The Challenging Heights by Max Hennessy Page A

flustered and turned to Diplock. ‘You heard that,’ he said. ‘Make a note of it.’
    Dicken watched them stalk away, convinced that nothing would ever change because, even if by some miracle St Aubyn meant what he said, it would immediately be vetoed by the staff of the Air Officer Commanding as an unnecessary expense because he was being chivvied by the Air Staff in London, who were chivvied in their turn by a parsimonious Treasury.
     
    There were a few frosty faces as drinks were taken in the mess then St Aubyn flew off to some diplomatic function in Baghdad while Diplock announced that he had to go to Diana east of Mosul and needed one of the Bristols to fly him there. It was Dicken’s turn for duty when he wished to return and as the staff car drew up and Diplock climbed out, Dicken saw he was wearing a beautifully-cut uniform and topee and was carrying a briefcase. His face was set in a petulant expression and, as he approached the aeroplane, he frowned.
    ‘Quinney,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Well, sir.’
    ‘And your wife?’
    There was a sly look on Diplock’s face and Dicken guessed that he’d heard about Zoë’s activities. He himself hadn’t had a letter from her for two months now so doubtless Diplock knew more about her than he did himself.
    ‘Very well, sir.’
    ‘I heard she’d gone to America.’
    It was news to Dicken but he didn’t blink. ‘That’s correct, sir,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘She wrote me.’
    Diplock looked about him. ‘Strange to find you in a squadron in my wing,’ he said. ‘I thought you were in armoured cars.’
    ‘I was sir. No 4 Company. I was transferred to take the place of a sick man.’
    Diplock said nothing and, handing his briefcase to the officer who had accompanied him from headquarters, struggled into a pair of white overalls and flying helmet.
    ‘Shall we go?’ he said.
    Perhaps it was Diplock’s smugness and the fact that he had advanced in the RAF by kow-towing to the right people, or perhaps because he knew more about Dicken’s wife than Dicken himself did, but Dicken was in a foul temper as the propeller was swung. Taxiing into position far too fast, he checked his instruments and controls then took off in a climbing turn which was against regulations but which he hoped would frighten the life out of his passenger.
    Lifting across the ridge that framed the landing ground, as they crested the last fold of land suddenly there was nothing ahead but the great bowl of the sky. The ridge had ended in a huge precipice with the plain beyond a thousand feet below, and the aeroplane lifted violently to the air that rose against the contour of the ground, then dropped violently as it passed through it.
    Fighting the bumps, hoping that Diplock was hating every one of them, Dicken circled to find his direction and turned towards Mosul. As he landed he was pleased to see Diplock looking green.
    He didn’t even notice Dicken’s quivering salute and climbed into a waiting car without even changing out of his flying overalls. Two days later, Hatto sent for Dicken.
    ‘What the hell did you do to Parasol Percy?’ he asked. ‘Looped? Rolled? Anything like that?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, you must have done something. There’s a signal. You’d better read it.’ He passed the signal flimsy across.
    The words on it leapt out at Dicken as if they were on fire.
    ‘Subject: Captain and Flight-Lieutenant Quinney, ND. This officer is to be returned at once – repeat at once – to No 4 Car Company. He is not to take command of an aeroplane in this wing until he has completed a refresher course in flying.’

 
     
Seven
    The Wahabi were on the move again. There were thousands of them in the valleys and behind the hills to the north. As Tafas Hashim Fitna sent warning, the armoured cars roared north and stood in a wide ring round Kerchian, their radio aerials strung out, ready when the raiders appeared to pass the word to Hatto’s flight, transferred