The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  “Is that a literal or a metaphorical question?”

  “Take it any way you like, Jones.”

  He smiled at her.

  And then he understood that something had happened: while he’d been so involved in the act of introspection, the ship’s engines had stopped and the vessel was no longer moving.

  He rose and rushed to the door, clambering onto the deck and then the bridge, where Katanga was staring across the ocean. The captain’s pipe was unlit, his face solemn.

  “You appear to have some important friends, Mr. Jones,” the man said.

  Indy stared. At first he couldn’t make anything out. But then, following the sweep of the captain’s hand, he saw that the Bantu Wind, like a spinster courted by an unwanted entourage of voracious suitors, was surrounded by about a dozen German Wolf submarines.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Katanga said. “You and the girl must disappear quickly. We have a place in the hold for you. But quickly! Get the girl!”

  It was too late: both men noticed five rafts, with armed boarding parties, circle the steamer. Already the first Nazis were climbing the rope ladders that had been dropped. He turned, ran. Marion was uppermost in his mind now. He had to get her first. Too late—the air was filled with the sound of boots, German accents, commands. Ahead of him he saw Marion being dragged from the cabin by a couple of soldiers. The rest of the soldiers, boarding quickly, rounded the crew on deck, guns trained on them. Indy melted into the shadows, slipping through a doorway into the labyrinth of the ship.

  Before he vanished, his brain working desperately for a way out, he heard Marion curse her assailants; and despite the situation, he smiled at her spirit. A good woman, he thought, and impossible to subdue entirely. He liked her for that.

  He liked her a lot.

  Dietrich came on board, followed by Belloq. The captain had already given his crew a signal not to resist the invaders. The men clearly wanted to fight, but the odds were against them. So they lined up sullenly under the German guns as Belloq and Dietrich strode past, shouting orders, sending soldiers scampering all over the ship for the Ark.

  Marion watched as Belloq approached her. She felt something of the same vibrations as before, but this time she was determined to fight them, determined not to yield to whatever sensations the man might arouse in her.

  “My dear,” Belloq said. “You must regale me with the tale—no doubt epic—of how you managed to escape from the Well. It can wait until later, though.”

  Marion said nothing. Was there no end in sight to this whole sequence of affairs? Indy apparently had a marvelous talent for dragging wholesale destruction behind him. She watched Belloq, who touched her lightly under the chin. She pulled her face away. He smiled.

  “Later,” he said, passing on to where Katanga stood.

  He was about to say something when a sound seized his attention and he turned, noticing a group of soldiers raise the crated Ark from the hold. He fought the impatience he felt. The world, with all its mundane details, always intruded on his ambition. But that was going to be over soon. Slowly, reluctantly, he took his eyes from the crate as Dietrich gave the order for it to be placed aboard one of the submarines.

  He looked at Katanga. “Where is Jones?”

  “Dead.”

  “Dead?” Belloq said.

  “What good was he to us? We killed him. We threw him overboard. The girl has more value in the kind of marketplace in which I dabble. A man like Jones is useless to me. If his cargo was what you wanted, I only ask that you take it and leave us with the girl. It will reduce our loss on this trip.”

  “You make me impatient,” Belloq said. “You expect me to believe Jones is dead?”

  “Believe what you wish. I only ask that we proceed in peace.”

  Dietrich had approached now. “You are in no position to ask anything, Captain. We will decide what we wish to decide, and then we must consider the question of whether we will blow this ancient ship out of the water.”

  “The girl goes with me,” Belloq said.

  Dietrich shook his head.

  Belloq continued: “Consider her part of my compensation. I’m sure the Führer would approve. Given that we have obtained the Ark, Dietrich.”

  Dietrich appeared hesitant.

  “If she fails to please me, of course, you may throw her to the sharks, for all I care.”

  “Very well,” Dietrich said. He noticed a brief expression of doubt on Belloq’s face, then signaled for Marion to be taken aboard the submarine.

  Indy watched from his hiding place in an air ventilator, his body hunched and uncomfortable. Boots scraped the deck unpleasantly close to his face—but he hadn’t been discovered. Katanga’s lie seemed feeble to him, a desperate gesture if a kind one. But it had worked. He peered along the deck, thinking. He had to go with the submarine, he had to go with Marion, with the Ark. How? Exactly how?

  Belloq was watching the captain closely. “How do I know you are telling the truth about Jones?”

  Katanga shrugged. “I don’t lie.” He stared at the Frenchman; this one he didn’t like at all. He felt sorry for Indy for having an enemy like Belloq.

  “Have your people found him on board?” the seaman asked.

  Belloq considered this; Dietrich shook his head.

  The German said, “Let us leave. We have the Ark. Alive or dead, Jones is of no importance now.”

  Belloq’s face and his body went tense a moment; then he appeared to relax, following Dietrich from the deck of the tramp steamer.

  Indy could hear the rafts leaving the sides of the Bantu Wind. Then he moved quickly, emerging from his place of concealment and running along the deck.

  Aboard the submarine Belloq entered the communications room. He placed earphones on his head, picked up the microphone and uttered a call signal. After a time he heard a voice broken by static. The accent was German.

  “Captain Mohler. This is Belloq.”

  The voice was very faint, distant. “Everything has been prepared in accordance with your last communication, Belloq.”

  “Excellent.” Belloq took the headphones off. Then he left the radio room, walking toward the small forward cabin, where the woman was being held. He stepped inside the room. She sat on a bunk, her expression glum. She didn’t look up as he approached her. He reached out, touched her lightly under the chin, raised her face.

  “You have nice eyes,” he said. “You shouldn’t hide them.”

  She twisted her face to the side.

  He smiled. “I imagined we might continue our unfinished business.”

  She got up from the bunk, went across the room. “We don’t have any unfinished business.”

  “I think we do.” He reached out and tried to hold her hand; she jerked her arm free of him. “You resist? You didn’t resist before, my dear. Why the change of heart?”

  “Things are a little different,” she answered.

  He regarded her in silence for a time. Then he said, “You feel something for Jones? Is that it?”

  She looked away, staring vacantly across the room.

  “Poor Jones,” Belloq said. “I fear he’s destined never to win anything.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Belloq went toward the door. There, on his way out, he turned around. “You don’t even know, my dear, if he’s alive or dead. Do you?”

  Then he closed the door and moved into the narrow passageway. Several seamen walked past him. They were followed by Dietrich, whose face was angry, stern. It amused Belloq to see this look: in his anger, Dietrich looked preposterous, like an enraged schoolmaster powerless to punish a recalcitrant pupil.

  “Perhaps you would be good enough to explain yourself, Belloq.”

  “What is there to explain?”

  Dietrich seemed to be struggling with an urge to strike the Frenchman. “You have given specific orders to the captain of this vessel to proceed to a certain supply base—an islan
d located off the African coast. It was my understanding that we would return to Cairo and then fly the Ark to Berlin on the first available flight. Why have you taken the liberty of changing the plan, Belloq? Are you suddenly under the impression that you are an admiral in the German navy? Is that it? Have your delusions of grandeur gone that far?”

  “Delusions of grandeur,” Belloq said, still amused by Dietrich. “I hardly think so, Dietrich. My point is that we open the Ark before taking it to Berlin. Would you be comfortable, my friend, if your Führer found the Ark to be empty? Don’t you want to be sure that the Ark contains sacred relics before we return to Germany? I am trying to imagine the awful disappointment on Adolf’s face if he finds nothing inside the Ark.”

  Dietrich stared at the Frenchman; his anger had passed, replaced by a look of doubt, incredulity. “I don’t trust you, Belloq. I have never trusted you.”

  ‘Thank you.”

  Dietrich paused before going on: “I find it curious that you want to open the Ark on some obscure island instead of taking the more convenient route—namely Cairo. Why can’t you look inside your blessed box in Egypt, Belloq?”

  “It wouldn’t be fitting,” Belloq said.

  “Can you explain that?”

  “I could—but you would not understand, I fear.”

  Dietrich looked angry; he felt his authority once more had been undermined—but the Frenchman had the Führer as an ally. What could he do, faced with that fact?

  He turned quickly and walked away. Belloq watched him go. For a long time the Frenchman didn’t move. He felt a great sense of anticipation all at once, thinking of the island. The Ark could have been opened almost anywhere—in that sense Dietrich was correct. But it was appropriate, Belloq thought, that it should be opened on the island. It should be opened in a place whose atmosphere was heavy with the distant past, a place of some historic importance. Yes, Belloq thought. The setting had to match the moment. There had to be a correspondence between the Ark and its environment. Nothing else would do.

  He went to the small supply cabin where the crate lay.

  He looked at it for a while, his mind empty. What secrets? What can you tell me? He reached out and touched the crate. Did he simply imagine he felt a vibration from the box? Did he simply imagine he heard a faint sound? He closed his eyes, his hand still resting on the wooden surface. A moment of intense awe: he could see some great void, a sublime darkness, a boundary he would step across into a place beyond language and time. He opened his eyes; the tips of his fingers tingled.

  Soon, he said to himself.

  Soon.

  The sea was cold, swirling around him in small whirlpools created by the submarine’s motions. Indy hung to the rail, his muscles aching, the wet whip contracting in water and clinging, too tightly, to his body. You could drown, he thought, and he tried to remember whether drowning was said to be a good way to go. It might arguably be better than hanging to the rail of the submarine that could plunge abruptly into the depths. At any moment, too. He wondered if heroes could apply for retirement benefits. He hauled himself up, swinging his body onto the deck. Then it struck him.

  His hat. His hat had gone.

  Don’t be superstitious now. You don’t have time to mourn the passing of a lucky hat.

  The sub began to submerge. Perceptibly, it was sinking like a huge metallic fish. He rushed across the deck, water at his waist now. He reached the conning tower, then began to climb the ladder. At the top of the turret he looked down: the sub was still sinking. Water was rushing, wildly swirling foam, toward him. The turret was being consumed by the rising water, and then the radio mast was sinking too. He moved, treading water, to the periscope. He hung on to it as the vessel continued to sink. If it went under entirely, then he was lost. The periscope started to go down, too. Down and down, while he gripped it. Please, he thought, please don’t go down any further. But this is what comes of trying to stow yourself away on a German submarine. You can’t expect the old red-carpet treatment, can you?

  Freezing, shivering, he hung on to the periscope; and then, as if some merciful divinity of the ocean had heard his unspoken prayers, the vessel stopped its dive. It left only three feet of the periscope out of water. But three feet was something to be thankful for. Three feet was all he needed to survive. Don’t sink any deeper, he thought. Then he realized he was talking aloud, not thinking. It might have been, in other circumstances, funny—trying to hold a rational conversation with several tons of good German metal. I’m out of my mind. That’s what it is. And all this is just hallucination. A nautical madness.

  Indy took the bullwhip and lashed himself to the periscope, hoping that if he fell asleep he wouldn’t wake to find himself on the black ocean bottom, or worse—food for the fishes.

  The cold seeped through him. He tried to stop his teeth from knocking together. And the bullwhip, heavy with water, was cutting into his skin. He tried to remain alert, prepared for whatever contingency might arise—but weariness was a weight in him now, and sleep seemed the most promising prospect of all.

  He shut his eyes. He tried to think of something, anything, that would keep him from dropping off—but it was hard. He wondered where the submarine was headed. He sang little songs in his head. He tried to remember all the telephone numbers he’d ever known. He wondered about a girl named Rita he’d almost married once: where was she now? A lucky escape there, he thought.

  But he was weary and the thoughts circled aimlessly.

  And he drifted off into sleep, despite the cold, despite his discomfort. He drifted away, the sleep dreamless and dead.

  When he woke it was daylight and he wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, whether he’d slept a whole day away. He could no longer feel his body: total numbness. And his skin was puckered from the water, fingertips soft and wrinkled. He adjusted the bullwhip and looked around. There was a land mass ahead, an island, a semi-tropical place—halcyon, he thought. He stared at the rich foliage. Green, wonderful and deep and restful. The submarine approached the island, skimming into what looked like a cave. Inside, the Germans had built a complete underground supply base and submarine pen. And there were more uniformed Nazis on this dock than you could have found in one of Hitler’s Nuremberg extravaganzas.

  How could he fail to be seen?

  He quickly drew himself clear of his whip, and he slipped into the water. He submerged, realizing he’d left his whip attached to the scope. The whip and the hat: it was a day for sad farewells to treasured possessions, for sure.

  He swam toward the island, trying to remain underwater as much as he could. He saw the sub rise as it went toward the dock. Then he was stumbling onto the beach, glad to feel earth under him again, even if it was the earth of some Nazi paradise. He made his way over the sand to a high point where he had a good view of the dock. The crate was lifted from the sub, supervised by Belloq, who appeared to live in anxious expectation of somebody’s dropping his precious relic. He hovered around the crate like a surgeon over a dying patient.

  And then there was Marion, surrounded by a bunch of uniformed fools who were pushing her forward.

  He sat down in the sand, hidden by rushes that grew on the edge of the dunes.

  Inspiration, he thought. That’s what I need now.

  In a good-sized dose.

  TWELVE

  A Mediterranean Island

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Belloq met Mohler. He was not entirely happy with the idea of Dietrich’s being involved in the conversation. The damned man was certain to ask questions, and his impatience had already begun to make Belloq nervous, as though it were contagious.

  Captain Mohler said, “Everything has been prepared in accordance with your instructions, Belloq.”

  “Nothing has been overlooked?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then the Ark must be taken to that place now.”

  Mohler glanced a moment at Dietrich. Then he turned and began to supervise a group of soldiers while they placed the crate
in a jeep.

  Dietrich, who had been silent, was annoyed. “What does he mean? What preparations are you talking about?”

  “It need not concern you, Dietrich.”

  “Everything connected with this accursed Ark concerns me.”

  “I am going to open the Ark,” Belloq said. “However, there are certain . . . certain preconditions connected with the act.”

  “Preconditions? Such as?”

  “I don’t think you should worry, my friend. I don’t want to be the one responsible for overloading your already much-worked brain.”

  “You can spare me the sarcasm, Belloq. Sometimes it seems to me that you forget who is in charge here.”

  Belloq stared at the crate for a time. “You must understand—it is not simply the act of opening a box, Dietrich. There is a certain amount of ritual involved. We are not exactly dealing with a box of hand grenades, you understand. This is not any ordinary undertaking.”

  “What ritual?”

  “You will see in good time, Dietrich. However, it need not alarm you.”

  “If anything happens to the Ark, Belloq, anything, I will personally pull the hanging rope on your scaffold. Do you understand me?”

  Belloq nodded. “Your concern for the Ark is touching. But you needn’t worry. It will be safe and delivered to Berlin finally, and your Führer can add another relic to his lovely collection. Yes?”

  “You better be as good as your word.”

  “I will be. I will be.”

  Belloq looked at the crated Ark before staring into the jungle beyond the dock area. It lay in there, the place where the Ark would be opened.

  “The girl,” Dietrich said. “I also hate loose ends. What do we do with the girl?”

  “I take it I can leave that to your discretion,” Belloq said. “She is of no consequence to me.”

  Nothing is, he thought: nothing is of any consequence now, except for the Ark. Why had he bothered to entertain any kind of sentiment for the girl? Why had he even remotely troubled himself with the idea of protecting her? Human feelings were worthless compared to the Ark. All human experience faded into nothing. If she lived or died, what did it matter?