27 July 2003
Central Park, New York City
Pitt looked into the branches of the tree and then studied the ground beneath the plane. A leather flying jacket, along with a helmet and goggles, its lenses smeared with streaks of blood, was the only trace of the pilot.
Almost miraculously, he had vanished.
As he stood there pondering the mad aviator's disappearance, Pitt heard someone approaching him from behind. He turned, expecting a police officer or Homeland Security official, but instead, found himself facing one of the numerous bystanders that had been collectin at the park throughout the afternoon.
The man was old, with a face wrinkled by age and experience. His single eye still held a roguish sparkle; the other was hidden beneath a large patch. A battered fedora sat upon his silver hair, and he leaned heavily on an eagle-headed cane. Tearing his gaze from the Fokker's wreckage, he said, "They tell me that you're the young man who made quite a hero of himself this afternoon."
Pitt shrugged. "I don't know about that, Mr. –?"
"Jones. Believe me, kid, if they want you to be a hero, you'll be one no matter what you do." His eye returned to the demolished triplane. "I met him once, you know."
"Who?"
"Von Richthofen – the Red Baron, of course." Jones' eye clouded slightly as his mind returned to bygone days. "It was in the spring of 1917, when I was a photographer with the Lafayette Escadrille. We were observing the Germans maybe 25 miles behind the lines when his fighter squadron snuck up on us. They weren't flying the triplanes, yet, but they shot us out of the sky. I ended up climbing out onto the wing to check for damage while my pilot tried not to get us killed." He glanced back at Pitt. "After we crashed, von Richthofen took us prisoner. Green – he was the pilot – was pretty badly wounded and got taken to the hospital. Me, the Baron took home for lunch." Jones smirked slightly as he continued, "I think I might have given him the idea for painting his airplanes red. Anyway, after lunch he sent me off to spend the rest of the war in prison, but I borrowed a car and went back to France, instead." His gaze went back to the plane, as his voice dropped to a whisper. "I wonder what he'd say if saw one of his planes wrapped around a tree in New York City."
Pitt, who was somewhat skeptical of the old man's participation in a war almost ninety years earlier, only said, "That's quite a story, Mr. Jones."
Jones chuckled. "Somehow, kid, I get the feeling you don't believe me. Doesn't matter, really." He clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Pitt." He began walking away.
Slighly confused, Pitt said, "Please call me Dirk, Mr. Jones."
The old man stopped, turned back to Pitt and, with a smile on his face, replied, "In that case, Dirk, you can call me Indiana."
Author's Notes:
I do not own Dirk Pitt, Indiana Jones, Valhalla Rising, Attack of the Hawkmen, or any components thereof.
After I discovered that Indy not only lived in NYC at the end of his life, but met the Red Baron during The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles, I couldn't not write this – the allignment is too perfect. Yes, I do realize that Indy would be about 104 by the time of Valhalla Rising, but I like to think that his encounter with the Holy Grail would have granted him an extended lifespan, if not true immortality.
Oh, yeah - the italicised paragraph at the beginning is directly from chapter 25 of Valhalla Rising.