CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Lurking Wings_
For the hundredth time Dawson dug knuckles into his tired eyes, stifledthe yawn that struggled to get up out of his throat, and took a quickglance at Freddy Farmer seated in the co-pilot's seat. And for thehundredth time he wondered how the English-born air ace could go throughso 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 thelast rose of summer after a steam roller has run over it, and you looklike a million bucks, or more. How come? Are you taking some very secretvitamin 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 surewhether 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 ofworld through which the B-25 was flying. The sun had been up for a longtime, now, but haze blurred the sun's rays and turned both sea and skyinto a drifting milky-tinted mass that made instrument flying absolutelynecessary.
"Meaning that I'm wondering if my navigation has gone haywire," Freddysaid. "We should have made landfall half an hour ago, Dave. But there isnothing but blasted water down there. How's our fuel?"
"Okay, we've got plenty in the tanks," Dawson said. "If your navigationis all cockeyed, then I'll eat this ship. Of course, you are a funnysort of gink in lots of ways, my little man. But when it comes tonavigating, I'll take you every time. So relax, pal. What's a half houron an ocean hop? We probably bumped into a head wind, that's all."
"Thanks, old thing," Farmer smiled at him. "And I certainly hope thatyou're right. However, this whole blasted business has been so balmyright from the start that I'm willing to expect almost anything. And, infact, I do."
Dawson ignored that remark. Freddy had certainly hit the nail on thehead. Of all the jobs they had tackled, this one was certainly the mostmixed up and involved. It seemed so for the very simple reason that notone thing had gone along as planned. At every turn something had poppedup to toss a monkey wrench into the works and necessitate a completerevision of plans. Realization of that caused little fingers of ice topluck at Dawson's heart. The object of all this business was a safejourney by air to Casablanca for the President and the American HighCommand. With everything going haywire from the start, what other blowsof Fate might be struck once the President was on his way?
"But I'm just tired, and letting myself get off the beam!" Dawsonmumbled. "The colonel's secret is still his secret. And--and that raiderbusiness was just one of those things. Darn it! Nazi agents justcouldn't have found out anything!"
"Just what I've been trying to convince myself of for hours," he heardFreddy 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'vebeen in this aircraft all my life."
"Yeah, me, too!" Dawson agreed. "I--"
He stopped speaking, straightened up in the seat, and peered into themilky-colored sky off to the left and a little bit ahead. He stareduntil his eyes ached and smarted.
"What's the matter, Dave?" Freddy asked presently. "Are we makinglandfall?"
"No," Dawson replied slowly, with a little shake of his head. "I guessI'm just seeing things. I could swear that I saw a group of planes showoff there for a split second or so."
"Planes?" young Farmer echoed excitedly. "What type? Maybe it's anescort come out to meet us, and--But no, that couldn't be. Nobody knowswe're coming. Did you recognize them, Dave?"
"That's just the point," Dawson complained as he continued to stare intothe milky mass 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, thebig long-range babies the Nazis used against England and shipping in theAtlantic. But maybe I was just seeing things."
"You must have been, Dave!" Freddy said sharply. "It's my guess theNazis haven't any long-range bombers to spare against shipping in thispart of the Atlantic. We have far, far too much aerial cover for ourboats. 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 lookin that direction, too. As a result, they both saw the milky sky splitapart for a brief moment and reveal six Nazi Junkers Ju-88's wingingalong on a course almost parallel with theirs. The haze and the milkyovercast parted just long enough for them to see the six-planeformation, and then it promptly closed down and hid all from view. Butthey had seen the ships and before Dawson took another breath he pilotedthe 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 seenplenty of them!"
"Junkers, right enough," Dawson repeated with a nod of his head. "Andthat bunch was the _second_ group! In short, there must be a whale of abig Yank convoy that they are hunting for, or else--"
Dawson stopped and shrugged, but Freddy Farmer wouldn't let it remainthat 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? Ithink he should be told what's going on."
"Definitely!" young Farmer replied, and quickly slipped out of theco-pilot's seat.
During the next couple of minutes Dawson virtually "explored" everysquare inch of the milky air all about the B-25 but he didn't sight anyplanes. Then Freddy returned with Colonel Welsh, and Dawson reportedwhat they had seen.
"They seem to be all around our course, sir," Dawson added. "Do you wantus to plow right on through, or continue to detour around this area andcome into Casablanca from the north? We've the fuel left to do it, ifthat's what you want."
The colonel didn't reply at once. It was very plain from the expressionon his thin face that the news of sighting Nazi aircraft disturbed himgreatly.
"It can't be a convoy they're after," he finally said, "because thereisn't one this far south. And they can't be looking for any plane, suchas this one, because--"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence paused a second, shook his head, andordered, "Get on course for Casablanca, Dawson, and plow right onthrough! With our radio gone, we're helpless to find out what's what--ifanybody happens to know. The sooner we get to Casablanca, the better. Sobang on through, but avoid action if it's possible."
"Very good, sir," Dawson replied, and pulled the B-25 back onto heroriginal course. "By the way, sir, how's the pilot?"
"Getting better by the minute," the colonel replied. "Lost a lot ofblood, but we'll take care of that as soon as we get to Casablanca. Pushon through, and I'll order the crew to remain at battle stations. Thisis the darnedest mess I ever bumped into!"
"If I've ever met up with anything more tantalizing, then I sure don'tremember 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, givingthe Yank air ace a pat on the shoulder, he swung about and returned tohis battle station aft. For the next twenty-two minutes Dawson andFarmer didn't speak as the twin-engined North American B-25 prop-clawedits way forward through the milky-hued heavens. Neither of them spokebecause anything they might have said would only have served to increasetheir fears. Both feared they were lost, and not even headed towardCas
ablanca. They feared that at any second a whole flock of thosemysterious Junkers might suddenly appear in the air before them andopen up with all guns. They feared that once more their plans were aboutto be knocked into a cocked hat.
"Jeeper, jeepers!" Dawson finally muttered. "I couldn't have a worsecase of jim-jams than I've got right now, even if I was actuallypiloting 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 wasalready staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles ofweather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cutoff 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 brilliantsunshine. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port ofCasablanca 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 happysmile on his face just the same. "Man! I never was so glad in all mylife to see a place as I am to see that spot ahead. Luck, absolutelynothing but luck!"
"Okay, have it your way," Dawson laughed. "But just keep right on havingthis kind of luck. That's all I've got to say. Boy, oh boy! Dry landahead, 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?"
"Of course," the English youth replied with a nod, and fixed his gaze onthe flight of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings that were sweeping gracefully upoff North African soil and streaking out to sea toward the B-25.
In less time than it takes to tell about it, those high-speed fighteraircraft were right on top of the B-25 and skipping and sliding allabout it as their pilots investigated. It took them but a couple ofmoments to satisfy themselves. Then they throttled and dropped intoescort position. That is, all except one pilot. He slid out in front tolead the way to the American-built air base on the north side of thecity. A few minutes later Dawson throttled his engines, and slid theB-25 down to a feather-bed landing. At a signal from the OperationsTower, he trundled the bomber in toward the small AdministrationBuilding. There he killed his engines completely, took a deep breath,and relaxed in the seat. A glance at the instrument clock showed that hehad been in the air for a little over twelve hours, but the way hisnumbed body felt, it was as though he had been in the air for overtwelve hundred hours.
"So this is Casablanca," he murmured, and absently unsnapped his safetyharness. "Well, I sure want to give it a look, but not right now. No,sir! For the next thirty-six hours, and maybe longer, all I want is anice soft bed!"
"Make that two, if you please!" Freddy Farmer added, and put a hand tohis mouth to cover the yawn he could no longer hold back. "Justa--Oh-oh! Here comes a high-ranker in very much of a hurry. Now what, Iwonder?"
Dawson looked toward the Administration Building and saw a trim majorgeneral of the Air Force running toward the B-25. By the time he reachedit, Colonel Welsh was out of the plane. The two officers exchanged hastysalutes, and the major general started to take Colonel Welsh by the armand lead him away. The colonel held back, however, nodded at the bomberand said something. The major general nodded in reply and made a wavingmotion with one hand. Then the pair turned and hurried over to theAdministration Building and disappeared inside.
"Well, how do you like that?" Dawson gasped. "What about that woundedpilot aft?"
"That's why the colonel stopped," Freddy Farmer replied, and poked afinger to the right. "Here comes the ambulance now. Let's get back andsee if we can lend them a hand. After all, this is his aircraft."
"Right; let's go," Dawson agreed, and pushed his stiff body out of theseat. "The least we can do is wish him all kinds of luck."
They made their way back to the compartment where the wounded pilot wasresting on blankets laid out on the floorboards. There was some color inhis face, now, and his neck and the upper part of his chest was swathedin bandages. Gathered about him were the members of his crew, eachtrying to keep from looking at the blanket-covered body of the co-pilotthat lay on the far side of the compartment.
Dawson crouched beside the wounded pilot and grinned cheerfully.
"Lucky guy, Captain," he said. "A nice hospital, pretty nurses, andswell food for you. How's for changing places, huh?"
"I'll let you know after I've tried it for once," the other said, andmatched the grin. "And, Dawson--"
"Yes, fellow," Dave prompted.
"I'm a dope, Dawson," the pilot said. "I want to apologize for thatcrack I made about losing a brother in a night torpedoing. It sureturned out different. I didn't know the score, you see, so I thought youwere just--Well, I mean--"
"Skip it, fellow, skip it," Dawson smiled, and gently pressed theother's arm. "I didn't know the score myself, so I was just whistling inthe dark. But forget it, Skipper! You had a perfect right to think asyou did. Now here's the ambulance, so I'll stop talking. Good luck,fellow. And if we can work it, we'll come say howdy to you in thehospital. Good luck, anyway!"
"Yes, a million in luck, old thing!" Freddy Farmer added as he stoodsmiling down at the man.
"I've already had the million in luck, thanks to you two," the pilotsaid, as the ambulance medico came climbing into the B-25. "Be sure andcome see me, if you can. I want to thank you for bringing the shipthrough. I'm kind of fond of her, you see, and--Well, you know how itis, eh?"
Both Dawson and Farmer nodded gravely. Being pilots, they knew exactlyhow a fellow felt about his aircraft. Made of metal, and plastics, andwood, and fabric, to be sure. But to its pilot, it was something humanand full of understanding. Something that couldn't be put into words,because there are no words in any language that can adequately describethe feeling a pilot holds in his heart for his plane. Dawson and Farmersimply nodded gravely, and gave a hand in lifting the wounded man out ofthe bomber and putting him in the ambulance.
"A nice guy," Dave murmured as the ambulance pulled away. "I sure amgoing to visit him if I get the chance."
"Yes, and me too, if!" Freddy Farmer murmured.
The remark caused Dawson to turn his head and glance sharply at his pal.
"And just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
Young Farmer shrugged and nodded toward the Administration Building."That chap headed our way," he said. "I've a bit of a hunch thatsomething is up."
"Huh?" Dawson gasped. "What--"
He let the rest go as a field orderly came up on the run and salutedsmartly. "Colonel Welsh's compliments, Captains Dawson and Farmer," theorderly said. "He asks that you report to him in the commandinggeneral's office in an hour."
"An _hour_?" Dawson choked out, and then caught himself. "Very good,Sergeant," he said hastily. "We'll be there."
The orderly saluted and retreated toward the Administration Building.Dawson groaned softly.
"One hour, and off we go again! How much sleep can a fellow catch in anhour, I'd like to know?"
"About sixty minutes' worth," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Frankly, I preferto spend that time eating. Let's go hunt up the Officers' Mess."
Dawson started to speak, thought better of it, and dropped into stepwith Freddy. One hour, huh? And then what? But he was much too tired andhungry to bother guessing up some answers. What would happen, wouldhappen. And, after all, what was one more hour in this mysteriousbusiness?
What was one more hour? The gods of war on high could have told him.They could have told him it was just one more hour in which the GrimReaper could steal closer and make ready to strike a blow that wouldstun the entire civilized world!
Dave Dawson at Casablanca Page 13
