The Vladivostok Express by R. K. Olson

The Vladivostok Express by R. K. Olson

Below, the landing strip appeared to surface amidst an emerald green sea of trees. The pilot pedaled the rudder and banked the long box-type fuselage bi-plane west. Vibrations from the Rolls-Royce Falcon III liquid-cooled V-12 engines with four blade propellers coursed up the arm that gripped the control stick. The pilot squinted through his googles as sunlight reeled down from the blue summer sky.

Nikoli, in the forward gun cockpit with a mounted 7.7mm Lewis-type machine gun, turned to look at the pilot. Boyd, the pilot, gave the signal for landing.

Boyd frowned. He shifted in his seat and let the rush of air from a hot morning wash over him. He didn’t care about the people he flew out of Russia. He didn’t care about their civil war. Red Russian? White Russian? It was all the same to him. He wanted to fly and get paid.

The rear fuselage of the wood and fabric thirteen-and-a-half-meter-long British-made Blackburn Kangaroo bi-plane bent and flexed as Boyd guided it to the airfield. Struts groaned and creaked as guide cables snapped taut.

The pilot glanced at the cluster of huts and the hanger below.

Boyd eased the bi-plane down until its two-wheeled fixed landing gear kissed the ground, followed by the tail skid. The secret airstrip, hacked out of the forest, was rough but serviceable. The bi-plane bounced and shuddered to a stop twenty-five yards from the hangar. Its propellers slowed to a lazy turning and Boyd cut the engines.

The humid summer heat embraced Boyd like a hot, wet towel. A bead of perspiration slid down his spine. He pulled himself out of the center cockpit and threw his legs over the side of the plane. As soon as his boots hit the ground, he unbuttoned his leather flight jacket. He pulled off his googles and leather aviator’s cap, revealing dark eyes in a brown-skinned face topped with short, black hair.

The front machine gunner slid out of his forward cockpit and scurried over to the bi-plane’s glazed cabin and opened its door. Three passengers crawled out of the cabin, blinking, each clutching a small travel bag. The first dangerous leg of their journey was behind them.

“The Vladivostok Express makes another run,” said the pilot as he walked away from the passengers. He headed toward the largest hut and the only one made of stone.

& & &

The slim black man wearing the leather jacket held out his right hand, palm up. The short, pudgy man twisted the end of his mustache and smiled. He counted out $10 and $20 dollar gold pieces from a metal strongbox into the open palm.

“Jackie, that was good flying today,” said the older man in a British accent. Specks of gray dotted his black slicked back hair. He wore a clean white shirt and blue cravat. He sat back down behind a large, dark wood desk carved with dragons. The desk dominated the room. A wireless radio transmitter sat off to one side against a wall.

Jackie Boyd counted the gold coins and nodded his satisfaction. Most of the coins were United States currency.

“I wouldn’t shortchange you, old man,” added the Englishman as he brushed his fingertips across the holstered Webley on his hip. “You are the backbone of this profitable little business.”

“Old Jackie Boyd likes to be careful,” muttered the black man. He shoved the coins in his pants pockets. “The only thing I like about the United States is its gold.”

“I don’t care where the gold comes from as long as it finds its way into my pockets. Why so glum, Jackie? Let’s have a tipple.”

Boyd paused and stretched himself to his full height of a shade under six feet. “When Mr. Hamilton-Smythe offers you something, you know he wants something in return,” said Boyd. “It’s the same with all white folks.”

“Come now, Jackie. It’s not like that.” His face flushed. “You’re not even 30-years-old yet. Much too young to be a curmudgeon. Follow me.”

Hamilton-Smythe carried on a one-sided banter that Boyd half listened to as they walked across the airfield in the sticky, humid morning air.

For the hundredth time Boyd wondered how Hamilton-Smythe had carved out a secret airfield where the borders of Russia, China and Japanese-controlled Korea collided. It was an easy hundred miles by plane to Vladivostok–if the Russian Civil War stayed out of the way. Boyd had decided that Hamilton-Smythe was working for a government. Boyd didn’t care, as long as he got paid in gold to fly.

They entered a wooden hut with a sign over the door reading “Delmonico’s”.

Across the cool, shadowy room was a bookcase displaying bottles of expensive liquors. Flies buzzed the liquor bottles. A window let in a meager light while a single lantern birthed animated shadows on the walls

“What are you drinking, Jackie?”

“Anything that’s free and wet.” Boyd sat down in a rough-hewn chair and put his booted feet on the table.

“The French trained you well during the war, Jackie.”

“Damn right! Had to go to France to learn how to fly and fight. America didn’t think negros should fly. Let alone get in a dogfight. Rich, white folks like you, Mr. Hamilton-Symth, don’t have to worry about those things.”

“Anyway, you’ve done well since the war ended . . . two years ago . . how time flies. Pun intended,” said Hamilton-Smythe, pouring brown liquid into two glasses. He smiled at his pun.

“I’m going to make and keep as much money as I can and then go back to where I grew up and show them. I’m going to wave it front of their noses. Then, I’ll live in the south of France. Right on the beach.”

“Something to look forward to! But right now, I need you to make another pickup in Vladivostok early tomorrow morning.” Hamilton-Symth took a mouthful of bourbon. He was perspiring under the arms and down his back.

Over the lip of his glass, Boyd studied Hamilton-Symth’s pink face and rounded belly. In the dim room, the English man’s eyes seemed to sink into his skull.

“Thought I heard voices,” said a third man, stepping over the threshold. He had close-cropped blonde hair and wore a leather jacket, army pants and work boots like Boyd. His square jaw relaxed into a rakish smile. He removed his jacket.

“I gave your countryman an assignment,” said Hamilton-Symth.

“Hot diggity. He can use the practice,” laughed the blonde man, pouring himself a drink.

“I can fly circles around you, Ryland,” said Boyd.

“Don’t get your nose out of joint,” countered Ryland.

Hamilton-Smythe changed the subject. “My two American pilots! Do you ever miss the United States?”

Ryland barked a laugh.

“That Nancy-boy President Wilson messed things up. They outlawed booze and I hear women can vote. With dames voting, we’ll all need to stay drunk. Prohibition be damned.” He tossed back a shot and barked another laugh.

Hamilton-Smythe was chuckling when a large Japanese man in khaki pants and shirt entered the room, ducking his head to get through the door. He was a foot taller than everyone else. He nodded to Hamilton-Smythe.

‘Ah! Mr. Sakamoto! That’s my cue to leave. Jackie, it’s the same pickup procedures. Just like today. Captain Kovalenko has arranged it,” said Hamilton-Smyth. “I leave you two American gentlemen to your chitchat.”

Ignoring Ryland, Boyd stood up and exited the hut.

Ryland stared at Boyd’s back with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

& & &

Boyd was up before dawn. He rousted Nikoli from his bunk to do a last check on the Blackburn Kangaroo aircraft he’d fly today.

“Hey, Nikoli. are you a Red or White Russian?”

Nikolai pulled his bull head away from the engine and said, “I Russian. No color. Russia war not good. Het.” The squat Russian wiped two meaty hands on oil stain coveralls. He turned and went back to crawling over the plane, performing maintenance.

Boyd cocked the actions on the bi-plane’s two Lewis-type machine guns mounted in the front and back.

Next, Boyd opened the glazed passenger cabin and checked the two Bregmann submachine guns stowed behind the seats. He handed a Bregmann to Nikoli and lifted his broom handled Mauser pistol from its hip holster and checked the loads.

The sun rimmed the horizon in the east and inched its way across the airfield. Boyd inhaled a deep breath and smelled the moisture in the air.

He climbed into the center cockpit as the birds were waking up and singing. Nikoli scrambled into the front machine gun cockpit.

Boyd opened the fuel lines and engaged the Rolls-Royce engines. He eased the throttle and steered the bi-plane into the wind. Streaks of sunlight spilled across the runway. He pulled the stick back, and the bi-plane roared to life in a teeth-rattling run down the airstrip and ascent into the clear morning sky

The unbroken swath of green below gave way to brown patches. Soon, the shimmering Sea of Japan stretched out below him. A thin smile formed on Boyd’s sharp features and he exhaled.

& & &

War had rotted, and the sun had scorched Vladivostok, leaving it beaten and worn. The Russian Civil War had extracted its pound of flesh from the port city. Boyd swooped over the fortified island in the mouth of the long, narrow harbor. British ships at the naval dockyards were offloading supplies for the White Russians.

To the east, Boyd spotted the rough airfield on the outskirts of the city. He eased into a downward glide toward the tarmac. Moments later, he landed with a gentle bounce and guided the black bi-plane to the side of the runaway. A smile tugged at his lips. He cut the motor.

One hundred yards ahead, his eyes caught a flicker of motion in the squat airfield command center tucked among three hangers. Boyd watched as soldiers poured out of the building.

Boyd climbed out of the cockpit and motioned to Nikoli to stay at his machine gun.

“Where’s Kovalenko?” asked Boyd out loud.

Boyd remained motionless as a dozen soldiers, boots pounding the tarmac and wearing brown uniforms and soft caps, surrounded the plane. The insignia on their shirts showed them to be privates. He didn’t know what White Russian unit. Each carried the standard issue M1891 Mosin-Nagant rifle. The soldiers paused, with puzzled expressions staring at Boyd.

Nikoli hailed the soldiers in Russian. The only word Boyd could make out was “Kovalenko”. He kept his movements slow and his right hand away from his Mauser.

Nikoli’s large head bobbed up and down as he spewed Russian.

The soldiers knitted their brows under their caps.

The tension was about to boil over when he spied a soldier walking authoritatively toward them.

Kovalenko!

The tall, slim Russian officer strode to the plane, took out a cigarette and lit it before he said anything to the soldiers. His dark gray uniform with white piping displayed his rank as a captain of the First General Markov’s Officer’s Regiment. He wore a white cap on his head at a rakish angle. Kovalenko gave a quiet order to the soldiers. They hesitated. Another sharper order from the captain ushered them back toward the hangars.

Boyd looked into the captain’s gray eyes set in a darkly handsome, narrow face.

“What the hell was that?”

Kovalenko exhaled a long stream of smoke, his expression turning somber.

“It’s more difficult to arrange pick-ups,” he replied in clipped English. “We need to put things on hold. I need to see Hamilton-Smythe.”

“You do what you need to do. We have cargo to deliver,” replied Boyd.

Kovalenko replaced an irritated look on his narrow face with a disarming smile. “Yes, you do. Here she comes.” He turned and waved toward a hangar while grinding his cigarette into the tarmac. Boyd caught Nikoli’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Her name is Katerina Semenova. Another Russian aristocrat escaping the war to live in exile,” said Kovalenko.

A figure started striding across the sunlit tarmac, carrying a small travel bag.

Boyd got back in the cockpit and started warming the engine. It spit and coughed to life as the props whirled and caught. Vladivostok was hot and humid in the summer. Boyd wanted to get back in the air and cool off.

Nikoli slid out of the forward gun cockpit and greeted Semenova. Kovalenko offered to carry the blonde-haired, young woman’s travel bag. Boyd whistled silently as he watched her walk by. A generous mouth sat beneath two clear blue eyes with the classic Slavic high cheekbones and alabaster skin. She carried her leather trench coat folded over her arm. Her willowy frame matched Kovalenko’s in height.

The captain escorted her to the cabin and helped her inside. Boyd raised an eyebrow when he noticed she was wearing pants as travel attire.

Nikoli sidled up to the central cockpit and over the noise of the engine said, “Kovalenko coming.”

“Jesus! We were supposed to transport one passenger! I don’t like changes in plan.”

Nikoli shrugged. “He said he’ll order soldiers to shoot if we not take him.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Boyd snapped.

Nikoli hopped into the forward gun cockpit. Boyd throttled and eased the plane on to the runway. The props increased speed, and the engine dropped into a powerful purr.

The runway was clear and Boyd pulled back on the stick, feeling the powerful engines surge. He strained to keep the stick steady as the plane shuddered and vibrated as it streaked down the tarmac.

Boyd felt that momentary weightlessness as the plane left earth. He smiled and all the tenseness in his jawline fell away, replaced by a softness around his dark eyes. For a fleeting moment, everything was in harmony.

“Fly, Jackie Boyd, fly.”

& & &

Gold and blue combined into a sunlit sky. The Sea of Japan looked cool and inviting. Boyd was cruising at eight thousand feet when he noticed the two small black dots behind his Blackburn Kangaroo bi-plane. As they got closer, the dots materialized into Nieuport fighters.

Two years as a French fighter pilot over the trenches honed Boyd’s quick reflexes and sharp instincts. His gut told him the bi-planes were coming for him. Boyd identified the fighters as Nieuport 28s with a top speed of hundred miles an hour.

“They can match us in speed, but they don’t have Jackie Boyd for a pilot,” Boyd said to himself.

As if the Nieuports could read his mind, they sped up, dancing in on his tail. Boyd dodged the burst of bullets from the first machine gun as he twisted the Kangaroo to the right. Separating, they transcribed long arcs to come at the Kangaroo from the three o’clock position. The fighters were going for an easy kill. He pushed the question of why they were attacking him aside and focused his mind on the dogfight.

Boyd decided he couldn’t outrun the Nieuports. but he could out fly them. The engines of his pursuers buzzed around him like big, angry wasps. Boyd made the plane swerve and veer dodging spitting machine gun fire from the closest Nieuport.

Another burst from the other Nieuport’s gun strafed the rear fuselage. Boyd heard the slugs rip and shred wood and fabric. The fighters circled for another run, playing cat and mouse.

Boyd dove toward the sea and cranked the stick, banked to the left and maneuvered the Kangaroo’s forward machine gun into play. He could see the muzzle flash as Nikoli peppered a fighter with bullets.

The fighters separated, and Boyd pulled on the stick, streaking towards the closest adversary. Nikoli raked its tail and rudder with lead. The fighter went into a downward spiral, but the pilot corrected for losing partial rudder control. He skimmed the water, swung wide to the east and climbed directly below the Kangaroo.

Boyd glanced up. He had one fighter above him at twelve o’clock and one below at six o’clock. Waving his hand, he caught Nikoli’s attention and made a throat cutting gesture. The front gunner waved back.

Boyd leveled off the Kangaroo at ten thousand feet, pulled the stick back and cut the motor. The plane hung for a second upright with its tail pointing to the earth. Then it dropped like a stone.

It flashed by the Nieuport at six o’clock and Nikoli spit a barrage of bullets, with the Bergmann submachine gun raking the Nieuport as the Kangaroo plummeted past. Boyd turned the engines over bringing them grinding and spitting to life.

“Never saw that coming, did you!” shouted Boyd, wind whistling around his ears.

Black, oily smoke billowed from the plane. The Nieuport limped back toward Vladivostok.

Boyd opened up the throttle and headed in the opposite direction toward home.

The remaining fighter dipped and shot up in the blue sky underneath the Kangaroo and fired a barrage of bullets shattering the glazed cabin window. It veered west and retraced its path back to the base.

“Yes, sir! Jackie Boyd is the best damn pilot in the world!” yelled Boyd.

The words died in his throat. Nikoli lay slumped over in the gun cockpit.

Boyd uttered a silent curse, pursed his lips and raced back to Hamilton-Smythe’s secret airfield.

& & &

The bi-plane bumped along the rutted landing strip. Before it had come to a stop, Boyd was out of the cockpit, running to Nikoli.

Nikoli was dead. The inside of the forward gun cockpit was a mess of spattered blood. The tang of blood was smothering in the summer heat. Boyd turned away and saw Kovalenko and Semenova disappear into Hamilton-Smythe’s hut.

& & &

“Captain Kovalenko! What a surprise,” Hamilton-Smythe exclaimed, standing up behind his desk to shake hands and be introduced to Semenova. Mr. Sakamoto nodded to the pair and went back to fiddling with a wireless transmitter against the wall.

“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Semenova. The Captain and I have business to discuss,” Hamilton-Smythe said. “Next door is a refreshment hut called “Delmonico’s” after a famous New York City restaurant. A joke from an American pilot. We’ll come get you when it is time to leave.”

Kovalenko translated the information into Russian, and Semenova nodded and exited the room.

Hamiton-Smythe’s eyes followed Semenova out of the room before he sat down with a sigh. His hands in his lap.

“Not good, Captain. Not good.” He rubbed his nose.

“I had to warn you. They know about your airfield!”

“You could have used the wireless?” He nodded toward the transmitter. Mr. Sakamoto was no longer sitting in the chair.

Kovalenko flushed and looked away.

Hamilton-Smythe clicked his tongue. “You’ve been naughty, Captain. I think you are a spy for both sides and that you gave up the location of my transportation business to advance your own interests at my expense. Now you’re arrived unannounced to cover your tracks.”

Kovalenko started. “That’s a lie!”

“No, it’s not. Your being here helps confirm your, shall we call it what it is? Treachery.” He lit a cigarette. “I have other spies, you know” “

The pudgy Englishman pulled a black Webley revolver from under the carved wood desk adding, “When you impact my pocketbook, it becomes personal.”

“Don’t shoot!” shouted Kovalenko, shaking.

“Of course not,” said Hamilton-Smythe in a soothing voice. “Too messy.”

Mr. Sakamoto stepped forward from the shadows behind Kovalenko. He wrapped his powerful arms around Kovalenko’s head and wrenched left, then right. The snap of bone echoed off the hut’s stone walls. Mr. Sakamoto dragged the body to the back room and returned.

Hamilton-Smythe puffed his cigarette and sighed again. He placed the Webley on the desk. “We’ve milked this operation for all it’s worth. Kovalenko gave us up to the White Russians, Red Russians, British, Japanese–whomever. It doesn’t matter. We will leave today by plane. Proceed with the arrangements.”

 He pulled out an oil-skin bag from a drawer and was about to stuff the papers strewn across his desk into the bag when Boyd rushed into the room, his dark eyes shooting sparks.

“Nikoli is dead.”

Hamilton-Smythe didn’t speak for five heartbeats.

“He knew the risks.” Then looking bored, he picked up the Webley. He pointed it at Boyd and shook his head.

“You were not supposed to make it back either, Jackie. I called in a lot of favors to get those fighters after you, but you are one damn good pilot.”

Staring down the barrel of the Webley, Boyd ran his tongue over dry lips.

“Kovalenko gave away our location. We are moving operations,” continued Hamiton-Smythe. “We can’t have any loose ends.”

“I’m a loose end?”

“Correct.” Hamilton-Smyth cocked an ear.

A high-pitched whine followed by an explosion rocked the hut. Boyd sprang out the door.

Hamilton-Smythe brushed debris off his starched white shirt while dust swirled in the air. “So the bombing begins! No loose ends, Mr. Sakamoto. Get Jackie Boyd. He’ll head to his hut for his gold. Tie off that loose end and meet me where we hid the plane in ten minutes.”

“Ryland?”

“Ryland works for the Reds and is useful to me. Here, take the Webley.” Mr. Sakamoto slipped out the back door of the hut.

Hamilton-Smythe ran a hand through his hair and pulled two leather sacks from a desk drawer, and placed them on the desk as Semenova glided into the room.

“Sorry, my dear, I cannot return your money,” he said in halting Russian. He looked down and centered a pile of papers on the desk.

The spacing between explosions outside was narrowing. The cloying smell of fuel and smoke mingled with dust wafted into the stone hut.

A metallic click paused Hamilton-Smythe’s paper shuffling and, with eyebrows raised, he lifted his head to see Semenova with a handgun. Her face was half in shadow.

“For you, Miss Semenova. I’ll make an exception to the refund rule.”

“Please don’t bother,” she replied in British English.

Hamilton-Smythe’s eyebrows shot up even higher.

“You are British? Or Russian?”

“British Army Intelligence. We want your contact list. We believe you compromised some of our spies.”

Was that a faint glance at the bookcase?

“The list is in my head. I didn’t write it down. Too risky. My transport business — the Vladivostok Express, as some call it — keeps me busy helping Russians that can afford it a way out of the war to a better life.”

“I think your business interests are more extensive. You’ll do anything for a shilling. You sell all sorts of things to the Red and White Russians, the French, British, and Americans,” said Semenova.

“I deal in information. It’s clean. My business is little different from the sweet shop found on a corner of every English village. I’m here to serve my customers treats and tidbits.”

The bombs rained down faster pockmarking the airfield with holes. The ground trembled under Semenova’s braced legs.

“We’re putting you out of business and closing your sweet shop. Effective immediately.”

Bang!

Semenova’s revolver jerked in her hand.

Hamilton-Smythe stared at the blossoming red spot on his starched white shirt. He slumped across the desk and slid to the floor. A streak of blood smeared the papers on the desk. She checked to make sure he was dead and rifled through his pockets.

“Hamilton-Smythe had glanced at the bookcase when I asked for the list,” murmured Semenova. She rummaged through the bookcase contents and found nothing unusual except an Eton College rugby trophy.

Moving the bookcase revealed a small hole in the wall containing a metal money box. The box was solid steel with a combination lock. She thought of shooting the lock when she paused and smiled.

She lifted down the rugby trophy and traced a finger along the date: May 10, 1901.

“Let’s see if 10-05-01 works.”

Click.

 The metal box opened.

“Voila! What a clever boy you are, Mr. Hamilton-Smythe.”

She emptied the safe’s contents into her travel bag, including a black book filled with names and contact information. A quick search of the desk produced a match book. She lit the full book of matches and dropped them on the pile of papers on the desk. Before leaving the room, Semenova tipped the wireless transmitter over and crashed it to the floor.

& & &

Boyd emptied his lungs to calm his breathing. “Gold and a plane. That’s what I need.”

The ground under Boyd’s feet shook, and the air churned with dust from another bombing run. He could hear machine gun fire as planes strafed the airfield.

He dropped to his knees and scratched at the floor of his hut, exposing a battered metal biscuit box. He grabbed two small leather sacks from the box and reached his hut door in two strides.

The leather sack in his right hand exploded, scattering gold coins like glittering stars across the ground. For an instant, Boyd stared, stunned.

A revolver barked again, and a second shot roared past his ear. Mr. Sakamoto was plowing a path through the airfield’s smoke and dust like a great ocean liner.

He lowered the Webley again for a third shot as Boyd flung himself back into the wood hut just as the building received a bomb hit. The hut lifted and then crashed back onto the ground. The roof collapsed in a puff of dirty smoke.

Boyd, covered in dust, searched for his Mauser under the debris. He scrambled up and bumped into Mr. Sakamoto at what remained of the hut’s doorway. Boyd swung the bag of coins in his left hand, delivering a direct smash across Mr. Sakamoto’s large, fleshy face. Mr. Sakamoto stumbled backwards as more shiny coins spilled to the ground from the bag. He shook his head and raised the revolver, pointing it at Boyd.

Suddenly, Mr. Sakamoto’s body jerked like a marionette. Strafing rounds slammed into him, sounding like the fast cracks of a whip. A red mist enveloped his body. The Webley and Mr. Sakamoto dropped to the ground.

Boyd grabbed the Webley and shoved gold coins in his jacket pockets. He hesitated, looking at the coins strewn on the ground, and cursed.

The explosions and strafing runs disoriented Boyd and sweat stung his eyes. Peering through the swirling black, oily smoke, Boyd saw that a Sopwith Camels was intact.

At that moment, its propellers started spinning, and it headed down the runway. Boyd raised the Webley and shot two rounds into the bi-plane. He dropped the empty pistol and sprinted to the moving plane. He reached up and grabbed the edge of the cockpit, pulled himself up and smashed his fist into the face of the pilot.

“Ryland!”

The bi-plane swerved as Ryland jerked a Colt revolver free. The explosion deafened Boyd and he tumbled to the ground as the bi-plane roared itself airborne.

Boyd gazed at a clear, blue sky filled with whining bombers. He was on his back. His ears were ringing.

He propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed the wrecked airfield. The hangar was in ruins. The Blackburn Kangaroo and a Sopwith Camel were a jumble of twisted metal and splintered wood. Huts were on fire and the sharp smell of burning rubber drifted through the thick air.

He moved like an old man getting to his feet. Perspiration plastered his shirt to his back.

Black smoke billowed into the hot, summer sky and swirling dust danced across the airfield. The airfield was eerily quiet.

In this quiet moment, she appeared to float across the smokey airfield like a Valkyrie. Her blonde hair brushed slim shoulders and leather trench coat flapped around her long legs with every step. Behind two cool, piercing blue eyes, Semenova gestured with the 32 caliber Remington pistol in her hand.

“Get up. Follow me,” said Semenova.

“What the hell?”

“Follow me if you want to live.” She motioned across the airfield with her pistol.

“Wait a damn minute, where’d you get that British accent? Who are you anyway?”

“There are horses a mile away. I hope you can ride.” She cross-slung the travel bag over her shoulder and started a loping run toward the trees.

He heard the bombers again. They were coming back. He followed Semenova into the woods.

Breathless from the run, they found the two sway-backed farm horses loaned from a local farmer on Britain’s payroll. The bombing was faint and getting fainter as they pushed the horses through the woods. Semenova stopped to consult a compass.

“Where are we going?” asked Boyd.

“To the escape plane. I’m with British Army Intelligence. The first bombing run killed the pilot flying me out of here. He gave me directions to the horses and plane before he died. I need you to fly us out of here. There should be a stream nearby that we cross.”

They splashed across the stream and dragged the pine boughs off the plane used to camouflage it from the air.

Boyd smiled at the Sopwith two-seat scout bi-plane with a front-mounted Vickers machine gun. He hopped into the front cockpit, Semenova slid into the cockpit behind Boyd.

The engine sputtered and sprayed black oil before kicking over. The props whirled and picked up speed. The runway was the secluded meadow facing the plane.

“You can put that gun away,” shouted Boyd.

“Start flying Mr. Boyd.”

“You’re not going to shoot me while we are in the air? We’ll both die.”

“Fly south.”

“You’re the boss,” Boyd hollered over the whirring motor. “How do I know you won’t kill me when we land?”

“You don’t” she shouted over the roar of the engine as the bi-plane gathered speed.

“Now, fly Mr. Boyd fly.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright R. K. Olson 2024