It was just as Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had predicted. The night had no moon, and even the stars were blotted out by a five hundred foot thick layer of overcast. Pitch darkness engulfed everything in all directions. Dave Dawson couldn't see a single speck of light, save one. And that one bit of light, which was no more than a faint pale glow, was from the hooded single bulb on the instrument panel of the North American B-Twenty-Five medium bomber. Just enough light to let him read the automatic compass, and a couple of other essential instruments.
However, apart from that bit of faint light, he might well have been in the middle of a throbbing, inky dark world. The throbbing was from the two Wright Cyclone engines that were driving the B-Twenty-Five up higher and higher into the night sky. Just half an hour before he had lifted the aircraft off the square field on the western edge of Urbakh. Major Saratov, and a few other Soviet officers, had been present to wish them all well, and Godspeed back. But Dave had not missed the look half hidden in the Russian Major's eyes. And spotting that look certainly hadn't added to the joy of the dangerous flight to be undertaken. In other words, it was quite evident that Major Saratov was inwardly bidding them a very permanent farewell. Should he ever meet them again, he would undoubtedly be the most surprised man in all of the Soviet.
Whether the Russian girl officer of Soviet Intelligence, or Freddy Farmer, or Agent Jones, had noted that same look, Dawson didn't know. And, naturally, he hadn't tried to find out. If they had seen it, talking wouldn't help any. And if they hadn't, then what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Just the same, the little lumps of bouncing cold lead had returned to Dawson's stomach as he cleared the field and sent the B-Twenty-Five nosing upward.
Now, though, the bouncing lumps of lead were all gone. No, not because courage and all the rest of that sort of thing had driven them away. It was simply because he had other things to think about, and he was too busy to check and recheck his personal feelings. Some eighteen thousand feet of air were between the bomber's belly and the earth, and the layer of overcast now below the aircraft blotted out the ground just as completely as another layer of overcast higher up blotted out the stars.
The B-Twenty-Five was like some winged thing cutting through limitless unexplored space. In truth, those aboard had only one single contact with the world they had known. And that contact was Freddy Farmer, who plotted every foot of the bomber's travel, and knew exactly where they were every minute of the time. In fact, it seemed to be about every other minute that the English youth leaned forward from his navigating table and handed Dave a slip of paper on which was written course corrections, or data on a new course to be flown. And at such times Dave would snap on a tiny flashlight just long enough to read the directions, and then plunge the pilot's cockpit into pitch darkness again.
Holding rigidly to the course directions that Freddy gave him, he kept his gaze fixed on the instrument panel, and tried to put everything out of his mind, save this particular job of flying. It was impossible to do that, of course. A million and one different thoughts jumped and leaped about inside his brain like so many caged up rabbits suddenly given their freedom. How soon before Freddy would give him the signal to cut the engines and start sliding down to a dead-stick landing on a piece of night-shrouded ground that he had never seen in his life before? What would be there if and when he landed the bomber? Would a chance Nazi patrol hear them, and would there be trouble? Would they be able to get away from the bomber in time? Would the tattered and torn Ukrainian peasant clothes that they all now wore be sufficient disguise? Would they be able to hide the plane? Or would they lose it, and be stranded on foot far behind the Nazi positions? Would this, and would that happen? And if so, what would be the best thing to do? And so forth, and so forth. On and on, as if beating time to the powerful throb of the Wright Cyclones.
And then, suddenly, as Dawson's brain wound up tighter and tighter like a coiled spring, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Freddy Farmer's quiet voice in his ears.
"My job's finished, old thing," the English youth said. "Cut your engines, and start the glide. I've figured it as close as I possibly can, and I make it that we're ten miles from the spot. It's dead ahead, of course. But you're nose-on to a thirty mile wind. Adjust your glide angle accordingly."
"Okay, my lad!" Dawson said with far more cheerfulness than he actually felt. "Have a comfortable seat, and watch us."
"Think I'll man the tail gun, just in case," Freddy replied, with an encouraging squeeze of Dawson's shoulder. "And if it turns out to be the wrong spot, old thing, just let me know, what? I'll have another go at it."
"Sure!" Dave chuckled. "That will be swell of you, pal. If we miss and land in the middle of a Nazi camp, that landing doesn't count, huh? And why shouldn't the Nazis give us a second try? Okay, son. Trot back to your guns, but don't shoot until you see the whites of somebody's eyes, for cat's sake!"
"Quite! I understand perfectly," the English youth chuckled in reply. "And who has whites of eyes in this blasted coal mine, what? Well, luck, old thing. It's been a lovely airplane ride, you know."
With another squeeze of Dawson's shoulder, Freddy Farmer melted away in the dark, and the Yank pilot set about his delicate and dangerous task. He killed the twin Cyclones completely, and the sudden silence had the weird effect of guns going off all about him. The sensation fled him in an instant, though, and he could hear the soft whispering song of the B-Twenty-Five's wings sliding down through the darkness. Gripping the controls with hands of steel, and keeping his eyes riveted on the instrument panel, he held the bomber at the correct glide, and practically lowered it earthward a foot at a time.
Beside him, in the co-pilot's seat, was Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski. Fact is, the girl had been seated there ever since the take-off. But not one word had passed her lips. It was as though she realized that this was something out of her field, and that the best way she could help was to maintain absolute silence until the aircraft was safely on the ground. And that was perfectly okay by Dawson. Not that he wouldn't have been glad to talk with the famous Russian girl. But simply because her silence helped him to forget that she was there.
Three hundred and six Nazis dead by her trigger finger, or three thousand and six. It didn't matter. She was a girl, and this was the first time Dawson had piloted a plane through war skies with other than men aboard. It was certainly a new experience, and one, he was forced to admit to himself, he would have been just as well pleased to have somebody else experience. However, she was along, of course. And so that was that.
Foot by foot Dawson took the B-Twenty-Five down toward the crest of the lower layer of overcast. Presently he thought he could make out its darker shadow just below. A glance at the altimeter told him that his eyes were not lying. In another moment he'd be going down through the stuff, and in a couple of moments after that he'd be below it and in clear night air. Then would begin the really ticklish part. Then he would see, or would not see, the dazzling white beams of Nazi searchlights groping about in the air. And then he would hear, or would not hear, the heart-chillingcrumpof exploding anti-aircraft shells. And then it would be, or would not be, the end of a very daring and crazy adventure. Then it—
With a savage shake of his head he drove the tantalizing thoughts from his brain, licked his lips and hunched forward slightly over the controls. They were in the lower layer of overcast now. He could tell because the darkness seemed twice as profound as it had been a moment before. And then, suddenly, the B-Twenty-Five floated down out of the overcast and into clear night air. Dawson tore his gaze from the instrument panel, blinked hard as though to clear his vision, and strained his eyes ahead, and down. For a soul-torturing eternity he saw nothing but a carpet of unbroken black stretching far out in all directions. But little by little the carpet of black lost its unbroken appearance. It took on darker spots, and lighter spots, and landmarks on an aerial mosaic map re-photographed on his brain began to take shape and form.
He spotted a couple of pin points of light to the left, and a long curving dark shadow. The curving shadow he knew was a stretch of woods on the east side of Urbakh. And the pin points of light he was certain came from the village itself. Then, as he saw a winding lighter shadow, his heart swelled with pride. Trust old Freddy Farmer! Old Freddy could guide you halfway around the world to a dime you had left in the middle of a desert. That winding lighter shadow was a tributary of the Don River. And when his eyes picked out the eastern and lower part of an S that the tributary formed, he would then be looking at the small, wood-bordered patch of flat ground where he would dead-stick land the bomber. Or at least he would be looking at a spot of wood-bordered flat ground thathadbeen that when the Russian aerial photographs were taken.
So tensed and keyed up was Dawson that when Senior Lieutenant Petrovski suddenly reached out and gripped his arm he almost let out a startled yell. He curbed it in time, however, so his own voice didn't drown out the words the Russian girl spoke.
"There, a little to the left!" she called out. "You see it, Captain Dawson? Where the little river makes that turn to the right? That is the place."
It took Dawson all of five seconds to pick out the spot, and when he did he silently saluted the Russian girl at his side.
"Yes, I see it, Senior Lieutenant," he told her. Then to himself, "You and Freddy Farmer! Eagle eyes!"
Perhaps it was a good thing that the Russian girl had spoken. At any rate, the tenseness and the tightness went out of Dawson. A cool calm settled over him, and it was though he were simply making an emergency night landing in some familiar place. But, of course, a night landing without the benefit of landing lights!
Actually, though, it was going to be considerably more than just putting the B-Twenty-Five down on the ground. When his wheels finally touched, he must have enough forward speed to carry him as close to the bordering trees as possible. There would be no "dolly-tractor" to haul the bomber over the ground. And those aboard certainly didn't possess the strength to move the bomber around as you'd hoist up the tail of a pursuit ship and move it. And, of course, to start up the engines and taxi close to the bordering trees was definitely out of the question. Might just as well send the Nazis in the neighborhood a telegram that they were coming, and at what time. And so—
The rambling thoughts in Dawson's brain slid off into oblivion. The darker shadow of the ground was directly beneath his cranked down wheels now. And dead ahead was the darker shadow, too, of the bordering trees at the far end of the field. It was now or never. Success, or a beautiful crack-up that would bring Nazis on the jump from miles around. Dawson swallowed impulsively, and in the last few split seconds of time allowed, every event, big and small, of his entire existence on earth seemed to flash across the screen of his brain.
And then the wheels touched. The B-Twenty-Five tried to bounce back up a little into the air, but an expert had set it on the ground, and the twin tail came down to touch and cling to the earth also. Sweat was pouring off Dawson's face, but he didn't bother wiping it off so that it wouldn't run into his eyes. Like a statue of solid stone, he sat hunched in the seat, letting the bomber trundle forward, and keeping his gaze fixed on the dark shadow of trees ahead.
It seemed as though a thousand years dragged by while that B-Twenty-Five rolled forward over the ground. But finally the bordering trees loomed up large and ominous just ahead of the nose. Dawson applied the wheel brakes, and the forward movement of the bomber slackened off considerably. And at the very last moment he took off the right wheel brake, but held the left steady so that the bomber pivoted around to that side, and finally stopped in a position where another half-turn was all that was needed for them to be able to use the entire length of the field for a take-off.
"Well, Jap-knife me in the back if we didn't make it!" Dave gasped joyfully as the bomber's wheels made their last half-turn. "Here we are, anyway."
"And accomplished by the ace of aces, Captain Dawson!" the Russian girl spoke up. "But there is no time for compliments now. There is work for all of us. We must hurry, so that when dawn comes there will be no sign to be seen from the air."
"Huh?" Dawson grunted. "What was that, Senior Lieutenant?"
"This aircraft!" she said with a startling sharpness in her voice. "We must cover it with branches and bushes, so that Nazi airmen will not see that it is here. Is that not so?"
"That is absolutely correct!" Dawson replied instantly, and heaved up out of his seat. "And I am very glad that there is at leastonebrain in this outfit. My apologies for my dumbness, Senior Lieutenant. Let's go!"
The new dawn was a pale band of light that etched the eastern rim of the world. The overcast layers that had filled the night sky were fast breaking up and dissolving into nothingness. It was a sure sign that the new day would be clear and bright. And as Dave Dawson stared up at the slowly changing sky, he tried to tell himself that that was a very good sign, and that everything would turn out swell.
Yes, he was trying to tell himself and convince himself, but he didn't even come close. The hand of invisible doom and disaster seemed to be pressing down hard on his heart. And countless demons of doubt and dread and misgiving were dancing around in his brain. He shifted his position on the floor and stared over at Freddy Farmer and Agent Jones, who sat back-propped and silent against the room wall.
Room wall? Well, it could hardly be called that. The place where the three of them were now was little more than a hundred year old cow-shed sunk half into the ground from changing weather, and just plain natural deterioration. It was a good half-mile from the spot where they had left the B-Twenty-Five bomber well camouflaged, covered by tree branches, bushes, and anything else that they could lay their hands on. To this tumbled down mess of rotted wood Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had led them as straight as though she were walking a piece of taut string. Then, she hadleftthem here well over two hours ago!
Yes! Left them to cool their heels, and bite their fingernails if they wished, while she went out into the darkness to scout about the village of Urbakh, and find out just what the picture was. When she had told them of her intention, a whole batch of arguments had leaped to Dawson's lips, just as they had leaped to the lips of Freddy Farmer, and Agent Jones. However, the Russian girl was quick to read what was in their minds. And she asked them a question that put an end to all the arguments, and stopped them all cold.
"And who but I, who knows this area as a birthplace, should go out and find what should be done next?" she had asked.
Andwasthere one of them better qualified to look over the lay of the land? There was not! However, Dawson had been tempted to insist that he go along with her, just as a matter of protection, so to speak. But before he spoke he thought of three hundred and six Nazis who wouldn't help Hitler any more. So he didn't even speak.
However, the girl officer of Russian Intelligence had said that she would return in a little over an hour. And it was now well overtwohours since she had slipped away in the darkness like a greased shadow. That wasn't so good, and the demons of doubt and dread and misgiving were loudly clamoring for recognition in Dawson's brain.
"I fancy we're all thinking the same thoughts, what?" Freddy Farmer's low voice suddenly broke the silence. "And deucedly unpleasant thoughts, too."
"Check!" Dawson muttered grimly. "I'm afraid we were dopes to let her go out alone, even if she does know this neck of the woods, and how to take care of any Nazis she bumps into."
"Oh, she'll be back," Agent Jones spoke up confidently. "The Russian women are every bit as good at waging war as the Russian men, you know."
"Sure!" Dawson grunted. "But a lot of Russian men soldiers have been shot in this war. However—well, I guess the only thing we can do is wait some more."
"And if she doesn't show up at all?" Freddy Farmer put the obvious question. "Then what?"
"Then I haven't the faintest idea," Dawson replied with a heavy sigh. "We'll just have to think up something if and when that time arrives."
"We could go to the Nazi Commandant hereabouts, and ask him if he knows where we could find Nikolsk," Agent Jones offered with a chuckle.
"Thanks for the attempt at humor!" Dawson groaned. "But I don't feel like laughing. I feel like—Hold it! You hear that, fellows?"
There was no need to ask the question. Even a deaf man could have heard the thunderous roar of revving aircraft engines that suddenly blasted the silence of dawn to the four winds. As though controlled by invisible strings, the three of them leaped to their feet and crowded over to the glassless window on the side of the room nearest the location of the sound. It did them little good, however. They simply found themselves staring out at a wall of trees that blocked off even the growing light of dawn.
That didn't matter very much, though. And it certainly didn't cause their hearts to thump less violently. The three of them knew at once that the roaring was from German aircraft engines. And the three of them also realized at once that a Nazi flying field couldn't be more than a few hundred yards away!
"Sweet tripe!" Dawson gasped when he could catch his breath. "Did we pick a nice secluded out of the way spot, I don't think! That's a Nazi flying field. And those engines sound like Messerschmitt One-Nines and One-Tens to me!"
"Quite!" Agent Jones grunted, tight-lipped. "Certainly isn't a tank base. A Jerry airdrome, without a doubt. And here come some of the blighters off on the early patrol!"
The last statement was quite true. Hardly had the words left Agent Jones' lips when six Messerschmitt One-Tens went tearing by no more than three hundred feet over the spot where the three youths crouched hidden. A moment later a second flight of Nazi planes roared by toward the front. And then a third flight, and a fourth. Dawson squinted up at each flight, and saw that his guess had been correct. Half of the planes were single-seater Messerschmitt One-Nine fighters. And the other half were Messerschmitt One-Tens. And when the last flight had passed over he sat down on the floor again, scowled darkly, and scratched his head.
"Just ducky, just dandy!" he groaned. "We hide our ship just a hop skip and a jump from a mess of high speed Nazi jobs. What a sweet hope we'd have trying to take off. Or is there some way of getting a B-Twenty-Five into the air without using the engines?"
"Lots of ways!" Freddy Farmer grunted unhappily. "But I can't seem to think of one, right now."
"Well, keep thinking, pal!" Dawson told him. "Because I guess we're going to have to do just that. Darn it! Where is that Senior Lieutenant, anyway? She's one bright girl, and always has the right answer. Maybe she'll have the right answer to this one."
"I hope!" Agent Jones echoed fervently.
"I fancy that makes two of us who hope, old thing," Freddy Farmer sighed. "A bit strange, though, there was no sign of the airfield on that mosaic map of Major Saratov's," he went on after a split second pause. "Or could all of us have been so blind as to have missed it?"
"Hardly," Agent Jones said with a grim laugh. "If you ask me, we didn't spot it because you wouldn't even spot it from the air. The Jerries, as you well know, are absolutely top-hole in the art of camouflaging. I think that's the answer, frankly. A very cleverly camouflaged air base that Soviet pilots haven't discovered yet."
"And we have—too late!" Dawson grunted. "Say, listen, you two. What say we give the Senior Lieutenant twenty minutes more, and if she hasn't returned by then we go take a look-see at that airfield, huh? To my way of thinking, we can't count too much on the B-Twenty-Five, with a nest of Messerschmitts this close. Better have a look-see, anyway. Am I right, or wrong?"
"Perfectly right!" Freddy Farmer said.
"The same for me," Agent Jones echoed. "Twenty minutes more for the lady to show up, and then we start snooping around on our own."
Whether the war gods planned it that way or not will of course never be known. But exactly nineteen minutes had ticked by on Dave Dawson's wrist watch when suddenly a shadow fell across the dawn light on the floor, and Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski came gliding into the room. Instantly the three men were on their feet, and it was Dawson who found his tongue first.
"Boy! Am I glad to see you, lady!" he gulped out impulsively. "I mean, Senior Lieutenant, it's sure nice to see you back. We were getting mighty worried."
The Russian girl smiled her thanks, but her smile was far from her usual flashing one. She sat down on the floor and pulled off her tattered peasant cap to show her close cropped jet black hair. Dawson, staring at her for a moment, could not help but admit to himself that Nasha Petrovski in a Senior Lieutenant's snappy uniform, or Nasha Petrovski in the tattered garments of a Ukrainian peasant woman, was still one mighty pretty girl. He brushed the flash thought from his brain, however, and squatted down on his heels in front of her.
"Bad news, eh, Senior Lieutenant?" he asked quietly. "I think I can see it in your face."
She didn't answer him for a moment. She seemed content to wait until Freddy Farmer and Agent Jones had also squatted down on the floor. Then she nodded her head, and her eyes flashed with some inner rage.
"Yes, bad news, my gallant comrades," she said evenly. "It would seem the Nazis here at Urbakh are far more clever than we expected."
"Quite," Agent Jones murmured politely. "The camouflaged airfield. We have just been watching some of their planes fly over."
"Yes, a secret airfield!" the Russian girl said in a low voice, and clenched her two hands into fists. "It is not a quarter of a mile from where we now sit. I have seen it, and though I will hate all Nazis to my death, I must speak praise of that secret field. It is all underground, under a large flat-topped hill. You almost stumble into it before you see the screens of branches that hang down over the entrance. When planes are to take off, the screens are lifted by wire cables and the valley at the base of the hill becomes a smooth take-off runway. It is clever. Yes, it is ingenious. It is also most unlucky for us that Nazis are so close."
"Well, they haven't spotted us yet!" Dawson said, to cheer her up a little. "And we'll just make sure that they don't."
"Yes, of course," the Russian girl replied in a dull voice, and shrugged sort of hopelessly. "But it is blame that I must put on my own shoulders. I am ashamed to—"
"Now look, Senior Lieutenant!" Dave spoke up quickly. "We—"
But that's as far as he could get. She silenced him with her eyes, and an upraised hand.
"Let me finish, please, Captain Dawson," she said. "Then you will realize why I am so ashamed. It is my sad duty to report to you three gallant ones that the Nazis havealreadydiscovered our airplane. There is a strong guard about it this very minute. And, of course, they realize that we must be somewhere in this area."
Had Hitler himself stepped through the cockeyed slanting doorway at that exact moment, the three youths wouldn't have been much more stunned. To Dawson it was like something exploding inside his head. And quick as a flash he thought of the incident aboard the Flying Scotsman, and of the air battle just before the Wellington's arrival in Moscow. Was it true? Was it true that the Gestapo had been here all the time waiting for them? Had they seen or heard the B-Twenty-Five sliding down for the night landing, and just waited for daylight to capture it? Was that the truth? Dawson wondered. He wondered hard, and little by little he began to get the feeling that the Nazis didn't know who, or how many, had arrived in their midst. If so, why had they not swooped down on the landed plane instantly, and shot or captured everybody right then and there? Was it because they had not been able to reach the bomber before its crew had slipped away in the darkness? Or was it because they, themselves, hoped to be led to the hiding place of one Ivan Nikolsk, who was such an important link in the revealing of their war plans?
Dawson wondered and pondered in silence, and then suddenly he was conscious of Freddy Farmer speaking.
"Let them have the blasted aircraft, and welcome to it!" the English-born air ace was saying. "It makes matters a bit more difficult, but far from impossible. I fancy that there isn't one of us who hasn't been stranded behind Nazi lines before this. We'll get away from the beggars, somehow. The main thing is to locate this bloke, Ivan Nikolsk, and let Agent Jones, here, do his share in this balmy show we're to pull off."
"But that will not be so easy, either, I am most sad to report," Senior Lieutenant Petrovski said bitterly. "A little luck has been mine since I last saw you. I found Ivan Nikolsk, and it was easier than I had dared hope. There was a certain house I went to, on the east side of the village. An old woman, too old to interest the Nazis. Nina, her name is. She used to rock me in my cradle. She made for me my first doll, out of thin air and a bit of string, almost. She was there at the house. Half blind, but she knew me at once. She swore that she knew in her heart that I was coming. Perhaps yes. Who is there to say no? And what is planned for us on this earth, and what is not planned for us? Who is there to prove this or that to be wrong, or a miracle?"
The Russian girl suddenly caught herself up and made a little apologetic gesture with her hands.
"But such mysteries of life are not for us to speak of at the moment," she continued. "It is just that Ivan Nikolsk went to Nina for hiding. He is there. He is there now. I saw him."
"Oh, splendid!" Freddy Farmer burst out excitedly. "Did you speak to him, Senior Lieutenant? And what did he say to you? By Jove!"
"No." She turned to the English youth with a sad smile. "I have made you happy only to make you unhappy. I spoke to Ivan Nikolsk, but he did not speak to me. He is unconscious. He has been so for four days. He has illness, and a terrible fever. Nina has done what she could. But there is no doctor, and it would mean her life to go to the Nazis in the village. Nina says that he has not long to live. And I have seen him, and so believe her!"
The echo of Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's words seemed to linger tauntingly for ages and ages. Nobody else spoke. Nobody could think of anything to say. The stillness of dawn stole in through the broken and shattered windows, and lent to the place the atmosphere of a long abandoned tomb. Dawson tried desperately to think of something to say—anything that would remove a little of the bitterness that was stamped all over the Russian girl's face. Not one bit of what had happened was her fault, but that didn't make any difference to her. She accepted the fault as her own, and it showed plainly in the bitter look on her face.
"Well, that just tightens things up a little," the words finally came to his tongue, and popped off. "We've just got to shift into high gear a little sooner. The big idea now is to get Ivan Nikolsk to a good Russian hospital, and get him there fast. Right?"
"True enough," Freddy Farmer grunted, and stared at him hard. "But I fancy there are one or two little details to be worked out, what?"
"Right!" Dawson shot right back at him. "And that's where you and I can earn a little of what they pay us. Look, Senior Lieutenant, just where is this Nina's house? Can you tell me exactly, so I'd recognize it when I saw it?"
"But of course!" the Russian girl replied, and brightened up a little. "It was in that mosaic aerial map. You recall those two roads that formed a Y by those star-shaped fields? You remember speaking about the shape of those fields, eh? It is that house right there in the top part of that Y."
"Check!" Dawson cried eagerly, as he instantly pin pointed the spot on the memory picture of that aerial map in his brain. "Yes! I know just where it is. Now, another question. Are there many Nazis roaming around here? I mean, could you and Agent Jones get to this Nina's house without being stopped and picked up?"
"The Nazis would never see us!" the Russian girl said almost scornfully. "Too many times have I—"
"Okay, and sorry," Dawson stopped her with a grin. "I didn't mean that the way you took it. Okay, then. Answer me this, if you will? Could Farmer and I get to that house without being nailed?"
The Russian girl flashed him a searching look, and then laughed softly.
"What a Russian girl can do, the Captains Dawson and Farmer can certainly do!" she said. "And much more skilfully, no doubt."
Dawson hesitated the fraction of a second, half expecting a crack from Freddy. But the situation was too serious for the English youth to loosen his tongue in a retort.
"Well, that's all I want to know," Dawson finally said with a grin. "Now look, Senior Lieutenant. You and Agent Jones slide over to this Nina's house, and get ready to move Nikolsk out of there. You know, wrap him up in blankets, if there're any around. But, more important, try to check on the movements of any Nazis who might be around. Meanwhile Farmer and I—well, we're going to take a little walk. However, we'll join you and Agent Jones as soon as we can. But it might not be until nightfall tonight. So don't get worried if we take that long."
"I say, what's up old thing?" Agent Jones broke into the conversation. "Just what do you and Farmer plan to do? A walk to where, may I ask?"
"Sure, go ahead and ask it," the Yank air ace chuckled. "The answer is that I am not quite sure, right now. However, the B-Twenty-Five is out for us, now. So Farmer's and my job will be to dig up some other means of travel, and dig it up in a hurry. We'll do our darnedest, anyway. And I promise, we'll both show up at Nina's sooner or later. So is it okay for us to split forces and get to work? Or has one of you something better thought up?"
None of the other three seemed to think much of Dawson's suggestion for action. The looks on their faces showed it. But not one of them could think of any better suggestion, so no protests or arguments were forthcoming. Dawson gave them three long minutes to think of something. Then he nodded, and stood up.
"Okay, time flies!" he said. "The Senior Lieutenant, and Agent Jones, head for Nina's house, and get Nikolsk ready for travel. And maybe you'll get a break, Jones. Maybe Nikolsk will come to long enough to recognize you and do some talking. That's why I think you should go with the Senior Lieutenant instead of with us, see?"
"But of course!" Jones gasped as his face reddened slightly. "I didn't think. Naturally. Sorry, Dawson."
"Skip it, pal," the Yank grinned at him. Then, stabbing a finger at Freddy Farmer, he said, "Boy! On your feet, and come with Papa. And watch those big feet, too. The less noise, the better our chances."
"Really?" the English youth snorted, and made a face. "Well, if it wasn't for the situation, and the fact a young lady is present, I'd tell you, my good man, to—"
"But of course you won't!" Dawson shot at him. "So pipe down, sweetheart, and let's get going. By nightfall at the latest, you two. Keep your fingers crossed!"
With a grin and a wave of his hand at Senior Lieutenant Petrovski and Agent Jones, Dawson turned and led the way out through the slanting doorway, and sharp left into the thick woods that edged that side of the house. He kept going until he was a good two hundred yards deep in the woods. Then he slid to the ground and crawled into some of the heavy undergrowth. Freddy Farmer crawled in right beside him, and even in the bad light Dawson could see the library full of questions that gleamed in his pal's eyes.
"Easy does it, sweetheart," Dave said softly, and held up a restraining hand. "I know you think I'm nuts, pal. But I couldn't very well explain everything in there. Besides, I wouldn't be able to explain everything, because I haven't caught all the angles yet myself."
"Yes, you are quite balmy, or seem so," the English youth replied with a gesture. "But I've seen you just as balmy in one or two other tight corners. So I'll wait and listen before I make up my mind one way or the other. Well, just what is steaming in that head of yours?"
"The word is cooking, not steaming," Dawson chuckled. "But skip it. Look, Freddy. As I get the picture, the Nazis—Gestapo, or maybe no Gestapo—have stolen the play from us. Naturally, if they've found the B-Twenty-Five, as the Senior Lieutenant says, they know for sure that there is somebody behind their lines. Right? Okay. However, I've got a feeling that there is one thing theydon'tknow."
"Go on," Freddy Farmer grunted as Dawson paused. "What?"
"They don't knowhow manyof us are here," the Yank replied quickly.
"But the B-Twenty-Five must indicate to them that—!" the English youth managed to say before Dawson interrupted.
"Sure, but so what? That bomber can mean one of two things to them. That it brought over a full crew to do something. Or that a couple of guys flew it over to takeothersback. And if the Gestapo is mixed up in this, they must feel sure that the B-Twenty-Five is here to take others back."
"Which is just about the truth," the English youth grunted gloomily.
"So that's just why we've got to step in and make them change their minds!" Dawson shot at him. "We've got to make them think that only two of us came over, and, finding out that our plans were shot high wide and handsome because the bomber was captured, that we called off the deal and lit out for home as fast as we could. See?"
"I most certainly don't see!" Freddy Farmer growled, and scowled. "What kind of raving is this, anyway?"
"Too bad I haven't got a pencil!" Dawson grated. "I could draw you a picture. Stop thinking of food, and concentrate, will you, pal?"
"I'll take you up on that remark later!" Freddy snapped. "Of course I'm concentrating. But are you talking sense?"
"I'll try to put it in words of no more than five letters," Dave sighed. "Now, here it is. We must make them think that only two people came over in that B-Twenty-Five. Two guys, who planned to make a secret landing at night and pick up—well, pick up one, or two, or half a dozen other people on this side. The Nazis can pick their own number from one to ten. Okay. The bomber is captured by them, so we've got to make them think we got scared, called off what we had hoped to accomplish, and beat it back to the safety of the Russian front. Got it, so far?"
"Yes, I think so," Freddy replied. "So far. But how do you propose to make them think we've given up and gone back? And just how do you plan for us to go back?"
Dawson jerked a thumb off to the right.
"That very trick airdrome of theirs," he said shortly. "And a couple of those single-seater Messerschmitt One-Nines. We—"
"But a Messerschmitt One-Ten will carry two!" the English youth interrupted. "In fact, they carry a radioman, also, which makes three."
"My, how you know your airplanes!" Dawson snapped. "Shut up, and listen, will you? Two single-seaters will mean to them that onlytwoguys are on their way home. So they'll naturally figure thatonly two guyscame over in the B-Twenty-Five, see? So, as I was saying, we swipe two single-seaters from their trick airdrome and high-tail for the Russian front. And—Now, keep your shirt on, and let me finish! And of course they come chasing after us. Well, we let them get a good look at us taking it on the lam. Get—"
"Lam, Dave? I—"
"So your education's been neglected, but skip it for now!" the Yank said quickly. "We let them see us escape. Let them see us get well over Russian-held ground, so they are forced to turn back. Well, a few minutes later we do the same thing, see? We've got to work it so it'll be almost dark by then. Anyway, we breeze back, kill our engines, and make a dead-stick landing inthat field close to Nina's house. The Nazis, thinking that we've given them the slip, will probably relax the guard on the B-Twenty-Five. So at Nina's house we pick up the others, sneak back, and rush the one or two guards that have been left with the bomber. We take care of them, pile aboard, and off we go to a Moscow hospital with Nikolsk. And who knows? Maybe by then Agent Jones will have learned everything from the poor devil's own lips. Well? Okay, or does it smell? And if so, then you tell one, pal!"
"It's all quite mad, of course," the English youth said after a long moment of silence. "However, it's no more barmy, I fancy, than a few other things we've tried, and we've always managed to come out on top so far. There are three big question marks, though. One, can we steal the two single-seaters? Two, can we land near Nina's house without being seen, or heard? And three, will they reduce the guard over the bomber so that we can overpower them quickly enough? After all, we only have an automatic apiece. However—"
Freddy paused and shrugged. And Dawson nodded, and grinned.
"Check!" he said. "There's only one way we can find out those answers. That's to take a crack at it."
"And I always did like London at this time of the year," Freddy Farmer murmured softly with a long sigh.
As though the gods of good fortune, and Lady Luck, were well informed of what was to take place in the Tobolsk area, and wished to add their bit of help, dull grey clouds began to form in the western sky shortly after noon. And by three o'clock the sun was hidden completely, and shadowy, misty light filled the heavens, and covered the earth like a thin shroud.
Hugging the ground under a mass of leafy bushes, Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer breathed silent prayers of thanks for the helpful change in the weather, and in between prayers asked only that four Nazi airplane mechanics might complete their routine chores, and go elsewhere out of sight. The four Nazi mechanics were no more than sixty yards from where the two boys hugged the damp ground, and they were giving their attention to three Messerschmitt One-Nines, and half a dozen Messerschmitt One-Tens lined up under a wide spread of overhanging tree branches that hid them completely from the air. Just beyond the planes, and to the right, rose a squat, flat-topped hill. Even from where the boys hugged the ground the hill looked just like that—squat, and flat-topped. But they knew different. Not only because of what they had guessed, and heard from Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's lips, but also from what they had seen with their own eyes!
Just one hour previously they had reached this spot and crouched down to study the scene, and wait for their big opportunity—if and when it came. Up until an hour ago they had covered a considerable area of Nazi-occupied Russian ground. A portion of it, because of the necessity of changing course to avoid personal contact with Nazi patrols, or groups of Luftwaffe pilots out stretching their legs after a flight over the front, and for a few other less important reasons. But a certain portion of it they had covered on purpose, mainly to have a look at the guarded B-Twenty-Five bomber. But that look had not added to their peace of mind, or to their hopes.
They had learned that not only was a heavy guard posted close to the bomber—which, incidentally, was inspected practically every five minutes by a new group of Luftwaffe pilots—but a ring of guards had also been thrown out about the bomber at a considerable distance. In other words, the Nazis were taking no chances on a surprise rushing attack. Those whom they were obviously expecting would be forced to break through two rings of defense to reach the aircraft. No, a good look from a safe distance at the B-Twenty-Five had not given them cause to so much as murmur with happiness. If that guard wasnotreduced, and by two thirds at the most, they were slated to have one terrific job on their hands. One terrific job, and a very hopeless one, too.
However, time alone would reveal what was to be, and what wasn't to be. So they had left the picture just as it was, and gone on about their "travels." And now they hugged the ground, and kept their eyes fixed on four Nazi mechanics, and by the very intensity of their stares tried to make the four square-heads stop fiddling around with the Messerschmitts and go away.
"Almost as though they knew we were here," Freddy Farmer muttered under his breath, "and were purposely taking as long as they could. Blast them, anyway!"
"I can think of a lot of other things to call those tramps!" Dawson grated softly. "And if you want the truth, I'm having a tough time fighting down the yen to tear into them, anyway. They don't look like they're armed."
"But no doubt each one of the blighters has a Luger in his coverall pocket," Freddy Farmer murmured. "I fancy the Nazis have learned not to go around unarmedanyplace in Russia. Quite!"
Dawson started to nod and echo that very truthful surmise, but at that moment he heard one of the mechanics shout something, and his heart started pounding furiously against his ribs. He didn't catch the words, but he didn't have to. Actions told him all he needed to know. The actions of the four mechanics who promptly quit work, and went walking over toward the base of the squat, flat-topped hill. A moment or two later Dawson and Freddy Farmer witnessed for the second time in an hour a bit of Nazi-made ingenuity. For the second time in an hour, they witnessed what Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski had told them about.
In short, they watched the four mechanics walk to the base of the hill, watched a section of "hill" swing outward and upward a little way, and the four mechanics walk into the hill, and then saw the camouflage screening drop back into place again. A sudden and quite insane desire to have a look at all that was inside that hill surged through Dawson. But, naturally, he killed the urge even as it was born, and simply promised himself that if he lived through the war, he would come back for a real inspection of this spot after it was all over.
"Well, don't look right now," he breathed softly, and pushed up onto his hands and knees, "but I think it's time for us to part company for a spell. Freddy, old pal, you hop for that first crate, and I'll hop for the one right next to it. Meet you in the air, kid. And don't wait to ask permission to take off, see? You won't get it!"
"Not likely!" the English-born air ace grinned back at him, tight-lipped. "And keep your mind on your own knitting, old thing. A One-Nine is a bit of all right, but a tricky beggar, you know."
"Yeah, I once read that in a book!" Dave growled. Then, throwing Farmer a wink, "This is it, pal. And don't spare the horses!"
And that was that. No handclasp, and no last words of planning. There was no need for either. Each knew exactly how the other felt. And each knew exactly what the other planned to do, and would do—unless Death stopped him.
And so, like a couple of bolts of lightning ripping out from the center of a thunderhead, the two boys ripped up out from under the sheltering bushes, and went streaking straight across sixty yards of open ground. To anybody watching them it must have seemed that their feet didn't even touch the ground; that they were just a couple of cannon shells en route. And as Dave reached the side of the cockpit of his Messerschmitt One-Nine, it became instantly evident that somebody had been watching them, or at least had suddenly spotted Freddy and himself, because there was the sound of a muffled shout of wild alarm, followed almost instantly by the heart-chilling chatter of a machine gun. However, Dave didn't hear the whine of bullets, and he didn't bother to wait to see if a second burst would come closer. His feet just up and left the ground, and he practically shot down through the cockpit hatch opening to the seat.
Even as he landed, hard, his hands were in furious motion. In what was little more than the continuation of a single movement he whipped up the ignition switch, snapped on the booster magneto, and punched the starter button as he rammed the throttle open. One—two—three horrible seconds dragged by, and then the Daimler-Benz engine in the nose caught in a mighty thunder of sound. And as it did so he kicked off the wheel brakes and opened the throttle wide, breathing a prayer of gratitude to the four mechanics for having tested the engine and thus warmed it up for him.
Like a race horse leaving the barrier, Dawson's Messerschmitt went streaking out from under the cover of overhanging branches and down the flat strip of valley. Out the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Freddy Farmer also in motion in the other plane. A song of joy burst out in his heart, and he impulsively lifted a hand in a derisive gesture at the machine guns yammering savagely behind him.
"Didn't realize you were guarding the wrong aircraft, did you, tramps?" he shouted aloud, and pulled the Messerschmitt clear of the ground. "Well, now, isn't that just too bad! But we'll wait for you, if you want, hey, Freddy, old kid?"
Of course, the English youth couldn't hear the words, but it wasn't necessary. As planned, both youths throttled slightly, once they got the planes up out of range of the machine gun fire. They did so to give the Nazis plenty of time to race out of the hill hangar and over to the line of planes. Looking back, Dawson saw them, and a happy grin stretched his lips. So far, so good! Now to keep just enough ahead of those bums, and then lose them when well over the Russian front.
"And then Freddy and I will really go to work!" Dawson grunted grimly, and veered around toward the north. "Wonder what tomorrow will be like? Yeah! AndifI'll see it!"
With a shrug, and a shake of his head, he knocked the thought into oblivion, and, after glancing over at Freddy on his right, fixed his gaze on the northern horizon.
A little under an hour later a conglomeration of emotions was surging through Dawson. Russian-held ground was under his wings now. Russian ground, and he had only to throttle his Daimler-Benz and slide down to complete safety. But, of course, that thought didn't even cut a tiny corner in his brain. It wasn't even born, for the very simple reason that the job wasn't even half finished. True, they were over Russian ground, and a couple of minutes before the pursuing Nazis had given up the chase as a lost cause and swung all the way around to the south, to be speedily lost to view in the ever approaching shadows of nightfall. Yes, all that was water under the bridge so far. But half the job, and the most dangerous half was still waiting to be accomplished.
"So get on with it, as Freddy would say," Dawson grunted, and waggled his wings just before he banked around toward the south.
The English youth swung around right after him, and in wing-tip formation they headed toward the southeast. For some five long minutes they droned along. And then, just as they were passing over the last of the Russian advance positions on that section of the front, Dawson sat up stiff and straight in the seat. His eyes had spotted a moving dot silhouetted against the bleak, cheerless sky of coming night. It grew bigger and bigger, and finally took on the shape and outline of a Messerschmitt!
Dawson squinted at it for a second or so longer, and then when the Nazi craft suddenly veered off to the west, and headed up toward the clouds, he took a quick look over at Freddy, and started to bark out a signal burst from his guns.
There was no need for that, however. The English youth had already spotted the plane, and was hauling his ship around and up after it. Dawson grinned, and yanked his own One-Nine around and up in Freddy's wake.
"Leave it to you, Eagle Eyes!" he shouted. "Okay, pal. He sure is our baby. Hanging around so he can learn things, maybe, and then go tearing back to tell them all about it. Well, not today, eh, Freddy?"
With a grim nod for emphasis, Dawson jammed the heel of his palm against the already wide open throttle, and kept his gaze fixed on the third Nazi plane streaking upward for the clouds. For what seemed like all eternity the lumps of cold lead bounced around in Dawson's stomach. If they lost that Nazi there was no telling what might happen. Maybe he was just some pilot up on a test flight, but his sudden dash for the seclusion of the clouds didn't bear that out. No. More likely he had been left aloft to keep watch, and to see if those who had escaped made any attempt to return. Sure, and maybe that was a very cockeyed view for Dawson to take, too. However, there was no way of telling one way or the other. So that left only one thing to do. To knock off that Nazi just in case he was aloft for no good purpose.
"But in this bum light?" Dawson grated. "Not so good! If he reaches those clouds, we'll never find him. Five minutes more, and night will be here in earnest. And we'll—"
He never finished the rest. He didn't because at that moment it was his privilege to witness something that few war pilots ever see in their lifetime—in short, a perfect long range shot smacking home. Once in maybe a billion times a burst of aerial machine gun bullets hit their mark at the extreme end of their range. All the other times they fly wide, or spend themselves downward toward earth.
But this was one of those once in a billion times, and the burst of bullets came from the guns on Freddy Farmer's Messerschmitt. Dawson hadn't even rested his thumb on his trigger trip because of the seemingly hopeless distance to the target. However, Freddy Farmer had taken a bead, and his bit of perfect aerial shooting proved to be in a class all by itself. The "target" lurched off to the left, as though it had been sliding along an invisible greased pole, and had slid off. It dropped right down to the vertical, and then suddenly smoke and livid red flame belched out and up from its nose. Hardly daring to believe his eyes, Dawson watched the bit of blazing doom clear down to where it disappeared from view behind a ridge. And a split second later, a fountain of flashing orange and red told him that the plane had struck earth.
"Nope, it didn't happen!" he told himself in a dazed voice. "Things like that just don't happen. You only read about them in stories. Sweet tripe! How I love that guy, Freddy Farmer. Compared to him, am I a bum!"
With a vigorous nod for emphasis, he veered over closer to the English youth's plane and lifted his clasped hands high above his head in the gesture of a boxer saluting the crowd.
"You for me, sweetheart!" he shouted into the roar of his engine. "Now, let's go and pull off the last of the miracles!"
The words had no more than left his lips, however, when he happened to stare toward the east—and swallowed hard. Pitch black storm clouds were hurtling up out of the east, and swiftly blotting out the last fading tints of day much as a descending blanket blots out the flickering flame of a candle. In a matter of minutes, now, Freddy and he wouldn't be able to spot Nina's house in the darkness, much less make safe landings close by!
Dawson glanced impulsively over at Freddy Farmer, and quickly realized that the English youth had spotted the approaching storm clouds, too, and obviously had the same thoughts. Because even as their eyes met Freddy nodded violently, and banked around, and stuck his nose down in the general direction of the eastern side of the village of Tobolsk, just out of sight over the horizon.
"Well, there's one thing, anyway," Dawson grunted as he quickly followed suit with his own plane. "The darker it gets, the better the chances of Nazi eyes not spotting us. Yeah, sure! But if that storm beats us to it, there'll be a ground wind that will knockourchances higher than a kite! And I don't mean maybe!"
That last most unpleasant consideration was uppermost in Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer went tearing all out toward the southeast. And with every foot his Messerschmitt cut through the air, doubt and dread built itself up higher and higher within him. It was almost as though the gods of good fortune, and Lady Luck, had decided that they had done enough to help, and had quit cold on the job. Though Dawson's Messerschmitt was rocketing down across the shadowy sky, the storm clouds seemed to possess twice his speed. And with each rushing toward the other, the distance between them just shriveled away like snow in a blast furnace.
Eyes grim, and jaw set at a determined angle, Dawson hunched forward over the controls and searched the ground ahead and below. The bouncing lead came back to the pit of his stomach with a gleeful vengeance, for the ground was now almost lost in the swirling shadows of the approaching storm. It was almost impossible to pick out Tobolsk itself, to say nothing of the location of Nina's house in the Y of the two intersecting roads.
Suddenly, though, a voice seemed to cry out at him from nowhere; cry out to look down and to the left. Just exactly what urged him to do that, he didn't know. But he obeyed the sudden impulse, and his heart started pounding with wild hope again. Down there to the left he saw the Y formed by the two roads. He even saw Nina's house, if that pile of timber and stone could be called a house. And he was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of the small but apparently smooth field just to the left of the Y. Just a fleeting glimpse of the field before a moving sheet of rain cut across his vision. The advance guard of the storm had arrived. The race had turned out a tie, which to those two fighting eagles up in the air was just about the same as losing the race.
"But down we go!" Dawson roared out aloud. "Down we go, just the same. And, please, God, we'vegotto make it!"
As he gulped out the prayerful plea, he peered over at Freddy Farmer, who was still hugging close to his right wing tip, storm or no storm. At the same instant the English youth turned his own head Dawson's way, and then nodded it violently as though he had read the Yank's thoughts. Dave nodded back, lifted one hand in brief salute, then turned his face forward again, and gave every ounce of his undivided attention to his Messerschmitt.
An hour, a day, or it could have been a year passed before he had practically pushed the Messerschmitt down and around so that it was heading for the long way of the field, and into the snarling wind. He didn't know, and he didn't care, he was too busy working his throttle to maintain forward speed, and prevent the Messerschmitt from stalling. At times his forward speed matched the speed of the wind, and his plane almost stood still in the air just off the surface of the ground. And then suddenly his wheels touched. The plane bounced wildly, but he goosed the engine, and checked a disastrous second meeting with the wind-swept ground. When the wheels touched again, the Messerschmitt stayed down, and Dawson taxied it at a fast clip straight ahead and then off to the side to get out of the way of Freddy Farmer right behind him.
As a matter of fact, he had no sooner killed the engine, and leaped to the ground, while the Messerschmitt still trundled forward, than he saw the English youth's plane settle. Settle? It started to do just that, but a savage cross-wind caught it, and the aircraft came down like five tons of brick dumped off a high building. A wild cry of alarm rose up in Dawson's throat, but his zooming heart won the race to his mouth and choked it off. For a lifetime, it seemed, he could only stand rooted helplessly to the ground while Freddy Farmer's Messerschmitt jumped and leaped crazily about like a chip of wood on the crest of a raging sea. A dozen times the aircraft seemed to start over on its back, but somehow the English youth managed to keep it top side up. True, it skidded around in half-circles, first one way and then the other. But the wing tip didn't quite catch and grab on the ground to pile up the whole works in a heap. And then suddenly something seemed to shoot right out of the cockpit of the bouncing and dancing plane and down onto the ground.
Dawson blinked twice before he realized that that something was Freddy Farmer in the flesh, and that the English youth had raced over to where he stood, while the storm wind gleefully picked up the Messerschmitt and carried it the rest of the way down the field and smacked it up against some trees.
"Too bad, even if it is a Nazi plane!" Dawson heard Farmer's gasping voice. "But I couldn't nurse-maid the blasted thing forever. I had to let it go. Well, that must be the house, what?"
Dawson didn't bother to reply. Freddy had pulled another miracle out of the hat, and that part of the show was over. He just nodded quickly, then spun around on his heel, and went dashing over toward the lone house with Freddy Farmer at his heels. No lights were showing, but Dawson didn't even bother to knock. When he reached the front door he just grabbed hold of the knob, twisted it, shoved open the door and barged right inside. And both Freddy and he just managed to skid to a halt as they saw a small, thin figure come at them, and saw the glint of a gun barrel in the pale glow shed by a single lighted candle on a nearby table.
"Hey! Hold everything!" Dawson heard his own voice pant.
The last half of it, though, was drowned out by an even sharper cry in Russian. And before the echo was gone Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had appeared out of nowhere and leaped between Dawson and the advancing thin shadow. And a second or so later Dawson saw the tattered clothing, the wrinkled face, and the snow white hair of the thin "shadow." And then the Senior Lieutenant was talking to him.
"That was not wise, Captain!" she was saying sharply. "It is lucky I cried out in time, or Nina might have used that gun."
"Yeah, my error," Dawson grunted. "I was dumb. But in this storm I didn't figure that our knock would be heard. Besides, Farmer and I were in a hurry. Look, Senior Lieutenant! From here on we've got to stay in high gear. I mean, we've got to get going, and keep going. No telling when Lady Luck may quit on us. I don't think there's much of a guard on our bomber now. And this storm doesn't exactly hurt the situation, either. Where're Jones, and Nikolsk? The five of us have got to make tracks. You lead the way to the bomber, and we'll be right behind you with Nikolsk. I—Hey! The look on your face! Nikolsk isn't—he isn't—?"
"No, he is not dead, yet," the girl told him quickly. "He was even conscious for a little bit. And he did recognize Agent Jones. He even spoke of things a little. But not one millionth enough. And now he is unconscious again. I have great fear. He may never be conscious again. But what about the bomber? There is a chance to get him to a Moscow hospital?"
"What we're going to do!" Dawson told her firmly. "So let's do the talking later. Lead us to Nikolsk, and let's get going!"
The Russian girl didn't bother with any more words. She nodded for Dave and Freddy to follow, and led the way through a door to a rear room. The smell of Death itself seemed to hang in the air, and when Dawson glanced down at the thin, almost fleshless, and war-ravaged face of the figure wrapped tightly in blankets, his heart seemed to stop and turn into a chunk of ice. Ivan Nikolsk looked like a man who had died years before.
"Good grief, you two? Splendid! Thought all the racket was Gestapo lads breaking in. Now, what do we—?"
"We go!" Dawson broke into the middle of the question, and grinned into Agent Jones' strained and haggard face. "In the B-Twenty-Five, if luck is still pitching for our team. Never mind the questions, though. Save them until we get to Moscow. And wewillget there! Okay, Senior Lieutenant! Please tell your Nina that we will never forget what she has done, and—But, hey! Do you think she'd like to try and make the trip with us?"
Before the girl Soviet Intelligence officer could speak, the small, thin, aged Russian woman appeared in the doorway.
"No, gallant ones," she said in halting English. "Here I have been, and here I stay. The Nazis do not bother with an old hag, as I am. So here I remain, and perhaps do more for my beloved Russia. No, go, gallant ones. And the arms of the Blessed Mother be about you!"
Dawson looked at her, and then, hardly realizing that he was doing so, he stepped quickly forward and took the old woman in his arms and kissed her reverently on the forehead. Then, face flaming red, he turned and went over to the bedside of Ivan Nikolsk.
"Put a part of the blanket over his face, Jones!" he said gruffly. "Blowing like blazes outside. And put your service automatic where you can grab it in a hurry. We may bump into trouble, and we may not. Okay! Take his legs, and I'll take his shoulders and head. Okay, Senior Lieutenant! This time we are going. And God love you, Nina!"
Dawson didn't realize he had flung the last at the aged Russian woman until he was outside in the cold driving rain and, with Agent Jones, was lugging the dying Nikolsk along in the wake of Freddy Farmer and the Russian girl. And when he did realize it he told himself that he had meant it with all his heart. Nina was but one of thousands of unknown heroes and heroines suffering under the steel heel of Hitlerism. No medals for those such as she. No statues, no anything. But God knew of each and every one of them, and the complete reward for their services to mankind would be theirs thricefold some day.
However, Dawson was actually only thinking those things in one tiny corner of his brain. The rest of his brain was busy with the task of ordering his legs and muscles to keep going, and keep close to Freddy Farmer and the Russian girl. But it was like stumbling through the very bottom of a long forgotten coal mine. Maybe Nasha Petrovski had the eyes of a cat, and so could see each tree trunk and ditch and stone that came up out of the rain slashed darkness. But Dawson didn't, and neither did Agent Jones. And so they stumbled and reeled and lurched forward, fighting every inch of the way to keep hold of their precious burden.
Twice during the long, long "years" that dragged by, Freddy Farmer dropped back and insisted on relieving either Dawson or Jones, but both of them refused the offer.
"Stick with her, Freddy!" Dave panted. "If there's trouble ahead, you two eagle eyes will spot it sooner. Thanks just the same, pal."
And so it continued on—forever and ever—and seemingly without end. A thousand times the cold fear that the Russian girl had lost her way clutched at Dawson's heart. As for himself, he had no idea where in the world they were. The black of night closed in from all sides. The wind-driven rain cut and slashed down into his face with the sting of white hot needle points. And the howl of the storm in his ears was like some invisible force trying to pry off the top of his head. He wanted to cry out to the others to stop and rest a moment, but the words just wouldn't come. And each time he felt that urge he was both relieved and ashamed when it was gone.
And then suddenly the little party groping cross-country through the black, stormy night did come to a halt. It was the Russian girl who brought them to a halt. And her voice came to them through the howl of the storm almost like a whisper.
"The edge of the woods is but a step ahead!" she said. "Beyond it, the bomber. I do not think there are many guards, but there must be some. This, then, is a task for me. Remain motionless, please. But when you hear three quick shots from my revolver, come as though the entire German army were right behind you. It will not be long. This is what I do gladly for my Russia."
A sharp bark of protest came up into Dawson's mouth, but there it died in silence, for the spot of rain-swept darkness that had held the Russian girl was only a spot of rain-swept darkness now. She had gone in a flash, and the three youths could only hold up Ivan Nikolsk as gently as they could—and wait—each with his own thoughts.
However, there didn't seem to be any waiting period at all—at least not over thirty seconds at the most. Suddenly, from out of the wind-howling darkness ahead, came three distinct shots from a revolver! Nobody said anything. Nobody so much as let out a shout of joy. Dawson, Agent Jones, and Freddy Farmer simply hoisted Ivan Nikolsk up to a more comfortable position, and went plunging forward through the black stormy night. And in practically no time at all there was level ground under their feet, and they were running over toward the darker blur that was the B-Twenty-Five bomber.
"Here, to your left!" the voice of Senior Lieutenant Petrovski suddenly spoke in Dawson's ear. "Here is the bomber door. And watch out for those dead ones on the ground. There were five, and as I suspected they were inside the bomber to be out of the storm. They were surprised, and then they were dead. But here—give me your place. You must get in and start the engines. The three of us will manage. And may it be His wish that Ivan Nikolsk still lives!"
"And keeps living. Amen!" Dawson echoed as he shifted his share of the burden to the Russian girl's strong arms. "But how in the world did you—?"
"A knife makes no noise!" she cut him off almost harshly. "And the knives of Russia are very sharp!"
That's all Dawson wanted to know. He leaped past the girl, stumbled over the feet of some dead Nazi guard, and then ducked through the bomber's door, and made his way forward to the pilots' compartment. It seemed that he had hardly dropped into the seat, and was shooting out his hand for the switches, when Freddy Farmer dropped into the co-pilot's seat alongside.
"The chap's regaining consciousness again, Dave!" the English youth cried wildly. "Agent Jones is back there with him, with his notebook. Get us off, old thing, in a hurry. Blast if we're not going to grab this one out of thin air, too. What a girl, that Senior Lieutenant!"
"You mean, what an army!" Dawson shouted at him as he jabbed the starter buttons. "She's a whole doggone army, all by herself. And, boy, can she think way out in front of a guy, too! She's—"
The most welcome sound in all the world drowned out Dawson's voice at that moment: the powerful, thunderous roar of the B-Twenty-Five's twin Wright Cyclones coming to life. For a few precious seconds Dawson let them roar so that they would warm up as fast as possible. But at the end of that time he saw spitting flame off to the left and ahead, and the left side window of the pilots' compartment seemed to blow in on him in a shower of splintered glass.
"Get going, Dave!" Freddy Farmer cried excitedly.
"Get, nothing!" Dawson roared back. "We'regone!"
And even as the first word spilled off his lips he had kicked off the wheel brakes, forked the throttles wide open and was booting the B-Twenty-Five around the necessary half-turn to get it headed toward the far end of the field. And then as the bomber went forward, picking up speed with every powerful revolution of its propellers, orange, red, and yellow flame sparked and stabbed the darkness on both sides. Dawson felt bullets smash into the bomber, and even heard some of them twang off the engine cowlings, but the twin Cyclones did not miss a single beat, and the B-Twenty-Five went thundering forward until the wings could get their teeth in the air, and Dawson was able to lift the ship clear and nose it upward into the stormy night.
When no more than a couple of thousand feet were under his wings, he leveled off, checked with the automatic compass, and then swung the B-Twenty-Five around toward the north.
"Back to your job of navigating, Freddy, old sock!" he shouted at his pal. "Moscow next stop, and we're in a hurry. So you see to it that we hit it on the nose, hey, kid?"
"Have I ever missed?" Freddy snapped at him.
"Well, anyway," Dawson grinned back at him, "see that you don't makethisthe first time!"
Clear, brilliant sunshine flooded the length and breadth of Moscow. Four wonderful days Dawson, Agent Jones, and Freddy Farmer had spent in the fascinating Soviet city. Four swell days of sight-seeing, and banquets for heroes—themselves. Though the three of them had insisted that the major share of the glory belonged to Senior Lieutenant Petrovski, who had as quickly disappeared out of their lives as she had come into them.
As a matter of fact, five minutes after Dawson had landed the B-Twenty-Five on the Moscow military airport, the pretty-looking Russian girl was gone, just like that. And Colonel General Vladimir, who was at the airport to greet them, had explained in a few words, with a meaningful smile.
"When the war is won, her work will be done," he said. "But the war is not won, yet. And there are still many things to be done."
And so, just like that, the pretty Russian girl had stepped right out of their lives, and they had been more or less forced to accept her share of the glory. But it was not so much the glory as it was the unspoken prayers of thankfulness in their hearts that really blotted black memories from their minds, and let them enjoy their short stay in Moscow. A thankfulness that God had not let Ivan Nikolsk die, but had shielded his frail body from that final blast of Nazi death as Dawson had taken that bomber off the Tobolsk field. Shielded Nikolsk's body. And done even more. Had let him live so that he reached the Moscow hospital. And given him the strength to tell all of his share of the secret to Agent Jones,andto no less than Premier Joseph Stalin himself!
Neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer had been present. Their part of the job had been done. Besides, they had no real desire to hear a ghost of a man gasp out words that must first be fitted in with other words already known to United Nations Intelligence to make any sense. But later, when Agent Jones had joined them at their suite in the International Hotel, one look at his face had told them that more than a battlefield victory had been won. Important, invaluable information about enemy intentions had been gained. And in war, knowledge of what the enemy plans to do is a victory already won. So they had been content to keep questions off their tongues. Besides, Agent Jones' final job was to make his secret report to his superior, Air Vice-Marshal Leman, and to no one else.