That was it. With the manual crank shot away there was no question of a soft landing, and the dogfight had burned through the 450 rounds in each of Ryov’s ShKAS machine guns. The Messerschmitt was still on him even though the Nationalist bombers had been driven away, and still firing–apparently the Nationalists and their fascist backers were more generous with heavy machine gun ammunition than the VVS or the Spanish Republicans pulling Ryov’s strings.

Ryov was willing to bet, though, when it came down to steel on steel, the rugged mule of his Polikarpov I-16 would beat out the fascist’s dilettante Messerschmitt. Maybe he’d also get an idea of whether Pushkin’s stories about downing a Mitsubishi in Mongolia were true.

“CM-260 damaged beyond repair. Attempting to bail out.”

The Polikarpov could turn like a beast; Ryov pulled out of a shallow dive into a steep leftward bank. The fascist pilot clearly hadn’t expected a maneuver like that, since it set the tubby mule on a direct collision course. Ryov saw a pair of frightened blue eyes in the opposite cockpit; he responded with a grin and a salute before bailing.

Once his chute deployed, Ryov was able to see that his fighter had slammed into the Messerschmitt, and the two craft definitely were not living to see 1938. Locked in a fiery embrace, they were plummeting toward the Catalonian countryside. To his annoyance, though, Ryov saw another chute in the distance–the fascist had bailed too.

“No problem,” Ryov muttered to himself as he tumbled to a stop on a dusty dirt road. He cut his chute loose and unstrapped the Tokarev pistol from his side. The fascist hadn’t landed far away, perhaps five hundred meters or so.

“I see you over there!” Ryov cried in Spanish, figuring that was his best chance of being understood. “Put up your hands!”

Cresting a small rise revealed the other pilot, clearly a German, walking toward Ryov with an unholstered Luger. “Put up your own damn hands!” he replied in heavily accented Spanish.

Ryov was content to stare his enemy down for a moment, then smiled. “See those people running toward us across the field?” he said. “They’re Catalans. Unless you put yourself under my protection, they’ll tear your baby-bombing ass to shreds.”

The German glanced back and forth a few times between Ryov and the approaching Catalans before sullenly tossing his pistol to the ground. “Thank you,” Ryov said, scooping it up. “Welcome, friends!” he added to the approaching peasants. “Lt. Ryov of the Spanish Republican Air Force requires your assistance!”

His smile lasted until the peasant nearest him struck him over the head with a club. By the time he and the German had been bound up and flung into the back of a wagon, it was a dour scowl.

In the center of the nearby small town, the wagon passed a makeshift gibbet with two corpses hanging from it; one wore a placard reading FASCIST and the other a sign with COMMUNIST in bold red. Nailed above them both was a bold notice: THE IBERIAN ANARCHIST FEDERATION KEEPS WORKERS AND FARMERS SAFE FROM EXPLOITERS OF ALL SHADES.

“I think we may be in trouble,” murmured the German in his accented Spanish.

“I think you may be right.”

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