Biggles in the Gobi

by W E Johns

  The facts that had contributed to the success of the operation were plain to see now, he pondered. They had not been so apparent when the plan was first broached. First, there was the country itself, and the fears always present in the minds of those who had to cross it. This had made the surprise attack doubly effective. And last but not least there were the Kirghiz, and the terror which their appearance inspired. The behaviour of the escort was sufficient proof of that. Remembering the blood-curdling war cry, Ginger could understand the panic it produced.

  The march continued. The horses were getting tired now. They began to stumble and it was necessary to ride them on a tight rein to prevent them from falling.

  Even though there was good reason to fear the light of day, for he did not overlook the possibility of pursuit, Ginger was glad to see the first pale streak of the false dawn. He was deadly tired, tired of riding, tired of the silence, tired of the darkness and tired of the cold, which now, with the first stirring of the usual dawn-wind, was more intense than ever. The breeze, gentle though it was, might have come straight from the Pole. Two thoughts kept him going. One was the anticipation of the congratulations the rescue of the prisoners would bring, and the other, the knowledge that this was the dawn of the fifth day. Two more days, a mere forty- eight hours, and Biggles would be with them.

  Soon came the daily miracle of sunrise. A shaft of rosy light, the first of the true dawn, shot upwards. Others followed, to paint the sky a living pink that turned swiftly to gold and then to turquoise. In the light of the newborn day the desert looked a different place. There was still some distance to go, but the wilderness had been shorn of its terrors. With hanging heads and heaving flanks the horses struggled on.

  They shied when a figure topped a dune a little way in front and came on in giant strides down the sliding sand. There was a brief moment of confusion in which the Kirghiz prepared for action; but when the man was seen to be Ming they put up their rifles and stood waiting.

  Panting like a man who has ran far and fast, Ming staggered up, babbling incoherently and waving his arms even before he reached them.

  Alarm laid a cold hand on Ginger’s heart, for he could see from the behaviour of the Kirghiz that the messenger had brought evil tidings.

  “What’s he saying?” he asked Dr. McDougall, who was riding next to him. Urgency sharpened his voice.

  “He says there are many soldiers at the oasis,” answered the big Scot, calmly.

  Ginger sagged in his saddle. “Now I call that just too bad,” he said wearily.

  It seemed that the information of the presence of soldiers was as much as the Kirghiz needed to know, for they did not wait for details. They held a conversation that lasted about ten seconds, and in this time evidently reached agreement. Without a word they turned their mounts, drove in their spurs and galloped off.

  Ginger watched them go without emotion. They had served their purpose, and as far as he could see there was nothing more they could do.

  Ming went on talking to Dr. McDougall, who translated. Actually, there was little more to tell. The soldiers had crept into the oasis just before dawn and he had been sent to warn them to keep clear.

  “What’s the best thing to do?” asked Ginger. “We can’t stay out here in the open. Is there anywhere else we can go? You know the country better than I do.”

  The question was being debated when from somewhere not far away came the roar of an explosion. They felt the blast of it.

  No one spoke. All eyes were turned in the direction of the oasis, above which a cloud of smoke was now rolling into the sky.

  CHAPTER VIII

  NO REST FOR ALGY

  AT the oasis Algy wore through a restless night. He had too much on his mind for easy sleep. Naturally, he was more than a little worried on Ginger’s account. The dangers attending him on the rescue attempt became so magnified during the small hours that he almost convinced himself that he would be lucky ever to see Ginger again.

  Another big worry was the fear that the Tiger would cause trouble. Indeed, this seemed inevitable. He would be bound to report what had happened to the Governor of the district, who, unless he was a complete fool, would realise that something was going on at Nan-hu and take steps to find out what it was. Even if he suspected nothing more than its occupation by the outlaw Kirghiz he would not be likely to sit back and do nothing about it. The probability was that he would follow the normal procedure of dealing with it as a hornets’ nest that had become an irritation and send a force to wipe it out.

  Brooding on the matter Algy felt that the best he could hope for was that nothing would happen for the next two days, by which time Biggles should have returned and they would all have departed. Far from this hope being fulfilled, his fears were to materialise to the widest extent.

  Tired of wrestling with his problems in the stygian darkness of the cave, he got up, dressed quietly, and went to the entrance both to get a breath of fresh air and be in a better position to hear Ginger coming when his return became imminent.

  He could hear nothing, and see very little, for the moon was now well down and the stars were just beginning to weaken in the sky. It was, in fact, the tail end of the darkest hour that comes before dawn. However, his watch told him that daylight was not far off, so although it was bitterly cold he settled down to wait.

  So slowly as to be almost imperceptible the blackness gave way to the sombre grey that is the first promise of the rising sun. The silence was profound; and no doubt because that was so, a sound, when it came, appeared out of proportion to its cause. It was no more than a rustle. It seemed to come from somewhere below, either from the area of thick, sun-dried herbage that flourished near the guest-house, or the orchard just beyond.

  As a matter of detail, Algy didn’t pay much attention to it. It might have been a falling leaf. It might have been a bird—he had noticed some wagtails; or possibly a jerboa, the little desert jumping rat, the holes of which he had seen.

  He had dismissed the matter from his mind when another sound brought him sharply to attention. This time it was definite. A twig had snapped. What had caused it to snap? Certainly not a bird or a rat. That something was moving below was no longer in doubt.

  What or who was it? The light was now a little stronger, but it was still no more than the pale, deceptive grey of the earliest glimmer of dawn. He stared, nerves tense, trying to force his eyes to probe the gloom.

  For a minute he could see nothing. Everything was vague and indistinct. Then a movement, the first and only movement in a scene as lifeless as a picture, caught his eye and held it. Standing under a tree, so fully exposed that he marvelled that he hadn’t seen him before, was a man.

  Light glinted dimly on metal. He made out the figure of a Chinese soldier.

  Algy went rigid. His eyes never left the man. He saw him move, and move again, always with, infinite care and patience towards the guest-house.

  He made a signal. In the growing light a second soldier, then a third, became discernible, silent shadows in a shadowy world. Algy’s heart sank.

  So the worst had happened after all.

  He backed stealthily into the cave that was used by the male members of the party. The two women were some way farther back, in a part of the caves that had been allocated to them. In the feeble light of a little oil lamp, he saw that everyone was asleep. Finger to lips, he laid a hand on Ritzen’s arm. The sleeper awoke with a start, but he must have grasped that something was amiss for he whispered: “What is it?”

  “More troops are here,” answered Algy. “They’re stealing up to the guesthouse—expecting to catch the Kirghiz there, I suppose. Wake the others. Be careful. Better collect everything and move back into the secret part of the caves. I’ll go back and watch what happens. There’s just a chance that when the troops discover that the Kirghiz aren’t there they’ll go away.”

  “What about Ginger?” asked Ritzen. “He may be back at any time now.”

  Strange to relate, in the sho
ck of discovering the troops Algy had momentarily forgotten Ginger. “We mustn’t allow that to happen,” he declared. He thought swiftly. “I’ll tell you what. Wake Ming and Feng and ask Ming if he knows a way by which he can get out into the desert without going near the guest-house. He’s lived here so he should know if that’s possible. He must also know the direction from which the Kirghiz are most likely to return. Tell him to go out and intercept them. It isn’t properly light yet so I think he ought to have a good chance of getting clear without being seen. Tell him that he must tell Ginger on no account to come back here.”

  “What had Ming better do with them if he does meet the party coming back?”

  “He’ll have to work that out himself. I don’t care what they do as long as they keep clear of the oasis.”

  “They won’t be able to stay out in the desert,” asserted Ritzen. “The soldiers may hang about here all day.”

  “All right. What about that old ruin? There’s a crypt under the tower. They might go there. But they can work that out for themselves. The thing is to impress upon them that it would be fatal for them to try to get back to the caves. I mean, I’m thinking about the horses. The troops must have horses somewhere, too. If the beasts see or wind each other they’re likely to whinny.”

  “I get it.” Ritzen went over to the alcove where the two Chinese, with the wounded Kirghiz, were sleeping.

  Father Dubron was already sitting up listening. There was a whispered conversation and Ritzen came back.

  “Ming says he will go,” he reported. “He knows a way through communicating caves to the far end of the oasis. He can get from there to the desert without being seen.”

  “That’s fine,” returned Algy. “You get everyone on the alert in case we have to move farther back. Take everything with you if you do go. I’ll warn you if it’s necessary. There’s just a chance that it won’t come to that. The troops may push off when they find the Kirghiz aren’t here. I’ll go and watch.”

  Algy returned to the mouth of the cave, worming his way for the last two or three yards.

  During the few minutes of his absence the light had grown appreciably and he found he could now see everything fairly clearly. What he saw appalled him. There were at least a dozen soldiers. One was an officer. He recognised him without surprise. It was Ma Chang.

  With Indian-like stealth they were slowly closing in on the guest-house from all directions. The one question that remained to be answered was, what would they do when they found the place empty? He looked about for the horses, but could not see them. They had apparently been left some way off in case they made a noise and betrayed the projected attack.

  Slowly but with great deliberation the soldiers, holding their carbines at the ready, closed in on their proposed victims. Algy watched with morbid fascination as the distance closed. Ma Chang drew his sword and raised a whistle to his lips. The screech of it sliced the silence like a blade. With a wild yell the troops leapt for the open doorway.

  Algy, knowing what was going to happen, thought he had never seen a more ridiculous anti-climax. Had his own peril not been so great he could have laughed at the mortification and amazement on the men’s when they came out of the building, which they soon did, was the funniest thing he had seen for some time. Chang was obviously very angry and he made his pleasure known by shouting a string of orders.

  In a half-hearted way the troops now began to explore the oasis, apparently still hoping to find either the bandits or their horses. The odd thought struck Algy that had the Kirghiz refused to help in the rescue of the prisoners they would by this time, without any shadow of doubt, be dead men. They, at any rate, would have no cause for complaint if the story of the attack ever reached their ears.

  One by one the soldiers reassembled in front of the guest-house. Algy, of course, hoped that they would now depart. Indeed, he felt quite sure that they would, for as far as he could see they had no reason to stay. In this he was wrong, as with mounting alarm he was soon to learn.

  The troops threw their carbines on the ground and sitting down beside them lit cigarettes. Ma Chang blew a series of short blasts on his whistle.

  So there were still more of them, thought Algy, who guessed what the signal meant. Surely they were not going to stay there? It began to look like it. He could have groaned with disappointment.

  Two more soldiers now arrived on the scene leading loaded pack-horses. Their loads were taken off, some of the soldiers getting up and helping with what seemed unnecessary care for men who were notoriously careless.

  Several wooden boxes were placed gently on the long dry grass. The pack-horses were then led away.

  Algy watched this strange performance with growing wonder. What were they going to do? What was in the boxes? Why did they handle them as if they contained eggs? He noticed on the boxes some writing, in Chinese script, which of course he could not read. He went in and fetched Ritzen, giving him an idea of what was going on.

  The Swede returned with him to the entrance, and lying flat, studied the boxes. “They contain dynamite,” he announced. “At least, some of them do. Dynamite and detonators.”

  “Dynamite!” Algy’s eyes went round and his body went limp when he realised what this implied.

  Ritzen was still staring down. “Those round things are coils of fuse wire,” he observed.

  “For heaven’s sake! This is frightful,” breathed Algy.

  “I imagine they’re going to blow up the guest-house to prevent it from being used by the Kirghiz or anybody else,” observed the Swede.

  “You realise what might happen if they did that?” returned Algy. “An explosion of any size might cause some of the caves to collapse.”

  “I agree. I wouldn’t care to stay in them.”

  An even more horrid thought occurred to Algy. “They might be going to blow up the caves as well, while they’re at it. I know how orientals behave if they get their hands on explosives. They blow up everything reach. They adore fireworks—anything that will make a bang. They’re quite likely to blow themselves up, but that wouldn’t help us.”

  “What d’you suggest we do about it?” asked Ritzen. “You’re in charge. It’s for you to decide.”

  “I think we must try to get out of the caves for a start.”

  Ritzen agreed.

  “But we can’t go and sit in the open desert,” went on Algy. “Apart from anything else we should be fried by the sun when it gets up.”

  Again Ritzen agreed.

  Algy thought for a moment. “The only place I know where there is any shade is in that crypt under the tower. It seems to be our only hope.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Very well,” went on Algy. “You get everybody along, through the caves to the end of the cliff. Take as much food as you can and some water. Whether you wait for me there, or go straight on to the ruin, I leave to you. That will depend of course on how far you find it possible to get clear without the risk of being seen from the guest-house. Feng will know best about that. In any case I think he’d better slip out and see if he can see anything of Ginger.”

  Ritzen nodded. “I can’t think of anything else. We’ll leave it like this. You’ll find us either at the limit of the caves or at the ruins. It will be one or the other.”

  “Okay,” confirmed Algy, and resumed his position to watch what was happening below.

  Ritzen crept away.

  Down in the oasis the work was proceeding in the usual Eastern disorderly manner. The boxes were being unpacked. Grey bundles of dynamite sticks were being put down on the grass. Drums of fuse wire were being uncoiled.

  The men were still smoking cigarettes. Algy prayed that one of them might drop a spark either on the dynamite or on the dry grass, but this prayer was not answered. Whatever else happened it was now plain that there was going to be an explosion.

  A box of dynamite was carried to the guest-house. A coil of wire was uncoiled to the same place. A man went inside, presumably to make the c
onnection. Algy, of course, couldn’t see inside the building. So the guest-house was to be demolished. That was certain. Algy hoped that would be all, but he feared not. The quantity of explosive was significant.

  Even more significant was the way Ma Chang stared up at the caves while he gave more orders. From this Algy could only think that the caves were to be blown up, too. Apart from what this would mean to him, personally, it shocked him to think that these young fools—for most of the soldiers were youngish men—were ready so casually to destroy the immense labour of their ancestors. It was an indication of how far insidious propaganda had smothered their religious principles.

  There was now, it seemed, to be a respite. The soldiers broke off what they were doing to water their horses, which were afterwards taken to some place out of sight. They then retired some distance to the shade of the poplars, sat down together, took food of some sort from their haversacks and started to eat.

  CHAPTER IX

  SHOCKS—IN THE PLURAL

  In the interval of this unexpected but welcome delay Algy considered the situation from every angle. He did some fast thinking, and from it an idea emerged, an idea that at first appeared so impudent that he recoiled from it, telling himself that he was out of his mind. Would Biggles think so? he wondered. The answer was a definite no. Biggles had so often said that the more daring a scheme the more likely it was to come off.

  The troops were a good hundred yards from their dump. They had left it unguarded. No sentry was posted anywhere. They had left their carbines lying about like day-old recruits without supervision. This conduct, thought Algy, was so lacking in common-sense, so opposed to reasonable military procedure, that advantage should be taken of it. The question was, how?

  The dynamite had been spread about in the grass, this apparently being considered the safest place for it. Possibly it was, since a sudden jolt has been known to cause the treacherous stuff to explode. The grass was thick, and as dry as sun-parched dead grass can be, which is very dry indeed and more than slightly inflammable. With fire set to it, it would burn fast and furiously. One match would be enough to set it ablaze.