Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates Page 2

  "We are exactly on schedule," he said with obvious pleasure. "A remarkable flight!

  Who would have imagined us crossing in the night over Uganda, up through the Sudan and across all of Libya, so smoothly, without a hitch to our progress."

  Gottler smiled in return. "I see only water now, sir. What is our exact position?"

  Von Moreau held up the chart. "See here? The Libyan coast? When we crossed over El Agheila we were then over Golfo Di Sidra, that took us over the open stretch of the Mediterranean, and right now," he tapped the chart, "we are, urn, here. Thirtyfive degrees north latitude and eighteen degrees west longitude.

  Sicily and Italy are dead ahead, and if we hold our present course we will fly over the Strait of Messina, here, then over Livorno and right on home."

  Von Moreau had held up the chart for his copilot to see more clearly. Now, his eyes still raised where he folded the chart, he saw clearly through the thick windshield. He lowered the chart slowly, staring into the sky, a look of amazement on his face.

  "Franz! Look carefully. Almost dead ahead, thirty degrees above the horizon." Sunlight reflected off something in the sky, a flash of light.

  "Sir, it looks like . . . like a zeppelin! But it is huge!" Gottler strained to see. "It is very high, Captain, and the reflection is so bright that I—"

  "Hold our course and altitude," von Moreau snapped. "I'll use the glasses."

  He reached down to his right side, to the pouch holding his flight gear, and his hand brought forth powerful binoculars. He adjusted the focus and swore beneath his breath.

  " M e i n G o t t . . . "

  "Sir, what is it?" Gottler called to him.

  "It has a torpedo shape. I judge it is at least fifteen hundred feet long, but . .

  ." He was talking now as much to himself as to his copilot. "But that would be at least twice as large, or larger, than the biggest zeppelin we have ever built! At first I thought maybe we were seeing the Graf Zeppelin. It has been crossing the Atlantic for more than two years now."

  "Captain, we're at fourteen thousand—"

  "Yes, yes, I know. Whatever that thing is, it is at least at twice our altitude, and the zeppelins do not fly that high!

  Besides—here," he interrupted himself. "I have the controls, Franz. You tell me what you see."

  Gottler held the binoculars to his eyes. "It is as big as you say, sir. But . . .

  that is not a fabric covering, like the Graf.

  That vessel, sir, is metalcovered from stem to stern. And it is thick through the body."

  "What else!" von Moreau demanded, wanting desperately to either have confirmation of what he had already seen—or be told his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  "Engines, sir. I mean," Gottler stuttered with his disbelief, "no engines. I see no signs of engines, and that's impossible. Look, it is tracking at an angle across our flight path. Even though it is much higher, it is flying an intercept course. But how . . . how can it do that without engines?" He lowered the glasses, and studied von Moreau.

  "Sir, I don't understand—"

  "To the devil with understanding! Write down what you see, every detail, understand? Take notes!"

  Von Moreau leaned to his right and half turned to look back into the radio compartment. "Stryker!" he shouted to his radioman. "Can you make shortwave contact with Hamburg? Try it at once!"

  He turned back to Gottler. "Well? What else?"

  "I cannot believe this, Captain, but even at this distance I can see that the vessel has accelerated. It is definitely moving faster, and—Captain! There are several shapes descending from the vessel! Can you see them, sir? They are shining like lights in the sun and . . . I have never seen anything like them. Look, Captain! Their shape! Like . . . like crescents. Look how fast they move! And . . . this is incredible, sir! No engines, no propellers!"

  Von Moreau grabbed for the binoculars. "Take over," he snapped to Gottler.

  "Hold course, hold altitude.

  Stryker! What about that contact with Hamburg?"

  Radioman Albert Stryker hurried forward to the cockpit. "Sir, something is blocking all transmissions from and to this aircraft. I can get only static. It is deliberate interference."

  "Did you try the alternate systems?"

  "Sir, I have tried every frequency we have. Nothing is getting through."

  Stryker was looking through the windscreen now; he had caught sight of three gleaming crescentshaped objects curving down from high altitude directly toward them. His mouth gaped.

  "What . . . what are those—"

  "Back to your radios, Stryker," von Moreau ordered. "Keep trying, anything, everything, but get through."

  "Yes, sir. I'll do everything I can." Stryker rushed back to his radio equipment.

  "I have never seen anything like this before," von Moreau said to his copilot.

  "It is amazing. A monstrous torpedo shape, now these crescents that race through the sky—they must be doing four or five hundred miles per hour." He shook his head.

  "Something propels them. But what? And where are they from? Who are they?

  What do they want?"

  Questions burst from him without answers.

  Stryker ran headlong back into the cockpit. "Captain, sir! Those things out there . . ." He pointed with a shaking hand to a gleaming crescent shape that hurtled past them with tremendous speed, curving around effortlessly, magically. The other two machines had taken up position, each off a wingtip of the Romar flying boat.

  "They are in contact with us, Captain."

  Von Moreau stared at Stryker. "What language, man?"

  "Ours, Captain. German."

  "What do they say, Stryker!"

  Stryker swallowed before speaking. "Sir, they order us to land immediately on the sea below, or be destroyed."

  Von Moreau ran the insanity of the moment through his mind. The huge shape above. Obviously a flying mother ship of some kind, an airborne aircraft carrier.

  Impossible in shape and size and performance, but there it was, nevertheless. And now these even more incredible crescents, gleaming, impossibly swift and with no visible means of propulsion. So far advanced over their powerful Romar that they might as well have been in a rowboat. He had no doubt that the threat of destruction was real.

  "Tell them we will comply," von Moreau said. Gottler stared at him disbelievingly.

  "I cannot do that, sir," Stryker said. "Their orders were for us to begin our descent immediately. They also said there was no way for me to return the communication."

  Von Moreau had no doubts. Instinct born of flying combat experience, years of controlling great airliners, what he was seeing of such incredible performance: All came together in unquestioned intuition. His right hand began easing back on the throttles to reduce power, the nose lowered, and they were on their way to a landing at sea in the middle of the Mediterranean.

  They could not call anyone on their radios, but von Moreau knew they were being tracked on charts in Hamburg and in Berlin, and when they did not make landfall over Catania in Sicily, which lay directly beneath their projected flight path, the alert would be sounded. "Stryker, keep sending out an emergency signal with our position.

  Send on every frequency we have. I know; the radios are jammed somehow.

  But something may happen. Changing altitude may make a difference. Whatever; do your best."

  "Yes, sir."

  Von Moreau concentrated on their descent, preparing for the landing. Gottler peered ahead. "There is a low cloud layer moving in from the west, sir," he reported.

  "There may be fog very soon on the surface."

  "I hope so," von Moreau said sourly. "I do not like any of this. I feel like a rat in a trap."

  "Yes, sir."

  Now they were on the water, holding the nose of the flying boat pointed into an increasing wind that pushed the clouds toward them and sent the first wisps of fog swirling about the flying boat. But there was just enough light and visibility for them t
o see the monstrous vessel that had been far above them also descending, moving directly toward them.

  "You know, Franz, when we get out of this madness— if we get out of it—and we tell people what we are seeing and what has been happening, nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe a word we say."

  "I'm sure, Captain, we don't need to worry. Not with what we are carrying, sir. They won't stop at anything to find us. Berlin won't waste a moment."

  Von Moreau studied the dismal weather closing in, the huge shape growing ever larger. "Except that no one knows where we are, and that what we are looking at cannot possibly exist. Other than that, my fine young friend, we haven't a thing to worry about, do we?"

  Franz Gottler didn't attempt a reply.

  2

  He's aged. Good Lord, the years have been heavy on the old man. I never thought I'd see him in a wheelchair.

  Unless, of course—Professor Henry Jones smiled to himself— he had a rocket tied to the back of it and went flaming about these hallowed halls.

  Jones feigned a casual acceptance of the approaching presence of Dr. Pencroft.

  Even in the wheelchair and at the age of seventy, Pencroft still carried with him his aura of authority and domination. He had been Chairman of the Department of Archeology of the University of London for more years than most people could remember, and now, with the years amassing against him, his hair a white shock above eyes gleaming behind thick glasses, he left no doubt that he remained in control of his office. The spectacles seemed to narrow his face even more than the constriction of parchmentlike skin. One expected a frail voice to accompany the body; whoever thought so was taken aback by Pencraft's strength and energy when he spoke. There was never hesitation, never a question of his experience and authority.

  Professor Henry Jones—who much preferred his nickname Indiana—held old man Pencroft in great admiration. For his part, Pencroft treated Jones with a dichotomy of approach, seemingly intolerant of Jones for being so much younger and for committing the unforgivable sin of being an American, an interloper from the colonies, as it were. It was all facade, for he much appreciated Jones's enthusiasm and knowledge, his almost reckless willingness to pursue any goal set for him, as Pencroft so long ago had been guilty of the same hard drive. More than once Pencroft had intervened against the bludgeon of university authority as it sought to remove Jones from its staff and send him back across the ocean

  "where he belonged, along with the crudities and crass manners of the Americans." Outlander Professor Jones might be in ancient and hallowed halls, but he was an outlander with a brilliant mind and an incredible intuition for finding whatever he sought in the secrets of the past. Pencroft would never admit that he thoroughly enjoyed acting as buffer for Jones; it was like watching himself decades past.

  Pencraft's manservant stopped the wheelchair precisely six feet from Professor Jones. For long moments neither man spoke. This was Pencraft's way, to take his time when approaching a situation different from any other in the past.

  Gather his thoughts, consider what was afoot, and speak not a word until he knew what he would say, not just at this moment, but in the exchanges to follow.

  And certainly, from what Pencroft had been told in a very private conversation, different held a meaning he'd never before encountered.

  Indeed, Pencroft didn't believe a word of it. Sheer nonsense and balderdash.

  Frightened men and ghosts and goblins; that sort of rubbish. He'd been flabbergasted when the people from Number 10 Downing Street had come to meet with him, and the more those people talked the more grew his own amazement. Not at their outlandish tale, but that the highest levels of government would even bother with such rot. And he'd told them so in no uncertain terms. Representatives of the Prime Minister or not, he almost accused them of being sodden drunks.

  They took it all in stride, which itself was a critical clue for the wily old Pencroft. It was immediately obvious to him that they had already gone through the very thoughts he was experiencing as they spun their outlandish tale. So they were quite serious, after all, and if they'd stepped down from their bureaucratic heights to visit Professor Pencroft, they must be desperate indeed.

  Which had finally brought him to seek out Professor Jones. More precisely, Indiana Jones, that ridiculous name the man had attached to himself. He knew that Jones's closest friends had shortened his name to Indy, but Pencroft couldn't quite lower himself to do so. He pushed aside the peripheral nonsense in his head.

  "What are you doing now?" he demanded suddenly of Jones. The moment he'd uttered the words he regretted the slip. Jones had too much fun with the thrustandparry.

  "Unless I am sadly mistaken, sir," Jones cut back, "I am occupying a space in this hallway, as you are. It's a rather bleak place to meet, I would say."

  "The devil you say!" Pencroft snapped. He tipped his head to one side.

  "Listen to me, you troublemaker," he went on with a touch of gnarly affection. "Come to my office. Ten minutes from now and not a moment later."

  "I have a class," Indiana Jones said quietly, aware that Pencroft knew his schedule.

  "You have a class, but you lack class," Pencroft jibed. "Ten minutes." The smile faded. Pencroft coughed with pain, swallowed, and his hand gestured weakly. "I am quite serious, Indiana."

  That did it. When Pencroft used that name in public he was bloody well serious. Jones nodded. "I'll get a substitute," he said. "I'll be there."

  "I've already arranged for a substitute," Pencroft went on, pleased with even this diminutive oneupmanship. He waved to his servant to continue on to his office.

  Jones watched him as they turned down a secondary hallway.

  Pencroft's obvious discomfort intrigued Jones. It wasn't like him. In fact, if he didn't know better he might have judged that the old gaffer had been rattled by—by whatever it was that called for breaking into his teaching schedule.

  In this emporium of education you shot your dog before you interfered with schedules. Something very big was up; that much was clear. But Pencroft hadn't given him so much as a hint. Well, he'd find out soon enough.

  Jones went quickly to his own office and strode briskly through the outer waiting room where his secretary, Frances Smythe, held up a stack of telephone messages. He waved them away. "No calls. Nothing, understand?"

  The darkhaired woman shook her head. "No, I do not understand. Elucidate, please."

  "You sound irritable, Fran."

  "I'm confused. By you," she retorted. "I know, I know. Pencroft's office in a few minutes. They called here looking for you. All very mysterious, the way they had the substitute teacher already set up for your class. Care for a cup of tea while you tell me what is going on?"

  "I'll take coffee. Lukewarm. No time for a hot mug. Besides," Jones sighed, "I haven't so much as a nudge as to what's going on."

  The coffee mug was in his hands almost at once. He never understood how she could do that, have his coffee ready at whatever temperature he requested. He checked to see that he had his glasses with him.

  "I do wish you'd get something more appealing than those black wire rims," Frances sighed. "You look like a mongoose when you wear them in your class."

  "It keeps the beautiful young ladies at a proper distance," Jones laughed. He glanced at his watch. "Here." He handed her the coffee mug. "Time to march."

  "Good luck."

  He stopped in his tracks. "What?"

  She was flustered. "Indiana," she said softly, her tone so personal it was intimate. "The last time you were called in by Pencroft in this manner, well, you know, it was that trip to the Amazon, and—"

  "Let it drop," Jones said brusquely. He didn't need reminders of the stunning young woman to whom he'd been married only a short time. My God, he mused as he walked along the hallway to Pencraft's office. It's been four years since Deirdre was killed and it still hurts like it was yesterday. . . .

  He put aside everything but what he would hear from Pencroft as he entered the old
man's outer office. "Go right in," Sally Strickland told him. Obviously even the secretary here was on edge about something. She hadn't bothered to smile or offer her usual friendly greeting. He stayed with the mood, nodded, and went into Pencraft's office.

  "Close the door," Pencroft said unnecessarily. Indy edged the door shut with the heel of his shoe. The old man was testy for a reason, and it seemed to be a signal to Indy: Watch it; exercise care. He turned to take measure of the third man in the room.

  If there was one word to describe the stranger, Indiana Jones had it immediately: severity. Whoever, whatever he was, this man was a true professional.

  Demeanor, selfconfidence, piercing eyes, the cut of the suit, the catlike relaxation while the man remained fully alert, mentally

  and physically . . . it was all there, and he had even managed to rattle Pencraft's cage of selfassurance.

  "Professor Henry Jones," Pencroft said stiffly, "this is Mr. Thomas Treadwell.