Dave Dawson on Guadalcanal Part 20

"Okay, okay, maybe," he said. "But tell me this, kid? How the heck did they know we would plan to escape? And why?"

"I can only guess, Dave," the English youth replied with a frown. "But I have a very strong feeling that it is the truth. Look at the facts, Dave. They had a pretty good idea that we knew where our task force was.

They figured that we would head straight for it if we ever got our hands on a plane. Fact is, Dave, they knew we'd do just that because they _heard_ us talking about it!"

"What?" Dawson exploded. "Heard us? What in thunder are you raving about?"

Freddy Farmer made a little impatient motion with one hand and leaned farther forward.

"Look, Dave," he said, "right after you went to town on that Sasebo he said something to that other j.a.p. The other j.a.p answered him. Then Sasebo nodded, and spoke again. And _then_, with not so much as a how do you do, or why, we were taken back to that empty cabin. There we talked over our plans of how we might manage an escape. We agreed to give it a good try, and then what happens? Everything works out as smooth as can be. We're not stopped, an aircraft is in take-off position practically waiting for us, and not a shot is fired at us from any of the task force s.h.i.+ps. But now two things we didn't count on pop up. One, neither of us can raise Admiral Jackson's task force because the speaker units have been removed from both sets. And, two, three faster j.a.p Zeros are trailing us, and making no effort to catch up! Why? Because they hope for _us to lead them_ to Jackson's force. Then they can send the news back to Sasebo, and shoot us down. As the saying goes, old thing, dead men tell no tales. Sasebo will know where Jackson is, but Jackson won't know where Sasebo is. And knowing _where_ the other chap is, so that you can sneak up on him in surprise, is half the battle with aircraft carrier task forces, you see?"

"That much, yes," Dawson replied with a frown. "Yes, you're selling me a fair load of goods, Freddy. But there's one thing you haven't explained. How in thunder did they _hear_ us chewing over what we were going to do? Answer me that?"

"I can't prove it, unless you want to take us back to that j.a.p carrier!"

the English youth replied in an exasperated tone. "But I'd bet anything on it. And I'm amazed that you haven't thought of it yet!"

"Okay, wonderful one!" Dawson growled. "Folks call me Dummy Dawson. So be big-hearted, and tell me the answer."

"A _dictograph_, of course!" Freddy snapped at him. "A dictograph put in that empty cabin while we were having our little chat-chat with Sasebo.

Or maybe the confounded thing was hidden there all along. But it must have been a dictograph, and--and the beggars made all the arrangements _we_ wanted!"

Dawson didn't say anything. He just sat stiff and straight as though he had been shot. Then he gasped, and clapped his free hand to his forehead.

"So help me, the guy must be right!" he mumbled. "The guy _must be right!_ A dictograph as sure as the earth grows little apples. And me thinking that _we'd_ pulled off something very bright. Holy smoke! We really are in a jam now, Freddy!"

"Quite!" the English youth replied, and glanced back over his shoulder.

"If we lead those Zero pilots to within sight of Admiral Jackson's force, it might result in a terrible thing. Just the exact opposite of what we really want to do. And that's why those devils are hanging back up there, Dave, instead of coming down to do us in. They are going to follow us until Jackson's force is sighted. Then the beggars _will_ come down, no fear!"

"What now, what now?" Dawson mumbled helplessly, and stared back at the j.a.p Zeros himself. "If we let them trail us to Jackson's position, who knows what may come of it? And if we lead them in the wrong direction, we'll run out of gas eventually, and be forced to sit down in the water.

Then Jackson will not know that Sasebo's force is moving down on Guadalca.n.a.l by a roundabout course. And Jackson will not know that Sasebo _knows_ about the attempt to take Guadalca.n.a.l and Tulagi.

Jeepers! A choice of two things, and both bad!"

[Footnote B: _Dave Dawson With The Flying Tigers._]

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_Dead Wings_

For another fifteen minutes Dawson stuck to the course he was flying and battled desperately with the problem of _which_ of the two bad choices he should make. One moment he was in favor of leading the Zeros as close to Jackson's approximate position as he dared, and then jumping them and shooting them down. But in the next moment he would tell himself that that was like hoping for the moon on a silver platter. And what's more, it was a completely nutty idea for the very reason that neither Freddy nor he knew the _exact_ location of Jackson's force. They could only figure out approximately where it was. For that reason they might well stumble on it by accident and the j.a.ps sight it just as clearly as they did. And if that should happen, and he should wheel around to shoot them down, they could indeed give him the horse laugh. They had only to bank around and open their throttles wide, and the MK-11 would never catch them in a hundred years.

And so, with that decided, he would promptly consider the second bad choice. That of leading the Zeros in a direction that wouldn't even come close to the Yank aircraft carrier task force, and then sitting down in the water when the fuel was used up. As a matter of fact, the Zeros would be out of fuel long before then. So maybe the choice of leading the Zeros on a crazy wild goose chase out across the vast reaches of the Southwest Pacific was a good one to make.

"But, doggone it, no!" Dawson argued with himself. "Freddy and I knew something that can mean plenty to Colonel Welsh and Admiral Jackson. And to the forces attacking Guadalca.n.a.l, too. We've just _got_ to get that information through, somehow. And that's all there is to it, darn it!"

Yes, that's all there was to it, darn it! Except for the one ever tantalizing word. The word _how_. How to shake off the trailing j.a.p Zeros? How to find Jackson's task force, wherever it was? How to do this? And how to do that? Dawson groaned in bitter anguish and pressed one clenched fist against his forehead, as though in so doing he might force open some little door in his brain, and find out all the correct answers. It didn't work out that way, however. And then, eventually, he felt Freddy Farmer tapping him on the shoulder and heard his pal's voice in his ear.

"I say, Dave, old thing, I just thought of something. Maybe we can go these beggars one better, in spite of them, and come out on top, you know."

Dawson twisted around in the seat, and made a little impatient gesture.

"Then for cat's sake spill it!" he cried. "I've thought my brain ragged, but no soap. Have you really figured up an idea? Shoot it to me quick, pal."

"It's a wild chance, Dave, but I think we've got to take it," the English youth began. "First place, we can't lead these Zeros to Jackson's force. Also, we just can't lead them any old place until we run out of fuel. That would simply be the end of us, and Admiral Jackson would be none the wiser, see?"

"Of course I see!" Dawson growled as the English youth paused for breath. "I figured all that out for myself years ago. So what? Have you got anything better?"

"I think so," Freddy came right back at him. "Port Moresby in New Guinea, Dave. We still hold Port Moresby. There's a big air base there.

And, of course, a radio station. If we can reach Port Moresby we can get them to flash what information we know to Admiral Jackson. At least we can give the alarm that Sasebo's force knows of the Guadalca.n.a.l attack, and will probably try to do something about it. That way, at least, the Guadalca.n.a.l forces won't be caught by surprise. Also they'll be on the alert in Northern Australia in case Sasebo does go all the way down there. But the big point is, Dave, these Zeros back there couldn't possibly reach Port Moresby with the fuel they carry."

Dawson thought that over for a moment or two. Then he nodded his head and grinned at Freddy.

"Brains the guy really has got!" he cried. "Take a bow, Freddy. I think you've hit the solution right on the old head. It'll be touch and go whether even we can reach Port Moresby from here. But it's a cinch those Zeros never will. Then, too, when they see us head south they may think we're heading for Jackson's force, and figure that Jackson must be on patrol off the New Guinea coast, which he isn't. Yup! Take a bow, Freddy. But it's going to be close. Plenty close. Just the same, though, there's another little thing in our favor. The time of day, Freddy!"

"What's that?" the English-born air ace echoed, and looked puzzled.

"The time of day, or I should say night," Dave told him, and jerked his head westward. "In about an hour it's going to be plenty dark. If we haven't shaken them off our tails by then, we can certainly do it in the darkness. And who knows, maybe then we can change course again and find Jackson sometime around dawn. There's nine hours gas in this air buggy, at least. So maybe everything will be okey-doke after all."

"Well, anyway, turn south, Dave, and let's keep our fingers crossed,"

Freddy Farmer grunted.

Dave winked, gave Freddy the old two-finger V-for-victory sign, and banked the MK-11 around until he was headed due south. True, his navigation depended only on the compa.s.s. And a j.a.p compa.s.s at that.

However, he felt sure that if he kept on heading as he was going now he would eventually hit some part of the New Guinea coast. And that would be good enough. He'd find Port Morseby soon afterward, or--

"Or bust a wing in the attempt!" he finished the thought grimly.

And so, southward went the Mitsubis.h.i.+ MK-11. And southward, also, trailed the three j.a.p Zeros no more than two miles behind, and some four or five thousand feet higher up in the air. And for an hour the picture remained the same. There was nothing to be seen below but the rolling endless swells of that part of the Southwest Pacific. And in the air the three j.a.p Zeros tagging doggedly along. Ten thousand times, at least, Dawson twisted around for a squint at those trailing Zeros. And ten thousand times, too, he glanced at the last glow of the sun's rays that tinted the western heavens, and at the shadows of night racing up out of the east.

Soon, now, night would come with a rush as it always did in that part of the world. Soon darkness would be all about the MK-11, and he and Freddy Farmer could lose those trailing Zeros. Soon--

But at that exact moment he heard Freddy's wild cry of alarm and felt the English youth's fist thump down on his shoulder.

"Here they come, Dave!" Freddy cried. "Here come the blighters, blast them!"

Dawson instantly twisted around in the seat, and just as quickly cold fear clutched at his heart. It was true enough. The three Zeros had suddenly speeded up. But, more than that, they were coming down in a dive straight for the MK-11. One look at the way those Zeros were piling down and Dawson knew that one of two guesses was true. And possibly both. The Zero pilots had decided that the two youths planned to shake them off in the darkness, after leading them astray. Or else they figured that the American carrier force was due south, and that they could finish off their "unsuspecting victims" and use the rest of the gas in their tanks to get back to their own carrier. It was one or the other, and maybe both. But down they came, anyway, and a spell of cold, helpless fear was Dawson's.

"Get set with your rear guns, Freddy!" he called out sharply. "I should have figured this. Those rats are tired of playing around, and I've got a hunch they're going to do something about it. Something not so good for us."

"I think so, too!" the English youth called back. "But let them try it, blast them. Frankly, I'm blessed well fed up with being tagged around.

So let the blighters come. We'll fight them, if we have to. Jolly well right, we'll fight them!"

The words that poured from Freddy Farmer's lips were better than a tonic to Dawson. The cold fear left him at once, and instead he was filled with a fierce determination. Right! Let those Zeros pile down and get tough. He, too, was fed up with being pushed and shoved and tagged around. Doggone it, it seemed years since he had let fly with any bullets at the j.a.ps. The last time had been as that Air Transport Command plane was approaching the Australian coast from India. Heck, yes! Since then they hadn't done a darn thing for their country. On the contrary, they'd been shot up, shot down, and kicked around by the j.a.ps.

So okay. If it was to be a sc.r.a.p, then that would be fine, and nuts to the odds against them!

With a silent savage nod for emphasis, Dawson twisted around and squinted at the j.a.p Zeros for the umpty-umpth time. They were down almost on a level with the MK-11, and while two of them remained in wingtip to wingtip formation, the third Zero speeded up and came up abreast of the MK-11. Dawson stared at it narrow-eyed, ready to out-maneuver the j.a.p if he tried any smart stuff. And it was then he saw the helmeted figure in the pit put his radio mike to his lips, and motion with his free hand to Dawson to switch on his receiving set. For a couple of split seconds the Yank air ace stared in amazement. Then he snapped out of his trance and impulsively knocked up the switch of his receiving set in the front pit, and pulled the earphones down over his head.