Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (13 page)

Doc looked blank, which for him served as a mask of surprise.

“I was unable to locate it,” he admitted.

“Chicahua may be the better man,” Captain Savage returned. “At hide and seek, at any rate. He has told me his story. Blowpipe darts accounted for the others, who were taken unawares by Dyaks crawling up from the port stern rail.”

Doc nodded. “I found one of their climbing vines.”

“The Dyaks had dragged the dead and wounded to the taffrail and were chopping their heads off when Chicahua heard the commotion. Seeing that he was outnumbered, he attempted battle, regardless of the peril to his life.”

Hearing his name, the Mayan hung his head.

“Chicahua was forced below,” continued the captain, “but made a pretense of going overboard by throwing a bundle of rope into the water, which duly sank. He forthwith concealed himself in the secret spot, trusting to obtain his vengeance at his first opportunity.”

“He looks ashamed of himself,” said Doc.

“He is contrite. One of the seamen who perished was his brother. We must spare him the sight of their heads.”

They got under weigh, waiting until nightfall to dispose of the heads with due ceremony after Chicahua had returned to his lonely bunk forward.

The matter of the
Courser
was settled after a brief discussion. Doc returned to the foundering clipper and scuttled it by opening every aperture that would admit seawater.

When this proved too slow, he blasted holes in her planking to speed up the process. It felt like shooting a lame horse.

Clark Savage, Senior, refused to witness the sinking. He went to his cabin, leaving word to be called topside when the deed was done.

Doc Savage alone watched the ocean swallow the damaged clipper. She slipped low with great speed, began listing to port. The ancient deck was soon awash. Brine sloshed the boards one last time, then the old clipper began vanishing from view.

Doc had the strange sense of the great masts also slipping from view. But there were no masts to go down in the traditional manner. Her holds filling with heavy ocean, the clipper heeled and rocked. Her stern went down first, which threw the
Courser’s
bow high into the air.

The last portion of her to go below was the proud plunging warhorse that had given the
Courser
her famous name.

AFTER being called back to deck, Captain Savage ignored the swirl of water that marked the demise of the
Courser.
Stone-faced and stern-eyed, he took his customary position at the helm. From time to time, he took fresh sightings with his sextant.

They sailed west, in the direction of the Maldives.

“I must find Death’s Head,” said Captain Savage after an hour of silent contemplation.

“We could sail the Indian Ocean for years in search of it—if it exists.”

“It exists,” Savage Senior said firmly.

“As it stands,” reminded Doc, “it is only a sketch on a map of unknown origin and purpose.”

Captain Savage stood firmly silent.

“If it were I who was lost—or you—Stormalong Savage would scour the seven seas for us,” he observed.

“I am prepared to scour the universe, if necessary,” said Doc. “But I would feel more confident if my objective were a certain one.”

“We will communicate with maritime traffic, inquiring if the landmark is known to sailors of this sea.”

“I will see to it,” said Doc.

DOC SAVAGE worked the radio set when he could, reaching out via the International Morse Code. His message was the same each time:

SEEKING PROMONTORY IN THE SHAPE OF A SKULL. RESPOND WITH EXACT LONGITUDE AND LATITUDE OF LANDMARK. REPLY SCHOONER ORION IN INDIAN OCEAN.

Return dots and dashes offered no concrete information.

One reply came from a British warship:

SCHOONER ORION. YOUR LANDMARK BELIEVED SIGHTED FAR WEST OF SUMATRA BY THE FRIGATE BUCKINGHAM. NO EXACT COORDINATE. GOOD LUCK.

Doc took out a marine chart.

West of Sumatra lay island groups, such as Nias Island and the Batu and Hinako Islands and Telos, and their associated barrier reefs and rocks. Although obscure, they were charted. Any bald knob resembling a human skull would be well known to coastwise mariners, he knew. That meant an unknown land mass.

Going topside, Doc explained his findings.

“We are either looking west or south,” he said after revealing the message.

Captain Savage considered this for several minutes, his brassy brow furrowing and unfurrowing, adding and subtracting from his apparent age as he did so.

“Mister Friday spoke of fogs southwest of the Nicobars. I should think that any obscure island might be fog-bound, and thus evade detection and charting.”

“It is a line of attack,” agreed Doc, “if a thin one.”

A silvery eyebrow cocked upward. “You have a more concrete course to offer, Mister Savage?”

“I do not.”

“Then let us plot a concrete course and make the best of it.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Together, they pored over their charts, noting the position of the
Courser,
and drawing a line from it on through the earlier reported positions.

Captain Savage again regarded the chart like a seer looking into a crystal ball. One finger moved over the map, as if feeling for something.

“I would sail westerly along this heading,” he said at last.

Doc could not make out his reasoning. He decided that reason may not have anything to do with it.

“It’s as good a course as any,” allowed Doc.

They were soon breaking waves along the new tack, sails having been restored to apple-pie order. The sun finished climbing to the noon hour, then began its slow, sizzling descent. The winds were fair, the air hot but breezy.

More shipboard responsibility had fallen onto Doc’s shoulders since the loss of the crew and he no longer had the spare time to work on his new weapon.

Reluctantly, he decided to abandon it. The bronze man reassembled the Annihilator submachine gun and stowed it away for safekeeping. Upon reconsideration, he loaded the drum and then put it away. He wished he could test it, but that was out of the question on shipboard.

The
Orion
might or might not be beating away from the rest of that Dyak
balla.
There was no telling. It remained a puzzle exactly what a Dyak war party was doing so far from their home shores. These were not safe waters for pirating. Too many vessels were of the international variety, and many armed. No sheltering harbors or coves to flee into, either. Leagues of open water were not the friend of sea rovers.

It was a mystery. As much a mystery as the giant gorilla skull that was unquestionably that of a juvenile….

Chapter XV

SAILING WESTWARD BROUGHT the
Orion
to a patch of fog just as the day began to die. The setting sun showed as a hazy scarlet ball that sank heavily into a horizon line that could not be seen in any compass point.

They slipped into the fogbank, the schooner’s clipper bowsprit vanishing into a soupy haze.

An eerie silence overtook the ship. The warm white murk smothered the sails, streamed along the deck, and muffled what little sound the schooner made in her passing.

The waters here were calm, more like an inland sea than a great turbulent ocean.

They were sailing with the wind, making fair time: Twelve knots.

Captain Savage had the helm. Doc paced the length of the 125-foot deck, attempting to pierce the cottony fogbank with his ever-restless golden eyes. But the misty stuff defeated even his superb visual acuity. All that was discernible was the yellowish glow of the
Orion’s
running lights painting streamers of fog as they rode along.

“This must be one of the pea soups of which Friday spoke,” Captain Savage remarked gruffly.

Doc nodded, concentrating on his hearing.

He heard something. Swiveling his head around, he tried to catch the sound.

A gray-headed albatross swept by, appearing so suddenly that Doc almost missed it. The sea bird flew low—low enough that it could be glimpsed momentarily as it passed through a thinner patch of fog, before vanishing again into the thick soup. No sound attended its flight. It might have been a winged phantom of the sea. Had Doc been looking the other way, he surely would have missed it.

Rushing back to the wheel, Doc reported, “Albatross. Headed due west.”

Captain Savage nodded. “Land nearby. What do the charts say?”

From memory, Doc recited, “No known islands for hundreds of nautical miles in any direction.”

“In that case, the question becomes, is that bird fleeing land—or heading toward it?”

“The albatross can fly for hundreds of miles, resting at intervals by alighting on the waves,” offered Doc. “We can assume there is something in either direction of its flight track, but we cannot judge which direction that might be.”

“Did you get a good look at the bird?”

“Good enough, but brief,” admitted Doc.

“Flying low?”

“Rather low. It barely cleared the mast heads.”

“Fatigue might cause that condition,” Savage reckoned.

“Or it is preparing to alight.”

Captain Savage frowned, making his silver-dusted mustache droop. “We will have to choose a direction, and then trust in luck.”

“Dame Fortune is a fickle mistress,” responded Doc, returning to the bow.

Captain Savage held the wheel for a time, not deviating from his course. The bill of his peaked cap threw his sharp eyes into shadow, dulling their gold.

At length, he spun the wheel just enough to correct course to west by southwest.

Doc made no comment or criticism. The direction the albatross was flying was as good a guess as its reverse heading. Time alone would reveal the wisdom of the decision.

THE endless fog required that both captain and first mate stand watch all night long. Too many days of this would take a severe toll but, for now, they were up to the challenge. They spoke little, remaining attentive to their tasks. Their clothes became moist and clammy, which, while unpleasant, would help keep them awake and alert.

Far, far into the night, Doc Savage’s ears picked up other sounds over the crinkling waves.

He listened intently. The sound was subtle, ineffable, combining a rhythmic hiss with movements that were so muffled that they could not be made out.

Worse yet, the sounds seemed to be coming from no special direction.

Doc swept from port to starboard, then worked his way amidships, dousing all running lights as he did so.

“What do you hear?” hissed Captain Savage.

Doc motioned for silence.

Moving to the stern, Doc found that the noises appeared stronger there, yet still difficult to make out.

Doc waited. The conglomerate noises appeared to be approaching.

Unexpectedly—given their sharp-eared surveillance—the commotion drew very close and echoed all around them.

Doc raced forward to the headsails and took hold of a line, attempting to arrest its noisy knocking.

All around them in the weird murk, the unmistakable sound of Dyak men at their oars swept by. They were making unbelievable time, thanks to their shallow draft and two tiers of oarsmen, paddling like tireless automatons.

Doc and his father dropped to the deck, alert for the whisking noise of flying darts.

But no such sound materialized.

Instead, the
balla
—for that was what it must be—ghosted past, apparently oblivious to their presence. The fogbank was that thick.

Doc Savage lay flat to the polished pine deck, head down, his automatic clutched in one bronze first. He did not cock it, lest the telltale clicking of its action carry.

After a time, Doc stood up. Holstering his pistol, he helped his father to his feet.

“These Sea Dyaks are astoundingly far from their home preserves,” said Captain Savage in a low, concerned tone.

“They have a definite objective,” agreed Doc.

“Aye. And they are going in the same direction as we.”

“Good enough reason to stay our course,” decided Doc.

“Like the albatross, they will have to cease their rowing and rest, trusting to the tides to carry them on,” the elder Savage pointed out.

Doc nodded. “No doubt. We are certain to overhaul them. The morning sun is likely to burn off this fog, exposing us to their crews.”

“We will take that chance,” decided the captain. “For now, they are racing along, at their top clip, seeking a break in the fog.”

“You do not think they will come about and make an ambush?”

Captain Savage shook his head gravely. “I do not. Clearing this horridly clammy atmosphere means their lives, exposed as they are. I do not think they perceived us.”

“Nor do I,” added Doc

“Best you turn in, Mister Savage. Be fresh for the morning watch. Rest assured, I will call you if need be.”

“Very well, Captain.”

Doc retired for the night and fell asleep so rapidly it was as if he hadn’t a concern in the world. He had learned the mental trick of sleeping on command from a Ubangi witch doctor. The trait had served him well in the noisy mud of the trenches of France.

The same soothing sounds of water against the schooner hull that had greeted him upon his arrival into the world some twenty years before lulled him to sleep….

Chapter XVI

MORNING WAS ACCOMPANIED by a brisk wind, which filled the straining sails, impelling the
Orion
along at a steady ten knots.

The sun burned away some of the cloying fog, but failed to dissipate it. Visibility became more amenable to distances, but the fog often closed in, as the wind moved its streamers and tendrils around.

Doc Savage worked the sheets, along with the Mayan crewman, Chicahua. All sails were wet, which made handling strenuous. The canvas fluttered in the wind like frightened ghosts towering over them.

When every sail was properly set, the bronze man took the helm from his father.

“I have matters well in hand,” he told the captain.