CHAPTER THREE

_Fate Laughs Last_

THEY CAME UPON the crashed plane unexpectedly. One moment a solid wall of trees and heavy undergrowth loomed up in front of their paths, and in the next they were bursting through into a small clearing, and there was the wrecked plane. A single flash glance told Dave that his original guess has been correct. The plane was an Air Corps P-Forty. But he wasted just that single glance on the plane. With Freddy Farmer right at his heels, he dashed around to the other side of the crash and dropped to his knees beside the sprawled figure of the injured pilot.

The man’s cries for help had obviously taxed much of his remaining strength. He was in a dead faint, and his face was the color of old parchment, save where it was smeared with blood. As Dave looked down at him he felt his heart turn icy, and then it seemed to loop over in his chest. The pilot was hurt badly, very badly. His chest was horribly crushed, and the fact that he was stretched out on the ground seemed to indicate that crash impact had thrown his body clear. He couldn’t possibly have crawled from the wreck in that condition. That he had summoned up enough strength to call out had been a miracle in itself.

“The poor blighter,” Freddy Farmer said softly. “There isn’t anything we can do for him. I wonder what happened? He’s wearing his 'chute. Why didn’t he bail out?”

Dave started to speak, but he checked himself as the injured man opened his eyes. There was pain and bitter misery in them. And something else, too. Something in their depths. Dave had seen that in the eyes of other men on the far flung battlefields of the world. And he recognized it now as the Shadow of Death.

“Oxygen tank. Something haywire. Smelled funny. Passed out like a light. Woke--up--here.”

The words were spoken in a whisper, and both Dave and Freddy had to strain their ears to catch them. As the man made gurgling sounds in his throat, Dave shook his head.

“Don’t try to talk, old man,” he said gently. “Just try and relax. We’ll do something for you. Just take it easy. We’ll get you out of here and in a nice hospital in no time at all. Just relax and don’t waste your strength.”

Dave knew that he lied as he spoke the words, but the injured pilot’s suffering justified all the lies in the world. But the pilot knew that he was lying. The corners of his mouth twitched in a faint grin, and he shook his head a little.

“It’s okay--know this is it. I don’t mind, but--I must be in Frisco tonight. Urgent. Must see Colonel Welsh--must see Colonel Welsh--must see--him....”

The man tried to go on talking, but the hand of death was close. He did mumble sounds, but they made no sense to either Dave or Freddy, though they both strained their ears to the utmost. A terrible dryness was in Dave’s mouth, and his heart was hammering against his ribs. For a crazy instant he wanted to shake the injured man back to consciousness and find out, what about Colonel Welsh? But of course he didn’t do anything like that. He simply squatted there on the ground with Freddy Farmer and stared helplessly at the dying man. Would he go, now, or would he revive again long enough to speak more? Much as he wanted to know what the injured pilot had to say, Dave could not but hope with all his heart that the man might be spared more pain and suffering, and be taken to his heavenly reward in peace.

However, the spark of life burned fiercely in the injured pilot. Once more he came back to consciousness, once more he looked up into Dave Dawson’s face, and once more his lips moved and whispered words.

“Tell--Colonel Welsh--Seven-Eleven--I’m sure--oxygen! Passed--out. Tell--tell him--”

The whispering started to fail, and Dave put his ear close to the man’s trembling lips.

“Yes, old fellow?” he pleaded. “Go on! What do you want us to tell Colonel Welsh? We’re meeting him in Frisco tonight.”

The dying man’s eyes lighted up with a sort of wild joy.

“Thank God!” came the faint sound. “Tell him--southern--southern al--bar--cur--keys. Understand? Southern al--bar--cur--keys. Seven-Eleven--there.... Strike--soon! Hurry--hurry--hur--”

The whispering sounds faded away. The injured pilot’s eyes seemed to give off showers of sparks. He heaved himself up on one elbow, tried to speak again, but failed. A long soft sigh slid out from between his lips. Then he slumped back on the ground. His eyes fluttered closed. And he lay still. Dave started to speak again, but he checked himself. He knew that this pilot would never again hear a human voice in this world. He was gone forever, leaving behind the jumbled up sounds of words that represented some secret now forever locked in his brain.

Dave and Freddy slowly got to their feet, stood silently at attention, and solemnly saluted the dead pilot on the ground. On impulse Dave took off his tunic and reverently placed it over the dead man’s head and shoulders. Then he turned and looked at Freddy.

“Did you catch all that?” he asked. “Did it mean anything to you?”

The English born youth slowly shook his head.

“I heard it, yes,” he said. “But I haven’t the faintest idea what he was trying to tell us. There were four words. He spoke them twice, slowly. He desperately wanted us to tell them to Colonel Welsh. I got them as Al, and Bar, and Cur, and Keys. Perhaps that’s some sort of a code that Colonel Welsh will understand.”

“Yes, it probably is,” Dave said with a frown. “And I guess that means he was one of Colonel Welsh’s agents. Gosh! This makes me feel like a grave robber, but I guess I’ve got to do it. Give me a hand, Freddy. I think we’d better search his pockets, and deliver the contents to Colonel Welsh.”

“Quite,” Freddy murmured, and dropped to his knees again. “I hope the poor chap will understand, wherever he is. Did you get that first bit he spoke about, Dave? I think he was trying to explain that his oxygen tank had been sabotaged. Somebody tampered with it, and he passed out when he took a bit. Phew! He must have come down at least eighteen thousand before he hit. A miracle the ship didn’t catch on fire. Blast war, I say! How I hate the whole rotten business!”

“You can say that again!” Dave muttered grimly. “Okay. You take the things as I hand them to you.”

Some ten minutes later the two youths stared at a tiny pile of personal belongings on the ground. There was a handkerchief, with no initial, a pocket knife, a pack of cigarettes, and a clip of matches. But there was one other article that caused them to stare hard and frown in puzzled wonderment. It was a plain copper disc about the size of an American quarter. It was absolutely smooth, and contained not a single scratch or mark.

“A lucky piece, eh?” Freddy Farmer grunted as he met Dave’s eyes.

“Maybe,” the Yank born flying ace said with a shrug. “But do you notice something kind of strange, Freddy? This poor lad hasn’t got a cent of money on him. Not a thing, except this copper disc.”

“And not a single bit of identification!” Freddy Farmer breathed.

“So it’s certain that he was one of Colonel Welsh’s agents,” Dave said, and bounced the copper disc in his hand. “And my guess is that this will identify him to Colonel Welsh. Gosh! How I hate, now, to keep that date in Frisco tonight.”

“Why?” Freddy wanted to know.

“Because we’re going to have to deliver some tough luck news to Colonel Welsh,” Dawson said quietly. “And, maybe--and maybe this will wash out his reasons for wanting to see us. I hope not. I hope that--”

Dave shrugged and let the rest hang in thin air. He got to his feet, and nodded at Freddy.

“Time we got going,” he said. “We’ll mark this spot on our maps so Frisco Base can send an ambulance plane back for him. If we got in and out, so can an ambulance plane pilot. Happy landings, old man. You can count on all the rest of us carrying on for you until those Axis rats are finished for keeps.”

“Amen!” Freddy breathed softly, and dropped into step.

Not another word was spoken between them until Dave had skillfully lifted the Vultee clear of the small narrow strip of ground and was nosing up into the California sky. Then Freddy reached forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Tip-top bit of flying, as usual, Dave!” he called out. “But tell me something. You started to say you hoped something, but you didn’t finish. What was it?”

Dave flew on a bit before he finally twisted around in the seat and looked back at Freddy.

“Just a wild hope, and probably a crazy one,” he said. “But I sort of hope that Colonel Welsh will give us the job of picking up where that poor fellow left off. Somehow I’d like to try and finish whatever it is he’s started.”

“And that makes two of us who are hoping!” Freddy Farmer echoed back instantly.