The air base on the island was temporary and would be abandoned within a few weeks. It had been laid out to shorten the trip of bombers delivered to China by way of Australia and Rangoon from the west coast of the United States. Stan and his pals hurried to a flimsy headquarters building where they were met by a number of officials. Nick Munson went along, though O’Malley made a number of discouraging remarks.

They presented their credentials and signed for uniforms and equipment. Tom Koo put in an appearance as the navigator who was to take them on the first leg of their journey, the hop to Rangoon. He did not say anything about the details of the flight, or the course, beyond running a finger across the map to show where they would fly across the Malay Peninsula. O’Malley was in high spirits and even offered to share half a stale pie with Nick Munson. He had discovered the pie in a small canteen attached to headquarters. Munson refused, so O’Malley devoured all of it.

Stan walked around the grounds while they were waiting for their call to go out. He made a circle of the field and came back past headquarters. As he passed the door he heard Nick Munson’s voice. It sounded irritated. Munson was arguing hotly with someone. Stan halted just beyond the door and listened.

“I want a single-seat bomber, one of those dive bombers out there. That was the agreement when I came over here. I’m an expert and an instructor. I fly alone.”

A smooth but firm voice answered, “I am sorry, Mr. Munson. I have orders to assign you to Tom Koo’s bomber crew under command of Major Allison. If you wish return transportation to Singapore, that will be arranged. If you wish to go on to China, you will follow instructions.”

“You’ll hear about this,” Munson growled. Stan hurried away. He did not want Nick to see him at the door. When he arrived at the Hudson they were to fly, he found Tom Koo explaining flight details. Nick Munson sauntered up a few minutes later and stood listening.

“It is not unusual to be attacked by Jap fliers over the Gulf of Siam,” Tom Koo said. “They do not recognize neutral waters or soil. But you all know the Hudson can fly as fast as most pursuit ships and that she is well armed. Our only danger comes from spies flashing word of our take-off to the enemy. In that case we may be ambushed by a swarm of fighter planes.” He smiled at the fliers. “If you sight ten or twenty enemy planes, you duck and run for it.”

“What if we sight half a dozen?” Stan asked.

“We shoot them down,” Tom Koo said modestly.

“Very encouraging,” Allison drawled.

“Jest you furnish me a fighter to ride herd on the bombers and we’ll show the spalpeens,” O’Malley exclaimed.

“The distance is too great for a fighter plane,” Tom Koo explained. “We just fight our way through.”

Stan smiled. The Chinese were used to fighting with the odds against them. They had been meeting the Japanese that way for years.

“We’ll take the Hudson through,” Stan said. “And if you hang a few eggs underneath, we’ll drop them on SaÏgon just by way of a little token.”

Tom beamed. “A very good idea. But we have no bombs here to take along. At our China bases we will find bombs—American made bombs and very good ones.”

Tom looked at Nick Munson who was bending over the map spread on a box. Nick looked up. “Do you have two-way radio?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tom answered. “But the radio will be used only by Major Wilson. One-man communication. The ship will be under command of Major Allison.” He turned to Stan. “I will give you the code and the wave length used at Rangoon.”

“What if something happens to Wilson?” Nick asked. “In that case I will take over,” Tom answered.

They checked the charts carefully. Accustomed as they were to complete weather reports and detailed instructions, this flight preparation seemed woefully lacking. Stan shoved the code book into his pocket. Allison gathered up his flying orders and O’Malley strapped on his helmet.

“We’re all ready,” Allison announced.

“I’ll clear you,” Tom said.

They climbed into the Hudson. Her motors were idling smoothly as she stood at the cab rank. A number of American mechanics smiled and waved to them. One of the boys called up to Stan:

“We’ll see you in China in a week.”

Stan lifted a hand and grinned at the boy. He moved back to the radio compartment. O’Malley manned the forward gun. Nick was placed in the rear gun turret forward of the twin tail assembly. Tom was at the navigator’s post.

The field officer flagged them and Stan felt the big ship tremble under full throttle. She slid forward, gathering speed, her engines roaring and flaming. The afternoon sun gleamed on the oily, tropic sea and many birds were winging back and forth in the hot, burnished sky. The Hudson lifted and bored away and upward. Stan connected his headset and gave his attention to the code sheets spread before him. He had a feeling this would be a routine flight such as he had made many times in the United States.

Everything about the ship was familiar and gave him a snug feeling. The instrument panel, the arching ribs, the cable lines, all were familiar to him. He could see the top of Tom Koo’s head, and he could hear Nick Munson muttering to himself as he lifted the intercommunication phone to his ears. Nick evidently had the mouthpiece hanging close to his head.

Stan leaned forward and replaced his earphones. He dialed the wave length indicated on his code sheet. For a time he listened to routine orders coming out of the Rangoon base. But he did not cut in with any messages of his own. That would be taking unnecessary chances. An enemy radio might be listening. The time passed slowly. He heard his phone sputtering and slipped off his headset. Nick was calling him.

“Get in touch with Rangoon?”

“Cleared through O.K.,” Stan called back.

Nick grunted and lapsed into silence. Stan went back to his radio. The hum of the twin motors beat into his senses and the radio messages clicked off and on. He eased back and closed his eyes. It was very restful, flying up above the layer of hot air close to the ground. He nodded and drowsed off into a nap. There was nothing to keep him awake.

Suddenly Stan opened his eyes again. The first sense to register was his ears. He knew, too, from the sickening lurch of the ship that she was in a tight reversement, knifing over and going down at a terrific rate. But it was his ears that told him the Hudson was being attacked.

There was the familiar scream of lead ripping through the dural surfaces of the bomber. Looking out Stan saw two Karigane fighters dropping down out of the sky. Above and behind him he could hear Nick Munson’s guns blasting away, while up ahead he heard O’Malley’s guns pumping lead. Stan pulled off his headset and caught up the intercommunication phone.

The next instant the Hudson was looping back, flap guides screaming, as she faded into a vertical turn gauged to a split second. Allison was tossing her about like a light fighter plane and the Hudson was responding nobly. In the swirling patch of sky and clouds that whirled past, Stan saw at least a dozen of the Karigane fighters circling and diving, eager to get at the bomber.

“Somebody must have tipped them off,” Stan muttered.

Then he saw that fire was licking at the forward tanks. He pawed an extinguisher from its clamp and worked his way toward the leaking tank. The spray from his pump blanketed the blue flame forking up from the hole. The flame wavered, then went out.

Stan went back and cut in his radio. He got Rangoon and heard a cool voice talking to a bomber flight. Stan broke in: “Hudson, Flight Three out of Singapore attacked by flight of Karigane fighters. Hudson, Flight Three calling. Do you hear me?”

The cool voice came right back at him. “Hudson, Flight Three, I hear you loud and clear. Give your location.”

Stan looked out and down. He had no idea where they were. He did not know how long he had slept. Below spread a placid sea, but he did not know whether it was the Gulf of Siam or the Bay of Bengal.

“I will check location and call back,” he said.

“Better fight it out and then come in. We have no planes to send,” the cool voice said.

Now the Hudson was going up, hammering toward a layer of clouds. The Karigane fighters did not want the bomber to reach those clouds. Three of them came screaming in from a head-on position. Stan heard O’Malley open up. One of the fighters sheared off, turned over and went down in flames, its silver belly gleaming.

Stan realized that it was not dark yet, though the sun had set. He wondered how long the light would hang on. Then he forgot to worry about the light as a stream of bullets ripped across the port wing, causing the Hudson to swerve and stagger. But she went on up.

Stan shouted into the intercommunication phone to Allison. “How is it up there? This is Stan.”

“Where have you been all this time?” Allison’s drawl was cool and unruffled. “Get up here. Tom’s been hit and is down. I need help.”

Stan made his way forward. Tom Koo was slumped over with his head rolling forward and his neck twisted around. Stan got hold of him and dragged him back, then slid into his seat. Allison glanced across at him.

“I dropped off to sleep,” Stan said grimly.

“Nice time for a nap, sorry we had to wake you up,” Allison answered.

“Got another yellow rat!” The voice of O’Malley roared in over the phone. “’Tis a Spitfire I’d like to be flyin’ this minnit!” “I just sawed off a wing! Nice hunting,” came the voice of Nick Munson.

Stan scowled and looked into the rear mirror. He saw a fighter swirling and tumbling, black smoke pouring out of its cowling. He could not be sure it was not the Jap O’Malley had potted. Still, it was back on the tail where Nick could have hit it.

The Hudson knifed into the clouds just as four Kariganes roared down for the kill. Allison leaned back and relaxed.

“They do a very nice job,” he said. “Slow but fast on the turn.”

“They come right in,” Stan admitted. “I’d better have a look at Tom and see if I can fix him up. We’re safe now.”

Tom was hit in the shoulder and had a bad gash. He had struck his head when he fell and the blow had knocked him out. Stan bound his shoulder wound and stopped the flow of blood. He regained consciousness and sat up blinking weakly.

“Can you take the ship in?” he asked. “Every ship is badly needed.”

“Sure we’ll take her in,” Stan assured him, “but she’ll be laid up for repairs for a while.”

“You take over the radio. I’ll go back and pilot the Major in,” Tom said.

Stan helped him up to the seat beside Allison, then he went back to the radio. After a few minutes he picked up Rangoon. Allison and Tom got their bearings and they headed in, still keeping to the cloud layer.

Over Rangoon they broke out of the clouds and began drifting in. They saw below a calm sea and a green jungle. A beacon began to flash and Stan contacted the field. They slid in over blue markers and down on a long runway. As they bumped to a halt, it seemed as if they had landed at one of the airfields in England. Only the ground men who rushed forward were American mechanics, not British.

They climbed down, Nick Munson getting out last. He stood looking at the Hudson, his eyes moving over the damage done by the encounter with the Japs. Without a word he turned away.

“That bird tried to get a ship of his own for the trip up here,” Stan said. “I figure the Japs were tipped off and that Munson didn’t care to be riding with us.”

“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Allison warned.

They arrived at the flight office in time to see a United States Army major warmly shaking Nick Munson’s hand.

“Well, well, Nick, old man. We’re glad to have you up here as an instructor,” the major was saying.

“Glad to be here,” Nick answered. “I guess some of your men can learn a few new tricks.”

“And you’re the man who can teach them,” the major said as he slapped Nick across the shoulders.

Stan stood in the doorway watching. Apparently Nick Munson was favorably known to some of the army men from the States. Allison stepped forward. O’Malley was hungry and, when he was hungry, other details could wait.

“Where’s the mess?” he demanded.

The major looked at him and smiled. O’Malley’s uniform and shoulder markings placed him as a flier, but the officer seemed in doubt.

“Across the street,” he said gruffly.

“Flight Three out of Singapore reporting in, sir,” Allison said.

“Well, well.” The major suddenly showed some interest. The fame of these three aces had arrived ahead of them. “Glad to have you.” He looked again at O’Malley. “So you’re the famous O’Malley.” He held out his hand.

“I’m not so famous as I am hungry,” O’Malley said as he shook hands.

“I’ll check you right in and show you the mess,” the major said.