Читать книгу The Amir's Ruby - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 8

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The big passenger-carrying Condor biplane loomed up like a gigantic grasshopper against the pale grey dawn. Although her impending mission was supposed to be a secret, there was nothing secret about her construction. She was all-metal, with totally enclosed fuselage. Her generously staggered wings were of corrugated duralumin and fitted with safety slots. Her undercarriage was supported by massive wheels, capable when required of being raised into watertight recesses on the underside of the body. This device enabled her to "land" with equal facility upon the surface of the sea or upon the ground.

Her twin engines, which "all out" gave her a maximum speed of 180 miles an hour, were driven by heavy oil. King Petrol, as far as modern long-distance aircraft were concerned, had been dethroned in favour of a liquid with such a high flash-point that it was practically non-inflammable except while under enormously high compression. No blow-lamp or similar out-of-date contrivance was employed to give these motors primary ignition, neither did they have to rely upon the use of a magneto—that troublesome detail of petrol motors. The initial explosions took place by means of an electrically-heated platinum tube, after which firing took place automatically. While there was fuel supplying the engine that engine would continue to function, stopping only at the will of the human being controlling it.

Although the hour was so early, practically all the available staff at the Bere Regis Aerodrome turned out to speed their fellow-airmen on their journey. A running fire of cheery remarks and jests greeted Standish and his two companions as they appeared upon the flying ground. In addition, there were about a dozen pressmen, who, having by some means common to their calling learnt the time of the Condor's departure, had gained admission to the aerodrome.

Never before in the history of Far Eastern Airways Limited had a flight projected in deep secrecy been launched in the full glare of journalistic publicity.

Except that speed was a necessary condition the Amir's ruby might be brought home by mail-boat from India at far less cost and possibly at far less risk.

Cheerfully replying to his well-wishers' remarks, Standish clambered through the narrow door in the side of the bus, deposited his suitcase in his cabin, and then made his way to the control station. Metcalfe, the mechanic, was already at his post—one that entailed, thanks to the simplicity and semi-automatic action of the motors—very little attention or exertion on his part.

Don Grey's arrival completed the biplane's complement. Even with a crew of only three there was very little spare space in the Condor. The ordinary passenger quarters were chock-a-block with provisions sufficient to last the whole trip and an additional supply of oil fuel to enable her to cover five hundred miles more than the distance to Bakhistan and back, without having to depend upon outside resources.

"All O.K., sir!" reported Symes, presenting his log-book for the pilot's signature. "Only I wish you hadn't had that wireless gear removed, sir!"

"It's too late to think about now in any case," rejoined Colin cheerfully as he returned the signed document to the ground foreman. "Right-o, see that the skids are removed, please."

"Cheerio, Standish!" shouted Mr. Truscott, who had entirely recovered from his fit of irritation. "Keep your tail up and do your best for the credit of the Company."

"Trust me for that, sir," replied Colin, hand upon the switch controlling the ignition system. "Both engines primed, Jack?"

"All ready, sir," was Metcalfe's answer.

The motors fired almost simultaneously. The four-bladed propellers began to revolve, slowly at first but with rapidly increasing revolutions as the seemingly ponderous plane waddled awkwardly over the turf. Thanks to her highly efficient silencers there was hardly any sound from her exhausts. Only the whirr of the accelerating propellers broke the stillness of the early morn.

Then, amidst a burst of cheering from the spectators, the Condor leapt from the ground, and rising to a height of eight hundred feet was soon gliding swiftly above the treeless Purbeck Hills.

Don Grey, having stowed away his personal gear, made his way to the pilot's "office", or control cabin, where Standish, having set the gyro stabilizers to maintain a certain compass course at an altitude of one thousand feet, was able to let the Condor take care of herself.

"We're away, laddie!" began Grey, offering Colin his cigarette case. "By Jove! After that give-away in the newspapers do you think we'll be up against a rough house?"

"Quite possibly," replied Standish. "But not on the outward flight. They, whoever they are, wouldn't gain anything by that. It's when the Atar-il-Kilk ruby is on board that we'll have to keep our eyes skinned and our wits about us. It's not only the Voriloff Air Pirates we've got to take into consideration. Ever heard of the Down 'Em Gang? I haven't before yesterday."

"The Down 'Em Gang!" echoed Grey. "My giddy mother's sister! I should just say so. Don't you remember the Allerby Jewel Case?"

"Can't say I do," replied Standish. "Must have been abroad at the time. What of it?"

"A robbery at Allerby Grange, in Hampshire," explained Don. "Thieves who had been living in the place for nearly a twelvemonth—one as chauffeur, t'other as butler—splendid testimonials both of them had—forged, of course—got away with fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewels. The strange part about the whole thing was that they managed to gas everyone else in the house. There was a dinner party at the time and the owner and his guests knew nothing about it until they woke up in a hospital three days later. And it was the same with the servants and even a couple of dogs, except that the dogs weren't carted to hospital. Experts were called in to determine the nature of the jolly old gas, which didn't seem to have the slightest after-effects, but they had to admit they were up against something they knew nothing about—— Hello, fog!"

"Looks like it," agreed Colin. "Pretty high bank of it too."

"What are you going to do? Climb?"

"Take a jolly lot of climbing," declared Standish. "Doubt whether twenty thousand altitude would skip it. I'm cutting straight through, and the sooner we do so the better."

Short of turning back, and such a step was out of the question—Far Eastern Airways' pilots, like Caister lifeboatmen, never turn back—the only thing to be done was to dive through the fog-bank and trust blindly to altimeter and compass.

Had Standish but known it he was about to encounter one of those stupendous banks of fog that at rare intervals hold vast areas of Western Europe in their grip, sometimes for days and nights on end.

With nerve-racking suddenness the Condor plunged into the almost vertical wall of vapour. The sensation was akin to that experienced in a train that rushes from dazzling sunshine into the sulphurous smoke of a tunnel. In spite of the anti-condensation film the triplex glass screens were rendered almost opaque. The Condor was blindly rushing through space at the speed of 120 miles an hour, or twice that of an express train.

For some minutes neither pilot spoke. Standish had switched on the light over the instrument-board, mainly with the idea of being able to continue smoking!

"'Bout time we were out of this," remarked Grey. "We've had twenty miles of it, and there's no sign of it easing. Thank goodness we're well away from the Croydon-Paris route; but what's going to happen if we fall foul of another bus?"

"A most unholy smash, young fellow," replied Standish cheerfully. "And we won't have time to worry about it, if it's a head-on crash. Remember when we sat on the back of a French airship in that sandstorm on the Syrian desert, and you thought we'd made a forced landing at eight thousand feet?"

"Do I not?" rejoined Don. "We bumped lightly. If we'd been going in the opposite direction instead of overtaking her——"

"We shouldn't be here now," added Colin coolly. "I'd like to know what the Frenchmen thought when they found a tail-skid track on the envelope! Just see what Metcalfe's doing, there's a good sort. I fancy the port engine is running a bit irregularly."

Left to himself Standish could not help thinking about the conversation. He had hitherto ignored the possibility of a collision. It was a very remote chance, but a chance it was. The fog, too, baffled him. Never before had he experienced one of such a vast extent; and to make matters worse, although he had allowed for a fifteen-miles-an-hour nor'-westerly drift, it was possible that the force of the wind had increased and its direction had changed. He began to wish that he hadn't dispensed with the wireless apparatus, even though it would have meant an additional member of the crew as operator. Had he retained the set he would have been able to ascertain his position from any of the British or French aerodromes.

Another hour passed. The port engine was now running normally. The Yorkshireman had reported a slight choke in the feed pipe that had evidently cleared itself. Still the fog persisted.

"Dashed if I like it," thought Standish. "We must be somewhere over Orleans by this time. Better give her another thousand altitude just in case."

Not until the altimeter registered nine thousand feet did the pilot feel satisfied. It was bitterly cold, notwithstanding the fact that the cabin was heated by pipes from the exhaust. The pipes were almost too hot to touch, and yet at a few feet away his fingers were numbed by the cold.

Suddenly the needle of the altimeter dropped and continued to do so until it registered 1500 feet in the space of a few minutes, although the gyroscopic stabilizers kept the bus practically in a horizontal position.

Standish realized what that meant. The Condor had encountered a deep air-pocket or what actually was a sudden downward air-current. And 1500 feet was about the height of the ground above sea-level.

In vain he strove to check the downward drop. Then momentarily the rush of air dispersed the mist. To his horror there appeared in sight the tourelles of a château.

It was the work of a moment to put the rudder hard over. The Condor, still under the action of the gyro stabilizers, responded with maddening slowness. There was no time to switch off the current actuating the mechanism.

Round swung the biplane, her starboard wing-tips missing the red tiles by inches; then, caught by an upward draught, she leapt rapidly away from the danger-zone, to be enveloped once more in the blinding mist.

She was still climbing when Grey re-entered the cabin.

"Bit of a stormy passage, what?" he remarked. "Any idea where we are?"

Standish shook his head. Although a bit rattled he did not want to betray his feelings to his subordinate. Nor did he want to alarm Grey by informing him that only the merest chance had saved the tiles of a Frenchman's château from being broken—to say nothing of a crash with fatal results to the biplane and her crew.

It had taught Standish a lesson not to employ the stabilizer in thick weather. The Condor was too hard on her helm under gyroscopic action. However much it saved the pilot from physical strain in clear weather it was a source of danger when rapid manoeuvring became necessary.

"Hello! you've cut out the gyro!" exclaimed Grey.

"Just to give me something to do!" replied Colin mendaciously, as he corrected what promised to be a terrific lurch of the storm-tossed aircraft.

"Your trick's up," Grey observed.

"I'll carry on a bit," declared Standish. "Wait till this muck clears—if it ever does clear," he muttered under his breath. "Hang it! It can't be like this over the Mediterranean, and by now we should be approaching the coast."

Conditions were getting worse. In addition to the fog the Condor was encountering a baffling succession of eddies and pockets. In vain the pilot climbed to nearly ten thousand feet in the hope that he would escape the blinding mist and find a calm stratum in the upper air.

At about the end of four hours the sorely-tried biplane emerged from the fog to find herself confronted by a lofty mass of snow-clad mountains. Another half-mile and she would have charged a precipice that rose sheer from a valley still shrouded in mirk.

In a trice Standish swung the now docile Condor at right angles to her former course. More snowy peaks confronted him. He dodged and commenced to gain additional altitude, brushing so close to a steeply-sloping peak that the wake of the swiftly-moving airplane set up a terrific avalanche, the noise of which completely outvoiced the loud whirr of the propellers.

In a succession of steep spirals Standish continued to climb—or at least attempted to do so. On all sides were enormous mountains towering high above the trapped biplane. How she had managed to find her way into that maze of snow-clad pinnacles without crashing was a mystery never to be solved.

Soon it became apparent that the Condor, in spite of the pilot's efforts, was not gaining altitude. Some invisible force was holding her down. In the midst of a ring of mountains, unable to exercise sufficient lift to clear their forbidding crests and with a mist-shrouded pit beneath her, where landing would be out of the question except as a terrific crash, she was doomed to destruction unless by a miracle there was a way of escape.

Apparently there was none.