Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 18

"I couldn't say, sir," the orderly replied with a shrug. "All I know is what I hear around the base. There aren't many of us here. The base isn't in full swing yet. But it won't be long, and then maybe we'll have a fighter squadron here, in case them n.a.z.is try to really start something. Funny about them Snoopers starting to show up three days ago.

It doesn't make sense. But what does in this screwy war?"

Neither Dawson nor Farmer had an answer for that one, so they just shrugged, and pushed back their chairs.

"Well, thanks for the fine meal, Corporal," Dawson said, and tossed a bill on the table. "Here, have a time for yourself when you get a pa.s.s to town."

"I sure will, and thanks, Captain!" the orderly gulped when he saw the amount of Dawson's tip. "Thanks a lot, sir. And I hope I'll be here next time you pa.s.s through."

"So do I, Corporal," Dawson smiled as he headed for the door. "And good luck."

"The same to you, sir!" the other called after him. "The same to you both!"

Outside the mess, Dawson glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it was just about time to report to Colonel Welsh in the field commandant's office.

"Let's go, Freddy," he said. "What do you think of Goering's Snoopers? I guess we spotted some of them, huh?"

"No doubt," the English youth replied, and frowned. "And a very queer business, if you ask me. Do you suppose, Dave--"

"I wouldn't know," Dawson said as Farmer paused and frowned all the harder. "But you may be right. I mean that the n.a.z.is have got wind of something, and Goering's Snoopers are sort of keeping an eye on things.

If so, that's not so good. Do you get what I mean?"

"I do, and I agree with you completely," Freddy replied at once. "But how in the world--Oh, blast it! I'm tired of trying to figure out riddles!"

They left it at that and walked in silence to the Administration Building. A sentry met them just inside the door, learned their names, and led them at once to the office of Major General Hawker, commanding officer of the recently established U. S. Air Forces Base. The two youths were admitted at once, and as Dawson looked at Colonel Welsh seated to one side of the huge desk, his heart gave a nervous leap and tried to slide up into his throat. The Intelligence Chief's face looked like that of a ghost. Rather, it looked like the face of a man worried sick; worried so sick he was seeing ghosts. However, with a tremendous effort Colonel Welsh gravely presented the two air aces to Major General Hawker who welcomed them with a smile and a few well chosen words. His face, too, showed the nervous strain under which he was suffering.

Dawson, glancing from one to the other, felt the old familiar eerie tingle at the back of his neck. The old eerie tingling that had never in the past failed to serve as a warning of danger and death in the immediate future.

"Be seated, gentlemen, please," the major general was saying, and gesturing a hand toward a couple of chairs. "I--Well, Colonel, I believe you'd better begin the talking, anyway. These two officers have been working with you since the start of things. So go right ahead, sir."

Colonel Welsh nodded his thanks to the general and stared at Dawson and Farmer with eyes haggard from worry and fear.

"Bad news for us," he said bluntly. "The thing we tried to prevent has come to pa.s.s in spite of our efforts. Where the leak is, I don't know.

Maybe I'll never find out. But that is not important, now. What is important is the fact that the n.a.z.is have learned of the war conference to be held in Casablanca. In short, the n.a.z.is know that President Roosevelt is coming to Casablanca!"

"You're sure, sir?" Dawson blurted out as the colonel paused for breath.

"As sure as it's necessary to be," the Intelligence officer replied, tight-lipped. Leaning forward, he tapped a map spread out on the top of the desk. "Take a look at this and tell me what it means to you."

Both Dawson and Farmer left their chairs to study the map. It was a large-sized navigation map that included the eastern sh.o.r.es of the two American continents and the western sh.o.r.es of the European and African continents. The map was creased in many places, and there were many smears of grease on its surface to indicate it had been used considerably. What caught and instantly held Dawson's attention, and Farmer's also, were the many penciled markings and notes on the map. At first glance, they didn't mean much, but on second glance, their full meaning was revealed. It was very startling, to say the least.

Dawson jerked up his head and stared in half-stunned amazement at Colonel Welsh.

"This is an air navigator's chart, sir!" he exclaimed. "With a dozen different courses plotted out from the States, from South America, and from England, to here. _To Casablanca!_"

"That's right," the Colonel said soberly. "Every course plotted on that chart _ends_ at Casablanca! If you look closer, you will see where the n.a.z.i owner of that chart has penciled in the area off the coast of Morocco that he patrolled."

"n.a.z.i owner, sir?" Freddy Farmer choked out. "You mean--"

The English-born air ace stumbled over his words, and before he could start over again, Colonel Welsh answered him.

"That's right, Farmer. That chart was taken from the body of a dead n.a.z.i pilot, whose bomber was shot down in the Atlas Mountains about two hundred miles from here."

"One of Goering's Snoopers, eh?" Dawson murmured absently.

Major General Hawker stiffened and glanced at him sharply.

"What's that, Dawson?" the senior officer asked. "Where'd you hear about Goering's Snoopers?"

"The Officers' Mess orderly was telling us, sir," Dawson explained. "He said there has been a group of n.a.z.i bombers hanging around this base for the last three days, but not too close. He said that your pilots had nicknamed them Goering's Snoopers."

"Oh, I see," the major general said with a nod. "That's right, they certainly are Snoopers. But they'll be a whole lot _more_ than that--if they get their chance!"

The senior office emphasized the last by rapping a clenched fist on the desk.

"Then you know what they're up to, sir?" Dawson asked quickly. "I suppose the colonel told you that we sighted them off sh.o.r.e? Is their base near here, sir?"

Dawson would have asked more questions, but the major general raised a hand for silence and looked at Colonel Welsh.

"Do you want me to do the talking, Colonel?" he asked. "Or would you rather?"

"No, go right ahead, sir," Colonel Welsh replied with a shake of his head. "After all, you've been right here where it's all been going on.

Go right ahead, sir."

Major General Hawker grunted and stared down at the desk top for a moment, as though taking time out to choose his words. Presently he looked up at Dawson and Farmer. Both youths were a little startled by the glitter of seething anger in his eyes.

"The North African campaign has progressed so rapidly and so successfully," he began, "that we're way ahead of ourselves, you might say. I mean that we've been so busy doing the big things that we've had to let much detail work slide. For example, this base wasn't to be ready for another month yet, but it is in operation right now. It has been for the last three or four weeks. However, it is simply a port through which equipment and personnel pa.s.s on the way to the battle fronts. The working staff is very small, and we have no squadron, or even a flight of planes and pilots of our own. I mean, based here for our protection.

That, of course, is because every plane and pilot is needed at the front. Those of us who are behind the front must shift as best we can, until there comes a lull in the main battle, and we've the time to start tucking in the ends."

The major general paused for breath.

"So far, I've only given you a picture of conditions here," he continued presently. "Well, about ten days ago I was secretly informed through Colonel's Welsh's office that the President and Mr. Churchill were going to hold a war conference here at Casablanca. Naturally, I kept that secret. However, the n.a.z.is must have got hold of that news somehow, either here or in Washington. We'll probably never know which. Three days ago those Junkers long-range bombers started putting in an appearance. At first, I thought they were after convoys, but pilots who sighted them off sh.o.r.e reported that they either kept at a safe distance, or raced away to hide in the clouds before our planes could reach them. In short, they did everything in their power to avoid air battle. In addition, they went the limit to prevent any of our planes from _following them back to their base_."

"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" Dawson asked with a puzzled frown.

The major general reached out a hand and tapped a finger on the navigator's chart on the desk.

"That plane and its crew were deliberately sacrificed so that the others could get away," he said. "It happened yesterday morning. A Lockheed Lightning pilot happened to be in the air, and he sighted the Snoopers off sh.o.r.e. He requested permission by radio to give chase and engage them. That permission was granted. The Snoopers had a good start on him, however, and there were a lot of clouds, so the Lockheed pilot was unable to catch up until the chase had gone a good two hundred miles inland. When he started to close in, the pilot reported later, one of the bombers dropped out of formation, turned back, and gave battle. It put up a good fight, and by the time the Lockheed pilot had downed it, the others had disappeared completely. Just before turning back to fight, the German pilot dumped his full load of bombs, and they exploded in the wilderness below. That didn't help him any. Well, the bomber crashed, and _no one bailed out_! That struck the Lockheed pilot as being queer and as there was some smooth ground close by, he landed to take a look at his victim. He said it was not a pretty sight. _But_ there were only three aboard, whereas a Junkers Ju-88 usually has a crew of at least six. Not one of those three had made any attempt to leave the plane as it fell earthward. Do you know why?"

The senior officer paused and seemed to wait.

"No, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up impulsively. "Why, sir?"

"Because there were _no_ parachute packs aboard the plane!" the other replied at once. "In fact, the plane was stripped bare of everything that was not absolutely essential to flying and fighting. There were no identification papers on any of the crew, though the Lockheed pilot could tell from decoration ribbons that all were veteran airmen. There was nothing except this navigation chart. The Lockheed pilot said that one of the men was holding it as though he had been about to destroy it, but was stopped by the crash. By that I mean, in one hand he clutched the chart and in the other a cigarette lighter. Anyway, the Lockheed pilot brought the map back to me, and as soon as I took one look at it I knew the reason for the constant patrolling of those n.a.z.i bombers. I know exactly what they are."

"It sounds like a suicide outfit to me," Dawson murmured as the major general paused. "They must be waiting for the President and his party to arrive. Then they'll let go with the whole works, to say nothing of their own lives."

"There's no doubt about it!" Major General Hawker agreed grimly. "I'm as convinced of that as though they had come and told me so. If they know _when_ the President and Mr. Churchill will arrive, I don't know.

Perhaps they will receive that signal from somebody right here in Casablanca. The way they have let convoys alone and have avoided air battle, at the deliberate sacrifice of one of their own, is proof positive that they are waiting for the one big opportunity. And even though the President's life, and Mr. Churchill's life, were spared, the loss of other lives would be almost as disastrous to the Allied cause.

In short, so long as that German suicide squadron remains in existence, a terrible danger hangs over the entire civilized world. No matter how many planes we have protecting the President and his party, some of those bombers would be bound to get through."