RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
Operator #5, Nov/Dec 1939, with "Mistress of Dead Spies"
She was the most terrible woman the world had ever seen—for she planned an inhuman attack upon a defenseless country that would cover it from border to border with incredible horror and destruction!
FOUR hundred miles southwest of El Paso, the plane began to
descend. Brigadier-General Kelsey, who was at the controls, threw
a side glance at Russ Gault, sitting beside him. Kelsey pointed
down at the narrow ribbon of road far below, which wound from the
Rio Grande through the hills of Northern Mexico into Mexico City.
"This is the spot," he shouted. "As I figure it, we're just about
two hours ahead of the Countess Olga's car. All arrangements have
been made for you when you land. You'll have plenty of time to
get set before she passes this point."
Russ Gault nodded, silently. He unbuckled his safety-belt, stood up in the cockpit. His left hand gripped the rip-cord of the parachute strapped to his back.
Brigadier-General Kelsey shut off the twin engines, and put the plane into a level glide. He was keeping a sharp eye on the terrain below.
"When you go over the side, Major," he said to Russ, "you'll be entirely on your own. This is Mexico. What you do here must be done as an individual, not as a major of U.S. Military Intelligence. But we've got to know what the Countess Olga Vardi does when she drives down here every week. Our spies in the Orient are certain that she is recruiting an Asiatic army here, to strike from the south when their fleet attacks from the Pacific... I'll pick you up at this spot, exactly one week from today, at exactly this time. I hope to heaven you'll have the information we need."
"I'll do my best, sir," young Major Russ Gault said quietly.
Kelsey circled the small field, watching intently. At last he raised his hand. "Now! And good luck!"
Russ Gault said, "Thank you, sir," and jumped over the side. He plummeted down to five hundred feet before pulling the rip- cord. Then he manipulated the parachute strings with cool accuracy, landing squarely in the center of the field. By the time he had scrambled to his feet and unstrapped the parachute, Major Kelsey's plane was only a tiny speck in the northern sky.
Gault swiftly rolled up the parachute, then ran across the field toward a tumble-down shack at the western end, bordering on the new macadam Mexico City Highway, which they had seen from the air. The door of the shack was unlocked, and he pushed inside, gun in hand. But the place was untenanted—as he had been assured it would be. Also, in accordance with the arrangements made by General Kelsey with certain Mexican peons in the pay of Military Intelligence, all the material which Gault had requested was on hand.
There was an old model Indian motorcycle, battered and dented, but with tires fully inflated, and gas tank filled. There was also a complete assortment of dirty and ragged clothing. Russ Gault put them on, after rubbing dirt from the field upon his face and hands. When his disguise had been completed, he looked no different from any one of thousands of unemployed peons who wander north each spring in search of work in the States.
The only difference between Gault and a ragged mestizo was the clean and burnished .38 Colt's Special, stuck in the waistband of his pants. Otherwise, there was no single bit of material upon him even to suggest that he might be a major of United States Military Intelligence. Should he die while on duty here, his body very probably would be left for the crows to pick clean. No official investigation would be made to find him. The name of Major Russ Gault would merely be stricken from the rolls of the United States' Armed Forces. Perhaps General Kelsey, at the Officers' Club in Washington, would raise a glass in a whispered toast to his name, and the other officers would silently drink to his memory. That would be all...
GAULT opened the door of the shack, and wheeled out the
motorcycle. His intention was to find an advantageous spot from
which he could watch the road. When the Countess Olga Vardi's car
passed, he would follow it at a safe distance.
But almost as soon as he got out of the shack, he realized that he had walked into a trap...
Men suddenly emerged from behind every rock and boulder in the field. They stepped out from behind clumps of mesquite, as well as from the back of the shack—and each carried a rifle. They moved slowly and silently closer, in an ever-narrowing circle. But the thing which most astounded Russ Gault was the fact that these men were attired in uniform. Not the uniform of troops of the Republic of Mexico, but of that Asiatic Power now suspected of employing the Countess Olga Vardi.
The fact that Asiatic troops were already in this God-forsaken section of Mexico, openly flaunting their uniforms, could mean but one thing. The long-expected offensive against the United States was about to begin. It was now vitally necessary that Military Intelligence be warned—immediately.
But warned—how? Only a miracle could free him now.
The Asiatics moved in, bayoneted rifles forming a ring of steel. Their high cheekbones and slanted eyes were easily discernible now. Their silence was ominous. Gault thought... those peons, who had been entrusted with the task of preparing the motorcycle and the disguise had either betrayed him, or had been tortured into revealing the hiding-place.
His lips set tightly. There was only one thing to do, and it had to be done now. He thrust his foot down hard on the starter- pedal of the motorcycle, flung his leg over the machine. In that instant he knew for certain that he had been betrayed. For the engine didn't spring to life. The starter whirred—that was all. The gas had been drained from the tank.
The Asiatics were upon him, and Russ Gault thrilled as the blood raced fiercely through his veins. He leaped from the motorcycle—straight at the nearest bayonet. Simultaneously his hand flashed to his waistband for the .38.
But the gun had slid down inside his trousers, and even as he leaped he felt it drop out from his trouser leg. Gault had no time to curse his luck. The soldier before him twisted aside, and the rest piled in on top of Gault. Sheer weight of numbers carried him to the ground.
He fought like a wildcat, but it was useless. His arms and legs were pinioned, then he was turned over on his back, spread- eagled. He could feel the bulk of his gun, jamming into his spine underneath him, but it was as useless as if it were a thousand miles away. He ceased struggling. A nattily uniformed Oriental officer stepped forward, stood over him.
The officer coughed apologetically. "You are Major Russ Gault, of United States Military Intelligence," he said, only a slight lisp indicating his Asiatic origin. "I am Lieutenant-Colonel Yonai." He tapped impatiently on the ground with his gold-knobbed swagger stick. "It is important, Major Gault, that we know at once just what information brought you here. You will tell me please at once. Just how much does the United States know of the plans of the Imperial Army?"
"Go to hell," said Russ Gault.
Colonel Yonai sighed. "You make matters difficult. I shall have to use unpleasant methods with you. Believe me, Major Gault—in ten minutes, I can have you begging to be allowed to talk."
"I still say you can go to hell," Russ told him.
"Very well then," Yonai said, shrugging. "I shall have you searched, first."
They turned his pockets inside out, slit the lining of his coat, and trousers, removed his shoes and socks. But they found nothing.
Yonai raised his thin eyebrows. "Not even a gun! It is incomprehensible." He waved to Russ's captors, and they stepped back. "Get up."
Russ feigned weakness. He started to stand up, then slumped down, feeling for the revolver on the ground. Beneath his sagging body he touched the cold, reassuring metal. At once he fell back, quickly thrusting the gun under his waistband.
A bayonet prodded him painfully between the shoulder blades.
"Get up," Colonel Yonai repeated. "You are not badly hurt—yet!"
Russ pushed to his feet. His attitude was that of a beaten man, but it was not a reflection of his true feelings. His shoulders sagged—not because he felt hopeless, but because he wanted to keep his coat well in front of him and conceal the butt of the .38 stuck in his waistband. He offered no resistance while they tied his hands before him with a strip of catgut.
Two Asiatic troopers took position on either side of him, urged him on after Colonel Yonai. Yonai had started toward the concrete road at the edge of the field. Gault understood now how they had managed to trap him. A huge army truck was pulled up at the side of the road, entirely covered with a camouflage of leafy boughs cut from near-by trees. No wonder Kelsey had failed to spot it from the air.
Farther down the road, strung out at ten-foot intervals, were trim, fast-looking motorcycles, with side-cars attached, each equipped with a bullet-proof shield and small-caliber machine- gun. The troops who had captured Gault had come in those motorcycles. The bulk of the soldiers marched to their machines, mounted them—one man at the handlebars, one man in the rear saddle, and one in the side-car. Twenty motorcycles provided transportation for the entire troop.
Gault was held helpless.
At a signal from Colonel Yonai, the squadron of cycles deployed into the road, four abreast, and chugged away into the gathering darkness to the south. In a moment they disappeared where the road twisted in a narrow valley between two tall cliffs. Russ Gault was left with half a dozen captors and the colonel.
He tried to figure out the purpose of the huge truck. It was at least a ten-ton affair, with high armored sides, grilled loopholes. He also noted that there was a heavy iron bar across the back doors of the vehicle. The few remaining Asiatic guards kept at some distance from it. These guards, as well as Colonel Yonai, seemed to be tense, waiting for something or someone...
Then a pair of headlights appeared far up the road, racing toward them from the north.
Colonel Yonai stiffened, came to attention as the car pulled up alongside them with squealing brakes. A man in private chauffeur's uniform was at the wheel. In the rear sat Countess Olga Vardi. Gault recognized her from a photograph seen two weeks before.
THE Countess Olga was beautiful by whatever standards men use
to judge beauty. She might have been twenty-five—or forty.
Her face was as clear and un-lined as a girl's. Yet in her
slightly slanted eyes there burned an odd, glittering fire that
might have been the ageless knowledge of evil inherited from all
the obscene gods of hell. They told many tales of the Countess
Olga Vardi, from the slums of Singapore to the gilded dens of the
Barbary Coast. Men in countless numbers had died because of her.
In the field of international espionage no single person had
betrayed more governments or brought more men to ruin.
Colonel Yonai stepped forward, saluted. "Everything has been accomplished with success, my dear Countess. Here is the prisoner."
At a signal, Gault's two captors led him to the car.
Countess Olga regarded him out of heavy-lidded, languorous eyes.
"Ah, the brave Major Gault!" she said. "I have heard so much about you. It was you—was it not, Major—who single- handed captured my ten district operatives in San Francisco last month?"
Russ bowed stiffly. "I hope to do the same for you, madame," he said, "before the night is over."
She laughed softly. "This is to be your last night. It is a pity, for I can see you are a brave man. Come, sit with me."
Russ was thrust into the car, placed in the rear seat. The two Asiatic soldiers seated themselves on the forward folding seats, but facing backward, bayoneted rifles fixed upon Russ's stomach.
Yonai leaned into the car. "I shall meet you at headquarters, Countess," he said. "The truck is ready."
She nodded. "And the recruits for the regiment...?"
"The recruits for the Regiment of Death are ready." He jerked his head toward Russ. "This American—he refuses to talk. It is important that we learn how much his bureau knows."
"Leave him to me," said the Countess Olga. "I shall find a way to persuade Major Gault to speak."
Yonai bowed, withdrew into the night. The countess spoke sharply to her chauffeur, and the car started.
"The Regiment of Death," Gault repeated. "Curious name, that. It isn't possible that you are recruiting an army down here to invade the United States. You'd be annihilated."
"Quite true, Major Gault. But this is not an army which will attack you—with guns. The Regiment of Death will conquer in a quite unusual way!"
The car had slowed up, and Gault saw that they were approaching a kind of stockade. At the top of the stockade was barbed wire, and there were sentry towers every fifty feet, patrolled by soldiers with rifles. The car, following the huge truck, drove in through a gate which was immediately closed behind them.
THE stockade which they had entered covered an immense area.
To the right were several rows of thatched huts. Beyond, was a
low, wooden building, covering almost an acre. But it was not
these things that drew Gault's attention like a magnet. It was
the bull-pen at the left.
Truly, there was no other name by which it might be described. It was an open area of ground, stretching away in the darkness toward the far boundary of the stockade itself. And this area was entirely surrounded by a fence of barbed wire. Within it there were thousands of men. They stood as close to the fence as possible, without being pricked by the barbs, and they stared in an almost unholy silence. And what revolted Russ Gault was the sight of their faces and almost naked bodies. Blotched and scabrous faces... bodies festering with open sores...
These men were lepers!
Even as he watched, the truck ahead was opened by one of the Asiatic soldiers. The man used a long pole to raise the bar. From the interior of the truck a motley, terrible mob of humanity poured out, uttering weird and unintelligible sounds that made the night horrible. There must have been almost a hundred of those miserable wretches in the truck, all scarred and blotched like those in the bull-pen—victims of leprosy.
With their bayonets, the Asiatic soldiers herded these newcomers into the pen with the others, being careful to touch none of them.
Russ Gault's eyes were fixed upon that horribly fascinating scene. He was rudely recalled from his preoccupation by the cool laughter of Olga Vardi.
"There, my dear Major, you have seen our Regiment of Death. Ten thousand lepers, gathered from the four corners of the earth. Come. I will show you more."
The car moved on past the huts, and past the long low building. "That," the countess said, "is our arsenal. Two hundred tons of lyddite—the world's most destructive explosive—are stored here!"
As they passed the arsenal, Gault saw hundreds of small hand- trucks being wheeled out of the building by Asiatics. Each truck was loaded with sacks of the explosive.
He frowned. "What do you figure to do with lyddite—and lepers?"
"My dear Major," she said, "tonight marks the beginning of a new World Order. Tonight the Yellow Race launches its offensive against the most powerful nation in the world. And within twenty- four hours your country will be so demoralized that our fleet, sailing in from the Pacific, will have nothing to do but occupy your frightened cities! I show you this to prove that our cause will triumph, and that your country is lost. Realizing that, perhaps you will come over to our side, tell us what we wish to know. Make it easier for us, and you shall receive high honors. We will need native Americans to administer the conquered territories. You shall become a Governor-General—Wait!" she raised her hand as Russ was about to speak. "Wait. I will show you more... so as to leave absolutely no doubt in your mind!"
THE car moved on past the arsenal, and Russ Gault saw where it
was that the Asiatics were trundling the lyddite in the hand-
trucks. And when he realized the truth, he became cold with a
terrible coldness. For now he saw at once that what the Countess
Olga Vardi boasted of could not help but become a frightful
reality.
The flying field had been hidden by the bull-pen and the arsenal. Now, as they came out behind the arsenal it was clearly revealed—a vast stretch of acreage, packed and leveled, with airplanes... rows upon rows of airplanes, as far as the eye could reach!
He tried to estimate their number. A hundred? Two hundred? They were placed diagonally upon the field, so that they might take off in squadrons of eight. Half of each squadron were fast pursuit-planes, equipped with bomb racks. The other half were observation-ships, built to accommodate six men. Aviators in flying togs were everywhere, hurrying about, while mechanics with portable oil tanks were fueling the machines. The hand-trucks were being unloaded, and the lyddite set in the bomb racks of the pursuit planes.
"Now you understand, Major Gault," she said. "The planes will go over in waves. First, the lepers will be dropped by parachute—a hundred in each large city. Then, when your population is staggered and frightened out of its wits by the fear of spreading leprosy, the pursuits will come, and drop the lyddite. We will keep sending two hundred planes an hour, for twenty-four hours. Can you imagine the condition of your country at the end of that time? Our fleet has already sailed. It will reach the Pacific Coast in time to occupy the disabled country. Now, Major Gault, what do you say?"
He kept his face averted. "What is it that you want me to do?"
"Only this: Give us the locations of the secret offices of Military Intelligence in the United States, so that we can bomb them first. That will cripple your country's most dangerous service... See, the first squadron of planes is ready to fly. They are warming up now. We will send them to the locations you give us.
"Well, Russ Gault?" asked Olga Vardi. "Speak quickly."
"All right," said Russ. "Here's my answer!"
His bound hands dived in under his coat, coming out with the Colt's .38. The gun blasted twice in the close confines of the car, and the two guards were smashed backward by the impact of the slugs at close range!
WITH the deafening din of the two explosions throbbing at his
eardrums, Russ Gault flung open the door of the car, leaped out.
Behind him Olga Vardi was shrieking, "Take him alive! He must be
tortured—"
Gault hoped fervently that she would not guess his intention for just one minute more—sixty seconds. His bound hands were in front of him, gripping the gun, and lead was spattering the ground at his feet. The soldiers were shooting low to disable him. Asiatic aviators, their guns out, were racing toward him—closing in. But... nothing was between him and that first line of pursuit ships, warming up at the line!
He was halfway to the first plane in the line, when Olga Vardi guessed his purpose. Her cunning mind had finally found the reason for that apparently hopeless dash.
"Stop him!" she screamed.
Desperately, Russ swiveled and fired back at the car. He didn't hit the countess, but his slug clanged against the metal framework, driving her back inside and cutting off her warning. It gave him the thirty seconds' respite that was so precious now. As he reached that first plane, bullets were furrowing the earth alongside his legs. He leaped up to the cockpit... just as the aviator leaned from the plane, raising a gun.
Russ Gault shot that aviator squarely in the face...
He swung his legs over the cockpit, climbed in. Seizing the dead aviator, he hurled him over the side. Then he slipped into the seat, gunned the motor. The plane abruptly rocketed across the field.
Slugs tore through the framework of the plane, smashing the dashboard. But he grimly held the stick, climbing... climbing... until he was finally out of the range of the guns below.
With his bound hands Gault was at a disadvantage. But he managed to get the stick between his knees as he leveled off, and kept it in even position. He circled the field slowly, suddenly contemptuous of the half dozen planes that were rocketing up to meet him—their machine-guns already thrumming to get within range of him. He never even looked at them. His eyes were glued upon that long low arsenal building below.
He waited until he was coming directly at it, then, making swift mental calculations as to rate of speed and velocity, he pulled the release toggle that controlled the bomb rack. Immediately he felt his plane surge upward as she was relieved of the load underneath.
He gunned the motor hard, racing away from that spot, and peering backward over the side. He saw that great sack of lyddite hurtling down, to make a perfect hit upon the roof of the arsenal building.
And then he saw no more, for a great rocking detonation came shattering upward through the air to smash at his machine and almost send it into a tailspin. He fought the controls with his bound hands, and managed to keep her at even keel. Then, with sweat standing out upon his forehead, he looked back once more.
Where that great stockade had been but a minute before, there was now nothing but a terrible crater of smoke and fire. Two hundred tons of lyddite had done their work. Those planes which had been racing up to meet him were plummeting downward, in a maze of wreckage. They had been directly overhead when the lyddite struck, whereas Russ had already moved away. And the stored explosive, which was to have conquered America, was now blown out of existence.
Russ Gault sighed, took his eyes away from that smoking pyre, where the leprous Regiment of Death had perished—along with the Asiatic hope of conquering America. He headed north.
Had the Countess Olga Vardi escaped the holocaust or perished? If she were alive, then he was certain that he would hear from her again.
It was beginning to look as if Brigadier-General Kelsey would have to have a drink with him at the Officers' Club—instead of in his memory...