by W E Johns
Biggles nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. I’ll tell you why.’
He devoted the next twenty minutes to a résumé of the sinister story he had just gathered at headquarters. No one interrupted. All eyes were on his face. When he concluded, still no one spoke.
‘Well, has nobody anything to say?’ queried Biggles.
‘What is there to say?’ asked Ginger.
‘Sure, I guess you’re right, at that,’ put in Tex, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke at the ceiling. ‘Looks like we’ve come a helluva long way to find trouble. So what?’
‘Has anybody an idea about this thing?’ demanded Biggles.
No one answered.
‘Stiffen the crows!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘You are a bright lot. Do I have to do all the thinking?’
‘What’s the use of us trying to work it out if you can’t?’ murmured Tug.
‘What do you think about it yourself, old boy?’ asked Bertie.
‘Frankly, I can’t even begin to think,’ admitted Biggles. ‘We have one single fact to work on. Something is affecting our machines, or the pilots. We don’t even know which. That’s the first thing we’ve got to find out.’
‘You tell us how, and we’ll get right on with it,’ asserted Ferocity.
‘That would be easier if I knew what we were looking for,’ went on Biggles. ‘One thing is certain. We shan’t find it by sitting here. We’ve got to go out—where the others went. That will mean . . . casualties. And that’s putting it nicely. We aren’t the only suicide squadron on the station, but that doesn’t make it any easier from my point of view. I’ve never yet asked a man to do a show I wouldn’t do myself, so I shall make a start. After that it will be a job for volunteers. If anyone would like to fall out, he may. Now’s the time.’
Nobody moved.
Biggles glanced round. ‘Okay, if that’s how you feel about it,’ he said softly. ‘Now you know what’s likely to happen, let’s get down to it. I shall make a start in the morning by going up to Jangpur, the Indian terminus of the China run, to have a look round. I am planning to take an aircraft over the course.’
‘You mean—go to Chungking?’ cried Algy.
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s daft, mon,’ protested Angus. ‘How can ye find a thing when ye dinna ken what ye’re looking for?’
‘Has anyone an alternative suggestion?’
There was a chorus of voices offering to go out, but Biggles silenced them with a gesture. ‘Don’t all talk at once, and don’t let’s have any argument about who is going out. You’ll all get your turns. I shall do the first show. That’s settled. If I don’t come back Algy will take over. If he fades out, too, the others will carry on in order of seniority until the thing is found, or until there is no one left to look for it. That’s all quite simple. What machines have we got, Algy?’
‘A mixed bunch,’ was the reply. ‘It looks as if Raymond has got together anything he thought might be useful. There’s a Wimpey, a Beaufighter, a Mosquito, three Hurricanes, three Spits*3 and a Typhoon. If you’ve made up your mind to go out why not take the Beau, and have somebody else with you? Then, if anything went wrong, the second pilot could bring the aircraft home.’
‘From what I understand, flying two pilots together is just an easy way of doubling the rate of casualties. Two go instead of one. Whether the new weapon affects the men or the machine, the whole outfit goes west.’
‘That doesn’t entirely fit in with what Johnny Crisp told me,’ declared Algy.
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Well, it seems that some fellows are either extraordinarily lucky, or else they—or their machines—are unaffected by the new weapon.’
‘What do you mean by that, precisely?’
‘Johnny tells me that he has made eleven sorties since the trouble started and has never seen or heard anything to alarm him. But he has seen others go down, seen them dropping like shot birds all round him—that’s how he put it. He told me that what with this ropey spectacle, and expecting his own turn to come every minute, he froze to the stick, with fright. Once he was the only one of five to return. Another chap, a pilot officer named Scrimshaw, has been out nine times, and has got away with it.’
Biggles regarded Algy with a mystified look in his eyes. ‘That certainly is interesting,’ he said slowly. ‘What squadrons are these chaps in?’
‘They’re both in 818, flying Hurrybombers*4. There are only five of them left in the squadron, although they have had replacements several times. Some chaps went west on their first show.’
‘I suppose it must be luck, but it seems strange,’ muttered Biggles. ‘There can’t be anything unusual about their machines—they’re all standardised.’
‘They haven’t always flown the same machines, anyway,’ volunteered Algy.
‘Then obviously we can’t put their luck down to their equipment. Yet the fellows themselves must be flesh and blood, like any other men. It must be luck. I don’t see how it can be anything else.’
‘If this new weapon is so hot, why haven’t the Japs handed it on to their partners, the Nazis?’ inquired Henry Harcourt.
‘Ask me something easier,’ returned Biggles. ‘All the same, Henry, I think you’ve got something there. So far the trouble is localised in the East. One would suppose that the Japs would pass it on to the Nazis. All I can say is, God help us if they do.’
‘Maybe the Japs don’t trust the Nazis,’ contributed Ferocity, practically. ‘They may be windy of having the thing turned on then, if ever they fell out with their partners.’
‘That may be the answer,’ acknowledged Biggles.
‘How about gas?’ suggested Henry. ‘Have you thought of that?’
‘It passed through my mind,’ averred Biggles. ‘But there are several arguments against it. The first is, you can only get gas in quantity to a great height, by carrying it, or shooting it up, and nobody has seen any sort of vehicle or missile capable of doing that. Then again, what about formations? If a trail of gas could be laid across the sky, why are some pilots affected and not others? And how are we going to account for the irregular intervals of time between the machines falling out? I can’t believe that the Japs could plant gas all over the place, at different altitudes, without being spotted. Finally, if gas were used, what is there to prevent the Japs themselves from flying into it, bearing in mind that the locality would not be constant? The wind, upcurrents and sinkers, would blow the stuff all over the place. Still, we’ll bear the possibility in mind.’
‘It was just an idea,’ murmured Henry.
‘Let’s get back to the question of action,’ suggested Biggles. ‘We’ve got to find this hidden horror before we can do anything about it, and no doubt some of us will do that. Plenty of others have found it,’ he added significantly, ‘but unfortunately they couldn’t get the information home. In other words, without mincing matters, it seems that the man who finds the thing, dies. Our problem is to find it and live—or live long enough to pass back the secret. It means going out, and I shall make a start, beginning in the area where the thing struck first—that is, on the Jangpur-Chungking route. The rest of you will stay here till I get back. That’s an order. On no account will anyone go into the air; nor will anyone refer to the fact, either here or anywhere else, that we have been sent out specially to hunt this thing down. At all times you will pretend that we are what we are supposed to be, a communication squadron scheduled for co-operation with forces inside India. You needn’t be idle. Give the machines a thorough overhaul. I shall go up to Jangpur in the Typhoon. Algy, I’d like you to get a list of all persons outside Air Force personnel who work on the station, or have permits to visit the airfield for any purpose whatsoever. There are certain to be a lot of men of the country; there always are on Indian stations. For the benefit of those of you who haven’t been to India before, we don’t use the expression natives. It’s discourteous. Raymond probably has such a list already made. That would be the first thing he’d do,
I imagine, in checking up for possible saboteurs. If anyone asks where I’ve gone you can say I’m doing a test flight—which will be true enough. Now let’s get some sleep.’
Chapter 4
Biggles Makes a Wager
The following morning, the first glow of dawn saw Biggles in the air, in the Typhoon, heading north for Jangpur, the Indian terminus of the China route. He had not far to go—a trifle more than a hundred miles. As he landed and taxied to the wooden office buildings he noted a general absence of movement, an atmosphere of inactivity. The duty officer, a pilot officer, came to meet him. His manner was respectful, but listless, as if his interest in everything about him was perfunctory. He told Biggles that the station commander, Squadron Leader Frayle, was in his office.
And there Biggles found him, looking as though he had not been to bed for a week. His eyes were heavy from want of sleep; his hair was untidy and his chin unshaven. The desk was a litter of dirty cups, plates and glasses.
Biggles did not appear to notice this. ‘Good morning,’ he greeted cheerfully. ‘My name’s Bigglesworth.’
The squadron leader’s eyes brightened. ‘So you’re Biggles? I’ve heard of you. Take a seat. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thanks,’ answered Biggles. ‘At this hour of the morning I work better on an empty stomach.’ He pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette.
‘What in the name of all that’s unholy brought you to this God-forsaken, sun-blistered dustbin?’ inquired Frayle curiously.
‘I’m told you’ve had a spot of trouble here,’ replied Biggles. ‘I’ve been sent out from home to try to iron it out.’
‘Go ahead,’ invited Frayle bitterly. ‘The airfield’s yours—and you’re welcome to it. I’ve lost four officers and four machines in four days—the last four to go out, in fact. That should encourage you to keep your feet on something more solid than the floor of a fuselage. I’ve three officers left out of eighteen. Not bad going, eh?’
‘I heard the position was pretty grey,’ said Biggles sympathetically.
‘Grey! It’s blacker than a black-out.’ Frayle’s voice took on a quality of bitter resentment. ‘Grey, they call it. It’s hell, that’s what it is. Can you imagine what it’s been like for me, to sit here day after day sending out lads who I know I shall never see again?’
‘I can imagine it,’ answered Biggles quietly.
‘There’s another one going this morning,’ went on Frayle. ‘I didn’t order him to go. Not me. I’ve finished picking the roster with a pin to decide who was to be the next man to die. He just told me was going. There’s a load of medical stores urgently needed in Chungking. To-morrow I shall be down to two pilots.’
‘You haven’t tried doing the run yourself?’
‘No. As I feel that would suit me fine. My orders are to stay on the carpet. They say my job is on the station. Well, to-morrow I’m going, anyway, orders or no orders. I can’t stand any more of this.’
‘It’s no use talking that way, Frayle,’ said Biggles softly. ‘You know you can’t do that.’
‘But I—I —’ Frayle seemed to choke. He buried his face in his hands.
‘Here, take it easy,’ said Biggles gently. ‘I know how you feel, but it’s no use letting the thing get you down like this. Get a grip on yourself. Can’t you see that by cracking up you’re only helping the enemy? What about this lad—has he gone off yet?’
‘No, they’re loading up the machine.’
‘I know. Never mind. Stop him.’
Frayle looked up. ‘But this stuff is supposed to go through.’
‘I know. Never mind. Stop him.’
‘But what shall I tell headquarters?’
‘You needn’t tell them anything. I’ll take the stuff.’
‘You’ll take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
Biggles smiled. ‘You may be right, but I’ll take this stuff to Chungking just the same. Send for the lad who was going. What’s his name?’
‘Bargent. He’s a flying officer—a South African. You’ll find him as amiable as a rhino that’s been shot in the bottom with a charge of buckshot.’
‘I’ll have a word with him. You snatch a bath, treat your face to a razor blade, and have something to eat; you’ll feel better. I’ll fix things while you’re doing it.’
Frayle gave the necessary order. Presently Bargent came.
‘Now what’s boiling?’ he demanded in a hard voice.
‘You’re not doing this show,’ said Biggles.
‘And who says so?’ questioned Bargent hotly.
‘I say so,’ replied Biggles evenly.
Bargent flung his cap on the floor, which was to Biggles a clear indication of the state of his nerves.
‘And if you start throwing your weight about with me, my lad, I’ll put you under close arrest,’ promised Biggles, in a voice that made the flying officer stare at him.
‘But I want to go, sir,’ said Bargent, in a different tone of voice.
Biggles thought for a minute. ‘All right. You can come with me if you like.’
‘With you?’
‘That’s what I said.’
The South African laughed shortly. ‘Okay. The machine is all ready.’
Biggles turned to Frayle. ‘How many machines have you got left?’
‘Two, able to do the run.’
‘What are they?’
‘Wimpeys.’
‘And one’s loaded?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did that arrangement appear in last night’s orders?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the ordinary way the other machine would stand in a shed all day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you a duplicate set of these medical stores?’
‘We’ve a hundred tons, all overdue for delivery.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In store.’
‘Locked up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s your storekeeper?’
‘Corporal Jones.’
‘That’s fine,’ declared Biggles. ‘I’m going to try being unorthodox. For a start we’re going to unload this loaded machine, and take every package to pieces. Then we’ll take the machine to pieces.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Biggles quickly.
‘We’ve tried that a dozen times. You suspect sabotage? So did we. The first action I took was what you propose doing now, supposing that someone was sticking a time bomb in the load. We’ve never found such a thing, or anything like it.’
Biggles thought for a little while. ‘H’m. I was bound to try that,’ he asserted. ‘But if you’ve already done it there doesn’t seem to be much point in repeating it, so we’ll proceed with the second part of the programme. I want you to go and tell Corporal Jones, privately, to prepare a second load. Tell him to keep it out of sight. Swear him to secrecy. In a minute or two I’ll bring the spare machine over and we’ll load it ourselves.’
‘What shall I do with the first load? The machine is waiting to go.’
‘For the time being leave it just as it is. Put a guard over it.’
‘This all seems a waste of time to me, but I’m willing to try anything,’ said Frayle heavily.
‘Then go and talk to Jones. Tell him to get a move on. Then I’d advise you to have a clean up. You may be sick, but it does no good to advertise it.’
Frayle went off.
Biggles turned to Bargent. ‘You don’t fancy your chance of coming back from this trip, do you?’
‘Not much. Do you?’
‘Yes. I think we’ve quite a good chance.’
‘What leads you to think you are any different from anyone else?’ Bargent couldn’t keep sarcasm out of his voice.
‘I didn’t say I was different. But I’ve done quite a lot of flying, and I’ve never yet seen in the air anything capable of knocking a machine down without showing itself.
I doubt very much if there is such a thing. So far, anything I’ve seen I’ve been able to dodge. It may sound like conceit, but I fancy my chance of going on doing that.’
‘Would you like to bet on it?’
Biggles hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘I don’t go in much for betting, but I’d risk a hundred cigarettes.’
‘I’ll take that,’ declared Bargent. ‘Just what is the bet?’
‘The bet is, by lunch-time I shall be in Chungking, and back again here for dinner to-night.’
‘You hope,’ muttered Bargent. ‘I’d say you’re on a loser.’
Biggles laughed. ‘Well, you can’t win, anyway.’
Bargent started. ‘Why not?’
‘If I lose—that is if we don’t get back—I doubt if I shall be in a position to pay you and you’ll be in no case to collect your winnings. We shall both be somewhere either on the mountains or in the jungle between here and China.’
‘I’m nuts. I never thought of that,’ said Bargent, grinning, and then laughing aloud.
‘That’s better,’ remarked Biggles. ‘While you can keep a sense of humour you’ve got a chance. Come on, let’s go and get the Wimpey.’
Ignoring the machine that had been detailed, with its little crowd of loaders, they walked over to the hangar in which the spare machine was parked. Biggles climbed into the cockpit. ‘You stay where you are,’ he told Bargent. ‘Walk beside me when I taxi over to the store. If anyone tries to get within ten yards of this machine throw something at him. If you let anyone touch you, my lad, you’re not getting into this aircraft. I’m standing to lose more than a hundred cigarettes on this jaunt and I’m not taking any chances. Understand?’
‘Okay.’
Biggles started the engines and taxied slowly through the glaring sunlight to the store shed. On the way, some of the porters that had been working on the other machine came hurrying across, but Bargent waved his arm, and yelled to them to keep away. He picked up and hurled a stone at one man who came on after the others had stopped. He retreated.
Frayle, in a bath wrap, appeared at the storehouse door.
‘Is the stuff ready?’ shouted Biggles.
