Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 005 - Pirate of the Pacific

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The Pirate of the Pacific
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. THE YELLOW KILLERS
? Chapter 2. SEA PHANTOM
? Chapter 3. THE MONGOL PERIL
? Chapter 4. THE DRIPPING SWORD
? Chapter 5. THE DRAGON TRAIL
? Chapter 6. THE STOLEN GLASS
? Chapter 7. DEATH TRAIL
? Chapter 8. A PIRATE OF TO-DAY
? Chapter 9. HIS ARM FELL OFF
? Chapter 10. THE LUZON TRAIL
? Chapter 11. PERIL LINER
? Chapter 12. TREACHERY
? Chapter 13. WATER ESCAPE
? Chapter 14. HUNTED MEN
? Chapter 15. RESCUE TRAIL
? Chapter 16. THE BUCCANEER MUTINY
? Chapter 17. THE SUNKEN YACHT
? Chapter 18. PAYMENT IN SUICIDE
? Chapter 19. TOM TOO'S LAIR
? Chapter 20. THE TIGHTENING NET
? Chapter 21. SEA CHASE
? Chapter 22. RED BLADE
Chapter 1. THE YELLOW KILLERS
THREE laundry trucks stopped in the moonlight near a large commercial airport on Long Island. They
made little noise. The machines bore the name of a New York City laundry firm.
The drivers peered furtively up and down the road. They seemed relieved that no one was in sight.
Getting out, they walked slowly around the trucks, eyes probing everywhere, ears straining.
They were stocky, yellow-skinned, slant-eyed men. Their faces were broad and flat, their hair black and
coarse. They looked like half-castes.
Satisfied, the three exchanged glances. They could see each other distinctly in the moonlight. No word
was spoken. One driver lifted an arm - a silent signal.
Each Mongol dragged a dead man from the cab of his truck. All three victims had been stabbed expertly
through the heart. They wore the white uniforms of laundry drivers, and on each uniform was
embroidered the same name the trucks bore.
A roadside ditch received the three bodies.
Rear doors of the trucks were now opened. Fully a dozen Mongols and half-castes crawled out of the
vehicles. They clustered beside the road.
Their faces were inscrutable; no muscle twitched, not a slant eye wavered. They were like a collection of
placid, evil yellow images.
No weapons were in sight. But their clothing bulged suspiciously.
The first driver's arm elevated in another noiseless signal. The fellow seemed to lie in charge.
The whole crowd glided quietly down the side road that led to the airport.
Plane hangars were an orderly row of fat, drab humps ahead. Faint strains of radio music came from one
of them. A high fence of heavy woven wire encircled both hangars and plane runways.
Near the main gate in the fence, a guard lounged. His only movement was an occasional lusty swing at a
night insect.
"These blasted mosquitoes are bigger'n hawks!" he grumbled, speaking aloud for his own company.
"They must be flyin' over from the Jersey marshes."
The guard discerned a man approaching. He forgot his mosquitoes as he peered into the darkness to see
who was approaching. When the man came within a few yards, the guard was able to distinguish his
features.
"Hy'ah, yellow boy!" he grinned. "You can't poke around here at night. This is private property."
The Mongol replied with a gibberish that was unintelligible to the watchman.
"No savvy!" said the g"guard. "Splickee English!"
The Oriental came closer, gesturing earnestly with his hands.
The unfortunate guard never saw another figure glide up in the moonlight behind him. Moonlight flickered
on a thick, heavy object. The weapon struck with a vicious, sidewise swipe.
The sound, as it hit, was like a loud, heavy thump. The guard piled down on the ground, out in a second.
THE other Mongols and half-castes now came up. They strode past the unconscious guard as though
they hadn't seen him, passed through the gate in the high fence, and continued purposefully for the
hangars.
No commands had been spoken. They were functioning like a deadly machine, following a deliberate
plan.
Music from the radio was thumping a more rapid tempo - the musicians were working up to one of those
grand slam endings. The radio instrument itself was a midget set, no larger than a shoe box.
Another night worker of the airport had plugged it into a power outlet on a workbench in a corner of the
hangar. He lolled in the cockpit of a plane and listened to the music.
"Get hot!" he exhorted the radio, and beat time on the taut fuselage fabric with his palms.
Night traffic at this airport was negligible, and two men were the extent of the airport staff - this man, and
the one at the gate.
The radio music came to an end. The station announcer introduced the next feature - a regular
fifteen-minute news broadcast.
The man scowled and slouched more lazily in the plane cockpit. He was not enthusiastic about this
particular news broadcaster. The fellow handled the news in too dignified and con ervative a fashion. He
didn't set things afire.
"Good evening." said the radio commentator. "To-night, somewhere out on long Island Sound, the
under-the-polar-ice submarine, Helldiver, is coming. The craft was sighted by an airplane pilot shortly
before darkness. She was headed toward New York.
"Arrival of the Helldiver in New York will bring to a close one of the most weird and mystifying
adventures of modern days. The submarine left the United States many weeks ago, and vanished into the
arctic regions. Approximately forty persons started the trip. Yet the craft is returning to-night with but six
living men aboard, the others having perished in the polar wastes."
The man listened with more attention. This was quite a change from the news broadcaster's usual routine
of foreign and political stuff.
Another fact made the news interesting and surprising to the listener. This was the first he had heard of
the submarine Helldiver, on an expedition into the arctic regions. About forty had started out. and six
were coming back!
Here was something worth listening to! Strange the papers had not carried a lot of ballyhoo about the
start of the expedition! Explorers were usually anxious to get their pictures on the front pages.
The next words from the radio clarified this mystery.
"From the beginning. this polar submarine expedition has been a strangely secret affair," continued the
commentator. "Not a newspaper carried a word of the sailing. Indeed, the world might still know nothing
of the amazing feat, had several radio operators not tipped newspaper reporters that messages were
being sent and received which disclosed the submarine was in the vicinity of the north pole. This
information was something of a shock to the newspapermen. It meant they were losing out on one of the
big news stories of the year. They had not even known the expedition was under way.
"During the last few days, there has been a great rush among newspapers striving to be first to carry a
story of the expedition. They seem to be up against a blank wall. The men aboard the underseas boat
sent word by radio that they wanted no publicity and that no story of the trip would be given out.
"Only two facts have been learned. The first is that but six men out of approximately forty are returning.
The second bit of information was that the expedition is commanded by one of the most mysterious and
remarkable men living in this day.
"That man is Doc Savage!"
THE news broadcaster paused to give emphasis to the name he had just pronounced.
The listening man was leaning over the cockpit edge, all interest. He did not see the yellow murder mask
of a face framed in a small, open side door of the hangar. Nor did he see hands like bundles of yellowed
bones as they silently lifted a strange death instrument and trained it on him.
"Doc Savage!" grunted the man. "Never heard of the guy!"
The voice from the radio continued. "Doc Savage is a man practically unknown to the public. Yet in
scientific circles, he has a fame that is priceless. His name is something to conjure with.
"Last night, I was fortunate enough to attend a banquet given by scientific men here in New York. Many
learned men attended In the course of the evening, I heard references to important discoveries made by
Doc Savage. The really bewildering thing about these discoveries was that they were made in widely
different fields, ranging from surgery, chemistry, and electricity to the perfecting of a new, quick-growing
species of lumber tree.
"Amazement seized me as I listened to eminent scientists discuss Doc Savage, the man of mystery, in the
most glowing words. It seemed impossible they could speak in such terms of one man without
exaggerating. Yet these were men certainly not given to exaggeration. I am going to give you a word
picture of this man of mystery of whom they talked.
"Doc Savage is, despite his amazing accomplishments, a young man. He is a striking bronze giant of a
figure. His physical strength, my informants assured me, is on a par with his mental ability. That means he
is a marvel of muscular development. One of the scientists at the banquet told me in entire seriousness
that, were Savage to enter athletic competition, his name would leap to the headlines of every paper in
the country.
"This man of mystery has been trained from the cradle, until now he is almost a super being. This training,
given by his father, was to fit Doc Savage for a definite purpose in life.
"That purpose is to travel from one end of the world to the other, striving to help those who need help,
punishing those who deserve punishment.
"Associated with Doc Savage are five men who love excitement and adventure, and who have dedicated
themselves to their leader's creed of benefiting humanity.
"A strange and mysterious group of men. this! So unusual that the hare facts I am telling you now cannot
but sound unreal and far-fetched. Yet I can assure you my information came from the most conservative
and reliable sources."
The listening man blinked as he digested the words that came to his ears. "This Doc Savage must be quite
a guy," he grunted.
Then the sneaking face was near. As unknowing as the watchman's companion at the gate, the man in the
plane fell before the blow of the weapon, crumpled in his seat, unconscious or dead - the attacker did not
look to see.
SLANT-EYED men poured into the hangar. No orders were uttered. The half-caste Orientals were still
following their plan. Their efficiency was terrible, deadly. The whole group worked as one unit, an expert
killing machine.
Two opened the hangar doors. Others busied themselves making four pursuit planes ready for the air.
These ships were the most modern craft. yet the sinister men showed familiarity with the mechanism.
Three yellow raiders rushed up to the planes. carrying guns and bombs. The guns were quickly attached.
the bombs were racked in clips on the undersides of the planes.
More men secured four parachutes from a locker room. No time was wasted in scampering about the
airport hunting for things. They knew exactly where everyt hing was located.
The planes were strong-armed out of the hangars. Four Orientals dug goggles and helmets out of their
clothing. The helmets were a brilliant red color.
The men cinched on the parachutes, then plugged into the cockpits. The scarlet helmets made them
resemble a quartet of red-headed woodpeckers.
Exhaust thunder galloped across the tarmac as the motors started. Prop-streams tore dust from under the
ships and pushed it away in squirming masses.
The planes flung along the runway, vaulted off, and slanted up into the now moon-whitened sky.
The Orientals who had been left behind lost no time in quitting the airport. Racing to the three laundry
trucks, they entered, and drove hastily away.
Three or four minutes after the planes departed, no one was left at the airport. The two watchmen lay
where they had dropped, still unconscious. In the ditch beside the road sprawled the three slain drivers of
the laundry trucks.
The adjacent countryside slept on peacefully. The four planes booming overhead attracted no attention,
since night flying was not unusual even at this quiet port.
Within ten minutes, Long Island Sound was crawling under the craft. The surface of the Sound was like a
faintly pitted silver plate, shimmering in the brilliant moonlight.
The planes spread out widely and flew low. Each Oriental pilot had high-magnification binoculars
jammed to his eyes. With the same machine thoroughness which bad stamped their bloody actions at the
airport, they searched the Sound surface.
It was not long before they found what they sought - a narrow craft trailing across the Sound at the head
of a long wedge of foaming wake.
The planes headed purposefully for this vessel.
Chapter 2. SEA PHANTOM
THE quarry came rapidly closer. More details of the craft were discernible. The half-caste Mongol pilots
continued to use their binoculars. They tilted their planes down in steep dives toward the unusual vessel
below.
It was a submarine. It resembled a lean-flanked, razorback whale several hundred feet long. Big steel
runners extended from bow to stern, sled fashion. Amidships, a sort of collapsible conning tower reared.
The underseas craft floated high. On the bows, a lettered name was readable:
HELLDIVER.
It was this submarine which had been the subject of the radio news commentator's broadcast.
With deadly precision, the four planes roared down at the submersible. The Orientals had discarded their
binoculars, and had their eyes pasted to the bomb sights. Yellow hands were poised, muscles drawn
wire-hard, on bomb trips.
A naval bombing expert, knowing all the facts, would have sworn the submarine didn't have a chance of
escaping. It would be blown out of the water by the bombs.
The Mongol pilots were hot-eyed, snarling - yellow faces no longer inscrutable. They were about to
accomplish the purpose of their bloody plot - the death of every one aboard the under-the-polar-ice
submarine.
They got a shock.
From a dozen spots, the sub hull spewed smoke as black as drawing ink. Heaving, squirming, the dense
smudge spread. It blotted the underseas boat from view, and blanketed the surface of the Sound for
hundreds of feet in every direction.
With desperate haste, the Orientals deposited bombs in the center of the smoke mushroom. These
explosions drove up treelike columns from the black body of the smoke mass. It was impossible to tell
whether the sub had been damaged.
The four planes might have been angry, metallic bees droning over some gigantic. strange, black blossom.
as they hovered watchfully. They did not waste more bombs, since the smoke cloud was now half a mile
across. In it, the sub was like a needle in a haystack.
Several minutes passed. Suddenly, as one unit, the four planes dived for the western edge of the heavy
smoke screen.
Their sharp eyes had detected a long, slender mass moving some feet beneath the surface. This was
leaving a creamy wake.
In quick succession, the war planes struck downward at the object under the water. Four bombs
dropped. The half-caste Mongols knew their business. Each bomb scored an almost perfect hit.
Water rushed high. The sea heaved and boiled. The concussions tossed the planes about like leaves.
Swinging in a wide circle, the planes came back. The commotion in the water had subsided. The pilots
made hissing sounds of delight.
The long, slender mass was no longer to be seen. Oil filmed the surface. Oil such as would come from
the ruptured entrails of a submarine.
THE pursuit planes whirled a half dozen lazy spirals. Convinced the deadly work was done, the leader of
the quartet angled for the shore, four or five miles distant. Once over land, he dived out of the cockpit.
fell a hundred feet, and opened his parachute. The plane boomed away. Eventually, it would crash
somewhere.
Two other pilots followed their leader's example.
The third lingered a bit above the grisly smear of oil on the Sound surface.
He chanced to notice a small object near the cloud of black smoke. This seemed nothing more than a
floating box. It bobbed lightly on the choppy waves.
The flyer ignored the box. It looked harmless - a piece of wreckage. A few moments later, he winged to
shore and quitted his plane by parachute, as the others had done.
The man might have saved himself a lot of trouble had he taken time to investigate the floating box he had
'noted. Close scrutiny would have shown the top and sides of the box were fitted with what resembled
large camera lenses.
Inside the box were other lenses, spinning disks perforated with small holes, sensitive photo-electric cells
- a compact television transmitter. Waterproofed electric wires led from this down into the water.
Long Island Sound was not deep at this point. The under-the-polar-ice submarine, Helldiver, rested on
the bottom. The wires from the television box entered the undersea boat.
Before the scanning disk of the television receiver in the sub, six men stood. They were a remarkable
group.i. Six more unusual men than these probably had never assembled. Each possessed a world-wide
reputation in his chosen p profession.
There was "Renny," a hulking six feet four and two hundred and fifty pounds of him - with possibly fifty
pounds of that weight concentrated in a pair of monster fists. Renny had a sober, puritanical face. About
the only entertainment he permitted himself was knocking panels out of doors with his huge fists - a stunt
he pulled at the most unexpected moments. As Colonel John Renwick, the engineer, Renny was known
in many nations, and drew down fabulous fees when he worked.
There was "Long Tom," pale and none too healthy- looking, the weakling of the crowd in appearance.
His looks were deceptive, though, as more than one big man had discovered. As Major Thomas G.
Roberts, the electrical wizard, he had worked with the greatest electrical minds of his day.
"Johnny" - William Harper Littlejohn - was tall, gaunt, studious and bespectacled. He seemed half
starved, with shoulders as bony as a coat hanger. Once he bad headed the Natural Science department
of a famous university. His knowledge of geology and archaeology was profound. His books on these
subjects were in every worthwhile library.
Two individuals stood on the edge of the group and scowled at each other like a cat and dog. They were
"Monk" and "Ham." They always seemed on the point of flying at each other's throats. They swapped
insults at every opportunity. Yet Ham had several times risked his life to save Monk, and Monk had
done the same for Ham.
They were as unlike as men could be. Monk was a hairy monster of two hundred and sixty pounds, with
arms some inches longer than his short legs, and a face incredibly homely. He was a human gorilla. The
world of chemistry knew him as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, one of the most learned
chemists alive. But he looked dumb as an ox.
Ham was slender, lean-waisted. His clothing was sartorial perfection - tailors had been known to follow
Ham down streets, just to see clothes being worn as they should be. His business cards read: "Brigadier
General Theodore Marley Brooks;" and he was possibly the most astute lawyer Harvard ever turned out.
Ham carried a black cane of innocent aspect - a sword cane, in reality. He was never to be found
without it.
The sixth member of the group was a mighty man of bronze - Doc Savage.
MAN of mystery, the radio commentator had labeled Doc Savage. Wizard of science! Muscular
marvel!
The radio speaker had not exaggerated. Doc Savage was all of these things. His mental powers and
strength were almost fantastic. He was the product of intensive expert, scientific training that had started
the moment he was born.
Each day of his life, he had performed a two-hour routine of unusual exercise. Doc's powers might seem
unbelievable, but there was really no magic about them. Rigid adherence to his exercise, coupled with
profound study, was responsible.
Doc was a big man, almost two hundred pounds - but the bulk of his great form was forgotten in the
smooth symmetry of a build incredibly powerful. The bronze of his hair was a little darker than that of his
features, and the hair lay down tightly as a metal skullcap.
Most striking of all were the bronze man's eyes. They glittered like pools of flake gold when little lights
from the television scanning disk played on them. They seemed to exert a hypnotic influence.
The lines of Doc's features, the unusually high forehead, the mobile and muscular and not-too-full mouth,
the lean cheeks, denoted a power of character seldom seen.
"There goes the last of the flyers!" Doc said.
Doc's voice, although low, held a remarkable quality of latent power. It was an intensively trained voice -
everything about Doc had been trained by his exercise routine.
"They sure enough thought it was the sub they had bombed," grinned Johnny, the bony archaeologist. He
adjusted the glasses he wore. These spectacles had an extremely thick left lens which was actually a
powerful magnifying glass. Johnny, having practically lost the use of his left eye in the War, carried the
magnifier there for handiness.
"Our contraption fooled them," Doc admitted. "But it might not have worked so well in daytime. A close
look would have shown the thing was only a strip of canvas painted the color of steel, and some oil
barrels, pulled along under the surface by a torpedo mechanism."
At the rear of the group, Monk stopped scowling at Ham long enough to ask: "You made that torpedo
mechanism a couple of days ago - but how'd you know that early that something like this would
happen?"
"I didn't know," Doc smiled faintly. "I only knew we were barging into trouble - and made preparations
to meet it."
"If you was to ask me, we didn't have to barge into it," Monk grinned. "It came right out and grabbed us
around the neck. Who were them guys who just tried to lay eggs on us?"
For answer, Doc Savage drew two radio messages from a pocket.
"You all saw the first one of these when it came," he said.
THE five men nodded. They had been far within the arctic regions when the first message had reached
them by radio. It was very short, reading:
IN DESPERATE NEED OF YOUR HELP. JUAN MINDORO.
Doc Savage had promptly turned the submarine southward. There was no need of lingering in the arctic,
anyway. They had just completed the mission which had sent them into the polar regions - a desperate,
adventurous quest for a fifty-million-dollar treasure aboard a derelict liner.
That treasure now reposed in the submarine - a hoard of wealth that had threatened to cost its weight in
the blood of men.
Doc had not told his five men what meaning Juan Mindaro's mysterious message might have. They had
not asked questions, knowing he would tell them in good time. Doc was sometimes as much of a mystery
to his five friends as he was to the rest of the world.
They had guessed there was danger ahead, however. Several days ago, Doc had hailed a liner they
chanced to pass, and had put aboard the vessel three persons who were passengers on the submarine.
These three people - a famous violinist and his wife and daughter - were, with Doc and his five men, the
only survivors of the grisly episode in the arctic through which they had just passed.
The radio commentator had not mentioned these three. He had not known of them. Nor would he ever
know, for the polar episode was now a closed book.
The fact that Doc had transferred the three passengers to the safety of a liner showed he wanted them
out of danger and told Doc's men they were headed for more trouble. They didn't mind. It was the thing
they lived for. They went to the far corners of the earth to find it.
But they had not known Doc had received a second message from the same source.
Doc extended the missive. "I copied this myself a few days ago. Read it."
Crowding about, the five men read:
I HAVE BEEN FORCED TO GO INTO HIDING AT THE HOME OF THE MAN WHO WAS
WITH ME WHEN I LAST SAW YOU. MEET ME THERE UPON YOUR ARRIVAL. AND BE
PREPARED FOR ATTACKS ON YOUR LIFE. JUAN MINDORO.
"Huh!" ejaculated Monk, wrinkling his flat, apish nose. "That don't tell us any more than the first one."
"Exactly," Doc replied. "And that explains why I have not informed you fellows what we're headed for. I
don't know myself - except that it has something to do with the Orient.
"Juan Mindoro is a political power in the Pacific island group known as the Luzon Union. He is the most
influential man in the island. And you know what recently happened to the Luzon Union."
"They were given their independence," said Ham. "I remember now. Juan Mindoro had a big hand in
electing the first president after the island group became self-governing. But what could that have to do
with this?"
Doc shrugged. "It is too early to say."
He glanced at the television scanning disk . "The men who tried to bomb us are gone. We might as well
get under way.
The submarine arose to the surface. The pall of black smoke still hung over the Sound.
Doc pulled in the television box which had been trailing he boat. Then the sub put on speed. It ran low in
the water o escape attention from passing boats.
Once it dived to pass a launch loaded with newspaper reporters.
Chapter 3. THE MONGOL PERIL
PRACTICALLY every wharf in New York City was watched by newspaper reporters that night. The
return of a submarine which had ventured under the polar ice was big news. The fact that those aboard
the submarine wished no publicity made the story bigger. Each paper wanted to be the first to carry it.
Forty or so men had gone into the arctic - only six were coming back. A whale of a yarn! City editors
swore over telephones at reporters. Photographers dashed about, answering false alarms turned in by
news hawks who had mistaken rowboats and mud scows for the sub. Everybody lost a lot of sleep.
In a remote corner of the harbor, a rusty old tramp steamer swung at anchor. The captain of the ancient
hulk, who was also the owner, happened to be an acquaintance of Doc Savage.
Shortly after midnight, this captain turned all of his crew out of their bunks. They fell to and made the
submarine Helldiver fast alongside the tramp steamer. No one from and noted this incident.
A launch now sped ashore. It bore a small fortune in gold and diamonds - a load of the treasure Doc had
brought back from the arctic. An armored car and a dozen guards with drawn guns met the launch and
received the wealth. This also escaped the notice of the reporters.
The launch made more trips - until the whole treasure was on its way to an all-night bank.
Doc and his five men came ashore with the last load. Newspaper reporters would discover the
submarine tied alongside the tramp steamer in the morning, but the tramp captain would profess
mystification as to how it got there.
The whole arctic submarine expedition business was destined to be a mystery the news hawks would
never solve.
A taxicab took Doc and his five men uptown. Doc rode outside, barehead. standing on the running
board. He habitually did that when danger threatened. From this position, Doc's weird golden eyes
missed very little - a sniper had hardly a chance of getting a shot at them before he was discovered.
The cab halted before the most impressive building in the city. This skyscraper stabbed upward, a great
white thorn of brick and steel, nearly a hundred stories.
Few people were on the sidewalk at this hour. But those who were, stopped and openly stared, such a
striking figure did Doc Savage present. The big bronze man was a sensation wherever he went.
Doc and his five men rode an express elevator to the eighty-sixth floor of the skyscraper. Here Doc had
his New York headquarters - a richly furnished office, one of the most complete libraries of technical and
scientific tomes in existence, and an elaborately equipped chemical and electrical laboratory.
Doc had a second headquarters, fitted with another library and laboratory which were the most complete
in existence. This, however, was at a spot he called his "Fortress of Solitude." No one knew its
whereabouts. To this retreat Doc went at frequent intervals for the periods of intense study to which he
devoted himself. At such times he vanished as completely as though he had dropped from the earth. No
one could get in touch with him.
It was these periodic disappearances, as much as anything else, which had given Doc repute as a man of
mystery.
MONK planted his furry bulk on a costly inlaid table in the office and began rolling himself a cigarette.
"Did you make arrangements by radio about the treasure?" he asked Doc. "I mean - about what the
money is to be used for."
"That's all taken care of," the bronze man assured him.
摘要：

ThePirateofthePacificADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.THEYELLOWKILLERS?Chapter2.SEAPHANTOM?Chapter3.THEMONGOLPERIL?Chapter4.THEDRIPPINGSWORD?Chapter5.THEDRAGONTRAIL?Chapter6.THESTOLENGLASS?Chapter7.DEATHTRAIL?Chapter8.APIRATEO...

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