CHAPTER VI
THE SEA DOGS GROWL
Stan stepped out of the barracks and stood for a moment watching the scene on the field before the hangars. A row of Defiants had been rolled out. Men worked around them or scurried to and from the hangars. There was an uneasy feel about the scene. Stan scented action and a feeling of irritation filled him. Red Flight was on barge patrol when it should have been on combat. It was fools like Garret who messed up battle plans.
He was about to turn toward the mess division and had turned into the narrow alley leading to the building, when he halted and stepped back, close to the wall. Garret was coming out of the doorway of the mess and beside him walked a tall man. The man had a lean, weathered face with a scar across the right cheek. He wore a checked suit and a pearl-gray hat with a broad brim. The hat could have come from no place but the western part of the United States.
Stan recognized him at once as Charles L. Milton. He didn’t have to guess twice why Garret had him in hand and why he had taken him to the squadron mess. Garret wanted Milton to see Stan. Quickly moving around a corner, Stan headed for a hangar. He was sure they had not seen him.
As he strode swiftly along, Stan faced the ghost of his past. Milton was an American aircraft engineer. He had designed at least two of the newest models and knew everyone in the industry over in the United States. He knew Stan Wilson very well. As he entered the hangar Stan reflected bitterly that he should have known the British Isles would be swarming with American experts and engineers, now that a great effort was being made to help the besieged English nation. He had about as much chance of hiding in a Royal Air Force squadron as Joe Louis would have in not being recognized at Madison Square Garden.
He might be able to dodge Milton for a while. If he could only shake Garret he might do it for quite a while. Not that his conscience wasn’t clear. He had been framed. Framed by Nazi saboteurs, Fifth Column operators. That was the reason he was so eager to get in every lick he could against the monster Hitler had built to swallow the world.
He stood inside the shaded doorway to the hangar and watched Milton step into a car. When the car had rolled away he turned back toward headquarters. Within an hour he had to be back where he could hear the blare of the intersquadron speaker, to be on call for duty. He was moving along, scowling at the busy scene upon the field. As he passed the door of the O.C.’s office it opened and Wing Commander Farrell stepped out. Stan saluted and the commander returned the salute. He halted abruptly.
“Well, well,” he said. “Just the man I’m looking for. Come in, Lieutenant.”
Stan’s heart dropped with a thud. This likely meant a lot of questions to be answered, questions put into the O.C.’s head by Garret.
“Yes, sir,” he answered and followed the Commander inside.
Farrell seated himself behind his desk. He motioned toward a chair. “Sit down, Wilson.”
Stan sat down and waited. The Commander fished into his desk and took out a cigar. He clipped the end off with a silver knife, then lighted the weed and looked at Stan.
“Allison tells me you have had a lot of experience with various types of fast planes. Testing over in Canada. Most of the American ships have been going through trials up there. Did you have a chance at any of them?”
Stan breathed more freely. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“We have a new type American plane here.” The Commander fished through some papers, found a blue sheet and studied it for a minute. “They call this one the Hendee Hawk. We have tested it and found it to be rather fast but very tricky.” The Commander frowned at the report, then looked up at Stan.
Stan could hardly hold back a grin and a whoop. Did he know the Hendee Hawk? He knew the Hawk from her prop to her tail assembly. The Wing Commander was being very conservative when he said the Hawk was rather fast. Stan had squinted at her air-speed indicator when it was jiggling crazily at 600 miles per hour. He waited for the Wing Commander to go on.
“Ordinarily we would train enough special men to handle these ships, but we are pressed for fighting ships at the moment.”
Stan’s face did not reveal anything of what he was thinking. The Britisher was talking calmly and appeared not to be worried. Stan knew the need for Hendee Hawks was desperate, and he knew the ships would deliver.
“Have you many of them, sir?” he asked.
“No. This ship is a test job.” The Wing Commander dropped the blue sheet. “Have you ever flown a Hendee Hawk?”
“Yes, sir.”
The question Stan expected to follow did not come. Wing Commander Farrell said nothing for more than a minute.
“Would you like to take this one? Into action?”
Stan restrained a smothering eagerness. He wanted to jump up and down and shout, to slap the Commander on the back. A lot of experts had turned thumbs down on the Hawk. But the saboteur boys had known she was the super-plane and had done everything they could to get her junked, including a nice frame-up on himself. He knew they had just about succeeded if there was only one ship here in Britain.
“I’ll fly her, sir,” he said and added eagerly, “she is the greatest combination of fighter and strafing plane ever built. She packs enough bombs to do real damage, as well.”
The Wing Commander smiled. “We shall see,” he said.
The way he said it convinced Stan it was up to him to show both the British and the Jerries just what the Hendee Hawk could do. If this ship failed, there would be no more of the machines he had worked so hard to help perfect.
“She carries two men,” Stan said.
“I have been considering that.” Suddenly the Wing Commander laughed outright. “Do you suppose your friend, the pie-eating Irishman, would care to work with you? I should like to have Allison become familiar with the ship, too. In that way we would have three men able to instruct others if we order more of these fighters.”
“I don’t know,” Stan said honestly.
“I could assign them to you, but I prefer to let you ask them,” Farrell said. Then he got to his feet. “You will report to 7-B at once.”
Stan grinned broadly. It would take him away from Garret, at least until the snooping Lieutenant was able to locate him again. He saluted and hurried out of the office.
Stan actually sneaked into the mess. He couldn’t afford to have this chance smashed by a cluck like Garret. The coast was clear. Only a few fliers were lounging about, with Allison and O’Malley among them. Stan crossed the room and sat down between his pals. He did not notice, in his excitement, that they seemed to be expecting him. The clock over the counter showed that in one minute Allison and O’Malley would go on duty. He wondered who would fill in for him in Red Flight.
“Sure, an’ you’ve been shunnin’ us,” O’Malley greeted him.
Stan came to the point at once. “How would you like to copilot a real ship, an American ship?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
“I’d prefer a glider,” Allison said with a wicked leer.
“How about you, Irisher?”
“I wouldn’t mind if me pal didn’t hog the controls all the blessed time.” O’Malley grinned.
“She’s a stinger. You’ll see something you never thought was in the bag. She’s tricky as a Navaho Indian.”
“Is that a Canadian tribe of wild men?” Allison drawled.
“Sure,” Stan came back. “Hudson’s Bay.”
Allison snorted.
“I’m with you,” O’Malley cut in. “Anything to get off this deadhead beat the muckle heads have us on. Mrs. O’Malley’s boy came down to London to see some action.”
“Good. I’ll get in touch with the O.C. at once.” Stan got to his feet.
“Really, old chap, you’re not going to rush off without my final answer. I’m in on this if I have to fly a kite,” Allison said with a wide smile.
