Dawson glanced impulsively over at Freddy Farmer, and quickly realized that the English youth had spotted the approaching storm clouds, too, and obviously had the same thoughts. Because even as their eyes met Freddy nodded violently, and banked around, and stuck his nose down in the general direction of the eastern side of the village of Tobolsk, just out of sight over the horizon.

"Well, there's one thing, anyway," Dawson grunted as he quickly followed suit with his own plane. "The darker it gets, the better the chances of Nazi eyes not spotting us. Yeah, sure! But if that storm beats us to it, there'll be a ground wind that will knock our chances higher than a kite! And I don't mean maybe!"

That last most unpleasant consideration was uppermost in Dawson's brain as he and Freddy Farmer went tearing all out toward the southeast. And with every foot his Messerschmitt cut through the air, doubt and dread built itself up higher and higher within him. It was almost as though the gods of good fortune, and Lady Luck, had decided that they had done enough to help, and had quit cold on the job. Though Dawson's Messerschmitt was rocketing down across the shadowy sky, the storm clouds seemed to possess twice his speed. And with each rushing toward the other, the distance between them just shriveled away like snow in a blast furnace.

Eyes grim, and jaw set at a determined angle, Dawson hunched forward over the controls and searched the ground ahead and below. The bouncing lead came back to the pit of his stomach with a gleeful vengeance, for the ground was now almost lost in the swirling shadows of the approaching storm. It was almost impossible to pick out Tobolsk itself, to say nothing of the location of Nina's house in the Y of the two intersecting roads.

Suddenly, though, a voice seemed to cry out at him from nowhere; cry out to look down and to the left. Just exactly what urged him to do that, he didn't know. But he obeyed the sudden impulse, and his heart started pounding with wild hope again. Down there to the left he saw the Y formed by the two roads. He even saw Nina's house, if that pile of timber and stone could be called a house. And he was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of the small but apparently smooth field just to the left of the Y. Just a fleeting glimpse of the field before a moving sheet of rain cut across his vision. The advance guard of the storm had arrived. The race had turned out a tie, which to those two fighting eagles up in the air was just about the same as losing the race.

"But down we go!" Dawson roared out aloud. "Down we go, just the same. And, please, God, we've got to make it!"

As he gulped out the prayerful plea, he peered over at Freddy Farmer, who was still hugging close to his right wing tip, storm or no storm. At the same instant the English youth turned his own head Dawson's way, and then nodded it violently as though he had read the Yank's thoughts. Dave nodded back, lifted one hand in brief salute, then turned his face forward again, and gave every ounce of his undivided attention to his Messerschmitt.

An hour, a day, or it could have been a year passed before he had practically pushed the Messerschmitt down and around so that it was heading for the long way of the field, and into the snarling wind. He didn't know, and he didn't care, he was too busy working his throttle to maintain forward speed, and prevent the Messerschmitt from stalling. At times his forward speed matched the speed of the wind, and his plane almost stood still in the air just off the surface of the ground. And then suddenly his wheels touched. The plane bounced wildly, but he goosed the engine, and checked a disastrous second meeting with the wind-swept ground. When the wheels touched again, the Messerschmitt stayed down, and Dawson taxied it at a fast clip straight ahead and then off to the side to get out of the way of Freddy Farmer right behind him.

As a matter of fact, he had no sooner killed the engine, and leaped to the ground, while the Messerschmitt still trundled forward, than he saw the English youth's plane settle. Settle? It started to do just that, but a savage cross-wind caught it, and the aircraft came down like five tons of brick dumped off a high building. A wild cry of alarm rose up in Dawson's throat, but his zooming heart won the race to his mouth and choked it off. For a lifetime, it seemed, he could only stand rooted helplessly to the ground while Freddy Farmer's Messerschmitt jumped and leaped crazily about like a chip of wood on the crest of a raging sea. A dozen times the aircraft seemed to start over on its back, but somehow the English youth managed to keep it top side up. True, it skidded around in half-circles, first one way and then the other. But the wing tip didn't quite catch and grab on the ground to pile up the whole works in a heap. And then suddenly something seemed to shoot right out of the cockpit of the bouncing and dancing plane and down onto the ground.

Dawson blinked twice before he realized that that something was Freddy Farmer in the flesh, and that the English youth had raced over to where he stood, while the storm wind gleefully picked up the Messerschmitt and carried it the rest of the way down the field and smacked it up against some trees.

"Too bad, even if it is a Nazi plane!" Dawson heard Farmer's gasping voice. "But I couldn't nurse-maid the blasted thing forever. I had to let it go. Well, that must be the house, what?"

Dawson didn't bother to reply. Freddy had pulled another miracle out of the hat, and that part of the show was over. He just nodded quickly, then spun around on his heel, and went dashing over toward the lone house with Freddy Farmer at his heels. No lights were showing, but Dawson didn't even bother to knock. When he reached the front door he just grabbed hold of the knob, twisted it, shoved open the door and barged right inside. And both Freddy and he just managed to skid to a halt as they saw a small, thin figure come at them, and saw the glint of a gun barrel in the pale glow shed by a single lighted candle on a nearby table.

"Hey! Hold everything!" Dawson heard his own voice pant.

The last half of it, though, was drowned out by an even sharper cry in Russian. And before the echo was gone Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had appeared out of nowhere and leaped between Dawson and the advancing thin shadow. And a second or so later Dawson saw the tattered clothing, the wrinkled face, and the snow white hair of the thin "shadow." And then the Senior Lieutenant was talking to him.

"That was not wise, Captain!" she was saying sharply. "It is lucky I cried out in time, or Nina might have used that gun."

"Yeah, my error," Dawson grunted. "I was dumb. But in this storm I didn't figure that our knock would be heard. Besides, Farmer and I were in a hurry. Look, Senior Lieutenant! From here on we've got to stay in high gear. I mean, we've got to get going, and keep going. No telling when Lady Luck may quit on us. I don't think there's much of a guard on our bomber now. And this storm doesn't exactly hurt the situation, either. Where're Jones, and Nikolsk? The five of us have got to make tracks. You lead the way to the bomber, and we'll be right behind you with Nikolsk. I—Hey! The look on your face! Nikolsk isn't—he isn't—?"

"No, he is not dead, yet," the girl told him quickly. "He was even conscious for a little bit. And he did recognize Agent Jones. He even spoke of things a little. But not one millionth enough. And now he is unconscious again. I have great fear. He may never be conscious again. But what about the bomber? There is a chance to get him to a Moscow hospital?"

"What we're going to do!" Dawson told her firmly. "So let's do the talking later. Lead us to Nikolsk, and let's get going!"

The Russian girl didn't bother with any more words. She nodded for Dave and Freddy to follow, and led the way through a door to a rear room. The smell of Death itself seemed to hang in the air, and when Dawson glanced down at the thin, almost fleshless, and war-ravaged face of the figure wrapped tightly in blankets, his heart seemed to stop and turn into a chunk of ice. Ivan Nikolsk looked like a man who had died years before.

"Good grief, you two? Splendid! Thought all the racket was Gestapo lads breaking in. Now, what do we—?"

"We go!" Dawson broke into the middle of the question, and grinned into Agent Jones' strained and haggard face. "In the B-Twenty-Five, if luck is still pitching for our team. Never mind the questions, though. Save them until we get to Moscow. And we will get there! Okay, Senior Lieutenant! Please tell your Nina that we will never forget what she has done, and—But, hey! Do you think she'd like to try and make the trip with us?"

Before the girl Soviet Intelligence officer could speak, the small, thin, aged Russian woman appeared in the doorway.

"No, gallant ones," she said in halting English. "Here I have been, and here I stay. The Nazis do not bother with an old hag, as I am. So here I remain, and perhaps do more for my beloved Russia. No, go, gallant ones. And the arms of the Blessed Mother be about you!"

Dawson looked at her, and then, hardly realizing that he was doing so, he stepped quickly forward and took the old woman in his arms and kissed her reverently on the forehead. Then, face flaming red, he turned and went over to the bedside of Ivan Nikolsk.

"Put a part of the blanket over his face, Jones!" he said gruffly. "Blowing like blazes outside. And put your service automatic where you can grab it in a hurry. We may bump into trouble, and we may not. Okay! Take his legs, and I'll take his shoulders and head. Okay, Senior Lieutenant! This time we are going. And God love you, Nina!"

Dawson didn't realize he had flung the last at the aged Russian woman until he was outside in the cold driving rain and, with Agent Jones, was lugging the dying Nikolsk along in the wake of Freddy Farmer and the Russian girl. And when he did realize it he told himself that he had meant it with all his heart. Nina was but one of thousands of unknown heroes and heroines suffering under the steel heel of Hitlerism. No medals for those such as she. No statues, no anything. But God knew of each and every one of them, and the complete reward for their services to mankind would be theirs thricefold some day.

However, Dawson was actually only thinking those things in one tiny corner of his brain. The rest of his brain was busy with the task of ordering his legs and muscles to keep going, and keep close to Freddy Farmer and the Russian girl. But it was like stumbling through the very bottom of a long forgotten coal mine. Maybe Nasha Petrovski had the eyes of a cat, and so could see each tree trunk and ditch and stone that came up out of the rain slashed darkness. But Dawson didn't, and neither did Agent Jones. And so they stumbled and reeled and lurched forward, fighting every inch of the way to keep hold of their precious burden.

Twice during the long, long "years" that dragged by, Freddy Farmer dropped back and insisted on relieving either Dawson or Jones, but both of them refused the offer.

"Stick with her, Freddy!" Dave panted. "If there's trouble ahead, you two eagle eyes will spot it sooner. Thanks just the same, pal."

And so it continued on—forever and ever—and seemingly without end. A thousand times the cold fear that the Russian girl had lost her way clutched at Dawson's heart. As for himself, he had no idea where in the world they were. The black of night closed in from all sides. The wind-driven rain cut and slashed down into his face with the sting of white hot needle points. And the howl of the storm in his ears was like some invisible force trying to pry off the top of his head. He wanted to cry out to the others to stop and rest a moment, but the words just wouldn't come. And each time he felt that urge he was both relieved and ashamed when it was gone.

And then suddenly the little party groping cross-country through the black, stormy night did come to a halt. It was the Russian girl who brought them to a halt. And her voice came to them through the howl of the storm almost like a whisper.

"The edge of the woods is but a step ahead!" she said. "Beyond it, the bomber. I do not think there are many guards, but there must be some. This, then, is a task for me. Remain motionless, please. But when you hear three quick shots from my revolver, come as though the entire German army were right behind you. It will not be long. This is what I do gladly for my Russia."

A sharp bark of protest came up into Dawson's mouth, but there it died in silence, for the spot of rain-swept darkness that had held the Russian girl was only a spot of rain-swept darkness now. She had gone in a flash, and the three youths could only hold up Ivan Nikolsk as gently as they could—and wait—each with his own thoughts.

However, there didn't seem to be any waiting period at all—at least not over thirty seconds at the most. Suddenly, from out of the wind-howling darkness ahead, came three distinct shots from a revolver! Nobody said anything. Nobody so much as let out a shout of joy. Dawson, Agent Jones, and Freddy Farmer simply hoisted Ivan Nikolsk up to a more comfortable position, and went plunging forward through the black stormy night. And in practically no time at all there was level ground under their feet, and they were running over toward the darker blur that was the B-Twenty-Five bomber.

"Here, to your left!" the voice of Senior Lieutenant Petrovski suddenly spoke in Dawson's ear. "Here is the bomber door. And watch out for those dead ones on the ground. There were five, and as I suspected they were inside the bomber to be out of the storm. They were surprised, and then they were dead. But here—give me your place. You must get in and start the engines. The three of us will manage. And may it be His wish that Ivan Nikolsk still lives!"

"And keeps living. Amen!" Dawson echoed as he shifted his share of the burden to the Russian girl's strong arms. "But how in the world did you—?"

"A knife makes no noise!" she cut him off almost harshly. "And the knives of Russia are very sharp!"

That's all Dawson wanted to know. He leaped past the girl, stumbled over the feet of some dead Nazi guard, and then ducked through the bomber's door, and made his way forward to the pilots' compartment. It seemed that he had hardly dropped into the seat, and was shooting out his hand for the switches, when Freddy Farmer dropped into the co-pilot's seat alongside.

"The chap's regaining consciousness again, Dave!" the English youth cried wildly. "Agent Jones is back there with him, with his notebook. Get us off, old thing, in a hurry. Blast if we're not going to grab this one out of thin air, too. What a girl, that Senior Lieutenant!"

"You mean, what an army!" Dawson shouted at him as he jabbed the starter buttons. "She's a whole doggone army, all by herself. And, boy, can she think way out in front of a guy, too! She's—"

The most welcome sound in all the world drowned out Dawson's voice at that moment: the powerful, thunderous roar of the B-Twenty-Five's twin Wright Cyclones coming to life. For a few precious seconds Dawson let them roar so that they would warm up as fast as possible. But at the end of that time he saw spitting flame off to the left and ahead, and the left side window of the pilots' compartment seemed to blow in on him in a shower of splintered glass.

"Get going, Dave!" Freddy Farmer cried excitedly.

"Get, nothing!" Dawson roared back. "We're gone!"

And even as the first word spilled off his lips he had kicked off the wheel brakes, forked the throttles wide open and was booting the B-Twenty-Five around the necessary half-turn to get it headed toward the far end of the field. And then as the bomber went forward, picking up speed with every powerful revolution of its propellers, orange, red, and yellow flame sparked and stabbed the darkness on both sides. Dawson felt bullets smash into the bomber, and even heard some of them twang off the engine cowlings, but the twin Cyclones did not miss a single beat, and the B-Twenty-Five went thundering forward until the wings could get their teeth in the air, and Dawson was able to lift the ship clear and nose it upward into the stormy night.

When no more than a couple of thousand feet were under his wings, he leveled off, checked with the automatic compass, and then swung the B-Twenty-Five around toward the north.

"Back to your job of navigating, Freddy, old sock!" he shouted at his pal. "Moscow next stop, and we're in a hurry. So you see to it that we hit it on the nose, hey, kid?"

"Have I ever missed?" Freddy snapped at him.

"Well, anyway," Dawson grinned back at him, "see that you don't make this the first time!"

Clear, brilliant sunshine flooded the length and breadth of Moscow. Four wonderful days Dawson, Agent Jones, and Freddy Farmer had spent in the fascinating Soviet city. Four swell days of sight-seeing, and banquets for heroes—themselves. Though the three of them had insisted that the major share of the glory belonged to Senior Lieutenant Petrovski, who had as quickly disappeared out of their lives as she had come into them.

As a matter of fact, five minutes after Dawson had landed the B-Twenty-Five on the Moscow military airport, the pretty-looking Russian girl was gone, just like that. And Colonel General Vladimir, who was at the airport to greet them, had explained in a few words, with a meaningful smile.

"When the war is won, her work will be done," he said. "But the war is not won, yet. And there are still many things to be done."

And so, just like that, the pretty Russian girl had stepped right out of their lives, and they had been more or less forced to accept her share of the glory. But it was not so much the glory as it was the unspoken prayers of thankfulness in their hearts that really blotted black memories from their minds, and let them enjoy their short stay in Moscow. A thankfulness that God had not let Ivan Nikolsk die, but had shielded his frail body from that final blast of Nazi death as Dawson had taken that bomber off the Tobolsk field. Shielded Nikolsk's body. And done even more. Had let him live so that he reached the Moscow hospital. And given him the strength to tell all of his share of the secret to Agent Jones, and to no less than Premier Joseph Stalin himself!

Neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer had been present. Their part of the job had been done. Besides, they had no real desire to hear a ghost of a man gasp out words that must first be fitted in with other words already known to United Nations Intelligence to make any sense. But later, when Agent Jones had joined them at their suite in the International Hotel, one look at his face had told them that more than a battlefield victory had been won. Important, invaluable information about enemy intentions had been gained. And in war, knowledge of what the enemy plans to do is a victory already won. So they had been content to keep questions off their tongues. Besides, Agent Jones' final job was to make his secret report to his superior, Air Vice-Marshal Leman, and to no one else.

However, as the three youths sat lounging about in their suite, resting before the final banquet in their honor—for they would leave for England on the morrow—Dawson stared hard at Agent Jones' good-looking face for a long minute, and could no longer hold back the question that had been in his mind ever since that luncheon in Simpson's.

"Your name isn't Jones, but Leman—right?" he practically blurted out.

Agent Jones stiffened and gave him a startled look. Then he grinned slowly, and sighed.

"A chap can't keep a thing from you, can he?" he said.

"Not when he's got a face as good-looking as his Dad's, who's an Air Vice-Marshal," Dave replied with a chuckle. "And, boy, I was the guy who told your Dad that you were probably imagining things, such as being followed, and your room searched, and stuff! No wonder he practically blew me down with a look!"

"Oh, so that's why you asked me if something about this chap didn't strike me, eh?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good gosh! I thought you knew that for certain. Why, it was obvious, old thing. Anybody—"

"Come off it, pal!" Dawson cried threateningly, and picked up a book. "Don't give me that. You didn't even guess, until Jones admitted it just now."

Freddy Farmer made a face, and walked over to the door.

"Rubbish!" he snorted. "We English chaps just keep things like that to ourselves. Not nosy, like some chaps I know. Well, I'll leave you two for a spell. A bit of shopping I must do. But I say, Jones—I mean, Leman—?"

Freddy opened the door, half turned, and grinned wickedly.

"I leave you, Leman, old thing, in honored company, you know," he chuckled. "Oh, quite! A gallant soldier all Russia must admire!"

And then Freddy Farmer leaped out into the hall as the book Dawson had been holding smacked against the inside of the door where Freddy Farmer's head had been just a moment before!

THE END

Page from

DAVE DAWSON WITH THE FLYING TIGERS

The music was soft and soothing; like no other music ever heard on earth before. And all about was beauty far beyond the power of words to depict, or the brush of an artist. Everything was so wonderful, so perfect, and so—

But through Dawson's throbbing, pounding head slipped a tiny inkling of the stark, naked truth. There was no soft, soothing music, there was no breath-taking beauty, and nothing was wonderful, or even approaching perfection. All was Death. Horrible, lingering, painful death that comes to a man lost, and unarmed, in the steaming lush jungle of north Burma.

Yes, it was just his brain, and all of his senses playing him tricks originated by the Devil. Tricks to make him let go, and just relax—and die. But he wouldn't let go. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. There was too much to—

The whine of engines pulled his head up out of the mud and slime. He rolled half over, gritted his teeth against the pain, and peered up through the twisted canopy of jungle growth.