got right now, even if I was actually
piloting the President's plane. I--"

"Dave!" Freddy Farmer broke in excitedly. "I'll be blessed! Look!"

The English youth's exclamation was quite unnecessary because Dawson was
already staring wide-eyed at one of the many so-called miracles of
weather. In other words, the milky air stopped abruptly, as though cut
off by a knife. One instant the B-25 was plowing on through the stuff,
and the next it was roaring out into clear air filled with brilliant
sunshine. Dead ahead was the coast of French Morocco, and the Port of
Casablanca glistening white in the sun!

"So this guy Farmer is a punk navigator, huh?" Dawson shouted joyously.
"Like heck he is, what I mean!"

"Luck, blasted luck, I swear it!" Freddy breathed, but there was a happy
smile on his face just the same. "Man! I never was so glad in all my
life to see a place as I am to see that spot ahead. Luck, absolutely
nothing but luck!"

"Okay, have it your way," Dawson laughed. "But just keep right on having
this kind of luck. That's all I've got to say. Boy, oh boy! Dry land
ahead, and something to eat, and a place to lay down my weary head.
Oh-oh! Here come some of the boys to give us a look-see. See them,
Freddy?"

"Of course," the English youth replied with a nod, and fixed his gaze on
the flight of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings that were sweeping gracefully up
off North African soil and streaking out to sea toward the B-25.

In less time than it takes to tell about it, those high-speed fighter
aircraft were right on top of the B-25 and skipping and sliding all
about it as their pilots investigated. It took them but a couple of
moments to satisfy themselves. Then they throttled and dropped into
escort position. That is, all except one pilot. He slid out in front to
lead the way to the American-built air base on the north side of the
city. A few minutes later Dawson throttled his engines, and slid the
B-25 down to a feather-bed landing. At a signal from the Operations
Tower, he trundled the bomber in toward the small Administration
Building. There he killed his engines completely, took a deep breath,
and relaxed in the seat. A glance at the instrument clock showed that he
had been in the air for a little over twelve hours, but the way his
numbed body felt, it was as though he had been in the air for over
twelve hundred hours.

"So this is Casablanca," he murmured, and absently unsnapped his safety
harness. "Well, I sure