Kenneth Robeson - The Pirate of the Pacific

Doc handled the controls. Doc had studied flying just as intensively as he had worked upon other things. He had many thousands of hours of flying time behind him, and it was evidenced in his uncanny skill with the controls.

"No sign of a radio working on Tom Too's boat," Long Torn reported.

The scrawny-looking electrical wizard had hoped to locate Tom Too by radio compass.

"That's too bad," he added. "If we could find him, we'd make short work of him."

Due to the darkness of the night, there was no hope of sighting the craft bearing the pirate chief to such of his followers as were camped on Shark Head Island.

"We're getting near the place!" Renny warned, after studying a group of course figures he had scribbled.

"Any chance the presence of a plane will make them suspicious?" Ham wanted to know.

"The Mantilla to Hong Kong air mail route is not far from here," Doc pointed out. "Probably they're accustomed to hearing planes."

Several minutes passed, the miles dropping behind, two to the minute.

"There we are!" Renny boomed.

SCORES of camp fires had appeared a mile beneath the plane. Distance made them seem small as sparks.

Monk was using binoculars. "That's the layout, all right. I can see some of them."

"Take the controls," Doc directed Renny.

Renny complied. He was an accomplished pilot, as were all of Doc's companions.

"All you fellows understand what you're to do," Doc told them. "Fly on several miles, mounting into the clouds, until you're sure the motor sound has receded from the hearing of those below. Then you are to cut the motors, swing back, and land secretly in the little bay on the north end of the island."

"We got it straight," said Renny. "The pirates are camped on the larger bay at the south end."

"You sure you want us to stay away from them?" Monk grumbled.

"Until you hear from me," Doc replied.

Doc already had a parachute strapped on. As casually as if he were stepping out of the lobby of the New York skyscraper which held his headquarters, he lunged out of the plane. Safely clear, he plucked the ripcord.

With a swish like great wings unfolding, the silken 'chute folds squirted out. The slight shock as it opened completely bothered Doc not at all.

Grasping the shrouds of the 'chute, he pulled them down on one side, skidding the lobe in the direction he wished to take.

Marine charts of the thousands of large and small islands which made up the Luzon Union group had held a detailed map of Shark Head Island. The bit of land was low, swampy, about a mile long and half as wide. Its name' came from the reef-studded bay at the lower end. This was shaped something like the snaggle-toothed head of a shark.

Doc landed on the rim of this bay, perhaps three hundred yards from the pirate camp.

The corsairs were making considerable noise. Tom-toms and wheezy wind instruments made a savage medley of sound. It was Chinese in character.

Doc got out of the 'chute harness and bundled it and the silk mushroom under an arm. Searching through the rank' jungle growth in the direction of the buccaneer camp, his golden eyes discerned figures gliding about with the jittery motion common to action of the Oriental stage. From time to time, these persons made elaborate cutting motions at each other with swords.

They were entertaining themselves with some sort of a play.

Doc moved out to the sandy portion of the beach. He scooped several gallons of sand into the 'chute and tied it there. Then he entered the water, carrying the parachute and its burden.

Doc's bronze skin was still dyed with the brown stain he had applied when masquerading as the Mantilla policeman. The stain would not wash off.

He swam out into the bay. Where the water was deep, he let the 'chute sink. It would never be found here.

His mighty form cleaved forward with a speed that left a swirling wake. Near the middle of the bay, he headed directly for the grouped camp fires. They were near the shore.

A hundred yards from them, Doc lifted his voice in a shout. His voice bad changed so as to be nearly unrecognizable. It was high, squeaky. It was the voice lie intended to use in his new character.

"Hey, you fella!" he shrilled. "Me velly much all in! Bling help alongside!"

He got instant attention. The play acting stopped. Yellow men dived for their arms.

Simulating a man near exhaustion, Doc floundered toward the beach.

A villainous horde bristling with weapons, the pirates surged down to meet him.

Doc hauled himself onto the sand. With fierce cries, a score of men pounced upon him. They brandished knives, a crooked-bladed kris or two, swords, pistols, rifles, even very modern submachine guns.

DOC'S iron nerve control was never more evident than at that instant. He lay like a man so tired as to be incapable of another movement, although it seemed certain death was upon him.

"Allee same bling you fella big news!" he whined in his piping voice. "Gimme dlink. Me one played-out fella."

They hauled Doc roughly to the fires. They surrounded him, row after row, those in front squatting so the men behind could see. There were Malays, Mongols, Japs, Chinese, white men, blacks — as conglomerate a racial collection as it would be possible to imagine. Turbaned Hindus mingled with them.

One thing they all had in common — lust and butchery, disease and filth, greed and treachery was stamped upon every countenance.

Doc's jaws were pried apart. He was fed a revolting concoction of kaoliang cooked with rice. It was a distinct effort to choke the stuff down. A spicy wine followed. Somebody went for more wine. Doc decided it was time to revive.

"Me stalt out in chug-chug boat," Doc explained. Strictly, this wasn't a lie. They had ridden out to the anchored seaplane in Mantilla in a motor boat.

"Him boat stop chug-chug. Me swim. Get this place by-by. Me plenty much play out."

"Do you speak Mandarin, oh friend who comes in the water?" asked a man in Mandarin.

"I do, oh mighty lord," Doc admitted in the same flamboyant lingo.

"How did you pass the tigers who watch at the mouth of the bay, our brothers who are upon guard?"

"I saw no tigers, illustrious one," said Doc. That was no lie. He hadn't seen the guards.

"The guardian tigers shall have their tails twisted!" roared the pirate. He whirled, snarling orders for some of his followers to hurry and relieve the guards.

"What brings you here?" the corsair asked Doc.

"It is said that man differs from sheep in that man knows when he is to be slaughtered," Doc said in long-winded fashion.

"You are one of Tom Too's sons?"

"I was. But no man wishes to be the son of a dog that would bite off its tail that it might walk upon its rear legs and be like a man."

The buccaneer was perplexed. "What is this talk of slaughtered sheep and dogs who wish to be men, oh puzzling one?"

DOC sat up. He did not lift his voice very much, for he was supposed to be a man suffering from exhaustion, a man who had come a long distance with important news. Nevertheless, his low and powerful tones carried far enough that several hundred slant-eyed and pasty-faced fiends heard his words.

"It is of Tom Too whom I speak, my brothers," he proclaimed. "The man who is your leader has told you that your share of his design upon the Luzon Union is to play the part of looters, that he may be the hero for subduing you.

"The real truth is that you will be shot down like wild ducks upon the hunting preserve of a rich merchant. Are you such fools as to believe many of you will not die? Tom Too will not hesitate to sacrifice you. He considers you rabble. You are the dog tail which he will cut off, and being rid of you, set himself up as a king.