broke off short and choked and sputtered over his own words as he saw the broad grin spread over Dawson's face.

"Boy! Do I get a kick out of the way you can change expressions on that mug of yours!" Dave laughed. "Okay, sweetheart. Just for you I'll let the envelope stay right where it is. But, pal, did you rise in a hurry to the bait that time! Boy, oh boy!"

Deep red flooded Freddy's face, and he could only go on sputtering for a moment or two longer.

"You no-good blighter!" he finally got out. "You almost had me believing you for a moment. Blast you! For sixpence I'd take that envelope away from you, and make sure that nothing happened to it!"

"Well, of course you could try, pal!" Dave grinned at him. "But maybe they wouldn't like us to make a wreck out of this bomb compartment. So let's skip it, huh? Besides, I think I'll go forward and ride with Squadron Leader Hixon for a while."

"Do that, by all means!" Freddy Farmer snapped at him. "And observe him closely. Perhaps he can teach you something about flying. Nobody else has been able to, though, Lord knows, they tried hard enough and long enough!"

"Smacko!" Dave chuckled, and pushed up onto his feet. "I walked right into that one. So that evens us up. See you later, pal."

"Much later, if I get my wish!" Freddy snorted, and squirmed around to a more comfortable position. "Now, run along, my little man. I've got important things to think about."

Dawson let the conversation hang on a nail right there, and went forward and into the pilots' compartment. The co-pilot's seat was empty, and he caught Squadron Leader Hixon's eye in the rear view mirror, and cocked a brow.

"Mind if I ride with you for a bit, sir?" he asked.

The pilot grinned, nodded, and jerked his head at the empty seat.

"Do that, Dawson, please," he said. "Been on the point of calling somebody up here to help me keep awake. Blasted uninteresting flights, these. Too much water, and too little anything else. But I fancy you're just as keen to get it done with as I am, what?"

"It will be swell to get back home, and how!" Dave grunted, and slid into the empty co-pilot's seat. "I've got a million things I want to do, but I probably won't have the time to do even half of them. Time flies too darn fast when you're on leave."

"How right you are!" the Squadron Leader echoed. "A chap no sooner settles down to have a bit of sport and fun than it's time to pack up and catch a train or bus back to the drome. But war's like that, of course. Good times go by in a hurry. And—well, flights like this one seem to take years and years."

"Well, dawn's busting over the horizon, anyway," Dawson consoled him. "And it looks like we'll have sunshine and blue sky for the rest of the trip. That—"

The Yank air ace cut himself off short, leaned forward and peered out through the window glass on his side.

"See something?" Squadron Leader Hixon inquired casually.

Dawson didn't reply for a moment. He thought he saw something on the surface of the water a few miles ahead and a couple toward the north. It seemed to disappear from view, however, when he strained his eyes. Then, suddenly, he saw it again, and his heart leaped up in his throat to hit hard against his back teeth. Without taking his eyes off the distant object, he reached and rapped Squadron Leader Hixon on the arm.

"Take a look up ahead there, and a couple of degrees to the north, sir!" he cried out. "That looks to me like a submarine on the surface. Yes, it is. But I can't tell from here whether it's one of theirs or one of ours."

"By Jove, you're right, Dawson!" the Squadron Leader's voice boomed close to Dave's ear. "A sub, right enough. And not making headway, either. It's—Oh, blast our luck!"

"What do you mean?" Dawson shot at him.

"Not a U-boat," the pilot said with heavy disappointment in his voice. "Can tell from the shape of the conning tower. It's one of our undersea boats. Should know I'd never have the luck to come across one of Hitler's U-boats on the surface like that. I'm—I say! Seems to be a bit of trouble, what? They've sighted us and sent up a signal."

Dawson didn't make any comment for the moment. His gaze was fixed on the submarine awash on the surface, and he saw the red distress flare arc up into the air from the conning tower bridge. Squadron Leader Hixon had changed course and was drilling the Lockheed Hudson down across the sky straight toward the motionless submarine. In a matter of seconds Dave was able to see the groups of men on the bow and stern decks. And as a second and a third red distress flare arced upward, he saw the men on deck start waving their hands wildly. And a split second later he saw a thin column of smoke come up out of the conning tower hatch.

"Trouble is right!" he grunted. "Must be a fire inside, which forced them all up top-side. Nothing we can do for them, though, is there, sir? This Hudson can't land in the water to pick them up."

"Certainly can't!" the pilot grunted with a frown. "Too many of them, anyway, even if we could. The chaps are just out of luck, too. My orders are for radio silence, regardless. I can't even send out a flash to any of our navy boats that may be close by."

"That is tough!" Dave groaned, and watched the trickle of smoke come up out of the conning tower hatch. "But we could change course, sir. I mean circle around a bit and perhaps spot one of our patrol destroyers, or something. Then we could drop a note giving them the location of these poor devils."

"Yes, of course we can do that, and will," the pilot said. "A good suggestion, Dawson. First, though, we'll slide down over them for a closer look. There's just the chance that it isn't as bad as we think. Maybe they just want to give us some kind of a message, and that fire aboard is really under control."

"Well, here's hoping, and how!" Dawson breathed as the Lockheed went sliding down lower and lower. "There's only one thing worse in my book than fire in the air, and that's fire on the water."

"And aren't you right!" the Squadron Leader echoed, tight-lipped. "Well, here goes for a better look at the chaps."

"What a sweet spot to be in, I don't think!" Dawson grunted. "A fire right under their feet, and about four miles of ocean under the fire. I hope—Hey! What gives?"

Dawson hardly realized that he had choked out the last. As a matter of fact, the words he spoke were simply automatic, for in the next split second his brain was in a mad whirl. The forward gun of the submarine had suddenly spat red and orange flame upward. And in practically the same instant the starboard engine of the Lockheed exploded in a thunderous roar of sound, and a sheet of vivid red flame went sweeping back over the wing!

CHAPTER FIVE
Ice Cold Courage

For a seemingly year long split second it was absolutely impossible for Dawson to get control of his whirling brain. And it was obviously the same with Squadron Leader Hixon, for the pilot just sat motionless in the seat, gaping wide-eyed out at the flame and smoke pouring out of all that was left of the starboard engine.

"They nailed us!" Dawson suddenly found his tongue. "Their bow gun. A bull's-eye on the starboard engine. Better level off, sir! We're heading down too fast!"

As a matter of fact, Dawson's wild yell of alarm wasn't necessary. The squadron leader had snapped out of his trance, and was battling furiously with the controls. But like a wild horse with the bit in its teeth, the Lockheed Hudson went screaming downward toward the rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic. What was left of the blasted starboard engine started flying off in small pieces. One chunk of metal smashed straight into the window close to Dawson's head. He ducked just in time as a shower of slivered glass came spilling in on him.

Then terror seemed to explode in his chest as he saw the squadron leader slump