Лестер Дент - Death in Silver

Getting atop the submarine had not been difficult either since the silver men thought him dead.

Not that the bronze man was having an easy time of it. The water tore at him with terrific force! The lashing line was gradually sawing into his great ligaments. Eventually he was certain to weaken and be battered into insensibility or else to lose the diving lungs, which would be more disastrous.

He was unable to keep his eyes open against the tearing water except for an occasional brief squint. The lighter hue of the water about him told him that the sub was not running far beneath the surface. No doubt it was following the radio guide buoys. The fact that they were not as deep indicated, conceivably, that they might be nearing shore.

Soon the shoreward course hypothesis became a certainty for there was a grinding sound. And Doc — chancing a glance — saw the periscope rising. He could barely make it out through the sunlit waters.

The fog must have cleared up judging by the illumination in the water.

The sub motors became more silent. The water lost some of its tearing force. After a bit, there was a soft jar and mud billowed up around the sub. It had touched bottom. Probably its keel was re-enforced against just such contacts as this.

The sub was built almost as strongly as the practically indestructible Helldiver .

The U-boat lifted out of the mud and continued. With bare headway, it nosed forward. Everything indicated that the craft was nearing the secret base of the Silver Death's-Heads .

Doc could keep his eyes open. He saw the underwater searchlight on the bow of the submarine spout brilliance, although it was hardly necessary with the brightness of the Sun.

A moment later, the bronze man began a mad wrenching at the lashings which held him to the mooring ring.

A mass — it resembled a gigantic log with the bark on due to a profuse growth of barnacles — was looming overhead. He was in immediate danger of being crushed!

Doc Savage unlashed himself from the ring, then stroked down and seized the fin of a diving rudder. A watery rush from the propellers nearly tore him loose.

The sub was jockeying to get under the huge hulk above. The slow, tedious task the silver men made of it was nevertheless an expert job.

Undoubtedly, they were guided by highly scientific soundwave projectors and receivers or possibly radio-beam apparatus which told them when they were directly under the mass overhead.

Ballast was slowly blown and the underseas boat lifted. There was a jar as it touched the barnacle-covered hulk. In some spots, the barnacles had been sheared away by past contacts and steel plates were disclosed.

The sub did not move after the contact. It was being held in place by the electromagnets.

The thing above was the bottom of a ship!It could be nothing else. No doubt there were other electromagnets inside the ship to keep the U-boat from changing position.

Machinery ground. A great turmoil of bubbles poured up from the direction of the air lock by which divers came and went from the U-boat.

Doc Savage hastily released the diving fin to which he clung, then stroked down-and-under the submarine. From there, he managed to get under the hull of the ship where he would be comparatively safe from discovery.

The bronze man worked forward, swimming a little, using the more clustered patches of barnacles for fingertip purchase. The hull began to narrow as he approached the bow. It was not a large ship, it seemed.

He did not follow the bow up out of the water but shoved himself free and swam to the right, keeping far beneath the surface. He prowled out there for a time but found nothing. Then he tried the left side. There, he located the anchor cable — a procession of thick iron links.

Doc drew in all the air his lungs would comfortably contain … then removed the diving lungs and tied them to the anchor linkage by the straps which held the purifying mechanism to his back.

It was a precaution. If he got aboard the ship, was shot at, and went overboard — not to come up — the Silver Death's-Heads would think him dead again, perhaps. He could reach the lungs, swimming underwater to don them.

The anchor chain ran down on the side opposite the point where the submarine had fastened itself. Which was fortunate. But Doc broke the surface very cautiously, keeping under the anchor links — they being large enough to partially conceal his head. He stared upward.

The ship was a tramp, a rusty old hulk of a few thousand tons. One of the type which helped make up the "Rum Row" of Prohibition days.

The Row still existed for that matter, well outside the jurisdiction of the Coast Guard and handled other things beside rum — perfumes, watch movements, and other things on which there was a high duty. No doubt a few aliens were smuggled, too.

The tramp needed paint. Her brasswork was almost beyond being helped by polish, and her one funnel leaned slightly askew.

Doc saw the funnel when he reached the anchor hawse hole and lifted himself by the strength of his great arms. The vessel had 2 crow's nests. That was suspicious in itself. And in each, a lookout was on duty.

Doc watched the lookouts closely. They would sweep the horizon with binoculars, then give attention to their comrades who were coming up from the submarine through the airlock.

It was while they were eying the sub that Doc whipped over the rail, flashed to the nearest open hatch, and dropped down it.

No one saw him because there was a commotion aft along the rail.

- — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The commotion was of Monk's making. The homely chemist still thought Doc Savage dead. He had been benumbed by the fact. But now he was shedding the agonizing lethargy.

Monk topped the rail dripping and sputtering. He had been forced to swim up from the airlock without benefit of a diving suit. And he was mad! He lashed out at the first convenient jaw. Bone crunched under his fist!

The man who had been hit caved as he went backward.

Someone tried to smash Monk over his bullet-like head with a revolver. Monk grabbed the short arm. He almost got it. But silver men — rushing in — clubbed him back. He was seized and handcuffed.

When Ham appeared, he and Monk were led below. They did not see Hugh McCoy or Rapid Pace. Nor had they seen the pair since the misfortune aboard the Helldiver .

"I wonder if they're alive?" Monk growled.

"Get below, gentlemen," suggested cherub-faced Ull.

Monk and Ham were convoyed below decks by a grim ring of gun snouts. They were halted before a metal door. Monk's wrists were decorated with an additional pair of manacles, and Ham was handcuffed. The door was opened and they were shoved inside.

Monk took one look at the 2 occupants of the rusty steel chamber and let out a loud grunt of relief.

"Pat!" he ejaculated. "So you are safe, after all!"

"Do you call this 'safe'!" Pat demanded caustically. "Where's Doc?"

Patricia Savage — wrists ornamented with steel linkage — was far from being the immaculate personality who headed a successful swanky Park Avenue beauty establishment. She still wore her evening gown. But it was grimy, and she had torn it off above the ankles for greater freedom of movement.

Lorna Zane was with her, and she also showed traces of a rough evening and night. Her brown hair was disheveled; her ensemble of gray had lost its effectiveness; the gray beret and gray bag being missing, and a heel was gone from one gray pump.