section for several days. True, he may have been forced down, and will
continue as soon as weather permits. But--but it is also possible that
other things may have happened to his pilot and plane. Who is there to
tell? Our enemies have ears and eyes, as we all well know. They also
have guns, and know how to use them. So the truth may be one of many
answers."
"So what?" Dave murmured. Then, quickly catching himself, "I beg your
pardon, sir. I mean, what is the decision to be made?"
The Russian looked at him, and Dawson had the sudden funny feeling that
the man was looking straight down into his heart.
"You cannot guess, Captain Dawson?" he suddenly asked softly.
Dave looked blank for a moment, and then felt the rush of hot blood to
his face.
"Yes, sir," he replied as soon as he could. "I think we should decide to
carry on with our end of it, Agent Jones or no Agent Jones. Somebody's
got to get to Tobolsk and find Ivan Nikolsk. So we're elected."
"Ah! The words of a gallant soldier that all Russia must admire!"
It was Senior Lieutenant Petrovski who had spoken the words, and Dave
could almost feel the blood burst out through the skin of his face. Not
for a million dollars would he have dared glance at the expression that
must have been in Freddy Farmer's eyes. To do so would undoubtedly have
meant the end of a beautiful friendship. So he kept his gaze riveted on
the Colonel General's face. But there was no glint of merriment in the
Russian's eyes, just the flash of fire and grim resolve.
"You speak wise words, Captain Dawson," he said quietly. "The stakes are
so high they demand any and every effort. Without this Agent Jones the
difficulties are increased six times over. But there is hope. And we
must cling to that, always."
The Russian paused a brief moment to nod his head at Senior Lieutenant
Nasha Petrovski, seated on the other side of the table.
"The Senior Lieutenant knows every foot of ground in the Tobolsk area,"
he continued presently. "She is sure she even remembers the old farm
where Ivan Nikolsk was last seen. If anybody can find Ivan Nikolsk, it
will be the Senior Lieutenant. And when she finds him--"
The Colonel General paused and frowned slightly. The Russian girl seemed
instantly to guess what thought was in his mind, for she spoke up
quickly.
"And if he will not tell to me, a Russian woman, the secrets that are
buried deep in his brain," she said evenly, "then we will bring him to
Moscow, to the Kremlin. And then the Russian in him will speak. It will
have to be so!"
Dave, looking at the girl, suddenly didn't see a girl at all. He saw a
soldier; a fighting soldier of the Soviet, who would not stop at
bullets, or shells, or fire and flood to gain through to an objective.
Nasha Petrovski was a girl, but hers was the bravery, the courage, and
the fighting spirit, to be surpassed by no man's!
"Yes, it will have to be so!" Colonel General Vladimir echoed the words.
"And when Ivan Nikolsk speaks we will have only to match in his words
with all that Agent Jones has reported to Air Vice-Marshal Leman, which,
of course, has been transmitted to me in secret code. Yes! The decision
is to go to Urbakh, and if Agent Jones has not arrived, to go on over
the enemy positions to Tobolsk, and find this Ivan Nikolsk. That is
agreed, eh?"
Dave, Freddy, and the girl Senior Lieutenant simply nodded gravely.
There was no need for words.
"Good!" the Colonel General said, and stood up. "So there is no time
like this time to begin. Senior Lieutenant Petrovski! Five minutes to
say farewell to your mother. Then you will conduct the Captains to the
aircraft. I will be waiting for your return to Moscow, and like all
Russia, praying my prayers for your safety and success!"
As the Russian officer stopped speaking, the girl sprang to her feet,
saluted smartly, and then left the room. The Colonel General waited
until the door was closed, and then looked hard at Dawson and Freddy
Farmer.
"There is one thing of which I will speak, Captains," he said quietly.
"The Senior Lieutenant is a woman, and there are those who do not
believe that a woman's place is in the line of enemy fire. But here in
the Soviet we are all soldiers of the line, men and women. Their courage
is the same, their eyes just as sharp, and their trigger finger just as
steady. And have no thoughts about the Senior Lieutenant under fire, or
in the face of any danger. She has won her rank the same as any Soviet
man soldier. She has won medals for valor, though she does not wear
them. So have no worries because she is a woman. Three hundred and six
Nazi soldiers have died from a rifle or a machine gun in her hands. Keep
that truth in mind. And now I salute you in the name of the Soviet
Republics. God's speed, God's courage, and God's blessings be with you
from the beginning of your journey to your safe and successful return."
The Colonel General saluted, and by the time Dawson and Freddy were
halfway up on their feet, he had whirled and walked out of the room. The
two youths checked themselves, and sank back into their chairs. Dave
swallowed hard, and whistled softly.
"Suffering catfish!" he gulped. "Three hundred and six Nazi tramps! My
gosh! And me thinking _I'd_ seen some of this war!"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer murmured. "Makes a chap feel like he's only been
playing at soldiers. But--"
"But what?" Dave grunted. And then as he saw the glint in Freddy
Farmer's eyes he wished he had bitten off his tongue, instead.
"But _I'll_ be in safe company," the English youth shot at him. "Oh,
quite! With _two_ gallant soldiers that all Russia must admire!"
Dave's eyes flashed fire, and he started up out of his chair. But he
dropped quickly back as he heard the footsteps of Senior Lieutenant
Nasha Petrovski returning to the room.
"Remember it always, you bum!" he whispered to Freddy. "That a girl once
saved your life, by coming through that door over there!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Success or Suicide?_
Senior Lieutenant Petrovski reached across from the co-pilot's seat to
touch Dawson's arm, and then point a finger.
"That black smudge ahead, and to the left, Captain!" she called out.
"That is Urbakh. There is a good broad field on the west side."
Dawson squinted ahead, and nodded absently. He knew that he was about to
hit Urbakh on the nose almost any minute now, because Freddy had been
doing the navigating since leaving Moscow. And when Freddy did the
navigating you just naturally always hit your objective on the nose.
However, he didn't mention that fact to the sharp-eyed Russian girl. He
simply nodded, half smiled, and took a glance at the instrument panel.
The fact is, he was still just a little bit in what you might call a
surprised trance. There just didn't seem to be anything that the
Russians couldn't pull out of the hat with a snap of the fingers. Take
this latest bit of Russian magic, for instance. Frankly, he had wondered
about the type of plane that they were to use on the last legs of their
mission. He realized that it would have to be a medium-sized bomber at
least, in order to carry the number of passengers to be brought back.
But he had half figured that the plane would be a Russian job. And he
had hoped that he'd be able to get the feel of it in time to be able to
make the tricky landing behind the Nazi Front. Also, to get it off again
for the return trip.
But leave it to the Russians! They knew all the answers before you even
asked the questions. And a lot of answers to a lot of questions that
didn't even occur to you, too!
Five minutes after Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had returned to that
front room in her mother's house, she had led Dawson and Freddy Farmer
out into the night, and across a mile of wooded countryside to a
billiard table smooth clearing. Presto! Russian aircraft mechanics had
practically pushed up out of the ground. Presto! At an order from Senior
Lieutenant Petrovski they had darted in under the branches of the
bordering trees and hauled out a medium-sized bomber onto the smooth
open ground. And presto! It was not a Russian plane. It was a Yank-made
North American B-Twenty-Five medium bomber! A Yank lease-lend bomber
that had not been converted over to Russian Air Force use.
The surprise had stunned both Dawson and Farmer speechless. In fact,
like two youths living out a crazy dream, they had climbed aboard with
the Senior Lieutenant to find Yank-made parachute packs, Yank-made
oxygen tanks, and everything else strictly Yank from propeller hubs
clear back to the twin rudders on the tail. To slide into the pilot's
seat of that B-Twenty-Five was like a ten ton weight being lifted from
Dawson's shoulders. Heck! With a B-Twenty-Five he could practically land
inside that cellar of Ivan Nikolsk's war-blasted farm house, if he had
to. Yes, and how! Just leave it to the Russians. They knew the answers
before you could even think up the questions!
"I say, want me to land it, old thing?"
Dawson snapped out of his thought trance to glance back over his
shoulder at Freddy Farmer's happy grin. He shook his head violently.
"Not this time!" he snapped. "At least I want it to go into the record
that we _arrived_ safely at Urbakh."
"Just as you wish," the English youth chuckled. Then his face turned
grave as he added, "Speaking of arriving at Urbakh safely, I wonder if
we can still go on hoping for Agent Jones?"
"For me, I answer yes!" Senior Lieutenant Petrovski spoke up quickly,
and touched a fingertip to a spot over her heart. "In here I think
absolutely yes. No, do not laugh. When I think something inside, it is
always so. This Agent Jones, he will be with us soon. He will be with us
because Russia needs him to be with us. And what Russia needs, she must
have. Yes! You will see."
"Okay by me!" Dawson said. "But I wasn't laughing, Senior Lieutenant. I
guess that's just the way my face looks. And no cracks, Farmer! But,
anyway, Senior Lieutenant, we both sure hope that you're right. This
Ivan Nikolsk sure sounds like a queer guy. I've a hunch that without
Agent Jones along the three of us are going to have trouble with Ivan
Nikolsk, when we find him."
"We will find him!" the Russian girl said grimly. "And if there is
trouble--But what is war but bad trouble, eh?"
"Check and double check," Dawson echoed with a nod. Then, "Well, hold
your hats, boys and girls. Here--Sorry, Senior Lieutenant. That's just
an American expression. Anyway, here we go down for the stop-over at
Urbakh."
"And I jolly well hope it will be a short one!" Freddy Farmer added, as
Dawson throttled back the twin Wright "cyclones," and sent the
B-Twenty-Five sliding down toward the large square-shaped field on the
western edge of Urbakh.
The arrival at Urbakh of the B-Twenty-Five from Moscow was, of course,
expected. And so, when Dawson landed and taxied over to the protection
of some trees on the lee side of the field, a small group of Russian
officers, led by an infantry Major, came out to greet them. They all
seemed to know Senior Lieutenant Petrovski, and it was instantly evident
that the frank admiration in their eyes and the military snappiness of
their salutes was not simply because she was a pretty girl. To them she
was a soldier's hero, and their every action proved it.
She introduced Dawson and Freddy to them all, but it was Major Saratov
who finally accompanied them over to a house on the edge of the village.
He was commander of the Russian garrison there in Urbakh, and the small
house served as his headquarters. He ushered them in, and barked a
request at an orderly who appeared. The orderly nodded, and beamed his
pleasure, and promptly disappeared again. But only for five minutes or
so. Then he returned with food and something warm to drink for them.
Up to that moment nothing but pleasantries had been spoken by anybody.
But as Senior Lieutenant Petrovski picked up her warm drink, she looked
across the cup at the Major.
"There is still no word from the south?" she asked quietly.
"No word at all, Senior Lieutenant," the Major said with a frown. "At
Baku they are keeping constant watch, and a few planes have been sent
out on the hunt, but--but so far, there has been nothing to report. It
is most sad, and unfortunate."
The Russian Major bobbed his head, and stared silently at his own cup
for a moment. Then he quickly raised his eyes to Nasha Petrovski's face.
"And your orders, may I ask, Senior Lieutenant?" he put the question.
"You will remain here--until there is news, perhaps?"
The girl member of Soviet Intelligence gave a vigorous shake of her
head.
"No, Major," she said shortly. "We have reached our own decision. Each
day that passes may make it more difficult to find the person for whom
we search. And too many days have gone by as it is. No. Your mechanics
will look over the aircraft, and see that the tanks are full, and that
everything is in readiness. And--"
The girl paused to lean over and peer up through a nearby window at the
sky. A thin overcast was stealing across the surface of the cold
grey-blue. She straightened up and nodded.
"Tonight there will be clouds, and no moon," she said. "It will be as
good tonight for what we want as it will be any night. Yes, tonight we
will cross over the enemy front to Tobolsk. And--But forgive me, Captain
Dawson. You and Captain Farmer agree, yes?"
She addressed the last to Dave, who grinned and nodded.
"Absolutely, Senior Lieutenant," he said. "You're leading this parade,
and what you say goes."
As the Russian girl looked just a trifle puzzled, Freddy Farmer spoke
up.
"Translated into English, Senior Lieutenant," he said, "my friend means
that you are in command, and that we will gladly follow your orders."
"And I'll personally see that _he_ does, Senior Lieutenant!" Dawson
added his bit quickly.
The Russian girl caught the byplay, and her smile flashed.
"I am honored," she said, "but this mission has three commanders, has it
not? But of course. Very well, then. At midnight tonight we will take
off. And now, if the Major Saratov will be so good as to produce the
photographic maps that have been prepared, we will spend the rest of the
time studying them, and deciding where best to land, and how to hide our
aircraft from any Nazi eyes. Major?"
The Russian officer came up on his feet in nothing flat.
"At once, Senior Lieutenant," he said, and turned. "The photographic
maps show every blade of grass, almost. Just to look at them is like
flying over the area on a clear sunshiny day. Two seconds, Senior
Lieutenant."
And it didn't take the Russian much more time than that to duck into
another room, and return with a huge detail mosaic aerial map. One look
at it and Dave's admiration of Russian magic went up another ten
points. Major Saratov had certainly called the turn in his description
of the map. It certainly was like flying over the Tobolsk area and
looking down.
"So!" Senior Lieutenant Petrovski murmured as the map was placed on a
table, and they all gathered around it. "If I may have your attention,
Captains?"
She got it instantly, and for the next couple of hours bombs could have
exploded just outside the window, and those inside would not have
noticed, so engrossed were they in their study of the mosaic aerial map.
Dave and Freddy had plenty of questions to ask, and they asked them. And
Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had the correct answer for each question,
plus a little bit of additional knowledge. In fact, by the time two
hours had passed Dawson almost felt as though he'd known every little
detail of the Tobolsk area all his life. It was almost as though at
midnight he would make a flight back to his old home town. Russian
Intelligence, plus the co-operation of Russian Aviation, had not
overlooked a single thing, or passed up a single bet.
"Good grief!" Freddy Farmer gulped impulsively when they all finally
straightened up from their study of the map. "There's only one blessed
thing that it doesn't show. And perhaps we'll even see that if we look
hard enough!"
"There is something missing, Captain?" Major Saratov asked in a hurt,
disappointed tone.
"Oh, quite!" the English youth told him with a chuckle. "I fail to see
Ivan Nikolsk crouching in his hiding place. But certainly everything
else is clear enough."
The Russian Major let out a sound of profound relief, and laughed
heartily.
"A thousand apologies for not also including that photograph, too,
Captain," he said, showing his strong white teeth. "But if you so
command, I will send more photograph planes over within the hour, and
perhaps they will catch this Nikolsk out in an open field, eh?"
"I wouldn't bet that they wouldn't!" Dave cut in with a chuckle.
"Jeepers! And to think I was a little worried about having to make a
landing there in the dark. Gosh! After studying that map I could slide
in there with both eyes shut."
"But please don't!" Freddy Farmer clipped at him with a broad grin.
"Because I've seen some landings you've made in broad daylight with both
eyes _open_!"
Dawson glanced at Major Saratov and gestured with one hand.
"Don't mind him, sir," he said in a serious tone. "He goes back into the
monkey cage as soon as we return to London. Well, how about a short
recess from the war, eh? And we'll get together later for a final
huddle."
"Discussion of plans, he means," Freddy Farmer explained in a patient
voice. "Yes, a recess might do us all good, what?"
Everybody nodded, and stood up. And then, as though invisible strings
attached to each head had been pulled at the same time, each one of them
turned and looked out the window facing south. And the same thought was
in every mind. Agent Jones! Was he alive, or was he dead?
Several hours later all that could be seen of the sun behind the ever
thickening overcast was balanced like a pale yellow ball on the western
edge of the world. And even as Dawson and Farmer paused in a rambling
stroll about the field, and stood still to stare at it, the bottom half
of the pale yellow ball was sliced off. And then three quarters of it.
And finally it wasn't there any more. There was just a faint shimmer of
yellow that was quickly blotted out by the mounting overcast.
"And that's that!" Dawson grunted, more to himself than to Freddy. "If
and when we see that sun again, I don't think we'll be here, anyway."
"It would be nice to think that we'll be back in Moscow, or even London,
then," the English youth murmured. "But of course, that's down-right
silly, what? Well, I'm afraid that Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's secret
inner feeling is a bit of a lost cause."
"Kind of think so myself," Dawson grunted, and turned to stare south.
"Guess Agent Jones won't be with us. A tough break for him. He seemed
like a swell guy at that luncheon when we met him. But anybody who went
through what he did is automatically a swell guy. Did anything about him
strike you, Freddy?"
"Eh? Why, certainly. That he was a very splendid sort of chap. Blast! I
hate to think of him dead, and out of this. Seems so unfair, you know."
"And how!" Dawson echoed. "But that wasn't what I meant. It was about
his face, his looks."
"A very good-looking face," Freddy replied. "Good grief! His good looks
make you jealous, old thing? You, with the face you've got?"
"Skip it, pal!" Dawson growled. "If you missed it, then maybe I was
wrong. Come on. Let's go give the crate another look-see. Boy! Am I
tickled it's a Yank plane. These Russians are for my money any day in
the week!"
"Wonderful people," the English youth agreed as he dropped into step.
"But what did you mean by 'skip it?' What's on your mind?"
"We'll still skip it," Dawson replied stubbornly. "If it is a secret,
maybe it's better to keep it that way. I don't know."
"Now, see here, my man!" Freddy Farmer snapped, and took hold of Dawson
by the arm. "You--!"
But that's as far as Freddy got. At that exact moment both of them heard
the roar of aircraft engines in the distance. The sound came from the
south. And both, from long experience, knew instantly that British-made
engines were making the noise. As one man they both froze stiff, breath
locked in their lungs, and eyes frantically searched the overcast sky to
the south. As usual, Freddy Farmer's eagle sharp eyes picked out the
tiny moving dot sliding downward.
"There!" he cried, and flung up a pointing finger. "Just over that
corner of the field. It's an R.A.F. Bristol Blenheim. Dave! Maybe
it's--!"
The English youth stopped short as though not daring to speak the rest.
Dawson nodded, but he too held his tongue. Together they watched the
British bomber come sliding down lower and lower until it was clearly
visible in every detail. And still almost not daring to breathe, they
watched the twin-engined plane settle down in a beautiful landing on the
field, and taxi slowly over to the North American B-Twenty-Five.
The Blenheim's wheels touching the ground seemed automatically to
release hidden springs in the two boys. Together they hot-footed it over
to the lee side of the field, and arrived there just as the
British-marked plane was wheel braked to a stop, and the powerful twin
engines cut off dead. With a wild eagerness and expectancy that made
them seem like a couple of kids waiting for Santa Claus to come down the
chimney, they stood there with bated breath, and saucer eyes fixed on
the fuselage door. It was swung open in a moment, and a thin,
good-looking fellow in oil and grease-smeared flying garb leaped lightly
down on the ground and came toward them, grinning broadly.
"Greetings, you chaps!" he called out. "Been waiting for me long? I hope
not."
Dawson recovered the use of his feet and his tongue first.
"Jones!" he cried, and leaped forward, hand outstretched. "Are we
tickled pink to see you! Holy smokes! Look at the grey hairs we've got!
We'd just about given you up for keeps. What happened? What took you so
long?"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer chipped in happily. "Dawson and I will never be
the same again, I swear. Yes! What on earth happened to you?"
"Weather!" Agent Jones said with a violent nod. "Most beastly stuff that
ever hit any part of the world. Right over the middle of Iran it broke.
Quick! Just like that. For a spell we all thought we were goners, for
sure. Jackson, he's the pilot, knew his Blenheims, though. Put us down
in the middle of nowhere. And there we stayed for three days, expecting
the blasted wind to turn the aircraft upside down most any minute. After
the storm blew past us, it took another day to get sand and stuff out of
the engine. We managed to get off early this morning. Being late, we
decided not to stop at Baku. But our radio wasn't working, so we
couldn't buzz Baku to tell them. We just came on, and--well, here I am."
"And a sight for sore eyes!" Dawson cried as he stared hard at the
Intelligence officer's face. "But you're in time, just in time. So come
along and meet the commander of this outfit. A pretty Russian girl,
believe it or not!"
"Eh, what say?" Agent Jones gasped.
"Absolutely!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "And quite a person, too. She has
killed no less than three hundred and six Nazis!"
"Good Gosh!" Jones choked out. "What a bloodthirsty damsel!"
"Not at all!" Dawson corrected him with a chuckle. "Senior Lieutenant
Nasha Petrovski just doesn't like Nazis, that's all!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_Land of the Dead_
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.