Dave Dawson at Casablanca Part 5

"Use that to have the man placed under close arrest at once!" he said harshly. "And get in radiophone communication with me as soon as possible. _If_ the man tries to evade arrest, tries to escape--shoot him dead on the spot! Yes, that's an unusual order, but this is an unusual mission. Now, the other question, Dawson? What is it?"

"When we reach Natal, sir," Dave said, "what do we do? Fly back and report to you?"

"No," the senior officer said with a shake of his head. "I'm allowing three days for you to make this stop-over flight to Brazil. That should get you in Natal by the fourteenth, the fifteenth at the latest. Put up at the Pan-Am Hotel. I will join you there on the fifteenth. I'll have another little mission for you when I get there. Well, any other questions?"

Dawson and Farmer looked at each other. Then they looked at Colonel Welsh, and each shook his head. The senior officer stood up, and as though the G.o.ds had waited for that exact instant, the Vultee's Wright-Cyclone outside broke forth with its song of mighty power.

"Then that's that," Colonel Welsh said. "There's some flying gear over there on the wall. Select what you want, and then let's get outside to the plane. I'll stake my life that not a soul has heard what we've been talking about, but four walls always get on my nerves. I like it better out in the open where I can see in all directions, and for some distance, too. But don't pay any attention to me. I'm under a slight strain, and it's trying its darnedest to get me. Stupid, of course. So select your stuff, and let's get out to the plane. G.o.d bless you, and all kinds of happy landings until we meet again in Natal, Brazil."

If they happened to be listening to the colonel's parting words, the G.o.ds of war, and death, and doom, must have had quite a laugh for themselves!

CHAPTER FIVE

_Whispering Death_

Shifting to a slightly more comfortable position in the Vultee's c.o.c.kpit seat, Dave Dawson absently drummed the fingers of one hand on the side of the c.o.c.kpit and stared down at the sky-blue Caribbean Sea rolling far beneath his wings. Behind him was Puerto Rico, and a considerable way ahead of him was the British-owned island of Trinidad. Several miles off the Vultee's left wing tip were the Leeward and Windward islands of the West Indies jutting up out of the blue water. High above him was a cloudless sky with a shimmering ball of gold in the center.

All in all, it was a scene that would have made poets rave, and the hardest of hearts melt. However, if the truth must be known, it left Dawson cold. Not because he did not possess an eye for Nature's beauty; it was rather because, though he was looking at it, he wasn't actually seeing it. His mind was too filled with other and more personal thoughts.

The previous night he and Freddy Farmer had taken off from Bolling Field and had flown directly to the Army Air Forces base at Miami. There, after making sure, they had delivered the first of the sealed envelopes.

Later they had flown on to the base at San Juan, on Puerto Rico, and delivered the second envelope. Now they were winging their way farther south to the Air Transport Command base at San Fernando on Trinidad.

"After Trinidad, Paramaribo, and Belem, and Natal," Dawson said, and scowled down at the beautiful Caribbean. "That's just the point, too. A couple of air-mail pilots, that's all we are!"

"What's that, Dave?" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice in the inter-com phones. "What are you mumbling about?"

"Mumbling?" Dawson snorted. "I was shouting with joy! I'm so excited that I can hardly keep from jumping overboard. And now that I think of it, maybe that _would_ be a good idea!"

"Then go right ahead, old thing," the English youth in the rear pit chuckled. "Nothing I want more than for you to have your own way, you know."

"Don't look right now, but you can go fly a kite to the moon, pal!"

Dawson growled. "I suppose you're enjoying this here-to-there hop in the sky?"

"Well, I _have_ seen better piloting," Freddy came right back. "But, considering one thing and all, I'm not too fed up--yet. On the other hand, it is a bit boring. I mean--"

"You mean what?" Dave asked as Freddy let the rest hang in mid-air.

"Don't know just how to put it in words," young Farmer replied.

"But--well, after that little talk with the colonel last night, I was quite steamed up, as you would say. Very mysterious, and exciting, and possibly dangerous, if you get what I mean."

"I do," Dawson grunted. "But all it is to me now is mysterious. You can have my share of the excitement and danger, if any. I'm just full of beans, though, I guess. After some of the close shaves you and I have had, routine stuff just gets me down, but quickly! But there have been two bright spots in this thing so far, thank goodness."

"Bright spots?" Freddy Farmer echoed. "Then I must have been looking the other way at the time. What do you mean?"

"At Miami and San Juan," Dawson replied. "The way those two commanding officers tried to pump us as to what the sealed envelopes contained. It was nice to look very wise and not tell them a darn thing. It was fun to see somebody else floundering around in the dark. Misery loves company.

Say! Know what I hope, Freddy?"

"I wouldn't even dare guess!" the English-born air ace replied. "What do you hope?"

"That the lad we contact at San Fernando has a copper disc with numbers that add up to forty-five!" Dawson told him.

"What?" young Farmer gasped. "Forty-five? But, Dave, the number is--"

"Sure, forty-one!" Dawson cut in. "But don't you catch on, pal? If the number is forty-five, it means that the lad is a phoney. And that means that maybe we'll get some excitement out of this aerial messenger boy job."

"Rot, and very much so!" Freddy snapped angrily. "Come off it, Dave!

This is very serious business, and you are absolutely balmy to even hope that things will go wrong. Just remember what Colonel Welsh said, Dave.

If one of these sealed envelopes should fall into Axis hands, he'd rather put a bullet in his brain than go on living. Stop being a blasted fool, old thing! It's not a bit like you at all!"

"Okay, okay, papa!" Dawson chuckled. "Consider that you have up-ended me and given me the shingle where it counts most. Just the same, I hate to think of going stark, raving mad in the c.o.c.kpit of a Wright-powered Vultee."

"Well, if that's all that's bothering you, you can put it out of your mind at once," Freddy snapped, "because you were that way a long, long time ago!"

"Oh, yeah?" Dawson shouted.

"Yeah!" Freddy Farmer replied. "But definitely!"

They left it that way for the next fifteen minutes or so. At the end of that time the Vultee was well out of sight of all land, and Dawson was keeping it on course with instruments. At the end of that time, too, the southern part of the heavens began to mist and fog up and gradually change to a copperish gray. The straight line that marked where the blue of the sky ended and the copperish gray began told Dawson that a line squall was moving across the Caribbean. But five minutes later the little twinge of uneasiness that had come to him melted away, because the copperish gray moved westward and not up northward toward the Vultee. However, because of the silly mood that had gripped him since leaving Puerto Rico, he had to voice a crazy thought.

"Wouldn't you know, not even a storm to give us something extra to do!"

"Eh, Dave?" he heard Freddy Farmer say. Then a second later, he felt Farmer's hand tapping him on the shoulder, and heard his pal's excited voice crackling in his inter-com phones. "Bear ten degrees eastward, Dave! There's something down there on the water. Can't see it clearly yet. Looks like a bit of rag being waved about by somebody."

Dawson changed the Vultee's course, and at the same time twisted around in the seat and glanced back at Freddy. Then he turned front and peered ahead and down in the direction of the English youth's pointed finger.

He squinted his eyes slightly and even shielded them against the golden sun with his free hand. But for all he could see, he might just as well have kept both eyes shut. There was just blue Caribbean, turned golden here and there by shafts of sunlight dancing off the surfaces of the rolling swells.

"I know you can see through a brick wall, Freddy," he said, "but if you can see anything down there, then I'll eat it!"

"It will be quite a meal!" Freddy Farmer cried. "Because it happens to be a life raft! And there are chaps on it. Yes, four chaps! And one is waving his shirt, or something. Blast those dirty U-boat blighters!"

"Never mind the U-boats!" Dawson growled. "Just stick to the raft. Where the heck is it? I think you're seeing things. I--Hold it, everybody; hold it! I see it now, Freddy! I wasn't looking far enough out. Yeah!

That's a raft sure enough. Boy! I bet this sun is doing plenty to those birds!"

As Dawson spoke, he watched the small raft riding the rolling swells of the blue Caribbean, as helpless as a leaf. As he stared at the four figures in the raft, his anger boiled and the blood throbbed in his temples. Dirty U-boat blighters, and how, as Freddy had said. Of all the fighting forces to come out of n.a.z.i Germany, the U-boat commanders and crews were the worst. Human life, and particularly the lives of women and children, meant even less to them than it did to the Gestapo. Steel sharks of the sea, they were called. To call them that was an insult to a real man-eating shark. There just wasn't any name to call those who manned n.a.z.i U-boats, because there is no name in any language that adequately describes them.

Yes, the dirty U-boat blighters! Down there on the bobbing raft were four who were no doubt victims of a terrible life-and-ship-destroying explosion that had probably come in the dark of night. As those and other bitter thoughts raced through Dawson's mind, he impulsively eased back the Wright-Cyclone's throttle and slanted the nose of the Vultee downward.

"How I wish this was a flying boat, and we could pick up those poor beggars!" he heard Freddy Farmer groan.

"You and me both!" Dave agreed. "We have a radio, thank goodness. So we can get help sent out before those fellows have to spend another night at sea. I wonder how long they've been floating around?"

"Quite some time, I fancy," Freddy Farmer said. "The chap waving his shirt seems to be the only one with any life in him. The three huddled down in the raft might as well be dead. Sights like that one make me thank my lucky stars I'm in the air end of this blasted war."

"You can say that again for me!" Dawson echoed. "At least in the air you get it clean and fast. Mostly, anyway. Check and double-check! The boys that really deserve the medals and the praise in this sc.r.a.p are the merchant marine fellows. They have nothing to fight back with except a pea-shooter at the stern, and maybe one on the bow. They're perfect floating targets twenty-four hours a day. If their engines break down, heaven help them! Yes, my hat is off to those fellows, and I don't mean maybe. I--Hey, Freddy! See that? He's trying to send us a message with his shirt, isn't he? He seems to be waving it down to the right more than down to the left."