t help feeling that had nothing gone wrong they would have been here by now. Anyhow, there it is. There's nothing more we can do. The Commandant has insisted that we accept his hospitality while we're here, so we might as well go and have some lunch. Eat when you can is a good plan on jobs like this. Not that I want much. The heat certainly is terrific."
It was in the middle of the afternoon that the Commandant, looking grave, brought news that put Biggles on his feet. His manner was that of one who brings disturbing intelligence. It turned out to be even worse than Ginger expected.
The Commandant explained that he had received a message which he thought might have some bearing on the business that had brought them there. The pilot of a French airliner coming up from Lake Chad had seen an aircraft, which he thought was a Douglas transport plane, down in the desert not far from the Ahaggar. He was unable to pin-point it exactly, but it was roughly on a line between the Ahaggar and Insalah. He had flown over it very low, but had seen no signs of life. As far as he could judge the machine had not crashed, but appeared to be in good order. He had not dared to risk a landing, as he was carrying a full load of passengers, whose lives he dare not hazard. All he could do was send out a signal on his radio, to Algiers, in case a plane was overdue.
What, concluded the Commandant, would Biggles like him to do about it?
"This must be the machine I'm waiting for, Monsieur le Commandant," said Biggles. "It went to El Asile from Algiers and was to come on here. I hoped it would be here before I arrived. There is only one thing to do. I'll fly out and look at this machine."
The Commandant did not demur. All he said was: "You do not need me to tell you that to land in the desert is an operation attended by much danger. At this hour the heat strikes, as my men say, like the hammers of hell."
"I am aware of that, Monsieur le Commandant," answered Biggles. "But the men who landed that machine may have been my friends, so I must go."
"But assuredly," confirmed the Commandant. He had more than once been faced with the same situation.
Biggles looked at Marcel. "If Joudrier comes before I get back tell him what has happened. What action he takes I am content to leave to his discretion; but you can say I think he would be wise to proceed with the plan, as it was decided, without waiting for me."
"The Commandant can tell him this," said Marcel. "Me, I shall go with you," he announced, quite definitely.
Biggles argued against this on the grounds that it was taking an unnecessary risk.
The Commandant intervened. He said he thought it
would be a good thing if Marcel went. He should not land, but remain in the air to watch what happened. If for any reason Biggles was unable to get off the ground, Marcel would at least know where he was, in which case he would arrange for water to be dropped to him. Ue had special equipment for that sort of emergency, he said.
This was so obviously a sensible arrangement that Biggles acknowledged it, and submitted. "All right. If we're going we might as well get off right away," he opined.
Ten minutes later the Mosquito and the Morane took off into the glare of the heat-tortured atmosphere, and took up a course for the estimated position of their objective.
Hardly a word was spoken either by Biggles or Ginger as they bored through the quivering air. There was really nothing to talk about. The situation was plain enough, and no amount of guessing would produce the answer to the question, why had the machine landed in the desert? This was something close investigation would no doubt reveal. The Mosquito, fast though it was, rocked as it cut through currents of air that rose and fell according to the nature of the terrain below.
On the open desert, with hardly a mark on its shimmering surface to catch the eye, the task of finding the Douglas should be a comparatively easy one, thought Ginger. And so it proved. Flying at five thousand feet, as soon as the crests of the Ahaggar appeared ahead, Biggles began quartering the ground in ten-mile-long casts. While on one of these Ginger touched him on the arm and pointed. There was no need to say anything. There, on an area of sand as flat as if it had been rolled, a Douglas stood in flying position on its three wheels. Its shadow, creeping like an inky stain from under it as the sun dipped in the west, was more conspicuous than the machine.
Biggles made only one remark as be glided down towards it. "I don't think it could have been forced down, because whoever was flying it obviously had time to pick a landing-ground."
"I can't see anything wrong with it," observed Ginger.
Biggles flew low over the aircraft, dreading what he might see. But nothing like a body was in sight, on the ground or in the cockpit. After a careful survey of the ground he put the Mosquito down and taxied right up to the abandoned aircraft. There was no longer any doubt about it being abandoned, because had anyone been there he would have shown himself. Ginger realized that if Algy or Bertie was there, he could only be in the cabin, dead or unconscious.
The Mosquito had hardly stopped moving when Biggles was down, running. Ginger was at his heels. Marcel circled overhead.
Half a minute was ample time to provide the answer to the one question that really mattered. Neither Algy nor Bertie was there, inside the machine or out of it. Nor was there anyone else.
Biggles investigated, while Ginger tried to convey the news to Marcel by means of signals. When Biggles got out of the Douglas he said: "This machine was shot at. The main tanks were holed. That could have happened either in the air or on the ground, but I fancy it must have been on the ground."
"Because had it been shot at in the air the weapon used would have been a machine gun, in which case there would almost certainly have been several holes—unless, of course, the range was very long, giving the bullets time to spread. Moreover, the shots were fired from below the machine, not above it."
"You think it could have happened at El Asile?"
"It could, but I can't say it did. It could have happened when Algy was on his way out, or on his way home. On his way out he would have been alone, of course; on his way home he'd have Bertie with him, because he wouldn't start without him. One thing is certain.
The enemy knew the machine wasn't being handled by
one of their own men or they wouldn't have shot at it."
"Shots were fired in the machine, apparently, when Algy and Canton were fighting."
"Yes, but Algy landed at Maison Blanche after that. The tanks weren't leaking then."
"If Algy and Bertie were in this machine, and had to force-land on the way home, why didn't they stand by, knowing that we should be along? They must have known we'd come after the information Algy gave Marcel to pass on to you."
Biggles shook his head. "I don't know. They must have been losing petrol fast, and being afraid they couldn't get home, perhaps went down to plug the leak."
"Could the people of El Asile have followed them, and captured them?"
"I don't think so. There are strong arguments against that," returned Biggles. "Had Algy and Bertie been cornered here they would have put up a fight rather than be captured.
There wasn't a fight. If there had been there would be expended cartridges lying about. I can't see one. Again, if they were captured. I question if they'd be taken to El Asile, or anywhere else. They would have been shot here. They would certainly have been shot.
Why take them to El Asile to shoot them?"
"All right," resumed Ginger. "Let's assume that Algy, or Bertie, or both of them were in this machine when it came down. They might not have had any water with them. They'd soon be desperate for some. I mean, could they have gone off to look for water?"
Biggles lit a cigarette. "I can't see that happening. Algy's not a fool. He'd realize the risks of getting lost. Besides, he'd know there was no water about except at El Asile. He'd soon work out that his best chance was to stick to the machine, knowing that one of us would be along and would be pretty certain to spot him. The most puzzling thing to me is this.
If there wasn't a fight, they must have gone away of their
own accord. That being so, why didn't they leave a message, just a scrap of paper, to let us know what they intended doing?"
Ginger gazed across the hopeless landscape. If he sought inspiration from it he found none. "We can't be a great way from El Asile," he observed. "I suppose they wouldn't attack it on their own?" He spoke without much confidence.
"Not unless they were raving mad, and I see no reason why they should be."
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to look for them," decided Biggles. "We can't just do nothing. If they left here on their feet, and I don't see how else they could have gone, they won't be far away."
"And if we can't spot them?"
"I shall go to El Asile. If they're there, and still alive, it won't be for long. It's up to us."
"There's only about an hour of daylight left." "That should be enough."
"What about Joudrier? If he's arrived at Insalah he'll be annoyed if we keep him waiting."
"We shall have to let him know what's happened." "How?"
"I'm going to bring Marcel down and send him back. There's no risk in landing here."
Biggles walked into the open and made beckoning signals to the Morane, still cruising overhead.
Marcel soon saw what was required of him, and came down. He taxied up. "What happens?" he questioned eagerly.
"That's what we'd like to know," answered Biggles. "There's no one here." He explained the situation briefly. "I want you to go back and tell Joudrier how we're fixed," he concluded. "Tell him to carry on without me. He might come this way. If we're still here I'll make a signal. If there's no signal he'll probably find me at El Asile."
Marcel looked startled, then resigned. "El Asile! If you are shot I will make a nice tombstone for you," he
promised sadly. He shrugged. "As if there are not enough graves in the desert already."
Biggles smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "That's kind of you, mon ami. The thought will comfort me when I'm dodging bullets. Now forget about things like that. Go back and tell Joudrier that I'm sorry things seem to be getting in a tangle, but we'll have them all buttoned up at the finish."
"Bon!" Without another word Marcel strode back to his Morane and took off.
"The more I see of Marcel, the more I like him," remarked Biggles, as he turned to the Mosquito. "I shall cover the district as far as seems reasonable, working towards the oasis," he explained. "If we see nothing by sundown I shall go on to El Asile."
"You mean, you're going to land there?"
"I wouldn't expect to see much from up topsides."
Ginger was staring at the horizon. "Is that a cloud -I can see?" he asked wonderingly. "
Don't tell me it's going to rain!"
Biggles looked long and steadily at the object to which Ginger had called attention. "That isn't a cloud," he said slowly. "They don't have such things there. It's smoke. Smoke over the Ahaggar. We'll have a closer look at that presently. Come on, we're wasting daylight.
"
XIV
ENEMIES OR ALLIES?
FOR an aircraft, a punctured petrol-tank is a serious matter at any time; if it occurs when the machine is flying over such an area of the earth's crust as Algy and Bertie knew was beneath them, then the expectation of life for the occupants becomes very slim indeed.
In the Douglas D.C.3 there are two main fuel-tanks
located forward of the centre-section spar. Just where the machine had been damaged Algy did not know; all he knew was the floor was swimming with petrol, and blinding spray, ejected under pressure, made it impossible to discover where it was coming from.
Emile had been forced to leave the cabin to escape asphyxiation. Bertie groped his way in, but retired quickly with his hands over his eyes, in considerable pain. It was not possible to check, except over a period of time, the rate at which petrol was being lost; but as the machine had not been refuelled since it started on its outward journey it seemed unlikely that it would get far.
That was not the only danger. There was another, even more alarming. The aircraft was fast becoming soaked with petrol. The cabin was charged with petrol vapour, and it would need one spark only to cause it to explode. When Algy looked at the glowing gases streaming from his exhausts, lurid, as they always are in the dark, and unpleasantly close, his mouth went dry.
There was no question of plugging the hole, or holes, even if they could be located. In fact, it was impossible to do anything about the trouble while the machine was in flight and while darkness persisted. The alternatives seemed to be, to risk fire and carry on as long as the machine would remain airborne, or go down on the first level ground that presented itself and wait for daylight, when a temporary repair might be effected. The trouble was, Algy saw, that if he chose the former course and went on, the engines might fail for want of fuel at a place where a crash would be inevitable. Even a minor crackup might well cause an explosion, because a dying magneto has an unpleasant habit of throwing a last spark.
Algy put the matter to Bertie, whose life was at stake as well as his own. There was no need to explain the situation, because Bertie was just as well aware of it as Algy.
"I'd go down, old boy," said Bertie without hesitation, really serious for once. "There are plenty of flat patches. I noticed them on the way here."
"If we strike soft sand we may never get off again," Algy pointed out.
"Biggles or Marcel will spot us when they go to the oasis. We're right on their course."
"Von Stalhein inay spot us first if he comes looking for us."
"I'd risk that, laddie. I'd rather face von Stalhein than stay up here and be fried. I can't see us getting to Insalah, so we might as well go down at once."
Algy said no more. Everyone has a horror of fire. An airman probably has a greater horror of it than most people, because in spite of all precautions he sees too many machines end their careers in flames. The strain of flying a machine charged with an explosive mixture of petrol gas is severe; so Algy was satisfied to accept Bertie's decision. His eyes explored the desert, a bare five hundred feet below, seeking an area free from obstructions.
"There you are, old boy—half left!" exclaimed Bertie sharply. "There's a spot there that looks just the job."
Algy made a flattish turn, eased the stick forward and throttled back. He also burnt his boats, so to speak, by cutting the ignition. The noise of the engines died abruptly. With stationary propellers the Douglas dropped towards the earth like a phantom, a shadowy wraith on which the wan light of a rising moon played strange tricks. No one spoke. Algy lowered his undercarriage. A minute of breathless suspense followed. If the sand turned out to be soft—and this is a factor which from the air, even in daylight, it is impossible to determine—the wheels would plough in and cause the machine to overturn.
The wheels touched with a gentle bump, and Algy's nerves relaxed as they trundled on.
Almost without a sound they rolled on over firm ground, the machine losing speed slowly and finally coming to a standstill.
"Nice work, laddie," congratulated Bertie. The words came strangely clear and loud in the solemn hush that had fallen.
"Let's get clear and have a cigarette," suggested Algy. "I'm all of a dither."
They all got out. Having put a safe distance between them and the machine, they sat down. Algy took out his cigarette-case. "You chose a bad moment to start hitchhiking,"
he told Emile, with grim humour.
Emile's only answer was a shrug. Hands in his pockets, he gazed unperturbed across a landscape with which his life in the Foreign Legion had no doubt made him familiar.
"I don't think there's anything we can do until it gets light enough to see the damage,"
remarked Algy.
"Not a bally thing," agreed Bertie. "No use striking matches, or anything like that."
"When it gets light we shall be able to see what juice we have left."
"Absolutely. This is a pretty lonely spot—what?"
No one answered. The moon rose clear of the horizon, flooding the scene with blue light and revealing the desert in all its naked desolation.
"There is this about it," went on Bertie presently. "We're pretty conspicuous here, so there's not much chance of Biggles missing us when he waffles along—if you see what I mean?"
"We shall be just as conspicuous to von Stalhein, or some blighter in that Hurricane of yours, if he should come along first," said Algy gloomily. "Getting the tank hit was a dirty slice of luck. It was rotten luck that von Stalhein should roll up just when he did, if it comes to that. It shook me to see him step out of that Mosquito. I wonder what he's doing out here?"
"I heard him shouting something about Canton," offered Bertie.
"Yes. I suppose that was it. Judging from what he said to Odenski, his secret service had reported that Canton was in jail. That put him in a flap no doubt, because having seen Canton take off on a non-stop run to the oasis, he'd wonder how it could have happened.
Maybe he dashed out to El Asile to check up. Had
he been five minutes later we shouldn't be in this mess."
"Had he been five minutes earlier we shouldn't have got off. That's how it goes, old boy, that's how it goes," returned Bertie philosophically. "Queer how chilly it gets in these places after sundown."
"The air, it is so dry," put in Emile. "To keep warm, lie down and cover the body with sand. Always the sand stays warm."
"I'm not going to make a rabbit of myself and get my ears full of the beastly stuff,"
declared Bertie.
After that nobody spoke for some time. They just sat, in a silence that was profound, waiting for the morning light.
It was Emile who broke the spell. He appeared to be asleep, but suddenly he started and scrambled to his feet. "Alas!" he exclaimed in a hollow voice. "Now we shall have grief.
Voila!"
Staring across the moonlit wilderness in the direction in which the lad was pointing, Algy saw what appeared to be a sinuous shadow moving towards them. "What on earth is that?
" he asked sharply.
"Arabs," answered Emile. "Only Tuareg would come here. Some are good. Some are bad. They fear no one."
40 Biggles Works It Out Page 13
