Indiana Jones
and the
White Witch
Martin Caidin
DON'T MISS ANY OF
INDY'S EXCITING ADVENTURES IN
INDIANA JONES AND THE
PERIL AT DELPHI
INDIANA JONES AND THE
DANCE OF THE GIANTS
INDIANA JONES AND THE
THE SEVEN VEILS
INDIANA JONES AND THE
THE GENESIS DELUGE
INDIANA JONES AND THE
THE UNICORN'S LEGACY
INDIANA JONES AND THE
THE INTERIOR WORLD
INDIANA JONES AND THE
THE SKY PIRATES
AVAILABLE WHEREVER
BANTAM BOOKS ARE SOLD
VALLEY OF DEATH
Indy slowed into a hairpin turn. A huge tree trunk blocked the road and he hit the brakes. Through broken branches he saw eyes peering at him and Gale. She rose in her seat, looking directly at the eyes. Then she slid down slowly.
Indy turned to look again at the tree blocking the road. Before his eyes it began to fade, until suddenly it wasn't there anymore. He shifted into gear; this time he didn't need Gale to tell him to go ahead.
They rounded another turn. He felt as if they drove suddenly through a field, a force field of some kind. Whatever it was, it made his entire body tingle, raised the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. Even his teeth seemed to respond to a vibration he couldn't place. Then it was gone and he knew they were on the other side of what Gale described as "the circle."
Finally he was in St. Brendan Glen.
All about him was horror and death.
The Indiana Jones Series
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed
INDIANA JONES AND THE PERIL AT DELPHI
INDIANA JONES AND THE DANCE OF THE GIANTS
INDIANA JONES AND THE SEVEN VEILS
INDIANA JONES AND THE GENESIS DELUGE
INDIANA JONES AND THE UNICORN'S LEGACY
INDIANA JONES AND THE INTERIOR WORLD
INDIANA JONES AND THE SKY PIRATES
INDIANA JONES AND THE WHITE WITCH
This book is for
TREADWELL OF MOORDOWN
INDIANA JONES AND THE WHITE WITCH
A Bantam Book/April 1994
All rights reserved.
TM and copyright © 1994 by Lucasfilm, Ltd.
Cover art by Drew Struzan.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
* * *
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
* * *
ISBN 0-553-56194-4
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
* * *
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U. S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
* * *
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OPM 0 9 8 7 6
An S522 eBook conversion
1
Three thousand feet above the rugged gullies and thick woodlands of the New Forest of southern England, wind blowing her bright red hair in a swirling billow, Gale Parker yanked back the throttle of the little training plane. The soft ticking of the engine at idle and wind sighing through wings and wires enabled conversation between the front and aft cockpits.
Indiana Jones, startled by the unexpected quiet instead of the engine roar that had become so comforting at this height, glared at the redhead as she turned to look back at him. Before she could speak, he pounded his fist against the cockpit padding.
"Turn it back on!" he shouted. He watched the nose drop below the horizon as they slid off into a downward glide. He didn't like it. He wanted to hear that engine, feel its vibrations, smell the exhaust. That was comforting; this was ridiculous.
Gale laughed at him. "Not to worry, Indy!" she called back. "I have to talk with you."
"Talk to me on the ground!" he yelled. His eyes widened as the high trees began to expand in size as the airplane kept drifting downward.
"This is only your first lesson!" she called back. A wing dipped down. Indy gripped the sides of the cockpit with white knuckles as Gale righted their little craft with a smooth motion. "Are you sure you want the aerobatics?" she asked, the wind thinning her voice.
"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "I don't want to waste time like this! For God's sake, start up the engine!"
"It's running, it's running," she scolded him. "It's idling. One of the things you have to learn. Indy, I'd rather we went into this easily."
"The words!" he demanded, shouting louder. "Stop talking like a woman and start flying like a pilot!"
She smiled, teeth white in the afternoon sun. "Whatever pleases you, ducks!" she called merrily. She turned around, then back again. "Remember, Indy! Keep your hands on the controls and follow through with me. Got it?"
He gripped the stick and planted both feet on the rudder pedals. "Got it!"
"Go with me, but don't fight me on the controls!"
"I won't, blast it!" he shouted angrily. "Just fly!"
He felt the throttle knob move forward under his left hand. Immediately the engine roared fully to life and the nose came back to level.
Her voice drifted back to him. "All right, luv! Here we go! Like you say, no holds barred!"
The nose dropped sharply. They seemed to be diving straight for the trees. The wind howled about him. Was she crazy? What was she doing.now?
The stick in his right hand pulled back sharply toward him with a force so great he felt a brief pain in his wrist. Abruptly the trees before him fell away and blue sky and white clouds were everywhere. He felt as if an elephant had suddenly sat on his chest and head and arms. His feet were leaden as Gale hauled back into a tight inside loop, the airplane rushing upward, continuing over. Through the upward climb, the centrifugal force, what these lunatic pilots called g-forces, mashed him down in his seat, hung his lower lip low, and sagged sudden bags under his eyes.
The pressure was gone; now he was hanging upside down. He was falling out of the airplane! No, he wasn't! His seat belt and shoulder harness supported his weight or he would have tumbled out of the cockpit. His stomach sent him a warning complaint, the engine roar abruptly ceased, the stick moved forward, then hard back again, and the wind's shriek increased rapidly as they hurtled downward in a wide soaring plunge.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to focus on the controls. He gritted his teeth, determined to be the best student the lithe redhead had ever flown with. They pulled out into level flight, Gale advanced the throttle, the engine thunder comforted him, and without warning he felt the left rudder pedal slamming down. The right pedal came back and shoved his leg back and his right knee up, and in the same movement the stick slammed back against his body.
Gale whipped the trainer into a wild snaproll, hurling the aircraft forward through a gyrating, twisting maneuver that made mush out of the horizon. Indy could see only a blur of sky, clouds, and trees. He had no idea where he was and what he was doing as Gale followed up with another snaproll, then eased l
evel.
Again she pulled the power back to idle and twisted in her seat to look at him. "How you doing, ducks?" she called.
He swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth, felt his heart trying to jump from his chest. He tasted blood where he'd bitten his own tongue, but still he managed to offer her a smile. Gale recognized the signs; Indy's grin was more that of a death's-head than of someone having a good time.
He thought he heard her call out something like "hammerhead" before the advancing throttle drowned out her words. "Hammerhead?" What did a shark have to do with this? "Uhhhh." He realized the sound was dribbling from his own mouth as she hauled back again on the stick; they were going straight up now, and—
"We're too slow!" he was shouting uselessly beneath the storm of sound from engine and wind. The airplane went straight up, almost hanging on its propeller. As the speed fell away he felt it vibrate and tremble, and he knew they were going to fall out of control. The whole frame shuddered, and abruptly that left rudder slammed down again, the stick banged to the side, and the airplane went into a perfect rolling half cartwheel through its hammerhead maneuver.
Gale went straight up and straight down. She flew knife-edged maneuvers so that the wings were vertical to the ground. She rolled and jackknifed, whirled, hauled up into a steep climb, chopped the power, and slammed down on left rudder.
The world went mad as they whipped into a tight tail-spin. He couldn't believe the scene before him. Over the red hair whipping in the wind and the blur of the propeller, the world rotated madly as they went straight down. But that was impossible! He forced himself to think through the cotton he felt being stuffed into his head. He knew his stomach was about to revolt, but through it all he realized he was seeing an optical illusion. It wasn't the world whipping about; it was them.
Gale kicked right rudder, shoved the stick forward, and the rotation stopped with a jolt that banged Indy's head on the side of the cockpit. Again they were level. Gale turned to see a greenish pallor across Indy's face. She knew the signs. "Oh, no!" she called aloud to herself. Immediately she crossed the controls—barely in time as Indy hung his head and shoulders over the edge of his cockpit and offered up everything he'd eaten the last day to the world far below.
He felt ghastly. He fumbled for a handkerchief. He felt as if he were drooling. His stomach was still upside down and he knew his eyes were crossing. But since he'd thrown up, he felt better, and—
The dry heaves hit next, and again he was hanging over the cockpit, hating the moaning sounds that rumbled up through his throat. He had nothing left to offer the wind, but his body muscles still spasmed. Finally he just hung along the cockpit edge in an imitation of a wet rag, looking straight down at the thick woods below. They were still over the New Forest, and through the yellow haze before his eyes he recognized the buildings and hamlet of St. Brendan Glen.
His senses took over swiftly. Something was terribly wrong beneath them. In that moment his unease fled, his stomach behaved, his mind went back to work.
Flashes of light pierced the high tree canopy, then bursts of red flame slivered upward. He stared down in disbelief. Those were concussion waves rippling along the treetops! That was Caitlin St. Brendan's home down there! Her village... and it was being torn with explosions and spreading flames.
Indy banged his fist against the side of the airplane. Gale turned, grinning. Her smile vanished as she saw the distressed look on his face. As loudly as he could, he shouted to her, "Kill the power!" She rolled level, yanked the throttle back.
He pointed to the ground. "Caitlin!" he shouted. "Gale, look down there! Those are explosions!"
Thick smoke was already flowing across the trees. "Oh, no," Gale murmured. "We've got to get there right away!" she called back. "Hang on, Indy! We'll be on the ground in ten minutes!"
For the first time he didn't mind the wild curving power dive as she went at full speed for the grass airfield on Salisbury Plain. He couldn't miss the sound of desperation in Gale's voice. Down below, in the heavily wooded St. Brendan Glen, were Gale's closest, lifelong friends. Especially Caitlin, more than a friend, closer than a sister. A soul mate. Something horrible was happening beneath those trees. Indy was much too familiar with the flash detonation of powerful explosives and the outward-spreading ring of concussion waves not to realize that the remote hamlet was being ravaged by unknown assailants for some inexplicable reason.
Indy slipped lower in his seat, away from the wind that now shrieked past the little airplane in its reckless dive for a landing. A deep sigh went through his body. He had waited for months to break away from the demands of not one, but two universities. Albeit grudgingly, he had been given a sabbatical from Princeton as well as London University, and only days into his long-delayed freedom, he knew that whatever was going on below them in the New Forest was about to destroy any quiet in his life.
He had the feeling he was going to miss the tedium of the classroom.
On the ground, feet planted solidly within ivy-bedecked walls, Indy lived a life far removed from that of an explorer and adventuring archaeologist whose well-being, to say nothing of his survival, depended so often on his knowledge of local customs and language, his quick wit, and the physical prowess of a man as skilled at mountain climbing as he was at skiing across desolate arctic wastes.
His other, adventurous life was aided in no small degree by his skill with the powerful bullwhip and Webley .44-caliber revolver he was forced to use when his closest companion was imminent death.
But to the academic world he was Professor Henry Jones, learned teacher of medieval literature at Princeton University, a tall man of bookish habits in coarse tweeds, who peered owlishly through wire-rim glasses at his students. Those students, and the Princeton faculty, never knew when Professor Jones would appear on schedule to minister to the young minds awaiting him. Princeton had a special relationship with Sir William Pencroft, the crusty, wheelchair-bound chairman of the Department of Archaeology of London University. That relationship enabled Pencroft to call upon Princeton for Professor Jones's services for field research in hostile lands.
Jones's extraordinary skills in ancient languages were renowned throughout the world of archaeological studies. He delved into the past with an almost casual air, as much at home among ancient ruins as he was in the classroom. His research and investigations had taken him across Europe, through the United States, down to the diamond mines of South Africa, and to Asian cultures still not known to ethnographers. In every respect Professor Jones, known in the field as Indiana Jones, a name he far preferred to his scholastic title, was a time-travel detective. Ancient languages, artifacts, long-forgotten cities came alive for him, and it was these skills that Sir William judged invaluable.
But Indy could not be all things. Through the years he had tried time and again to learn to fly an airplane. This ability would shrink distances for him, open new vistas, and gain him many hours otherwise lost in tedious surface transport. In a recent adventure during which he had pursued a criminal group bent on gaining international economic, industrial, and military strength, he had traveled in a rugged, ugly three-engined beast of an airplane not only in Europe and the United States, but also across the Atlantic Ocean. His time in the Ford Trimotor, which he helped navigate and had even taken the controls of for brief periods, only hardened his determination to become a pilot in his own right.
As a result of this desire, he now found himself several thousand feet above the rugged gullies and thickly covered landscape of the New Forest of southern England, flying from a grass airstrip on the Salisbury Plain. Never had he thought his instructor would be a woman! But he had enormous confidence in the fiery redhead. She had been aloft since she was a young teenager and had flown gliders; since then she had progressed to everything from small seaplanes to heavy airliners.
Gale Parker had become in many ways his partner in their recent adventure—misadventure, he corrected himself—across continents and oceans. This in itself was a dr
astic departure for Indy, who preferred to operate on his own, without having to care for and protect other people. However, the more time he spent with this woman, keen-minded and swift in her reactions, the greater was his respect for her.
They had met in the New Forest, by accident, when each was stalking the same wild boar. Indy used a powerful bow and arrow, she a crossbow of her own design and making. A slight rustle in the bush brought her about faster than he believed possible; then a bolt hurtled away and the animal fell with a steel shaft through its brain.
She fascinated him. He studied her features carefully and then he caught her by surprise. "Your name—"
"Gale Parker."
"That isn't your name," he said coolly.
"Oh?" An eyebrow went up; she tilted her head to study this stranger for whom she had an instant liking. There was something special about this man, a self-confidence evident in every move he made. And his eyes! They seemed, even in the brief time since they nearly collided in the thick glen, to miss nothing. They were piercing, knowing.
"Then tell me, stranger—"
"Jones. Indiana Jones."
"A strange name, indeed."
"But not as strange as yours." He laughed.
"Why," she asked slowly, "do you deny me my name?"
"Because it is English, and you have blood in you that is not from this land."
"You are perceptive."
He shrugged, waiting.
She amazed herself by telling him, "I am Mirna Abi Khalil. My father's name."
"Bedouin?"
"A ruler. A bloodline unbroken for hundreds of years."
He studied her carefully. "But your mother—"
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