Jack Higgins: The Iron Tiger

They moved on through a landscape so barren that it might have been the moon, great snow-covered peaks towering on either side. Drummond handling the plane with the skill of genius. Once they dropped sickeningly in an air pocket, and on another occasion flew along a canyon so narrow that the wingtips seemed to brush the rock face. Finally, they lifted across a snow-covered ridge and plunged into space.

Beneath them an enormous valley dropped ten thousand feet, black with depth, purple and gold, great shimmering banks of cloud strung across it in broken strands. Perhaps seven or eight miles away on the other side was the last frozen barrier between Balpur and Tibet.

The sound of the engine suddenly seemed strangely muted and Cheung sighed through the uncanny quiet. ‘The most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.’

‘The Place of Silence, that’s what they call it,’ Drummond told him. ‘Used to take two days to get across on foot when caravans were still coming through.’

The Beaver seemed to glide on through the enormous blue vault, drifting through the shadows, and then they burst out into golden sunlight and the final barrier rose before them.

Drummond eased back the stick and the Beaver lifted, the sound of the engine deepening into a full-throated roar and a deep valley appeared between the peaks.

‘Sangong Pass,’ he called above the roar of the engine.

They swept into the pass, a brilliant red and gold leaf, bright against the dark walls, and the frozen earth rose to meet them. Drummond gave the Beaver full power and pulled the stick right into the pit of his stomach.

Cheung held his breath, waiting for the crash as they rushed to meet the skyline, wheels no more than ten feet above the boulder-strewn ground and then they were over the hump and flashing across a great, cold glacier.

Rolling steppes, golden in the morning sun, stretched to the horizon and Drummond grinned. ‘Now you know why I charge two thousand a trip.’

Cheung wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand and managed a weak smile. ‘I’m beginning to get the point. How much further?’

‘Ten or twelve miles, that’s all. Better get ready.’

The Chinese reached behind his seat for a sub-machine gun, cocked it and held it across his knees. As the Beaver descended, he could see a narrow river, brawling across a mass of tumbled boulders, widening into a shallow lake. A hundred yards to the left, sheltered against a rock escarpment, was a ruined monastery, a scattering of houses at its feet.

Drummond pointed to a wide sand flat at the far end of the lake. ‘That’s where we land if we get the signal.’

‘And if not?’

‘We get the hell out of here.’

He circled, coming in low across the lake, and Cheung pointed excitedly. ‘There are people down there, standing in the shallows.’

‘Women doing the washing,’ Drummond said and swung in across the village, turning away from the escarpment and the fire-blackened ruins of the monastery.

‘What happened there?’ Cheung demanded.

‘It was a headquarters for local resistance back in 1950 when the Chinese Reds first invaded Tibet. There was a siege for a couple of days, but it didn’t last long. They brought up a couple of field guns and blew the necessary holes through the walls.’

‘Then what?’

Drummond shrugged. ‘They saved everything worth having, then burnt the place to the ground and executed a couple of hundred monks.’

‘To encourage the others?’

Drummond nodded and took the Beaver round to the other side of the lake in a graceful curve. ‘Not that it’s done them much good. In areas like this, they only control the towns.’

He took the Beaver down towards the village again and Cheung touched his arm quickly. ‘Is that the signal?’

Three flares, spaced out in a crude triangle, started to burn furiously, plumes of white smoke lifting into the cold air and Drummond nodded.

He throttled back, turned the Beaver into the wind, dropped it neatly down on the firm, sandy shore of the lake and taxied along to the far end.

The women washing clothing in the shallows a few yards away, moved up on the shore, their long woollen shubas tucked into their belts and stood in a tight little group, watching the plane.

Cheung reached for the door handle and Drummond shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve got to be sure.’

At that moment, a horseman galloped over the crest of the slope above them and plunged down towards the plane. Drummond switched off the engine and grinned in the sudden silence.

‘There’s our man.’

As he opened the door and jumped to the ground, the rider reined in his small Tibetan horse, dismounted and strode towards them. He was tall and muscular with a deeply-tanned face and high Mongolian cheekbones. He wore a long, wide-sleeved robe and sheepskin shuba which left his chest bare, and knee-length boots of untanned hide. His hair was coiled into plaits and he wore a sheepskin hat.

‘His English isn’t much good,’ Drummond said to Cheung as the Tibetan approached. ‘We’ll use Chinese and for God’s sake treat him with respect. He’s a nobleman. They can be touchy about things like that.’

The Tibetan grinned and held out his hand, and behind him another dozen men rode down to the shore. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend. You have more guns for us?’

Drummond nodded as he shook hands. ‘Your men can unload them as soon as they like. I don’t want to hang around here for any longer than I have to.’

The Tibetan shouted an order and he and Drummond and Cheung moved out of the way. ‘Moro, this is Mr Cheung,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s the Balpur representative of the Chinese National Government, the people who’ve been supplying the guns and ammunition I’ve been flying in to you during the past six months.’

Moro took Cheung’s hand warmly. ‘Before the Lord Buddha brought the way of peace to this land, the Tibetans were warriors. Your guns have helped us prove to the Communists that we can be warriors again. You will take tea with me before you leave?’

Cheung turned to Drummond. ‘Have we time?’

‘I don’t see why not.’ Drummond offered the Tibetan a cigarette. ‘Any Reds in the area recently?’

‘One patrol,’ Moro said. ‘Fifteen men. They turned up a week ago.’

‘What happened?’

The Tibetan grinned. ‘You’ll see when we reach the village.’

They went over the escarpment and walked towards the houses, the Tibetan with the bridle of his horse looped over one arm.

‘Mr Cheung has to make a special report to his government in Formosa about the state of things here,’ Drummond said. ‘He thought he’d like to see for himself.’

‘How strong are the Reds in this area?’ Cheung asked.

‘Their nearest real strength is at a town called Juhma about a hundred miles from here,’ Moro said. ‘Half a regiment of infantry. No more than four hundred men. At larger villages like Hurok which is thirty miles east across the plain, they keep a cavalry troop. Between the villages they are as nothing.’

‘There have been no large scale troop movements, no road building in this area of the border at all?’

‘Not here, but further east towards the Aksai Chin and the Ladakh where they fought the Indians in 1962, they have built many roads.’ The Tibetan looked surprised. ‘Why would they need roads here?’

‘They have claimed Balpur,’ Cheung said simply.

Moro laughed, showing strong white teeth. ‘They have claimed the whole world, is this not so?’

‘They came to the outskirts of the village, a small, mean place, single-storey houses of mud and wattle strung along either side of the single street.

Several children ran forward excitedly and followed them, keeping a respectful distance from Moro who occasionally flicked out with the plaited leather whip that hung from his left wrist as someone moved too close.