s like. Another snag is, the north-east monsoon is due to break shortly."
"If you want to destroy this dump how about a stick of bombs ? "
"The Higher Authority says no. Such drastic action which might kill innocent people, can't be justified on the unsubstantiated word of a single Chinese boy."
"So what ? "
"There's only one way to make absolutely certain of mopping up this infernal arsenal, and you know what it is. With Vandor himself we're not particularly concerned, but every one of his cartridges may mean the loss of a British life." The Air Commodore caught Biggles' eyes for a moment.
"Someone pretty high up has suggested that the Air Police have just the personnel and equipment for the job."
"Meaning me ? "
"Meaning you." The Air Commodore lit another cigarette. "There's a landing-ground," he suggested meaningly.
"What about roads ? "
"There aren't any. There's a jungle track, about sixty miles of it, bristling with cut-throats. You can forget about roads. No doubt Vandor has that particular approach well covered."
"I take it you've got air photos of this place, Marapang ? "
"Of course. We got the Air Force to take a series, both vertical and oblique."
"I'd like to have a look at them."
The Air Commodore took a batch of prints from the docket and passed them over. "The stuff is stored at the end of the east wing. Young Wong, the Chinese boy, helped us to draw a sketch plan of the place. I have it here."
Biggles picked up a magnifying glass and studied the photographs thoughtfully. "The only flat patch for miles seems to be the paddy fields and the airstrip that runs through them," he observed. "The paddy fields will be under water so they're no use to us. The rest is plantation and jungle." He picked up a pencil and pointed. "Do you know anything about this sheet of water ? "
"That's an artificial reservoir made by damming a stream. It's in hilly country, a thousand feet above the
house. A track leads up to it. The reservoir provides the estate with water and hydro-electric power."
"I see." Biggles pointed again. "And this, I imagine, is the hangar ? "
"Yes. It's a primitive, palm-thatched, frame building."
"Does Vandor still run an aircraft ? "
"Yes, but we don't know where he goes in it, or how he gets his petrol.
The boy says the machine is kept in order by a Tamil mechanic who once served in the Burmese Air Force."
"What's the machine ? "
"A Gipsy Moth."
Biggles nodded. "All right, sir," he said. "I'll keep this stuff and memorise it while I'm getting organised. Before I go I'll let you have the general scheme. The fewer people who know about it the better, but you'd better warn the Commander-in-Chief, Singapore, that I'm on the way, and ask him to give me the usual facilities."
"I'll do that. Is there anything else you want ? "
"I'd like one of those velvet-lined pocket cases holding demolition and incendiary bombs that were issued
to Special Air Service operators in the war."
"
see to it," promised the Air Commodore.
Biggles got up.
The main objective, I take it, is the
destruction of the war material ? "
"Yes. If you can get hold of Vandor at the same time so well and good, but don't take too many chances to do that. Kill the ammunition."
I'll see what I can do about it," promised Biggles.
A week after the conversation in the Air Commodore's office a " Skud"
amphibious aircraft of the Air Police Flight droned its way northward from Singapore through a cloudless sky under stars that were being dimmed by a rising moon, nearly full. The altimeter registered ten thousand feet, but still the Skud climbed slowly as it crossed the mighty bowl between horizon and horizon. Far away to the east the moonlight glimmered faintly on the waters of the South China Sea. Below and to the west, an inky void was all that could be seen of the vast Malayan jungles, although here and there a point of light occurred to mark an uneasy human habitation. Ahead there was nothing but darkness. Through it the machine droned on, a shadowy shape in that lonely world between earth and sky that only airmen know.
At the controls, with Ginger beside him, sat Biggles, his face expressionless, eyes brooding on the sombre emptiness beyond the windscreen or roving the luminous dials of the instrument panel that filled the cockpit with a pallid glow. He sat a little higher in his seat than usual, but this was only because he was sitting on a parachute.
After a silence that had lasted for some time he said to Ginger : "You're quite clear about what I want you to do ? "
"Absolutely. But I still think it's taking a frightful risk to drop in by brolly. If you miss the open area
" If you'll hold the machine steady I shan't miss it," broke in Biggles.
"There's no wind. If I hit the trees—well it wouldn't be the first time."
"It would be safer to let me put you down on the reservoir."
"A safe way is not always the best way. You'd be heard getting off again."
"I could wait."
"I may be some time, and you might be seen, in which case you'd have to abandon the machine or take it off. Either way the place would be on the alert and that would make things more difficult for me."
" Algy and Bertie are in reserve to cover that contingency."
"I prefer it my way. The fewer people there are on the ground the less risk will there be of discovery. This job must be done before Vandor can get a whiff of what's in the wind.
"
Ginger said no more. He knew it was not much use arguing with Biggles once his mind was made up.
The aircraft droned on through the tropic night, still climbing, Biggles keeping the coastline in sight to check his position. The moon soared higher, its reflected light turning occasional rivers and lakes to shapeless blobs of quicksilver, which by contrast only accentuated the density of the jungle background.
It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when Biggles, after checking the configuration of the coast with the map that lay on his knees, turned inland, his eyes probing the sombre world below. The engines died as he throttled back, easing the control column forward, so that the only sound was the melancholy sighing of air over the outer surfaces of the machine.
After a while he said : "I think that must be the reservoir. There's no other water near except the stream that feeds it. I can't make out the airstrip, but I can see what look like paddy fields lying as the boy described them."
Ginger, too, stared down, his eyes trying to pick out salient points in an almost featureless landscape. Not a light showed anywhere. "I can see the paddy fields," he said presently. "There's a straight edge, too, that must be the boundary of a plantation."
"As there's no other cultivation within fifty miles it must be the place we're looking for,"
returned Biggles. "All right. Take over. Let her go down a bit. Hold her straight and level when I say the word. When I've gone, glide as far as you can before you open up."
"Okay. Got everything ? "
Biggles' hand ran over his harness, and his pockets. "Yes," he answered, and opened the escape hatch.
His hand groped for the parachute ring. He stared down. "Right a little,"
he called. "Little more. Steady. Now ! "
The nose of the Skud came up a trifle so that for a moment the machine was almost silent as it hung near stalling speed.
"So long," said Biggles evenly and slid off into space.
He counted six before pulling the ring. A second later the harness gripped his body with a jerk as the silk mushroomed above him. He swung a little at first, but steadied himself by handling the shrouds. Then he looked down to see where he was going.
The earth still looked far away, but the details were a little more definite. The silence was profound. He could no longer hear the aircraft—
not that he wanted to. He reached for
the shrouds again when he saw he was drifting slightly towards the jungle. Then, suddenly, the earth seemed to be rising up to meet him, and he held his breath for the shock of impact. As it turned out there was surprisingly little shock, for his legs sank to the knees in the ooze in which young rice was growing. He stumbled and fell, but there was no wind so he was quickly on his feet again, crouching while the parachute, now released, settled like a patch of mist beside him.
For a minute he stood still, ears straining to catch the slightest sound
; but all was silent, so gathering up the silk that had brought him down he rolled it into a ball and sat on it while he took stock of his surroundings.
He saw that he had landed near the end of the cultivated ground and within a hundred yards of the nearest timber, which, from its straight edge, he knew must be a rubber plantation. Towards this he now made his way, stopping often to listen, but for the most part moving with confidence. With the air photographs memorised he knew pretty well where he was. In Singapore, too, he had had a long talk with the Chinese boy, and from him gathered a good deal of detailed information about the lie of the ground.
The airstrip, merely an area of hard ground, was some distance to his right, but he was not so much concerned with this as with the hangar, which he knew could be reached by following the edge of the plantation.
The native village, where Vandor's labourers lived, was some distance beyond that. Vandor's house, which stood alone, was on a hillside which he could see silhouetted against the sky beyond the trees.
By the time he had reached the plantation mosquitoes were making their presence felt.
For this he was prepared, and lost no time in smearing his hands and face with insect repellent. He then looked at his watch. The time was three-thirty, which meant that he had about three hours of darkness to complete his mission and get clear. Making as little noise as possible on the soft ground he went on until he could make out the hangar looming in the gloom ahead. It struck him that it seemed to be getting darker, and gazing skyward he perceived the reason. A veil of cloud was being drawn across the moon.
This, he thought, was unfortunate, for he was relying on the moonlight to enable him to find his way about.
He went on and reached the hangar with only one incident, and that was not of a serious nature ; but still, with his nerves keyed up, as they always are on such occasions, he stiffened when a black shadow rose up in front of him and blundered away into the night.
It was, he saw at once, a buffalo, although whether it was wild, or a domestic beast strayed from its paddock, he did not know. Nor did he, now that it had gone, care very much.
He found the hangar to be a simple structure of canvas stretched over a wooden framework. The canvas, he noticed, had once been part of Japanese war stores. It was just enough to protect the machine from the weather.
There was no difficulty about getting in because the entrance consisted merely of curtains that could be drawn aside.
The Moth was there. As far as it was possible to judge it appeared to be in order. Biggles had a torch, and would have liked to make sure of this, because it was in order to survey a possible line of retreat, should he find himself in a tight corner, that he had troubled to go to the hangar at all. But to show a light was a risk he dare not take, so he went out again with the object of completing his mission in the shortest possible time. The moon, he was annoyed to find, was now no more than a pale glow in the sky. A few big drops of rain were falling.
Although he still carried the photograph of the place in his mind, to find the house was not an easy matter, and for some time he wandered up and down the footpaths, made by labourers working in the plantations, without advancing far in the direction in which he knew the house to be.
However, at length he found the landmark which in the photograph he had supposed to be a brook, or a ditch. In fact, it turned out to be a jungle-lined ravine of unknown depth and about twelve yards across. After following this for some way, for in the dark there could be no question of crossing it, he found a bridge. He remembered this bridge. It was on the one track for vehicular traffic between the house and the outside world.
Having ascertained that there was no guard on it he crossed over, only to find again that the photographs were deceptive. What he had taken to be a level road, turning at a sharp angle from the bridge, was a short steep hill that ended in an open area in front of the house. This area fell away towards the track. Of the building itself he could see little. It was larger than he expected, and appeared to be something between a glorified European bungalow and a Chinese pagoda.
He was about to make his way to the east end of the building, where the ammunition was stored, when he heard a sound that puzzled him, and brought a frown to his forehead. It was the screech of a motor horn. Looking in the direction whence it came, which was beyond the track up which he had just come, he saw, moving through the trees, not one pair of headlights, but three. What this portended he did not even try to guess ; but as it was obvious that the vehicles were coming to the house he lost no time in getting into a position from which he could watch without being seen. The only cover available, although there was plenty of it, was in the luxuriant tropical shrubs and tree-ferns that in places overhung the open ground. Into these he pushed his way, although not without reluctance. There were plenty of fireflies, and these he did not mind ; he was thinking of snakes, centipedes, and other Venomous insects that might resent his sudden intrusion.
But his dominant sensations were irritation and frustration, because such an interruption as was now imminent, at such an hour, was outside his reckoning, and looked even then as if it might upset his plan. This was clear cut. He had intended to force an entrance to the ammunition dump, place a couple of time bombs, one explosive and the other incendiary, and retire. He would then merely have to make his way up to the reservoir and there wait for Ginger to come and pick him up.
That it was not going to work out as easily as that was soon evident. He accepted the state of affairs philosophically. He knew from experience that plans seldom operate without a hitch.
The next development made him start, so little was he expecting it. This was the switching on of two overhead arc lamps suspended above the area in front of the house.
This was now turned into a pool of light, dazzling after the darkness.
Lights also appeared in the house. He was glad he had taken cover, for signs of activity at once appeared. A big Malay—or Biggles took him to be a Malay—stepped forward from the house and stood as if waiting. On him, from some low buildings that were evidently living quarters, converged a motley assortment of Oriental humanity. All were chattering like monkeys, but this ended abruptly when from the front door stepped a man, a white man in a suit of white drill. He gave the appearance of having dressed quickly. He was, Biggles suspected, Captain Langley Vandor, and as events were soon to prove, he was right. Lamenting that he had chosen such an unfortunate moment to arrive, Biggles could only wait and watch.
That the people under the lights were awaiting the arrival of the motor vehicles, now grinding up the slope in low gear, was obvious ; and Biggles himself turned his attention in that direction with no small curiosity. But when, presently, with a good deal of triumphant shouting, a lorry and two jeeps, crowded with men, arrived on the scene, he felt that he should have guessed what was afoot.
The lorry made a circuit of the open area and came to rest facing the direction from which it had come ; that is to say, just at the top of the slope, at the bottom of which was the bridge. The two jeeps, shedding some of their human cargo, went on, and disappeared from sight at the east end of the building, up a track which until then Biggles did not know existed. The area in front of the house now presented an animated picture.
Not fewer than a score of men were there, all talking at once, although what was being said, Biggles, not knowing the language, had no idea. A more mixed assemblage he had never seen. There were Malays, Japanese, Chinese, Burme
se, Tamils and mixed breeds, all of whom had evidently suspended racial hatreds in order to obtain plunder under a common banner of lawlessness with violence. Incongruously, they shared one superficial feature with Biggles, he noticed. The majority of them wore British battle dress, for the most part ill-fitting, which could only have been taken from the bodies of their victims. It did not take Biggles long to see the possibilities of this unpleasant circumstance.
Three men stood apart from the rest : Vandor, the big Malay, and a man of unknown nationality who was, Biggles thought, the leader of the new arrivals. Vandor was a rather stout, pompous little man, whose ancestry was betrayed by high cheek bones and eyes that were not quite straight.
41 Biggles Takes The Case Page 6
