Biggles and the Plane that Disappeared

by W E Johns

  “Cut the engine and glide as flat as you can for the next five minutes,” ordered Chandler, a few moments later.

  Bertie obliged. “Don’t you feel a bit nervous, putting yourself in the hands of a pilot you don’t know?” he asked. “I might still be doing training.”

  “I’m not a fool,” replied Chandler. “If you could bring this machine into my field the way you did, with a dead prop and your engine threatening to go up in flames, that’s good enough for me. Anyone but an old hand might have lost his head and panicked. You must have been flying for quite some time.”

  “Long enough,” returned Bertie, vaguely. Changing the subject he inquired: “What happens if we’re challenged?”

  “Nothing. Take no notice. Nobody on the ground dare do anything to stop us. These twits who call themselves air police can’t do a thing about it.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “It stands to reason. I’m told they don’t even carry guns.”

  “Who told you?”

  “It’s common knowledge. To most people they’re a joke.”

  Bertie did not pursue the subject.

  After they had crossed the coastline, without being questioned, Chandler remarked: “There you are. What did I tell you? They’re half-asleep, if not quite.”

  In the comparative quiet of the idling engine Bertie asked, without showing too much interest and without expecting an answer: “What was in the bag the Doctor gave you?”

  “Diamonds,” answered Chandler—surprisingly, Bertie thought.

  He whistled softly. “That little lot must be worth a packet.”

  “In the ordinary market not as much as you might imagine. They’re commercial diamonds, not gem stones. Still, they’re worth a fair penny.”

  “Why not real sparklers, while you’re at it?”

  “Commercials are in more demand where these are going. As you know, or you should know, they’re indispensable for fine engineering work. The Western powers have agreed not to supply any to Iron Curtain countries.”

  “Which I take to mean these will find their way to Russia,” said Bertie, tight-lipped.

  “Take it how you like. Personally I couldn’t care less. I’m out to make money the easy way and I don’t care where it comes from.”

  Bertie said no more. His opinion of Chandler dropped even lower.

  He held on his course towards the lights that lined the northern coast of France.

  “Okay. You can take her back to ten thousand and cut again when I tell you,” ordered Chandler, as they neared mid-Channel.

  Bertie did so, and the Auster glided into French air between Le Havre and Bayeau. Apparently the French coastal defences were far from being asleep, for the Auster was now being ordered persistently to identify itself.

  “Take no notice,” said Chandler, casually.

  “Aren’t you taking a chance?”

  “Forget it.”

  A searchlight stabbed the sky, groping for them.

  “Hm,” grunted Chandler. “They’re not usually as active as this. Don’t let ‘em worry you. Keep clear of that damned beam.”

  “There’s cloud ahead. We may be running into traffic.”

  “So what?”

  “If we’re spotted by the pilot of a big liner with a hundred passengers aboard he’ll scream his head off.”

  “Let him. Ground control will warn him we’re about.”

  “It won’t be funny for the passengers if he has to make a sharp turn off course.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” growled Chandler. “Scared? Quit belly-aching and get on with the job. Keep your eyes open. Nothing will happen. The people down below will soon get tired of trying to make us talk.”

  “So they may, but that doesn’t mean they won’t track us with radar.”

  “We’ll get under it when we get to the Rhône Valley. That’ll queer their pitch.”

  Bertie flew on, a glow in the sky far to the east marking the position of Paris. Later, nearer, appeared the lights of Orleans. There were no more signals. Actually, remembering what Chandler had said about flying low down the Rhône Valley, he was taking more interest in the weather conditions, although so far visibility had been good. He hoped it would remain so, for he knew, and trusted that his companion also knew, that the river, anyhow as far as Avignon, is flanked on both sides by high ground, wherefore to get off course in bad visibility might, for all Chandler’s alcoholic confidence, end in disaster. In the event, however, he need not have worried.

  It was a long flight, which took the Auster across the heart of France, so Bertie had plenty of time to think. They would, presumably land somewhere on the Plaine de la Crau. He was not happy about this, either. There was certainly plenty of room to get down and no doubt Chandler had taken into account the proximity of Marignane, the big airport for Marseilles. Close by were military aircraft establishments, both land and marine. These would certainly have the latest aircraft detecting devices. He had an idea there was an aerodrome on the plain itself, although he couldn’t remember whether it was a service squadron or a flying training school. He wondered if Chandler was aware of this, and if he was not, should he warn him? He decided to say nothing. Chandler might ask how he knew so much about it.

  What he did say was: “How many times have you done this trip?”

  “Only twice so far.”

  “I imagine you’ve studied the map for danger spots?”

  “What do you take me for? I didn’t plan the operation, anyway. The people who did would have put me wise about anything I should know.”

  With that Bertie had to be content. He dare not press the point.

  The lights of the big city of Lyons, an unmistakable landmark to the east, were passed, and soon afterwards they struck the broad, silver ribbon of the Rhone. Here Chandler said they could begin slowly to lose height. The sky was now a hundred per cent clear, and the ground could be seen plainly, with the great river, and the main railway line to the south, which is never far from it, outstanding. It was no longer necessary to rely on the compass. All they had to do now, Chandler said, was follow the railway, which ran right across the Plaine de la Crau, their objective.

  Orange, Avignon, Tarascon and Arles, were passed in turn, the Auster losing height all the way, and presently the broad plain, rolled flat by glaciers in ages past, lay before them, pale in the moonlight.

  “All right. I’ll take over now,” said Chandler. “I know the spot where we touch down.”

  Bertie took his hands off the control column. This suited him, for he could now devote his entire attention to the ground, and so, he hoped, memorize any features near the rendezvous for future reference. Only a few well scattered lights showed, and most of these were car headlights on the main road which south of Arles runs due east across the plain to Salon, twenty-odd miles distant. Bertie’s questing eyes picked up a stationary light, almost in the centre of the plain, so bright that he suspected it was a car lamp upturned. From time to time, significantly, it blinked in a manner that suggested a signal. He could see nothing near it. It must, he thought, be a vehicle of some sort, although as far as he could make out it was some distance from the road. Perhaps that was not surprising. On the hard level surface of the plain there was no reason why a man who knew the ground should stay on the road.

  “So this is it,” he thought.

  It was soon evident that he was right. Chandler did two circuits round the light to slip off his little remaining altitude and then made a professional landing which ended within thirty yards of a big, powerful-looking saloon car which now took shape. The only light it carried, the one that had been turned up, went out. As the two pilots stepped down, their shoes crunching on a surface of sandy gravel, three figures left the car and walked briskly towards them.

  “There you are; what did I tell you?” boasted Chandler, with a condescending sneer. “No bother at all. It’s money for old rope.” He went on, curtly: “You’d better stay here. There’s no need
for you to say anything.” He took a quick drink from a pocket flask and walked forward to meet his associates.

  Bertie leaned against the near-side door, which had been left open, to watch the proceedings. What would Biggles think of this sinister conspiracy, he wondered. The air police, and Customs officers all over Europe, knew this sort of thing went on, but as Chandler had said, there was little they could do to prevent it. Biggles had more than once admitted this to the higher authorities, and explained why.

  Bertie saw Chandler hand over the bag of diamonds and receive something in return. They went into a huddle and there was some conversation, but it was carried on in voices too low for Bertie to overhear. Presently they all walked nearer to the aircraft. Chandler came closer, and said to Bertie: “We’re taking a passenger back with us.”

  To which Bertie replied: “In that case, if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, the sooner he’s aboard the better.”

  “Why? Are you in a hurry?”

  “Not particularly; but your friends may be, before long.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been watching two cars on the road—”

  “The road’s nearly a mile from here.”

  “I saw two cars coming along, one close behind the other, at a devil of a lick. For no reason that I could see they came to a sudden stop and all lights were switched off.”

  “What about it?”

  “I have an idea, from the angle of the lights before they were switched off, that those cars left the road at a tangent to face this way.”

  “Oh, shut up. You’ll give me the jitters if you go on like this, imagining things,” growled Chandler, and turning about rejoined his companions.

  Then it happened. The beam of a searchlight, held at a low angle, stabbed the moonlight and began sweeping the plain. So great was the shock that for some seconds nobody moved. By the time they had recovered and had started to move the light had reached them. It stopped, the glare blazing into their faces, blinding them. The result was panic. The tightly-grouped party split apart like a bursting bomb. Two men rushed to their car. Chandler and another man dashed to the Auster.

  Bertie was ready. He had already pulled down the back of his seat, as was necessary to give access to the rear seats. The passenger was bundled in. “Get going,” yelled Chandler, as he got in, using the offside door. Doors were slammed. The engine sprang to life. The Auster began to move, faster—faster. As the tail lifted a line of tracer shells flashed under it. More came as the aircraft became airborne, just in time, for the shots were higher, but still below. With the throttle wide open Bertie zoomed in a steep climbing turn, thankful that the engine was still warm. He swung round, dived and zoomed again. The searchlight, which had at first held them, now lost them, but continued to grope for them. For a minute or two Bertie twisted and turned like a startled woodcock; then, as the beam dropped to sweep the ground, apparently seeking the car, he climbed away east for a while before heading north.

  “Nice work,” congratulated Chandler. “Anyone would think you’d done this sort of thing before.”

  “I seem to remember you saying this was easy money,” said Bertie calmly.

  “All right—all right. There’s no need to get cocky about it. How could I know this was going to happen? It has never happened before.”

  “It was pretty certain to happen sometime if you keep flying the same course. This time they were waiting for you. It’s a mistake to suppose everyone except yourself is a fool.”

  “Quit cackling. We’re clear. That’s all that matters.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Now what?”

  “If you’ll plug in you’ll hear we’re being told to come down—or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “The lad speaking doesn’t say.”

  Chandler plugged in. “What’s he gabbling about?”

  “Can’t you speak French?”

  “No. Why the hell should I?”

  “Pity. If you could you’d hear him telling us to land or take the consequences.”

  “We’ll take the consequences. I’m not landing. He’s bluffing.”

  “Could be. Are we going home?”

  “Of course. Where else do you think. Keep straight on up the Rhône.”

  “You realize that’s exactly what they’ll expect us to do. From the speed with which those cars arrived on the Plain we must have been tracked right across France. They’ll guess we’ll try to get home the same way.”

  “Rot. How can they know where we came from?”

  “They picked us up crossing the coast—remember?”

  “Why do you always go out of your way to look for snags?”

  “In order to keep clear of ‘em and live a bit longer.”

  “Make a bee-line for home. Let them do what the hell they like, they can’t stop us. I doubt if they’ll try.” A long pause and Chandler went on: “You know, there’s something queer about this. I’ve never run into anything like it before. They were ready for us. Anyone would think they’d been tipped off.”

  “Perhaps they were.”

  “By whom?”

  “Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t know. You should be better able to answer that question.”

  “Do you know anything about it?” Chandler looked at Bertie suspiciously.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Would I be in this aircraft if I did? I didn’t even know where we were going until we were airborne, when you told me.”

  “That’s right enough,” conceded Chandler. “Still, I can’t help feeling France was alerted.”

  “Well, it wasn’t by me,” declared Bertie, truthfully. “Do you still want to head straight for home?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Take a look ahead.”

  One by one searchlights sprang up to cut wedges in the sky.

  “Damn them,” muttered Chandler. “If we try to get round ‘em we may run out of petrol.”

  Hardly had the words left his lips when a flash and a loud report, uncomfortably close, came together. Something struck the Auster with a smack. The machine bumped as if pushed up from below.

  “For a sighting shot that was pretty good,” observed Bertie.

  White lines of shells streamed up from several points.

  “Here, let me have her,” snarled Chandler.

  “If you think you can handle her better than I can, go ahead,” invited Bertie, sitting back and taking his hands off the control column.

  After a few minutes he was prepared to admit that Chandler was a first-class aerobatic pilot. He did everything possible to confuse the gunners, throwing the machine all over the sky and never flying straight for a moment.

  “I hope I’m not making you sick,” said Chandler once, grimly, as he spun on a wing tip.

  “Not me, but I fancy our passenger is taking a dim view of it,” returned Bertie, who had just looked behind to see how the man was faring. “He’s all of a heap on the floor.”

  “Best place for him.”

  Chandler continued to take evasive action until eventually the shooting stopped and one by one the searchlights were doused. “That’s better,” he said, flying a straight course, heading north, climbing to recover altitude he had lost in his aerobatics.

  “They haven’t knocked a hole in a tank, anyhow,” said Bertie, his eyes running over the instrument panel. “That’s what I was afraid of. We were hit several times. If this is to be a regular procedure I shall think we earn our money.”

  “It won’t happen again,” swore Chandler. “I’ll work out a new route, even if it’s longer and means laying on extra petrol at the other end. I have to land, anyway, so it shouldn’t be difficult to arrange that. We should be all right now.”

  “As long as they don’t send fighters up to intercept.”

  “You are a cheerful Jonah, I must say,” grumbled Chandler. “Think of something else.”

  “I just thought it might be a good thing to keep our eyes skinned.” />
  The Auster continued to head for the English Channel, kicking the air behind it at maximum speed.

  Bertie looked round with increasing frequency at the man in the back seats. He was lying across them in a crumpled heap. He did not move, or attempt to sit up.

  “How is he?” asked Chandler. “Sick as a dog, I suppose. Made a nice mess in the cabin I imagine. Still, it couldn’t be helped.”

  “I don’t like the look of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he’d only been sick he should be sitting up by now. I’m afraid it’s worse than that. He hasn’t moved since that first shot nearly got us.”

  “Could he have been hit?”

  “That’s how it looks to me. From the way one of his arms is swinging about he’s unconscious.”

  “My God! I hope not.”

  “Is he as important as all that?”

  “Too true he is. I was ordered to take particular care of him. If anything happens to him it’s likely to be too bad for me.”

  “Who is he, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, some big bug from his London Embassy will be at the farm when we get back, to collect him.”

  “Well, I don’t like the look of him.”

  “Can you reach him?”

  “No. I can’t pull my seat back to get to him while I’m in it.”

  “Then we can’t do anything about it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. We might land and have a look at him.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “There are miles of open ground a bit farther north. If he’s badly hurt we should try to do something for him if it’s at all possible.”

  “Do you mean that seriously?”

  “If he’s been hit, if he isn’t dead already he’s likely to bleed to death before we get home. It’s up to you. You’re in command.”

  Chandler thought for a minute. “Do you know anything about first aid? I don’t.”

  “A little. Enough to stop bleeding, if that’s all that is necessary.”

  “What will you use?”

  “I always carry a medical outfit for emergencies. It’s in the locker.”