by W E Johns
“You know what that means,” said Biggles grimly. “It’s hoping to cut the Hastings’ engines.”
“That’s it.”
“Tony has a good three minutes start. They can’t know which way he’s going and they’ll never find him in the dark.”
“They may not have to find him. It may not be necessary to see him. It all depends on how the weapon works and, as I said before, that’s something we don’t know. If it operates on a beam principle Tony should be all right. But if it broadcasts in all directions then everything will depend on its effective range. It’s no use our going on now; we might as well stay here. There’s a chance that Christophe may believe everyone escaped in the Hastings.”
“But not von Stalhein.”
“No. He knows us too well. But he isn’t the boss. Christophe may back his own opinion. Keep quiet. Let’s listen. If Tony has to come down he’ll crash; and if he hits the deck within ten miles, on a still night like this we should hear it.”
Nothing more was said. They stood just inside the forest, listening, eyes on the pitiless sky. The drone of aircraft could still be heard in, the distance. Deep in the forest drums were still throbbing.
BIGGLES GOES ALONE
A QUARTER OF AN HOUR passed without any change in the situation. Everyone seemed to be waiting. A little crowd stood in front of the opening in the trees that gave access to the hangar. The only sounds were the distant drone of aircraft, a low murmur of conversation, and once, for a brief spell, far away, the roaring of two lions. Then an aircraft could be heard coming back. A line of rather feeble landing lights, somewhat surprisingly, outlined the airstrip. There bad been nothing to suggest a crash. As Ginger remarked, had the Hastings crashed and caught fire the reflection would have shown on the sky.
“That’s Christophe’s machine coming,” said Biggles. “We’ll wait for them to put it to bed and then try to get a closer look at it. The crowd should clear off, but I imagine a guard will be left on the machine. I hate crawling about in the dark, but we’ve got to get to it, or the hangar, somehow. There is this about it; there’s plenty of cover. If I can’t get the machine I’ll burn the whole works. The General said it wouldn’t matter If the weapon was destroyed. That would at least prevent the enemy getting his hands on it and would put an end to Christophe’s racket here.”
“You don’t think he’s a genuine patriot?” murmured Bertie.
“I doubt it. Money or power, or both, are usually at the bottom of this sort of set-up. Christophe’s on a good thing. With the new weapon he’s able to get top secrets and sell them to enemy agents. They’re no use to him. He’s in the one place in Africa where that’d work. That, of course, is why he chose it. Here comes the machine. This fellow Dessalines, or whoever’s flying it, must be pretty confident of himself to do night landings on a field this size.”
The pilot may have been confident, but confidence is not ability, as the next few minutes were to demonstrate.
The aircraft started its approach too close and too high, although the pilot may not have realized it until too late. The result was, his wheels did not touch until he was half-way down the airstrip, travelling much too fast. It was one of those occasions when a pilot must think on the instant, and act on it. The safe course would have been to open up and go round again. For some reason known only to himself the pilot decided to take a chance on stopping before he ran into the trees. Realizing five seconds later that this was not going to work he started to turn, too sharply. One thing a landing chassis, designed to go forward, will not do, is go sideways. There was a grinding crunch; the machine pulled up as if caught by arresting gear and came to rest with its tail cocked in the air.
“Very pretty,” muttered Biggles. “Why did the fool have to do that?”
“There is this about it, old boy; the silly ass has put his kite out of action,” observed Bertie. “It’ll have to stay where it is for a bit.”
“That’s just it,” said Biggles angrily. “Look where it is! How are we going to get near it, stuck out there, away from any sort of cover? If this has upset Christophe’s apple-cart it’s upset ours as well.”
“I don’t see that—dashed if I do.”
“If that machine’s a write-off Christophe will take the weapon out of it. If he does, where will he put it? We don’t know. He won’t leave it lying about, you can bet your life on that. It means too much to him—everything, in fact. Confound his ham-fisted pilot for a clumsy twit. Well, I’m not leaving without the weapon or without destroying it. Just a minute. Let me think about this.”
By this time most of the people on the airfield were standing by the damaged machine, engaged, as might be expected, in argument. The pilot was, no doubt, explaining what had happened.
“Listen,” said Biggles, reaching a decision. “Without an aircraft Christophe’s sunk, and he must know it. The only way he can get the weapon into the air is by repairing the machine or installing it in another aircraft, and I can’t believe he’s got the technicians here to do either. If I’m right, then he’ll have to call on his outside pals, as he calls them. These, I imagine, are also von Stalhein’s pals. If they come here we’ve lost the game, because even if they don’t get away with the weapon they’ll see enough of it to tell them all they want to know. I’d wager that at this very moment von Stalhein is telling Christophe that he can get the thing fixed up for him. The cards have fallen nicely for him.”
“What’s the answer to that, old boy?” inquired Bertie.
“There’s only one. We’ve got to stop Christophe or von Stalhein from getting in touch with the people outside.”
“How?”
“By busting his radio. That’s the only way they can make contact—short of hoofing it through the jungle, which would take time.”
“Then let’s get on with it.”
“No. Ginger’s dead on his feet. He was up all last night. He can’t do another. He’s got to get some sleep. Someone will have to stay with him, and that means you, Bertie. I’ll go on my own and wreck the radio.”
“If you say so,” agreed Bertie, realizing Biggles had made up his mind. “Where shall we wait for you?”
“One place seems to be as good as another. It might as well be here. I’ll get back as soon as I can. And I’d better start or I shall be too late. If anything goes wrong don’t wait for me. Push along and meet Algy as arranged.” With that Biggles strode off into the darkness, keeping in the deep shadows along the edge of the forest.
Bertie and Ginger watched him go. It went against the grain to see him go alone; but Ginger knew he was right. No one can do without sleep even at the best of times, and the strain of the last few hours had left him, as he told Bertie, just about all in. They found a reasonably comfortable spot at the foot of a tree, and there Ginger, with a sigh of relief, sank down. When exhaustion point is reached comfort is not necessary to induce sleep. Bertie sat on a root to keep watch.
Biggles, walking on, did not think his task should be too difficult. In his pocket was the key to the business. The wire cutters. Without them the job would be almost hopeless, for then the only way into the compound would be through the gate. He had, of course, cut a gap through the wire, but that was on the wrong side of the fence separating the prisoners’ quarters from the main compound. The gap would have taken him into the pen, but that was no use, because the radio hut was in the compound, near the big hut in which he had been interrogated by Christophe. With the cutters he would be able to enter or leave the compound from any point that suited him. They were, therefore, the vital element in the undertaking.
Another factor in his favour, he thought, was the unlikelihood of his presence being suspected in the camp from which he had just escaped. Christophe, left alone, would, he was sure, have supposed that he had gone off in the Hastings, a mistake that would have made the enterprise comparatively easy. But not von Stalhein. He knew him, and his methods, too well. He would know that he, Biggles, would not leave the district without having
achieved his object. He would tell Christophe so, although whether he would be able to convince him of that was another matter. After what had happened von Stalhein’s own position might not be too secure, for Christophe was no fool, and he would know that either Zorotov or von Stalhein had let him down by providing the prisoners with the means to escape.
If it came to that, pondered Biggles, as he made his way cautiously towards the compound, Christophe’s own position was not as invulnerable as he probably imagined. The people he had outsmarted, and von Stalhein was one of them, would liquidate him without the slightest hesitation if it was in their interest to do so. At the moment they needed him; and he needed them.
Looking across at the aircraft in the brilliant African moonlight he saw that his judgment of what would happen next was correct. Most of the people who had run to the machine were now moving off, some towards the hangar and others towards the camp. But two, at least, remained, and from their attitudes obviously intended to stay there. Biggles smiled. Christophe was taking no chances by leaving the weapon unattended. He had posted guards. The starting of the jeep’s engine caused Biggles to lengthen his stride. Time was important. Christophe might make the sending of a radio signal his first job when he reached his headquarters.
Biggles got to the track that led to the camp well ahead of the party coming in from the airfield. There, taking a chance, he broke into a run until the compound gate came into sight. As he expected it was open; but he was disappointed to see a sentry standing by it. Not that he wanted to use the gateway. But he wanted to reach the fence without going into the forest where the darkness would make movement difficult.
He had never to his knowledge seen the radio hut, but he had heard an engine running and Tony had told him he had heard Morse coming through near the same place. Actually, there were several huts there. Which was the one that housed the equipment Biggles did not know, but he thought there should be no great difficulty in locating it once he was on the spot. His plan, such as it was, was to get to the nearest point outside the wire and cut a way through. It would only be necessary to cut two or three of the bottom strands to make a gap large enough for him to crawl through. The sound of the jeep coming up the track behind him sent him into the forest. The headlights cut a wedge of light in the darkness, and the vehicle, bumping over the rough ground, passed him within five yards. He could hear Christophe’s deep voice saying “ Okay—okay,” apparently agreeing to some suggestion. As there was no one behind the jeep he advanced another twenty yards, which brought him within a dozen paces of the gate, at which point he again sidestepped into the inky shadow of the trees.
The jeep drove into the compound without stopping, as he expected it would. The sentry closed the gate. That, too, was to be expected. It didn’t worry him, for with the cutters he was independent of gates. Having closed the gate the sentry turned to watch the jeep. That was the moment for which Biggles was waiting. Hurrying forward, keeping close to the trees ready to dodge into them should the sentry turn, he reached his first objective—the fence, with its bordering footpath, along which he began to move, walking sideways so that he could watch the sentry.
Sentry-go is a notoriously boring occupation, and to most of those who have to undertake it, unless under supervision, it is largely a matter of form. Wherefore it is unlikely that any sentry ever remained strictly alert during his full tour of duty—unless, of course, within sight or sound of the enemy. Thus it was with the negro at the gate, safe behind barbed wire. He yawned, lit a cigarette, leaned his rifle against the wire, walked a few yards to a convenient tree stump and sat down.
Biggles, his military training revolting at such behaviour, gave way to a whimsical impulse. The fellow needed a lesson. Retracing his steps he put a hand through the wire, took the rifle, and walked away with it. He didn’t want it, so, before he had gone far, he thrust it into a bush. This done he hurried on, going the reverse way of the path down which he had so recently run with Ginger and the others. The lights of the jeep, now stationary, gave him the position of Christophe’s hut, and towards the nearest point of the path to this he now made his way.
So far everything had been easy and looked as if it might continue so. The compound was quiet. There was no activity to suggest that a search was being made for any of the prisoners who might not have got away in the plane. This was understandable, for a search in such country, by night, would have been a waste of time—even if the negro troops had been prepared to attempt one, which was unlikely. In daylight it would be a different matter.
Before he came opposite to Christophe’s headquarters, from the windows of which streamed light, Biggles could hear voices raised in argument. He hesitated. To enter the compound at this point would be taking a risk that could be avoided; it would also occupy a minute or two of time, although, as Christophe had not gone direct to the radio hut, perhaps that didn’t matter to the extent he had anticipated. To learn the enemy’s plans was, he decided, worth the risk involved, so out came the cutters, and in another minute he was crouching in the deep shadow behind the hut. Christophe’s deep voice reached him clearly, particularly as he was annoyed, as was understandable. But von Stalhein, ever wary, spoke quietly, and, in fact, implored his companion to do so. In this he defeated his object, fanning Christophe’s irritation to wrath.
“What youse afraid of?” demanded Christophe. “De man’s gone. He ain’t mad. He don’ come back here no more.”
“If you knew the man as well as I do you’d realize the most likely place for him to be at this moment is outside this hut listening to what you’re saying.” Christophe guffawed.
Biggles smiled.
“All right. You have it your way,” agreed Christophe. “You go. But no tricks.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t trust no one. Dose prisoners didn’t bite tru de wire. Someone gave dem cutters.”
“It must have been Zorotov,” lied von Stalhein.
“Being dead he can’t answer to dat,” grumbled Christophe.
Biggles waited for no more. He hastened back to the track.
More or less in line with the big hut, farther along, were five similar ones. What their purpose was he did not know, except that one of them was reputed to be the radio room. He knew that none of them was occupied by troops, for the men’s barracks was on the far side of the compound. From the prison pen he had seen men going to or coming from them. The only indication he had of his probable objective was a lighted window. If there was an aerial he couldn’t see it in the dark. There was no sound to guide him. The other huts were unlighted. Assuming that someone would always be on duty at the radio station he thought the lighted hut must be the one. What he was most afraid of now was that Christophe, or one of his men, might go to the hut with a signal before he could get to it.
In fact, as he moved forward he thought this was about to happen. Christophe’s door was opened, with a corresponding increase of the noise coming from inside. In the path of yellow light from the open door appeared a grotesque figure wrapped in a leopard skin from which dangled sundry ornaments and—judging from the noise made when the man moved—ironmongery. The man was obviously a chief or witch-doctor, Biggles decided, with command over the outside natives, brought in probably in connexion with the escape and the action to be taken when daylight made a pursuit possible.
Biggles wasted no time watching but pressed on to as near as he could get to the lighted hut. There the cutters snipped through the four bottom strands of wire. Dragging these back so that they did not get in his way he slithered through and walked quickly to the hut—a matter of perhaps a dozen yards. The door being on the far side he raised an eye to the window. One glance told him all he needed to know. It was the radio station. In a chair, leaning back on two legs against the reception table on which stood a paraffin lamp, was one of Christophe’s soldiers, earphones not over his ears but round his neck. He was asleep. No weapon could be seen.
Biggles strode round the hut to
the door. One minute, undisturbed, and the job would be done. Gun in hand he opened the door. The operator half opened an eye, opened both eyes wide, started violently and half rose.
With his left hand Biggles pushed him back in the chair. “Sit still,” he ordered curtly. When the chair overbalanced and took the man with it to the floor he said: “That’s better still. Stay there and you won’t be hurt.” Then he went to work ripping out connections and sweeping valves to splinters of glass with the butt of his automatic. Then, to make quite sure, he unscrewed the filling cap of the lamp and poured the paraffin over the instrument. Tearing leaves from a message pad he threw them in the paraffin and with a flick of his lighter set them on fire. To the terrified-looking operator he said: “If you try to leave inside ten seconds you’ll meet a bullet coming the other way.”
Then he looked out. A small group of men was approaching the radio hut from the direction of Christophe’s headquarters.
Perceiving that he couldn’t reach the gap he had made without being seen he turned the other way, and, as soon as he had the hut between him and the new arrivals, broke into a run. A sudden uproar behind him told him that his sabotage had been discovered.
Biggles smiled, for to him it sounded like applause for a job well done. Satisfied that he was now at a safe distance from the hut he took a diagonal course for the fence. That he had not been able to return to his gap was of no importance. With the precious cutters he could get out anywhere, and in a couple of minutes he was back on the path on the right side of the fence. A whimsical thought made him wonder how hard von Stalhein was kicking himself for his folly in producing the one tool that had made so much trouble possible—the wire cutters.
The grass-thatched roof of the radio hut was now alight, and for that reason introduced a minor difficulty into Biggles’s plan, which was to return the way he had come. The fire threw a lurid light for a radius of fifty yards, so there was no possibility of going down the path without being seen. This meant that he could either wait until the fire died down or go back to the gate by taking the opposite direction, which was unknown country. To linger near the fire would obviously increase his danger so he took the second course. Time was no longer particularly important. As long as he got back to the others by dawn, that would do. He set off.