Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (28 page)

Mental Byron added, “Looks like Diamond has reached his destination already.”

This came as a great surprise to the four Merchant Mariners. All along, their imaginations had painted dark pictures of Diamond and his murderous henchmen planning something nefarious to happen deep in the Atlantic Ocean regions. They did not know what. Perhaps the pirates had planned a rendezvous with a Nazi raider. Or possibly they were determined to take the ship to South America, where German sympathizers could be found in certain nations, and offload the cargo of war metals into a friendly port.

In truth, they had nothing but rank speculation to go on. But now the
Northern Star
had ground to a halt—presumably still within the Bahama group of more than seven hundred islands.

It was difficult to tell from the intermittent noises exactly what was transpiring. The ship had presumably run aground, but instead of backing off—which would be the usual procedure—the anchor had been lowered. The ship was now fast. Where, was a deep, dark question. It loomed ominously in their minds.

Their thoughts went to the rumors going back to the beginning of the war of secret submarine bases the enemy was reported to maintain in the Caribbean. At that time, wartime censorship prevented any concrete facts from reaching the press, so it was not known if such bases actually existed. Scuttlebutt was that some had been found and secretly demolished.

Morris Byron asked of no one in particular, “Do we wait, or do we sneak out and see what’s what?”

Don Worth gave that great consideration.

“This looks like an opportunity to make good use of the silent whistle Doc Savage gave me,” he said at last.

B. Elmer Dexter had custody of their single weapon, a half-empty submachine gun. He handed it over, saying, “You’ll be needing this.”

Don refused it, saying, “You fellows will need it more than me. In case you’re discovered, you can hold them off. It will just get in my way.”

There ensued a brief argument about the inadvisability of going out on the deck unharmed. Bosun Worth won by virtue of a silent but firm stubbornness.

Going to the food locker door, he pushed it open and slipped out, visible only briefly in the dim light beyond.

Moving through the darkened galley, Worth found the door leading to a maze of corridors. Eyes wide open, he looked both ways and slipped out as silently as he could step.

There was one advantage to his nocturnal perambulations. Diamond was shorthanded and could not possibly have men stationed everywhere. Up a companion Don Worth drifted.

Moving with great caution, he picked his way through coils of rope and other shipboard litter, hunkering down where necessary, peering around bulkhead corners before drifting on.

He was on the starboard side of the vessel, and even in the darkness, he could see that the starboard Brownings were unmanned. Creeping along, he reached the ladder that led up into the flat steel platform where one of the machine guns rested, its long barrels pointing upward at rest, like twin insect antenna.

Crouched in that shelter, Don began blowing the whistle. The original plan was for the four of them to take turns, thus keeping the tiny device in continuous operation. But that plan was not practical now.

So Bosun Worth blew hard, rested, blew some more as he experimented with the silent whistle, searching for the exact pitch Doc Savage had requested. He himself could not hear it, of course, so he had to trust that it was emitting a sound Doc claimed he could hear.

Nearly an hour passed, but there came no answering call of a whippoorwill. Discouragement began to roost in Donald Worth’s courageous heart. Mustering up his resolve, he resumed blowing experimentally, endeavoring to vary the silent sounds into longer and shorter blasts.

The boatswain was prepared to do this all night, if necessary. Before long, the fact that it might be necessary to do so became apparent. The ship’s clock struck three bells.

Donald Worth’s only consolation was that no matter how hard he blew the small instrument, the Diamond crew would never suspect that the signal was being sent out over open water. As a means of signaling, it was superior to radio, which could be overheard by nearby receivers.

If only Doc Savage would respond….

Chapter XXXII

MIDNIGHT SEARCH

THE HUNT FOR the
Northern Star
was no easy one.

Had it been daylight—or even moonlight—Doc Savage would have been able to spy the hijacked ship from many miles away, owing to the flat openness of the Caribbean Sea.

But in this midnight murk, nothing was visible, not the low-lying coral cays, not even the more substantial islands with their bone-white beaches and shivering palm crowns.

It was impossible to ascertain whether Diamond had doused the running lights of the
Northern
Star
, or if the drab gray vessel was now beyond the range of their vision.

Doc Savage piloted the borrowed schooner
Albatross
eastward; he kept his golden eyes fixed on the impossible darkness that lay before him. Since there was the ever-present danger of scraping over submerged reefs and shoals, he had the centerboard up.

The hump of an island designated Satan Cay lay somewhere ahead. Owing to overcast skies, Doc was forced to navigate by dead reckoning, but his keen sense of direction, combined with the familiarity of these islands, meant that his rough heading was undoubtedly true.

The bronze man had been born near an island in this group. He knew its cays and channels well. If necessary, he could locate any spot within hundreds of miles, without resorting to a marine chart.

Satan Cay had been fully explored, therefore Doc was virtually certain that there were no associated spots going by the name of Satan’s Spine. The coincidence of the names and the direction in which the
Northern
Star
had been bound were all that he had to go on.

If Diamond and his men were taking the
Northern
Star
out into the deep Atlantic, it would be impossible to follow them very far in the shoal-draft sailboat. Doc Savage reasoned that if his search proved fruitless, he might locate a radio transmitter on Satan Cay and fetch official help. Owing to wartime restrictions, there was no such apparatus on the bugeye.

Doc Savage was not prepared to do that as yet.

From time to time, Doc cut the engine to the motorboat and allowed the boat to coast along under its own hissing momentum. This served two purposes. One, it conserved precious fuel. Two, it permitted a silence in which he could listen intently.

This second reason was by far the most compelling. For if the bronze man was correct in his surmise, the destination of Diamond was not far from the spot.

The absence of any sound beyond tropical breezes became a focal point of frustration for Doc Savage. It was impossible for him to tell if the silence meant that he was unable to hear the silent dog whistle, or if in fact it was not in operation.

There was no telling which. So Doc engaged the motor clutch, which sent the craft lunging ahead, bumping and squirming over the slow-moving waves.

Sitting in the cockpit back of the big wheel where Doc stood, Monk and Ham were uncharacteristically silent. The events of the overtaking of the
Northern
Star
had been bloody and awful, and had sobered their spirits demonstrably.

The perpetually quarreling pair were in no mood to crack jokes, or snipe at one another. So they were silent. Other than a murmured remark that he wished he had salvaged his sword cane, Ham Brooks had nothing to say. For his part, Monk was massaging his hairy paws, as if aching to apply his furry knuckles to a piratical jaw.

There was no mistaking that those were the chemist’s intentions. Once they caught up with the
Northern
Star
, Monk was going to wreak assorted havoc. He was infamous for that.

Another hour along, Doc Savage throttled down, and the
Albatross
was again gliding along in the inky night, ocean breezes once more filling their ears.

Even that mild murmur was becoming irritating. Doc wished for a break in the flow, thinking that complete silence would enable him to catch the high-pitched silent whistle if and when it blew. It was unrealistic to expect Mother Nature to settle down, especially with a hurricane churning miles to the south of them.

The tropical disturbance was another consideration. He had no way of knowing if and when it was on the move. But Doc felt confident it would head their way. This was no wild guess on the bronze man’s part. All captains plying the Caribbean keep in their offices a book recording the tracks of past hurricanes. Doc Savage knew this volume well. His memory told him that the gale which had gathered force off Cuba would most likely track in this direction, if prior hurricane behavior held true. They were in no position to withstand the blow, should the hurricane come howling their way.

The bronze man was reaching for the throttle when he caught a high-pitched sound. Swiveling his head, he attempted to zero in on it. It came again, more strongly this time.

No mistaking it. It was the dog whistle he had entrusted to Donald Worth!

Closing his eyes, the bronze man attempted to fix the direction, but this proved tricky. He listened intently until he felt he got a reasonable fix.

Reengaging the engine, the bronze giant sent the
Albatross
forging ahead, foaming at both ends as it charged in that direction.

In the stern, Monk and Ham sat up, suddenly alert. They looked at one another, and a glimmer of eagerness leapt into their eyes. But they said nothing.

Doc Savage sent the muttering motor propelling the bugeye schooner three nautical miles and abruptly cut the engine again. As the boat sank into a glide, his ears were at work again.

This time the dog whistle was blasting intermittently. The sound possessed a new, more urgent characteristic. Doc Savage listened a long time before he started up the motor.

As the sudden acceleration pushed Monk and Ham back in their seats, Doc Savage said, “The
Northern
Star
has run aground. Diamond has dropped anchor. It appears that he has reached his objective.”

Monk muttered, “Are you psychic now?”

Doc Savage shook his head firmly. “No. Don Worth is signaling with the silent whistle, employing Morse code. He is very skilled at code, it appears.”

Monk and Ham scooped up their supermachine pistols and checked them over. The light in their eyes was one of impending battle.

Ham wanted to know, “Where did the
Northern
Star
drop anchor?”

“That is unknown,” admitted Doc Savage. “But we are not far from Satan Cay. Which suggests Satan’s Spine—whatever that may be.”

Chapter XXXIII

HAND IN THE WATER

UNDER PINCHED THROTTLE, Doc Savage piloted the sailboat
Albatross
as far along as he dared.

It was an unnerving journey, given the irredeemable darkness surrounding them. These waters could be frighteningly shallow where they lay close to the coral reefs and cays. There was no telling what they could run into, given the absence of navigational range lights, and the unnerving lack of moonlight to guide them.

Of greater concern was the fact that the stranded
Northern Star
stood within close range of their position, so it was unnervingly possible to run smack into it. And the sound of their noisy engine was bound to carry far.

Doc Savage was again forced to cut the motor. Once more, the bugeye settled in the swells, easing into a smooth glide. The bronze man kept the schooner on course by holding the steering wheel firmly in hand.

The sound of the silent whistle continued intermittently. There came no new information relative to the
Northern Star’
s situation. Gamely, Don Worth continued blowing, having no definite reason to believe that his signals were being received.

Very soon the
Albatross
was wallowing. They were adrift. Her forty-foot high masts began rocking in the gentle heave.

Monk and Ham scrounged up a pair of boathooks from the storage locker and they dipped these in the water at the stern, found the bottom, and pushed hard. It was an awkward procedure, and it took a while for them to get organized, working in unison.

But in this clumsy fashion, the boat began to inch forward.

Doc Savage tightened down the screw that made the wheel fast, and climbed out onto the bow, the better to con the way ahead. He had a flashlight in hand, one of a spring-generator type he habitually carried. But he dared not bring its strong beam into play just yet.

As the schooner crept along, her hull suddenly scraped something, producing an ugly noise.

Monk and Ham froze, clutching their paddles. In these shallow waters lurked “blackheads”—half submerged coral knobs lying close to the surface. By daylight, a seasoned sailor might spy them by the suds created by wave action around these vicious fangs, but in darkness they were triply treacherous.

Kneeling on the bow, Doc Savage cupped the lens of his flashlight in one bronze fist and turned it on. The fist became a glowing coal that shed soft illumination that would not be seen very far away.

Leaning over the bow, he attempted to inspect the water, seeking the object the boat had encountered. Knowing that myriad reefs studded these waters, Doc expected that they had bumped into one of the coral horns that can rip out the keel of an unwary vessel.

Instead, the bronze man discovered something reaching out of the water that brought the strange trilling filtering from his lips. It had a surprised quality.

“What is it?” hissed Ham.

“See for yourself,” suggested Doc.

Peering over the port side, the dapper lawyer took a look. His eyes began blinking rapidly.

“Is that a—human hand?”

“No,” replied the bronze man. “It appears to be similar to the stony hand that was planted outside your cabin, the artifact we thought so deadly.”