Biggles' Special Case

by Captain W E Johns

  He opened a bottle of soda-water, drank the contents slowly and rejoined Bertie in the cockpit.

  By now, with a hideous brown fog roaring past outside, it was almost dark. The noise as the wind screamed and howled, snatching at the aircraft, was like the end of the world. Scraps of debris that may have been twigs torn from bushes or even small pebbles, struck the wind-screen like bullets. Fine sand found its way inside, although joints were fitted as tightly as precision craftsmanship could make them.

  ‘How did Zorlan take it?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘He’s disgruntled by this hitch in his arrangements, but he got no change out of me. Something in his manner has always rubbed my hair the wrong way; now he’s beginning to annoy me. I can understand him being dead set on his job. I’m a bit like that myself. But there’s more behind it than seems natural. You’d never really know him. He’s as deep as the ocean. He gives me a feeling that what he’s saying isn’t always what he’s thinking. No matter. Go inside and get yourself a drink. There’s no hurry. We’re going to be here for some time.’

  * * *

  1 Haboob. Native name for a fast-moving sand-storm, often of devastating violence, common in the deserts of North Africa and the Middle East.

  CHAPTER 8

  RASAL AL SHARAB

  FOR the next six hours conditions in the cabin of the Merlin were anything but comfortable. The lights, run off a battery, were still functioning, but in a haze of fine dust that had found its way in they showed only as a murky yellow glow.

  For most of the time an embarrassing silence reigned, although of course the noise outside was considerable, gusts of sand-laden wind causing the aircraft to shudder. Zorlan still behaved as though in some way Biggles was responsible for their predicament. He did not speak, even when Ginger handed round some food and drink. Once Ginger tried to ease the tension by making a remark on a humorous note, but finding it fell flat he did not persist. After the refreshments Biggles and Bertie returned to the cockpit where the social atmosphere was less depressing.

  That was the only advantage gained. Outside the haboob raged as if determined to strip the surface off the desert; and from the noise made by the sand as it lashed the aircraft it seemed to be succeeding. Dust, mostly so fine as to be invisible, found a way in to worry the eyes, nose and nostrils. It grated between the teeth. There was nothing unusual in this. Such storms have always been a feature of desert countries. An Arab caught in the open knows what to do. His only chance of survival is to make his camel kneel and with his head wrapped up crouch close beside it on the leeward side.

  It was about midnight when Bertie remarked he thought the worst was over. The wind was less violent and instead of being constant came in fitful gusts. An hour later there was no doubt about it. The gusts came in less frequent intervals. The centre of the storm had gone on its way, leaving the atmosphere as thick with dust as a fog that hangs over London on a November day.

  Biggles’ biggest worry was the quantity of sand that might have been piled up against the aircraft; particularly the wheels, for if they had been buried, without tools to dig them out, to get them clear would present a problem. After a while, in his anxiety to know the worst he took a torch, and covering the lower part of his face with a towel went out to investigate.

  He was soon back. ‘Not too bad,’ he reported with relief in his voice. ‘There’s less sand round the wheels than I would have supposed. I can only imagine that the wind was strong enough to carry most of the stuff right over the wadi. Those thorn bushes in front of us may have acted as a break and stopped a lot of it. The fact that we were dead in line with the wind would make a difference, too. When we start the engines the slip-stream should blow away any loose stuff. It’s no use thinking yet about taking off. Another couple of hours should make a lot of difference. Whatever Zorlan may think about it I’m taking no chances to oblige him. I’ll decide when to go.’

  Bertie looked through the glass panel. ‘They all seem to have gone to sleep.’

  ‘Good. That saves any argument.’

  Time crawled on. Three, four, five o’clock ticked up on the instrument panel. Bertie had gone to sleep. Biggles, conscious of what depended on him, could only doze uneasily.

  From one of these naps, which must have been longer than usual, he awoke with a start to find a sickly khaki-tinted dawn creeping through the wind-screen. Looking through the side window towards the east, he saw the sun showing its face, a dull orange monstrosity, bloated and distorted by the veil of dust that still hung in the air. But the great thing was that he could see it at all, for that meant within a short time the atmosphere should not be too thick for flying the short distance he had to go.

  He poked Bertie in the ribs. ‘It’s daylight. Time to get mobile. Tell Ginger to get cracking with some coffee. My mouth’s like the bottom of a bird-cage.’

  He went out and examined the state of the machine, starting at the wheels. He was satisfied to find they were buried only as far up as the axles, and he had no difficulty in clearing this with his hands. The rest of the machine appeared to have suffered no damage. He next surveyed the landscape, such as it was. He saw he was right about the acacia scrub acting as a break, for it was more than half buried in a dune that had formed. This was directly in the way of any forward movement, but as the ground beyond was clear it would only be necessary to turn the aircraft and take up a line that would miss it. The floor of the wadi had been swept flat, without an obstruction of any sort. Indeed, the surface was a little too flat for his peace of mind. The question was, how soft was it?

  He walked a little way on it dragging his feet. As he suspected it was little more than dust deposited by the storm; but he did not think it would be deep enough to clog his wheels and so prevent the plane from gathering the speed required to get off — a fate that has overtaken more than one aircraft, and other wheeled vehicles for that matter, in the desert. This was something that could only be established by trial.1

  Visibility was roughly a hundred yards but improving steadily as the dust still in suspension settled and the rays of the rising sun cut through it. He pulled out the pieces of shirt that had protected the engines and returned to his seat.

  Bertie handed him a cup of coffee and offered a plate of biscuits. ‘Well, how do things look?’ he queried.

  ‘I think we should be all right. You might tell Zorlan I reckon to move off in about half an hour. Visibility will have improved and I shall have time for a cigarette after my breakfast. These biscuits would go down better if there was a little less grit on ‘em. But we mustn’t expect too much. If I know anything we shall be biting on dirt for some time. Don’t talk to me about the romance of the desert.’

  When the allotted time had passed and those in the cabin had been warned to fasten their safety belts, Biggles made ready to take off. ‘I shall let the engines run for a bit to blow away any loose stuff,’ he told Bertie. ‘You keep an eye on the sky. It wouldn’t surprise me if a MIG slipped over to see if we were still about.’

  To his great satisfaction the engines sprang to life at the first time of asking. He allowed them to tick over for a few minutes and then slowly ran them up to nearly full revs. Content to see from the instruments that they were doing what was expected of them, as soon as the machine started to move forward he throttled back.

  ‘Okay,’ said Bertie. ‘Not a sign of anyone.’

  ‘Fine.’ The aircraft hung for a moment or two when Biggles tried to move it, but a little extra throttle, cautiously applied in case the machine showed signs of tipping up, did the trick. The wheels, with a slight jerk forward quickly checked, were clear. After that it was a fairly simple matter to manoeuvre into a position with a clear run forward, anyhow for as far as the still poor visibility allowed.

  Biggles waited for the dust he himself had raised to settle. The crucial moment had come. If the soft sand clung to the wheels like deep mud or snow, as it might, anything could happen. The aircraft might end up stuck without hope of ever get
ting off. Too much throttle in an effort to reach flying speed might put it on its nose. A long run might find it confronted by an obstruction it could not clear and which in the poor visibility had been out of sight. It would have taken too long to explore the full length of the wadi. Not that it would have made much difference. The machine could not remain where it was. In short, everything depended on the next minute, possibly the lives of everyone in the plane.

  In the event everything went as well as could be expected. The machine was slow picking up flying speed as was bound to be the case. The tail ploughed. Tense, eyes staring ahead, Biggles nursed the engines, not daring to give them full throttle too quickly. He felt the tail lift. Relieved of the dragging weight the aircraft responded with a spurt, and just as all seemed well danger appeared ahead in the form of an outcrop of rock exposed by erosion. There was no question of stopping. To swerve while the wheels were still running through soft sand could only end in disaster; for wheels are designed to turn forward, and with the full weight of the aircraft on them any departure from a true line would almost certainly tear them off. There was only one thing to do and Biggles did it. He gave the engines everything and slowly but firmly pulled back the control column. Vibration ceased as the wheels ‘unstuck.’ They cleared the top of the grey peril, that lay like a gigantic crocodile across the track, by inches.

  Bertie put down his legs which he had lifted to his chin to prevent them from being trapped had the machine crashed. He wiped imaginary sweat from his face. It had lost some of its colour. ‘Don’t let’s have any more of that, old boy,’ he pleaded with intense feeling. ‘I can’t take it.’

  Biggles smiled wanly. ‘Neither can I. When I was younger I could laugh at close squeaks — but not now. They aren’t funny any more. Keep an eye topsides for MIGs. Ten minutes should see us at Rasal.’

  This proved correct. Before them, from a place where the wadi widened before breaking down altogether, extensive groves of date palms soared up to burst like clouds of green feathers. Beyond them on a slight slope clustered a conglomeration of small, square, mud-brick houses which, with fiat roofs, looked like so many boxes. All were studded with tiny black holes which apparently were unglazed windows. Conspicuously standing apart, from above a castellated wall rose a larger building surmounted by a dome.

  ‘This must be it,’ said Biggles. ‘Better confirm with Zorlan before I go down.’

  Bertie made the inquiry. ‘Right,’ he advised. ‘This is Rasal. Zorlan says go down wherever you can find room, but make it as close to the town as possible.’

  Biggles made two circuits studying the ground. Then, having chosen what he decided was the best place, he landed beside a long plantation and ended his run as close as he could get to the trees, partly to take advantage of any shade they might give, but more particularly to reduce the risk of being seen from above. He switched off, got out, lit a cigarette and returned the stares of several men who had appeared from within the dark recesses of the plantation.

  Zorlan emerged from the cabin with the two bodyguards, as usual carrying his portfolio. ‘Wait,’ he ordered. ‘I shall return as soon as I can get away, although if I am offered hospitality I couldn’t decline it without giving offence — you understand.’

  ‘I take it we shall be all right here?’ queried Biggles dubiously. ‘I mean, the local lads won’t come out with knives to carve us up? I seem to recall that these desert warriors have little time for strangers, particularly infidels like us.’

  ‘You will be quite safe. I feel sure that the sultan will have given orders that you are not to be molested.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. When you come back you’ll bring another passenger with you? Is that the idea?’

  ‘That is the intention.’ Zorlan walked away followed closely by the two guards.

  Biggles drew on his cigarette with satisfaction. ‘Well, at least we’ve managed to get here. I’m nothing for exploring, so I suggest we make ourselves comfortable in the cabin and have an early lunch in comfort. On this crazy jaunt it’s obviously wise to eat when you can.’

  The others agreed.

  ‘I wonder what sort of passenger Zorlan will pull out of the bag for us this time,’ said Ginger as they went inside.

  ‘Nothing would surprise me,’ rejoined Biggles — an assertion he was later to recall and withdraw. ‘I must say I find this hanging about, always waiting for something or somebody, more than a little tiresome. Patience isn’t my long suit. When I’ve a job to do I like to get on with it.’

  Thereafter they passed the time by enjoying a substantial meal, now overdue. A small crowd had gathered on the fringe of the plantation, apparently from idle curiosity, but none came near the plane. The air continued to clear as the dust raised by the storm fell slowly back to earth. It became hotter as the sun flamed its eternal course across the cloudless heavens.

  ‘What do you suppose Zorlan is doing all this time?’ muttered Bertie irritably, after a long spell of silence during which Biggles had lowered his stock of cigarettes.

  ‘Probably arguing about some clause or trying to get the sultan’s signature on one of the documents he’s carrying, I imagine,’ answered Biggles moodily. ‘If he’s squatting with the sultan round the usual dish, scooping up boiled mutton and rice with his fingers, he’s welcome to it. Before we left home I was more or less given to understand that the purpose behind the expedition was to organize a hook-up, some sort of agreement, between Zarat and Rasal. I have a feeling the negotiations have struck a snag. There’s nothing unusual about that. I’ve never heard of negotiations that didn’t strike one. I was told nothing about oil coming into the picture, although the Air Commodore must have known about it. Perhaps he thought there was no need to mention it. As I see the whole thing now oil lies at the root of it. Just where it is I don’t know and I don’t care. No doubt an agreement between these two countries is thought desirable, but an oil concession, and that is what I now suspect Zorlan has been sent here to get, puts a very different complexion on the business. Oil is liquid gold. It makes millionaires faster than anything else on earth. Where there’s oil, trouble is never far away. To me, when I think of the lives it costs, the stuff stinks.’

  ‘But whoever makes the millions it won’t be us,’ sighed Bertie.

  ‘You’re dead right. It will not.’

  ‘It’d be interesting to know what Zorlan is getting out of it,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘You can be quite sure of one thing. It won’t be peanuts.’

  Ginger walked to the door to survey the scene outside. ‘Hey! Come and take a dekko at what’s coming,’ he invited.

  ‘Coming here?’

  ‘It’s coming this way.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘It looks like a bit of a circus procession that’s lost its way.’

  Biggles and Bertie got up to investigate.

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Bertie. ‘This show gets more and more like something out of the Arabian Nights.’

  Biggles did not comment. Lines furrowed his forehead in a frown of disapproval, if not anger.

  The circus, as Ginger had described it, consisted firstly of a camel, with extravagant trappings, from the back of which rose a tall black object that looked rather like a half-inflated balloon. Beside the beast, three on each side, strode what, from the drawn scimitars they carried on their shoulders, was an escort of half a dozen men in uniforms that might have been copied from an illuminated oriental manuscript. That was not all. In front, looking ridiculous in Western clothes and carrying a modern portfolio, walked Zorlan between the two Zarat bodyguards.

  ‘It isn’t true,’ breathed Bertie, briskly polishing his eyeglass.

  ‘I wish you were right,’ growled Biggles.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ questioned Ginger.

  ‘So this is the passenger we’ve come to fetch,’ sighed Biggles. ‘No wonder Zorlan was cagey about saying who it was. A little while ago I said nothing would surprise me. I take it back. This knocks me
backwards on my haunches.’

  ‘It must be a prince, at least,’ offered Ginger.

  ‘In this part of the world, no men, not even princes, travel in those covered wagon affairs.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘It’s a woman.’

  ‘Great grief! For crying out loud! You don’t say!’

  ‘You’ll see. Or more likely you won’t see. There are still men in the world, even in so-called civilized parts, who object to any other male casting an eye on their females. We’ve carried some queer freight in our time, but if this is the load we’re to carry to Zarat it’ll be top of the list.’

  ‘But she can’t get into the cabin in that paraphernalia.’

  ‘You won’t see any more of her when she gets out, if I know anything about it.’

  The little procession came up and halted as near to the cabin door as it could get. The camel leader touched his animal on the leg with his wand. The creature ‘couched’ obediently. The curtains of the canopy were drawn and out stepped a slim figure swathed from head to foot in some fine black material. Not even an eye was showing.

  Breathed Bertie: ‘I’d like to see who...’

  ‘Watch your step,’ cut in Biggles. ‘In Moslem country this sort of luggage can be more dangerous than high explosive.’

  Zorlan came close to Biggles and whispered: ‘Be very careful.’

  ‘What is all this?’ demanded Biggles.

  ‘Our passenger, of course.’

  ‘I’d already grasped that. Who is she?’

  ‘The daughter of the Sultan of Rasal al Sharab.’

  ‘And what are we supposed to do with her?’

  ‘Deliver her safely to her affianced husband. I have just concluded a marriage contract between the Sultan of Rasal al Sharab and the Sheikh of Zarat. Take great care. The sultan thinks the world of his daughter.’