'We can blow open the hatch with a grenade!' Ham clipped.
'Not so fast!' Doc called from below. 'You can bet the pirates will be standing by with machine guns. They'll let you have a flock of lead the minute you show outside!'
A second explosion sounded, jarring the whole liner. This one occurred back near the stern.
'They're sinking the boat!' Mindoro shouted. 'We'll be trapped in here!'
In his perturbation, he decided to ignore Doc's warning. He started on up the ladder to the hatch. But Renny flung up a big hand and held him back.
'Doc has got something up his sleeve!' Renny grunted, 'so don't worry!'
Down in the hold, water sloshing to his waist, Doc was plucking out the contents of another of his trunks. He turned his flashlight on his three companions, then flung something tip to them. He followed it with another — a third.
Renny caught the first, passed it up to Mindoro, and rumbled: 'Put it on!'
The objects consisted of helmetlike hoods which fitted over the entire head and snugged with draw strings around the neck. They were equipped with gogglelike windows.
They were compact little diving hoods. Air for breathing was taken care of by artificial lungs carried in small back packs. Respiration was through a flexible hose and a mouthpiece-nose-clip contrivance inside the mask.
There were also lead bracelets fitting around their ankles, and heavy enough to keep their feet down.
Renny assisted Mindoro to don the diving hood, then put one on himself. Ham's sharply cut, hawklike face disappeared in another; he took a fresh grasp on his sword came and waited.
Doc, his bronze head already enveloped in one of the hoods, was delving into other of his trunks, and making bundles of objects which he removed.
The generator-operated flashlights were waterproof. They furnished a pale luminance in the rushing, greasy floor that rapidly filled the hold.
THE liner sank. The boilers aft let go with hollow explosions. Water whirled a maelstrom in the hold, tumbling the four men and the numerous pieces of baggage about.
Water pressure increased as the vessel sought the depths. But at seventy feet it was not dangerous. With a surprisingly gentle jar, the Malay Queen settled on the bottom.
Locating etch other by the glowing flashlights, the four men got together. Each carried a light.
Doc had four bundles ready — one for each man.
Thanks to the water-tight hoods, it was not necessary to keep the mouthpiece of the air hose between their lips at all times. By jamming their heads together, they could talk.
'Each of you carry one of these bundles,' Doc directed. 'We'll leave by the hole their dynamite opened — provided the ship is not resting so the sand has closed it.'
The hole was open. They clambered through, using care that razor edges of the torn hull did not perforate the waterproof hoods.
The depths were chocolate-colored with mud raised by the sinking Malay Queen. The men joined hands to prevent being lost from each other. Doc leading, they churned through soft mud, away from the ill-fated liner. They were forced to lean far over, as though breasting a stiff gale, to make progress.
The water changed from chocolate hue to a straw tint, then to that of grapefruit juice, as the mud became less plentiful. Where the sea was clear, Doc halted the procession. They held conclave, heads rammed tightly together.
'Wait here,' Doc directed. 'If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, head for shore.'
'How can we tell where shore is?' Mindoro demanded.
Doc produced a small, water-tight compass. He handed this to Ham.
'Granting that they sank the liner in Mantilla bay, the town itself will be due east. Head that direction.'
Doc now twisted a small valve on the 'lung' apparatus of his diving hood. This puffed out the slack lower portion of the hood with air — gave him enough buoyancy to counteract the weight of the lead anklets. He lifted slowly, leaving his three companions behind on the bottom, an anxious group.
Nearing the surface — this was evidenced by the glow of sunlight — Doc adjusted another valve in the hood until his weight equaled that of the water he displaced, so that lie neither rose or sank.
He paddled upward cautiously. If his guess was right, the pirates would be standing by in small boats, revolvers and machine guns in hand.
Doc wanted them to know he was alive.
This was of vital importance. As long as Tom Too knew he faced the menace of Doc Savage, he would not be liable to slay Doc's three friends, whom he held prisoner. Or were the three captives still alive?
They were. The instant Doc's head topped the surface, he saw Monk, Long Tom, and Johnny.
Chapter 14
HUNTED MEN
MONK, big and furry, clothes practically torn off, crouched in the how of a near-by lifeboat. He was shackled with heavy chains and metal bands.
The pale electrical wizard, Long Torn, and the bony, archaeologist, Johnny, were seated on a thwart in front of Monk. They were braceleted with ordinary handcuffs.
Other lifeboats and some launches swarmed the vicinity. Yellow men gorged them to the gunwales. Gun barrels bristIed over the boats like naked brush.
Every slant eye was fixed on the spot where the Malay Queen had gone down. The sea still boiled there. Wreckage drifted in confusion, deck chairs, some lounge furniture, a hatch or two, and lesser objects such as shuffleboard cues and ping-pong balls. A pall of steam from the blown boilers hung above Mantilla Bay.
Doc sank and stroked toward the small craft which held his three friends.
He was hardly under the surface when a terrific explosion occurred in the water near by. It smashed the sea against his body with terrific force.
Swiftly he let all the air out of his diving hood. He scooted into the depths.
He knew what had happened. Some of the corsairs had glimpsed him and hurled a grenade.
Doc swam with grim, machinelike speed. Rifle bullets wouldn't reach him below the surface. But the grenades, detonating like depth bombs, were a grisly menace. He'd have to give up the rescue of his three men. He had no way of getting them ashore.
Chun-n-g!
Then a second grenade loosened. It couldn't have been many feet away. The goggles of Doc's (living hood were crushed inward. Gigantic fists seemed to smash every inch of his bronze frame.
Not missing a stroke in his swimming, Doc shook the glass goggle fragments out of his eyes. No serious damage had been done. He would merely have to keep the mouthpiece-nose-clip contrivance of the 'lung' between his lips as long as he was beneath the surface.
His remarkable ability to maintain a sense of direction under all circumstances enabled him to find the three he had left beneath the waters.
Grenades were still exploding beneath the surface. But the blasts were so distant now as to be harmless.
Leaning far over against the water, the four men strode shoreward. Coming to a clear patch of sand, Doc halted, and, with a finger tip, wrote one word.
'Sharks!'
Doc had seen a pilot fish of a shark-following species. After that warning they kept alert eyes roving the surrounding depths. Fortunately, however, they were not molested.
The bottom slanted upward; the water became translucent with sunlight. They were nearing shore. A roaring commotion passed over their heads, evidently a speed boat.
Upright wooden columns appeared suddenly, thick as a forest, shaggy with barnacles — the piling of a
