Biggles and the Black Raider Read online

  This was such a sensible plan that Biggles agreed to it forthwith. In the ordinary way, Mishu, knowing nothing of air observation, would merely be so much extra weight to carry. If he was needed for a specific job he could always be brought back.

  The upshot of the conference, then, was this. Mishu would be planted at Latonga, on the Black Elephant's presumed route northward, while the aircraft would maintain contact with him between a regular schedule of watching the wild territory in the region of the West Rift alley.

  "You might as well take Mishu up right away," Biggles told Ginger. "We shall then be all clear to start a reconnaissance shuttle-service tomorrow morning. Take the Auster and fly a compass course to Latonga. It isn't much more than a couple of hundred miles so you should get back easily before sundown."

  "Fair enough," agreed Ginger, glad to have something to do, and proceeded forthwith to carry out the order. In twenty minutes he was in the air, with Mishu as passenger, heading northward over the dry, sparsely-wooded terrain that had become familiar. The weather was fine, and appeared to be settled, so he expected no difficulty. Nor was he disappointed, and in due course he set his passenger down on the rough Government landing-ground. It took him a few minutes to locate the actual landing-strip, as the whole area was in the nature of a plain and the only identification marks consisted of a white circle, largely overgrown, a tattered wind-stocking on a dead thorn tree, and the rest-house, which happened to be half concealed under some acacia scrub. However, after circling for a little while he spotted the white ring which told him all he needed to know. Mishu got out of the machine and waved good-bye; and Ginger was about to take off again forthwith when there occurred one of those incidents, apparently trivial at the time, which can have results so far-reaching, so catastrophic, that not by any stretch of the imagination could they be foreseen.

  CHAPTER 5 VISIBILLITY ZERO

  OUT of the rest house, a primitive-looking building comprising a single long room with a thatched roof and an-earth floor, stepped a white man, a youngish man dressed in the conventional tropical kit of a white hunter in Central Africa. It was well worn and had obviously seen a lot of hard work, so Ginger, who naturally got out of the machine to pass the time of day, was not surprised to learn that the stranger was, in fact, an assistant game ranger. His name was Simmonds, and it turned out that he had been sent to the locality to deal with a leopard which, according to a complaint, had advanced from cattle raiding to attacking human beings. Simmonds had been there for three days but so far he had seen nothing of the leopard. He still hoped to get on terms with the beast.

  Ginger, of course, stayed on to have a chat, in the first place to ascertain if the game ranger had heard anything of the Black Elephant (which he had not) and later, over a cup of tea, to listen to a recital of the strange things that cap happen to a man who spends his life among African big game. Simmonds told him that there was still a lot of poaching going on in the district, notably of elephant and rhino; and he was afraid that it would continue until the people primarily responsible, the unscrupulous traders who bought the ivory, were laid by the heels. The native population would of course, do nothing to help, as they profited by these transactions. Simmonds was of the opinion that somewhere in the background there was a white-man who was the real cause of the nuisance.

  The outcome of all this was, Ginger dallied much longer than he intended. In fact, it was only when he noticed some heavy clouds rolling down from the northeast that he looked at his watch and realised how much time had slipped past unnoticed. Mishu had disappeared, so, after thanking his host for his hospitality and wishing him good hunting, he walked briskly to the Auster, took off and headed south.

  Up to this point he was not in the least concerned either with the time he had lost, which after all was unimportant since he had nothing else to do, or with the approaching storm clouds, even though they were beginning to look ugly. If they overtook him—well, he had flown through storms before, and expected nothing worse than a buffeting with reduced visibility. If any blame could be attached to him for what followed it was the result of this confidence. Where he was at fault, as he was soon to tell himself, was in failing to notice a change in the direction of the wind, and its velocity. In short, he omitted to check his drift until the mischief had been done.

  The storm was upon him before he perceived, with the first twinge of alarm, that it was no ordinary affair, either in size or violence. A mighty mass of towering cumulus, indigo in colour and lacerated by forks of lightning, came bearing down on him from almost due east.

  Even before it struck him he knew that he was in for trouble, for the pressure of air being packed and thrust before the mass of moisture began to toss the light aircraft about as if it had been a feather. The engine groaned in protest.

  Ginger looked down hurriedly in the hope of seeing a landmark that he could recognise. There was none. What was worse, he had an uncomfortable feeling that the ground was new to him. It was much rougher than anything he had seen on the way out. Confirmation of this came when, before the storm blotted out everything, he observed that his westward drift was nearly as fast as his forward speed. How long he had been drifting he did not know, but it was obvious that he must be many miles off his course. By this time he was more than a little worried. And when, to cap all, he remembered that he had not "topped-up" his tanks before taking off, his alarm moved nearer to fear. Already he was running on his auxiliary tank. He found small consolation in the fact that in normal conditions he would have had an ample margin of petrol. He began to look at his gauge, already low, more often.

  His compass was now swinging wildly, so in what direction he was actually travelling he did not know. His nose pointed to the east, or what he thought was the east; but not knowing the speed or the direction of the storm, which might be cyclonic, he was by no means sure of it. Aside from that, it was soon taking him all his time to keep the machine on even keel. Again and again the control column was nearly wrenched from his hand as a blast of air struck the underside of a wing and threatened to turn him over. The sensation was as if he was sailing invisible mountainous seas. He could no longer see anything except dark grey mist tearing past, so he was not always sure of the position of the aircraft in relation the ground. Thunder boomed, drowning the drone of the motor. Lightning illuminated the cabin with a ghastly glare.

  There is a common impression that airmen fear nothing: that they take this sort of thing as all part of the day's work: that they battle with meteorological phenomena with a song on their lips: that they have all the equipment necessary to deal with such emergencies. True, modern machines are well equipped, but the cold-blooded employment of it when the aircraft is being blown about like a scrap of thistle-down, is not so easy as it might

  appear from text books on the subject. No, the truth is, in such conditions as those in which Ginger now found himself, most pilots are badly shaken, and wish fervently that they were safely on the ground.

  Ginger was, and he would have been the first to admit it, scared rigid, as he had every reason to he, for he was well aware that he was fighting for his life. Not only was he exceedingly doubtful about the outcome of it, but there was really very little that he could do about it. Forces outside his control had him in their grip, and whether or not he survived was largely a matter of chance. All he could do was keep his head and hope for the best. With plenty of air space, and fuel, it would have been bad enough; but having little of either he was white to the lips with strain and anxiety. He knew he was far to the westward of his true course, and in that direction, as Biggles had so recently explained, lay the big mountains. As an airman might put it, the clouds around him might be expected to have rocks in them. Mount Stanley, nearly seventeen thousand feet, could not be far away. With his limited fuel supply he couldn't hope to get above it. His altimeter, set for Kampala, registered seven thousand feet.

  The thought of Kampala reminded him that he ought to try to let Biggies know what was happening, if
he could make contact, which seemed doubtful in view of the distance he was from his base plus the electrical disturbances of the storm. He soon gave it up as hopeless. Any signal which at such a range would be weak; were drowned in the vicious crackles of the electrical discharges that were going on around him.

  For what he judged to be about twenty minutes, although it may have, been less, he battled his way through the heart of a tropical storm of a violence beyond his experience. He could see nothing, above, around or below, except billowing masses of grey vapour racing past his cockpit. From time to time, rain, and hail, lashed the aircraft like a thousand whips, with a noise that made him wince. It amazed him that the machine could take such a pounding and still hold together.

  Then, slowly, as if with reluctance, it became lighter. This told him that he was through the worst and gave him new hope. He was, of course, still striving to get back to somewhere near his proper course, although he knew that it must be far to the westward of his position. Staring ahead through the streaming windscreen he saw what appeared to be another mass of cloud bearing down on him. It was an unusual triangular shape, and very dark. Only at the last moment did he realise that it was too dense to be a cloud; that it was in fact a mountain into which he was flying. Cold from shock he swung away and saw the mass glide past his wing tip like a monstrous apparition. This settled any doubt as to his position. He was in the mountains. His eyes switched to his petrol gauge. The needle was down to zero. At any moment the engine would cut, and then, whatever result, he would have to go down. There was no longer any hope of climbing out of danger.

  Quickly, he decided to save his last drop of petrol for dire emergency. He throttled back, eased the joy-stick downward,. and began to glide. He had to brace himself to do it, for, still flying "blind," he had no idea of how far he could d go without colliding with the earth. The altimeter was useless. It still registered seven thousand feet of height, but that made no allowance for mountains. For all he knew he might be within fifty feet of the ground. Holding his breath and straining his eyes he went on, praying that he might see an obstruction, should there be one on his line of flight, before he hit it. Twice, dimly, on either side, he saw ominous shadows in the cloud slide past. Another rose before him, forcing him to open up again.

  For perhaps another two minutes the engine maintained its customary note. Then it spluttered. It cut out, came on for another few seconds, spluttered again, and then cut, as Ginger knew, for the last time. The airscrew came to rest. He held straight on, which was all he could do, in an uncanny silence, broken only by the boom of distant thunder. For what seemed an eternity of time he stared down into the opaque bowl below him, waiting for the end.

  It came slowly. The mist seemed to harden. It became deeper, more solid, in colour. Then, through it, appeared a phantom world of uneven ground from which sprang stunted, misshapen trees and giant weeds. Easing the control column back as near as he dared to stalling point he floated down into them. At the last instant he flicked off the ignition and flattened out for a pancake landing. As the aircraft began to sink bodily he lifted his knees to his chin to prevent his legs from being trapped, covered his face with his arms, and waited for the inevitable crash. The machine checked, shuddering, as the undercarriage was wiped off. The safety-belt tightened on his stomach like an iron band. Then, with a splintering of wood and rending of fabric the Auster bored into some bushes, flinging him against the instrument panel. It tilted on its nose, and then, quite slowly sank back. Silence fell.

  Panting from shock Ginger scrambled out and stumbled into a sitting position on a pile of wet moss. And there for some minutes he sat, trembling from the shock of his ordeal but unscathed except for a bump on the forehead where it had struck the instrument board; but above all, he was wonderfully relieved to find that he was still alive.

  With the loss of his machine he was not at that moment particularly concerned. All that mattered was, he was safely on the ground in one piece. It induced that almost overwhelming feeling of thankfulness that most pilots experience at least once in their careers—unless they are very lucky.

  After a little while, feeling more normal, he took stock of his position. It was not encouraging. As far as he could make out, visibility was still confined to not much more than a hundred yards, he was on a rough plateau. One end of it fell away into a cauldron of mist. On the other three sides the ground rose sharply into the murk to an unknown height. He had only a vague idea of where he was in relation to his base. All he knew for certain was, he was well to the west of it. The last time he had looked. at his altimeter it had registered between six and seven thousand feet, so he supposed that he was lodged somewhere in the mountains at that height. The shrubs, and herbage, were unlike anything he had seen before. He took them to be the ordinary plants of the African higher altitude.

  The heavy rain had given way to a dreary drizzle. Darkness was closing in. Deciding that there was no sense in getting wet, and perceiving that there was nothing he could do for the time being, he got back into the cabin, which was still more or less in one piece, to think things over in less discomfort. One thing was evident. The aircraft would never fly again. Nor would it be possible for another machine to land anywhere near him, even supposing that he was located by Biggles, which seemed by no means certain. If ever he was to get home it looked as if he would have to walk—a prospect that depressed, but did not particularly dismay him.

  The first thing to do, obviously, was to let the others know where he was and what had happened, if that could be done. It was a big if. The radio did not appear to have suffered any damage, but the range was long and he was not sure how the instrument would behave on the ground. Against that he had altitude, which might help. Signals would

  in any case be weak, he thought; not that that would matter if he could make contact. Biggles would now by now that he must be down somewhere, although, he would be unable to do anything about it until the morning.

  He reached for the instrument and went to work sending out his call sign; but all he got back was such a crackle of atmospherics, due presumably to the proximity of the electrical storm, that he soon gave up rather than risk weakening his battery, which, without an engine, could not be recharged. It would be better to wait until the air cleared.

  Making himself as comfortable as possible in the cramped cockpit, he settled down to wait. The storm passed, although he could still hear it in the distance. Visibility improved. The moon appeared, to reveal a magnificent if rather frightening spectacle of mountain scenery. It was, Ginger thought, like being in another world. That was his last conscious impression. Tired out, he dozed off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 6 AN ILLUMINATING DISCOVERY

  NOT until a flush in the eastern sky announced the approach of another day did Ginger wake up, to discover that he was stiff with cold. Wherefore he stamped up and down for some minutes to restore life to his numbed limbs before tackling the radio again. To his great satisfaction he soon picked up a voice, which, although faint, he recognized as Algy's. Algy told him to hold on while he fetched Biggles.

  When Biggles came, Ginger, still conserving his battery, told him as quickly and as briefly as possible what had happened. He could not give his exact position; of course, but he could state his approximate altitude, which would be a guide. He also gave the time of his departure from Latonga. This, together with the direction and the

  velocity of the storm, which Biggles had seen, would be another indication. He told Biggles there could be no question of landing. The Auster was a "write-off." He was unhurt and was prepared to walk home, or to the nearest point where he could be picked up.

  Biggles told him to stay where he was until he had found him and dropped him some stores. He thought that by following the seven thousand-foot contour it should

  not be difficult. He would start right away in the Proctor. If Ginger heard the machine he was to light a smudge fire to show his position. That was all.

  Feeling better Ginger got ou
t to thaw in the welcome warmth of the rising sun, and survey the landscape in the broad light of day. It looked like being a fine one.

  As the sun banished the last shreds of morning mist a magnificent panorama was revealed, had he been in the mood to appreciate it. He was, as he suspected, on the

  broad shoulder of a mountain which rose behind and above him to a snow-capped peak. To the east, the ground fell sharply to the timber line, about a thousand feet below, where, in a more gentle gradient, the scrub met the great rain forest, which persisted until it merged into the brown face of the Central African tableland. At the base of the last foothill, a bright green band, like the hem of a skirt, was conspicuous. He noticed it with out troubling to wonder what it was. Far to the north, the sun glittered on a big sheet of water. For the rest, he too far away to make out any details. There was no sign of life, near or far; not even a bird. It struck him that he might well be the first human being to stand on that precise spot.

  By the time he had finished his survey, tidied himself, and munched a bar of chocolate from his iron rations, he heard the sound for which he was waiting; the purr, still distant, of an aircraft. Forthwith he set about lighting a fire to make smoke to show his position. This was by no means an easy matter, as everything was soaking wet. However, with some unused pages from the engine log-book, and some torn fabric dipped in oil, he succeeded in sending a column of smoke into the motionless air.

  The drone of the Proctor drew nearer, faded, and then came on again. It was some time before he saw it. When he did, it appeared round a flank of the mountain slightly above him. Almost at once it turned in his direction, the pilot obviously having seen the smoke. Ginger stood in a conspicuous position and waved. The Proctor made two low circuits round him. Then it climbed a little, and coming in on a short run, dropped a fairly bulky parcel attached to what was clearly a home-made parachute. The bundle struck the ground not far from the crashed Auster. Ginger collected it and found, wrapped in a water-proof sheet, a miscellaneous collection of stores and equipment likely to be useful to him. It comprised, among other things, tins of jam, meat, biscuits and condensed