CHAPTER 12

Alborán Island—Dawn, October 10th, 1965

Indy touched down on the sloped roof of the neighbouring building, but slipped and cried out in pain as his back hit the arched monk and nun tiles. The medieval tiles began to slide from the roof, carrying Indy with them, and he tumbled into an olive tree amid an avalanche of shattering terracotta.

Indy watched as a small convoy of trucks sped past, racing toward the harbour. But two trucks peeled off and headed through the town, to the far side of the island. Another eruption within the church sent fire and glass exploding from the windows along the north facing aspect.

Indy swung down from the tree. A military truck skidded alongside him. Wells was at the wheel. This girl was full of surprises.

Indy climbed in beside her.

"They've got Mutt," he growled.

"I know!" Wells jammed the truck into gear.

Indy pointed toward the two trucks disappearing through the town.

"Follow those two!"

They shot off in pursuit.

Indy coiled up his whip. He looked to Wells, fury burning behind her eyes.

"You were watching, weren't you, the whole time? You heard everything Cavendish said?"

Wells nodded. "I can't believe he's a Nazi!" She cursed herself. "I can't believe I was taken in by him."

"Don't give yourself a hard time, he had the whole country fooled."

"But now he's got the thirteenth tablet. The map to Irkalla!" She glanced to Indy. "What's he gonna do?"

"I'm not sure... but if I was a betting man, I'd say he wants to finish what his father started," Indy sighed. "I think Cavendish believes he can use the sword to raise an army."

They left the town and the road weaved through an overgrown olive grove and then up over a hill. As they cleared the rise they saw the two trucks parked a few hundred yards ahead at the cliff edge, beside some old farm buildings.

Silhouetted against the pink sky, a trio of small military helicopters, rotors turning, were ready for take off.

The first helicopter rose into the sky. As Indy and Wells got closer they saw Wolff bundle Mutt into the second chopper, which then hovered up and flew out across the sea.

Cavendish and three soldiers climbed onto the third helicopter.

Indy pointed to an old goat shed beside the helicopter.

"Drive as close as you can to that building!"

Before Wells could ask why—and chastise him for barking orders at her again—Indy was climbing from the window and pulling himself up onto the roof of the truck. He got to his feet and leapt from the moving vehicle onto the shed's flat roof. Cavendish's chopper took off. Indy unfurled his bullwhip as he sprinted across the roof. He cracked his weapon, lassoing its tip around the rising chopper's landing skid. Indy gripped his whip tightly, and jumped.

Indy regretted not thinking this through. He was tossed like a kite in the breeze as the chopper soared from the cliff side. He could feel the whip slipping through his palms as he was buffeted by the wind and attempted to haul himself up the braided leather, his arms and shoulders burning like hell.

The helicopters' side doors were open, and Indy could see a soldier readying a mounted machine gun on the chopper up ahead. Moments later bullets were whizzing past Indy. Luckily he was being thrown about too vigorously for the soldier to get a clean shot, but as the machine gun hungrily ate through the ammunition, it was only a matter of time before the bastard got lucky.

Wolff's Luger had been pressing into the back of Mutt's skull for so long he was starting to grow attached to the feel of the cold metal. He watched as the scrawny soldier at the machine-gun barked angrily to himself in Spanish as his target flailed erratically. This CEDADE asshole had clearly been drawn to the military life because of his twisted ideology, rather than his suitability for combat.

There was a fire raging in Mutt. He hadn't been much of a soldier—he never did like taking orders—but glancing around the cabin Mutt reckoned he could take on these half-dozen knuckleheads, even with his hands tied behind his back. Wolff would be another matter, but—with Jones tenaciously on their tail—at this moment in time, Mutt wagered he was worth more to the bastard alive than dead.

Mutt barged at the machine-gun soldier and the pathetic asshole cried out as he fell from the chopper. That was easy.

Wolff dragged Mutt back hard, but as he landed on his back Mutt's feet were free to connect powerfully—and satisfyingly—with the face of another CEDADE soldier, blood exploding from the guy's nose. Before the other four could draw their weapons, Mutt twisted his hips and kicked the soldier nearest the side of the chopper hard in the gut—the guy tumbled backwards, slipped from the vehicle and plunged, screaming as he splashed into the Alborán Sea.

Wolff's arm then clamped tightly around Mutt's neck, and three machine guns were now fixed on him. Still, it had felt good.

Indy had made it about halfway up the whip when the chopper took a nosedive—Indy slipped down the whip again, but managed to just about hang on as he was hauled head first toward the water.

The chopper pulled up sharply and sped forward, just a few feet above the surface of the sea. Indy was battered by the waves, each hitting him with the force of a slow moving vehicle. He rolled onto his back and skimmed along as the sea buffeted his back and shoulders, clinging to the whip with every shred of strength he could muster.

A soldier leaned from the chopper and fired down at him, Indy shielded himself the best he could beneath the helicopter as bullets peppered the water. Hand over desperate hand Indy pulled himself slowly up the whip.

The chopper was rising again, a moment's respite for Indy as he was hoisted from the sea. Then he saw where they were headed; the pilot was aiming to fly directly above Wolff's helicopter. Indy would be chopped into fish bait by the rotor blades.

He frantically pulled himself up and up and up; he grabbed hold of the landing skid and hooked his legs around too, clinging snugly to the metal just as the chopper shot above the other helicopter's rotors. Indy watched as his best whip was sliced to pieces on the whirring blades. Damn.

A heartbeat later and they'd overtaken Wolff's chopper. Indy pulled himself up onto the skid. The soldier pointed his machine-gun at him, so Indy grabbed it and flung the weapon—and the soldier—from the helicopter.

Then he received a boot to his face, Cavendish. Indy fell backwards, but kept a grip of the skid. The chopper was coming up fast on the first helicopter and banked to the left, Cavendish fell back into his seat, buying Indy precious seconds to pull himself up and launch himself into the cabin.

Indy scrabbled with another machine-gun wielding soldier. He jabbed a fist into the guys stomach, then grabbed his face and thrust him backwards out of the cabin.

As Indy turned another soldier lunged at him, his fist connecting with Indy's nose; the archaeologist fell back, his head and shoulders hanging outside the cabin. The soldier was on top of him now, a second blow, then a third, landed painfully in Indy's face. The soldier pulled forward his machine-gun—hanging from a strap on his shoulder—and rammed the barrel at Indy's forehead.

"No wait!" Cavendish barked from the back of the cabin.

Indy saw that Cavendish was holding the Sword of Irkalla.

"Let's provide the doctor with a death worthy of his reputation."

The grimacing soldier sharply jabbed Indy with the machine gun barrel, then begrudgingly climbed from him. Cavendish stepped forward. Steadying himself by gripping the doorframe with one hand, he positioned the tip of the blade shakily at Indy's throat—the sword's icy chill stinging like a bolt of electricity. Cavendish's eyes were wide, crazed with the power he wielded.

"Any last words, Doctor Jones?"

"Things didn't work out too well for the last guy who pointed this thing at me."

Cavendish smiled. Then Indy kicked the feet from under him. Cavendish fell back, the blade brushing past Indy's neck, drawing blood. Indy pulled himself up and grabbed Cavendish's hand, the pair wrestling for control of the sword.

The soldier readied his machine-gun, Indy spun sharply to the left, and the sword sliced into the soldier's arm. The guy yelped in pain, turned and unloaded the machine gun—bullets studding the poor pilot who slumped forward, dead.

The helicopter spun out of control, descending erratically toward the sea. As the world whipped dizzyingly around them, Cavendish lost his grip on the sword and it slid to the back of the cabin.

Indy shoved Cavendish, slamming him into the soldier—the pair tumbled backwards, flailing from the helicopter.

Indy staggered to the cockpit. He pushed the dead pilot aside and dragged himself into his seat. He hadn't sat at the controls of one of these things since the war, when he'd briefly piloted an R-4, running rescue missions in the Pacific. Luckily he could remember the basics. He grabbed the pitch control with his left hand and yanked it back, bringing the nose of the chopper up, moments before it would hit the water. He took the cyclic controls with his right hand and counteracted the power with the antitorque pedals, levelling the chopper out and sending it shooting forward across the surface of the sea.

Indy glanced out the side of the helicopter. He could see the other choppers closing in, and spotted Cavendish being dragged aboard a motorboat, the CEDADE S-Boot in the distance.

Looking forward, and Indy instinctively pulled up on the pitch control, avoiding a head-on collision with a ramshackle fishing boat.

Indy's chopper soared along the North Moroccan coast. Machine-guns opened fire from the other two choppers. Indy tilted left, then right, trying to shake his pursuers. But they kept snug to his tail, one either side, and they were gaining ground. Bullets were eating into both sides of the vehicle, some even whizzed into the cabin, past Indy's ears and through the windshield.

Indy pushed the pitch control down and flew the chopper low along the deserted beaches; the two other helicopters dipped too, he couldn't shake them. Indy lowered the chopper's tail, the rear tips of the landing skids kicked up sand into the gunners' faces, causing them to recoil and ease off the triggers for a couple of beats.

Ahead, a series of low, naturally formed rock arches extended across the beach—the stunning, golden-red sedimentary rock had been sculpted over millennia by the relentless tide. The archways varied in form and size, though none of the entrances were more than thirty feet high, and they were just about wide enough to fit one helicopter through, so long as the pilot kept snug to the sand. Indy shot through the first archway, leaving the other two chopper's with nowhere to go but up—Wolff's chopper pulled back sharply, soaring skyward and narrowly avoiding a fatal collision with the cliff-side. The other chopper pilot wasn't quite so quick to react, and his helicopter collided explosively with the rock-face.

Indy kept low as he skilfully navigated the series of rock formations. Above, Wolff's chopper pushed on, the soldier at the machine-gun continued to shower bullets down at Indy, but the archways provided effective cover.

Indy weaved the chopper through a narrow canyon, then up and banked right, heading inland. But his helicopter was exposed again, and took heavy fire. The soldier kept his aim fixed on Indy's engine and transmission, and soon black smoke was pulsing from the back of the helicopter.

The tail rotor slowed, then the main rotor started to lose power, and the helicopter descended quickly.

Through the cracked windshield Indy could make out a patchwork of red tiled rooftops clustered around the dome of a mosque.

"Oh shit..."

His helicopter was on a collision course with a bustling coastal market town.

He grabbed the controls and steered the best he could. His ears registered the morning adhan emanating rom the mosque; Indy once again found himself hoping there was a God as he attempted to swerve this dead-weight of a helicopter around the mosque's tall minaret—but the rotor blade clipped the head of the tower and suddenly the helicopter was spinning and falling fast.

As the world whizzed by, Indy could see a blur of colour and commotion—the narrow streets of the medina quarter alive with morning traders and customers. The laughter and good cheer replaced with screams of horror as people began to register the five tons of metal careening toward their heads.

Indy pulled back on the controls and guided the chopper the best he could. The helicopter slammed between two three-storey buildings, sparks flying as the chopper scraped the walls of both buildings as it hurtled along the narrow alley. Descending all the time, the helicopter's rotor blades snapped clean off and were flicked back, down the alley—almost spearing a portly fish trader.

The buildings converged and the helicopter started to lose momentum, before finally screeching to a stop—firmly wedged in the narrow alleyway, just a few feet above the heads of bewildered locals.

Indy's heart was pounding; he looked skyward. Maybe someone up there did like him. Then he saw Wolff's chopper hovering overhead.

Smoke started to fill the cabin. Indy jumped from the pilot's seat and flew to the back of the helicopter. He opened a large duffel bag, it contained about twenty pounds of C-4; probably best not to leave plastic explosives in a burning helicopter,besides, it could come in handy.

Indy's gaze was drawn to the Sword of Irkalla. He regarded it warily for a beat. Then he grabbed it; the sword's icy chill taking his breath away.

He dropped the sword in the duffel bag, then placed the silk wrapped tablet carefully beside it.

Throwing the bag over his shoulder he clambered from the helicopter and into the first floor window of a small apartment building.

The old man stopped spreading jam on his bread and looked up. A tall, leatherjacket-wearing stranger was climbing in through his kitchen window. The stranger tipped his brown fedora at the old man and started to speak. The old man was a proficient lip reader—he'd been stone cold deaf for decades—but he couldn't make out what the stranger was saying; the man certainly wasn't speaking Arabic. The stranger threw the old man a crooked smile and placed a handful of American ten dollar bills on the kitchen table. Then he strode out the door.

The old man continued spreading jam on his bread.

Indy stepped into the narrow alleyway, then turned a corner into a heaving marketplace. He could still hear Wolff's helicopter circling overhead as he disappeared into the crowd.

Wolff had Indy's son. But Indy had the artifacts.