Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (32 page)

“Let me know if that is the case,” replied Doc.

The meeting adjourned and Doc conferred with his waiting men, who set up temporary headquarters at a Colonial-style teak mansion in the diplomatic quarter, which now served as a hotel.

“I have requested a light bomber,” he told them.

Ham exclaimed, “Rather doubt they can spare one at this time.”

“I designed the bomber,” countered Doc. “They may make an exception.”

The answer that came back hours later was a firm, “No.”

In the lobby, Major Dunn tried to be conciliatory. “Why don’t you turn in for the night and we’ll see about getting you on a safe ship bound for the good old U.S.A.?”

Seeing that it was out of his hands, Doc Savage thanked the officer and returned to his hotel suite, where he broke the bad news to his aides.

“Well, I guess we’re all going to get seasick,” muttered Long Tom.

“Not necessarily,” said Doc. “British authorities may be more reasonable. Turn in for the night, and I will work on the proposition.”

THE R.A.F. was very interested in Doc Savage’s report of a Mongol army of invasion massing in Manchukuo.

“A bomber, you say?”

“I would like to leave in the morning, if at all possible,” said Doc.

“I daresay our American friends will look unkindly upon an ally doing you this special service.”

“Have you any plane requisitioned for delivery to the Nationalist Chinese which we could ferry to the interior?” prompted Doc.

“Not a bomber. But perhaps something could be worked out.”

IN the end, the matter was settled in the most decisive way possible. But not by the R.A.F.

The next day, the Japanese invaded Burma from the south, coming in from Thailand, and overrunning the Tavoy airfield at Victoria Point, south of Rangoon.

Major Dunn rang Doc Savage by telephone and barked, “If you still want to go to China, I can let you have some aircraft. Better get down here before they’re blasted apart.”

They took a careening taxi through streets milling with confused Burmese men and women, many wearing rakish turbans. The air was filled with shrill whistling sounds that ended in explosive reports. Detonations speckled the sky.

“What are they firin’?” Monk demanded. “Cannon?”

“More to the point, what are they firing at?” countered Ham, craning his head out to look up at the sky.

“Not cannon,” Doc Savage informed them. “Those are skyrockets.”

“Are they celebrating the invasion?” rumbled Renny.

“Some are,” said Doc. “There are many pro-Japanese elements in Burma. But the skyrockets you hear are a form of Buddhist prayer.”

“Huh?”

Johnny explained patiently, “The people of Burma insert written prayers into bamboo rockets. The whistling sound combined with detonations of the prayer papers are calculated to appeal to their gods, much the way devout Tibetans employ prayer wheels.”

“Strange,” murmured Ham.

“This is a land in which many have perished in sanguinary wars over religious relics,” added Johnny. “But not as many as during the old Mongol invasions.”

“The Mongols got this far, huh?” Long Tom mused.

“There is practically no corner of Asia not touched by past Mongol invasions,” Doc Savage advised them.

BILL SAXON met them at the airport, saying, “I would join you lads, but I don’t want to be shot for desertion.”

“Desertion!” barked Monk.

“Hell,” grinned Bill. “I enlisted last night. Regular Army. They told me I was too old, but when I barked back that I knew where Uncle Sam could find oil if we took the right patch of ground, they changed their khaki minds. Now I gotta get Anne on a safe boat headed home.”

Monk and Bill solemnly shook hands and went their separate ways.

“This war is sure spreading fast,” Renny rumbled. “Let’s see what kind of crates they mustered up for us.”

The ships were not what they expected. Instead of a bomber or even a transport plane, there was a hangar full of P-40 Curtiss Warhawks, painted tan with ribbons of olive drab camouflage crawling along fuselage and wings. Back of the props, snarled the gory shark-fanged snouts that were fast becoming famous as the trademark of the American Volunteer Group, the U.S. pilots who had taken the Chinese side against Japan months before the Pearl Harbor sneak attack, who had been nicknamed for some reason, “Flying Tigers.” The aircraft were pocked with steel-rimmed bullet punctures. But they looked airworthy.

Doc Savage checked the Allison V-1710 engines, Monk and Renny helping. The motors fired up nicely, and appeared sound.

“We won’t get all the way to China in these crates,” suggested Renny. “Not enough range.”

“Better than nothing,” said Doc, climbing into his cockpit.

The others hastily did the same. Soon, they went roaring off, one by one, and flying north in formation.

Over the radio, Doc Savage said,
“We will link up with the forces of the Generalissimo and hope that they can spare fuel.”

Long Tom said,
“When that old warhorse hears what’s in store for China, he’ll probably lend us his entire army.”

“When did you turn optimist?”
asked Ham.

“Radio silence,”
warned Doc, touching his throat mike.
“We do not want to attract patrolling Japanese fighters.”

THEY were over sun-drenched green jungle, following the Irrawaddy River northward, when the tiny squadron encountered a patrol of Zeros which had crossed over from the border of newly conquered Thailand.

The Zeros were flying low, in a chevron formation. As soon as the enemy pilots spotted them, the latter peeled off and gave chase, climbing like silver rockets emblazoned with red balls on wings and sides.

Pressing his throat mike, Doc Savage said, “Engage the enemy. Remember that their aircraft are more maneuverable, but ours are faster and better armored. Good luck.”

All of Doc’s men were expert pilots and a few had combat flying experience. Furthermore, the bronze man had managed to impart some of his extraordinary piloting skills to his aides. They pressed those skills into service now.

Doc Savage pushed his stick forward and dropped to meet the Zeros. The Warhawk was equipped with twin .50 caliber machine guns mounted in the nose, with a set of .303-caliber guns in each wing. Spitting a devastating barrage of lead, the bronze man slashed through the formation, blasting one enemy fighter so badly the pilot sought level earth, and causing the rest to scatter.

His men pounced on the fleeing flock. Renny cut across one from above, chopping his foe’s port wing to silvery splinters. The pilot threw back his cockpit, as if to fling himself free of his corkscrewing bird. Instead, he rode the stricken craft to the jungle canopy below.

The fight was short, bitter and intense. The Zeros got the worst of it. The formidable fighters, despite their 7.7-millimeter machine guns and paired 20-millimeter cannons, were frail in comparison with the well-armored P-40s.

Doc Savage proved this when he continued diving, luring a solitary Zero to follow him. The Japanese pilot, thinking he had the American ship on the run, failed to notice the skin of his wings start to wrinkle. He realized he was in trouble only after his wings were shucked off by the aerodynamic force of his reckless dive.

Pulling out of his own dive, Doc sought altitude. He saw immediately that only two Zeros remained aloft.

One had leaped upon the tail of a frantically maneuvering Warhawk, and winking red sparks told of stuttering machine guns. Doc could not immediately discern whose ship it was.

Then, Johnny’s voice crackled through his earphones.

“I’ll be superperforated!”
he cried out in alarm.

“Johnny is having difficulties,”
warned Doc.

“I see ’im!”
howled Monk.
“Hang on, you long bag of bones. I’m comin’.”

Monk’s ship climbed. But he did not engage—dared not engage. The Zero was dogging the Warhawk’s gyrating tail, and to fire at one would mean striking the other.

Johnny flew like a champion, breaking and rolling, but failed to shake his fixated foe.

Ham shouted,
“Monk, you hairy goon. Do something!”

“Watch this!”
yelled Monk, rolling his ship hard.

The simian chemist’s fighting tactics on the ground had often been described as animalistic. Monk was known to take the occasional bite out of an opponent with his apish teeth. He also liked to roar and howl in the most unearthly fashion when taking on a foe.

Every one of Doc’s men heard one of those bloodcurdling war whoops crackle over his cockpit radio.

“Ye-e-o-w! Powder River!”

Monk’s Warhawk jumped on the Zero’s bright tail. He chased it like a bulldog. The nose propeller came into contact with the Zero’s vertical stabilizer, which promptly flew to pieces.

Peeling away, Monk howled,
“The old buzzsaw maneuver! First in aviation history!”

The Zero pilot lost control of his steed and was flung free of his out-of-control aircraft, with predictably fatal results.

Relief in his precise voice, Johnny called out,
“Benedictions, you audacious anthropoid.
”

Doc asked,
“Monk, how is your propeller?”

“Airworthy,”
reported Monk.

“Form up on me,”
instructed Doc, leveling off.

One by one, the Warhawks fell into line with Doc’s plane. At Doc’s direction, they strung out in a tight V formation so they could examine one another’s ships for damage.

Other than the fact that they had collected more bullet holes, and Renny’s port wingtip was missing, no significant damage had been acquired. The Warhawks could take considerable punishment and remain airworthy. That, and the psychological effect of the shark-mouthed snouts, had won the day.

Renny rumbled,
“Guess we can limp on to Mandalay.”

“Those Nipponese pilots never knew what hit them,”
Long Tom offered.

“Demonstrably,”
chimed in Johnny.

Doc Savage did not reprimand them for the loss of life. Their actions had been ones of self-defense and the deaths had been as a direct result of enemy action in a time of war.

Monk’s voice had a grin in it when he exclaimed,
“At the rate we’re goin’, we’ll all be aces by next week.”

A piggy grunt coming from Habeas Corpus seemed to second the hairy chemist’s boast.

“Radio silence,”
reminded Doc grimly.

Chapter XLIV

THE GENERALISSIMO

THE LITTLE SQUADRON flew north, refueling at Mandalay, then turning northwest, skirting Japanese-held Thailand and aiming for a secret airbase in China—Kunming, at the Chinese end of the Burma Road, which was the main supply route into the beleaguered nation. From time to time, they spied ancient temples resembling ornate vanilla ice cream cones poking up from the lush mango tree jungle. Riotous macaws lifted high, as if eager to join up with them.

Refueling was done along the route in out-of-the-way airstrips. They were expected and promptly serviced before getting back into the air.

Finally, the group reached Kunming, where they were welcomed by local authorities and allowed to rest and eat. Radio reports apprised them of the situation in Burma. Japanese forces were driving hard into the country, and while the British were pushing back, victory for either side was by no means certain. Malaya was under severe attack. Japanese bombers had sunk two Royal Navy warships, the battleship
Prince of Wales
and the cruiser
Repulse
. Japanese invaders were pouring through Thailand, which had initially resisted pressure, but finally acceded. The Philippines were also embroiled. The American Asiatic Fleet stationed there was forced to withdraw to distant Java.

The Empire of Japan appeared to be sweeping unchecked throughout Southeast Asia.

“The entire civilized world seems to be coming apart,” lamented Johnny over a heaping bowl of steamed rice.

“Buck up, you long-worded cuss,” rumbled Renny. “Tokyo has bitten off more than it can chew this time. Right, Doc?”

“We had better get back into the air,” the bronze man said quietly, laying aside his empty bowl. “There is no telling how much progress Tamerlane has made in our absence.”

IT was the morning of the next day when they reached their ultimate destination, the city of Chengdu, in the heart of Western China.

The Generalissimo himself was there to greet them. He was an impressive figure in his bemedaled uniform with his shiny bald pate and military mustache.

Towering over him, Doc Savage briefed the leader of Free China on the situation in Manchuria.

“This is an army intent upon slaughter, nothing else,” he concluded. “Tactics we observed are those that go back to the days of Genghis Khan and his Golden Horde.”

The Generalissimo’s eyes glowed as he soaked up all this. Smooth brow furrowing, he asked impatiently, “Who is this warlord who leads these Mongols?”

Doc Savage said truthfully, “We are not certain. He calls himself Timur. Wears an iron battle mask, which conceals his features. The important part is that he is a seasoned leader of men, and knows what he wants to do.”

“You say he is a creature of the Japanese?”

“Was,” returned Doc. “At last report, he broke away from Japanese control and was heading south. That was only three days ago.”

“What will you need,
Ren-Beh-chingtung?”
asked the Chinese leader, invoking the honorific, Man of Bronze.

“Have you a fast bomber available for our use?”

“Not one I can spare.”

“All we need is one bomber and time to fit it for the mission,” pressed Doc. “Otherwise, this modern Tamerlane will cut through the heart of China like a hot knife.”

The Generalissimo fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “We cannot spare any plane, but neither can we afford to raise an army to meet these invaders. I will loan you a Heinkel He 111 medium bomber, which is scheduled to be converted into a transport plane. It will need some repair, of which you are very capable of performing satisfactorily. What else will you require?”