Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

De Richleau looked at the other two. “This is very strange; the small ’planes which we saw all the morning may have been searching for us, but we can hardly suppose that they would turn out flights of bombers on our account!”

“Must be an air-park somewhere around,” suggested Rex.

“Jack Straw told us to keep our eyes open for anything military up this way,” nodded Simon.

“If it is,” drawled Rex, “it ’ud sure interest the secret service folks in Washington.”

“An air-park,” murmured the Duke. “And you say, Rex, that these ’planes are of a completely different type to those generally used in Europe and America?”

“Sure, the wings are set at a different angle, and they’re shorter — you can see how much more like dickybirds they look than ours.”

They continued their way through the forest, but after they saw the first squadron of big bombers, the hum of innumerable aeroplanes was always in the background, loud or faint, breaking the silence of the afternoon.

In threes or in sixes, or singly, the sky was rarely free of them as they swooped or hovered, practising their evolutions. They were of three distinct types — the single-seater scouts, the big bombers, and what Rex declared to be a four-seater fighting machine. All of them were monoplanes, but fitted with a queer upper structure of two slanting blades, which formed a smaller pair of wings — these, Rex thought, were a new form of helicopter, to enable them to land in a confined space.

They had just breasted a slight rise, when they first saw the fence; it stretched away on either hand, some fifty yards in front of them, the height of a man, and formed of six strands of copper wire, which shone brightly in the sunlight — the wires stretched taut throughout steel uprights. It looked innocent enough, but De Richleau, at least, had seen fences of that type before — on the enemy frontiers during the War.

As they walked up to it, he laid his hand on Simon’s arm: “Be careful, it is almost certain to be electrified — it would be instant death to touch it!”

Rex pointed to a dead ermine that lay a few feet away. “Sure thing, that poor feller crashed it. I guess he never knew what hit him. I’ll say they’re mighty keen to keep people out of their backyard in these parts.”

For some time they walked parallel to the fence, which ran roughly north and south. After they had covered nearly half a mile Rex halted suddenly; Simon stopped too, having, at the same moment, caught sight of a grey figure among the trees. De Richleau instinctively followed their movement as they flung themselves on the ground. He looked at them questioningly.

“Sentry,” whispered Simon, pointing. And there, between the trees, on the other side of the wire, they could make out the form of a Red Guard. He was standing quite still, with his back to them, as he leant on his rifle. He was a little man, and his overcoat was too big for him; his hat was thrust on the back of his head, and his attitude bespoke dejection. He was a pitiful, rather than a frightening, figure — nevertheless they had no desire to be seen, and crept stealthily back until they were well out of view.

“God-forsaken job,” said Simon, as they proceeded on their way again. “Standing in the snow all day — guarding an air-park a thousand miles from anywhere, that no one knows exists!”

“That’s just why it’s so important,” remarked the Duke. “Nobody knows it exists!” Even as he spoke they came out of the belt of trees, the ground sloped sharply away to their left front — a wonderful panorama was spread in front of them.

The electric fence came out of the wood and ran down the hill a quarter of a mile to their left; beyond it stretched a great open amphitheatre of at least three miles across in each direction, the whole surrounded by the dark ring of forest.

Line upon line of aeroplane hangars lay spread below them — squadron after squadron of ’planes: bombers, fighters, scouts, looking like toys in the distance, their wings flashing silver in the afternoon sun. Row upon row of hutments and barracks, offices, and repair sheds. All the time little flights of ’planes rose and descended with perfect precision on the numerous landing grounds. In every part of the park some sort of activity was going forward — tractors were pulling ’planes in and out of hangars, little groups of soldiers were drilling or being marched from place to place; for many minutes the friends stood silent, watching this amazing spectacle.

“The Forbidden Territory,” Simon laughed, suddenly.

De Richleau nodded. “Yes, this is the secret they are so anxious to preserve — it must have been in order to create this gigantic air-camp that they finished the railway to Tobolsk, and put the road we came on last night in such good repair.”

“I reckon Jack Straw ’ud like to give this place the once-over,” said Rex.

“He’s given us the name of Colonel Marsden, at the Thatched House Club, in London. If we get through we must let him know of this,” De Richleau replied, thoughtfully. “How many ’planes do you think there are, Rex?”

“All of a hundred and fifty squadrons — two hundred, maybe, just take a look at those hangars — it’s impossible to count.”

“Well, now, I’ll tell you,” said Simon, quietly. “I never did believe what they say in Moscow about being frightened of a combined attack by the capitalist countries — they’re out to conquer us — that’s a certainty; I wonder how they feed this lot — the road was empty, and we’ve never been more than a mile from the local railway — yet we haven’t heard a single train go by!”

“Can’t you see?” Rex extended a long arm. “On the far side there, they’ve rail-trucks and engines — that little one-eyed decavil that runs by the river couldn’t supply five per cent of this outfit — they’ve scrapped it, and built a new one direct from Tobolsk through the forest. I’ll say it — ”

They were so interested that they had not noticed the approach of soft footsteps, deadened by the snow. Suddenly a voice behind them said, quietly:

“A dangerous secret for foreigners to know.”

The three men swung round; the challenge was so unexpected that De Richleau’s hand jumped to the butt of his automatic — in spite of the fact that the voice was that of a woman; when he saw that she was alone, he relaxed his hold.

She was laughing quietly at their comical air of consternation. Eyes of the deepest blue, an adorable retroussé nose, and a red mouth, which curved deliciously in laughter. Under a sheepskin hat, set at a rakish angle, peeped tight little curls of chestnut-brown. She wore a short coat of squirrel, now almost hairless in places, but in spite of her worn clothes she had a chic and neatness altogether astonishing. She stood no higher than the Duke’s shoulder, but her tiny figure was perfectly proportioned.

Her blue eyes suddenly became grave. “It is not a good place for Englishmen, this,” she said.

De Richleau removed his papenka and bowed with a gesture which would not have ill become him had it been made to a lady of his acquaintance at Ascot or Auteuil. “We are fortunate,” he said, “in being discovered by Mademoiselle — that we should have seen this” — he motioned, with a smile, towards the giant air-park. “It is, by the way, our one wish to be back in England as soon as possible.”

“England, eh! That is a long way,” she said, seriously.

“Unfortunately,” the Duke added, quietly, “we have had some slight difference of opinion with the authorities, therefore we may not take the train; also our horses and sleigh were stolen from us by a rascally driver this morning. All today we have been wandering in the woods, hoping to find a farm where we may hire a conveyance.”