"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 005 - Pirate of the Pacific" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Rear doors of the trucks were now opened. Fully a dozen Mongols and half-castes crawled out of the
vehicles. They clustered beside the road.

Their faces were inscrutable; no muscle twitched, not a slant eye wavered. They were like a collection of
placid, evil yellow images.

No weapons were in sight. But their clothing bulged suspiciously.

The first driver's arm elevated in another noiseless signal. The fellow seemed to lie in charge.

The whole crowd glided quietly down the side road that led to the airport.

Plane hangars were an orderly row of fat, drab humps ahead. Faint strains of radio music came from one
of them. A high fence of heavy woven wire encircled both hangars and plane runways.

Near the main gate in the fence, a guard lounged. His only movement was an occasional lusty swing at a
night insect.

"These blasted mosquitoes are bigger'n hawks!" he grumbled, speaking aloud for his own company.
"They must be flyin' over from the Jersey marshes."

The guard discerned a man approaching. He forgot his mosquitoes as he peered into the darkness to see
who was approaching. When the man came within a few yards, the guard was able to distinguish his
features.

"Hy'ah, yellow boy!" he grinned. "You can't poke around here at night. This is private property."

The Mongol replied with a gibberish that was unintelligible to the watchman.

"No savvy!" said the g"guard. "Splickee English!"

The Oriental came closer, gesturing earnestly with his hands.

The unfortunate guard never saw another figure glide up in the moonlight behind him. Moonlight flickered
on a thick, heavy object. The weapon struck with a vicious, sidewise swipe.

The sound, as it hit, was like a loud, heavy thump. The guard piled down on the ground, out in a second.

THE other Mongols and half-castes now came up. They strode past the unconscious guard as though
they hadn't seen him, passed through the gate in the high fence, and continued purposefully for the
hangars.

No commands had been spoken. They were functioning like a deadly machine, following a deliberate
plan.

Music from the radio was thumping a more rapid tempo - the musicians were working up to one of those
grand slam endings. The radio instrument itself was a midget set, no larger than a shoe box.

Another night worker of the airport had plugged it into a power outlet on a workbench in a corner of the
hangar. He lolled in the cockpit of a plane and listened to the music.