The Jerry was a crack flier. The Heinkel came in with a roaring thrust, her Madsen slugs drilling away at the Spitfire. Stan heard the stingers zipping through his fuselage. A blue flame began playing up and down over a hole in his fuel tank.

"Well," Stan muttered sourly. "I'll have to put a stop to this, or else----"

He sent the Spitfire off to the right like a streak. The Heinkel zoomed past, building alt.i.tude for a death thrust. Stan cracked the throttle wide open and kicked in the emergency booster. The Merlin answered splendidly.

Glancing into his mirror he took in the setup, then faked a steep climb.

Up he went, 500 feet, then sent the Spitfire into a screaming back-over roll, holding his ship upside down until he was behind the Heinkel and above it. Then he dropped the Spitfire as though she were crippled. This placed him under the Heinkel and he went up. The Jerry was now trying to make a run for it. Stan saw a spread of fuselage and a wing through his windscreen and he pressed the gun b.u.t.ton. The Brownings spat fire and lead. The Jerry was trapped and knew it. He swayed and rocked and twisted in an attempt to get away. The bullets drilled out again, a four-second burst.

Fire and smoke rolled out of the port motor. The flames licked in around the stricken ship. A rancid whiff came to Stan and reminded him that his own fuel tank was on fire. It would be only a matter of seconds until he would be in a flaming coffin himself.

The Merlin was still hitting beautifully. Stan squirmed about and jerked loose a fire extinguisher. He turned the handle and pumped frantically.

The liquid spray feathered out and blanketed the fire. Stan sucked in a deep breath and looked down at the plummeting Heinkel. The Jerry was trying to bail out, but he wasn't making much headway. Stan nosed down and watched the struggle.

He was sorry for the pilot but it was not pity that made him circle lower and check the field toward which the Heinkel was spinning. Stan wanted to ask that Jerry a few questions, and the Jerry had to be rescued from his firetrap or he couldn't do it.

The Heinkel turned over, flattened and eased up, then plunged into a tangle of bushes beside a road. Stan gauged the rolling field which spread beside the road. He could have set a Hurricane down on that field easily, but a Spitfire was different. Her landing gear was high and narrow. He side-slipped and leveled off, then skimmed over the gra.s.s and b.u.mped down, jerking and swaying. The Spitfire rolled up to within a safe distance from the burning plane and Stan leaped out.

The Jerry had almost made it out of the plane. He was draped over the side with his parachute harness caught in the smashed hatch cover.

Risking an explosion which would have finished them both, Stan jerked the pilot loose and dragged him a safe distance from his ship. They were less than fifty feet from the Heinkel, when her tank cut loose and billows of smoke and flame rolled up, licking at the gra.s.s and brush.

The Heinkel's pilot sat on the gra.s.s. He watched his ship vanish and his face worked. If it had not been for the Royal Air Force pilot bending over him, he would at that moment be frying to a crisp. He shuddered and licked his lips.

Stan gave his attention to the fellow's wounds. He was badly hit in the shoulder and bleeding freely. His face was white.

"Who tipped you off that I'd be flying solo along this route?" Stan demanded.

The n.a.z.i lifted blue eyes to Stan and shook his head grimly.

"Better talk, son, you are bleeding plenty."

"That would be revealing a military secret," the n.a.z.i said in clipped English.

"I suppose you think I followed regulations and war rules in ducking down into this pile of rocks to drag you out of your crate?" Stan's eyes were cold and hard.

The Jerry coughed and smiled weakly. "I am indebted to you," he said slowly.

"If I don't get you to a doctor, you'll be as bad off as if you were still in that bonfire," Stan snapped. "Talk and I'll see what I can do.

And hand me that Luger." He reached down and jerked the officer's gun from him. The n.a.z.i had been too weak to make fast use of it.

"I suppose you are right." The officer coughed again and his hand slipped to his breast where his tunic was fast becoming soaked with blood.

"I might as well talk." Fear was showing in his eyes.

"Good. Who tipped you off?"

"A man who has quite an inside position with you. His name is--" The Jerry paused and coughed.

"Yes?" Stan bent and steadied him. He was afraid the n.a.z.i would pa.s.s out before he spoke again.

"Arch Garret," the n.a.z.i said, then went limp in Stan's arms.

Stan stared down in the gray face for a moment. His lips were drawn into a tight line and his eyes were blazing. Then he remembered his promise to the unconscious n.a.z.i. Picking the man up he carried him to the stone fence which separated the field from the road.

An old car had halted and a man and a woman sat staring at the smoking n.a.z.i plane and the trim Spitfire. When Stan appeared they started to get the old car into action.

"Wait!" Stan shouted.

The man recognized Stan's uniform and a broad smile came to his lips. He halted the car and waited while Stan carried the wounded man to the roadside.

"Can you get him to a doctor at once?" he asked.

"Verra easy," the man said.

"Take him to a doctor, then notify your authorities that you have a n.a.z.i prisoner. You should get a handsome reward for such a prize. He is a pilot and pilots are valuable."

The man and the woman began to talk at the same time. Stan loaded the wounded officer into the back seat and waved to the pair. Turning, he headed for his Spitfire.

Stan plugged the hole in his gas tank and warmed the Spitfire a bit, then rolled her to the far end of the field. There was some question as to whether he could make off the rough field, but he was in a terrible hurry and did not care to wait for help.

With a last careful survey of the gra.s.s runway he was off. The Spitfire rocked and dipped her wings and swayed drunkenly, but she lifted and cleared the stone fence. Now that he was in the air Stan had to decide what he should do about Arch Garret. As he circled for alt.i.tude, he tried to figure it out.

He had a hunch Garret was just a cog in a bad machine. He was the logical man to shove into the middle of things and the British were eagerly picking up overseas pilots. The Royal Air Force was well filled with Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, and others from the empire at large. Garret was a Canadian citizen, even though he had spent his last few years in the United States. Now it was very clear why Moon Flight had missed the bombers until they had done their work of destruction.

The question was whether he should fly back and report--or whether he should call Wing Commander Farrell and have secret agents put on Garret's trail. Garret would undoubtedly have an airtight alibi. And he certainly had backing that went high up. Stan might just make a fool out of himself. After all, the whole thing sounded like a tall story.

He finally decided to go on to the navy base and then send for Allison and O'Malley at once. They would believe him and help him. He would have a good crew of mechanics at the field to slap the Hawks together quickly and might be able to get them off in one day. Then there was one other thing that tipped the balance in favor of going on. This was pretty much a personal matter between himself and Arch Garret. This was the second time Garret had tried to wipe him out.

Heading north he drove along and did not see any more Heinkels. He was hailed by a scouting squadron from the fleet arm.

"Where to, Spitfire?" called a very English voice over the radio.

"Navy base. Shetlands," Stan called back.

"Good luck and cheerio, Yank," came back the English voice.

Stan grinned broadly. His western accent sure marked him well. He bored ahead, his eyes seeing far into the distance, his mind working upon the crooked plotting of Arch Garret.

He spotted the naval base and circled around to give the boys at the batteries a chance to see who he was, then set down and turned the Spitfire over to a ground crew. Taking his file of papers he headed for the commander's quarters.

The commander was an affable man, ruddy-faced and square-jawed. He had heard about Stan and O'Malley's attack upon the pocket battleship.

"I was so inquisitive about those ships I had them unloaded and uncovered. They are beauties, sir. But I can't see what you'll want with so much motor."

"I'll show you," Stan promised. "Now I want to make a call back to London and then I want a squad of your best mechanics. I have to get these Hawks into action at once."

"You will get all the help you can use," the commander promised.

Stan got Wing Commander Farrell on the wire and talked to him. He did not report the brush with the Heinkel, though he would have to mention it in his written report. And he did not mention Arch Garret. When he asked that Allison and O'Malley be sent up at once, the O.C. hesitated.