Indiana Jones and the Hollow Earth

by Max McCoy

  "Dr. Jones, you're bleeding pretty badly," Ulla said. "We'd better have a look at it."

  Indy held up a hand. "Not here. I don't think those shots will go unnoticed, as quiet as it is this morning."

  "It did rather sound like cannon fire," Ulla conceded.

  "Let's clear out before we end up in the Crescent City Jail," Indy said. "Besides, we have a plane to catch in just a short time."

  Belloq scrambled over the mausoleums toward the cemetery wall, then paused and threw a salute Indy's way.

  "Au revoir, Dr. Jones," he called. "A happy ending to a desperate circumstance. I hope you heal quickly... so that we may meet again on the field of honor!"

  "The rat," Indy remarked as he and Ulla hurried out of the cemetery. "Who is he to talk about honor? He tried to shoot me in the back."

  "True..." Ulla inclined her head to one side. "But he did stand fast and allow you to take your shot after his attempt to cheat had failed. He could just as easily have run away."

  "He was probably too scared to make his feet move."

  "I don't think that's ever been a problem for Rene Belloq," Ulla said. "No, he has a peculiar sense of honor—a twisted sense perhaps, but there is some kind of secret code he follows. You did the right thing by not killing him."

  "It would have just been too complicated," Indy said. "Too much explaining to do, too many cops and lawyers, and as you pointed out, I could have ended up in jail."

  "Yes," Ulla said. "And you would have killed the only person that you truly think is a worthy adversary, regardless of what you said back there. You're a very old-fashioned man, Dr. Jones. A gallant man. I think you were born in the wrong century."

  Birds were stirring in the trees now, and a shaft of sunlight had broken from beneath the cloud cover as if to illuminate their exit from the cemetery. Two blocks later they hailed a cab, and as they pulled away from the curb a couple of radio cars raced in the opposite direction, toward the cemetery.

  "How's your arm?"

  Indy slipped off his leather jacket and let her examine it.

  "No bones broken," she said as she cut open the shirt. "And the wound really isn't very deep. It went cleanly through, just beneath the surface. You are bleeding like a butchered hog, however."

  "Family trait," Indy said.

  Ulla cleaned the wound with antiseptic.

  "Wow," he said. "That hurts worse than getting shot."

  The cabdriver looked suspiciously in the mirror.

  "Than getting a shot," Indy corrected, and smiled. "This woman's a nurse, and I'm a doctor."

  "Sure, buddy," the Creole cabby said. "Whatever you say."

  Ulla bandaged the arm, then Indy slipped his jacket back on.

  "Thanks," Indy said. "It feels much worse now."

  Ulla placed the boxed pistols on Indy's lap.

  "What're you going to do with them?" she asked.

  "I imagine that I will put them on the wall of my office at Princeton," Indy said. "Crossed, of course. To remind me of an encounter with a guy who, had it not been raining this morning, would have killed me."

  It was still raining at the Shushan Airport, which was built on an artificial peninsula twenty minutes away from downtown New Orleans. The cabdriver pulled up under the canopy of the terminal building and looked over his shoulder at his charges.

  "Here we are," he said in his singsong accent. "But I think the regular planes they have left for the morning. Do you want me to wait while you check?"

  "No need." Indy thrust some bills in the cabby's hand. "There will be at least one more plane, I'm sure of it."

  "I hope she is," the cabby said. "It's a wet day, no?"

  "A wet day, yes," Indy agreed.

  Indy was traveling light, with only his satchel slung over his shoulder, and Ulla had her things in the knapsack that had previously carried Indy's fortune. Indy watched as the taxi driver sped off into the night with a wave.

  "Go with God," the cabby called from the open window. "And don't get shot no more."

  The pair hurried into the new terminal building, which had been built by the Works Progress Administration in neoclassic style. The building fanned out like a pyramid from the centrally located control tower.

  A young man in a crisp army uniform met them just inside the door. He had a clipboard under his arm, and on his shoulders were the silver bars of a first lieutenant.

  "Dr. Jones?" he asked. "I am Lieutenant Goodwin. I am to be your liaison for this expedition."

  "Excellent," Indy said. "Did you find my copilot?"

  "Yes, sir," Goodwin said. "I had to enlist the help of a military police detachment from the army supply base on Dauphine Street, but we finally located Mr. Ward in the French Quarter."

  "What bar was he in?" Indy asked.

  "An oyster bar, sir," Goodwin said. "And I have to warn you that he reeks of Tabasco, oysters, and beer."

  "Thank you," Indy said.

  "Excuse me, sir, but your arm. There seems to be a bullet hole in your jacket and fresh blood. Is anything amiss?"

  "No, I'm fine."

  Goodwin looked questioningly at Ulla.

  "Pardon my manners," Indy said. "This is Dr. Ulla Tornaes, of the Danish Speleological Survey. In addition to being a specialist on this expedition, she will also be my personal assistant."

  "There's nothing on the manifest about a female civilian," Goodwin said, looking over his clipboard. "Especially a foreign national. I wasn't informed—"

  "I'm informing you now, Lieutenant," Indy said.

  "Well, sir, I don't know."

  "Didn't Markham tell you I was in charge here and that you were to comply with my needs to the best of your ability?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "Then put her down, soldier," Indy said. "Right there on the manifest. Pencil her in."

  "Yes, sir," Goodwin said.

  "And you have Mr. Ward on your manifest?"

  "Oh, yes, already taken care of."

  "What about my radio operator?" Indy asked.

  "Sparks?" Goodwin smiled. "He's already on the plane."

  "Very good," Indy said, then sat down on one of the airport benches. "Now run down the rest of the crew with me so I know who I'm dealing with."

  "All right," Goodwin said. "Let's see. We have I. Jones, commander. B. Blessant, pilot—"

  "I want their full names, their rank, where they're from," Indy said. "And, if you know, what they're like."

  Goodwin began shaking.

  "Calm down, you're doing fine," Indy said. "How long have you had your commission, lieutenant?"

  "A month," he said.

  "Well, just give me the skinny like you would one of your buddies in the barracks at basic training," Indy suggested.

  "All right," Goodwin agreed. "There's you and Miss Torneas, of course, and me—I'm your navigator and meteorologist. Then there's C. R. Ward, a civilian copilot, whom you apparently know. That makes four, so far."

  "Go on," Indy coaxed. "Who don't I know?"

  "The pilot is Captain Buck Blessant. He's about thirty, has a wife and kid back in New Jersey, and is one of the Army Air Corps' best test pilots. Your radio operator is a kid named Nicholas Swan, but everybody calls him Sparks. He's a regular nut for anything to do with technology. He's a corporal, by the way. And then we have a crew chief who will be flying with us, a Sergeant Dan Bruce. Bruce can fix just about anything with chewing gum and spit."

  "Good." Indy looked pleased. "That makes seven. That it?"

  "Yes, sir. The B-18 normally has a crew of six."

  "Now, tell me about supplies," Indy said. "I assume the aircraft is fully loaded with arctic survival gear?"

  "Well, no," Goodwin admitted. "We don't intend on going down. We just have the usual emergency gear. Rubber life rafts, emergency rations, and that sort of thing."

  "Tell me about the aircraft."

  "It's a cold-weather prototype of the B-18 that's been delivered to the army this year," Goodwin said. "It's powered by twin Wright
Cyclone nine-cylinder radial engines, each of which develops one thousand horsepower. They have been modified for cold-weather operation, including an anti-icing mechanism in the carburetors and along the wings. Maximum speed is 226 miles per hour at 10,000 feet, and the ceiling is 27,150 feet. Range is normally 1,200 miles, but we've added some underwing tanks that increase that to 1,800."

  "What kind of terrain does this thing need for landing and takeoff?"

  "Well..." Goodwin shuffled through the sheets on his clipboard. "A runway is desirable, but this prototype is equipped with skids as well, for landing on hard-packed snow."

  "What about water landings?"

  "No, sir," Goodwin said. "If we ditch, I'm afraid we're going to swim."

  "Terrific. How about parachutes?"

  "Um, there are six on board."

  "Find another one," Indy ordered.

  "Right away," Goodwin said.

  "Now, how about armament?"

  "We have three machine guns, one mounted in the Plexiglas nose, and another two waist guns. We can also carry up to sixty-five hundred pounds of bombs, but since this is a scientific expedition I was told that the bomb bay would be unloaded. Besides, most of the available bomb weight has been taken up by supplies and the extra fuel."

  "Who do we have that can shoot those guns?"

  "Sergeant Bruce, of course. And Sparks and I, if we have to."

  "What about small arms?"

  "Practically nothing, sir," Goodwin said. "Sidearms, but that is all."

  Indy winced.

  "That will have to be corrected," he said.

  "I can get Springfields with no problem."

  "No bolt actions," Indy said. "We need automatics. Something easy to carry, with short stocks and barrels. Are you familiar with what some of the elite Nazi troops carry?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, you have seen gangster movies, right?"

  "Of course."

  "That's what I want. Tommy guns and so forth."

  "Yes, sir," Goodwin said, disturbed. "Pardon me, sir, but do you think we're going to have a tactical situation on our hands up there?"

  "You haven't been well briefed, have you?" Indy asked.

  "No, sir," Goodwin admitted. "I suppose not. I'll see what I can do. We'll be making a short stopover at the naval air station on Long Island for refueling. The marines ought to have something that I can scrounge."

  "Good man," Indy said. "Now, let's gather up Clarence and take a look at our aircraft."

  "He's in here." Goodwin led the way to the men's room. He opened the door a crack and called, "Mr. Ward? There are some people who would like a word with you."

  "Send them away," a ragged voice answered.

  "Come on, open up," Indy urged.

  "Why didn't you say it was you?" Clarence asked. "What on earth is all this about? A couple of military policemen caught me just as I was about to take off for Mexico City. I reckoned I had been busted for something, and I figured it had something to do with you. Indy, if you make me lose that Mexico account, I'll be forced to punch you in the mouth."

  "Forget the Mexico City trip," Indy said. "Neither of us is in trouble. I know you were at an oyster bar making time with a Creole girl, so spare me your sad story. The point is that I need you, and you'll be well paid for your services."

  "I've heard that before," Clarence said as he ran a hand over his face. "I haven't been paid for this trip yet."

  "Is that all you worry about?" Indy asked. "Now, when you sober up you think you can fly a B-18?"

  "Heck, they're both made by Douglas. The 18 is just the military version of my old DC-2, except it has teeth and you can drop the cargo out through the belly," Clarence said. "Where we headed?"

  "The Arctic," Indy said.

  "The North Pole?" Clarence asked.

  "Pretty close to it," Indy said.

  "I don't like the cold," Clarence complained as he pushed the pilot's cap back on his head. "What're we going to bomb there?"

  "We're not going to bomb anything," Indy said.

  "I've always wanted to bomb something," Clarence said.

  "We're not going to shoot anything, either," Indy told him. "Unless we have to. But it's going to be a tough flight just the same. Do you think you can handle it?"

  Clarence smiled sheepishly. "Do you think I would have been jawing it over if I didn't think I could handle it?"

  "Good," Indy said.

  "I need to send a cable to Donny in Juarez," Clarence said. "He'll be at Ma Crosby's place, as usual, eating steak tampico and drinking that awful Mexican beer he likes. Not to mention that senorita he's sweet on. I'll ask him to come get Missy and fly her to Mexico City. The shipment will be a few days late, but things never run on time down there anyway."

  Led by Goodwin, Indy and the others walked out of the terminal building onto the wet tarmac. The B-18P (P for Polar) sat tail down, her nose pointed in the air. Her silver skin reflected the stormy skies above. The engine nacelles were painted a bright red, as was the nose. Unlike the relatively dull body of her civilian sister, the DC-2, the B-18's fuselage bristled with Plexiglas gun ports, bubbles, and antennae. Also, heat ducts that took their warmth from the engine exhausts snaked across each side of the aircraft, and two shields attached to the fuselage just behind the cockpit were meant to catch any potentially lethal ice thrown by the propellers. A big loop antenna placed just aft of the cockpit was connected to the direction-finding equipment.

  "My word," Ulla said. "She looks so modern, so lethal. It's like something out of a nightmare."

  "You haven't seen anything yet," Goodwin said. "Douglas has delivered forty-five of these regular models to the army, but they'll be obsolete in just a year or two, when the B-17 gets off the drawing board. That bomber has four engines and twice as much firepower."

  "Gosh," Ulla said. "I'll bet humanity can't wait."

  8

  The Top of the World

  After resupplying at Long Island, the B-18P—which Clarence promptly and unceremoniously dubbed the Penguin, much to the dismay of Captain Blessant—set a course for Iceland.

  Indy spent most of the eight-hour flying time on this first leg of the trip zipped into his sheep-lined flight jacket, catching up on his sleep, while Ulla occasionally roused him to check the bandages on his right arm. At Goose Bay in Newfoundland, Indy rose, stretched his legs briefly on the cold runway, and watched while the Penguin was refueled. Then it was across the ocean to Godthaab, on the southern tip of Greenland, and then over more of the angry sea.

  Indy made his way forward and leaned into the cockpit.

  "How's she running?" he asked.

  "Like a charm," Blessant replied. "We have one magneto that's acting up, but no big deal. Bruce can take a look at it when we set down. The only problem I have is that my new copilot here never shuts up."

  "Just trying to make conversation," Clarence said. "I thought he'd be interested in what it was like to grow up in Erbie, Arkansas."

  "I feel like I did," Blessant said.

  "Did I tell you I flew a Jenny in the Big One?"

  "About a hundred times."

  "You getting the hang of it?" Indy asked Clarence.

  "The bird hasn't been made that I couldn't fly," Clarence boasted. "Besides, you just sort of point this thing where you want it to go."

  "That easy?" Indy asked.

  "No, it's more like steering a boat," Clarence said. "The controls are so dang slushy and we're so loaded that we might as well have a tiller instead of yokes. I can't imagine what it's going to be like when we strap those skis to the wheels."

  Clarence turned to Blessant. "You've test-flighted it that way, right?"

  Blessant shook his head.

  "That inspires confidence," Indy muttered.

  "Don't worry," Clarence said. "We're fine. When you have to worry, I'll let you know."

  Indy patted Clarence on the shoulder and went aft.

  "Sparks," Indy said. "Any word from Markham on the location o
f the Graf Zeppelin?"

  "No, sir." Sparks was sitting at his station behind the cockpit, a set of headphones mashed over his cap, fiddling with the array of dials and knobs on the equipment that lined the bulkhead. He brushed a shock of tousled brown hair out of his eyes before answering, "Not a word. Do you want me to send something?"

  "No reason to let the Nazis know we're coming," Indy said. "Any luck with that frequency I gave you?"

  "On twenty meters?" Sparks reached up and spun the wheel that turned the loop antenna atop the aircraft. "Not yet. Do you know exactly what it is that I'm supposed to be listening for? A tone, or a Morse signal?"

  Indy shook his head.

  "I wouldn't worry, sir," Sparks said. "If there's a target out there to be found, we'll find it. At this height, we have an advantage that we wouldn't have on the ground, because our line of sight is so much greater. And we have absolutely the best equipment in the world—I know, because I built it."

  "You built all of this?"

  "Designed it, too," Sparks informed him. "You see, I use the standard super-heterodyne receiver that Armstrong invented, but I have coupled it like this to the oscillator." The teenager sketched out a block diagram on his clipboard that looked like nothing but a child's version of a locomotive and a string of cars.

  "I'll take your word for it," Indy said.

  "Sir, I can get you a rough bearing by turning the loop antenna and comparing it with the signal from the fixed radial on the tail, but to be able to get you a position, we need triangulation—like you triangulate compass bearings from two known points to fix an unknown third on a map."

  "I know the principle," Indy said.

  "When we find the signal, we'll need to get a reference from another source. A ship, maybe, or a fixed station on a mountaintop. One option is to find the highest ground we can for a base camp and then set up an auxiliary station there."

  "Good thinking."

  "The only problem, somebody would have to stay behind and operate the radio."

  "I don't know if we can spare a crew member for that," Indy said.