For the hundredth time Dawson dug knuckles into his tired eyes, stifled the yawn that struggled to get up out of his throat, and took a quick glance at Freddy Farmer seated in the co-pilot's seat. And for the hundredth time he wondered how the English-born air ace could go through so much and still look as fresh as a daisy.

"Boy, oh boy!" he finally blurted out. "How do you do it, anyway, Freddy?"

The English youth glanced his way with arched eyebrows.

"How do I do what?" he wanted to know."Look so doggone full of pep," Dawson told him. "Here I feel like the last rose of summer after a steam roller has run over it, and you look like a million bucks, or more. How come? Are you taking some very secret vitamin pills that I don't know anything about, huh?"

"Certainly not!" young Farmer replied at once. "I haven't got that old, yet. But would you like to know the truth?"

"Well, if you insist on telling me, I suppose I've got to listen," Dawson grunted. "So shoot."

"Well, don't let my looks fool you," Farmer replied. "I may look fresh, but I definitely am not that way inside. Fact is, I'm not quite sure whether I am awake or asleep. And if you insist on knowing everything, I'd be jolly glad if we would sight land."

Dawson started slightly and shot him a keen look.

"Meaning?" he asked.

Young Farmer made a faint motion of his hand toward the milky sort of world through which the B-25 was flying. The sun had been up for a long time, now, but haze blurred the sun's rays and turned both sea and sky into a drifting milky-tinted mass that made instrument flying absolutely necessary."Meaning that I'm wondering if my navigation has gone haywire," Freddy said. "We should have made landfall half an hour ago, Dave. But there is nothing but blasted water down there. How's our fuel?"

"Okay, we've got plenty in the tanks," Dawson said. "If your navigation is all cockeyed, then I'll eat this ship. Of course, you are a funny sort of gink in lots of ways, my little man. But when it comes to navigating, I'll take you every time. So relax, pal. What's a half hour on an ocean hop? We probably bumped into a head wind, that's all."

"Thanks, old thing," Farmer smiled at him. "And I certainly hope that you're right. However, this whole blasted business has been so balmy right from the start that I'm willing to expect almost anything. And, in fact, I do."

Dawson ignored that remark. Freddy had certainly hit the nail on the head. Of all the jobs they had tackled, this one was certainly the most mixed up and involved. It seemed so for the very simple reason that not one thing had gone along as planned. At every turn something had popped up to toss a monkey wrench into the works and necessitate a complete revision of plans. Realization of that caused little fingers of ice to pluck at Dawson's heart. The object of all this business was a safe journey by air to Casablanca for the President and the American High Command. With everything going haywire from the start, what other blows of Fate might be struck once the President was on his way?

"But I'm just tired, and letting myself get off the beam!" Dawson mumbled. "The colonel's secret is still his secret. And—and that raider business was just one of those things. Darn it! Nazi agents just couldn't have found out anything!"

"Just what I've been trying to convince myself of for hours," he heard Freddy Farmer say. "But I'm still finding it a bit of a difficult job. As you say, though, we're both so blasted tired. I feel as though I've been in this aircraft all my life."

"Yeah, me, too!" Dawson agreed. "I—"

He stopped speaking, straightened up in the seat, and peered into the milky-colored sky off to the left and a little bit ahead. He stared until his eyes ached and smarted.

"What's the matter, Dave?" Freddy asked presently. "Are we making landfall?"

"No," Dawson replied slowly, with a little shake of his head. "I guess I'm just seeing things. I could swear that I saw a group of planes show off there for a split second or so."

"Planes?" young Farmer echoed excitedly. "What type? Maybe it's an escort come out to meet us, and—But no, that couldn't be. Nobody knows we're coming. Did you recognize them, Dave?"

"That's just the point," Dawson complained as he continued to stare into the milky mass that was the sky. "I'm not dead sure, but I think—Well, if you want to know, they looked like Junkers Ju-88's to me. Yeah, the big long-range babies the Nazis used against England and shipping in the Atlantic. But maybe I was just seeing things."

"You must have been, Dave!" Freddy said sharply. "It's my guess the Nazis haven't any long-range bombers to spare against shipping in this part of the Atlantic. We have far, far too much aerial cover for our boats. Besides—"

The English-born air ace didn't continue. He stared off to the left. Dave sensed the sudden movement and impulsively turned his head to look in that direction, too. As a result, they both saw the milky sky split apart for a brief moment and reveal six Nazi Junkers Ju-88's winging along on a course almost parallel with theirs. The haze and the milky overcast parted just long enough for them to see the six-plane formation, and then it promptly closed down and hid all from view. But they had seen the ships and before Dawson took another breath he piloted the B-25 down and away on a detour course toward the north.

"You were right, Dave!" Freddy Farmer spoke first. "Absolutely right! Those were Junkers, or I've never seen one in my life. And I've seen plenty of them!"

"Junkers, right enough," Dawson repeated with a nod of his head. "And that bunch was the second group! In short, there must be a whale of a big Yank convoy that they are hunting for, or else—"

Dawson stopped and shrugged, but Freddy Farmer wouldn't let it remain that way.

"Or else what?" he demanded.

"Or else they are hunting for all planes headed for Casablanca," Dawson replied slowly. "Go aft and get the colonel, will you, Freddy? I think he should be told what's going on."

"Definitely!" young Farmer replied, and quickly slipped out of the co-pilot's seat.During the next couple of minutes Dawson virtually "explored" every square inch of the milky air all about the B-25 but he didn't sight any planes. Then Freddy returned with Colonel Welsh, and Dawson reported what they had seen.

"They seem to be all around our course, sir," Dawson added. "Do you want us to plow right on through, or continue to detour around this area and come into Casablanca from the north? We've the fuel left to do it, if that's what you want."

The colonel didn't reply at once. It was very plain from the expression on his thin face that the news of sighting Nazi aircraft disturbed him greatly.

"It can't be a convoy they're after," he finally said, "because there isn't one this far south. And they can't be looking for any plane, such as this one, because—"

The Chief of U. S. Intelligence paused a second, shook his head, and ordered, "Get on course for Casablanca, Dawson, and plow right on through! With our radio gone, we're helpless to find out what's what—if anybody happens to know. The sooner we get to Casablanca, the better. So bang on through, but avoid action if it's possible."

"Very good, sir," Dawson replied, and pulled the B-25 back onto her original course. "By the way, sir, how's the pilot?"

"Getting better by the minute," the colonel replied. "Lost a lot of blood, but we'll take care of that as soon as we get to Casablanca. Push on through, and I'll order the crew to remain at battle stations. This is the darnedest mess I ever bumped into!"

"If I've ever met up with anything more tantalizing, then I sure don't remember it," Dawson remarked by way of agreement. "Okay, sir! Casablanca it is, and on the run!"

Colonel Welsh murmured something that Dawson didn't catch and, giving the Yank air ace a pat on the shoulder, he swung about and returned to his battle station aft. For the next twenty-two minutes Dawson and Farmer didn't speak as the twin-engined North American B-25 prop-clawed its way forward through the milky-hued heavens. Neither of them spoke because anything they might have said would only have served to increase their fears. Both feared they were lost, and not even headed toward Casablanca. They feared that at any second a whole flock of those mysterious Junkers might suddenly appear in the air before them and open up with all guns. They feared that once more their plans were about to be knocked into a cocked hat.

"Jeeper, jeepers!" Dawson finally muttered. "I couldn't have a worse case of jim-jams than I've got right now, even if I was actually piloting the President's plane. I—"

"Dave!" Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. "I'll be blessed! Look!"

The English youth's exclamation was quite unnecessary because Dawson was already staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles of weather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cut off by a knife. One instant the B-25 was plowing on through the stuff, and the next it was roaring out into clear air filled with brilliant sunshine. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port of Casablanca glistening white in the sun!

"So this guy Farmer is a punk navigator, huh?" Dawson shouted joyously. "Like heck he is, what I mean!"

"Luck, blasted luck, I swear it!" Freddy breathed, but there was a happy smile on his face just the same. "Man! I never was so glad in all my life to see a place as I am to see that spot ahead. Luck, absolutely nothing but luck!"

"Okay, have it your way," Dawson laughed. "But just keep right on having this kind of luck. That's all I've got to say. Boy, oh boy! Dry land ahead, and something to eat, and a place to lay down my weary head. Oh-oh! Here come some of the boys to give us a look-see. See them, Freddy?"

"Of course," the English youth replied with a nod, and fixed his gaze on the flight of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings that were sweeping gracefully up off North African soil and streaking out to sea toward the B-25.

In less time than it takes to tell about it, those high-speed fighter aircraft were right on top of the B-25 and skipping and sliding all about it as their pilots investigated. It took them but a couple of moments to satisfy themselves. Then they throttled and dropped into escort position. That is, all except one pilot. He slid out in front to lead the way to the American-built air base on the north side of the city. A few minutes later Dawson throttled his engines, and slid the B-25 down to a feather-bed landing. At a signal from the Operations Tower, he trundled the bomber in toward the small Administration Building. There he killed his engines completely, took a deep breath, and relaxed in the seat. A glance at the instrument clock showed that he had been in the air for a little over twelve hours, but the way his numbed body felt, it was as though he had been in the air for over twelve hundred hours.

"So this is Casablanca," he murmured, and absently unsnapped his safety harness. "Well, I sure want to give it a look, but not right now. No, sir! For the next thirty-six hours, and maybe longer, all I want is a nice soft bed!"

"Make that two, if you please!" Freddy Farmer added, and put a hand to his mouth to cover the yawn he could no longer hold back. "Just a—Oh-oh! Here comes a high-ranker in very much of a hurry. Now what, I wonder?"

Dawson looked toward the Administration Building and saw a trim major general of the Air Force running toward the B-25. By the time he reached it, Colonel Welsh was out of the plane. The two officers exchanged hasty salutes, and the major general started to take Colonel Welsh by the arm and lead him away. The colonel held back, however, nodded at the bomber and said something. The major general nodded in reply and made a waving motion with one hand. Then the pair turned and hurried over to the Administration Building and disappeared inside.

"Well, how do you like that?" Dawson gasped. "What about that wounded pilot aft?"

"That's why the colonel stopped," Freddy Farmer replied, and poked a finger to the right. "Here comes the ambulance now. Let's get back and see if we can lend them a hand. After all, this is his aircraft."

"Right; let's go," Dawson agreed, and pushed his stiff body out of the seat. "The least we can do is wish him all kinds of luck."

They made their way back to the compartment where the wounded pilot was resting on blankets laid out on the floorboards. There was some color in his face, now, and his neck and the upper part of his chest was swathed in bandages. Gathered about him were the members of his crew, each trying to keep from looking at the blanket-covered body of the co-pilot that lay on the far side of the compartment.

Dawson crouched beside the wounded pilot and grinned cheerfully.

"Lucky guy, Captain," he said. "A nice hospital, pretty nurses, and swell food for you. How's for changing places, huh?""I'll let you know after I've tried it for once," the other said, and matched the grin. "And, Dawson—"

"Yes, fellow," Dave prompted.

"I'm a dope, Dawson," the pilot said. "I want to apologize for that crack I made about losing a brother in a night torpedoing. It sure turned out different. I didn't know the score, you see, so I thought you were just—Well, I mean—"

"Skip it, fellow, skip it," Dawson smiled, and gently pressed the other's arm. "I didn't know the score myself, so I was just whistling in the dark. But forget it, Skipper! You had a perfect right to think as you did. Now here's the ambulance, so I'll stop talking. Good luck, fellow. And if we can work it, we'll come say howdy to you in the hospital. Good luck, anyway!"

"Yes, a million in luck, old thing!" Freddy Farmer added as he stood smiling down at the man.

"I've already had the million in luck, thanks to you two," the pilot said, as the ambulance medico came climbing into the B-25. "Be sure and come see me, if you can. I want to thank you for bringing the ship through. I'm kind of fond of her, you see, and—Well, you know how it is, eh?"Both Dawson and Farmer nodded gravely. Being pilots, they knew exactly how a fellow felt about his aircraft. Made of metal, and plastics, and wood, and fabric, to be sure. But to its pilot, it was something human and full of understanding. Something that couldn't be put into words, because there are no words in any language that can adequately describe the feeling a pilot holds in his heart for his plane. Dawson and Farmer simply nodded gravely, and gave a hand in lifting the wounded man out of the bomber and putting him in the ambulance.

"A nice guy," Dave murmured as the ambulance pulled away. "I sure am going to visit him if I get the chance."

"Yes, and me too, if!" Freddy Farmer murmured.

The remark caused Dawson to turn his head and glance sharply at his pal.

"And just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.

Young Farmer shrugged and nodded toward the Administration Building. "That chap headed our way," he said. "I've a bit of a hunch that something is up."

"Huh?" Dawson gasped. "What—"

He let the rest go as a field orderly came up on the run and saluted smartly. "Colonel Welsh's compliments, Captains Dawson and Farmer," the orderly said. "He asks that you report to him in the commanding general's office in an hour."

"An hour?" Dawson choked out, and then caught himself. "Very good, Sergeant," he said hastily. "We'll be there."

The orderly saluted and retreated toward the Administration Building. Dawson groaned softly.

"One hour, and off we go again! How much sleep can a fellow catch in an hour, I'd like to know?"

"About sixty minutes' worth," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Frankly, I prefer to spend that time eating. Let's go hunt up the Officers' Mess."

Dawson started to speak, thought better of it, and dropped into step with Freddy. One hour, huh? And then what? But he was much too tired and hungry to bother guessing up some answers. What would happen, would happen. And, after all, what was one more hour in this mysterious business?

What was one more hour? The gods of war on high could have told him. They could have told him it was just one more hour in which the Grim Reaper could steal closer and make ready to strike a blow that would stun the entire civilized world!