The redheaded Captain nodded, and got up and walked over to the row of files. Dave watched him and got a big kick as the officer jabbed one of a row of buttons and then went back a step. There was a series of clicks, then the file drawer slid noiselessly open, and a folder inside popped up to Captain Lamb's outstretched hand. The instant he pulled it out there were more clicks and the door slid silently shut again.

"Good grief, magic!" Freddy Farmer gasped. "Just as though there were a bloke inside waiting to hand it to him."

"Just about that, yes," Colonel Welsh chuckled. "Now if we can only work out some way for the file folders simply to tell us what they contain, then we'll have something. That would save a lot of time."

"But what would you do with all the time you saved?" Freddy asked innocently.

Colonel Welsh looked at Dave and winked.

"Figure up something that would save us more time, I guess," he said. "We Americans are all crazy, you know. Ah, thanks, Lamb."

The Intelligence chief took the folder the redheaded captain handed him, and thumbed through it for a moment. Then he pulled out a photograph and placed it face up on the desk between Dave and Freddy.

"Take a good look at it," he said in a grim voice. "That picture was taken ten days ago."

Dave and Freddy bent forward eagerly, but what they saw sobered them instantly. It was a picture of the flight hangar aboard an aircraft carrier. It showed several folded-wing Vought-Sikorsky "Corsair" fighter planes parked so that they could be trundled onto the elevator and raised to the flight deck in fast time. Right in front, though, was a Corsair that was blackened and charred by fire. And on the floor were the figures of two men in flying gear. They, too, were blackened by flames, and it didn't take a second look to see that they were dead. To the left and right was portable fire equipment that had been used to put out the fire.

"Poor devils," Dave murmured, and looked up at Colonel Welsh.

"How in the world did they get so close to the flames?" Freddy Farmer murmured as though talking to himself.

"They were murdered!" Colonel Welsh said bluntly. "We didn't know it when this picture was taken. We found that out later. They had both been shot through the head. And it's quite definite that the murderer tried to burn up the plane so that it would look like an accident. Fortunately the fire squad got to it and put the flames out before everything was destroyed. Thank God, everything wasn't destroyed. If it had been, we should never have learned the real truth."

"You mean that the two pilots had been murdered, sir?" Dave asked as the senior paused.

Colonel Welsh shook his head.

"No," he said. Then, reaching out, he almost reverently touched the picture of the two dead men with a fingertip. "One of those officers was Commander Jackson, executive Flight Officer of the Aircraft Carrier Indian. The other was Lieutenant Commander Pollard, senior Section Leader, and one of the best air tactical men in Naval Aviation. They were murdered and then robbed. Had they been burned to a crisp we would not know the killer had stolen the operation plans of the part the Carrier Indian is to play in a Navy attack on the Jap-mandated islands of the Marshall group."

Dave whistled softly, then stared hard at the Intelligence chief.

"But is that such a big loss, sir?" he asked. "Those plans, I mean. Can't they be changed, so that even if the Japs have them it won't make any difference?"

Colonel Welsh sighed heavily and shook his head.

"I certainly wish they could be changed," he said presently. "I wish it were as easy as that. But, unfortunately, it isn't. The Indian's plans are just part of a huge plan to knock a good big hole in the Jap naval and air forces in that part of the Southwest Pacific. And an attack on that scale can't be thought up overnight, and put into execution the next morning. It's not simply a question of rushing ships and planes to a certain spot and banging away until you're out of shells and bombs. There's much, much more than that. Your forces must be split up. Your operation timetable must be worked out so that the slower ships will arrive at the same time as the fast ones. Worked out so that certain groups will have mine sweeping and destroyer protection. Worked out so that there will be a covering force in case parts of any unit are forced out of action and must retire. No, Dawson, it's not that simple. There are a hundred and one things to be worked out, so that you stand the maximum chance of the entire operation being carried out like clockwork. So it follows that if one unit is off whack, other units are bound to suffer. The effectiveness of the striking force is reduced. For that matter, effectiveness is reduced all down the line. And at the snap of the fingers you can barge bow-on straight into serious trouble. No, to change the Indian's plans would mean that we'd have to change and alter the entire plan as a whole. And there is the chance that in doing that we would discover that it would be best to give up the whole project."

"Phew, I never dreamed a navy show was that complicated!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "But I say, sir! If the blasted Japs know the part the Indian's unit is to play, what can you do about it but change everything, or else give it up entirely."

"I didn't say the Japs had the plans for the Indian's unit," the Intelligence chief said. "Maybe I misled you. I said that the plans are lost. They were stolen from Commander Jackson and Lieutenant Commander Pollard. They had the only copies of the plans, as they were to be in complete charge of the Indian's fighters and bombers in this action. Those plans they carried on their person at all times. And when they were last seen they were on their way below to the hangar deck to check a new gun sight that is to be tried in this coming engagement. They were seen to reach the hangar deck by the Watch Officer. The next time they were seen, they were dead and about to be burned beyond recognition by flaming high test gasoline. But for a machinist's mate who happened to pass that part of the hangar deck, they would have been burned beyond recognition. And we would never have known that their copies of the plans were stolen. True, we would have discovered that they were murdered, shot, just as we did discover. And we might have suspected that the killer had stolen the plans. But now we know that somebody aboard the Indian has those plans."

"Huh?" Dave gulped. "Somebody aboard her? You mean, right now?"

"I mean right now," the chief of U. S. Intelligence said grimly. "The Indian was at anchor in San Diego Harbor. She's still there. However, the instant it was realized what had happened, the Indian became an isolated ship. Not a man, not even her captain, was allowed to go ashore. I radioed those orders myself. And not a boat of any type was permitted to come so much as within hailing distance. An order was issued to shoot anybody who attempted to leave the Indian, and to shoot anybody who attempted to approach the Indian. That order still stands. Mighty hard on the chaps who were due shore leave—she hadn't been in port more than a day. But we're not taking chances."

Colonel Welsh paused for breath, and Dave nodded his head slowly.

"I get it," he said. "So far no darn Jap has got his hands on those plans. No real Jap, I mean."

"What's that?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "What do you mean, no real Jap?"

"A Nazi can pass for an Englishman, or a Yank, or 'most any nationality under the sun," Dave said. "But that's barring the yellow races, of course. And that's just what I mean. A Jap aboard an American ship can't pass for a Yank. He's out and out of the yellow race. And you haven't any Americanized Japs on the Indian, have you, sir?"

Dave directed the last at Colonel Welsh, who instantly shook his head.

"None," the senior officer said. "Not a one. And you've got the right idea, Dawson. It couldn't have been a Jap who killed Jackson and Pollard. So it must have been one of Hitler's men, or maybe one of Mussolini's. I doubt that, though. Italians just haven't got the brains to be that clever. So a Hitlerite is our man. Naturally he's cooperating with the Japs, and will pass on what he has the first instant he can. That's our job, though: to nail him, and nail him good, before he has that chance."

"I suppose you've checked the Indian's list of officers and lesser ratings, haven't you, sir?" Dave asked.

"Backwards and forwards!" the Colonel said savagely. "And up and down as well. We've dug into every man's life with pick and shovel, you might say, and didn't come up with so much as a single suspicion. That's the devilish part of this kind of a thing. It's quite possible that this particular rat, or rats, has served in our navy for years. The whole civilized world is learning more and more each new day, to its sorrow, how thoroughly Germany and Japan planned for this thing long, long ago. When Hitler was somebody we just laughed at and made jokes about, he was sending his confounded spies to the four ends of the earth, and getting them all set to do their part when Der Tag arrived. But I don't have to tell this to you. You two have no doubt seen countless examples of that sort of thing."

The chief of Intelligence paused for a moment and slowly closed his long tapering fingers into rock hard fists.

"I'm a spy myself," he said eventually, "so I think I have a good idea of both sides of the picture in this kind of business. A spy is regarded as the lowest form of worm in wartime, and he's usually shot five minutes after he is caught. But there have been a lot of spies who were brave and gallant men, and they took the job of going behind the enemy lines because that was the best way they could serve their country. But the type of spy such as we're dealing with now—the slinking rat who in peace-time becomes the citizen of another country, enjoys all of its advantages, and then turns on that country when his former country goes to war—well—he is in my opinion the rottenest form of vermin that ever existed. He doesn't rate the privilege of being shot when caught. He should be strung up by the thumbs, and skinned alive."

"And even that's too good for him!" Captain Lamb echoed viciously. "Those who bite the hand that's feeding them deserve the worst of the worst. And man! Would I give my life just to get my hands on that skunk aboard the Indian, whoever he is!"

Dave was slightly startled by the almost berserk rage in the redheaded Captain's voice. He glanced at Colonel Welsh and saw a look of pity and sympathy flit across the chief of U. S. Intelligence officer's face. That expression told much to Dave, and he glanced at Captain Lamb again.

"You knew Jackson and Pollard, Captain?" he asked quietly.

The Captain nodded and licked his lower lip.

"I knew them both well," he said in a low voice. "Pollard was my dearest friend. We came from the same town. Played football together at Dartmouth before he changed over to the Naval Academy. They don't make them better than Jake Pollard was."

"If it helps any," Dave said quietly, "I'll be thinking of you, Captain, if and when Farmer and I catch up with that dirty rat aboard the Indian."

"Thanks," the redhead mumbled, and lapsed into brooding silence.

Dave started to say something else to him, changed his mind, and turned back to Colonel Welsh.

"I suppose you've got a plan of operation you want Farmer and me to follow, sir?" he asked.

"I have the start of a plan of operation," the senior officer replied gravely. Then with a helpless shrug: "But from there on you two will be on your own."