CHAPTER ELEVEN

_A Little Bit Of England!_

Dave didn't bother looking at the redhead as the man pushed words off the tip of his tongue. He kept his nose pressed against the cabin window and watched with beating heart as the area of tableland came sweeping up closer and closer to the plane. The nearer the plane got to the ground, the more weatherbeaten and deserted the two shacks looked. In fact, Dave knew that if he should be flying over them at even a thousand feet or so, he would instantly take them for a couple of prospectors' shacks abandoned to the wind and the rain years and years before.

Another couple of minutes and the Stinson went up on wing, cut around in a dime turn, and then leveled off and settled to earth between two rows of sun-bleached rocks. Hardly had the plane braked to a halt than the redhead was at the cabin door, pushing it open with one hand behind him, and backing out. Every second of the time, though, he kept his blue green eyes fastened on his prisoners.

"I'll take them inside while you put the job away," he said to the pilot. "Stick her way under the trees with that Waco, just in case some nosy guys come flying over. Nuts to take chances, you know. We'll--"

"Can it!" the pilot snarled. "Who are you, giving orders? Take them inside. I'll be along in a minute, and help tie them up. But keep that gun ready, and use it if you have to. We can't risk anything, see?"

"I see, sure I see!" the redhead snarled back. "What's eating you, anyway?"

"Nothing, and shut up!" the pilot said in a brittle voice.

The redhead nodded, and motioned with his gun to Dave and the other two.

"Out!" he snapped. "And watch it. And keep your hands in sight, too."

Dave obeyed to the letter, but his heart was thumping against his ribs. He had a sneaky feeling that Colonel Welsh's words had had a profound effect on the pilot. Sure, he had snarled, and boasted, and cursed the United States, the land of his birth. But like all rats of his ilk, deep down in his black heart he was scared stiff of the Old Man With the Whiskers. Deep down in his heart he knew that he might get by with this back stabbing for a little while--just like the Japs--but not for long. In the end he would be caught in the wheels of right and justice and be ground to a pulp.

With the pilot feeling as he obviously did, snapping and snarling at his own partner in this dirty work, perhaps something could be made of it. Perhaps--

Dave didn't finish the rest. Without realizing it he had sort of stopped to mull things over as he climbed down from the plane. He had unconsciously started to push one hand into his tunic pocket. He didn't even realize he was making the movement, but the redhead saw it, took it for the wrong thing, and moved with the speed of light. The barrel of the automatic was slapped against the left side of Dave's jaw just hard enough for him to see stars and stumble. He ended up by falling the rest of the way out of the cabin doorway and landing flat on his face on hard dirt.

"And stay there!" he heard the redhead growl. "I'll take that gun just as soon as your two pals are down. Okay, you two. Out, and keep your hands where I can see them. Okay! Now, flat on your bellies and hands outstretched. Either of you move, and you get it."

A moment later Dave felt the muzzle of the automatic pressed against the back of his head, and felt the redhead's other hand going through his pockets. He didn't move a muscle, and presently an angry curse told him that the redhead realized he was wrong. Then the gun tapped him lightly on the head.

"Stay put, with your hands out!" the redhead said. "I'll just make sure about your pals."

Dave kept his throbbing face buried in the dirt until he heard the redhead's voice again.

"Okay, on your feet, and inside! And no more kidding moves like that last one, Dawson. My trigger finger's getting plenty itchy. Okay, move!"

Dave got slowly to his feet, blinked from his eyes water caused by smacking the ground with his face, and walked stiff-legged in through the door of the nearest shack. He expected to step into a room heavy with age, and dust, and dirt, and all the countless smells of the years. But he didn't. He stepped into a large sized room that was comfortably furnished and fitted out like a hunting lodge. No, not exactly a hunting lodge. Rather, it looked more like an arsenal. There were guns all over the place, of all types: pistols, automatics, rifles, and machine guns. Along the entire right wall were heavy wood boxes that obviously contained thousands and thousands of rounds of ammunition.

But what caught Dave's eyes and held them was the powerful gas engine operated short-wave radio receiving set and transmitter that took up most of the space at the rear of the room. One glance told him that every part of it was of the finest equipment, and that its operator could contact points thousands and thousands of miles away. One look at the set and he guessed instantly that one of its chief uses was to send weather data to listening Axis ears. This was probably one of several such stations hidden in the vastness of the United States. In time they would be smoked out and destroyed. Meantime, though, they were serving the Axis powers well, and, unquestionably, in a dozen different ways.

"Not bad, huh?" he heard the redhead's voice with its taunting note. "We have lots of fun here, Mike and Ike. See what I mean, Colonel? We got it all doped out. You Army and Navy guys are suckers. You don't stand a chance, what I mean. When the time's right, we'll move in. And that's all there'll be to it, see? Steady, Colonel! Steady, pal. Rushing me will just get you a bullet in that belly of yours. Take it easy, and relax. Back up, and sit down on that case. You two kids, too."

As the redhead grinned and made motions with the gun, Dave, Freddy, and the Colonel slowly backed up until they were sitting on a couple of gun cases. Once they were settled, with their hands carefully kept in sight, the redhead hooked one leg over a nearby table and absently stroked the palm of his other hand with the barrel of his automatic. Dave heard Colonel Welsh's tight, rasping breathing beside him, but he didn't look at the man. Nor did he glance at Freddy Farmer, who hadn't spoken a word since they had entered the Stinson. Instead, Dave kept his eyes fixed on the redhead--and waited, and hoped, and prayed.

"Yeah, we have us some fun here," the redhead went on, and looked straight at Colonel Welsh. "But soon we're going to have some real fun. See all these guns, Colonel? Lots of people are going to hear them pop off, soon. People east in Washington, too. The boys running this show have it all doped out. It'll be a cinch."

"Do you know what you are?" the Colonel suddenly asked with an effort.

"No, you tell me, Colonel," the redhead said with a chuckle. Then, before Colonel Welsh could get a word in edgewise: "You know, I'd never tab you for head of the Intelligence, Colonel. You don't look the part to me at all. But maybe that's what's made you the great man of mystery, eh? Well, the mystery is over as far as I'm concerned. And to tell you the truth, I'm kind of disappointed. When we got the radio flash that you were aboard a plane heading west with these two kids, I got kind of all excited. I got kind of sorry, too, that I'd have to shoot you down without having a look at you. But--well, I did get that look after all. And I'm disappointed."

"And you are a complete and utter fool!" Colonel Welsh said, tight-lipped. "I told you once, and I tell you again! You'll never get away with this. You'll be caught and either strung up, or shot. You'll get--"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up? Well, do it. We can't be bothered listening to your junk. Shut up! _Do you hear me!_"

It was the voice of the pilot, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. He stood glaring at Colonel Welsh out of eyes that held a wild, glassy glitter. Two white spots appeared on either cheek, and as the last left his lips they came together to form a thin cruel line. Then before Colonel Welsh, or Dave, or Freddy Farmer could so much as move a muscle, the man leaped forward and slammed his upholstered gun against the Colonel's left temple. The chief of U. S. Intelligence slumped over, but caught himself and straightened up slowly. A trickle of blood ran down from the cut on his temple, but he made no effort to raise his hand to it. He looked at the pilot and smiled grimly. Dave marveled silently at the man's courage and ability to take it. The blow he had received was enough to knock over a horse.

"Swing again, you rat traitor!" the Colonel got out evenly. "You know in your heart that you're sunk. And it's making you lose your grip."

For an instant Dave thought the pilot was going to go stark raving mad with rage and hurl himself at the Colonel. But he didn't. With a visibly tremendous effort he regained control of himself and forced a harsh laugh off his lips.

"That's what you think!" he snapped. Then out of the corner of his mouth to his partner: "Get that rope, and we'll tie them up. We'll gag this big slob. I'm sick of hearing his yapping."

Less than five minutes later Dave and Freddy were bound hand and foot. Colonel Welsh was bound hand and foot, too, but he was also gagged. The pilot made sure that the ropes were tied right, then turned his back on them and walked over to a table on the other side of the room. He picked up a whiskey bottle there, took a long drink and choked on it. He coughed so hard he almost dropped the bottle. He would have if the redhead hadn't jumped quickly forward and grabbed it.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?" the redhead demanded angrily. "You getting the jim-jams? This is no time to fall apart. Snap out of it. Get hold of yourself. Boy! Wouldn't the big boss like to see you, now. I knew he should have put me in charge of this station."

The pilot suddenly went white about the corners of his mouth, and there was cold murder in the eyes he fixed on the redhead. He reached out and tapped the redhead on the chest with the barrel of his automatic.

"Just say that again, lug," he grated. "Go on! Just say it again!"

The redhead seemed to wilt like a flower tossed into a blast furnace. He gulped and swallowed hard, and backed away a couple of steps.

"Okay, okay!" he got out hastily. "I was only kidding. But I only thought--"

"Nobody wants you to think!" the pilot snarled, and took a step forward. "Get it? Cut out the thinking. Now, get on that key and contact Frisco. Tell them we've got them on ice, and what do we do now? Tell them this place is cooked, if either of these three should get away. Find out where he wants them delivered, or what. He was nuts to have us go hunting them, and bring them back here. They'd have been stuck there a week, anyway. And that's more time than we need to fly these guns and stuff to the other places. But skip that last. Don't tell them that, understand. The big boy wouldn't like it."

"I'll say he wouldn't!" the redhead said with a tight laugh, and went through the motions of slitting his throat from ear to ear. "Okay. I'll find out what we do now. Fun, I hope."

The redhead flung the trio of prisoners a leering look, then went to the back of the room and sat down at the radio equipment. A moment or so later the crackling of the spark gap of a wireless set filled the room. Dave closed his eyes and strained his ears. He caught the signal being sent out. It was S-T. It was repeated a dozen times or more. Then the man stopped sending, and there was silence as he listened to whatever was coming through his earphones. After twenty seconds or so he started sending again. Dave caught all the signals, but that's all the good it did him. He glanced at Freddy Farmer and Colonel Welsh, and knew that they were catching the signals, too, and that the code going out over the air was just as meaningless to them as it was to him.

For five minutes the redhead "talked" with the man at the other end of the wave length. Then he switched off his set, got up and turned around with a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear.

"He thinks we're great guys," he said to his partner. "He thinks we're the nuts."

"Horses to what he thinks!" the pilot growled, and ran a nervous tongue tip along his lower lip. "What do we do now? What are his orders?"

"To sit tight," the redhead said. Then, after flashing Colonel Welsh a smirking look, he went on, "He's coming up here sometime tonight. He didn't say, but I've got a hunch he wants to work on our three friends here. But he's tickled silly about it all. What a break for us we were bum shots last night. This little job puts us in good, I'm telling you. Boy! You can't top the big boss, can you? He knows his onions right down the line. Yeah! Old blabber mouth, there, is going to have plenty of chance to work his yap. And I mean, but plenty! Maybe he won't want to, but I've seen the big boss's way of getting guys to talk. He's got a technique, he has!"

"Coming up tonight, huh?" the pilot echoed with a happy smile. "Swell! That means you and me will be shifted to some other station. And that'll suit me okay. This neck of the woods is giving me the creeps. Thirty days here. It's been like thirty years. Let's have a drink on getting out of here soon."

"Yeah!" the redhead said, and licked his lips. "Let's have a couple of them. I'm dry as a bone."

With that moment began an hour and a half that was just about the toughest ninety minutes Dave Dawson had ever spent in his life. The two unshaven men went over to the table and dropped into chairs and proceeded to ignore their prisoners. That didn't bother Dave in the slightest, though. He was quite content to have the two ignore him, for he was too busy with his thoughts--thoughts that tumbled and spilled around in his brain like little red hot stones. A hundred times at least he strained at the ropes that held his wrists bound behind his back. And a hundred times circles of white pain about his wrists convinced him that he didn't stand a chance in the world of freeing his hands, to say nothing of his ankles. A hundred times he cursed himself bitterly for not getting away from that attacker last night--and without damage to the Lockheed's engines. A hundred times he thought of the Aircraft Carrier Indian and the unknown doom that hovered over her; the unknown doom that was aboard her in the form of some rat Axis spy who had killed and obtained vital information that could easily spell disaster for many of Uncle Sam's fighting men of the sea if it reached Japanese hands soon enough.

A hundred times he thought of many things, and each time his utter helplessness to do anything about them was like a hot knife twisting in his heart. But the most torturing thing of all was the realization that he and Freddy had been stopped cold before they had even been able to get started. The Carrier Indian was over three hundred miles away, riding at anchor in San Diego harbor. Who knew when they would see it? Who knew if they would _ever_ see it? Caught cold before they had even got started on the very first of the special assignments they were to carry out for Uncle Sam. What a sweet beginning! Yes! What a sweet beginning that could well be the end, too. And that end might come when the man referred to as the big boss arrived.

Thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts that walked, raced, cut and slashed their way through Dave's brain. Seconds dragged on into minutes, and the minutes seemed to drag on into an eternity of time. Then suddenly sound forced its way through Dave's thoughts and brought him back to the present. The sound was soft moaning and groaning. And it came from Freddy Farmer's lips.

The English youth was sitting on a gun case just beyond where Colonel Welsh sat, but out in front of him so that Dave could see his pal. And the look on Freddy's face was one of great pain, and not a little of terror, and fear. His eyes were half closed, and he seemed to be staring at nothing at all as he rocked jerkily back and forth like some African savage praying to his idol gods. For a brief instant Dave could hardly believe his eyes or his ears. Then a wave of sympathy mingled with just a little annoyance swept through him.

"Pull up your socks, Freddy!" he said in a low voice. "Show these rats you can take it. Come on, Freddy. Chin up, pal!"

The English youth groaned louder and opened his eyes a little. The look he flung Dave burned with scorn.

"Blast you and your chin-up rot!" he grated. "I've had enough of this. Gangster stuff, this is, not war. I know now I should never have left England. This is a madman's country. I tell you I've had enough of it!"

Freddy fairly screamed the last, and had Dave not been tied hand and foot he would have leaped over and slapped his pal's jaw. Something had happened to Freddy Farmer. Something had snapped inside of him. Dave had seen his pal in a hundred tight corners, every bit as tight as this one. He knew full well that Freddy was red-blooded courage from his head to his feet. But something had happened, and the English youth was ready to crack up like an hysterical old woman.

"Freddy, cut it out!" he snapped. "Buck up, old man. Show them. Come on, Freddy. The old R.A.F. stuff. We're not licked yet, and we won't be. You know that!"

The English youth didn't answer at once. He sat swaying and groaning, and staring at Dave out of half closed eyes. Then suddenly he began to laugh softly. The laugh grew and grew until it was almost a scream. The pilot and the redhead had put down their whiskey glasses and were staring at him in wide-eyed amazement.

"R.A.F., my hat!" Freddy suddenly shouted. "This isn't war. This is gangster business, like I've seen in your American movies. Well, I've had enough of it. I can't stand it, do you understand. _I can't stand it!_ These ropes are killing me. I feel as if I were all on fire!"

Freddy stopped short, looked over at the unshaven pair and spoke again before Dave had time to open his mouth.

"I say, a drink of water, please!" he gasped. "I must have a drink of water. I'm dying, really. I can't stand the pain. A drink of water, please!"

The pair stared for a moment longer; then the redhead burst out with laughter.

"The tough English, huh?" he jeered aloud. "Look at the brave R.A.F. pilot, I don't think! Well, what do you know? The English can't take it. I always said they couldn't. Mama! Mama! Sonny boy wants a drink of water. Here! Pour a slug of this whiskey down his throat and make a man of him. Okay, I'll do it!"

The redhead laughed some more and splashed whiskey from the bottle into his glass. He pushed up from the table and came swaggering over to Freddy Farmer.

"Here you are, sonny boy," he said, and leaned over to put the glass to the English youth's lips. "Be Papa's great big man. Have a drink. Go on, take some!"

Freddy Farmer groaned just once more, then leaned forward as though he were going to drink. But he didn't drink. He became an exploding ball of chain lightning, instead. Almost before Dave Dawson's startled eyes could register what was taking place, Freddy Farmer whipped his right hand around from behind his back and plucked the redhead's automatic from its holster. In what was practically the same motion, the English youth stood up and clubbed the gun down on the redhead's ear. At the same time Freddy brought up his left clenched fist and landed solidly on the man's jaw. The man closed his eyes, and folded up like an old army cot to the floor.

The English youth didn't so much as watch the redhead crumple. Instead he brought the automatic down into line with the pilot sitting stunned at the table on the other side of the room.

"Don't even wink an eye!" Freddy barked, and slowly sat down again. "I can put a bullet in your rotten heart from here with my eyes closed. Keep your hands just as they are on the table. Don't move them an inch, you dirty blighter!"