Indiana Jones and tyhe Sky Pirates

by Martin Caidin

  Indy accepted the change in tone and attitude. They were down to business. There was another confirmation that at this moment all was well: He hadn't told the driver—Henshaw—where he wanted to go, but Henshaw was making a direct line to The Nest nightclub that was Indy's destination.

  "It is," Indy said brusquely.

  "I'm supposed to ask you some questions," Henshaw said.

  "Ask away."

  "You've got a lot of people hanging on the fence, Professor, and—"

  "Indy. No Professor."

  "Okay. Like I said, there's a lot of fence-hanging going on. Like what was so hot about that train cargo down in South Africa."

  "Treadwell didn't explain?"

  "No, sir. My instructions were to hear it from you directly."

  "Colonel, let's start by your telling me what you've heard," Indy directed.

  "Something about an artifact. The grapevine, which, by the way, is so hot the wires are glowing, has it that the artifact is either from an ancient civilization or," Henshaw hesitated, "I know this sounds crazy, but it may be extraterrestrial."

  In the gloom of the cab's rear seat, Indy smiled. The plan he and Treadwell had put together well before this moment was working. Treadwell was a long-experienced investigator of both military intelligence matters and criminal activities. He believed firmly that it's easier to pass off a big lie than a small one, and when you combine skillful deception with the greed of others you can get people to believe almost anything you want them to believe.

  Indy recalled what Treadwell had told him: "When there's a chance you may lose something very valuable, or it may be taken by force, you can't always defend yourself properly. So the trick is to put a tracer in with your valuables. In many cases you can't use chemicals or a radio signal. Distances, time, other complications; that sort of thing. So you want to trigger an action in the people who've done you dirty, and that way they become the tracer."

  Treadwell had also told Indy it was important for his cab driver—a.k.a. Colonel Harry Henshaw, U.S. Army—to be told the truth, that the artifact in the South African robbery had been engineered in concept by Treadwell. With Indy's unique talents in archeological mysteries, together they had masterminded a fake artifact that seemed to be of such extraordinary rarity that it was almost beyond price.

  "Harry's a strange sort of duck," Treadwell had explained, "but the man is absolutely brilliant. Unique, too, in the way he works. He's like a, well, a walking encyclopedia of thousands of bits and pieces of information that he brings together to make sense out of things that baffle the rest of us. Tell him the truth about the artifact, but, please, Indy, do so when you two are very much alone and your conversation is secure."

  Indy looked about him. Obviously the taxi in which he was riding didn't belong to any cab company. It had to be government property, used for just such "unusual transportation" as of this moment. And since Henshaw would be a very tight member of the group trying to find out what Indy was after, those incredible discs or cresents or saucers, or whatever they were, well, Treadwell was right. Get Henshaw started as soon as possible in his own special investigative way.

  "Harry, is this cab secure?" Indy asked the man at the wheel.

  "Secure? Indy, this thing is armored. So is all the glass. You could empty a Thompson submachine gun at this cab and the bullets would bounce off."

  "I don't mean that," Indy said quickly. "Any recording equipment? Mikes, radios?"

  "No, sir. She's clean."

  "Harry, Treadwell wants you brought into the picture about that artifact."

  The cab swerved suddenly; Henshaw was that taken by surprise. "I... I'm glad to hear that," he said. "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't, well, hanging on the edge to know about it."

  "Don't bother looking at the stars, Harry."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what the expression 'red herring' means?"

  "Yes. A false lead. Something you plant to mislead other people."

  "Well, that cube's a red herring."

  The colonel kept his silence for a while. "You're certain of that, Indy? I mean, we've been hearing such wild stories—"

  "You're supposed to hear them," Indy broke in. "That's been the plan from the beginning. Of course, you do not repeat this to anyone else. Treadwell's convinced there's a leak somewhere in his organization, so he's playing everything close to the vest. But it was his decision you be informed as to what's going on. If Treadwell is right, that cube could give us some good leads."

  Henshaw laughed humorlessly. "You know something? I was hoping, you know, a wild sort of hope, I guess, that it really was from, uh," he gestured with one hand, upward, "from out there."

  "Not this time, Harry." Indy studied the scene outside the cab. "We're almost there. I want you to let me off about two blocks away. Around a corner so no one at the club sees me coming from this cab."

  "Got it. You want a backup?"

  "No. This is a solo job. You know where our group is staying, right?"

  "We'd had the place screened and covered before you landed there."

  "Thanks. It's good to know." Indy gestured to the next street corner. "Let me off just ahead."

  Henshaw eased the cab to the curb. Indy waited until no pedestrians were near the cab. Before Henshaw realized what was happening, Indy had slipped away and was just turning the corner.

  The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker, scuffed boots, and a seaman's knitted cap shuffled clumsily toward the entrance to Chicago's jazz and blues club, The Nest. Indy limped badly in a lurching motion as he approached the brightly lit awning and an entrance doorman about the size of a small grizzly bear. Mike Patterson was all show as a doorman. An ex-prizefighter who failed to make the big time, he was big and tough enough to handle his real job as a bouncer, and as an entrance guard to keep out the bums and riffraff like this shuffle-footed geezer trying to get inside.

  "Beat it, ya bum," Patterson growled at the figure before him. "Y'know something, Mac, y'stink. I betcha ya ain't had a bath in a year of Mondays."

  Not even Henshaw had seen the beard that appeared on Indy's face moments after he left the cab. It was a perfect fit that Gale had prepared for him, using theatrical glue to secure it to his face. Whoever saw this miserable creature would never think of Indiana Jones or anyone who looked like him.

  Stooped over, wheezing, the old "seaman" tried to push past Patterson. "I ain't botherin' nobody," he whined. "Just wanna hear the music, y'know?"

  A massive fist hung threateningly before the disheveled bum. "Ya don't get outta here, y'creep, all ya gonna hear is da birdies singing, y'get me? Now beat it before I whack ya into da middle of next week!"

  "Don't hurt me," the old man pleaded, cringing.

  Patterson guffawed. This was going to be a pleasure. The beefy fist closed around the windbreaker, hauling the other man from his feet until only his toes touched the sidewalk. The other fist drew back to deliver a pulverizing blow.

  It never got started. The old man pushed his face close to Patterson's features. With little effort, he blew a cloud of powder from his mouth into Patterson's eyes. Fire seemed to erupt in the vision of the doorman. He howled with sudden agony, reeling backwards, tripping over an awning stanchion, and falling clumsily to the ground. "I'm blind!" he screamed. "I can't see! My eyes ... I can't see!"

  Several men rushed from the jazz club. They stopped short at the sight of Patterson groveling on the sidewalk, knuckles rubbing his eyes frantically. Jack Shannon of the Shannon Brothers, club owners and managers, took swift stock of the situation. Immediately he grasped the smelly bum by the arm, as much to hold him upright as to keep him on the scene.

  "What happened here, old man?" Shannon demanded an explanation. He gestured to Patterson. "Did you do that?"

  "I didn't mean no harm," the seaman whined. "Want to hear the music, that's all. Gotta listen to this guy, Shannon."

  "How do you know his name?" Shannon barked. The question came without thinking.
Shannon was known through the nightclub life of Chicago. But this creature—

  Shannon stopped abruptly as the old man leaned heavily against him. There was no mistaking the muzzle of the heavy pistol pressed beneath Shannon's armpit. The old man placed his mouth almost against Shannon's ear. The smell of fish and garlic nearly overwhelmed Shannon.

  "Inside," wheezed the old man, coughing a spray of garlicky spittle across the side of Shannon's face. The pistol nudged just a bit harder. "We go in like we was old buddies, got it? Friend of the family. Then we walk to the back of the club, see? We goes into your office and you close the door and you don't let nobody else come in. You got it?"

  Shannon, tall and slender to the point of cadaverous, nodded. This was wildly confusing and he was sure the old man was crazy, but you don't argue with a gun barrel in your armpit. "Okay, okay," Shannon told him quietly. "But take it easy with the hardware, old fellow, all right? You won't have any trouble."

  "Button it, mister." The gun prodded again. "Start walking and don't forget to smile."

  Another wave of fish and garlic prompted Shannon into obeying this crazy bum. Club waiters stared as Jack Shannon, the immaculate high-society blues club owner, waltzed arm-in-arm with some derelict along the dim recesses of the back of the club, but nobody said a word. Shannon was one of the master blues musicians, and everybody knew how many band members were down on their luck in the depression gripping the country. Shannon was a soft touch for his buddies who were down and out. So you minded your own business. They'd seen sights like this before.

  Shannon stopped short of his office door. The gun jabbed against his ribs. "Remember, nobody comes in," came the hoarse whisper of a warning.

  "No problem, old-timer," Shannon said gently. The trick was to keep the old guy from getting excited. A good meal and a shot of whiskey would straighten him out.

  Shannon looked to a large man who eyed the scene suspiciously. "Hey, Syd, this is an old buddy of mine," Shannon told him. "Do me a favor. This is sort of personal and I don't want anyone to bother us, okay?"

  "Yes, sir, I got it, the man said. Something didn't seem right but orders were orders.

  Inside the office the old man turned Shannon back to the door. "Lock it." Shannon turned the lock.

  "Now, sit down in that easy chair. Over there." The stranger stepped back to place distance between himself and Shannon. Now the weapon was visible. Shannon stared down the barrel of a powerful six-shot Webley .445. That thing could take down even a moose with a single round.

  Shannon's brow furrowed. There was something strangely familiar about the weapon he studied. Guns in Chicago were as common as cigarettes. But who carried a Webley? A Smith & Wesson, sure. Or a Colt auto. Even a long-barreled Remington, but—

  Shannon's eyes widened as the old man tossed aside the knitted cap. A moment later he tugged the false beard from his face, and broke into a huge smile. The wind-breaker was tossed aside, and the Webley disappeared beneath a dark blue suede sport jacket.

  "Hello, Jack," the no-longer-old man said.

  Shannon was halfway out of his chair, eyes wide. "I don't believe this," he whispered. "Good Lord Amighty, I don't believe this. Indy!"

  "The one and only," Indy grinned at him. Shannon was on his feet, rushing forward, throwing his arms about his closest friend, hugging him fiercely. They pounded one another on their backs.

  Shannon pushed Indy back, staring at him. "Man, you're a sight for sore eyes," he said, his delight unquestioned. "But... but why the routine?" He held up a hand. "Just hold it a minute, Indy. After what you put me through, I need a drink." He half turned as he took a bottle and two glasses from a wall bar. "And you, old friend, need some mouthwash and a bath!"

  "All part of the show, Jack. Let's have that drink. I can hardly stand this garlic and fish smell any more than you can."

  Shannon brought the glass to Indy, his friend from long-gone schooldays, the same man who'd been his closest pal for years. They clinked glasses and for the moment drank in silence. Shannon poured again, but this time Indy sipped slowly. "You look great, Jack. Still thin as a rail, but—" He shrugged. "How's your playing?"

  "Better than ever. We got a regular crowd now. Some people have the idea I'm setting a new trend with the blues." Shannon finished the second drink, put aside the glass, and dropped back into the easy chair.

  "But I still don't believe all this!" he burst out suddenly. "Indy, what is all this? You didn't need to go through a routine to come in here! We've been pals forever."

  Indy swilled a taste of whiskey around his mouth to cut down the fish and garlic and to remove the last of the powder he'd held in a capsule until he needed it to cut down the doorman. He put down the glass, still half full.

  "It's simple, Jack," Indy said, his tone suddenly serious. "No one but you is to know that I've—that is, Professor Henry Jones—has been here tonight."

  "I don't get it," Jack Shannon answered, as straight as Indy had spoken to him. "In the old days you were a fixture here every now and then. Something wrong, Indy? I mean, you've got to have a good reason for laying low like this." Shannon thought of the past and chuckled. "But then again, you always had a good reason for anything you did. So what's the score, pal?"

  Indy studied the man with whom he'd grown up in his Chicago days. "Jack, you still with the church?"

  "What?"

  "I mean, you always stayed with what your family felt was important. I don't remember you ever missed Sunday in church."

  "I still don't miss it. Just like it always was. Why?"

  "It could affect what I have to ask you."

  "Only way to find out is to ask, Indy. But first, tell me: What did you do to Patterson?"

  "Who?"

  "The gorilla we keep at the front door. I've seen him take on a whole bunch of troublemakers and flatten the place. You had him crying like a schoolgirl."

  "Oh, that." Indy nodded. "Tiger Tears. It's a powder I had some chemists whip up for me. They put it in a capsule and you release it by biting down. Makes the eyes smart and tear. Your man won't see much before tomorrow, but he'll be fine after that."

  "Thanks for telling me. I mean, Patterson's a pretty good guy. He never made it big in the ring and he works hard to protect us in here. Okay, that's all I'm going to ask you, Indy. The way you're talking I guess you're in town for a quick visit and then you're going to split, right?"

  "Right."

  "Same way you came in? Beard, limp, the old bum routine?"

  Indy shook his head. "Uh-uh. When I leave here I'll be a well-dressed society heel, mustache, racing cap, the works. You still have that private exit to the alley for your car?"

  "Sure do."

  "That's how I'll go, then. Want to give me a ride?"

  "You got it. Now, look, Indy, you're not in trouble, are you? I know I asked you before, but, well, I'd do anything for you. You're the best friend I've got."

  "Thanks, Jack. No, I'm not in trouble."

  "You sure you've got to cut out? I mean, buddy, I could play you a couple of your favorite numbers, just for old times' sake, and that all-night joint is still open. Ham, cabbage and beans, right, Indy? Just like we used to do."

  "Just save those cornet numbers for me, Jack. Look, friend, I'm going to ask you for help. But it's not for me. Would it sound too corny for you if I said it was for your country?"

  Shannon's eyes widened. "You a G-man, Indy?"

  Indy laughed. "Nothing like that. I'd like to tell you more, but I can't. Maybe later but not now. You'll have to take my word for it."

  "Okay; shoot."

  "Your partners ran a newspaper delivery business. They still got their fleet of trucks?"

  "Sure thing."

  "Can you get them working if you call them in the middle of the night?"

  "That's when they do most of their work, Indy."

  "I need a bunch of them, Jack. Not tonight, so there's plenty of time."

  "Where you want them?"

  "Milledgevi
lle."

  "What's Milledgeville? Sounds like a home for midgets."

  Indy smiled. "Not quite. It's a town about ninety miles west of here. Bunch of small towns in that area. Polo, Oregon, Chadwick, and Milledgeville. There's a rail line that runs right down a valley where they're located."

  "Maybe you'll tell me why later. How many of my people do you need?"

  "Enough to bring a train to a stop and hold it up tomorrow night."

  Shannon's jaw dropped. For several moments he could hardly speak. Then he burst out laughing. "I thought this was on the level! What'd you do, Indy? Join up with Jesse James and his gang?"

  Indy shared his laughter. "No. But it is on the level. It's a special job, Jack. Like I said, it's for your country."

  "If I was hearing this from anybody else I'd..." Shannon shook his head. "Okay, Indy. I trust you. What's in that train?"

  "Gold. Artifacts. Some stuff like that."

  "What are you after?"

  "We don't care about the gold."

  "Well, that's different. What happens with the gold after it's lifted? I got a hunch you'll be picking that up, too."

  "You're right. But I want the gold returned."

  Shannon's eyes narrowed. "So there's some sort of, uh, well, something you're after. I got to ask you this, Indy. Will you be keeping it?"

  "Only for a little while."

  "This is crazy. I suppose next you'll tell me nobody gets hurt in this caper."

  "That's right."

  Shannon sighed. "I got the right people for this. Okay. I guess you're after one car in particular. Will you have it marked for us?"

  "I'll leave all the details with you."

  "What about guards?"

  "A detail. I don't mind noise and shooting, but nobody needs to get hurt. And I want you to use some special equipment."

  "Okay. In for a dime, in for a dollar."

  An hour later they were through. "Where do you need to go now?" Shannon asked.

  "Farmhouse. Isolated. Twenty miles south of Dubuque, maybe a hundred miles from here."

  "I know it."

  "We'll need to stop at the bus station downtown. My stuff is in a locker there."

  "Okay."