A clock began to bong off the hour of midnight. That decided “X.” He was going in. If they challenged him, he’d reach the Master before they could get to him. Probably every man in this sinister group was a murderer. They would not hesitate to kill him if they learned his identity. But what was his life compared to the thousands he would save, the millions he would protect?
“X” pushed boldly through the cluster of hooded men. He got his hand on the door knob when one of the DOACs started to protest. The Agent raised his hand to silence the fellow. The gesture produced results. These killers belonged to a secret organization. They didn’t know each other even. How could the DOAC know that the man at the door had not been detailed to be the Master’s aide? He lapsed into silence. The Agent went into the room.
The Master stood at the microphone. Only he and “X” were in the room. The ruler of the hooded hordes was engrossed in his speech. He saw the Agent and gestured for him to go out. Instead, “X” bolted the door.
“Comrades,” spoke the Master in an impressive voice, “you are listening to your leader — the man you have sworn allegiance to, the man in whom you have vested your hope of happiness and prosperity. Many of you may think of me as a hard man. I have been hard, because my task has been hard. This world demands a violent change. Evil must be pulled out by the roots. To mend we must first destroy — and tonight—”
That was the end of the Master’s speech. “X” lunged at him. His fist shot out. Behind his terrific swing was all the power of his body gathered together by the hate he possessed for this arch-fiend. He crashed his fist against the Master’s chin, and sent him hurtling backwards.
The Master thudded to the floor and lay still. Who was he? The Agent had no time at the moment to find out.
He grabbed the microphone. This was the big moment. He didn’t know how many were listening in. Maybe hundreds, maybe scores, maybe only a few. Whatever the number of DOACs, they constituted enough to spread the Master’s word to every section of the country. The Agent meant to continue the leader’s speech, but not as the chief had planned.
“Tonight,” “X” spoke into the microphone, imitating with remarkable skill the impressive quality of the Master’s voice, “I had planned to issue an order which would overthrow the present government — and put the mighty DOAC organization into power. But, comrades, I have sad news. Our blow at the existing order must be postponed indefinitely. We have traitors in our midst!
“My list of the state and district leaders has been stolen. It has fallen into the hands of the police and government operatives. They are ready for a gigantic coup. Every member on that list is known to them. At any moment they will close in. Possibly now they are hammering at your doors! So my message to you tonight is a warning. Flee! Flee, my loyal ones! Gather sufficient funds and get out of the country immediately. Drop your arms! Leave your equipment behind you. It will do you no good now. Hanging, electrocution, lethal gas await those who are caught. Without DOAC control of the government, all of you are murderers. So flee — before it is too late!”
The Agent was throwing his whole dynamic personality into the speech to make it convincing, to drive fear into the hooded terrors. This was the only possible way to break up the widely scattered DOAC chapters.
He knew that his words were taking effect in many far-off states. So intent was he that he didn’t notice that the hooded Master had recovered from the swift punch. The Master was crawling cautiously toward a small door in the far wall. Suddenly the hooded leader stood up, flung the door open. “X” saw the movement then, and cried out a command to stop. But the Master’s only response was a harsh oath. He bounded through the opening and was lost in the darkness beyond.
Chapter XXII
THE Agent dropped the microphone and ran after the hooded man. He had disrupted the DOAC organization, prevented a stupendous holocaust. Now he couldn’t let the founder of that fiendish legion get away. The Master must be trapped somehow. Free, he would still be a menace to the peace and safety of America.
The Agent flung into the darkness and headed down a dripping tunnel. He was in Stygian gloom. The passage took a winding course. Once “X” crashed into the rock wall at an abrupt turn. He was stunned by the collision, but he reeled on. His footsteps resounded from the walls with thunderous reverberations. The walls were slimy. The ceiling dripped. The air was dank and chill.
Suddenly the sounds of running footsteps ceased. “X” hugged the slippery wall. Was the Master going to attack? The Agent expected to hear the thunder of an automatic. But no flames lanced the darkness, no bullets shrieked past him. Instead, he heard the swish and splash of water, the clank of metal against metal.
The Agent rushed forward. He realized that he was out of the winding passage. He heard water slapping against rocks. He knew it might be suicide, but he flashed his electric torch.
The Master let out a snarl at once. “X” turned off the light, and threw himself to the ground.
A gun roared. Bullets screamed overhead. The Master pressed the trigger until the clip was empty. Immediately the Agent bounded erect, ran forward, keeping in a low crouch. Then he heard a triumphant snarl, the clank of metal again.
Once more “X’s” flash pierced the darkness. His light gleamed on a long, metal tube, built much like a huge, fat cigar. Already it was sliding into water. On the rear end of this tube was a propeller, with a bronze guard over it.
The Agent understood. This was a torpedo, a regular Whitehead used by the United States Navy. But a miniature hatch on its top was closing, held in place by inside clamps. It was being used as a one-man submarine.
The torpedo’s bottom was secured by ringbolts to a cable which ran into the water. The propeller was going, and the torpedo was submerging. The Agent sped across a rocky ledge. The torpedo was disappearing. There was no time to lose. The Master was making his getaway.
The Agent catapulted through the air. He hurtled downward, cut the water in a swift dive, came up in time to catch the bronze propeller guard.
His hands were hardly more than an inch from the whirring, cutting blades of the propeller. If he stretched out his fingers, they would be chopped off in a split-second. From habit, the Agent had taken a huge breath before he dived. His lungs were full now, but he didn’t know how long it would be until he could take another breath.
Suddenly he was going through the water faster than a man had ever traveled that way before. The torpedo, propelled by compressed air, sent up a steady stream of bubbles. The Agent had the protection of plastic material on his face. He was wearing clothes. This alone saved him. If he had been stripped or garbed in a swimming suit, the speed with which the torpedo shot ahead would have burned him so that sheer agony would have forced him to let go.
Even now it was all he could do to keep his grip of the propeller guard. The torpedo dived into the depths, following the wire cable. The pressure was terrific. His eardrums seemed about to burst. His pulses throbbed like trip-hammers. His lungs were taxed to the utmost. His head began to whirl. He gritted his teeth and clung on.
Most men would have been torn away from the torpedo the moment it had gathered full speed. “X” felt his grip weakening. The steel cut cruelly into his hands, but he only clung more stubbornly. He couldn’t let go, wouldn’t let go! Too much depended on his riding with this torpedo to its destination.
HE couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He exhaled. His veins were swelling, his whole body throbbing in protest against this suffocation. His fingers were growing numb. They were slipping, slipping.