by W E Johns
But had they failed in their intention? Biggles, staring at the receding Otter, was not sure; for once or twice the aircraft had sideslipped a little in a manner which, with an experienced pilot at the controls, could not be attributed to carelessness or lack of ability. Such slipshod flying could hardly be accidental; that is, if all was well. There, seemed to be no reason for Algy to lose height deliberately. Wherefore Biggles watched the machine with a frown of anxiety furrowing his forehead. When, presently, the Otter started to make a slow turn back towards the land, all he could say was: ‘He’s coming in. I hope he’s all right.’
‘He’s looking for some other place to get down.’ surmised Bertie confidently. ‘He wouldn’t just push of and leave us.’
‘I agree he wouldn’t be likely to try to land here again after what happened,’ said Biggles. ‘Look at him!’ he went on quickly, as the Otter appeared to waver, as if on the point of stalling. ‘There’s something wrong there. Either Algy or the machine has been hit. Let’s get on higher ground where we can keep him in sight.’
Leaving the beach inside the bay they scrambled up the rough ground behind it, and then went on a little way to the highest point, a position which commanded a view not only of the sky, but of the coast-line stretching away into the far distance, in the direction of the lagoons.
‘He’s coming down,’ said Biggles tersely, his eyes on the machine.
The drone had faded; the nose of the aircraft had tilted down, and after making a slow, wide turn, it began to lose height towards a part of the island some two miles or so from where they stood. ‘He’s going to try to get down on the beach,’ guessed Bertie.
‘Or the lagoon,’ replied Biggles. ‘Come on, we’d better see what’s the matter. He may be all right, but there’s something I don’t like about the way he’s handling the machine.’
Hurrying forward they saw the Otter lowering it wheels and making a somewhat bumpy landing on what, from a distance, looked like a broad strip of sand fringing the sea at that point. The actual spot, Biggles judged, was not far from the lagoon.
‘He could have got down on the near side of the lagoon where we saw the deep water, had he known about it,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Pity. I suppose he wouldn’t risk it.’
‘I can’t see Algy,’ panted Bertie, as they ran on.
‘Nor I. I am afraid that looks bad. Having got done, he wouldn’t just sit there if he was all right.’
Although they made the best speed possible it took them nearly an hour to reach the aircraft, for the going was usually bad, and sometimes awful, soft sand alternating with dead, jagged coral, or areas of a squat impenetrable cactus, armed with three-inch thorns.
Running roughly parallel with the beach, and only a short distance from it, was the reef which, in rough weather, broke the force of the waves which otherwise might have swept far into the low flat hinterland. But now the sea had fallen to a dead calm, and the water, clear and blue, did no more than caress its ancient enemy. On the other hand, to the right, between gaps in the dunes that backed the beach, it was possible to see the tranquil surface of the lagoon, emerald green in the bright sunlight.
They found Algy in the cockpit. One glance at his pale face was enough to tell them that he was hurt; but he greeted them with a wan smile.
‘Sorry about this,’ he apologized.
‘Where are you hit?’ asked Biggles crisply.
‘I got one in the thigh. I don’t think it’s too bad. What worried me more, they either holed a tank or cut the petrol lead. My pressure dropped. I could smell petrol anyway, so knowing I was losing juice, I turned back and put her down at the first available space. I was scared of passing out before I could get her on the carpet. I felt a bit sick at first but I’m okay now.’
Biggles was already opening the first-aid outfit. ‘Good show, laddie. I’ll do what I can here and then get you to a doctor. I should be able to fix the petrol leak. We shall have to move fast. Bertie, I’ll tell you what. You leave this to me. Hoof it back to Ginger as fast as you can go. Bring him along, and the box. By the time you’ve done that we should be ready to move off.’
Algy’s eyes opened wide. ‘Have you got the stuff?’
‘We think so.’
‘Great work.’
Bertie spoke. ‘If I see the skunks who did this, do you mind if I shoot them?’ He put the question to Biggles.
‘As long as you don’t waste time or get yourself shot in the effort.’
‘It was that infernal negro who got me,’ said Algy. ‘He was nearly in the machine before I saw him.’
‘That’s just what I wanted to know, old boy,’ said Bertie.
Dropping back on to the sand he started off at a steady trot, which was as fast as it was possible to travel over the rough ground, in the heat, without risk of injury or complete exhaustion. He knew the way, so he was not at a loss on that account.
Although he was fit, he was making heavy weather of it by the time he was within striking distance of his destination. Breathing heavily, his face streaming perspiration and followed by a cloud of flies, he was on what he told himself was the last lap when he was startled by a gunshot not far ahead. Realizing that it could only mean one thing, that Ginger was in trouble, he called on every muscle for a final effort.
More shots at intervals acted as a spur, and when finally he tore through the bushes that tried to hold him back he was not altogether surprised by what he saw.
From a distance of ten yards he was just in time to see Ginger, with Morgan almost on top of him, hurl his pistol and go over backwards.
Bertie did not hesitate. There was no time for reflection, or even a challenge. Jerking out his gun he snapped a shot at the negro.
At such a range it was hardly possible to miss.
Morgan sprang erect, turned an astonished face to Bertie, crumpled, and fell across Ginger who was twisting desperately in his efforts to rise.
Bertie ran forward and pulled him clear.
White and shaken Ginger scrambled to his feet. ‘Thanks,’ he gasped, even then aware that the word, in the circumstances, sounded foolish. ‘By gosh! You were only just in time,’ he stammered.
Bertie was looking at Morgan, and seeing where his bullet had struck, shook his head. ‘He’s had it,’ he observed. ‘No time to do anything but shoot, old boy; no time at all. Another tick and you’d have had the chop.’
‘As far as Morgan is concerned I couldn’t care less,’ said Ginger weakly, squatting on the ground to recover his strength and composure. ‘If ever a man got what was coming to him, he has. Another jiffy and he’d have got me.’
‘He shot Algy, the hound.’
‘You don’t mean –’
‘Plugged him in the thigh when he landed. Biggles is taking care of him. But what about you, laddie? Are you all right?’
‘A bit rattled, that’s all.’
‘Why did you let the rascal get so close?’
‘Gun jammed.’
Bertie looked shocked. ‘I say! How frightful.’
‘Are you telling me! You were a long way away. What happened to you?’
As briefly as possible Bertie told him. ‘On your feet, old top, and let’s get mobile,’ he concluded briskly. ‘Algy may be worse than he pretends and Biggles is in a flap about getting him to hospital. Where’s this beastly box?’
‘Here.’ Ginger kicked it. ‘What are you going to do about this?’ He pointed at Morgan.
‘Leave him where he is. What else can we do? I mean to say we’ve no time to dig holes. Nothing to dig with either. His pals can do that. They’ll find him.’
‘We’d better get out before they find us,’ said Ginger. ‘I’ve had enough trouble for one day. Let’s get to Biggles and leave him to decide what to do about it. Maybe he’ll drop a message to von Stalhein.’
‘That’s the ticket,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Let’s get along. This running about doesn’t suit me. I’m positively sticky. Disgusting.’
‘We might have a quick
dip in the sea as we go along,’ suggested Ginger. ‘I’m not exactly as clean as a new pin myself. Come on! Let’s get it over.’
CHAPTER 13
A CLOSE FINISH
Ginger and Bertie picked up the box between them and started off, striking diagonally towards the sea, which Bertie now knew from experience was the best way, although it could not be called easy.
But when they came into sight of the open water they halted with one accord, and the box dropped from their hands with a clatter as they stared in astonishment at a vessel that was nosing its way in, along the coast. It was a submarine. There were several men on deck staring towards the shore.
‘Well, blow me down!’ ejaculated Bertie.
‘Is it one of ours?’ asked Ginger, in a curious voice.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ answered Bertie. ‘It’s up to something, though. No skipper would risk his ship as close in as that without a jolly good reason.’
‘I’ve seen that submarine before, now I come to think of it,’ declared Ginger. ‘Our first day out. It submerged when we got close to it. At least I saw a vessel and it disappeared mysteriously. It must have been hanging about here for some time.’
‘Don’t tell me they are pals of von Stalhein,’ said Bertie, in a startled voice.
‘They’re more likely to be pals of Zorotov.’
‘D’you know, old boy, I believe you’re right,’ returned Bertie slowly. ‘It’s a big prize they’re after, don’t forget. Yes; by Jove! Look! With outstretched finger be pointed to a small yacht that came churning round the headland of the bay.
‘The Vega!’
‘Absolutely. You’re right, laddie. No doubt about it. The Vega had radio. We saw the aerial. That stinker Zorotov has called up the submarine for help.’
‘That sub has seen the machine and is making for it,’ asserted Ginger, in a voice charged with apprehension as the full purport of what he was saying struck him.
‘They daren’t come right in.’
‘No, but they’ve got guns.’
‘Here, I say, that’s a nasty thought, old boy.’
‘It’ll be nastier if they use them,’ muttered Ginger. ‘Come on. Let’s run for it.’
Picking up the box they started off again.
‘They’ve spotted us,’ panted Ginger, before they had gone far. ‘They’re launching a dinghy. If it lands between us and the Otter we’ve had it.’
They tore on at a speed which in normal circumstances they would have held to be impossible. The box impeded them. Its shape made it awkward to carry single-handed, yet between them it meant that in places they had to go in single file. They dropped it several times. Scratched by thorns, and knocking themselves against projecting coral, they ran on.
Yet in spite of their efforts it was soon clear that they would lose the race. Not only was the Vega turning in towards them, but the dinghy from the submarine, under the power of six oars, was fairly skimming over the calm water, making for a gap in the reef roughly half way between them and the aircraft.
Several shots were fired, either from the Vega, the submarine, or the dinghy. Ginger didn’t know which, and he didn’t risk a broken leg looking to see. But they settled any doubt about the intention of the submarine. The shots went wide, anyway, as was to be expected, since they were in any case being fired from a moving vessel. But smacking into the coral or kicking up the sand they did nothing to ease the situation.
It soon became apparent to Ginger that they were attempting the impossible. The Otter was still nearly a mile away. The dinghy was only two hundred yards from the beach. Inevitably they would be cut off. There appeared to be nothing they could do, and nothing that Biggles could do either. Ginger was just saying so to Bertie when the Otter’s engines came to life.
‘He’s seen what’s going on, anyway,’ panted Ginger. ‘He’s coming for us.’
‘Not a hope. He couldn’t land on this stretch without cracking up. He knows that.’
Boom. A gun on the submarine flashed. A second or two later the sand behind the Otter fountained into the sky.
‘That’s the finish,’ gasped Ginger.
Again the gun flashed. But the Otter was now racing tail up over the sand, going away from them. It was only just in time, for the shell burst on the spot where it had been standing.
Ginger stopped and dropped the box. ‘No use,’ he muttered. ‘He’s away.’
‘He couldn’t very well stay where he was,’ Bertie pointed out.
‘No. And he won’t be likely to just push off and leave us here,’ asserted Ginger confidently.
Crouching behind some coral in order not to offer themselves as stationary targets, they watched the machine take off, by which time the anti-aircraft guns on the submarine were spurting streams of tracer shells across its track. But no sooner was the Otter airborne than it spun round, almost on a wing tip, and came racing back so low that the shells were well above it.
‘Look at him!’ exclaimed Ginger admiringly, as the Otter started taking evasive action. ‘That’s flying for you!’
He ducked instinctively as the Otter roared low over them. A message streamer came hurtling down. Ginger dashed out, picked it up, ran back, and snatching out the message, read aloud: ‘Sink box in deep water off reef, then make for deep end of lagoon.’
‘They won’t be able to get their sights on the lagoon,’ said Bertie.
‘But he says sink the box,’ stammered Ginger.
‘Then let’s sink it,’ returned Bertie calmly. ‘He’s not risking these stinkers getting hold of it. Quite right. Lay hold. Here we go.’
Picking up the box by the handles they ran down the beach to the shallow water inside the nearest point of the reef. Through it, splashing and stumbling in their haste, they floundered in a cloud of spray. Reaching the reef they scrambled up on it, the box banging and bumping as they dragged it to the far side.
‘Here we are – this’ll do,’ gasped Ginger.
They forced the box into the water and held it half under. And even at that desperate moment it struck Ginger as fantastic that had it not been for the negress gashing holes in the box with her axe in her efforts open it, they would have been unable to dispose of it.
But he realized that Biggles must have taken that into account.
All too slowly the box filled, bubbles pouring up as the water poured in. It lost its buoyancy, became sluggish, and began to settle.
Ginger, staring down into nothingness, as it seemed, suffered a twinge of vertigo. So clear was the water that it was like looking over the edge of the world into a remote blue void inhabited by ghostly shapes that became dim and vague as they merged into the darkness of the distant depths.
‘Right!’ called Bertie. ‘Let go!’
Ginger released his hold.
Down – down – down, quite slowly, went the box, into a liquid world as remote as the moon, an unknown world from which there could be no return.
‘Come on, laddie, run for it,’ said Bertie.
As they got up Ginger saw that the dinghy was landing some three hundred yards from them. The crew were pulling it up the sand.
Following Bertie he splashed his way back to dry ground and up the beach to the cover of the nearest dunes. Shots followed them. From a hollow Bertie sent some shots back, ‘to discourage them from being in too much of a hurry,’ as he said. Then, on they went through the dunes, and there, on the limpid green water of the lagoon, was the Otter, her engines ticking over. Reeling drunkenly as loose sand clogged there weary feet they blundered towards it.
Biggles appeared in the cockpit, beckoning furiously. But they could go no faster. In a world that was becoming unreal Ginger saw Biggles pull his gun and empty it at an unseen target. Flamingos, scarlet blotches against the blue, were screaming protests against the unusual visitation. There were nests, too, tall piles of mud and weed with a little hollow on top. Ginger fell over one and went headlong. Recovering, he snatched an egg from one of the nests. ‘Evans!’ he grunted.
‘We said we’d get him one.’
The rest of the journey was mostly a blur of spray, for it was now the water that clogged their legs. At one place they had to swim a little way, and the coolness, after the heat, was at least refreshing.
Biggles appeared at the cabin door and dragged them in.
Ginger fell flat. ‘Mind my egg!’ he cried foolishly. He did not attempt to get up, but lay there, with water pouring off him to make puddles on the floor. Bertie flopped down beside him. Coughing up salt water that he had swallowed in the last mad rush, Ginger heard the engines roar, and an instant later vibration told him they were moving.
It was some minutes before either he or Bertie spoke. Then Bertie, adjusting his eyeglass, looked up and said: ‘I say, old boy, did you ever know such a ridiculous flap?’
‘No matter. We made it,’ answered Ginger, with weary satisfaction. He dragged himself to his feet and looked through the window. Skeins of flamingos were streaming in all directions. ‘We have only to hit one of those confounded birds and that will be our last flap ever,’ he observed morosely, wrapping his egg in some loose paper and putting it carefully in a locker.
‘Pity we had to dump the box,’ lamented Bertie.
‘We should have never got to the machine had we tried to bring it with us,’ replied Ginger emphatically. ‘I don’t mind telling you I was about all in. And I’ll tell you something else. That box, with all the devil’s paraphernalia that was inside it, is in the best place. War is bad enough without any more horrors. And if you asked me, I’d say that’s what Biggles thought, too.’
‘Where are we heading for?’ wondered Bertie.
‘I’ll find out,’ answered Ginger, going forward.
Two minutes later his head reappeared. ‘Jamaica, and then home,’ he reported.
