CHAPTER 14

Foothills of the Zagros Mountains, Iran—October 16th, 1965

A shallow stream wove peacefully through a narrow mountain gorge. High above, a dense cedar forest; the giant trees' crowns brushed the heavens. Smaller trees and shrubs lined the banks of the stream, birdsong carried on the gentle breeze.

An untouched Eden.

A flock of citrene wagtails took suddenly to the air—yellow streaks across the deep blue sky. Something had spooked them.

A distant rumbling; low, ominous. The whirr of machinery ripping through the wilderness—crushing bark and pummelling stone.

A dozen armed motorcycles sliced the shallow stream; atop them CEDADE and Pan Iranist soldiers in khaki fatigues.

Then, the Beast emerged; the monstrous armoured truck chewing up the stream and surrounding foliage as it ripped through the ancient idyll. Two eight-foot-high tyres at the front and four at the rear crunched stone and shattered bark; flattening the luscious flora—and any unfortunate fauna—resting in its path.

The open topped truck boasted four machine gun turrets—two at either side—and a front tank-gun atop the drivers cabin for blasting through boulders, trees, and anything else foolish enough to block the Beast's path.

At the rear of the truck, Cavendish watched as Major Meški—stood at the front beside the tank-gunner—hollered at the driver below. The driver responded by slamming on the brakes, sending Cavendish sliding from his seat. The professor looked around self-consciously as he dragged himself up onto the bench, glimpsing the thinnest of smiles on Wolff''s lips. Then the German Major stood and walked toward the front of the truck.

"What is going on? Why are we stopping again?"

Meški snapped. "In case you hadn't noticed, Major, this is not your autobahn. This is a forest. There are trees. You can get out and chop them down yourself, if you prefer."

Cavendish smirked, he'd spent days savouring Wolff's displeasure and the escalating schoolyard rivalry between the two Majors.

Wolff's face reddened, he puffed out his chest and fixed Meški for a couple of seconds before spitting out. "Well, whatever you're doing, do it faster."

Meški turned to the Persian at the tank-gun and yelled.

Moments later, a bone-rattling explosion as the gun launched a missile at a towering cedar, effortlessly tearing through the giant's four foot wide trunk in an explosion of splintered wood. The mighty, centuries-old tree seemed to let out a defiant roar as it toppled in death, the ground juddering as the goliath slammed into the stream and forest floor.

Their path was clear. Meški gave the order and the Beast was on the move once more. The truck's mighty wheels crunched over the fallen tree as they continued on their way, following the meandering curve of the gorge.

Wolff retook his seat beside Cavendish.

"These... savages have no place on our expedition."

Cavendish leaned in close. "For now they are a useful—and expendable—evil. Against those Turkish bandits Meški lost four of his men, whereas our contingent remained un-dented. When we claim our prize they will be easily disposed of"

Wolff snorted. "That's assuming they don't get us all killed before we arrive at this prize."

The Beast stopped suddenly once more—Cavendish grabbed onto his seat, just about saving himself another embarrassing slide.

Wolff jumped to his feet. "What is it this time? Another tree?"

Meški climbed down from the tank-gun. "No, this obstacle is smaller."

Cavendish stood. "Then do your thing! Run it over, or blast it to smithereens..."

"Gladly," Meški replied. "But first you should take a look."

Cavendish sighed, he glanced to Meški and then Wolff, before moving to the front of the Beast and climbing the ladder to the tank-gun. The low sun dazzled, and he shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looking out from this high vantage point Cavendish saw the motorcycles stopped up ahead, each of the riders had pulled their guns, all aimed at a single target. A figure silhouetted, standing atop a rock in the middle of the stream. A man deliberately blocking their path.

Indiana Jones.

Twelve machine-gun barrels pointed at him. Twelve twitchy fingers hovered over the triggers. Indy recognized the CEDADE emblem, of course, but five of the soldiers bore a different badge; inspired heavily by the swastika it was that of the fringe Pan Iranist paramilitary party, if he wasn't mistaken. Cavendish had rustled up some locals with similar fascistic, nationalist ambitions.

Speak of the devil, Cavendish was lumbering from the military truck. And what a truck. This thing was at least twice the size of that jungle shredder he'd encountered some eight years earlier. What he wouldn't give to be in possession of a rocket launcher right now.

Cavendish paced along the bank of the stream. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, then carefully folded it and tucked it in his pocket. He stopped when he reached the motorcycles and machine-gun wielding soldiers, some thirty yards from where Indy stood.

"Doctor Jones, it seems you're full of surprises." The professor's smile wasn't entirely without menace. "You know, I've been thinking, about this... this rivalry between you and I. It has been great fun, but I believe we've approached this predicament in completely the wrong way. Surely a quest of this magnitude is worthy of our combined efforts!"

Indy said nothing.

"What do you say Jones? A collaboration. A partnership. The rewards will be plentiful for us both, I assure you."

Still Indy said nothing.

Cavendish stepped forward. "Come now, Doctor. Please don't be blind to the... the possibilities that lie in wait at Irkalla!"

Still nothing.

Cavendish smiled again.

"You know, belief in an underworld is fundamental to all the world's ancient religions. A place where the dead go on living. The

Egyptians called it Duat, it's Patala in Hinduism, Yomi in Shinto. Each describe entrances and gateways to the underworld, scattered across the globe. King Gilgamesh is reaching out across the millennia. He's leading us to one such gateway!"

Indy glanced over to the monstrous truck. Wolff was climbing down from the back.

Cavendish went on. "You and I, are our desires not attuned? Do we not both yearn for the same thing? A chance to turn back the hands of time." Cavendish paused, knowing the effect these words would have on his adversary. "A chance to bring back those we have lost."

Indy swallowed hard, his face tightening.

Cavendish stepped further forward, his voice sincere, you could mistake it for heartfelt—if the son-of-a-bitch had a heart.

"Indiana, Irkalla offers us both that very chance. Do you choose to die here, today, on this mountainside? Or do you choose to bring back your precious Marion, the love of your life, and hold her once more?"

Indy clenched his fists, but his face remained steely, resolved, and silent.

Cavendish sighed, then his tone changed to one altogether more matter-of-fact.

"Very well. An exchange. The sword for your son."

Indy watched as Wolff dragged Mutt from a compartment on the side of the truck. The kid looked beat, he squinted at the daylight—clearly he'd been balled up in the truck for a while. His hands were bound, his mouth gagged. Wolff jabbed his Luger into Mutt's back and pushed him forward.

Indy nodded. "The kid first."

Cavendish hesitated. So Indy continued. "If you're crazy enough to believe Irkalla exists, then you'll know you ain't getting in without that sword. You want it? Then let the kid go."

Cavendish looked to Wolff and nodded.

Wolff shoved Mutt forward, the ex-soldier staggered and collapsed to his knees in the shallow stream. When had they last given the poor kid something to eat? Something to drink? Indy's heart thumped furiously. But he kept still, he kept it together. For now.

Mutt clumsily got to his feet and slowly dragged himself through the stream toward his father.

Indy stayed still, fought the urge to move toward his son, to grab him and hold him.

As Mutt approached, Indy could see that—despite his bedraggled appearance—there was an inferno of rage burning behind the young man's eyes.

Mutt stepped up onto the rock beside Indy, who pulled the cloth gag from his son's mouth.

"Let's kill them," Mutt murmured. "Let's kill every last one of the bastards."

A tear ran down Indy's cheek. He took a penknife from his pocket and sliced through Mutt's restraints. Then he removed his water cannister and passed it to his son, who glugged greedily.

"The sword, Doctor Jones," Cavendish snorted. "The family reunion will have to wait."

Indy glared at Cavendish. "You want it?" Indy stepped aside—the Sword of Irkalla revealed behind him; stood upright, the tip of its razor-sharp blade had been driven into the stone. "Come and get it."

Cavendish's eyes gleamed with delight.

Indy leaned in close and whispered to his son. "Get ready to run."

Mutt followed Indy's gaze as his father glanced up the cliffside to the top of the gorge.

Cavendish turned to Wolff, relishing the moment. "You can kill them now."

Wolff smiled and snapped orders at the dozen armed soldiers. "Machen sie sich bereit zu schießen!" He counted down. "Drei... zwei...ein... schieß—"

At that instant, the cliff directly above the military convoy erupted. An avalanche of stone rained down on the soldiers—their agonised cries inaudible amidst the tumbling carnage.

Indy watched as Cavendish and most of his small army disappeared behind a surge of sliding rock—the enormous boulders crashing into the river in an explosion of thick grey dust.

Mutt staggered backwards—his father's hand reached out and steadied him.

"We gotta move!"

"Was... was that you?!"

Indy didn't answer—but the C-4 he'd found in the chopper had definitely been worth hanging onto.

Mutt's gaze was drawn to the sword and its faint golden glow. He gripped the handle—a chill jolted through him, but somehow energised him too. He smiled and effortlessly slid the blade from the stone.

Indy was already backing downstream, away from the blast site and the encroaching cloud of grey dust. He called to his son.

"C'mon!"

Mutt regarded the sword for another heartbeat, then hurried after Indy.

A horse—spooked by the explosion—galloped down a steep path in the side of the gorge and raced past them.

"Damn!" Indy muttered—that was Mutt's ride.

Then Talia—on horseback—cantered down the path, leading Indy's ride beside her.

Talia masterfully brought the horses to a stop in the stream beside Indy and Mutt; the poor kid's eyes almost popped from his skull as he caught sight of his old flame.

"What the hell...?" He turned to Indy. "She's with you?!"

"She," Talia said, "just saved your skinny ass!"

Indy tossed Talia an appreciative smile as he climbed up onto his horse. "Good work!"

Downstream, the sound of engines firing up; two armed CEDADE soldiers on motorcycles emerged from the smog. A third motorcycle followed closely behind, with Wolff in the saddle.

Talia turned to Mutt. "Quick, get on!"

Mutt slid the sword into his belt and climbed onto Talia's horse; he gripped her waist, caught the familiar scent of her hair, felt the heat from her body—this day was taking all kinds of twist and turns.

"H-ya!" Indy's horse galloped off.

"Wo-ah!" Talia and Mutt followed.

The three motorcycles cut along the stream in close pursuit.

A deep, monstrous groan emanated from within the tonnes of fallen rock. Moments later the Beast exploded from the mountain debris, tearing along the gorge.

The chase was on.