Dave Dawson on the Russian Front Part 19

"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 n.a.z.is--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 they _don't_ know."

"Go on," Freddy Farmer grunted as Dawson paused. "What?"

"They don't know _how many_ of 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 take _others_ back. 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 n.a.z.is 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 only _two_ guys are on their way home. So they'll naturally figure that _only two guys_ came 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 in _that field close to Nina's house_. The n.a.z.is, 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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_Aces Don't Wait_

As though the G.o.ds 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 ma.s.s 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 n.a.z.i airplane mechanics might complete their routine ch.o.r.es, and go elsewhere out of sight. The four n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.i-occupied Russian ground. A portion of it, because of the necessity of changing course to avoid personal contact with n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.is 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 was _not_ reduced, 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 n.a.z.i 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 n.a.z.is have learned not to go around unarmed _any_ place 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 n.a.z.i-made ingenuity. For the second time in an hour, they witnessed what Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski had told them about.