The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  They zigzagged across the desert as the tank gave chase, firing several rounds at them. Each time, Indy and Sallah emerged from a plume of dust as the rounds missed them.

  Indy’s head snapped around. The tank was gaining on them. Then he noticed they had company. A small German sedan with two soldiers was heading their way. It was going to take more than two of those guys to stop him. He knew that for a fact.

  Just then another shell was fired, barely missing Indy this time. “Damn.”

  “That was close, Indy,” Sallah yelled. “Ride for your life.”

  Sallah charged ahead, but Indy was starting to get angry. He scowled, glancing back, and this time realized that the gun that was firing on them could only pivot so far. It gave him an idea.

  He jerked back on the reins and turned the horse. The tank turned and followed him, but now it was heading on a collision course with the small sedan carrying the two Nazi soldiers. The driver of the sedan tried to avoid the tank, but Vogel didn’t see him; he was only concerned with keeping Indy in the sights of his gun.

  With an earsplitting screech of metal, the sedan was struck from the side and lodged between the front treads of the tank. Not only was the tank stopped by the collision, but the sedan had blocked the front port and jammed the turret on the six-pound cannon.

  Indy, meanwhile, reined in his horse. He leaned down and scooped up an armful of rocks from a wall along a culvert, then urged the horse on. He galloped up to the starboard cannon and jammed several of the rocks down the barrel. Then he steered the horse so that he was directly in front of the gun, close enough to be an easy target.

  “I see him.” Henry jerked his head up as he heard the side gunner’s excited yell.

  He knew the Nazi was talking about his son.

  “Well, shoot him,” Vogel ordered.

  “No,” Henry yelled, and lunged toward the gunner. But the guard blocked his way and shoved him against the bulkhead. He pointed his Luger between Henry’s eyes just as the side gunner aimed the cannon at Indy and fired.

  The gun backfired, blowing the breech into the face of the gunner. He stumbled backward, his face ripped apart by the blast. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  Smoke poured into the tank. Henry and the others choked and gasped for air. Vogel stepped over the dead gunner, reached up, and threw open the hatch to let out the smoke.

  “Fire the turret gun,” he yelled at the driver, taking no chance himself.

  Henry grabbed Brody by the arm, and together they crawled on hands and knees until they were underneath the hatch. Henry was about to stand up and climb out when he bumped into the guard, who was also on the floor of the tank. The guard raised his Luger and pressed it against Henry’s forehead.

  The driver of the sedan was dead upon impact with the tank, but the passenger survived the crash and was attempting to cut his way out through the cloth top. He managed to cut away a flap, and pulled it down. He stuck his head through the hole and stared directly into the barrel of the six-pound cannon.

  At that moment the cannon fired, emulsifying everything in its path and blowing bits of the sedan seventy-five yards through the air.

  Indy was behind the tank. He had just spotted Sallah galloping toward him when the cannon blasted the sedan. Chunks of the car landed all around Sallah. His horse reared up, and Sallah tumbled off.

  He quickly remounted, glanced once toward the tank, and charged off in the opposite direction.

  Indy had the feeling he wasn’t going to get much more help from Sallah.

  Free of the car, the tank trundled ahead.

  Vogel took over the turret gun and swiveled it around, looking for Indy. But now the turret would only move in a ninety-degree arc. He was sure Indy was behind the tank, and if the other horseman joined him, they might try boarding.

  If they did, he would shoot Jones’s father, right in front of him.

  But he needed reinforcements. He grabbed the microphone on the radio and called Donovan. “Forget about those crazies in the hills,” he said tersely. “Bring the troops now.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Donovan barked, “Are you telling me you haven’t taken care of Jones, even with that tank?”

  Vogel fumed, and spoke between gritted teeth. “Not yet.”

  He stared out above the turret gun, looking again for Indy. He saw a narrow canyon opening on the port side, and an idea struck him. He smiled to himself and ordered the driver to turn into the canyon.

  He clicked on the radio again. “By the time you get here, Jones will be taken care of, as you say.”

  He turned the turret gun as far as he could, as they entered the canyon. He aimed it at the canyon wall and waited for the right moment. He spotted a rock overhanging the wall and adjusted his aim. He fired a volley directly at it, and suddenly tons of rock tumbled down.

  Vogel grinned. That should take care of Jones.

  NINETEEN

  One Against Many

  MOMENTS BEFORE the landslide Indy lagged behind the tank, looking for loose rocks again. His plan was to jam the tank’s port gun in the hope that it would backfire as the other had done. This time, when the hatch opened to clear away the smoke, he would overpower Vogel and commandeer the tank. A simple plan, if Vogel fell for it.

  But the tank had maneuvered into a narrow canyon, and he couldn’t find any sizeable rocks. There were pebbles and there were boulders, most of them half the size of the tank or larger. And that wasn’t the only problem. The canyon had also cut him off from Sallah, who had galloped well out of the range of the tank’s big gun. Now Sallah probably wouldn’t know what had happened to him or the tank.

  He concentrated on the ground. Rocks. I need rocks.

  Just then, the cannon fired into the cliff, and suddenly more rocks than he cared to think about were careening toward him. He reined the horse sharply, turning, and galloped away from the landslide. Rocks bounded by on either side of him, barely missing him. But he escaped unharmed.

  If he had been keeping pace with the tank, he wouldn’t have been so lucky—he would be dead. No doubt about that.

  But now he had another problem. The route through the narrow canyon was cut off. He would have to backtrack and go around the canyon to find the tank, and that would take precious time, maybe hours.

  He didn’t have hours.

  Then he saw an alternative route. The landslide had worked to his advantage, creating a rugged trail along the side of the cliff. Time to take the high road.

  He followed it as quickly as he could, maneuvering the horse around the rubble. He found that it not only allowed him to cross the canyon but it was also a shortcut. Before long he was nearing the tank, approaching it from above. He passed it and was wondering how he could work his way down to the canyon base when, unexpectedly, his luck ran out. The trail abruptly ended in a rock wall.

  He glanced down as the tank motored along below him. He would have to turn around, or . . . He dropped from his saddle and, before he had time to change his mind, ran to the cliff’s edge and leapt. He landed on his feet on top of the tank, and dropped to his hands and knees. He made it—but now what?

  The tank cleared the canyon, and the desert opened again to the right. Indy glanced back and saw a cloud of dust on the desert floor. He squinted against the bright light. A jeep was rapidly approaching. Behind it, in the distance, were two carrier trucks filled with Nazi troops.

  Company was arriving.

  “Welcome aboard, Jones.”

  He turned and saw Vogel’s face peering through the hatchway. His beady eyes speared Indy like darts. He stared back at him and held his gaze. He felt waves of hate from the man but refused to look away, to let him win the contest of wills.

  Suddenly he felt a familiar prickling sensation on the back of his neck—a warning. He spun around and saw a soldier crawling behind him. He realized Vogel had been trying to distract him while the soldier boarded from the jeep. The man leapt like a spider and overpowered him, pinning him to
the top of the tank.

  He struggled to free himself, but his cheek was pressed against the hot metal. The position gave him a chance to see one of the troop carriers moving alongside the tank. A handful of soldiers vaulted aboard like pirates stealing their way onto a galleon. The odds were not looking good.

  Indy shoved the soldier and grappled with him for his Luger. They rolled over, and Indy pinned him to the tank with the Luger wedged between them. He twisted the soldier’s hand, trying to loosen his grip on the gun. They rolled over again, and the barrel of the gun neared Indy’s head. He used the leverage of the tank and forced the gun away until it was turned toward the soldier.

  He squeezed with all his strength, forcing the soldier to fire a round into himself. The bullet passed through the man’s neck and continued through the stomach of another soldier and the groin of a third. The three bodies fell away, tumbling over the side of the crowded tank.

  Three down, plenty more to go. He saw that Vogel had emerged from the hatch to join the huddle of Nazis surrounding him.

  “That’s my boy. Go get ’em, son.”

  Indy heard his father’s voice, then spotted him looking up through the open hatch. He reached for the bullwhip on his hip, but realized it was too crowded to use it. The lack of space, however, was his one advantage. The soldiers came at him from all sides, wielding knives and guns, but he was an elusive target. He dodged the blade of a knife, which missed his side and slammed into the thigh of another Nazi. A blow struck him in the jaw, and he spun around and kicked a gun out of the hand of a second Nazi, who fell off the tank. A third soldier fired at him, missed, and hit one of his own men. A few more down.

  “Go get ’em, Junior,” Henry yelled.

  Suddenly, Indy literally saw red. He seethed, his anger spurted through him like a shot of adrenaline, and he slammed his fist into the jaw of the nearest soldier. The man fell back into another soldier, and they both tumbled off the tank. Indy kicked at the next one, who fell onto the tank’s tread and took one more with him. The two rolled forward, hit the ground, and were instantly crushed by the tread.

  Indy, still infuriated, looked at the hatch. “Don’t ever call me Junior again!”

  No sooner had he spoken the words than Vogel swung a length of chain and snapped it twice around Indy’s shoulders. A white hot pain burned through him; he crumpled to his knees, grimacing in agony. Still, he managed to keep his wits about him. He saw the Luger the first soldier left behind and kicked it toward the hatch. It was a shot that would have pleased a soccer champion. The gun skittered across the tank and fell right into Henry’s lap.

  Indy rose to his feet and faced Vogel and the one remaining soldier. The chain was still wrapped around his shoulders but he could move his arms, and neither of his opponents was armed. He smiled gamely at Vogel. After overcoming all the others, he was confident he could handle these two.

  But Vogel smiled back, and then Indy saw the reason for his cockiness. A second troop carrier was about to pull alongside the tank with a host of reinforcements. More men than he could handle. Hell, more men than a half dozen of him could fight.

  When the gun fell into his lap, Henry grabbed it by the barrel, just in time. Brody yelled for him to watch out. He heard a thud as his friend was knocked to the floor. The guard wrapped his arms around Henry’s waist and pulled him down from the hatch.

  “Let go of me,” he yelled.

  When he didn’t, Henry acted decisively. “Fair warning, fellow.”

  He clubbed him over the head with the butt of the gun, and the guard dropped to the floor next to Brody. Henry climbed to the top of the hatch, and was about to join Indy when he saw the troop carrier. There was no way they could overcome that horde of Nazis. They needed help, and lots of it.

  He ducked back inside and ran over to the port turret just as the guard stumbled to his feet. Henry aimed the cannon at the troop-laden truck and fumbled for the trigger. Just as he found it, the guard jerked his arm away and dragged him away from the turret.

  Brody crawled over on his hands and knees, and the guard tripped over him. Henry slipped out of his grasp and lunged toward the turret. He quickly aimed at the troop carrier, and squeezed off a round.

  Beginner’s luck was with him: he scored a direct hit on the gas tank, and the carrier exploded, spewing soldiers and debris through the scorched air.

  The blast blew Indy, Vogel, and the last soldier off the top of the tank. The soldier fell to the ground, but Indy and Vogel landed on the moving tread. Both were shuttled quickly forward and were inches from being crushed under the tank when they rolled onto the cannon mounting.

  Vogel’s feet slammed into Indy, forcing him off the narrow ledge of metal and back onto the tread. Indy latched a hand onto the cannon, then wrapped his other arm around it. His feet dangled over the edge of the tread as he fought to keep from falling.

  Vogel, meanwhile, crawled forward, and kicked at Indy’s hands.

  Inside the tank the guard picked Brody up and hurled him viciously against the bulkhead, smashing his head into it. He slumped to the floor, lingering on the edge of consciousness, fighting the blackness that crept up on him like a nightmare. Vaguely he was aware that the guard was aiming his Luger at him. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see any more. He waited for the explosion, and death.

  Henry jumped the guard, knocking his arm aside. The weapon fired, and the bullet ricocheted several times. Suddenly the tank veered out of control as the driver pitched forward into the gears, struck dead by the bullet.

  Henry fought. He gasped for breath. The guard’s powerful arm was wrapped around his neck, and he was squeezing. Both of Henry’s hands gripped the guard’s other arm, keeping the gun from turning toward him. Desperately he tried to stay conscious. If he passed out, he was dead.

  Brody was jarred awake as the tank bounced over a large rock. He felt as if he had been raised from the dead. His body ached fiercely in a dozen places, and his head throbbed as though a spear were piercing it. But he pushed himself to his feet despite the pain and saw Henry struggling with the guard. Brody kicked the guard’s hand, and the gun skidded across the floor.

  The tank bounded over another rock, and Brody fell to the floor. “Who’s driving this thing, anyhow?” he muttered.

  Henry reached into his pocket the moment Brody kicked the gun away. His fingers were inside the pocket, moving, searching, groping for a fountain pen. His other arm clung to the guard, who was now trying to get away and retrieve the Luger. He pulled out the fountain pen and stabbed the guard again and again, but the man didn’t seem to feel it. He finally managed to get the top off, raised his arm, and squeezed. A burst of ink shot into the guard’s eyes.

  The man bellowed, staggered back, clawing at his eyes. Henry gulped for air, filling his lungs, then smashed his fist into the stunned guard’s face. The man’s head jerked back and cracked against the bulkhead. He pitched forward and was out cold.

  “The pen is mightier than the sword,” Henry crowed, and helped Brody to his feet. This nonsense was a damn long way from the study of ancient languages and antiquities. But now the adrenaline was pumping through him.

  They climbed through the hatch and onto the top of the tank. Neither Indy nor the soldiers were in sight. Then Henry peered over the side of the tank. Vogel and his son were locked in a deadly embrace on the cannon mount, and both were now fettered by Vogel’s chain.

  And Indy’s head was only inches above the tread.

  Henry carefully lowered himself over the side of the tank, determined to help his son in a way he had never dreamed possible. He would make up for his shortcomings as a father, all right. And when this was over, he would stand in front of Indy and spell out those shortcomings, just as he should have done years ago.

  I’m a stiff ole coot whose stubborn ways never did him any good. That’s what he’d tell him, he thought. It was time at long last to admit to it.

  Sallah had galloped away from the tank after he had nearly been killed
by the parts of the demolished car. A horse was no challenge to a tank, he had told himself over and over. But where was Indy? The tank and Indy had disappeared. Sallah backtracked and found the narrow canyon but was baffled when he came to the landslide. Fearing that Indy had been trapped in the rubble, he searched the rocks.

  Finally, certain that Indy wasn’t in the rubble, he had backtracked again and spotted the tank in the distance. As he neared it, he knew something was wrong. The tank was speeding directly for a gorge less than two hundred yards away, and he didn’t see Indy. He spurred his horse and tore toward the tank. As he galloped alongside it, he spotted Brody clinging to the top. “Jump!” he shouted. “Jump, man!”

  Brody heard Sallah yelling. He snapped his head around and saw the gorge for the first time. He slid down to the cannon mounting on the side where Sallah was galloping.

  “Jump, I said!” Sallah roared.

  He figured he was going to die, but leapt anyhow. He grabbed Sallah’s neck as he landed half on the horse, half off. Sallah reached back, pulled his ankle over the horse.

  “Hang on, Marcus.”

  “The other side,” Brody yelled. “They’re on the other side.”

  Indy and Vogel were still tangled in the chain, at an impasse. If one threw the other from the tank, they would both go over the side.

  Then Indy saw the gorge barely a hundred yards away. Who the hell is driving the tank?

  He fought to rip the chain from around his chest just as Vogel, who had also seen the cliff, tried to jump. But to Indy’s surprise, his father appeared from nowhere and grabbed Vogel by the leg.

  Vogel spun and jerked his leg away, then kicked Henry in the face, knocking him onto the tank’s tread. Indy saw his father rolling toward the front of the tank and reacted instantly. He unhitched his whip and snapped it toward his father. The whip coiled neatly around Henry’s ankle just as he was about to roll over the front of the tank.