One of them opened his mouth again, but Dawson quickly spun him around and pushed him into the shadow cast by the body of the Flying Fortress. "Silence, swine!" he rasped, and practically shoved his flashlight into the mechanic's face. "Stand motionless!" As Dawson spoke the last he half turned his head to see that Freddy Farmer was carrying out his end. Freddy had spun the other mechanic, and was shoving him up against the side of the Fortress. "This for sleeping swine!" Dawson grated, turning back to his fear-frozen mechanic. And with that he whipped up his gun and chopped it down on the mechanic's head just in back of the left ear. The German went down without so much as a tired sigh. And no sooner had he sprawled in a heap on the ground than the other mechanic folded up on top of him. "Now we move, kid!" Dave whispered, and ducked down and under the plane toward the little ladder leading up into the belly door of the aircraft. He waited there the millionth part of a second, just long enough to make sure that Freddy was right at his heels, and then he went up the ladder like a monkey and into the plane. He entered the plane just forward of the bomb compartment, and was turning toward the steps to the pilots' compartment when suddenly a figure loomed up in front of him on the catwalk, and German-spoken words hit him in the face. "Halt! Who are you? Herr Captain's orders were that no one was to--" The voice was cut off in a snarling gasp, for the speaker had seen Dawson's face in the pale glow that filtered into the plane from outside. But in that same instant, also, Dawson saw the face of the speaker. It was the thin face of the man called Hans, whom he had last seen in that apartment living room out near Golders Green in London. For a split second both gaped at each other. Then Hans' face twisted with rage, and he dived a hand into the pocket of the flying jacket he wore. But Dawson did not play the Wild West movie hero. He did not wait for his opponent to get his gun out and take the first shot. This was no time for heroics. This was cold-blooded war, with civilization itself hanging in the balance. So Dawson simply fired from the hip and saw Hans' head jerk back as the bullet hit him between the eyes. Almost before the Nazi agent's body had crashed down onto the catwalk Dawson had leaped over him and was mounting into the pilots' compartment. Without waiting for Freddy Farmer to catch up, he slid into the pit, ran anxious eyes over the instrument panel and other gadgets, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that all was in readiness for the take-off. Then he cast a swift glance out through the windshield glass. The plane in front, a British Lancaster, blocked off most of his view, but he saw no running figures coming his way, so it seemed apparent that his single shot had not been heard. Countless figures carrying flashlights were walking all over the field, and there was a large crowd gathered about the leading bomber.