by Max McCoy
Within a few minutes the Messerschmitt had overtaken the Penguin, and as it streaked overhead Clarence muttered, "What in the world was that? It must be doing three hundred miles an hour."
Blessant keyed the intercom.
"Let's stay cool for a moment," he told the crew. "Don't get trigger-happy. Let's see what their intentions are first."
The Messerschmitt slowed to let the Penguin catch up with it. Then it veered over and placed itself off the bomber's starboard wingtip, and Indy could see the pilot assessing the damage to the Penguin and radioing the information back to the Graf. Indy imagined that at least part of the conversation included the condition of the yellow canister wedged beneath the wingtip. As the fog and clouds grew thicker the Messerschmitt nudged even closer to the bomber.
"I can blow him right out of the sky where he sits," Sergeant Bruce commented as he lined up the sights of the fifty-caliber on the cockpit.
"Hold your fire," Blessant said.
"Sparks, can you get his frequency?"
"Sure," Sparks replied, dialing down the ten-meter band. "But what good is it going to do us? I don't speak German."
"I do," Ulla called from the port gun.
"Coming right up," Sparks said. "Got him."
Sparks piped the transmission over the cabin monitor.
"He's advising that we are leaking fuel and that one of our landing skids is damaged," Ulla translated.
"News to me," Blessant said.
"Must have been the pop you heard during the dive," Clarence suggested.
"He's asking if he should bring us down," Ulla said. "Now comes the answer, no, not over the water. They're afraid they would lose the canister. They want him to herd us over the ice, and then shoot us down."
"Can I blow him up now?" Sergeant Bruce asked.
"No, not yet," Blessant said. "Commander, this is your call."
Indy swallowed and pressed the intercom button.
"What are our options?" he asked.
"Not many," Blessant replied. "No fuel to make it to a suitable landing spot. In fact, the valve on the starboard pod is screwed up and it's draining the rest of our fuel from that wing. We could take this Teutonic weasel out where he sits, but that wouldn't help our situation."
"If we're going down," Bruce said, "we should at least take this clown with us."
"Wars have been started over less."
"What do we care?" Bruce asked. "We'll be dead anyway."
"Put a sock in it, Sergeant," Indy said. "Nobody's dead yet. Nobody's going to die, not as long as we keep thinking. Sergeant, do we burn the same type of fuel that Richthofen here does?"
"Sure do."
"If we can make a safe landing on the ice, can you repair that leaking valve?"
"I'd put money on it."
Indy swallowed.
"Okay, we need to get this clown to land on the ice with us somehow," Indy said. "Ulla, I want you to talk to him."
"Me?" she asked.
"Yeah," Indy said. "Sparks, I want you to talk first. Act like you're searching for the right channel, so that we don't know what his real orders are. Then, when you've got him, act really relieved and hand the mike over to Ulla."
"What do you want me to say?" she asked.
"Tell 'em we're sorry about the near collision, we were lost, and that we're real glad to see him. Really ham it up. Ask if he'll be good enough to follow us to the ice, where we intend to land and make repairs."
Ulla nodded.
"Mayday, this is the twin-engine Douglas off your port wing," Sparks said, then adjusted the frequency. "Mayday, I repeat, this is the American—"
"Was?" came the bewildered reply.
"Boy are we glad to see you!"
"Wie bitte? Ich spreche kein Englisch."
"You don't speak American, is that it?" Sparks asked. "Hold on, partner."
He traded places with Ulla.
"Hallo!" Ulla said. "Guten Tag."
There was no reply.
"Nice to see you," she continued in German. "We're awfully sorry about the confusion back there, and it is awfully good of the Graf to have sent you out to check on us."
"Ja?"
"As you can see, we have suffered some serious damage and are losing fuel at an alarming rate. We need to make repairs as quickly as possible. Would you be kind enough to follow us to the ice? We're planning to set down there and try to stem the flow of gasoline."
Ulla waited.
"He's switched to another channel to talk to the Graf," she said to Sparks. "He knows they've heard the discussion, and he's not about to make a decision on his own."
The Messerschmitt pilot was back in a moment. He said he would be more than happy to follow them to the ice pack, which was only a hundred or so meters to the north. By the way, he asked, would the American bomber mind identifying itself?
"This is the 23 Skidoo," Ulla said as she shrugged her shoulders. "We're an American scientific expedition sent to study weather patterns in the Far North. We've been releasing radio balloons and were attempting to retrieve one of them when we crossed paths."
How many are on board? he asked.
"Six," Ulla said.
There was a pause.
Would the American scientist Indiana Jones be among them?
"No!" Indy shouted from the nose.
"Nein," Ulla said.
Then who was in command?
"Why, I am," Ulla said, then paused. "It's actually a joint Danish-American expedition. I'm Dr. Ulla Tornaes. What's your name?"
The pilot's name was Dieter.
Ulla signed off.
Twenty minutes later, with the Messerschmitt still off their starboard wing, and with the skies beginning to clear, Blessant spotted the ice below them.
"Okay, Professor," he began. "Here's where it gets interesting. Is he going to let us land and then strafe the hell out of us, or is he going to take us in the air?"
"I don't know," Indy said, biting his knuckles. "We need to get his plane on the ground with us in one piece, though. Ulla, get on the horn again and play to his fear of destroying the canister."
"All right." Ulla took up the microphone again.
"Dieter," she began in German, "this yellow thing that is lodged under our wingtip—it is something the Graf would like to have back, no?"
"Ja."
"Then why don't you land with us and we can exchange it?"
Dieter said ice landings were hazardous and that he was afraid to attempt it.
"Liar," Bruce said. "He's planning to walk over our bodies in about ten minutes. Look at those oversized tires on that thing. It could land anywhere."
The Messerschmitt began to drop back.
"He's getting ready to make his move," Blessant guessed. "As soon as we're on the deck, he's going to nail us from behind. That way, they'll be sure not to lose the canister—even if we blow up, it's pretty safe on the wingtip."
"He'll be right behind us?" Indy asked. "Not higher?"
"Not much," Blessant said. "His guns point the way his plane does."
"What's our altitude?" Indy asked.
"Hard to say," Blessant answered. "The altimeter just went screwy all of a sudden. It says we're below sea level, but that can't be."
"Unless we're in a depression or something," Sparks suggested.
"What kind of depression do you find on ice floating in the ocean?" Blessant asked.
"Start looking for a nice clear spot to land," Indy said.
"Are you nuts?" Clarence asked. "It'll be a duck shoot for him. We can't get a clear shot. Besides, what about the landing gear?"
"We need his plane in one piece," Indy said. "Can you open the bomb bay?"
"Sure, but why?" Blessant asked.
"I don't have time to explain," Indy said. "There's a good patch of ice up ahead. Nice and smooth. Head for it, and start dropping altitude. Open the doors when I tell you to."
"All right," Blessant said.
"I need the parachutes." Indy was growing
impatient.
"All of them?" Bruce asked.
"Just find them, will you?"
"I think I know what you're getting at," Bruce said as he helped Indy gather up the parachutes.
"Okay," Indy said. "When the doors open, you rip open your three and dump them and I'll dump mine. Try to get as big a pattern as you can."
"We're getting close to the deck," Blessant announced. "Our boy has taken his position and is closing the gap. Here he comes."
There was the stutter of machine-gun fire in short bursts, followed by a pinging sound as the bullets found the top of the tail.
"He's got our range now," Blessant said. "The next ones are going to be through the hull."
"Open the doors," Indy ordered.
A blast of cold air and snow filled the cabin of the bomber as crates of supplies and miscellaneous equipment fell from where they had been stacked around the bay. The ice streaked past below them. The engines throttled down to a near idle.
The Messerschmitt opened up again, and this time slugs began to spew around the Penguin like spray from a garden hose. Through the open bomb bay, Indy could see tracer bullets falling toward the ice.
"Now!" he shouted, and pulled the cord on the first parachute. "Full throttle, Captain!" The parachute was followed by a second, and a third, and then all of Bruce's chutes, while bullets began chewing at the tail of the bomber.
The parachutes billowed open in the prop wash from the bomber, and it seemed to the Messerschmitt pilot that he was suddenly confronted by a forest of giant silk mushrooms. He pulled up, missing the first two parachutes, but the third snagged on his landing gear. The next hung on the cockpit of the Messerschmitt, then washed off, while the next two missed entirely.
Indy grabbed the seventh and last parachute, pulled the cord, and tossed it down with a vengeance. It billowed open and blanketed the nose of the Messerschmitt, and as the propeller blades tried in vain to eat through the silk, the cords wound around the hub.
The Messerschmitt lost power and slammed into the ice, crushing the landing gear. It spun in a headlong circle on its belly while the machine guns continued to chatter, kicking up tufts of snow in a hundred-yard radius. Its propellor broke itself to pieces on the ice, and shards of the blade were thrown like shrapnel into the air.
Over the radio, they could hear Dieter's last transmission—a long scream punctuated by the sound of grinding metal and breaking glass. Then the transmission ended abruptly as the last and largest piece of the three-bladed prop smashed into the front of the canopy.
Then, after cutting its long groove in the ice, the Messerschmitt creaked to a stop and the guns were silent.
"Bingo!" Sparks cried.
"Close the doors," Indy ordered. "Then circle around and land—away from the guns."
"What about our damaged landing gear?" Clarence asked.
"Fly this thing, son," Indy said, brushing snow from his shoulders. "That's what I brought you along for."
"Next time," Clarence said, "you can just leave me at home."
The Penguin made an awkward but upright landing on the ice as the port landing gear sagged and groaned but held in a half-locked position. Before the engines had died, Indy drew his Webley and raced across the ice toward the rear of the downed Messerschmitt. When he clambered up on the wing and peeked inside the ruined canopy, he holstered his revolver. Dieter was dead, having been decapitated. The edge of the propellor blade was buried deep into the seat back. Dieter's dead hands were frozen on the stick, his right index finger still squeezing the firing button.
"How is he?" Ulla asked when Indy strode back to the bomber.
"Kaputt," Indy said.
Sergeant Bruce dropped down out of the hatch and onto the ice, followed by Sparks.
"Make sure your parkas are secure," Indy told them. "The cold is our most immediate enemy now." Already, ice had begun to form around his mouth.
Bruce motioned for the bomber to taxi closer to the downed fighter, to make the transfer of fuel easier.
Indy blinked hard at the white landscape around him, then realized his eyes were hurting. He brought a pair of dark goggles from the pocket of his parka and put them on.
When the shadow of the starboard wing of the Penguin covered what was left of the Messerschmitt, Blessant cut the engines. Then he and Clarence dropped down from the hatch to help Bruce with the hoses and hand pumps.
"We'd better hurry if want to get back into the air before the Graf gets here," Indy said. "Sparks, do you have any idea where we are?"
"No, sir," Sparks said. "Compass readings are pretty much useless this far north. I could try to shoot an angle off the sun."
"Do it while we still can see it," Indy said. "It looks like the clouds are going to swallow us up in short order."
Indy climbed on the wing of the Messerschmitt, where Clarence had knocked open the fuel door and was inserting a hose attached to one of the hand pumps.
"Did you have to use all of the chutes?" Clarence asked.
"You'd look like poor Dieter there if I hadn't," Indy said.
"Your aim could have been a little better," Clarence mumbled. "Why couldn't you have gotten him with the first chute instead of the last?"
"You'd complain if you won a million dollars," Indy said. "Hand me that crowbar and shut up."
From the wing of the Messerschmitt, Indy was just high enough to reach over his head and jam the crowbar behind the yellow canister. He tugged a couple of times, and then put all his weight into it and hung from the crowbar.
The canister came loose, glanced off Indy's wounded arm, bounced off the wing of the Messerschmitt, and landed in the snow. Holding his arm, Indy jumped down. The canister was badly dented and covered with rust, except for the shiny areas where it had been wedged up against the aircraft. The skull-and-crossbones warning, however, was still legible.
"Hey," Clarence said. "That looks like a poison-gas canister from the Great War."
"That's what it looks like," Indy agreed as he drew back the crowbar and struck the end of the drum as hard as he could. Clarence ducked as the lid sprang off and the canister rolled, emptying its contents out on the snow.
Amid the wires and vacuum tubes of the ruined transmitter was the Crystal Skull, which had spilled from its interior packing and was sitting upright on a patch of black cloth. A mesmerizing rainbow of arctic sunlight shimmered around it.
Indy sighed and took off his goggles.
"Happy now?" Ulla asked him.
Just then a dull rumble shook the ice, followed by a grinding sound. Then came a tremor that made them all struggle to keep their footing.
"What was that?" Clarence asked.
"It's the ice," Ulla said. "I think it's breaking up."
"Where's Sparks?" Blessant asked.
"Nicholas is over there." Ulla pointed toward a ridge of ice about two hundred yards away, where Sparks stood with a sextant in his hand. "He's trying to get a position on the sun."
Indy fell to his knees in the snow and quickly wrapped the skull in the black cloth. Then he tossed it up to Clarence.
"What do you want me to do with this?" Clarence asked.
"Stow it someplace safe," Indy said. "Inside the plane."
"Where're you going?"
"To get Sparks," Indy called as he ran across the ice, Ulla behind him. By the time they reached the teenager, they were both breathing hard.
"Come on," Ulla said, grabbing Sparks by the arm. "We have to get back to the ship."
"Why?" he asked. "I've almost finished taking my readings, and you won't believe—"
"There's no time," Indy said. "The ice pack is breaking up."
There was another rumble, followed by the shriek of ice buckling and a popping sound like cannon shots. A plume of white spouted at the far end of the field, marking the place where the ice was separating, and the tear spread its jagged fingers toward them.
"Hurry," Indy shouted. "Run!"
The break crossed their paths twenty yards
ahead of them and moved quickly down the field, cutting them off from the Penguin and the rest of her crew. The ice was lifted up so violently that the trio were thrown to the ground, and when they managed to get back to their feet they saw they were separated from their companions by a twenty-foot chasm with seawater at the bottom.
"This is bad," Indy observed.
"What do we do?"
"Hey!" Indy shouted. "Throw us a line, something!"
Clarence scrambled over to his side of the ravine with a coil of rope, but the ever-widening tear was now forty feet across. The rope was only thirty feet long.
"Great," Indy said. "Our side of the ice is drifting out to sea."
"Throw us some supplies, then," Ulla shouted. "Food. Whatever you can find."
Clarence and the others gathered what they could from the scattered supplies on the ice, and heaved them over the chasm, but only a fraction of the missiles landed on the other side. Most splashed into the frigid water between them.
"Okay," Indy shouted. "We're just wasting equipment."
"What'll we do, boss?" Clarence asked.
"Get the Penguin in the air," Indy said. "Then hightail it to the closest base and send a rescue party back after us. We can survive for a few hours."
"All right," Clarence said. "Good luck!"
As the massive ice floe drifted away they could see the silhouettes of Clarence and Blessant and Bruce waving to them, unwilling to turn their backs on their companions as they drifted away.
"All right," Ulla began. "The first thing we need to do is to get organized. We each have the proper clothing, no? Keep your gloves and hoods and boots on at all times. Expose as little of your flesh to the weather as possible."
"I'll bet you could catch a killer cold up here," Sparks said.
"There are no colds here," Ulla said. "It is too cold for the germs which spread the common cold to live. That should give you some idea of how really harsh the conditions are.
"Now, we need to make an inventory of our supplies. First, let's put them in piles—food, medicine, weapons, camp gear. Okay? Sparks, you collect the food and medicine, Indy will take care of the weapons, and I will assess the camp gear."
