by John Pearson
‘Not far now, Biggles,’ he would say imperturbably, as he put his shoulder to the rear of the Land Rover and helped to heave it back onto the track, its wheels spinning on the shaley surface of the mountainside. Puffing away beside him, Biggles could do little but admire the older man’s resilience.
But finally the track began to level out, and soon they were travelling across a sort of rocky up and covered with patchy scrub and boulders. They had to ford a stream and finally reached a headland, and the water of the lake lay blue and very clear below them.
‘This is the place,’ von Stalhein said with brief excitement in his cold grey voice.
‘And where’s the missile lying?’ Biggles asked him quickly.
‘Just over there, beneath the cliff in about twenty feet of water. Come, I’ll show you!’
Von Stalhein jumped down from the cab and, sure-footed as a mountain goat, went bounding off towards the cliff, with the remainder of the expedition straggling behind him. When they finally caught up with him he was standing on the cliff-edge, pointing down towards the surface of the lake. Biggles was the first to join him.
‘It’s all right, Biggles,’ he said softly. ‘It’s still there. Can you see it? Just beyond those dark grey rocks.’
Biggles strained his eyes, but to start with could see nothing but the shimmering of sunlight on the rock-strewn lake-bed. Then, he spotted it — a long, grey, fish-like object half buried in the mud. This was the missile that could hold the West to ransom.
‘Can you see it, Bill?’ shouted Biggles excitedly. ‘Will it be difficult to salvage?’
‘Ought to be straightforward,’ said the expert sagely. ‘Of course, you can’t say for sure until you get down to it. We’ll bring the dinghies round and have a closer look.’
The hard work really started then. The sun was blazing down as they brought the Land Rover round to a shingly beach a mile or so away and started to unload. They had compressed air to inflate the dinghies but the lifting gear was heavy, and once more Biggles was amazed by von Stalhein’s toughness as he helped Bill Armstrong manhandle it in place. Then Ginger, Algy and Bill Armstong donned their rubber frogman’s gear and soon the two grey boats were churning up the placid waters of the lake.
Once they were above the missile, Armstrong went overboard to inspect it, and Biggles could see him clearly in the limpid water, like a large black frog with only the line of bubbles from his breathing mask to show that he was human. Soon he was surfacing and clinging to the dinghy’s side to report to Biggles.
‘No real problems as far as I can see,’ he gasped. ‘We should be able to fix a cable round her nose and tail fin, then winch her up and beach her.’
‘Good man,’ said Biggles with a grin. ‘In you go Algy, Ginger — and for Pete’s sake get a move on. We’ve a lot to do and I’d like to be on our way back home this afternoon.’
‘Right you are, Biggles,’ shouted Ginger as he fixed his nose-clip, and with a hefty kick submerged and followed Algy to the bottom of the lake. Biggles watched fascinated as the three black-suited frogmen started the slow business of fixing the nylon cable round the Budnik.
‘Ever done this sort of thing before, Biggles?’ asked von Stalhein as they waited in the gently rocking dinghy.
‘Never, thank God,’ said Biggles fervently. ‘The air’s my element. Anything in the water — or under it — gives me the creeps. What about you?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind too much,’ von Stalhein answered, in that strange, formal way he had of speaking. ‘During the last war, you know, I took a special course with German U-boats and they used to tell me drowning was a very easy death. Does the idea of dying worry you then, Biggles?’
‘Not any more,’ said Biggles with a faint smile. ‘As long as it’s fairly quick.’ He glanced across the glittering surface of the lake, to where the heat-haze made the far-off mountains shimmer in the heat. Tunny conversation to be having in such a peaceful spot,’ he added. ‘Wonder how they’re getting on down there?’
As if in answer came a tug from the sea-line that connected one of the dinghies with the bottom of the lake, and when Biggles peered through the water he could see Armstrong signalling that the cables were secure and it was time to pull away.
The dinghies were connected with a specially devised platform on which the small hand-winch was bolted. Biggles took one handle, von Stalhein the other, and when they heaved they felt the sudden lift as the tail of the Budnik escaped the mud and floated free. Then the nose came up, and slowly, turn by turn, the long black shape was lifted until it hung between the dinghies like a captive whale. Armstrong passed a final cable round it to secure it, then raised his hand to Biggles — who could see the smile of satisfaction on his face beneath the frogman’s mask. The next moment he was heaving himself aboard — followed swiftly by Ginger and Algy.
‘Fine piece of work. Well done!’ exclaimed Biggles, as he started the first of the outboard motors. ‘All that we’ve got to do now is deliver this piece of scrap-iron back to Raymond and our duty’s done.’
The other outboard started and the ungainly vessel turned in a wide arc and headed back towards the vehicles.
‘Couldn’t have been easier,’ chortled Ginger. ‘And you know, Biggles, I thoroughly enjoy this underwater business. You ought to have a go yourself. You know you’d...’
Suddenly his voice cut short, and the smile froze on his lips.
‘D’you hear what I hear?’ shouted Algy.
Biggles nodded imperturbably.
‘Thought it was too good to be true,’ he muttered. ‘Chopper, by the sound of it, eh Ginger?’
Ginger throttled down the outboard motors and now they could all hear the steadily increasing thwack-thwack-thwack of an approaching helicopter
‘Could be a Turkish government machine,’ said Algy hopefully. ‘They use them to patrol the border further north.’
‘And it could be my Aunty Fanny,’ answered Biggles rudely, as the outline of a big twin-engined Russian military helicopter came over the nearby range of mountains. For a while it hovered like a cautious dragon-fly over the far end of the lake. Then slowly it began to edge towards them.
‘I’d give everything I’ve got for a Lewis gun, old chap,’ said Algy.
‘Wouldn’t do much good, I fear,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’re at the blighter’s mercy and he knows it. Give him a lovely smile and hope to goodness he’s impressed.’
By now the din was deafening and the helicopter hovered less than twenty feet above them. For a moment Biggles wondered if it would open fire, knowing full well that in a moment it could blast them all to kingdom come. At such close quarters it was like being sniffed at by a hungry beast of prey — but finally the beast lost interest, dipped its tail, and roared away. As it did so, Biggles could clearly see the impassive faces of the pilot and co-pilot staring down at him. Two minutes later the helicopter had vanished over the mountain whence it came, and peace and stillness were restored to the lake.
‘Phew!’ said Algy, ‘and what d’you think that was in aid of?’
‘Blowed if I know,’ said Biggles, ‘but they’ve made it pretty clear that they know exactly what we’re up to and can pick us up whenever they feel inclined.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Armstrong.
‘Not much we can do, dear old chap,’ Biggles answered with a wistful grin. ‘We can’t stay in the middle of this blasted lake, and we’ve only one way back — the way we came. I guess we’ll have to take it.’
‘What about the missile?’ Ginger asked.
‘That comes too, of course,’ said Biggles quickly. ‘That was what we came to get, and while there’s life, there’s hope.’
‘You think the Russians must have tracked us here by radar?’ said Biggles to von Stalhein. ‘They obviously knew what we were up to from the start, and after the failure of their bomb attempt in Istanbul, decided to risk sending that helicopter in to catch us with our pants down.’
‘Pants down, Big
gles? I don’t understand,’ replied von Stalhein.
‘Colloquial English phrase, old boy. Means when we’re particularly vulnerable. Dashed awkward situation to be in.’
Biggles and von Stalhein were in the leading Land Rover with Algy and Ginger, bumping and slithering their way back down the mountain track. Behind them came the second vehicle, driven by the unflappable Bill Armstrong, whose only passenger was now the Budnik, all twelve feet of it, secured on a specially constructed cradle so that its snout protruded over the front of the bonnet, and its tail hung from the rear. Thanks to Bill Armstrong’s preparations, the winching of the Budnik on to the Land Rover had gone like clockwork. The dinghies and the other pieces of equipment had been left behind, the sun was high in the clearest of blue skies, and but for that single visit of the Russian helicopter, everybody would have been elated. Instead, they made their journey now clutching their weapons and imagining that any minute could be their last.
But nothing happened. The long trail down the mountainside was still as deserted as when they came, and by early afternoon they could see the dusty plain below. Shortly after this, Biggles shouted, ‘Well, the old Hercules is where we left her. You never know, miracles could still have happened.’.
‘They could, old boy,’ said Ginger realistically, ‘but in this case something makes me doubt it.’
But the closer they approached the Hercules, the more it seemed that Biggles could be right. The great aircraft was exactly as they left it — the ramps still down, the rear door open, the big propellors glinting in the sun. As he approached the aircraft, Biggles accelerated with excitement at the thought that there was still a chance to get away, and put his thumb down on the horn. But there was no reply.
‘Funny,’ said Biggles, as he circled the aircraft and still saw no sign of life. ‘Perhaps old Bertie’s gone to sleep. Can’t say I blame him.’
He drew up by the ramps and, clutching his revolver, entered the big cargo section of the Hercules with Ginger just behind him.
‘Bertie,’ he shouted. ‘Where the devil are you?’
Still no reply, and Biggles scrambled forward to kick open the small door that led into the cockpit section of the plane. The door swung inwards, and at that instant Biggles saw two figures sitting on the crew seats facing him. They wore olive-coloured uniforms and held sub-machine-guns in their hands.
‘Mr Bigglesworth,’ said a third figure standing behind them. ‘I think you should drop your gun. Someone might get hurt.’
As these words were spoken, several other Russians, who had been carefully concealed in the cargo-hold, revealed themselves, so that in one sudden moment Biggles’ group was expertly surrounded. Out of the corner of his eye, Biggles could see that Algy was just about to make a fight of it. His gun was poised, and had he fired there would have been dreadful carnage, but Biggles quickly shouted, ‘Drop it Algy! There’s no point old boy.’ Algy did as he was told.
‘Very wise, Mr Bigglesworth,’ said the character who seemed to be in charge, a short, somewhat chunky figure in a nondescript grey suit. With his enormous shoulders, heavy brows and boxer’s jaw, he could have been an all-in-wrestler or dance-hall bouncer, but he was very much in command, and spoke near-perfect English.
‘Where’s our friend, Bertie Lissie?’ Biggles muttered.
‘Quite safe and sound I can assure you. He put up something of a fight, and we had to deal with him, but I think that there’s no lasting damage. He’s in the forward cargo locker. You can see him in a minute, but first, if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.’
An order was barked out in Russian, and Biggles and his friends were swiftly searched.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the Russian when they were totally disarmed. ‘I should introduce myself. My name is Leovitch of the Soviet K.G.B. I feel that I should thank you gentlemen for the expert work you did in salvaging my country’s property from that lake. My helicopter pilot radioed a most flattering report of the operation. He should be back here any moment now, and then we can be on our way.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ asked Biggles tersely.
‘We’re not taking you anywhere, Mr Bigglesworth. You’re taking us, in this splendid aeroplane of yours, together with the Budnik. Have you heard of the city of Batumi? It’s on the Russian Black Sea coast about three hundred miles to the north, of here. There is a military airport and my countrymen will be glad to see you all at last. We have several scores to settle with your so-called Special Air Police.’
‘I would advise you not to try anything of the sort, Mr Leovitch, or whatever you call yourself,’ barked Biggles. ‘We are in neutral territory, and kidnapping’s a serious international offence. We will demand to see the official British representative in your country.’
The Russian cut him short.
‘Really, Mr Bigglesworth, don’t make me laugh! This is the twentieth century and your silly little country counts for very little.’
Biggles flushed at this, and made as if to strike the grinning Russian.
‘How dare you, sir!’ he shouted.
But one of the Russians already had Biggles’ arm in an agonising lock behind his back and another thrust the muzzle of his automatic in his ribs.
‘Now, now. Calm down, Mr Bigglesworth,’ purred Leovitch. ‘There really is no time for this sort of nonsense, and you can discuss it with your interrogators in Moscow.’ He followed this with a quick order in Russian, and the members of the little expedition were herded to the front of the aircraft, their hands above their heads.
As von Stalhein passed the K.G.B. man, Biggles heard the Russian shout the word ‘traitor’ at him, and there was a hideous thud as a gun butt caught the Prussian on the head. But von Stalhein scarcely seemed to notice, and managed to smile ruefully at Biggles.
‘Charming people, don’t you think?’ he said quietly in English.
Seconds later the Land Rover with the Budnik came bumping up the ramps with one of the Russians at the wheel. The rear door closed, and Leovitch turned to Biggles.
‘Now, Mr Bigglesworth,’ he said in his oiliest manner. ‘Into the cockpit with you please — and you too, Mr Lacey. It’s time we took off for Batumi. Our mission’s nearly over.’
‘What if I refuse?’ growled Biggles.
‘Then I shall be obliged to shoot you both. It will be regrettable, of course, and your sacrifice will prove quite useless, for I can easily radio the helicopter for a Russian pilot. It will delay us by an hour or so, that’s all.’
‘What d’you think, Algy?’ Biggles asked his friend.
‘Don’t seem to have much choice, old scout, and that’s a fact,’ replied Algy realistically. ‘It’s pretty sickening it has to end like this, but all the same...’
‘Good!’ snapped the Russian. ‘Then we can prepare at once for take-off. If you are sensible, I’ll do my best to see that your cooperation is mentioned at your trial in Moscow. We Russians are not as heartless as your Western statesmen paint us.’
‘I should save your breath, Leovitch, muttered Biggles.
The memory of that flight was one that haunted Biggles for the remainder of his life. It was bad enough to have to fly an aircraft with the cold muzzle of an automatic thrust against his neck, but worse was the sense of dreadful failure in his heart. Biggles was not a loser — and he was all too well aware of the dire consequences of his failure to bring back the Budnik to the West.
His course lay almost due north and he circled the take-off area to gain height before facing the first range of mountains. Heavily laden as she was, the Hercules climbed slowly in the thin mountain air, so that the highest peaks seemed perilously close as they thundered on above them.
Leovitch was sitting in the navigator’s seat where he could check the course, and suddenly he gave a cry of horrified alarm.
‘Increase height,’ he ordered. ‘We nearly hit that crag below us. Can’t you see, you idiot?’
‘Did we?’ said Biggles nonchalantly. ‘I didn’t notice.’
Another peak loomed ahead.
‘Look out, for God’s sake!’ yelled the Russian.
Biggles screwed up his eyes, and pretended to peer around him in surprise. Only when it seemed as if the Hercules must surely crash head on against the granite face of rock, did he touch the throttle, flip the great aircraft’s wings slightly to one side, and pass the mountain peak with feet to spare.
‘Maniac!’ screamed the Russian. ‘Increase height, I order you!’
But Biggles shook his head and shrugged his shoulders sadly.
‘Impossible,’ he said, and pointed through the cockpit window at one of the starboard engines. It had stopped. He held three fingers up towards the Russian to emphasise his point.
‘Only three engines left,’ he whispered. ‘There’s not much chance, but I’ll do my best.’
Algy said later that the next half hour was the finest piece of virtuoso flying he had ever witnessed in his life. The Hercules was crossing range upon range of mountains, but Biggles flew that underpowered transport plane like a stunt machine as he took it down the valleys and went zooming up between the mountain passes, dodging inevitable death by inches. Sometimes the aircraft seemed to stall and then recover in the nick of time. Once, its wing-tip brushed against a fir-tree on a jagged mountain-side. The horror seemed to mount and Biggles threw up his hands.
‘More height,’ begged the Russian now ‘Can’t you do anything? You’ll kill us all.’
His voice was weak with fear, but once more Biggles shook his head.
‘I think we’re getting trouble with another engine,’ he said hopelessly. ‘We’ll never make it to Batumi, will we Algy?’
‘Not a hope in hell,’ his chum replied.
Another mountain range, higher than the last, was looming up ahead.
‘What can we do?’ the Russian moaned. ‘Not much choice, old chap,’ said Biggles sombrely. ‘Either we crash or we change course. From the map you’ll see we’re twenty miles or so from a place called Ezerum and there’s an airport there. Which is it to be, Leovitch?’