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-chilling _crump_ of 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 that _had_ been 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 least _one_ brain
in this outfit. My apologies for my dumbness, Senior Lieutenant. Let's
go!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
_Satan is Gleeful_
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 had _left_ them 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.
And _was_ there 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 over _two_
hours 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 have _already_ discovered 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."