Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (34 page)

“I do not know, nor do I care,” returned Timur. “There is always something worthwhile beyond every mountain range. Something to seize, or crush, or pillage. Perhaps a city, or possibly only another town. It matters not. Whatever it is, by nightfall, or no later than the dawn, it will belong to us. Nothing can stand before the Scourge of Humanity.”

“Nothing under Heaven,” praised Chinua.

Timur nodded his iron-shod head. A sweeping horse tail blew from the tip of his pointed helmet.

“In the life that I formerly lived,” he ruminated, “I was a powerful emir. But only an emir. Never a khan. In this new life, awake in a new century, I proclaim myself to be a true khan. Timur Khan.”

Chinua lifted his voice, and it swelled with pride.

“All hail Timur Khan, the Khan of Iron!”

Behind them hundreds of Mongol swords leapt from their scabbards, and what sounded like a thousand throats lifted in praise.

“The great Khan of Iron!”

Chapter XLVIII

THE BRONZE DESTROYER

THE BRONZE HEINKEL BOMBER volleyed west, Doc Savage gripping the control yoke. He flew low, active golden eyes sweeping the terrain ahead. His metallic features were graven in a way human flesh rarely achieves.

There were times when the comrades of the mighty bronze man doubted that he was entirely human. This was one such time. He might have been a machine of metal parts cunningly wrought and assembled. Tireless, single-minded, indomitable in the manner of Achilles or Atlas, or some comparable hero of ancient times.

Every iota of his being was focused on finding Tamerlane and his horse cavalry before it could commit further depredations. His golden eyes, usually animated, possessed the bleak look of frosted metal.

Night fell. The light died early and rapidly, in accordance with the season.

“We might lose ’em,” muttered Monk in the co-pilot seat.

The bronze giant shook his head slightly. “They are making for those mountains yonder. No habitation lies before them. It is my hope that we overtake them before they reach the pass that cuts between the peaks.”

Soon, Monk and the others saw what concerned the bronze man.

Even in the dying light, the size of the army of Timur could be discerned.

It was immense. A metallic serpent composed of segmented lines of horses riding five abreast. It bristled with what appeared to be pikes carried high. Many wore round shields strapped to their armored backs. Here and there, specimens of the two-humped camels common in this part of the world, trooped majestically along, laden with booty.

The bronze man dipped the plane and called back, “Ready all bombs.”

Ham and Long Tom climbed out of their gunnery perches and raced for the crates containing their armament. They flung open lids while Johnny roused himself from his numbed stupor and pitched in. His eyes were feverishly bright.

Monk pitched out of his seat to assist. Most of the containers housing the bombs were of his formulation, and the apish chemist wanted to wring the most destruction out of them.

As ordnance went, the bombs were simple in construction. Some were filled with anesthetic gas. But others were nastier. There were copious quantities of tear gas of three different types. There were potions that stung the skin, or inflicted uncontrollable itching. Vapors that, once they touched exposed flesh, discolored it, turning their skins a ghost white. This last was for psychological effect, for Doc Savage had reasoned the best way to discourage an army of terror was to terrorize it. White was the Chinese color of death, and men so marked would be seen as wandering ghosts, or at least carriers of death.

Banking slightly, Doc lined up the bomber on the sinuous army of conquest. In the nose, Renny swiveled his machine gun. The weapon had been charged with mercy bullets, but the initial rounds were explosives.

“Now!” shouted Doc.

That was the signal to Renny Renwick to commence firing. He had clamped a belt of explosive rounds into his machine gun to open up the festivities.

“Let ’er rip!” encouraged Monk.

Renny cut loose with his nose machine gun. His purpose was to sow fear and confusion, not inflict casualties. Working the machine gun around, he blasted the terrain on either side of the Mongol cavalry.

The landscape lit up. Small explosions, like strings of firecrackers, detonated on either side.

This produced the desired result. Mongolian ponies began to rear and rebel. Swords came out, and the warriors angrily berated their mounts with the flats of their blades.

What had been a minute before a well-organized cavalry, broke in the center. An equine rout manifested. It could not be controlled.

In this confusion, Monk Mayfair hastily tripped switches. The bomb bay doors heaved downward. Rushing noise filled the interior of the plane, followed by violently cold slipstream.

Long Tom and Johnny pitched their bombs out this aperture. They did this in a methodical manner, knowing that their greatest need was to create blind panic the entire length of the Mongol procession, and disrupt the well-disciplined columns of horsemen riding abreast.

A great many of the bombs were anesthetic in nature. This had the predictable result of dropping men and their mounts in their tracks. Warriors pitched off their saddles, or slipped off to one side. They succumbed barely seconds before their steeds, who staggered and tipped over in the manner of cows being pushed over by pranksters.

“Tear gas next!” howled Monk, flinging open another container. He distributed a number of bombs, and filled his burly arms with more.

They began pitching these out the bomb bay hatch.

The tear gas erupted in yellowish clouds that precipitated a panic greater than that occasioned by the spectacle of Mongol warriors dropping in their saddles.

Along the columns of cavalry below, arrows lifted upward. Some were fire arrows, but others whistled so loudly they could be heard over the roar of the motors.

“What are they doing?” Ham wondered as he pitched out a pair of oversized bombs.

“Signal arrows,” explained Doc, as he drove the plane lower. “Watch for incoming shafts!”

No sooner had the bronze man spoke those urgent words of warning than an iron-barbed missile jumped up into the plane, almost clipping Long Tom, who recoiled with alacrity.

“Lucky shot,” Long Tom gritted. He pitched down a bomb that hatched a thick cloud of black smoke below. It swallowed part of the column, throwing it into chaos.

In the greenhouse nose, Renny Renwick was mowing down what riders still remained in their saddles with furious storms of mercy bullets. He alternated short and long bursts, where they would inflict the maximum consternation. The nose filled with acrid burnt-powder fumes, causing Renny’s eyes to smart.

After one pass, Doc Savage brought the bomber around to make another run at the confusion of warriors below.

“Any sign of Timur?” screamed Johnny over the slipstream howl.

Doc Savage called back, “He is riding in the front.”

“Did we get him?” demanded Johnny hotly.

“That is uncertain. We will know after the second pass.”

“What are you waiting on?” yelled Johnny. “We need to find him!”

DOC SAVAGE said nothing. The others looked at the lanky archaeologist with wonder. They had never known Johnny to talk back to Doc Savage, but so great was his anguish and concern over the tragedy he had wrought that the skeletal scholar was beside himself in his determination to bring down the resurrected Mongol warlord.

This time, Doc Savage flew across the heads of the Mongol cavalry. Swooping low, he turned on his landing lights, which sprayed white illumination everywhere.

Arrows continued rising, but none were lucky enough to reach the bomber. A very few came close. The power of the Mongolian composite bow was impressive.

There were some number of rifles distributed among the Mongols, and these started snapping in anger.

Long Tom finished pitching the last of the bombs out the hatch, and called for Monk to close it. Bomb bay doors toiled back into place.

“We’re fresh out of eggs!” complained Monk. “They went faster than I thought!”

“They did their job,” returned Doc Savage.

In the nose, Renny was machine gunning anything that moved. Men, horses, and probably whatever passed for Chinese jackrabbits went hopping away from the calamity unfolding below.

Doc Savage called back, “Renny, we are coming up on the head of the army. Endeavor to bring down the horsemen in the lead.”

“Right,” roared back the big-fisted engineer.

As the
Brazen Devil
slammed toward the mountain pass, over which the lead horsemen were distributed, Renny Renwick poured out a withering stream of slugs.

“I can’t see what I’m shooting at!” he boomed.

Grabbing a signal flare, Johnny ignited it and snapped opened a firing port. Out went the sizzling flare.

“See if that helps!” yelled Johnny, who then stuck his superfirer out a loophole and blazed away indiscriminately.

The others followed suit. There were shielded gun ports distributed throughout the interior. Supermachine pistol snouts pointed earthward, commenced shuttling and yowling like a chorus of riveting guns. Gunsmoke made the cabin air hard to breathe, and brass cartridges jumped everywhere.

Numerous riders were charging up the mountain pass, the less disciplined of which had apparently overtaken those in the lead, and were attempting to flee the destruction of what had formerly been an iron-disciplined cavalry on the march.

Doc Savage flung the Heinkel around, trying to line up on the tip of the procession, but the darkness combined with the panicky confusion of horsemen made it difficult to discern individuals.

For the head of the horse column had gotten itself organized. Mongols hastily unstrapped their war shields, and held them high over their heads. This transformed horsemen into a crawling dragon of gigantic scales.

“Did we get him?” howled Johnny, as they overflew the mountain peaks.

“Impossible to tell,” returned Doc Savage.

“Well, don’t give up! Come around again!”

It was hardly necessary to make that suggestion but, so great was the bony archaeologist’s anguish, he could not help himself.

Doc Savage brought the
Brazen Devil
sweeping around. There was a lull in the firing. Ammunition drums were hastily extracted, and replacements inserted. Johnny found more flares, ignited one, and tossed it out prematurely. This only encouraged him to ignite more. In his frantic pace, he almost set his coat afire, and juggled a little flare with singed hands until he got it out the loophole.

It felt to earth, hissing and producing a hellish glitter.

As soon as Doc’s men spotted horsemen charging up the pass, the chorus of superfirer pistols resumed hooting. More smoke filled the cabin. Eardrums rang. But the raised shields defeated the hollow shells drumming against them like a chemical rain.

“We need more bombs!” Johnny complained.

“Well, we’re fresh out,” retorted Monk.

From the nose, Renny thundered, “If this keeps up, we’ll be plumb out of ammunition before you know it!”

Loud enough so everyone could hear him, Doc Savage said, “Timur has amassed an army larger than expected. No doubt he has acquired recruits along the way, or impressed farmers and coolies into his service against their will.”

Johnny snapped, “Never mind the peasants. We have to concentrate on Timur!”

“What do you think we’re doing?” Long Tom called back sourly. He had crawled back into the belly gondola, where he worked the flexible machine gun. It soon ran empty. He gave the hot breech a hard spank with the heel of his hand, searing his palm.

Looking about frantically, Johnny demanded, “Is there anything we can throw out the bomb bay?”

“Just the crates,” Monk grumbled. “Fat lot of good they’ll do us.”

“They are better than nothing,” Johnny insisted.

“He has a point,” said Ham.

Shrugging, Monk muscled an empty crate onto the closed bomb bay doors.

Johnny leapt to the control lever, and reopened the doors. The crate dropped from sight, and was abruptly swept away.

They began pitching the remaining containers out the screaming aperture.

The boxy missiles smashed horsemen off their mounts. But the column refused to break, survivors reforming into a sinuous armored skin.

Once these crates ran out, they searched for other items to drop on the milling horsemen.

They discovered tools—screwdrivers, crowbars, and even a big monkey wrench. Beaming mischievously, Monk tossed the latter out, remarking, “Maybe that’ll brain somebody who deserves it. With any luck, Rip Van Terror himself.”

While they were scrounging up additional articles with which to torment the breaking Mongol army, Ham Brooks suddenly looked strange. His wide, mobile mouth worked soundlessly. Noticing this, Monk Mayfair eyed him dubiously.

“What’s eatin’ you?”

Ham made fish-mouth shapes. Finally, he got what he was trying to say out of his paralyzed mouth.

“Where’s Johnny?” he gulped.

Everyone looked around, but there was no sign of the gangling geologist.

Long Tom moaned. “Maybe in all the confusion, he got swept out the bomb bay.”

Monk muttered, “Was he wearin’ a parachute?”

“We all are, monkeywits!” exploded Ham.

Everyone craned their heads downward, searching below.

But it was Doc Savage who enlightened them in the end.

“Look off to starboard.”

All attention veered to the starboard side of the bomber.

Below in the darkness, but above the confusion of smoke, gas, and general chaos, the white bell of a parachute blossomed.

Long Tom yelled, “He jumped! Johnny jumped! Is he crazy? Why did he do that?”

From the cockpit, the voice of Doc Savage lifted over the motor drone.

“No doubt Johnny is seeking to bring down Tamerlane with his bare hands.”

Chapter XLIX

HOSTAGE