by W E Johns
“Apparently those troops who came along didn’t spill the beans about us after all,” said Bertie. “If they had, I reckon we should have had callers by now.”
Biggles agreed. He said he was no longer perturbed on that score. Now it was daylight they could see far enough to detect the approach of men or horses, so there could be no question of a surprise attack. On the appearance of a force larger than they thought they could handle, if such a thing should happen, he said he would avoid conflict by taking off. He said this with a nonchalance which, as things turned out, was far from justified.
It may seem strange that not for one moment did he anticipate the arrival of a visitor who used the same method of transportation as himself.
Possibly it was because they hadn’t seen a sign of an aircraft -since they had left Dacca. Possibly it was because he had a vague notion that as there were no Chinese airfields in that particular region, aircraft never flew over it. However that may be, the fact remains he did not give a passing thought to an aircraft other than their own. For which reason the sudden appearance of one came as a distasteful shock.
It arrived literally out of the blue. After a good look round Biggles had just gone into the cabin with Bertie to drink a cup of tea when with a shattering roar it zoomed low before screaming up in a climbing turn.
Rushing to the astral dome he saw a black painted jet fighter swinging round as if for a return dive. Although he did not say so to Bertie he thought this dive would be the end of them and he clenched his teeth as he awaited the impact of the bullets. They did not come. Instead, the MiG, as he now recognised the machine to be, roared up again and then began to circle over the Halifax.
“Keep still,” he told Bertie tersely. “I don’t think he’s seen us. He may think there’s no one here.”
“Where did the blighter come from?”
Biggles was beginning to think more clearly. “My guess is those troops reported a machine here and the local Commissar has sent an aircraft out to check up. I’m pretty sure he didn’t arrive here by accident.”
“He doesn’t seem to be doing any harm.”
“Why should he? Why knock a good machine to pieces? Had he spotted us moving about outside, or had we tried to get off, I fancy it would have been a different story. Keep still. There’s nothing we can do now. Our best chance is to lie doggo and kid him that the machine has been abandoned. If he thinks that he may go off to report, leaving us alone.”
This apparently is what happened. The black fighter continued to circle for a little while, once coming very low, and then made off in a northerly direction.
“He must be based on one of the airfields along the Red Highway,” surmised Biggles, watching the machine vanish over the mountains.
“What’s the drill now?”
“We’ll get off right away.”
“You think he’ll come back?”
“Either that or troops will be sent out. Someone might get the bright idea of dropping paratroops. You may be sure that someone at headquarters will want to know what a British Halifax is doing here. Come on. Let’s get weaving.”
“You’re going straight to Nan-hu?”
“I am, flat out like a cloud of steam. Algy should have got a strip cleared by now. Anyway, we shall have to chance it. You keep that jet off my tail if he comes back and looks like using us as a target.”
“Do I let him shoot first?”
“Not on your life. If he comes in range give him a warning burst to let him see we don’t like him. If he shoots back or tries to come in let him have a rattle. This is no time for kid glove tactics. Remember, he’s got the legs of us. I want to get home and we’ve a long way to go.”
Inside five minutes Biggles was warming up his engines. Another five and the Halifax was racing tail up across the plain. At a thousand feet Biggles turned and headed for the oasis. Not needing altitude he wasted no time climbing but sped straight for the objective.
He had covered about half the distance when the MiG appeared. It was some way off, flying at right angles to his line of flight, so for a few seconds he sheered off hoping to escape observation. But this was not to be, and he knew from the way the black machine turned towards him that the pilot had spotted him.
“Tally-ho! Bandit ahead,” he warned Bertie, automatically falling back on the wartime routine.
He held on his course, leaving the initiative to the jet pilot. There was still a chance, he thought, that the man would hesitate to use his guns.
This hope was not fulfilled, either, although the fighter pilot was a little while making up his mind. He swung round behind the Halifax, and sitting above the port side at a distance of about five hundred yards seemed content to watch. This did not suit Biggles at all, for in a matter of minutes he would be over the oasis, and what was he to do then with a hostile aircraft sitting over him? To land and offer himself as a target was out of the question.
In the event it did not come to this. The jet pilot, possibly thinking that the Halifax was trying to escape, or perhaps taking orders from his headquarters over the radio, suddenly launched an attack. But this was such an amateurish effort that Biggles was astonished, and could only conclude that the pilot had had no experience of combat. All the man did was take up a position above and behind the Halifax and then come straight down into the muzzle of Bertie’s guns. As a tactical error nothing could have been more fatal—unless, of course, the man supposed the Halifax to be unarmed.
Biggles, watching, judged the moment the jet would open fire, and knowing that this would be from long range, pressed his foot on the rudder bar and saw the tracer pour past his wing tip.
“Okay,” he told Bertie over the intercom. “Show him your muscles.”
Bertie’s guns snarled.
It is unlikely that the jet pilot knew what hit him. He did not alter course. With black smoke streaming aft the fighter simply steepened its dive and went straight on into the ground where it disintegrated in a sheet of flame.
“Nice work, chum,” Biggles told Bertie, in the unemotional voice of one who has seen this dreadful spectacle many times before.
“Poor show,” came back Bertie. “The silly ass must have thought I hadn’t any bullets.”
“Then he deserved what he got for shooting at us,” said Biggles coldly.
“This is no time to be squeamish. I’m afraid some of these new boys have a lot to learn. Keep your eyes skinned. He may have pals around. We’re nearly there.”
CHAPTER XIII
CUTTING IT FINE
AT the oasis, after realising that discovery was now inevitable, that the food cartons had betrayed them as effectually as if they had shown themselves on the ledge, Algy and Ginger retired a little way into the cave behind them.
“We’ll have a word with Ming about the secret caves there’s been talk about,” said Algy. “Of course, if the Tiger destroys the caves anyone inside will have had it; but if he doesn’t, there’s just a chance that the ladies at least might remain hidden. The alternative is to stay in the open and we might as well shoot ourselves here and now as do that.”
Ginger nodded. “That’s all there is to say about it,” he assented. “We’ve done everything that could be done. We have at least that consolation. If the show has come unstuck it was through no fault of ours. We weren’t to know that the whole country is swarming with gangs of cut-throats determined to bump each other off. We just got caught up in the general mess. If—” He broke off, staring at Algy’s face. “Can you hear what I hear?”
Algy stared back. “I can hear a plane, if that’s what you mean.”
“Biggles!” Hope leapt in Ginger’s voice.
“He isn’t due yet.”
“Who else could it be?”
“It’s more likely to be a Chinese or a Russian.” The drone of motors drew nearer.
“Those are Rolls engines,” declared Ginger. “It must be the Halifax.”
Algy listened. “You’re right,” he agreed. “It’s Biggles
.”
“He mustn’t land. If he does he’ll step straight into the soup.”
“Just a minute! Let me think.”
Ginger did not know whether to be glad or sorry; whether to laugh or cry.
The irony of if was maddening. Here was Biggles. The airstrip was ready. They were ready. In the ordinary way nothing could have fitted more perfectly. But with the oasis alive with the Tiger’s troops, on the face of it any attempt to leave the caves would be suicidal. Algy, as if he had reached a decision, hurried along the cave.
“What are you going to do?” asked Ginger.
“I’m going to try to get in touch with Biggles by radio,” answered Algy. “We brought it for an emergency. If this isn’t one, what is it?
Ginger agreed that there was never likely to be an occasion when the use of the walkie-talkie set was more justified.
They rejoined the rest of the party, who had remained in the caves to await the outcome of the battle. They had not heard the aircraft.
Algy put the position to them quickly and briefly as he picked up the radio. To Ritzen he said: “I’ve got to get out in the open, as near the airstrip as possible, without being seen from below. Ming knows how it can be done, I think. Ask him. Buck up, or we’ll have the machine landing.”
Ritzen spoke sharply to Ming, who at once jumped up and beckoned to Algy to follow him.
“You’d better come along,” Algy told Ginger.
Ming led the way through a succession of caverns until they could see daylight ahead. Emerging into the open they found themselves at the extreme end of the cliff, where it broke down to the lower level. A bend hid the area of the demolished guest-house from view. The air was vibrating with the roar of aero-motors so that had there been any other sounds they would not have been heard.
Although the Halifax was so close they couldn’t see it on account of the sharply rising dune behind them. The dune was smoking as the wind picked up the sand and carried it on, but they paid no attention to this. Up the steep face they scrambled and from the top found themselves overlooking the landing strip. And there was the Halifax, circling low, obviously looking for them, and no doubt wondering why they were not in sight.
Knowing that those in the machine would soon spot them, while Algy was busy with the radio, Ginger put in some frantic visual signalling, waving his arms and pointing at the instrument in the hope that Biggles would realise what they were trying to do.
Algy wasted no time in code numbers, but started calling Biggles by name.
“They’re not listening,” he groaned, turning a distracted face to Ginger.
“Keep on trying—keep on,” cried Ginger. “One of them is bound to be on the job. What do they think we’re doing?”
Algy renewed his efforts. Suddenly his expression changed. “Here we are!” he cried joyfully, and in a moment was explaining the situation, rattling out the words in short, crisp sentences.
Then, for what seemed to Ginger to be ages of time, Algy listened, apparently taking orders, occasionally cutting in with a short “Yes... Yes.” The only other sound was the bellow of the engines.
At last Algy sprang to his feet. “He’s coming down,” he announced breathlessly. “Listen! This is the drill. We’ve got to fetch everyone. Bertie will cover us from the forward turret. As soon as the machine is down I’m to run in and man the rear turret while you get the crowd on board. You’d better find out from Ritzen if Ming and Feng want to stay here or come with us. Get cracking!”
Ginger grabbed Ming by the arm and they dashed off. Reaching the rest of the party he told them tersely what was intended. To Ritzen he said: “Do the Chinese want to come with us or stay here?”
Ritzen put the question.
The two Chinese, imperturbable, started a conversation. “Tell them to make up their minds,” rasped Ginger impatiently.
Ritzen answered. “They wish to stay. Ming says he must guard the caves until the Abbot returns. He will hide in a secret cave until the trouble is over. Feng will stay with him.”
“Okay, if that’s how they want it,” rapped out Ginger. “Tell them we’ll come back and drop money and food. If the Kirghiz are all dead they can keep it themselves. Come on! Let’s go. Run for it!” So saying he set the pace.
Outside, the ten minutes that Ginger was away and the Halifax was coming round for its run in, were to Algy one of those awful nightmares in which one runs without getting anywhere. He dashed into the middle of the cleared ground and waved his jacket over his head until the machine was on its proper line, wheels emerging; then he sprinted to one side to give it a clear run.
The Halifax, looking monstrous through the haze of flying sand, made a perfect landing, touching down and running on to a standstill about a hundred yards from where Algy was standing—or, it would be more correct to say, had been standing, for no sooner had the wheels touched than he was racing after it to take up his station.
He was about half way when Ginger appeared on the top of the intervening dune at the head of a straggling human crocodile that broke up as the men and women forming it slid and rolled down the sloping bank of loose sand.
Algy didn’t stop, but raced on to the machine, opened the fuselage door, which fortunately was on the near side—that is the port side—and jumped aboard. For a second he paused to see how the main party was faring. To his tremendous satisfaction, he saw they were well on the way; and, more important still, without any sign of pursuit. He hurried along to his station in the rear turret. Even before he reached it a burst of fire from Bertie’s Brownings told him that the enemy must have arrived in sight of the machine.
When next he saw the picture it was from the rear turret, over his own guns. The main body of the refugees, some of the men helping the two women, had nearly reached the aircraft. To his surprise there were no enemy troops in sight, the reason for this being, as was presently revealed, that Bertie had just raked the crest of the dune with his guns, causing them to retire.
As he crouched waiting, Algy saw that they were really in a strong position; anyway in a stronger position than he had visualised.
The aircraft was standing almost parallel with the dune which, by this time, they knew well; for it occurred about mid-way between the landing strip and the top of the cliff, and they had climbed it many times on their journeys to and fro. The multiple guns of the Halifax were now trained on the ridge, and the appearance of a head was enough to set the guns snarling and the sand flying. As a matter of fact, heads did appear from time to time as the troops were presumably urged on by their commander. But none of the attackers got far. Had there been time for them to make a flanking movement it might have been different; but Ma Chang must have realised that there was no time for that. The aircraft was not likely to wait for the manoeuvre to be completed.
On one occasion, about a dozen men made a determined attempt to reach the aircraft; but they could not run and shoot at the same time; and apart from that, a rifle is a poor weapon against machine guns. The guns in both turrets opened up and the attack fizzled out, the attackers going flat, either because they had been hit or because they couldn’t face the deadly music.
During this period everyone got aboard. Algy knew that this was so when he heard the door slam. The engines revved up and the Halifax began to move.
At the last moment a figure came bounding over the ridge, screaming and firing a revolver. Sunlight gleamed on gold braid and Algy recognised the frog-like face of Ma Chang. It rather looked as if the Chinese colonel, seeing the aircraft about to escape, had lost his head.
Algy could have asked for no better target. “Ah!” he breathed, and his guns streamed a long burst, longer than was really necessary, for almost at once the Tiger had dived into the sand, the revolver flying from his hand in a way that suggested he had lost not only his head but his life as well. The last Algy saw of him, before the view was obliterated by sand whipped up by the slip-stream, he was still rolling down the slope followed by his gold-braided cap.
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Algy sank back in his seat, breathing fast and mopping perspiration from his face with a handkerchief that was far from clean.
Biggles’ voice coming over the intercom made him jump. “Are you all right back there?”
“A bit limp, otherwise okay,” answered Algy.
“Good show.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged Algy. “What brought you along so soon?”
“The wind, mostly. I decided to take a chance on coming over in case a real storm smothered us when an enemy jet came along and sort of expedited things.”
Algy replied in a startled voice. “A jet!”
“Yes.”
“What sort?”
“An MiG.”
“For heaven’s sake! What happened to it?”
“Bertie pushed it into the carpet.”
“Nice work.”
“Watch out! There may be more of them. It’s a bit early to relax.”
“Okay.”
Hardly able to believe that they were really in the air on their way home, Algy settled down to watch, his eyes scanning the sky methodically, section by section, for little black specks which in a minute of time could become enemy fighters spitting death and destruction. Not for an instant did he slacken his vigilance, knowing only too well the price that must be paid in hostile skies for carelessness.
The Halifax continued to climb. The sky overhead was blue, but the earth was soon a drab, grey, featureless blur under its haze of wind-blown sand.
They were at eighteen thousand feet when the Russian Yak appeared. Algy, for all his watchfulness, didn’t see it arrive. It must have come in from somewhere ahead. He stiffened to attention as the grunting of Bertie’s guns broke the news. Ginger must have taken over the centre turret, for the guns there joined in. A split second later, a black shape whirled past Algy, so close that its shadow flashing across him made him wince.