Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (31 page)

The bronze man swam for the deck, clambered aboard, and stood up.

Facing the oncoming cutters, he again megaphoned hands and mouth and yelled out a sharp warning.

“Turn back! Hostile U-boat!”

This time there was a response.

Coast Guardsmen appeared on the bows of the approaching cutters. They saw the bronze man standing atop the weird floating shape that resembled a small blue whale and immediately lifted rifles. They began shooting in his direction.

That was when the thing Doc Savage had been fighting to avoid happened.

The U-boat unleashed its torpedo!

Chapter XXX

WHEN THE HATCH POPPED

THE TORPEDO SWISHED out of its tube and tunneled along until it broke the surface, then it began charging the Coast Guard cutters with the foaming ferocity of a mad dog.

The shot had been blind, of course. The U-boat captain could no longer aim by sight, thanks to the mangled periscope. Still, the torpedo drove hard in the direction of the small flotilla.

The sight of the dreaded “tin fish” coming in their direction caused the sharpshooting Coast Guardsmen to suddenly scramble to battle stations, calling out an alarm.

That gave Doc a momentary respite. He dived into the water to avoid any more sniping bullets.

One grazed him on his left shoulder. The bronze giant jerked, but failed to take notice that he had been wounded. His concentration was that fierce.

Risky as it was, Doc swam toward the oncoming cutters.

Presence of mind is something Doc Savage always strove to maintain, even in the heat of battle. Even as he arrowed toward the cutters, the bronze man realized that there was a fair chance the torpedo would hit home.

It did. The tin fish caught one of the cutters square in its fast-veering prow. It detonated with an awful roar. Klaxon horns began caterwauling on both cutters, adding to the general pandemonium.

This made the sharpshooters of the other cutter even more determined to shoot back and hit something.

Doc dived underwater, and swam the rest of the way unseen. Here and there, bullets chopped into the drink, their energy spent by the stopping power of the water.

It was only then he discovered that he had been grazed in the shoulder. Salt water was making the blood-filled groove sting. Reaching into a pocket of his gadget belt, the bronze man clapped a self-adhering bandage over the spot, which was impregnated with cauterizing chemicals.

Doc grasped the lower rungs of an accommodation ladder on one side of the undamaged cutter and climbed up with alacrity.

When he reached the deck, a dozen rifles suddenly pointed in his direction.

Throwing up his hands, Doc Savage said as calmly as he could, “I am Doc Savage.”

“You are our prisoner!” a seaman said sharply. “One wrong move, and we will riddle you.”

Doc Savage did not move a muscle. The crew looked very grave of countenance.

Their well-tanned faces had the bloodless quality of exposed bone.

The cutter captain came rushing out, red in the face, figurative blood in his eye.

He at once recognized the Man of Bronze. He did not seem very impressed.

“What the hell is going on?” he roared.

“Foreign raider, attempting to torpedo the yacht you are escorting,” Doc told him.

That sunk in very swiftly, for the skipper growled, “We’ll blow that sea wolf out of the water, just watch us.” He turned to bark orders to his men.

Doc Savage called after him, “There are innocent prisoners aboard that sub.”

“Too bad for them. But we have to sink that thing. I’ll tell you why later.”

“No need,” said Doc, lowering his hands. “I know the nature of the vessel you are escorting.”

“You do? Well, then you understand.”

Dully, Doc Savage said, “Yes. I understand.” His eyes were very bleak.

Over on the other cutter, they were putting on life jackets and preparing to abandon ship. Coast Guardsmen are all experienced seamen, so they needed no help. The immediate concern was a second torpedo.

Before long, it appeared.

The sight of a new blunt-nosed monster skimming along the wave tops produced considerable consternation. It distracted everyone.

The Coast Guard gunnery officer manning the 20 millimeter autocannon mounted on the forward deck trained it on the churning wake. He opened up, and quickly the stuttering mechanism chewed through its bulky box of belt ammunition. To no avail.

Frantic crewmen hustled to get a second ammo box mounted. No one doubted for a moment that it was too late for that. Too late for them all.

DOC SAVAGE seized a rifle from an unwary man’s grip, rushed to the rail, and began shooting.

He fired three shots, and from the sounds of the detonation, it appeared that his second shot had successfully exploded the warhead.

A water spout appeared, which became a genie of smoke that started off very black but began thinning to an ugly gray haze. The cutter rocked in a weird fashion, but that was all.

The cutter captain whistled in admiration. He gave Doc the O.K. sign. “I would never have believed that could be done. Congratulations.”

Doc Savage did not reply. He stood by the rail, rifle at the ready, prepared to repeat the performance that so impressed the Coast Guard skipper.

That was when the destroyer started maneuvering into position to take the U-boat apart with its powerful deck guns.

Doc Savage’s golden eyes went from the sub wallowing in the water to the maneuvering destroyer, and something akin to helplessness came into his eyes.

From the tension of his amazing muscles, it could be seen that the bronze giant was restraining himself, but that every nerve fiber wanted to jump into the water, to intervene.

All eyes watched this sparkling stretch of Caribbean water lying between the menacing U-boat and oncoming flotilla.

No third torpedo appeared.

His self-control strained to the utmost, Doc Savage turned and spoke rapid words.

“Captain, that vessel may not carry more than two torpedoes.”

“Could be,” the skipper said doubtfully.

“Radio the destroyer to stand off. Permit me time to try something.”

“I don’t have any authority over the Navy,” protested the Captain.

“I have a naval commission. Tell the other skipper that the request comes from Doc Savage.”

“It may not work. This is serious business.”

“Try,” rapped Doc. Then he flung himself over the rail.

Swimming hard, the bronze man reached the submarine, and gained the wet deck drying in the sun.

Making for the conning tower, he began going through his belt pockets, looking for something that might serve to breach the hatch.

While Doc was taking inventory, the hatch popped open, and a familiar face lifted into view.

Pat Savage smiled. Her shirt was on its way to becoming a rag. She sported a black eye, split lip, and some of her coppery wealth of hair appeared to have been yanked out of her head.

Taken aback, Doc blurted, “Pat?”

“Who else?” beamed Pat. In her bronzy right fist was one of the supermachine pistols that had gone missing from the
Stormalong.
Two more were jammed into the waistband of her slacks—which now qualified as shorts—along with her old single-action frontier revolver.

Not for the first time in his dealings with his thrill-seeking cousin, Doc Savage was struck speechless.

Pat Savage said cheerfully, “Well, don’t just stand there gawking. Help haul out our prisoners!”

“Our?”

“After you mangled this tub, the hull started springing leaks everywhere. The crew kind of lost interest in us. Hornetta and I jumped them, and whaled these sorry sailors to within an inch of their lives. Now get down there and pitch in. This time,” she added, waving a tanned finger in Doc’s face, “I really pulled your fat out of the fire—and don’t think you’ll ever hear the end of it.”

Chapter XXXI

THE MOP-UP

IN VERY SHORT order, the crew of the whale-like U-boat was brought up from the vessel’s innards.

Hornetta Hale did the prodding from below. She was the last to emerge, wielding the sub commander’s spike-snouted automatic. She looked as though she had been in a fight, and enjoyed every minute of it. When she grinned at Doc, a gap showed in her front teeth that would have delighted a dentist.

The crew numbered less than a dozen. They looked frightened and dejected. Being bested by a pair of female former captives probably did not add to their present dispositions.

The U-boat captain was not eager to identify himself. Predictably, he gave his name as Schmidt. No one believed him.

Doc Savage strode up and scrutinized the officer’s square features briefly, and commented.
“Kapitan
Carl Brock, if I am not mistaken. You are very far from your home base in Lorient.”

The sea captain’s square face grew very long in the cheeks.

By this time, the surviving Coast Guard cutter had come alongside, and a picked boarding party were descending into the subseas boat to check for any stragglers.

They soon emerged topside to report that there were none.

The prisoners were taken aboard the cutter at gunpoint. There was an argument over whether they should be placed aboard the Naval destroyer, but since the cutter had reached the scene first, its skipper asserted the privilege of taking the prisoners into Coast Guard custody.

The crewmen were pretty rough in their treatment of the prisoners, seemed to find it necessary to use the hard buttstocks of their rifles to prod them along. By this time, the torpedoed cutter had sunk, but all hands had been plucked from the water. This was small consolation to the wounded pride of the Coast Guard.

Once everyone was safely aboard the cutter, the strange submersible was sent to the bottom by a thorough sieving of steel-jacketed lead. The rescued Guardsmen were permitted this honor. They riddled the vessel’s blue hull so completely that, if ever raised from the deep, the mystery U-boat could never again be made seaworthy.

The captured crew was made to watch. The significance of this action was not lost on them. The incident was not going to make the newspapers, and they were unlikely to see their homeland again.

That operation concluded, Doc Savage and the Coast Guard commander held a conference.

“This is not over yet,” stated Doc Savage firmly.

The Captain nodded tensely. “I imagine they have a base close by.”

Doc directed the skipper’s attention to the nearby volcanic cone. “My men were stranded on that small island yonder, along with the apparent ringleader of this plot, an individual calling himself Count Runo von Elmz.”

The skipper grinned tightly. “Then let’s go mop them up. I think my men would enjoy the exercise.”

As the cutter got underway, Pat Savage and Hornetta Hale joined Doc Savage, who was keeping an eye on the prisoners. They had been made to kneel on the afterdeck, their hands clapped over their heads. They looked miserable. Or, as Pat Savage wryly put it, “green around the gills.”

“What’s going on now?” Pat demanded.

“We are going to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion,” advised Doc.

Pat put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and asked, “Just exactly what is this all about? I still don’t have it straight in my head.”

“Miss Hale did not inform you?”

Pat grinned crookedly, and dabbed at her bloody lip.

“We were too busy clobbering these goose-steppers.”

Before Doc Savage could say anything, Hornetta Hale barged into the conversation, demanding, “Where is my wayward big sister?”

“At last report, safe on that island,” Doc told her.

Hornetta made apoplectic faces at Doc Savage, and asked, “What do you mean—at last report?”

Doc replied, “We are investigating the situation on the island. There may be more trouble ahead.”

Pat’s grin got wider. She pulled a brace of superfirers from her belt. “Wonderful! My blood is up. Just lead the way.”

“You have done your share,” Doc Savage said firmly, relieving her of the weapons. “We will discuss this later.”

Pat went in search of a Coast Guardsman susceptible to feminine charms. She swiftly found a suitable specimen and talked him out of his Garand rifle. It was nimble tongue-work, to be sure.

As they were approaching the volcanic island, the crooked-winged warplane that had earlier disappeared came droning back.

The gray aircraft overflew the island, then the flotilla, and apparently spotted the blue submarine wallowing on the ocean bottom, for it circled the weird U-boat’s location twice. The crystal clarity of the Caribbean permitted it to be seen from a height.

The pilot, evidently recognizing that the jig was up, swiftly turned tail. He did not get far.

On the destroyer, an order was given and antiaircraft guns were brought to bear. They commenced firing, multiple barrels working mechanically. Quite a rolling racket resulted.

A punishing barrage began painting noisy black clouds in the blue sky all around the fleeing warplane. The pilot banked, sought higher altitude, then rolled in the opposite direction. He was quite an acrobat. But it did him no good.

The bursting Archie shells tore the gray aircraft apart in midair.

The place where the warplane had last been seen became indistinguishable from the Archie detonations. Then pieces of the aircraft began falling out of the sky. They watched, waiting for any sign of a parachute. There was none.

Doc Savage informed the cutter commander, “The airstrip for that warplane must be on another island in the vicinity.”

The Captain nodded. “I will radio the destroyer. No doubt an official request of the British government will lead to a vigorous search for that spot, and appropriate punishment meted out.”

The cutter circled around the island without drawing fire, and dropped anchor at a spot not far from the
Stormalong,
which rocked in the sand-lapping waves rolling in.

DOC SAVAGE was the first one off the cutter. He simply leapt into the water and began swimming. He lost no time getting to the white sandy beach.