Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 16

For the hundredth time Dawson dug knuckles into his tired eyes, stifled the yawn that struggled to get up out of his throat, and took a quick glance at Freddy Farmer seated in the co-pilot's seat. And for the hundredth time he wondered how the English-born air ace could go through so much and still look as fresh as a daisy.

"Boy, oh boy!" he finally blurted out. "How do you do it, anyway, Freddy?"

The English youth glanced his way with arched eyebrows.

"How do I do what?" he wanted to know.

"Look so doggone full of pep," Dawson told him. "Here I feel like the last rose of summer after a steam roller has run over it, and you look like a million bucks, or more. How come? Are you taking some very secret vitamin pills that I don't know anything about, huh?"

"Certainly not!" young Farmer replied at once. "I haven't got _that_ old, yet. But would you like to know the truth?"

"Well, if you insist on telling me, I suppose I've got to listen,"

Dawson grunted. "So shoot."

"Well, don't let my looks fool you," Farmer replied. "I may look fresh, but I definitely am not that way inside. Fact is, I'm not quite sure whether I am awake or asleep. And if you insist on knowing everything, I'd be jolly glad if we would sight land."

Dawson started slightly and shot him a keen look.

"Meaning?" he asked.

Young Farmer made a faint motion of his hand toward the milky sort of world through which the B-25 was flying. The sun had been up for a long time, now, but haze blurred the sun's rays and turned both sea and sky into a drifting milky-tinted ma.s.s that made instrument flying absolutely necessary.

"Meaning that I'm wondering if my navigation has gone haywire," Freddy said. "We should have made landfall half an hour ago, Dave. But there is nothing but blasted water down there. How's our fuel?"

"Okay, we've got plenty in the tanks," Dawson said. "If your navigation is all c.o.c.keyed, then I'll eat this s.h.i.+p. Of course, you are a funny sort of gink in lots of ways, my little man. But when it comes to navigating, I'll take you every time. So relax, pal. What's a half hour on an ocean hop? We probably b.u.mped into a head wind, that's all."

"Thanks, old thing," Farmer smiled at him. "And I certainly hope that you're right. However, this whole blasted business has been so balmy right from the start that I'm willing to expect almost anything. And, in fact, I do."

Dawson ignored that remark. Freddy had certainly hit the nail on the head. Of all the jobs they had tackled, this one was certainly the most mixed up and involved. It seemed so for the very simple reason that not one thing had gone along as planned. At every turn something had popped up to toss a monkey wrench into the works and necessitate a complete revision of plans. Realization of that caused little fingers of ice to pluck at Dawson's heart. The object of all this business was a safe journey by air to Casablanca for the President and the American High Command. With everything going haywire from the start, what other blows of Fate might be struck once the President was on his way?

"But I'm just tired, and letting myself get off the beam!" Dawson mumbled. "The colonel's secret is still his secret. And--and that raider business was just one of those things. Darn it! n.a.z.i agents just couldn't have found out anything!"

"Just what I've been trying to convince myself of for hours," he heard Freddy Farmer say. "But I'm still finding it a bit of a difficult job.

As you say, though, we're both so blasted tired. I feel as though I've been in this aircraft all my life."

"Yeah, me, too!" Dawson agreed. "I--"

He stopped speaking, straightened up in the seat, and peered into the milky-colored sky off to the left and a little bit ahead. He stared until his eyes ached and smarted.

"What's the matter, Dave?" Freddy asked presently. "Are we making landfall?"

"No," Dawson replied slowly, with a little shake of his head. "I guess I'm just seeing things. I could swear that I saw a group of planes show off there for a split second or so."

"Planes?" young Farmer echoed excitedly. "What type? Maybe it's an escort come out to meet us, and--But no, that couldn't be. n.o.body knows we're coming. Did you recognize them, Dave?"

"That's just the point," Dawson complained as he continued to stare into the milky ma.s.s that was the sky. "I'm not dead sure, but I think--Well, if you want to know, they looked like Junkers Ju-88's to me. Yeah, the big long-range babies the n.a.z.is used against England and s.h.i.+pping in the Atlantic. But maybe I was just seeing things."

"You must have been, Dave!" Freddy said sharply. "It's my guess the n.a.z.is haven't any long-range bombers to spare against s.h.i.+pping in this part of the Atlantic. We have far, far too much aerial cover for our boats. Besides--"

The English-born air ace didn't continue. He stared off to the left.

Dave sensed the sudden movement and impulsively turned his head to look in that direction, too. As a result, they both saw the milky sky split apart for a brief moment and reveal six n.a.z.i Junkers Ju-88's winging along on a course almost parallel with theirs. The haze and the milky overcast parted just long enough for them to see the six-plane formation, and then it promptly closed down and hid all from view. But they had seen the s.h.i.+ps and before Dawson took another breath he piloted the B-25 down and away on a detour course toward the north.

"You were right, Dave!" Freddy Farmer spoke first. "Absolutely right!

Those were Junkers, or I've never seen one in my life. And I've seen plenty of them!"

"Junkers, right enough," Dawson repeated with a nod of his head. "And that bunch was the _second_ group! In short, there must be a whale of a big Yank convoy that they are hunting for, or else--"

Dawson stopped and shrugged, but Freddy Farmer wouldn't let it remain that way.

"Or else what?" he demanded.

"Or else they are hunting for _all_ planes headed for Casablanca,"

Dawson replied slowly. "Go aft and get the colonel, will you, Freddy? I think he should be told what's going on."

"Definitely!" young Farmer replied, and quickly slipped out of the co-pilot's seat.

During the next couple of minutes Dawson virtually "explored" every square inch of the milky air all about the B-25 but he didn't sight any planes. Then Freddy returned with Colonel Welsh, and Dawson reported what they had seen.

"They seem to be all around our course, sir," Dawson added. "Do you want us to plow right on through, or continue to detour around this area and come into Casablanca from the north? We've the fuel left to do it, if that's what you want."

The colonel didn't reply at once. It was very plain from the expression on his thin face that the news of sighting n.a.z.i aircraft disturbed him greatly.

"It can't be a convoy they're after," he finally said, "because there isn't one this far south. And they can't be looking for any plane, such as this one, because--"

The Chief of U. S. Intelligence paused a second, shook his head, and ordered, "Get on course for Casablanca, Dawson, and plow right on through! With our radio gone, we're helpless to find out what's what--if anybody happens to know. The sooner we get to Casablanca, the better. So bang on through, but avoid action if it's possible."

"Very good, sir," Dawson replied, and pulled the B-25 back onto her original course. "By the way, sir, how's the pilot?"

"Getting better by the minute," the colonel replied. "Lost a lot of blood, but we'll take care of that as soon as we get to Casablanca. Push on through, and I'll order the crew to remain at battle stations. This is the darnedest mess I ever b.u.mped into!"

"If I've ever met up with anything more tantalizing, then I sure don't remember it," Dawson remarked by way of agreement. "Okay, sir!

Casablanca it is, and on the run!"

Colonel Welsh murmured something that Dawson didn't catch and, giving the Yank air ace a pat on the shoulder, he swung about and returned to his battle station aft. For the next twenty-two minutes Dawson and Farmer didn't speak as the twin-engined North American B-25 prop-clawed its way forward through the milky-hued heavens. Neither of them spoke because anything they might have said would only have served to increase their fears. Both feared they were lost, and not even headed toward Casablanca. They feared that at any second a whole flock of those mysterious Junkers might suddenly appear in the air before them and open up with all guns. They feared that once more their plans were about to be knocked into a c.o.c.ked hat.

"Jeeper, jeepers!" Dawson finally muttered. "I couldn't have a worse case of jim-jams than I've got right now, even if I was actually piloting the President's plane. I--"

"Dave!" Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. "I'll be blessed! Look!"

The English youth's exclamation was quite unnecessary because Dawson was already staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles of weather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cut off by a knife. One instant the B-25 was plowing on through the stuff, and the next it was roaring out into clear air filled with brilliant suns.h.i.+ne. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port of Casablanca glistening white in the sun!

"So this guy Farmer is a punk navigator, huh?" Dawson shouted joyously.

"Like heck he is, what I mean!"

"Luck, blasted luck, I swear it!" Freddy breathed, but there was a happy smile on his face just the same. "Man! I never was so glad in all my life to see a place as I am to see that spot ahead. Luck, absolutely nothing but luck!"

"Okay, have it your way," Dawson laughed. "But just keep right on having this kind of luck. That's all I've got to say. Boy, oh boy! Dry land ahead, and something to eat, and a place to lay down my weary head.

Oh-oh! Here come some of the boys to give us a look-see. See them, Freddy?"