"Flight to nowhere, eh? What the blasted blue blazes did he mean by that? Is this thing going to be fitted with wings, or something, I'd like to know?"

It was Freddy Farmer who spoke the words. With Dave Dawson, and some two dozen Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots, he stood on the deck of an American destroyer steaming out of Sydney into the Tasman Sea at full knots. Just five hours ago they had met Colonel Welsh at H.Q., and—and learned nothing except that they were going on a flight to nowhere. Shortly after the Colonel had imparted to them that choice bit of "secret information," he had sent them on their way to enjoy the sights of Sydney for a few hours, and then to report to a certain Army pier at such and such a time.

Well, they had seen most of the sights of Sydney in a restaurant where Freddy Farmer was at least happy, because the place was stocked with far more food than he could possibly eat at one sitting. And when it was practically coming out of his ears, they left the place and took a short walk about town. At the proper time they reported to the pier where a bunch of Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots were already gathered. Everybody was full of questions, but there wasn't a single answer in the whole crowd. Then presently a sleek, battle grey destroyer slid in and tied up long enough for the whole gang to be taken aboard. And now the destroyer was cleaving the night-blackened waters of Sydney Harbor and sending spray flying well back over the bridge.

"Don't ask me, sweetheart," Dawson grunted, and stared down at the black waters swirling past the destroyer's hull. "Could be they're going to take us out and drown the lot of us. How do I know?"

"Well, you could at least be helpful enough to make a sensible guess!" Freddy snapped. "Confound you Yanks, anyway! I never saw such mysterious business!"

"Listen to the guy!" Dawson hooted. "You forget I've been to England, and served in the R.A.F. with you. For cat's sake, it usually takes a ton of TNT to get an Englishman to open his mouth long enough to admit that the sun is shining. Us Yanks mysterious? Pal, we're blabber-mouths compared with your British Intelligence Service. And don't argue with me, because I've had experience, I have!"

"Rot!" the English youth growled. "But never mind, anyway. The point is, where are we going?"

Dawson said nothing. He just leaned a bit more over the chain railing, and stared down at the water.

"Well, can't you make a guess?" Freddy insisted.

Dave started to shake his head, but on second thought checked himself. He turned and peered at Freddy in the gloom.

"I don't have to guess, Freddy," he said quietly.

Young Farmer stiffened, caught his breath in a gasp, and leaned close.

"What's that, Dave?" he breathed excitedly. "You know? You know where we're going?"

"Yes, I know," Dawson murmured, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to know. "Sure, I know, pal."Freddy Farmer waited just two split seconds before he practically exploded in a shower of small pieces.

"Then for goodness' sake, tell me, Dave!" he choked out. "Don't keep me like this, blast you! Where are we going?"

"You want to know, huh?" Dave echoed, and bent his head close to Farmer. "You want to know where we're going? Well, see where my hand is pointing? Out there beyond the bow of this tub? Well, we're going out there, sweetheart."

Freddy groaned, choked and spluttered, but before he could spit out a single word, Dawson pushed back the cuff of his jacket to reveal his wrist watch. The radium-treated dial showed that it was exactly five minutes to midnight.

"So that makes us one all for the day, Freddy," he chuckled. "I told you I'd get you to bite on something before the day was over. I warned you to keep up on your toes. Okay, and not sore, huh?"

"Just plain disgusted, you blighter!" Freddy snarled. "Man! Why I put up with you day after day, I don't know!"

"Maybe it's love," Dave chuckled, and jumped quickly as the English youth aimed a booted foot.Freddy's foot didn't connect with certain places, however. And he didn't make a second try. He simply snorted to himself and joined Dave in staring silently down at the black water flowing past. For perhaps some ten of fifteen minutes neither youth said anything. Each seemed to be quite content with his own thoughts. Eventually, though, Dave broke the silence.

"Well, there's one thing, anyway, Freddy," he said. "Wherever we're going, we're going to get there soon, I guess."

"Would that be the beginning of another side-splitting act of yours?" Freddy growled. "And what do you mean by it, anyway?"

"It's the detective in me," Dawson replied, unruffled. "Here we are on a destroyer heading out to sea in pitch darkness, but I haven't been assigned any place to sleep, have you?"

"By Jove, that's right, Dave!" young Farmer exclaimed excitedly. "We haven't, have we? Good grief! Do you suppose this is taking us to New Zealand, and we've got to ride on deck all the way?"

Dawson didn't answer for a moment. He threw back his head and stared up at the trillions upon trillions of stars that glittered and gleamed in the jet black sky."My celestial navigation tells me we're headed more toward New Caledonia than New Zealand," he said. "But I'll bet you a pair of flying goggles that we're not going to either of those places."

"I won't take the bet, because you're too blasted lucky," Freddy spoke up quickly. "But anyway, why didn't you think so?"

"Well, I got hit by a sudden hunch, while we were waiting on the pier for this tin can to tie up," Dawson said slowly. "And I got chewing the fat with some of the others there. Know something, Freddy?"

"Well, I will after you tell me, of course," the English youth replied. "What?"

"Keep your shirt on; a guy has to take a breath now and then, you know!" Dave grunted. "Well, I didn't run into a single guy who hasn't had some experience flying off an aircraft carrier. If you want my guess, it's that this load of pilots is being taken out to some carrier force waiting way off shore."

"I wonder, I wonder!" Freddy Farmer murmured after a long pause. "Why would a carrier force be so top hat as not to come in and get us, I'd like to know?"

"Call it 'high hat' next time, Freddy," Dave corrected gently. "White folks will think you're English, if you—"

"Now, look out, my good man!" Freddy began menacingly. "I'll have you know that I'm—"

"And I don't blame you for being proud that you're English, pal," Dave broke in with a chuckle. "So would I be, if I wasn't Yank. Okay, skip the funny crack. The reason a carrier force wouldn't come in to pick us up is probably because of that one word pronounced spies! One thing we want to keep plenty secret out here in the Southwest Pacific is the location of our carrier task forces. So we were loaded aboard this tin can at night, and are being sneaked out to one. Catch on?"

"Not definitely," Freddy Farmer muttered, and scowled in the darkness. "Seems to me that a carrier task force at sea would have its own pilots, and what not. Besides, a lot of us aboard this destroyer are Army Air Forces pilots."

"So what?" Dave said, and shrugged. "So maybe the Navy needs help in the air, and knows just where to get it."

"Better keep those remarks under cover, or a certain Army pilot may be reported lost overboard!"

Dave jumped straight up at the sound of the voice at his elbow, and whirled around in midair. When his feet came back on deck again he saw Colonel Welsh standing in front of him.

"Gosh, you scared me, Colonel!" he gasped. "I thought a Navy pilot had overheard me!"

"Good thing one didn't," the senior officer chuckled. "Plenty of rivalry between you Army and Navy pilots. And I'm afraid there are hot heads on both sides. Well, how are you enjoying a ride on a destroyer, eh?"

"Oh, just too, too wonderful, sir!" Dawson replied with a groan. "But I didn't see you on the pier, Colonel. When did you come aboard? At the last minute?"

"No, I came aboard much earlier," the Colonel replied. "I've been up in the commander's quarters."

"Er ..." Freddy Farmer began, and faltered. "I mean," he began again, "I don't suppose he told you, sir, where we are headed?"

The colonel laughed and shook his head.

"He didn't have to, Farmer," he replied. "You see, I already knew. But hold on with your questions, because I don't mind telling you, now that we've shoved off. We're making for a rendezvous with a carrier task force a couple of hundred miles out to sea. We should contact it just about dawn. You chaps, if you want to sleep, will have to do it on the deck, I'm afraid. I wouldn't advise it, though, the way this ship is smashing the swells. And the commander says that it will be even rougher outside."

"Thanks, I think I'll stay awake," Dawson laughed. Then, in a serious tone, "And when we reach the carrier task force, sir?"

"Why, we go aboard, of course," the colonel replied. "There are two carriers. The Hawk, and the Carson. Half of you will go to one, and half to the other."

"And then, sir?" Dave persisted.

"For military reasons, Dawson, I'm afraid I didn't hear you," the senior officer replied. "Count on it for something interesting, though. And not easy by any manner of means. Fact is, all this may be simply the beginning of a very costly waste of time, and effort."

The Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence spoke the last while staring flint-eyed out over the rail, and as though he were repeating his own thoughts aloud to himself. A million questions piled up on the tip of Dave's tongue. And it was the same with Freddy Farmer. However, neither one of them spoke for fear it might stop the Colonel from saying more. However, they were both out of luck. The senior officer grunted, shook himself a little, and turned to them with a smile that showed his even white teeth even in the gloomy light.

"Well, I wish I had time, now, to get a first-hand report from you boys of that trip to Chungking you made," he said. "And your experiences with the Flying Tigers. However, I only popped out for a breath of air. There's still a lot of paper work for me to do. I'll be seeing you soon, though; don't worry. A lot of you, probably, as I'll be aboard your carrier, the Carson. Until then, good luck!"

Dave groaned, but not loud enough for Colonel Welsh to hear as he walked away.

"Even him!" Dave sighed. "Good luck to you, and good luck to you—and nuts! If anybody should suddenly say, 'Bad luck' to me just once, I think I'd keel over in a dead faint!"

"Oh, come off it, Dave!" Freddy grated. "What do you expect folks to say? Man, but you're getting to be a testy blighter! So we are going to a carrier task force, eh? Well, I'll have to admit that for once you were right. But I certainly wish he'd told us more."

"And you can repeat that!" Dave grunted. "And all this may be simply the beginning of a very costly waste of time and effort. That, my little friend, did not sound so nice to me. It didn't even sound close to nice."

"Quite," Freddy said with a little sigh. "But nothing's nice about this blasted war, you know. So we might just as well make the best of it. And—"

The English youth choked off the rest as the alarm horn sounded aboard the destroyer, and the craft seemed virtually to spin around to port the length of her keel, and then fairly streak across the water.

"The submarine detector has picked up something, I guess!" Dave muttered, and took a firmer grip on the chain rail. "Now, wouldn't it be sweet to get torpedoed even before we get any place?"

"You say the happiest things!" Freddy got out in a slightly strained voice. "Shut up, and use your eyes. Maybe we'll sight something."

"In this darkness?" Dave echoed, and promptly leaned over the chain rail and strained his eyes at the black water beyond the bow. "Don't be silly. Not unless it's trimmed with neon lights."

For perhaps five minutes the destroyer pounded through the night sea at emergency knots. Then the all clear horn sounded again. The destroyer's speed slackened off slightly, and her bow came cutting around to the previous course. A faint sigh of relief seemed to whisper along the spray-drenched decks. And then presently everything was as normal as before.

"Probably one of ours," Dave grunted. "Or just a false alarm. But either suits me okay. There's something about getting torpedoed and drowned that I just don't like."

"Quite, oh quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "If a chap has to cop one, much better to cop it in the air. Definitely cleaner, you know."

Dave nodded, but didn't make any comment. And once more the two air aces lapsed into silence and stood at the chain rail peering out over the night-shrouded waters, each with the same thought unspoken in his mind. Way out there ahead were two Yank aircraft carriers waiting to take them aboard. And when that was accomplished, then where to next? A tantalizing question that only time would answer for them. And the smirking gods of war, too, of course, if the two youths could but hear their death rattle voices!