by W E Johns
Biggles nodded, but without enthusiasm. ‘As you say, that sounds fair enough. I take it I could be provided with an official document to prove that my purpose in this outlandish place was to find these two crazy plant collectors?’
‘Of course. In fact, while you’re on the spot you might as well have a shot at that, although they’re probably dead by now.’
‘Clubbed to death to make a dinner for the local natives?’
‘That’s most unlikely,’ answered the Air Commodore, apparently taking the remark seriously. ‘There are some natives, not many, and one of them once told a story of how, when food ran out, they knocked the old women on the head and ate them. But that was some time ago. I doubt if they’re cannibals to-day, even if they ever were.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ returned Biggles. ‘I’ve thought of many ways I might end my career but never in a cooking-pot.’ He got up.
‘Well, what about it?’ queried the Air Commodore.
‘I’ll go and have a look at the map, get the thing sized up, and let you know what I think.’
‘All right. But don’t be too long about it,’ requested the Air Commodore.
At the door Biggles turned. ‘By the way, sir. Should this project materialize what aircraft would I use?’
The question seemed to cause surprise. ‘What’s wrong with the machine you usually take on these missions? That old amphibian, the Sea Otter.’
Biggles came back, frowning. ‘Have a heart, sir. There’s nothing wrong with it—yet. That old flying tea chest has served us well and I wouldn’t say a word against her; but she can’t go on for ever, and if she let me down because I asked her to do too much I would only have myself to blame. Apart from the distance, from what you’ve told me about this objective it wouldn’t be a jolly place to have a serious breakdown.’
‘What about the Sunderland you took out to Oratovoa not long ago?’1
‘She’s a bit on the big side for easy handling in enclosed waters and she takes a fair bit of room to get off. Why do we always have to borrow from the Air Ministry, anyway? If the government wants an Air Police section they’ll have to provide it with equipment. What am I supposed to do— grow feathers? Surely it’s time they gave us a nice new flying machine for long-range work, something a bit more up to date than the obsolete crates we’re expected to aviate.’
‘What do you want—a jet?’
‘Of what use would a jet be to me, the places I have to go and sometimes get down on? I couldn’t expect always to find a mile-long concrete runway waiting for me.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘A handy all-purpose job, say a five- or six-seater, with couple of piston engines of proved reliability. Not too many gadgets. I still prefer to fly by the seat of my pants whenever it’s possible.’
‘I’ll see what I can do about it,’ promised the Air Commodore.
‘I’m not complaining,’ went on Biggles. ‘But as you know, my job doesn’t consist of making easy operational flights from one airfield to another with a staff of mechanics at each end. If the government wants an efficient service it’s about time they spent some money on it.’
The Air Commodore agreed. ‘As a matter of fact I heard the other day of a private venture job that should be about your weight. It’s a prototype and may come on the market. It passed its tests and would have gone into production for the RAF had there not been a change of policy.’
‘Do you mean the machine they named the Gadfly?’
‘Yes.’
‘I read about it. From the accommodation and performance figures it should suit us fine.’
‘I’ll make inquiries.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Biggles went out.
* * *
1 See Biggles on Mystery Island.
CHAPTER 2
AN UNCIVIL RECEPTION
BIGGLES yawned. ‘We shouldn’t be long now, and I shan’t be sorry when we get there,’ he remarked to Ginger, who was sitting next to him at the controls of the Gadfly. ‘That’s the snag of these long-distance shows,’ he went on. ‘When things go wrong they’re a pain in the neck. When everything goes right they become so confoundedly boring.’
‘We can’t have it both ways,’ returned Ginger, tritely.
‘On the contrary that’s just what we do get,’ argued Biggles. ‘I doubt if there’s a duller way of passing a day than sitting in an aircraft hour after hour doing nothing. Good weather sends you to sleep; bad weather gets you worried.’
‘At least we have a comfortable machine in which to do nothing,’ Ginger pointed out.
With that the casual conversation fizzled out. The plane droned on, heading south-west, thrusting the air behind it at ten thousand feet under a sky of cerulean blue flecked with wisps of wind-torn cirrus cloud.
Nearly a month had elapsed since ‘Operation Recovery’, to give the project its official name, had been discussed in the London headquarters; but it had been a period of activity, for Biggles had learned from experience that the success or failure of a long-distance flight depended as much on ground work before the start as the actual flying. Wherefore everyone engaged, and this was Biggles’ entire staff, knew all there was to know and had made himself familiar with the objective as far as this was possible from maps, charts, Admiralty Instructions and the Meteorological Handbook on the locality.
In the matter of a new machine the Air Commodore had been as good, if not better, than his word. In view of the urgency and importance of the proposed mission, within three days authority had been obtained for the purchase of the Gadfly. Biggles had then put the machine through its acceptance trials, and being satisfied took delivery, with the result that it was now officially on the strength of the Air Police. After that, with the route already mapped, documents prepared and preparations complete, the Gadfly was soon airborne on its first operation.
Actually, in appearance the machine bore little resemblance to the insect after which it had been named. It was an all-metal, high wing gull-shaped cantilever monoplane amphibian flying-boat of aluminium-alloy construction with twin thousand horse-power engines, horizontally opposed, installed in the wing. It had accommodation for two pilots, radio and navigation cabins, and seating capacity for six passengers. The endurance range was fifteen hundred miles, but an extra tank which had been fitted at Biggles’ request gave it another five hundred. Side floats were attached to the wing by a single streamlined strut. Three-blade constant speed airscrews, retractable landing gear and hydraulic wheel brakes made up an aircraft that was easy to handle and promised to do efficiently any job within the capability of its performance. Biggles would have preferred a wooden hull, holding the view that this was less liable to be holed in the event of collision with an underwater obstruction. However, as he remarked, they couldn’t have everything, and on the whole he was well satisfied with his new equipment. One thing in its favour was, being new, spare parts were available for both the airframe and the power units. So far the machine had lived up to expectations.
Biggles had taken the old route across the Atlantic, from Dakar in West Africa to Natal in Brazil. Thereafter the trunk line down South America had been followed via Rio de Janeiro, Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Bahia Blanca and Santa Cruz. After that the air had become progressively cooler as they approached Rio Gallegos, which had been their last port of call. The weather had been fine all the way, and as they were now in the month of April, in the southern summer, it might be expected to continue.
There had in fact been no trouble of any sort, technical or political, the documents with which Biggles had been provided smoothing the way in the matter of fuel, food and sleeping accommodation at each airport where a night had been spent. There had been no night flying. As Biggles told the others, Ginger, Bertie and Algy, they were not in all that hurry.
Perhaps the most important paper he carried, after the carnet which enabled him to buy fuel and oil on credit, was the one which related to the alleged purpose of the flight. This was to make a
search for the missing botanists, Mr Carter and his companion, a man named, it had been ascertained by the Air Commodore, Barlow. Both were middle-aged men with experience of plant collecting in the Andes, but had never before been so far south. No further information had come in about them and the Society that had sponsored their trip was happy about the rescue flight, as they assumed it to be. Biggles had of course every intention of looking for the missing men while he was on the spot, as a sideline to his real purpose for being there.
As far as this was concerned there was so little to go on that in his heart Biggles had not much hope of success. He had seen von Stalhein at his London flat, but all his old enemy could tell him was this: the cache was on the north side of a small island from the top of which, between two cone-shaped hills, it was possible, looking south-east, to see Mount Sarmiento, 7,200 feet, and beyond it, in line, the tip of Mount Italia, 7,700 feet. All this did was to indicate that the cache was in one of the channels towards the far end of the Magellan Strait, nearer the Pacific than the Atlantic ocean. Whether or not the spot had been marked von Stalhein did not know. Nothing could have been more vague, for as Biggles pointed out, there was no suggestion of distance. The two mountains named might be anything from ten to fifty miles from the island where the gold had been unloaded.
‘All we have to do, old boy, is to trot up all the bally hills until we find the one from which we can spot the jolly old mountains lined up, if you see what I mean,’ Bertie had remarked, cheerfully.
‘You can do the trotting,’ Biggles had told him. ‘I’m nothing for mountains, anywhere or at any time.’
‘I’d make a small bet that we shall never need a spade or shovel,’ Algy had offered.
On the way south there had been some curiosity by customs officials about a spade, shovel and crow-bar, which Biggles had included in the equipment. In reply to questions about the purpose for which these tools were intended he pointed out that should the missing botanists be found dead they would have to be buried, and he would prefer not to scratch a grave with his bare hands. This turned into a grim joke what might have caused embarrassment, for the real purpose of the tools was an entirely different matter. Biggles himself was doubtful if they would be needed, but he thought it advisable to be prepared. As he said to the others, they might have to do some digging, and they would look silly if they had nothing with which to make a hole.
Incidentally, their small-arms, pistols and a rifle, they were allowed to keep as they were in transit. Knowing the import of firearms was forbidden in the countries through which they would have to pass they had declared them to the Customs officers, and this correct procedure had, as so often happens, paid off. They were merely requested not to use them except in the unlikely event of being attacked by man or beast. They would have to show them on their way home to prove that they had not been sold in the country concerned.
Biggles’ final instructions had been simple and explicit. Should the cache be located all he had to do was make a signal home when a ship would be sent out to collect the bullion. It would of course be too heavy for the aircraft to carry, and in any case its transportation by air would almost certainly lead to political difficulties. They would have to wait for the ship to arrive in order to point out the spot. Should a foreign ship or party be observed obviously conducting a search a prearranged signal was also to be sent to the Air Commodore.
The Gadfly was now on the last leg of its long journey to Punta Arenas, where Biggles hoped to establish a base from which to make survey flights over the neighbouring land masses and the tortuous channels between them.
Here it should be explained that Tierra del Fuego, the large island that forms the tip of the South American continent, is divided into two parts, the eastern half belonging to Argentina and the western half to Chile. Each country has its own terminal airport, the Argentine air route (which Biggles had so far followed) ending at Rio Grande on the actual island of Tierra del Fuego. Punta Arenas is on the Chilean mainland, on the north side of the Magellan Strait, but Biggles had purposed using it for two reasons, the first being because it was by far the nearer to the area he proposed to search, and the second because Rio Grande, being on the open Atlantic coast, is more exposed to the fury of the gales for which these waters are notorious. In effect, this meant that when he landed he would be on Chilean soil for the first time. After taking off from Rio Gallegos he had for a little while been over Argentina, but having crossed the frontier he was now flying over Chilean territory. It was only a short run, a matter of a hundred and fifty miles, to Punta Arenas, the ultimate objective.
Ahead now appeared a wide stretch of water which he knew must be the famous Magellan Strait, and the purple smudge behind it, the coast of Tierra del Fuego. He made a remark to Ginger to that effect, at the same time retarding the throttle to drop off some altitude.
To Ginger the difference in the temperature was already noticeable even in the cockpit, the more so no doubt because the Gadfly had come straight down from the tropical north. He surveyed the terrain below with interest, and while what he saw may have been impressive it was not conducive to peace of mind in view of what had to be done. Although he had spent some time before the start making himself acquainted with the territory, as far as this was possible from books, in reality it looked even worse than he had imagined. Indeed, what he saw filled him with misgivings, if not alarm; and the idea of looking for anything in such a chaos struck him as being futile. He could well appreciate why the Dresden had not been found.
From two thousand feet the place looked like what it had been called, and in fact was: the end of the earth. An apparently endless accumulation of rocks, water and snow, flung down without any sort of order. Peaks and ridges of rock, some high and some low but all black and forbidding except where they were streaked with snow, cut everywhere into a sombre sky. On the water, white areas that could only mean ice, had been piled up by the pressure of wind into many bays and creeks. Mist hung like cotton wool in valleys. To the east, where the Strait broadened into the Atlantic, waves were leaping to a tremendous height as they fought the stubborn land with savage and relentless fury. Even the vegetation that had secured a foothold on some of the lower slopes looked grim and repellent.
‘Not too hot, old boy,’ said Bertie, putting his head into the cockpit. ‘Glad I brought my winter woollies.’
‘You’ll need ‘em,’ Biggles told him, briefly.
The Gadfly went on losing height slowly, and presently, having followed the northern shore of the Strait, picked up the town of Punta Arenas and, conspicuous from its flat area, and the buildings on it, the airfield. A small air liner carrying Chilean registration letters stood near them.
Biggles made a landing on muddy ground, taxied on to the buildings and switched off. ‘Well, we’re here, anyway,’ he said. ‘Mind your p’s and q’s, everyone. You all know the drill. Whatever happens we must keep on good terms with these people or we shall have wasted our time coming here.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Algy.
‘We’ll check in and make known why we’re here, for a start. After that we’ll go into the town, and having found lodgings, ask if there’s any recent news of Carter and Barlow, the botanists.’
‘I don’t know about botanists. They must be fanatics to come to a place like this to look for buttercups and daisies, and what have you,’ muttered Ginger.
‘It’s all a matter of taste,’ returned Biggles. ‘Some people would rather find a new flower than a gold mine. Let’s get out and stretch our legs. I prefer sitting to standing, but one can have too much of it. Let’s hope someone here speaks English.’
Having got out, as they walked towards what appeared to be the central office a man emerged and strode purposefully to meet them; and before many words had been spoken Ginger perceived they had struck officialdom in the place where it was least to be desired. Indeed, even before the man spoke he saw from his truculent expression and a pompous manner that they were regarded w
ith disfavour. A powerfully built type of perhaps fifty years of age, he wore a faded dark blue uniform. His eyes, under shaggy iron-grey brows, were the colour of ice, and as cold. An untrimmed beard, well streaked with grey, created an impression that he had once been a seaman. Between his teeth he held a curly pipe with a large bowl. He certainly did not look Latin, neither Chilean nor an Argentine, as was the case with a much younger man, also in uniform, who followed at a respectful distance.
The older man spoke. ‘You are British,’ he said, in good English, although the way he said it had the ring of a challenge.
To Ginger it seemed the question was unnecessary in view of the registration marks on the Gadfly.
‘We are,’ acknowledged Biggles.
‘Huh.’ There was a wealth of meaning in the ejaculation. ‘You can’t leave your machine here,’ went on the official, curtly.
Biggles looked surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘You will be in the way of this one which is soon to leave.’ The man indicated the liner.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Biggles. ‘Where would you like me to put it?’
‘Over there.’ The man pointed.
By this time Ginger had realized that they were out of luck. The awkward nature of the official was all too evident, for the liner had ample room to manoeuvre for its take-off. Why the man should take this attitude was not so clear.
They all waited while Biggles walked back to the Gadfly, and having moved it to the position ordered, returned.
‘You stay long time?’ was the next question, put harshly by the official.
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure about that,’ answered Biggles.
‘Why you come here?’
‘I was on my way to your office to tell you. Are you the manager here?’
