Biggles' Special Case

by Captain W E Johns

  ‘I’ll speak to him about it.’

  ‘According to my information Rasal al Sharab is two hundred miles from here.’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘Then you might point out that if we don’t leave here until sundown it will mean landing in the dark.’

  ‘Does that worry you?’

  ‘I’d rather land on unknown ground in daylight.’

  ‘Very well. Those enemy planes have upset the arrangements. Had they not interfered it would not have been necessary to come here.’

  ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘Certainly. The two bodyguards also.’

  ‘Why them?’

  ‘They will escort the passenger we are to pick up and bring back here.’

  ‘Do you mean here or the ruins of Quarda?’

  ‘That has yet to be decided. It will depend on news, if any, the sheikh learns here.’

  ‘Is he staying here?’

  ‘Unless he finds it necessary to go to his palace. Horses are available. In that case he will return as soon as possible. If for any reason it would be dangerous for us to land here on our return from Rasal al Sharab we shall be warned by rockets.’

  ‘And in that case?’

  ‘We shall have to go on to Quarda.’ Zorlan strode away, following the sheikh and his staff who by this time had walked into the oasis and disappeared between the date palms.

  Bertie looked at Biggles helplessly. ‘What a to-do! What do you make of it?’

  ‘You know as much as I do.’

  ‘This oil business was a bit of an eye-opener. We weren’t told anything about that.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary. I realized the basic idea of all this juggling was a mutual assistance plan between Zarat and Rasal al Sharab. Now we see the reason for it. Until now neither country had anything worth grabbing, but if someone has struck oil it becomes a very different proposition. No wonder the tigers are sneaking up smacking their lips.’

  Said Ginger: ‘I can tell you one thing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘The sheikh speaks English as well as we do — probably better. He has an accent commonly known as Oxford.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘On the way here he started to talk in English to Zorlan; but he didn’t get a chance to say much. Zorlan butted in and stopped him, presumably because I was there. After that they spoke in another language. That may mean nothing, but I couldn’t help wondering what it was Zorlan didn’t want me to hear.’

  ‘This particular sheikh wouldn’t be the first one to go to an English university. I couldn’t care less about that. What worries me is we seem to have become responsible for him, and as that’s the sort of responsibility I don’t like I shall be glad to see the end of it all and get back home. Too many people know what’s going on here, with the result that the place must be fairly crawling with enemy agents under orders to scotch our game — if you can call it a game — at any cost. Anyhow, as we’re in it up to the neck we shall have to see it through. Zorlan has opened up a little, but I’m pretty sure he still hasn’t told us the whole story. I imagine the rest is in that portfolio he carries. He takes good care to see no one gets a chance to open it.’

  ‘What could be in it?’ conjectured Ginger.

  ‘Papers, obviously. Perhaps a proposal for some sort of agreement with Zarat or Rasal al Sharab. Possibly a concession to work the oil in return for financial aid. But what’s the use of guessing? It doesn’t matter to us what’s in the bag. We’re only here to cart it around. Let’s have a drink while we’re waiting.’

  CHAPTER 7

  NATURE TAKES A HAND

  IT was nearly two hours before Zorlan returned. With him came the two bodyguards, their faces expressionless. They may have looked like characters in a musical comedy, as Ginger had remarked, but he decided to take no chances of falling out with them. He suspected the scimitars had an edge and were not being worn as ornaments.

  ‘You’ve been a long time,’ Biggles greeted Zorlan.

  ‘It seems there has been a little trouble at the palace, but everything is now under control.’

  ‘What was the trouble?’

  ‘A plot to assassinate the sheikh. It was forestalled.’

  ‘Did you speak to the sheikh about our time of departure?’

  ‘Yes. He is satisfied to leave the decision to you.’

  ‘Good. Tell me this. Are we expected at Rasal al Sharab?’

  ‘Yes. That is, when the plane is seen its purpose will be known and final preparations made. A plane rarely calls there.’

  ‘What about these guards? Are they really necessary?’

  ‘They might be.’

  ‘That’s a comforting thought,’ said Biggles with mild sarcasm. ‘Can you speak their language?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s something anyway.’

  ‘They will identify Rasal al Sharab if there is any doubt. Were you given instructions for finding the place?’

  ‘I was given a map and a compass course in relation to Quarda by my chief in case it should be needed.’

  ‘There should be no difficulty. Rasal is a town of some size, as towns in this part of the world go. The sultan’s palace is really a fort. Standing in open ground it should be conspicuous.’

  ‘How long are we likely to be there?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I have some business to do with the sultan before we collect our passenger; but you can rely on me to get away as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Which means you’ll be leaving us?’

  ‘For a time, yes.’

  ‘What about the guards?’

  ‘They will come with me to protect the passenger.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘No. That’s all. If you’re ready we might as well get along. We’re just as likely to be seen here standing in the open, should an enemy aircraft come over, as in the desert.’

  Biggles saw his passengers into their seats, climbed into his own and started the engines. They needed no warming. The time, he noticed, was four o’clock, which meant that the sun would be low by the time they reached the objective.

  ‘We should be there in half an hour or so,’ he told Bertie, as he unfolded his map to refresh his memory. Having done so he refolded it in its creases and put it handy in the pocket beside him. ‘Have a look round,’ he requested as he taxied into position for the take-off.

  ‘Can’t see anything,’ reported Bertie. ‘I imagine any MIGs about will be operating between their base and Quarda.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care to gamble too much on that. If one of ‘em lands at the ruins and discovers their raid was a flop they’ll want to know where we’ve gone. As that would mean a general reconnaissance over the whole region we might run into one anywhere. Remember that to get to Rasal we shall have to cut across a bit of the north-east corner of Iraq. I don’t know how we stand with the Iraqis, but they may have a finger in this unsavoury pie and might have been alerted. I’d feel a lot happier if we had some guns to hit back at anyone who had a smack at us, but I suppose the Turkish government wouldn’t risk trouble by allowing a foreign military machine to fly over their territory.’

  ‘The MIGs are doing it.’

  ‘That’s different. The Iron Curtain lot are powerful enough to cock a snook at anyone and get away with it. Smaller countries have to think twice before falling out with ‘em and you can’t blame them for that. Well, let’s see what the luck’s like.’ So saying he took off, and swinging round put the aircraft on its course.

  Again he held the machine low, knowing he would be less likely to be seen from above against the uneven background than if he were high in the sky. He would of course be more easily seen from the ground, but he was fairly confident he would be unlikely to encounter opposition from that direction, even if there was anyone there. Natives, in camp or on a journey, perhaps, but they hardly counted. Hostile aircraft were the real danger; and being an
old hand at air combat he did not need telling that by flying low the shadow of the machine, racing along beside him, being black and therefore more conspicuous than the aircraft itself, would be smaller than if cast from a higher altitude. The only objection was, in the hot, thin, unstable air, the machine bumped at every irregularity in the ground. He did his best to control this, but it could not be entirely prevented. He could only hope his passengers would not be sick.

  For the first part of the trip the terrain was much as it had been in the vicinity of Quarda and the oasis of Suwara; that is to say, a vast desolation of sterile, gravelly soil, so arid that it could support no vegetation except sparse growths of the inevitable camel-thorn; but at about half-way it began to change its character. The desert aspect persisted, but it became increasingly broken by gullies torn in the earth by storm-water where there was nothing in the ground to hold the soil together. For the most part these signs of erosion ran more or less parallel with the line of flight showing which way the land fell, and eventually, as Biggles expected, having seen this sort of country before, they became dry tributaries, so to speak, of a wide, shallow wadi — the same thing on a larger scale.

  The chief difference was the wadi held a certain amount of vegetation in the form of another hardy inhabitant of desert places, acacia thorn. It grew as isolated bushes or in widely scattered clumps and probably indicated the existence of water, although it might have been deep in the ground.

  As the aircraft raced on these became more common, and Biggles formed the opinion that as the wadi fell in the direction he was travelling it would probably take him to Rasal al Sharab. If there was water, even under the ground provided it could be reached by wells, it would account for the existence of a town in the middle of a wilderness.

  All this of course made no difference to the aircraft as long as there was sufficient open ground on which he would be able to land when he reached his destination. The uneven ground merely caused the machine to rock a little more erratically as an up-current struck the underside of one of the wings. When the entire machine was affected it reacted by bouncing, sickeningly for those unaccustomed to the movement.

  It may be that with the dominant risk of interference coming from the air Biggles had given no thought to the natural hazards of flying from which no country is entirely free. Taking the functional perfection of the aircraft for granted, there are always local weather conditions which man has not yet mastered and probably never will. In temperate zones, as everyone knows, the worst hazards are fog and ice-forming conditions. In hot countries, particularly those subject to monsoons, it can be tempests of such violence that rain or hail can reduce visibility to zero. In the great deserts of the world the peril is wind-borne sand which can be carried to a great height. This, too, may completely blot out whatever may be underneath. And that is not the only danger.

  The Merlin had completed about two-thirds of its journey and Biggles was studying the ground and sky in turn when Bertie called his attention to something that was happening ahead. A dark shadow, almost black in the centre, appeared to be hanging over a section of the horizon. Biggles took a long look at it and then glanced at the sun. It had lost its glare and showed as a pale orange globe.

  He swore softly. ‘Looks as if we’re running into a haboob,’1 he muttered. ‘What a curse. We just needed that.’

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘There’s no point in doing anything until we see which way it’s going.’

  ‘It looks to me as if it’s dead on our course, coming towards us. Could we get round it?’

  ‘Possibly, by going miles out of our way.’

  ‘How about getting above it?’

  ‘That could mean going up to twelve or fifteen thousand.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘We wouldn’t be able to get down at Rasal while the storm is on and it may last for hours. Then we should have to wait for the dust to settle. Instead of burning petrol we can’t afford, it might be better to sit down here in the wadi and wait for it to pass. That’s if we can find a slice of open ground long enough.’ Biggles looked down at the ground to survey the floor of the wadi in front of them.

  In an instant the aircraft was standing on a wing tip in a vertical bank.

  ‘What the devil...!’ exclaimed Bertie, grabbing at his seat to steady himself.

  ‘There are two shadows on the ground — we’re only making one,’ answered Biggles tersely. ‘Can you spot him?’

  Somewhere, faintly, a machine gun snarled. A line of tracer bullets, well clear of the Merlin, ploughed into the bed of the wadi.

  Bertie’s eyes back-tracked the line. ‘MIG,’ he shouted. ‘Coming down starboard quarter!’

  Biggles dived for the ground, twisting like a wounded bird. Straightening below the banks of the wadi he flicked on full throttle and tore along the bottom. In less than a minute he was in a brown murk which increased in density every second. He lowered his wheels shouting: ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Can’t see him. Unless he’s nuts he’ll never follow us into this stuff. If he does he’ll be into the carpet before he sees it.’

  ‘If I can find a place I’m going down.’

  ‘Why not up and get over it?’

  ‘Not with that MIG about. If he caught us in the clear it’d be curtains for us. Go aft and tell Zorlan we’re running into a haboob with a MIG on our tail.’

  ‘Ha! That should cheer him.’ Bertie disappeared through the door into the cabin.

  Biggles, peering into the gloom, moistened his lips. The sun had vanished. Brown clouds were swirling past bringing a dim twilight, but he could still see the floor of the wadi due to the wind carrying the sand over it without giving it a chance to settle. Even so, visibility was less than a hundred yards and fast shortening. Ahead was a stretch of ground without, as far as he could see, bushes or other obstructions. What lay beyond he did not know, but realizing it was now or never he cut the engines. He had one thing in his favour. The gale of wind was rushing straight up the wadi; it would pull him up quickly.

  Bertie came back, flopped into his seat and fastened his safety belt. Seeing what was happening he did not speak.

  With the aircraft sinking Biggles held his breath as he stared fixedly ahead. The wheels touched down. The machine bounced a little, then the wheels trundled. A dark object loomed in front. With its wheels ploughing into loose sand the machine came to a stop within yards of it. A clump of acacia scrub.

  In a flash Biggles had switched off and unfastened his belt. ‘Get some rag and help me plug the air intakes,’ he rapped out. ‘A couple of spare shirts — anything. Buck up.’

  Bertie dived into the cabin. In a matter of seconds he had joined Biggles on the ground with what was required. Holding handkerchiefs over their mouths and nostrils, flinching as the flying sand stung their eyes, they did what was necessary, after which they lost no time in getting back into their seats.

  ‘What an absolute stinker,’ growled Bertie, as he slammed the door to keep out as much sand as possible although some inevitably would find its way in. ‘We’re down, any old how, and that’s something to be thankful for.’

  ‘And if this blasted sand piles up on us we’re likely to stay down,’ returned Biggles grimly. ‘What did Zorlan say when you told him how things stood?’

  ‘Nothing much. He seemed a bit peeved at being thrown out of his seat when you did that cart-wheel turn.’

  ‘He’s damn lucky to be alive,’ stated Biggles bitingly.

  ‘I hope he realizes it.’

  ‘He will, because I shall tell him so if he starts moaning to me. Stay where you are while I have a word with him.’

  ‘Will the machine be all right do you think?’

  ‘Facing dead into wind it should be. We’ve no tackle to anchor it, anyhow. I’ll be back.’ Biggles went through into the cabin.

  ‘Was this really necessary?’ Zorlan greeted him caustically.

  ‘Had I not thought so I wouldn’
t have done it,’ answered Biggles shortly. ‘There’s nothing I can do about a haboob except get out of its way if that’s possible. In this case it wasn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For the very good reason that we were being dogged by an aircraft armed with machine guns. It had in fact already fired at us. My machine is not equipped for combat. You’ve nothing to complain about. We are at least on the ground in one piece. Kindly remember that I have a life to lose as well as you.’

  ‘Where did the MIG go?’

  ‘How could I know? Home if the pilot’s got any sense. He’d be as helpless in this stuff as we are. Sand in an engine doesn’t improve its performance.’

  ‘The pilot will have guessed where we were going.’

  ‘There was nothing I could do to prevent that. He may have known where to look for us. In any case there could have been no question of landing at Rasal, or even finding the place, in the middle of a sand-storm.’

  ‘And what are we to do?’

  ‘Sit here until the storm has passed on — unless you feel like going for a walk.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent.’

  ‘Then don’t ask such damn silly questions.’

  ‘How long are we likely to be stuck here?’

  ‘I’d have thought you had had more experience of this sort of thing than I have. If we’re lucky the storm might last only an hour or two. That depends on the speed it’s travelling. But I have known a haboob to last for a couple of days.’

  ‘If this one lasts only two hours it will be dark before we can move on.’

  ‘Move! We shall have to wait for the dust to settle. We shall do well to get away from here by dawn. To start with, even if the sand hasn’t bogged us down, I shall want to see how much room we have to get off. At present I have no idea. Secondly, I’m not starting the engines while there’s any quantity of sand in the air. As I’ve already said, engines and sand don’t go together. Sand means friction. Friction means heat. Heat means fire. You’ll have to leave things to my judgement. Anyone who is expecting us at Rasal will have to wait, and that’s all there is to it. I’m no miracle worker. The storm came from the direction of Rasal, so the people there will realize why we haven’t shown up. We’re lucky in this respect. Had we started later and run into this in the dark — well, use your imagination. Excuse me while I wash the grit out of my teeth.’ Biggles had to talk at the top of his voice to make himself heard.