Read Online Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray - Free Book Online
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directions, and beat one another to shelter. They hunkered down behind a spidery crane.
Doc raised his voice. “They are wearing some type of body armor!”
A man called out, “You think we don’t know about those trick bullets you guys use. We have on mailed union suits that will turn them babies.”
Monk howled. Ham groaned.
Throughout the warehouse—it was really a combination hangar and boathouse—Doc Savage had secreted many hidden controls. He found one such station and threw a lever.
At the far end of the hangar, which faced the Hudson River side of Manhattan, great roller doors swung open, admitting brilliant outdoor light.
This caused momentary consternation amid the attackers. They were still mixed in black smoke, but now the sudden light was throwing them into confusion.
Doc rapped out guttural orders in Mayan, the ancient language he and his assistants shared in common, and employed for secret communications.
They raced for a plane. Doc had directed them toward one in particular—a seaplane nearest the river.
They clambered aboard, closed the door.
“Where’s that gal, Hornetta?” Monk wanted to know.
Doc said, “In the sub. Safe. She dogged the main hatch after her.”
“We leavin’ her behind?”
“That remains to be seen,” Doc Savage said grimly. The bronze man knocked the engine into life.
Propeller slipstream began beating back, throwing the coiling poisonous-looking black smoke around. This added to the confusion of their attackers.
Releasing the brake, Doc jazzed the throttles. The plane started down the sloping concrete apron which dropped into the river.
Bullets began arriving. Snarling, they clipped the duralumin empennage and snapped at the tail.
Doc got the plane into the water. It wallowed. He threw the throttle all the way, and the speedy plane gave a lurch.
Gunmen surged onto the apron. Dropping to their stomachs, they took up stances that showed superb training and began shooting with methodical rapidity.
These men—whatever else they were—were marksmen. Hardly a bullet went awry.
The window glass on Doc Savage’s planes were as tough as modern science can manufacture tempered glass. That made them bulletproof—within reason.
An unreasonable quantity of lead began punishing the stuff. Glass was chopped out of the side windows. The windscreen cracked, then fell open. The tail became perforated, and started to come apart under the relentless hammer of storming steel. It was as if unseen sledges were at work.
Doc realized very quickly that attempting flight was hopeless.
A sudden whiff of aviation fuel gave the first warning of what was coming next.
“They got the tank!” Ham screeched.
“We’re sunk!” groaned Monk.
Doc Savage was pushing the speed ship as hard as he could. The hull pontoon was hammering across the river, trying to get on step.
The thundering aircraft never made it.
The relentless gunfire took its toll. Observers along the Jersey shore got the best sight. The plane was bouncing along the water without any preliminary flash or fire. It simply exploded.
A ball of red fire shot upward. Black smoke billowed up after it.
The detonation was not loud, compared to the pyrotechnics which accompanied it. But when it all subsided, there were flares and flame on the water and blackened debris began showering down, to show that nothing remained of Doc Savage’s plane.
A grisly silence followed.
Chapter VII
HORNETTA STINGS
AN EERIE INTERVAL of quiet followed the destruction of Doc Savage’s racing seaplane.
The last shards of wreckage finally fell on the heaving Hudson, to plunk beneath the waterline. A patch of oil burned for a time, then died down to faint, licking flames. Smoke continued to coil upward.
On the riverward side of the Hidalgo Trading Company warehouse, the attackers on the sloping concrete apron kept their eyes and their gun sights trained upon the water.
Their leader strode up. He was a fair-haired individual with
Doc raised his voice. “They are wearing some type of body armor!”
A man called out, “You think we don’t know about those trick bullets you guys use. We have on mailed union suits that will turn them babies.”
Monk howled. Ham groaned.
Throughout the warehouse—it was really a combination hangar and boathouse—Doc Savage had secreted many hidden controls. He found one such station and threw a lever.
At the far end of the hangar, which faced the Hudson River side of Manhattan, great roller doors swung open, admitting brilliant outdoor light.
This caused momentary consternation amid the attackers. They were still mixed in black smoke, but now the sudden light was throwing them into confusion.
Doc rapped out guttural orders in Mayan, the ancient language he and his assistants shared in common, and employed for secret communications.
They raced for a plane. Doc had directed them toward one in particular—a seaplane nearest the river.
They clambered aboard, closed the door.
“Where’s that gal, Hornetta?” Monk wanted to know.
Doc said, “In the sub. Safe. She dogged the main hatch after her.”
“We leavin’ her behind?”
“That remains to be seen,” Doc Savage said grimly. The bronze man knocked the engine into life.
Propeller slipstream began beating back, throwing the coiling poisonous-looking black smoke around. This added to the confusion of their attackers.
Releasing the brake, Doc jazzed the throttles. The plane started down the sloping concrete apron which dropped into the river.
Bullets began arriving. Snarling, they clipped the duralumin empennage and snapped at the tail.
Doc got the plane into the water. It wallowed. He threw the throttle all the way, and the speedy plane gave a lurch.
Gunmen surged onto the apron. Dropping to their stomachs, they took up stances that showed superb training and began shooting with methodical rapidity.
These men—whatever else they were—were marksmen. Hardly a bullet went awry.
The window glass on Doc Savage’s planes were as tough as modern science can manufacture tempered glass. That made them bulletproof—within reason.
An unreasonable quantity of lead began punishing the stuff. Glass was chopped out of the side windows. The windscreen cracked, then fell open. The tail became perforated, and started to come apart under the relentless hammer of storming steel. It was as if unseen sledges were at work.
Doc realized very quickly that attempting flight was hopeless.
A sudden whiff of aviation fuel gave the first warning of what was coming next.
“They got the tank!” Ham screeched.
“We’re sunk!” groaned Monk.
Doc Savage was pushing the speed ship as hard as he could. The hull pontoon was hammering across the river, trying to get on step.
The thundering aircraft never made it.
The relentless gunfire took its toll. Observers along the Jersey shore got the best sight. The plane was bouncing along the water without any preliminary flash or fire. It simply exploded.
A ball of red fire shot upward. Black smoke billowed up after it.
The detonation was not loud, compared to the pyrotechnics which accompanied it. But when it all subsided, there were flares and flame on the water and blackened debris began showering down, to show that nothing remained of Doc Savage’s plane.
A grisly silence followed.
Chapter VII
HORNETTA STINGS
AN EERIE INTERVAL of quiet followed the destruction of Doc Savage’s racing seaplane.
The last shards of wreckage finally fell on the heaving Hudson, to plunk beneath the waterline. A patch of oil burned for a time, then died down to faint, licking flames. Smoke continued to coil upward.
On the riverward side of the Hidalgo Trading Company warehouse, the attackers on the sloping concrete apron kept their eyes and their gun sights trained upon the water.
Their leader strode up. He was a fair-haired individual with
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