Biggles Gets His Men Page 2

  Biggles drew a deep breath. “It sounds a pretty grim business to me,” he answered. “What you really mean is, will I go to look for them?”

  The Air-Commodore nodded slowly. “Quite right. That’s it. An aircraft would cover territory in a day which overland would occupy months of time.”

  Biggles shrugged. “Obviously, someone will have to go, and I suppose we’re as well equipped for the job as anyone. Of course we’ll go.”

  “What do you think of the situation generally, Bigglesworth?” asked Lord Rutterton, his eyes on Biggles’ face. “The first thing one wonders, naturally, is this: Are we dealing with an individual, or a hostile power?”

  Biggles thought for a moment. “I doubt if an individual would be able to provide the enormous sums of money that must have been required to abduct these men and transport them to where they are now. On the other hand, no country would assume responsibility for such a scheme. I’d say we are dealing with an individual, or a syndicate of people, financed by a power that has a particular spite against Britain. That I think is proved by the fact that all the abducted men are British. In the event of a show-down the local man on the spot would have to take the rap—not the government really responsible.”

  The peer nodded. “Quite so.”

  “Still, it’s the man on the spot with whom we are really concerned,” averred Biggles. He looked at Mayne. “Do you know who normally runs this part of the world?” he inquired.

  Mayne shook his head. “No. I doubt if anyone does outside the country itself. There are local big-wigs all over China and Mongolia who want to run things their way. They may call themselves mandarins, or princes, or generals, but really they’re nothing but common brigands who use the people for their own ends. Some are enormously wealthy, and are, in fact, dictators in a small way. Any of them would work in with a European nation who would dish out money and weapons, but I doubt if any one of them would on his own account think in terms of atomic bombs. No, there must be European brains behind that. It is these rascals who are giving the Chinese Government a headache. It’s a vast country, and I imagine, beyond the power of any government to keep it in order. That there is some local big chief in the racket we need not doubt, because without such help Europeans of any nationality would be up against all sorts of difficulties. This slave labour, for instance. Someone must be able to speak the local language.”

  “That’s likely to be our difficulty,” put in Biggles. “None of us speaks a word of Chinese, much less local dialects. If we’re unable to speak to local people we shall be handicapped, if not absolutely bogged, from the start. We ought to have someone with us who can at any rate speak Chinese—”

  “What about you, Mayne?” boomed Lord Rutterton. “You’ve seen the country.”

  “I’m willing to go, if it will help,” offered Mayne without hesitation.

  “If you would it would solve a major problem,” declared Biggles. “In this sort of enterprise one man who has been over the ground, and speaks the language, is worth more than a battalion of bayonets.”

  Mayne agreed.

  Lord Rutterton spoke again, looking hard at Biggles. “I want you to understand exactly what you are taking on,” said he. “Whatever happens the British Government must not be brought into this. If things went wrong a situation could arise that might be exceedingly embarrassing for us.”

  “Such a situation would no doubt be exceedingly embarrassing for me, too, sir,” returned Biggles coldly. “And if it comes to that, it must already be more than embarrassing for the unfortunate fellows already there.”

  “Quite so—er—quite so,” agreed the peer, rather uncomfortably, glancing at the Air-Commodore, who smiled faintly.

  “Still, don’t worry, sir. We ought to be able to stand on our own feet,” asserted Biggles. “If we’re caught—well, we shall just be a bunch of adventurers fooling about on our own account.”

  “That excuse might be as good as any,” agreed Lord Rutterton. He glanced at the clock. “Now I must be getting along. I’ll leave the matter in your hands, Bigglesworth. Raymond and Mayne will give you all the help possible. Don’t hesitate to spend money—should you find it necessary.”

  “I won’t,” promised Biggles warmly. “I shall probably need quite a lot,” he added softly, as the conference broke up. “One thing I shall need is a set of photographs of the missing men,” he told the Air-Commodore. “I shall want to be able to recognise them if I see them.”

  “That’s easy,” promised the Air-Commodore.

  Biggles touched Captain Mayne on the arm. “If you’re not in a hurry I’d like you to come along to my office. There are one or two things I’d like to talk over with you.”

  CHAPTER II

  DISTANT FRONTIERS

  “BEFORE we start on anything in the way of organisation I thought it would be a good thing if you told us something about the country we’re bound for,” explained Biggles, after the airmen were back in their own office. He offered Mayne his cigarette case. “In fact,” he went on, “it’s no use trying to make a plan until we have at least a rough idea of the conditions we’re likely to find. I’ve been around a bit, but what I know about this particular section of the globe you could put in your eye without noticing it. I’ve seen it on the map, and sometimes wondered just what was there; but that’s all.”

  The expert in Chinese affairs smiled. “You’re not alone in that,” he asserted, lighting his cigarette from Biggles’ lighter. “I may be the only Britisher who has ever been there. I doubt if a dozen Europeans have seen it. In fact, as far as I know, the only people who have been right across the territory were a few White Russian refugees after the Bolshevik revolution. I went ostensibly on a hunting trip, but my real purpose—as it was part of my job—was to see just what went on there, to check up on the strange rumours that occasionally trickled through to the outside world. Actually, I spent most of my time trying to get out again. Like you, I’ve been around a bit, and I’ve travelled over most of China, but this area was unlike anything I’d seen before, or have seen since. One’s first impression is that it’s all crazy, or else you are.”

  “But I say, look here old man, if nobody ever goes there, how do the jolly old rumours trickle out—if you see what I mean?” inquired Bertie.

  “I was referring particularly to Europeans,” explained Mayne. “A few Orientals, mostly Chinese and Koreans, go in and out regularly, but they are only permitted to do so because they carry merchandise that the natives want—weapons and liquor, mostly—which they swap for the queer commodities the country produces. Even so, it must be a risky business, because from what I learned quite a few are murdered on the way out... not so much by the natives as by the cut-throat refugees who have found safe sanctuary there, mostly deserters from the Chinese army. One has a feeling that one is always being watched, and is never safe. There are no roads, of course, and as the country is pretty rough one is bound to follow the jungle tracks, as the local brigands know only too well. White Swan shooting, as they call it—which means the murder of returning Koreans, who wear white shirts—is the popular pastime.”

  “The profits of these merchants must be pretty high or they wouldn’t take such risks,” put in Algy. “Why do they go? What are these commodities you mentioned just now?”

  Mayne laughed. “You’d never guess.”

  “I wouldn’t try,” returned Algy.

  “There’s a certain amount of gold dust, panned in the streams and gorges, but the chief items are deer antlers, ginseng, oak mushrooms, and the hearts, livers, teeth and claws of tigers.”

  “Who on earth wants such things?” broke in Ginger, in an astonished voice. “What’s ginseng, anyway?”

  “Ginseng is a root shaped like a human torso,” replied Mayne. “It’s thought to possess magical properties—ensures long life and immunity from disease. That may be all rot, but in China the stuff is worth its weight in gold. Deer antlers, ground up, are also medicine. The hearts and livers of tigers, dri
ed, have the reputation of making the weak strong and the nervous brave. Tiger teeth and Claws are talismans that protect the wearer from the attacks of wild beasts. Oak mushrooms—a sort of fungus that grows on old oak trees—are a delicacy in the Far East. That may sound silly to you, but some of the things people in this country waste their money on sound just as daft to a Chinaman.”

  “So there are tigers there, eh?” murmured Bertie.

  “Plenty. The Amur tiger is first cousin to the Bengal tiger. There are panthers, too, and bears. Their skins are another export.”

  “What about the country itself?” asked Biggles. “What does it look like?”

  Mayne flicked the ash off his cigarette. “Well, one’s first impression is that nature has played a cockeyed practical joke. That is simply due to the fact that you are at the spot where the Arctic and the tropics bump into each other, so to speak... where north meets south and east meets west. Thus you get the flora and fauna of both; tigers, panthers, wild boars and pythons tread the same tracks as reindeer, wolves and sables. In the bird line you get most of our northern birds flying beside Chinese herons, black swans, ibis, flamingoes and pelicans—pink ones, at that. In the forests, cork and palm trees rub shoulders with cedars, walnuts, wild apples and cherries, oak trees and grape vines. The whole country teems with game, large and small.”

  “What about the actual terrain?” inquired Biggles. “That’s the most important thing from my angle.”

  “Most of it comprises miles and miles of marsh, bog, and stagnant water, for which reason the wildfowl have to be seen to be believed. Swans and geese flight in millions, and that’s no exaggeration. From that aspect the place is a naturalist’s paradise. But as for getting about—that’s a different story. There are vast areas of nothing but reeds and giant bulrushes growing out of black, sticky mud. There are some mountains, too, with terrific rock gorges. There are rivers and lakes everywhere. They’re full of fish. I caught a pike over six feet long which I reckon must have weighed about a hundred pounds.”

  “What’s the climate like, generally?” questioned Biggles.

  “In summer it’s blazing hot, but the winters are just as cold,” replied Mayne, “In spring and early summer, when I was there, the country was ablaze with wild flowers, particularly lilies and peonies. I saw butterflies as big as swallows. Some of them are black. Taking it all round it’s a weird, mysterious place. At night the will-o’-the-wisps hang over the marshes like lost souls. Incidentally, the fireflies are the biggest and brightest I ever saw. There is this about it; with flesh, fish and fowl, a man with a gun need never starve. The natives produce a kind of wheat, but you have to be careful how you eat it because it makes you drunk. Apparently some sort of fungus flourishes on it which sets up fermentation and creates a strong line in alcohol.”

  “What are mosquitoes like?” asked Bettie suspiciously.

  “Pretty grim,” admitted Mayne. “Even worse is a big, red bug known locally as a gnus. In places they make life a misery. I came out looking as though I’d had a bad go of smallpox.”

  “How long were you there?” asked Ginger.

  “About six months.”

  “What were the natives like—the real natives?”

  “Not bad, although if what the messenger says is correct, in the area we’re concerned with, most of them have cleared out on account of this slave racket. I got on well enough. That, no doubt, was partly due to the fact that I handed over to them most of the game I shot. Moreover, the fellow I had with me as a guide knew the people well, and their language, having lived amongst them for years. As a matter of detail, he was an ex-Russian political prisoner named Alexis Petroffsky who had escaped from a prison in Siberia proper. At one time he was a colonel in a crack Cossack regiment, in the Imperial Russian Army, stationed at Vladivostock—at which time he used to go into the interior on hunting trips. It was natural, therefore, that he should head for the place when he broke jail. In many ways he was an amazing fellow, and a queer piece of work to look at, having lost one side of his face in an affair with a tiger. I could never decide whether he was genuine or a superb bluffer. He told me he had spent some time in London, and he certainly speaks English well enough. I found him a grand companion. His big weakness was the bottle—but there, that pernicious brew they call vodka is the curse of the country. It’s the old story of traders bringing fire-water in to barter for gold. Still, I can’t complain. He got me in and out safely, although where he is now I don’t know. Of course, this was some time ago, so conditions may have changed somewhat. There’s a chance that I might meet some of the Orochons I got to know. They would be helpful. I could find my way, I think, to a village where I put up for a time.”

  “And you learned a bit of the language?” asked Biggles.

  “If you can call it a language,” returned Mayne, smiling. “The Orochons don’t talk. They bark at each other like dogs. At least it sounds like that when you first hear it.”

  “All very interesting,” murmured Biggles. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks. From what you’ve told us it doesn’t sound much of a country for flying operations.”

  “I couldn’t imagine anything worse,” admitted Mayne frankly.

  “There’s no level ground where an aircraft could land?”

  “If there is I didn’t see it. What level ground there is, is either marsh or forest. What might look like a flat plain from the air would probably turn out to be reeds or bulrushes several feet high. Even the grass is waist deep. I’m not a pilot, but I’d say that a landing on any unsurveyed ground would be asking for trouble.”

  “But there are, you say, plenty of lakes?”

  “Lakes by the score. Practically all the lower ground that isn’t marsh is under water.”

  “Then it looks like being an occasion for a marine aircraft,” opined Biggles, looking at the others. “By the way,” he went on, turning back to Mayne: “Do any aircraft of any sort operate over this region?”

  “I should think it’s most unlikely,” answered Mayne thoughtfully. “Of course I’m not including those which, according to the messenger, are being used by the slave gang. The fellow made signs with his hands which I could only take to mean aircraft. Certainly the place is far from any air route, regular or irregular. There would be no reason for one. At least, I can’t imagine what sort of traffic it would take.”

  “I imagine the enemy, these Europeans mentioned by the messenger, use aircraft for the same reason that we shall have to,” went on Biggles. “On account of the time factor alone a plane must be the only reasonable form of transport. I suppose, Mayne, there are no such things as maps of this territory?”

  Mayne shook his head. “Certainly nothing likely to be of any use to us. I’ve never seen anything but the broad outline one finds in the average atlas. Even on these I imagine that any features marked, such as the chief mountains and rivers, are mostly guesswork. There are no towns. The village I stayed in, called Kossuri, a fair-sized place on the edge of a lake, was merely a collection of huts. The people lived by hunting, and buried their dead—if we can say buried—in trees. The body is rolled in birch bark and hoisted up out of the reach of wolves. You come across these grisly cemeteries all over the place. After the funeral everyone gets drunk on vodka. Drinking seems to be the only recreation.”

  “Nice people,” murmured Biggles. “But tell me, do you think you could find your way to this lake which is to be our final objective?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t like to promise,” returned Mayne. “I’m assuming from its shape, and its relative position to the Ussuri Mountains, which are also marked on the messenger’s map, that it is one of the lakes I passed on my journey. If I am right, I’d say it’s about thirty miles long by anything from five to ten miles wide. I’m right about the area, anyhow. It was an Orochon who brought the message, and the place we’re talking about is in Orochon territory.”

  “You’d have no difficulty in guiding me to the general area in an aircraft?”

/>   “That shouldn’t be very difficult. If we could get anywhere near, I’d be willing to land and make inquiries.”

  “If you could find anyone to ask,” reminded Biggles. “Don’t forget what the messenger said about the people clearing out on account of the slave business.”

  “There should still be a few of the tough lads hanging about, although if they saw us, there would be a risk that they might shoot first and show themselves afterwards. But that’s a risk we shall have to take.”

  “It looks as if there will be plenty of risks, anyway,” remarked Biggles. “One of the biggest, from what you’ve told us, will be the actual landing. You see, we shouldn’t be able to do much cruising about, or word of our presence, or the presence of a strange aircraft, would soon reach the enemy’s ears. The only thing against an aircraft on a job like this, is, when it’s in the air it’s so confoundedly conspicuous. As I see it at the moment, the general idea would be to land near the objective—not too close—hide the plane, and using it as a base, operate on foot. Whatever happens there is bound to be some hiking at the fmish.”