Dave Dawson on the Russian Front Part 12

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 b.u.t.ton, 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 ma.s.s 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 d.a.m.ning the invention known as the aircraft detector. The aircraft detector, of course, explained the presence of all those German planes.

The n.a.z.is, 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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.is 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 c.o.c.kpit. 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 n.a.z.is 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 t.i.tles, 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 n.a.z.i 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_

The Russian Staff car reminded Dawson of a Ford. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure that it was a Yank Ford made under license in a Soviet factory. However, he didn't let his thoughts dwell on the car too long.

For one thing, the uniformed driver seemed to be attempting to smash every existing speed record. And for another thing, the instant Freddy and he had climbed down out of the Wellington things had happened like exploding firecrackers.

Colonel General Vladimir had stepped forward, introduced himself, and greeted them warmly. Then almost before they could return the greeting, the Russian had steered them right by the other officials and into the Russian-made Ford. At a word from the Colonel General, the uniformed chauffeur had shifted gears, and away they had gone.

At first, Dawson hadn't minded these strange actions very much because the car roared through the heart of Moscow and he was able to get his first view of the Kremlin, and Red Square. But that had been half an hour previously, and by now the car was approaching empty country that held no interest or attraction for him. And so he began to wonder in earnest why this sudden mysterious move, and also why the Colonel General, seated between Freddy and him on the back seat, was content to stare out through the windshield in stony silence.

Suddenly, though, as the car spun around the corner of some woods and onto a long straight road, the Russian official seemed to let go a little sigh of relief, and relaxed slightly. He barked an order in his native tongue to the driver, and immediately the speed of the car was reduced by a good third. The Colonel General looked at Dave and Freddy each in turn, and smiled pleasantly.

"Your heads are crammed full of questions?" he said with a chuckle. "Is it not so?"

"Well, I was wondering just where the fire was," Dawson replied. "I mean, of course, why all the hurry?"

"Yes, quite," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Has something unexpected happened, Colonel General?"

"That is the reason for the haste," the Russian replied with a little gesture. "So that the unexpected would _not_ happen, you see? In the Soviet we do not take unnecessary chances. It is stupid to do such things. So when you arrive we do not give ears the chance to hear much, or eyes the chance to see much. I would swear that there is not one Gestapo secret agent in all of Moscow, but I am not content with just _believing_ so. All men can be wrong. So I take no chances, in case I am wrong. This mission you are on means much to Russia. There is no telling how much it will mean. So it is only natural that we do all in our power to give you the aid you need, and to protect you as long as we can. Your pardon one moment, please."

The Colonel General leaned forward and rapped out some obvious orders to the driver. The man at the wheel nodded his head to show that he had heard and understood. Then the Russian sat back on the seat again, and addressed himself to the two boys.

"Tomorrow, I am afraid," he said, with an odd little half-smile, "there will be harsh things said about Russia by her allies. Your England and your United States will not be pleased to learn that you two died while under our care."

"Huh?" Dawson gulped out as the other paused, and seemed waiting. "I mean, what did you say, Colonel General? Something about Farmer and me getting killed?"

"Exactly," the other nodded with the odd little smile still on his lips.

"Burned alive in an automobile wreck. Fortunately, though, I will manage to escape with my life. I will be most brokenhearted when I give out the statement to the representatives of the Foreign Press in Moscow. And there will be an expression of deep sorrow from Premier Joseph Stalin, too. It will, indeed, be a sad affair, that meeting with the press tomorrow."

The Russian lapsed into sudden silence again, and Dawson wasn't sure whether he should take it just as a c.o.c.keyed dream, or jump out of the car in case the world had actually gone upside down all of a sudden. He did neither, of course. Instead he shot a quick hard side glance at the Russian, and caught the faint grin that tugged at the corners of the officer's mouth. Then he found himself looking straight into a pair of twinkling black eyes.

"I am what you call in America a mad Russian, eh, Captain Dawson," the Colonel General suddenly boomed out. "Forgive me, but it is like me to say strange things and watch people's faces. However, it is a little true. You and your gallant comrade are to die in a burning automobile wreck. That is, as far as the rest of the world is concerned. It is like this. Our enemies know more about this mission of yours than we would like them to know. Twice they have done what they could to remove you and your friend, Captain Farmer. Oh, yes. I know about that train affair in Scotland. Since then Air Vice-Marshal Leman has communicated with Soviet Intelligence. And your recent air battle was no accident, either."

"And but for the very welcome arrival of your planes, it might have ended the wrong way, too!" Dave spoke up quickly.

Colonel General Vladimir nodded, and beamed his thanks.

"A compliment twice over, coming from a war pilot of your record, Captain Dawson," he said gravely. "Ah, yes! Once many people laughed at the mention of Soviet planes, and Soviet pilots. But they are not laughing any more. Particularly the n.a.z.i Luftwaffe. But, as I was saying, twice the n.a.z.is have tried to remove you, and have failed. They know that you have reached Moscow. Your next destination perhaps they know, and perhaps they don't. However, we will attempt to cause them to lose interest in you both. Lose interest because they believe you are both dead. The results of crude Soviet bungling, they will no doubt scream over their propaganda radios. But let them! It does not matter if it all helps you to complete your delicate mission successfully."

The Russian paused, nodded for emphasis, and lapsed into silence again.

Freddy Farmer didn't like that, and did something about it.

"Just how are you to arrange for us to burn up in a car wreck, Colonel General?" he asked bluntly.

The Russian shrugged, and gestured with both of his hands, palms upward.

"That will be very simple," he said. Then, nodding ahead, he continued, "In a few moments, now. Just around that turn you see up ahead. There will be a car waiting for us, just off the road. You will change to it, and this one will be driven into a tree so that it will be suitably wrecked, and then touched off with a match. This driver will then continue on with you in the hidden car, and leave me to explain things to the first car that pa.s.ses by."