Night was again closing down on the vast stretches of the Pacific Ocean, but this time it found Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer standing on the flight deck of the Yank Aircraft Carrier Tempest cutting into the wind through the long rolling swells some two hundred miles south-west of the Jap-held Marcus Island. The two air aces were waiting for the twin Wright Cyclones of their North American B-Twenty-Five to get well warmed up, and were stretching their legs a bit before taking off on the long flight through the night to a dawn landing on that secret airfield at Legaspi in the central Philippines. Yes, waiting for the B-Twenty-Five's engines to get clicking, stretching their legs, and trying to remember if it had been a few days ago, or a few years ago, when one Soo Wong Kai had given them a gourmet's treat in the dining-room of the Savoy Hotel in London.

"One more landing at Legaspi, Freddy," Dawson broke the five-minute silence. "Then we gas and hop along non-stop to Chungking. Just two more flying laps, kid, and we're in."

"And may that be true!" the English youth breathed fervently. "I'm so sick of water, and carrier decks, I could almost drown myself. Not that your Navy chaps haven't been wonderful to us. But—well, I never was one for long drawn out jobs."

"Nor me, either!" Dawson echoed the words. "Dance in and smack them, and dance right out again. That's the kind of thing I go for. Praise be, there's no scrapping at the North or South Poles, or we'd probably get sent there."

"I fancy this is the longest courier job on record, no doubt," Freddy Farmer muttered. "And—well, it's safe, isn't it, Dave? You know what I mean?"

"Could I miss catching on?" Dawson replied with a grim chuckle. "Yup! We've still got it along. But maybe you'd like to nursemaid it for the rest of the trip, kid?"

"No, by all means!" the English youth said sharply. "I want no part of it. Wouldn't sleep a wink. No, you're the hero, old thing. You carry it, and you deliver it. As a matter of fact, it really is much better that way."

"Huh?" Dawson grunted absently.

"For me, in case we should get captured," Freddy Farmer said, and edged along the flight deck toward the B-Twenty-Five. "In that event I can simply tell them that you've got it, and they'll cut you up in pieces and no doubt leave me alone. At the most, keep me a prisoner for the duration. You see?"

"Just a dear sweet pal!" Dawson growled. "Do that, my little man, and I promise to return to haunt you in your dreams. No fooling!"

"Better think up something worse than that, old bean!" Freddy Farmer shot right back at him. "Right now you haunt me when I'm awake! But let's get on with it, what? The aircraft seems about ready."

"What a tough break I need a navigator!" Dawson growled as they went down deck to the B-Twenty-Five. "If I didn't, I could toss you over the side for that crack, and finish this thing in peace."

"And a jolly, rotten break we're in such a hurry, too!" the English youth got in the parting shot. "It would be amusing to pretend we were lost just to see you sweat—and beg me to locate us."

"That'll be the day!" Dave added one bit more. "And you know what I mean, pal! Beg you, even for the time of day? Nuts!"

Some ten minutes later there was no longer any kidding around between the two air aces. Their North American B-Twenty-Five was clear of the flight deck of the Carrier Tempest, and up in the night-shrouded heavens. As a matter of fact, they could no longer even see the carrier. Just as soon as they had left, with the heartfelt good wishes of every officer and man aboard, the carrier had heeled way over and gone pounding around at full speed and onto a new course that would see her well away from that spot, come dawn.

Yes, the Tempest was far behind them, and Dawson and Farmer were just two steel-hearted eagles winging southwestward through night-shadowed skies, with its canopy of a billion or more twinkling stars high overhead. However, those twinkling stars meant far more than just night diamonds of beauty to Dawson and Farmer. To them they were the sign posts to their objective at Legaspi. They pointed the way along the skyway of the gods that they were to travel. To them they were understandable and tangible things. All else about them and below was darkness; the darkness of the unknown.

Relaxing comfortably in the pilot's seat, but with mind and body ready to spring to the alert at an instant's notice, Dawson fed the twin engines a minimum of high test to maintain desired cruising speed, and held the aircraft dead on the course Freddy Farmer had plotted out. With luck they should sight their objective at the very first sign of dawn light. And even then, it wouldn't be any too soon. This was the longest hop of them all to be made in the B-Twenty-Five. And no matter how careful and frugal Dave was with the fuel aboard, it was going to be close. So close, in fact, that they hadn't even considered a direct flight to China, though the coast line was not much farther away than the Legaspi airfield. But that was exactly the point. A landing on the China coast wouldn't do them any good at all. And it could well do them all kinds of harm. At Legaspi there was a field where they could sit down. There was fuel there, and Yanks to help them with the plane. But on the China coast? No such thing! Even though they managed to land still in one piece, it would be dollars to doughnuts that they'd probably land right smack in the laps of the occupying Japs. So it had to be Legaspi next. Legaspi, or bust.

"You mean drown, kid!" Dawson corrected his own thought. "If you run out of fuel, or overshoot your mark, or Freddy gets us lost, some sharks are going to have a swell meal. And no kidding, either!"

And with that not too pleasant thought he lapsed into silence again, a silence broken only every so often when Freddy gave him a change in course. In between times the seconds piled up to form minutes, and the minutes added up to total one hour, two hours, three hours, and four hours. And then, at the end of four hours, the gods of war seemed suddenly to decide that those two daring young sky eagles had been receiving too many good breaks. At any rate, one of those sudden and unexpected Pacific storms swept down on them. And swept down so fast that the B-Twenty-Five was almost stood up straight on her twin-ruddered tail before Dawson realized what was happening.

True, he did receive a slight warning in advance. An invisible hand seemed to sweep away the stars, and leave a roof of pitch darkness. But it was done in a flash, and as a warning of what was to come it was just about as helpful as seeing the flash of a lightning bolt headed your way. In short, one instant the B-Twenty-Five was rolling along through calm air as nice as you please. And in the next instant invisible forces were trying to tear it apart and throw the pieces all over that section of the Pacific.

Dawson thought he heard Freddy Farmer shout something from his navigator's nook, but he had no time to turn around and yell for a repeat of whatever it was. All the rain in the world seemed to be flooding down on the B-Twenty-Five. And terrific blasts of air were thundering in on it from every conceivable direction. Twice he would have sworn that the aircraft whipped through a full roll. And twice he was as sure as he was that he was over a foot high that the bomber was completely upside down and whanging along on its back. Aches and pains were shooting through every cubic inch of his body, and hanging onto the control wheel, that was whip-sawing back and forth, was just about as easy as trying to hang onto the broken stub of a spinning propeller. In fact, it was all he could do to stop the control wheel from driving back and caving in his chest. It took every ounce of his strength to hold it forward so that the wind-rocketed plane wouldn't go whanging up into a stall. And he was just about spent when Freddy Farmer scrambled forward to lend his strength to the job.

Neither of them spoke a word. In the combined roar of the engines and the raging storm it was all they could do to hear themselves think. Besides, there was no use for words now. Nothing that either of them could say would help any. It was just a question as to whether their strength would outlast the storm, and whether the strength of the plane itself would last through the terrific beating it was taking from the storm. A question of man, and man-made things, against the raging fury of the storm gods. And while the great struggle went on, time stood still. For Dawson and Farmer time ceased to exist. They were conscious of nothing else save the use of their combined strength to hold the aircraft as steady as they could. Conscious of that, and of their prayers that this night might not be the end of everything for them.

And so it is quite possible that the gods of misfortune looked down from their high places, and were forced to admire the do or die efforts of those two air aces, and were willing to slacken off their fury. Then again, perhaps it was just one of those things that happen to every airman sooner or later. Just one of those freak storms out of nowhere that can not be predicted, or explained after they hit. At any rate, the raging storm was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Dawson's lungs were burning, his head was pounding, and spots were milling around in a red haze over his eyes. And then suddenly the B-Twenty-Five had shot out into calm air, and there overhead was the canopy of twinkling stars again.

"Take a look, Freddy!" Dawson managed to squeak out past his lips. "Those are stars, aren't they? And we're still right side up, huh?"

"Don't ask me!" the English youth gurgled, as he slumped back in the co-pilot's seat. "If they aren't stars, and we're not right side up, then it doesn't matter. Doesn't, because I haven't one ounce of strength left to do anything about it. Good grief! That was all the storms I ever saw rolled into one!"

"You're telling me!" Dave gulped. "Boy! What rain! And what a breeze. But haul it out of here, Freddy. Get back and check on our position, will you? Heavens knows where that storm tossed us. And—Sweet tripe! Look at that dash clock, will you! That thing lasted an hour and forty minutes!"

"Forty years!" Freddy shouted as he went aft to take their position from the stars. "And I know blasted well that I've got a grey hair for every one of them. Be right back, Dave."

Dawson held the plane at low cruising throttle, and on a general southwesterly compass course for the next ten minutes. Then Freddy Farmer came back with his findings.

"Not too bad, Dave," he announced. "It might have been a whole lot worse, considering. The blasted thing blew us about sixty-five miles east of our true course. Here's your new course."

Dave took Freddy's new course instructions with a heavy heart. True, he was glad that they had survived the terrible storm, and that that howling wind hadn't driven them even farther off course. However, it was bad enough as it was. They were still a good two hours' calm weather flying from their objective, and as close as he could figure it, they had just about an hour and three quarters supply of fuel left in the tanks. Perhaps if they eased up gently for altitude they might make that last fifteen minutes with gliding. But it certainly wasn't a chance for even a fool to bet on.

"Oke, and thanks, pal," he said aloud in a cheerful voice. "Be there presently, I figure. We'd both better keep our eyes skinned, now that it's starting to get light. We're in a Jap-infested part of the world now. And if those rats that have taken the northern sections of the Philippines have got any air patrols out, we may have to do a wee bit of detouring."

"That's quite all right, Dave, old thing," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "Don't try to be a liar, old chap, just to make me feel good. I've done a little figuring myself, Dave. Unless we have the good fortune to pick up a tail wind, we're going to have a very touch and go fifteen minutes at the end of this trip."

"But we'll make it, kid," Dave said grimly. "And that's a promise from me to you. Count on it. Sure wish we had a load of bombs along, though."

"A load of bombs?" the English youth echoed. "Why in the world bombs? You plan to blast out a spot to land? Say in the water, if our gas doesn't last?"

"I was thinking of MacArthur's boys on Bataan, and Corregidor!" Dawson said grimly. "I'd certainly give plenty to lay some eggs on the little brown rats pestering those fellows. What a scrap they've put up. History that will never die. And even if the darn Japs do finally push them out, it'll be a mighty hollow victory. I bet it's one big surprise to those pint-sized butchers that the Philippines are no push-over."

"No place would be a push-over with General MacArthur in command, I fancy," Freddy murmured. "He's one of the finest generals of all time."

"Check and double check!" Dawson echoed instantly. "And could we do with a dozen like him. But—Hold it! Hold everything, Freddy! Dead ahead, there. Is that landfall, or just a trick of my eyes?"

"It's land, Dave!" Freddy replied in an excited voice. "Land, just as sure as you're alive. And if these charts and maps they gave us at Pearl Harbor are correct, we've hit it right on the nose. That land is the Catanduanes Islands just north of Legaspi. We'll know for sure in another ten minutes!"

Another ten minutes? In ten minutes nations have fallen into the dust. In ten minutes half the world has changed face. In ten minutes a million and one things can happen which normally should take months or years to come to pass. And so, at the end of ten minutes, Dawson and Farmer were suddenly "treated" to a sight that chilled their blood, and sent their hearts dropping down into their boots.

In the pale light of early dawn they saw a flock of birds come sweeping up from that bit of the Philippines known as Legaspi. Only it wasn't a flock of birds. It was a flock of war birds. A flock of Jap Zeros up on early dawn patrol. True, they had half expected to see at least a Jap plane or two, but to see them come up from the ground on Legaspi was like a mule's kick in the stomach. There was no need to wonder, or to ask each other unanswerable questions. There was only to observe, and realize the terrible truth. The truth that Legaspi had fallen to the Japs during the last forty-eight hours, and that the Yank emergency airfield was unquestionably in enemy hands.

And, as though to add a final touch to horrible reality, the port outboard engine of the B-Twenty-Five began to cough and sputter from the lack of fuel in the tanks. And a couple of seconds later the starboard engine took up that soul-chilling song that no pilot ever wants to hear.

"Would you care to get out and walk the rest of the way, sir?" Dawson asked in a strained voice that belied the crooked grin on his lips.

"No thanks," Freddy Farmer came right back at him, with an equal attempt to crack wise. "Just turn about and take me back to Honolulu, please!"