by W E Johns
In a moment he was astride the trunk of the fallen tree, working his way quickly towards the crown. His only fear was that Scaroni would arrive before he had accomplished his object, but apparently the Italian went first to the edge of the oasis to survey the desert, now grey with the advent of another day.
Reaching the crown, Biggles took a firm grip on one of the twenty-foot long fronds that hung nearly to the water, and lowered himself hand over hand to the extremity. The palm sagged under his weight, and as his feet touched the water he released his hold. The water at once closed over his head, which surprised him; he had not expected it would be so deep. He was pleased to find it so, for it suited his purpose. He swam into the nearest reeds. As these were stationed near the bank, the water shallowed, perhaps to a depth of three feet. The bottom was soft mud, which he was careful not to disturb. Breaking off a hollow reed, he took one end between his lips and sank under the water, leaving the other end of the reed clear. Through this improvised tube he was able to breathe, not easily, but for short periods of time without serious discomfort.
He did not really hope to get away with this simple ruse, which is practised by native races practically all over the world. He was afraid Grindler would tumble to it, because in the old slave days of the United States it was brought to a fine art by escaping negroes, as the only efficacious way of eluding the hounds that were commonly employed to run them down. Biggles had often heard of the trick, but this was the first occasion he had attempted to put it into practice.
It had, he found, one big disadvantage—an obvious one. While under water it was impossible to see or hear what was going on outside, so to speak. He dare not look for fear of disturbing the water. A single ripple might betray him. He knew that his entry into the water must have caused some turbulence, but as time passed, and nothing happened, he had grounds for hope that the water had settled. The main difficulty was to keep submerged; his legs would float up, and it was only by clinging to the weeds that he was able to keep them down. Apart from that, he learned that he could not remain below the surface indefinitely; the strain was too great; it was necessary from time to time to take a deep breath. As nothing happened, this method of breathing became more frequent, and after a time he risked a cautious survey of the bank.
Not a soul was in sight, so he remained in this position, prepared to take cover should anyone appear. So long elapsed before this happened that he could only conclude that his enemies had left the pool out of account as a possible hiding-place, doubtless on account of the mines.
The sky was turning pink when Gontermann, Scaroni, and Grindler appeared, walking quickly, and having a lively altercation. Biggles dare not watch. With the reed in his teeth he sank quietly under water and waited. It was disconcerting, not knowing what was happening, but there was no way of getting over this without taking risks that hardly seemed justifiable.
He endured this final submersion for about five minutes. When he could stand the strain no longer he allowed his face to “surface,” slowly increasing his range of vision when no danger threatened. There was no-one in sight. Gontermann and his accomplices had presumably walked right on. He supposed they were still looking for him, and derived some slight satisfaction from the knowledge that he was at least causing them some trouble. He now began to hope that they would think he had risked the mine-field, made a successful passage, and had fled into the desert.
He eased his position still more, going so far as to sit up, prepared, of course, to submerge instantly. Now that his ears were clear of the water he could hear voices. It sounded as if a violent argument was going on, with Grindler playing a major part. Biggles could imagine his wrath at the escape of the prisoner. This state of affairs persisted for several minutes, when he distinctly heard Gontermann say, in German, in a voice raised in anger, “So! He’s gone, but he will not get far. He will die in the desert. Say no more about it. Let us go.”
Voices continued to mutter, but very soon afterwards, they were lost in the roar of aero engines being started; and when, presently, the din was intensified, Biggles knew that both aircraft were about to leave. It became manifest that the bandits were sticking to their programme of departure regardless of the escape of their prisoner, although they might make a reconnaissance of the desert in the hope of spotting him on its bare surface. That is, if they got off. With a rifle it might be possible to do something....
At this juncture Biggles made a mistake, one that might well have had fatal results. So anxious was he to see what was going on that, forgetting the mines, he started to drag himself out of the water in the manner of a crocodile. Then he remembered, and with a grunt of disgust at his folly, he slid back. At the same time he perceived a contingency for which, in his haste to get into pool, he had made no provision. How was he to get out? The frond from which he had dropped, which had sagged under his weight, was now far out of reach. With a shock he realised that he was, quite definitely, a prisoner in the pool—at any rate, for the time being.
While he was still occupied with this problem there was a roar as one of the Renkells took off. The other followed, and very soon he could see them both climbing into the blue. As he expected, they circled once or twice, evidently looking for him; then the transport straightened out and headed south-east, and soon afterwards the Wolf followed it.
With this state of affairs Biggles was well satisfied, even though his escape might only be temporary; for he realised that the departure of the aircraft, leaving him to his own devices, was not as casual as it might appear. From Gontermann’s point of view, even discounting the mines, his complete escape from the oasis, surrounded as it was by four hundred miles of sand, must seem utterly impossible. This supposition was justifiable; no man, not even a Bedouin, could hope to make the journey. Only a fully equipped and properly provisioned expedition could traverse that awful wilderness without disaster. For the rest, the mines would take care of any casual visitors during the absence of the Renkells.
The drone of the aircraft died away.
Now that there was no longer any need for caution Biggles directed himself entirely to the business of getting out of the pool, an operation which, with ample time, would present no great difficulty. But minutes, even seconds, were now of importance. The Spur might arrive at any moment, and if it landed in the mine-field only a miracle could save it. Should the machine be wrecked, then he would be a prisoner indeed.
There was only one way of getting out of the pool, and that was by locating and clearing sufficient mines to form a gap. There was no alternative. He was glad Gontermann had stated specifically that there was a double circle of mines; this was valuable information; it meant that he had only to remove two mines in line to make a way through the circle.
He started work at the nearest point of land, digging with his hands. The sand, damp from the proximity of the water, was soft, and he made good progress. In five minutes his questing fingers had come in contact with the first metal instrument of death. It looked like two saucepan lids fixed face to face. He laid the mine on one side and proceeded. He hoped that the two rings of mines would be set close together, but in this he was disappointed, and he had to burrow a distance of four feet before he came upon the next one. The discovery gave him a nasty moment, for the mines were not in line, as he had supposed; they were staggered, making it impossible for anyone to reach the water. Should approaching feet by good fortune miss the first line, they would inevitably encounter the second. Unaware of this, he had been working with one elbow resting on the sand within an inch of the second mine
He lifted the horror to one side, and with a deep breath of relief stood up to wipe the sweat from his face. He was in time. No distant drone had as yet announced the approach of the Spur. There was no need to hurry, so from his elevated position he made a casual survey of the oasis, or as much of it as could be seen. Not that he expected to see anyone. That was the last thing in his mind. Consequently, his nerves twitched with shock when a movement attracted his eye
s.
He saw a figure sneaking towards the dust-coloured camouflage muslin under which the aircraft had been parked. Stalking would perhaps better describe the manner of approach. The figure was crawling swiftly from palm to palm. Already it was so close that Biggles realised it must be on the fringe of the mine-field which, according to Gontermann, surrounded the aircraft park.
For more reasons than one he nearly choked when the figure half turned, and he saw who it was. Oblivious to his own danger from further mines he dashed forward with a yell. “Hi! Ginger! Stop!” he shouted.
Ginger stopped, staring, as well he might.
“For the love of Mike, don’t move,” went on Biggles, still advancing. “You’re on the edge of a mine-field.”
There was no need to repeat the order. Ginger did not move. His jaw sagged. “What—what shall I do?” he gulped.
“Retrace your steps, carefully.”
Ginger lost no time in acting on this advice. When he was at a safe distance he remarked, “If there are mines about we had better warn Algy.”
Biggles blinked “Algy! Is he here?” He did not wait for an answer. Spinning round, he saw Algy advancing on a line that would take him to the pool. He let out another shout. “Keep clear of that water!”
Algy backed away from the pool. Then, making a detour, he came to where the others were standing. He looked Biggles up and down.
“What in thunder have you been up to—having a mud bath?” he inquired.
“You bet I have,” answered Biggles grimly. “I’ll tell you all about it presently. How did you both get here? I thought Ginger was killed last night.”
“So did I,” admitted Ginger with a wry smile. “But I shed my coat, and they shot that up instead.”
“But how did you both get into the oasis?” demanded Biggles in an amazed voice.
Ginger explained. “I got away and made for the desert, heading north, to intercept the Spur. I lit a fire. Algy spotted it and came down. We talked the position over. I saw the Wolf take off last night, so I knew the way in and out of the oasis. We taxied the Spur into a wadi about five miles off, and leaving Bertie in charge, walked the rest of the way. We daren’t taxi any nearer for fear of being heard. We were about a mile away when we saw the two Renkells go off; we lay flat until they were out of sight; we didn’t know what was going on here. We came on to see. Are you here alone?”
“All by myself,” declared Biggles.
“Where’s the gang?”
“Gone.”
Ginger shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why did they leave you here?”
“Sit down,” invited Biggles. “I’ll tell you.”
It did not take Biggles long to tell his story. When he had finished Algy asked: “You don’t know where these skunks have gone, then?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” admitted Biggles.
“What do we do—wait here for them to come back?” put in Algy.
“I don’t think we can do that,” replied Biggles. “They may be away for weeks. It’s hard to know what to do, and that’s a fact. The difficulties of competing with air bandits become more apparent as we go on. In ordinary crime, a cop can shadow his man, no matter whether he travels by road, train, or steamer. On the ground there is always plenty of cover. You can’t do that in the atmosphere because you have the sky to yourselves. Again, the ordinary detective usually has some idea of where to look for his man. At any rate, there are limits to the zone of operations. The people we’re after have the whole blessed world at their disposal, and I’m just beginning to grasp what that means. The world is still a biggish place. I don’t think Raymond realises what we’re up against. It was fairly certain that the up-to-date crook would use aircraft, perhaps a private plane, to make a getaway. That’s a different thing from this, which is sheer piracy; but whereas the old buccaneers ambled over the waves at a nice steady four knots, these blighters hit the breeze at four hundred miles an hour—which makes them rather more difficult to catch. I’m more than ever convinced that the best way, perhaps the only way, to stop this racket, is by finding the base aerodrome and wiping it out. That would cut off the petrol supply. But talking won’t get us anywhere. We’d better bring Bertie here for a start. We can’t leave him out there to fry in the sun. Algy, I think you’d better go; Ginger has done enough walking. You can fly back here in the machine. In the meanwhile we’ll look for some breakfast. I imagine there is a food store here somewhere.”
“Okay,” agreed Algy. “Watch where you’re putting your feet. This place gives me the jitters. Every time I take a step I expect to hear a loud bang.”
“It isn’t exactly the place to gambol about,” agreed Biggles, as Algy set off for the wadi.
It was getting on for three hours before Algy returned to where the others were waiting in a state of acute suspense. He came alone, on foot. He looked up at Biggles.
“He isn’t there,” he said wearily.
“What do you mean?” asked Biggles sharply.
“What I mean is,” answered Algy, “the machine’s gone!”
CHAPTER XII
BERTIE FLIES ALONE
BERTIE was sitting under the port wing of the Spur, with his back against an undercarriage wheel, regarding the sea of sand around him with bored disfavour, when the distant drone of aircraft brought him scrambling to his feet with alacrity. For the sound came from the south, which could only mean that the Renkells were taking the air.
His first thought was for his own aircraft, and the subsequent events hinged on that factor. What had happened to Biggles, of course, he did not know. Algy and Ginger had gone to find out, and at that juncture the very last thing in his mind was to leave them marooned on the oasis. But he realised that if the Renkells were in the air he could not remain where he was, for should the Spur be spotted it would present a sitting target for the enemy to shoot to pieces at leisure. It was primarily in order to prevent this that he tore into the air, and then, prepared to give combat, edged away to the east into the cover provided by the blinding glare of the newly risen sun. This achieved, he surveyed the southern sky with the efficiency that comes of long practice.
His eyes soon found what they sought—two black specks climbing away from the oasis, which could now be seen, towards the south-east. The slight pressure of his right foot on the rudder-bar was also automatic, and before he had seriously considered what he was doing he was in pursuit. At first, his intention was the natural one of shooting the machines down, or attempting to do so, to prevent their escape; and it was not until some seconds had passed that he perceived a serious objection to this course. It occurred to him, in the light of what Ginger had said, that Biggles might be a prisoner in one of the machines; indeed, if the Renkells were leaving the oasis this seemed highly probable— always assuming, of course, that the bandits had not killed Biggles out of hand. In view of this possibility it became obvious that aggressive tactics were, for the time being, at least, out of the question.
Still following the two machines, climbing for more height, but taking care to keep in line with the sun, Bertie observed further disconcerting prospects, factors that induced a state of indecision. If he shadowed the enemy aircraft, Algy and Ginger would certainly be left on the oasis without any means of getting away from it. On the other hand, if he abandoned the pursuit he might be throwing away a golden opportunity to discover what Biggles was most anxious to learn—the bandits’ secret base. The fact that the Renkells were heading due southeast, on a dead straight course without any deviation, was significant; it seemed certain that they were making for a definite objective, and what could be more likely, he reasoned, than that this objective was their base depot? He made careful note of the compass course.
Broadly speaking, Bertie’s geography of the district was good, because he had served both in Egypt and Aden. He was aware, therefore, that if they held straight on they would come to the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan. He was also aware that there was nothing but desert between their prese
nt position and the southern extremity of the River Nile. This was still some hundreds of miles away—precisely how far he did not know. It seemed unlikely that the Renkells would be going to the Sudan, and a vague idea formed in his mind that they were making for another oasis, perhaps at no great distance. So he decided to follow, telling himself that it would be an easy matter to return to the oasis when his object was achieved. Keeping as far away from his quarry as he dare without actually losing sight of them, he flew on.
An hour passed, and he began to get worried, for the Renkells were still streaking across the trackless blue as if they had no intention of stopping. Not that there was anything to stop for. At any moment Bertie expected to see an oasis creep up over the horizon, but this expectation did not materialise. Below, and on all sides, the sand rolled on, and on, and on, to more sand, and still more sand. There was nothing to indicate a boundary, but he knew they must now be over the fringe of the Western Sudan. Nothing changed; only the sun climbed higher, to strike down with shafts of white light at the winged invaders. The air quivered in the heat and the Spur rocked on an invisible swell. Even the engine seemed to moan.
Another hour passed. The sun climbed higher, the machine rocked, the engine moaned, and the frown that lined Bertie’s forehead deepened. Where was this crazy chase going to end? Had he known that it was to last as long as this he would have thought twice about following, he reflected bitterly. They had now covered some six hundred miles, and he looked more often at his petrol gauge. He was alarmed at the thought of going on, yet he dare not turn back. True, he still had enough petrol to reach the oasis, but that was not enough. It was no use arriving back at Zufra with an empty tank. There would be another four hundred miles to cover—the distance between the oasis and the North African coast, the nearest point of civilisation. Already he had overstepped the margin of reasonable safety for such a trip—a trip on which it would be the height of folly to risk a forced landing. So he went on, not a little worried, with an increasing conviction that he had behaved rashly, to say the least of it.