many planes we have protecting the President and his party, some of
those bombers would be bound to get through."

"But their base, sir, wherever it is?" Dawson spoke up as the other
paused. "If you could only find it, and--"

"Exactly the point!" the major general interrupted. "If we could only
_find it_! The only thing I've got here that could out-fly the Junkers
Ju-88 is a Lightning. But the main difficulty is that I have no pilots I
can order out on such a mission. I mean, should they find the base and
radio its position, they wouldn't have fuel enough left to return.
They'd force land in the mountain wilderness and eventually die of
starvation or the heat. We've _got_ to destroy those planes--and _within
the next thirty-six hours!_"

"Thirty-six hours, sir?" Dawson echoed, as his heart started to pound
against his ribs.

The major general looked at him gravely, and nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Just ten minutes before your plane landed I received
code word from Washington that the President and his party are _already
on the way to Casablanca!_"

"Good gosh!" Dawson gasped before he could check himself. "Only
thirty-six hours and then Goering's snooping suicides can do their
stuff? Or try to do it? But--"

Dawson suddenly checked himself and looked at Freddy Farmer. For a long
moment their eyes met, and then they nodded impulsively. Dawson turned
to Major General Hawker.

"With your permission, sir," he said quietly, "Farmer and I would like
to locate that base and radio its position so that our bombers could go
over and wipe it out."

As Dawson finished speaking, silence settled over the room. Colonel
Welsh broke it as he addressed his words to Major General Hawker.

"Just what I told you, sir," he said. "And by God, they'll find it,
too--Bless them both!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_Death Takes Wing_

For the tenth time, Dave Dawson checked his position and made absolutely
sure that he was where he was supposed to be. For the tenth time,
countless fears shot through his brain to taunt and jeer at him. He
wasn't at the agreed rendezvous point. His navigation was all cockeyed.
He was a hundred miles north of the point. He was a hundred miles south
of it. He was--

"Cut it out, fellow!" he ordered himself. "This is a fine time for you
to go haywire! You're simply here ahead of time. Your watch tells you
that. Freddy was held up a bit, that's all. Maybe he ran into a bit of
weather, or something. Maybe