Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead Read Free Page A

had several names. As “Louis,” he worked for Yamada; when he reported to the German doctor Gruber, he called himself “Henri.”
    They spoke in French, one of nine languages in which Yamada was comfortable. He had already picked up a few phrases of Creole, a useful local dialect. “So, you think that the Dutchman considers these men to be of importance?”
    “He did not say it as such, no, monsieur,” Louis said. “But my feeling was, yes. He asked me to find out more about them. I saw his eyes glitter when I mentioned their intended destination.”
    “Then you must do as he asks. But before you report to him, I would appreciate it if you report to me first.”
    “But of course, monsieur.” He smiled.
    “You are a man of great skill and honor, Louis, and I much appreciate your diligent service.” Which I expect will last only as long as I pay more than the German. For you would, I believe, sell your grandmother for the right price.
    “Perhaps you would consider accepting another bottle of the special rum before you leave?”
    Louis Henri Whoever-else-he-was grinned. “Ah, oui!”
    Yes, he paid more, but the small gifts also mattered. The German did not offer such, and a few gourdes’ worth of cane liquor, which meant nothing to Yamada, indicated that he valued Louis. All men wished to feel valued. Small respects could make a difference. Men, even dishonorable ones, wanted to be appreciated.
    After Louis was gone, clutching his fresh bottle of dark rum, Yamada looked at the clock. He was supposed to send a radio transmission at ten past six o’clock local time. It would take most of an hour to get to where he had hidden the radio transceiver this week—he had to move it after each use, and that was not easy: The device was heavy, and the batteries even heavier. Well. He had plenty of time. A Japanese B-1 submarine was close enough to the island to receive the transmission, but it wouldn’t stay near the surface long. The aerial would go up at exactly six ten P.M. , and if no transmission was forthcoming within two minutes exactly, down it would go again. There were not many enemy warships about, but there were spotter craft. An imperial sub here was a long way from home.
    Yamada knew something of naval vessels—he had an uncle who was a vice admiral in the imperial navy. Just last year, one of the long-range B-1s, the I-25, had deployed its Yokosuka E14Y seaplane off the northwest coast of the United States, where it had dropped a firebomb that started a forest fire on the mainland that would have done much damage . . . well, had it not started to rain.
    No one could blame the imperial navy for the rain. Not yet.
    One of the reasons this mission was so critical was due to the unfortunate decision to involve the United States in this war. There were so many of them, and they had so many resources. It had not been Yamada’s choice, of course, but he had deemed it unwise to kick the sleeping giant. Some considered all Americans overfed and lazy, but Yamada had been to the country, and seen what they had accomplished there. They knew how to work with their hands as well as their minds, and the imperial army and navy were beginning to see what those overfed and lazy Americans could do once they turned their full attention to war. With much of the American fleet destroyed at Pearl Harbor less than two years earlier, they had built new ships in record time, and the battles at the Coral Sea and Midway had been disasters for the imperial navy. U.S. Marines had landed on many of the Pacific islands, and the Japanese army there was being pushed back into the sea or roasted alive in caves.
    The Americans were barreling over the Germans in Africa and Europe, as well.
    Too many enemies on too many fronts was a bad way to fight a war. Involving America had been a tactical error. Left alone, she might have stayed out of it, for at least a year or two more, and that would have given the empire enough time . . .
    Except