A Hundred Thousand Dragons (15 page)

The heat, as always, once the rush of air from the plane had stopped, seemed to flare up like opening an oven door. Jack unbuttoned his jacket, took off his leather helmet and goggles, stuffed them in the pocket beside his seat and, replacing the helmet with an Australian bush hat, climbed out of the cockpit and jumped lightly to the ground.

The hat had cost him three bottles of beer from a cavalryman in Port Said. The Flying Corps, young and irregular, was indulgent in the matter of uniform, especially in Ismailia, so far away from top brass and spit-and-polish, and Jack's bush hat had set something of a new fashion.

His flight commander, Captain Sykes, was standing by his machine in front of the entrance to the hanger, talking to the chief fitter, McAvoy. He looked round as Jack strolled up. ‘Any problems?' he asked.

‘Not really, but the left wing's flying a bit low,' he added with a look at McAvoy. ‘Can you see to it?'

McAvoy pursed his lips. ‘It'll be this afternoon before we can do anything, sir.' He pointed into the green canvas gloom of the hanger. ‘I've just been telling Captain Sykes that we've got a bit of a job on with this new plane that's arrived.'

Jack followed Sykes and McAvoy into the hanger, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the blinding sun of the airstrip. Four of the fitters were working on a two-seater aircraft with staggered wings and two machine guns in the forward cockpit. ‘My word,' he said, helping himself to a glass of lime juice from the jug on the packing case near the door. ‘What is it?' He looked admiringly at the aircraft. ‘A B.E.2c?'

Captain Sykes grinned. ‘Don't get excited, Jack. It's not for us. McAvoy tells me a delivery pilot flew it in from Cairo this morning. Apparently there's something special on the cards.'

McAvoy nodded and drew a bit closer. ‘That's right, sir. There was a passenger with him, a Major Craig.' Sykes glanced over his shoulder to check they couldn't be overheard. ‘He's not one of ours. Some sort of army type. He didn't like flying. He was very offhand with the delivery pilot and downright rude to a couple of my lads. Anyway, we've been asked to fit extra fuel tanks. Major Craig's off on a trip somewhere. I don't know where he's planning to go, but it's a long way, that's for sure.'

‘I wouldn't mind taking her up,' said Jack wistfully. ‘It looks more of a fighting machine than the Farman.'

Sykes pulled a face. ‘I'm not crazy about the B.E.s. They're underpowered and sluggish. The pilot sits in the rear cockpit and it's damned awkward. The observer has the guns, but his field of fire is pretty limited. They're not bad for reconnaissance but they're not very nippy. I don't know how this'll perform with the weight of the extra fuel.'

‘That's our problem, sir,' said McAvoy. ‘With the best will in the world, we can't put all that extra fuel on board without it affecting the climb and speed. At the moment I'm wondering how it's going to get off the ground.' He turned as Corporal Quinn came into the hanger.

‘Lieutenant Haldean?' said the Corporal. ‘Major Youlton wants to see you immediately, sir.'

‘Me?' said Jack in surprise. ‘What for?'

Sykes cleared his throat. ‘Don't worry, Jack, you haven't done anything wrong. I've got an idea what this is about. Good luck, old man. I'll see you in the Mess later.'

Jack finished his lime juice and followed the corporal across the airfield and into the huts which housed the offices and Mess. He couldn't think why on earth the Major should want to see him. Sykes said he wasn't in trouble, but a summons like this was unsettling.

Quinn knocked at the door of Major Youlton's office. ‘Lieutenant Haldean, sir,' he announced, ushering him into the room.

The Major was sitting at his desk. ‘Thank you, Quinn,' he said. ‘Close the door behind you. I don't want to be disturbed by anyone unless it's absolutely vital.' Quinn saluted and left the room.

‘At ease,' said Major Youlton. Jack relaxed and stood, his hands clasped behind him. ‘Sit down,' added the Major. ‘This will take some time and you might as well be comfortable.'

Feeling rather self-conscious, Jack sat down. He was badly puzzled.

Major Youlton slid the cigarette box across the desk to him. ‘Help yourself, Mr Haldean. You do smoke, don't you?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Jack, cautiously taking a cigarette. He lit it with some trepidation. It was less than a month since his first cigarette and he hoped he wouldn't start coughing.

‘Just landed?' asked Youlton with a smile.

What on earth did he want? ‘Yes, sir,' said Jack guardedly. ‘We had the sky to ourselves.'

The Major nodded. ‘It's too hot for Turks at this time of day.' He steepled his fingers and looked at Jack thoughtfully. ‘Before I begin, Lieutenant, I want to emphasize that what I am about to say is highly confidential. I have asked that we should be undisturbed. In addition I have posted two men outside to see that no one approaches the window of this room. Our conversation must not be repeated to anyone. Anyone at all, you understand? Utter secrecy is vital.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Jack. This was getting downright mysterious.

Youlton paused once more before speaking and when he did, what he said was completely unexpected. ‘Lieutenant Haldean, your record, since you joined the squadron, has been outstanding. You have shown, on numerous occasions, your intelligence, adaptability and courage. Captain Sykes speaks highly of your abilities. If you carry on as you have begun, you will go very far in the service.'

Jack couldn't speak for pleasure. For Captain Sykes and Major Youlton –
Major Youlton!
– to have such an opinion of him was beyond his wildest dreams. He was seventeen years old and he had tried, with all the devotion, hard work and passion he was capable of, to be a worthwhile member of the squadron. He didn't realize it, but he was aching for recognition. He had never been so grateful to anyone as he was to Major Youlton at that moment. ‘Thank you, sir,' he said huskily.

Major Youlton didn't seem as pleased as Jack expected. In fact, he seemed downright uneasy. He pulled at his earlobe before he spoke. ‘The fact is, Lieutenant, that there's a difficult job in the offing. Do you know what is meant by a special mission?'

Jack's eyes widened. ‘Why, yes, sir.' A special mission! By crikey, if the Major meant to send him on a special mission, that would be really something. Of course he knew what a special mission was. Really top-notch pilots flew special missions. Special missions were glamorous, exciting, dangerous . . . And then, like a shock of icy water, the reality hit him. Dangerous. Scarily dangerous.

A special mission meant flying an agent – a spy – over the lines, landing in enemy territory and taking off again. Sometimes the pilot left the agent to make his own way back and sometimes he waited while the agent completed his job. If the plane was spotted, then all the pilot could do was trust to his lucky stars he'd manage to evade capture somehow. Spying was a job without honour and neither the agent nor the pilot were protected by military laws or conventions. If a pilot were forced down, alone in a two-seater plane, he was deemed to have dropped a spy. There was no defence and the penalty was a firing squad.

It took, perhaps, a fraction of a second, but Jack knew that however long he lived, he would remember that moment in Major Youlton's office. The Major, with his concerned eyes and worried forehead, the skin showing white creases against the tan of his face. The sun laying hot, dazzling wedges of light on the dark wood of the floor and the metal of the filing cabinet. The open window with the lazily buzzing flies on the window sill, the far-off chunk of a rotary engine and the distant shout of an Arab water-boy. All these things he would remember forever because, in that vivid moment, he left part of his boyhood behind. Spies were fun, terrific fun, to read about, but this was real.

He took a deep breath. ‘I'll do it, sir,' he said quietly.

Youlton held his hand up. ‘Wait. As I say, this is a difficult mission. I can't order you to do it, only ask you to volunteer. You are perfectly free to refuse. I don't want you to agree yet. O'Leary, who has flown such missions in the past, is on leave and I simply can't spare one of my flight commanders. Of the rest of the officers available, you are the obvious choice, but you must realize what you're taking on.'

I know what I'm taking on, thought Jack. He'd nerved himself to say
yes
like a diver leaving the high board and he wanted to get it over with. Later, he realized just how fair Youlton was being.

‘Naturally, the exact nature of the mission is secret,' continued Youlton, ‘but its successful outcome could alter the course of the war in the East. Because it is so important, I have agreed to what, to speak frankly, seems a very hazardous enterprise. Did you see a B.E.2c in the hanger?'

Jack nodded. ‘Yes, sir. The mechanics were fitting extra fuel tanks.'

‘That's right.' Youlton pushed back his chair and stood up, leaning his hands on the desk. ‘The reason those fuel tanks are needed, Mr Haldean, is that the plane has to be flown to Petra.'

Jack stared at him. ‘Petra, sir?' he repeated in bewilderment. ‘The lost city, you mean?'

Major Youlton smiled briefly. ‘We know where it is. That's something, anyway. It's about two hundred miles to the south-east, over some of the most forbidding country on earth,' he added quietly. He glanced at Jack. ‘Well?'

Jack squared his shoulders. ‘If it's possible, sir, if the plane is capable of making the trip, I'll do it.'

Major Youlton's mouth tightened. ‘Good man,' he said softly. ‘You'll have a passenger with you, a Major Craig. He flew in this morning from Cairo.' Jack nodded. ‘Major Craig,' continued Youlton, ‘is, perhaps, one of the most important men in the East.' Jack looked suitably impressed. ‘He's a well-known explorer and traveller and knows Arabia like the back of his hand. Durant Craig? Does the name mean anything to you?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, I've never heard of him.'

For the first time Youlton gave a real smile. ‘For heaven's sake, don't tell him. He has a proper appreciation of his talents and, to be fair to him, he's perfectly justified. When the war broke out he was in the Ahkaf Desert and it took him some months to find out what was happening in the outside world. He made his way back up to the coast and offered his services to General Murray. As it happened, he couldn't have arrived at a more opportune moment. We need experts, Haldean, men who know Arabia and can inspire the Arabs, and real experts are few and far between.

‘At the beginning of the war we had Captain Shakespeare, who had a real pull with Ibn Sa'ud and the Wahhabis of Central Arabia, but he was killed in action, poor devil. Durant Craig came as the answer to a very pressing problem. He was given the rank of major but if you think of him as a general, you wouldn't be far wrong. He's lived with the Arabs so long he's more of an Arab than an Englishman. He speaks every kind of dialect and knows how their minds work. They call him
Tawr Ta'ir
, which more or less translates as the Angry Bull. It's a good name. He's rather like a bull. He's pretty short-tempered with our lot and can't stand red tape, but he has no end of patience with the Bedouin. Anyway, he's your passenger. Now, I must tell you the details of the trip.'

Major Youlton walked across the room and indicated the route on a large-scale map. ‘I'll give you the precise directions to study, Haldean, but this is the route in general. There's a camel convoy, under the command of Captain Hawley, on its way to Esh Shobek. You will intercept the convoy and deliver sealed orders to Captain Hawley. You will then fly to Elji, where the Beni Sakr, pro-British Arabs, are encamped. Major Craig needs to confer with them. After that, you will take Major Craig on to Petra. Major Craig has, apparently, arranged a fuel dump in Petra, and you'll be able to re-fuel the plane there. Then, leaving Major Craig in Petra, you can return.'

‘So I leave Major Craig in Petra, sir?' asked Jack.

Youlton nodded. ‘Yes, that's correct. What the Major does afterwards is, of course, none of our concern.' He turned to Jack with a wry smile. ‘That's it. It's a difficult journey but vitally important.'

‘When do I start, sir?'

‘As soon as the fitters have finished with the plane,' said Youlton, coming back to the desk. ‘It shouldn't be more than a couple of hours at the most.'

Jack looked at him blankly. ‘But that'll mean flying in the full heat of the day, sir.'

Major Youlton clicked his tongue unhappily. ‘I know, Lieutenant, but this is urgent. Major Craig needs time and that's what we can give him.' He picked up a small folder and gave it to him. ‘That's your flight plan. Keep it with you at all times and don't let anyone see it. I'd better introduce you to Major Craig. After that, get something to eat and drink. With any luck, you'll be back tomorrow. You will, of course, report to me immediately you return.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Jack. He stood up and put the flight plan into his pocket.

Youlton nodded, walked to the door and gave instructions to Corporal Quinn to bring Major Craig to the office. Youlton was clearly uneasy. He lit another cigarette and paced edgily round the room, continually looking at the wall map, until the noise of footsteps sounded in the corridor.

‘Major Craig, sir,' said Quinn. Quinn saluted and withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

Jack was startled by the Major's appearance. Craig wore the uniform, right enough, but instead of a military moustache, he had a huge brindled beard, piercing eyes and aggressive eyebrows. He looked more like a sailor than a soldier and more like a Yukon miner who had strayed from the Alaska gold rush than either. He was shorter than average but strongly built, with massive shoulders, large hands and skin darkened by the sun. His Arab name suited him, thought Jack. He was a real bull of a man.