Read Online Indiana Jones and the Secretof the Sphinx by Max McCoy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max McCoy
Tags: Indiana Jones
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storm clouds had been pushing a cold front before them, and it had finally overtaken the junk. The sunlight turned dull and the temperature dropped fifteen degrees in as many minutes, chilling the passengers and causing Indy to rouse from his sleep when he heard the words whispered on the lips of the crew: ty fung.
"Where are we?" Indy asked, coming to the rail.
"About a hundred miles off the Chinese coast, near Shanghai," Faye said. The wind was beginning to pick up, although it was not yet raining, and it blew her robes out behind her like a pennant. She was holding on to the rigging, looking over the choppy water to the battlement of dark clouds approaching from the east. Lightning bursts of pink and blue played at the base of the wall cloud, while beneath it poured the telltale streaks of wind and rain.
"What's that word they keep repeating?" Faye asked.
"Ty fung," Indy said.
"What's it mean?"
"It's not good," Indy said.
"I'm afraid not," Bryce agreed as he struck a match, cupped his hands around it, and lit a cigarette. "It means typhoon. And considering how much the barometer has dropped in the last hour, and the time of year, I'd say they are bloody well right."
"A hurricane?" Mystery asked.
"They're called typhoons in these parts," Bryce said. "Willie-willies in Australia, el baguio in the Philippines, hurricanes in the Atlantic. But they're all basically tropical cyclones."
"Terrific," Mystery said.
"Too bad we don't have a radio," Bryce said. "I wonder what my old friend Clement Wragge will name this one. Clever, that Wragge. He's an Aussie weatherman who has taken to naming storms after women he admires or politicians he dislikes."
"Whoever heard of naming a storm after a woman?" Faye asked.
"Seems perfectly logical to me," Indy muttered.
"Can we outrun it?" Mystery asked.
"The storm is probably four hundred miles wide," Bryce said. "And they generally blow to the southwest, until they hit the coast. We're running dead ahead of it, and we don't have a prayer of making the mainland before it hits."
Musashi, who was sitting cross-legged on the deck with her hands tied in front of her, began to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Indy demanded.
"Even the weather is against you," she said.
"She really has a sick sense of humor," Mystery said.
"What can we do?" Faye asked.
"Nothing, I'm afraid," Bryce said. "Wait and watch, and hope we can make it to an island cove or some other shelter before the storm overtakes us."
Then Bryce took the pint of gin from his jacket pocket, drained it, and threw the empty bottle into the sea.
Sokai wore a black robe. His feet were tucked beneath him, with the big toes crossed, and his hands rested palm-down on his thighs. He lowered his bandaged forehead until it touched the hardwood floor, then held the position for a respectful three seconds.
When he returned to sezen, the sitting form, the candles on either side of the dark altar flickered. The flicker was reflected from the black-lacquered sheath of the samurai sword, which lay within hand's reach on the floor in front of him, and from the glass-framed likenesses of his dead masters that lined the walls of the dojo. The flicker was reflected also in the almond-colored iris of Sokai's right eye.
The other eye, still beneath seeping bandages, was useless now. The spikes of the nutcracker had also gouged out hunks of his left ear and cheek. Together with the clumsy stitches the village doctor at Luchow had used to close the wounds, the damage had turned Sokai's matinee idol good looks into something more Karloffian.
Sokai had been sitting motionless before the altar in the darkened training hall for hours, searching for the boon ki —the reason, the essence, the true meaning—of the thing that had happened. He had scanned the visages of the masters of Bushido that lined the walls, from his own Okinawan master all the way back to the fierce and gap-toothed countenance of Dharuma, the sixth-century founder of Zen
"Where are we?" Indy asked, coming to the rail.
"About a hundred miles off the Chinese coast, near Shanghai," Faye said. The wind was beginning to pick up, although it was not yet raining, and it blew her robes out behind her like a pennant. She was holding on to the rigging, looking over the choppy water to the battlement of dark clouds approaching from the east. Lightning bursts of pink and blue played at the base of the wall cloud, while beneath it poured the telltale streaks of wind and rain.
"What's that word they keep repeating?" Faye asked.
"Ty fung," Indy said.
"What's it mean?"
"It's not good," Indy said.
"I'm afraid not," Bryce agreed as he struck a match, cupped his hands around it, and lit a cigarette. "It means typhoon. And considering how much the barometer has dropped in the last hour, and the time of year, I'd say they are bloody well right."
"A hurricane?" Mystery asked.
"They're called typhoons in these parts," Bryce said. "Willie-willies in Australia, el baguio in the Philippines, hurricanes in the Atlantic. But they're all basically tropical cyclones."
"Terrific," Mystery said.
"Too bad we don't have a radio," Bryce said. "I wonder what my old friend Clement Wragge will name this one. Clever, that Wragge. He's an Aussie weatherman who has taken to naming storms after women he admires or politicians he dislikes."
"Whoever heard of naming a storm after a woman?" Faye asked.
"Seems perfectly logical to me," Indy muttered.
"Can we outrun it?" Mystery asked.
"The storm is probably four hundred miles wide," Bryce said. "And they generally blow to the southwest, until they hit the coast. We're running dead ahead of it, and we don't have a prayer of making the mainland before it hits."
Musashi, who was sitting cross-legged on the deck with her hands tied in front of her, began to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Indy demanded.
"Even the weather is against you," she said.
"She really has a sick sense of humor," Mystery said.
"What can we do?" Faye asked.
"Nothing, I'm afraid," Bryce said. "Wait and watch, and hope we can make it to an island cove or some other shelter before the storm overtakes us."
Then Bryce took the pint of gin from his jacket pocket, drained it, and threw the empty bottle into the sea.
Sokai wore a black robe. His feet were tucked beneath him, with the big toes crossed, and his hands rested palm-down on his thighs. He lowered his bandaged forehead until it touched the hardwood floor, then held the position for a respectful three seconds.
When he returned to sezen, the sitting form, the candles on either side of the dark altar flickered. The flicker was reflected from the black-lacquered sheath of the samurai sword, which lay within hand's reach on the floor in front of him, and from the glass-framed likenesses of his dead masters that lined the walls of the dojo. The flicker was reflected also in the almond-colored iris of Sokai's right eye.
The other eye, still beneath seeping bandages, was useless now. The spikes of the nutcracker had also gouged out hunks of his left ear and cheek. Together with the clumsy stitches the village doctor at Luchow had used to close the wounds, the damage had turned Sokai's matinee idol good looks into something more Karloffian.
Sokai had been sitting motionless before the altar in the darkened training hall for hours, searching for the boon ki —the reason, the essence, the true meaning—of the thing that had happened. He had scanned the visages of the masters of Bushido that lined the walls, from his own Okinawan master all the way back to the fierce and gap-toothed countenance of Dharuma, the sixth-century founder of Zen
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