CHAPTER ONE

_Hangar Flying_

FREDDY FARMER scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle down between his fingers as he stared thoughtfully out at the broad expanse of the sky-blue Pacific Ocean. He and Dave Dawson had been granted seven days’ leave from special duty with the U.S. Armed Forces, and they were spending it at Laguna Beach, just a few miles south of Los Angeles, in California. Only three days of swimming and taking it easy in the sun had passed into time history, but Freddy was beginning to get restless. With the whole world at war, somehow he just couldn’t relax and enjoy a well earned and much deserved rest.

“Dave, know something?” he grunted presently. “I’ve got a feeling.”

The dark-haired, well built youth sprawled face down on the sand beside him didn’t make a sound. He didn’t so much as move a single muscle. Freddy looked at him, made a face, and jabbed him in the ribs with a thumb.

“I said, I’ve got a feeling,” he repeated.

Dave Dawson groaned, rolled over on his side, and gave his English born pal an exasperated glare.

“There I was winning the war all by myself, and ten of the most beautiful girls in the world waiting to hang medals on my manly chest!” he growled. “So now, what?”

“For the third time,” Freddy Farmer said evenly, “I’ve got a feeling!”

“Well, have it for the fourth time, and see if I care!” Dawson snapped. “Wake a guy up from a beautiful dream just because you’ve got a feeling? Well, go buy some flea powder, or something!”

Freddy grinned and held his thumb up, ready to jab it to the ribs again.

“One thing I like about you, Dave,” he said. “You’re always cheerful and gay. Never a scowl or a sharp word. Going to stay awake, or must I give you this again?”

“Do, and you’ll have a three mile swim!” Dave muttered, but sat up just the same. “Because that’s how far out I’ll heave you. But very well, my little man. What’s bothering you today? Tell Papa, and then he’ll go buy you a nice big lollypop, all coated with arsenic! Shoot!”

Freddy Farmer didn’t reply at once. He played with the sand some more, and took another look at the blue of the Pacific.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be here very long, Dave,” he finally said slowly. “I have the feeling that something is brewing, and about to pop, as you would say. Did you stop at the desk for mail when we left the hotel this morning?”

“I did not!” Dawson replied quickly. “And if you must know the truth, my bothersome friend, I had a feeling that there was something there I didn’t want to see. So I sailed right on by without giving the mail box a look. But it’ll be there when we go back this noon. So what, so what, I always say.”

“I wonder what kind of a job Colonel Welsh has lined up for us next time,” Freddy murmured. “He didn’t drop any hint to you, did he?”

Dave Dawson snorted and made gestures with his two hands.

“Listen to the guy!” he grunted. “Did Colonel Welsh drop any hints? My dear young man, for your education, Colonel Welsh is chief of all U.S. Intelligence Services--Army, Navy, and Air Corps. Very few people know that, however. He--”

“Yes, yes, go on!” Freddy Farmer cut in sarcastically. “He is mostly known as a colonel of infantry, but that is just a cover for his real job. It was Colonel Welsh who arranged for us to be transferred out of the Royal Air Force to duty with the American forces. Our first job was with the Pacific Fleet, and--and although you did your best to get our necks broken, I did manage to save the day for us.[1] Right you are! So much for Colonel Welsh’s personal history. What I want to know is, _did_ he give you an inkling of what our next job would be?”

“As I was about to say,” Dave said patiently, “Colonel Welsh is the kind of a man who wouldn’t even let his own shadow know when he was going to take another step. So that means he told me absolutely nothing. Of course he did mention--but skip it. Let it slide.”

“No, certainly not!” Freddy Farmer cried eagerly. “What did he mention? Go on, Dave! Tell me!”

“Well, he is a very understanding man,” Dawson said gravely. “He knows the load I have to carry when you are around. So--well, he mentioned something about how if I’d like to leave you behind next time--why, it would be okay by him. He--Hey! Watch it! I’ve only got two arms! Don’t break both of them, you wild man!”

The last was caused by Freddy Farmer dropping down on top of him, and for the next few minutes the sands of Laguna Beach were flying in all directions. Eventually Dave broke free and leaped to his feet.

“Just what I mean!” he panted. “A very dangerous guy to have around. Never can tell when he’s going to go nuts. See you in the Pacific, Apple Cheeks!”

“Call me Apple Cheeks?” Freddy roared. “Why, I’ll--”

Freddy didn’t finish. By then Dave was a streak of sun-tanned lightning heading for the water. The English born ace sped after him, and for the next fifteen or twenty minutes they forgot the war cares of the world and were just a couple of red-blooded fellows having a swell time in the water. But when they came up onto the beach again and dropped down on the sand, a tiny cloud seemed to steal across the face of the warm sun and they unconsciously looked at each other, grave-eyed and grim.

It was Dave who finally broke the silence.

“If I live out this war,” he said with a short laugh, “I’m going to set me up in the crystal ball gazing business. I should make a million the very first year. I get the strongest hunches sometimes.”

“I think I’ll go into partnership with you,” Freddy Farmer grunted. “I’m getting your habit of getting blasted hunches, myself. Just now--I had one. I mean--well, that is--”

“That there _is_ some kind of a message for us at the hotel?” Dave asked softly. “Well, that’s just the way I feel, pal. And you know me and my hunches. You can bet on them!”

“Well, once in a while, yes,” Freddy nodded. “And I fancy that this is one of those times. What say we go up and find out, Dave? I think I’d go a little balmy just sitting here wondering. Wouldn’t you?”

“Check on that,” Dave said with a nod and a sigh, and picked up his bathrobe. “Let’s go. Know something, Freddy?”

“Several things,” the English born youth replied. “What is it now?”

“A hope of mine,” Dave told him. “A hope that there really is a message for us at the hotel. I mean--for us to go back to work. This is a swell place, and all that.... But--well, it makes me feel kind of a heel to be taking it easy here when there are so many others fighting and dying all over the world. Don’t get me wrong, Freddy. I’m not trying to act the old medal snatcher, I just--”

“I know exactly, Dave,” Freddy Farmer interrupted quietly, and flung one arm across Dawson’s shoulders. “When there’s still so blasted much to be done, it sort of gets a chap not to be doing something about it. Yes, Dave, I hope, too, that there’s a message waiting for us at the hotel. And if there isn’t--”

Freddy let the rest slide and shrugged.

“Yes?” Dave prompted. “And if there isn’t any message for us there?”

“Then I jolly well think I’ll wire Colonel Welsh,” Freddy said, “and request that I be returned to duty.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth!” Dave cried. “That’s just what I was going to suggest we do. Well, keep your fingers crossed, kid. There’s the hotel bus waiting. It won’t be long, now--one way or the other.”

“And, please, Allah,” Freddy Farmer murmured, “let it be the way we want it!”

Footnote 1:

“_Dave Dawson with the Pacific Fleet._”