Squadron Leader was running up the engines for a final instrument
check. Then he spoke into his inter-com mike and received an all-set
okay from each of the other four. That done with, he kicked off the
wheel brakes and started to trundle the giant bomber out onto the field
and down to the far end of the take-off runway. He had hardly started
taxiing, however, when the Operations Officer in his tower blinked the
"Stop" signal with his Aldis signal lamp, and a figure was seen to come
dashing out the Depot Office. It was the Depot Adjutant, and he held a
sheet of yellow paper in his hand. Dave took a look at the yellow sheet
waving around in the wind, and swallowed hard. All of a sudden tiny
little balls of cold lead were beginning to bounce around in the pit of
his stomach. Why he should suddenly experience the strange sensation, he
had no idea. However, the sight of the running Depot Adjutant, and the
sheet of yellow paper he carried in his hand, seemed to strike him as a
very definite reminder that this was not to be any joy flight, but
rather, a deadly serious mission to be carried out on the wing.
And a moment or two later, when the Adjutant climbed aboard the bomber
that Squadron Leader Freehill had braked to a halt, and came back into
the bomb compartment where the Yank and Freddy were parked, the lumps of
lead in Dave's stomach began to bounce around more than ever.
"For you, Captain Dawson," the Adjutant said, and held out the yellow
sheet of paper. "From the Air Ministry, special code. Afraid for a
moment that you'd be off before we could decode it. But here you are,
anyway."
Dave took the yellow sheet of paper and held it so that he and Freddy
could read it together. It had been sent by Air Vice-Marshal Leman, and
its contents were not what you could call very encouraging, considering.
It read:
"Reason to believe mission known, and attempts will be made to
prevent accomplishment at all cost.
"Placing you in command, and ordering you to use your own judgment
whether to continue. However, second part already enroute, and will
attempt to carry on alone if necessary. Train incident undoubtedly
small indication of coming events. Flight course perhaps known, so
suggest that change be made when in air. All decisions left to you
and Farmer. Good luck, regardless of what you decide to do."
Dawson read the decoded message through twice, and then looked quietly
at Freddy Farmer. The English-born youth returned his look, and there
was the glint of grim determination in his eyes. Dave grinned, and
nodded.
"Just what I'm thinking, too, pal," he grunted.
"What do you mean?" Freddy wanted to know.
Dave tapped the sheet of yellow paper, and shrugged.
"Mighty nice of him to give us an out, if we wanted one," he said. "But
we don't. We still want to see Moscow, huh?"
"Very much," Freddy grinned back at him. "Fact is, I'd be delighted to
let the blasted Nazi lads try and stop us. We'll carry on just as the
second part is doing."
Dave nodded complete agreement. Of course, the "second part" referred to
Agent Jones' trip to Urbakh via the southern route. Jones had left
already, and if he didn't contact Dave and Freddy at Urbakh he would
attempt to reach Tobolsk by hook or by crook on his own. However, Dawson
and Farmer had no intention of letting Agent Jones be forced to do that.
"Check and double check," Dave grunted, and handed the yellow sheet to
Squadron Leader Freehill, who had come aft from the pilot's
compartment.
The senior officer read the message, looked very unhappy for a moment,
and then smiled slightly at Dawson.
"A pleasure to take orders from you, old chap," he said easily. "But
what are they? Do we go, or do we stay?"
"We go," Dave said quietly. "And the sooner the better."
"Right you are, Skipper!" Freehill said happily. Then with a faint
frown, "But the course?"
Dawson opened his mouth to speak, but on second thought checked the
words about to come out of it.
"I'll give you the new course as soon as we are in the air," he said.
Then turning to the Adjutant, he said with a grin, "Thanks for
delivering the message. Will you please communicate to the Air Ministry
that we are continuing as originally planned, but will make changes in
the flight course?"
"Quite, of course," the Adjutant replied, and turned toward the belly
door. "Good luck, chaps."
As soon as the Adjutant was clear of the plane, Squadron Leader Freehill
went forward and got the Wellington into motion again. Dave went
forward with him and dropped into the co-pilot's seat. Neither spoke a
word until the bomber was clear of the ground and prop-clawing up
through the dirty grey fog. At five thousand it came out into a tunnel
of clear air between two layers of overcast. There Freehill leveled off,
pointed his aircraft in a general easterly direction, and turned in the
seat to look at Dave.
"Well, what's the decision on the course, Skipper?" he asked. "Better
let Parsons know as soon as possible, so he can begin plotting for us."
Dave looked across at him and grinned.
"There's no new course, Squadron Leader," he replied. "Hop her along
just as you'd planned."
The other's eyes popped a little, and his jaw sagged in befuddled
amazement.
"I say, did I hear you?" he echoed. "The original course? But that
message from Air Vice-Marshal Leman said that that course might be
known. And--"
"And I hope it is, frankly," Dave replied. "It always throws the Nazis
out of step when you do _exactly_ what they expect you to do."
"Oh yes, quite," the bomber's pilot grunted with a frown. "But I'm
afraid, old chap, that I don't quite follow you."
"Well, it's like this," Dave said, and made a little gesture with one
hand. "Of course you can guess by now that Farmer and I are on a little
business that would, and does, interest the Nazis plenty. They want us
to stay home, but we're not going to. Anyway, in this cockeyed war you
can look for enemy agents any place, and usually find them. By that, I
mean that ten to one Nazi agents back at Aberdeen know darn well I got a
message from Air Vice-Marshal Leman. And ten to one they know what was
_in_ the message. So, from Leman's warning and suggestion, they are
bound to figure that we'll fly a different course. So we just fool them,
and don't."
"Good grief!" the Squadron Leader gulped. "You mean, of course, they
knew of our original flight course?"
"I don't know for sure, naturally," Dave replied with a shrug. "I'm just
playing it that way. And besides--"
"Besides, what?" the Squadron Leader prompted when Dave didn't continue.
"I don't like the weather six hundred miles from the Pole," Dawson said
with a grin. "Also, you fellows are counting on a little Jerry plane
action. Farmer and I wouldn't want to cheat you out of your fun. Nor
would we want to cheat ourselves out of it."
The Squadron Leader beamed silently for a moment. Then he gave a little
shake of his head, and an emphatic grunt.
"I don't know a thing about your mission, Dawson," he said. "But there
is one thing I _do_ know. And definitely so!"
"Which would be?" Dawson echoed.
"That you'll accomplish whatever it is," the other replied firmly. "And
with flying colors. You two are just the type. And your past record
jolly well proves it, too!"
"Thanks," Dave said quietly. And silently wished that at the moment he
felt equally as confident of success.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Moscow Magic_
Freddy Farmer heaved a long sigh, and shifted, around a little so that
he could glance out the bomb compartment window. But what he saw was
exactly the same picture he had seen ten minutes before. In fact, it was
the same picture he had been looking at for the last two hours or more.
Nothing but mass upon mass of dirty grey clouds through which the
Wellington bomber prop-clawed, as though it could go on forever, and
still there'd be clouds.
"Great grief!" the English youth suddenly groaned. "I've seen enough
clouds to last me for the whole war. And two or three other wars, for
that matter."
"You and me both!" Dave Dawson grunted, and squinted out the little
window on his side. "Talk about your blind flying! This sure isn't any
fun for Squadron Leader Freehill, and Navigator Parsons, up front. I'm
glad I'm a passenger on this trip."
"Not me!" Freddy said with a shake of his head. "I'd much rather be
doing something, instead of just looking at this stuff. However, I
suppose we shouldn't complain. With this soup all around, any Jerry
planes on the prowl are bound to miss us."
"Unless they should happen to plow into us head on!" retorted Dawson
with a grin. "I guess Freehill isn't very happy. He probably figures, by
now, that we're bad luck. He was counting on a brush or two with Jerry
planes. If this stuff holds all the way to Moscow, he'll have all he can
do to find the field and get us down okay. He--What's on your mind,
pal?"
Dawson checked himself, and then spoke the last because Freddy Farmer
had suddenly stiffened, and pressed his nose against the glass of the
compartment window. For a full thirty seconds the English-born air ace
acted as though he hadn't heard. Then he turned from the window and made
a face.
"Just my imagination going a little haywire from it all, I fancy," he
said. "Thought for a moment there I'd spotted Messerschmitt wings
through a break in the stuff. But it must have been shadows. It wasn't
there the second look I took. Well, I wonder just where we are, and how
far from Moscow?"
Dawson glanced at his wrist watch and shrugged.
"Another hour at least, I guess," he said. "Longer, if we've run into
head winds. Let's go forward and find out from Freehill."
"You go," Freddy Farmer suggested with a yawn. "I'm quite comfortable,
thanks, though terribly bored. Find out all the details, my good fellow,
and then report back to me. There's a good chap."
"And who was your valet last year?" Dawson growled, and got up onto his
feet. "Nuts, I'll report back to you! You can just stay sprawled out
there, and wonder."
"Sorry, old thing," Freddy Farmer grinned after him, "but I can't be
bothered doing even that. Let me know, anyway, when we arrive at Moscow.
I wonder if Stalin will be there at the airport to meet me?"
"He won't!" Dawson snapped, and started forward. "Stalin has sense!"
Leaving Freddy to mull that one over, Dawson made his way along the
catwalk to the navigator's compartment. Flight Lieutenant Parsons was
bent scowling over his chart table, so Dave didn't pause to ask
questions. He continued on by and finally slipped into the co-pilot's
seat. Squadron Leader Freehill glanced over at him and grinned sadly.
"Looks like a bit of a washout for our hopes, what?" the pilot murmured,
and let go of the controls long enough to wave a hand at the walls of
cloud that pressed in from all sides. "Don't mind, do you, if we finally
sit down in Iceland, or some place like that? Old Parsons is about ready
to cut his throat. Mostly instrument and dead reckoning now. We don't
dare open the radio and ask for a bearing. The Russians probably
wouldn't give it to us, anyway. It would reveal their station locations,
too. Well, we've got plenty of gas, anyway."
"Now I'm all cheered up," Dawson replied with a grin. "I had thought
that maybe you had no idea where you were."
"Oh, perish the thought!" the other said with a chuckle, and pointed a
finger downward. "Always know where I am. The ground is that way,
straight down eighteen thousand! But don't ask me who owns that
particular bit of it. Blast this stuff, though! When in the world are we
coming out of it?"
Dawson only half heard the last. What he took to be slight movement off
to his left had suddenly caught and held his attention. He stared hard
at the spot, but for all of his effort he could see nothing but dirty
grey clouds. True, they were a bit lighter in spots: an indication that
the sun was doing its best to burn a path through. But the stuff was
still too thick for the sun's efforts to make more than a faint glow
here and there. However, just as Dave was about to turn his head and
look at Squadron Leader Freehill, he caught a glimpse of movement again.
And this time he saw something that brought him up straight in the seat,
and started his heart to hammering against his ribs.
Just off the right wing, and no more than a hundred feet below, half of
a German Messerschmitt wing had cut out into clear air, and instantly
cut back in out of sight again. But he had seen the square-tipped wing,
clearly. And he had also seen the black cross outlined in white. So
Freddy Farmer's imagination hadn't been going haywire! There was a Jerry
ship up there in the air with them! But for what reason? Was the Jerry
lost, and milling around trying to find his way home? Or was he playing
cat and mouse with the Wellington, and keeping tabs on its flight almost
due eastward?
Dave asked himself the question, but he didn't bother guessing around at
the answer. Instead, he kept his eyes on the spot where he had seen the
Messerschmitt wing, and reached out with his near hand to rap Freehill
on the arm.
"We've got company, sir!" he called out. "Just saw a hunk of
Messerschmitt One-Ten wing cut up into clear air off to starboard and
down a hundred feet."
"Really?" came the excited answer. "Do you think he spotted us? Could be
one, you know. Parsons figures that we're about over the middle of
Occupied Latvia. Just one, eh?"
"Just one, I saw," Dawson replied, and continued to bore the dirty grey
clouds with his eyes. "Maybe he's some lost Nazi tramp, or maybe he's
up here on purpose looking for us. How about buzzing Sergeant Dilling to
spin his wave length dial? Maybe he'll pick up that bird talking to
ground stations--or some of his pals in the air with him."
"Splendid idea!" Squadron Leader Freehill said instantly. "I'll do that.
Stand by, half a moment, and keep your eyes skinned."
Dawson heard Freehill mumbling words over the inter-com to the
Wellington's radioman, but he didn't bother straining his ears to catch
each word. He kept his head turned to the right, and his eyes roaming
about the masses of dirty grey clouds. Perhaps four minutes dragged by,
and then suddenly he felt Squadron Leader Freehill's hand on his left
shoulder.
"Top-hole idea, that!" the British bomber pilot shouted. "Just got a
reply buzz from Dilling. He picked up a little something. Seems the
beggar is up here tailing us, and keeping the ground informed. That
means there must be clear air soon, and the beggars will be there to
meet us. Splendid, I say! They'll wish they hadn't, I fancy!"
Dawson grinned, stiff-lipped, but didn't say anything for a moment, or
two. It wasn't that he didn't welcome a scrap with Nazi planes. Well,
not exactly. The point was that Freddy and he didn't have time right now
to mill around the sky with Nazi pilots. This wasn't a patrol with a
chip on his shoulder. This was an emergency flight to Moscow, and the
sooner they got there the better it would be. No, a mess of Nazi
Messerschmitts suddenly blocking the way wouldn't be a diversion that he
would exactly welcome now. Freddy and he had a mission to carry out, and
to get shot down, and be forced to bail out over enemy-occupied
territory, would of course knock the whole carefully worked out plan
high, wide and handsome. No! To be truthful, he wanted very much _not_
to meet any German planes this trip. For once he had no desire to give
battle to Hitler's black-winged vultures. He wanted only to arrive
safely in Moscow, and as quickly as this Wellington bomber could get him
there. However, if--
He had automatically slipped on the co-pilot's inter-com head phones, so
at that moment he heard Freddy Farmer's sharp, clear voice.
"A Jerry One-Ten dead astern of us, Squadron Leader!" Freddy reported.
"I'm at the tail gun now. The blighter knows we're here. Shall I open
fire?"
Freehill glanced over at Dawson and caught the Yank's quick nod and
grin.
"Blast the beggar, of course!" he called back. "Shoot the Iron Cross
right off his tunic, old thing. And--"
And that was all Squadron Leader Freehill said for the moment. He cut
himself off short, and for a very good reason. The wall of dirty grey
cloud suddenly ended as clean as a whistle. The Wellington went zooming
out into a world of brilliant sunshine--and considerably more than
that. To Dave, snapping his eyes forward, it seemed as though half the
German Luftwaffe were milling around in the air directly ahead. He took
one swift glance at the aerial picture, and then jerked off his
inter-com phones, tore out of the co-pilot's seat, and went charging
back to the blister gun turret amidships.
By the time he had reached the blister and was swinging his twin guns
into position, the air all around was alive with German planes, and the
entire heavens shook and vibrated with the savage snarl and yammer of
aerial machine guns, plus the louder, deeper note of aerial cannon fire.
As though Lady Luck had simply been waiting for Dawson to swing into
action, the square-cut wings of a One-Ten came smack into his sights.
Instantly he jabbed the electric trigger button, and the One-Ten just as
promptly acted as though it had suddenly flown right into a brick wall.
Both its wings came off as though sliced by a knife. The fuselage rolled
over twice, and like a crazy rocket went zooming upward to smash square
into a second One-Ten banking off to the side. A burst of flame followed
the mid air crash, and the whole blazing mass went slithering down out
of sight, leaving behind a long trail of oily black smoke.
The instant the mid-air crash took place, Dawson whipped his eyes off it
and swung his guns to bear on a third One-Ten. Before he could press the
trigger, though, he heard Freddy Farmer's guns in the tail start
snarling. And the Messerschmitt simply wasn't there any more. It was
just a shower of pieces falling downward through the golden sunshine.
No cheer of joy broke from Dawson's throat, though. There were three
One-Tens down, and maybe a couple of others that Freehill and Sergeant
Dilling and Flight Lieutenant Parsons had nailed. But there were still
ten times that number of German planes still twisting and boring in, and
raking the Wellington from spinning props to rudder post with their
furious fire. Dawson wasn't sure, but he thought he could feel the
bomber shake and tremble as each new burst of bullets tore into it.
He didn't bother to look around, though, for any signs of damage. He was
too busy holding up his end of the terribly uneven fight, smacking and
slapping away at anything winged that came into his sights, and silently
damning the invention known as the aircraft detector. The aircraft
detector, of course, explained the presence of all those German planes.
The Nazis, if Air Vice-Marshal Leman's wire was to be believed, knew
that the Wellington would be heading for Moscow. Maybe they hadn't known
the route to be flown in advance. But they didn't have to know it.
Aircraft detectors all up and down the German-occupied coast of Europe
would have been constantly on the alert. Any aircraft heard that could
not be identified as Nazi would have been investigated instantly, of
course.
That explained that lone Messerschmitt flirting about with the
Wellington in the clouds. Its pilot had spotted them, judged their
course, and communicated with ground stations. And--and there were the
aerial butchers waiting for the Wellington the instant it came
prop-clawing out into clear air.
"So if you want it this way, then okay!" Dawson roared impulsively, and
let fly at a brace of One-Tens cutting around to catch the bomber in a
cold meat cross-fire.
Perhaps, if they had been given a few seconds more, the Nazis would have
succeeded in their goal. But Dawson's deadly fire put an end to the
attempt, and a very speedy end, too. A two second burst caught the
One-Ten on the left square in the cockpit. The pilot died instantly,
and so he couldn't control the One-Ten from veering off drunkenly to the
other side. Too late the other Messerschmitt pilot saw what was headed
his way. True, he made a very good try, but it wasn't any better than no
try at all. The One-Ten with a dead pilot at the controls whanged up
into his belly, and speared him like a fish. Seconds later there was
just a great big ball of seething flame flip-flopping down into
oblivion.
"Seems to be the day for Nazis ramming into each other!" Dave gasped
out, and swung his guns for a new target. "Well, that's--Hey! Well, what
do you know? Hey, _everybody_! See what we've got to help us. Boy, oh
boy!"
Dawson wildly shouted other things, but in his great joy he didn't even
know what he said. All he was conscious of was the very delightful fact
that there were other besides German wings in the air about the
Wellington. There were planes with the Red Star of the Soviet Air Force
on the wings and fuselage. They were the swift and deadly Russian "Rata"
One-Sixteen B pursuit aircraft, powered by special 1,000 hp.
M-Sixty-Three engines of Wright "Cyclone" design. Out of the sun they
had come like so many crazed hornets on the rampage. And even as Dave
saw them, four German Messerschmitts simply broke apart in the air and
fell away out of sight.
It was one of the most perfectly executed aerial attacks Dawson had ever
witnessed. Each Russian pilot seemed to know just which Messerschmitt he
was to handle. And he went right smack at his victim and did the job
with the least amount of bullets possible. In fact, the arrival of those
Soviet Ratas was almost as though invisible hands had swept an invisible
broom across the skies, and taken three fourths of the German
Messerschmitts along with it. The other fourth that was missed by the
invisible broom didn't hang around for a second sweeping. Every
Luftwaffe pilot dropped the nose of his plane, and got out of there as
fast as his screaming engine could take him. A flight or so of the Ratas
gave chase, just to keep the Messerschmitts on their way, while the
other Rata pilots took up close escort position on all four sides of the
Wellington, and above it.
A little over half an hour later Squadron Leader Freehill sat the
bullet-riddled Wellington down at the Moscow airport as lightly as a
feather floating on a strip of velvet. A few of the Ratas landed
alongside, and the aerial cavalcade taxied over to the huge camouflaged
hangars. Both Dawson and Freddy Farmer were up front with Freehill by
then, and they all saw the small group of high Soviet military officials
who were waiting for the Wellington to taxi in.
"Either of you chaps the President of the U.S. in disguise?" the
Squadron Leader asked with a chuckle. "Quite a reception committee here
to greet you. That tall, dark chap on the left is none other than
Colonel General Vladimir, in case you don't know."
"I didn't," Dave grunted.
"Nor did I," Freddy Farmer echoed.
"Well, as the Yanks would put it," the Squadron Leader said, "Stalin and
Vladimir are the two chaps who really make the Soviet tick. Vladimir has
more titles, and is in charge of more things, than you could shake a
stick at. That he is here to meet you two chaps must mean that you are
very important lads in this war business."
"That lets me out," Dawson grinned. "Of course, maybe the Russians have
suddenly decided to learn to drink tea, and that's why Farmer is making
this trip. I wouldn't know. My job is simply to trail him around and
see that he doesn't get into trouble. You know, international
complications?"
"Rot!" Freddy snorted. "Why not tell the Squadron Leader the truth? Tell
him that the Russians are simply anxious to see a crazy, balmy Yank who
somehow manages to keep on missing Nazi bullets. And that I'm along to
prevent the Russians from putting you in a museum!"
"Well, I was wondering about your secret," Freehill laughed. "Now I
know, definitely. Anyway, I fancy we'll be parting company soon. But all
kind of luck, chaps. And if you happen to be going back by this way, I
wish you'd let me know. I'll put in the request to pilot the return
trip. Didn't get half the Jerries we could have, if the Russian chaps
hadn't shown up, you know. Maybe we can do better next time, what?"
"Well, we can try," Dawson said absently, and stared at the group of
Russian officials who were now walking out toward the taxiing bomber.
"Yes, quite!" Freddy Farmer also murmured absently. "A very nice bomber
team we make. Quite!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
_The Living Dead_