Indiana Jones And The Army Of The Dead
by Perry, SteveEdition: Original
Format: Paperback
Pub. Date: 2009-09-29
Publisher(s): Del Rey
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Summary
There's no rest for the weary treasure hunter, but that's how Indiana Jones likes it. Fresh from spying for the Allies in the thick of World War II Germany, the globe-trotting archaeologist doesn't need much persuading to join his cohort "Mac" McHale in searching for one of the most coveted of artifacts: the fabled black pearl known as the Heart of Darkness. But the partners in adventure are not alone on their foray into the mysterious jungles of Haiti. German and Japanese agents are in hot pursuit, determined to possess the ebony artifactand its secretsfor their own sinister purposes. And shadowing them all is an infamous voodoo priest, with powers of both diabolical science andblack magic at his command. On a treacherous odyssey across the Island of the Dead, where the legend of the zombi looms large, spiders, snakes, and booby traps will prove the least of Indy's challenges. And capturing the prize will be child's play compared to confronting an enemy unlike any other, whose numbers are legion and nearly impossible to killbecause they're already dead. . . .
Author Biography
Steve Perry wrote for Batman: Ther Wars: Shadows of the Empire, and wrote the bestselling novelization of the blockb Animated Series during its first Emmy Award-winning season, authored the New York Times bestsellers Star Wars: Death Star (with Michael Reaves) and Stauster movie Men in Black. Perry has sold dozens of stories to magazines and anthologies, and has published a considerable number of novels, animated teleplays, nonfiction articles, reviews, and essays. He is currently the science fiction, fantasy, and horror book reviewer for The Oregonian.
Excerpts
Chapter One
In the Air over the Windward Passage,
Eight Miles West of Haiti
Summer 1943
Indy hated small airplanes.
Yes, yes, planes were necessary evils, he knew. If there was going to be a race to collect an ancient trea sure in the modern world of 1943, the winner wasn’t going to be the guy who sailed ’round the Horn on a clipper ship to find it. Flying was a sharp knife in any field archaeologist’s tool chest— but because planes werenecessary didn’t mean he had to like the blasted things. Or trust them. Oh, sure, mostly they flew just fine. Sometimes they didn’t. After the third or fourth time one came down hard enough to blow out the tires or break the undercarriage, he was less trusting. Yeah, you did what you had to do to get where you needed to get. Someday your number was going to be up no matter what you did. No point in worrying about it too much, but . . . flying around like a bird?
Because of his OSS training, Indy knew more about aircraft than he wanted to know, and this one— a Taylor/Piper J-2 that looked a lot older than it could possibly be— seemed to be held together with baling wire and prayer. It was noisy, underpowered— a forty- horsepower engine was stock, it weighed a little over 500 pounds empty, and with Mac, who had to go 210, and Indy at about 190? That was the maximum cargo capacity right there. Raul, the little Cuban pi lot, was small, but even he had to go 140, and that didn’t count the weight of the fuel and what luggage they had, and all that meant this plane ought not to be able to get off the ground. Yet here they were, cruising two thousand feet above the Ca rib be an, at all of sixty miles an hour. Yeah, Raul said he had rebuilt the engine and perked it up a fair bit, but even so, that it had taken off three times with them so far? That was still amazing— They say that bad thoughts draw the dev il’s attention. The engine sputtered, was silent for what seemed like a thousand years but was probably only a second, and Indy’s belly roiled as if it contained a most unhappy lizard trying to get out. The imaginary creature wasn’t too choosy about its exit route, trying to go up and down at the same time . . .
Indiana Jones said a word that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap in polite family circles. Mac laughed.
The pi lot said something in rapid Cuban Spanish, and he laughed, too.
“He said—” Mac began.
“I heard him,” Indy said. “I’m sitting righthere,third guy in a two- seater, and since I know there is no aerodynamic way this thing can stay up, hebetterhave an in with the Virgin Mary.”
“You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
Mac—George McHale— was British to the core, and MI6. He and Indy had been paired on a dozen secret assignments for either His Majesty’s government or Uncle Sam, mostly in Eu rope, a couple in the Pacific, and while Mac was a good man to have covering your back, he was also prone to recklessness. Indy had saved Mac’s bacon more often than the other way around, though he did have Mac to thank for keeping him alive a few times— and his recent increase in rank. That latter was a mixed blessing. Indy hadn’t even wanted to be inonearmy, much lesstwoof them, and he had just gotten used to being “Major Jones” in one of them, and now he was a light colonel.
Well. In
In the Air over the Windward Passage,
Eight Miles West of Haiti
Summer 1943
Indy hated small airplanes.
Yes, yes, planes were necessary evils, he knew. If there was going to be a race to collect an ancient trea sure in the modern world of 1943, the winner wasn’t going to be the guy who sailed ’round the Horn on a clipper ship to find it. Flying was a sharp knife in any field archaeologist’s tool chest— but because planes werenecessary didn’t mean he had to like the blasted things. Or trust them. Oh, sure, mostly they flew just fine. Sometimes they didn’t. After the third or fourth time one came down hard enough to blow out the tires or break the undercarriage, he was less trusting. Yeah, you did what you had to do to get where you needed to get. Someday your number was going to be up no matter what you did. No point in worrying about it too much, but . . . flying around like a bird?
Because of his OSS training, Indy knew more about aircraft than he wanted to know, and this one— a Taylor/Piper J-2 that looked a lot older than it could possibly be— seemed to be held together with baling wire and prayer. It was noisy, underpowered— a forty- horsepower engine was stock, it weighed a little over 500 pounds empty, and with Mac, who had to go 210, and Indy at about 190? That was the maximum cargo capacity right there. Raul, the little Cuban pi lot, was small, but even he had to go 140, and that didn’t count the weight of the fuel and what luggage they had, and all that meant this plane ought not to be able to get off the ground. Yet here they were, cruising two thousand feet above the Ca rib be an, at all of sixty miles an hour. Yeah, Raul said he had rebuilt the engine and perked it up a fair bit, but even so, that it had taken off three times with them so far? That was still amazing— They say that bad thoughts draw the dev il’s attention. The engine sputtered, was silent for what seemed like a thousand years but was probably only a second, and Indy’s belly roiled as if it contained a most unhappy lizard trying to get out. The imaginary creature wasn’t too choosy about its exit route, trying to go up and down at the same time . . .
Indiana Jones said a word that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap in polite family circles. Mac laughed.
The pi lot said something in rapid Cuban Spanish, and he laughed, too.
“He said—” Mac began.
“I heard him,” Indy said. “I’m sitting righthere,third guy in a two- seater, and since I know there is no aerodynamic way this thing can stay up, hebetterhave an in with the Virgin Mary.”
“You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
Mac—George McHale— was British to the core, and MI6. He and Indy had been paired on a dozen secret assignments for either His Majesty’s government or Uncle Sam, mostly in Eu rope, a couple in the Pacific, and while Mac was a good man to have covering your back, he was also prone to recklessness. Indy had saved Mac’s bacon more often than the other way around, though he did have Mac to thank for keeping him alive a few times— and his recent increase in rank. That latter was a mixed blessing. Indy hadn’t even wanted to be inonearmy, much lesstwoof them, and he had just gotten used to being “Major Jones” in one of them, and now he was a light colonel.
Well. In
Excerpted from Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead by Ballantine Books Staff, Steve Perry
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