CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_Land of the Dead_
It was just as Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had predicted. The night hadno moon, and even the stars were blotted out by a five hundred footthick layer of overcast. Pitch darkness engulfed everything in alldirections. 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, wasfrom the hooded single bulb on the instrument panel of the NorthAmerican B-Twenty-Five medium bomber. Just enough light to let him readthe automatic compass, and a couple of other essential instruments.
However, apart from that bit of faint light, he might well have been inthe middle of a throbbing, inky dark world. The throbbing was from thetwo Wright Cyclone engines that were driving the B-Twenty-Five up higherand higher into the night sky. Just half an hour before he had liftedthe aircraft off the square field on the western edge of Urbakh. MajorSaratov, and a few other Soviet officers, had been present to wish themall well, and Godspeed back. But Dave had not missed the look halfhidden in the Russian Major's eyes. And spotting that look certainlyhadn't added to the joy of the dangerous flight to be undertaken. Inother words, it was quite evident that Major Saratov was inwardlybidding 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 FreddyFarmer, 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'tknow wouldn't hurt them. Just the same, the little lumps of bouncingcold lead had returned to Dawson's stomach as he cleared the field andsent the B-Twenty-Five nosing upward.
Now, though, the bouncing lumps of lead were all gone. No, not becausecourage and all the rest of that sort of thing had driven them away. Itwas simply because he had other things to think about, and he was toobusy to check and recheck his personal feelings. Some eighteen thousandfeet of air were between the bomber's belly and the earth, and the layerof overcast now below the aircraft blotted out the ground just ascompletely as another layer of overcast higher up blotted out the stars.
The B-Twenty-Five was like some winged thing cutting through limitlessunexplored space. In truth, those aboard had only one single contactwith the world they had known. And that contact was Freddy Farmer, whoplotted every foot of the bomber's travel, and knew exactly where theywere every minute of the time. In fact, it seemed to be about everyother minute that the English youth leaned forward from his navigatingtable and handed Dave a slip of paper on which was written coursecorrections, or data on a new course to be flown. And at such times Davewould 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 kepthis gaze fixed on the instrument panel, and tried to put everything outof his mind, save this particular job of flying. It was impossible todo that, of course. A million and one different thoughts jumped andleaped about inside his brain like so many caged up rabbits suddenlygiven their freedom. How soon before Freddy would give him the signal tocut the engines and start sliding down to a dead-stick landing on apiece of night-shrouded ground that he had never seen in his lifebefore? What would be there if and when he landed the bomber? Would achance Nazi patrol hear them, and would there be trouble? Would they beable to get away from the bomber in time? Would the tattered and tornUkrainian peasant clothes that they all now wore be sufficient disguise?Would they be able to hide the plane? Or would they lose it, and bestranded on foot far behind the Nazi positions? Would this, and wouldthat happen? And if so, what would be the best thing to do? And soforth, and so forth. On and on, as if beating time to the powerful throbof the Wright Cyclones.
And then, suddenly, as Dawson's brain wound up tighter and tighter likea coiled spring, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard FreddyFarmer's quiet voice in his ears.
"My job's finished, old thing," the English youth said. "Cut yourengines, and start the glide. I've figured it as close as I possiblycan, 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 glideangle accordingly."
"Okay, my lad!" Dawson said with far more cheerfulness than he actuallyfelt. "Have a comfortable seat, and watch us."
"Think I'll man the tail gun, just in case," Freddy replied, with anencouraging squeeze of Dawson's shoulder. "And if it turns out to be thewrong spot, old thing, just let me know, what? I'll have another go atit."
"Sure!" Dave chuckled. "That will be swell of you, pal. If we miss andland in the middle of a Nazi camp, that landing doesn't count, huh? Andwhy shouldn't the Nazis give us a second try? Okay, son. Trot back toyour 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 inthe dark, and the Yank pilot set about his delicate and dangerous task.He killed the twin Cyclones completely, and the sudden silence had theweird effect of guns going off all about him. The sensation fled him inan instant, though, and he could hear the soft whispering song of theB-Twenty-Five's wings sliding down through the darkness. Gripping thecontrols with hands of steel, and keeping his eyes riveted on theinstrument panel, he held the bomber at the correct glide, andpractically lowered it earthward a foot at a time.
Beside him, in the co-pilot's seat, was Senior Lieutenant NashaPetrovski. Fact is, the girl had been seated there ever since thetake-off. But not one word had passed her lips. It was as though sherealized that this was something out of her field, and that the best wayshe could help was to maintain absolute silence until the aircraft wassafely on the ground. And that was perfectly okay by Dawson. Not that hewouldn't have been glad to talk with the famous Russian girl. But simplybecause her silence helped him to forget that she was there.
Three hundred and six Nazis dead by her trigger finger, or threethousand and six. It didn't matter. She was a girl, and this was thefirst time Dawson had piloted a plane through war skies with other thanmen aboard. It was certainly a new experience, and one, he was forced toadmit to himself, he would have been just as well pleased to havesomebody else experience. However, she was along, of course. And so thatwas that.
Foot by foot Dawson took the B-Twenty-Five down toward the crest of thelower layer of overcast. Presently he thought he could make out itsdarker shadow just below. A glance at the altimeter told him that hiseyes were not lying. In another moment he'd be going down through thestuff, and in a couple of moments after that he'd be below it and inclear night air. Then would begin the really ticklish part. Then hewould see, or would not see, the dazzling white beams of Nazisearchlights groping about in the air. And then he would hear, or wouldnot 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 andcrazy adventure. Then it--
With a savage shake of his head he drove the tantalizing thoughts fromhis brain, licked his lips and hunched forward slightly over thecontrols. They were in the lower layer of overcast now. He could tellbecause the darkness seemed twice as profound as it had been a momentbefore. And then, suddenly, the B-Twenty-Five floated down out of theovercast and into clear night air. Dawson tore his gaze from theinstrument panel, blinked hard as though to clear his vision, andstrained his eyes ahead, and down. For a soul-torturing eternity he sawnothing but a carpet of unbroken black stretching far out in alldirections. But little by little the carpet of black lost its unbrokenappearance. It took on darker spots, and lighter spots, and landmarks onan aerial mosaic map re-photographed on his brain began to take shapeand form.
He spotted a couple of pin points of light to the left, and a lo
ngcurving dark shadow. The curving shadow he knew was a stretch of woodson the east side of Urbakh. And the pin points of light he was certaincame from the village itself. Then, as he saw a winding lighter shadow,his heart swelled with pride. Trust old Freddy Farmer! Old Freddy couldguide you halfway around the world to a dime you had left in the middleof a desert. That winding lighter shadow was a tributary of the DonRiver. And when his eyes picked out the eastern and lower part of an Sthat the tributary formed, he would then be looking at the small,wood-bordered patch of flat ground where he would dead-stick land thebomber. Or at least he would be looking at a spot of wood-bordered flatground that _had_ been that when the Russian aerial photographs weretaken.
So tensed and keyed up was Dawson that when Senior Lieutenant Petrovskisuddenly reached out and gripped his arm he almost let out a startledyell. He curbed it in time, however, so his own voice didn't drown outthe words the Russian girl spoke.
"There, a little to the left!" she called out. "You see it, CaptainDawson? Where the little river makes that turn to the right? That is theplace."
It took Dawson all of five seconds to pick out the spot, and when he didhe silently saluted the Russian girl at his side.
"Yes, I see it, Senior Lieutenant," he told her. Then to himself, "Youand Freddy Farmer! Eagle eyes!"
Perhaps it was a good thing that the Russian girl had spoken. At anyrate, the tenseness and the tightness went out of Dawson. A cool calmsettled over him, and it was though he were simply making an emergencynight landing in some familiar place. But, of course, a night landingwithout the benefit of landing lights!
Actually, though, it was going to be considerably more than just puttingthe 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 borderingtrees as possible. There would be no "dolly-tractor" to haul the bomberover the ground. And those aboard certainly didn't possess the strengthto move the bomber around as you'd hoist up the tail of a pursuit shipand move it. And, of course, to start up the engines and taxi close tothe bordering trees was definitely out of the question. Might just aswell send the Nazis in the neighborhood a telegram that they werecoming, and at what time. And so--
The rambling thoughts in Dawson's brain slid off into oblivion. Thedarker shadow of the ground was directly beneath his cranked down wheelsnow. And dead ahead was the darker shadow, too, of the bordering treesat the far end of the field. It was now or never. Success, or abeautiful crack-up that would bring Nazis on the jump from miles around.Dawson swallowed impulsively, and in the last few split seconds of timeallowed, every event, big and small, of his entire existence on earthseemed to flash across the screen of his brain.
And then the wheels touched. The B-Twenty-Five tried to bounce back up alittle into the air, but an expert had set it on the ground, and thetwin tail came down to touch and cling to the earth also. Sweat waspouring off Dawson's face, but he didn't bother wiping it off so that itwouldn't run into his eyes. Like a statue of solid stone, he sat hunchedin the seat, letting the bomber trundle forward, and keeping his gazefixed on the dark shadow of trees ahead.
It seemed as though a thousand years dragged by while that B-Twenty-Fiverolled forward over the ground. But finally the bordering trees loomedup large and ominous just ahead of the nose. Dawson applied the wheelbrakes, and the forward movement of the bomber slackened offconsiderably. And at the very last moment he took off the right wheelbrake, but held the left steady so that the bomber pivoted around tothat side, and finally stopped in a position where another half-turn wasall that was needed for them to be able to use the entire length of thefield for a take-off.
"Well, Jap-knife me in the back if we didn't make it!" Dave gaspedjoyfully 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 girlspoke up. "But there is no time for compliments now. There is work forall of us. We must hurry, so that when dawn comes there will be no signto be seen from the air."
"Huh?" Dawson grunted. "What was that, Senior Lieutenant?"
"This aircraft!" she said with a startling sharpness in her voice. "Wemust cover it with branches and bushes, so that Nazi airmen will not seethat it is here. Is that not so?"
"That is absolutely correct!" Dawson replied instantly, and heaved upout of his seat. "And I am very glad that there is at least _one_ brainin this outfit. My apologies for my dumbness, Senior Lieutenant. Let'sgo!"