Dave Dawson at Truk Part 19

"Well, it will take more than a hundred cracks at them, and successful cracks too, for me to feel even one degree better," Dave said. Then, as though talking to himself, he murmured, "We'll be eight hundred miles from Truk in a couple of hours or so? That means we must be about eight hundred and eighty miles from there right now."

"You're probably correct," Freddy Farmer said. "But why all the sudden figuring? What of it?"

"Only this," Dawson said, and gazed along the deck at the planes of the sundown patrol being made ready for flight. "It means that this carrier force is plenty close enough right now for our n.a.z.i spy to get there in his Grumman h.e.l.l Cat, if he's flying one of those babies."

"And close enough, too, even if he's in a Grumman Wild Cat squadron,"

Freddy Farmer echoed. "But you're leading up to something, Dave."

"In a way, yes," Dawson replied slowly, and made a gesture with his hand that included all three carriers. "A last hope, you might call it. I mean, the sundown patrols for all three flat-tops are getting set to go aloft. There isn't time, and it would be foolish of us to try and pay a visit to all three carriers for a look at the pilots taking off. With preparations getting under way to launch planes we'd probably be refused permission to land on the other two flat-tops, anyway. But here's an idea, Freddy. Let's you and I take our h.e.l.l Cats up and sort of cruise around."

"Why?" young Farmer demanded. Then as his face suddenly lighted up, "Oh, you mean...?"

"Exactly that!" Dawson cut in on him. "These sundown patrols are simply top-cover protection in case there is a surprise raid by planes from some j.a.p carrier that maybe has sneaked in close during the day. In other words, the sundown patrols don't go wandering off. We can keep our eyes on all the ships in the air. So if our n.a.z.i friend is flying one of them, and suddenly breaks away from his section and goes sailing off on his own, then we'll see him at once and do something about it. See what I mean?"

"Perfectly!" Freddy Farmer said excitedly. "And it's a swell idea, Dave.

At any rate, it's much better than standing here on this blasted flight deck eating our hearts out. Right-o, then. Let's go get our flying gear and get into the air. I ..."

The English-born air ace suddenly stopped short, licked his lips and swallowed hard.

"What's up, pal?" Dawson demanded.

"Nothing," Freddy told him. "I just think I have a sudden feeling. You know, one of your crazy hunches. Oh, blast it, I mean that I have a queer feeling that things are going to happen before this day is done."

"Praise Allah they'll be _good_ things!" Dawson breathed fervently, and headed toward the companion ladder leading below decks. "Let's go, kid!"

With considerable of their sense of usefulness and futility replaced by new-born hope and renewed determination, the two air aces hurried below to the quarters that had been a.s.signed them aboard the Trenton, and collected their flying gear. From there they went to the Ready Room where all the up-to-the-minute flight data was posted on the huge black-board. They quickly copied it down on their flight navigation boards, and then went out of the Ready Room and along the companionway leading to the hangar deck, and the short way topside.

They were skirting the planes that were grouped on the hangar deck when suddenly Freddy Farmer gasped aloud and grabbed hold of Dawson's arm.

"Dave!" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Look! That chap walking past that dive bomber over there. The one just under the light. Good gosh, Dave! It can't be. I ... But it is! It is! That's the beggar, I swear. It's ..."

Young Farmer didn't finish the rest. He let go of Dawson's arm and started racing across the hangar deck at top speed. By then Dave had taken a look at the man Freddy had pointed out, and his heart was striving to explode right out between his ribs. The man was garbed in flying gear, but he carried his helmet and goggles in his hand so that his head was bare. And he was across Dawson's line of vision so that only the side of his face was presented. But that was enough. It was more than enough. In an infinitesimal part of a split second Dave Dawson's memory raced backward, and once again he was peering through a narrow crack in the side of a weather-beaten shack at a Navy ensign with straw-colored hair, eyes that must be blue, and a neck that was slightly thicker than the average neck of a man of that height. And once again, now, he could see no outstanding feature.

"Our man!" he heard his own voice choke out. "The n.a.z.i rat. On this flat-top all the time? Right under our noses, and we haven't spotted him until now? Good grief, how did that happen? How...?"

He cut off the rest because by then he was sprinting after Freddy Farmer, and he needed all of his wind for that. Freddy was halfway across the hangar deck, and the n.a.z.i spy was walking casually toward the companionway on the other side. Suddenly, though, perhaps because he heard Freddy's running footsteps, or perhaps because Freddy called out, he turned his head. For the bat of an eyelash he pulled up short and stared, and then he broke into a mad run.

"That man!" Freddy Farmer's voice seemed to fill the entire hangar deck.

"Stop him! Stop that man!"

Young Farmer's cry was directed at an aviation machinist's mate just coming out of the companionway on the other side. The Naval rating stopped, blinked, and stared at the man running toward him.

"A n.a.z.i spy!" Farmer shouted. "Stop him!"

But Freddy's cries were just a waste of breath. The aviation machinist's mate started to put out a hand to signal the n.a.z.i spy that somebody wanted him, but that's as far as he got. The running spy slugged him a terrific blow on the jaw and the Naval rating went down as though the deck had dropped out from beneath him. And in the next instant the spy had dived into the companionway and disappeared. Freddy Farmer was a good fifteen yards from the companionway opening, and Dawson was another twenty yards or so behind his pal.

In an effort to cut down the distance Dawson ducked under the wing of a plane, but he didn't duck low enough. The tip of the wing caught his shoulder, threw him off balance, and sent him sprawling onto the deck.

He wasn't even dazed, though, and he was up on his feet almost instantly, but by then Freddy Farmer had disappeared into the companionway, too.

Choking and gasping for breath, Dawson plunged forward and went over the prostrate aviation machinist's mate in a leap and tore into the companionway. The sudden change of light blinded him for a split second, but he knew that the companionway turned sharp right at the end of twenty yards, and that at the end of the right turn there was the companionway ladder that led directly topside to the flight deck.

By the time he reached the turn he was used to the fairly dim light. But even at that he didn't see the figure sprawled on the deck until too late. The figure of Freddy Farmer. Dawson heard his own voice cry out his pal's name as he strived desperately to swerve off to the side. But his efforts were not enough. His left foot struck one of Freddy's legs and he went flying over young Farmer, and down in a heap.

All the colored lights in the world flashed in his brain. There was so much fire in his lungs that he couldn't breathe. He could only lay motionless, his face pressed against the companionway deck as the vibrations of the carrier's engines went through his whole body. The vibrations of the ship's motions plus the dry sobs of rage and fury that shook him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_Avenging Eagles_

After what seemed like a million years spent in a world of torturing paralysis, the power to move and to act came back to Dave Dawson. And even as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees he heard bitter words spill from Freddy Farmer's lips as the English born air ace began to pick himself up off the deck.

"Fool that I am! The dirty beggar! Waited for me and copped me on the topper as I came around the corner. I ... Good grief! You, Dave? I say...!"

"Save it!" Dawson gasped as he got all the way onto his feet. "I haven't time, Freddy. He's topside, now. You stay here and rest that head. I'll get him for us. I'll get him, or it'll be the last thing I ever do!"

And no sooner had the last word burst from Dawson's lips than there came a mighty sound from the flight deck above to mock his words. The roaring thunder of planes taking off.

"Wait here, nothing!" Freddy Farmer cried, "We'll both get the blighter!"

Perhaps young Farmer said more. If so Dawson didn't hear it, for he was streaking toward the companionway ladder. He reached it and probably set a new ship's record for reaching the flight deck in jig time. As he leaped out on deck a hundred and one things met his gaze, but only two of them registered on his whirling brain. One was that Grumman h.e.l.l Cats were tearing off like a string of beads. And the other that weather, that practically unpredictable feature of the Southwest Pacific, was closing down. The sun was a blood red ball balanced perfectly on the lip of the world. Dark, ugly clouds were sweeping up dead on to the Trenton, which was now turning up maximum knots.

That some five or six h.e.l.l Cats had already gone off was like a mule's kick in the stomach to Dawson. Maybe the pilot of one of them was the n.a.z.i spy. If so, in the matter of a couple of minutes he could lose himself in that weather and probably never be seen again. Maybe. And then again, maybe not. Dawson didn't pause to moan or groan over the situation. Instead he sprinted down the side of the deck to where his own h.e.l.l Cat was standing with its prop ticking over, and waiting to be run into the take-off line, in case it was needed aloft.

Dave reached his plane in the matter of split seconds, but just before he reached it Lady Luck smiled upon him for the first time in centuries and centuries. In other words, as the last plane of the sundown patrol swept by him he caught a flash look at its pilot. The pilot had his helmet on, and his goggles and oxygen cup were in place, but Dawson knew in a flash that it was his man. As a matter of fact, as the h.e.l.l Cat streaked by the pilot turned his head as though to look at Dawson, and Dave was sure he saw the eyes light up with a glare of triumphant hate.

Perhaps that last was simply a trick of his imagination. He didn't know.

All he knew was that the pilot of the last Grumman to take off was the straw-colored haired man he had seen through the wall crack of that shack back in San Diego. That was certain, it was absolutely definite, and it put wings on his feet for the last few yards to his plane.

Members of the deck crew saw him coming, and naturally a.s.suming that he was to take part in the patrol just as he had on other occasions, they sprang forward to aid him. That was another lucky break. It saved many precious minutes of explaining and making ready for flight. And so it seemed that he had hardly settled himself in the h.e.l.l Cat's pit before the signalman was motioning him to gun his engine and taxi into the take-off line. He did that and as soon as he got into position he received the signal to go ahead.

He gunned his powerful Pratt & Whitney full, and the h.e.l.l Cat seemed fairly to leap out from under him. Out the corner of his eye he caught a flash glimpse of Freddy Farmer racing toward his plane, but he didn't take time out for a good look. Not once all this time had he really taken his eyes off the plane flown by the n.a.z.i spy. Its identification letter and number were burned in his brain. F Dash Fourteen. That was it. F Dash Fourteen. The mark of a perfect fighter plane flown by one of Hitler's killers.

"But you won't be flying it for long, you dirty rat!" Dave grated as his wheels cleared and the Trenton's deck swept away out of sight beneath him. "It's been a long, long time patching up with you. But that's all ended now. This is the pay-off! And how it is the pay-off!"

As he spoke the last he took his eyes off the other plane for the first time to snap a quick glance back down over his shoulder. He saw another h.e.l.l Cat streaking off the Trenton's deck, and he knew at once that Freddy Farmer was at the controls. A tight grin stretched his lips as he turned forward.

"Good old Freddy, always right there with me," he grunted. "Of course it'll be two to one, you n.a.z.i rat, when usually the odds are the other way around. However ..."

And that was as far as he got with that. The n.a.z.i's plane, that had been climbing up to get into formation with the rest of the sundown patrol, suddenly cut off to the left and started down in a long power dive. The maneuver brought Dawson straight up in the seat. Had something happened?

Had the n.a.z.i gone mad? Why was he losing precious alt.i.tude by slicing downward? To do that simply made less sky for Dawson to cover to catch up with him, or at least to get into gun range.

A brief instant later, though, all those questions were answered. As Dave glanced down to the left he saw the thin but thick enough blanket of fog that was already sliding in over the outer ships of the carrier force. Just one look and he knew all the answers, and once again heard the mocking laughter of defeat in his ears.

Yes, that sea level fog layer, was thin, but it was thick enough for a plane to lose itself in very nicely. Perhaps it even grew thicker farther to the south. Dawson couldn't tell as he glanced that way. But he could see that farther south there were banked storm clouds.