"Anything else I can get you, sir?"

Dawson glanced up at the mess orderly standing by the table, shook his head, and smiled.

"No thanks, Corporal," he said. "I've had all I can hold. How about you, Freddy?"

"I'm finished, too," the English youth said with a contented sigh. "That hit the spot, Corporal. My compliments."

"Thank you, sir," the mess orderly said, and beamed his pleasure.

"Tell me, where is everybody, Corporal?" Dawson asked, and waved a hand at the empty mess room. "Out on patrol?""Oh, no, sir," the orderly explained. "This is only a stop-over base for pilots and equipment headed for the front. We don't fly any patrols from here, sir, though a few of the pilots have been taking a whack at Goering's Snoopers, whenever they get close enough."

"Goering's Snoopers?" Dawson echoed with a puzzled look. "Do you mean Nazi bombing raids on this place?"

"No, sir," the other replied promptly. "And that's the funny part of it, too. Not one of them has come within gun range of this place. Fact is, only once since they started their funny business three days ago, have we seen them. Then they were so high, they were no more than dots. I heard one of the pilots say, though, that they were long-range Junkers. Goering's Snoopers, we call them, because they seem to hang around all the time, but do nothing. I wish we did have a regular squadron of fighter planes here, though. Those Junkers get on my nerves. A darn funny business, if you ask me, sir."

Neither Dawson nor Farmer made any comment for a moment. They simply exchanged glances, and each knew what the other was thinking. Thinking of the mysterious flock of Junkers Ju-88's they had seen a hundred miles or so off the coast.

"Phantom ships, eh, Corporal?" Dawson finally spoke. "Any of the pilots who went up after them lucky enough to nail one?"

"Yes, I think so, sir," the orderly replied with a nod. "Day before yesterday they say a P-38 pilot got one of them. It was way inland near Marrakech. I heard the pilot had just enough gas to get back. It's pretty bad country in these parts for forced landing, you know, sir."

"But doesn't the C.O. know where the bombers are based?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "They're not coming here all the way from Tunisia, are they?"

"I couldn't say, sir," the orderly replied with a shrug. "All I know is what I hear around the base. There aren't many of us here. The base isn't in full swing yet. But it won't be long, and then maybe we'll have a fighter squadron here, in case them Nazis try to really start something. Funny about them Snoopers starting to show up three days ago. It doesn't make sense. But what does in this screwy war?"

Neither Dawson nor Farmer had an answer for that one, so they just shrugged, and pushed back their chairs.

"Well, thanks for the fine meal, Corporal," Dawson said, and tossed a bill on the table. "Here, have a time for yourself when you get a pass to town."

"I sure will, and thanks, Captain!" the orderly gulped when he saw the amount of Dawson's tip. "Thanks a lot, sir. And I hope I'll be here next time you pass through."

"So do I, Corporal," Dawson smiled as he headed for the door. "And good luck."

"The same to you, sir!" the other called after him. "The same to you both!"

Outside the mess, Dawson glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it was just about time to report to Colonel Welsh in the field commandant's office.

"Let's go, Freddy," he said. "What do you think of Goering's Snoopers? I guess we spotted some of them, huh?"

"No doubt," the English youth replied, and frowned. "And a very queer business, if you ask me. Do you suppose, Dave—"

"I wouldn't know," Dawson said as Farmer paused and frowned all the harder. "But you may be right. I mean that the Nazis have got wind of something, and Goering's Snoopers are sort of keeping an eye on things. If so, that's not so good. Do you get what I mean?""I do, and I agree with you completely," Freddy replied at once. "But how in the world—Oh, blast it! I'm tired of trying to figure out riddles!"

They left it at that and walked in silence to the Administration Building. A sentry met them just inside the door, learned their names, and led them at once to the office of Major General Hawker, commanding officer of the recently established U. S. Air Forces Base. The two youths were admitted at once, and as Dawson looked at Colonel Welsh seated to one side of the huge desk, his heart gave a nervous leap and tried to slide up into his throat. The Intelligence Chief's face looked like that of a ghost. Rather, it looked like the face of a man worried sick; worried so sick he was seeing ghosts. However, with a tremendous effort Colonel Welsh gravely presented the two air aces to Major General Hawker who welcomed them with a smile and a few well chosen words. His face, too, showed the nervous strain under which he was suffering. Dawson, glancing from one to the other, felt the old familiar eerie tingle at the back of his neck. The old eerie tingling that had never in the past failed to serve as a warning of danger and death in the immediate future."Be seated, gentlemen, please," the major general was saying, and gesturing a hand toward a couple of chairs. "I—Well, Colonel, I believe you'd better begin the talking, anyway. These two officers have been working with you since the start of things. So go right ahead, sir."

Colonel Welsh nodded his thanks to the general and stared at Dawson and Farmer with eyes haggard from worry and fear.

"Bad news for us," he said bluntly. "The thing we tried to prevent has come to pass in spite of our efforts. Where the leak is, I don't know. Maybe I'll never find out. But that is not important, now. What is important is the fact that the Nazis have learned of the war conference to be held in Casablanca. In short, the Nazis know that President Roosevelt is coming to Casablanca!"

"You're sure, sir?" Dawson blurted out as the colonel paused for breath.

"As sure as it's necessary to be," the Intelligence officer replied, tight-lipped. Leaning forward, he tapped a map spread out on the top of the desk. "Take a look at this and tell me what it means to you."

Both Dawson and Farmer left their chairs to study the map. It was a large-sized navigation map that included the eastern shores of the two American continents and the western shores of the European and African continents. The map was creased in many places, and there were many smears of grease on its surface to indicate it had been used considerably. What caught and instantly held Dawson's attention, and Farmer's also, were the many penciled markings and notes on the map. At first glance, they didn't mean much, but on second glance, their full meaning was revealed. It was very startling, to say the least.

Dawson jerked up his head and stared in half-stunned amazement at Colonel Welsh.

"This is an air navigator's chart, sir!" he exclaimed. "With a dozen different courses plotted out from the States, from South America, and from England, to here. To Casablanca!"

"That's right," the Colonel said soberly. "Every course plotted on that chart ends at Casablanca! If you look closer, you will see where the Nazi owner of that chart has penciled in the area off the coast of Morocco that he patrolled."

"Nazi owner, sir?" Freddy Farmer choked out. "You mean—"

The English-born air ace stumbled over his words, and before he could start over again, Colonel Welsh answered him.

"That's right, Farmer. That chart was taken from the body of a dead Nazi pilot, whose bomber was shot down in the Atlas Mountains about two hundred miles from here."

"One of Goering's Snoopers, eh?" Dawson murmured absently.

Major General Hawker stiffened and glanced at him sharply.

"What's that, Dawson?" the senior officer asked. "Where'd you hear about Goering's Snoopers?"

"The Officers' Mess orderly was telling us, sir," Dawson explained. "He said there has been a group of Nazi bombers hanging around this base for the last three days, but not too close. He said that your pilots had nicknamed them Goering's Snoopers."

"Oh, I see," the major general said with a nod. "That's right, they certainly are Snoopers. But they'll be a whole lot more than that—if they get their chance!"

The senior office emphasized the last by rapping a clenched fist on the desk.

"Then you know what they're up to, sir?" Dawson asked quickly. "I suppose the colonel told you that we sighted them off shore? Is their base near here, sir?"

Dawson would have asked more questions, but the major general raised a hand for silence and looked at Colonel Welsh.

"Do you want me to do the talking, Colonel?" he asked. "Or would you rather?"

"No, go right ahead, sir," Colonel Welsh replied with a shake of his head. "After all, you've been right here where it's all been going on. Go right ahead, sir."

Major General Hawker grunted and stared down at the desk top for a moment, as though taking time out to choose his words. Presently he looked up at Dawson and Farmer. Both youths were a little startled by the glitter of seething anger in his eyes.

"The North African campaign has progressed so rapidly and so successfully," he began, "that we're way ahead of ourselves, you might say. I mean that we've been so busy doing the big things that we've had to let much detail work slide. For example, this base wasn't to be ready for another month yet, but it is in operation right now. It has been for the last three or four weeks. However, it is simply a port through which equipment and personnel pass on the way to the battle fronts. The working staff is very small, and we have no squadron, or even a flight of planes and pilots of our own. I mean, based here for our protection. That, of course, is because every plane and pilot is needed at the front. Those of us who are behind the front must shift as best we can, until there comes a lull in the main battle, and we've the time to start tucking in the ends."

The major general paused for breath.

"So far, I've only given you a picture of conditions here," he continued presently. "Well, about ten days ago I was secretly informed through Colonel's Welsh's office that the President and Mr. Churchill were going to hold a war conference here at Casablanca. Naturally, I kept that secret. However, the Nazis must have got hold of that news somehow, either here or in Washington. We'll probably never know which. Three days ago those Junkers long-range bombers started putting in an appearance. At first, I thought they were after convoys, but pilots who sighted them off shore reported that they either kept at a safe distance, or raced away to hide in the clouds before our planes could reach them. In short, they did everything in their power to avoid air battle. In addition, they went the limit to prevent any of our planes from following them back to their base."

"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" Dawson asked with a puzzled frown.

The major general reached out a hand and tapped a finger on the navigator's chart on the desk.

"That plane and its crew were deliberately sacrificed so that the others could get away," he said. "It happened yesterday morning. A Lockheed Lightning pilot happened to be in the air, and he sighted the Snoopers off shore. He requested permission by radio to give chase and engage them. That permission was granted. The Snoopers had a good start on him, however, and there were a lot of clouds, so the Lockheed pilot was unable to catch up until the chase had gone a good two hundred miles inland. When he started to close in, the pilot reported later, one of the bombers dropped out of formation, turned back, and gave battle. It put up a good fight, and by the time the Lockheed pilot had downed it, the others had disappeared completely. Just before turning back to fight, the German pilot dumped his full load of bombs, and they exploded in the wilderness below. That didn't help him any. Well, the bomber crashed, and no one bailed out! That struck the Lockheed pilot as being queer and as there was some smooth ground close by, he landed to take a look at his victim. He said it was not a pretty sight. But there were only three aboard, whereas a Junkers Ju-88 usually has a crew of at least six. Not one of those three had made any attempt to leave the plane as it fell earthward. Do you know why?"

The senior officer paused and seemed to wait.

"No, sir," Freddy Farmer spoke up impulsively. "Why, sir?"

"Because there were no parachute packs aboard the plane!" the other replied at once. "In fact, the plane was stripped bare of everything that was not absolutely essential to flying and fighting. There were no identification papers on any of the crew, though the Lockheed pilot could tell from decoration ribbons that all were veteran airmen. There was nothing except this navigation chart. The Lockheed pilot said that one of the men was holding it as though he had been about to destroy it, but was stopped by the crash. By that I mean, in one hand he clutched the chart and in the other a cigarette lighter. Anyway, the Lockheed pilot brought the map back to me, and as soon as I took one look at it I knew the reason for the constant patrolling of those Nazi bombers. I know exactly what they are."

"It sounds like a suicide outfit to me," Dawson murmured as the major general paused. "They must be waiting for the President and his party to arrive. Then they'll let go with the whole works, to say nothing of their own lives."

"There's no doubt about it!" Major General Hawker agreed grimly. "I'm as convinced of that as though they had come and told me so. If they know when the President and Mr. Churchill will arrive, I don't know. Perhaps they will receive that signal from somebody right here in Casablanca. The way they have let convoys alone and have avoided air battle, at the deliberate sacrifice of one of their own, is proof positive that they are waiting for the one big opportunity. And even though the President's life, and Mr. Churchill's life, were spared, the loss of other lives would be almost as disastrous to the Allied cause. In short, so long as that German suicide squadron remains in existence, a terrible danger hangs over the entire civilized world. No matter how many planes we have protecting the President and his party, some of those bombers would be bound to get through."

"But their base, sir, wherever it is?" Dawson spoke up as the other paused. "If you could only find it, and—"

"Exactly the point!" the major general interrupted. "If we could only find it! The only thing I've got here that could out-fly the Junkers Ju-88 is a Lightning. But the main difficulty is that I have no pilots I can order out on such a mission. I mean, should they find the base and radio its position, they wouldn't have fuel enough left to return. They'd force land in the mountain wilderness and eventually die of starvation or the heat. We've got to destroy those planes—and within the next thirty-six hours!"

"Thirty-six hours, sir?" Dawson echoed, as his heart started to pound against his ribs.

The major general looked at him gravely, and nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Just ten minutes before your plane landed I received code word from Washington that the President and his party are already on the way to Casablanca!"

"Good gosh!" Dawson gasped before he could check himself. "Only thirty-six hours and then Goering's snooping suicides can do their stuff? Or try to do it? But—"Dawson suddenly checked himself and looked at Freddy Farmer. For a long moment their eyes met, and then they nodded impulsively. Dawson turned to Major General Hawker.

"With your permission, sir," he said quietly, "Farmer and I would like to locate that base and radio its position so that our bombers could go over and wipe it out."

As Dawson finished speaking, silence settled over the room. Colonel Welsh broke it as he addressed his words to Major General Hawker.

"Just what I told you, sir," he said. "And by God, they'll find it, too—Bless them both!"