Main Page: Indiana Jones and the Monkey King
Prologue
Berlin, 1937
Helmut Gutterbuhg blinked groggily as the world came back to him. Where was he? How did he get here? What was he doing? Ah, yes, he remembered as the hospital bed came into focus. He was at the St. Hedwig Krankenhaus in Berlin and had been under anesthesia for several hours. Twelve, if everything had gone according to plan.
The next thing to come into focus was the doctor, a middle-aged man named Thorsten Hohlbein. The doctor had looked anxious ever since Gutterbuhg had met him, but now he looked anxious in a different way, a hopeful way. “Are you all right?” he asked.
It took Gutterbuhg a moment to find his voice, but it came readily enough. “Ja, I think so,” he said. “I feel fine.”
He was a thin, skeletal man, a dedicated officer of the Wehrmacht described by his own men as resembling the angel of death. His face was narrow and sunken, and his deep set eyes were a chilling light blue in a pale complexion that rarely conveyed emotion. His blond hair might have been handsome were it not so stringy.
“The operation seems to have been a success, but we cannot be certain,” Hohlbein said. “When you feel strong enough, try to move your arm.”
The rest of his memory came back to him; why he was here, what they were doing. Anticipation far exceeding the doctor’s flooded through him at this recollection. He slowly lifted his right arm from the bed, turning his head to face it just as slowly. The sight was unreal. He had not used this muscle group in nearly two decades, since shrapnel had all but destroyed it in the Great War.
Hohlbein nearly squealed with joy. “Success!” he crowed. “Success!”
Yes, sweet success. The implications were staggering. “I can’t believe this is truly happening,” Gutterbuhg said. “It seems like science fiction.”
“It is not perfect, of course,” Hohlbein said, quickly switching to modesty. “There is not that much use for it yet, I’m afraid. There will be further developments for your elbow mobility, and your fingers –”
“No matter,” Gutterbuhg said. “At last, I can salute the Führer properly.”
Hohlbein’s smile wavered for a moment. “Ja. That you can.”
Gutterbuhg lowered the arm and pushed himself to a sitting position. This was unnecessary even in his groggy state, due to his great lower back strength, but he relished the opportunity to use two limbs. He sat in silence for a minute then, staring at it, flexing it slowly in all directions, contemplating some more. Finally he faced Hohlbein. “Danke sehr, doktor.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” the doctor said. An undercurrent of bitterness crept into his voice. “Thank the generous Jewish citizens who were so kind as to finance this costly operation.”
The bitterness was not lost on Gutterbuhg. “Indeed,” he said, half to himself, as he returned his gaze to the arm. “The filthy Ungeziefer were finally good for something, ja?”
Hohlbein didn’t answer. “Speaking of which,” he said, “the gentleman who brought in the funds has been patiently waiting outside for us to finish. He would like to see you whenever you’re ready.”
“Bring him in,” Gutterbuhg said.
The doctor left and returned a few moments later with Werner von Mephisto, a nightmarish figure to foes and allies alike. His face was thick and bullish, with bulging reddish brown eyes that looked downright demonic. He had no hair whatsoever; no eyebrows, no lashes. His thick, muscular, six-foot-four frame was packed into the uniform of a Wehrmacht Oberleutnant. His eyes widened further still when he saw Gutterbuhg. “Heil Hitler,” he said, saluting.
“Heil Hitler,” Gutterbuhg repeated, saluting with his right arm for the first time. He had tried to do it so many times that his shoulder muscles tensed at the mere mention of the words, and now, finally, they had the desired effect.
Mephisto’s lips hardened at this sight, the closest he would ever come to a smile. “Sehr gut,” he said. “How are you feeling, Wachtmeister?”
“Absolutely fine,” Gutterbuhg said. “The doctor has done a marvelous job.”
“It was not easy,” Hohlbein mumbled, uncomfortable in Mephisto’s presence. “As I said, I did not even think it possible. But as you see –”
“Ja, ja, of course,” Mephisto said, not taking his eyes off of Gutterbuhg. “You underestimate the power of die Mark, and of sheer determination.” He stepped closer to the bed. “The patient and I have a few things to discuss,” he said. “If you would please leave for a few minutes.”
“But sir –” Hohlbein started, then thought about Mephisto’s stature and uniform and decided he really didn’t want to argue. “Of course. Just holler if you need anything, Herr Guhterbuhg.”
“Danke, I will.”
“Now,” Mephisto said when they were alone, “you are completely satisfied with what that Simpel has done?”
“More than satisfied,” Gutterbuhg, said flexing. “I can feel the power coursing through it. It has been so long, and it feels tenfold as strong as the other arm.”
“Gut,” Mephisto said. “Then it is time for your end of the bargain.”
“But of course,” Gutterbuhg said, remembering what he had pledged himself and his men to do. “I shall lead your expedition as promised, as soon as I am informed of what exactly it entails.”
“Excellent. But time is of the essence, and there is someone we must meet with first.”
“Herr Wüst?”
“Nein. There is nothing he can contribute at this point. This is not technically an Ahnenerbe operation in the traditional sense. We are going straight to the top.”
“You don’t mean –?”
“Ja.”
Gutterbuhg balked. “You must be joking.”
“Wachtmeister Gutterbuhg,” Mephisto said, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-four height, “do I look as if I am joking?”
Next: Chapter One
The next thing to come into focus was the doctor, a middle-aged man named Thorsten Hohlbein. The doctor had looked anxious ever since Gutterbuhg had met him, but now he looked anxious in a different way, a hopeful way. “Are you all right?” he asked.
It took Gutterbuhg a moment to find his voice, but it came readily enough. “Ja, I think so,” he said. “I feel fine.”
He was a thin, skeletal man, a dedicated officer of the Wehrmacht described by his own men as resembling the angel of death. His face was narrow and sunken, and his deep set eyes were a chilling light blue in a pale complexion that rarely conveyed emotion. His blond hair might have been handsome were it not so stringy.
“The operation seems to have been a success, but we cannot be certain,” Hohlbein said. “When you feel strong enough, try to move your arm.”
The rest of his memory came back to him; why he was here, what they were doing. Anticipation far exceeding the doctor’s flooded through him at this recollection. He slowly lifted his right arm from the bed, turning his head to face it just as slowly. The sight was unreal. He had not used this muscle group in nearly two decades, since shrapnel had all but destroyed it in the Great War.
Hohlbein nearly squealed with joy. “Success!” he crowed. “Success!”
Yes, sweet success. The implications were staggering. “I can’t believe this is truly happening,” Gutterbuhg said. “It seems like science fiction.”
“It is not perfect, of course,” Hohlbein said, quickly switching to modesty. “There is not that much use for it yet, I’m afraid. There will be further developments for your elbow mobility, and your fingers –”
“No matter,” Gutterbuhg said. “At last, I can salute the Führer properly.”
Hohlbein’s smile wavered for a moment. “Ja. That you can.”
Gutterbuhg lowered the arm and pushed himself to a sitting position. This was unnecessary even in his groggy state, due to his great lower back strength, but he relished the opportunity to use two limbs. He sat in silence for a minute then, staring at it, flexing it slowly in all directions, contemplating some more. Finally he faced Hohlbein. “Danke sehr, doktor.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” the doctor said. An undercurrent of bitterness crept into his voice. “Thank the generous Jewish citizens who were so kind as to finance this costly operation.”
The bitterness was not lost on Gutterbuhg. “Indeed,” he said, half to himself, as he returned his gaze to the arm. “The filthy Ungeziefer were finally good for something, ja?”
Hohlbein didn’t answer. “Speaking of which,” he said, “the gentleman who brought in the funds has been patiently waiting outside for us to finish. He would like to see you whenever you’re ready.”
“Bring him in,” Gutterbuhg said.
The doctor left and returned a few moments later with Werner von Mephisto, a nightmarish figure to foes and allies alike. His face was thick and bullish, with bulging reddish brown eyes that looked downright demonic. He had no hair whatsoever; no eyebrows, no lashes. His thick, muscular, six-foot-four frame was packed into the uniform of a Wehrmacht Oberleutnant. His eyes widened further still when he saw Gutterbuhg. “Heil Hitler,” he said, saluting.
“Heil Hitler,” Gutterbuhg repeated, saluting with his right arm for the first time. He had tried to do it so many times that his shoulder muscles tensed at the mere mention of the words, and now, finally, they had the desired effect.
Mephisto’s lips hardened at this sight, the closest he would ever come to a smile. “Sehr gut,” he said. “How are you feeling, Wachtmeister?”
“Absolutely fine,” Gutterbuhg said. “The doctor has done a marvelous job.”
“It was not easy,” Hohlbein mumbled, uncomfortable in Mephisto’s presence. “As I said, I did not even think it possible. But as you see –”
“Ja, ja, of course,” Mephisto said, not taking his eyes off of Gutterbuhg. “You underestimate the power of die Mark, and of sheer determination.” He stepped closer to the bed. “The patient and I have a few things to discuss,” he said. “If you would please leave for a few minutes.”
“But sir –” Hohlbein started, then thought about Mephisto’s stature and uniform and decided he really didn’t want to argue. “Of course. Just holler if you need anything, Herr Guhterbuhg.”
“Danke, I will.”
“Now,” Mephisto said when they were alone, “you are completely satisfied with what that Simpel has done?”
“More than satisfied,” Gutterbuhg, said flexing. “I can feel the power coursing through it. It has been so long, and it feels tenfold as strong as the other arm.”
“Gut,” Mephisto said. “Then it is time for your end of the bargain.”
“But of course,” Gutterbuhg said, remembering what he had pledged himself and his men to do. “I shall lead your expedition as promised, as soon as I am informed of what exactly it entails.”
“Excellent. But time is of the essence, and there is someone we must meet with first.”
“Herr Wüst?”
“Nein. There is nothing he can contribute at this point. This is not technically an Ahnenerbe operation in the traditional sense. We are going straight to the top.”
“You don’t mean –?”
“Ja.”
Gutterbuhg balked. “You must be joking.”
“Wachtmeister Gutterbuhg,” Mephisto said, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-four height, “do I look as if I am joking?”
Next: Chapter One