CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_Avenging Eagles_
After what seemed like a million years spent in a world of torturingparalysis, the power to move and to act came back to Dave Dawson. Andeven as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees he heard bitterwords spill from Freddy Farmer's lips as the English born air ace beganto pick himself up off the deck.
"Fool that I am! The dirty beggar! Waited for me and copped me on thetopper as I came around the corner. I ... Good grief! You, Dave? Isay...!"
"Save it!" Dawson gasped as he got all the way onto his feet. "I haven'ttime, Freddy. He's topside, now. You stay here and rest that head. I'llget 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 camea mighty sound from the flight deck above to mock his words. Theroaring thunder of planes taking off.
"Wait here, nothing!" Freddy Farmer cried, "We'll both get theblighter!"
Perhaps young Farmer said more. If so Dawson didn't hear it, for he wasstreaking toward the companionway ladder. He reached it and probably seta new ship's record for reaching the flight deck in jig time. As heleaped out on deck a hundred and one things met his gaze, but only twoof them registered on his whirling brain. One was that Grumman Hell Catswere tearing off like a string of beads. And the other that weather,that practically unpredictable feature of the Southwest Pacific, wasclosing down. The sun was a blood red ball balanced perfectly on the lipof 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 Hell Cats had already gone off was like a mule'skick in the stomach to Dawson. Maybe the pilot of one of them was theNazi spy. If so, in the matter of a couple of minutes he could losehimself in that weather and probably never be seen again. Maybe. Andthen again, maybe not. Dawson didn't pause to moan or groan over thesituation. Instead he sprinted down the side of the deck to where hisown Hell Cat was standing with its prop ticking over, and waiting to berun into the take-off line, in case it was needed aloft.
Dave reached his plane in the matter of split seconds, but just beforehe reached it Lady Luck smiled upon him for the first time in centuriesand centuries. In other words, as the last plane of the sundown patrolswept by him he caught a flash look at its pilot. The pilot had hishelmet on, and his goggles and oxygen cup were in place, but Dawson knewin a flash that it was his man. As a matter of fact, as the Hell Catstreaked by the pilot turned his head as though to look at Dawson, andDave 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 thestraw-colored haired man he had seen through the wall crack of thatshack 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 assuming that hewas to take part in the patrol just as he had on other occasions, theysprang forward to aid him. That was another lucky break. It saved manyprecious minutes of explaining and making ready for flight. And so itseemed that he had hardly settled himself in the Hell Cat's pit beforethe signalman was motioning him to gun his engine and taxi into thetake-off line. He did that and as soon as he got into position hereceived the signal to go ahead.
He gunned his powerful Pratt & Whitney full, and the Hell Cat seemedfairly to leap out from under him. Out the corner of his eye he caught aflash glimpse of Freddy Farmer racing toward his plane, but he didn'ttake time out for a good look. Not once all this time had he reallytaken his eyes off the plane flown by the Nazi spy. Its identificationletter and number were burned in his brain. F Dash Fourteen. That wasit. F Dash Fourteen. The mark of a perfect fighter plane flown by one ofHitler's killers.
"But you won't be flying it for long, you dirty rat!" Dave grated as hiswheels cleared and the Trenton's deck swept away out of sight beneathhim. "It's been a long, long time patching up with you. But that's allended 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 firsttime to snap a quick glance back down over his shoulder. He saw anotherHell Cat streaking off the Trenton's deck, and he knew at once thatFreddy Farmer was at the controls. A tight grin stretched his lips as heturned forward.
"Good old Freddy, always right there with me," he grunted. "Of courseit'll be two to one, you Nazi rat, when usually the odds are the otherway around. However ..."
And that was as far as he got with that. The Nazi's plane, that had beenclimbing 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. Themaneuver brought Dawson straight up in the seat. Had something happened?Had the Nazi gone mad? Why was he losing precious altitude by slicingdownward? To do that simply made less sky for Dawson to cover to catchup with him, or at least to get into gun range.
A brief instant later, though, all those questions were answered. AsDave glanced down to the left he saw the thin but thick enough blanketof fog that was already sliding in over the outer ships of the carrierforce. Just one look and he knew all the answers, and once again heardthe mocking laughter of defeat in his ears.
Yes, that sea level fog layer, was thin, but it was thick enough for aplane to lose itself in very nicely. Perhaps it even grew thickerfarther to the south. Dawson couldn't tell as he glanced that way. Buthe could see that farther south there were banked storm clouds.
"No, no, not now!" he groaned as he kicked his Hell Cat around and downtoward that layer of fog. "Not at this late date, please, Lady Luck!"
But if Lady Luck answered it was simply the mocking laughter that hestill imagined to be ringing in his ears. And then a moment or two laterthe Nazi's Grumman was in the fog layer and no more than a faint shadowripping forward. A shadow that grew fainter and fainter as preciousseconds slipped by. In the frantic hope that he could keep track of thespeeding plane by not plunging down into the fog layer, Dawson pulledout a few hundred feet above it and held his course to the south. Butpresently there was no more moving shadow to be seen. The fog hadthickened, and the Nazi was gone! As a matter of fact, when Dave took animpulsive glance back over his shoulder he discovered that he was in anaerial world all his own. There was no longer any sign of the carrierforce, nor was there any sign of carrier planes in the air. Thereseemed to be fog and clouds all about him, yet curiously enough thelight from the setting sun seemed to cut through and lend a pinkish glowto everything in that part of the world.
"Freddy, Freddy Farmer!" Dawson suddenly gasped, as he suddenlyremembered his pal taking off. "Didn't Freddy see this bird and me godown? Didn't ... You dope! Find out!"
He snapped the last at himself when it occurred to him there was such athing as a radio. He had neglected to hook it up during the excitementof his take-off. He did so now, but before he could call out over theair to Freddy he heard the flight officer aboard the Trenton recallingthe planes. The planes that had taken off from the other two carrierswere being recalled, too. In code, of course, so that no listening Japears anywhere on the broad expanse of the Pacific would understand whatit was all about.
As Dawson heard the orders he was tempted to break in and tell what hadhappened and request that all available planes be sent out in an effortto block off the Nazi. But he checked himself even as the desire wasborn. The recall was being sent out for a very, very obvious reason.Weather was closing down fast and it would soon be impossible for any ofthe carriers to take their aircraft aboard. They would have to circleabout waiting for the weather to clear, or find a large enough hole toget down through. Failing either, they would finally run out of fuel andbe forced down into the sea, perhaps to be lost forever. And a mightyaircraft carrier task force about to go into battle could ill afford tolose any great number of its fighter aircraft protection.
"Skip it!" Dawson grunted with an unconscious shake of his he
ad. "Theywouldn't be any help, anyway, in this weather. You just can't askVice-Admiral Macon to run the risk of losing so many planes, and noteven find the rat. No, it's up to you. You, and Freddy Farmer, whereverhe is. But call him and ..."
He stopped himself with another and more vigorous shake of his head. Andfor several moments he droned forward at full throttle, striving to stabthe fog layer that stretched out endlessly beneath him. With reaches ofcloud scud a couple of thousand feet above him, it was like flying downa long, long, pink-tinted corridor in a world of beautiful make believe.But it was not beautiful or make believe to Dawson. He hated thatsun-tinted fog layer with his entire being. And it was cruel, ugly,heartless reality, and not make believe.
"No, don't call Freddy on your radio!" he said to himself. "He may notbe even close. Keep radio silence. You've got to. That Nazi rat hasears, and he certainly understands English. At least don't let him knowthat you're trying to hunt him out. He'll ..."
And it was at that instant that the light dawned on Dawson. It was atthat moment that his stupid thinking left him, and he got a little horsesense to take its place. What he should really do was so simple, soobvious, and so clear that his cheeks went oven hot from a blush ofshame.
"You ten-cent, cockeyed, bat-brained dope!" he ranted at himself. "Ofcourse, of course! That rat is trying to make Truk, isn't he? That's_his_ objective, isn't it? Certainly! Then why flub-dub around in thisstuff hoping that he'll break up through to let you see where he is? Yousap, get this air wagon hitting on everything it's got, and high tailfor Truk yourself. Don't try to smoke this rat _out_! Get to the Trukarea first, and smoke him _down_!"
With a savage nod of his head to emphasize his words, he quickly made acheck of the course and speed he had flown since taking off from theTrenton's flight deck, and then plotted a course that _should_ take himto that little cluster of pin point islands, surrounded by a coral reef,thirty-five to forty miles in diameter, known as Truk. Yes, it shouldtake him there, and he hoped and prayed so with all his heart and soul.Just the same a cold lump of lead formed in his chest and came up tolodge fast in his throat no matter how much he swallowed to get it backdown.
"If only Freddy were with me!" he sighed as he swung his Hell Cat oncourse, and gave the Pratt & Whitney in the nose every ounce of highoctane it would take. "Blindfolded, that guy can find any spot in theworld just so long as you give him wind direction, or something. Yeah,if he were only here, but he isn't. This is strictly up to you, CaptainDumb Dawson. And I do mean dumb, too. You took so long to get this onelogical idea that maybe that Nazi rat is miles and miles on his waythere now. And when you show up you'll get a sky full of Jap Zerosthrown in your face for your efforts. Oh well ... Aw, skip it!"
As though to silence the little taunting, ribbing voice, he banged hisfree fist against the side of the cockpit. That done, he hunched forwarda little bit in the seat and concentrated every bit of his attention onhis flying. Eight hundred miles to Truk? Well, a Hell Cat can do fourhundred miles an hour plus. So in a little under two hours he would bethere, and ... it would be yes, or no. Success or failure. And if it wasfailure, it would be complete failure for him. There would be no turningback to the carrier force with his tail between his legs. There justwasn't enough gas in his tanks for that. If he didn't find the Nazi ratin time, and if he didn't get shot down by Zeros that certainly must bepatrolling the Truk area, he would run out of gas and be forced intoenemy waters.
"And that will be the same as being shot down, and maybe worse!" he saidwith a slight shudder as the thought forced its way into his brain."Wouldn't those Jap butchers love to find a Yank pilot floating aroundin his rubber life raft! Wouldn't they just love _that_! A nice littlepleasant session of target practice, and then ... Cut it, Dawson! Cutit, fellow, or you'll be driving yourself bats, do you hear?"
He laughed a dry laugh at his ranting words, and then sobered instantly.He happened to glance impulsively off to his left and for the fleetingpart of a second he thought he saw the shadowy silhouette of anotherplane sliding along through the pinkness that fused and engulfedeverything. But when he took a second and longer look there was nothingbut a limitless expanse of cloud and fog.
At the end of a half-hour or so the fog beneath him thinned outconsiderably. He could see faint patches of the Pacific. And then afterten minutes of that the fog disappeared entirely. Rather it rose up tomerge with the clouds and leave an area of clear air some five hundredfeet high, and the horizon-to-horizon reaches of the mighty SouthwestPacific at the bottom.
Holding the Hell Cat to its course Dawson scanned the surface of thewater in all directions, but he did not see a single sign of a ship. Nordid he see any planes when he searched the area of clear air all abouthim. He was still alone in a world of his own, and for a couple ofminutes he toyed with the idea of climbing above the clouds, just incase the fleeing Nazi had done that, and he might be able to spot him.He finally killed off that idea, though, for the principal reason thatit would slow down his speed, and he did not have to have anybody tellhim that speed right now was the most precious thing in his life.
Speed and time. The two things that can change the whole course of theworld. And which have many times, as history will prove. Right now,they hung in the balance again. At least for him. The speed of hisroaring Hell Cat. And the time it would take him to get to the Truk areaso that he might cut that Nazi rat down into the depths of the Pacificto stay there for all eternity. And so that the information he wastaking to one Admiral Shimoda might be food for the fishes, too.
"And there won't be any little item of him getting me, instead," Dawsongrated softly, as a little inner voice seemed to mention thatpossibility. "I've never scrapped him in the air, but he's one guy I_know_ I can nail. I know it, because I know I've _got_ to! So that'show it stands, Lady Luck. Just give me the break of being able to catchup with him, and then leave the rest to me. Swell-headed and cocky?Okay, so I am! But let me at him and I'll get him, just the same!"
Those and other tidbits of thought rambled through his brain and cameoff his lips as he guided his Hell Cat forward under the low-hangingovercast. This was the flight of flights for him. It was, because evenif he won he would still lose as far as his own life was concerned. Evenif he shot the Nazi spy down into the Pacific he himself would soonfollow the rat down there. Not because he had been hit, or wanted to.Because he would have no choice. There would not be any gas left in hisplane. And all the guts and courage in the world; all the fightingspirit and will-to-win determination that ever existed, cannot make anairplane stay in the air when the last drop of gas has been sucked intothe engine. The age-old law of gravity comes into full force then, anddown you go whether you like it or not.
"Okay, I go down, so what?" he argued with his other self. "What does itmatter, if I've already sent that rat down where he belongs? A fellowcan't live forever, can he? All right, so why cry over it when your timecomes? Didn't some great man once say that the most beautiful experiencein life is death? Didn't...?"
He cut off the rest with a slow shake of his head, pushed up hisgoggles, and drew his free hand across his eyes.
"When a guy starts talking to himself this way, he must be going nuts,"he grunted. "Boy! Do I wish old Freddy were here with me to steady me alittle, like he's done so many times. Good old Freddy! I wonder where heis, now? Did he go back to the Trenton when the recall went out? Or ishe...?"
He stopped and swallowed hard. Sure, why not? Freddy had brains. Twiceas many brains as he had about lots of things. It wouldn't be anymiracle for Freddy Farmer to figure the situation out the same way hehad, and to be doing the very same thing that he was doing right now.And as that thought built itself up stronger and stronger in his brainhe searched the clear air about him again. But he saw nothing. If FreddyFarmer, too, was winging all out toward the Truk area, then he wassomewhere up in those clouds.
No sooner had he figured that one out than two brand-new thoughts rushedinto his swirling brain to taunt him, and cause little beads of nervou
ssweat to form on his face. Supposing Freddy Farmer by some miracle hadstumbled across that fleeing Nazi and slammed him down, just as amarksman such as Freddy could do? If so, then _he_ was simply flying tohis death by drowning, or ultimate capture by the Japs, for no earthlygood reason.
That wasn't a pleasant thought, and it sent a clammy shiver ripplingthroughout his body. And the other new thought made him shiver all themore. Supposing--just supposing this cursed cloud weather carried allthe way to Truk? Supposing the Nazi spy stayed up in it until he waswell within the protective ring of Truk's Zeros? If that turned out tobe the case, he wouldn't get a crack at that rat in a hundred years. Tento one that Nazi knew some secret radio signal he could send out to tellthe Japs who was approaching and not to attack simply because it was aYank plane. Supposing ...
And right then and there Dave Dawson stopped his supposing about things.In fact, he stopped thinking of all crazy things. The clouds above himsuddenly ceased abruptly. The Pacific ahead suddenly became as though onfire from the dying rays of the setting sun. It was like flying out fromunder a huge pink roof. He came out like a shot from a gun, and almostin the same instant he saw a flash of red ... a flash of sparklingcrimson caused by the sun rays dancing off the wings of a plane way offto his right and perhaps two or three thousand feet above him.
The Nazi rat, or Freddy Farmer? That question burned in letters of firea foot high in his brain, as he banked his Hell Cat to the right, andsent it nosing upward.
Dave Dawson at Truk Page 15