Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (29 page)

“What the heck is it doin’ here?” Monk exploded.

Doc Savage told him, “It appears to be thrusting up from the water.”

Monk stared. The thing was black as coal. He saw that its stiff fingers were splayed out, joints curled, as if clawing or reaching for something.

Ham murmured, “It looks like the hand of a drowning sailor.”

REMOVING his shoes, Doc slipped overboard, and discovered that the bugeye was lying in very shallow water. About a fathom—six feet. The ground under his feet did not have the feel of coral, but suggested some other hard substance. Feeling about with one hand, Doc took hold of the stone hand’s immersed wrist, and found that it was projecting from the sea bottom beneath. What was more, it was fixed to the underlying substance in such a way that it could not be easily removed.

Examining the bow of the hull with one metallic hand, he discovered no significant damage. Only a rough scraped patch. The weird obstruction had not penetrated the wood.

Climbing back aboard, the bronze man took one boathook from Ham and used it to push away from the unsettling obstacle.

Then, with Monk at the other hook, they returned to propelling the craft forward with as much silence as practical.

Not much headway was gained by this, but it was progress. Progress toward the unknown. The sight of the uncanny hand sticking out from the water had plucked at their fraying nerves. It had the disquieting aspect of an omen.

It was not long before they encountered another one. A quick inspection showed it was a similar member, and they pushed away from it and continued sculling.

Using his big body as a shield, Doc risked sending the thin beam of his flashlight off the stern. It illuminated other frozen hands reaching out of the water, black as ebony. There were more than a score of them arrayed haphazardly.

“What in blazes!” mumbled Monk.

Doc Savage explained, “There appears to be a reef directly beneath us. It is not a coral reef such as are common in this area.”

“Then what is it composed of?” wondered Ham.

“I would venture to say that it is hardened lava,” stated Doc Savage.

“What about the hands?” asked Monk.

“Hardened lava, as well. In some weird fashion affixed to the reef below.”

Ham frowned in the darkness. “How is that possible?”

“On the face of it, it appears impossible,” admitted the bronze man. “Hardened lava might produce unusual outcroppings, of course, but not in the shape of human hands. A human agency somehow created this unlikely series of obstacles.”

“For what possible purpose?” asked Ham, knowing full well that no one present possessed a good answer.

Since no one did, his query went unanswered.

Doc and Monk poled onward, while Ham held the wheel. When the sound of the silent dog whistle became very loud in Doc Savage’s astonishingly acute ears, he began emitting the call of a whippoorwill.

At once, the silent whistle fell truly silent. Its high, thin keening no longer impinged upon Doc Savage aural organs.

“The
Northern Star
is very near now,” warned Doc. “We dare not approach too closely lest we be spotted by Diamond’s crew.”

Doc Savage quietly distributed the translucent cape-like garments that conferred a practical form of invisibility upon the wearer.

Monk and Ham threw theirs on, and Doc followed suit. By stages, the schooner seemed to empty itself of her crew. For a minute, they stood about, only their disembodied heads showing.

The bronze man handed each man a lozenge-shaped tablet and said, “Swallow these. You know what they are.”

Monk felt of his and grinned, “Oxygen pills.”

These were the invention of Doc Savage which, when swallowed, allowed a man to swim underwater without resorting to ordinary respiration. This dosage was good for some thirty minutes.

“The water is exceedingly shallow,” warned Doc. “But it should be possible to wade in, and perhaps swim unseen for short periods of time. Just remember that these garments are too heavy for underwater travel.”

That was understood. The things had not been tested in the water, but their weight and cumbersome construction was such that all of them knew that swimming would be impractical except for short distances. They were not airtight, and so would surely become waterlogged before a swimmer got very far. If the wearer did not quickly divest himself of his suit, drowning would likely result.

Lastly, they drew on their hoods, erasing almost all visible signs of their presence.

Climbing down the stern ladder, they entered the water, three rustling phantoms. They found the rugged lava bed beneath their feet, and began wading along. They did not need the garments to render them invisible; the moonless night satisfied that requirement. But once they reached the
Northern Star
and managed to get on board—if that proved to be possible—the capes would be invaluable.

And so they waded, Monk and Ham gripping their supermachine pistols, the giant figure of Doc Savage leading the way.

In the weird darkness, they were three sets of disembodied yellow eyes bouncing along as they sought their objective.

Chapter XXXIV

ABANDONED SHIP

BOATSWAIN DONALD WORTH wore a wristwatch with radium hands and numerals. Their faint green glow was the only way he could tell that it was eight bells—four in the morning. Or night, if one reckoned time that way.

The coming sunrise felt as if it were an eternity away. Whether that was to the good or to the worse preyed on his worried mind.

Don Worth knew that Doc Savage was approaching. The cover of darkness would no doubt aid the bronze man and his two friends in stealing up on the
Northern Star
undetected. Exactly what three men could accomplish against the odds that were stacked against them, remained to be seen.

But Doc Savage was famous the world over as a miracle worker. If anyone could initiate a chain of events that could retake the converted liner, it would be the accomplished bronze man.

Don Worth had seen Doc Savage in action long ago. He made a mental bet with himself that Doc would attempt a stealthy storming of the grounded liner under cover of darkness. As makeshift plans went, it made the most sense.

But if the bronze man did not arrive before the dawn, that plan was bound to be spoiled by the imminent tropical sun.

Concern etching his handsome features, Worth crouched in the gun station, confident at least that he would not be spotted there. Everything else seemed up in the air, which was exactly how his nervous stomach felt. Detached from his body and floating somewhere above him like a jittery balloon.

Twenty minutes crawled past and nothing seemed to stir except that the tropical air quieted down, restarted, and then died again. The air had a peculiar thick quality that made his boatswain’s uniform stick to his skin.

Don began wondering about that hurricane. He had never experienced a tropical blow, but he had read plenty about them. The intermittent stillness of the air felt vaguely threatening, like some leviathan creature stirring to life, taking experimental breaths before opening monstrous orbs.

From time to time, one of Diamond’s henchmen made a circuit of the upper deck, but since there was nothing to look at, it was all the pirate could do to avoid bumping into bulkheads and stanchions. He had a flashlight, but used it rarely.

A little further along in the night, the ship’s skeleton crew began to stir.

Donald Worth dared not lift his head too far above the rim of the circular gun station, so mostly he used his ears.

Men were coming up companionways and murmuring to one another.

Don listened carefully. There was a commotion of feet. Many feet. Too many feet to be just Diamond’s minions. The commotion moved aft.

The group seemed to be gathering at the stern.

Abruptly, a gruff voice began barking.

“Listen, you men! We brought you all up here to put you to work. This old scow is cocked up on a reef, and we need your help freeing her.”

It was the voice of Diamond. Don was certain of it.

“But before we fall to that task,” the pirate leader continued, “there’s something else that needs to be done. You’re all going to be the work gang.”

Disgruntled muttering followed. The ship’s crew did not like that idea. Diamond continued haranguing them.

“We’re all going over the side. Don’t worry. The water is not even up to your knees. I’ll march you along this reef. And when we get where we’re going, your new skipper will tell you what we need you to do. That’s me. Captain Diamond. There will be no slacking and no shirking of duty. Anyone caught breaking away will be shot on the spot. If you mutiny, we will just shoot you all and come back for more. We need strong backs. So leave your brains on the ship. Or I will splatter them out across the ocean,” he concluded bitingly.

Some backtalk, vague threats, a lot of grumbling, ensued.

Someone lifted a grease gun into the air and fired off a nerve-jarring burst. This quieted the crew down considerably. No more grousing was heard.

Knotted man ropes of the kind reserved for emergency evacuations at sea were dropped overboard and the crew were obliged to climb down them. Cargo nets would have been more efficient, but this way the Merchant Mariners were forced to descend in small groups and were thus more easily controlled by the Diamond force, some of whom went first.

Flashlights and strong searchlights were brought into play. This brought out the grisly fragmentary remains of the earlier massacre, which had not been policed. It made an impression on such crewmen as had the stomach to stare.

Taking a dangerous chance, Don Worth stuck his eyes above the gun emplacement rim and watched the proceedings.

Cowed crewmen were going over the side, clambering down rope lines, splashing about below.When everyone concerned had reached the water, they started moving as a group. Technically, there were two groups. In the lead marched the bedraggled and dejected crew of the
Northern Star
. Striding behind and around them, but not in front, prodded Diamond and his piratical gang.

Don quickly counted heads. His eyes grew wide.

Unless he was very much mistaken, Diamond and his entire crew were marching away from the
Northern Star
.

It seemed unbelievable. This was the dead of night, the remaining Merchant Marine crew were thought to be locked in their quarters, so perhaps the pirates felt that it was safe to do so.

Of course, Seaman Worth was uncertain as to the exact number of Diamond’s complement. There might be one or two left, standing watch. It seemed prudent that there were.

Don waited fifteen minutes, his ears very alert, sharp eyes flicking constantly to the luminous dial of his wristwatch. No one seemed to stir on the
Northern Star
.

Deciding it was worth the risk, he slid down from the gun station, and worked his way around deck, keeping to the starboard side inasmuch as the crew had dropped over the port side, in order to minimize his chances of being spotted.

Don went directly to the galley. Throwing open the freezer locker, he proclaimed, “Follow me! I’ll explain on the way.”

Seamen Tucker, Dexter and Byron jumped to their feet and tumbled out breathlessly.

“We have to move fast!” Don urged. “Diamond and his men have taken part of the crew off the ship. We have to collect the ones left behind and organize a counterattack.”

“Why would he do that?” wondered Seaman Tucker.

“Diamond told the crew we were piled up on a reef, and it seems that way to me, but he’s taking them for a long walk somewhere.”

Silence followed as they rattled out of the galley.

“Do you—do you suppose they’re just going to shoot them?” blurted B. Elmer Dexter.

“I don’t know,” confessed Don. “But we have to act fast. Doc Savage is on his way.”

That lifted their spirits, but did not detract from the urgency of the situation.

They went first to the engine room and discovered that it was empty. With the ship stopped dead, there was no need for an engine gang.

They next filtered into the forecastle, where the crew had presumably been locked in their berths.

Someone had welded one of the doors shut. A thorough job had been done. It could not be opened without cutting tools.

Don banged on the door and called in, “Anyone in there?”

A chorus of voices answered, many cursed in the salty way of sailors.

It was a relief to hear the cacophony, but difficult to make any sense of it.

“How many are you in there?” demanded Don.

“More than a dozen,” a voice called back, so muffled it could be barely distinguished.

“Much more than a dozen?”

“No, not much more, damn it.”

Don added that number to the complement that had gone for a walk in the water-immersed reef and his heart sank. It sounded as if the original crew had been cut in half. That meant about twenty souls remained.

Raising his voice, he called through the steel door, “You’ve been welded in here. Sit tight. It’s going to take some time to free you.”

A din of angry voices combined into a dull profane roar that could not be understood.

Reluctantly, Don left them to their complaining.

“Split up,” he told the others. “See if you can find the Skipper or anyone else.”

DON WORTH found Captain McCullum soon enough. He was in the logical place—his private cabin. The skipper lay on his bunk, his features looking as if he had stepped out of the prizefighting ring. One eye was closed, his lip smashed up and his nose would never be the same shape.

But Carson McCullum was conscious. He lifted his head at sight of his trusted boatswain, and let out a kind of agonized groan.

“Steady, Cap’n,” reassured Don. “Let me take a look at you.”

The Captain had been handcuffed to his bunk, and it didn’t take long to determine that several of his ribs had been stove in. Speaking was difficult, but he managed a few words.

“Where is the ship?” he croaked.

“Up on a reef. Diamond and his men have taken some of the crew off. Doc Savage was cast adrift. But I signaled him, and he may be on his way back.”