Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 19

"But their base, sir, wherever it is?" Dawson spoke up as the other paused. "If you could only find it, and--"

"Exactly the point!" the major general interrupted. "If we could only _find it_! The only thing I've got here that could out-fly the Junkers Ju-88 is a Lightning. But the main difficulty is that I have no pilots I can order out on such a mission. I mean, should they find the base and radio its position, they wouldn't have fuel enough left to return.

They'd force land in the mountain wilderness and eventually die of starvation or the heat. We've _got_ to destroy those planes--and _within the next thirty-six hours!_"

"Thirty-six hours, sir?" Dawson echoed, as his heart started to pound against his ribs.

The major general looked at him gravely, and nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Just ten minutes before your plane landed I received code word from Was.h.i.+ngton that the President and his party are _already on the way to Casablanca!_"

"Good gos.h.!.+" Dawson gasped before he could check himself. "Only thirty-six hours and then Goering's snooping suicides can do their stuff? Or try to do it? But--"

Dawson suddenly checked himself and looked at Freddy Farmer. For a long moment their eyes met, and then they nodded impulsively. Dawson turned to Major General Hawker.

"With your permission, sir," he said quietly, "Farmer and I would like to locate that base and radio its position so that our bombers could go over and wipe it out."

As Dawson finished speaking, silence settled over the room. Colonel Welsh broke it as he addressed his words to Major General Hawker.

"Just what I told you, sir," he said. "And by G.o.d, they'll find it, too--Bless them both!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_Death Takes Wing_

For the tenth time, Dave Dawson checked his position and made absolutely sure that he was where he was supposed to be. For the tenth time, countless fears shot through his brain to taunt and jeer at him. He wasn't at the agreed rendezvous point. His navigation was all c.o.c.keyed.

He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south of it. He was--

"Cut it out, fellow!" he ordered himself. "This is a fine time for you to go haywire! You're simply here ahead of time. Your watch tells you that. Freddy was held up a bit, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of weather, or something. Maybe--"

Or something? But what? That was the question! Freddy Farmer could fly through the toughest weather made. He was that kind of pilot. It was crazy to think that weather would hold up Freddy. But where was he? Why wasn't he here?

These tantalizing questions pounded in Dawson's brain like the booming of big guns. He clenched his teeth and gripped the controls of the Lockheed Lightning so tightly that the knuckles of his hands showed white through the skin. That this was perhaps the last flight he might ever make didn't bother him much. What did was the fear that Freddy and he might fail in the successful completion of this vitally important mission. And that fear was doubled when he realized that the odds were all against them. Yesterday when they had volunteered for the job Major General Hawker had told them in no uncertain terms that their chances of finding the secret n.a.z.i bomber base were about one in a thousand, and their chances of coming back alive were about one in a million.

Yes, the odds were all against them, but that didn't matter. They'd had the odds against them before and had won out. So right after leaving Major General Hawker's office they had selected two Lockheed Lightnings on the field and flight tested them thoroughly. By then darkness had settled, so they had gone to one of the field hutments and tumbled into bed with their clothes on, so that there would be no waste of time in case they had to make a night take-off in a hurry.

Good fortune was theirs, however. They each had twelve solid hours of sleep before word came that n.a.z.i bombers were sighted off the coast.

Five minutes later they were both in the air, but instead of flying out to sea, they carried out a prearranged flight plan. Dawson had flown northward to circle around to the east and then southward to a point over the middle of the Atlas Mountains. And Farmer had flown south with the idea of circling eastward, and then up north to rendezvous with Dawson. One of them would be sure to cross the path of the n.a.z.is winging back to their secret base. The instant one of them spotted the n.a.z.is he would code call the other over his radio and give his position and course. The other would head that way at once, join up, and together they would trail the n.a.z.is to their base, and then code call Casablanca where a hastily a.s.sembled squadron of American bombers was waiting.

Yes, a very carefully thought out plan of action, except for one flaw.

And that one flaw was making itself known right now as Dawson coasted the Lockheed about in the North African sky over the prearranged rendezvous point. In short, he had not seen the n.a.z.i bombers, and he had not heard so much as a whisper over the radio, though he had called Freddy Farmer several times for a check. No bombers! Radio silence since Casablanca! So--

"So," Dave said to himself as he tried to still the fearful pounding of his heart, "So something has happened to Freddy! He's b.u.mped into trouble, and his radio went haywire on him. Or he's lost and has missed the n.a.z.is completely. Or--or he's dead!"

Dawson hardly realized that he had spoken the words until they were out.

Their echo in his ears caused his mouth and throat to go dry, and fingers of ice to curl about his heart. He shook his head savagely and pounded one clenched fist on his knee.

"Stop it!" he ranted at himself. "Don't even let yourself think of it, you dope! Freddy will show up, or call you. He's just got to. He's--"

He cut the rest off short and stiffened in his seat as he caught sight of a plane ripping through the air toward him. As he opened his mouth to let out a shout of joy at meeting up again with Freddy Farmer, his breath stuck in his throat.

"But that can't be Freddy!" he mumbled as he squinted his eyes at the oncoming plane. "That plane is coming from the east, and Freddy would be coming up from the south. And--Hey! My gos.h.!.+ That--that plane is _German_! It's a Messerschmitt 109, a n.a.z.i fighter plane, and heading right my way!"

He cut off the last with a vigorous shake of his head, as though to clear his vision. However, when he took another look, the plane was still a n.a.z.i Messerschmitt 109, and it was still racing straight toward him from out of the east. A moment later, though, just as Dawson instinctively slid the guard off the electric trigger b.u.t.ton of his guns, the on-streaking Messerschmitt swerved southward, and its nose went slanting up in a climb.

"What the heck?" Dawson cried, as a faint sensation of disappointment rippled through him. "Is he getting cold feet so soon? Or didn't he see me?"

A couple of moments later, his last thought seemed to be proven true.

The Messerschmitt pilot leveled off after he had climbed a couple of thousand feet, and Dawson could tell by the decrease in the plane's speed that the pilot has eased back to cruising throttle. No more than a couple of miles separated the two aircraft now, and though the Messerschmitt was perhaps three thousand feet higher than the Lockheed, Dawson knew that he could close in on the n.a.z.i in no time, if he wished to.

That was just the point. Where a few moments ago he had been ready and eager for battle, he was now filled with a sense of caution. For one thing, what was a n.a.z.i ME 109 doing over the Atlas Mountains? Was it close to its base--the same base used by the mysterious Junkers bombers--or was the pilot lost and wandering about in the North African heavens hundreds and hundreds of miles from where he should be? And for another thing, why hadn't the n.a.z.i spotted him? Was the pilot dead, and was the aircraft simply flying itself until it ran out of gas?

"Or is this a smart trick, and I'm too dumb to catch on?" Dawson muttered the next thought aloud, and stared at the other plane that was now circling slowly about in the air. "Is he waiting for me to come piling in, because he has some special surprise package waiting, or what?"

As he mulled over the question in an effort to guess at an answer that might be close to the truth, the Yank air ace searched the surrounding skies. However, if he expected to see any other planes in the heavens, he was doomed to disappointment. As far as he could see in every direction there was nothing but sun-tinted blue North African sky and a few mountains of clouds piled up here and there.

"Maybe _I'm_ nuts!" he groaned, and gave a little shake of his head.

"Maybe I'm just seeing things. Or maybe I'm asleep and dreaming, but don't realize it. Well, one German less is one German less, I always say. So here goes for that bird tooting around up there. He'll--Well, for cat's sake! Now what?"

The last was because the Messerschmitt pilot had suddenly ceased his coasting around and had swung onto a course due south at an increased speed. And though Dawson gaped and stared in amazement, he let no "sky gra.s.s" grow under his feet. He instantly swung south and opened up his two Allison engines, but continued to maintain his alt.i.tude of some three thousand feet below the other plane.

For a full five minutes, the n.a.z.i rocketed south with Dawson some two miles behind him and holding steadily to the pace. At the end of that five minutes, though, the Messerschmitt reached the edges of one of the towering mountains of clouds in the sky. Impulsively, Dave opened his throttles so that he would not lose the Messerschmitt in the clouds. The action was unnecessary for the German pilot swerved to the east just before he came to the clouds. Once again his abrupt change of speed showed that he had eased back to throttle cruising.

Anger took the place of amazement in Dawson, and he was on the point of slamming up to give battle to the Messerschmitt, when suddenly twelve Junkers 88 long-range bombers came sliding out from under the mountain of cloud, looking for all the world as though they were rolling their wheels across the peaks of the Atlas Mountains.

So suddenly and so weirdly did they appear that for a second or so Dawson was unable to realize what they were. When truth came to him, he sat up stiff and straight in the seat and let out a yell of excited relief.

"Goering's Snoopers!" Dave cried. "There they are, the b.u.ms, as sure as shooting! And on their way back to their base. No doubt of it, and, so help me, that Messerschmitt must be some kind of a lone escort come out to meet them and lead them home. Sure! There he goes sliding down, now.

But--but where is Freddy? Where is good old Freddy? He made his flight south, so he must have crossed their path. He--!"

He cut his own words off abruptly as a squealing noise sounded in his earphones. It rose and fell, and rose and fell again. Although he worked furiously over the tuning k.n.o.bs of his panel set, he could get nothing but the squeal's. That is, nothing but squeals for the next minute or two. Then, suddenly, the squealing sound stopped, and a single spoken word came through as clear as a bell.

"Noswad!"

That single word made Dave's heart pound furiously, because it was his own last name spelled backwards; because it was the signal call Freddy Farmer was to use when getting in radio contact with him. No sooner had he heard the code call spoken once, than the squealing sound filled his ears again. Whether it was Freddy's set or his that had gone haywire, he could not tell at the moment. He simply put his lips to his own mike and shouted Freddy's code call at the top of his voice.

"Remraf! Remraf!" he shouted. "Can you hear me, Remraf? Over!"

The only reply that he received was the continued squeal in his earphones. Once again he called Freddy, but the result was the same.

Impulsively, he checked his own set as best he could, but found nothing wrong with it. As a matter of fact, to make definitely sure that his own set was in perfect working order, he sent out a signal call to Casablanca Base and instantly received a reply that came in loud and clear.

"So that settles that," he grunted. "Freddy's set has gone haywire. He probably picked up those Snoopers long ago and hasn't been able to contact me up to now. He's around. I can't see him, but he must be around somewhere doing his job of trailing those Snoopers back to their base. With his eagle eyes, I'll bet a million bucks _he_ can see _me_!"

His heart overflowing with joy at the knowledge that Freddy Farmer was alive and still flying, Dawson left his set tuned as fine as possible and gave all of his attention to the Messerschmitt-led air cavalcade of Junkers 88's that was sliding through the air over the mountain peaks.

They were all well below Dawson's alt.i.tude now, and all he had to do was to throttle to their speed and hug the sides of the cloud banks. True, there was a small chance that he might be sighted, silhouetted against the clouds as he was, but that was the chance he had to take. If he was sighted, he knew that it would be the Messerschmitt 109 that would turn back to drive him off, and so he kept his gaze on that plane and paid little or no attention to the bombers.