The Secret in the Sky: A Doc Savage Adventure Read online

  There was a tense second or two. Then it became evident that Doc’s plane was going to get clear. The men scattered from the path of the oncoming cabin monoplane. It went bawling past, doing no harm, except to give an aviator student a bad fright.

  All who looked could see by the floodlight glare that the cabin was empty.

  “Where’s the pilot of that trap?” yelled the night field manager. “Such damned carelessness——”

  He swallowed the rest. An unexpected thing was happening. A weird thing.

  The old cabin ship had gone on, but instead of crashing into the fence at the edge of the field, as every one expected, it was turning—swinging as if a hand of uncanny skill were at the controls. It arched completely around and cannoned after the speed plane of Doc Savage.

  The onlookers gasped, unable to believe what they were witnessing. They saw the pig, Habeas Corpus, come hurtling from the cabin of Doc’s speed ship. Then they saw the bronze man appear in the cabin door.

  He seemed to be trying to reach the tail of his plane, for he dropped off and sought to seize it as it went past. But the streamlined metal surface offered no grip. He was knocked aside and the ship went on.

  Doc scrambled to all fours, seized the pig, Habeas, and fell flat with him. He lay there.

  The shabby cabin ship charged in pursuit of the speed plane. The two ships approached at an angle. They met. The whole world seemed to go up in blinding white.

  The tarmac jumped, quaked. Windows fell out of operations office, hangars, the flying school buildings across the paved road. The side of one huge hangar buckled inward, and the roof came down as if a giant had stepped upon it.

  The noise of the blast thumped and rolled and finally went into the distance like a heavy salvo of thunder.

  Out where the two planes had met, there was a hole in the earth which would require two days to fill.

  Chapter 4

  OKLAHOMA ACTION

  Doc Savage heaved up from where he had lain after failing to reach the tail of his plane. He ran—not toward the blast scene, but toward his men. Monk and Ham veered out to meet him, Ham unconsciously knocking dust off his natty raiment.

  “Why’d you quit the plane?” Monk gulped. “Why didn’t you take it into the air?”

  “We were low on gas,” Doc clipped. “That other ship probably had full tanks. It would have caught me. Come on!”

  “But there wasn’t nobody in it!” Monk exploded as he ran.

  “Radio control,” Doc told him, racing toward the edge of the flying field. “The ship was loaded with explosive!”

  Monk and Ham pounded in his wake. The pig, Habeas, trailed.

  Monk puffed, “But no radio control would——”

  “This was a device which would send the plane toward a sending set operating on a designated frequency,” Doc advised over his shoulder. “It is merely an adaption of the robot pilot which keeps planes in the path of a beam radio.”

  Monk yelled, “But there wasn’t no sending set in our bus!” He ran with the waddling gait of a scared bull ape.

  “On the contrary, there was,” Doc rapped. “A fellow stuck a tiny portable set inside the empennage shortly before the excitement started. I saw him. There wasn’t time to grab him.”

  “Where’d he go?” Monk roared, and put on more speed.

  “This way,” Doc said, and vaulted the metal fence which surrounded the field.

  Ham tried to use too much care in mounting the fence, with the result that he slipped, caught his immaculate afternoon coat on the barbed top strand and left the entire back of it behind.

  “Where’d the pilot of the plane go?” he gritted.

  “This way,” Doc said. “He and the fellow who planted the decoy radio transmitter probably intended to meet.”

  They covered a hundred yards. Weeds about them were tall. The rotating beacon at the airport flashed white light at regular intervals. The airport floodlights were still on, making a great glow.

  Doc Savage stopped, breathed a “Listen!”

  Monk and Ham both strained their ears. They heard crickets, sounds of distant automobiles and voice murmur back at the flying field, but nothing else.

  “The two are heading a bit to the right,” Doc decided.

  Monk and Ham showed no surprise, being aware of the bronze man’s almost superhuman ability to hear. Countless times, they had seen him employ the sonic device with which he had developed his aural organs over a period of years.

  Weeds became more profuse, then ended suddenly at the edge of an evidently little used road. There was a fence which they managed to keep from squeaking while climbing it. Clouds were making the night darker than before. They crawled up an embankment, evidently some kind of dike. Hulks like gigantic pill boxes loomed ahead. The night air acquired a definite odor.

  “Oil tank farm,” Ham decided in a whisper.

  “Not being used,” Doc added.

  Ham asked in a surprised tone, “How can you tell?”

  “The odor,” Doc told him. “The smell of fresh crude oil is lacking.”

  Off to the side, a smaller, squarer hulk appeared. A light came on suddenly and whitened soiled windows. Inside was the gleam of dull gray machinery and brasswork which needed cleaning.

  “The pump station,” Monk grunted. “They must be using it for a headquarters.”

  Ham offered abruptly, “Doc, what say the missing link and myself circle and watch the rear, while you are reconnoitering?”

  “Do not get too close,” Doc requested.

  Ham eased away in the darkness, Monk on his heels. The pig, Habeas, trailed them. They made half a circle and were behind the pump station. There was a pile of pipe there. They eased behind that.

  Two men arose from the darkness and put guns against their backs.

  “What the——” Monk began.

  “I know it’s a shame,” said one of the men. “You two boys must have thought we were pretty dumb.”

  * * *

  Monk and Ham turned around. There was not much light, but they did not need light to observe that the guns were genuine, and of large caliber. The hammer of each weapon was also rocked back.

  Habeas, the shote, faded away into the night with the soundlessness of a shadow.

  Monk jutted his small head forward to peer more closely at the two who had sprung the surprise.

  “You’ll get eyestrain,” one of the men admonished. “We’re the two yahoos you followed here from the airport, if that’s what’s worryin’ you.”

  The speech had been in whispers, unconsciously. Now Ham decided to speak aloud, hoping to advise Doc of their predicament.

  “You two—ugh!”

  He doubled over painfully. His mouth flew wide, and breath came past his teeth with such force that it carried a fine spray with it.

  The man who had jammed a gun into Ham’s middle with great force hissed, “We know the bronze guy is around in front. You try to tip him again and you’ll spring a leak just about the third button of that trick vest!”

  The other man said, “We hate to part you two from that big bronze shadow, but we fear we must. Shake a leg.”

  They backed away from the pump station, came to a path, and went down it. Monk and Ham were searched expertly as they walked, and relieved of the only weapons they carried—the small supermachine pistols which were Doc Savage’s own invention.

  “What’s the idea?” Monk demanded.

  “A gentleman wants to see you,” one of the two replied.

  “Who?”

  “A man whom I’m more than half convinced is one of the cleverest gents in the world,” said the other. “And mind you, partner, I know all about the rep of this Doc Savage.”

  “The guy who thought up that bright idea of fixing the plane bomb so it would chase a radio transmitter, and who also rigged up that burglar alarm at the oyster plant in New York?” Monk hazarded.

  “Sure,” said the man. “He’s thought of some other things that would surprise you,
too.”

  “Shut up!” advised the man’s companion. “Some day you’ll talk yourself inside a wooden jacket, and they’ll sprinkle some nice clean dirt on you.”

  They went on in silence. There was roadway underfoot now—a dirt road, hard packed by heavy traffic.

  “What about Doc?” Ham demanded.

  “We ain’t ambitious,” said one of the captors. “We’ll dispose of you first. He’ll get his later.”

  They rounded a bend fringed by scrub-oak and came suddenly upon a truck waiting. The truck was large and had a flat bed, the type of machine employed in hauling pipe and oilfield supplies.

  A stubby man came forward, also a tall, thin one and a man who had, when flashlights were turned on, eyes which turned inward at intervals. It was Stunted and the rest of the coterie from New York.

  “It’s a regular reunion,” Stunted chuckled.

  “You got that sawed-off auto rifle to working?” Monk asked him.

  “You bet,” Stunted retorted. “I worked on it all the way from New York.”

  “You made a quick trip,” Monk suggested.

  “Sure,” said Stunted. “We came in a——”

  The man with the uneasy eyes whipped forward and slapped Stunted in the face. The force of the blow sent Stunted reeling back.

  “What in blue blazes was the idea?” he snarled.

  “You got a head like a toad,” the man with the weird eyes snapped. “You was gettin’ set to tell this monkey how we came back!”

  “Huh!” Stunted fell silent, his mien sheepish.

  * * *

  Two pairs of greasy overalls and two equally soiled jumpers were produced. Menace of gun muzzles persuaded Monk and Ham to don these. They were compelled to sit on the flat bed of the truck, legs dangling over, and the machine got into motion.

  Some of the captors stood erect on the bed platform. All wore work clothing. They might have been some pipeline crew, bound into the fields.

  “Let out a bleat and we’ll certainly weight you down with lead,” Monk and Ham were advised.

  “Deuced boorish treatment,” Ham said primly.

  Some one laughed. The truck had a rear and gear grind and the sound went on and on, like something in pain. There was little traffic on the road, passenger cars for the most part. Once two policemen on motorcycles went past with a violent popping, but did not even glance at the truck.

  Later, a ramshackle delivery car ran around the truck with a great clatter, cut in sharply and went on.

  “Durn nut!” growled the truck driver.

  Hardly more than ten minutes later, there was a loud report from a front wheel. The truck began to pound along in a manner which indicated a flat tire. The driver pulled over to the edge of the road. He began to swear, making no effort to get out and start repairs.

  “You waiting for it to thunder, or something?” Stunted demanded.

  “No spare tire along,” said the driver. He alighted and used a flashlight until he found a large-headed roofing nail embedded in the tire. He kicked the nail and swore some more.

  Down the road, a light flashed.

  “Who’s that?” a man demanded.

  One of the men advanced down the road, keeping in the darker shadows beside the ditch. He returned soon.

  “Delivery truck with a puncture,” he reported. “It’s that nut who passed us. He must’ve picked up another of them nails.”

  “He got a spare tire?” Stunted demanded.

  “Seems to have,” said the other.

  Stunted chuckled. “Old Nick takes care of his own, eh, boys?”

  Two guns were kept jammed against Monk and Ham. Three men went forward. There was a wait, during which pounding noises came from the delivery-truck, then a sharp exchange of commands. One of the men called back, “Come on, you birds.”

  The guns urged Monk and Ham forward. They came to the truck.

  The driver was an unusual-looking fellow, having a tremendous girth and a right leg which twisted out in grotesque fashion. His face was puffy. He had swarthy skin and dark hair.

  “This Mexican has kindly consented to give us a lift,” chuckled Stunted, and flourished his sawed-off auto rifle at the swarthy driver.

  The driver wailed, “Señors, my poor car——”

  “Shut up!” advised Stunted. “You just drive us carefullike. We’ll tell you where to go.”

  * * *

  An hour later, they were traveling where there seemed to be no road at all. The sun was rising, but not yet in view.

  “Turn right,” Stunted advised, and they pulled down a precipitous bank and took to the gravel bed of a dry stream.

  The swarthy driver complained, “Señors, my poor car will never run back over thees road. Tell me, how shall I return?”

  “You’ll find out all about that,” Stunted told him.

  “Hey!” one of the men barked. “Lookit!”

  They craned necks. After a moment of that, they all heard a long, rending crack of a sound, and a weird streak of luminance appeared in the reddening sky. It seemed to stretch in an arch away into the infinite reaches of the heavens.

  “Now, what?” Stunted grumbled. “Could that mean that——”

  “Shut up, stupid!” the man with the peculiar eyes rapped.

  The streak in the sky had died away quickly, vanishing completely.

  The rickety truck went on. In spite of the deserted appearance of the region, it was undoubtedly a road of sorts which they traveled. Twice, when they crossed sandy stretches, the men alighted and, with leafy boughs, carefully brushed out their tracks.

  “Don’t want ’em to look too recent,” Stunted grinned.

  The driver showed alarm. “What ees thees mean, señores?”

  “In about three minutes, you’ll know,” Stunted leered.

  The driver reacted in a fashion which was the more surprising, since he had previously shown a surprisingly small degree of backbone. He lashed out a fist toward Stunted.

  It was a terrific blow. After it, Stunted’s face would never look quite the same. Stunted fell out of the seat.

  The driver emitted a blood-curdling yell and took to the opposite direction. He had chosen his spot well. A narrow rip of a draw entered the creek bed at that point. The dark man dived into that. His game leg seemed, if anything, to add to his speed. He disappeared.

  The truck unloaded in roaring confusion. Wild shots were discharged. The men rushed into the gully. Some climbed the steep sides. After the first excitement, they used flashlights and searched more thoroughly. They found no trace of the fugitive.

  “One of that guy’s ancestors must have been a rabbit,” Stunted grumbled.

  They consulted for a time. There seemed to be little they could do about it.

  “That Mex won’t know what it’s all about, anyhow,” some one decided.

  They got in the truck, and it had rolled hardly less than half a mile before it pulled out on a flat and stopped before what seemed to be literally a mansion.

  It was a great brick building, two stories in height, with flanking wings and a garage capable of housing four cars. Situated on the outskirts of a city such as Tulsa, the mansion would have aroused no more than admiration, but located here in a wilderness of scrub-oak and hills, with no roads worthy of the name near by, it was a startling sight.

  The headlights played on the place at closer range, and it became evident in the early morning light that many of the windows were broken out, that the woodwork needed painting, that the lawn had not been trimmed in years. Yet the place could not, from the style of architecture, have been more than ten years old.

  Monk asked, “How did this dump come to be here?”

  “Osage Indian,” Stunted leered through his smashed face. “Heap oil, catchum many dollars. Build um brick tepee. Then Osage, him turn around and croak. Tepee, him go pot.”

  “You’re quite a smart guy, ain’tcha?” Monk growled.

  They unloaded beside the mansion. A lean, brown man stepped
out to meet them, squinting in the headlights. He had a rifle.

  “We got two visitors for the chief,” said Stunted.

  “The chief just left,” said the man with the rifle.

  “Oh,” said Stunted. “So it was him in——”

  The man with the queer eyes screamed, “Damn you! All the time about to let things slip where these guys can hear!” He slugged Stunted heavily with his right fist.

  Stunted’s face was already sore from the blow landed by the swarthy delivery-truck driver. The new pain maddened him. He went down, but retained his grip on his rifle, rolled over and lifted the weapon.

  Men shouted, and sprang forward to prevent bloodshed.

  Ham kicked Monk on the shins. Monk bellowed in pain and knocked down the handiest of his captors.

  “The house!” Ham yelled. “They’d shoot us down before we could get across the clearing.”

  The house entrance was not more than a dozen feet away. They dived for it. A rifle slug tore an ample fistful of splinters off the edge of the door as they went through.

  Chapter 5

  FLAME THREAD

  The door was of some rich dark wood. Paint had peeled off, but the panel still retained its strength. Monk tossed out one long, hairy arm and slammed it. Echoes of the slam echoed through the house, which seemed virtually devoid of furniture.

  Monk snarled, “You didn’t need to kick me!”

  “It was a pleasure,” Ham told him. “I mean—I had to get you in action.”

  “Yeah!” Monk hit a door at the end of the reception hall where they stood. It was not locked. Momentum sent him across the chamber beyond on hands and knees.

  There was a table at this side of the room. It had been thrown hastily together from rough wood. But there was nothing crude about the apparatus on it. Black insulating panels, knobs, and switches glistened.

  Monk veered for the apparatus.