Chapter 16 - Beware the Ides of March

The first flickers of light were shredding the eastern sky when Tug and Angus took off on their dawn patrol. Mindful of the mountains nearby, they gained height speedily. Soon it was possible to discern landmarks. Angus, sitting beside Tug, who was piloting, glanced briefly in the direction of the plateau. He stiffened.

'Someone else in the sky,' he said. 'That looks like a plane.'

'More than one,' assessed Tug but his casual comment soon turned to real concern. 'That's a Mig,' he gasped, a second or so later. 'There's another behind it. They've taken off. Radio Biggles quickly.'

Angus began to send off the signal. Suddenly Tug wrenched the controls over and streams of tracer flashed past them.

'They've seen us,' he grated, unnecessarily. 'Are they answering?'

'Not yet.'

Angus continued to send his signal.

'They are now,' he reported in relief and hastily transmitted his message. Tug banked again but a second Mig had joined the hunt and they flinched as the Gadfly rocked under several hits.

'We're being attacked,' Angus said and gave their position.

'I can't hold her,' Tug cried. 'I'll try to get down on that glacier.'

The Gadfly plunged earthwards, its port engine now on fire, and Angus desperately reported what they were trying to do. The plane missed a jagged peak by a matter of yards and skidded down a slope, sending snow cascading all around it, before sliding across a flatter area and juddering to a halt in a huge drift. The Migs continued on their way; the two men in the Gadfly slumped in their seats; the fire, smothered by the snow, was extinguished and a long and deep silence settled over the sombre scene.

Biggles burst into the mess where the others were in the midst of an early breakfast.

'Scramble,' he cried. 'They're airborne.'

Bertie, in the process of drinking a cup of tea, spluttered and almost choked.

'But, I say, you know,' he protested, jumping to his feet. 'That's three hours ahead of schedule.'

'Nevertheless they've taken off. Angus just radioed through. Either they got wind of us or we've been given the wrong time by an ultra-cautious security. If the latter, they've been too clever by half this time. Are the aircraft ready?' he called to Smyth, who was standing by the planes.

'All set to go, sir,' he called back, a little startled at their hasty approach.

Four Hunters took off rapidly and headed northwest. Fast as they had been, it was ten minutes since Angus had radioed and that meant the Migs had a good start. Biggles hoped the landing on the glacier had gone successfully – the transmissions had ceased.

High in the sky and with a rising sun behind him he had hopes that they would not be seen. The slant of the South Island meant that they would now be hard pressed to intercept. He scanned the sky ahead, looking for the telltale specks that would reveal the Migs. He cursed inwardly, feeling that he had mismanaged the business badly. If the plan was not to shoot down the President, or whoever was flying to Australia, but merely to make a pretence of an attempt to heighten Cold War tension and accelerate the arms race, then it was important that the Migs should not be seen. That aim seemed doomed to failure now.

There they were! Eyes honed by decades of flying experience picked out four dots and vapour trails ahead of him and he groaned aloud at the lead they had. They would certainly not catch them now. Perhaps von Zoyton had received the news at Auckland, though what he could do on his own, outnumbered four to one, he didn't know.

For an hour or more they flew on, gaining slightly but not significantly. Below, the northern waters of the Tasman Sea, merging with those of the Pacific, took on a lighter hue as the sun rose higher. Ahead, a bank of clouds loomed and the Migs made for this. They were soon through but suddenly Biggles blinked. Where there had been four aircraft, now there were only three; one, he realised had peeled off in the cloud. Evidently they had been spotted. He detailed Ginger to intercept.

Now the planes seemed closer; in fact they were coming back. Far below Biggles caught a distant glimpse of a whaler. Of course the attack must appear to come from the north; it would not be logical for it to be launched from New Zealand.

The distance between the two sets of planes decreased rapidly. Flashes from the Migs indicated that they had opened fire, the extreme range showing their inexperience. Biggles fired a warning burst himself, hoping this might persuade them to turn back, then banked towards the sun. They came on, making a dogfight inevitable and causing Biggles to hope that the experience he and the others had gained would outweigh the inevitably slower reactions he now must have.

The Migs swerved to meet them and opened fire again. Biggles anticipated the moment and swung out of the way. Tracer streamed past his wing tip. Before the other plane could adjust, Biggles had fired his own burst, raking the plane as it tried desperately to manoeuvre and watching dispassionately as it spiralled out of control and plunged into the water below. Looking around he noticed a parachute descending and another Mig out of action. Flying alongside the Hunter, he saw Algy give the thumbs up sign. The third Mig had pulled out of the conflict and was heading back north with Bertie in hot pursuit.

'Now for Ginger,' Biggles muttered and swung back to the south. The sight that met his eyes horrified him. Ginger's plane was down but he had managed to bale out. The Mig though was turning towards him and its intentions were all too plain.

'The murdering swine,' Biggles grated and coaxed every bit of speed he could from his Hunter, though it was inevitable that he would be too late. Just as Ginger's fate seemed sealed, though, tracer pierced the air from another direction. A new Hunter had entered the fray and was attacking the Mig. Ginger continued to descend and Biggles noted his position, radioing to the air-sea rescue flying-boat, that ought to be already on its way. He watched the duel before him, fascinated. The two aircraft were locked in a tightening circle, each trying to gain an advantage on the other. For a moment it was stalemate. Biggles wondered if he should take a hand but he didn't want to lose sight of Ginger and continued to circle round above him.

He was just wondering how this would end and was about to order Algy to join in when the Hunter suddenly appeared out of the circle and behind the Mig.

'How the heck did he do that?' wondered Biggles, for, though he had been watching intently, he must have glanced down at Ginger for the crucial second. The Hunter's guns blazed and the Mig went down.

'Von Zoyton!' breathed Biggles. 'That's the old trick he perfected in the war. It nearly did for me in the desert years ago and he's obviously still mastered it. No better time for it to come in useful. Strange,' he mused briefly. 'Von Stalhein now a friend; von Zoyton an ally.'

Ordering Algy forward to see if he could guide the flying-boat in, he turned his attention to Ginger, now plunging into the sea, and noticed with relief that his life jacket had inflated satisfactorily. Von Zoyton came beside him and Biggles gave the thumbs up sign. The German nodded stiffly and gave an ironic smile. With the Migs either shot down or fled, it was now a matter of waiting for the seaplane to arrive. That it was in the vicinity, he ascertained from his radio.

In the event, it was almost half-an-hour before it came into view but, with Biggles marking the spot, it swished down precisely and soon Ginger was being helped aboard, turning to wave at him as he did.

Biggles radioed the seaplane and asked it to try to find the Mig pilot who had baled out, partly from a sense of humanity and partly because the man could be a useful witness against the syndicate.

'You may have opposition,' Bertie said, listening in. 'My one turned tail and beetled off. Poor show! Then its pilot ditched it just by that whaler and waited to be picked up.'

'I'd wondered what they were going to do with the planes after the attack – there's nowhere else to land for miles and they obviously wouldn't head back to New Zealand. The escort would clearly break off the engagement quickly to stay close to the President so, as long as they fled after just a couple of bursts, they'd be all right. It means the Migs disappear without trace. No chance for the Soviets to claim they weren't theirs.'

'The pilots, too, old boy,' Bertie added seriously. 'When that poor blighter splashed down, the whaler opened fire on him. No planes, no pilots, no evidence!'

'The murdering hounds,' growled Biggles. 'Did they know you were around?'

'They must've done. Nothing I could do about it. Couldn't open fire, could I? Might be a pukka Russian whaler; then where would we be? Even if it is full of Pedersen's mates.'

'This makes it crucial that we get to that pilot before the whaler. He's the last one left,' snapped Biggles. He waved urgently at von Zoyton.

'I have been listening,' the German assured him and the three Hunters headed north again, with the seaplane behind them.

When Angus came to, his first conscious act was to try the radio. It was dead but he was not, he realised with a surge of relief and some sluggish movements beside him showed that Tug had survived too.

'How are you?' Angus asked, anxiously.

Tug opened his eyes, bemused for the moment, then becoming aware.

'Thought we were heading for topsides then,' he admitted with a wry smile. 'Looks like we've got away with it again.'

'I've wrenched my neck badly,' Angus informed but otherwise I don't think there's any serious damage done. Anything broken?'

'Don't think so. The brakes were fully applied. We can't have been moving at more than about twenty or thirty when we hit the drift. The floats probably helped, too. Snow's only thick water when all's said and done.'

'We've been lucky. Any ideas about what to do?'

'Nothing we can do except sit and wait. We're not likely to catch fire again with all this snow and it's far too cold to step outside. In fact it's chilling up in here too. Let's hope your final message got through.'

Angus listened carefully.

'That sounds like an aircraft now.'

'Too soon,' grunted Tug but as the noise grew louder, he changed his mind. A blue and white Cessna was coming into land, its skis swishing across the snow towards them, slowing to a halt not far away. Angus and Tug struggled to leave the Gadfly, by no means an easy task with snow caked against the door. Two familiar slim figures ran towards them.

'We meet again,' said Worrals.

'Och, lassie, but you're a sight for sore eyes,' said Angus.

'There's another plane coming in case you can't walk,' Worrals explained, 'but we were already in the air so we came right away.'

'So we haven't been here long,' said Tug.

'It's been about twenty minutes since we picked up your message.'

'Is that all? Then we must have been out for only a few minutes. Thanks.'

'Aye, we're very grateful,' added Angus.

'Glad to return the compliment,' smiled Frecks. 'Makes a change for us to rescue you. I'm sorry to see the end of the Gadfly, though. It's like losing an old friend.'

Once the women had pulled away the snow from the doors, Tug and Angus gingerly struggled out and limped towards the Cessna. Settling the two men in the ski plane, Worrals took off and radioed that all was well.

It didn't take long for the Hunters to find the whaler and it was clear that it had already found the pilot for, as Biggles watched, two shots rang out. Seconds later he was diving on the boat, raking it fore and aft and causing the sailors to rush for cover. Bertie followed him in, firing a few more shots to discourage anyone planning to emerge and von Zoyton followed suit. By the time he had finished Biggles was swinging round again. This was too much for the whaler, which started to move away. Blood in the water showed that the man had been hit and it was a great relief when the seaplane arrived just as a telltale black fin was speeding towards the spot. Ginger deterred it with a shot from his automatic. Other sharks now appeared but the flying-boat crew managed to get the wounded pilot on board before they could get to him; indeed they began to attack the bleeding body of one of their fellows that Ginger had managed to hit.

Biggles made contact with the plane as soon as it took off.

'How is he?' He asked Ginger who came on.

'Still alive but only just. Bullets through the chest, shoulder and leg, I think. We're doing what we can for him but it'll be touch and go.'

'Do we sink the whaler?' asked von Zoyton.

'I'd like to,' Biggles replied grimly, 'but what Bertie said earlier still stands. It looks as if we've managed to avert one international incident; we don't want to start up another. Pity we can't arrest the crew but I don't see how we're going to do that. Let's be getting back.'

Algy joined them after a while and they landed at Auckland an hour or so later, partly to refuel and partly to oversee the progress of the pilot, who would surely be willing to co-operate after the treatment he had received. Biggles arranged with the local police to mount a round-the-clock guard on him and then flew back to Christchurch to find the others awaiting them. It was now mid-afternoon and the gathering included Marie, who had arrived moments before after her long drive.

Once they were seated comfortably in a room at the base, Algy shared some news.

'We were just in time,' he announced. 'I came up with the presidential jet and its escort only a few minutes after leaving you.'

'Did they see you?'

'Very much so. One of the jets detached itself and came alongside me. I waved as he drew closer. He glowered and indicated the radio. I rummaged through the frequencies and picked him up.'

'Gudday,' I greeted in my best New Zealand accent.

'Keep clear Buster,' he said aggressively.

'Give my regards to the president,' I said casually.

'Who said anything about a president?' he choked, taken aback.

'Common knowledge,' I said.

'Where d'ya get that story from?'

'That's for you to find out. We got the timing from the opposition, incidentally. Their intelligence seems to know rather more than ours. Fortunately, there aren't any Russians around to frighten you. Plug your leaks, Buster. Your security's like a sieve.'

'And with that,' Algy concluded, 'I peeled off and came back, I hope with the result that they'll find our syndicate's informant.'

'As long as he thinks you were just there as a precautionary measure with nothing definite to go on.'

'You may be sure I didn't mention the Migs,' Algy confirmed.

'You've had more excitement than we have,' reported Gimlet. 'The raid was a washout. No planes, just a few bewildered workers. No resistance at all. The police drew a blank at the motel; just the motel owner and his wife, who claimed they had no knowledge of what was going on at the back of the property four miles away. The people in the farmhouse also pleaded innocence. Our young couple and all their chiefs left in the night, no-one knows where.'

'Slipped through our fingers, by gad,' groaned Bertie.

'Well we thwarted the grand design,' said Biggles, 'and without serious casualties too. Thanks to you, von Zoyton. You haven't forgotten your old skills, I see.'

The German bowed and gave a little smile.

'Your abilities have similarly endured,' he complimented, formally. 'You were the only man ever to defeat me in the air. It is pleasing to fight with you, for once.'

'I'm glad, too,' Biggles acknowledged. 'That rat would have strafed Ginger but for you. We're very grateful. You're making a habit of arriving in the nick of time.'

'The question now, old boy is where have these bally crooks gone,' said Bertie.

'Maybe they wanted to be off the scene when the balloon went up,' commented Algy, 'so they wouldn't be implicated.'

The phone rang. It was the hospital in Auckland. After emergency surgery a surgeon gave the wounded pilot's chances of survival as fifty-fifty. He hoped the man would be able to talk to Biggles soon.

'The police in Auckland will probably question him but I'll fly up as soon as he can speak,' Biggles decided.

He rang off and turned to the others.

'Meantime we have to find our white devils.' he said. 'But where?'

Marie now joined the discussion.

'Will you need me at the university?' she repeated. 'That's what I overheard in the restaurant.'

'Which university?' queried Biggles. 'There must be more than one.'

'Not many old boy,' said Bertie. 'Just a couple in the South Island according to what I read; plus an agricultural college not far from here.'

'Then a couple of phone calls should tell us all we need to know.'

It was not long before he returned.

'There are conferences going on in the universities in both Christchurch and Dunedin,' he reported, 'but the most hopeful one is the closest: an international conference on the works of the immortal bard – Shakespeare no less. Let's mosey along and peek at the participants. We may find some of them are familiar.'