Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 15

The words seemed to explode in his ears. He jerked his head around and saw the strained features of Colonel Welsh. The Intelligence Officer's eyes were wide with both anger and amazement. His lips moved silently for a couple of seconds before he spoke again. "That was close! It would have been too close, but for you, Dawson! What's that down--"

"A n.a.z.i raider that was carrying the seaplane," Dawson cut him off. "We can't do anything about her now, though. Even our radio is smashed, so we can't send out her position. But the pilot and co-pilot, Colonel! Get help and get them aft. The pilot is still alive, I think, but this chap--"

Dawson stopped as he turned and looked at the co-pilot in the seat next to his. Cold rage filled his heart, and his bitter hatred of all things n.a.z.i flared up again. Too many times had his youthful eyes looked upon death not to recognize it now. Nothing in the world could help the co-pilot. He had pa.s.sed on to join his buddies in the airmen's Valhalla.

"Better get to work on the pilot behind me!" Dawson said with a sharpness he didn't realize was in his voice. "There must be a medical kit aboard this bomber. I'll stick here and keep us going. Or do you want to turn back?"

"No, keep going!" the colonel replied. "It wouldn't do to turn back now.

Here, Corporal! Give me a hand with your pilot. Where's the medical kit?"

The last words were directed to one of the aircraft's crew who had come forward into the compartment. Dawson paid no attention to him, for at that moment the port engine started to kick up a bit, and he had to give all his attention to getting it to run smoothly again. By then the glow of the flares had faded out, and the B-25 was thundering on through the darkness of the night. Dawson switched on the small-instrument light so that he could keep a careful check on engine performance and hold the aircraft to her course across the Atlantic. Only once did he take his attention from his flying, and that was when the dead co-pilot was lifted from his seat and taken aft. Once again red rage burned within Dave, as it always did when one of his countrymen was killed. He gripped the control wheel hard to prevent his hands from shaking.

Presently somebody slid into the co-pilot's seat and touched him on the arm. It was Freddy Farmer.

"Well done, old thing!" the English youth said in a voice that shook with feeling. "Fancy we've all got you to thank for saving our hides.

Personally, I was too scared to move for hours, and--"

"Nuts!" Dawson interrupted with gruff affection. "Anybody can haul a plane out of a dive. If it hadn't been for your sweet shooting, that rat might have nailed us!"

"Good grief, how did you know?" Freddy gasped. "You couldn't see me from here!"

"I didn't have to look back," Dawson chuckled. "I simply saw the kind of shooting it was and knew at once you were behind the guns. How's the pilot making out, or don't you know?"

"Not too bad, for which he can thank his lucky stars," the English youth replied. "He'll pull through all right, but I guess the chap will be out of the war for some time. What kind of blasted business was it, anyway, Dave? That beggar was waiting for us right up on top, with his confounded flares. We were--well, as you would say, a sitting duck."

"Yeah, and we were darn near a dead pigeon, too!" Dawson said grimly.

"But how, and why? Don't ask me, pal! I just haven't got the brains it would take to figure out this crazy mess. To me it looks like one of those little items of fate the colonel was talking about. Unless--"

"Unless what, Dave?" Freddy Farmer pressed as Dawson fell silent.

"Unless there's no connection at all," the Yank air ace finally remarked.

"I'm afraid that doesn't make much sense to me," young Farmer said.

"What do you mean, no connection?"

"Well, figure it this way," Dawson replied. "Say that the President's forthcoming trip to Casablanca is as much of a perfect secret as ever.

That--"

"But that's silly!" Freddy Farmer cut in. "The fact that this plane was mysteriously attacked means that some blasted n.a.z.i agent found out what was in one of those sealed envelopes. I mean, that the next bomber through would have the President aboard."

"Are you all through sounding off?" Dave snapped. "Or don't you want to hear the rest of what I have to say?"

"Sorry, and all that!" the English youth snapped right back at him.

"I'll be still. What were you going to say, Dave?"

"Figure the President's trip business _out_," Dawson went on speaking again. "Okay. So for what other reason should we be attacked by a mysterious plane from a mysterious raider in the middle of the Atlantic?

I can think of only one, and this is it. Take it or leave it. The n.a.z.i U-boats aren't doing so hot for Hitler these days. We're sinking his steel sharks left and right, and he's going to run out of them before long. Okay. Where is a lot of our stuff going these days? To North Africa. And a lot of it is being _flown_ over. Okay. The n.a.z.is don't stand a chance of going after our transports with their planes, like they can on the supply route to England. So what do they do? They send a sea raider out, fitted with a scout seaplane. The sea raider's detector picks out one of our planes crossing at night, and the seaplane goes up to high alt.i.tude and waits. Maybe those distress signals are part of the gag to get our plane to go down for a look. Anyway, the seaplane pilot drops his flares. They light up the target for him and also blind those aboard the transport plane long enough for the n.a.z.i rat to do his stuff with his guns. And there you are. Take it or leave it!"

"Just the point, Dawson," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke in. "I don't know _whether_ to take it or leave it. I certainly don't!"

"Oh, you there, sir?" Dawson gulped as he turned his head around. "I was just--well--"

"I know, and I'm glad I heard what you said," the colonel interrupted him. "I was certain that they were laying for us because they believed the President to be aboard. Yet I swear I don't see how they could possibly have found out. I'd stake my life that only we three know the contents of those sealed envelopes."

"If I may say so, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up, "I have a feeling that Dawson has come very close to the truth, if he hasn't hit it exactly.

Frankly, sir, it was just too perfect for the n.a.z.is to have planned it this way. There--there just wasn't enough time, I'd say."

"What do you mean by that last?" the colonel asked him.

"I mean that if we had been attacked by a land-based plane, we could take it that the n.a.z.is had got wind of the truth and had come after us,"

the English youth started to explain. "But that aircraft was from a surface s.h.i.+p--a surface s.h.i.+p that was _directly_ in our path. Tell me this, sir, if you will. On the way down, what did you plan to do when you reached Trinidad?"

"Eh?" the senior officer grunted. "Why, see you two, of course, and find out what had happened, if anything. After I had heard what you had to say, I'd decide what to do next. Why?"

"Well, there you are, sir!" young Farmer cried. "That proves that Dawson's idea must be right. Don't you see? Even _you_ weren't sure as to where this aircraft would go next. You didn't even give the pilot his course instructions until the very start of the take-off. So how could the n.a.z.is possibly have found out and radioed that surface vessel to sail to a point _directly in our path_ in the time it took us to fly out here from Trinidad? It's--it's silly, if you'll forgive me, sir."

The colonel said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a long-drawn-out sigh.

"Yes, I guess you're right, both of you," he said. "The secret of the President's trip must still be as safe as ever. Yes, it must be that way. We just happened to b.u.mp into something that any plane flying this route would have b.u.mped into."

"I sure hated to see that sea raider get away!" Dawson grumbled. "Talk about lucky shots! That first blast got the radio set cold, unless the radio man can fix it up, sir? I saw the shambles it was as I dived by the navigator's nook."

"No, no such luck," Colonel Welsh replied. "I asked him quite a while back, and he said it was hopeless. The navigator, of course, has a record of the exact position at the time, so we can report it when we reach Casablanca."

"How's the pilot, sir?" Dawson asked. "Were there any other casualties besides that poor co-pilot?"

"The pilot will pull through," Colonel Welsh replied. "The only casualty was the co-pilot. Well, I'll go aft now to see if I can do anything for the pilot. You two can get us through all right, eh? I mean--"

"If the engines keep ticking over, we'll make it, sir," Dawson said quietly. "The tanks were spared, praise be! So I think it will be all good flying from here in."

"Then I'll leave you to it," the colonel said. "And--and G.o.d bless both of you!"

Neither Dawson nor Farmer had a chance to say anything, because the Intelligence officer quickly turned and went aft.

"Well, you convinced even me with that swell sales talk of yours, Freddy," Dawson eventually broke the silence between them. "I guess maybe I did hit on the right idea, at that."

"I think you did," the English youth echoed. Then with a chuckle he added, "But I suppose I'll never hear the end of it from now on!"

"Now ain't that grat.i.tude for you?" Dawson groaned, and shook his head sadly. "So help me, why I keep getting that food-craving hide of yours out of tight spots, I'll never understand. I must be nuts, I guess!"

"And for once," Freddy Farmer laughed, "I won't argue with you!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Lurking Wings_