Biggles - Air Commodore

by W E Johns

  ‘What does that sound like to you?’ asked Biggles in an odd tone of voice.

  ‘If I were near a naval airport I should say it was a marine aircraft, taxiing over water,’ replied Ginger slowly.

  ‘Yes, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘It’s Algy taxiing here to fetch us. Something has happened to the destroyer.’

  Ginger felt his heart go down like a lift. ‘By gosh! I hope you’re wrong for once,’ he muttered anxiously.

  ‘Well, we shall see,’ was Biggles’s pessimistic reply. ‘One thing is certain,’ he went on, as the sound moaned through the night comparatively near at hand. ‘It’s an aircraft, and if it isn’t Algy we shall shortly be in the cart—up salt creek without a paddle, as the sailors say.’

  The sound drew nearer, and it was quite easy to follow what was happening. Some one was sitting in the cockpit of an aircraft opening up the engine and easing back the throttle each time the machine gathered way.

  ‘We don’t want him to run us down,’ exclaimed Biggles suddenly, rising to his feet.

  He waited for one of the intermittent silences, and then, cupping hands round his mouth, let out a moderately loud hail.

  A call answered them immediately. They recognized Algy’s voice and rowed towards it, and a minute later the dark silhouette of the Nemesis loomed up in front of them. Biggles urged the dinghy forward until its bow was chafing the hull of the amphibian just below the cockpit.

  Algy’s head appeared over the side. ‘Hello!’ he said, switching off the engines.

  ‘Hello yourself,’ returned Biggles grimly. ‘What in thunder do you think you’re doing, buzzing about on the high seas? Where’s the Seafret?’

  ‘She was torpedoed this morning—at least, that’s what it looked like.’

  Biggles turned stone cold. ‘Good heavens!’ he ejaculated. ‘Was she sunk?’

  ‘No, Sullivan managed to beach her.’

  Biggles balanced himself in a standing position. ‘Tell me about it—quickly,’ he invited.

  ‘Nothing much to tell,’ answered Algy simply. ‘The Seafret was sitting in the little bay at Hastings Island—at anchor, of course. I had taxied the machine on to the beach and was giving her a look over when I was nearly knocked flat by an explosion. When I looked up I saw a cloud of smoke hanging over the destroyer. She had already taken on a bad list. Sullivan slipped his cable and ran her straight ashore not fifty yards from where I was.’

  ‘No lives lost?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that, anyway. What’s Sullivan doing?’

  ‘Sitting on the beach cursing mostly. They’ve got plenty of stores ashore and have made a camp.’

  ‘By heaven! These people must be pretty desperate to do a thing like that; any one would think they were deliberately trying to start a war.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Algy. ‘As Sullivan says, who’s to say it was a torpedo? Nobody saw anything, either before or after the explosion. He says that in the ordinary way if he went home and said he’d lost his ship because she’d been torpedoed the Admiralty would laugh at him. People don’t fire torpedoes in peace time.’

  ‘Don’t they, by James!’

  ‘We know they do, but it would be hard to prove, particularly as we don’t know whom to accuse of doing it.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ admitted Biggles. ‘So Sullivan’s still at Hastings Island?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s likely to be for some time.’

  ‘Hasn’t he called for assistance by wireless?’

  ‘No. We decided that the enemy would pick up the SOS as well as our own people, so it might be better to lie low and say nothing for a day or two. We had a conference, and came to the conclusion that the first thing to do was for me to fetch you.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Did you see anything of the submarine yourself?’

  ‘Not a thing. I did think of taking off and trying to spot it, but what was the use? I couldn’t have done anything even if I had seen it, and had they come to the surface and seen me, they would then have known that I was there. As it was I don’t think they could have suspected the presence of an aircraft. They just lammed a “mouldy” into the destroyer and made off.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that was about the size of it,’ admitted Biggles.

  ‘Well, if you’ll get aboard we’ll see about getting back.’

  ‘Just a minute—not so fast,’ protested Biggles. ‘Let me think.’

  For a little while he leaned against the side of the amphibian deep in thought. When he moved, his mind was made up. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not going back with you.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Stay here. Listen, this is how things stand. Memorize what I say because you may have to repeat it to Sullivan. Elephant Island is the place we’ve been looking for. In the central face of rock on the eastern side—almost opposite us now—there is a cave. What it leads to I don’t know, but inside there are submarines and aircraft. We’ve seen them both. If it’s an underground lake, or something of that sort, then it’s no earthly use bombing it from above. That’s why we’ve got to find out what it is. The entrance is covered at high water, so whatever we do will have to be done at low tide. This is my idea. The tide is down now. As soon as the moon comes up Ginger and I will get into the dinghy and go and have a look at this underground war depot. You stay here, or better still, get behind the islet so that you can’t be seen from the shore, but don’t get too close to the rock or you may find an octopus in the cabin when you go to take off. And don’t make more noise than is necessary. They may have heard you for all we know, but it can’t be helped if they have. Well, how does that strike you as a programme?’

  Algy hesitated. ‘I can’t say that I’m exactly enamoured of it,’ he confessed, dubiously. ‘I suppose it’s imperative that you should go poking about in this cave?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ declared Biggles. ‘What is the alternative—if any? As I see it, the whole Far East fleet of the Royal Navy could hammer away at the island for weeks without hurting these submarine merchants more than giving them a slight headache from the noise. More direct methods will be demanded to hoist them skyward, but until we know just what we’ve got to destroy it is difficult to know how to apply them.’

  ‘Yes, I see that,’ admitted Algy. ‘But what is Sullivan going to think when we don’t turn up?’

  ‘He’ll have to think what he likes.’

  ‘I hope he won’t do anything desperate.’

  ‘So do I—but there, we can’t let him know, so we shall have to take a chance on it.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Algy. ‘If you’re satisfied, then it’s OK by me. Let’s get the Nemesis to this islet you talk about. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Pretty well. Throw me a line. We’ll tow the machine there—it isn’t far. I’d rather you didn’t start the engines again.’

  The moon rose as they towed the Nemesis into position, and the final disposition of the aircraft behind the high shoulder of rock was made with some haste, for Biggles was frankly nervous about their being seen or heard by those on the island. It was not their personal safety that concerned him so much as the possible failure of their plans, for, as he pointed out to the others, with the aircraft at their disposal, ready to start at a moment’s notice, if the worst came to the worst, they could always take flight with every prospect of getting away.

  ‘Has any one got the time?’ he asked, as the Nemesis dropped her small anchor in thirty feet of water.

  ‘A few minutes short of midnight,’ answered Algy, glancing at his instrument board. ‘Are you going to move off right away?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ answered Biggles. ‘The hour before dawn has acquired a reputation through the ages for being the best time to catch people napping, and for all nefarious enterprises. I’ll wa
it for a bit. Pass me down a torch, will you; we shall probably need one.’

  Algy went through into the cabin and fetched a small electric torch, which he handed down to Biggles, who was still standing in the boat. ‘Anything else you want?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I think that’s everything,’ replied Biggles slowly. ‘We’ve got guns, but I don’t think we shall need them—anyway, I hope not. With luck, tomorrow will see the end of this business, and I can’t say I shall be sorry,’ he added thankfully.

  Two hours later he embarked on one of the most desperate adventures of his career.

  Chapter 15

  Trapped!

  A gentle breeze, bringing with it the subtle aroma of spices, caused the water to ripple and gurgle softly against the prow of the dinghy as, under the stealthy impetus of the oars, it edged round the headland and approached the cave which, as they drew near, they observed was larger than they had at first supposed. Except for the incessant lapping of the tiny wavelets against the rock, and the occasional distant, choking grunt of a crocodile, there was no other sound, yet to Ginger the atmosphere seemed charged with hidden threats and the presence of things unseen.

  Inch by inch they approached their objective. Biggles dipped his left oar deeply, and the boat crept nearer to the cliff until Ginger, by reaching out, was able to touch it. Another minute and the bows projected beyond the opening; another, and they sat staring into a cavity that was as black as the mouth of the pit. Neither spoke, knowing full well that in such conditions the sound of the human voice travels far.

  Another stroke of the left oar and the nose of the dinghy came round until it was pointing directly into the void; an even pull and they were inside, swallowed up in such a darkness as Ginger had never before experienced. It was not darkness in the ordinary accepted sense of the word, the darkness of a moonless night; rather was it an utter and complete absence of light, the darkness of total blindness.

  A gentle click, and from the centre of the boat sprang a beam of light that cut through the air like a solid white cone as Biggles switched on the torch. He regretted having to use it, but further progress without illumination of some sort was, he felt, quite useless, if not impossible. He realized that if guards had been posted they would see the yellow glow of a match as certainly as they would the more powerful beam of the electric torch, so he accepted the risk as inevitable, and switched it on, half prepared for the action to be followed immediately by a signal of alarm.

  But all remained silent. Slowly the round area of light travelled over the walls, to and fro, above and below, but it revealed nothing except a semi-circular arch of rock with a floor of still, silent water, which appeared to run straight into the very heart of island.

  There was another click as Biggles switched off the light, and a moment later Ginger felt the boat moving forward again. It was an eerie sensation, gliding through space in such conditions. The only sound was the faint swish of the oars as they dipped in and out of the water, and he wondered how long Biggles would be able to keep the boat on a straight course. It was longer than he expected, and some minutes elapsed before the side of the dinghy grated gently on the rough wall. Thereafter progress was slower, for rather than switch on the light again Biggles began to maintain a forward movement by using his fingers against the wall, taking advantage of any slight projection that he could feel. As soon as he realized what was happening Ginger joined in the task.

  It was difficult to estimate how far they travelled in this manner, but it must have been several minutes later when Ginger’s warning hiss caused Biggles to desist, for, as he had been at the oars, his back was towards the bows, and he was unable to see ahead. Turning quickly, he saw at once what it was that had attracted Ginger’s attention. Some distance in front, just how far he was unable to tell, a half-circle of wan blue light had appeared, and he realized that it was the end of the tunnel.

  Quickly he pushed the boat clear of the wall, picked up the oars, and in two or three strokes had completely turned it round, whereupon he began backing towards the light, which he soon perceived was cast by the moon. His object in turning the boat was, of course, that the nose might be pointing in the right direction for speedy retirement should an alarm be given.

  The nervous tension of the next few minutes was so intense that Ginger clutched at the gunwale of the boat to steady his trembling fingers, at the same time craning his neck so that he could see what lay ahead, for he felt that anything, anything might happen at any moment. Somewhat to his surprise, and certainly to his relief, nothing happened. With infinite slowness the boat floated backwards until it was possible to see through the opening at what lay beyond. At first, owing to the deceptive light, it was rather difficult to make out just what it was, but as they gazed section by section of the scene unfolded itself.

  Biggles realized instantly that he was looking into an old crater, the crater of a long extinct volcano, now filled with water which had come through from the sea presumably by the same channel through which they themselves had come, and which had, no doubt, once been a blow-hole bored by a colossal pressure of pent-up gas when the rock had been in a fluid, or semi-fluid, state. The island itself must have been the actual peak of the volcano which, with the cooling of the molten mass, had remained hollow.

  The sides of the crater were not very high; they dropped sheer from heights varying from one hundred to a hundred and fifty feet to sea-level, where, of course, the water began. At one place only, not far from where the dinghy floated, the wall had crumbled away until the slope, while steep, could easily be scaled, and was, he perceived, the path by which the submarine crews travelled to and from their quarters, which were situated half-way up the cliff. Even now the dark bulk of a submarine rested motionless against a rough quay at the base of the incline.

  At the back of Biggles’s mind as he took in these general impressions was a grudging admiration for whoever had discovered the place and thought of turning it into a submarine base, for as such it was more perfect than anything that could have been fashioned by human hands. Another point he realized was that even if he had flown over the island, while he might have seen the gleam of water, he would merely have taken it for a lake, for the buildings, being built of the actual rock which formed the sides of the crater, or camouflaged to resemble them—he could not tell which—would certainly have escaped detection.

  These buildings he now examined in detail with the practised eye of an aerial observer. No lights were showing. There were four in all. The lowest three were long, squat structures, evidently living quarters or store-rooms; in fact, just the sort of accommodation one would expect to find. The top one, however, perched almost on the lip of the crater, was much smaller, square in shape, and he wondered for what purpose it was used until he saw the antennae of a wireless aerial outlined like a spider’s web against the moonlit sky. That, so far as he could see, was all the information he would be able to pick up from an exterior view of the buildings.

  There was only one object on the water besides the submarine already remarked. It was a seaplane which floated, with wings folded, near the foot of the path just beyond the underwater craft. It was easy to see how it was employed. It could not, of course, take off from the crater, but with its wings folded it could easily pass through the tunnel to the open sea where, with its wings rigged in flying position, it could operate at will.

  There seemed to be nothing else worthy of note, and Biggles was about to turn away, well satisfied with his investigation, when Ginger, whose end of the boat had swung round somewhat, giving him a slightly different view, touched him on the elbow and pointed. At first Biggles could not see what it was that he was trying to show him, but a touch on the oars brought him in line, and he was just able to make out a narrow cleft, or opening, in the rock wall not more than a few yards from where they sat. A slight pull on the oars brought them to it; another, and they had passed through the gap and were staring with astonished eyes at what met their gaze. The place seemed to be
a sort of secondary crater, very small, not much larger in area than a fair-sized house, but in this case the walls were perpendicular. It was quite a natural formation, if somewhat unusual, but Biggles was only interested in what he saw on the surface of the water. There was no possibility of mistake. The round, buoy-like objects, with horns projecting at different angles, could only be mines such as are used in naval warfare. A little farther on, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could just discern, packed on ledges of rock which looked as if they had been cut by hand, a vast array of metal cylinders with pointed ends; and he did not have to look twice to recognize them as shells.1

  At this discovery the whole matter took a different turn. Not only was the place a submarine depot, but it seemed also that it was a naval armoury, an armament stores depot capable of supplying a fleet with material, to say nothing of laying a minefield around itself for its own protection. And the concentration of stores was apparently still proceeding, harmless-looking junks being used for the purpose. There was another dark area at the far end of the tiny crater which looked as if it might reveal further secrets, but Biggles had seen enough. He knew all he needed to know, and his one concern now was the destruction of the whole concern.

  ‘My goodness! These people have got a brass face, if you like,’ he breathed in Ginger’s ear. ‘Fancy having the nerve to put up a show like this on a British island!’

  His eyes swept over the array of sinister-looking mines for the last time, and his oars were already in the water for immediate departure when an idea flashed into his head, so audacious that for a moment it took his breath away. Yet was it audacious? There was a submarine outside. Ginger had seen it go out. It could not have come back without their seeing or hearing it. It might return at any time. One mine in the tunnel! The submarine could not fail to strike it as it came in, whereupon, even if the tunnel did not completely cave in, as seemed likely, the submarine would sink in the fairway, effectually bottling up everything that was inside the crater. The R.A.F. machines could do the rest in their own time. All that was necessary was to place a mine in position, bolt back to the Nemesis, fly to the Seafret, and call up the military machines from Singapore on the destroyer’s wireless. The plan, if successful, would, he saw, be more certain and conclusive in its result than simply calling upon the Royal Air Force to bomb the place, when it was quite on the boards that one or both of the submarines would escape, possibly taking the personnel of the island with them to report to their headquarters what had happened and perhaps start a similar scheme somewhere else.