Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (6 page)

The cabin interior was electrically warmed, so they had a great deal of comfort despite the inhospitable environment through which they hammered. Too, the silencers Doc Savage had installed in the four great motors kept the cabin relatively quiet, otherwise the relentless racket of the great engines would eventually have driven them to distraction.

They did not expect to encounter any military aircraft above the Arctic Circle, and they were not surprised by the fact that they remained unchallenged for much of the journey. For they flew over the polar ice cap—that being the most direct route to their destination.

Two days into the flight, they had to put down to again refuel. They did so in Siberia, at a military landing field, far west of the fighting. They had radioed ahead to avoid being shot down.

When asked as to their ultimate destination, Doc Savage politely said, “Mongolia.”

The Russian authorities were not satisfied by that. So Doc had to reveal that his archaeologist friend, Johnny Littlejohn, had encountered difficulty with bandits and had radioed for assistance.

“We are aware that your comrade is in Mongolia,” Doc was told. Evidently, the Soviet security apparatus had been keeping close tabs on the gangling archeologist, for the official added, “He has been calling himself Ichabod Sprain.”

“Johnny knew that if he traveled under his real name, enemies of ours might seek him out,” explained Doc.

“Da.
So he informed us.”

Since the bronze man’s story checked out, he was allowed to proceed.

Relations between the United States and the Soviet Union, long cool, had warmed somewhat since the German invasion of Russia the previous summer. American aid was helping prop up the Soviet government. So Doc Savage was not looked upon with undue suspicion. In fact, in years past he had rendered an important service to the Soviet government, and this had not been forgotten.

Still, the Red officials warned him, “We cannot guarantee your safety at any point in the journey that lies before you.”

“Understood,” Doc Savage replied tightly. “Thank you.”

They took off, driving south into the inhospitable Gobi region of Mongolia.

During the trip, Monzingo Baldwin tried to make himself useful. He was not a bad cook, but some of them—especially Monk—examined his food carefully before eating.

“Since when did you become a picky eater?” asked Long Tom querulously.

“Not picky. Just making sure we’re not bein’ poisoned.”

After that remark, they all investigated their food nervously. But the meal proved satisfactory, with no complaints, gastric or otherwise, afterward.

Basking in the approval of his culinary skills, Monzingo Baldwin beamed, saying, “If this works out, maybe I can join the team permanently.”

Ham Brooks almost spat out his water when he heard that.

The others made polite noises, remaining noncommittal.

Renny was the only one who made a remark of substance. “Once you see the kind of scrapes we charge into, you might experience a change of heart.”

“I hope not,” Monzingo Baldwin said carefully. “I like to have fun and see new places. But I don’t think I would care to be shot at.”

“In this crowd,” Long Tom told him, “being shot at is as regular as a rainy day.”

Hearing that, the former Cadwiller Olden sat down in his seat and was very quiet for a very long time.

Monk shifted alongside of Long Tom and undertoned, “Good thinkin’. I think you banked his fire.”

The big flying boat thundered across the great steppes of eastern Russia and down into Inner Mongolia, which had managed to avoid being gobbled up by encroaching Japanese legions after several border skirmishes resolved by treaty.

“I can’t remember the last time I was out here,” Monk muttered, peering out one window.

“Nor I,” admitted Ham. “It has been quite some while.”

“Reminds me of the most desolate parts of Wyoming,” muttered Long Tom. “I would hate to have to make a forced landing out here. Nothing but monotony for hundreds of miles in any direction.”

Passing over the Russia-Mongolia border, having traversed the expanse of the Russian steppes, they began to relax. Mongolia was not at war with anyone, and they didn’t have much of an Air Force.

Still, danger existed. They were flying an unmarked aircraft over a sovereign nation in a time of global war.

In past years, Doc Savage had painted his planes a uniform bronze color as a way of identifying them to foreign nations over which he flew. Now, with the world dividing itself into armed camps, the sight of a bronze plane no longer meant merely the world-famous adventurer, Doc Savage, but symbolically the United States of America. Although not formally at war, the U.S. had sided with certain of the warring parties against others. This had all but erased United States neutrality.

Thus it was that Doc had started painting his planes silver, and they remained unmarked. While that meant his flying boat would not be targeted as a United States aircraft straying into foreign skies, an unmarked plane was always a suspicious thing.

Despite those theoretical complications, the big silvery flying boat passed over Mongolia without attracting trouble or antiaircraft fire.

Doc had elected not to alert the local Mongolian authorities that he was coming. This was a calculated risk, but one which he thought prudent to make. The bronze man suspected that Russian officials had slipped word of his coming to their Mongolian compatriots, however. Mongolia was a vassal state of the U.S.S.R.

IN the navigation compartment, big-fisted Renny Renwick suddenly rumbled, “If my calculations are on the money, we’re getting close to the spot where Johnny was doing his digging.”

Hunkered in the co-pilot bucket, Monk Mayfair gazed down at the desolate wilderness unrolling below. “How can you tell? It’s all dirt and dead yellow grass.”

Bored, Ham Brooks said sharply, “By navigating, you nitwit!”

Monk growled out, “In a place this big, all anybody can do is pick out a general spot. Finding Johnny’s camp ain’t gonna be easy.”

Doc Savage interrupted, “With any luck, Johnny will have provided a beacon.”

“Beacon?” muttered Monk. “It’s broad daylight. How are we gonna spot any beacon?”

Doc Savage did not reply. The bronze man was intent upon his flying. He dropped the leviathan flying boat closer to the flat endless Gobi, which was a desert unlike any other on earth, for it was not comprised of sand dunes, but arid steppeland.

This caused everyone on board to become concerned. It was one thing to fly high over Mongolia, quite another to drop closer to the ground. It was true that the great expanse of snow-dusted scrubland lying below was sparsely inhabited. And there were few land radios. That did not mean there were none.

Before long, a trio of airplanes came charging up to greet them.

Monk grabbed for his binoculars and examined them.

“Russian-style fighters,” he said. “Old jobs. Two of them are biplanes.”

Doc cautioned, “They will be armed with machine guns regardless. Best to take them seriously.”

The bronze man got on the radio, and dialed around until he found the frequency on which the Mongolian Arat Air Squadron operated.

He spoke in the Mongolian tongue, one he knew very well. Doc Savage was a master of many languages. This was but a small part of his intensive training.

The exchange was brief, and pointed. Before long the three fighter planes had them surrounded.

Doc Savage continued speaking to the pilots, and after a period of silence they broke away in different directions, returning to their desert base.

“What did you tell them?” rumbled Renny.

“The truth,” said Doc. “We are on a rescue mission for a missing associate. They accepted my story.”

Ham Brooks said carefully, “Word will get out that we’re here.”

Doc nodded. “That may or may not complicate our mission.”

After a short period of time, Renny remarked, “I’m pretty sure we’re about where Johnny last reported his position.”

By this time, Doc Savage had dropped the plane to about one thousand feet, and throttled back the engines.

Everyone had their binoculars out now, including Monzingo Baldwin. He seemed very eager to help.

It was late in the Fall season, and nomadic Mongol herdsmen had already moved to their winter pasturage. So there were a few visible felt tents of the type called yurts dotting the grasslands. Here and there, small lakes stood out like dull mirrors, reflecting the gray skies overhead. It was one of the reasons they had taken the flying boat, the other being that the Fortress of Solitude was accessible only by amphibious aircraft.

Doc flew in a wide, sweeping circle, golden eyes alert.

“Johnny spoke of an ice cave that he had uncovered. We are looking for such a feature, which will have a lot of dirt stirred up and around its location.”

Long Tom, scanning the terrain below through strong binocular lenses, remarked, “One thing is for sure. We won’t have much trouble landing out here. I can’t remember the last time I saw such a flat wasteland.”

A line of forms moving majestically along drew their attention. But when Ham studied the procession, he reported, “Just camels.”

Monk asked, “One hump, or two?”

“What difference does it make?” snapped Ham, turning.

Monk eyed the ceiling innocently. “Two humps means twice as ornery.”

“You are making that up!”

“Knock it off!” yelled Renny and Long Tom in unison.

Doc piloted the big leviathan about, seeking the exposed ice cave of Johnny’s radio report.

From time to time as they had traversed Mongolia, they had attempted to raise the missing archaeologist on the radio. But either Johnny’s set was out of commission, or he was unable to reach it. All entreaties had failed to elicit a response.

This worried them all, for the silence portended poorly as to Johnny’s fate. The extraordinarily long flight caused them to grow impatient, as well. But nothing could be done about the situation, except to fly as quickly as was prudent to do so.

Suddenly, Monzingo Baldwin piped up, saying, “I think I see it!” He sounded very excited.

The little man was pointing to port. Doc Savage’s gaze lanced in that direction.

There was a ridge, and one face of it, pointing south, had collapsed into a rubble of rock and dirt.

The exposed hole was very dark and impenetrable to sight.

It took only seconds for the bronze man to scrutinize the landmark and come to a decision.

“We will land here,” Doc announced.

Chapter VI

THE THING IN THE ICE

THE landing went very smoothly, except for the rock.

Doc Savage had dragged the long flat section of steppe twice before he felt confident about setting down the air giant. The others assisted in this process, scanning the ground with their binoculars.

Trees were sparse out here in the Gobi, so their main concern was rocks and boulders and similar obstructions. The area was hilly and rugged, but there were great flat stretches, too, as well as depressed bowls many miles wide.

One by one, Doc’s men called from their positions to report that the rough landing strip was clear of obstructions.

“Looks good,” Renny rumbled.

“I don’t spot anything that spells trouble,” added Long Tom.

Ham agreed.

The last to report was Monzingo Baldwin, the former Cadwiller Olden.

“I don’t see anything rocky,” he reported, smiling broadly.

At the control yoke, Doc Savage had spotted nothing dangerous in his planned landing path. Bringing the great four-motored aircraft around one more time, the bronze man dropped the wheels electrically, and started his approach.

It was a very bumpy landing. They expected as much. The steppe was tufted with dying grass, and was cracked and corrugated by rough weather.

So they were not greatly surprised after the wheels touched down, and the big plane began vibrating alarmingly, jarring its way toward touchdown.

Doc Savage spotted the rock. He flung the control wheel to starboard, and managed to avoid it. This sent the aircraft careening toward the second rock. The second stone, like the first, had been covered in the dust and dirt of the season, and did not stand out by shape or hue.

Still, it was rather large and should have cast a warning shadow.

The port wheel glanced off it, and the big plane gave an abrupt jump like a bucking bronco.

No one said a word. They just hung onto their seats for dear life.

Doc Savage was one of the most accomplished pilots in the world. Further, he had executed dangerous landings onto rough terrain and bad weather all over the globe. There was little he had not encountered in the way of an aviation emergency.

The bronze man cut the engines, having decided in a split second that jumping back into the air was imprudent. Moreover, it was likely to cause them to do a violent ground loop.

Wrestling the hurtling bird, Doc let the plane run out momentum until he felt it safe to throw the wheel brakes. The powerful hydraulic brakes took hold. The sky giant commenced screeching and complaining at every joint and rivet. A frightening series of noises accompanied the last part of the landing.

Fortunately, the natural runway Doc had chosen was much larger than was needed to land the big plane. Doc maintained control over the hurtling leviathan, until finally it shuddered to a final stop, motors blooping and belching exhaust smoke.

Only then did someone speak.

“What a man!” Monzingo Baldwin breathed in awe.

Jumping out of his seat, Long Tom Roberts sprang for the little man whose job it was to watch for rocks on the port side of the plane.

“You said there were no rocks!” snarled the puny electrical wizard.

In his oversized seat, the little man recoiled in horror at the sight of Long Tom’s mallet-hard fists.

“I didn’t see anything! Honest, I didn’t!” The midget sounded terrified.

From the cockpit, Doc Savage called back a warning, “Long Tom, the rocks are covered in dust and dirt, and difficult to see.”