Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (20 page)

“What befell my capital, Samarkand?” croaked the other.

“Samarkand still stands. There is a tomb there, in which your body is said to reside.”

This challenge was greeted with no animosity. Instead, Timur explained, “With my dying breath, I gave instructions that a false Timur be buried in a great tomb, so no one would seek my true body until the time came for me to awaken, to pick up my war sword where I left off.”

The Captain looked back and said, “In your long absence, China has never been conquered. But my illustrious Emperor has begun the task you failed to achieve.” His back stiffened rigidly when he spoke the last sentence and a fanatic light flamed in his dark eyes.

A creepy smile crawled across the ugly face of Timur. “Then perhaps I will conquer your empire, so that I may rule China at last.”

The casual nerve with which these words were spoken deeply impressed Captain Kensa Kan. He almost believed that this shivering, crippled old man possessed the steely will and inner strength to attack and overthrow the Empire of Japan, which had been spreading throughout Asia for a decade.

“I will admit to you that China has not yet been completely subjugated.”

Timur demanded, “Do you seek now my assistance and counsel in this matter?”

Nonplussed, the Captain was momentarily speechless. He was anticipating no such thing. But the idea of obtaining advice on the further conquest of Asia from a man who virtually conquered the eastern world and had been making inroads on the west before his death was intriguing to him.

“It would interest me to hear your thoughts on the matter,” allowed the Captain.

“Fetch me a map. And hot tea! My marrow feels like ice.”

Captain Kensa Kan instructed his aide to do that very thing.

PRESENTLY, a great military map of all of Asia was brought from the transport plane. This was spread out upon the ground, and Timur, with great effort and some creaking of old bones, squatted down to examine the map. He drank his hot tea greedily, as if attempting to warm his long-frozen bones.

He could not read Japanese, of course. And the names of the countries with their unfamiliar borders had to be explained to him.

After studying this awhile, and asking certain questions, Timur locked eyes with the Captain.

“Permit me to gather together an army of warriors, and I will subjugate any nation you point to on this map.”

It was an intriguing thought. But privately Captain Kensa Kan doubted his military leaders in Tokyo would permit any such undertaking.

For that matter, he had been wondering what instructions they might give him had they known of his present predicament. Having captured no less than the most successful conqueror in human history, during a secret mission to ambush Doc Savage in Mongolia, might not fall so easily upon their ears.

The Captain decided not to forward this information to Tokyo lest it complicate his mission. Not just yet.

The mission of Captain Kensa Kan was a simple one. Spies in Mongolia had radioed word that an agent of Doc Savage was conducting an archaeological dig. Monitoring radio traffic, the Captain had learned of the urgent summons for the assistance of Doc Savage, and patiently waited for the bronze American to arrive in Mongolia.

Orders from Tokyo were to capture or kill Doc Savage at all costs. These were strange orders, and the Captain could not divine the ulterior motivations behind them. While it was true that tensions between the United States and the Empire of Japan had been simmering for months, and there was talk of war, at present there was no war.

To attack and capture Doc Savage would be not only risky in and of itself, but could lead to dramatic international complications. But the Captain’s orders were clear. He was content not to question those orders. He was loyal to his Emperor.

If it was his task to capture and even kill the famous American, Doc Savage, then he would execute his solemn duty, removing the head of the bronze man with his officer’s sword if necessary.

As these thoughts wracked the brain of Captain Kan, the wily old Mongol warlord suddenly made a move for the selfsame sword hanging in its scabbard.

It was an unexpected move. It caught the Captain entirely by surprise. A gnarled old hand lashed out, found the unguarded hilt sword and extracted the weapon.

The shining blade was suddenly in the Captain’s own sandstone face.

Yellowish eyes grew hot and dark with anger. Timur laid the keen edge against the Japanese officer’s pulsing jugular vein.

Snapping his pistol from its holster, Kan pointed the muzzle at Timur’s snarling features.

A sword against a pistol was no contest, not even at close quarters.

The Captain fully expected the old man to drop the sword without an argument. He was shocked when the blade point abruptly shifted to his Adam’s apple with deadly intent.

Kan quickly realized that Timur did not know what a pistol was. Failed to comprehend that he was one trigger squeeze away from oblivion.

This standoff occupied mere seconds of time. Several audible ticks of the Captain’s wristwatch.

While the Japanese officer was attempting to phrase the proper words that would allow him to gracefully not have to shoot the old man in the face, and thereby preserve his own life, Chinua and his bandits suddenly reared up, roaring and leaping upon every Japanese in sight, Captain Kensa Kan included.

A general war broke out.

Even though their weapons were at the ready, the Japanese contingent got the worst of it from the start.

True, a few Mongol bandits were shot dead in the early campaign. But there were many more Mongols than there were Japanese Marines. The Captain had come with a mere squad of men in his transport plane.

In less than five minutes of strenuous activity, during which the flat of his own blade knocked his service pistol from his fist, and then switched back to collide with his opposite temple, Captain Kensa Kan and his detachment of Japanese Marines were overcome.

During this meleé, Cadwiller Olden, otherwise Monzingo Baldwin, once again ducked from sight.

Very little lead flew during the brief exchange of blows, but the knife work was something to behold. The Mongols had managed to stab several Japanese critically. The grunting of the Marines as their bodies were pierced spoke of their abject astonishment.

After it was all over, Cadwiller Olden crawled out from a nearby tent, and took stock of the situation.

Tamerlane and Chinua the bandit chief were conferring. Clearly, they had the situation well in hand.

The problem for Cadwiller Olden was that he spoke no Mongol. There was no way for him to plead his case. Recognizing this harsh reality, he withdrew back into the tent to await developments.

In his dark heart, Olden began scheming for a way to exploit the shifting situation. But for the present moment, he did not know what disposition Tamerlane and his new army of Mongols might make of him, should he show his tiny, pale face. It was a tongue-drying proposition, and for the first time, he began questioning the wisdom of stowing away on Doc Savage’s plane.

Chapter XXVI

DEATH ORDER

DOC SAVAGE PILOTED his impressively large amphibian plane in the direction of the Mongol encampment, where he expected the downed Japanese warplanes to be stuck.

The chemical that Monk Mayfair had introduced into their engines during the earlier pursuit was one that deposited a gummy substance into the carburetors of the aircraft, effectively rendering them inoperative.

The bronze man knew that the motors could be restored to working order only after a vigorous scrubbing with detergent and water. These were luxuries that would be impossible to find in the vast wasteland of southern Mongolia.

So it was that the bronze man proved to be somewhat overconfident.

For as he flew south, Doc picked up the occasional radio communication in Japanese. Listening with him was Johnny Littlejohn, who remarked, “It sounds as if they have gotten those planes back into the air already.”

From the rear, Monk Mayfair insisted, “I’ll eat my hat if they did. That gummy junk is tough to get out of an aircraft motor carburetor.”

Ham Brooks drawled, “If Monk does have to eat his hat, I will happily slice it into tasty segments with my cane.”

“If I have to eat my hat,” growled the hairy chemist, “I may make you eat that dang cane, so that we can share a meal.”

The dapper lawyer frowned, momentarily at a loss for words. He was no sword swallower. Monk had once attempted to bet Ham that he, Monk, could swallow that very blade. Monk had employed a bit of sleight-of-hand to fake such a circus stunt. Not to be outclassed, Ham had attempted a similar feat—with the result that Doc Savage had to stitch up his injured tongue.

Doc listened intently, and said, “At least one warplane is aloft. It is difficult to tell about the other communications.”

Renny rumbled, “That gives us something to shoot for, right?”

“It does,” interposed Long Tom. “What I do not understand is why we are the bait in a double trap.”

“Double trap?” wondered Monk, grimacing like a gorilla.

“Sure,” the puny electrical wizard remarked. “The Japanese air forces are looking for us, and we don’t know why. The Mongolian Air Force wants to see what the Japanese will do if they find us. It’s a double snare. We just don’t know why we ended up as the cheese in this particular rat-trap.”

Ham Brooks mused, “Official relations between Washington and Tokyo have been approaching a boiling point for some months now. There has been a great deal of war talk.”

“Talk, sure—but no war,” insisted Monk.

To which Ham added, “Tough talk always precedes war.”

“But it don’t necessarily lead to war,” insisted Monk Mayfair. “Leastwise, not always.”

Doc Savage offered no opinion on this discussion. He was busy searching the skies with his seemingly all-observing golden eyes.

In the radio cubicle, Long Tom Roberts had a pair of headphones clamped to his oversized ears. He was employing a device, a kind of electronic listener, which could detect at a very great range the sound of airplane motors, even operating from a plane with four mighty engines running in tandem.

The difficulty with this acoustical locator was that it could not be pointed in the direction of the engines—which was naturally the direction in which the aircraft flew. The listening horns were mounted in the rear of the plane, pointing away from the engine drone.

This required Doc Savage to periodically turn the plane full circle so that Long Tom could attempt to discern the sound of distant motors at different points of the compass.

It was a good principle, but in operation was proving to be disappointing.

“Anything coming in through them cans?” demanded Monk at one point.

Long Tom shushed him and pressed the earphones tightly to his head. The device was very sensitive, but at great range it was difficult to pick up the droning of engines over the normal hissing of the device in operation.

Before long, the puny electrical genius lifted his voice. “I may have something!” He sounded excited.

Doc Savage steadied the plane on its current heading, and awaited further reports.

“Try turning south-southeast,” Long Tom directed.

Doc Savage wrestled the control yoke and altered the plane’s course to the southeast.

“That’s it! I hear something!”

“Could it be a Mongolian Air Force warplane?” suggested Ham.

“Stop being such an optimist,” grumbled Long Tom sourly. “I detect an airplane motor. Let’s investigate it.”

Doc Savage sent the big plane shuddering around in the sky and attempted to rendezvous with the plane that Long Tom had detected. Below, the desolate steppeland gave way to the upper edge of the great Gobi Desert, which was a patchwork of terrain that ranged from arid scrubland and shining salt pans to sandy desert plateau.

IF there was a prowling plane, they failed to find it. Not terribly surprising. They were moving too fast, and any fighter plane would be difficult to make out beyond the range of a few short miles. Owing to the vast distances involved, they might pass a warbird and fail to perceive it.

Long Tom went back to his headphones, and his sour face grew intent.

Another forty minutes of flying, and dusk began to show, along with the first lonely stars of the approaching night.

Monk muttered, “Gonna get harder to spot anything in another hour.”

That pronouncement prompted Doc Savage to do a bold thing. Triggering his microphone, he began broadcasting on the same wavelength as the Japanese warplanes.

“This is Doc Savage calling. Doc Savage to unidentified aircraft. Identify yourself.”

Doc repeated this call several times, in a normal voice. But his men knew what he was doing. The bronze giant was attempting to lure any Japanese aircraft operating within radio range into seeking out their flying boat.

It was not long before the bait was taken. Not one, but two Japanese warplanes came charging at them from different directions.

Doc spoke up. “This is Doc Savage to unidentified warplanes. Doc Savage to unidentified warplanes. State your intentions. Repeat. State your intentions.”

The intentions of the Japanese pursuit pilots were not offered directly. Instead, the pilots radioed to someone in command, reporting that they had found the Doc Savage plane, and excitedly requested immediate instructions.

Johnny followed these reports perfectly, translating for the others.

After a while, a thin voice came screeching back over the ether.

“This is Captain Kan. You have your instructions. Shoot down the Doc Savage plane. Repeat. Shoot down the Doc Savage plane at once!”

“Zounds!” bleated Johnny. “They mean to do us in!”

Doc Savage threw the big aircraft into a wild spin just ahead of the first strings of phosphorescent tracers lancing through the dusky sky.

“What’s happening?” howled Ham in a wild voice.

Johnny translated for him.

“A Japanese officer has ordered us to be shot out of the sky!”