"No bet, no bet!" Dave cried, and clenched and unclenched his free fist in his excitement. "I think, too, that bird is pulling a trick. He's going down, and he knows that none of us will follow him down, because there's nothing we could do to help. We're land planes, not seaplanes. It would be up to the rest of us to get back to the Indian in a hurry and report that he had to sit down, and where."

"But I wonder, Dave," Freddy Farmer grunted as a sudden frown creased his brows. "Look. It stands to reason that he couldn't know he was to make this exact patrol at this exact time. So it couldn't very well be that he planned to land in the water and have a waiting Jap submarine pick him up. That would be silly. He might float for days before a submarine came along to pick him up. And—well, how in the world could he plan to meet one at this spot? Maybe it is the real thing, Dave. Maybe it is a forced landing that couldn't be helped. See what I mean?"

Dave didn't make any reply. He stared hard at the Number Two plane as it spat smoke from its exhausts, and slowly lost altitude. Freddy was quite right. It could be that what he was watching was very genuine; that tough luck had dropped down out of the blue Pacific sky to smack a couple of Uncle Sam's Navy eagles. Yet he couldn't believe that was true. Something inside of him—he didn't know what—refused to let him believe that it was all open and aboveboard.

"Could be, could be," he muttered over and over again to himself as the patrol started leaving the crippled plane to its rear. "Could be, yes. But, doggone it, we're going to make sure. We've got plenty of gas, Freddy. We can find our way back to the Indian alone. I'm turning back and going down to have a good look at those guys. I have a feeling that maybe they won't actually land in the water. They may—Hey! They did! Look at them, Freddy! That pilot is swinging around toward the north and trying to put as much distance as possible between his plane and the rest of us."

"Yes, he's doing just that!" Freddy shouted in return. "And if I were force landing I'd try to glide as long as I could in the direction of possible help. But he's banking around and gliding away from the Indian's position."

"Gliding nothing!" Dave howled, and dropped the Devastator's wing and started swinging it around. "That engine of his is not cooked. He's using it just enough to keep him almost level. Hang on, Freddy! We're going to take a look at that bird, and no kidding. A close look, too. I think it will make him mad. So keep on your toes, pal. 'Most anything can happen now. And maybe it will!"

Freddy didn't say anything to that. He simply hung on hard and sat tight as Dave whipped the Devastator around and stuck the nose down. The other plane was a good ten miles away by now, and fast becoming not much more than a small smudge of black silhouetted against the blue water. Holding the plane steady, Dave took time out to twist his head around and stare back at the rest of the patrol. He wondered if the Section Leader, seeing two planes dropping out of formation, would get curious himself. But whether or not the Section Leader was curious, he made no attempt to quit his other planes and turn back also. The patrol kept on drilling southward.

Turning front again, Dave instantly picked up the other Devastator. And as he did so his heart leaped in his chest, and the blood began to pound through his veins. Smoke had stopped spewing from the engine exhaust. The plane had even stopped gliding. As a matter of fact, it was on even keel, and racing northward at full throttle not more than three or four thousand feet above the surface of the Pacific. That fact alone told Dave that after eight days and eight nights the gods of war had decided to give Freddy and him a real break. He knew, just as though a voice were shouting it in his ears, that the pilot of that Devastator thundering northward was in the pay of the Axis. And for some reason he felt equally sure that the Devastator's gunner was of the same breed.

One thing that had puzzled him ever since Colonel Welsh had told of the double murder aboard the Aircraft Carrier Indian was whether one man or two had taken part in that gruesome affair. He had believed it was two for the reason that if there had been just one man, he would have been unable to kill both of the Indian's officers before one of them jumped him, or tried to, at least. And both had been shot right between the eyes. That fact, and other bits of reasoning, had led him to believe all along—though he had not spoken of it to Freddy Farmer—that they were after two Axis spies, not just one.

And as he sent the Devastator rocketing downward and to the north, he felt more convinced than ever that such was the truth.

"I could be wrong," he grunted softly as he kept his eyes fixed steadfastly on the other plane, "but I don't think so. Nope, I don't think so."

"Dave!" Freddy's voice suddenly screamed in his ear again. "Look to starboard and ahead, on the horizon line. I think I spot smoke from the funnel of some surface ship. Can you see it, too?"

Dave tore his gaze from the plane ahead and stared hard in the direction of the English youth's pointed finger. But all he could see was an endless expanse of blue water across which the shadows of coming night were beginning to steal. Where the water met the sky was little more than a blurred line to him. If there was smoke from a surface ship on that horizon line, he couldn't see it. However, many times had Freddy Farmer's eagle, X-ray eyes picked up things before he did. And so his heart began to dance about in his chest with wild excitement. And for the umpty-umpth millionth time he experienced that familiar eerie sensation at the back of his neck that seemed always to come to him when trouble and danger were in the offing.

"You sure, Freddy?" he called out. "I can't see a darn thing. It's all just horizon line to me."

"I'm not dead sure, but pretty sure," his pal replied. "It looks to me like—Yes, I am dead sure, Dave. That is smoke, a lot of it, from some craft that's traveling at top speed. Eastward, I think. And look at that Devastator, Dave! He's seen it, now. Look! He's banking northeast to intercept it. Dave! If that's smoke from a Jap warship, then we'll know we're right!"

"I know it now!" Dave cried. "Doggone well I do. Look at that rat tear! His engine is hitting top revs. Ten to one he's spotted us and is trying to give us the shake. Well, he won't. Not while we've got the altitude and can gain extra speed in a dive. Hold your hat, Freddy. I'm going to give this power plant all she can take. And be ready with those rear guns. He may start to get tough."

As Dave shouted the last, he jerked his head around and took a quick sweeping glance back toward the south. There was nothing there but darkening blue sky. Not a sign of the rest of the patrol. It had passed on out of sight on its journey back to the Indian. Dave swallowed impulsively and turned front again. His heart had stopped bouncing around. It had become a cold lump that hung suspended in his chest.

Any faint hope that he might have help with whatever was ahead had passed out of the picture. Just Freddy and he were left. It was up to them to finish the job they had started so long ago. How long ago, anyway? A week, a month, or ten years? It seemed even longer than that since that man reading the book in the room with the pails and mops had told them to go on into Colonel Welsh's secret offices. But how long ago it was didn't matter now. Freddy and he had come to the end of the trail. Luck, blind luck mostly, had brought them to the end of their manhunt. But blind luck, or very clever brainwork, what difference? Down there and ahead was a Navy torpedo bomber streaking north and east to cut across the bow of some surface vessel. An American vessel? Not a chance. It had to be Jap. And Dave was ready to bet his life that it was.

He could see the trail of smoke now. And Freddy had been right. It was coming from a surface ship with engines turning over at top speed. Perhaps it was a Jap destroyer, or a cruiser, or even possibly one of Nippon's big battle wagons. He didn't know. The ship was still down below the horizon line. But she was traveling, and traveling plenty fast.

"There go his torpedo and bombs!" Freddy Farmer suddenly shouted. "That means he has spotted us and dumped his load to pick up all the speed he could. He's our man, Dave. He's our man. And I'll bet you all the pounds Sterling in England that that's a Jap ship he's trying to reach. Blast the dirty beggars. We can't let him get away with it, Dave. We just can't. Not now."

"Shut up and sit tight!" Dave snapped, and jammed the palm of his free hand against the already wide open throttle, as though in so doing he might get even more speed out of the thundering engine in the Devastator's nose. "He won't if we can possibly prevent it. We're gaining on him, and I think he knows it. Look! See the pilot turning around and looking back? And, Freddy, that bird in the rear pit is unlimbering his guns! Get set, but be sure they fire the first shots. We've got to make sure, Freddy, right up until there's no doubt about it at all."

Even as Dave shouted the words, he slid his hand up the control stick and snapped off the safety guard over the little red button he pressed to fire his guns. The first tingling thrill and heart chilling excitement was gone now. He felt perfectly cool, and calm, and collected. No, it wasn't because he was any superman with nerves of steel that no power on earth could break. It was simply that he had flown straight into danger too many times to go all haywire and jittery. This, you might say, was old stuff to Freddy and him. They had been through it in France, and in England, and in Libya, and over the broad Atlantic, and out in the Far East. A thousand times they had gone hurtling into sky battle. And after that many times you get used to taking it in stride.

And so with measured movements he prepared himself for battle, if battle was to come. And that battle was to come seemed just as certain as that night was to come. And soon.... Soon? Just about four split seconds later he knew definitely that engines were going to whine under strain of violent aerial combat maneuvers, and that machine guns were going to crackle and yammer all over that Pacific sky. He knew it because the plane ahead and still below his altitude suddenly veered sharply to the left, and pulled its nose up and around in a wing screaming power zoom. And almost at the same instant Freddy's shouting voice told Dave that he, too, knew the battle was about to begin.

"The blighter knows he can't shake us off!" the English youth cried. "Realizes we have the altitude, and can come down for a cold meat shot, if we want to. And he knows we will if that ship turns out to be Jap. And it is a cinch it is. Right-o, Dave! As I recall, that chap's a pukka pilot. Name's Miller, isn't it?"

"That's what we called him!" Dave replied as he tried in vain to remember the face of the Devastator's pilot. "And his gunner is named Kaufman, I think. Miller and Kaufman! I wonder how they spell their real German names. I—Here he comes. And shooting! That tears it, Freddy! He's opened fire. So it's for keep, now."

"Get after him, Dave!" Freddy screamed. "Get in close and let me at the beggar. Bash me, will he? I fancy not again he won't!"

Like a battle grey comet gone completely haywire, the other Devastator came tearing up and around, guns blazing as its pilot tried to cut in under Dave and drill the belly of his ship. But he didn't even come close. Dave held his plane in its roaring dive just long enough to let fly with a single withering blast at the zooming ship; then he flung over hard on one wing, and went curving around and up himself to hold the advantage of his altitude. As he swung around, he heard Freddy Farmer's rear pit guns chatter. He jerked his head and took a quick look, and laughed out loud. Freddy's burst had obviously been too close for comfort, for the other pilot was kicking out of his zoom and off to the other side in a hurry.

"Atta boy, Freddy!" Dave yelled, and hauled his Devastator about in the opposite direction. "Shoot his pants off, but save the coat and vest for me. Let him—"

Dave cut the rest off short as he happened to glance back at Freddy. The English youth had dropped hold of his guns and was staring wide-eyed toward the north. Dave checked the question on his lips and shot a quick look in that direction himself. What he saw made his heart zoom up to bang hard against his back teeth, and stick there!

The smoke belching surface craft had come up over the northern horizon into full view. It was a man of war, a heavy cruiser, and Dave did not need a second look to recognize it as a Japanese cruiser. But that was not what caused his heart to zoom up his throat and lock the air in his lungs. Right behind the cruiser was another of the same class. Both ships were slamming along through the water, and even as Dave stared at them they changed course and veered around to the south.

On they came at top speed, and for a crazy instant Dave thought they had sighted his Devastator and were steaming southward to blast him out of the air with anti-aircraft fire. It was, of course, an absolutely crazy idea, and it was gone almost as it was born. And then an inkling of the truth cut through his brain. Cold chills rippled down his spine, and the inside of his mouth went bone dry. He impulsively glanced at his radio panel, and gave a savage nod of his head.

"That must be it!" he grated through clenched teeth. "The rats in that other Devastator did use their radio! They must have sent out the Indian's position, and those cruisers heard it. Now they're racing south to get the Indian under cover of darkness. That's it, sure as shooting. The rats figure that if they can't deliver the stolen plans of the battle operation in time, they can at least do some damage. Yeah! Give away the Indian's position and have her blown out of the water with her planes helpless in the dark. Good grief! Why are such vermin ever born?"

Dave didn't add anything to that. He didn't because there was even more pressing business at hand. During the precious seconds he had gazed pop-eyed at the two onrushing Japanese cruisers, the pilot of the other Devastator had taken full advantage of the opportunity offered. He had brought his plane wing screaming up and around, and was tearing in at Dave and Freddy from the side. As a matter of fact, it was the savage yammer of the English youth's guns that snapped Dave out of his trance. He jerked his head around, felt a tiny sting on one cheek, and saw a section of the right side of his glass hatch seem to melt away into nothing. Had he not turned his face just at that moment, he probably would have lost a good part of his jaw.

He didn't take time out to pat himself on the back for being so fortunate. Fact is, he didn't take time out to do anything but concentrate on slamming and booting the Devastator out of range of that withering blast of fire. The instant he was in the clear he whipped out his free hand to the release toggle that would drop the deadly torpedo slung in the rack under the plane's belly. Even as his fingers touched it he jerked his hand away and shook his head. No, he had to save that steel fish until later. Freddy and he would have to risk having it exploded by the fire from the other plane. And that went for the Devastator's wing bombs, too. Freddy and he would need those in the big battle to come, the battle against two heavy Jap cruisers.

"We've got to get the blighter in a hurry, Dave!" Freddy's voice of confirmation suddenly cut his thoughts. "We've got to get him and not let either of those cruisers pick him up—pick them up. If they do, everything is lost, Dave. They're bound to have those stolen plans of battle operations with them, or at least stamped in their heads. If they once get aboard either of those cruisers, everything will become a terrible mess. It mustn't happen, Dave!"

"You're telling me?" Dave roared, and hauled the Devastator around in a dime turn that virtually made the wings groan in protest, and the threatening wave of a blackout rise up before his eyes. "You're doggone right we can't let them make contact. Hang on, Freddy! And let go with your guns the instant you get the chance. I'm going to charge them. It's either them or us, Freddy!"

"All set!" the English youth howled back. "Let her rip, and blast their dirty hearts!"

For a couple of split seconds Dave held the Devastator in its tight turn, and kept his eyes glued on the other plane. It was banking around to get underneath him and come thundering up for an all gun blast at the belly of his plane. So he deliberately held his Devastator in the tight turn until he saw the nose of the other ship start to come up. The instant it started up, Dave slammed farther over on wing, kicked rudder hard and dropped the nose down to the vertical.

Like a battle grey streak of lightning, Dave's plane rocketed downward. He leaned far forward, straining against his safety harness, and kept his mouth open to relieve the pressure in his pounding ears. It was as though a thousand fingers of steel were curled about his insides and striving to rip and tear in all directions at the same time. White balls of fire leaped and bounced around in his brain as the Devastator went down at a terrific rate of speed. It was agony to try to breathe, for the walls of his lungs seemed pressed flat against each other.

For perhaps three seconds the agony lasted, or maybe it was three years. Then he was practically right on top of the other Devastator, so close that he could actually see the whites of the pilot's fear-glazed eyes staring up at him. The pilot was trying desperately to kick off to the side and cut out from under Dave's diving plane. But there wasn't time, and the terror in his eyes seemed to indicate that he realized it.

Three seconds, and then Dave jabbed his electric firing trigger. His guns hammered and pounded out nickel-jacketed destruction, and a hail of doom tore into the other Devastator like red hot pokers slashing into snow. The plane actually leaped off to one side like a bird nailed in full flight. It rolled over twice, and its right wing started to tear away in shreds. As Dave went thundering on past it he heard Freddy Farmer's gun taking up where he had left off. A moment or so later he was able to ease his plane out of its wing straining dive and circle up and around and back.

Almost reluctantly he slid his finger off the trigger button. There wasn't any need to continue drilling the crippled plane. It was shy one wing, and was slip sliding about in the air like a dead leaf in a raging gale. Its propeller was still spinning over, but even as Dave looked at it black smoke belched out from under the engine cowling, and licking tongues of flame went darting backward.

"Poor devils, just the same," Dave heard his own voice mutter. "But they're probably stone dead now, anyway, so the fire won't add to their—"

He never finished the rest. Rather, he finished it with a wild shout of anger and maddening defeat. The pilot and gunner of the other Devastator were not dead. By a miracle the withering fire from Dave's guns and from Freddy's guns had passed them by. On the contrary, they were very much alive. Out of anger-filmed eyes, Dave saw both of them push up out of their bullet-shattered greenhouse and leap out into space and down toward the rolling blue waters of the Pacific.

Both the pilot and gunner were alive! Both had bailed out with their parachutes! Both would land in the water—and both could very easily be picked up by either of the onrushing Japanese cruisers. The gods of war were screaming with glee. A valiant effort by two valiant war eagles serving Uncle Sam was going for a complete loss, would completely fail in its purpose.