DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (26 page)

Men rushed to the bow, seized the halyard. The foresail ran up smartly, unfolding like a Venetian blind. Wind filled its batten-reinforced surface, took hold. The canvas swung on its forward-raking mast until it found perfect balance.

Now it really was a race.

WHATEVER it was that dwelled in men to challenge others when nothing more lay at stake than the thrill of besting another at his own game overtook Generalissimo Wah Chan.

He had business, but that business lay to the north. Both junks were headed north, in the direction of Shanghai.

The Yellow Sea was running high. Whitecaps churned into squirming life, only to collapse and vanish from view. The waves had a sharpness like rolling reefs.

Sailing close to the wind, both ships leaped and plunged like some strange species of seahorse. Prows gnashed whitecaps until salt spray spattered foredeck and sails, wetting everything. Impelled by cracking canvas alone, they strove for nautical advantage.

From across the choppy waves came the boom of the big Mongol’s laughter.

Standing in the shade of the great mainsail with its gory, many-coiled dragon, Wah Chan raised a megaphone and called over to the other ship.

“What are you called, One-Eye?”

A booming laugh pealed back.

“Sat Sung, Master of the junk,
Cuttlefish
. Sat Sung, Warlord of the Yellow Sea.”

“I have never before heard your worthy name,” grunted Wah Chan.

The colorful swashbuckler spread his great arms expansively. Rings flashed on his fingers. “It is written in flame from the Canton to Macao,” he boomed. “I am new to these waters.”

“Where are you bound?”

The Mongol captain pointed north. “To Shanghai and beyond, where the Japanese lie fat for the slaughter.”

Now it was Wah Chan’s turn to laugh.

“Then I wish you good hunting, Sat Sung.”

“Good hunting to you, too,” boomed the self-styled Warlord of the Yellow Sea.

Lowering his megaphone, Wah Chan decided that here was a freebooter with style. Still, Sat Sung was a mere brigand, and no more. The Japanese Navy would make short work of him.

The race continued. The ebony junk was well maintained and her crew executed their captain’s orders smartly. But, try as they might, the other vessel could not outpace the war junk of Generalissimo Wah Chan with its five great sails.

In her efforts, the bat-sailed vessel heeled over to starboard several times, coming dangerously close to encroaching upon the right of way belonging to Wah Chan.

Concern warped his weathered features. He scowled at Sat Sung. The big Mongol only laughed unconcernedly.

Three hours of this and Wah Chan had lost interest in the unwanted race. The other junk would have overhauled him by now, if that were ever to happen.

Wah Chan returned to his business—searching the waters off his bows for sign of Japanese vessels.

So it was that the Generalissimo missed what next transpired.

A flag was raised from the other junk. A jet-black ensign. It was a very familiar sight, but not one seen in Chinese waters. Nor in any waters for many generations.

Chattering madly was the grinning skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger!

This defiant signal of intention was missed entirely.

Steel shields were lifted away from the ebony junk’s bulwarks, exposing a row of iron cannon maws ranging from antique muzzle-loaders to comparatively modern breech-loading examples of naval gunnery. These were manned by an assortment of blue-turbaned Malays and bare-chested Dyaks. These worthies applied fire to old-fashioned fuses with long burning sticks of bamboo punk.

Gunflame belched loudly. Grapeshot expelled from exploding cannon peppered the straw-like matting sails, but were aimed too high to harm ducking and dodging junk-hands. One missed fire, and its gunners hastily flung open the breech and attempted to discover what was wrong with it.

Next, men lined the port rail of the other junk. They were members of the crew hitherto not in evidence. One was big and hulking with monster fists. Another carried a rapier-thin sword. A third was squat and had the hammered-down head and sloping shoulders of a Congo gorilla. Coolie hats shaded their faces.

Looking fierce, they unlimbered oversized pistols of unusual make, training them on the Red Dragon junk.

Red dots began winking along the rail. The sawing sound of machine guns of impressive caliber became audible. Their sound blended into a monster moaning. The Red Dragon emblems on the bows began to acquire punctures. Mother-of-pearl eyes shattered, fragments falling away.

Crewmen fell, screeching, their bodies flecked with minute blood spots. They seemed only to fall, whereupon they went still. Curiously, no death agonies were in evidence.

Wah Chan came rushing to see what was transpiring.

He sped to the junk-men lining the opposite rail. Heard the unearthly moan of the machine guns—for that must be what they were—and realized that his crew was melting at their posts like scythed grain. His blocky jaw fell open.

Through rolling, malodorous clouds of burnt black powder, Wah Chan spotted the Jolly Roger flag flapping in the wind. He began cursing volubly.

On the opposite deck, the big copper-skinned Mongol boomed out his hearty laughter in uproarious peals.

Wah Chan had a reputation the length and breadth of China, and not just along the coast, either. Men knew him by repute more than by sight, for China is a vast and open country. His fame had reached sparsely-settled regions of the hinterlands.

But up until this time, no one had ever dared attack Wah Chan in open waters. Not even the Nationalist army, for the most part.

“What is the meaning of this!” he roared.

“Piracy!” boomed back Sat Sung, the laughing Mongol. “Prepare to be boarded.”

“Boarded!” Wah Chan sputtered. It was ludicrous. Impossible! “No one boards Wah Chan,” he howled back. “Wah Chan boards others!”

Ducking below, Wah Chan came back with a Browning automatic rifle, lined up the lean muzzle, began squeezing the trigger. It commenced whacking, the stock bucking and kicking against his padded shoulder.

The big Mongol laughed again, throwing his head back.

Then he noticed wood splinters jumping about him as lead bullets gnashed them off the hardwood rail.

Sat Sung ducked with alacrity, showing that he was no slouch when it came to reflexive speed.

“That will teach him to laugh at Wah Chan,” the Generalissimo muttered fiercely. Calling over his shoulder, he bellowed, “Unworthy ones! Hoist the Buddha topside! Lively now!
K’wai-k’wai!”

The crew gave it their best, but working under fire was no pleasant thing. Spiteful cracks warned of bullets snapping past, harrying them at their tasks.

Alone, Wah Chan organized resistance. From plunging stem to high stern of the junk, the marauders were concentrating upon the men at the block-and-tackle arrangement.

They were successful. No crewman who grasped a rope stayed with it long. Many fell. Wah Chan ordered others to take their places. Crewman leaped in response. These, too, were cut down easily.

It was almost as if the pirate crew knew exactly what was coming up from the hold.

At length, Wah Chan could see that the tide was turning against him.

“What is it you want, Sat Sung?” he demanded.

Came the reply: “Your fine vessel.”

“Yours is just as fine,” lied Wah Chan.

“More junks are needed than one. I am expanding my seafaring operations!”

“Against the Japanese?”

The massive Mongol pounded his chest with a gold-ringed fist. “Against any who resist Sat Sung, the Warlord!” he proclaimed.

Wah Chan thought furiously. Seeing that he was about to lose control of his warship—and what was contained in its forward cargo hold—he altered course.

“Why not join forces?” he called over.

“Against the invader?”

“Yes!”

“I will consider it,” returned Sat Sung.
“After
you have been boarded.”

Wah Chan shouted assorted imprecations and maledictions, some in respectable English. He ran out of them before he exhausted his supply of verbal bile and spleen, however, and was reduced to sputtering incoherent rage.

Suddenly the other junk was coming alongside. Braided silk cords tied to heavy iron grappling hooks were being flung toward his railing.

Wah Chan grabbed an axe and began chopping away at his own rail to dislodge the grapnels. Twice he succeeded. But he was only one man with one axe and his crew was hunkered down under the withering fire of the raiders of Sat Sung, some of which included assorted Malays and Dyaks blowing poison darts through long jointed tubes of bamboo. At least, the Generalissimo assumed they were poisoned. Any junk-man quilled with one or more darts instantly succumbed to something pernicious.

It proved to be an impossible situation.

Sails in rags, the proud junk of war began to wallow. So Wah Chan spoke the words he never expected to utter.

“I surrender to you,” he said stiffly.

Sat Sung boomed out an enormous laugh. He gave the order to strike sails. Black canvas collapsed with blinding efficiency.

Then armed pirates came rushing up with long planks. These were set upon the pirate junk’s rail and shoved skidding over the intervening chop to link the two abeam vessels. The crewmen began pulling on the grapnel ropes, drawing the two ships together.

“Prepare to be boarded!” sang Sat Sung.

So paralyzed was the mind of Wah Chan that he did not at first wonder what had befallen Tang the monk.

Then he heard clattering noises far below, and grew alarmed.

“That unholy fool is waking the Buddha!” Wah Chan hissed. “He will doom us all!”

THE FORMAL BOARDING of the war junk of Wah Chan was accomplished with near-military efficiency.

Coarse boards were laid across the gap separating both decks. To the ends of these were affixed rows of iron hooks and these made the boarding planks fast to the rails, where they were not crowded with attackers and defenders.

By this time Wah Chan had emptied his Browning rifle and was hastily ramming home his last remaining ammunition clip. He was in no position to go below for more. His chief concern now was the strange sounds coming from the forward hold.

But the Generalissimo had no time to attend to that. A cloud of wiry pirates swarmed over his deck, led by the fearsome Mongol, Sat Sung.

With a ringing war-cry, the mountainous Mongol mounted a boarding plank. He gave a running jump, and, with a broadsword raised in each hand, vaulted the distance. It was a prodigious leap, clearing the span easily.

Sat Sung landed lightly on both buskins, ready to fight.

A modicum of resistance met him. Two crewmen rushed in, gleaming daggers held low.

The giant Mongol laughed uproariously. With the flat of each war sword, he slammed them both to the deck. He was so confident he did not bother to run them through. There was no need, anyway. Both were out cold where they lay.

Sat Sung’s raiders piled in behind him. Separating, they sought out other defenders, cutting loose with their ferocious little machine guns in order to clear the way. Resistance melted before them, unable to withstand such concentrated firepower.

Sat Sung moved on to his chief objective. A running leap carried him there.

Having retreated to reload, Wah Chan found the point of one of the one-eyed Mongol’s swords fixing his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Raise hands!” he was ordered.

Wah Chan swallowed his shame. Surrender wasn’t in his makeup. Reluctantly, he elevated his hands, the Browning rifle thudding to the deck uselessly.

The Mongol began cracking out orders. Wah Chan blinked. He did not understand the tongue. Was it Manchu or Mandarin? It bore no resemblance to Cantonese.

Only the trio of raiders who brandished the moaning pistols seemed to respond to it. They were rushing about, knocking down the last resistance, using their fists when their guns ran empty. Their knuckles appeared as effective as their bullets.

For buccaneers, they didn’t appear very bloodthirsty. In fact, the absence of gore was remarkable. Normally, the junk’s decks would be awash with it by now, making footing treacherous for boarders and defenders alike.

This raised vague suspicions in the back of Wah Chan’s cunning mind.

“You are a very strange pirate,” he accused.

“I am a
successful
pirate,” rejoined the other. He was not laughing now. A grimness settled over his features. His solitary eye held a trace of worry.

Again Sat Sung gobbled out a string of words in the foreign tongue that was like nothing that had ever reached Wah Chan’s well-traveled ears before.

Eying the rings on his adversary’s fingers and the colorful costume, the Generalissimo added, “You are no Mongol. You dress like a Mongol, but Mongols are seldom so tall. Perhaps you are a freak of a half-caste.”

“Perhaps,” said Sat Sung, prodding Wah Chan back against the pilot house with his blade.

“What is your pleasure, cut-throat?” Wah Chan spat defiantly.

“Take us to the Buddha.”

Wah Chan started. “You know of the venerable Buddha?”

The blade dug deeper. “Take us there now. No tricks!”

All of the great humor fled from the big Mongol. He grew deadly serious.

“You do not want to meet the Buddha,” Wah Chan told him. “The Buddha is a thirsty Buddha. He drinks greedily of all men who come into contact with him. Worse, he sucks out their souls.”

Wah Chan did not really believe all this. But he put everything he had into the warning. In the back of his mind, he was giving Tang time to do whatever it was that the wizened monk was about below decks.

He fervently hoped it would not spell the end of him, too.

The Mongol Sat Sung goaded Wah Chan at sword point toward the companionway and down into the gloomy, bullet-riddled innards of the ship.

His defeated pirate crew sat topside, huddling on the poop deck, under guard. They had been overcome with amazing ease.

“No trickery,” warned the Mongol.

“I am out of trickery,” returned Wah Chan. “Just as I am out of all hope.”