Indiana Jones and tyhe Sky Pirates

by Martin Caidin

  "Most men who drink as much as you do," observed Gale Parker, watching Cromwell with mixed distaste and admiration, "would have passed out long ago. Instead, you just seem to get as nervous as a cat trying to get out of a cage. How do you do it?"

  Cromwell blinked at her. The fiery redhead, quite beautiful in a most rugged fashion, had caught him unawares. Women usually expressed some empty-headed prattling criticism. But not this one. They knew little of her. Even her accent defied identification, but Cromwell, adept at many languages, recognized Parker's linguistic flexibility with her first words. She was feminine, but imbued with a strength he recognized and respected: a physical strength as well as some inner force. He saw quickly that in many ways she paralleled Indy's own style. She had long been a loner; Cromwell knew the look in the eyes, and he respected any woman strong enough to maintain her presence of self in a world where she was surrounded by men who regarded women as intruders in "their" world.

  What Cromwell could not determine, but was so well known to Indy, was that her appearance as an American, or at least someone from eastern or northern Europe, had been carefully manufactured and nurtured. Gale Parker was the name she adopted when she decided that she wished neither her Mediterranean background nor her real name, Mima Abi Khalil, to signal that much information about her. Her father was Muslim, but Gale, at the time still a youngster known to her friends as Mima Abi, spent her formative years with her mother, Sybil Saunders, in England's New Forest. The elder Saunders was a bona fide witch of the Wicca religion, and was the senior of an unbroken line of witches and covens going back fourteen hundred years. Born in 1899, as was Indy, Gale had devoted her entire life to intense discipline in academics and skills in the field, living off the land and learning to "read" the signs of wildlife, as well as recognizing the artifacts of her mother's native land stretching six thousand years into the past.

  She tripled up on her academics, took strange herbs from her mother that let her rest fully on four hours of sleep every night, and earned her doctorate in ancient cultures by the time she was but twenty-four years old. Living in the New Forest, trained by masters of ancient traditions, she was intensely athletic, but in the real world rather than in field and track competitions. Mountain climbing, swimming, hunter tracking, acrobatics, even expertise in jujitsu learned from an elderly Japanese who had adopted his own lifestyle to that of the Britons, all these had created a brilliant versatility in one so young.

  It was on one of her trips into deep forest that she met Indiana Jones as he moved through ancient ruins in the thick woods. The encounter was one of instant competition between wills. This strange American fascinated her, for he knew as much of the Celtic past as she herself. When she learned he was a professor her admiration lessened rather than increased and she took no steps to hide her feelings. To her professors were stodgy, closeted behind ivy-festooned walls, and experts at talking rather than doing. Yet here he was in the thickets and, like her, living off the land.

  An unexpected fight for life changed them both. Walking together through thick woods, Gale stopped Indy with a sudden touch on his arm. She had frozen in place; he did the same. Immediately she had her powerful bow in her hands, arrow strung, ready to draw and shoot. At that moment a huge wild boar erupted from nearby bushes, charging directly at them. Gale had the bow back fully and in one swift motion fired. The arrow went straight and true, burying the notched head deep into the animal's shoulder. The boar went to a knee, but was up, enraged, still able to run at them with a limping gait. The wound would not protect them against the fierce tusks. Gale had already snatched another arrow from her quiver and was ready to shoot. Too late! The animal charged her directly. Suddenly she felt herself lifted through the air and hurled to the side.

  "That tree!" Jones shouted. "Shoot from there!" She saw the wisdom of his move. She would be out of range from the tusks and she could still release her arrows. But even as she clambered to the safety of a branch she was ready to come down again. Indy had no weapon she could see and now the enraged animal was turning on him. It was her turn to be amazed as she watched Indy pulling open his jacket; a moment later a huge bullwhip was in his hand and whistling through the air. A crack like a pistol shot sounded as the whip end lashed across the eyes of the boar. It screamed in sudden pain, blood spurting as though a knife blade had sliced open its tough hide. It spun swiftly, charging again. Indy had time for one more slashing strike with the whip. He aimed at a foreleg. The whip whirled about the leg and Indy ran to the animal's side, jerking with all his strength on the handle.

  "Shoot!" he yelled as the animal tripped and for a moment fell over onto its side, its vulnerable belly exposed. Gale sent an arrow deep into the animal, then another and another. The boar thrashed about madly. Gale found Indy seated calmly by her side on the tree branch.

  "We'll just wait until it dies," he told her.

  She stared at him in amazement. She'd never seen anything like that whip or the incredible speed and power he wielded against the beast. "Where... where did you ever learn... I mean, how did you do that?"

  He held the whip handle easily. "I've had this since I was a kid. I learned to use it against snakes, mainly. When it was serious, that is." He hefted the handle again. "It'll slice a rattler or a copperhead in two just like a bowie knife." He offered a crooked grin. "You're no slouch with that Robin Hood outfit of yours, either. You saved both of us a nasty time when you fired that first arrow."

  "There wasn't time to think," she said quietly.

  "That's the rule in moments like these. Don't think. Acta non verba."

  "Deeds, not words," she replied in translation from the Latin. "Whoever you are, you surprise me. An American, which is obvious, with a bullwhip and using an ancient tongue."

  Again that lopsided grin. "We'll try languages later. In the meantime, I hope you're as good a cook as you are a bowman."

  "Woman," she emphasized.

  He scanned her from head to toe. "What's obvious doesn't need explanation."

  She was amazed. She blushed. She slipped down from the tree, wary of the animal still twitching. In a moment he was beside her. "Take your choice—whatever your name is."

  "Parker. Gale Parker."

  He extended his hand. "Jones. Indiana Jones. You want to do the honors with dinner or gather firewood?"

  "I'll cut, you gather."

  Over the fire, dining on fresh meat, they talked well into the night. That first encounter sealed an unspoken relationship. Instant friendship, but with a mixture of exasperation, wit, brilliance, and a shared distaste for the social world. He marveled at her deep instinctual knowledge of ancient arts and cultures, her comfortable depth with the black arts of gypsies, and she had him wondering with her admitted research into the paranormal. But she was as good a scientist in the ancient worlds as she was a woodsman. Indy was more than familiar with the spirits and gods of cultures throughout the world, but he had never encountered such depth on a personal level.

  In the years following their initial encounter in the deep woods, they kept in touch. They had worked together on several research projects, and she had, somewhat dubiously at first, even joined him with studies at the University of London.

  And then had come that unexpected call. A special project, he called it. It meant fast travel, it promised danger, it was extraordinarily important. "That's all I can tell you now. You'll learn the rest later. But I want you as part of my inner group. No reservations. Yes or no?"

  She sighed. She knew she couldn't turn him down.

  Now she was waiting, bemused by what she didn't know, in an isolated farmhouse in a place called Iowa, waiting for Indy to return from Chicago or wherever to join his, well, unusual was a gentle term for this oddball mixture Indy had gathered about him.

  And as complex and impressive as was Willard Cromwell, she had never met anyone quite like Tarlaz Belem. Except that on the moment of her first meeting with the swarthy Kurd, one word leaped into her mind: Danger.


  Tarlaz Belem was one of the most amoral human beings she had ever met. His connection with Indiana Jones confused her, for Tarkiz seemed his opposite in intelligence, compassion, wit, and just about everything else Indy represented. Yet Jones had personally sought out the swarthy Kurd—if that were true—for their special mission.

  No one, Indy knew, was better qualified in the scummiest of dives and back rooms of the Middle East and the Mediterranean border lands than Tarkiz. He was at home in every language of those lands, from high political office to the dregs of the gutter. He seemed to have critical contacts at every level of those countries, including even roving Bedouin bands. And yet, he could also gain entry to the Vatican if that were his wish.

  "He's got something on everybody," Indy had explained to Gale, "and no one knows better than you that in that part of the world there's no better passport. If Tarkiz were to be assassinated, there'd be an explosion of scandals from the information he's placed in different bank vaults to be released on confirmation of his death. So it behooves the people he deals with to play ball with him, to meet whatever it is he wants. The man is greedy and grasping beyond belief, but he's also smart enough to know that you make deals that work both ways. It pays people well to do his bidding. He takes good care of them as well."

  "You said he was smart," Gale said, irritated that Indy would even use that word in the same sentence with the name of Tarkiz Belem.

  Indy grinned at her. "Okay, so he's got the intelligence of a goat. But it's a very shrewd goat."

  "And he smells like one," Gale murmured.

  Indy laughed. "So true! But think of it this way, Gale. Even if you can't see him, you'll always know when he's coming."

  She couldn't help her smile. Indy never held a cup that was half empty; it was never less than half full.

  "Is he really a Kurd? I mean, he could be from the original Iraqi clan, or Turkish, or Indian or Afghanistan. How can you tell? The man has more than one passport and—"

  "Fourteen," Indy broke in. "Look, no one can survive the way he does in the places he goes. He's multilingual. He's as tough as nails. He grew up in gutters and back alleys and learned to survive by his wits. You seem to resent his lack of formal education, but he's got the best qualifications in the world for digging up information where no one else could even get the right time of day."

  "He's a criminal, isn't he?" she pressed.

  "No doubt about it. Officially, he's wanted in at least five countries for a list of crimes longer than your arm. But every time he's arrested, the charges are dismissed and he's back on the streets in an hour. He buys his freedom with money, blackmail, contacts; anything and everything. The word is that for years he was a professional assassin."

  Gale shuddered. "No doubt. Women and children, too."

  "If that's the job, I'd have to agree with you. What's crazy about this man," Indy continued, "is that he has his own code of ethics and he sticks to it like glue. I can't fault him for that. He's the product of an environment where skullduggery and killing are as normal as coffee and apple pie are to me back home. From where I sit, it's his religion that keeps me a bit on edge about him."

  "His religion?" Gale sputtered.

  "Gold. He's religious to the point of paranoia to the Great God of Gold. Not just money. I mean the metal. Gold in any form. Jewelry, ingots, coins; whatever."

  "I wonder," Gale said darkly, "how many gold teeth he has in his hoard."

  Indy didn't laugh. "No doubt, a bunch."

  "Aren't you afraid that someone else will offer him more money than you're paying him?"

  Indy caught her by surprise. "Oh, I'm not paying him in coin of the realm. No money, I mean."

  "Then—?"

  "There's an old saying, Gale. It says that every man has his price. It's not true that anyone can be bought if the payment is high enough. The reality is that everyone has a price—or a reason. Even to someone like Belem, there's something that transcends money. Or gold, for that matter."

  "And you know that reason?"

  He smiled at her by way of answer. She knew when to quit. Quickly she changed the subject. She directed her gaze to the fifth member of their group. "Our Frenchman. He seems the exact opposite to Belem."

  Indy glanced at Rene Foulois. "Oh, he is. Decidedly. He can gain entrance to places just about impossible to the rest of us. Kings, emperors, presidents, dictators, just about anyone and anywhere."

  "I don't know very much about him."

  "He's a pilot. A master aviator. So is Cromwell. And having two pilots, each equally skilled, is insurance."

  She never did learn his true background. Foulois had been a famed fighter pilot in the Great War, responsible for more than forty kills of German aircraft. That made him an ace eight times over, a sensational hero in France. It didn't hurt that he was tall and slender, with a whipline of a mustache, and that he was skilled in the social and diplomatic graces. He was the darling of the international social and diplomatic set. The Foulois family owned huge vineyards; their superb wines went to every corner of the world. Wealth is always a welcome passport, and Foulois was daring, brave, a national hero, wealthy, brilliant, and charming, openly granted "welcome passports" by a dozen governments.

  It was all cover, but the cover was real. Which served perfectly to conceal Foulois's position as a special secret agent of the French Foreign Legion, which made all the world his assignment. By long-standing agreement with the national police of many countries, the legion's undercover arm had a "reach" into almost anywhere in the world. The group spread its tendrils everywhere, operating under the legal and profitable International Wine Consortium, Ltd., with offices in Bordeaux as their headquarters.

  To Foulois, the Jones Project, as the special operation became known in high circles, was an amusing diversion from social and diplomatic functions. At heart, Foulois remained the quintessential fighter pilot, seeking action that would keep alive within him the flame of combat and the exhilaration of risk.

  He also thought the entire affair was utterly ridiculous. Foulois had been assigned to Indiana Jones by none other then Henri DuFour, head of the French Secret Service. When he described to Foulois the crescent-shaped machines and their huge mother ship, Foulois reacted with disdain. He simply did not believe a word of it, no matter what any eyewitness so claimed.

  Yet he accepted his subordinate position without hesitation. DuFour had put the case convincingly. "It does not matter what we believe about these fantastic machines, Rene. What matters is that the war with Germany has been over only twelve years and we are faced with a Hun who is already rearming with a frantic pace. You are aware of the training program in Russia for the Germans? For their navigators and pilots especially? Good; then you know how serious this may be. We must find out the specifics of what the Hun is doing. That is your task. You will work for this American fellow, and you will proceed as if you believe everything."

  Foulois nodded. "It promises great sport. I understand they will modify one of their Ford aeroplanes. The trimotored machine. I look forward to flying it."

  In the meantime, isolated in the lonely farmhouse, chafing at the bit, they all wondered what Jones could possibly be doing in Chicago that was so important to keep them on edge all this time.

  They would simply have to wait.

  4

  The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker and a seaman's cap snugged to his head walked briskly, with the sign of a slight limp, through the Chicago bus terminal. Anyone who saw the man would remember those salient points; the clothing, the cap, the aura of strength, and that slight odd walk tipping him to one side as he threaded through the crowds.

  Outside the terminal he stood close to the building, watching lines of people disappearing within a slowly advancing stream of taxicabs. Soon the crowd had thinned, and he turned to walk along the line of taxis. He seemed casual or nonchalant in his movement, but his eyes moved carefully from one cab to the next until he saw the yellow-and-red markings of the vehicle for
which he'd been searching. The seaman stopped, cupped a cigarette lighter between his hands, and pressed a button. No flame appeared, but a tiny bright light flashed rapidly. Almost at once the cab's headlights flicked on and off two times. The seaman slipped the "lighter" back into a pocket, walked to the cab, and climbed inside. The moment the door closed the driver pulled out into traffic.

  "Nice evening, sir," the driver said, studying his passenger through the rearview mirror.

  "Except that the kitchen's too crowded," came the answer.

  "More saucers than cups, I'd say."

  "You prefer your tea hot or cold, sir?"

  The passenger smiled to himself. "I like my coffee black."

  That was the confirming line for Professor Henry Jones to make to the driver. Now he had his final fine to accept from, the driver.

  "As I do. Pour it into the saucer to cool it off quickly."

  "Excellent," said Jones.

  "Treadwell does overdo this back-and-forth a bit, doesn't he?" The driver laughed.

  "Depends," Indy said noncommittally. "You know his routines. I hardly know the man. I didn't get your name," he added quickly.

  "I didn't give it. Suppose you tell me what it is and we can dispense with all this secret palaver."

  "Colonel Harry Henshaw, United States Army. Fighter pilot, test pilot, technical intelligence, experimental projects."

  "Professor Henry Jones. Professor of Medieval Lit and Studies from dear old Princeton," the driver said. "How come they don't call you Hoosier instead of Indy?"

  Indy laughed. No question now that this was the army officer Treadwell had set up for this meet. "Most people can't spell Hoosier, I guess."

  Henshaw chuckled, then cut off his mirth as if with a switch. "Your plans still on for the train tomorrow night?"