set to do their part when Der Tag arrived. But I don't have to tell this to you. You two have no doubt seen countless examples of that sort of thing."

The chief of Intelligence paused for a moment and slowly closed his long tapering fingers into rock hard fists.

"I'm a spy myself," he said eventually, "so I think I have a good idea of both sides of the picture in this kind of business. A spy is regarded as the lowest form of worm in wartime, and he's usually shot five minutes after he is caught. But there have been a lot of spies who were brave and gallant men, and they took the job of going behind the enemy lines because that was the best way they could serve their country. But the type of spy such as we're dealing with now—the slinking rat who in peace-time becomes the citizen of another country, enjoys all of its advantages, and then turns on that country when his former country goes to war—well—he is in my opinion the rottenest form of vermin that ever existed. He doesn't rate the privilege of being shot when caught. He should be strung up by the thumbs, and skinned alive."

"And even that's too good for him!" Captain Lamb echoed viciously. "Those who bite the hand that's feeding them deserve the worst of the worst. And man! Would I give my life just to get my hands on that skunk aboard the Indian, whoever he is!"

Dave was slightly startled by the almost berserk rage in the redheaded Captain's voice. He glanced at Colonel Welsh and saw a look of pity and sympathy flit across the chief of U. S. Intelligence officer's face. That expression told much to Dave, and he glanced at Captain Lamb again.

"You knew Jackson and Pollard, Captain?" he asked quietly.

The Captain nodded and licked his lower lip.

"I knew them both well," he said in a low voice. "Pollard was my dearest friend. We came from the same town. Played football together at Dartmouth before he changed over to the Naval Academy. They don't make them better than Jake Pollard was."

"If it helps any," Dave said quietly, "I'll be thinking of you, Captain, if and when Farmer and I catch up with that dirty rat aboard the Indian."

"Thanks," the redhead mumbled, and lapsed into brooding silence.

Dave started to say something else to him, changed his mind, and turned back to Colonel Welsh.

"I suppose you've got a plan of operation you want Farmer and me to follow, sir?" he asked.

"I have the start of a plan of operation," the senior officer replied gravely. Then with a helpless shrug: "But from there on you two will be on your own."

CHAPTER FIVE
Silent Wings

Dave waited for the man to continue, and when he didn't he put another question to him.

"We start from scratch, sir, you mean?" he asked. "There isn't any kind of a clue for us to work on? You're stationing us aboard the Indian, of course?"

"That's right," the chief of U. S. Intelligence replied with a nod. "The Indian is shy two flying lieutenants, and you two are going to fill the vacancies. Matter of fact, the Indian is also shy two machinists' mates, and they'll be put aboard too before she weighs anchor sometime the day after tomorrow."

"Two of your men, sir?" Freddy Farmer spoke up, giving the Colonel a keen stare.

"Right," the senior officer said briskly. "But, I'm not going to tell you who they are, any more than I'm going to tell them who you are. That may sound strange, but it's been my experience that agents working in pairs accomplish more than agents working in a group. As officers you two will have the run of the ship, you might say. At the same time, though, you might tip your hand if you went poking around in the non-com and enlisted men's quarters. It works the other way around, too. So I'm planting men in both departments of the ship. You won't know who the other two are, and they won't know who you two are. But here's a very important point to remember. This Intelligence work I'm counting on your doing is, in a way, over and above the call of duty.

"I mean by that that you two will be aboard ship as flying lieutenants. That will be your main job, and you'll take orders from your Section Leader, or higher ranks, just as though we'd never had this talk at all. You'll have no special privileges any more than anybody else aboard ship will have. You won't because not a living soul aboard will know the real reason why you are there. Not even the Indian's captain will know. As they say in England, this is going to be a strictly hush-hush job. Yes, you'll be starting from scratch. All I can arrange is for you to be assigned to the Indian to fill the two flying officer vacancies. What happens after that is up to you. A tough one, eh?"

"The odds aren't so good," Dave said with a faint grin. "But I see your point, sir, and its advantage. If nobody knows why we're there, then there's no chance of the truth leaking out."

"I say, one point, though," Freddy Farmer spoke up with a worried expression on his face. "What about me? My accent, I mean. Won't it seem a bit odd for me to be put aboard an American aircraft carrier?"

"Not a bit, so stop worrying about that," Colonel Welsh said with a smile. "A month or two ago, yes, but not now. You have only to pick up the papers to see that both American and British airmen are being trained in this country. We're not keeping things separate any more. Take Java, for example. There are Yanks, British, and Dutch over there all fighting together, and under the Dutch Command. We're the United Nations now. And we'll become more so before this thing is over. No, Farmer, it won't seem odd at all for an English youth to have been trained in this country and be assigned aboard a U. S. Navy aircraft carrier for sea duty. True, you may get a bit of ribbing—about your English accent, and stuff. But I guess you can take that, eh?"

"Farmer has learned fast, sir," Dave said with a chuckle. "He can dish it right back with the best of them. Snappy come-backs are apple pie for him. I even have to bear down myself at times. Fact is, I wouldn't be surprised but that in six months or so you won't be able to tell him from a Yank."

"Goodness, no, if the Yank is you!" Freddy said with a groan.

Dave laughed and cocked an eye at Colonel Welsh.

"See what I mean, sir?" he grunted. "Right on top of the ball all the time. He's good!"

"Well, I don't think any of us have anything to worry about on that score," the Colonel said. "And I've a hunch, Farmer, that once your shipmates see you in the air they'll realize that how a chap speaks is pretty small potatoes, considering. Well, I guess that's all. You leave tonight for San Diego. There's a Navy plane out at Alexandria Field. You can take that. And there'll be a passenger on your trip west, if you don't mind."

"Glad to have company," Dave said. "Who is he, sir?"

"Me," Colonel Welsh said with a grin. "I've got some business out on the Coast. So I might as well hitch-hike on your plane. Oh! In case you're wondering, you'll be fitted with uniforms and gear before we leave. For this job you'll have the rank of lieutenants. That's below your R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant's rank. Our Navy Lieutenant is equal to your rank of Flying Officer. An R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant is equal to our Lieutenant Commander, or an Air Corps Captain. But I don't think it wise to put you aboard the Indian as Lieutenant Commanders. Fact is, too, the vacancies are for lieutenants. So I hope you don't mind, eh?"

"Not a bit, sir," Dave replied instantly, and laughed. "As a matter of fact, just a few minutes ago you told us that we weren't even R.A.F. any more, so any rank you give us is bound to be okay. But, speaking for both of us, what rank we hold doesn't mean a thing. If we can pull this thing off, it's okay by us if we go aboard the Indian as a couple of seamen, third class. But—well, there are a couple of questions I'd like to ask. Or are you in a hurry,