The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (61 page)

There was momentary silence, and in the silence, Turk jerked a thumb at the big man, and said, contemptuously,
“Gnus!”
using the Russian word for abomination applied in the taiga to the swarms of mosquitoes, flies, and midges that make life a curse.

The crowd roared with laughter. “
Gnus! Gnus!
Ha, that’s a good one!”

His face swollen with anger, the big man got to his feet. Instantly, the crowd was still. From the expressions on their faces, Turk could see that most of them were frightened. Continuing to eat, he let his eyes slide over toward the men’s table. There was an eager light in the eyes of the other two men, and Madden was sure this was what they had been working up to all evening.

The big man, whom he had heard called Batou, came toward him, and Turk continued to eat. When he was close by, the big man reached out suddenly. Turk’s head slipped to one side to avoid the clutching hand, and then he kicked the big Russian viciously on the shin.

With a bellow of pain, Batou bent over, grabbing at his shin. Then Turk grabbed him by the beard with one hand, and jerking him forward, leaped to his feet and smashed a heavy right fist into Batou’s midsection. The big fellow gasped and Turk shoved him so hard against the wall that he rebounded and collapsed to the floor.

There were audible gasps in the room, and then Madden quietly sat down and started to finish his cheese and
kasha.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the two men at the table and Batou with apparent unconcern.

He finished his meal as the Russian got up. Stealthily, he observed the other man’s rise. Batou’s face was vicious as he strode across the room. “So!” he roared, “you t’ink it iss so easy to—”

Turk came up from the table, his left fist swinging.

The blow missed Batou’s chin, slid along his face, and ripped his ear. With a cry of rage, Batou swung with both hands, but Turk went under them, and slammed both fists into the big man’s stomach. Then he straightened up and grabbing Batou by the beard jerked his head forward into a driving left, and kicked his feet from under him.

Accustomed to winning fights by sheer size and strength, Batou was lost, helpless. He staggered to his feet, and in that instant, the other two men closed in. Adroitly, Turk sidestepped and kicked a chair in the taller man’s path, then he struck the other man with a wicked pivot blow and caught him entirely unprepared and knocked him staggering into the wall. Turk closed in on the big fellow, jabbed a left to his mouth, then three more hard ones in rapid-fire order, hooked a hard right to the fellow’s cheek and smashed his lips to pulp with a left hook.

He wheeled at a yell, and the younger man was on his feet, a knife poised to throw. Wide open and off balance, too far away to reach the man, Turk Madden was helpless. He didn’t have a chance and he knew it. The man’s hand moved back to throw, then there was a swish and a dull thud. Turk stared unbelieving.

The haft of a knife was protruding from the man’s throat!

Turk spun about and Arseniev was standing in the door, another knife ready to throw. He smiled, lifting one eyebrow at Turk. “Turnabout is fair play, no? You save me, I save you. What is the trouble?”

Turk turned, just in time to see Batou and the other man slipping out the back door. He shrugged, letting them go. Briefly, he explained.

“I have heard some rumors,” Arseniev said gravely, “that there is treachery here. This Batou. He is a bad man, a renegade. He murdered and robbed during the revolution. Then he went away to Korea. Now he is back here, and for no good. I believe this fight was deliberate.”

They returned to the plane, and as they approached, Turk noticed three soldiers were on guard around the ship. Arseniev spoke to them briefly, the men saluted, and marched away. Powell was waiting inside the ship.

Turk slipped into the pilot’s seat, and took the plane out on the field. There he turned into the wind, and in a few seconds they were aloft. Madden banked steeply, and flew west. Arseniev and Powell were surprised at the direction taken.

“If anyone’s watching, that may keep them guessing awhile,” he said, “even if not for long.”

“If we find these planes, what then?” Powell asked.

Arseniev indicated the two-way radio. “We’ll contact Khabarovsk, and they will send out a fleet of bombers. We’ll show them a thing or two. Besides,” he indicated the lockers, “we have a few messages for them ourselves, if necessary.”

After flying a dozen miles due west, Turk swung the Grumman and started north, reaching for altitude. At twelve thousand feet he leveled off and soon left the hamlets and cultivated fields behind. He swung away from the railroad, and headed for the coast.

“I’ll follow the coast to the Nahtohu, then follow it west to the forks. After that, finding the lake should not be hard.”

He checked his guns. The Grumman mounted four machine guns forward; .30 calibers. Aft, there were three gun ports and two automatic rifles available.

“What have you been doing with this crate?” Powell demanded. “I thought you were flying express in the Indies?”

Turk grinned. “I was, but those East Indies are a long way from tamed yet. Lots of times I was flying gold, pearls, rubies, diamonds. Flying over wild country, over Moro, headhunter and cannibal country, and there’s lots of renegades. Sometimes I had trouble.”

Below them a cold gray sea was running up on the shore, boiling among worn black rocks, and curling back in angry white foam along the huge cliffs that lined the sea. The forest below them did not seem green, it seemed black, lonely, and forlorn like the woods of a dead planet. Here and there on the heights there was snow, and down below in the occasional clearings they could see it, too.

Turk studied the dead gray of the sky. “Storm making up,” he said, “but there’s plenty of time. That’s the Nahtohu coming up.” He swung the Grumman to cut over the woods and intersect the river trail.

“Madden!” Arseniev’s voice was sharp. “A Nakajima fighter is coming down toward us!”

“Okay,” Turk replied. “Get those automatic rifles and stand by aft. But don’t shoot unless I give the word, or he starts. Then pour it into him!”

He flew right straight ahead. His mind was working swiftly. It would have to be quick, it would have to be surprise. The fighter’s armament was no better, but his speed and maneuverability were much greater.

He glanced around. The fighter hadn’t offered to open fire. It must be that he was uncertain. Turk slowed up suddenly to let the Nakajima overtake him. It did, coming at such a terrific rate that when the Grumman abruptly lost speed the fighting plane drew ahead. Madden suddenly banked steeply toward the Nakajima, and at the same instant, opened fire with his full forward armament.

The savage blast of fire caught the uncertain Japanese unprepared. A shell exploded against his instrument board, riddling his body with fragments. As he sprang up in the cockpit, a hurricane blast of machine-gun fire swept the ship from wing to tail assembly, and the Nakajima rolled over and started for earth, screaming like a dying eagle.

Turk pulled the ship into an Immelmann and wheeled back over the spot where the plane had been. But the pursuit ship was a gone gosling. It was headed for earth with a comet’s tail of fire streaming out behind. Paralleling it fell the black body of the pilot, turning over and over in the air.

He’d had no chance to think, let alone to act.

“Nice work,” Powell said, coming forward. His eyes were narrow, and he was sweating. “You don’t gamble much, do you?”

Madden looked up quickly. “Gamble? With a war at stake?”

Powell laughed, his voice a little harsh. “Some would. You had me worried there for a minute!”

Turk eased back on the stick and began to climb. He glanced at the altimeter. Slowly the needle left ten thousand behind, then twelve…fifteen…sixteen….

Powell looked uncomfortable, and loosened his collar. Arseniev, who had rejoined them, was watching Powell curiously.

At twenty thousand Turk leveled off and continued west. “What now?” Powell’s breathing was heavy in the thin air. “Better land and look around on foot, hadn’t we? If they see us we’ll have a flock of pursuit jobs around us faster than we can think, and they’ll do what you do, shoot first, then talk!”

“No,” Turk said. “If they are down there, we’re going to call Khabarovsk, then attack.”

“Attacking twelve pursuit ships?” Powell said, his face getting red. “You’re no combat pilot! You’re mad!”

“Didn’t you know that?” Turk grinned. “And that’s not true, I flew in Spain.”

Powell turned, looking at Madden. “You flew in Spain?”

“That’s right,” Turk nodded. “And I was a prisoner for a while during the siege of the Alcazar at Toledo. Remember?”

“Remember…” Suddenly, Powell’s hand flashed for a gun, and Turk shoved the stick forward. The Grumman’s nose dropped and Powell, overbalanced, plunged forward, his head smashing against the wall. He slumped in his safety belt, and Turk eased the stick back and brought the ship to an even keel. Arseniev’s eyes were bright.

“All the time he was a traitor!” he whispered hoarsely. “All the time!”

“Sure,” Madden agreed. “I couldn’t place him at first. He’s a German, lived in England for several years, but he was with Franco. You’d better tie him up.”

Arseniev glanced down as Turk banked the ship. On the shores of a small lake were lined a long row of planes. Half of them were in the process of being camouflaged with branches and reeds. The others still were uncovered. There must have been a hundred.

Arseniev, his face white, bound Powell hand and foot, then he stepped over to the radio. “Calling Khabarovsk…calling Khabarovsk…enemy airdrome located…between the forks of the Nahtohu…position 138 degrees east, 47 degrees 2 minutes north…. Approximately one-hundred planes.”

Turk glanced down again. Below them the airdrome was a scene of mad activity.

“Heard us!” he snapped. “Get set, I’m going down! Get on those bombs!”

Turk pulled the Grumman into as steep a dive as she would take and went roaring toward earth. When the ship was built she had been fitted with a bomb rack, and he had taken her just that way. Now it would come in handy.

Roaring toward the ground he saw one of the pursuit ships streaking along the field, and he opened up with the guns. The ship was just clearing the trees at the end of the field when it dipped suddenly, smashed into the timber and burst into flame.

The Grumman dove into the field so close that frightened Japanese scattered in every direction, then Arseniev pulled the bomb release, and Turk brought the ship out of the dive. For an instant he didn’t think the wings would stay with her, but they did, and the ship was shooting away over the trees when the thunder of the bursting bombs reached their ears. He did a quick wingover and started back, his forward armament chattering wickedly.

He strafed the field from beginning to end, and a pursuit ship that had started to make the run for a takeoff spilled over into flame. He saw men start across the field.

Behind him, Arseniev was busy dropping incendiary bombs, then the Grumman began to climb, and Turk looked back over his shoulder. Several blazes were burning furiously around the field, two planes had definitely crashed there, and several were on fire.

He turned south. “We’re getting out of here, Fyodor. Better inform your boys!”

Madden heard the voice replying behind him, then Arseniev switched off the radio.

“There’s a force coming!” he yelled.

Turk tooled the Grumman on south, then swung away from the mountains toward the marshes. Suddenly the motor sputtered, coughed, and Turk worked, his face changing. The motor sputtered again, missed, then died.

“What is it?” Arseniev demanded.

“Gas!” Turk indicated his fuel gauges. “Must have winged us as we were leaving.”

He put the Grumman into a slow glide, studying the earth below. It was marshland, with occasional ponds and lakes. But all were small. Suddenly, just ahead, he saw one that was somewhat larger. He pushed the stick forward, leveled off, and landed smoothly on the lake water. With what momentum remained, Turk tooled the ship into a small opening in the marsh. Nearby was a small island of firm ground.

“Better get on that radio and report,” Turk said. “I’m going to look around.”

He tried a hummock of grass near the plane, and it was solid. A flock of birds flew past, staying low. Turk turned to look at them, scowling. Then he looked up, studying the sky. There were clouds about, and the wind was picking up, but not much yet. Along the horizon there was a low black fog.

Suddenly, complete stillness fell over the marsh. Above, the clouds had ragged edges, and the black fog along the horizon suddenly lifted, and then the sun was covered.

“Arseniev!” Turk shouted. “Quick! We’ve got to get the ship lashed down. We’re going to have a storm!”

In a mounting wind they labored desperately, furiously. There were no birds in sight now, and it was beginning to snow. When the ship was lashed down, Madden turned, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to make some shelter!”

“What about the ship?” Arseniev protested. “That will do, won’t it?”

“Might be blown out on the lake. Start cutting reeds, and work like you’ve never worked before.” Turk glanced around hastily. “Don’t cut them there, or there. Just over there, and work fast!”

The wind was blowing in gusts now, cold as ice, and the snow was lifting into the air. Turk bent his back and slashed reeds with the bolo he always carried in the ship, sweat broke out on his face despite the cold, but he labored on, swinging with his bolo like a madman. Uncertain, Arseniev followed suit, not sure why they were cutting, but working desperately against time.

Leaping back to the bunches of reeds left uncut, Turk began binding them together with stout cord brought from the plane. Then he wove the long reeds closely together among the clumps, drawing them down low above the ground, and working the gathering snow close around the edges. Running to the plane, he caught up a canvas tarp and raced back, doubling it over on the ground under the covering of the reeds that was partly a hut, partly just a low shelter.