DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (27 page)

Stepping below, they made their way through dim passageways and worked forward.

The Mongol seemed to know exactly where he was driving Wah Chan. That seemed impossible. He had never before been on this ship. Of that, Wan Chan was certain. Absolutely certain.

But the cocksure manner in which Sat Sung guided him, made Wah Chan doubt this own convictions.

The door of the forward hold lay just ahead. It stood shut, firmly in its jamb.

“Open it,” commanded Sat Sung.

Wan Chan steeled himself, not knowing what to expect.

Lifting an iron latch, the Generalissimo threw open the door.

What he saw within the cavernous hold made the blood run icy cold in his veins.

The great iron Fu-Dog stove had been turned around on its caster wheels. Its slanting black baffles were now facing the door—not in the direction of the bow, as before.

A scrawny hand could be seen sticking out from behind the bulky cast-iron contraption. It was clutching the porcelain handle.

Seeming to come from the Fu Dog’s ferocious louvered maw, the parched voice of Tang resounded hollowly.

“Back, back!”

“Listen to him,” hissed Wah Chan. “If he throws that lever, we are finished!”

The Mongol needed no special convincing. He grabbed Wah Chan by the collar and yanked him back, booting the door closed. Not that it would do much good. Mere wood was no barrier to the power of the Buddha.

Wah Chan found himself being rushed up the stairs faster than his feet could normally propel him. He lost a slipper in the process.

Up on deck, Sat Sung called out to his men, first in that strange gobbling language, then in the various dialects of his corsair crew.

The gist of what he propounded was that no one was to make any rash moves.

“Was that the monk, Tang?” Sat Sung demanded of Wah Chan.

The Generalissimo’s eyes bugged. “How did you—?”

Sat Sung shook the words loose and demanded, “Answer me.”

“Yes, that is Tang. He worships the Buddha. He will not surrender it. He would rather die first.”

“Try to convince him otherwise.”

Wah Chan made helpless hand gestures. “I know not the words to do that. His hatred of the Japanese is eclipsed only by his enmity toward all mankind. He loves no one, only hates.”

Sat Sung stood silent while that settled in.

Lurking by the hatch of the forward hold, the grim-faced Mongol rapped with the hilt of one of his war swords. He did this twice for attention, then began speaking.

“Tang the monk! I am Captain Sat Sung, new master of this vessel. If you surrender, your life will be spared.”

Tang’s thin croaking voice was a long time in coming back through the thick planking.

“If I surrender,” he croaked, “you will cut my throat and be done with me. Therefore I will not surrender.”

“No harm,” Sat Sung repeated. “I swear by the bones of my honored ancestors.”

That solemn Oriental oath seemed to produce no effect.

“If you do not leave this worthy junk,” Tang continued, “I will awaken the Buddha. Then we will all perish.”

“He means this,” warned Wah Chan, horny fists tightening.

Sat Sung seemed to accept that statement as fact. He began thinking swiftly. His single dark eye narrowed.

“If we retreat to our junk, what then?” the Mongol asked at length. His question was directed at his unseen enemy.

Tang’s parched voice retorted, “Retreat and keep retreating. Leave my sight. And the Buddha will sleep—for a measure of time.”

“How do I know that you will not awaken the Buddha once I have cast off?” Sat Sung countered.

“Because I hate the Japanese more than I despise wretches such as yourself,” hissed Tang. “If I awaken the Buddha now, I will not survive to turn his wrath upon any son of Nippon. This I live to do.”

Sat Sung considered this.

“Very well,” he rumbled. “We are leaving.”

Wah Chan looked dumbfounded. This Mongol seemed to possess too much knowledge. His strategy was perfectly sensible, given the existing conditions. But how had he come by such carefully-guarded knowledge?

“Get off my ship,” Wah Chan spat.

Sat Sung turned to him, light glancing off his silvery eyepatch, his solitary uncovered orb very grave.

“Nothing was said about not holding you hostage,” he said coolly.

Suddenly, jeweled fingers harder than brass took hold of Wah Chan’s mouth, squeezing off all outcry.

Impelled by a brute strength that seemed indomitable, Wah Chan found himself being hoisted over the burly brigand’s broad shoulder.

The sound of running feet assaulted his ears, then he was sailing through space to land on the pirate-junk’s deck, as helpless in the Mongol’s oak-thewed arms as if he were but a kidnapped bride.

The other pirates were not long in following. They withdrew their iron-fanged planks, cut the lines leading to the grappling hooks, and pushed off with long bamboo poles normally used to propel the junk along shallow river ways.

Soon, the two ships were separating.

Up to this point, the pirate junk had shown no sign of being equipped with modern gasoline motors. These came into play now. They made the water about the stern boil madly.

The bat-sailed pirate vessel hastily surged ahead and away.

OVER on the deck of the Red Dragon junk, the conquered crew began to pull themselves together. Bereft of their captain, they milled about aimlessly, shouted profane complaints and shook angry fists.

The Generalissimo watched them from the other deck, fulminating helplessly. Finally, Wah Chan’s mouth was released. His hands beat horny knuckles against the big Mongol imprisoning him. All he accomplished was to skin them raw. The one-eyed giant seemed to have been constructed of fire-hardened teak beams.

“What is to be done with me?” he asked at last. “Ransom?”

Switching to very good English, the big Mongol said, “There is someone we wish you to meet.”

This brand of educated English left Wah Chan gawking, speechless.

He was escorted to a cabin below. The door was thrown open and two nearly identical ivory faces took in the sight of him, breaking into shocked surprise.

“Dad!” cried Mark Chan.

“Father!” exclaimed Mary Chan.

They rushed into his waiting arms. Tears flowed.

Wan Chan now lapsed into pretty fair Yankee English himself.

“How did you find your way here?” he demanded. “Are you prisoners?”

Mary explained, “No, not prisoners. We have brought a man who is renowned in America, Doc Savage.”

Wah Chan turned to stare at the impressive Mongol who called himself Sat Sung. Realization began dawning over his salt-weathered features.

“You?”

Doc Savage began removing aspects of his disguise. It was very artful. Yet it did not take very long to peel away the elements that had transformed him into a giant from the Mongolian steppes.

The last to go was the silver eyepatch, along with a dark optical shell that had covered his good eye. The orbs which were thus revealed glinted like the gold false teeth he plucked from his mouth.

The chemical stain that had turned his deep bronze skin to a greasy copper was all that remained.

“I wondered about that bronze plane,” Wah Chan said thickly.

“The aerial bomb released a chemical in the water, coating your rudder board,” Doc explained. “Your vessel left a distinct trail possessing ultra-violet properties, which was visible through special apparatus.”

Wah Chan nodded. “That was pretty slick work, snookering us like that.”

Doc Savage studied the Generalissimo. He saw a man with the outdoorsy look of an adventurer. His eyes had something of the aspect of a Manchu, but it was only a broad suggestion. Other than his wild attire, nothing else about him spoke of the Orient.

“Your true name is not Wah Chan,” the bronze man stated quietly.

Wah Chan shrugged casual shoulders. “Washington Chandler is my full name. Just a tramp soldier of fortune who hit it off lucky in China. I’m an American with just enough Cherokee blood in me to pass for an Asiatic. Years back, I got a hankering for the East and struck gold.”

“Other people’s gold,” Doc Savage pointed out.

“Now I fight the Japanese,” Washington Chandler said proudly.

“With a weapon that is too dangerous to remain in an individual’s hands,” Doc reminded.

“Take that up with Tang. It’s his devil now.”

Mary Chan grabbed her father’s sleeve. “Dad, what can we do? The Buddha of Ice is too powerful to control for long. We tried to warn you of this reality.”

“We were doing great damage to the Japanese,” Washington Chandler said defensively. “In time, we might have eradicated the entire Japanese Navy.”

“Possibly,” admitted Doc Savage. “But if they fire on your ship with their big guns, sinking you, the Buddha would go to the bottom. With calamitous consequences.”

“I thought of that,” Chandler grunted. “Don’t think I didn’t. But it was a risk I am willing to take.”

“It was a risk that you did not think through,” the bronze man said steadily. And here he launched into a short speech calculated to congeal the blood of all who listened.

“Whatever substance makes up the Buddha,” Doc pointed out,“it is unknown to science. The evidence we possess is that it swells in volume in direct proportion to its absorption of moisture.”

Chandler nodded vigorously. “I know that. The Buddha is almost half again as large as when I first joined up with Tang. Every dram represents an enemy life.”

“If it were to fall into the South China Sea,” Doc countered, “how are we to know that it would not absorb the
entire
South China Sea like a sponge, and grow correspondingly large?”

Chandler rubbed the back of his close-shaven neck slowly. It was clear that his mind did not dwell on ideas so grandiose.

Doc Savage went on. “And since the South China Sea is connected to the Pacific Ocean, can we be certain that it would not drink up the Pacific as well?”

The erstwhile Wah Chan paled. “I had not thought it that far along,” he admitted.

Doc Savage continued his unnerving discourse. “Almost every sea and ocean on earth, except for the very few which are landlocked, is connected. Moreover, most of the surface of the earth is composed of water. If the Buddha were to fall into any large body of water, who is to say that it might not absorb every drop of water available to it? Conceivably enough for it expand to rival the size of the moon. Larger.”

Chandler winced visibly. Then, as the bronze man’s speech sank in, he groaned.

Doc Savage’s words had the ring of definite knowledge. His tone grew sharper, more compelling.

“It is urgent that the Buddha of Ice be captured and taken as far away from any body of water as possible. Now. Immediately.”

“I see your point,” said Washington Chandler, his eyes retreating into his skull, his chest shrinking. “Yet how do we accomplish that very worthwhile end?”

“If you agree to terms, I will grant you your liberty.”

Washington Chandler looked from Doc Savage to the faces of his two children.

“I will abide by any terms you state,” he said thickly.

Suddenly the craggy generalissimo looked as if he had taken the weight of the world upon his sagging shoulders. “I have been a foolhardy old man.”

DOC SAVAGE NOW began organizing a course of action to deal with the menace of Tang and his Buddha of Ice.

“It is vitally important that we wrest control of the Buddha before anything untoward transpires,” Doc said emphatically.

The Chans—all three of them—nodded in unanimous agreement.

“It is only a matter of time—” Mark began.

“—before Tang turns the Buddha’s awful power upon us,” Mary finished.

Doc Savage addressed Wah Chan, now plain Wash Chandler.

“How loyal is your crew?” the bronze man asked.

“Extremely loyal,” he said confidently. The former generalissimo hesitated. Doc detected this hesitation and asked, “But?”

“They hate the Japanese occupiers as much as I do—as much as Tang does. If Tang convinces them that banding together with him is in the best interest of China, they could be swayed in his direction.”

“We must act before Tang can go to work on their minds,” urged Doc.

“Agreed,” the bandit-turned-freedom-fighter said simply.

“It might be best, then, to go topside and address them before Tang can get organized,” Doc suggested.

They mounted a companionway and came out into the brilliant sunlight.

The seas were running high. There was a freshening wind that blew soapy scud off the wave tops and filled their nostrils with the pleasant bite of salt air.

Mounting the high poop, Washington Chandler reverted to his Wah Chan persona, his two children at his side. He filled his lungs with air, raised his voice to carry.

“Followers of the Red Dragon!” he exhorted. “Brothers of Wah Chan. Hear my speech.”

Chinese crewmen began assembling on the other deck, not many rods away. One stood out.

This was a veritable tower of a Chinese sailor. The newcomer called for more than a passing inspection. He was a massive man, a colossus. His size made a pygmy out of the rest. His body was proportioned like a professional athlete, with wide, sloping shoulders, bunched with muscle, which tapered sharply to powerful compact hips and lithe legs.

His head, an upstanding shock of it, was perfectly white. The moon face was brown and healthy-looking, although sun-seamed. He was the helmsman of the Red Dragon junk.

This giant’s voice lifted.

“Speak, Wah Chan. Are you injured?”

“No, I am well. My offspring are with me. Behold, the man and girl children of Wah Chan.”

The crew of the war junk crept closer to the rail, the better to hear their captive leader speak.

“Those are yours?” the white-haired helmsman asked.

“True children of the Red Dragon,” Wah Chan pronounced, putting out his chest. “Born of a Manchu princess, my wife.”

“Why then are they captives with you? Why are you a captive?”

“I am no longer a captive. I have joined forces with Sat Sung, the Mongol raider.”