CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aces Don't Wait
As though the gods 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 mass 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 Nazi airplane mechanics might complete their routine chores, and go elsewhere out of sight. The four Nazi 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 Nazi-occupied Russian ground. A portion of it, because of the necessity of changing course to avoid personal contact with Nazi 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 Nazis 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 Nazi 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 Nazis have learned not to go around unarmed any place in Russia. Quite!"