The sun was sliding down over the western lip of the world in a hurry when Dawson sat the Vultee down on the Sydney field after a trans-Australia flight from Broome. As soon as they taxied into the line and mechanics took over, a sergeant of the Military Police came hurrying over to them. For just a brief moment Dave's heart floated up to the region of his throat. It was just a wasted sensation, however. The M.P. was simply doing his duty of informing all pilots landing from other bases to report first to the operations office.

Dave and Freddy legged out, collected their stuff, and went over to operations. They were obviously expected, for the officer on duty greeted them with a grin and a nod, and jerked a thumb at the motor transport building next door.

"A car and driver are waiting, Captains," he said pleasantly. "Over there in front. He'll take you to Headquarters at once. Have a nice trip out?"

"It wasn't too bad," Dave replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "I suppose I'd be shot if I asked questions?"

The operations officer chuckled and shook his head.

"No," he said, "you wouldn't be shot. But you wouldn't get any answers, either. Because I don't know any. I can tell you this much, though, if it will help any. You two are the umpty-umph pilots since yesterday morning who have checked through here in a hurry to get to Headquarters. Looks like something big is in the wind, but I wouldn't know. Nobody tells us guys anything, anyway. Good luck, just the same, and—Well, for the love of Mike, Dawson! Did some sweet young thing in China try to steal your wings with her teeth? Man, those are chewed up, what I mean!"

"No, Zero teeth, if you get what I mean," Dave grinned. "I'm a lucky guy, I guess."

The operation officer's eyes widened, and he let out air slowly."Did, huh?" he breathed. "Luck, and how, what I mean! Man, what I wouldn't give for a war souvenir like that! You're the second chap I've met whose life was saved by a bullet ricocheting off his wings. I know one fellow, too, who got saved by his cigarette case. No fooling, Dawson, you've really got something there. Well, anyway, scram along, kids, and a million in luck!"

"Same to you, and in bunches, soldier," Dave grinned, and went outside with Farmer.

"See what I mean, Freddy?" he said as they walked toward the motor transport building. "There's nice guys, and otherwise, in every man's army. You never can tell a fellow by the rank insignia on his shoulders."

"Quite, oh quite," the English-born air ace murmured absently. "But I'm wondering why so many pilots have been ordered to Headquarters. I wonder."

Dawson shrugged and headed toward a war-painted staff car with a corporal driver lounging against a front fender.

"Search me," he said. "Could be that they have decided to wash out the Army Air Forces, and make ditch diggers of us all. Not a bad idea, after the flying I've seen some guys do."

"Yes, definitely," Freddy Farmer replied instantly. "But how the deuce do you manage it, Dave? I should think the whirling prop tips would smash it."

"Huh?" Dawson ejaculated. "Come again, Freddy? How do I manage what?"

"To hold a mirror out in front of you, so you can see yourself flying around!" the English youth shot at him. "Quite a trick, isn't it?"

"Bingo, and out!" Dawson laughed. "Okay, wise guy! That puts you one up for the day. But the sun hasn't set yet. So keep right up there on your toes, my lad. Well, this must be ours."

As Dave spoke the last he returned the salute of the corporal driver, who had straightened to attention.

"This the H.Q. taxi, Corporal?" he asked.

"I guess you could call it that, sir," the non-com said with a chuckle. "Step right in and it will take you there itself. It sure has made enough trips these last couple of days to be able to do it on its own."

"Really?" Freddy Farmer murmured. "All Air Forces officers, Corporal?"

"No, not all, sir," the non-com replied. "About fifty-fifty Army and Navy, sir, I'd say. Quite a bunch of them, too. I guess maybe something's being cooked up for Tojo and his boys. High time, I'm thinking, too. We're quite a few runs behind them tramps."

"But we'll catch up, don't worry," Dawson assured him. "They took first swings, you know, so our team will get last swings. And I do mean last swings, too."

The non-com driver nodded and grinned broadly. Then as he held the car door open for the pair to climb in, he let his eyes rest on their decoration ribbons.

"Yeah, Captain," he grunted, "we get last swings. But I can see that you two officers ain't been exactly hitting loud fouls every time you came up. Nailed plenty of them slant eyes, huh?"

"A couple, I guess," Dave grinned. "But they were probably fledglings on their first time out."

"Yeah, I bet, I bet!" the corporal snorted, and slid in behind the wheel. "Well, here goes for trip nine thousand and something!"

Regardless of what number trip it was for that corporal, it was certainly the fastest, wildest ride that either Dawson or Freddy Farmer had ever had in a car. When they finally pulled up in front of the building that served as USAFFE Headquarters (United States Armed Forces in the Far East) they were both quite certain that they had left ten years of their lives somewhere along the road. As he climbed out, Dave took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and offered it to the driver. But the non-com shook his head.

"That's okay, sir, and thanks just the same," he said. "I used to drive a hack in New York before the draft nailed me. So I know right guys when I see them. I don't want no tip, sir."

"It isn't a tip," Dave grinned, and dropped the bill in the driver's lap. "Just a little something to buy stuff from the hospital canteen with while you're convalescing. Go on; keep it."

The non-com blinked stupidly for a moment; then his flat, freckled face cracked in a broad grin.

"I get it, Skipper," he said with a chuckle. "I won't spend this in no hospital. I can drive this baby with my eyes closed."

"And I think you did!" Dave laughed at him. "And good luck."

"And good hunting for both of you, sir!" the driver called out as Dave and Freddy went up Headquarters front steps.

Just inside the big front doors, they were buttonholed by an officer seated at a desk who wanted to know their business there. They couldn't tell him that, but they gave the officer their names, and that was good enough. In fact, it seemed to please him, for he let out a long sigh."Well, thank Heaven, you're the last of the lot!" he breathed. "I've been seeing nothing but Army and Navy pilots—even in my dreams. Report to Room Twelve Fifty for further orders. Good luck."

Dave asked where he'd find Room Twelve Fifty, received the information, and started off with Freddy.

"This is getting to make me feel not so good," he grunted, as he stabbed an elevator button and waited for the car to come down.

"What do you mean?" the English youth asked quickly. "Have you heard something I haven't?"

"With your big ears?" Dave shot at him. "Such a question! No. I mean the parting crack everybody gives us. Good luck, good hunting, and so forth. It makes me nervous when everybody keeps wishing me good luck. Makes me feel they really do know something bad is going to pop, and they're saying to themselves, 'And he seems such a nice guy, too!"

"If they know you they're not saying that!" Freddy cracked back fast. "But I get the idea of what you mean. Frankly, I'm getting to hate those two words, good luck. Half the time I fancy they're not really meant."

"Boy, are you going sour in your middle age!" Dave chuckled. "Cheer up, pal, and—and Good luck!"

Freddy glared, and he might have started things right then and there but for the fact that the elevator came down at that moment and the sliding doors parted open. A couple of minutes later they were pushing through the door of Room Twelve Fifty. It wasn't a very big room, but it seemed jammed to the ceiling with Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots. Both Dave and Freddy spotted several pilots whom they knew. Then, suddenly, both came to a full stop and stared pop-eyed at the far end of the room. There was a desk there manned by a couple of high ranking officers. The pilots in the room were filing past the desk, and obviously giving their names, and so forth, to the two officers. One of them was an infantry colonel, and the other was an Air Forces major. It was sight of the infantry colonel that caused both Dave and Freddy to stop dead, and gape. In short, once again they were meeting their old friend Colonel Welsh, Chief of Combined U.S. Intelligence.

"Oh-oh!" Dave murmured. "Do you see what I see, Freddy?"

"I most certainly do," the English youth replied. "Fact is, we might have guessed, what?"

"Yeah, something like that," Dawson grunted absently. "The colonel in the flesh, huh? Well, that means there isn't any clam bake coming up, that's certain. But I guess we must have fallen down on that last job he gave us, Freddy. And he's very disappointed."[A]

"Eh?" Freddy gasped. "What do you mean, we must have fallen down on the job? Don't be silly!"

"Well, look at all these other pilots here," Dave replied. "Must be he doesn't think we're so hot any more, and is going to give us plenty of help on the next job—whatever it is."

"Man! How some people hate themselves!" Freddy Farmer snorted. "But I wonder what's up; what he has up his sleeve?"

"Well, there's one way to find out, I guess," Dave grunted, and started to move. "Get into line, here, and ask him when it comes our turn."

As Dave and Freddy were the last two to enter the room, and were therefore at the end of the line, the room was pretty well cleared of pilots when they reached the desk. Colonel Welsh was bent over a list of names and didn't look up.

"Name, rank, and former unit?" he asked mechanically."Dawson, sir. Captain. Returned from special assignment in China."

Colonel Welsh stiffened, let his pencil drop, and looked up quickly. A broad smile of welcome lighted up his thin, sun-bronzed face. He didn't bother to reply to their salutes. He simply put out his hand.

"So you made it, Dawson, and you, too, Farmer?" he said. "Good! I've been worrying you wouldn't get under the wire. How are you?"

"Fine, sir," Dave grinned as he shook hands. "And sort of curious, of course."

"Oh, quite, sir," Freddy echoed, and extended his hand. "And I fancy Dawson has expressed it for both of us."

"Well, stay curious for a while, boys," the colonel replied with a dry chuckle. "But here, I want both of you to meet Major Taylor. He's seen a bit of action in this mess, too. Take a look at his decorations, if you don't believe me. Major Taylor, Captains Dawson and Farmer."

The two youths shook hands with the major, and both liked him instantly. He had twinkling grey eyes that could become as cold as ice cubes when he wanted, and a warm smile that showed he always meant what he said from the heart.

"Big moment Number One for me today, Captains," he said. "I've heard about you two plenty, of course. So I'm mighty glad to meet you. Maybe we can have fun together. With the Jap rats, I mean."

"Nothing would suit me better, Major," Dawson replied, and meant it, too.

"Definitely, Major," Freddy Farmer added. And then with a faint smile, "But where, sir?"

"Oh, haven't I told you yet?" Colonel Welsh spoke up with a quick laugh. "Why, we're all making a little flight to—well, to give you something to think about, Farmer, let's call it a little flight to nowhere!"

[A] Dave Dawson With The Flying Tigers.