by W E Johns
The result was quite outside his calculations. The man started violently, as if caught in the act of committing a crime. With a quick intake of breath he whipped out a revolver and fired it over the top of the fuselage.
Bertie was nearly caught napping, as the saying is; but not quite. The man’s expression warned him that he was not welcome, so that he, too, was ready to move quickly. The instant the revolver appeared above the fuselage he side-stepped smartly, with the result that the bullet came nowhere near him. His own automatic was out in a moment, although even now his purpose was defence rather than attack. For the same reason he backed away hurriedly. Thinking that the man must have mistaken him for someone else, he shouted: “Hi! Hold hard there! What’s the matter with you? I don’t bite.”
The reply was another shot, fired this time under the fuselage.
Bertie continued to back away, keeping the machine between them and watching the man’s feet which he could see below the fuselage. The truth of the matter was, apart from not knowing what to make of this behaviour he didn’t know what to do about it. He had no desire to kill a man whom he did not know even had this been possible. A corpse on his hands was the last thing he wanted. Nor, on the other hand, was he prepared to be a corpse if it could be prevented. He was more irritated than angry, although anger was not far away. It was with relief, therefore, that he perceived that the belligerent pilot had apparently resolved to cease hostilities. The man swung up into his cockpit, switched on, and eased the throttle open with the obvious intention of taking off. This suited Bertie well enough; and had the fellow been content to leave it at that he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. But evidently he was not. As the Moth began to move he took another snap-shot at Bertie, holding the revolver in his left hand. This was going too far.
The bullet, as might be supposed considering how it was fired, went wide; but it caused Bertie’s simmering anger to boil over.
“You confounded cad!” he called shrilly. “All right! Two can play at that game, yes, by Jove!” He then opened fire on the nearest wheel of the aircraft, more in the hope of speeding the pilot on his way than with any serious expectation of hitting his mark. As it happened, he did hit it—or rather, he hit the tyre. There was a sharp hiss of escaping air. The machine slewed round and nearly tilted up on its nose before coming to an abrupt stop.
“Ha! ha! you blighter. How do you like that?” scoffed Bertie, and then stood, pistol at the ready, to see what the pilot would do next.
Apparently the man did not like it at all, for he evacuated his cockpit with alacrity. Naturally, he chose the side farthest from Bertie, so that for a few seconds it was not possible to see what he was doing. Bertie not liking the idea of offering himself as a stationary target, dodged towards the tail unit; but by the time he had reached it the man was a hundred yards away, running in the direction from which he had come. In a moment or two he had disappeared over a slight rise.
“Silly ass!” muttered Bertie. He pocketed his pistol, and then, prompted by nothing more than idle curiosity, strolled on for a closer examination of the aircraft.
The only thing of interest that he found was a small sack tied in the back seat, a sack that looked as if it might be full of sawdust. He prodded it with a finger and ascertained that the contents were soft.
Curious to know more about this unusual cargo, he took out his penknife and made a small incision. This disclosed a brown, earthy-looking substance. He extracted a little and rubbed it between his fingers. It had a smooth, oily, slightly sticky quality. He smelt it. A sickly, aromatic aroma gave him a clue to the truth. He had never seen hashish in his life so he could not be sure about it, but taking into account the locality, and what he already knew, it did not need much imagination to work out that here was a load of the prohibited drug on its way to Egypt.
Leaving the aircraft as it stood, for there was nothing he could do about it, he went back and examined the underground tank at which the Moth had been refuelled. There was not a lot of petrol left in it. Whether it was the remains of a war-time supply, or whether it had been put in by the hashish operators, he had no means of knowing. Not that he thought much about it. He replaced the man-hole cover and then walked back to the shade of the hangar to resume his vigil. He now felt pretty certain that Biggles had gone straight back to Aden, but as he was on the spot he decided that he might as well wait a little while longer in case he was wrong in this assumption.
Five minutes later he heard a shot in the distance.
It was not easy to locate the direction from which the sound had come.
Anyhow, as he was not involved he paid no attention to it beyond keeping a watchful eye on the rise over which the Moth pilot had disappeared.
Shortly afterwards two figures came into sight. He recognised Biggles and Zahar, plodding like men who had travelled a long way. Ginger, he observed, was not with them, which worried him somewhat, for he feared that Biggles had been forced down in the desert and that Ginger had been hurt. Leaving the hangar he walked to meet them. “What ho!” he hailed. “Why the foot work so early in the morning?”
Biggles did not answer. He was staring past Bertie at one of the collapsed hangars.
Bertie did not like the expression on his face.
“Here, I say, old boy, what’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.
Biggles continued to walk towards the hangar. At last he stopped. He looked at Bertie and then pointed to the hangar on which his interest had been focused. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“About an hour or so.”
“Was that hangar like that when you got here?”
“Absolutely. Why? Do you think I pushed the bally thing over—if you see what I mean?”
Biggles nodded grimly. “I see what you mean all right,” he muttered.
Bertie looked puzzled. “What about the hangar?”
“I don’t care two hoots about the hangar,” replied Biggles. “I’m worried about what’s underneath it.”
“What is underneath it?”
“My machine.”
Bertie whistled softly. “Is it, by Jove! Blow me down! Too bad! I didn’t know. I’m afraid it’ll be more than somewhat bent.”
“Of course you weren’t to know,” sighed Biggles wearily. “When I was last here that shed was standing up. I put my machine in it.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have a beastly job trying to get it out,” murmured Bertie sadly.
“I’d already worked that out,” returned Biggles, with biting sarcasm.
He walked forward to the wreck. “Sand,” he said, “that’s what did it.
That infernal storm dropped more sand on the roof than it could carry and the whole thing caved in.”
“I’m afraid you’re right old boy, absolutely right,” agreed Bertie sorrowfully. “That’s the trouble with this beastly place. There’s too much sand—too much altogether. They ought to take some of it to the seaside for the kids to play with. They’d love it.”
“This is not the moment to be funny,” Biggles told him coldly.
Bertie looked hurt. “It was just an idea—just an idea.”
“Where’s your machine?” enquired Biggles.
“In the other hangar. It’s a bit cock-eye—the hangar, I mean—but it was the only one.”
“The one I chose looked better to me,” asserted Biggles. “Unfortunately there weren’t enough holes in the roof for the sand to fall through.” He pointed to the Moth, still standing where it had stopped. “Who did that? It wasn’t here last night.”
“I did it,” replied Bertie. “I mean, I helped the bloke who was flying it.”
“What do you mean—you helped?”
“Well, I shot a little hole in the tyre. That sort of —er—stopped it.”
“I see. Why shoot a hole in the bloke’s tyre?”
“He shot at me.”
“So you’ve been having fun whilst my back was turned?”
“He started it,” declar
ed Bertie. “There’s some petrol over there. He landed and started refuelling. I merely strolled over to say what cheer and he popped off his pistol at me. Naturally, I popped back at him.”
“And then what?”
Bertie gave an account of what had happened.
“Now I get it,” remarked Biggles, at the finish. “It must have been your Moth pilot who had a crack at us as we were walking home. No doubt he was on his way back, on foot, to El Moab.”
“Which reminds me. What have you been up to?” asked Bertie. “Where’s Ginger?”
“Ginger,” answered Biggles “is wandering about somewhere in the desert. We’ve spent half the night looking for him. I was hoping he’d found his way here.” He explained what had happened. “I shall have to take your machine to look for him,” he concluded. He walked right up to the collapsed hangar and examined it closely. “There’s a chance that this may not be as bad as it looks,” he observed. “ Of course if one of the metal roof supports has fallen across a wing, with the whole weight of sand on it, the machine’s finished. But looking at it, from the way the framework has crumpled up, that may not have happened. But it’s no use guessing. I’m going in to have a look. Stand fast.”
So saying he climbed on the sagging fabric and with his knife cut a long slit in it. Through the aperture thus made he disappeared from sight in a river of sand.
Chapter 11
Biggles Takes A Ride
WHILE Biggles was under the sagging fabric the others could only guess from sounds what he was doing. What he had said, that there was room for hope, was obviously true, for the canvas had not fallen completely flat.
The framework had not snapped off short; rather had it been bent, borne down by the weight of sand that had collected on the roof, so that the hangar resembled more a room full of furniture over which had been spread a large sheet.
After some few minutes Biggles reappeared, and climbed out, shaking quantities of sand from his clothes. “It isn’t too bad,” he announced. “At any rate, I don’t think any serious damage has been done, but before the machine can be got out it’ll be necessary to cut away at least two girders. They are all buckled up and are jammed one each side of the airscrew. The fabric offers no difficulty. It’s rotten, and we can cut it away with our knives. To clear the metal work, though, will require an acetylene cutter, or a hacksaw. An acetylene cutter would soon do the job.”
He sat down and thought for a minute or two while the others remained silent. “I’ll tell you what, Bertie,” he said at last. “I haven’t time to tell you the whole story, but I’ve been to El Moab. The gurra is there. The place is twelve miles or so from here, in that direction.” He pointed. “The problem is to know the best way of dealing with the plants. It would be a long and tedious job to pull them up by the roots. I don’t think that would be practicable anyway. There’s an easier way of wiping the whole stock out. Close to the place where it grows there’s a big reservoir of water held up by a dam. If that dam was knocked down the rush of water would sweep the plantation out of the ground—the earth, as well as the plants, I reckon. To blow the dam, all that’s needed is a charge of explosive. A few sticks of dynamite would do the trick because, from what I could see, the thing is only a home-made affair. I want you to go back to Aden. See the senior Engineer Officer. Tell him what we aim to do and ask him to let you have what is necessary. If he jibs, make a signal to Raymond and ask him to radio the necessary authority. That’s one thing. Next, ask the Station Commander to lend you an acetylene welder or a good fitter who knows his job. Explain what’s happened here. Fly him out and we’ll get him working on this hangar. While you’re in Aden you might also try to pick up a spare wheel, or tyre, for that Moth. There should be one about. The idea, if we can get one, is to fly the Moth out, complete with its load of dope and hand it over to the proper authority. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, old boy. Three things. Dynamite, an acetylene cutter and a spare tyre.”
“That’s it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I shall have to wait here,” answered Biggles.
“What about Ginger?”
Biggles hesitated. “I hadn’t forgotten him. He’s the snag in my scheme. Your machine can’t do two jobs at once. If I keep it here, you can’t go home. If you go home, I can’t use it. I want those things from Aden right away. That Moth pilot is now going hot-foot to El Moab, and when he gets there, the tale he’ll have to tell will bring the enemy along in force to mop us up. The Sultan’s manager will also be anxious to save the hashish in that Moth. So there’s no time to waste.”
“Couldn’t I have a look round for Ginger first?”
“If you did, it would probably put the lid on the whole show. That dam has got to go up, and the job will have to be done tonight or we may never get another chance. If anything happens to me, you carry on with it. Ginger shouldn’t take any harm for an hour or two. Zahar says he’ll fall asleep, and when he wakes up most of the effect of the drug will have worn off. There’s just a chance that in daylight he may be able to find his way back here on foot. He’s seen the country from the air, so he must know the general direction. If he doesn’t turn up, I’ll go and look for him as soon as you get back. Tonight we’ll tackle El Moab and clean the place up.”
“Okay, old boy, as you say,” agreed Bertie. “I’ll push along and I won’t linger on the way.” With a wave he turned to the hangar in which he had parked his machine.
Biggles and Zahar watched him take off, after which Biggles returned to the hangar under the ruins of which his machine had been buried, feeling not a little annoyed that, having survived the storms of years, the structure should choose this particular moment to collapse, and so make things more difficult than they would have been otherwise. However, the thing had happened, and the only way to put matters right was the plan he had suggested. Rather than waste time doing nothing he enlarged the hole in the fabric and went inside again, firstly to get some food and water from the lock-up, and, secondly, to decide on the exact place to start work when the cutting equipment arrived. Zahar followed him in, slashing holes in the canvas with his dagger to let in more light and air.
Having satisfied his appetite Biggles spent some time, again with Zahar’s assistance, cutting away such fabric as might impede the work of salvage when the metal-cutting appliances were available. It would have to be cut away eventually, anyhow. It was also necessary to remove large quantities of sand which caused it to sag. It was warm work as the sun increased in power, and from time to time he went outside for a breath of air which, while hot, was at least fresh. Zahar, to whom heat meant nothing, went on working.
It was during one such interval that a shout brought Biggles round to face the direction of El Moab. A small group of native horsemen had appeared suddenly from somewhere and were galloping towards him. It was obvious that they had seen him so there was no point of trying to hide; but he spoke swiftly to Zahar who, fortunately, was still out of sight.
“Some horsemen are upon us,” he said tersely. “Stay where you are, keeping still, and they will not know you are here. They have guns so we cannot fight them all. If they take me away with them, remain here, so that you will be able to tell my friend, when he comes, what has happened. You understand?”
“There is no God but God,” came in a muffled voice from under the canvas.
“Tell my friend, when he comes, that I rely on him to destroy the wall that holds the water at El Moab.”
“God sparing me it shall be as you say, Sahib,” answered Zahar, without exposing himself.
There was no time for further conversation, so Biggles turned to face the horsemen, a wild-looking lot who, leading spare horses, did not steady their break-neck pace until the last moment, when they pulled their mounts to their haunches.
“Salaam alaikum!” greeted one—somewhat to Biggles’s surprise, for the words mean ‘Peace be unto you!’
“Alaikum salaam!” responded Biggles.
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The man who had spoken urged his animal forward.
“Have you lost a man of your tribe, O Nasara?” he cried in a hoarse, guttural voice.
“I have,” acknowledged Biggles.
“Stricken with sickness he rests in our menzil,” announced the man.
“Where is your menzil?” asked Biggles.
The man made a vague sign towards the desert.
“At what distance?” asked Biggles, although, really, he knew the futility of the question. The desert Arab has little idea of time or distance in European terms.
“A short march,” was the answer, which Biggles knew could mean anything. “Will you go to him?”
“I will go,” replied Biggles, without hesitation. “Will you show me the way and lend me a horse?”
“One was brought for the purpose,” declared the man.
There was nothing more to be said. Biggles stepped forward and swung up on the back of the animal offered. The party at once moved off at a gallop.
The whole thing happened so quickly that Biggles had had little time to consider the step he was taking. Not—as he afterwards brooded—that it would have made much difference. The natives had really been in control of the situation from the moment they had seen him. At first he had felt quite sure that he was about to be attacked. The friendly greeting had disarmed him, so to speak, and by the time he had mounted he felt satisfied that the motive of the men in coming to see him, was genuine.