"However," he said quietly, "there are such things as extenuating circumstances. Exceptions that prove the rule, and so forth. That Nazi spy is on his way to Admiral Shimoda with valuable information we can ill afford to have fall into Japanese hands. Also, _if_ he does slip away from the force he will naturally report on the force to Admiral Shimoda, and that could prove very disastrous for Vice-Admiral Macon's ships. So for those and other reasons, I am in favor of _every_ effort being made to identify this man so that he can be put under arrest." The senior Naval officer paused to clear his throat, but Dawson couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "Then you will, sir?" he blurted out. "You will give us another chance?" "That's right," the vice-admiral said, and tried not to smile. "There happens to be a Catalina with mail and some priority things leaving Kaneohe tonight. I will arrange for you to be on it. I will also give you a letter to Vice-Admiral Macon stating the reason you are joining the force, and what you wish to do. That is as far as I can go in the matter. I cannot order Vice-Admiral Macon to do anything. I can only ask him to co-operate with you in this matter, but I feel quite sure that he will. All right, then, Captains, your special request is granted. And, naturally, I wish you all the good luck and good hunting in the world." "Thank you, sir, thank you," was all that Dawson could say, because suddenly he was too choked up to speak other words. And it was the same with Freddy Farmer. One more chance! It was a time when mere words could mean everything, or nothing! CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Satan Strikes_ It was a perfect day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and from horizon to horizon the rolling blue Pacific was flooded with gold from the sun hanging on high. In addition to it being a perfect day the mighty Yank carrier force steaming westward was a sight to catch the throat of even the most self-centered landlubber. In perfect battle array, with cruisers out on both sides, and the destroyers darting about like water bugs, the mighty armada traced a pattern of creamy white wakes on the gold-tinted blue that looked like a painting from another world. It was indeed something to see and remember always, but Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer hardly noticed. Slumped down in one of the crash nets aboard the Carrier Trenton, they stared out at the rest of the force with gloomy eyes and furrowed brows. They were depressed, unhappy, and licked. Only sheer doggedness would not let them admit the latter truth. But it seemed true just the same. For three days, now, they had been with Vice-Admiral Macon's force, and for all the good they were doing themselves, or anybody else, they might just as well have been back at San Diego teaching Navy fledglings to fly.