The next few moments seemed to Dawson to be year upon year stretching slowly out to their fullest extent of time. During every ticking second he kept his gaze fixed steadfastly on the U-boat commander, and held the Luger in his hand steady and ready for instant action, if need be. However, there was no need for that kind of action. Perhaps the German read the truth in the Yank's agate eyes, and realized beyond all possible doubt that Dawson would squeeze the trigger of the Luger, if he was forced to, just as sure as the Lord made little apples. Or perhaps the Nazi was still so paralyzed with fear that he couldn't have moved a single muscle, if he'd wanted to, but could only stand there at the periscope's base sight, and stare with glazed eyes back at the man who had him covered.

And then suddenly, the German seaman at the depth gauge board grunted out the fact that the U-boat was awash on the surface. Dawson didn't turn his head to glance over at him. He still kept his eyes fixed on the commander, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Okay, Freddy," he said. "You, and Squadron Leader Hixon, and a couple of the others go top-side, pronto. Yell back down if you see anything. Better take along a couple of those flares, even if it is daylight. The two who don't go up with you can park down here and help me keep these rats in line. Give them each one of the guns from your collection."

"Right-o, Dave!" the English youth replied. "I'll go top-side and take a look. But if I don't see anything, I think we'd better make use of their radio, what?"

"Bright lad," Dawson grunted. "Okay, get set."

As the Yank spoke the last he leaned forward slightly so that the muzzle of his Luger was just a few inches closer to the spot square between the U-boat commander's eyes.

"Up conning tower hatch, you!" he grated out. "And if we aren't on the surface, it's going to be just as tough for you as for the rest of us. So—"

Dave chopped off the rest, swung his Luger in a short arc and squeezed the trigger. A bull-necked Nazi sailor charging through a door behind the commander took the bullet smack in the chest and fell down in a heap. A gun he had half raised bounced when it hit the steel deck, and went skidding away. Dawson swung his eyes back to the senior officer, who was now having all kinds of difficulty keeping his knees from buckling.

"Catch on?" Dawson snapped. "I never kid, stupid, when I make a promise. And I made one to you. Remember? Okay! Up with that conning tower hatch!"

The Nazi could only bob his head up and down violently. Then the words poured off his lips like raging flood waters going over a broken dam.

"I do not lie, Herr Captain!" he gasped out. "We are on the surface. Yes, yes! It is so. I would be a fool to drown us all by ordering the hatch to be opened while we are still below the surface. I would be mad to do that. I do not wish to die—that way!"

"Well, there are other ways, if you don't snap it up!" the Yank reminded him with a significant gesture of the Luger. "So step on it, my little Nazi tramp. Step on it!"

The U-boat commander did just that, but during the few seconds it took to issue orders and get the hatch open Dawson's heart stood still, and he held his breath clamped in his lungs. After all, there was just a wild chance that the commander did have a little stiffness in his backbone! However, the man had had more than enough. And like all of his type, when it came to the matter of his own life, he could change from a blustering, arrogant hireling of Hitler to a cringing, sniveling whimperer in practically nothing flat.

And so he did just as he was ordered, and presently the conning tower hatch was opened, and clean, fresh ocean air was pouring down inside to cut the thick, heavy U-boat stench.

"Stop daydreaming, pal!" Dawson snapped, as Freddy Farmer made no move toward the companion ladder. "Get up there and do your stuff, in case somebody has already sighted us. I sure don't want to be kissed now by any made-in-England depth bomb. Scram!"

"You go, Dave," the English youth argued. "You've earned a smell of fresh air. I'll watch these blasted Jerries."

"Nothing doing!" the Yank snapped. "Up with you. This is more fun, see? Maybe some other dope will stick his head through a door. I can do with a little side-arms practice. Get going!"

Freddy didn't bother arguing after that. With Squadron Leader Hixon, and a couple of the Lockheed's crew, he went scrambling up the companion ladder, and out onto the conning tower bridge. Down below, Dawson and the remaining two of the Lockheed's crew kept their eyes and their captured Lugers fixed on the Germans in the central control room. Seconds ticked by to add up to a minute. And the minutes added up to total three, then four. Tension began to tell on Dawson, and a whole flock of little worries and doubts began to play about in his brain. True, he was standing guard over the "nerve center" of the U-boat. And true, his prisoners were the commander and his junior officers. Just the same, he couldn't hope to keep the situation just as it was indefinitely. Maybe the commander and his officers were cringing cowards, but that didn't guarantee that it was the same with every member of the U-boat's crew. Maybe there was a hero or two among them who would rather take death than capture and imprisonment. Or, at least, perhaps there was one among them who might crack easily. One who might go clean off his nut, and do anything, such as open the sea valves, to break the terrific, tormenting strain. And whether a brave hero or a man gone mad opened the sea valves and let the ocean come pouring in, the result would be the same!

And so, as each new second ticked by, another little bead of cold, clammy sweat formed on Dawson's forehead. And with each passing instant of time he had to battle harder to keep from showing his nervousness by yelling up to Freddy Farmer to find out if anything had been sighted. Finally, when his nerves were so tightly drawn that they threatened to snap and fly off in small pieces at almost any second, he suddenly heard the welcoming sound of the English youth's voice.

"Cheerio, Dave, old thing!" Freddy shouted down the hatch. "Luck of the Devil for us, for fair. The King's Navy, no less, Dave, my lad. What a beautiful sight to see, and—"

"Save it!" Dawson roared back at him. "What in thunder do you see?"

"A British cruiser, of course!" the English youth told him. "Didn't I say the King's Navy? Well, there she is, and coming right for us. Happy days are here again, what?"

Dawson gave a little shake of his head, and dropped the crazy conversation. He realized that Farmer's joy at sighting a British cruiser, which had come up out of nowhere, had sent him just a little joyously haywire for the moment. As a matter of fact, Dawson's own head felt a little light, and he almost smiled at the U-boat commander as he jerked his head upward and gave the order.

"Top-side for you!" he said in German. "A British cruiser is bearing down toward us. Get up there and get an eyeful. Hey, Freddy! Stupid is coming up! Keep your eye on him. I'll be up in a minute."

Right after he had shouted the last in English to Freddy Farmer up on the conning tower bridge, Dave turned to the two members of the Lockheed's crew who had remained below decks with him, and gave them a happy grin and a nod.

"Okay, up you go, too," he said. "And thanks for giving me a hand down here. Too bad we didn't get some—"

"Watch it, sir!" screamed one of the R.A.F. men. "Down with you!"

Dawson had already dropped low and twisted around. He saw the blurred figure of Herr Miller charging toward him, and saw the Nazi's outstretched hand spit flame and smoke. Something plucked at his tunic sleeve, and almost spun him around. His feet were too well braced, however. And in the next split second the sound of his own gun blended with the crack of the guns held by the two R.A.F. men. All three bullets hit Herr Miller, and the man was stone dead before his feet left the deck as he went toppling over backwards, and down. Dawson swallowed hard and glanced down at the bullet hole in his tunic sleeve.

"Thanks for the yell," he said to the man who had given the alarm. "And thank God he was a rotten shot. Tough that he's dead, though. I've had the hunch that he was Gestapo. I'd hoped to take him alive and learn a thing or two. But maybe it's just as well that he's that way. One less rat to worry about. Well, let's go."

Dawson motioned the other two up the companion ladder, and then, after barking a cautioning word or two to the live Germans still in the central control room, he backed slowly up the companion ladder and then quickly scrambled out of the hatch and onto the bridge. In a flash Freddy Farmer was by his side and pointing excitedly at a British cruiser standing off about a quarter of a mile to starboard while it launched one of its motorboats.

And a little over fifteen minutes later another of Hitler's U-boats had made its last trip, a trip that took it straight down to the bottom of the North Atlantic. Its officers and crew were prisoners of war aboard the cruiser. And in the cruiser captain's quarters, Squadron Leader Hixon was giving a glowing account of all that had happened.

"It was Captain Dawson all the way, I fancy, sir," he finished up with a grin. "The rest of us were simply the audience. But an audience that will never forget his performance, you can be sure. Fact is, when I return to England I'm certainly going to recommend that he be mentioned in Orders, and be cited for a decoration. Truth to tell, sir, it was all so incredibly wonderful that I'm still wondering a little if it actually did happen."

"Well, if it's all right with you, sir," Dawson spoke up, his face flaming red with embarrassment, "let's just say that it didn't, and forget the whole thing. Frankly, it was just bluff, and a barrel of luck. Those two things, plus Jerry brains that can't turn over very fast in the clinches. So if it's all the same to you, sir, I'd—"

Dawson let the rest hang in the air as there came an urgent knock on the door, and the senior radio officer came in with a yellow slip of paper in his hand.

"An answer from your report to the Admiralty, sir," he said, and handed the yellow slip of paper to the senior officer. "But it's from the Air Ministry, sir."

Dawson and Farmer unconsciously stiffened, and exchanged glances. Then they looked at the cruiser's captain. The officer scowled at the yellow slip for a moment, then looked up quickly to meet their gaze.

"Seems that you two chaps were in a bit of a hurry, what?" he said with a faint smile, and tapped the paper with the fingers of his other hand. "This is a special radio request from the Air Ministry—a request to launch you two chaps off in one of our planes, and let you finish your journey by air. A bit of courier work, eh?"

Dawson almost shook his head, but just in time he recalled his little bluff scene with Herr Miller in that empty torpedo store chamber aboard the U-boat. At that time Squadron Leader Hixon and the others had of course tumbled to the fact that he and Freddy were supposed to be carrying something of importance—something that Herr Miller had been ready to kill to obtain. So it would be silly to deny it now.

"Yes, sir," he said instead. "Yes, you might call it that, sir. But how did the Air Ministry—"

"Find out about your rescue?" the cruiser's captain interrupted with a chuckle. "Routine, I fancy. Any reports on our aircraft, and flying personnel, we radio to the Admiralty are immediately telephoned over to the Air Ministry. Obviously the Air Ministry wants you to get on with the job at once, and can't wait for us to get to the States. Hence, this request."

"And—and are you granting it, sir?" Dawson asked as casually as his inner eagerness would permit.

The cruiser's captain looked stern, and scowled darkly. And then, perhaps because of the fading hope he saw in Dawson's eyes, he smiled broadly, and nodded.

"I fancy so," he said. "After all, you two chaps have got just so much leave coming, you know. Haven't the heart to make you spend any more of it than you have to aboard my ship. Probably never hear the end of it from the R.A.F. chaps. Get enough ragging from them as it is. So right you are, then. You can take one of my planes. But see that you deliver it in New York in good shape, mind you! We'll pick it up in a week or so. Not that a cruiser really needs aircraft, you understand. However, the blasted things do have their uses now and then."

"Yes, of course, sir," Dawson replied, refusing to rise to the bait. "And thank you, sir, for granting the request."

"Quite, sir," Freddy Farmer echoed politely. "At any other time both Dawson and I should love to—"

"Not likely, you would!" the senior officer growled. "You flying chaps hate blue water. Much prefer blue sky. But you're all a little balmy, of course. Give me a good solid deck under my feet, and—But never mind. Birds of different feathers, and all that. Hop along below, and clean up. I'll have flying gear routed out, and one of the seaplanes made ready. Good luck, and all that sort of thing."

A few minutes later Dawson and Freddy Farmer were washing off U-boat dirt and filth in a cabin turned over to them by one of the cruiser's officers. They had set to work on the cleaning job in silence, but presently Freddy Farmer couldn't hold back the words any longer.

"What rotten luck, eh, Dave?" he said with a heavy sigh.

Dawson wiped soapsuds from his eyes and squinted over at him.

"Huh?" he ejaculated. "Rotten luck? You mean to do it in a few hours instead of days aboard this tub? You gone nuts?"

"Of course I don't mean that!" the English youth snapped back at him. "I don't fancy cruisers any more than you do. I'm speaking about that confounded business aboard the U-boat. About that envelope for Secretary Hull. Of course you did the right thing to get rid of it in the bomber. But it would have been wonderful if we could have managed to save it."

"That's what I figured," Dawson grunted through the towel on his face. "So I decided to take the chance, pal."

In a flash Freddy Farmer was across the cabin and had him by both arms.

"What?" he cried. "What did you say, Dave? You don't mean—?"

Dawson shook himself free, and chuckled.

"What else?" he demanded, and picked up his ripped and torn tunic off the bunk. "Sure thing, kid. I took the chance of tossing Herr Miller for a loss with a couple of loads of good old Yankee bluff. So I called the turn right on him before he could get set. I told him I'd ditched the thing, and held out my tunic and started ripping open the lining to get him all mixed up. And—well, he was a nice guy and did get all mixed up—and dropped his guard, you might say. Gosh, Freddy, just think! That darn letter was right there in the pocket of the tunic I shoved in his face. Maybe he even heard the paper crackle. See? Here 'tis, Freddy. A bit wrinkled, but maybe the Secretary of State will forgive us for its appearance."

Dawson had pulled the wrinkled envelope from the inner pocket of his tunic and was holding it out to Freddy Farmer. However, the English youth didn't touch it. In fact, he backed away slowly and sat down hard on the edge of the bunk. And his face was one great picture of absolute dumbfounded amazement.

"Good grief, good grief!" he gasped over and over again. "Good grief, you actually did do it, Dave! Will miracles never cease! Why, I never would believe that—"

"See?" Dawson cut in with a sad shake of his head. "You save the bum's life, and you pull rabbits out of a hat, and the guy has the nerve to tell you he doesn't believe you. He—"

"I didn't say any such thing!" Freddy cried. "I simply said that I—"

"Now, don't try to get out from under!" Dave shut him off and waggled a finger. "I know perfectly well that you—Blub!"

The last was as the wet towel came into his face. And for the next couple of minutes the cruiser's captain would have had sixteen epileptic fits if he had stuck his head inside that cabin and seen those "flying chaps" roughhousing it out with wet towels and gobs of soapsuds!