Sir Biggles, Order of the Camel: Chapter 9.

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

“This must be it,” declared Algy, looking up from the map that he had brought from the garage.

Ginger glanced up with interest, and was more than a little disappointed to find that the “aero club” was nothing more than a small huddle of buildings concentrated at the end of what could easily be identified as a landing strip. “Is that it?” he asked, somewhat incredulously.

“We’ll see,” replied Biggles, guiding the car closer to the nearest building. As he did so the door of the building opened and a smiling figure with boyish, open features came strolling over to meet them. “Hullo. Who’s this chap, I wonder?”

The man stopped by the car, eyebrows raising in astonishment as he took note of the broken windows. “Are you Bigglesworth?”

“That’s me,” agreed Biggles.

“I’m Richardson—most people call me Rick. I’m club secretary. Raymond rang up and told me to keep an eye out for you. You’ve made good time, I must say. I didn’t expect you for another hour at least.”

Something in the way he spoke of Raymond made Biggles glance at him sharply. “Do you know Raymond?”

“Too true I do. He’s an old friend of my father’s. I understand from him that you’ve quite a tale to tell…but perhaps you’d like a spot of food first?”

“Lead the way,” invited Biggles.

&&&

Over a simple but nonetheless excellent meal, Biggles explained the situation. As it turned out, Rick knew parts of it already because Wilks had taken him into his confidence. Also, of course, Rick had been the one who had overseen the report of the crash.

“Bit awkward,” commented Rick, when the story had come to an end. “What with your machines there and him being the local authority.”

“You don’t seem very surprised,” said Algy.

“I’m not, to tell the truth. Reports sent to Congonhas have a nasty habit of disappearing when it’s convenient. The same goes for phone calls and other means of correspondence. As matter of fact, we’re still waiting for them to send a rescue party over for old Wilks…”

“What?!”

“Oh, yes. We sent them the wreckage ages ago, but they’ve yet to acknowledge receiving it.”

“They received it all right,” said Biggles grimly. “I was told the hanger it was kept in was conveniently burned down shortly before our arrival.”

Rick shrugged his shoulders. “Things have a way of doing that over there.”

“You think they were lying to us?”

“I wouldn’t say that. The hanger might have been burned down. Why it was burned down is another matter entirely. Anyway, I’d doubt that you’d be able to learn anything much from the wreckage even if you were able to see it. I had a look myself when it was brought in. It was a complete write-off. Hitting the ocean too hard can do that to a machine.”

Biggles thoughtfully tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Pity, that,” he said. “It would have been nice to know for certain if something had been done to the machine to make it crash.”

Rick shook his head. “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, well.” Biggles turned his attention to other matters. “Was it you who found the machine?”

“No, it was one of our ground crew. A native South American lad called Pedro. He knew what it was at once, of course, and came running back to the clubhouse to tell me about it. I got some of the chaps here to get the wreckage out, and then we reported to the local authorities, which is simply protocol in these parts. A few days later a truck rolled up and took the machine away. That was the last we saw of it. I expected them to send someone else down, but they never did. I did send some of my lads out, but there’s only so much ground a handful of pilots can cover.”

“I’m anxious to have a dekko at the area myself,” explained Biggles. “Would you happen to have any spare machines here?”

“Most of what we have are single-seaters,” said Rick. “We don’t have the room for bigger machines—that’s partly why we had to report the wreckage to the authorities, we had nowhere to keep the thing.”

“I wonder that they bothered to report the crash to our people at all,” mused Algy.

“Actually—” Rick looked somewhat abashed. “That was me. But anyway, back to machines. We do have a Mosquito. Will that do you?”

“Excellent. I don’t suppose you happen to have a record of the course Wilkinson was planning to take?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. He asked my advice on a few matters.”

“Then we shall certainly do the same,” declared Biggles. “I’d like to know a bit more about this Dark Island, though. Have you ever been over it?”

“I have; several times. It’s not an ideal place to land. The island itself is narrow, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliff. Most planes couldn’t get down on it—too short a runway. I believe Wilkinson had some work done to his machine for that very reason.”

“Could we land a Mosquito on it?”

“Perhaps. But you’d need to be a thunderingly good pilot. I’ve personally never cared to try it. Apart from the landing complications, the place isn’t the best one to have a picnic on. There are several volcanoes on it, and it’s a typical jungle. I imagine there would be snakes and all sorts of insects, not to mention the dragons.”

“We’ve heard of them,” stated Algy. “They’re some sort of acid-spitting lizards, aren’t they?”

“They’re quite terrifying,” was the frank reply. “A friend of mine once ran into one. You can’t shoot it, because its skin is tough enough to stop a bullet, almost. The confounded things can also run quite fast, and their aim is surprisingly accurate. Your best chance, if you run into one, is to shoot for the eyes. Those are the only truly vulnerable spots.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” promised Biggles, grimly. “Well, it’s too late to fly tonight. I suppose the best thing we can do is go to bed now and go out first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll tell the lads to ready the Mosquito for you.”

“Thanks,” said Biggles briefly.

&&&

Early the next morning, Biggles, with Ginger, took the Mosquito into the air, holding his map in his lap so he could trace Wilks’ course. “We should be back for lunch,” he told Algy, as they walked out to the machine together. “But don’t panic if we’re not. Give us until tonight, just in case. If we’re not back by tomorrow morning you’d better get Rick to lend you another machine and come after us.”

“All right,” said Algy. “Watch how you go.”

They had been airborne for almost an hour now, and Biggles leaned forward with interest, for now they were nearing the Island. It had been Rick’s opinion that the machine had crashed somewhere near to the island, and the wreckage carried to the coastline by the tide. “Keep your eyes open,” he said to Ginger. “I suppose it’s too much to expect to find something on our first trip out, but that doesn’t mean we can’t.”

“OK, chief.”

Biggles circled slowly, going as low as he dared so as to give Ginger the best possible view of the Island. He noted that Rick had spoken the truth when he had said that it would be a hard place to land. The few open spaces he deemed were large enough to land on were often broken by what looked like marshes. Also, the ground was not smooth: it was covered with stones of various sizes, and he shuddered to think what would happen if he hit one during landing, if he ever had need to land.

“See anything?” he asked Ginger, after ten minutes or so had elapsed.

“Not a thing.”

“It would be interesting to know,” remarked Biggles, “whether Wilks was coming or going from the island when he crashed. In other words, had he already been on the island, or was he just getting ready to land?”

“Beats me.”

“Well,” concluded Biggles. “It’s no use hanging about if there’s nothing to see. Let’s be getting back. We’ll have to come back in separate single-seaters and split up to cover more ground.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Ginger, settling back for the return journey.

And that was when danger struck.

Goto Chapter 10.

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