"What do you make of it, Smyth?" asked Biggles.
"Sounds like five or six engines to me, sir, but there is something funny about them; they seem sort of—muffled."
"I thought so," replied Biggles tersely. "It's that big machine all right—there she is." He grabbed Algy by the shoulder and pointed with outstretched finger at a tiny, gleaming point of light that had been caught in the sun's rays. The sun was still below the horizon to the watchers on the ground, but the machine, by reason of its great altitude, came within the region of its upflung rays.
As they spoke, the noise of the engines died away suddenly, but the tiny point of light held on its course like a shooting star. "That's it," muttered Biggles. "They switch the silencers full on now while they pass Danzig. Come on after it. Start up, Smyth. Algy, and you, Ginger, take station where you can see that machine and don't take your eyes off it until I'm in the air, or we may not be able to pick it up again."
The amphibian's engine started, and Smyth clung to a wing-tip to drag her round facing the water. Biggles raised the wheels as the machine became water-borne, and then churned up a foaming wake as he sped across the smooth surface of the water.
"How high is she, do you think?" he yelled, nodding towards the higher machine.
"Ten thousand, for a guess."
"That's about what I put it. We can't climb up to her without losing speed—not that we particularly want to; she'll have to come down sooner or later. All we have to do is to keep her in sight, but we must keep out of sight of her ourselves if we can."
Then began a chase which seemed interminable. Hour after hour passed, the big machine maintaining its altitude, with the amphibian skimming along a few hundred feet above the ground. Biggles was flying on full throttle in order to keep up with the other, although he realized that the big machine was probably only cruising. Their course lay due east, and for a long time it lay over open water, although the coast was always visible in the distance. A large town loomed up on the horizon, and slipped away behind, after which their course became overland.
Another two hours passed, and Biggles began to get worried, for he knew that they were reaching the limit of the amphibian's endurance range. He still had plenty of petrol to continue the chase, but if he went on any further he would be unable to return to Danzig without landing and refuelling, a procedure that he knew might give rise to an awkward situation. Looking at his map, and working out the distance in conjunction with the speed of the aircraft, a quick mental calculation told him that they must be on the Russian frontier, if not actually in Russia. The country below seemed deserted, the one or two small villages they passed occurring only at long intervals; not by a single landmark could they judge their position to within a hundred miles. Presently a small lake appeared below, but it was unmarked on their map and told them nothing. Then a larger lake appeared, so large that they could not see the opposite bank.
"Look out!" cried Algy suddenly. "She's coming down."
Biggles looked about hurriedly for some place of concealment. There is only one form of cover in the air, and that is provided by clouds, but at that moment there was not a single cloud in the sky. Just in front of them lay a great forest, spreading round on either side of the lake. At its western extremity the ground was open, and appeared to be uninhabited, for they could see no signs of human habitation. Biggles put his nose down towards it, although there was no time to make a close examination of the surface of the ground if they were to avoid being seen by the crew of the now rapidly dropping giant.
He cut the throttle and lowered his wheels, and picking the
most open space he could see near the wall of the forest made a rather bumpy landing.
"Thank goodness there were no rabbit-holes," he murmured fervently as he kicked over the rudder and taxied close up to the trees. " Quick, everybody; get some branches, grass, anything you can lay hands on, and throw it over the wing-top."
It was the work of only two or three minutes to cover the white wings and tail planes of the amphibian with greenery, and then, keeping in the shelter of the trees, they watched the big bomber glide down towards the lake. They did not actually see it land, for the forest, which lay between them and the water, obstructed their view, but they knew that it could not be more than a mile or two away, for it had passed over them at a very low altitude.
"What now?" asked Algy, looking inquiringly at Biggles.
"We had better do a bit of thinking," was the reply. "In the first place I estimate that we have just about enough petrol to get back as far as a refuelling port. Next, we may have been heard by somebody when we landed, or we may be heard if we try to take off again.
We're skating on thin ice, make no mistake about that. Our papers may be in order, and all that sort of thing, but it won't count for much if we are caught spying—and we shall have a job to find a reasonable excuse for being here. Still, we haven't come all this way for nothing; what we've got to find out is just what sort of place there is here, how many of those machines there are, and how much accommodation. That is what we want to know. If we can find out what they ultimately hope to achieve, how often they fly to England, and where their landing-grounds are there, so much the better. It seems to me that there are two courses open to us. The first is to take off again, fly round the lake, learning as much as we can, and then make full-out for home, but the most we can hope to discover if we do that is how many machines they have, and only then if they happen to be moored out on the water; we might be able to count the hangars—there must be more than one of those machines here. The second idea would be to hide the machine rather more effectively, and do a bit of scouting on foot. That, to my mind, is the best plan, but of course it is far more dangerous. If we are caught, we should be caught red-handed, and it would be Siberia for the lot of us—perhaps worse."
"You're telling me," interposed Ginger quietly.
"I'm telling everybody," replied Biggles shortly, "but as you are all in this as well as me you have some say in the matter. Well, which is it to be?"
" Scouting on foot," replied Ginger quickly.
"I agree," said Algy.
"What suits you suits me, sir," declared Smyth.
"All right; scouting on foot it is. In that case I propose to split up the party. You will be on one side, Algy, and I shall be on the other. Then, if a scouting party is caught, that still leaves a pilot with the machine to fly back to the Air Ministry and report what has happened. I suggest therefore that you, Algy, and Smyth, stay here with the machine, while Ginger and I take a walk. Stand by for a quick take-off in case we come back in a hurry."
"As you like," agreed Algy.
The machine was pulled into a narrow glade amongst the drooping fir-trees of the forest, with her nose pointing towards the open ground. They then sat down and ate the emergency rations they had brought with them from England.
"We shall have to leave here tomorrow at the latest," observed Biggles thoughtfully, as he munched a biscuit. "We can't live on air, and it would be too risky to try and get food about here. We should be spotted for foreigners instantly."
The meal, such as it was, was soon finished, and Biggles rose, throwing his cap and goggles into the cockpit. "One last thing," he told Algy seriously; "if we are not back here by this time tomorrow, you'll know that something serious has happened; in that case make for home as fast as you can and tell Taglen, at the Air Ministry, what has happened."
Algy nodded.
"Right, then. Cheerio ! Come on, Ginger," said Biggles, and set off through the forest in the direction of the lake.
For a long time they walked in silence, seeing nothing of interest, and then suddenly they perceived the steely-blue gleam of water through the tree-trunks.
"Steady now," he whispered, but the warning was unnecessary; Ginger was gliding from tree to tree, with the stealth of an Indian, a few yards ahead of him. He saw him stop, staring, and then beckon him on with a curious gesture.
He was not altogeth
er surprised at the sight that met his eyes, for he was half prepared for something of the sort, yet he caught his breath sharply. At the far side of the lake, or, rather, on the opposite side of a wide arm of it, which at this point drove deep into the forest, was a long row of enormous, squat hangars, built at the water's edge. In front of them, riding at anchor, were ten or a dozen of the great flying-boats, with several smaller marine aircraft dotted about them. They could not actually count the number of machines, for they were more or less
in line across the lake, and they were looking straight down the line; but it was not the machines that shook Biggles so much as the activity going on ashore. Log-built houses and workshops were everywhere, with scores of men moving about them, and the dull clamour of a thousand tools reached their ears. As they watched, the air began to vibrate with the roar of engines under test, while the door of a hangar was dragged open, and another monster slid down a slipway to the water.
"I'm going to have a closer look at this," muttered Biggles, and his methodical mind made him add, "If by any chance we get parted, come back to this spot. You can mark the place by that pine-tree over there, the one with the broken bough."
"O.K., chief," breathed Ginger, still staring at the scene across the bay.
"We'd better strike inland a bit or we may be seen," went on Biggles, and began working his way slowly towards the flying-boats, keeping parallel with the shore, but a little distance from it. He noticed that an open space had been cut through the trees just ahead, and presently saw the reason; a track had been cut for a light railway, which seemed to run down to the seaplane station in one direction and into the mainland in the other.
There was a siding at the point where they actually came upon it, with a row of trucks on the rails, but all was quiet; a little careful scouting showed that the track was deserted.
" Come on, let's cross over," he said quietly.
• The trucks lay immediately in their path, and rather than go round them, which would have meant exposing themselves on the open track rather longer than they cared to, they started squeezing between them. They, were actually in the act of doing this when the dull thud of horses' hooves sounded close at hand from the forest on the opposite side of the track, and a man's voice called loudly. Biggles acted on the instinct of self-preservation. There was no time to go forward or back, for the man seemed to be right upon them, so he pulled himself over the side of the nearest truck and fell in a heap inside. What happened to Ginger he did not know, but from the sounds he heard he gathered that he had done the same thing in the next truck, an assumption which afterwards proved to be correct. Not until he was inside the truck did he realize that it was half full of rough sawn timber, pine logs, the transport of which was apparently the purpose of the line, but he wedged himself between them, going as far as pulling a couple of the logs over his body.
He heard the horse pulled up as its rider reached the track. A hail rang through the forest and he started as another voice answered from somewhere desperately close; it seemed to come from the front end of the stationary train, and he broke into a perspiration when he realized that someone must have been there all the time. The two men began talking, and although he could not understand the conversation it seemed to Biggles that the rider was reprimanding the other for failure to do something. They were still talking when an engine whistled in the distance, and he stiffened as a new possibility struck him. He hoped that the approaching train would pass them on the other set of rails, but whether it did or did not it was utterly impossible for him to abandon his hiding-place now without being seen. His heart sank as he heard the train slowing down, but he was quite unprepared for what followed. There was a frightful crash, and his head struck the back of the truck with a force that nearly dislocated his neck. The engine had evidently arrived to pick up the trucks, and at the terrifying prospect of being carried to an unknown and possibly distant destination, he nearly
risked everything by jumping clear and making a dash for the forest. Had he been alone he would certainly have done so, but he could not leave Ginger, nor could he make his plan known to him without attracting the attention of the two men, who were still talking not a dozen yards away.
He was still feverishly turning the matter over in his mind when the truck in which he lay began to move, slowly, but with ever-increasing speed, yet all he could do was to lie still and hope for the best. They had travelled about half a mile, as near as he could judge, when it began to slow down again; he could stand the strain no longer.
" Ginger!" he said crisply. "Are you there, Ginger? "
A sudden anxiety assailed him as no answering call came from the next truck. " Ginger !
" he said again, more loudly.
Still there was no reply.
Swiftly he thrust aside the logs and risked a peep over the edge of the truck; but he was back on the floor again instantly, knowing only too well what had happened. There were no more trucks behind him; he was in the end one. The train must have been uncoupled at the very truck into which he had climbed; the engine had picked up one half of the train and left the rest behind. It had taken him with it and left Ginger back on the siding in the forest. What was even more unnerving was the fact that the train had pulled in what seemed to be the very middle of the seaplane station. He had only had time for a brief glimpse, yet all around him as far as he could see were wooden buildings, like a vast lumber camp.
He lay quite still and tried to work the thing out in his mind; he had been anxious to gain a closer view of the
secret aerodrome, but this was certainly a good deal closer than he liked. Somehow or other he would have to get clear again as soon as possible and return to the tree with the broken branch, and he thanked his lucky star that he had had the foresight to make an arrangement against such an emergency. Ginger, he knew, would work his way back to it at the first opportunity.
For a long time he lay quite still, while he could hear people moving about, sometimes passing within a yard of him as they walked along the track. Then came a voice that made his skin tingle; there was no mistaking it. It was the voice of Blackbeard, and to his amazement he spoke in English.
"Hullo, Darton! What are you doing back here?" he said.
"You might well ask," was the reply, accompanied by' the slamming of a door.
Biggles quivered again, for it was the voice of his late gaoler in the Northumberland house.
"Yes, it was that swine of an Englishman, Biggles-- more, or whatever his name is," went on the man, whose name was evidently Darton. "He caused a nice old mess—I suppose you've heard about it?"
"I heard that you let him get away, and the boss had to do some quick thinking—had to abandon two of our bases over the other side."
"Let him get away! I like that. Some kid set the whole works on fire. The boss has sent me back here for punishment. I wasn't to know that the fellow had his pals with him."
"Pals, did you say?"
"Yes, a couple of them at least; one of 'em's only a kid. The little swine nearly broke my legs with a cudgel. If I ever lay hands on him I'll wring his blamed neck like a rabbit's." From the tone of his voice there was little doubt that he meant what he said.
"Well, it was a bad business," went on Blackbeard; "a lot of good work undone. How did you get here?"
"Flew back in Number Fourteen the night before last. I wanted to stay in England to find this fellow Bigglesmore, but the boss wouldn't let me; I'd have settled his hash once and for all."
"You'd have been wasting your time looking for him in England."
"How's that?"
"He's over here."
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I saw him myself; yesterday.
"Were you seeing straight?"
"I was," replied Blackbeard curtly, "and kindly refrain from being unpleasant or I shall tell you nothing more."
"Sorry! Go on; what did you do? Sock him—?" "No, but I—"
The crash of buffers, as the train be
gan to move again, cut off the rest of the conversation, much to Biggles' disgust, but by the merest fluke he had gathered some very useful information. It was as well to know that there were at least two men in the camp who could recognize him—Blackbeard, and Darton, his late captor.
The train pulled up again with a jerk that shook every tooth in Biggles' head. There was a hiss of escaping steam, voices calling to each other, and then silence. The late afternoon wore on and it began to grow dark. He was just beginning to hope that the train had been abandoned for the rest of the day and was thinking of risking a peep, when the sound of returning voices reached his ears. Someone began to give orders, the words being punctuated every now and then by the crash of timber. Then, without the slightest warning, the truck in which he was lying was tilted over, and he was flung headlong out.
Before he could make the slightest effort to save himself, he was sliding, slipping and rolling down an apparently bottomless pit. Instinctively he flung up his arms to protect his face, but a smashing blow struck him on the head, and he knew no more.
CHAPTER IX
GINGER STRIKES
WHEN he recovered consciousness it was quite dark, and it took him some minutes to remember what had happened and where he was. The fall had been so sudden that there had been no time to see anything, and the crack he received on the head from one of the logs—for he had no doubt as to what had put him out of action—had settled any immediate anxiety on the point. He sat up, feeling rather giddy, and felt his head tenderly, but he was relieved to find that the injury was not so severe as he had expected, although a nasty lump under a sticky cake of hair told him that the skin of his scalp had been broken.
He looked around in the dim starlight, and saw that he had been tipped out with the logs into a deep gully, which was straddled by a trestle bridge. Luckily he had almost rolled under the bridge, which may have accounted for his not having been seen by the men operating the trucks. For what purpose the logs were required, or what lay at the bottom of the gully, he could not see, nor did he waste time trying to find out. He had learned quite a lot; not so much as he had hoped, but sufficient to report to the authorities in England, who would no doubt put their specially trained sleuths on the track. His immediate desire now was to get back to the amphibian with the least possible delay, and put the North Sea between him and Blackbeard.
06 Biggles And The Black Peril Page 8