Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (21 page)

“Is he crazy? That would provoke an international outrage!”

“Crazy or not,” yelled Monk, “them Japs are serious. I spy tracers all around us.”

Doc flung the plane about, and the expression on his metallic features was nearly molten.

Once again, pursuit planes proved far more agile than Doc Savage’s big amphibious flying boat. No matter how the bronze man ruddered the aircraft, climbed, or stalled, slipping off a wing, there was a limit to the wild maneuvering the ponderous ship could take.

On the other hand, the nimble warplanes danced about the sky, performing pirouettes and chandelles, coming at the big aircraft from every conceivable direction to empty the belts of their wing-mounted 7.7-mm machine guns.

Shoving open windows, Monk and the others cut loose.

They had replaced their superfirer drums with ordinary lead. So the directed streams of slugs were capable of doing real damage to the opposing fighters. The caliber of the tiny weapons was not formidable, but their velocity was considerable. Furthermore, it was very difficult to aim while Doc Savage put the great aircraft through its paces.

Renny got lucky, and managed to snip off pieces of one warplane stabilizer, but failed to do any more damage than to imbue the startled pilot with a sudden dose of caution.

Warplanes roared on and on, hammering at the flashing leviathan, striking in its belly, its sides and its wings and empennage.

Once again, the bulletproof properties of the plane could only stand so much. Glass began knocking out of windows, showering the interior cabin with chunks of crystal-like shards.

One plane motor was smoking, and seized up. Then another emitted a grunting cough, followed by a belch of evil-looking smoke from its exhaust blades.

The only thing that saved them was that both pilots ran out of machine gun ammunition before they could down the silver aircraft. For some reason, they refrained from using their cannon, perhaps due to a lack of shells. This was not a Chinese war theater.

But sufficient damage was done. Doc Savage announced, “This plane will have to be put on the ground.”

“We’ll be sittin’ ducks down there!” moaned Monk.

“Only if the Japanese commander sends additional warplanes,” stated Doc. “Our present foes have exhausted their bite.”

Then Doc Savage, face grave as metal, slanted the big plane down and snapped on the wing floodlights, seeking a safe stretch of scrub on which to plant the descending air wheels.

Chapter XXVII

SKY SKIRMISH

ONCE THEY WERE out of ammunition, the two Japanese fighter planes loitered for a few minutes in the air.

From his radio cubicle, Long Tom reported that it sounded as if they were reporting to their commander. He cut in the transmission through the cabin loudspeaker.

Doc Savage listened intently, then said, “They are providing precise directions to our whereabouts for another wave of planes.”

After that, the two fighters disappeared in the direction of the Manchurian border.

Doc Savage said, “Renny and I will investigate the damage to the engines. Johnny and Long Tom will prepare to fend off the attack. Monk, excavate cases marked 47-MET from our stores.”

“Gotcha, Doc,” said Monk.

Every man leaped to his responsibilities without another thought. Their prior wartime training served them well even in their peacetime pursuits.

Exiting the flying boat, Doc Savage fell to an examination of the most damaged of the four motors. Renny took the other, which was the outer starboard engine.

After only a few minutes of examination, the big-fisted engineer reported to Doc Savage, “We can fix this one. How about yours?”

Doc shook his head slowly. “Beyond repair.”

Renny grunted, “We can fly on three motors, can’t we?”

“Once the disabled engine is repaired.”

Doc investigated that engine, and saw that it would be a three-hour job, using spare parts from the emergency stores.

“Three hours?” blared Renny. “Those Jap warbirds will be back in less than one.”

Doc Savage said gravely, “We will leave the repairs until after the battle.”

By now dusk was shading into early evening, and once again a Mongolian moon was rising in the night sky. It shed an effulgence that was like a massive silver floodlight, creating long, lean, spectral shadows.

The great emptiness of the Gobi was an impressive thing. It possessed a queer spiritual quality of indescribable loneliness. They shook off the eerie sensation and got down to work.

Long Tom and Johnny had charged every supermachine pistol in their stores with solid slugs. There were plenty of spares.

The pale electrical wizard remarked sourly, “These won’t do us much good unless they try to strafe us from a low altitude.”

“A presentiment of portentous ominosity,” said Johnny, seeming to remember his habit of using long words.

Doc Savage told him, “We will try something else first.”

Monk emerged from the aircraft, dragging a very large case, larger than a typical steamer trunk. Its mate was already lying on the ground. Both were locked.

As Monk laid his burden on the ground, Doc Savage went to the first case and began throwing latches, after which he lifted the lid.

The others crowded around. Inside were nestled flat, rubbery bladders as pale as sunfish.

Long Tom muttered, “They look kinda like weather balloons.”

“They are,” said Doc. “But on a much smaller scale.”

Monk flung open his container, and the exposed contents were similar, but in this case the weather balloons, instead of being the regulation white, were a mixture, half white and the rest extremely black.

Renny muttered, “I don’t get this.”

Monk grinned. “You watch. We’re gonna lay a trap for them babies.”

Still grinning, the hairy chemist disappeared into the ship, coming back with an industrial-sized helium tank balanced over one sloping shoulder.

Setting it on the ground lengthwise, Monk plunged into filling the black and white balloons. Doc Savage joined in, and the two took turns inflating the rubbery envelopes.

These were equipped with trailing lines which ended in what looked like loose netting, anchored by small black balls that were composed of solid rubber.

Renny the engineer looked these devices over, and a knowing gleam came into his eyes.

“I take back what I said earlier,” he grunted. “These are kind of like barrage balloons, aren’t they?”

Doc admitted, “That is a fair description. In a manner of speaking, they are.”

Monk occupied the better part of forty minutes filling the balloons, and anchoring them to any shrub or rock they could locate.

Before long, they had cultivated a fantastic garden of strange round flowers. The balloons fluttered about their anchorage, propelled by vagrant, ever-shifting winds.

When they were done, Doc instructed Long Tom to kill all the lights on the aircraft. Then they waited.

The rising moon encountered parading banks of dark clouds, so the lunar light turned fitful and intermittent.

Doc studied the heavens, and saw that the ominous thunderheads were coming in their direction.

Seeing this, Ham Brooks said, “We are getting a break.”

Doc told him, “We cannot count on the cloud cover for very long. And moonlight will make the skin of our aircraft shine against the ground.”

THE DRONE of airplanes came close to the top of the hour by Ham Brooks’ watch.

“Release the white balloons first,” directed Doc.

Everyone scrambled to take hold of the lines and unhook a balloon. Soon, the bobbing rubberized spheres were rising into the sky in the general direction of the droning, for that was whither the wind happened to blow.

“Another break,” murmured Ham.

As he watched the balloons lift off, spaced well apart, Long Tom remarked to no one in particular, “Odds are they’ll spot these things.”

The Zeros seemed to do exactly that. They roared up in a V formation, six of them. Evidently, the original two had been reinforced.

As they approached, blundering into the aerial field of white globes, the goggled pilots executed frantic maneuvers, breaking off from one another and attempting to evade the balloons, whose purpose they did not understand but did not desire to discover firsthand.

One pilot was not as quick as the others and chanced to fly smack into one of the bobbing balloons. With the result that the aircraft sliced the thing apart with its port wing.

“So far, not so good,” muttered Monk, tiny eyes glowing with anticipation.

“Prepare to release the black balloons,” directed Doc Savage.

There was a general scramble to take hold of the remaining anchored balloons. These might have been oblate mushrooms growing from the turf.

The Japanese pilots demonstrated their discipline in that, after they had circled around, they lined up in a fresh formation and thundered on toward the stricken amphibian lying on the ground.

“Now!” clipped Doc.

A flotilla of black balloons lifted into the night sky, all but invisible. Doc held the last two in his hands, pacing the ground, watching the oncoming planes, his gaze going frequently to the marching thunderclouds and their unreliable sky cover.

Then he released the last two balloons.

The timing of the maneuver was not perfect. Nor could it be certain the black balloons were entirely invisible against the night sky.

They all watched and waited, barely breathing.

It became obvious that the fighter planes were dropping when the key and pitch of the oncoming motors changed from an approaching buzz to a kind of a whining howl.

Ham exclaimed, “They’re diving!”

“Into the plane,” rapped Doc.

They piled into the aircraft, slammed shut the hatch, and lay down on the floor of the cabin, below the line of the windows. They knew that the surviving glass would not hold for very long under the hateful hammering of machine gun fire.

The warplane whine lifted into a scream. They listened intently, no one less than Doc Savage, whose hearing was acute beyond belief.

“Here they come!” Renny boomed. “Holy cow!”

Doc silenced him with the squeeze of one arm. He was listening hard. The sound of the engines began to change to a hesitant sputtering, followed by the choking of engines.

They waited for the first strafing run to commence.

It was not exactly an unqualified success. The sound of the machine guns did not reach their ears first, but the drumming and kicking of bullets around the aircraft did.

That it was no simple matter to successfully strafe a large aircraft in the dark became evident when the first wave zoomed overhead, pulled out of their dives, and the big flying boat barely rocked on its wheels.

“Missed!” howled Monk.

Again, Doc signaled for silence.

There were auditory symptoms not consistent with six warplanes pulling out of power dives.

As the sound of the retreating planes diminished in volume, other sounds could be heard. These were indications of airplane motors in distress.

Then came a distinct jar—an aircraft struck the earth with a distinct bump.

The sound came from the west, and Doc popped his head up to peer out a window. He was greeted by a brief flare, indicating a fire, followed by a rather dull explosion, as the gas tanks of a downed Japanese plane ignited.

That brought everybody looking to the windows.

A second fighter was jockeying around in the sky, evidently struggling, and attempting to land in distress.

They could not see it clearly, except to note that it seemed to be dragging one of the black balloons, which jittered madly about.

Monk shouted, “We got two of them!”

Another sound, telling of a hard landing, caused Ham to correct the hairy chemist.

“I count three.”

That brought everyone rushing out of the plane to take stock of the situation.

The third Zero was hammering along, trying to find level ground, and more or less succeeded.

It came down hard, its fixed wheels rattled along, duralumin alloy wings shuddering with every bump and rut encountered. Everyone noted that no engine sound was audible.

The fighter plane rolled to a rather difficult stop, after which the pilot threw black his greenhouse canopy and hopped out.

Monk unlatched the safety of his supermachine pistol, and took careful aim.

“Monk!” Doc reminded him. “That weapon is charged with solid lead.”

Monk hesitated. Doc Savage had a fixed attitude toward the taking of life. He forbade it in his men. More than once in the past, Monk had managed to bend this rule, but only when the bronze man was not looking. Reluctantly, the apish chemist lowered his weapon.

Then, he shoved into the cabin door and returned with a drum of mercy bullets. Climbing onto a wing, Monk sighted on the Japanese pilot who was attempting to hide behind his aircraft.

The pilot’s high-booted legs were visible, so the hairy chemist aimed for those.

The powerful little machine pistol snarled, and the area was lit up with brief flashes of light remindful of firecrackers going off. Powder percussion made their eardrums ring.

Monk hosed the weapon this way and that, ensuring that a spray of mercy bullets riddled the pilot’s exposed legs.

Sure enough, he collapsed a few moments later.

Johnny had a flashlight out and pointed the beam at the plane. The propeller was a mangled tangle interspersed with the steel netting that had hung from the balloon lines.

“Supermalagorgeous!” he remarked with satisfaction.

Monk said, “Those balloons are designed to trick a pilot into avoidin’ the white ones, but runnin’ smack into the black ones, if the wind and altitude are right. Once the props gnash into the hangin’ mesh, they get fouled in the metal lines, makin’ it impossible to fly.”

“Slick!” said Long Tom approvingly. “We cut our problem in half.”

As if to emphasize that point, the three surviving Zeros returned, slanting down out of the sky.

There had not been much moonlight before, but now cracks appeared in the cloud cover like veins of silver in a gigantic aerial mine.