Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates

by Martin Caidin

  Mr. Treadwell—"

  Treadwell came to his feet in a single gliding motion, right hand extended to grasp Indy's. Once again, Indy was filled with the strength and presence of this man.

  He spent a few precious seconds absorbing all that he had noticed by removing his glasses from his shirt pocket and cleaning the lenses with his handkerchief.

  "Treadwell, is it?" Indy said casually. "Is that your real name, Mr., um . . ."

  He let it hang.

  "It's real enough," Treadwell said. Indy knew from his tone that he had all the proper cards and papers, identification to choke a horse if necessary, to "prove" he was Treadwell.

  "Well, I see we've got a catandmouse situation here," Indy said to both men. Then he directed his gaze to Pencroft. "Do I find out where our visitor is from?"

  Pencroft nodded. He had only a scratch of information himself and he didn't like it. You could feel and smell security

  in the room. Anyone who regarded Pencroft as simply a doddering old professor was making a mistake of grand proportions. Long before his permanency at the university he had served the British army well, rising to the rank of brigadier through a halfdozen wars, large and small, before retiring from enough wounds to kill several men. Like Indiana Jones he knew when a professional was at hand.

  "I won't play any games with you, Professor Jones," Treadwell answered. "I'm military intelligence. Not Scotland Yard, as I'm sure you already deduced on your own. You have certain body language that speaks aloud."

  Indy smiled and nodded, waiting.

  "For the record, I'm required to impose the highest level of secrecy on what you're going to be told," Treadwell continued. "I know that you're an American citizen, and I won't go through the formal blather of papers and all that. Your word will suffice for us."

  "Wait, wait," Pencroft interrupted. "I'll be hanged if I'll sit here with a parched throat." He pressed a desk buzzer.

  "Sally, tea. And brandy. A good measure of both."

  They waited until the tea was poured and mixed with brandy and Pencraft's secretary had departed. Suddenly a radio blared from the outer office. Indy lifted an eyebrow toward Pencroft, and the old man smiled. No one would hear their conversation with the racket outside.

  "First," began Treadwell, "I don't expect you to believe what I'm about to tell you."

  Twenty minutes later Indy knew the other man was | right.

  Treadwell related a story more fantastic than anything Indy had ever heard.

  And he had trailed Indian spirits in South America, crawled through the tomb passageways of the pyramids, faced voodoo doctors and shamans who performed feats all science would consider not incredible, but impossible. He had seen the ghosts of ancient giants at Stonehenge, trod the thin vaporous lines that seemed to separate this world from other dimensions. He had—well, pay attention, he commanded himself harshly.

  Treadwell gave the details of the ambush and hijacking in South Africa, the use of poison gas, the performance of a paramilitary team that left all the signs of professionals trained to the nth degree. A billion dollars' worth of diamonds was the estimate, but Indy's interest flared when Treadwell mentioned an ancient object with some form of symbols engraved on its surface—an object that could not have been created by any terrestrial energy or people if its historical dating were correct. Indy s u s p e n d e d further contemplation as Treadwell went on.

  "We know this operation was German. Not only was there a certain Teutonic efficiency involved," Treadwell explained, "but we do keep tabs on how Germany is transforming itself from a beaten nation into a new power.

  Officially, that part is nonsense, of course, because our leaders still believe in the goodness of men, including the Germans, which," he interjected, "I do not. They are too busy beating their plowshares into weapons. They have created an entire new secret service organization. We know that Hermann Goring has been making the rounds of industry. There are all the signs of rearmament."

  "The diamonds," Indy broke in. "I imagine this is part of their program to finance a new military force."

  Treadwell nodded. "But that's not the way it worked out, Professor Jones."

  Something in his tone told Indy he'd soon find out why he'd been called in here with all this secrecy mumbo jumbo.

  Pencroft gestured. "How did you confirm the Germans in all this?"

  "Aside from keeping tabs on certain individuals," Treadwell said quickly, "we keep an ongoing record of Germany's movements within, to, and from Africa. They are unabashedly making their move to control most or all of that continent, just as they are doing through their Condor airlines and other groups in South America. I do not wish to get off the track, so to speak, but the more I can impress upon you that we know what Germany is doing, the better you may comprehend what follows.

  "We know that a certain German airline captain, von Moreau, was flying a Rohrbach commercial flying boat on its regular run between Germany and South Africa. We, ah, obtained the passenger manifest without the knowledge of Aero Lloyd—"

  "Skullduggery, is it now," Pencroft offered with a smile.

  "Yes, sir. My point is that we checked on a number of the passengers listed on that manifest. They were not on the flying boat. Their names, reservations, passport numbers, everything was in order, except that they never made the flight.

  Obviously, it was a covert operation of some kind. Also, we worked with the South Africans who went over the wrecked trains. Their chemists, working with us, have identified the type of explosives right down to the factory, the chemical plant, where they were produced. No one else we know of has that very particular chemical substance.

  Enough small debris was remaining for absolute confirmation."

  "There was something else I'd heard about," Indy said carefully.

  "You heard about this affair? Before now, I mean?" Treadwell asked sharply.

  "Not exactly," Indy said. "But there might be a connection."

  "Please, Professor, if you would—?" Treadwell pressed.

  "It's no secret between this university," Indy said, "and our associates at the Archeology Division of the South African university, that some sort of incredible find may have been discovered deep in one of the diamond mines.

  They're very sticky about security when it comes to those mines, but what was found was so bizarre that even the mining company people had no choice but to make what they thought were discreet inquiries as to the nature of what they had in their possession. I must alert you to the fact that none of this might have even a grain of truth to it, but in our business, Mr. Treadwell, you never overlook any kind of a lead."

  "What, ah, was the nature of this find, Professor Jones?"

  "A cube, with markings of a type never seen before." i Pencroft broke in, looking aggrieved. "I hadn't heard any of this, Indiana. You must keep me better informed."

  "It may be nothing but balderdash, sir," Indy responded, using one of Pencraft's favorite expressions.

  "The cube supposedly came from a section of the mine being dug for the first time. It is deep. Very deep. The engineers estimate the surrounding quartz is anywhere from a hundred thousand to perhaps several million years old.

  "And what," Indy went on softly, "is a cube with cuneiform markings doing in a diamond vein, while mankind was still climbing down from the trees?"

  "You're that certain of the age?" Treadwell asked.

  "No way!" Indy retorted. "All this is still unconfirmed. Normally it would be discarded as so much errant nonsense. But that cube, if it exists, could be only a thousand years old. Or, as some people in Rome seem to think, two thousand years old."

  Treadwell showed his confusion. "Rome? Two thousand years old?"

  "About the same time as Christ," Pencroft said, a touch of glee in his voice.

  "You remember him, don't you, Mr.Treadwell? Jehoshua, Jesus, the Savior, by those names and others. As for Rome, I'm certain you know where the Vatican is located."

  "That's why," Indy added
, "even the slightest thread, the most tenuous possibility that the cube exists, that it is a cube, that it may have cuneiform inscriptions, that it might be two thousand years old, or that perhaps it has some connection with Christ, apparently has the highest levels of the Vatican almost frantic with desire to gain possession of this object. If it exists, with all the ifs, ands, or buts that I've mentioned to you."

  Treadwell sank back in his seat. Finally he looked up, first at Pencroft and then back to Indy. "What you have just told me makes what I still haven't related to you even more incredible."

  "This isn't a suspense show," Indy said, impatience in his voice. "Get on with it."

  "Yes, yes," Pencroft pushed. "I'm out of tea and brandy and at my age that's more important to me than this conversation that seems to have no end to it." Indy knew the old man was in pain but was concealing it beneath sudden brusqueness.

  Treadwell took a deep breath. "The flying boat, that Rohrbach with the diamonds aboard and perhaps this mysterious cube as well, never made it to Germany. "

  That brought up both Indy and Pencroft, fully attentive. "Don't tell me that someone hijacked the German airliner!"

  Pencroft said, on the edge of bursting out into laughter.

  "What happened?" Indy asked quietly.

  "We were told what happened," Treadwell said, hesitating.

  "Speak up, man!" Pencroft shouted.

  "There is one man we talked with," Treadwell said slowly and carefully, "who apparently was a member of the Rohrbach crew. The only survivor of an attack on that airplane. He told us they had flown the night through to cross Africa. The pilot kept the airplane high, at fourteen thousand feet, which is about the limit for a Rohrbach with a heavy fuel load. He also spoke about the cold at altitude, and some of the crew having headaches from the lack of oxygen."

  "Yes, yes," Pencroft prompted. "Then what?"

  "There was a great deal of excitement in the cockpit. He saw the radioman—he remembered him as Stryker, and we've confirmed that, by the way—anyway, Stryker was upset about his radios not working, and then after some more excitement in the cockpit, while they were

  over what was apparently the center of the Mediterranean, von Moreau started his descent to land on the water."

  "You haven't said why he'd do that," Indy said critically. "I don't want this to be a guessing game about engine problems or fuel or whatever. Why did the pilot start down?"

  "The crewman—"

  "Wait a moment," Pencroft interrupted. "You said one survivor. How'd you get this bloke?"

  "A French airliner, flying low over the sea to stay beneath clouds at night, saw a fire beneath them. They didn't know what it was. It could have been a crashed airplane or a ship of some kind. They fired off a radio distress call right away. We were fortunate enough in having a British vessel nearby, and it went promptly to where the French had reported the fire. They found some wreckage in the water, and their searchlights picked out one man clinging to a section of wood. He was injured rather badly. Broken bones, burns, shock. The moment they had attended to him as best they could, the purser asked him if there might be any other survivors, lifeboats; anything. He said no."

  "Go on. What did he say?" Indy demanded.

  Treadwell took a deep breath. "He said they were forced down by some huge vessel in the sky, gleaming, silvery. That it was perhaps a thousand yards in length, very fast—"

  "That couldn't be a dirigible," Pencroft murmured. "Nothing of that size—"

  Indy gestured to Pencroft to let Treadwell continue.

  "A lot of what he Said seemed to be babbling, and of course he was suffering from his pain and his injuries. But the purser said he was quite adamant about this vessel and its size, that it was very fast, and that several of the crew were amazed to notice that it didn't have any engines."

  "That's one hell of a sausage balloon you're describing," Indy said, openly disbelieving.

  "I'm not describing. I am telling you what we heard from this one man.

  There's more."

  "Go on, go on," Pencroft prodded.

  "A number of silvery, or golden, the man wasn't sure, craft separated from the huge ship. They were shaped like scimitars, he said. Or perhaps crescents, or boomerangs. Whatever they were they moved with tremendous speed, whirling about the Rohrbach like it was stuck in mud." Treadwell paused. "And those didn't have any engines, either."

  "Why did the airliner land?" Indy asked.

  "Apparently there was a radio message from the larger ship telling them to land, or be destroyed. Then the scimitar ships took up close formation with the Rohrbach. They landed on the sea, the bigger vessel came down very low, and what appeared to be humanlike figures lowered from the vessel to the flying boat. They shot up the wings, first, then opened fire on the crew. The two pilots were killed immediately. That's all this man knew. He was hit, and tumbled from the Rohrbach into the water. He had on an inflatable vest, but didn't use it right away. Moments later, he said, the flying boat was burning and then it exploded. He was burned in the explosion, and just managed to get his vest inflated before he passed out."

  "What happened with this great machine and the scimitars that fly about without engines?"

  "We don't know."

  "You're certain this isn't all a fairy tale?" Indy jabbed at Treadwell.

  "Professor Jones, there are thirtytwo dead men in South Africa, two destroyed trains, and a railway trestle blown to smithereens. The South Africans are frantic with the loss of what they say was a billion dollars worth of gems. A Rohrbach flying boat is destroyed, or if not destroyed, most certainly it and its crew are missing. We have an eyewitness with incredible stories of what he claims to have seen, and you have not heard the hysteria within Germany about the entire affair.

  And your rumor from South Africa did reach the Vatican; the Pope and his inner circle are in a dither about the artifact."

  "Can I talk with this survivor?" Indy asked aloud.

  "I'd like to talk to him as well," Treadwell answered, his tone showing clear disappointment. "Unfortunately, he did not live very long. Right now our people in Germany are using their special contacts to determine his identification, if that's still possible. You may imagine the tight security the Germans have thrown up about all this. They're fairly frothing at the mouth."

  "There's a point you haven't gone into," Indy said.

  "Which is, sir?"

  "Who were the people in that flying whatchamacallit, or whatever it was?

  And in those scimitarshaped machines as well?"

  "We don't have the first clue, Professor Jones."

  "You realize," Pencroft broke in, "that the machines you have described to us don't exist? That nothing of those descriptions exists, or has been made, by any country known to us?"

  "Yes, sir."

  An uneasy silence fell between them. Pencroft used the moment to have more tea and brandy brought in by his secretary. Then it was time to get to what Indiana would call the nittygritty.

  "A few questions, please," Pencroft said abruptly, to bring events back to the fore.

  "Of course," Treadwell acknowledged.

  "You didn't come to this institution by accident."

  "No, sir."

  "I suggest you came here specifically to seek out and in some manner enlist the services of Professor Jones?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Who sent you?"

  Treadwell took a deep breath. "M.I. Two."

  Pencraft's brows rose with confirmation of so high a level in the British government. He exchanged glances with Indy, then turned back to Treadwell.

  "So now," Pencraft said slowly, "you pursue the services of our good archeology professor."

  "Yes, sir."

  "That," Indy interjected, "makes as much sense as your sky devils, or sky pirates, or whatever they are—if they even exist. People who've been blasted, burned, shocked, and dumped into the sea are capable of seeing anything.

  But we'll let that go for the momen
t. Mr. Treadwell, I'm on sabbatical leave from Princeton University—"

  "Where you are a professor of Medieval Literature and Studies," Treadwell finished for him.

  "You're up on your homework," Indy said with a nod. "Which means your office at least knows how to look up people's names and titles in a university staff telephone book. But to continue. I am now teaching Celtic Archeology.

  This isn't my first relationship here."

  "We threw him out once before," Pencroft chuckled. "He'll tell you he became fed up with overstuffed, overbearing academic versions of our everlasting Colonel Blimp and left here of his own volition. Frankly, he's really quite insufferable, he breaks rules, he dashes off on wild goose chases, but," Pencroft said seriously, "he often manages to return with the golden eggs laid by the geese. Like bringing us the Omphalos of Delphi, for which we had searched for decades, believing it was always linked