CHAPTER SEVEN

_Uncle Sam Steps In_

The long ride back to the War Office Building was made more or less in silence. And when Colonel Fraser ordered Lieutenant Faintor to put the car away, and led Dawson and Freddy Farmer up to his huge office, he simply waved them to comfortable chairs and promptly disappeared into an adjoining office.

Dawson looked at his own uniform and then at Freddy's.

"Boy, I hope he's gone to call a tailor!" he said. "Come the light of day and we'll be picked up by the first M.P. who spots us."

"Frankly, I hope he's gone to get us something to eat," Freddy replied. "I'm absolutely famished."

"You always are!" Dawson grunted. "Even at the time you're just paying the check. But that reminds me, Freddy. Remember the funny hunch I had at dinner tonight? Maybe the old feeling wasn't so far off at that, eh? Me, I must be psychic, huh?"

"Perhaps!" Freddy snapped. "But you're also a whole lot of other things that we won't bother to mention here."

"I'll ignore that crack, and simply take it from whence it comes," Dawson said loftily. "But would you like to make a bet, my little man?"

"A bet about what?"

"Never mind about what," Dawson said. "You want to bet?"

"No!" Freddy said firmly. "I'm too tired to be roped into anything by you. By the way, though, how is that cast-iron head of yours? You're certainly acting chipper enough."

"We Dawsons can take it," Dave grinned. "But lay off unpleasant memories, will you? So you won't bet, huh? Well, just the same, I'll bet you anything you like that we don't go on to Kingston from here. Or back to the Squadron, either. Now, what do you think of that?"

"I think you're balmy!" Freddy snorted.

"Okay, so he thinks I'm balmy," Dawson said, and waved a hand. "But I'm just telling you, that's all."

"Another one of your wonderful hunches, I suppose?" Freddy growled.

"Call it that if you like," Dawson shrugged. "But it's really a certain look in Colonel Fraser's eyes that makes me feel as I do."

"And just what do you feel, if I may be so bold as to ask?" young Farmer snapped.

Dave put a forefinger alongside his nose, winked, and nodded very mysteriously.

"The colonel has something cooking," he said. "And you can take it, or leave it!"

And no more than five seconds later Colonel Fraser came into the room followed by an orderly with a tray bearing a tea pot, cups and saucers, muffins, Army issue jam, and, miracles of miracles, some of those English midget-sized country sausages.

"Well, for once you were right, Dave," Freddy murmured softly. "He did have something cooking. And do those sausages smell good!"

"On the desk there, Parks," Colonel Fraser said, and then turned to Dawson and Farmer, smiling.

"A little spot of tea and food to appease the inner man, Gentlemen," he said. "Pull up your chairs to the desk, here. I've called your commanding officer and explained that I'm borrowing you for a bit. I've also called the chap I want you to meet. He'll be along shortly. But first, a little refreshment, what?"

"By all means, sir!" Freddy Farmer exclaimed, and moved his chair over to the desk.

For the next few minutes there was an absolute minimum of conversation in the colonel's office. All three of them truly were hungry, and they fell to, to do something about it. Then eventually the colonel began to ask questions about what the two air aces had seen and done since their last meeting. And Freddy and Dave told him, though every instant of the time questions of their own hovered on the tips of their tongues. It was evident to them, though, that the colonel had put the night's doings to one side for the moment, so they continued to let their questions hover on the tips of their tongues unspoken.

Then, about fifteen minutes later, there came a knock on the outer door. The colonel bade whoever it was enter, and an American Air Forces major came into the room, smiled, and saluted the colonel.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "I came as fast as I could."

"Come in, come in, my dear Major," Colonel Fraser said as he stood up. "We're just having a spot of tea. Won't you join us? Plenty of fresh tea, you know."

"Thank you, but no, sir," the major said, and let his eyes flick across Dawson's and Farmer's face. "I had some about an hour ago. Full up as it were, Colonel."

"Right you are, then," Colonel Fraser said. And then, gesturing a hand toward Dawson and Freddy Farmer, he said, "Let me introduce Captains Dawson and Farmer. Gentlemen, Major Crandall, of your Air Forces Intelligence."

Both Dave and Freddy shook hands with the major and murmured their pleasure at meeting him. His grip was firm, and his smile genuine, as he replied:

"The pleasure is really mine, Captains. I've heard so much about your fine work that this is really a red letter day for me. Or should I say, red letter night?"

Everybody laughed, and the major pulled up a chair and sat down.

"Positive you won't, Major?" Colonel Fraser said, and motioned to the tea pot.

"Positive, thank you just the same, sir," the Yank Air Forces Intelligence officer replied.

"Right-o, then," the colonel said. Then, his face becoming grave, he continued, "Let's get on with it. I didn't give you any facts over the phone, Major, because I thought it best for you to hear it all first hand. Tell them all you told me, you two chaps. And then we'll see what's what."

For the second time that night Dawson and Farmer related their experiences, from supper at the Savoy Hotel up to Colonel Fraser's arrival, with his men, at the apartment building out near Golders Green. Major Crandall listened attentively, but with no other expression on his good-looking, sun-bronzed face. And when Dawson and Freddy Farmer came to the end of their story the major arched one eyebrow slightly, but gave no other indication as to whether he was impressed or unimpressed.

"And here are the papers Dawson took from them, Major," Colonel Fraser said, and pushed the pile across the desk. "My man is right now checking on the two so-called Englishmen. And I imagine that your office will want to check on the Yank Air Forces colonel that Herr Baron pretended to be."

"Yes, we'd like to, sir," Major Crandall said as he took the papers. "We can do it very easily, too, as we--"

The American Intelligence officer cut his sentence off in the middle, and his face went white under his heavy tan. Dawson, watching him closely, saw the major's hand holding the papers shake a little. And he also saw that it was Herr Baron's picture on the top paper that made the officer pale.

"Colonel Frank Bowers?" the officer suddenly bit off. "Why, the low-down, dirty skunk! Posing as old Frank Bowers! Poor old Frank. I wonder just what did happen? We never heard a single word. And I personally asked Swiss Red Cross to check and double check."

"Obviously you knew him, eh, sir?" Freddy Farmer murmured politely, when the other made no effort to explain, but simply stared fixedly at the picture.

"What's that?" he suddenly said, raising his eyes. "Knew Frank Bowers? Of course I knew him. Like a brother. He was one of the best friends I, or any other man, ever had. He's been gone now almost a year."

"Do you mind telling us about it, Major?" Colonel Fraser asked quietly.

"Not at all, sir, though there's not much to tell," the Yank Intelligence officer replied quickly. "Frank Bowers was the C.O. of a Flying Fortress Group. And the right kind of a C.O., too. I mean that he flew on just as many raids as anybody else, and did his paper work as C.O. to boot. I knew him back home in Detroit, where we both hail from. Always crazy about flying, and when the big chance came he soon showed his worth, and went up the promotion ladder fast. Well, it was May of last year to be exact. I believe the date was the seventeenth. He led a Fortress raid on Lorient, in Occupied France. Flak and enemy fighter opposition that day were extra heavy. We lost several planes, Frank's among them. Pilots who got back reported that his ship suffered a direct flak hit. The thing went down in pieces. One pilot said that he saw some parachutes float down from Frank's plane, but he wasn't positive, as there were a lot of our boys going down by parachute that day. Well, we received no word at all about the fate of Frank and his crew. I gave their names to Swiss Red Cross, but they reported that they could locate none of the fellows in any of the German prison camps. That was that. A man who was as fine a leader as he was a pilot was gone forever, with all the members of his Fortress crew. But--"

Major Crandall stopped, tapped the picture with a finger, and looked questioningly at Colonel Fraser. The British Intelligence chief nodded slowly.

"Quite, Major," he said quietly. "Perhaps your friend was killed, but the Nazis _were able_ to get hold of his papers. But tell me, Major? Would you say that those papers were the property of the real Colonel Bowers?"

"Definitely," Major Crandall said, and held one up. "All but this one. This one stating that he was of recent date attached to Air Forces Intelligence is faked. Frank wouldn't have served with Intelligence, unless by Presidential order. He wanted to get out into the open and fight. He was that kind of a man."

"And to think I let that stinking, no-faced Nazi slip through my fingers!" Dave Dawson groaned. "I should be sent to the rear rank for that blunder!"

"Oh, no, not at all, Dawson," Colonel Fraser said. "After all, had you not gone out on the roof after Farmer, he might have met with a very nasty finish. There were two of them, you know, and--"

The colonel suddenly choked off the rest and gaped wide-eyed at Dawson. And well he might, for Dave's face had suddenly become the color of a four alarm fire, and he looked for all the world like a man seeking a hole into which he could crawl before pulling the hole in after him.

"Good heavens, man, what's wrong?" the colonel cried, and started up from his chair.

"Me, sir!" Dave replied with a grimace. "I guess I should be broken and sent back to the rear rank. I clean forgot. Funny, too, considering I remembered everything else so clearly. Maybe it was that smack on the head."

"Forgot what?" Colonel Fraser demanded. "Come, come, Dawson! What the devil is this all about?"

"This, sir," Dave said weakly, and fished a hand into his tunic pocket to pull out the little black leather book he had taken from the inside of Herr Baron's tunic lapel. "I felt it in his tunic lapel, sir," he said. "But I clean forgot to mention it. Here, sir. It's all in code, I think."

Dawson held it out and Colonel Fraser practically pounced on it like a tiger upon a hunk of meat. He flipped through the pages rapidly, and the look in his eyes got brighter and brighter.

"Praise the powers that be you didn't forget any longer than you did, Dawson!" he snapped. Then, with a quick shake of his hand, "I'm sorry for that, old man. I apologize. You went through enough to make a man to forget 'most everything. It's just that I'm so excited to get hold of this."

"That's all right, sir," Dave said with a smile. "I should have thought of it sooner. You think you can break down that code?"

"With ease," the colonel said, and reached out a hand to press one of a row of buttons on the edge of his desk. "It's one of the numbers codes. The Nazis go all out for that type of code, for some unknown reason. Naturally, though, we're grateful to them for that, because they are so simple to break down. I remember once when--"

But the side door opened to admit a rather tired-eyed lieutenant, and the colonel didn't continue. He turned and handed the little black book to the officer.

"Get everything out of this, Wilson," he said. "Put two or three on it, if you have to. I want it as soon as possible. By the way, anything yet on the other business?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "I was about to ring you when you buzzed. Henderson just called in. Both John Dobbler and Harold Cabot are listed in Records as having been killed during the blitz. Neither has been seen at the address given since then, sir. Fact is, sir, Henderson says Dobbler's block was completely destroyed, and nothing's been put up there as yet."

"Thank you, Wilson," Colonel Fraser said with a nod of dismissal. "Now, get right at that thing, there's a good chap."

"Quite, sir," the junior officer said, and hurried out of the office.

Colonel Fraser turned to the other and clenched his fists in a helpless gesture.

"If only we could devise some means of civilian identification that couldn't be stolen by Nazi scoundrels!" he said bitterly. "No doubt that Hans and that Erich have been walking around London bold as brass and posing as poor Dobbler and Cabot ever since the Blitz! It's enough to make a man weep."

"I wonder how they got hold of the papers." Dawson murmured.

"A hundred different ways," Colonel Fraser said. "Took 'em off the poor devils as they lay dead in the bomb rubble. Or when they were in a casualty station, or a hospital. Things were very much in a stew during blitz nights, you know. Everybody was helping everybody else, and nobody was asking the next chap why he was there, or what he was doing. There wasn't any time for that, or any need. London was in a desperate state, and little things didn't matter at all. No, they simply got hold of the papers somehow, and then steered clear of those addresses. Civilians carried no pictures on their papers for identification, you know. That is, save an important few in charge of Air Raid Defense work."

"Well, that's one satisfaction, at least," Freddy Farmer said grimly. "That beggar, Erich, will steal no more papers. We sent that blighter where he belongs."

"You mean, _you_ did," Dawson corrected with a grin. "And saved my hide at the same time!"

Freddy Farmer shrugged that off and looked at Colonel Fraser.

"There's something I'd like to ask if I may, sir?" he said.

"Who has a better right, Farmer?" the senior officer smiled. "Go right ahead."

"That Hans and Erich drank a toast to the Fuehrer's secret weapon, sir," Freddy said. Then, with a little embarrassed smile, "I know the Nazis have been putting out a lot of silly scare propaganda, now that we're blasting their cities. Threatening to use a secret weapon, and all that sort of thing. But--well, frankly, sir, is there anything to this secret weapon business, that you know of?"

The British Intelligence officer didn't reply to the question for a moment. He drummed his fingertips on the desk, and pursed his lips as though he were carefully selecting the words to speak.

"Propaganda, or not," he finally said slowly, "we are firmly convinced that the Nazis are arranging some kind of a surprise for us. Fact is, we've felt that way for some time now. Just what it is, we frankly do not know. I know for sure that British Intelligence hasn't obtained sufficient information as yet to give us so much as an inkling as to what it is. But what about you, Major? Has Yank Intelligence got wind of anything of that sort?"

"Yes and no, sir," Major Crandall said with a crooked little smile. "Like you, we've received some confirmed reports from inside Germany that something is brewing. I mean, that Hitler has become so desperate that he's going to take a desperate gamble, and play his final cards. But whether it will be against the Russians, or against us, or both, we don't know. Nor do we know if it's a new plane, a new gun, a new kind of tank, or what. But it's pretty certain that the Nazis are not going to take the terrific air beating they are now receiving without striking back with something very special they've been saving until they were forced to use it."

"You speak of confirmed reports, sir," Dawson spoke up. "Just what do you mean by that? Confirmed reports of what, may I ask?"

"Of unusual things taking place inside Germany, and inside Occupied France," the major replied. "As an example, we have received a report that a certain factory making landing gear parts has suddenly become a very hush-hush place. No one can get within a mile of the spot without being shot. The working force has been doubled, and no worker is allowed to leave that area. They eat, sleep, and work there. Why? We haven't the faintest idea. We've known since the very beginning of the war that that particular plant made landing gear parts. Nothing secret about it at all. One of our agents even went through the plant. But he can't get within a mile of it now. Nor can anybody else, without the proper authority. And that plant is but one of at least a dozen that of late have become forbidden ground, you might say. By itself, the report means nothing, but when added to other scraps of information we have been able to collect, it all points to the Nazis working up something very special. For the want of a better word, we call it a secret weapon."

"And the little item that gives it even greater importance now, Major?" Colonel Fraser said, and smiled knowingly.

"Yes, very much so," the other said grimly. Then he looked at Dawson, and tapped the picture of Colonel Frank Bowers. "This," he said. "Rather, that rat, Herr Baron, who posed as Colonel Frank Bowers. Both English and Yank Intelligence have been able to find out that the man called Herr Baron was directly connected with whatever is taking place in these suddenly double guarded factories. Don't ask me, Herr Baron who, because I don't know. Nobody seems to know. Not even in Germany, or the occupied countries, where he seems to be feared as much as Himmler, if not more so. Obviously he is a skilled actor, and an expert quick change and make-up artist. Also, he is clever, and has a heart of stone. But that's about all we know. At least, all that Yank Intelligence knows. Perhaps, Colonel, you can add to--"

But Major Crandall didn't get the chance right then to finish the question. The side door opened, and Lieutenant Wilson came hurrying in. In one hand he held the little black book. And in the other he held two sheets of paper, and Dawson could see that they were both filled with closely typewritten lines. And Dawson could also see that Lieutenant Wilson was striving hard to be typically English, and not let his wild excitement show on his face.