She fired a burst from her machine guns at the dead tanks, just to mark her own hatred. The recoil made her aircraft shudder for a moment. The U-2 had been a trainer before the war, but proved an excellent raider against the Germans and then against the Lizards. It was quiet—the Germans had dubbed it the Flying Sewing Machine—and flew at treetop height and below. Speed wasn’t everything.
“I’m still alive,” she remarked. Again, the slipstream blew her words away, but not the truth in them. The Lizards hacked higher-performance Red Air Force planes out of the sky as if they knew they were coming—no, not
as if
, for Intelligence was sure they
did
know, with help from electronics of the kind that the Soviet Union was just beginning to acquire. The U-2, though, was small enough—maybe slow enough, too—to escape their notice.
Ludmila patted the fabric skin of the plane’s fuselage. She’d been in the
Osoaviakhim,
the Soviet pilot training organization, before the war. When she joined the Red Air Force after getting out of Kiev just before the Germans took it, she’d wanted to fly bombers or real fighters. Getting assigned to
a Kukuruznik
squadron had seemed a letdown: she’d flown in U-2s to learn to handle other, more deadly, aircraft
Time changed her perspective, as time has a way of doing. She patted the U-2’s fabric skin again. It kept flying, kept fighting, no matter what. “Good old mule,” she said.
As she neared Kaluga, she grew alert once more. The Lizards still held the town, though they hadn’t tried to push north from it since the bomb went off. She knew only too well that she hadn’t been invulnerable till now, just lucky—and careful. If you stopped being careful, you wouldn’t stay lucky.
Far off in the distance, she spotted a couple of Lizard trucks stopped right out in the open by a haystack. Maybe one of them had broken down, and the other paused to help. Any which way, they made a tempting target. Her thumb slid to the firing button for the U-2’s machine guns.
A moment later, she used stick and pedals to twist the little biplane away from the trucks in as tight a turn as she could manage. That haystack didn’t have quite the right shape to be sitting in a Russian field—but it was just the right shape to serve as
maskirovka
for one of the Lizards’ antiaircraft tanks.
She headed back toward the airstrip from which she’d taken off. If anything, dignifying the place with that description was flattery: it was just a stretch of field with underground shelters for the pilots and groundcrew, and with barley-draped camouflage nets to cover up the planes. A few hundred meters away, a false strip with dummy aircraft, tents, and occasional radio signals was much more prominent. The Lizards had bombed it several times. Soviet
maskirovka
really worked.
As Ludmila approached the airstrip, a fellow who looked like any other peasant took off his hat and waved at her with it in his left hand. She accepted the course correction and shifted slightly more to the north.
The
Kukuruznik
bounced to a stop. It was light enough to have no trouble on plowed-up dirt, and to stop very quickly once the wheels touched down. Like moles emerging from their burrows, groundcrew men dashed toward the biplane, and reached it before the prop had stopped spinning.
“Out, out, out!” they yelled, not that Ludmila wasn’t already descending from the U-2. No sooner had her boots touched ground than they manhandled the biplane toward what looked like just another piece of field. But two of them had run ahead to pull aside the camouflage netting that covered a broad trench. In went the aircraft. Back went the netting. Within two minutes of landing, not a trace of the
Kukuruznik
remained visible.
Ludmila ducked under the netting, too, to help ready the biplane for its next mission. She’d made herself into a good mechanic. Red Air Force pilots needed to be good mechanics, because very often the groundcrew weren’t. That wasn’t the case here; one of the fellows at the base was as good a technician and repairman as she’d ever known. Even so, she helped him as much as she could. It was, after all, her own neck.
“
Zdrast’ye,
Comrade Pilot,” the mechanic said in accented Russian. He was a tall, lean, ginger-bearded fellow with a grin that said he refused to take her or anything else too seriously.
“
Zdrast’ye,”
she answered shortly. Georg Schultz was a genius with a spanner in his hands, but he was also a dedicated Nazi, a panzer gunner who’d attached himself to the airbase staff when they were still operating out of the Ukraine. She’d helped him get his place there; she’d known him and his commander, Heinrich Jäger, before. Every so often, she wondered how wise she’d been.
“How did it go?” he asked, this time in German, of which she had a smattering: more than that now, thanks to practice with Jäger and with Schultz.
“Well enough,” she answered in the same language. She turned away from him toward the
Kukuruznik
so she wouldn’t have to notice the way his eyes roamed up and down her body as if she were naked rather than covered by a heavy leather flight suit. His hands had tried roaming up and down her body a couple of times, too. She’d said no as emphatically as she knew how, but
nyet
wasn’t a Russian word he seemed to have grasped. For that matter, he wasn’t what you’d call solid on
nein,
either.
Maybe her indifference was finally getting through to him, though; the next question he asked seemed strictly business: “Did you fly over the crater from the big bomb you people set off a little while ago?”
“Aber natürlich,”
she answered. “It’s a good direction from which to approach: I can be sure no Lizard guns will be waiting for me from that position, and it lets me penetrate deep into their lines.”
Schultz puffed out his chest. “Me and Major Jäger—Colonel Jäger now—we were part of the raiding crew that got you Russkis the metal I expect you used to build that bomb.”
“Were you?” She wanted the words to come out cold as ice, but they didn’t, quite. One thing she reluctantly granted Schultz was his habit of telling the truth as he saw it. She found that sort of bluntness alarming in a way: how had he managed to keep it without getting raked over the coals by the
Gestapo
? Any Russian so outspoken would have ended up in a
gulag,
if he wasn’t simply executed as an enemy of the state. But Ludmila was willing to believe Schultz wasn’t lying just to impress her.
He preened some more. “Yes, we certainly were. Hadn’t been for us Germans, you Reds never would have been able to build your bomb at all.”
Ludmila felt like slapping his smug face. “I don’t suppose you Germans”—she deliberately used the Russian word,
nemtsi,
with its overtones of barbarism and unintelligible babbling—“would do anything like that if you didn’t get your own share of the metal, too. As you say, we built a bomb with ours. Where is the German bomb?”
Georg Schultz went a dull red. Ludmila chuckled under her breath. The Nazis thought of themselves as the lords of creation and of their Slavic neighbors as subhuman, certainly incapable of a scientific feat like the explosive-metal bomb. Reminding them that wasn’t so always gave a Russian pleasure.
“Let’s look over the aircraft,” Schultz mumbled. Ludmila didn’t argue with him—that was what they were supposed to be doing. With tools in his hands, Schultz became useful enough for her to overlook, if not to forgive, his appalling politics. His piggish approaches to her she already discounted. Plenty of Russian men were just as uncultured—Nikifor Sholudenko, for instance. The NKVD man would be debriefing her as soon as she was done inspecting the U-2.
Schultz grunted as he pried through the five-cylinder Shvetsov radial engine. Ludmila had come to know that grunt. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“One of the springs in your oil pump is starting to go,” he said. “Here, come see for yourself.”
She inspected the part. Sure enough, it wasn’t as strong as it should have been. She nodded with professional respect. The German got into everything, with monomaniacal thoroughness. She couldn’t imagine a Russian technician stripping down a part that wasn’t giving trouble. “Do we have spares for it?” she asked.
“I think so, yes, or if not I can steal one from a plane that’s down for some other reason,” Schultz said. Ludmila nodded; cannibalizing machines for parts happened all the time.
“Good. Do that at once,” she said.
He gave her an odd look. “But I have not yet seen what else may need fixing,” he said. “What do you think I am, some slapdash Russian? Finding one thing wrong does not mean there will be no more.” After a moment, he grunted again, and pointed up into the greasy bowels of the engine. “Here. Look.”
Ludmila, who was close to twenty centimeters shorter, had to stand on tiptoe to see what he was talking about. As she did so, he turned his head and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. Then he stepped back, grinning. As his advances went, that one was downright gentlemanly. She shook her head, exhaling through her nose in exasperation. “You ought to know better than that by now.”
“Why? Maybe I’ll get lucky one of these days,” he said, altogether unabashed. He grinned at her. “After all, Major Jäger did.”
She hoped the light under the camouflage netting was too dim and gray for him to notice her flush, but if she’d seen him go red, he could probably see her. And she was sure she was red as fire now. She’d had a brief liaison with Jäger when she’d flown Foreign Commissar Molotov to Berchtesgaden while Jäger happened to be there to get a medal from Hitler for bringing explosive metal back to Germany.
“The major is a gentleman,” she said. “You—” She stopped in confusion. In the classless society the Soviet Union was building, you weren’t supposed to think or talk about gentlemen, let alone prefer them.
“Maybe,” Schultz said. “But I’m here and he’s not.”
Ludmila made a wordless sound of fury. She made it again when Schultz laughed at her, which only made him laugh harder. What she wanted to do was stalk indignantly out of the underground shelter. Wriggling out from under the camouflage net was a poor substitute, but it had to do.
A groundcrew man came hurrying over to smooth the netting and preserve the
maskirovka.
He said, “Comrade Pilot, they are ready to debrief you on your mission now.”
“Thank you,” she said, and hurried over to the underground bunkers that housed the air base’s personnel. More camouflage netting concealed the entrance. She pushed it aside to go in.
There had always been the hope that Colonel Karpov, the base commandant, would take her report, but no such luck. Behind a folding table in a chamber lit by four stinking candles sat Nikifor Sholudenko. She sighed internally; she and the NKVD man had come to the base together out of the Ukraine, so his presence here, like Schultz’s, was her own fault. That didn’t make him any easier to take.
“Sit, Comrade Pilot,” he urged, waving her to a battered armchair. Like hers, his Russian had a bit of a Ukrainian flavor in it. He handed her a glass. “Here, drink this. It will make you feel better after your dangerous flight.”
The glass held a reddish liquid. Weak tea? She sipped cautiously. No—pepper vodka, smoother than anything she’d had in quite a while. All the same, she sipped cautiously.
“Drink, drink,” Sholudenko urged her. His eyes glittered avidly in the candlelight. “It will relax you.”
He wanted her relaxed, all right. She sighed again. Sometimes facing the Lizards was easier than coming back and trying to deal with her own side.
A few kilometers south of Pskov, Lizard artillery hammered at the line the Russians and Germans had built together to try to hold the aliens away from the northwestern Russian city. George Bagnall watched the explosions from Pskov’s
Krom,
the old stone fortress that sat on the high ground where the Velikaya and Pskova rivers came together. The
Krom
wasn’t quite in range of the Lizards’ guns—he hoped.
Beside him, Ken Embry sighed. “They’re catching it pretty hard out there.”
“I know,” Bagnall answered. “There but for mistrust go we.”
Embry snorted, though it wasn’t really funny. He’d piloted the Lancaster bomber on which Bagnall had served as flight engineer when they brought an airborne radar to Pskov to help the Soviets in their struggle against the Lizards. The mission had been hurried, and imperfectly conceived. Nobody’d bothered to tell the RAF men, for instance, that Pskov wasn’t altogether in Soviet hands. The Russians shared it uneasily with the Germans, each side hating the Lizards just a little—sometimes a very little—more than it did the other.
Nikolai Vasiliev and Aleksandr German came into the makeshift office, the one black-bearded and stocky, the other red-whiskered and foxy-faced. Before the Lizards came, they’d commanded the First and Second Partisan Brigades in what they called the Forest Republic, harassing the Nazis who’d held Pskov. Now they made up an uneasy triumvirate with
Generalleutnant
Kurt Chill, who had led a German infantry division and commanded all German forces in the Pskov area.
“Gentlemen,” Bagnall said in German, and then amended that in Russian: “
Tovarishchi—
comrades.”
“These are not the same thing,” Aleksandr German said reprovingly. “Russia had gentlemen. The Soviet Union has comrades—we got rid of the gentlemen.” His smile showed yellow, pointed teeth, as if he’d had some of those gentlemen for supper. He was a Jew; he spoke Yiddish, not German, and Bagnall had to struggle to understand him. But Bagnall’s Russian, picked up word by word since he’d come to Pskov, was much worse.
The partisan leader translated what he’d said for his companion.
“Da!”
Nikolai Vasiliev boomed. He drew his thumbnail across his throat, under his beard, as if to show what had happened to the gentlemen of old Russia. Then he came out with one of the handful of German words he knew:
“Kaputt!”
Bagnall and Embry, both comfortably middle class by upbringing, shared a look. Even in the middle of a war, such wholehearted enthusiasm about the virtues of liquidation was hard to stomach. Cautiously Bagnall said, “I hope this command arrangement is working to your satisfaction.”