped away and joined up before your parents could stop you. Holy smoke! Just sitting here looking at you for the first time, it's mighty hard to realize that you two youngsters pulled off all those wonderful stunts on the other side. No, you can stop right there with that kind of an argument. You're just the two I need for a job with the Pacific Fleet. I'm completely convinced, and satisfied."

Dave gave a little laugh and shrug.

"Then I guess that's that," he said. "We're all for it, if you really want us. What next? What exactly do you want us to do?"

"I could say, the impossible, and I don't think I'd be very far wrong," Colonel Welsh said gravely. "However, I'm going to hope for the best—even believe in miracles, if I have to. And if there ever was a miracle pulled off, it was that little stunt of yours in Belgium just after the Dunkirk business."[2]

The Intelligence chief paused to nod for emphasis. Then he looked across the huge desk at Captain Lamb.

"Fish out that X-Four-Six-B case photo, will you?" he said. "I think as a starter it would be good for Dawson and Farmer to have a good look at it."

[CHAPTER FOUR]
Death In The Pacific

The redheaded Captain nodded, and got up and walked over to the row of files. Dave watched him and got a big kick as the officer jabbed one of a row of buttons and then went back a step. There was a series of clicks, then the file drawer slid noiselessly open, and a folder inside popped up to Captain Lamb's outstretched hand. The instant he pulled it out there were more clicks and the door slid silently shut again.

"Good grief, magic!" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Just as though there were a bloke inside waiting to hand it to him."

"Just about that, yes," Colonel Welsh chuckled. "Now if we can only work out some way for the file folders simply to tell us what they contain, then we'll have something. That would save a lot of time."

"But what would you do with all the time you saved?" Freddy asked innocently.

Colonel Welsh looked at Dave and winked.

"Figure up something that would save us more time, I guess," he said. "We Americans are all crazy, you know. Ah, thanks, Lamb."

The Intelligence chief took the folder the redheaded captain handed him, and thumbed through it for a moment. Then he pulled out a photograph and placed it face up on the desk between Dave and Freddy.

"Take a good look at it," he said in a grim voice. "That picture was taken ten days ago."

Dave and Freddy bent forward eagerly, but what they saw sobered them instantly. It was a picture of the flight hangar aboard an aircraft carrier. It showed several folded-wing Vought-Sikorsky "Corsair" fighter planes parked so that they could be trundled onto the elevator and raised to the flight deck in fast time. Right in front, though, was a Corsair that was blackened and charred by fire. And on the floor were the figures of two men in flying gear. They, too, were blackened by flames, and it didn't take a second look to see that they were dead. To the left and right was portable fire equipment that had been used to put out the fire.

"Poor devils," Dave murmured, and looked up at Colonel Welsh.

"How in the world did they get so close to the flames?" Freddy Farmer murmured as though talking to himself.

"They were murdered!" Colonel Welsh said bluntly. "We didn't know it when this picture was taken. We found that out later. They had both been shot through the head. And it's quite definite that the murderer tried to burn up the plane so that it would look like an accident. Fortunately the fire squad got to it and put the flames out before everything was destroyed. Thank God, everything wasn't destroyed. If it had been, we should never have learned the real truth."

"You mean that the two pilots had been murdered, sir?" Dave asked as the senior paused.

Colonel Welsh shook his head.

"No," he said. Then, reaching out, he almost reverently touched the picture of the two dead men with a fingertip. "One of those officers was Commander Jackson, executive Flight Officer of the Aircraft Carrier Indian. The other was Lieutenant Commander Pollard, senior Section Leader, and one of the best air tactical men in Naval Aviation. They were murdered and then robbed. Had they been burned to a crisp we would not know the killer had stolen the operation plans of the part the Carrier Indian is to play in a Navy attack on the Jap-mandated islands of the Marshall group."

Dave whistled softly, then stared hard at the Intelligence chief.

"But is that such a big loss, sir?" he asked. "Those plans, I mean. Can't they be changed, so that even if the Japs have them it won't make any difference?"

Colonel Welsh sighed heavily and shook his head.

"I certainly wish they could be changed," he said presently. "I wish it were as easy as that. But, unfortunately, it isn't. The Indian's plans are just part of a huge plan to knock a good big hole in the Jap naval and air forces in that part of the Southwest Pacific. And an attack on that scale can't be thought up overnight, and put into execution the next morning. It's not simply a question of rushing ships and planes to a certain spot and banging away until you're out of shells and bombs. There's much, much more than that. Your forces must be split up. Your operation timetable must be worked out so that the slower ships will arrive at the same time as the fast ones. Worked out so that certain groups will have mine sweeping and destroyer protection. Worked out so that there will be a covering force in case parts of any unit are forced out of action and must retire. No, Dawson, it's not that simple. There are a hundred and one things to be worked out, so that you stand the maximum chance of the entire operation being carried out like clockwork. So it follows that if one unit is off whack, other units are bound to suffer. The effectiveness of the striking force is reduced. For that matter, effectiveness is reduced all down the line. And at the snap of the fingers you can barge bow-on straight into serious trouble. No, to change the Indian's plans would mean that we'd have to change and alter the entire plan as a whole. And there is the chance that in doing that we would discover that it would be best to give up the whole project."

"Phew, I never dreamed a navy show was that complicated!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "But I say, sir! If the blasted Japs know the part the Indian's unit is to play, what can you do about it but change everything, or else give it up entirely."

"I didn't say the Japs had the plans for the Indian's unit," the Intelligence chief said. "Maybe I misled you. I said that the plans are lost. They were stolen from Commander Jackson and Lieutenant Commander Pollard. They had the only copies of the plans, as they were to be in complete charge of the Indian's fighters and bombers in this action. Those plans they carried on their person at all times. And when they were last seen they were on their way below to the hangar deck to check a new gun sight that is to be tried in this coming engagement. They were seen to reach the hangar deck by the Watch Officer. The next time they were seen, they were dead and about to be burned beyond recognition by flaming high test gasoline. But for a machinist's mate who happened to pass that part of the hangar deck, they would have been burned beyond recognition. And we would never have known that their copies of the plans were stolen. True, we would have discovered that they were murdered, shot, just as we did discover. And we might have suspected that the killer had stolen the plans. But now we know that somebody aboard the Indian has those plans."

"Huh?" Dave gulped. "Somebody aboard her? You mean, right now?"

"I mean right now," the chief of U. S. Intelligence said grimly. "The Indian was at anchor in San Diego Harbor. She's still there. However, the instant it was realized what had happened, the Indian became an isolated ship. Not a man, not even her captain, was allowed to go ashore. I radioed those orders myself. And not a boat of any type was permitted to come so much as within hailing distance. An order was issued to shoot anybody who attempted to leave the Indian, and to shoot anybody who attempted to approach the Indian. That order still stands. Mighty hard on the chaps who were due shore leave—she hadn't been in port more than a day. But we're not taking chances."

Colonel Welsh paused for breath, and Dave nodded his head slowly.

"I get it," he said. "So far no darn Jap has got his hands on those plans. No real Jap, I mean."

"What's that?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "What do you mean, no real Jap?"

"A Nazi can pass for an Englishman, or a Yank, or 'most any nationality under the sun," Dave said. "But that's barring the yellow races, of course. And that's just what I mean. A Jap aboard an American ship can't pass for a Yank. He's out and out of the yellow race. And you haven't any Americanized Japs on the Indian, have you, sir?"

Dave directed the last at Colonel Welsh, who instantly shook his head.

"None," the senior officer said. "Not a one. And you've got the right idea, Dawson. It couldn't have been a Jap who killed Jackson and Pollard. So it must have been one of Hitler's men, or maybe one of Mussolini's. I doubt that, though. Italians just haven't got the brains to be that clever. So a Hitlerite is our man. Naturally he's cooperating with the Japs, and will pass on what he has the first instant he can. That's our job, though: to nail him, and nail him good, before he has that chance."

"I suppose you've checked the Indian's list of officers and lesser ratings, haven't you, sir?" Dave asked.

"Backwards and forwards!" the Colonel said savagely. "And up and down as well. We've dug into every man's life with pick and shovel, you might say, and didn't come up with so much as a single suspicion. That's the devilish part of this kind of a thing. It's quite possible that this particular rat, or rats, has served in our navy for years. The whole civilized world is learning more and more each new day, to its sorrow, how thoroughly Germany and Japan planned for this thing long, long ago. When Hitler was somebody we just laughed at and made jokes about, he was sending his confounded spies to the four ends of the earth, and getting them all set to do their part when Der Tag arrived. But I don't have to tell this to you. You two have no doubt seen countless examples of that sort of thing."

The chief of Intelligence paused for a moment and slowly closed his long tapering fingers into rock hard fists.

"I'm a spy myself," he said eventually, "so I think I have a good idea of both sides of the picture in this kind of business. A spy is regarded as the lowest form of worm in wartime, and he's usually shot five minutes after he is caught. But there have been a lot of spies who were brave and gallant men, and they took the job of going behind the enemy lines because that was the best way they could serve their country. But the type of spy such as we're dealing with now—the slinking rat who in peace-time becomes the citizen of another country, enjoys all of its advantages, and then turns on that country when his former country goes to war—well—he is in my opinion the rottenest form of vermin that ever existed. He doesn't rate the privilege of being shot when caught. He should be strung up by the thumbs, and skinned alive."

"And even that's too good for him!" Captain Lamb echoed viciously. "Those who bite the hand that's feeding them deserve the worst of the worst. And man! Would I give my life just to get my hands on that skunk aboard the Indian, whoever he is!"

Dave was slightly startled by the almost berserk rage in the redheaded Captain's voice. He glanced at Colonel Welsh and saw a look of pity and sympathy flit across the chief of U. S. Intelligence officer's face. That expression told much to Dave, and he glanced at Captain Lamb again.

"You knew Jackson and Pollard, Captain?" he asked quietly.

The Captain nodded and licked his lower lip.

"I knew them both well," he said in a low voice. "Pollard was my dearest friend. We came from the same town. Played football together at Dartmouth before he changed over to the Naval Academy. They don't make them better than Jake Pollard was."

"If it helps any," Dave said quietly, "I'll be thinking of you, Captain, if and when Farmer and I catch up with that dirty rat aboard the Indian."

"Thanks," the redhead mumbled, and lapsed into brooding silence.

Dave started to say something else to him, changed his mind, and turned back to Colonel Welsh.

"I suppose you've got a plan of operation you want Farmer and me to follow, sir?" he asked.

"I have the start of a plan of operation," the senior officer replied gravely. Then with a helpless shrug: "But from there on you two will be on your own."

[CHAPTER FIVE]
Silent Wings

Dave waited for the man to continue, and when he didn't he put another question to him.

"We start from scratch, sir, you mean?" he asked. "There isn't any kind of a clue for us to work on? You're stationing us aboard the Indian, of course?"

"That's right," the chief of U. S. Intelligence replied with a nod. "The Indian is shy two flying lieutenants, and you two are going to fill the vacancies. Matter of fact, the Indian is also shy two machinists' mates, and they'll be put aboard too before she weighs anchor sometime the day after tomorrow."

"Two of your men, sir?" Freddy Farmer spoke up, giving the Colonel a keen stare.

"Right," the senior officer said briskly. "But, I'm not going to tell you who they are, any more than I'm going to tell them who you are. That may sound strange, but it's been my experience that agents working in pairs accomplish more than agents working in a group. As officers you two will have the run of the ship, you might say. At the same time, though, you might tip your hand if you went poking around in the non-com and enlisted men's quarters. It works the other way around, too. So I'm planting men in both departments of the ship. You won't know who the other two are, and they won't know who you two are. But here's a very important point to remember. This Intelligence work I'm counting on your doing is, in a way, over and above the call of duty.

"I mean by that that you two will be aboard ship as flying lieutenants. That will be your main job, and you'll take orders from your Section Leader, or higher ranks, just as though we'd never had this talk at all. You'll have no special privileges any more than anybody else aboard ship will have. You won't because not a living soul aboard will know the real reason why you are there. Not even the Indian's captain will know. As they say in England, this is going to be a strictly hush-hush job. Yes, you'll be starting from scratch. All I can arrange is for you to be assigned to the Indian to fill the two flying officer vacancies. What happens after that is up to you. A tough one, eh?"

"The odds aren't so good," Dave said with a faint grin. "But I see your point, sir, and its advantage. If nobody knows why we're there, then there's no chance of the truth leaking out."

"I say, one point, though," Freddy Farmer spoke up with a worried expression on his face. "What about me? My accent, I mean. Won't it seem a bit odd for me to be put aboard an American aircraft carrier?"

"Not a bit, so stop worrying about that," Colonel Welsh said with a smile. "A month or two ago, yes, but not now. You have only to pick up the papers to see that both American and British airmen are being trained in this country. We're not keeping things separate any more. Take Java, for example. There are Yanks, British, and Dutch over there all fighting together, and under the Dutch Command. We're the United Nations now. And we'll become more so before this thing is over. No, Farmer, it won't seem odd at all for an English youth to have been trained in this country and be assigned aboard a U. S. Navy aircraft carrier for sea duty. True, you may get a bit of ribbing—about your English accent, and stuff. But I guess you can take that, eh?"

"Farmer has learned fast, sir," Dave said with a chuckle. "He can dish it right back with the best of them. Snappy come-backs are apple pie for him. I even have to bear down myself at times. Fact is, I wouldn't be surprised but that in six months or so you won't be able to tell him from a Yank."

"Goodness, no, if the Yank is you!" Freddy said with a groan.

Dave laughed and cocked an eye at Colonel Welsh.

"See what I mean, sir?" he grunted. "Right on top of the ball all the time. He's good!"

"Well, I don't think any of us have anything to worry about on that score," the Colonel said. "And I've a hunch, Farmer, that once your shipmates see you in the air they'll realize that how a chap speaks is pretty small potatoes, considering. Well, I guess that's all. You leave tonight for San Diego. There's a Navy plane out at Alexandria Field. You can take that. And there'll be a passenger on your trip west, if you don't mind."

"Glad to have company," Dave said. "Who is he, sir?"

"Me," Colonel Welsh said with a grin. "I've got some business out on the Coast. So I might as well hitch-hike on your plane. Oh! In case you're wondering, you'll be fitted with uniforms and gear before we leave. For this job you'll have the rank of lieutenants. That's below your R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant's rank. Our Navy Lieutenant is equal to your rank of Flying Officer. An R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant is equal to our Lieutenant Commander, or an Air Corps Captain. But I don't think it wise to put you aboard the Indian as Lieutenant Commanders. Fact is, too, the vacancies are for lieutenants. So I hope you don't mind, eh?"

"Not a bit, sir," Dave replied instantly, and laughed. "As a matter of fact, just a few minutes ago you told us that we weren't even R.A.F. any more, so any rank you give us is bound to be okay. But, speaking for both of us, what rank we hold doesn't mean a thing. If we can pull this thing off, it's okay by us if we go aboard the Indian as a couple of seamen, third class. But—well, there are a couple of questions I'd like to ask. Or are you in a hurry, sir?"

"No hurry except to nail that rat aboard the Indian before she gets into the Marshall Island attack," Colonel Welsh said bluntly. "No. For heaven's sake, go ahead and ask all the questions you want. I certainly don't want you to go into this thing not knowing everything you should, or at least everything I can possibly tell you. What's your first question?"

"Something I hope won't happen, but might," Dave said with a frown. "Supposing Farmer and I catch onto something—get a line on this rat, or rats—but really need help. Is there anyway we can contact the two mechanics you're putting aboard to help us?"

Colonel Welsh glanced at his three junior officers and smiled before he looked back at Dave.

"A good question, Dawson," he said. "I was going to tell you about that as we flew west tonight, but now that you've brought up the point, I might just as well do it now."

The chief of U. S. Intelligence paused long enough to pull open one of the countless drawers of the huge desk. When he took his hand out of the drawer, he held two pins. They were common ordinary looking pins save that the top was painted a bright orange. He gave a pin to each of the former R.A.F. aces.

"Many, many times my agents have worked on a case and didn't know who else was working with them," the Colonel began presently. "And often they got in tight corners and needed help badly. So—But hold it a minute. Let me mention something else right here. When I say tight corner, I don't mean that the agent is about to be caught, or about to be killed. I mean more than that! I mean when he gets in a spot where valuable information he has collected may be lost unless he gets help. Or when something is about to happen that will seriously harm his country unless he gets help. That sort of thing. Not the present or future welfare of the individual agent. You see what I mean?"

"Yes, sir," Dave replied, as his stomach suddenly felt a little hollow and empty, and his mouth went just a little bit dry. "Help to save your country, but not to save your own life, eh?"

"Exactly," the senior officer said, and nodded at the two orange-headed pins. "That pin is an agent's SOS sign when all else has failed. Keep that hidden on your person at all times. If the occasion ever does arise when you need help in the way I described, take that pin out and stick it in the right side of your shirt collar. If you're not wearing a shirt, then in the right side of the top of whatever garment you're wearing. In short, so that the orange head of this pin is nearest the right side of your face. If there is another agent near by, he will immediately make himself known by placing his pin in the exact place where you have put yours.

"Remember that. Don't forget it for an instant! If you need help, place this pin at the top of whatever garment you're wearing where it will be nearest the right side of your face. Even if you've only got a pair of pants on, put the pin in the right side of the pants at the very top. That clear?"

The two youths nodded. Then Freddy Farmer leaned forward a bit, and stared questioningly at the Colonel.

"Supposing, sir, you see the SOS pin on another chap," he said. "In the right place, of course. But supposing it may interrupt your own work to make yourself known to him. What then?"

"Establish your identity, regardless," Colonel Welsh replied bluntly. "That is a fixed rule in this department. And here is why. Because of what the SOS pin stands for: a last appeal for help when the welfare of the U. S. is in serious peril. I know what you're thinking. Your own case may be just as important as the agent's who is appealing for help. That is the chance we have to take, though. That is why the SOS pin can only be shown as a desperate last resort to forestall a great military and naval calamity. And to give you an idea of what I mean, I know of only two cases when the SOS pin was shown during the fifteen years I have been in this department. True, the coming of war will increase the possibility of the SOS pin being shown. But—well, that's for the future to bring to light. Now, let's have another question."

The Colonel glanced at Dawson, but it was Freddy Farmer who asked the question.

"If this skunk chap is still aboard the Indian, sir," he said slowly, "and if the aircraft carrier is to put to sea the day after tomorrow, what harm can be done by that chap? Do you believe that while at sea he will make some effort to get in touch with Japanese forces? And is our job to stop him from doing that?"

The senior officer thought over the answer to that for a moment, and scowled hard at the opposite wall.

"The best answer to that," he finally said, "is what I told you a moment ago. I mean that I can see that you are put aboard the Indian, but from then on you are absolutely on your own. Frankly, you will be doing no more than punching in the dark. I feel certain that the spy is still aboard, but I don't know for sure. If he is aboard, and the Indian puts to sea, the information he has collected may be just a beautiful white elephant on his hands. He may not be able to do a single thing about it until it is too late, and his information not be worth a darn. But the point is, we can't take chances on anything.

"You see, we have no idea whether our man is a seaman, a mechanic, or a flying officer. Suppose for a minute that he is a flying officer. Think of the opportunities he'd have to contact the Japs. On patrol he could sneak a message over the side that would drop down to be picked up by a Jap submarine. He might even break formation and scoot off to some point where he knows Japs naval vessels are on patrol, and contact them that way. He might not even return. No, Farmer, the fact that he goes to sea with the Indian doesn't make anything certain for us."

The senior officer paused, looked very unhappy, and sighed heavily.

"That is the rotten part of Intelligence work," he grunted presently. "Nine cases out of ten you have absolutely nothing to work on. You've just got to make blind stabs in the dark, and trust that you'll connect with something that will get you somewhere. The only suggestion I can give you is to keep your eyes and ears open every minute of the time—particularly your eyes. It seems certain that the murderer isn't going to keep his secret any longer than he has to. It's plain dynamite, and he knows it. He's going to try somehow to get that knowledge to the Japanese Fleet. If you can spot him and nail him, you will be everlastingly blessed by the Navy, from the President on down."

"Well, we'll do our best," Dave said grimly. "And I hope and pray it will be good enough."

"Amen, to that," Colonel Welsh said softly. Then, pushing up onto his feet, he said, "Well, we can start now by finding you two uniforms that don't look as if they were picked out in the dark. Then we'll go on out to Alexandria Field—and head west."

[CHAPTER SIX]
Midnight Menace

With her twin engines roaring full out, the Navy Lockheed R40-1, a "cousin" of the famous Lockheed Hudson bomber, shook the dust of the airport runway at Albuquerque, New Mexico, from her wheels, and went climbing up into the night sky on the last leg of the trans-continental flight to San Diego. At the controls was Dave Dawson. In the co-pilot's seat was Freddy Farmer, and between them and just aft in the navigator's seat was Colonel Welsh.

For quite some time now conversation between them had been at a very definite stand-still. At the start of the trip they had talked on this and that to help pass the time, but long before Albuquerque was reached all three of them had run down like clocks. There wasn't anything more to talk about, and each was quite content to sit with his own thoughts and hope for a speedy arrival at San Diego.

However, when Dave had lifted the Lockheed high enough to clear the mountains ahead by a good margin, he got fed up with the silence, and nudged Freddy in the ribs.

"Say something, pal," he said. "Tell me the story of your life, before the silence puts me to sleep. Don't be bashful. Colonel Welsh won't mind. Will you, Colonel?"

"Certainly not," the senior officer said with a chuckle. "Fact is, I'll bet it's mighty interesting, and well worth listening to."

"There you are, Freddy!" Dave cried. "Both the Colonel and I are all ears, and eager to hear about it."

"Very well," the English youth said. "If you insist. There isn't very much to tell, though. Up to May, Nineteen Forty, I led the usual English boy's life. You know, school, play, and all that sort of thing. But in May, Nineteen Forty—it was May Tenth to be exact—I met an American chap named Dave Dawson. Well, that was the turning point in my life. Downwards, you know. I've rued the day ever since. And there you are!"

"Ouch!" Dave cried. "A bull's-eye for the young man. And he has the nerve to say that after all I've done for him. He's—Hey! What's that?"

"What's what?" Freddy demanded as Dave spoke the last sharply.

The Yank born war ace took a hand off the controls and pointed off to the right.

"Over there," he said. "Thought I saw a flash of light. Guess it was a falling star."

"Probably was an airways beacon," Colonel Welsh spoke up. "There's one up that way a bit, I believe. That was all right, Farmer. Now it's your turn, Dawson. See if you can match it."

"Fat chance, but I can try," Dave said with a grin. "Well, up to that never to be forgotten May Tenth, when Hitler really started to try and drown the world in human blood, I too had led pretty much the average boy's kind of life. But May Tenth changed everything for me, too. In a different way, though. Up to then I had all kinds of ideas about fighting my way through life and maybe up to the top in whatever profession I chose to follow. No soap, though. That meeting with Farmer on May Tenth changed everything. Since then I've had to carry him on my back, and try to make the grade for two people instead of just for myself. However—"

"That is some kind of a light over there!" Colonel Welsh interrupted sharply. "And it isn't the flash from any beacon. Sort of a blue kind of light. Saw it for a second, just now, and it was slanting upwards."

"Could be another plane," Freddy Farmer opined. "Engine exhausts show blue in the dark, you know. Might be one of your transport planes."

Colonel Welsh glanced at his wrist watch in the glow of the cabin light, and shook his head.

"No," he said. "At least, not one of the scheduled planes. Besides, we'd see the red and green navigation lights."

On impulse Dave reached out his hand and switched off all of his own lights, save the wing-tip navigation lights. Then all three of them stared hard off to the right. For a full two minutes nobody spoke. The three of them simply strained their eyes at the vast array of night shadows in the heavens. But all that it got them was aching eyes.

"Nothing there evidently," Colonel Welsh eventually broke the silence. "Perhaps it was just a falling star, but I never saw a star fall up."

"Maybe it was some of that Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said with a chuckle. "I never heard of it being seen in this part of the country, though."

"Saint what?" Freddy Farmer echoed. "What in the world are you talking about? And what is it?"

"Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said. "Didn't you ever hear of it, Freddy?"

"Would I be asking, if I had?" the English youth snapped. "Go on. Stop waiting to be encouraged to show all your knowledge. Just what is Saint Elmo's Fire?"

"Well, I can't give you a scientific answer to that one," Dave said. "But Saint Elmo's Fire is the name given to globular electric light often seen on the spars and rigging of ships at sea during a storm. And of recent years it has been seen on the wing tips of airplanes flying through electrically charged air. Frankly, I've never seen any of the stuff in my life. But I knew a pilot once who used to fly over the Andes in South America, and he said they used to see it often. Little bright balls of fire that seemed to roll right along the leading edges of the wing, and then disappear just when you thought they were going to bump into the gas tanks, or something. The first few times he witnessed such a display he lost a dozen years off his life. He said, though, that after a while he got used to it—even looked forward to it every time he took off."

"You're pulling my leg!" Freddy snorted.

"No, Farmer, that's true," Colonel Welsh said. "I've seen some Saint Elmo's Fire myself. And I can tell you that it scares the pants off you the first time you see it. Ever fly through a thunder storm, and see lightning playing around your wing tips?"

"Yes, I've seen that," Freddy admitted. "And I was sure I'd never live to land safely on the ground again."

"Well, then, you know how it feels to see Saint Elmo's Fire," the Colonel chuckled. "Only I think the Saint Elmo stuff gives you a worse scare when you see it actually come rolling along the wing toward you. But that light I saw just now wasn't shaped like a ball. More like a streak, or like the powdered tail of a comet. It was strung out in a—"

If Colonel Welsh finished the sentence, nobody heard it. At that moment the night skies shook and trembled with the savage yammer of aerial machine gun fire. And the cabin window not eighteen inches in front of Dave's eyes seemed to crack in a trillion places and then melt away into oblivion.

"My word!" Colonel Welsh cried. "What was that?"