Biggles and the Gun Runners Read online

  ‘The great thing in life is to keep your sense of humour,’ says Biggles, though getting his Constellation shot down over southern Sudan by a trigger-happy fighter pilot of the Congolese Air Force was no laughing matter. In fact, his privations and those of his co-pilot, Sandy Grant, increased from that very moment in an affair which throughout bristled with spies, lies and deception.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: THREE MEN IN A BOG

  CHAPTER 2: THE ONLY WAY

  CHAPTER 3: A PROPOSITION

  CHAPTER 4: BIGGLES DOES SOME THINKING

  CHAPTER 5: ALWAYS THE UNEXPECTED

  CHAPTER 6: THE FIRST JOB

  CHAPTER 7: PLAIN SPEAKING

  CHAPTER 8: A QUEER BUSINESS

  CHAPTER 9: PROBLEMS

  CHAPTER 10: ABANDONED

  CHAPTER 11: BRADY COMES BACK

  CHAPTER 12: SERGEANT DUCARD TALKS

  CHAPTER 13: BIGGLES SHOWS HOW

  CHAPTER 14: A SHADOW IN THE TAMARISKS

  CHAPTER 15: DUCARD FORCES A SHOW-DOWN

  CHAPTER 16: ALGY EXPLAINS

  CHAPTER 17: HOW IT ENDED

  CHAPTER 1

  THREE MEN IN A BOG

  From the second pilot’s seat of a four-engined Lockheed ‘Constellation’ aircraft, wearing radio telephone equipment, Biggles of the Air Police, from a height of 14,000 ft gazed down through a quivering heat-haze at the apparently eternal panorama of Central Africa. To be precise, the Southern Sudan in the region of the White Nile.

  Beside him, in control of the machine, sat a smallish, sandy-haired man whose puckish but intelligent face was plentifully besprinkled with freckles.

  ‘Listen, Sandy. They’re still ordering us down,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Who’s doing the ordering?’

  ‘I don’t know. They don’t say and I haven’t asked them. You told me to ignore all signals.’

  ‘Okay. You can tell ‘em to go to hell.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take that line. They might decide to send us there.’

  ‘How do they reckon they’re going to do that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, but from the way they talk they seem sure they’ve got the edge of us. They say they’ve given us fair warning. If we go on we shall have to be prepared to take the consequences.’

  ‘What do you take that to mean?’

  ‘How would I know? But I have a feeling they wouldn’t use that sort of threat unless they were in a position to —’

  ‘Pah! They’re bluffing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t gamble on that,’ Biggles said, looking worried.

  ‘You scared?’ There was a hint of good-humoured sneer in the words.

  ‘You can call it that,’ returned Biggles, coldly. ‘I’ve been shot at before today, and the older I get the less I like it.’

  ‘If you don’t like the way I fly you can get out.’

  ‘Now you’re talking like a fool, Sandy.’

  ‘Okay, so I’m a fool. What would you do?’

  ‘Answer their signals. They must know we’re receiving them.’

  ‘Then what? They’d only repeat the order to go down.’

  ‘I’d go down to find out what all the fuss was about. We should have done that while we still had an airfield in easy range. We’ve nothing to be afraid of, so why not?’

  ‘I’m staying here. Let ‘em sweat,’ was the curt rejoinder.

  ‘But for Pete’s sake, Sandy, why take that attitude?’ protested Biggles. ‘We’re not carrying contraband, or any nonsense of that sort. In fact, we’re flying empty except for ourselves.’

  ‘Listen, pal. If they get us on the ground they may hold us for days, or maybe weeks, asking a lot of questions about where we’re going, what we’re doing, and why we’ve no passengers. To hell with that.’

  ‘Is there any reason why we shouldn’t tell them?’

  ‘We’ve no time to waste. I’m in charge of this ship and I’m going on.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Have it your way. I can only hope you realize we’re asking for trouble. If they should get their hands on us after this we’re likely to get rough treatment.’

  ‘The Sudd’s in front of us. You keep your eyes skinned for the machine we’re looking for. Our orders were clear enough. Get down beside the ship before anyone finds it, transfer the cargo and bring it home with the pilots.’

  ‘Why bring it home?’

  ‘There may be a good reason. Like I say, I obey orders without asking questions.’

  ‘I’m as conscientious about obeying orders as you are, but I like to know what I’m doing. Whoever gave you orders to land in the Sudd was talking through his hat. He obviously doesn’t know the Sudd. At this time of the year, until the sun dries it out, it’ll be swamp, four hundred miles of water, mud and rushes; and nothing else except elephants. If that machine is down in the Sudd it’s ten to one she’ll be up to her belly either in mud or water.’

  ‘Quit stalling. We’ll find somewhere to get down. Are they still yapping on the radio?’

  ‘No. They’ve stopped.’

  “That’s what I thought they’d do when they realized how we felt about it.’

  ‘I admire your confidence and I hope you’re right; but I wouldn’t care to bet on it,’ returned Biggles. He went on: ‘Okay. So we find the lost machine, and if we’re lucky get down in one piece. Then what?’

  ‘All we have to do is transfer the cargo.’

  ‘What does the cargo consist of?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I imagine it will be heavy.’

  ‘It usually is.’

  ‘If we have to carry it far in this heat we shall have to pray for strength.’

  ‘There’ll be four of us.’

  ‘Say three.’

  ‘Why three?’

  ‘We shall only find one man with the machine. What you appear to have overlooked is that one of them would have to go off to find a post office to send the telegram to say the machine was down in the Sudd. The place isn’t exactly bristling with post offices. Whoever went might have to go as far as Juba or Malakal. That depends on where it came down. Why did it have to come down, anyway?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Didn’t the telegram say anything about engine trouble, or structural failure...’

  ‘I didn’t see the telegram. All I was told was, the machine was down in the Sudd and we were to go to fetch the stuff home. I don’t think the boss knew more than that himself. He seemed pretty fed up.’

  ‘So, for all we know the machine may have crashed?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And we don’t know at which end of the Sudd it came down. Four hundred miles is a long stretch to search and we may have a job to find it. What was it doing over the Sudd, which most pilots would agree is a good place to keep clear of? Where was it bound for?’

  ‘Carisville.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Northern Congo.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Then what was it doing over the Sudd?’

  ‘That’s the way we usually go. Across the Mediterranean, down the Sinai Peninsula and then follow the Nile to the White Nile.’

  ‘But that would land you miles east of the Congo?’

  ‘At the southern end of the Sudd we turn sharp west. From there it isn’t too far to the north-east corner of the Congo, and the objective.’

  ‘It seems a mighty queer business to me,’ stated Biggles. ‘Why make a dog’s-leg of it?’

  ‘The Count is on good terms with Egypt, so I think the idea is to keep in touch with one of the aerodromes there for emergencies — fuel, and so on.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I still don’t get it. Had I been told more about the way things were run, before we s
tarted, I’d have been in a better position to judge just what we’re doing and what might happen to us.’

  ‘There’s a lot about it I don’t understand myself,’ admitted Sandy. ‘You’re a new man. No doubt the boss would have told you more in course of time, after he’d seen how you made out.’

  ‘You’ve no idea who would be likely to order us down?’

  ‘No, and I don’t care. I’m not taking orders from strangers. I’m captain of this ship and I’m not going home to report I was scared to go through with the job on account of some interfering rascal. Right now I can’t see any place to get down even if I wanted to. You watch the carpet for the Constellation we’re looking for; it’s big enough to see.’

  There was a pause in the conversation. Then Biggles said: ‘That’s a nice herd of elephants ahead. The Sudd is about their last stronghold. Even poachers think twice about hunting here. When the last wild African elephant dies it will probably be in this area.’

  ‘So what? What the hell do elephants matter, anyhow? That looks like smoke farther on. Might be coming from the Constellation, to mark its position for a relief plane.’

  ‘Could be,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I can also see something else, something which may turn out to be more interesting. Look up, half right.’

  Sandy’s eyes moved. ‘A plane. Fighter type. What the devil can he be doing here?’

  ‘Since you ask, it occurs to me that it might be looking for us. In fact, from the way he has just altered course towards us, I’d say he’s spotted us. As you remarked just now, a Constellation is big enough to see.’

  ‘He’s only coming over to have a look at us,’ said Sandy, carelessly.

  ‘Maybe. We shall soon know what he’s after. It doesn’t appear to have struck you that this fellow may have been responsible for putting the other Constellation on the floor.’

  Sandy laughed. ‘Oh, come off it. He wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘We’re not in Europe,’ reminded Biggles, his eyes on the fast approaching aircraft, obviously a military single-seater. ‘He’s coming close. Watch out.’

  Biggles’ voice ended on a high note, and both pilots in the big machine flinched instinctively as the fighter flashed across their bows.

  ‘What the blazes does he think he’s doing?’ shouted Sandy, furiously.

  ‘At present I’d say he’s only buzzing us, inviting us to comply with orders to land. If we take no notice he may show us his sting. Did you get his nationality marks?’

  ‘I only noticed something red and black. Maybe one of these new independent African states. Where is the little swine?’

  ‘He’s turned and is coming in behind us. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Do? Nothing. Why should I do anything?’

  ‘Listen, Sandy,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘This fellow must be attached to the ground organization that ordered us down. Now we know what they meant about taking the consequences if we carried on.’

  ‘I’m not going to be pushed into the ground by that little squirt,’ declared Sandy obstinately.

  ‘You may change your mind about that,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘We can’t fight. We’ve nothing to fight with. If you can’t fight it’s time to run away. He’s coming in on the starboard quarter. Hold your hat. He means business.’

  Above the roar of the four Cyclone engines now came the snarl of multiple machine-guns. Lines of white tracer bullets flashed across the Constellation’s nose.

  ‘Missed us,’ snapped Sandy laconically.

  ‘He didn’t try to hit us. Had he tried he could hardly have missed. I’d say that was the final warning.’

  Before Sandy could answer the Constellation quivered like a startled horse as it was struck by whip lashes somewhere astern.

  Biggles looked at his companion who, pale faced, was staring at him wide-eyed. ‘Well, now what are you going to do?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘He hit us, blast him.’

  ‘Of course. He could hardly miss this flying pantechnicon.’ Biggles went on, now deadly earnest. ‘It’s no use, Sandy. We’re a sitting duck. We can’t hit back. If he gets a tank we’re roast meat.’

  ‘I suppose I shall have to go down, curse him,’ grated Sandy through his teeth.

  ‘If he keeps this up we shall be lucky to get down,’ stated Biggles grimly, as another hail of bullets struck the big Lockheed. One must have passed between them into the instrument panel, for a rev counter disappeared in a shower of splintered glass.

  Sandy crouched lower in his seat, compressing himself into the smallest possible compass.

  ‘That won’t help you,’ said Biggles calmly. ‘Have you never been shot at before?’

  ‘Not in the air.’

  ‘Nasty feeling, isn’t it?’

  Sandy did not answer.

  ‘Are you saying you’ve had no experience of air combat?’ went on Biggles.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then you’d better let me take over, because I have; and I know a trick or two.’

  ‘Okay. She’s all yours.’ Sandy’s face was white.

  ‘It’s not so bad when you get used to it,’ Biggles said calmly. ‘Don’t worry. Everyone gets butterflies inside first time. Hang on.’

  ‘D’you think you can make it?’ asked Sandy anxiously.

  ‘It depends on what experience this fellow has had. If, as I suspect from the way he’s flying, he’s young and green at the game, we may get away with it.’

  A swift look at the sky revealed the fighter coming in for another attack. The Constellation’s engines died. Biggles slammed on full right rudder and dragged the control column far over to the left. The effect was a violent skid, jamming both pilots in their seats as the aircraft lay over on its side, port wing pointing at the ground in an almost vertical sideslip, the nose being held up by Biggles’ right foot on the rudder control.

  ‘What good’s this doing?’ shouted Sandy desperately.

  ‘Unless he’s an old hand and realizes what I’m doing, it should prevent him from hitting us.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘My line of flight is down, but we look as if we’re still going forward. That’ll throw his deflection out. His shots will pass forward of us. See what I mean?’ Biggles added, as more white tracer streamed against the blue sky ahead of the Constellation’s bows.

  The fighter flashed past in the wake of his bullets. As it began to pull out of its dive Biggles reversed the position of the Constellation, pointing his starboard wing down and holding it in control with left rudder. Brute force was necessary, as the big machine did not respond as quickly as a small aircraft would have done.

  In the pause that followed Biggles snatched a glance at the altimeter and saw the needle, still falling, pass the 9,000-ft mark.

  ‘What’s the little swine doing?’ shouted Sandy.

  ‘Looking for us — I hope. He’d lose sight of us when he overshot. Watch the ground for elephants.’

  ‘Hell’s bells! Why elephants?’

  ‘Because they’ll be on dry ground, if there is any. Somehow I’ve got to get this lumbering truck on the carpet.’

  By now the fighter must have found them, for they heard its guns. But they saw no bullets. None struck them.

  ‘He still isn’t wise to it,’ muttered Biggles. ‘We haven’t much farther to go.’

  Sandy threw him a sidelong glance. ‘You’ve done this before.’

  ‘Too true, but not in a kite this size. My arm’s numb, holding her in this position. Try to spot that infernal sting-ray when I pull out. He’ll get a chance when I flatten out.’

  ‘I can see elephants.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Straight ahead.’

  ‘Any trees?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Good. Hold on to something. Don’t fall on me.’

  Centralizing the controls, Biggles brought the big machine back slowly to even keel. The pressure relaxed.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Sitti
ng right over us.’

  ‘Watching to make sure we don’t try to pull a fast one.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Land. Or try to.’

  ‘Why not go on?’

  ‘Not me. I’ve had enough. We’ve been lucky — so far. I’m not tempting providence.’

  ‘The boss will say—’

  ‘Never mind the boss. If he was on board he wouldn’t be able to get out fast enough.’

  ‘That little swine will get us as you glide in.’

  ‘He won’t. We’re too low now. If he dives and overshoots us he’ll be into the deck. Hold tight. We’re liable to do some bumping when our wheels touch. Don’t talk. I’m trying to get on the ground in one piece.’

  Biggles now concentrated on the task of landing the big machine in conditions far from ideal. There was only one area of clear ground, the place where the elephants, a big herd, were now looking up at them. Judging from their tracks the ground looked reasonably firm.

  Biggles opened up his engines and flew low straight at them. This sent them off in a stampede, trunks held high. Only one, an old bull by the size of his tusks, held his ground; but as Biggles made a circuit to get the longest possible run in, he, too, lost his nerve and bolted.

  The engines died. Slowly the Constellation lost height. For a little way it skimmed the feathery heads of tall papyrus rushes. These gave way to rough tussocky grass dotted with clumps of scrub, some uprooted by the elephants. The wheels touched; bumped; touched again and bumped again; then, touching again, they remained on the ground. The machine, jolting and swaying a little, rumbled on to a stop.

  ‘Pretty good,’ panted Sandy, breathing hard.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘The lad upstairs may have a last smack at us.’

  They scrambled out in a hurry and looked up. The fighter was gliding in.

  ‘He’s going to land,’ observed Biggles.

  ‘Land, eh! He’s got a crust — after shooting at us,’ rasped Sandy. He snatched an automatic from his pocket.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Shoot the little swine.’

  ‘Put it away,’ Biggles said impatiently.

  ‘He shot at us, didn’t he?’

  ‘So what. Use your head, man. What good will shooting him do us? He was doing his job; sent up by someone to stop us. Let him talk and we may learn what all this is about.’