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

The underseas craft floated high. On the bows, a lettered name was readable:

HELLDIVER.

It was this submarine which had been the subject of the radio news commentator's broadcast.

With deadly precision, the four planes roared down at the submersible. The Orientals had discarded their
binoculars, and had their eyes pasted to the bomb sights. Yellow hands were poised, muscles drawn
wire-hard, on bomb trips.
A naval bombing expert, knowing all the facts, would have sworn the submarine didn't have a chance of
escaping. It would be blown out of the water by the bombs.

The Mongol pilots were hot-eyed, snarling - yellow faces no longer inscrutable. They were about to
accomplish the purpose of their bloody plot - the death of every one aboard the under-the-polar-ice
submarine.

They got a shock.

From a dozen spots, the sub hull spewed smoke as black as drawing ink. Heaving, squirming, the dense
smudge spread. It blotted the underseas boat from view, and blanketed the surface of the Sound for
hundreds of feet in every direction.

With desperate haste, the Orientals deposited bombs in the center of the smoke mushroom. These
explosions drove up treelike columns from the black body of the smoke mass. It was impossible to tell
whether the sub had been damaged.

The four planes might have been angry, metallic bees droning over some gigantic. strange, black blossom.
as they hovered watchfully. They did not waste more bombs, since the smoke cloud was now half a mile
across. In it, the sub was like a needle in a haystack.

Several minutes passed. Suddenly, as one unit, the four planes dived for the western edge of the heavy
smoke screen.

Their sharp eyes had detected a long, slender mass moving some feet beneath the surface. This was
leaving a creamy wake.

In quick succession, the war planes struck downward at the object under the water. Four bombs
dropped. The half-caste Mongols knew their business. Each bomb scored an almost perfect hit.

Water rushed high. The sea heaved and boiled. The concussions tossed the planes about like leaves.

Swinging in a wide circle, the planes came back. The commotion in the water had subsided. The pilots
made hissing sounds of delight.

The long, slender mass was no longer to be seen. Oil filmed the surface. Oil such as would come from
the ruptured entrails of a submarine.

THE pursuit planes whirled a half dozen lazy spirals. Convinced the deadly work was done, the leader of
the quartet angled for the shore, four or five miles distant. Once over land, he dived out of the cockpit.