Читать книгу Biggles in the Orient - W E Johns - Страница 5

Table of Contents

The buzz of conversation died abruptly as Biggles walked into the ante-room and closed the door behind him. Only the radio went on, unheeded, relaying music from London. A short, stoutish, olive-skinned, middle-aged man, dressed in white duck trousers and mess-jacket, wearing a beaming smile, was standing by a low table on which rested a brass tray bearing a coffee-pot and cups.

Biggles called to him. “Hi! you; that’ll do,” he said curtly.

“Plenty coffee, sahib. You likee some, mebbe?” answered the steward.

“When I want anything I’ll let you know,” returned Biggles. “Pack up now.”

“Velly good, sahib.” Still beaming, the steward picked up his tray and departed.

Biggles looked at Algy. “Who’s that?”

“Lal Din.”

“Who’s he?”

“One of the waiters from the canteen. He’s all right.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Biggles. “But in the East it’s better not to talk in front of staff. They gossip.” He indicated the radio with a thumb. “Turn that thing off, somebody.”

Angus complied.

“What’s cooking, chief?” asked Tex eagerly.

“A dish with a nasty smell and a worse flavour,” replied Biggles quietly. “Gather round, everybody, and I’ll tell you about it. By the way, has anybody been out on the station?”

Several voices answered. “I had a look round to see what machines we had on charge,” said Algy. “Some of the others took a stroll to get their bearings.”

“In that case you may have heard something?” suggested Biggles.

“I didn’t hear anything, but there’s a sort of grey atmosphere in the central mess,” put in Ginger. “There were only a few chaps there, but they looked at me as if I were something blown in off a dunghill.”

“I ran into Johnny Crisp on the perim.,” said Algy. “You remember him—he picked up two bars to his D.F.C. in Wilks’ squadron? He’s a flight-loot in 818 Squadron now. He told me a little. Ginger is right about the atmosphere. It’s sort of—brittle, as if everyone was waiting for an unexploded bomb to go off. Johnny has aged ten years since I last saw him, a few months ago.”

Biggles nodded. “I’m not surprised. I’ll tell you why.”

He devoted the next twenty minutes to a résumé of the sinister story he had just gathered at headquarters. No one interrupted. All eyes were on his face. When he concluded, still no one spoke.

“Well, has nobody anything to say?” queried Biggles.

“What is there to say?” asked Ginger.

“Sure, I guess you’re right, at that,” put in Tex, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke at the ceiling. “Looks like we’ve come a helluva long way to find trouble. So what?”

“Has anybody an idea about this thing?” demanded Biggles.

No one answered.

“Stiffen the crows!” exclaimed Biggles. “You are a bright lot. Do I have to do all the thinking?”

“What’s the use of us trying to work it out if you can’t?” murmured Tug.

“What do you think about it yourself, old boy?” asked Bertie.

“Frankly, I can’t even begin to think,” admitted Biggles. “We have one single fact to work on. Something is affecting our machines, or the pilots. We don’t even know which. That’s the first thing we’ve got to find out.”

“You tell us how, and we’ll get right on with it,” asserted Ferocity.

“That would be easier if I knew what we were looking for,” went on Biggles. “One thing is certain. We shan’t find it by sitting here. We’ve got to go out—where the others went. That will mean ... casualties. And that’s putting it nicely. We aren’t the only suicide squadron on the station, but that doesn’t make it any easier from my point of view. I’ve never yet asked a man to do a show I wouldn’t do myself, so I shall make a start. After that it will be a job for volunteers. If anyone would like to fall out, he may. Now’s the time.”

Nobody moved.

Biggles glanced round. “Okay, if that’s how you feel about it,” he said softly. “Now you know what’s likely to happen, let’s get down to it. I shall make a start in the morning by going up to Jangpur, the Indian terminus of the China run, to have a look round. I am planning to take an aircraft over the course.”

“You mean—go to Chungking?” cried Algy.

“Yes.”

“But that’s daft, mon,” protested Angus. “How can ye find a thing when ye dinna ken what ye’re looking for?”

“Has anyone an alternative suggestion?”

There was a chorus of voices offering to go out, but Biggles silenced them with a gesture. “Don’t all talk at once, and don’t let’s have any argument about who is going out. You’ll all get your turns. I shall do the first show. That’s settled. If I don’t come back Algy will take over. If he fades out, too, the others will carry on in order of seniority until the thing is found, or until there is no one left to look for it. That’s all quite simple. What machines have we got, Algy?”

“A mixed bunch,” was the reply. “It looks as if Raymond has got together anything he thought might be useful. There’s a Wimpey, a Beaufighter, a Mosquito, three Hurricanes, three Spits and a Typhoon. If you’ve made up your mind to go out why not take the Beau, and have somebody else with you? Then, if anything went wrong, the second pilot could bring the aircraft home.”

“From what I understand, flying two pilots together is just an easy way of doubling the rate of casualties. Two go instead of one. Whether the new weapon affects the men or the machine, the whole outfit goes west.”

“That doesn’t entirely fit in with what Johnny Crisp told me,” declared Algy.

“What did he tell you?”

“Well, it seems that some fellows are either extraordinarily lucky, or else they—or their machines—are unaffected by the new weapon.”

“What do you mean by that, precisely?”

“Johnny tells me that he has made eleven sorties since the trouble started and has never seen or heard anything to alarm him. But he has seen others go down, seen them dropping like shot birds all round him—that’s how he put it. He told me that what with this ropey spectacle, and expecting his own turn to come every minute, he froze to the stick, with fright. Once he was the only one of five to return. Another chap, a pilot officer named Scrimshaw, has been out nine times, and has got away with it.”

Biggles regarded Algy with a mystified look in his eyes. “That certainly is interesting,” he said slowly. “What squadrons are these chaps in?”

“They’re both in 818, flying Hurrybombers. There are only five of them left in the squadron, although they have had replacements several times. Some chaps went west on their first show.”

“I suppose it must be luck, but it seems queer,” muttered Biggles. “There can’t be anything unusual about their machines—they’re all standardised.”

“They haven’t always flown the same machines, anyway,” volunteered Algy.

“Then obviously we can’t put their luck down to their equipment. Yet the fellows themselves must be flesh and blood, like other men. It must be luck. I don’t see how it can be anything else.”

“If this new weapon is so hot, why haven’t the Japs handed it on to their partners, the Nazis?” inquired Henry Harcourt.

“Ask me something easier,” returned Biggles. “All the same, Henry, I think you’ve got something there. So far the trouble is localised in the East. One would suppose that the Japs would pass it on to the Nazis. All I can say is, God help us if they do.”

“Maybe the Japs don’t trust the Nazis,” contributed Ferocity, practically. “They may be windy of having the thing turned on them, if ever they fell out with their partners.”

“That may be the answer,” acknowledged Biggles.

“How about gas?” suggested Henry. “Have you thought of that?”

“It passed through my mind,” averred Biggles. “But there are several arguments against it. The first is, you can only get gas in quantity to a great height, by carrying it, or shooting it up, and nobody has seen any sort of vehicle or missile capable of doing that. Then again, what about formations? If a trail of gas could be laid across the sky, why are some pilots affected and not others? And how are we going to account for the irregular intervals of time between the machines falling out? I can’t believe that the Japs could plant gas all over the place, at different altitudes, without being spotted. Finally, if gas were used, what is there to prevent the Japs themselves from flying into it, bearing in mind that the locality would not be constant? The wind, up-currents and sinkers, would blow the stuff all over the place. Still, we’ll bear the possibility in mind.”

“It was just an idea,” murmured Henry.

“Let’s get back to the question of action,” suggested Biggles. “We’ve got to find this hidden horror before we can do anything about it, and no doubt some of us will do that. Plenty of others have found it,” he added significantly, “but unfortunately they couldn’t get the information home. In other words, without mincing matters, it seems that the man who finds the thing, dies. Our problem is to find it and live—or live long enough to pass back the secret. It means going out, and I shall make a start, beginning in the area where the thing struck first—that is, on the Jangpur-Chungking route. The rest of you will stay here till I get back. That’s an order. On no account will anyone go into the air; nor will anyone refer to the fact, either here or anywhere else, that we have been sent out specially to hunt this thing down. At all times you will pretend that we are what we are supposed to be, a communication squadron scheduled for co-operation with forces inside India. You needn’t be idle. Give the machines a thorough overhaul. I shall go up to Jangpur in the Typhoon. Algy, I’d like you to get a list of all persons outside Air Force personnel who work on the station, or have permits to visit the airfield for any purpose whatsoever. There are certain to be a lot of men of the country, coloured men; there always are on Indian stations. For the benefit of those of you who haven’t been to India before, we don’t use the expression natives. It’s discourteous. Raymond probably has such a list already made. That would be the first thing he’d do, I imagine, in checking up for possible saboteurs. If anyone asks where I’ve gone you can say I’m doing a test flight—which will be true enough. Now let’s get some sleep.”