CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Vultures' Nest

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Dawn was a faint gray line marking the point where the North African sky met the North African Continent in the east. Just a faint gray line heralding the coming of a new day, though the world was still shrouded in the darkness of night. A new day. A new day of war. A new day—of victory, or utter failure?

The question was like a pin-point white hot flame burning in Dave Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer hugged the hard-packed ground behind a clump of withered desert brush. Just seventy yards beyond the desert brush was a long level strip of desert, flanked on both sides by scrub-covered hills. Hills? They were little more than mounds of rock and sand. As though Nature throughout the ages had thrust them up from the bowels of the earth and covered them with scrub growth for a crazy prank. They looked just about as natural in the middle of the Sahara as a part of the Sahara would have looked in the middle of New York City. Nevertheless, there they were. Another bit of the mysterious Sahara's phenomena for man to study and wonder about. A desert oasis completely surrounded by hills! Yet there it was for mortal eyes to view.

However, the strange freak of Nature's handiwork held no interest whatsoever for Dave Dawson or Freddy Farmer. What interested them completely were the man-made things on that strip of desert valley. The fifteen Junkers Ju-88's, the six Messerschmitt 109's and the single two-seater Messerschmitt 110, that were pulled way back under perfect camouflage covering on either side of the desert strip—the planes, and the groups of shadowy figures that were walking about among them.

For fifteen minutes the two youths had hugged the ground behind the scrub bush and peered out at the weird yet deadly-looking scene in silence. For one thing there was nothing to say. However, the main reason for silence was that each was close to the point of complete exhaustion and collapse. Not two, but three hours ago they had started toward the spot where they now were. Those three hours had been the most torturing and grueling of their entire lives. Three hours used to cover a distance of but a little over a mile! Simple enough to think about, but how far different the actual execution of that night-shrouded journey. Cuts and bruises on their bodies were countless. Their uniforms were in shreds and tatters, and there was an utter weariness within them such as few men have ever experienced. A hundred times all that kept them going over the rock-studded ground, with thorn-bush barriers every other foot of the way, were their fighting hearts and savage determination to win through in spite of all odds.

And they had won through, but were now forced to stretch out on the ground and fight another battle—the battle for new strength and new energy that would carry them forward to the most terrific struggle of all. Yes, carry them forward to the struggle—and the successful completion of an almost impossible task.

"Freddy, I'm wondering," Dawson suddenly whispered, and touched the English youth's prone body with his hand.

"Yes, Dave?" came back the equally faint whisper. "Wondering about what?"

"If—" Dave began, and paused. "I mean, maybe we're all wet about this business. There's not an engine out there ticking over, and it's darn close to dawn. You'd think they'd be warming them up now, if they expected to go out at a moment's notice. In other words, I'm wondering if Major General Hawker was right. If this bunch really does have any connection with the President's trip to Casablanca?"

"I'm sure it must have, Dave," Freddy Farmer replied after a few seconds of silence. "Everything absolutely adds up to that. In my mind, there's no doubt about it. As for warming up the engines, the blighters are up and about. No doubt they'll start them up any minute now. May be waiting for a bit more light, you know. The point is, what are we—"

The English-born air ace never finished that question. He didn't because at that moment a figure garbed in the uniform of the Nazi Luftwaffe rushed out of a little camouflaged hut on the left side of the desert strip and shouted orders at the top of his voice. He spoke in German, of course, but both Dawson and Farmer knew the language, and so—and so absolute confirmation of the truth was given them.

"All pilots and crews report to Herr Kommandant at once!" the voice bellowed in a note of wild, frenzied excitement. "Der Tag has come! The signal has just been received from Casablanca. Your targets are approaching there now. The American Schweinehunds, and the English ones, too. Der Tag has come! Heil Hitler!"

A brief moment of silence settled over everything. And then a silence-shattering roar came from many throats.

"Heil Hitler!"

Bombs were exploding in Dave Dawson's brain, and his heart was pumping madly in his chest as he pushed up onto his hands and knees.

"Freddy!" he got out in a choking gasp. "This is it! You hear what that bird said? They've received word from some rat in Casablanca, just as Major General Hawker thought they would. Freddy! It's up to us now, or else! Those confounded bombers just can't take off! And that's got to be that!"

"Absolutely!" the English youth echoed in a hoarse whisper. "And just look at the blighters! Like blasted ants crawling all over those planes, and—Dave! Do you see—"

"Right!" Dawson cut in, and gripped his arm. "That Messerschmitt 110. They're not touching it yet. Must be the Kommandant's plane. Probably going to tag along and watch the slaughter, but keep out of the way."

"Yes, yes!" Freddy said excitedly. "But we—"

"My idea all along, pal!" Dawson breathed fiercely. "That's not the rat Kommandant's baby, that's ours, Freddy! If we can only get it off before they get us, we can pin the rest of those crates on the ground like nobody's business. But, Freddy!"

"Yes, Dave, yes?" the English youth asked impatiently. "What now?"

"Just a thought," Dawson said in a quiet, steady voice that surprised himself. "We'll get that baby off, and we'll raise merry heck with these birds, even if it's the last thing we do. That's the idea! Maybe it will be the last. I have a funny feeling that we've had more than our share of luck already. So—Well, if you'd rather we tried to swipe a single-seater Messerschmitt apiece, so that—"

"Rot!" young Farmer snapped angrily. "So that one of us might get away? Meaning me? Not a bit of it, Dave! We started the balmy business together, and by the Lord Harry we'll finish it together, one way or the other. So stop your silly talk, and let's get on with things. You have your gun, of course?"

"Right in my hand, kid," Dawson assured him. "And you're a pretty nice guy, Freddy, if I haven't ever mentioned it before. Okay, together it is. Keep low, and run like the dickens. If somebody gets in our way—well, it will be just too bad for him. They're going half nuts out there, now, so maybe we'll get the breaks and not be seen. Set, Freddy?"

"Set, old thing," the English youth replied, and pressed Dawson's arm. "Luck to us both!"

"We don't count," Dawson said, and pressed young Farmer's arm in return. "Luck to the Casablanca war conference, please God! Right! Here we go!"

Dawson pressed Freddy Farmer's arm once more, then wheeled around, bent way over almost double, circled the scrub bush, and went streaking out onto the desert strip at top speed toward the Messerschmitt 110 parked a good eighty yards away. Farmer bolted right after him.

Perhaps it was Dawson's spinning imagination, or perhaps it was an actual fact, but it seemed that no sooner was he out from behind the scrub bush than the amount of light thrown forward by the swiftly approaching day was tripled in intensity. He had the sensation that he and Farmer stood out as clear and as huge as a couple of runaway horses, and that every German eye was fixed upon them. In fact, had a hundred machine guns suddenly opened up on them, he would not have been the least bit surprised. With every racing stride he took, with every split second that skipped by, he expected just that.

However, there were no screams of alarm, and there were no blasts of yammering machine-gun fire as the two youths covered forty yards in their headlong dash and reached the first of the parked bombers. At that point, Dawson swerved sharply to the left in order to avoid all notice if possible. Then he swerved back to the right again without checking his speed for a single instant. They had to pass four more bombers with mechanics and pilots swarming all over before they reached the Messerschmitt 110. They accomplished it in a matter of split seconds, but to Dawson's high-pitched nerves and whirling brain, it seemed a thousand years. It seemed as though he was only crawling over the ground, and in slow motion at that.

But the crazy thoughts he had were far from the truth. He was traveling so fast that he virtually ran into the side of the Messerschmitt and was bounced back, to bump up against Freddy Farmer's plunging body. They caught hold of each other in an effort to maintain their balance. They succeeded, but no sooner had they regained their balance and were turning to scramble up into the plane than two uniformed Nazis came running around the tail of the aircraft.

The two Nazis saw Dawson and Farmer. Their jaws dropped, and they skidded to a halt and reached for their holstered Lugers. But they might just as well have tried to jump over the stars and drop straight down on the two air aces. Dawson's gun barked once, so did Freddy Farmer's, and there were two less Germans in the world.

Before either of the dead Germans had hit the ground the two air aces had whirled and had thrown themselves into the Messerschmitt's cockpit. Though nothing had been decided between them, Dawson impulsively leaped into the pilot's pit, and Freddy Farmer piled into the gunner's pit aft. It was one of those unspoken agreements, and as Dawson landed in the seat, his hands shot out for the engine switches, throttles, and starter buttons. Two seconds later, the grinding of the starter gears sounded like the loudest noise in all the world, and Dave's heart pounded in wild fear that their two shots were bringing a horde of other Nazis on the run. However, he didn't waste time looking about. He hunched forward in the pit and concentrated every bit of his attention and all his prayers on getting the two Daimler-Benz engines started.

One second, one minute, one hour, or maybe a thousand years dragged by before the two engines "caught" and roared in a mighty earth-shaking duet of power. Dawson's heart leaped with wild joy, and for five precious seconds he forced himself to let the engines run to warm up a little before the take-off. At the end of five seconds, he eased off the throttles, kicked off the wheel brakes, and let the Messerschmitt trundle forward out of line with the other aircraft. No sooner was he in the open and swerving left toward the long way of the field, than the chattering yammer of a machine gun rose above the general roar, and he heard the deathly whine of bullets passing overhead. He also heard a wild yell from Freddy Farmer's lips, but he didn't dare twist around in the seat and look back. He didn't because he was pointing the long way of the desert strip now, and was ready to ram his throttles wide open. In front of him was a milling mass of Germans. He was that a furious attempt was being made by a Messerschmitt 109 pilot to trundle his single-seater out of line and onto the desert strip to block the way!

Stark terror gripped Dave's heart as he saw the nose of that single-seater moving out toward the line of his take-off. He had impulsively rammed both of his throttles wide open, and his aircraft was leaping forward like a shell leaving the mouth of a cannon. Whether or not he would pass that moving 109 in time was something that was in the lap of the gods.

Touch and go, and it was instinct more than sane thought that gave him a new lease on life. As the Messerschmitt 110 rocketed forward toward the milling mass of Nazis and the Messerschmitt 109 rolled out into his path beyond, Dawson jabbed the electric trigger button of the ME's guns and punched the air-cannon firing knob. Instantly the plane bucked and jumped madly as the guns yammered and pounded, and it was all Dawson could do to hold it on its straight take-off line.

"Gangway, bums, or take it!" he roared at the top of his voice. "Leap for your lives, or else!"


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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