For a seemingly year long split second it was absolutely impossible for Dawson to get control of his whirling brain. And it was obviously the same with Squadron Leader Hixon, for the pilot just sat motionless in the seat, gaping wide-eyed out at the flame and smoke pouring out of all that was left of the starboard engine.

"They nailed us!" Dawson suddenly found his tongue. "Their bow gun. A bull's-eye on the starboard engine. Better level off, sir! We're heading down too fast!"

As a matter of fact, Dawson's wild yell of alarm wasn't necessary. The squadron leader had snapped out of his trance, and was battling furiously with the controls. But like a wild horse with the bit in its teeth, the Lockheed Hudson went screaming downward toward the rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic. What was left of the blasted starboard engine started flying off in small pieces. One chunk of metal smashed straight into the window close to Dawson's head. He ducked just in time as a shower of slivered glass came spilling in on him.

Then terror seemed to explode in his chest as he saw the squadron leader slump over against the control wheel. The flying chunk of metal had carried on past Dawson to glance off the pilot's helmet. Its force was not enough to rip through the helmet and snuff out the man's life. But it had been enough to knock him cold and send him slumping forward over the control wheel. Even as Dave glanced at the man, he was in action himself. With one outflung hand he forced Hixon back in the seat. And with the other he swung the control wheel over to a position in front of him. Then he grasped it with both hands and took up the struggle that Squadron Leader Hixon had left unfinished.

However, it was almost as though the Lockheed had become something human, and gone just a little mad. It was as though the aircraft actually realized that it was master of its own fate, and were savagely hurtling downward to smash itself to bits, as well as the bodies of the men it had aboard. Face grim and strained, and lips pressed tight, Dawson battled the crippled plane with every ounce of his strength. Twice he succeeded in getting the nose up and the craft back onto even keel. However, a good portion of the damaged starboard wing had been ripped away by the furious slip-stream of the plunging bomber, and no sooner would it get on even keel than it would flop over on the damaged wing, and struggle to wham right down to the vertical.

Whether more shots were fired from the guns of the mysterious submarine below, Dawson didn't know. Nor did he dare take his attention off the bomber for one split second to take a flash look. If noise meant shooting, then the submarine was hurling up everything it had aboard, for there was a continuous thunder in his ears. However, the sound could well have been caused by the violent vibration of the diving plane, plus sections of the starboard wing breaking free. But what caused the continuous thunder was the least of his worries. In fact, he didn't even give that item a second's thought. If the Lockheed hit those grey-green swells nose on it would be curtains for fair. Not even a Heaven-sent miracle could save a man's life from that kind of a crash. That kind of thing just didn't happen.

"Up, baby; up, pal! Come on! Up with it, and take it steady. Come on! Up—up—up!"

From a long way off Dawson heard his own pleading, commanding voice. A day of doom thunder was in his brain, now, and there was a terrific pounding in his chest as though his heart would burst out through his ribs at 'most any second. And down there before his eyes the grey-green water came surging, lunging upward. And then, suddenly, the nose of the Lockheed came upward for the third time. How, or just why, he didn't have the faintest idea. Maybe Lady Luck or the gods of good fortune had reached down and given invisible help. The fact was that the bomber seemed to realize that it did have a master, and was grudgingly obeying that master's commands.

At any rate, the nose came up until the aircraft was on an even keel. On an even keel, with the belly of the fuselage not fifteen feet over the grey-green swells. Dawson had long since killed the port engine, and so there was but one thing to do in the few split seconds of time allowed. Before the plane could flop over on its damaged wing again, he hauled the nose even higher. That killed off flying speed and brought the bomber to a stall. For a century long instant it seemed to hang dead motionless in the air, with its nose slanted up several degrees toward the clear dawn sky. Then it quivered violently and dropped belly first toward the water like ten ton of loose brick. A split second before it hit, Dawson spun half around in the seat and flung both arms about Squadron Leader Hixon, and braced hard with both feet.

The crash landing gave him the crazy thought of an express train ripping through a stalled freight loaded with empty tin cans. The roar of sound was deafening, and a wave of darkness surged up out of nowhere and tried to engulf him. And to make it all quite complete, a hundred or so little unseen demons stepped up and sledge-hammered every square inch of his body. When his brain stopped spinning long enough for him to take stock, he found that the force of the crash had flung him clear across the pilots' compartment, so that he was completely shielding Squadron Leader Hixon with his body. He also was able to realize that the pilot had regained consciousness, and was gaping up at him out of wide and still slightly dazed eyes. Dave grinned, tight-lipped, and heaved himself off the man.

"You hurt bad, sir?" he choked out. "Can you move? We're down in the water now. Got to get out of here before the nose goes under."

For answer the squadron leader straightened up in the seat and shook his head. Then he spoke.

"Quite fit," he said. "Thanks to you, of course. Something must have cracked me one on the head. Right-o! Let's get aft and see if the others are all right."

Dawson didn't hear the last because he was already ducking through the door and back toward amidships. After a couple of steps his eyes focussed on the scene, and his heart leaped with relief. The crew, and Freddy Farmer, were none the worse for wear and tear. They had obviously realized that a crash landing was inevitable and had braced themselves for the jolt. But even at that the force of the crash had spilled them around like peas in a can. They were slowly picking themselves up off the belly floor as Dawson came down the catwalk.

"Anybody hurt?" he shouted.

A general mumble in the negative assured him that the worst could be no more than a few bruises here and there. And then Freddy Farmer was standing beside him, eyes flashing.

"You and Squadron Leader Hixon gone completely balmy?" the English youth barked. "What in the world did you mean by sliding down so close to a U-boat? Why in thunder didn't you stay high? There're no depth bombs aboard. Or didn't Squadron Leader Hixon know?"

"U-boat?" Dawson choked out. "You're nuts, pal! It was one of ours! And is the fur going to fly because those blind men took a pot shot at us! They fired distress flares, and Hixon—Ye gods! Look, will you! Look!"

Dawson practically gagged out the last as in that moment he had unconsciously turned his head and looked out through one of the bomb compartment ports. There, not seventy yards away, was a German U-boat nosing slowly through the water toward the crashed Lockheed. Its superstructure wasn't even close to that of British design. And what was even more convincing was the black cross edged in white that was painted on the sides of the conning tower.

"The blighters! The low-down tricky blighters. They had her rigged up to look British. But now they've tossed the camouflage overboard and are showing their own dirty colors. And what about me? Good grief! I should be thrown right out of the R.A.F. for this stupid bit!"

It was Squadron Leader Hixon who had gasped and groaned out the words. He had come aft to join Dawson, and seen for himself through the compartment port. His face was drawn and haggard, and he wore the utterly bitter expression of a man who wants nothing but the opportunity to crawl away and cut his own throat.

"My mistake as well as yours, sir," Dawson spoke to him quickly. "She certainly looked English when we started down. The dirty rats! Waited until we were so close they couldn't miss with that bow gun. What a sweet mess this has turned out!"

"Well, it won't get any better if we just stand here," Freddy Farmer said quietly, and pointed at the two inches of sea water that already covered the compartment floor. "I suggest that we go top-side, and at least not give them the satisfaction of seeing us drown like so many rats!"

"That's showing the old brains, pal," Dawson grunted. "You're dead right! Up we go, everybody. That she's heading over here must mean that she plans to take survivors prisoners. So—well, it could be worse. And more than one fellow has escaped from a German prison camp."

Dawson grinned cheerfully as he spoke the words, but in truth his heart was heavy as lead. And then, suddenly, as he caught Freddy Farmer's eyes on him, his heart seemed to stop beating altogether and freeze up in a solid ball of ice. The English youth's eyes were not fixed on his face. On the contrary they were fixed on that part of his tunic that covered his inside pocket. And although Freddy didn't move his lips to say anything, he didn't have to. In a flash Dawson remembered the envelope addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull.

Could—could that envelope be the reason for all this? Was there any connection between that envelope addressed to Cordell Hull and the mangy trick the U-boat had played in shooting down the Lockheed?

The two questions stumbled a burning path through his brain. And although he tried to thrust them aside as utterly fantastic, they remained fixed and fast to taunt and torment him as he climbed top-side with Squadron Leader Hixon, Freddy Farmer, and the four members of the bomber's crew. And as if that weren't bad enough, the envelope tucked away in his inside pocket began to feel like a plate of white hot steel burning away the skin of his chest.

By the time all had reached top-side, and were staring at the U-boat creeping closer and closer, the Lockheed was well down by the nose, and the damaged starboard wing was completely under water. For one crazy instant Dawson wondered why those Hitler-mesmerized killers aboard the U-boat didn't head off in the opposite direction and leave them to a watery fate, which would come in a very short time. But even as he wondered about that, the burning sensation of the sealed envelope in his inside tunic pocket seemed to give him the answer.

"Well, if it's true," he whispered to himself, and started to slide his fingers inside his tunic, "then they're going to have fun trying to get it!"

He gave a faint nod of his head for emphasis, and then reached up with the others to grab hold of the rope that came curling through the air from the bow of the U-boat. They all caught it, and one of the Lockheed's crew quickly made it fast about the opened fuselage hatch.

"Pull yourselves over!" a harsh voice came from the conning tower bridge of the U-boat. "And if you swine try any tricks, you will all be dead men. Hurry! Pull yourselves over. I do not wish to remain here all day! Hurry!"

A fitting remark rose to Dawson's lips, but he choked it back and took his hold on the rope. Slowly the half submerged bomber was pulled over until it was bumping against the hull of the U-boat. A couple of square-headed Nazis caught hold of it with boat hooks, and held on hard while the voice on the conning tower bridge snarled out the next order.

"Jump aboard, you fools! Be quick about it. Fall overboard and you can save yourselves. We won't! So be quick about it!"

It was no time for those on the top of the Lockheed to put up any argument. And so one by one they leaped across the three feet of open water, caught hold of German hands outstretched and clambered up onto the sea water-dripping deck of the U-boat. Dave was the last to leave the doomed Lockheed Hudson. And when his feet touched the wet deck, he ignored the hands reached out to help him, and turned around to stare back at the bomber.

"Happy landings, old girl!" he said softly. "And don't worry. You've got thousands of sisters and brothers that will carry on for you. So long!"