ig idea of their being here is to
sail out to give the bombers a better chance to get through when the big
moment comes. They must be 'Number Two Suicide Squad' because they'd
never get back here on the gas they carry!"

"Absolutely!" Freddy Farmer replied at once. "No doubt of it. When the
bombers were sure of their target, they'd radio the Messerschmitts to
come on the jump and lend a hand. Dave, old thing, we're not all washed
up yet! Don't you understand?"

"And how! I understand!" the Yank air ace said grimly, and got up onto
his feet. "Do you know the way to that secret field from here, Freddy?"

"Yes," the other replied. "But it's about two hours of blasted hard
going. We've got to be very careful. I think the blighters have patrols
out hunting for us. I heard a few Jerry voices while I was making my way
here. By the way, that glow over there is your aircraft still burning.
Never knew a plane to burn so long."

"So that's what it is, huh?" Dawson remarked absently. Then, reaching
out, he gripped Freddy Farmer's hand. "Let's go, pal," he said quietly.
"Don't ask me if I have any plans, because I haven't a one, yet. But
let's get to that field and decide when we get there. One thing is in
our favor, anyway. We're both still alive and kicking. If you ask me,
that's plenty for a starter!"

"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed, tight-lipped. "We're both still alive, so
we're jolly well not licked yet!"

"Check, and triple check!" Dawson grunted. "Let's go!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_Vultures' Nest_

Dawn was a faint gray line marking the point where the North African sky
met the North African Continent in the east. Just a faint gray line
heralding the coming of a new day, though the world was still shrouded
in the darkness of night. A new day. A new day of war. A new day--of
victory, or utter failure?

The question was like a pin-point white hot flame burning in Dave
Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer hugged the hard-packed ground
behind a clump of withered desert brush. Just seventy yards beyond the
desert brush was a long level strip of desert, flanked on both sides by
scrub-covered hills. Hills? They were little more than mounds of rock
and sand. As though Nature throughout the ages had thrust them up from
the bowels of the earth and covered them with scrub growth for a crazy
prank. They looked just about as natural in the middle of the Sahara as
a part of the Sahara would have looked in the middle of N