Part 13 (1/2)

'I think so. You will remember Doctor Wung Ling? I flew him out to China not so long ago to salvage his father's treasure chest.1 When we parted he a.s.sured me that if at any time I needed his help he was at my service.

That wasn't idle talk, either.'

'Go on.'

'That's all. Having got the necessary gen on the set-up, I should choose my time to go ash.o.r.e and collect Ross.'

'You make it sound all very simple.'

'There's no sense in stock-piling difficulties before they arise. If I did that I'd never do anything. The longer you look at a mountain the bigger it looks.'

'Very well. Let's say you find Ross. What about the other fellows?'

'I've said that would depend on the number. If there were a lot I couldn't cram them into an aircraft. There are Commandos in Korea.

They've made several raids. That means they have landing craft. They might co-operate by standing by to pick up extras.'

'That means bringing the army into it,' protested the Foreign Office man.

'If there was fighting there would be casualties. Our troops would be recognised. What excuse would we have for landing on neutral territory?'

'Excuse!' breathed Biggles. 'Stiffen the crows! Has it come to this, that we have to have an excuse for getting a British soldier out of a foreign jail? This talk of excuses binds me rigid. All right. Have it your own way. We'll be civilians. If I decide I need more men I know one who'll come with me. He's an old hand at the game. Believe you me, by the time he's finished with it there won't be much left of this lying propaganda dump.'

The Air Commodore's eyes went to Biggles' face. 'Who are you thinking of?'

'Gimlet King.'

'I thought so.'

'He'll knock off hunting foxes for a while when I tell him what's cooking. He and that crazy gang of his should be useful. They're all civilians now.'

'It isn't quite regular,' objected the Foreign Office man anxiously.

'Regular! Suffering Icarus! What has regularity got to do with it? The trouble with us is, we're a thundering sight too regular. All we get for that is a kick in the pants. Don't talk to me about regulations!'

'We don't want to start a war with China.'

'Listen,' said Biggles, speaking distinctly. 'When I was a kid I hated war. And I haven't changed. But how have I spent most of my life? In wars, big and small. Why? I'll tell you. Because, instead of settling down to a quiet life as I intended I've been pitchforked into wars started by other people who have never been in a battle in their lives.

I'm not starting anything. The other side has already done that. No doubt there are people who would like the police to pack up for fear of starting a war with the crooks, spivs and chisellers, who thrive like a lot of maggots on decent folk.'

'Steady. Take it easy, Bigglesworth,' adjured the Air Commodore. 'There's no need to get worked up about it.'

'Sorry, chief, but this sort of argument makes me tired,' muttered Biggles. 'Two nights ago I was sliding down a greasy roof in Prague. Last night I was dodging about in the Soviet Sector of Berlin. D'you suppose I do this sort of thing for fun? When I sc.r.a.pe home by the skin of my s.h.i.+ns, what do I hear but talk of excuses and regulations? Now let's get down to bra.s.s tacks. Do I go and fetch Ross or do I not? Say ”No” to that and my resignation will be on your desk in five minutes. Then I'll buy an aircraft and do the job on my own account. Afterwards I'll settle down to grow mushrooms, or tomatoes or something.'

'I don't see why you shouldn't go to fetch Ross,' said the Air Commodore awkwardly. '

But you must realise that what we are proposing is a very serious business.'

'Are you telling me? I'm the one it will be serious for if things go wrong. You gentlemen may lose your jobs. I shall lose everything from my neck up. I'm going to fetch Ross. I told him I would and no one is going to stop me. If the government wants the lid putting over the big mouth of the propaganda works at Kratsen I'll do it at the same time, if it's possible.'

The Air Commodore looked round. 'I'll take responsibility for my Department,' he said quietly. 'What about you? You need know nothing about it if you feel that it may involve you in trouble.'

Major Charles nodded. 'I have an interest in the affair,' said he. 'Go ahead.'

The Foreign Office official shrugged. 'I can't sanction the raid, of course; but I can shut my eyes.'

The Air Commodore turned back to Biggles. 'There's your answer,' he said.

'Make your own arrangements. I'll do my best to get you anything you think you're likely to want.'

'You've no objection to me bringing in Gimlet King?'

'None at all. You'd better keep quiet about that, though. Let me know when you're ready to move off'

'I'll do that,' promised Biggles, and left the room.

He walked back to his office where the others were awaiting the result of the conference.

'Okay,' he said. 'We're going to fetch Ross. Ginger, get Gimlet King on the phone for me.

If he isn't at home, you'll probably find him at the Ritz.'

Algy's eyes opened wide. 'Is he coming with us?'

'I hope so.'

Bertie whistled. 'My word! This is going to be a jolly little frolic,' he murmured.

CHAPTER XI.

Wung Ling Reconnoitres.

Ginger lay flat on his stomach and stared into a tenuous mist that was beginning to rise from the salt-marsh that spread away in front of him for as far as his probing eyes could reach. A crescent moon hung low in the heavens, turning the mist into a semi-transparent film that made it impossible to judge distances. Nothing was distinct. All that could really be seen clearly was the tops of coa.r.s.e gra.s.ses that made a fringe at right-angles to his body. To left and right the scene was much the same, except in a few places where the dunes that lined the Manchurian foresh.o.r.e of the Yellow Sea broke into gentle undulations. From behind came the gentle lapping of tiny waves expiring on a broad, sandy beach, that swung round on either hand in a vast curve that ultimately lost itself in the gloom of distances unknown.

Beside him, in a similar position, lay a figure of about his own build, chin on hand, also gazing fixedly into the same vague landscape. This was 'Cub' Peters, ex-commando, and junior member of the famous war-time troop known as King's Kittens.

For a long while neither had spoken. Apart from the fretting of the sea upon the beach the only sound that broke the eerie silence was the occasional melancholy call of a sea-fowl.

Ginger looked at his watch. 'He should be here by now,' he whispered.

'I hope he hasn't lost his direction in this confounded fog,' answered Cub. 'It's easily done.'

'He's got a compa.s.s.'