Indiana Jones and the The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull

by James Rollins

  It was the crate they sought.

  Indy glanced at the Russian woman. In the reflected lamplight, her eyes glowed as she backed away. She waved two soldiers to pull the crate out. With a bit of grunting and swearing, it was hauled out into the open. Indy noted that the hands on one of the soldiers’ wristwatches spun erratically then settled to a stop, pointed at the crate. The box was of the exact dimensions that Spalko had described: the size of a small coffin, only a bit thinner. Her intel was spot-on.

  Spalko grabbed a prybar from one of the soldiers. Indy knew she would not let anyone else open the crate. Her eyes were wild with expectation.

  “Moyo zolotse . . . ,” she muttered to herself in Russian, as if it were a prayer.

  Digging the bar into a corner, she cracked the wooden lid of the coffin. Indy caught a glimpse of stenciling, half burned away. He made out a few letters and numbers.

  swell, N.M. 7–9–47

  It was the right crate.

  As the slats were pulled away, a stainless steel tank was revealed, cushioned and packed in hay. A curved lid sealed the tank’s upper side. With a nod from Spalko, one of the soldiers fitted a crowbar into a slot at the top of the lid. He cranked on it and broke the seal with a hiss.

  A thick, bluish gas escaped, swirling upward.

  Overhead, the lamps in the rafters swung like compass needles, all pointing toward the open crate.

  The lid slid fully open. Inside lay a shape cocooned in silvery metallic wrapping. The strange covering seemed to both reflect and absorb the light, like oil on water. Indy felt subtle emanations that made the hairs on the back of his neck quiver.

  Seemingly oblivious to whatever it was that Indy was feeling, the soldiers knelt to either side and carefully teased back the crinkled shroud. There were layers of it, like an onion. Again the hands of their watches spun. One man’s timepiece was even ripped from his wrist and pulled to the highly magnetized wrapping. Stray shotgun pellets also flew and glued themselves to the surface.

  No longer able to contain herself, Spalko leaned forward.

  She peeled the last layer from the mummified remains herself. The others gathered more tightly around the coffin. Indy couldn’t see what lay within the box. But as Spalko straightened, he saw her lift free the inner layer of the metallic shroud. It held, fixed to the shape of the coffin’s contents: a silvery death mask of a humanoid head. Only this skull’s cranium was elongated unnaturally, and the zygomatic arches framed an oversized pair of eyes, almost insectlike in appearance.

  Others gathered for an even closer peek.

  This was what they all had come to find.

  But not Indy.

  He eased to the side and slipped behind two soldiers. He had another goal in mind. He edged toward his target.

  Spalko must have sensed something. She turned sharply and fixed him with a hard stare. Their eyes met for a moment—then a shout rose to her lips, calling out a warning.

  Too late, sister.

  Indy had found what he was looking for. He grabbed the handle of his bullwhip, still hanging from a soldier’s shoulder. The warm leather fit his grip like a tailored glove. The soldier turned toward him, but Indy shoulder-blocked the man to the floor and yanked the whip free.

  The Russian guarding Mac shoved his pistol toward Indy.

  Not today.

  Indy snapped out his arm, and the bullwhip unfurled with a fierce crack. The lash struck the soldier’s wrist and wrapped tightly around it. Surprise lit the man’s face.

  That was one advantage of age: plenty of time to practice.

  The soldier on the floor scrambled his rifle around.

  Indy flicked his wrist with a twist, causing Mac’s guard to fire his snared pistol. The shot struck the rifleman in the chest and knocked him dead to the ground. Without pausing, Indy yanked hard on the whip and hauled Mac’s guard toward him. The soldier lost his balance and came spinning into Indy’s arms.

  Indy snatched the pistol with his free hand and tossed it to Mac, who fumbled but caught it. Indy shoved the guard into Spalko and the other soldiers.

  Backing, Indy scooped up the dead man’s rifle into his own hands. The remaining soldiers finally brought their own guns to bear, but Indy had joined Mac. They stood back-to-back against the Russians.

  Just like old times.

  Indy kept his weapon leveled at Spalko, who stood a yard away.

  “Guns down!” he shouted. “Put ’em down or the colonel doctor is dead.”

  The soldiers began to obey. Only Dovchenko refused. The massive horse pistol clutched in the colonel’s fist remained pointed at Indy.

  “Do it!" Indy warned, but he suddenly sensed something wrong.

  Especially when Spalko crossed her arms and smiled, all ice and amusement. He felt Mac shift behind him. Indy had a sinking feeling in his gut.

  It can’t be . . .

  Indy turned in disbelief.

  The barrel of Mac’s gun was pointed at Indy’s head.

  FIVE

  INDY WATCHED MAC STROLL OVER to join Spalko and Dovchenko. His friend at least had the decency to look embarrassed, hanging his head, not meeting Indy’s hard stare. Anger and grief warred in Indy’s heart. He could barely form words.

  “Mac? Why?”

  His friend of two decades only shrugged. “What can I tell you, Indy? I’m no Communist, if that’s what you were thinking. Just a good capitalist. And they paid. Paid very well.”

  The war in Indy’s heart settled on anger. “Are you kiddin’ me? After all those years we were spying on the Reds?”

  Mac shrugged again, cocking his head with a shamed half smile. “Had a bad run of cards, mate. Awful. Legendarily awful.” He glanced up at the stacks of crates. A hunger shone in his eyes as he clearly contemplated the wealth of secrets here. “Can’t go home empty-handed all my life.”

  Dovchenko stepped forward. He cocked the slide back on his massive handgun, his intent plain. He was going to enjoy what came next.

  Spalko rested her hand on the pommel of her sword. “No defiant last words, Dr. Jones?”

  He thought for a moment and came up with something suitably patriotic in the face of the sting of betrayal. Simple was best.

  “I like Ike.”

  Dovchenko was not amused. He raised his weapon. “Put gun down. And whip. Now.”

  Indy lifted his arms in surrender. “You got it, pal.”

  He pitched the weapon high, underhanded, straight into a thicket of Russian soldiers who bristled with automatic weapons. The rifle struck the floor with a bang, firing off a round. The shot sparked off the concrete floor—but not before ripping through the foot of one of the soldiers.

  A shocked scream of pain rang out. The injured soldier flailed back. But as Indy had hoped, pain evoked a reflexive response: Fingers tightened in agony, including a trigger finger. As the soldier fell, bullets sprayed from his automatic weapon, flying all around, pinging off the idling jeeps nearby, peppering crates. Soldiers ducked for cover.

  Even Dovchenko and Spalko.

  Indy spun and ran for the nearby pile of discarded crates. He mounted them like a wooden staircase, leaped to the shelving overhead, and scrambled up. He heaved himself up on the shelf—then dropped flat, catching his breath. His lungs were on fire.

  Grimacing, he searched for a means of escape. Around him a sea of crates spread in every direction, staggered in height, riddled with dark gaps.

  Not good.

  Risking a look below, he spotted Dovchenko and Mac rising to their feet. Other soldiers followed suit. Weapons aimed at his hiding place. Before he ducked away, a sharp shout drew his eyes.

  Spalko.

  She fled down the row, yelling to two soldiers who were loading the strange coffin into the hack of an idling jeep. Spalko jumped into the driver’s seat, hit the gas, and sped off down the aisle. The lamps in the rafters swung to follow her path, pointing after her, drawn by her magnetic cargo.

  A second jeep followed her.

  No you
don’t, sister.

  Rising into a low crouch, Indy ran along the top row of this aisle’s crates. Bullets chased him, shredding the boxes at his heels.

  As he reached the end of the aisle, the hanging lamp overhead swung like a compass needle. Spalko’s jeep raced just ahead.

  Now or never.

  Indy leaped from the end of the shelf, cracked out with his whip, and snagged the swaying lamp. Behind him, the last crate exploded under a fusillade of gunfire. Holding tight with one hand, Indy soared over the heads of the stunned Russians. The arc of his swing aimed straight for Spalko’s fleeing jeep.

  Or so he thought.

  As he reached the end of his swing, the heels of Indy’s boots danced along the top of the coffin in the back of the jeep—only the vehicle sped onward while he swung back.

  Toward the Russians.

  Overhead, his bullwhip unraveled with a sickening lurch.

  This was not going to be pretty.

  He plummeted toward the floor—and crashed smack into the front seat of the jeep trailing Spalko’s. He landed between two startled Russians.

  “Damn, that looked closer,” he said and threw an elbow into the face of the passenger, then sucker-punched the driver in the ear. The two Russians fell out opposite doors.

  Indy slid into the driver’s seat, punched the gas, and clutched tight to the wheel. He sped after Spalko’s jeep, then drew up alongside it.

  Hearing the roar, the woman glanced over. Indy enjoyed the surprised look in her eyes.

  She hadn’t been expecting that.

  Nor this.

  Indy jerked his wheel and slammed into the side of her vehicle. She lost control and crashed into a nest of crates. The impact sent her flying out of the jeep and tumbling into the pile of broken boxes.

  Indy braked to a stop and leaped from his jeep and into hers.

  Sorry, sister.

  He threw the jeep into reverse, cleared the boxes, then slammed on the gas. Burning rubber on the concrete, he shot toward the distant exit. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the coffin was still in back.

  Good.

  He could not let the Russians get ahold of it.

  Behind the jeep, he noted Spalko picking herself out of the debris, unharmed.

  Not so good.

  He swung back around in his seat and aimed for the exit. But as he crossed an intersection of aisles in the giant warehouse, one of the Ford staff cars swung into view, blocking the way, and shot directly at him.

  Indy yanked the wheel and raced down another alleyway—only to find the aisle blocked by the massive army personnel carrier. The heavy truck barreled toward him. In his rearview mirror, the staff car rounded the corner with a squeal of rubber.

  He was trapped.

  Indy searched for the only direction open to him.

  Up.

  Ahead, one of the steel I-beams that supported the massive roof ran low across the aisle. Indy gunned the engine and rocketed straight for the truck in a deadly game of chicken.

  Keeping the jeep in gear, he edged up onto his seat, loosed his whip, and held his breath. The headlights of the army personnel carrier speared toward him.

  At the last moment, he snapped out with his bullwhip. The lash cracked like a gunshot—and wrapped snugly around the beam above.

  And not a second too soon.

  Holding tight to the whip, Indy was yanked out of the jeep, and momentum carried him high into the air. The sudden jerk strained his shoulder with a rip of fire, but he dared not let go.

  Below, brakes and drivers screamed.

  The personnel carrier and staff car collided with Indy’s jeep at the same time, crumpling the vehicle between them like an accordion. The carrier and staff car spun off to the sides and smashed into stacks of crates. Wood exploded, and top-secret contents blasted into the air.

  Indy landed amid the debris. He quickly shook loose his whip, but a glint of gold caught his eye. It shone from a cracked crate, damaged during the collision. Indy spied a familiar gold handle to a bejeweled box. He froze.

  Could it be?

  The Ark of the—

  He leaned closer. “Geez, will ya look at that.”

  Bullets ripped past his nose and chewed across the bank of crates. Indy fell back. No time for gawking. He dove behind some boxes for cover, but not before he noted Mac climbing out of the staff car.

  A pistol in his hand.

  The two men made eye contact, staring across the wreckage of the smashed vehicles—and the wreckage of their friendship.

  Mac lifted the gun. “Stop, Indy. There’s no way out of here.”

  Indy returned his friend’s earlier words. “There’s always a way out, Mac!”

  Indy ducked out of sight and hightailed it for the open hangar doors. He aimed for the glow of daylight across the gloomy hangar. It was still a long way off. He would have to be careful—and quick. With his ears ringing from all the gunfire, he ran through the shadows toward that light.

  As he crossed the mouth of another aisle, he didn’t hear the jeep until it was too late. It blasted straight at him. There was no getting out of the way in time. Indy leaped straight up. Not high enough this time. The front of the jeep struck his boots and sent him flying across the hood. He crashed into the windshield. Dazed, he clung to the glass like a splattered fly.

  A familiar face stared back at him from the driver’s seat.

  Dovchenko.

  With his view blocked by Indy’s body, Dovchenko struggled to control the jeep’s careening course. Indy twisted around in time to see the vehicle sailing straight for a tunnel in the back wall of the hangar.

  No, not a tunnel.

  It was a set of cement stairs leading down.

  Indy braced himself, fingers clutching the edge of the windshield.

  This was not going to be good.

  SIX

  DOVCHENKO DIDN’T UNDERSTAND the danger until it was too late. One minute he was racing along an aisle, and the next his jeep was bouncing down a wide set of stairs. It rattled his molars and sought to shake him out of his seat. He clenched the steering wheel with an iron grip.

  With a final jarring impact, the vehicle crashed to the bottom of the stairs and came to a skidding stop in a huge subterranean chamber. Dovchenko breathed hard, his heart hammering, his arms trembling. He glanced around.

  A flatbed railcar rested in the middle of the room, clamped to a set of tracks that led off down a subterranean tunnel. Staring at the rails, Dovchenko realized where he was. Earlier today he had spotted railroad tracks heading out into the desert, leading off from a hilltop bunker that neighbored the hangar. He must have crashed into that bunker.

  A groan drew his attention. The American slid off the jeep’s hood. Jones gained his feet, wobbling and unsteady, and began backpedaling away.

  No you don’t.

  Dovchenko unclamped his hands from the steering wheel and climbed out of the jeep. He stalked after the man and slammed bodily into him, shoving out with his arms. The American sailed backward and fell heavily onto the open flatbed of the railway car.

  Closing in on the man, Dovchenko frowned at the strange car. Someone had crudely bolted a jet engine to the rear of the flatbed. Before he could gain any understanding, Jones stirred and sought to pull himself back up. His fumbling hand brushed a control panel on the car.

  A red light flashed, and an alarm rang out.

  To Dovchenko’s right, light began to stream into the room, brighter and brighter. A set of blast doors trundled open at the far end of the railway tunnel. Daylight flooded inside. Jones turned toward the brilliance and struggled to his feet.

  There would be no escape that way.

  Dovchenko climbed atop the railway car.

  The American swung a fist at Dovchenko, hard, with more strength than the Russian had thought Jones could muster. Still, he barely felt it. He lunged forward and pinned Jones against the rear engine cowling. It took only one hand to hold him in place and the other to throttle
him.

  Dovchenko slowly squeezed his fingers as Jones struggled.

  He enjoyed watching the man’s face turn blue, then desperate.

  This is how you die, Jones.

  His captive’s eyes went wild. Mashed against the cowling, Jones sought some means of escape. Not this time. Sudden movement at the stairs drew their attention. George McHale stumbled into view down the steps, a pistol raised and ready. The Brit took in the situation with a glance.

  “Colonel Dovchenko,” McHale called out. “Irina wants Jones alive. You know that!”

  Dovchenko read the hope in Indy’s eyes. With a sneer of satisfaction, he squeezed harder.

  “Dovchenko!” McHale barked.

  Strangling, Jones cast out a silent appeal to the man who had once been his friend. Dovchenko noted Jones staring hard at McHale, specifically at the pistol—then back at Dovchenko.

  Begging for help, begging him to shoot.

  Instead McHale lowered his pistol and looked away. “I’m sorry, Indy.”

  Dovchenko felt the heart go out of his captive. This last betrayal had killed him more than any throttling fingers.

  Then a loud crash sounded from behind the railcar. A second jeep burst through the door to a narrow access tunnel, carrying three Russian soldiers. There was no escape.

  It was over.

  Dovchenko tightened the fist around Jones’s throat. He leaned forward and whispered in his ear with disdain. “Good-bye, comrade.”

  As Dovchenko straightened, he saw that the defeated look in the man’s eyes had flamed to fury, and he noted where Jones now stared. Before Dovchenko could react, the Americans foot lashed out and kicked a throttle hidden alongside the control panel.

  The jet engine roared to life. Rippling white fire blasted out the back of the rocket, incinerating his fellow soldiers and exploding the jeep’s fuel tank. Dovchenko fell back, letting go of Jones, who slid to his knees, gasping in the heat. The British traitor dove for the cement stairs, chased by flames.

  Dovchenko turned just as the engine fully engaged.

  The railcar detonated down the railroad tracks, turning into a rocket sled. Both men were thrown to a cushioned shield at the back of the car.