Chapter 17
Battle
Barlowe eyed Doc Savage expectantly after making his declaration of the bronze man's impending death. But if he thought the metallic-hued giant would quail, he was disappointed.
"When I couldn't raise Maltone on the radio I knew something was up," Barlowe said. "And I figured you were the reason behind it."
Doc didn't explain that Curly Wolfe's gang had initiated the difficulties experienced by Barlowe's crew.
Barlowe addressed the surrounding gunmen. "Getting rid of this guy will solve most of our problems, boys."
Doc showed no change in expression. His apparent equanimity -- even disinterest -- might have been the same were he to discuss the weather with a stranger.
His golden eyes surveyed the gathered gunmen. Their faces displayed a mixture of bravado and hate masking an underlying quality of fear. Their ranks had bedeviled the Navy and brought death and destruction to the shores of the United States at a time when the nation was wearily -- and warily -- celebrating victory in Europe. But these men -- hardcases all, by the looks of them -- had heard tales of Doc Savage's amazing exploits. They knew that he had already escaped at least one death trap at the Hudson River warehouse in New York. They were leery of the supposed secret gadgets he could snatch from thin air to humble his enemies. And they had shared rumors of his uncanny ability to pull triumph from seemingly sure defeat.
And the bronze man's unflappable silence in the face of sure death shook their confidence tremendously.
Barlowe grunted. "I hear from my crew that you used some of your hoodoo to conk me out back in the City. But my boys got me out." The wicked man squinted devilishly at Doc. "Seems like I owe you something in return," he snarled.
No response from Doc other than the slight raising of a bronze eyebrow.
Barlowe cracked his knuckles. "You're supposed to be some kinda tough guy. Let's see just how tough you really are. I bet it all's just hooey. You and me -- we'll fight it out and see who's really so tough."
Doc eyed the big criminal. Barlowe clearly was quite confident of his abilities. "Why should I?" Doc asked.
Barlowe pulled a slightly benevolent expression -- which really didn't look at home on his face. "Let's say you whip me. I'll be generous. I won't kill you."
Doc knew that Barlowe was lying. But engaging the man in a fight would afford him some time to find an opportunity to escape or to possibly round up this entire crew.
"All right," Doc agreed.
"Search him," Barlowe ordered, and he fanned a hand at a couple of men standing near. "I don't want him pulling any gizmos in the middle of our fight. Unfairly, you know." Barlowe's slash of a mouth crooked in an ugly sneer.
The bronze man stood impassively while the men patted him down and checked his pockets. The only thing that drew their curiosity was the snub of fluourescent chalk.
"Toss it," Barlowe gruffed.
Satisfied that the bronze man had been disarmed of any and all gadgets and gizmos, the searchers stepped back. Barlowe advanced after handing over his gun to Smalley, rolled up his sleeves, and challenged, "Put 'em up, big man."
Barlowe's fists, while not so massive as Renny Renwick's freakishly large hands, were still big knobby clubs that could surely do some serious damage if wielded well. Doc adjusted his stance, raised his bronze-knuckled fists, and the two battlers warily circled one another.
Barlowe was an intimidatingly large figure. Doc Savage was a big man and a physical marvel. Among his accomplishments was expert training in the Sweet Science. No doubt Barlowe was an experienced brawler from 'way back, but as his moves across the barn floor suggested, he clearly knew a few things about pugilistic strategy.
Barlowe's thugs shouted and urged him on, and the knife-faced crook lashed out with blinding speed. Doc dodged the blow, a bronze blur, blocked the followup right cross, feinted, then launched a lightning-fast flurry of body blows to Barlowe's midsection, hammering his ribs.
Barlowe staggered, stepped back. He raised his eyebrows, but didn't fall. He grunted and grinned evilly. Here was a very tough opponent for Doc.
Barlowe stepped in swinging viciously. Doc dodged and blocked some of his hits, then got in some body-shaking jabs of his own. Barlowe roared and howled and was echoed by the assembled gunmen. Doc remained silent within the blurring flow of arms and bare fists as the two men danced within the ring formed by Barlowe's lackeys.
Doc's knuckles smashed into Barlowe's jaw twice, seemingly bone-cracking blasts that would have felled a draught horse. Barlowe just shook his head and barreled back in with strikes at the bronze man that were equivlent to kicks from a Missouri mule.
Barlowe could take a punch.
Rarely had Doc met someone who might prove his physical match. Barlowe might prove one of those few. And the gang boss clearly revelled in going toe-to-toe with the bronze man.
Perhaps the two were evenly matched this day: Doc was operating on little sleep; he'd flown a long flight early that morning; brought a Navy crew to safety -- swimmng underwater; invaded the tunnel network and stormed the farmhouse hideaway of Gravel Voice; and now he fought a grueling bare knuckles battle with a vicious and cunning murderer. Even a remarkable physical marvel like the man of bronze had his limits.
This was not the easiest day of Doc's career.
Barlowe was preparing to deliver a devastating haymaker when Doc detected over the hubbub a squawking from the radio. Before anyone could determine what was being said, Doc doubled over and charged his opponent, catching Barlowe in the solar plexus. He drove the big man through the ring of gunmen and slammed him into the radio. The transceiver burst into splinters, its message undelivered.
Barlowe leaped to his feet with a roar and a terrible oath. He dove onto the bronze man, and the two giant figures rolled over the floor like snarling jungle predators struggling for their lives.
Several times Doc reached for Barlowe's neck to deliver his disabling nerve pinch, but each time the gang boss slipped around to escape the attempt and delivered a crushing blow to the brone man's head or body. The dust thrown up by their battle rolled through the air and out the barn door in clouds, obscuring everyone's view. But the sounds of the fight were unmistakable and apparently unending.
The shrill squealing of brakes interrupted the mob scene when the sedan that had earlier been parked in the barn fishtailed to a stop before the open doors, adding its own trailing cloud to the dust stirred up by the fight. A scowling man jumped from the car yelling at the top of his lungs:
"Dammit there's a flock of birds on the way here! What happened to your radio?"
The crowd quieted a bit, and Barlowe wrenched himself loose from Doc's hold. As he staggered to his feet, the gang boss shouted out orders:
"Get in the air! Man the guns!"
Some of the assembled thugs scattered out the door in response.
Barlowe's chest heaved as he caught his breath. blood seeped from cuts on his face and arms. One eye was swelled nearly to complete closure. He grinned his wicked grin and his slash mouth was more crooked than earlier.
The rumble of the planes changed pitch as the engines revved and the craft took flight. The thundrclap of big guns broke upon the soundscape -- apparently Barlowe had some small anti-aircraft artillery hidden in the woods around the clearing.
"There's enough light yet to do some damage to any Navy birds that make it in here," Barlowe said.
Doc started to get to his feet, but the remaining thugs around Barlowe stormed forward and booted his already-battered body back to the floor.
"Don't use the metal-melting mixture in those planes," Doc warned.
"Hah!" spat Barlowe.
Doc surveyed the deadly faces arrayed before him. The flake gold of his eyes whirled in the light slanting through the door, dimmed still by the yet-settling dust.
Traitors. Sabateurs. Spies. Murderers.
"Somehow you've called down hell on us here," complained Barlowe. "We'll have to clear out of this place. But we're not licked yet. The Fatherland has been defeated. That is the fault of the weak fools leading our glorious march the past several months. But what remains of the Axis powers will yet prevail. And from their victory shall rise anew the dream of the Reich."
Doc marveled at the zealous propaganda drooling from Barlowe's mouth. His very manner of speech had changed. Perhaps the result of some sort of brainwashing technique?
Perhaps not. Doc saw the fervor in the man's face. "How long have you been planted in this country?"
"Long enough. And I'll be here to see this country collapse." He reached, and Smalley returned Barlowe's machine pistol to his hands. "But you, trouble maker, will not."
Barlowe brought the gun up,aimed at Doc. His finger tightened on the trigger as his smile widened.
"Stop there!" The shout from the back of the still-clouded barn halted Barlowe for the briefest of seconds, and Doc -- who had slowly carefully positioned himself during Barlowe's speech -- launched himself at the legs of the gang boss. Barlowe's gun chattered in a blast of bullets that cut an arc of holes across the barn wall and roof. Pandemonium erupted as a squad of Navy commandoes burst from the trapdoor leading to the tunnels.
Barlowe's men fired and the Navy squad returned fire. In the close quarters of the barn, the racket was deafening.
One of Barlowe's booted feet connected with Doc's face, momentarily stunning the bronze man. He saw the wild-eyed Smalley pull the pin from his grenade and fling it toward the rear of the barn.
As Barlowe and Smalley scrambled away, Doc yelled in his most commanding tone of voice, "Live grenade!" Men dashed and dove for cover. Doc rolled just past the barn door before the explosive blasted the back wall of the barn to shards and splinters.
Doc stood, ears ringing. Barlowe and Smalley had rushed in the sedan to one of the hangars. They had already clambered aboard a plane and had it roaring across the field. In moments it was aloft, joining the airborne fray.
A group of four Navy planes twisted in air, dodging the bursting shells from the small ground artillery Barlowe's gang had arrayed around the area. They strafed these gun emplacements, knocking out two of the five immediately.
Lt. Sherman approached Doc Savage. He saw what was going on, then ordered his squad to help take out the other three artillery set ups.
"Are you all right, Dr. Savage?" the lieutenant asked.
Doc nodded, then said, "You still have men in the tunnels?"
"Yes, they're mopping up the remaining --"
"Radio them," Doc interrupted. "Get them out. I'm sure this place is like this gang's other hideouts -- boobytrapped to explode and hide any evidence of their work."
Lt. Sherman hopped to follow Doc's directions. The bronze man watched the aircraft battling in the sky. Barlowe's planes released their drifting clouds of chemicals directly in the paths of the Navy planes. The Navy pilots, roaring through the air at high speed, couldn't avoid the clouds, which were more concentrated and denser than the layers sifted onto the previously disabled Navy ships. Three of the Navy planes immediately began to suffer. Engines spluttered and riveted seams began to weaken. The planes grew unstable.
The fourth Navy pilot turned his craft to give chase to the flock of fleeing enemy planes. But his efforts ended when one of Barlowe's planes dove and slammed into the Navy plane, taking both craft to the ground in a flaming tangle.
Lt. Sherman had witnessed this last occurrence. He gasped and said, "They're kamikaze pilots!"
"No, it was merely coincidence," Doc said, watching the enemy planes flee into the gathering dusk. "I disabled the dispersal units of three planes. When their crews tried to use them, they simply poured the mixture into their own cabins. See?"
Two more of Barlowe's planes toppled from the sky simultaneously, as if awaiting Doc's description. They crashed about two miles away.
As Doc and the Navy troops evacuated the area surrounding the barn and hangars, Doc commented grimly, "Those flyers simply caused their own deaths. They surely melted away within seconds of releasing the gas."
The group met the men coming back from taking the artillery placements. "No prisoners," the troops reported. Lt. Sherman ordered men to head out to the crash sites of the Navy and enemy planes, then directed the rest of his men to secure the perimeter of the area.
The lieutenant was radioing back to the base when the ground bucked and shuddered like a massive rodeo bronco. All but Doc Savage either fell on their faces or to their knees. The bronze man kept his feet, staggering as the earth moved beneath him.
Groans and explosions of noise rose from the round. A great geyser of broken earth rocketed into the sky, scattering debris and dust for miles. The barn and hangars took flight as flocks of splinters then slowly spiraled to earth.
The trembles and rumbles subsided. A great silence descended, seemingly brought down by the sifting dust from the sky.
Lt. Sherman looked up from the ground toward Doc. "You were right," he said, "about those bombs."
Doc looked over the demolished area. A grim light stirred the golden pools in his eyes. "That's that," he stated flatly.
Written By:
Duane Spurlock
based on notes by:
Kenneth Robeson
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