Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 11. Escape

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.

It was thanks to a combination of Dusty’s instincts and Algy’s reflexes that Algy lived to tell the tale. The moment Von Stalhein—for of course it was he—had finished talking, Dusty had whipped up Algy’s automatic and started firing. Algy, without even thinking, jumped out of the way with the agility of a cat, landing in a crouch next to Barnes.

“Come on!” he hissed to the surprised Barnes, dragging him behind a flimsy wooden table to take cover, for by now Von Stalhein had obviously started shooting as well.

Dusty was backing towards the table as he fired, snapping off shots at regular intervals. Algy, his sightline somewhat obstructed by the edge of the table, did his best to cover Dusty, firing in the general direction of Von Stalhein with the automatic Bertie had given him.

He did not see what happened next, but he heard the German emit a cry of pain, followed by a dull thud, and then silence.

“Is he hit?” Algy yelled to Dusty, who by now had reached the table, but was not bothering to take cover.

“Yes. He’s been shot in the leg, and I think he hit his head when he collapsed. At any rate, he’s dropped his gun. I think it’s all right to come out now.”

Algy and Barnes emerged tentatively from behind the table, which bore the marks of battle and showed signs of falling apart. “Phew,” breathed Algy. “I wasn’t expecting him to show up. He’s just like a cat.”

“Friend of yours?” inquired Dusty.

“Depends on what you mean by friend,” replied Algy grimly, as he cautiously approached the prone figure lying in front of them. “I wouldn’t put it past him to bluff unconsciousness,” he muttered to himself, holding his automatic firmly as he bent down to check the German’s condition. “No. He really is unconscious. And what do we have here? Keys.” He untangled the bunch of keys that had fallen from Von Stalhein’s pocket and tossed them to Barnes. “Get busy. I’ll see to his leg.”

“Why on earth d’you want to see to his leg for?” demanded Dusty, in a whisper, as Barnes rushed off down the corridor to try the keys.

“I don’t want him to bleed to death, do I?” said Algy shortly. “Never mind; it’s just a flesh wound, anyway. Doesn’t look too serious. He’ll live, more’s the pity. Come on, let’s get to the others.”

But there was no need to get to the others, for Biggles and Ginger, closely followed by Barnes and a group of other prisoners, were making their way towards them.

“Good work,” said Biggles briefly, as Algy got to his feet. “What’s the plan?”

“Get out of the main entrance and make for the right side of the enclosure. You should see a Lanc just beyond a row of single-seaters. Bertie’s in it.”

Biggles blinked. “Bertie! Is he here as well?”

“Never mind that now,” said Algy. “Buck up. We’ve kept him waiting long enough as it is. I hope to goodness nothing’s happened to him.”

&&&

They were out of the gray prison building and making for the Lancaster when a shot rang out, somewhere close at hand. Biggles grimaced. “Give me a gun,” he said briefly, and without a word Algy pressed his automatic into the outstretched hand.

“I hope he’s all right,” said Ginger nervously.

“He’d better be,” returned Biggles, with grim humor. “Or heads are going to roll, and they won’t be mine, I can promise you.”

They proceeded in a cautious manner towards the Lanc; they could hear shouting now, and more shots. Men in uniform were running to and fro around the machine like ants on a hot stove.

“What’s going on?” muttered Dusty in confusion.

“Bertie’s in trouble,” replied Algy.

“Or not,” said Ginger, pointing. “Look. They’re running away!”

Algy looked. It was true. Even though there was a continuous wave of soldiers running and shooting at the Lancaster, more of them seemed to be running away than getting closer. “Better give him a shout,” he advised Biggles, who was in the lead.

Biggles, following the advice, let out a hail, which was immediately answered. Bertie’s face appeared briefly in the doorway of the Lanky, his monocle firmly in place, blinking as it reflected the light from outside. “Ah!” they heard his voice, tinged with obvious relief. “Thought you chaps were never coming, what?”

Biggles waved to the others to run for the plane while he covered them with short bursts from the automatic. He was the last to run for the bomber, dodging and ducking to avoid shots, gasping for breath as he all but threw himself into the machine. He was conscious of seeing Algy in the pilot’s seat, Ginger closing the door behind him, the bomber rushing forward at incredible speed, and the moment of overwhelming relief when he felt the plane leave the ground.

It took some time before he could sit up, and when he did, he found himself next to Bertie. “Good work,” he said, managing a smile. “What happened back there?”

Bertie gave him a reproachful look through the monocle. “The blighters outside started getting jolly impatient, you see, because I was in the beastly plane, and they wanted it back.”

“Yes,” agreed Biggles. “I think I got the gist of that part.”

“I had to start chucking things inside the plane at them, what? It was their own fault for being so bally steep, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” said Biggles, hiding a smile with an effort. “Just as a matter of interest, what types of things did you chuck at them?”

Bertie shrugged, taking out the monocle and beginning to polish it vigorously on his sleeve. “All sorts of things, old boy. Cigarette cases, wads of newspaper, tinned food, oh, and yes—a couple of jolly grenades, don’t you know.”

&&&

Having recovered somewhat from the breathtaking sequence of events of the past few minutes, Biggles joined Algy at the front of the plane. “How are things looking?”

“Not bad,” was the reply. “We should be crossing the Curtain in another minute or two.”

“How much juice do we have?”

Algy checked. “Not enough to make it to England. We can probably get to France without any trouble.”

“That’s good,” declared Biggles. “I’ve had just about all I can take of this place, I can tell you. I shan’t burst into tears if I never come back here again.”

“Nor I,” agreed Algy. “And I’ll tell you another thing, too. The next time I get called out on a coastal rescue, I’m jolly well bringing everything but the kitchen sink. You never know what could happen.”

In front of them, stars twinkled brightly in the night sky as the Lancaster drifted over the Iron Curtain, heading towards France.

&&&

It was almost two days later that a plane landed at air police headquarters and six passengers got out.

“What will you do now?” asked Algy, as he shook hands with Barnes and Dusty.

“Go back to the office and wait for our next assignment,” replied Dusty promptly. “Our job isn’t that different from yours, you know. We get sent where we’re told.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” said Barnes.

“Hopefully in less desperate circumstances,” agreed Algy, with a grin. “Cheerio.”

After that, there is really little more to tell. In due course, a car was sent to Dusty’s aunt’s faithful old gardener, to replace the one he had given to Algy and the others.

Reading the papers several months later, Biggles learnt of a series of revolutions that had taken place in Latvia, and subsequently he heard rumors that made him suspect that those behind the revolts were the same men who had been taken prisoner at the safe house at the same time as he and Ginger had. There were rumors, too, that Ivan, the injured man Dusty had delivered the message to, was playing a very significant role in the revolutions.

But these were all rumors and Biggles had no way of verifying them. Indeed, he had no interest in doing so, even if he had had the means. As he said to Algy, some things were better left alone unless one really had to interfere.

THE END

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 10. Algy Hatches A Plan

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.

For several minutes, Algy remained frozen in place, struggling to get over the shock of seeing Von Stalhein. Finally, with an effort, he pulled himself together. His first instinct was to run into the prison and tear down the place brick by brick until he found Biggles and Ginger, but he soon realized that this was not much of a plan.

“Better try and find out whether they’re in there or not before we do anything,” he decided, voicing his thoughts aloud for the benefit of Dusty and Barnes.

“And if they are in there, what next?” questioned Barnes.

“If they are in there, the obvious thing to do is rescue them,” replied Algy. “We’ll have to provide some sort of distraction to get the guards away from their posts, and then perhaps we’ll have a chance of getting in unseen.”

“But what are we going to use to make the distraction?” queried Dusty. “The only thing I’ve got on me is a box of matches.”

“Under some circumstances, that would be more than enough,” said Algy, with a grin. “Now—” His voice trailed off. On the far end of the prison enclosure, he could see something being wheeled out of a shed. A bomber. A Lancaster bomber.

Barnes gave him a curious look. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Algy slowly. “I’m all right.” The beginnings of an idea was forming in his mind.

“What are you looking at?”

“See that plane they’re moving out over there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a Lancaster bomber.”

Barnes shrugged. “Okay. I’ve no experience of aircraft. I’ll take your word for it. What if it is?”

“It might just a way to get home.” Algy stared at the bomber some more, working out the final details of his plan before saying briskly, “All right. Let’s get started. I’m going to find out whether or not my friends are actually in there.”

Dusty looked skeptical. “And how are you going to do that?”

“Well,” said Algy, thinking it over. “I did think of whistling, but that might be a tad obvious. I don’t want to alert the guards that I’m here. Let’s try a spot of Morse. I used to be quite good at owl imitations as a boy.”

Putting his hands to his mouth, he proceeded to send out an SOS in owl hoots.

“Okay,” said Dusty, as the sound of the hoots died away into the night. “Nothing.”

“Give it time,” said Algy, starting to send his signal again.

This state of affairs went on for about five minutes, until even Algy had started to think that perhaps Biggles and Ginger were not there. “Or perhaps Von Stalhein’s killed them,” was the unspoken thought in his mind. Aloud he said, “All right, last time.”

He sent the SOS again, and this time, to his surprise, there were a series of answering hoots. SOS.

“It’s them!” he said, almost tripping over himself in his excitement.

“Maybe,” said Barnes. “Or maybe not. Could be anyone. Another owl, even.”

“Hang on,” said Algy. “I’ll send something else.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he sent out a series of hoots that spelled out his own name in Morse.

The reply was instantaneous: O-K-O-K.

“It’s them,” declared Algy, with satisfaction, noting down the position from whence the hoots ensued. “Good. Now we can see about getting them out. Let’s start with the distraction.”

“How are you planning to make one?”

A devilish twinkle appeared in Algy’s eye. “Dusty, why don’t you go back and get the car?”

“You wouldn’t,” said Dusty, slow horror spreading across his face.

“Why not? It’ll make a lovely crash when it runs into something, and that’s all you really need for a distraction anyway.”

“What about the person who’s in the driver’s seat when it runs into something?” demanded Dusty.

“Keep your voice down. There doesn’t have to be anyone in the driver’s seat. Just aim the car at some part of the fence, use something to jam the accelerator down, and then open the door and get out. It’s not as difficult as it sounds.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to destroy the car?” put in Barnes. “We might need it to get away.”

“No, we won’t,” said Algy promptly. “We’ll be getting away in the Lanky, because I’m going to go off and steal it when everyone’s distracted by the big crash.”

“What if something goes wrong? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to keep the car just in case?”

“If something goes wrong, we’ll be in the prison, in which case it won’t matter two hoots whether we have a car or not,” replied Algy breezily. “Now go on, Dusty. Get the car. Once it hits, I shall make for the Lanc. You two will have to get inside the prison and get my friends out. Here’s my automatic. You may find it useful for getting the guards to hand over the keys. Once they’re freed, make for the bomber. I shall be in it, ready for an immediate take off. Everybody clear? All right; let’s get moving.”

&&&

Algy did not wait for the inevitable impact. Even as Dusty dove out of the driver’s seat of the car, he was already running towards the opposite end of the enclosure where the bomber stood.

He felt a twinge of worry, wondering how he would deal with any guards that had stayed behind to look after the machine, assuming that there were any. He had no weapons on him, of course, for he had given his automatic to Barnes.

“Oh, well,” he murmured to himself. “Time enough to worry about the guards when I see ‘em. They might all have gone.”

He was almost at the bomber now; a few more steps should see him close enough to touch it.

And then, most unexpectedly, something howled in the darkness, and a heavy weight dropped onto him from behind, causing him to fall and collide violently with the ground underneath him.

For a moment, Algy genuinely thought that he had been attacked by some sort of animal. But the mutterings made by his assailant soon brushed away his doubts—it was a human, all right, and by the sounds of it, someone not quite stable.

The next few minutes were a wild blur of waving limbs. At some point, Algy thought he saw an automatic being swung around, and quick as thought he thrust out an arm and gripped grimly onto the hand that held it before the butt end of the weapon could connect with his head.

“Here,” he gasped, still winded somewhat from the impact with the ground. “What d’you think—”

The weight on his chest disappeared with the speed of light. The next thing he knew, a torch had been switched on, and a beam of light shone in his face.

“I say,” said a familiar voice. “Chase Aunt Sally round the jolly gasworks, what!”

“Bertie,” growled Algy, sitting up. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to steal that bally Lanky, what? But what are you doing here, old boy?”

“I’m trying to steal the Lanc so I can rescue Biggles and Ginger from that prison building over there.”

“But I say, I thought they were supposed to be rescuing you, don’t you know?”

“Change of plans,” retorted Algy, with grim humor. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here after all. You can go on stealing the Lanc while I go back to the prison and see about helping the others.”

“Bally confusing state of affairs, what?” murmured Bertie sadly, as he turned in the direction of the Lancaster once more.

“Hang on a minute,” Algy called after him. “Do you have a spare automatic, by any chance? I’ve given mine to someone else.”

Bertie handed him the weapon in his hand without a word.

“Get inside and start her up,” said Algy, getting to his feet. “We should be along in a few minutes. If anyone tries to stop you taking the bomber, well, you’ll just have to stop them, but perhaps you’d better try something other than yowling like a cat and jumping on them.”

&&&

With Bertie’s automatic clutched tightly in his hand, Algy raced towards the prison building. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dull orange glow from the section of fence that had been hit by the car. It looked like the crash had triggered a fire, which was all the better for his plans, for it kept the guards occupied for a little longer.

The entrance was unguarded and the doors left wide open. There was no one to stop him as he ran through the deserted corridors. “Dusty!” he hissed. “Barnes! Where are you?”

He jumped as he rounded a corner and caught sight of them, just a few paces ahead of him.

“What are you doing here?” growled Dusty. “Aren’t you supposed to be stealing the plane?”

“Someone else is stealing it for me. We’d better buck up; the guards will be back in a minute. Did you find out where the prisoners are?”

Dusty pointed to a row of closed doors further down the corridor. “They’re down there. But we can’t find the keys to the cells. I suppose the guards keep the keys on them.”

Algy eyed the doors. There was a noticeable commotion from within the cells. Clearly the occupants had heard the crash earlier and were wondering what was going on.

“Should we go back?” asked Barnes.

“And do what?” demanded Algy. “Knock every guard you see over the head until you find one with the keys? Not likely.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Algy opened his mouth to answer but before he could say a word, a cold voice behind him said, “Well, Lacey. I am glad to see that you have lived up to my expectations of your very predictable behavior. Don’t move. I have a gun pointed at your back, and I can assure you, I will not hesitate to use it.”

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Algy And The Rescue Flight: Chapter 9. A Meeting With Von Stalhein

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.

Von Stalhein’s face paled as his eye fell on Biggles and Ginger. Two quick strides and he was in front of them.

It was Biggles who spoke first; the German seemed to be at a loss for words. “Well, well, Von Stalhein,” he murmured. “You do turn up in the oddest places.”

“I could almost say the same of you and your young friend,” replied the German stiffly.

“Don’t say that,” said Biggles in a reproachful tone of voice. “You’ll make me think you’re not pleased to see me. And after all the trouble I took to get here, too.”

Von Stalhein was clearly not in the mood for banter. “I know why you are here,” he snapped. For a minute Biggles’ heart nearly stopped, wondering if the German had somehow managed to capture Algy, but Von Stalhein’s next words were a welcome relief. “Where are Lacey and Lissie?”

“I really have no idea,” replied Biggles truthfully. “And really, Von Stalhein, you should know me well enough by now to know that even if I did know where they were, I would hardly be likely to tell you about it.”

“Where are the papers?”

“What papers?”

“I would appreciate it if you did not waste my time playing games,” said the German curtly. “Give me the papers you were asked to deliver.”

Biggles guessed that the papers being referred to were the ones that Algy had delivered. It seemed that despite the raid they were still at large after all. “I’m sure it will be an easy matter to ascertain that I don’t have whatever papers you’re talking about,” he said coolly. “Really, Von Stalhein. Why would I waste my time lying to you?”

“You may not have them on your person, but I have no doubt that you know where they are.”

Biggles gave a weary sigh. “For the last time, Von Stalhein, I don’t have your papers, and I never did.”

Von Stalhein’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see about that,” he said. “The commander has given orders that all of you will be shot at dawn. Should you—miraculously—remember where the papers are during the night, you might be able to postpone your meeting with the firing squad.”

“This is outrageous!” protested Biggles, but to no avail. The German gestured to two of the guards, who came forward and marched Biggles and Ginger out of the room, down a long corridor, and into a small cell.

The door clanged shut behind them and they heard the key turn in the lock.

Ginger slumped moodily into a corner. “And here we are again,” he muttered. “What were the papers he was after, do you think?”

“Probably the ones Algy has,” replied Biggles. “Well, we’re in a fine mess, and no mistake. We can’t possibly tell Von Stalhein where his precious papers are, as we don’t have the faintest idea ourselves. We can’t even bluff him into thinking that we know where they are, since we don’t know the first thing about them.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

The words hung heavily in the air and seemed to echo off the walls. Ginger put his face in his hands, trying to think. Biggles paced over to the barred window and lit a cigarette, tapping the ashes out on the windowsill as he too struggled to come up with some sort of plan.

Outside, an owl hooted, a cold hollow sound in the dark empty night.

&&&

Having bade his new friends goodbye, Bertie was left alone in the dark to stare at the Lancaster in front of him. Was there some way to get it? It seemed unlikely that Biggles and the others would be able to get home if not, not to mention the fact that Bertie himself would be stuck on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain.

There was an opening in the fence quite close to him, but this was guarded by at least four guards. In fact, there seemed to be guards milling about everywhere.

“Anyone would think there was a bally war on,” muttered Bertie to himself, taking his monocle out of his eye and polishing it absent-mindedly on his sleeve. He glanced at his watch as he did so, and was horrified to see how much time had passed. Biggles and the others were no doubt growing anxious at his non-appearance.

“Dash it, if those blighters weren’t about it should be easy enough to toddle up and fly the jolly thing away,” he growled, glaring at the guards through his once again monocled eye.

Right on cue, an almighty crash sounded at the opposite end of the fenced in enclosure, so loud that Bertie very nearly jumped out of his skin with fright. “Oh, I say!” he murmured. “What’s going on now?”

His first, quite natural, reaction to the bang was, of course, to try and find out what had caused it. As a matter of detail, he had actually begun to run towards the opposite end of the enclosure when the thought struck him that the Lancaster would no doubt have been left unguarded, as the guards had all run off to investigate the source of the crash.

Accordingly, he turned and hurried back to the bomber, panting as he ran.

But wait! What was this?

There was a man ahead of him, also running towards the bomber. Could it be that he was planning to steal it as well?

Bertie reached into his pocket and took a firm grip on his automatic. No doubt the man ahead had his own reasons for wanting to steal the Lancaster, but that couldn’t be helped. Biggles and the others needed the bomber to get home, and if that meant fighting to get hold of the machine, well, so be it.

Bertie yowled like a cat, leapt forward, and landed squarely on top of the man in front of him.

&&&

Ginger stared miserably through the barred window at the half moon outside. “What are we going to do?” he asked, for what must have been the fourth or fifth time in as many minutes. “Bertie’s due at the landing place. He’ll be wondering why we’re not there.”

“He’ll know not to land if he doesn’t see any signals.” Biggles lit another cigarette.

A silence fell in the little cell.

Outside, an owl hooted again, several times in quick succession.

“That owl seems to be uncommonly agitated about something,” observed Ginger, absently, as he went through his pockets looking for something that might help them.

“Probably seen a mouse or something.”

Another silence.

More hooting.

“That hooting’s starting to get on my nerves,” said Biggles, after a few seconds. “What’s there for it to be so excited about, anyway? And that’s just from one. I’ve a good mind to find a rock or something and chuck it at the thing to show it what I think of it.”

There was another brief silence, in which the hooting continued.

“It almost sounds like some sort of signal,” said Ginger. “Sounds a bit like Morse, don’t you think? That’s S…O…and another S. There it goes again. S. O. S.”

Biggles’ face changed. He took a step closer to the barred window and listened intently. “By Jove, lad!” he muttered. “You could be right. It does sound like an SOS, repeated over and over. I wonder who’s doing it?”

“Couldn’t be anything to do with us, could it?” asked Ginger, half-hopefully.

“Only one way to find out.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, Biggles returned the hooting with some of his own: S. O. S.

The reply came back immediately.

“That’s an A,” said Ginger. “L…G…”

“Algy,” concluded Biggles, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face. “Well, well, well. I wonder how he knew we were here. Not that it matters. No doubt he’ll tell us when he sees us. Better send something back so he knows for certain it’s us.” Cupping his hands around his mouth once more, he sent out a series of hoots: O-K-O-K.

They waited for an answer, but no more hoots came from outside.

“Is he still there, d’you think?” queried Ginger, after a minute.

“I don’t know. He’s probably gone off to plan his next move.”

“And what d’you think that’ll be?”

Biggles smiled grimly. “Knowing Algy, something crazy.”

And as if by magic, a loud crash resounded through the night.

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 8. Algy Lends A Hand

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.

Having bandaged up Ivan’s arm and made him comfortable, the party then proceeded to drive to a second safe house, for Ivan said he had to inform the occupants there of the raid that had taken place.

Algy was thinking furiously on the journey, wondering how he could possibly get Biggles and Ginger out of their predicament. With Dusty’s help, he managed to get some more information from Ivan regarding the position of the prison and what was likely to happen to the prisoners.

He checked his pockets and wondered if anyone in history had ever arranged a prison escape with only an automatic, a handful of matches, and a silver cigarette case in their pockets.

“This should be it,” said Dusty, translating for Ivan as the car pulled up in front of a small squat building. “Better let Ivan go first; we don’t want to get shot.”

Ivan got out of the car and hurried to the door, rapping on the wooden surface a rapid series of knocks that were obviously part of a code. A minute later, the door opened a crack and some words were exchanged before the door was pushed open to its full extent. Ivan turned and beckoned.

“Come on,” said Dusty.

They followed Ivan into the house, which turned out to be sparsely furnished. The only furniture in the room was a round wooden table with chairs around it. There were only two people in the room, a wrinkled old man and a younger lad of perhaps twenty-five. More conversation was exchanged at this point, after which the two occupants of the room grew considerably more agitated. The young man leapt to his feet and began gesticulating wildly.

“He’s telling them about the raid,” said Dusty, somewhat unnecessarily. “They’re saying they have to pack up and leave this place.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” acknowledged Algy. “If the soldiers knew about the first place they’re likely to know about this one too.”

“That’s all very well,” said Dusty. “But what about us?”

Barnes shrugged. “Our orders were to deliver the documents, and we’ve done that. We can do whatever we like now as far as the secret service is concerned. I vote for going home. What about you two?”

“I can’t,” said Algy. “I have to get my friends out of prison somehow. If you can drive me to a spot somewhere near the prison, I’ll stay there and do what I can for them. You two can have the car if you like; you should be able to bluff your way through, as Dusty speaks the language.”

“And assuming you get your friends out of prison, how would you be getting back?” inquired Barnes.

“Well, they definitely came by plane, and unless I’m mistaken that’s what we’ll be going home in,” declared Algy. “There’s another member of our team that I didn’t see at the safe house; he’s probably staying with the plane. That’s how we usually operate in these situations.”

“And how are you planning to get your friends out of the prison?” queried Dusty, incredulously.

“I don’t know,” admitted Algy. “That takes some thinking about.”

Dusty and Barnes exchanged a glance. “Could you use two more people?” inquired Barnes, at last. “We wouldn’t mind helping you out, if we can.”

Algy stared at them in astonishment. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. You got us out of a jam. It seems only fair that we return the favor. Besides, I reckon we’d have a better chance of getting out in a plane.”

“It’ll be all our heads on the line if something goes wrong,” warned Algy.

Barnes shrugged. “Our heads were on the line the moment we started this thing, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Algy, grinning as he clapped him on the back.

Dusty rubbed his hands. “So when do we start?”

Algy nodded towards the door. “Now.”

&&&

The bus was freezingly cold, and Ginger shivered as he snuggled lower into his coat for comfort. Biggles looked at him with some concern, but no conversation passed between the two of them. The rattle the bus made as it clattered down the bumpy roads was loud enough to drown out even shouts.

It was a relief when the journey finally came to an end, outside the doors of a gray, grim-looking building with barred windows. Expressionless guards in uniform with weapons of all descriptions milled about.

The prisoners were made to get out of the bus and form a straggling line in the clearing just in front of the building’s main entrance. Having joined the line somewhere in the middle, there was nothing very much for Biggles to do as he and the other prisoners waited for their captors to decide what was to be done with them.

Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander, and his heart leapt as he saw a row of planes in front of them, perhaps some four or five hundred yards away. He glanced at Ginger and saw that he too had seen the planes, but again neither of them spoke. Truth be told, there was nothing much for either of them to say.

After about five or ten minutes, the prisoners were led into the gray building and thrust into a large cell that already contained two or three prisoners. The door clanged shut behind them with a horrible finality.

Ginger and Biggles found themselves a place to sit just beside the door and exchanged glances.

“Well,” said Ginger. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” agreed Biggles. “Here we are.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know. I suppose someone will have to come by sooner or later to bring us some food—at least, I hope they will. Perhaps we can try something then, if there aren’t too many of them. If we can get out we should be able to steal a plane.”

Ginger cupped his chin in his hands and stared moodily at the stone floor. “I wonder what happened to poor old Algy,” he said, after a minute.

“That’s something we shall have to find out after we escape.”

Dark had fallen outside, and there was little light inside the cell to provide illumination. Time seemed to drag on slowly. An hour passed, and then another. Ginger, tired out with the day’s exertions, soon curled up against the wall and fell asleep, leaving Biggles alone with his thoughts.

Another hour passed, and then the cell door was unlocked and pushed open. Biggles jumped to his feet, and Ginger jerked awake, but it was clear from the amount of guards present that any attempt at escape would only end badly.

The prisoners were once again made to get into a line and then led into a large room.

There were three men standing at the head of the room, one, a portly man with a mustache; the second, a tall dark man with cold eyes. But it was the third man, tall and slim, with a sardonic sneer curling his lips, that Biggles’ eyes went to first.

It was Erich Von Stalhein.

&&&

It took them some time to drive to the prison. Dark had fallen by the time they pulled up a few hundred yards away from it. Algy eyed the gray forbidding building in front of them and said, “Cheerful sort of place, isn’t it?”

“It’s likely to become very cheerful if we get caught,” growled Dusty. “Come on. We’d better leave the car here; we might want it later.”

“Or perhaps not,” murmured Algy, whose eye had been caught by the row of single-seaters he could see just beyond the fence that surrounded the area in front of them. “I can see planes there. In a pinch, we might be able to fly our way out.”

“Do you seriously think that these chaps are going to let you walk up to their aircraft and just take them?” asked Dusty incredulously.

“I wasn’t going to ask them for permission,” retorted Algy, with a grin. “Anyway, come on. Let’s get a dekko at the place before we decide what we should do.”

The three of them made a quick circuit of the outskirts of the prison, keeping to the bushes and shadows to avoid detection. This took the better part of half an hour, and all of their nerves were on edge by the end of it.

“It doesn’t look like an easy place to break into,” said Barnes, doubtfully, as they retreated to a safe distance to talk the position over. “Or break out of, for that matter.”

“Anything can be broken into or out of, given enough time and effort,” said Algy, although he too was conscious of feelings of disappointment. The prison did seem to be very well guarded.

“I suppose your friends are in there?” added Dusty. “We would be in a nice mess if we broke into the place and found that they were somewhere else.”

“That should be easy enough to find out,” said Algy.

“Why? What are you planning to do, send a radio message?”

“Something like that,” replied Algy, with a grin. He walked back to the fence and was just looking back to see if the others were following when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a car drive into the enclosure from the main gate.

“Wonder who that is?” muttered Barnes.

“Likely one of the brass hats or whoever it is that runs this place,” said Algy. “Or perhaps—”

The words died on his lips. The car had just pulled up to the prison building. The passenger door opened and a man got out. Algy bit his lip to keep from crying out with surprise.

It was Erich Von Stalhein.

Go to Chapter 9.

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 7. Bertie Gets In A Fix

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.

With two days of free time on his hands, Bertie saw no reason to stay too near the Iron Curtain. Therefore, once he had dropped off Biggles and Ginger, he headed back for France, with a view to getting the machine refueled and getting a bite to eat.

Once he had done these two things and booked a comfortable room in a hotel, there was really nothing to do but wait for the agreed-upon time to arrive.

The second hand on his watch seemed to have stuck; every time he glanced at it, he was astonished at how little time had passed.

Looking over his maps, he judged that Biggles and Ginger had had ample time to reach their destination. Algy, too, assuming that he had survived the crash and the manhunt, should also have had time to reach the rendezvous point. With luck, the two parties had met up as planned and were even now making their way back to the pick-up point.

Bertie soon grew weary of waiting, and with nothing else to do, he soon found himself growing increasingly irritated with his forced inactivity.

But all things come to an end, and two days later he paid his bill, left the hotel, and took a taxi to the aerodrome where he had left the Percival.

The afternoon sky was cloudy, but that did not worry him, for he would obviously be crossing the Iron Curtain in the dark.

He was feeling quite cheerful as he turned off his lights and glided silently towards his destination, but a sudden rattle of guns jolted him out of his good mood.

Was someone shooting at him?

Someone was indeed shooting at him, two someones, in fact. Bertie scowled as two monoplanes closed in on the Percival from either side. A commanding voice boomed through his radio, but as the words were in a language unknown to him, there was nothing he could have said even had he wanted to do so.

How or why the other planes were there he neither knew nor cared; he was only concerned with getting the Percival down intact. Biggles and the others were counting on the machine to get home.

Twisting and turning to spoil the pilots’ aim—not an easy task in such a big machine—Bertie took the plane down as low as he dared, hedge-hopping ahead of the monoplanes, just barely skimming the ground.

A tree loomed up in front of him, and he flinched, banking away just in time to avoid a crash. Still the monoplanes followed, like dogs hard on the heels of a fox. Bertie growled. He muttered. There were guns on board the Percival, but he loathed to use them, not wishing to spark off an international incident. However, “These blighters really are asking for it,” he murmured to himself. “It’s too jolly steep, by jove!”

The end came suddenly—and unexpectedly. The Percival’s engine emitted a high-pitched whine, refused to respond to any of the controls, and, literally, fell out of Bertie’s hands.

&&&

The Percival hit the ground with an almighty crash and went to pieces, much like a house of cards collapsing in on itself.

For a minute Bertie sat stunned, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then, he muttered peevishly to himself and tried to find his monocle, which had fallen out of his eye during the crash. This was a task made all the more difficult as it was dark inside the plane.

Finally, after several minutes of groping aimlessly around him, he found the small sliver of glass, and was both relieved and satisfied to find it intact. Feeling that things were looking up, he polished the monocle on his sleeve, and popped it back into his eye.

This done, the next step was to get out of the plane, which was not as hard as it sounded, for the impact with the ground, or perhaps some of the bullets that had been fired, had somehow torn a gaping hole in the side of the Percival.

Bertie felt around until his questing hand fell on his torch, and then he proceeded to fill his pockets with as many useful items as possible from inside the plane. It did not take a genius to realize that the machine would have to be abandoned. No plane could fly when it had a gaping great hole on one side.

Having filled his pockets, he proceeded to clamber out of the hole, onto the ground outside. What he saw there did not encourage him. There appeared to be nothing around for miles, nothing except trees, and grass, and possibly an animal or two. There were not, for example, any cars, or shops, or any other forms of civilization.

Bertie growled some choice phrases for the unknown monoplane pilots who had shot him down. The thought that Biggles and the others could, even now, be waiting for him to turn up at the agreed spot, sent him into a mild panic. He racked his brains, hoping to come up with some sort of plan, but then realized that the best thing to do was start walking, and get as far away from the ruined Percival as possible, before the monoplane pilots and their friends came to investigate.

With this in mind, he tried to make up his mind which way he should go.

“All the ways look the bally same anyway,” he concluded, after a quick survey of his surroundings. “Might as well flip a jolly old coin and see where that takes me.”

For some reason, this absurd suggestion felt like good advice to him, and, suiting the action to the word, he took a coin out of his pocket. “Heads that way, tails that way,” he murmured, and flipped the coin into the air.

&&&

The coin landed on his palm. Bertie looked at it. Heads. “Righto, then,” he murmured to himself. “Toddle along this way.”

Having set fire to the ruined Percival, Bertie pulled his collar up against the cold, and began trudging along in his chosen direction, trying to ignore the cold and the worry gnawing at the edge of his mind.

How long he walked he did not know, but after what seemed like an eternity of walking, he saw a group of people approaching him from a short distance away.

It was too late to hide, for of course the newcomers had already seen him the same moment that he had seen them. Bertie debated whether to continue walking, or to stop and attempt to carry on a conversation with them. The decision was taken out of his hands, however, as the group of people halted in front of him, making it impossible for him to pass.

It was obvious from their clothes that they were civilians, peasants, or the like. They seemed to be in a state of great excitement, pointing at Bertie and chattering away to one another.

There were four people in the group altogether, two young boys of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, and two older men of perhaps forty or fifty.

It took Bertie a minute to realize the cause of the excitement was his monocle. Apparently they had never seen one before.

After a minute or so, Bertie grew bored of his inactivity and made as if to push past his audience, but to his surprise and annoyance, they refused to give way, staring animatedly at his face as if they were at some pantomime performance.

“I say, look here,” began Bertie heatedly. “This is a bit steep, what?”

The older of the two men smiled and swelled up with self-importance. “Iiingless?” he inquired.

“English, yes, I should jolly well hope so,” retorted Bertie, who by now was thoroughly tired of the unwanted attention he was receiving. “Now would you bally fellows mind letting me through?”

Still the English speaker did not budge. “Why…you…come…here?” he asked, drawing out the question word by word like a small child just learning to read. That he was proud of himself was evident from the way he kept casting little glances at his companions.

“I’ve come here for the bally scenery, of course,” replied Bertie sarcastically. “Jolly relaxing and all that sort of thing.”

This reply puzzled his listeners, who turned to each other with confused expressions.

“Where…you…go?”

“Anywhere,” said Bertie vaguely, and then decided that he might as well put his new acquaintances to good use. “I say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a jolly telephone, do you?”

Apparently the man’s vocabulary did not stretch to “telephone”. All Bertie got for his trouble was a blank stare.

“How…you…come…here?”

This was getting onto dangerous ground, but Bertie saw no reason to lie to his audience. Hoping that they would go away once he had satisfied their curiosity, he replied, “I fell in from the bally sky, don’t you know.” Once again met with puzzled expressions, he put out his arms in a birdlike manner and made as best an aeroplane imitation as he could under the circumstances.

“Ah!” The man’s face lit up, and he beckoned to Bertie, pointing back further down the road.

Bertie stared at him in confusion, whereupon the man took Bertie by the arm in an overfriendly manner and began to lead him down the road.

“What—let go of me!” spluttered Bertie, but his protests fell on deaf ears as the enthusiastic man all but dragged him along, the other three following along close behind them, cutting off any chance of escape.

For perhaps five minutes this curious progression moved forward. Then, abruptly, the man halted and pointed.

Bertie looked.

He was standing a few feet away from the main gate of a fenced-in enclosure, which was guarded by two grim-faced soldiers.

Just beyond the fence were rows of aircraft, monoplanes, of a similar type to the two that had shot him down earlier.

And just beyond the monoplanes was one lone plane, an ancient, but clearly still in workable condition, Lancaster bomber.

Go to Chapter 8.

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 6. Algy Works Things Out

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.

The man came up to the door and knocked. Dusty turned to the others, raising his brows in a silent question.

Algy reached for his gun. “You might as well answer it and see what he wants,” he said wearily. “There’re three of us and only one of him, so it isn’t likely that he’s going to overpower us.”

Dusty crossed to the door and flung it open. The man spoke harshly, in Latvian. Dusty answered in the same language. A quick conversation ensued, which ended unexpectedly as the man stepped forward and pulled Dusty to his chest in a firm hug.

“What in the world?” muttered Algy, exchanging a confused look with Barnes.

“This is my aunt’s old gardener,” explained Dusty. “I thought he’d moved away when my aunt died, but apparently he still lives in his old hut just down the road. He was just coming home from the market when he saw the lights on in the cottage, so he stopped to investigate.”

The old man spoke again, quietly but insistently.

“He says it’s not safe here,” translated Dusty. “There are soldiers about looking for someone. He’s seen them on the roads.”

“Three guesses as to who they’re looking for,” growled Algy. “That bonfire we made of our plane must have been seen for miles around.”

The old man caught Dusty by the arm and poured out a stream of words, gesturing to the car outside as he did so. “He says we can take the car if we need to,” said Dusty.

“That’s a sound idea,” agreed Barnes. “It’s better than walking to the place, and this document is burning a hole in my pocket as it is.”

Dusty looked reluctant. “It’s a bit wretched to take his car,” he muttered. “It’s the only means of transport he and his wife have, and it’s not likely they can get another.”

“If we get out of this alive I’ll make sure they get a new one if it’s the last thing I do,” promised Algy. “It’s not much, I know, but under the current circumstances it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

This Dusty duly translated to the old gardener, who waved away their concerns, pointing again at the car, stressing the urgency of the situation.

The old man pressed food on them as they got into the car. He also found some old cloths, and these he handed to Algy, pointing to the hastily bandaged cut on his head. Dusty hugged the old man again, and the two of them exchanged an emotional farewell before the gardener pulled away and indicated that Dusty should hurry to get away before the solders should come upon him.

Ten minutes later, they were on the road, heading for Riga.

&&&

Barnes redressed Algy’s head wound as Dusty drove, and then the two of them insisted that Algy should get some sleep whilst they took it in turns to drive the car. Algy made some half-hearted protests, but he soon gave up the battle and fell asleep in the back seat.

He woke some time later, to be informed by Dusty that they were nearly at their destination. “Shouldn’t be more than five or ten minutes,” said the younger man cheerfully.

“Thank goodness for that,” muttered Algy fervently. “We can at least do what we came here to do, which is something, anyway. Then we can worry about getting ourselves home.”

“We may have to lie low for a few days before we can do anything about getting home,” said Barnes soberly. “Still, we’ll see how it goes.”

“That’s—” began Algy, then stopped as the headlights of the car revealed a huddled figure on the side of the road. “Hold hard!” he cried. “What’s this?”

“We shouldn’t really stop,” objected Barnes, looking worried.

“That fellow’s clearly hurt,” said Algy, groping for the handle of the door as Dusty gradually pulled the car to a halt. “I can see blood on his clothes.”

He and Barnes got out of the car, Dusty following cautiously behind, and hurried over to the man. Algy reached him first, and gently touched the man on the shoulder. “Hello?” he said tentatively. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

The figure stirred and groaned, and then, with an effort, succeeded in turning itself onto its back, revealing the face of a fair-haired lad of perhaps twenty years old.

“By gosh!” cried Dusty. “It’s Ivan!”

“Ivan who?” demanded Algy, already helping the boy to sit up.

“He was the person we were to deliver the document to,” explained Dusty. “This can’t be good.” Turning to the wounded boy, he quickly murmured a question in Latvian. The other muttered a reply in the same language. Dusty’s expression became grim. “Their safe house has been raided,” he said. “One of their men was killed, and some others were captured. Ivan tried to fight the soldiers, but he was shot in the shoulder. Fortunately he had a chance to escape and he took it.”

Ivan shifted, struggling to get to his feet, panicked words tumbling out of his mouth. Dusty murmured something soothing and forced the exhausted boy back to a sitting position. Instead of calming Ivan down, this only seemed to add to his agitation.

“What’s the matter?” asked Algy.

“He wants us to go back and help the others,” translated Dusty. “Some of them are injured as well.”

“They’ve probably been rounded up by the soldiers by now,” objected Barnes.

To this, Ivan shook his head. “No, no,” he insisted, in broken English. “Some run—like me.”

The three of them exchanged glances. “I think he means that some of the other men managed to escape as well,” said Algy. Ivan nodded desperately. “Well, what does he want us to do about it? There’re only three of us, and we hardly have the resources to go up against an army. In fact, it would be a good idea to stop standing here; we might run into the soldiers.” Despite his pessimistic words, however, he made no attempt to move.

There was a brief silence. “What d’you think we should do?” asked Barnes, at length.

“Get him in the car, for a start,” said Algy, gesturing to Ivan.

“And then?”

Algy hesitated. “I’d say the best thing to do would be to get into the car ourselves and drive off as quickly as we can. However, I’m willing to take a dekko around the place to see if there’s anything we can do to help other casualties.”

“Now you’re talking,” declared Dusty.

“We can’t all go,” protested Algy. “All right, look. Barnes, you’d better stay with the car and see what you can do for this chap. Keep the engine going; we may need to leave in a hurry. I’ll take Dusty with me as he can speak Latvian and is more likely to be able to bluff his way out of an awkward situation if we run into one.”

To this Barnes agreed, and they parted ways.

Walking briskly, it took Algy and Dusty less than ten minutes to reach their destination. Fortunately, the area surrounding the safe house was densely populated with bushes, and this provided ample cover for the two of them as they crept up to the house.

They could see flames licking at the edges of the house; the soldiers must have set fire to it to destroy evidence of their raid. Algy turned his face away from the heat. It was obvious that anyone still in the house would have already been burnt to a crisp.

Instead, he turned his attention to the small group of sullen-faced prisoners that the soldiers were herding into a rickety bus that had clearly seen better days.

He was not really expecting to see anyone out of the ordinary. At the back of his mind had been the vague notion that he might be able to distract the soldiers and so help the prisoners to escape, but he soon saw that there were too many soldiers for his plan to work.

So he merely stared at the scene before him, willing his mind to come up with some sort of idea, when he was shaken out of his reverie by the sight of two very familiar faces: Biggles and Ginger.

&&&

To say that Algy was shocked would be putting it mildly. He was, to put it in his own words, completely flabbergasted. Biggles and Ginger were the last two people in the world that he had expected to see.

Was Bertie there as well? Algy quickly scanned the faces of the remaining prisoners. No Bertie. “He must have stayed with the plane,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” whispered Dusty.

“Nothing.” He was so close to his friends that had he reached out a hand he probably could have touched them, but he refrained from doing so. It would not help matters for him to be discovered and taken prisoner as well. Things were dire enough as it was.

There was nothing he could do but watch helplessly as Biggles and Ginger, along with all the other prisoners, were herded into the bus. The guards followed. There was a shouted command, and the doors closed with a sickening creak.

Algy was left staring hopelessly at the back of the fast departing bus as it clattered away down the road, almost unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. He resisted the urge to pinch himself and see if this was all some horrible dream that he had fallen into.

“What’s the matter?” asked Dusty, speaking in his normal voice now that the bus had gone. “What did you see? You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

“I feel as though I have,” admitted Algy, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Two of those prisoners were pals of mine—one of them was my chief, in fact. I hardly expected to see them here. Come on, there’s nothing more we can do here. We might as well get back to Barnes and see what to do next.”

Algy almost expected to find the car gone, so he felt an overwhelming wave of relief when he saw that it was still where they had left it.

Barnes and Ivan glanced up expectantly as Algy and Dusty approached. “Well?” said the former. “See anything?”

“Plenty,” said Algy grimly. “Amongst other things, a couple friends of mine. Dusty, ask Ivan what usually happens to prisoners in these parts.”

The question was put to Ivan, who replied that most political prisoners were taken to a prison camp a few miles away.

“And then?”

Ivan looked out the window and muttered that most of the prisoners were interrogated, and then put to death.

Algy felt the blood turn to ice in his veins. “And how soon do interrogations take place after they’re taken to the prison?”

Dusty looked uncomfortable as he translated the answer. “Ivan says all the prisoners could be put to death within two or three days.”

Go to Chapter 7.

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 5. Biggles Flies Out

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.

Biggles was grim-faced as he settled himself into the pilot seat of the Percival. “We’ve got a lot of ground to make up,” he said. “I’ve looked at the maps Marcel sent Algy. Knowing their objective, there are only two places nearby big enough to put the Auster down. One of them is on the outskirts of Riga. I’m going to go there first, as it’s the one I would have chosen under the circumstances, and no doubt it’s the one Algy would have picked as well. I won’t land unless there’s any special reason for it. I just want to take a dekko at both of the spots before we do anything else. Any questions?”

“Sounds good to me, old warrior,” murmured Bertie, looking down at the monocle in his hand almost as if he had never seen it before.

“If we see anything out of the ordinary, I wouldn’t mind going down in a brolly,” offered Ginger.

“It’s too risky,” opined Biggles. “Not to mention you’d have a long walk back if for some reason we couldn’t land somewhere close by to pick you up afterwards.”

“I’d think of something.”

“No doubt you would,” agreed Biggles. “If the worst comes to the worst you may have to, at that. We’ll see how it goes. I hope you’ve brought your thick overcoats. It’s cold out there from what I hear.”

“Algy didn’t,” said Ginger, in a dull voice.

Biggles lips tightened, but he said nothing as he eased the plane forward.

&&&

For the most part, the occupants of the cockpit were silent as the machine flew on towards Latvia.

Dark had just fallen as they neared the Iron Curtain. Biggles turned off his lights and glided in as low as he could to avoid detection. Occasionally, spurts of conversation could be heard on the radio, but as these were in a language none of them knew, there was nothing the airmen could do except ignore them.

“This should be the place,” announced Biggles, perhaps a quarter of an hour or so after they had passed the Iron Curtain. “See anything?”

“No,” replied Ginger, peering at the ground below. “Lots of people about,” he observed, noting the criss-crossing lines of light made by multiple torches. “I wonder what they’re doing?”

“Most likely thinking up ways to make it warm for us if we don’t leave in a hurry,” opined Biggles, with grim humor.

“I say, old boy, what’s that bally lump over there?” asked Bertie, adjusting his monocle as he pointed to a blackened mass on the ground slightly in front of their sightline.

“I don’t know,” said Biggles. “Let’s take a look.” So saying, he eased the plane forward and lost a little height. “We’d better be quick about it,” he muttered, as the chatter of machine-gun fire broke out below. “They’re getting excited about us and no mistake.”

“It looks like an aircraft.” Ginger’s voice was almost a whisper as they neared the object in question.

“It is an aircraft,” agreed Biggles grimly. “And not just any aircraft, either. I’d say we’re looking at the remains of our Auster. It’s been burnt out.”

Ginger licked his lips. “What d’you think happened to it?”

“Either it caught fire when it landed, or someone set it on fire afterwards.” BIggles’ voice was hard.

There was a pause.

“If we get the chance, someone’ll have to tell Raymond not to list this place as a potential landing spot,” said Biggles.

“Why d’you say that?”

“Look at the plane,” invited Biggles. “Have you ever seen a plane land like that, almost head over heels on itself?”

“You don’t mean—”

“That landing ground’s been trapped. Even if the men weren’t around, we can’t risk going down anywhere near here. The whole place may be covered with wires for all we know.”

“But what about Algy?”

“Well, he’s either still in the plane, or he’s been captured by those chaps below, or he managed to escape. I’d say the latter is more likely. They wouldn’t be wasting their time walking around the place if they’d got him, or if they’d found him in the plane. They’ve got dogs with them, too—that’s another hopeful sign.”

“So what now, old warrior?” queried Bertie, as Biggles banked steeply and turned around from the trapped landing ground. “Are we leaving?”

“We certainly are,” asserted Biggles. “It wouldn’t help Algy if we got ourselves shot down. I’m going to make for the other landing ground. I hope to goodness that’s safe to land on. Assuming Algy escaped, he’d most likely make for the rendezvous point to deliver the document, so I think the best plan is to go there first.”

“But what if Algy’s injured?” protested Ginger. “Maybe I could go down in a brolly somewhere and see if…?”

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Biggles irritably. “You’d be caught in a second, with all eyes on this plane. And even if you didn’t, how would you get in touch with us, anyway? If we fail to find Algy at the rendezvous, we’ll make our way back here on foot. There’s less chance of getting caught, as the men will probably have gone by then.”

“All right,” agreed Ginger, but his eyes nevertheless strayed back to the burnt Auster below as they sped away.

&&&

It did not take long for them to reach the second landing ground.

“It looks all right,” said Ginger, after Biggles had circled the area twice, clearly reluctant to land.

“No doubt that’s what Algy thought before he landed the Auster,” replied Biggles grimly. “We can’t afford to take chances with this machine. If we have a crack-up on the ground we’re going to have a long walk home. Anyway, hold on. Here we go.”

Every nerve in Ginger’s body seemed to tense as Biggles began the descent. He breathed a sigh of relief as the plane bumped to a wobbly, but upright, landing on the ground. “We made it.”

“That’s a jolly start at least,” agreed Bertie.

“Don’t start celebrating yet,” cautioned BIggles, although he too looked obviously relieved at the successful landing.

“What now, old warrior?”

“Well, we can’t leave the plane here. Daylight’s only a few hours off, and someone would be bound to see it. One of us will have to fly the plane to somewhere safe while the other two do some legwork. Bertie, you’d better fly the machine. I’ll go down with Ginger.”

Bertie’s face fell, but he merely nodded. “When should I come back?”

Biggles considered. “The rendezvous is some distance from here, so even if we somehow managed to get a lift—which isn’t likely, seeing as how neither of us speak the language—we couldn’t possibly do it in a day. Tell you what. You go back over the Iron Curtain and get the machine refueled, then come back for us in two nights’ time. That should be ample time for us to get there and back, assuming all goes well. If we’re here, and it’s all right to land, we’ll show a green light. If not, we’ll try to show a red light. Don’t land unless you see the signal. I don’t want any unnecessary risks.”

“As you say, noble chief.” Bertie was by now in the pilot’s seat, glaring down the controls through his monocle.

“If you don’t see us, you’ll have to leave and fly back the following night, I suppose. It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s the best we can do under the circumstances. If we haven’t shown up by the end of the week, we probably won’t be coming. If you don’t come over for two nights in a row we’ll assume that something’s come unstuck and try to find our own way back. All right? Good.”

The two of them got out of the Percival and watched it take off and disappear into the darkness.

“There he goes,” murmured Biggles. “I hope nothing happens to him. This place gives me the jitters. Ever since we saw that Auster I feel as if disaster’s just around the corner. Come on; we’d better start walking.”

&&&

Ginger did not know how long he walked, putting one foot in front of the other. From time to time, Biggles would light a cigarette or make a comment about their surroundings, but other than that, the two airmen walked silently in the darkness.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ginger raised his head and noticed the first fingers of pale blue snaking across the originally dark blue sky. Dawn was breaking at last.

“We’d better find somewhere to hide for a bit,” suggested Biggles. “The two of us would be sunk if we ran into anyone. I could do with a nap anyway, and we might as well eat.” They had filled their pockets from the Percival’s stores before leaving the plane, and although what they had could not be called a feast, it was nevertheless still food.

“All right,” agreed Ginger. “Where should we go?”

It took them some time to find a place. Finally, they settled inside an abandoned farmhouse. Ginger was at first wary of the mice skittering around the dusty wooden floor, but after a while the rodents departed and he thought no more of them.

They made a simple meal out of biscuits and some tins of food. Biggles offered to take first watch for the next two hours so Ginger could sleep. Ginger did not argue; he was almost asleep on his feet as it was. He curled up in a corner of the farmhouse, closed his eyes, and was instantly asleep.

He was shaken awake by Biggles after what seemed like five minutes. “What…what time is it?” he stammered sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s been two hours.” Biggles’ eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion. “I’m just about all in. Wake me when it’s my watch.”

Ginger initially started his watch sitting with his back to the wall, at a position where he could easily see the door. He soon found, however, that it was all too easy to fall asleep like that, so he took to pacing back and forth inside the farmhouse, slapping his hands against his coat to keep warm.

Round and round he went, almost wearing a hole in the floor with his shoes. He felt as if he had been pacing back and forth since the beginning of time. He tried talking to himself, muttering the words so as not to wake Biggles, but he soon found that hearing his own voice in that large empty space scared him more than anything else, so he soon gave that up.

The two hours finally ended, and he duly woke Biggles, who looked much refreshed. “You’d better get some more rest,” he suggested to Ginger. “We’ll have something else to eat after you wake up. This cold weather makes one feel very empty inside for some reason.”

The two airmen spent the rest of the day sleeping, taking it in turns to keep watch, and munching on biscuits in between. Ginger was glad when dark finally fell, and Biggles declared that it was time to leave: he didn’t think he could have taken another second in the farmhouse, doing nothing.

Halfway into their journey, Biggles found a police motorcycle parked by the side of the road, the engine idling as the policeman presumably went into the neighboring shop to purchase something.

“It’s not really fair on him for us to take this,” confessed Biggles, leaping onto the motorcycle and gesturing for Ginger to get on behind him. “But it’s better than walking.”

The going was easier with the motorcycle, although somewhat nerve wracking on the winding roads.

“We’re almost there now,” shouted Biggles, over the roar of the wind in Ginger’s ear, after what seemed like hours of riding. “We’re going to have to stop somewhere and walk. We don’t know what sort of reception we’re likely to get.”

“D’you think any of them will speak English?” asked Ginger, referring, of course, to the men that he expected would be there at the rendezvous point to collect the document that Algy was delivering.

“Hopefully at least one of them will,” opined Biggles. “Anyway, this should be close enough.” He stopped the motorcycle, dismounted, and hid it behind some bushes. “I don’t know if we’ll be needing it again. We can’t really fit three on that motorcycle.”

It was a five minute walk to the house, which turned out to be a small red brick building. “This should be it,” said Biggles, consulting his map.

“The door’s already open,” observed Ginger. “That’s a bit of luck.”

Biggles frowned, and his step quickened. “You’d better stay here,” he said, making for the door.

Ginger, ignoring the order, followed close at Biggles’ heels.

Biggles reached the door in two quick strides. One glance was enough. The only furniture in the small front room, two wooden chairs and a table, lay strewn carelessly on the ground. Papers were scattered everywhere.

A man lay face up in the middle of the chaos, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, dark blood caking the front of his white shirt. More blood was splattered around on the floor and walls.

“Don’t bother,” said Biggles, as Ginger made to move forward. “He’s dead.”

&&&

For perhaps a minute Ginger stared, uncomprehending, at the body lying in front of them, and at the mayhem surrounding it. “What a mess,” he muttered, the horror he felt evident in his voice.

Biggles, too, was glancing round the room, a grim expression on his face. “Looks like this place has been raided,” he commented. “Poor devil. Judging by the expression on his face, he was taken completely by surprise. He didn’t even have time to put up a fight.”

“D’you suppose Algy’s been here?” asked Ginger.

“I don’t know. It’s certainly possible for him to have arrived here in the time it took for us to make our way here, but I can’t see any sign that he has. You know Algy; at the first sign of trouble he’d be shooting like a madman.”

“Maybe he’d already come and gone,” suggested Ginger hopefully.

“Perhaps,” agreed Biggles, but he did not sound convinced. “Look at all those papers scattered about. It’s clear someone was looking for something. It may be a long shot, but I’d guess that they were looking for Algy’s document. It doesn’t look like they found it, though.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, if they’d found what they came for, why would they leave all this evidence just lying here like this? You’d think they would have—” Biggles broke off mid-sentence with the strangest expression on his face.

Ginger was about to ask him what was the matter, when he heard something that made his heart stop: the sound of heavy boots thudding down the narrow flight of stairs located just beyond the front room of the house, starting from somewhere above their heads. He turned to warn Biggles of the danger, but it was too late. Even as a row of grim-faced uniformed soldiers emerged at the foot of the stairs, there was a shout from behind them, and more soldiers materialized by the front door of the house, brandishing guns.

With no alternative, Biggles raised his hands as the soldiers closed in.

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 4. What Happened To Algy

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.

How long he was unconscious Algy did not know. He was acutely aware of a searing pain in his head, and then his eyes opened and he found himself staring into the anxious eyes of Dusty and Barnes.

“Are you all right?”

Algy winced. He could taste blood in his mouth, and there seemed to be a strong scent of petrol all around him. Despite being awake he still felt very groggy and it took him a minute or so to remember what had happened. “Where are we?” he croaked, when he had finally gathered the strength to speak.

“We’re still in the plane,” replied Dusty, exchanging a look with Barnes. “We weren’t sure whether or not to move you.”

Algy sat up slowly, blinking in an attempt to adjust his eyes to the dim light. “I should be all right to move,” he said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. He was so tired that he would have liked nothing more than to sleep for a week, preferably in some London hospital. “I can smell petrol, so we’d best get out of this as soon as we can. She might go up at any moment at this rate.”

It took the three of them the better part of a quarter of an hour to hack a hole in the side of the aircraft, using what few tools they had. Algy let Dusty and Barnes go out first. To tell the truth, he needed some time to recover from the blow on his head, but loathed to show weakness at such a critical moment.

He crawled out of the Auster and stood, slightly unsteady. One glance at the machine told him all that he needed to know. “Got a match?” he asked, feeling about in his own pockets.

Dusty produced a slightly battered book of matches. “What are you going to do?” he queried, wide-eyed.

“Burn her up,” replied Algy shortly.

“What? Why?”

“Look at it,” invited Algy. “That plane’s never going to fly again, and we can’t just leave it here, it’s too conspicuous a target. Besides which, they might be able to trace it to my headquarters in London. We might as well set up the firing squad for them if they find out who we are. You two had better get ready to make a dash for it. She’ll go up quicker than you think. Mind the wires; there might be more about.”

After he was sure that the others had retreated to a safe distance, Algy lit a match, and, aided by some petrol-soaked newspapers he found in the plane, set the Auster alight. Without looking back, he sped for the spot where the others were waiting. “Come on,” he panted. “All eyes will be on that plane in a minute, and when that happens we need to be as far away from it as possible.”

His head ached unmercifully as he ran, but he forced himself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. There was no time to stop. The sound of his own breathing sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. From time to time, he had to wipe the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead to keep the cut from bleeding into his eyes.

Behind them, the plane exploded with a deafening roar. It sounded like the end of the world.

&&&

“We’d better do something about that head wound of yours,” panted Barnes, after they had run for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes.

“I’m all right,” lied Algy weakly, though nothing could be further from the truth.

“Here.” Barnes halted by a tree. “Sit down a minute and have a rest. I’ll have a look at that cut. It’s been bleeding for a jolly long time now.”

“But I’m—”

“No buts. You’d look thunderingly suspicious running about like a madman with a whooping great cut on your head, anyway. We’d get arrested in a heartbeat.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Algy was glad of the rest. For the first time, he realized how cold it was; he hadn’t noticed that he had been shivering, so preoccupied had he been. He had not dressed for cold weather when he had left Air Police headquarters in London, not expecting to be away for long. He hunched down forlornly into his coat and wished that there were some way to stop his teeth from chattering.

He said nothing to the others; they had enough to worry about as it was.

Barnes and Dusty, who had come equipped for their mission, were soon tending to Algy’s head wound with the first-aid materials they had brought with them. “It doesn’t look too bad,” concluded Barnes, as he stepped back to examine their handiwork. “But the best thing to do now is get you to somewhere warm. You shouldn’t be wandering about with a cut like that, not to mention the possibility of concussion creeping up on you.”

“Where’re we going to find somewhere warm?” asked Algy. “Three British agents like us? We don’t even speak the language.”

“I do,” said Dusty promptly. “I’m half-Latvian.”

Algy stared at him, too tired and cold to react to this startling piece of news. “I wondered why they sent a kid like you along,” he murmured, trying to muster a grin.

“I’m not a kid!” retorted Dusty indignantly.

“All right, all right,” broke in Barnes. “Let’s not stand around talking nonsense. Is there anywhere we can go for now, Dusty?”

The younger man nodded. “I know a place. Come on.”

Barnes eyed Algy. “Can you walk?”

“I’ll have to,” replied Algy grimly. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I? Still got that perishing paper of yours that we came to deliver?”

Barnes’ hand went to his pocket. “Of course.”

“Good.” With a sigh, Algy got his feet and trudged on after Dusty.

&&&

With his collar pulled up against the cold and his hands buried in his pockets, Algy concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore both the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the cold biting into his bones with every step he took.

“You doing all right?” asked Dusty anxiously, for what must have been the third or fourth time.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Nearly there now,” said the younger man encouragingly.

Algy grunted in reply. It wasn’t the first time Dusty had promised that they were nearly there—wherever “there” was. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Where are we going anyway?”

“It’s a sort of cottage. I don’t think anyone lives in it anymore.”

Algy stared at him. “How long is it since you last saw this cottage of yours?” he asked slowly.

“A few years. Why?”

“I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but are you sure that it’s still there? It might have been knocked down or something, you know.”

“It hasn’t,” Dusty assured him. “I would know if it had.”

“All right.” Privately, Algy’s hopes were dwindling fast. But he realized that they really had no other choice than to make for the cottage in the hopes that it was still there. If it wasn’t—well, they would just have to find somewhere else to go. “If the worst comes to the worst I’ve got a pistol in my pocket,” he decided to himself. “The two of them will have more chance of finding shelter on their own.” He knew that Dusty had deliberately slowed the pace so as not to tire him, and although he was grateful for the consideration, he also knew that it heightened their chances of being caught by the Latvian authorities.

“There it is!” Dusty said excitedly, pointing ahead.

Algy looked, and saw a rundown cottage in front of them. The rusty gate swung idly from one hinge. Weeds littered the path from the gate to the front door. “It’s not Buckingham Palace, but I suppose it’ll have to do,” he remarked, the relief evident in his voice.

“You chaps stay here a minute,” said Dusty. “I’ll go and see if anyone’s about.” Light-footed as a hare he scurried to the cottage and made a quick circuit of the premises. “Looks all right,” he concluded, running back to them. “There’s dust everywhere. I’d say no one’s been here for ages.”

“How were you planning to get in?” inquired Barnes.

“Key under the back doorstep,” replied Dusty promptly, producing a rusty key with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “One of my aunts used to live here. That’s why I know so much about it.”

They made their way to the cottage and let themselves in. Despite Algy’s protests, Barnes set to work lighting a fire in the fireplace. “It’s a bit risky, but it’s better than freezing to death. According to Dusty the nearest house is several miles off, so we should be all right.”

“We don’t have much in the way of grub, I’m afraid,” said Dusty. “I’ve found a kettle, though, so we can heat up some water, at least.”

At that moment, light flooded through the front windows. Algy turned sharply and saw a small black car approaching the house. “What do you think he wants?” he asked grimly.

“Perhaps he’s just passing through?” suggested Dusty hopefully.

“Or perhaps he’s not.” The car made its way slowly to the rusty gate and came to a halt just in front of it.

The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out.

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 3. Biggles Gets A Shock

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. 

Biggles, whistling softly, strode into Air Police headquarters to find Bertie and Ginger deep in earnest conversation. “Hullo, chaps!” he greeted cheerfully. “Why the long faces? And where’s Algy?”

A tense silence followed his words.

Biggles paused in the act of removing his overcoat. “Where’s Algy?” he repeated, a little louder this time. “Did he go back to the flat?”

Ginger cleared his throat. “He’s probably halfway to Latvia by now.”

All traces of humor faded out of Biggles’ face. “Latvia?” he said. “What are you talking about, Latvia? Why on earth would Algy be halfway there? It’s behind the Iron Curtain, isn’t it?”

“He was kidnapped by some bally fellows from the jolly Secret Service, don’t you know,” explained Bertie, taking out his monocle and beginning to polish it with great industry.

“Kidnapped? Secret Service?” echoed Biggles, incredulously. “What are you blathering on about? Are you crazy, or am I?”

“The coastguards said they’d seen a plane crash, and they asked one of us to help them with the rescue, so Algy went,” said Ginger.

“Coastguard?” said Biggles. “So he’s in this story too, is he?” He sunk wearily into a chair. “All right, let’s see if we can’t get this sorted out. You say Algy went out to help the coastguards?”

Between them, it took Bertie and Ginger all of ten minutes to explain the whole situation in detail to Biggles.

“And d’you mean to tell me that he simply went haring off to the wrong side of the Iron Curtain just like that?” demanded Biggles, in a voice stiff with astonishment.

“That’s where he said he was going, when he rung up from France.”

“He must be out of his mind,” declared Biggles.

“What should we do now?” asked Ginger, in a dull voice.

“I’m going to ring up Marcel and see if he can tell us any more than we already know.” This he did, and after a quick terse conversation with his French counterpart, he hung up and turned to the others, shaking his head. “He doesn’t know any more than we do. But I know someone who will.”

“Who’s that, old boy?”

“Air Commodore Raymond,” replied Biggles grimly.

&&&

It took them the better part of an hour before they managed to get an audience with the Air Commodore, but Biggles stood his ground firmly throughout all attempts to deter him.

Eventually, the three of them were ushered into the Air Commodore’s office to find a rather flustered Raymond waiting for them. “Bigglesworth. What on earth is this about? It’s not really done to barge in like this. I was in a meeting with some members of the cabinet.”

Biggles wasted no time. “I need to know everything you know about a mission involving three men who were sent to Latvia to deliver a message.”

The Air Commodore’s eyes narrowed. “And just how do you know anything about that?” he demanded sharply.

“I know because Algy happens to be the new pilot flying your men to Latvia.”

“Lacey? How did he get mixed up in all of this?”

“Let’s stop talking in circles around each other,” suggested Biggles. “We don’t have much time. The plane flying your men was shot down near the coast. The pilot was killed in the crash, and now Algy is flying your men to Latvia. That’s how the situation stands at present. I’m here to ask you where their exact destination is.”

“Why would you need to know that?” asked the Air Commodore.

“Why else?” said Biggles. “I’m going after Algy. He might be in trouble.”

The Air Commodore stared. “That’s insane! We’re talking about the Iron Curtain here, Bigglesworth, not Monte Carlo. One doesn’t simply waltz in.”

“That’s as may be,” replied Biggles grimly. “But with all due respect, sir, I’m going in after him, with or without your permission.”

Raymond sighed. “All right. Sit down a minute. I’ll get you what you need.”

&&&

“I can’t tell you too much about the details of this mission,” began the Air Commodore. “The Home Secretary would have my head if he even knew I was talking to you about this. Let’s just say that an…important event will be taking place in Riga in a few days.

“Riga, as you may know, is the capital city of Latvia, which is right here.” He pointed to a spot on the Eastern European map spread out in front of them. “Major Barnes, who is in charge of the operation, was asked to deliver a certain document to the…er…leader of an organization that…er…operates in Riga. Failing that, the document would have to be delivered to the organization’s headquarters.”

“And where exactly--?”

“I’m coming to that.” The Air Commodore slid a thin file over his desk. “You’ll find everything you need to know in there. That file is highly confidential. I suggest you read it through now and memorize its contents, because I have strict orders to burn it the minute you leave this room. I am having your papers put in order as we speak. I’m going to be frank with you, Bigglesworth, there isn’t very much we can do to help you. Latvia is behind the Iron Curtain, and I am sure that you are aware of the consequences should you be discovered to be British, and a member of our Air Police.”

“That doesn’t worry me, sir,” Biggles assured him, taking the file and opening it. “With luck we’ll be on our way to Latvia as soon as we’re done here. Perhaps we can make up for some of the lost time.”

“Well,” said the Air Commodore, holding out a hand. “Good luck.”

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Algy and the Rescue Flight: Chapter 2. Under Fire

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. 

Not for nothing had Algy fought in two wars and been named air ace by several leading flying magazines. Even before Dusty’s cry of dismay rang out, he had already thrown the plane over on its own length and was whirling to face his attacker.

He thanked his lucky stars that there were bullets in the Auster’s guns, left over from their recent mission in the Bahamas. “There’s a machine gun in the back somewhere,” he shouted to Barnes, who was staring, white-faced, at the plane bearing down on them. “Try to find it and see what you can do.”

Barnes nodded and turned away.

“What do I do?” demanded Dusty.

“Sit still and keep your head down,” advised Algy. The lad couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five, and Algy felt a mild pang, wondering what it was that had prompted Dusty to join the secret service at such a young age. “Best keep him out of it as much as possible,” he thought to himself. “Barnes can handle the shooting.”

He could hear the chatter of the gun behind him as Barnes began firing. Algy’s lips set in a grim line as he scanned the sky in front of them. Another plane was fast approaching, and judging from the bullets that spurted from its guns, it was more foe than friend. “Confound it!” snapped Algy. “Where the dickens did they all come from? And why are they shooting at us?” He winced as bullets struck the machine.

“They must have seen you pick us up,” said Dusty, who, following Algy’s advice, was staying down and keeping out of everyone’s way as much as possible.

“This paper of yours must be worth its weight in gold,” muttered Algy, throwing the plane into a steep bank in an effort to dodge some bullets.

“It is that, and more,” replied Dusty grimly. “They already killed one of us, don’t forget. I don’t think they’d be squeamish about killing some more.”

“Wonderful,” said Algy. “Strewth! That was close! Two can play at that game.” Clenching his teeth, he took the closest plane in his sights and fired a rapid stream of bullets.

His aim was good. Black smoke erupted from the plane as it seemed to crumple in on itself. Algy did not wait to see the inevitable ending. He swung the Auster around and went for the second attacking plane with all the agility of a fox chasing a rabbit. He was angry now, the blood boiling in his veins. He had never been the kind of person who turned the other cheek in a fight.

The pilot of the other plane seemed to be flustered by this sudden change in tactics, for it throttled back and ceased its fire.

Barnes let out a whoop of relief. “We’ve won! Look at him run!”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” warned Algy. “If I know anything about it, it’s just waiting for backup. Let’s get out of this while the going’s good. They might call up an army, and I’m not prepared to fight a war single-handedly.”

&&&

Algy kept a vigilant eye out for trouble, but no further planes appeared as he sped along towards France. It had been decided, albeit after a prolonged period of heated debate, that they would land in France before traveling on to Latvia.

The main reason for this was petrol. Although Algy estimated that there was just enough to get them to their destination, there definitely was not enough to get them back again, even if the rest of the mission was relatively trouble-free. Also, he felt the need to acquire additional weapons, for he could see that if things continued to escalate, he would be more than thankful to have a gun in his pocket.

Barnes was initially against the stop, insisting that the document in his pocket was of vital importance and had to be delivered within the next forty-eight hours.

Eventually, it was Algy who won, for he was the one who was flying the plane, and he declared that he was not prepared to fly behind the Iron Curtain without enough fuel to get back. “It’s risky enough as it is, without adding the possibility of running out of juice.”

Algy radioed ahead and sent Marcel a request for weapons. These arrived promptly five minutes after the machine had come in to land. Marcel himself was working on a case, and so he did not put in an appearance.

The trio barely had time for a quick bite to eat and a cup of coffee while the machine was refueling. Algy had to snatch time to put a call through to Air Police headquarters in London. Biggles was not yet back in the office, and so Algy had to be content with leaving a brief message with Ginger.

The sky was growing dark as the three men clambered back into the Auster. Marcel had been kind enough to include some maps of the general area with his delivery of weapons, and these Algy went over carefully before taking off, heading for the Iron Curtain.

He was tired, running on adrenaline and a hasty-drunk cup of coffee. A quick glance behind him revealed that both Barnes and Dusty were asleep. He felt a slight pang; it would have been nice to have someone to talk to. More than anything else, it would have helped him keep awake.

Night had well and truly fallen as he drew near the Curtain. He felt more alone than he had ever felt in his entire life, flying into enemy territory with only lone stars for company, not knowing when or if he would be coming back. His heart constricted slightly in his chest, and then, with an effort, he pulled himself together and set a course for his chosen landing ground, on the outskirts of Riga.

&&&

Algy woke Dusty and Barnes up when the landing ground came into view. “Better brace yourselves,” he advised them. “The ground looks all right from up here, but you never know what might happen. Landing in unfamiliar places is always tricky.”

He judged his distance and flattened out in preparation for landing. Even before his wheels had touched the ground, however, he sensed that something had gone wrong.

The Auster lurched like a live thing under his hands, and for a nightmare ten seconds he thought that he had misjudged the distance to the ground, but it did not take him long to realize that things were in fact, much, much worse than that.

“The ground’s trapped with wires!” he snapped to the others, desperately fighting the controls in an attempt to keep the plane steady, even though logically he knew there was nothing he could possibly do. “Hold on!” he grated, through gritted teeth, as the plane upended itself violently, the controls wrenching themselves from his hands.

Algy was conscious of being thrown around the inside of the plane as if he were a handful of confetti. His head collided, hard, with one of the Auster’s windows. He heard the sound of tinkling glass nearby. He felt something warm sliding down the side of his face, and without thinking he put a hand up and touched it. “Blood,” he murmured vaguely to himself, as he saw the red staining his fingertips.

There was something he had to do, he could feel it urgently trying to surface from the back of his mind. “Got to—” he muttered. “Got to get—” It was a losing battle, and in another second he had lost it. His eyelids fluttered closed as if of their own accord, and the world went dark around him.

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