"I know he hasn't!" interposed Monk. "I heard talk which revealed the pirates on the island are tired of waiting, and are on the point of rebellion. They figure themselves as liable to get shot in the rioting, so they're not so hot about their part in the whole plot. There was talk that they intended to make a raid of their own on Mantilla, in the old-fashioned pirate way."

"They must be ignorant!" Ham snapped. "Otherwise, they'd know a thing like that won't work in this day and age."

"Of course they're dumb," Monk grinned. "Tom Too went up there the minute he landed. He knows he's got to calm them down, or his scheme to seize the Luzon Union is shot."

Mindoro put in a sharp query. "What does Tom Too look like?"

"We didn't see him," Monk said sorrowfully. "We've got no idea what he looks like."

"How did Tom Too go to the island?" Doc asked sharply.

"By boat."

"You sure?"

"I sure am!"

"That's swell."

"Huh?" Monk grunted wonderingly.

"We can get hold of a plane and beat him there," Doc said grimly. "Provided you heard the name of the island?"

"Shark Head Island."

"I can mark the spot on a map!" declared Mindoro eagerly. "The place is an all-night run up the coast by boat."

Chapter 16

THE BUCCANEER MUTINY

THAT night, a ceiling of black cloud hung at ten thousand feet. Under this, darkness lurked, thick and damply foul as the breath of some carnivorous monster.

The hour was early. Lights glowed through the open walls of huts. Here and there a torch flared as some native went about night duties.

A mile high, just below the cloud ceiling, a plane boomed through the night. Exhaust stacks of its two big radial motors lipped blue flame occasionally. The tips of the single far-flung wing and the spidery rudder mechanism bore no distinguishing lights. The craft was an amphibian — the landing wheels cranking up into wells on the hull when it was desired to make a landing in water. In a pinch, the craft could carry sixteen passengers.

It carried only six now — Doc Savage and his five friends.

Mindoro had remained behind in Mantilla. He had been unwilling to be the stay-at-home, at first. But Doc had pointed out it was highly important that Mindoro assembled his loyal forces and prepare to resist Tom Too's coup.

Mindoro's first move would be to throw a dependable guard around the president of the Luzon Union, so there would be no poisoning. The doctors who had been bribed by Tom Too's men to proclaim the poison death a case of heart failure, were to be disposed of. Doc hadn't inquired just what the disposal would be. It probably would not be pleasant.

It had been a simple matter for Mindoro to secure the plane for Doc's use.

Renny was navigating the plane. This was not an easy task, since they could not see the heavens, or the contour of the land below. Renny, thanks to his engineering training, was an expert at this sort of thing.

Doc handled the controls. Doc had studied flying just as intensively as he had worked upon other things. He had many thousands of hours of flying time behind him, and it was evidenced in his uncanny skill with the controls.

"No sign of a radio working on Tom Too's boat," Long Torn reported.

The scrawny-looking electrical wizard had hoped to locate Tom Too by radio compass.

"That's too bad," he added. "If we could find him, we'd make short work of him."

Due to the darkness of the night, there was no hope of sighting the craft bearing the pirate chief to such of his followers as were camped on Shark Head Island.

"We're getting near the place!" Renny warned, after studying a group of course figures he had scribbled.

"Any chance the presence of a plane will make them suspicious?" Ham wanted to know.

"The Mantilla to Hong Kong air mail route is not far from here," Doc pointed out. "Probably they're accustomed to hearing planes."

Several minutes passed, the miles dropping behind, two to the minute.

"There we are!" Renny boomed.

SCORES of camp fires had appeared a mile beneath the plane. Distance made them seem small as sparks.

Monk was using binoculars. "That's the layout, all right. I can see some of them."

"Take the controls," Doc directed Renny.

Renny complied. He was an accomplished pilot, as were all of Doc's companions.

"All you fellows understand what you're to do," Doc told them. "Fly on several miles, mounting into the clouds, until you're sure the motor sound has receded from the hearing of those below. Then you are to cut the motors, swing back, and land secretly in the little bay on the north end of the island."

"We got it straight," said Renny. "The pirates are camped on the larger bay at the south end."

"You sure you want us to stay away from them?" Monk grumbled.

"Until you hear from me," Doc replied.

Doc already had a parachute strapped on. As casually as if he were stepping out of the lobby of the New York skyscraper which held his headquarters, he lunged out of the plane. Safely clear, he plucked the ripcord.

With a swish like great wings unfolding, the silken 'chute folds squirted out. The slight shock as it opened completely bothered Doc not at all.

Grasping the shrouds of the 'chute, he pulled them down on one side, skidding the lobe in the direction he wished to take.

Marine charts of the thousands of large and small islands which made up the Luzon Union group had held a detailed map of Shark Head Island. The bit of land was low, swampy, about a mile long and half as wide. Its name' came from the reef-studded bay at the lower end. This was shaped something like the snaggle-toothed head of a shark.

Doc landed on the rim of this bay, perhaps three hundred yards from the pirate camp.

The corsairs were making considerable noise. Tom-toms and wheezy wind instruments made a savage medley of sound. It was Chinese in character.

Doc got out of the 'chute harness and bundled it and the silk mushroom under an arm. Searching through the rank' jungle growth in the direction of the buccaneer camp, his golden eyes discerned figures gliding about with the jittery motion common to action of the Oriental stage. From time to time, these persons made elaborate cutting motions at each other with swords.

They were entertaining themselves with some sort of a play.

Doc moved out to the sandy portion of the beach. He scooped several gallons of sand into the 'chute and tied it there. Then he entered the water, carrying the parachute and its burden.

Doc's bronze skin was still dyed with the brown stain he had applied when masquerading as the Mantilla policeman. The stain would not wash off.

He swam out into the bay. Where the water was deep, he let the 'chute sink. It would never be found here.

His mighty form cleaved forward with a speed that left a swirling wake. Near the middle of the bay, he headed directly for the grouped camp fires. They were near the shore.

A hundred yards from them, Doc lifted his voice in a shout. His voice bad changed so as to be nearly unrecognizable. It was high, squeaky. It was the voice lie intended to use in his new character.

"Hey, you fella!" he shrilled. "Me velly much all in! Bling help alongside!"

He got instant attention. The play acting stopped. Yellow men dived for their arms.

Simulating a man near exhaustion, Doc floundered toward the beach.

A villainous horde bristling with weapons, the pirates surged down to meet him.

Doc hauled himself onto the sand. With fierce cries, a score of men pounced upon him. They brandished knives, a crooked-bladed kris or two, swords, pistols, rifles, even very modern submachine guns.