Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates

Max grunted, nodding. He eased off on his grip and the helium balloon, now fully inflated, rose to its maximum reach of thirty feet above the railcar roof. Wires were taped to the restraining line; the wires went from a battery remaining atop the train to two lights on the balloon, one on top, the other on the bottom so that it stood out sharply in the night.

Shannon looked down the tracks to the west. He hadn't had a moment to waste. The light in the sky was brilliant and it was getting bigger and brighter all the time. Thunder boomed down the valley, rebounding from the hills on each side, a roar rasping and howling all at the same time.

"Flatten out!" Shannon yelled to Max. "Hit the deck!" Both men dropped prone. The light swelled as it rushed at them, the sound pounding against their ears.

Willard Cromwell cinched his seat belt just a tad tighter until he was comfortably snug in the left seat of the Ford Trimotor's cockpit. To his right, Gale Parker kept her finger moving along the map line marking the course of the railroad tracks. As they passed recognizable landmarks she called them out to Cromwell.

"That's Milledgeville. The tracks will swing just a bit northward here," she told him; shouting above the roar of the three Pratt & Whitney engines.

Cromwell clapped a hand to his right ear. "You don't need to shout," he reminded her. "Just use the bloody intercom. We can all hear you quite well. Don't forget that they're listening to you back in the cabin."

She nodded assent. "All right. Just a few miles to go. Can you see where the tracks ease off on that long curve into the valley?"

"Got it," he said brusquely. He was right at home; this was just like another bomb run, although he'd have to be as accurate as he ever was. He eased in left rudder and a touch of left aileron, a gentle bank to stay directly over the tracks.

"Give me the searchlight," he directed her. "We're past the town now and it looks like open country from here on in."

Indy called from the cabin. "Can you see the train yet?" "We should any moment now, and—yes; there it is! I've got the red lights at the back, and there's a bunch of cars there with their headlights on."

"Let me know the instant you see that double light above the train," Indy called back on the intercom.

He lay prone on the cabin floor, a gaping hatch open beneath him, the wind howling inches away. Tarkiz Belem had wedged himself against two seats and he had a powerful death grip on Indy's ankles. Indy could see a few hundred yards ahead of the aircraft.

"I've got that double light atop the train!" Gale sang out. "It looks steady."

Indy and Foulois checked the cable snatch system extending beneath and trailing the airplane. It was the same system used for years by mailplanes to snatchandgrab mail bags hung on a cable between two high poles; the plane would come in at minimum altitude, trailing a hook system and snatch the bag, and then an electric motor would reel it in.

"Airspeed is ninetyfive, Indy," Cromwell reported. "We're right on the money at just under fifty feet above ground."

"Hold it there . . . okay, I've got the train in sight, I see the bag. Get ready! Make this run perfect, Will—"

The Ford thundered out of the night, its powerful landing light a cyclopean monster racing through darkness. The landing gear swept over the train. Cromwell held the airplane rocksteady as they rushed over the last cars, and he felt the slight thud as the hook snagged the cable beneath the helium balloon.

They'd worked this out with machinelike precision. The moment Indy sang out into the intercom, "Got it!" Cromwell eased back on the yoke in his left hand, held the throttles exactly where they were, and pulled the Ford into a gentle climb, bleeding off airspeed to just above seventy miles an hour. Back in the cabin, Tarkiz held Indy steady while Foulois rotated a large handle that brought up cable on the winch secured to the floor and seat braces.

"Hold it! Okay; right there!" Indy ordered. He held out his right hand. Foulois handed him his Webley. Indy held the heavy revolver in both hands, aimed carefully, and fired a single shot into the helium balloon. It deflated instantly into a fluttering rag. Moments later the entire assembly was in the airplane. They slid shut the floor hatch and locked it in place. Indy swung around to a sitting position. Foulois spoke into his microphone. "Cromwell, stay in the climb. Follow the flight plan."

Gale held up a chart and printed instructions. "Eight thousand feet," she called off from the checklist. "All running lights and landing lights out."

"Very good," Cromwell said easily, smiling. "Piece of cake, that was."

"You are good," Gale told him with honest admiration. She was right. Cromwell had made this run as if he'd done it a hundred times before.

Foulois and Belem watched Indy open the leather case. He withdrew the gold statue and handed it to Belem. The big man's eyes lit up at the sight and heft of the gold. Indy laughed. "It's not what you think," he told Tarkiz. Dark eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean, Indy?" "Try cutting it with a knife. It's plated. Under that plating that thing is lead."

Tarkiz showed his confusion. He snatched a long blade from his boot and sliced into the statue. He stared at the gray lead beneath the thin outer plating of gold.

"Why in the name of three blue devils did we go through all this, then!" he shouted.

"Because we needed to get that pyramid everyone is talking about," Indy told him. "And we have it?" asked Foulois.

"It's in the bag." Indy tweaked him. "But . . . how could you know?" They watched Indy retrieve the small leather sack from the larger bag. He opened the sack and held the pyramid with its cuneiform etchings for them to see for themselves.

"But . . . how could you know it was in that little sack?" Belem said, more confused than ever.

Indy moved to a seat and sprawled, his long legs stretched out. "Easy," he said with an air of nonchalance. "I knew where it was because I'm the one who put it there."

He tossed the pyramid to Foulois, who grabbed desperately for what he had until this moment believed was one of the most anxiously sought artifacts in the world. "You hang onto it for now," Indy told him. He secured his seat belt and pushed his hat over his eyes.

"I'm going to take a nap. Wake me when we're ready to start down."

"Mon dieu," Foulois groaned. He looked at Belem. "I am beginning to believe our man Jones is really crazy."

Tarkiz Belem glared at the worthless statue. "Either he is," he grated, "or we are."

6

"Wright Tower, this is Crazy Angels with you at eight thousand, estimate two zero miles out, and landing.

Over."

Gale Parker and Tarkiz Belem showed their questions in their sudden stares at one another. Cromwell and Foulois were together in the cockpit, this time with the Frenchman at the controls and Cromwell working radio communications. But who was this Crazy Angels?

"It fits perfectly," Belem said to Gale Parker. "This whole affair has been crazy, no? From the beginning. Crazy Angels, it is our call sign, I judge."

Gale nodded. "Sounds reasonable. "What I don't get is why we're going into an army field."

"As soon as Indy awakens, little one, I'm sure he will come up with something new that is even crazier than everything that has happened so far."

Behind their seats, Indy slowly pushed back the brim of his wellworn hat. It was an Indiana Jones trademark and had held off broiling sun and howling snow. An old friend. He peered owlishly from beneath it.

"We're landing at Wright Field," he said to both Gale and Tarkiz, "for some magic."

"Magic?" they echoed.

"Uhhuh." Indy stretched and yawned. "We need to, well, disappear."

"They have vanishing cream, I suppose, at a military field," Gale said with easy sarcasm.

"Close to it." He was on his feet. He clapped Tarkiz on a broad shoulder.

"Hang in there, friend. The doors will swing wide very soon and from there you will see daylight."

Indy went forward to the cockpit, standing behind the two pilot seats. He stared through the sharply angled windshield, watching the scattered lights of small towns passing below. Isolated twin beams poked along dark stretches of highway, and he could even make out glowing red taillights.

"They call you back from Wright Field?" he asked Cromwell.

"Only to stand by for landing instructions. They— Just a moment. Here they are now," Cromwell replied. "Here, Indy." He handed Indy a headset.

"Crazy Angels, Crazy Angels, Wright Tower. Your clearance is confirmed.

You are cleared to begin your descent now. No other traffic reported, and you are cleared for a straightin approach to runway one six zero. Please read back.

Wright Tower over."

Cromwell repeated their instructions and then added, "We'll give you a call when we have the field in sight. Over."

"That is affirmative, Crazy Angels. The followme truck will be waiting for you at the midway turnoff from the runway. No further transmissions are necessary but we will monitor this frequency in case you need us. Wright Tower over and out."

"Cheerio." Cromwell signed off. He turned to Indy. "You catch all that?"

"Very good," Indy confirmed. "How long before we land?"

"Twelve, fourteen minutes."

"Okay. When you shut down, take your personal belongings with you. I'll tell the others."

Less than ten minutes later they had the rotating beacon in sight. Foulois had been descending steadily, and with the field lights growing steadily brighter he eased the Ford onto a heading of 160°eg to settle for the straightin approach and landing.

"I've got the runway in sight," Cromwell told him.

"Roger that," Rene said; a moment later: "Got it."

Cromwell scanned the sky. "No traffic."

"Ring the bell," Foulois said easily. Cromwell pressed the button that provided a final warning to their passengers to secure their seat belts. Foulois flew the Ford down the approach as if it were on a railway. In the calm and cool night air the Ford seem to float more than fly. The wheels feathered on without even a rubbery squeak. He let her roll, and picked up the truck with the lighted follow me sign. They taxied past rows of hangars and shops. Airplanes were lined up in all directions, a mixture of fighters, transports, bombers, trainers, and some civilian craft. The truck stopped, and a man jumped down and signaled the Ford pilot to cut the power.

Moments later the only sounds from the trimotor were those of heated metal cooling off in a cricketlike singsong of snaps and crackles. A small blue bus came from around the side of a hangar and stopped by the Ford. An officer waited until Indy and his group climbed down to the tarmac. He studied them for a moment and clearly identified Indy.

He walked up to him and snapped a salute. "Professor Jones, good to see you again." They shook hands. "With your permission, my men will bring your equipment and luggage."

Indy nodded and turned to Tarkiz. "Go with them. You know what to bring."

The big man nodded and climbed back into the Ford. Soon their belongings and other gear had been shifted to the bus.

Indy's group gathered about him, and he introduced Henshaw. "You have your orders about our plane?" Indy asked the colonel.

"Yes, sir." A smile played briefly across Henshaw's face. "It is to be made invisible."

Tarkiz turned to Gale Parker with a grimace. "So! Like I said, he is crazy, and this colonel, I think he is crazy, too!

They are going to make our machine invisible! Poof! We will be like the sky.

Not even the birds will see us."

Indy nodded with Tarkiz's outburst. "For a while, my friend, at least for a while."

Cromwell moved forward to the colonel. "If you don't mind, I must insist on being with our aeroplane if there is to be any fueling or servicing."

Henshaw studied the British pilot. "Cromwell, right? Don't you think we can take care of your machine properly?"

There was just a touch of sarcasm in his reply.

He didn't make a ripple on Cromwell, who moved up to go nose to nose with the American officer. "Quite frankly, Colonel, I do not. We fly this machine. If your people mess it up and we discover their hammy hands while we are at ten thousand feet or so, I don't believe it takes much imagination for you to judge who will pay the piper." Cromwell turned to Indy. "I insist. I myself, or Foulois, must be with the aircraft for any work or servicing."

Indy turned to Henshaw. "They call the shots with the plane, Colonel."

"No offense taken, sir," Henshaw said to Indy, directing his gaze to Cromwell. "I only wish this same attitude prevailed among all my men. You have my word, Mr.—"

"Brigadier, if you don't mind?" Cromwell said icily.

"Of course, sir." He gestured to the group. "The bus, please."

As they climbed aboard Tarkiz nudged Indy. "It is maybe a bother, Indiana, but my stomach will no longer keep silent. I must eat soon or perish."

"With that spread of yours, Tarkiz," Foulois quipped, "you could last as long without food as a camel could without water."

"Skinny people always make stupid remarks," Tarkiz answered goodnaturedly. "But I do not want to talk. I want to eat. One more cold frankfurter and—"

"It's all taken care of, sir. Just a few more minutes," said the bartender.

The bus rolled through the sprawling base, then stopped before a high barricade of concrete posts and triple rolls of barbed wire. Signs reading restricted area and authorized personnel ONLY were all about the place.

Guards removed the entry barrier, saluting Henshaw as they went through.

Before them was another great hangar.

Army guards rolled back huge sliding doors and the bus drove inside. The doors closed behind it, and with the muffled thump of the doors coming together bright lights snapped on above it.

The group looked about them with interest. Within the great hangar was what seemed to be part of a small village: cottages, stone office buildings, even a lawn with trees. "This is home for the next couple of days," Indy told his group. "Colonel, I'll go with your men and make sure everybody's gear goes to their assigned rooms."

He banged Tarkiz on the shoulder. "You and the others go with that sergeant. Right to the dining room. They'll take your orders there. Anything you want."

"Dining room? In here?"

"I thought you were starving to death."

"You are right. My stomach knows my throat has been cut." Tarkiz grasped the nearest sergeant's arm. "You have ancestors? Ah, very good. Feed me, or you may meet your ancestors much sooner than you think."

Indy refused answers to all questions after dinner, steering conversation to small talk about the events of the evening, leaving the others frustrated but respectful of his silence. That night they slept in comfortable beds, each within a fully furnished room. There were books and radio facilities in each room, as well as a telephone, but all calls had to be processed through a military security switchboard.

Gale Parker had already learned that Indy's strange aloofness was his means of waiting for information from the outside world, or for the arrival of key people involved in their sometimes baffling machinations. Gale was learning the man. She was still confused by his methods, but tremendously impressed with the swift execution of plans he had drawn with meticulous attention. She felt more and more drawn to him, and was caught by surprise at her feminine response to a man who fairly exuded masculinity, yet managed to treat her with the respect he felt she deserved as a woman and an equal.

It was a magnetism to the opposite sex she had never known, and this sudden upward boiling of emotions puzzled and even frightened her. She was well out of water in her personal life experience. Indy's seemingly split personality toward her was as baffling as it was welcome. Gale knew she was as stubborn as a mountain goat, but Indy never tested that streak that ran so strongly in her.

She would gladly have welcomed his personal attention, yet she could not shake the reality that Indy was still living with the ghost of his dead wife. A dozen times she had started to ask him about Deirdre—what she was like, what had brought them together into marriage, how they had shared the wonder of exploration and adventure.

She gasped with surprise at herself when she realized she was jealous of a woman who had died several years before this moment! The revelation came that she wanted a relationship that would permit herself and Indy to bond closer. Nigh unto impossible, she sighed, in this group of professional killers.

Put it aside, woman! she railed at herself. She would have to do just that.

She must. And then, alone with her thoughts, she realized she was smiling, that she would take every attempt to narrow the gulf between them, to bring Indy to regard her as a woman as well as a partner in this strange mission on which they had embarked.

But does he feel that way about me . . . ?

She slammed a fist into her pillow, frustrated, starting to twist inside. Was she falling for Indy? Could that really be the case? Would she ever be willing to give up her incredible sense of freedom, the lustiness of going with the wind if that was what she desired. I don't need any man! she shouted to herself in another attack of selfrecrimination.

Another voice inside her head spoke quietly, laughingly. You're a liar, Gale Parker.

Alone in her room, she buried her face in her pillow. Oh, shut up, Gale Parker!

Cromwell finished his third cup of coffee and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Dashing great breakfast," he sighed. Tarkiz nodded and let fly with a horrendous belch, beaming at the others. Foulois ignored him, dabbing gently at his lips with his napkin. Indy smiled; Gale kept a straight face.

"I'd like to see our machine," Cromwell said suddenly to Colonel Henshaw, who'd shared breakfast with them.

Before Henshaw could reply, Tarkiz leaned forward and gestured denial with a wave of his hand. "No, no, you cannot do that," he said as if reproving Cromwell.

Henshaw showed surprise; Cromwell responded in his own unique way.

"And why the bloody hell not?" he demanded.

"Ah, the English have such short memories!" Tarkiz said loudly, beaming, turning from one person to another to assure himself of his audience. "Do you already forget what our good colonel here," he pointed to Henshaw, "told us last night? He has orders! And those orders are to make our machine invisible."

Tarkiz leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam on his face. "And not even the English can see invisible machines."

Tarkiz was just a bit too ebullient, judged Indy. He smelled some sort of deliberate confrontation. He knew how much Tarkiz hated being kept in the dark about anything, and that invisibility remark had been chafing under his skin the night through. "Leave it be," he said quietly to Tarkiz.

The big Kurd stared back at him. "Indy! You wound me, my friend. I want very much to see our invisible airplane.

The good colonel apparently can work miracles." He turned to Henshaw. "Tell me, Colonel. Does our invisible airplane still fly? Even though we cannot see it?"

If he thought Henshaw would be taken aback by his sudden sarcastic thrust he was greatly mistaken. Indy busied himself with his coffee mug to keep from bursting into laughter. Henshaw, his face as bland as he could make his expression, looked directly at Tarkiz.

"Mr. Belem, the answer is yes. Your airplane is invisible, and it flies, and it matters not one iota if you can see it."

"How marvelous," Rene Foulois joined in. "I've never flown an invisible airplane. I look forward to such a unique experience."

Gale Parker studied the men about her. "Does anybody get the feeling there's an enormous amount of legpulling going on here?"

They turned, as one, to her. "Miss Parker," Cromwell said with heavy civility, "either you have the answer, or I suggest we go see our invisible aeroplane."

"He does not yet understand," Tarkiz jumped in quickly, enjoying the mild furor he'd brought to the table.

"It is like the British lion. All the British are proud of the way it rules so much of the world, but no one has yet seen that shaggy beast."

"Everybody up and at 'em," Indy broke in without a moment for the exchange to heat up. "Colonel," he turned to Henshaw, "let's see your magic at work."

The friction evaporated as they went to the bus parked inside the hangar. Henshaw stopped them by the entry door, handing each member of the group a clipon, glasssealed identification tag. "You'll need these ID tags anywhere on this base," he explained. "Please have them clipped to your clothing at all times."

Foulois studied his carefully. "Colonel, you fascinate me. This tag has my name, physical characteristics, a photograph of me, and the thumbprint of my right hand." He studied the colonel. "I did not have my print or my photograph taken, so how could you—"

"Standard procedure, sir, when we prefer not to bother our guests with routine. Photographs, including films, have been taken of you a dozen times. And whatever you touched—a glass, a cup, personal articles—well, you left good prints everywhere. We simply lifted them for each of you. Standard procedure, Mr. Foulois.

Can we board now, please?"

The bus stopped a hundred feet before the huge hangar where the Ford Trimotor had been kept for the night. As they walked before the bus, Henshaw motioned for them to stop. "If you would indulge me for the moment, please? Wait here while they open the hangar doors."

He turned and gave a hand signal to the hangar crew. An electric motor hummed loudly and the huge sliding doors began to move right and left until the interior of the entire hangar was exposed to them.

Except for Indy, who had known all along what would happen during the night, the group stared in confusion.

Suddenly Gale Parker burst into laughter. "By God, he's done it!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

"But . . . but . . . which one is our aeroplane?" Cromwell said, squinting to make out details.

Henshaw enjoyed the moment immensely. "You tell me, Col—sorry; Brigadier.

Point out your airplane."

They stared at six Ford Trimotors in the hangar, every one of them painted in army numbers and markings. With the exception of different identifying serial numbers, every airplane was exactly like the others. It was impossible to distinguish the trimotor in which they landed here the night before.

Tarkiz clapped Henshaw approvingly on the shoulder. "Colonel, I take off my hat to you." He looked to Cromwell and Foulois. "He has done it. We can see our airplane, but we cannot because we do not know which one it is.

Wonderful!"

"The news of the train robbery last night," Colonel Henshaw said to the group, "is all over the papers and is being broadcast on every radio station in the country.

What amazes everyone is how it was carried out, and that nobody was killed or even hurt. The missing gold statues, and something about an ancient small pyramid, are headlines everywhere. And there are reports that a large airplane was involved. The crew of a public works department was arrested last night and questioned for hours, but they were all released early this morning. Seems they had an engine being replaced and their machine was unflyable.

So," he said with a smile, "it seemed rather inappropriate to have anything with a public works logo splashed on its sides on this field. Anyone who comes here—and we expect questions and likely some visitors from the media—is welcome to stand just about where you are and do all the looking they want."

Henshaw turned and pointed to the east. "In fact, there's a U.S. Marines Ford on a long approach to this field right now. This afternoon, a Navy Ford will also be landing here for some special tests. Your airplane, as far as the world knows, simply never existed."

They started walking toward the hangar. "Colonel," Cromwell said quickly, "my request last night about servicing?

Did—"

"No one has touched your machine except for the new markings," Henshaw anticipated the query. "When you're ready for servicing and the equipment changes Professor Jones has specified, you, and whoever else works on the machine, will be provided army coveralls and the proper identification so that you will appear just like the other mechanics and technicians who work here."

Not until Cromwell and Foulois were able to run their hands over the different airplanes could they detect the trimotor with the belly hatch. And that didn't help too much, for three other Fords had the same.

"Marvelous," Gale Parker said for them all.

Gale Parker sat with Indy in the group's private dining room—an army mess facility with extra trimmings— within the sealed hangar. Cromwell, Foulois, and Belem were hard at work on the airplane with a group of army mechanics and technicians.

Their work would require several days of special attention, and Indy planned to use that time setting up systems of communication between his team and headquarters.

Gale toyed with her coffee mug. "Mind if I ask some questions, Indy?"

Like the others, he and Gale wore mechanics' coveralls. They were much less likely to draw attention with shapeless, almost baggy outerwear.

"Go ahead," he said. "The others will be along shortly. They won't be needed for the engine changes."

"You're changing engines?" she asked with open surprise. "They sounded fine to me."

"Nothing wrong with the engines. But with what we may be doing and where we'll be flying, I want some specials.

Our airplane has standard Pratt and Whitney radials. We get just about thirteen hundred horsepower from them. But the army has some changes hardly anyone knows about. Pratt and Whitney sent a bunch of their modified Wasp engines down here for us. The whole idea is to convert horsepower to thrust. We won't be much faster than we are now, but we'll more than double the rate of climb we can get from the Ford. And we'll be able to accommodate the special longrange tanks that are being installed so we can fly at least fifteen hundred miles without refueling.

More, when they finish the installation for tanks we can hang beneath the wings.

We'll need all that power when we're fully loaded just to get off the ground."

She sat in silence, caught by surprise with his words. He finished his coffee.

"Also, with the new power packages, we'll be able to land and take off from really small fields. Oh, yes, balloon tires also, for rough field operation."

"Indy, you amaze me! I didn't know you were a pilot!"

He rolled the cigar between his fingers. "I'm not. I've always wanted to be, but every time I started taking lessons I either got buried in my teaching classes, or I was off in the hills, or the jungle, or the desert—"

"I know," she broke in.

"Well, I just never had the opportunity." He looked wistful. "One day, perhaps. I really should learn."

"Then how come you know so much? I mean, everything you've just said—"

He smiled at her. "Not being able to fly doesn't mean I don't know how to listen. I've spent many an hour with engineers and pilots. The guys who really know how to take a rugged lady like the Ford and turn her into a ballet stepper. There's a lot more they're doing, but I'd rather you heard that from the others."

They heard a vehicle pull up outside the hangar doors, and soon the rest of their crew came in. Their coveralls were smeared with grease. "They won't need us for a while," Cromwell explained. "They're changing the tires and doing the engines and props. Those are the greatest superchargers I've ever seen. They could take us right to the top of Mt.

Everest, the way they suck in air. It's like three tornados working for us."

He fell heavily into a seat. "Frenchy and I were talking about a change in the brake system. It will go especially well with those new tires. You know how the brakes work, right?"

Indy nodded. "That big handle right behind the pilot seats."

Foulois made a sour face. "The Ford is a wonderful machine but that kind of braking system is from the dark ages. Maneuvering on the ground is terrible. And since we have all those people and the right equipment, and it shouldn't take more than one day of extra work, I'd like to change the hydraulics from that handle to foot pedal brakes for both pilot seats."

Indy glanced at Cromwell, who said, "It pains me when a Frenchman is so smart, but he's right. It's a bloody good idea, Indy."

"All right. Do it." Indy looked up. Colonel Henshaw and another man were standing behind the others.

Henshaw gestured to his companion. "Master Sergeant David Korwalski. He's the chief maintenance and modification man in our experimental section."

"Don't let him get away from us," Cromwell added. "The man has magic in his hands, the way he works on aeroplanes."

"This time it is the British gentleman who is correct," Foulois said, winking at Indy.

"If you have a moment, Professor Jones," Henshaw came into the exchange,

"we'd like to go over the rest of the work you and your people want done. That way we won't waste any time, and my crews can work right around the clock.

Twelvehour shifts."

"Colonel, I appreciate that, but I don't want to overdo your help to us."

"No problem, sir. The men all volunteered."

Indy nodded to Cromwell and Foulois. "You have the rest of the list?"

Cromwell drew a sheaf of folded papers and specifications from his leg pocket. "Right here." He spread them across the table. Tarkiz squeezed in between the other two men. "You do not mind, Indy? I am learning much."

"You're one of us, Tarkiz. Of course."

"Good! I have ideas, too. But I will wait until these two are done."

"Will, let's do it. Colonel, why don't you and Korwalski sit down here with us."

It went on through two hours of planning and no small number of arguments, two pilots each putting forward his own best ideas. Generally, however, they were in agreement to modify the "gentleman's airplane" into a machine with greatly increased performance parameters and capabilities never planned by the Ford Company.

"Will, put aside that remark you made about climbing as high as Everest.

Now, the book numbers show eighteen thousand or so as absolute ceiling," Indy said.

"That is correct, Indy. Service ceiling of seventeen thousand," Foulois replied.

"What's the difference?" asked Gale.

"When the airplane is still climbing at one hundred feet a minute," Rene explained, "that's the service ceiling." He tapped the drawings of the engines. "With those superchargers and new propellers, this machine will fly to thirty thousand or higher. We won't really know until we start getting up there."

"And we'll freeze," Indy commented. "Colonel Henshaw, that series of highaltitude flights that were made from here some years ago. I think McCook Field was the actual base. Didn't they break forty thousand then?"

"That was Lieutenant John McCready, sir. And it was some time ago.

September of 1921, in fact. McCready took a LePere up to over fortyone thousand feet. It was a rough flight. His flight gear was still experimental, so he suffered from the cold."

"How cold?" asked Gale.

"About sixty below, Fahrenheit. The thermometer busted then," Korwalski answered.

"Great," Gale murmured.

"We'll have highaltitude gear for your airplane. Besides, we can boost the heat output from the engines, and your ship is already set up for direct heat flow into the cockpit, besides the heat registers already in the cabin floor."

Henshaw showed his surprise. "You really intend to go that high?"

Indy toyed with a pencil. "Hopefully, no. But I want the altitude capability.

Just in case."

"If you do," Henshaw said doubtfully, "you'll be awfully lonely up there."

Down the list they continued. All available types of engine instruments and flight instruments, including the latest gyroscopic devices for navigational headings and the artificial horizon, that would permit them to fly not only safely but with great accuracy even when they were enveloped in clouds or storms. The military had been developing an advanced ADF, an Air Direction Finder that could home in on radio broadcast stations and weather stations from hundreds of miles away. Into the Ford went firstaid kits, fire extinguishers, an electric galley, water tanks, additional booster magnetos and spark plugs and other spares for the engines, fuel funnels, mooring ropes and stakes, tool kits, an emergency starting crank if the electrical system failed. They installed parachute flare holders and firing tubes, able to be activated from either the cockpit or the cabin.

Cromwell, who'd flown to remote locations about the world, insisted on an earthinduction compass that had deadon accuracy even if all their electrical systems failed. "That's what got that Lindbergh fellow through the worst of his flight," he explained in reference to Lindbergh's nonstop solo Atlantic crossing three years before.

"I'll say one thing," remarked Colonel Henshaw when they completed the list.

"You can live out of this machine anywhere in the world."

"Almost," Indy corrected him, to the surprise of the group. "We've got thirteen seats in the cabin. Remove nine of them. Put in a couple of folding cots against the inside fuselage walls. They'll weigh less than the seats and give us extra room inside the cabin. Also, we can use the additional space for a small gasoline generator and other equipment."

Korwalski scanned the list with Cromwell and Foulois. "I guess that does it,"

he said, nodding to Henshaw that he was anxious to return to the Ford to resume his work.

"One last thing," Indy said unexpectedly. They waited for him to continue as he spread the cutaway schematics of the wing structure. "Here," he tapped the schematics, "we've got the baggage compartments. They're right between the second and third spars on each side of the cabin. We're not carrying passengers or their baggage, and those swingdown compartments are designed to hold at least four hundred pounds on each side." He glanced up at Cromwell and Foulois. "Everybody still with me?" They nodded.

"That's wasted space, and I need both the space and the weight capacity," Indy went on.

Cromwell looked at Foulois. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I am beginning to understand," Foulois said slowly.

"I do not understand!" Tarkiz Belem glared at them.

"He bloody well wants to install a machine gun in each wing compartment!" Cromwell burst out.

"Machine guns?" Gale Parker echoed.

"He is correct?" Tarkiz asked Indy.

"One in each wing," Indy confirmed. "And a mount back in the cabin with a sliding top fuselage panel so we can raise or lower the mount for a single weapon.

"Sergeant?" Indy turned to Korwalski. "Think you can mount a fiftycaliber in each of those locations?"

Korwalski nodded. "I can, sir. But I don't recommend it."

"Tell me why."

"Well, it's not just the weight, sir. It's setting up the absorption system for vibration and that means being absolutely certain we don't weaken the wing. You have a heavy piece up in there, and you fire it when you're in a steep bank, you are really putting the hammer down on the wing structure. Enough to do some damage.

And there's the weight, of course. And if I'm guessing right, sir, you're going to be in some pretty oddball places where getting caliber fifty ammo is going to be a real headache."

"I gather you have an alternate solution?" Indy pressed.

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Let's hear it."

Korwalski turned to Henshaw. "Sir, I need your authorization. About the new weapons, sir. They're still under security."

Henshaw chewed his lower lip and exchanged a look with Indy. Finally he nodded. "Their authorization comes right from the top of the War Department, Sergeant. Spell it out."

"Yes, sir." Korwalski turned back to Indy. "We've developed a new caliber thirty piece, sir. It has a hypervelocity round, about twice the muzzle velocity of anything that's ever been put in an airplane. That about triples its effective range.

It's lightweight, and it'll take any kind of round. Incendiary, steeljacketed for armor piercing. There's also a special round we've developed with an explosive charge within the round. It'll take care of any, ah, well, any problems you may have in mind."

He drew himself up straight. "Sir," he finished.

Indy was a bit out of water here. But he had three men, two of them pilots, who were experts with machine guns.

"Gentlemen?"

Tarkiz turned to Korwalski. "The rate of fire. You tell me, please?"

"Fourteen hundred rounds a minute. And you can carry a real load with that system."

Tarkiz beamed. "Take it," he told Indy. "It is a dream."

"Will?"

"Wish I'd had something like that when I was mixing it up with Jerry," was Cromwell's answer.

"Rene?"

"With that kind of weapon," the Frenchman said quietly, "I could have doubled, maybe tripled, the Boche I shot down."

Indy looked to Gale. "What do you think?"

"About what?" she exclaimed. "I'm strictly bow and arrow, remember? Or a crossbow. The professionals say go with it. No arguments from me."

Indy laughed, and pushed together the charts and schematics and the lists they had compiled. "Gentlemen, that does it. Colonel Henshaw, the sooner all this is done, the better."

"Yes, sir. Like I said, my men will be working on double shifts, right around the clock."

Sergeant Korwalski hesitated before speaking again, but he couldn't hold back the question that had been growing in his mind. "Sir, this may be out of line, but can I ask you something?"

"Feel free, Sergeant."

"Everything you're doing with this airplane. I mean, we're building some special bombardment models of the Ford."

"You can tell him," Henshaw said. "It's the XBnine oh six project."

"But this is way ahead of our schedule," Korwalski went on. "Sir, are we going to war?"

Silence hung among the group like a fog. Indy rose slowly to his feet to face Korwalski, and Indy wasn't smiling.

"Unfortunately," he said slowly, "the answer to that is yes."

7

"Change."

"What?"

"I asked you to change," Indy said to Gale Parker. "You know, a different outfit."

Gale studied herself in the mirror. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"It's great if we're going hunting, or mountain climbing," Indy answered, trying not to show a smile. "But not for dinner."

"Indy, we're inside a hangar at an army base where—" She studied him carefully, her head tilted slightly to one side.

"I had a dog used to do that," he jibed. "Goodlooking dog, too."

"You're comparing me with a dog?" she exclaimed. A touch of red appeared in her cheeks.

"Well, she didn't dress for dinner, either. But I meant the way you tilted your head to one side. Like you were listening extra carefully."

"Indiana Jones, you've lost your mind," she said sharply. "I will not change my clothes simply to sit with this gang of yours in this hangar and—"

"Who said anything about dining with a gang?"

"You said . . . " She faltered for a moment, trying to get his drift. Try as she could, she couldn't get past the poker face he was holding. "You said, dining," she completed her sentence. "Indy, are you asking me for a date?"

"You could call it that. You could also call it an order. But, yes," he admitted,

"it is a date. Not in a hangar, not with our crew. You, me. Downtown. You know, Dayton. There's a great Italian restaurant there. I've made reservations and we leave in ten minutes, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't waste any more time playing word games."

She started to answer but only managed an open mouth.

"Oh, yes, one more thing." He reached into his leather jacket and withdrew a strap holster with a .25caliber automatic snugged tightly within the leather. "Wear a dress. Strap this on just above your knee. I assume you know how to use this if necessary?"

She had recovered quickly. "Are we going to kill something for dinner? A wild lasagna, perhaps?"

"That's pretty good. I'll tell that to the manager at Del Vecchio. We're going to be late if you don't stop asking questions, lady." He started for the door, looking over his shoulder. "Ten minutes." He was gone.

She stood looking at the closed door for a good thirty seconds. She felt bewildered. Indy . . . taking her out to dinner? To a classy restaurant? She rifled through her closet. I'll kill him. This is an expedition, not a social event. . . .

Quickly she selected a flare skirt, hardly evening dress. But a silk blouse and a kerchief and— No high heels. The suede boots. They'll do. . . . She had barely finished dressing and was frantically trying to make something sensible out of her hair when she heard Indy knocking at the door.

She had only once seen him in anything but that beatenup leather jacket and rumpled trousers. She recognized the suede jacket he'd worn when he went to Chicago, and was amazed to see him in neatly pressed brown trousers. He had a bolo tie. Naturally, it's got the head of a rattlesnake for that real dressy look, she thought sarcastically.

He looked her up and down. "You, Miss Parker, are one spiffy lady."

"Spiffy?"

"It's a compliment."

"You have a strange language over here, Indy."

"Okay," he said pleasantly. "You look swell. Dynamite, in fact. Let's go." He turned and started down the corridor, letting her run to catch up. Outside the hangar a black Packard was parked. He opened the door for her. She wondered if he was going crazy. They were partners, everyone equal. She liked equal, and being offered the courtesies due a lady for an evening engagement was foreign to her.

They sat in silence for several minutes until they were on the road to Dayton.

"Indy?"

"Uhhuh."

"What's the occasion?"

"Great food, great wine, beautiful woman. What more could a man ask?"

"No hidden agenda?"

"Who? Me? You wound me."

"Is that natural or from a script?"

"Will you relax, please?"

"I'll try."

"Good girl."

She tilted her head. "Good doggie. That's me."

He burst into laughter and she couldn't help it; she joined in.

"Indy, dinner was fabulous," Gale said with genuine feeling. It was a meal she had never before encountered.

Steamed mussels with wine sauce, Caesar salad, rolls baked right in the kitchen, broiled Maine lobster, and a white wine she had never heard of but that equaled anything she had ever had in England or France. "I've never had better.

I'm overwhelmed."

"Dessert?"

She shook her head. "I'll pass. But I will accept a cappuccino."

He leaned back in his chair and motioned for their waiter. "Cappuccino for the lady, and I'll have a brandy."

The waiter wasn't gone a minute, but he returned emptyhanded. "Dr. Jones, the manager would like you and your companion to be his guest for afterdinner drinks in his office."

Indy lifted an eyebrow. "Ah, you must mean Dominic Carboni."

"Yes, sir."

"We'd be delighted. Just give us about ten minutes, then come back for us."

The waiter beamed. "Yes, sir," and he was gone.

Gale frowned, leaning forward. "How did he know who you were?" Before he could answer she went on. "Of course.

You made reservations."

He nodded, but she was still puzzled. "But how, I mean, why would the manager, this fellow—"

"Carboni."

"Why would he want us for company in his office? And how would he know who you were? I don't mean by name, Indy, but—"

"Let me cut this quickly, Gale. He knows who we are because we were in the newspapers today."

"We were?"

"There's a strange echo in here."

"I can't help it. I don't understand what's going on."

"A newspaper story was set up. Professor Jones and Doctor Parker are visiting the workshop of the Wright Brothers. Research on the beginnings of flight.

Remember, the original airplane the Wrights built went to England.

They were unhappy with the American government and that was their way of telling everybody off. So," he straightened his napkin, "we came here to see how much influence the Wrights had on aircraft design in the early days of flying in the British Isles."

"But that's no secret!"

"No, but it does well enough for a newspaper blurb."

"And this Carboni fellow has something to do with airplanes?"

"I don't believe he's ever set foot in one."

"Indy, you're toying with me."

"Not really. I had to make sure that certain people would know I'm in Dayton tonight. They could find out easily enough that I made dinner reservations here."

"But why?"

"Well, I figured that was the best way for them to find me."

"You wanted to be found?"

"You're getting the idea."

"You didn't tell me why."

"They want something very badly."

"It couldn't be that strange little pyramid, could it?"

"Brilliant deduction, Miss Parker."

"But—"

"Let it rest, Gale. Here comes our guide." The waiter withdrew Gale's chair, and she and Indy followed the waiter through a curtained doorway and down a long corridor, stopping before a door of massive wooden construction. Indy scanned it carefully. He listened as the waiter knocked on the door, judging that sandwiched between heavy wooden panels was a layer of steel. He knew he was right when he saw the effort it took the waiter to push the door open.

A bulletproof door.

Dominic Carboni rose from a deep leather couch to greet them. Their drinks waited for them on a marble table. Gale looked about the room. "You have exquisite taste," she told Carboni.

"Thank you. The finest there is. I don't hold back nothin' when it comes to the real goods. Real swell, huh?"

A lout in a marble palace, she judged immediately. He has no more business with Indy than he does with me. He's a front for someone else.

They went through small talk as they drank. "This your first trip to Dayton, Miss Parker? How does our town hit you?"

"I haven't really seen it," she parried. She remembered Indy's description of the cover story he'd dropped into the papers. "Mostly I've seen the bicycle shop of the Wrights, studied their wind tunnel, gone over their notes. It's really quite fascinating."

"Uhhuh. I guess it's real interesting," Carboni said. "If that's what you like, I mean. Me, I'll take the nightclub scene any time. I ain't never seen an airplane that looks better than a great broad." He guffawed with pleasure at his own remarks.

Gale couldn't miss the change in Indy's demeanor. Even the way he sat had undergone a subtle shift. She had been a huntress long enough to recognize when someone moved from relaxation to being a human coiled spring. He placed his brandy snifter gently on the marble table and again shifted position in the chair.

"Carboni, lay it out."

In that moment, Carboni too seemed to change to a different person. The expensive suit and furnishings couldn't disguise the lowlife before them.

"I didn't know you were in a hurry, Jones." There it is. Gale spotted it immediately. No more Professor or Doctor; just Jones.

"My driver is waiting for us at your back entrance," Indy said. "And he is a very impatient man."

Would Indy ever stop catching her by surprise? What driver? They came here in that Packard that Indy drove himself. She forced herself to remain quiet, to watch. She shifted in her own seat so that the .25 automatic nestled against her leg was easier to reach. Somehow she knew the polite chitchat was just about over.

"How'd you know about the back entrance, Jones?" Carboni looked at Indy with suspicion. "You ain't never been here before."

"Cut it," Indy snapped, leaning forward. "You're just the agent for Mr. Big, whoever and wherever he is.

What's your pitch?"

Carboni smiled like an eel. "You're real cute, you know that, Jones? Besides, you go out the back door you're going to meet a couple of my yeggs who might not like your leaving here without I say so."

"What does Mr. Big want?" Indy pushed.

"Hey, how do you know I ain't Mr. Big?" Carboni sneered.

"Look in the mirror," Indy offered. "What you'll see is a twobit messenger boy."

Carboni's face flushed. His hands twitched, and Indy knew he was fighting the urge to reach for a gun. Even a messenger boy can be dangerous, when he's a big frog in a small pond.

But the fact of the matter was that as much as Carboni would have liked to put enough holes into Indiana Jones to make him resemble Swiss cheese, he didn't dare to cross or even interfere with the instructions of his overseer. Indy waited as Carboni swallowed both his anger and his pride.

"Hey, just joking, see?" Carboni said quickly. "No need to get upset."

"As a joker, you'd starve to death."

"I don't getcha," Carboni said, brow furrowed.

"Forget it. Cut the games, Carboni. What's the message you were told to deliver to me?"

Gale was amazed at Indy. It was incredible the way he could shift from a stereotypical professor to someone who seemed right at home with cheap gangsters.

Carboni lit a cigarette, watched the cloud of smoke he blew away to collect his thoughts, and then dropped his hammer.

"A cool million, Professor."

"A cool million what?" Indy demanded.

"One million dineros. A million of the long green. You know what I'm talking about. One—million—dollars," he emphasized.

"That's nice," Indy replied. "But what's it for? It's not even Christmas time."

"Look, Professor, we don't know how and why you got mixed up with that train caper the other night. We do know that some bigtime operators used a plane to snatch the real goods. Not them funnymoney dimestore things the papers wrote about."

Carboni took a deep breath. "One million dineros for that pyramid."

"What pyramid?"

"You think you're a hard case, doncha? We know you got it, Jones."

"And you want to make an exchange. I give you the pyramid I'm supposed to have, and you hand over a million dollars."

"Cash."

"When?"

"The sooner the better, Professor. In fact, if it's sooner, you get to live longer."

"What if I told you I don't have it."

"I'd call you a liar."

"And you'd be right," Indy laughed.

Carboni's eyes narrowed. "So you do have it." His breathing grew heavier.

They get that pyramid, and it's permanent occupancy in a deep hole in the ground for me and Gale, Indy knew without any question.

"The problem, Carboni, is that it's not for sale. At any price."

"No? We'll see about that." Carboni pressed a call button on his desk. A side door opened and two thugs came in fast, guns in hand. "Cover him," Carboni ordered. The weapons held level at Indy.

Indy paid close attention to his nails, rubbing them against his jacket. "This is so dumb," he said.

Carboni moved with unexpected speed, crossing the room to Gale. In a sweeping motion he gripped her hair and snapped her head back. The room lights glinted off the knife blade he held at her throat.

"You tell me where it is, Professor, or this little lady won't ever need to breathe through her nose again."

Indy scratched his stomach. "Go ahead."

Gale's eyes were huge, and she was in obvious pain from the angle at which Carboni was twisting her neck. "You're bluffing, Jones!" Carboni said wildly. "First she gets it and then you!"

"You won't do it, because if you do I'll have to take on all three of you mugs, and since your two buffoons have the drop on me, I'll probably go down—" "I guarantee it, Jones!"

"And if I go down your Mr. Big will never know where that pyramid is, and that means you and these twinkletoes, here, are next in line for cement shoes. Get stuffed, Carboni. You're just a big bluff." "I swear I'll cut her heart out, Jones!" Indy shifted slightly in his seat. Again he scratched his stomach, a cover for his fingers depressing his belt buckle. Barely a second later the door leading out the back way of the office burst open, a dark figure rolled like a great ball on the floor, and Tarkiz Belem remained in a crouch, firing with deadly aim. The Mauser in his hand, silencerequipped and modified to full automatic, sprayed a dozen rounds with a lethal hissing sound. Both men holding guns on Indy hurtled backwards, blood spurting.

Carboni had only that moment to see the carnage beginning when a loud crack! came to his ears; in the same instant Indy's bullwhip, freed from around his waist, slashed through the air to whip about Carboni's knife hand. Indy jerked down hard, breaking Carboni's wrist with the violent motion and sending him crashing headfirst against the marble table.

Gale fell back into her seat, a thin line of red showing along her neck. Indy was by her side immediately. "Barely cut the skin," he said casually, bringing a handkerchief to her neck. "You won't even have a scar for a souvenir."

"Indy, I'll— you set me up for this!"

"True," he admitted.

Tarkiz snapped another magazine into the Mauser. "What do we do with this one?" he motioned to Carboni.

"Don't you dare touch him!" Gale hissed. She came out of her seat with catlike speed. She jerked back Carboni's head with a handful of his hair and in another swift move she brought out her .25 automatic and jammed the short barrel as far as it would go into Carboni's left nostril. His eyes rolled like a madman's as he focused on the Beretta. Gale brought back the hammer with an audible click.

"If I cough or sneeze your brains are going to be all over the ceiling," she said quietly. "Any reason why I shouldn't squeeze this trigger?"

Carboni gurgled. "Ease off, Gale," Indy said quietly. "He still has the message to carry, remember?"

For several very long seconds she held her position, then looked Carboni in the eye. "Byebye," she said softly, and her finger curled back on the trigger.

A metallic snap mixed with a gurgling scream from Carboni. Gale stood slowly, wiping the barrel of the gun on Carboni's jacket. She turned to Indy. "Imagine that," she said with a thin smile. "I must have forgotten to put a round in the chamber."

She looked down at Carboni, sprawled unconscious on the floor. "What's with him?" she asked.

Indy laughed. "Our tough boy has fainted. Let's go."

In moments they were in the back seat of the Packard, Tarkiz at the wheel.

"Wonderful!" he shouted. "It is good, good! to do something again!"

Gale turned to Indy. "You set this whole thing up, didn't you?" He nodded.

"But, how did Tarkiz know when to come in? In fact, how did he know to come in?"

"My belt buckle. It's a batterypowered radio transmitter. Tarkiz had an earpiece receiver with the same frequency.

I pressed the buckle, he heard the clicks we'd prearranged as a signal, and he knew to come in loaded for bear."

She studied him carefully. "Indy?"

"Name it."

"You made us targets tonight, didn't you?"

He nodded. "I had to get their attention, somehow." "But . . . why didn't you tell me what was going to happen?"

"What, and let you worry?" Tarkiz guffawed.

8

"I've never seen him quite like this before," Gale said to her group. The four sat together at a corner table in the hangar dining mess. Neither Rene Foulois nor Gale cared to eat at the ungodly hour of six o'clock in the morning. But the clock meant little to either the expansive frame of Tarkiz Belem or the portly figure of Willard Cromwell. The time to eat was whenever something tasty was put before them. Yet they paid full attention to the comments of their two comrades as the four of them studied Indy, seated alone at the opposite corner of the mess.

"He's not eating, you know," Cromwell pointed out as he swallowed a chunk of bacon. "Just sucking up that horrid black muck you people call coffee."

"Fourth cup, the poor fellow," Foulois agreed.

"He certainly seems antsy about something," Cromwell said as he renewed his attack on his meal.

"What is this antsy?" Tarkiz questioned.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't call Indiana Jones nervous," Gale said critically of the others' remarks. "He's well, preoccupied. I'd say something very big was in the air."

"You are all making with the crazy talk," Tarkiz growled through a mouthful of bread soaked in butter and honey.

"You're drooling, old chap," Cromwell noted. "I know. I eat like starving bush hog. My wives tell me this many times,"

Tarkiz smiled. He turned back to Gale. "So you tell me, woman. What means this antsy and what else you say about something falling down on us."

His words brought smiles among them. "Antsy means nervous or upset," Gale said.

"You are not talking about Indy," Tarkiz said angrily. "I have followed many men. All over the world, woman. He is a man sure of himself, what he does. Quick, smart. Many good things. But this antsy?" Tarkiz shook his head angrily, spattering the others with food. "That is dumb." "I'm with you," Gale placated the Kurd glowering at the others.

"And as for what's in the air," Cromwell broke in, "there's the first sign. I knew there'd be trouble about last night."

"No trouble was with last night!" Tarkiz growled, a fist slamming against the table, bouncing dishes and cups and silverware noisily. "You do not understand!

Nothing happened from last night because no one will ever say anything." He sneered at Cromwell and Foulois. "You think that someone would call the police?

That is last thing that will happen!"

"Then what, if I may be so bold, was that fracas about last night? After all, Tarkiz, all we know is what you and Gale have told us," Cromwell said pointedly.

Gale rested her hand on Tarkiz's arm. He started to jerk away his arm, thought better of the move, and sat quietly.

She turned to the two men watching her and Tarkiz. "I'll let Indy tell you himself. But I can tell you this much.

Everything he did was worked out to the nth degree. Don't you understand yet? He set himself up as a target! He might as well have painted a bull'seye on his forehead—"

She stopped in midsentence as a man in a severe gray business suit, wearing a bowler hat and carrying a briefcase, joined Indy at his table. Cromwell leaned closer to Foulois. "Frenchy, I never forget a face. I know that chap."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know his name. But I've seen him before at i Whitehall and—"

Cromwell snapped his fingers. "And at the Air Ministry. By Jove, if my memory serves me, he's top echelon with British Intelligence."

Rene Foulois smiled. "It promises to be an interesting day. And here comes our good Colonel Henshaw."

The army officer moved a chair to their table. "Am I interrupting things?"

Rene smiled. "No, no. Our friend Tarkiz was about to start on his third breakfast, that's all."

"Well, I'm here to tell you that at twelve noon today there will be a special meeting. I imagine you know you're expected to be there," Henshaw explained.

"Where? This meeting is where?" Tarkiz said through another huge mouthful of food.

"If you'd be here no later than eleventhirty, I'll be here to take you to the meeting. Oh, yes, Professor Jones said you're free to do a flight if you'd like."

Foulois showed his surprise. "All the work is completed?"

Henshaw shook his head. "Not yet. But we're held up for a few hours waiting for equipment to arrive. Taking the ship up won't interfere with our program. In fact, we'd appreciate your doing a test flight. Check out the new engines and props, for one."

Cromwell and Foulois looked at one another and both nodded. "Gale, will you be with us?"

"Next time. I have some things to do. Colonel Henshaw, may I have the use of your machine shop until that meeting?"

"Of course. Anything special you need?"

"Grinding machine, polishing lathe, metal forming. Routine."

"You've got it."

"Thank you. Tarkiz, I recommend you go with these two in the Ford. I'd feel better, after last night, if you'd watch their backs."

Tarkiz grinned. "Sure, I do! I am good babysitter, no?"

She patted his hand. "The best, Tarkiz. The best." Back to Henshaw.

"Colonel, I'd like to get right to it."

"Let's go, Miss Parker. I'll take you there myself and make certain you have all the cooperation you need."

That will help, she told herself. Because after what happened last night, I want some invisible tricks up my sleeves.

Henshaw gathered them together at precisely eleventhirty. They had time for a quick coffee and a sandwich each, then Henshaw, clearly on edge and watching the clock, prompted them to board one of the many similar buses on the field. It was half filled with enlisted men in the ubiquitous work coveralls, and they blended in perfectly with the larger group. None of them missed the fact that every man on the bus was carrying a .45 Colt Automatic strapped to his waist. No one spoke to them and they kept their own silence.

They watched with growing interest as the bus went through a guarded gate into an area marked with signs: danger!

fuel farm—explosive! keep out. authorized personnel only, and other dire warnings against unauthorized entry.

Finally Gale couldn't keep back her questions. "Colonel Henshaw, this fuel farm . . . thousands of gallons of aviation fuel all around us. Why are we here, of all places!"

"You'll see in a few moments, miss." He would say no more. Tarkiz, Willard, and Rene answered her looks with don'taskme shrugs. Then they drove into another huge hangar. The bus stopped as the hangar doors closed behind them.

Military police with submachine guns and leashed attack dogs moved along all entrances to the hangar.

They left the bus, following Henshaw to a guarded door. Two MP's checked his identification, then studied the ID

tags of the four people with him and used a telephone to verify names and identification. One MP slid back a heavy steel door. "Go right through here, sir."

They entered a waiting room. Raw concrete, naked light bulbs about them.

The door clanged shut. A buzzer sounded and a section of the wall to their left slid open. Henshaw gestured for them to follow. "This way, please."

They walked behind him onto a sloping, curved corridor, leading to a lower level. Then another guarded portal, with three MP's and dogs. Once again they went through a security check before the door was opened. Inside, they were kept for several moments in another concrete anteroom. A light glowed above a steel door, it slid to the side slowly, and they looked in surprise at a huge room. "It's a bloody war situation room," Cromwell exclaimed softly. "I've been in them before, but I've never seen the likes of this."

"I can explain now," Henshaw started as they walked with him along a yellow line painted on the floor. "This meeting is of a CFA—" "CFA?" Cromwell broke in.

"Sorry. I forget we're overheavy with acronyms. It best works out as Committee For Action."

They passed through a final checkpoint, and guards opened a steel door. It was Cromwell who again grasped the situation. "Listen carefully, my friends," he said in a low tone. "I've only once in my life ever been within what we call an inner sanctum. That's the nerve center of a larger war room, and that is quite where we are at this moment.

Whatever is going on, it is very weighty, or ominous might be a better word, but I'll tell you this. We are in it right up to our bloody armpits."

"You have such quaint expressions," Gale grimaced.

"However, he is certainly correct," Foulois said with the practiced ease of someone who seems casual about his surroundings, but is actually at hairtrigger alertness. It was almost as if these two wartime veterans could smell trouble. Gale had often had the same feeling in the forests and mountains. If Cromwell and Foulois were that touchy, the moment deserved all her attention. She glanced at Tarkiz. He had bunched up his shoulder muscles and was walking with a catlike tread as if any moment he might have to spring away from danger.

"This way." Henshaw's voice broke into her thoughts. "That table to the left and slightly behind Professor Jones.

Please take those seats."

Indy had watched their entrance, had, indeed, studied them carefully as they approached. He offered the slightest nod to acknowledge their presence and then locked his gaze with Gale's. No changing facial expression, but she swore she could read a message in his eyes. And his dress! He's wearing his "working clothes." That leather jacket and that sodden hat of his, and he's carrying the whip by the belt loop.

Why on earth is he wearing that Webley in such an obvious manner?

She took her seat and looked about the round table where Indy sat along with a dozen other men. No women, Gale confirmed. This is strictly business for these people, and by their expressions they are confused, angry, or . . . I don't know. But at least now I know why he's dressed deliberately in his own attire. He's setting himself off from the others. Everybody else dressed to the diplomatic and political hilt, starched shirts and squeezing neckties and suits that cost a hundred dollars or more. Everybody but Indy. A beautiful move on his part. Without saying a word he's told them all that he and they exist and live and work in different worlds.

She felt Tarkiz nudging her elbow. They leaned closer to one another.

"Woman," he whispered in her ear, "be ready for what you call, uh, skyrockets?"

"Fireworks," she helped him.

"Yes, yes. I have come to know our Indy. He is on the edge of telling everybody here to, how is it said? To get out of his way. To go away and don't bother him. He is telling them—"

"I get the idea," she broke in. "You're right. Let's hold this for later. Looks like the players are ready to deal."

"Hokay. Just one more thing. Is important." She motioned for him to go ahead. "You see fellow with glasses? Blue tie, green shirt? Looks like dumb farmer?

Is big act. Very smart, very dangerous. Head of secret police for Romania."

Gale looked at the small table placards, those that she could see, that were being set down before each man. Tarkiz was right. The placard before the "dumb farmer" held the name Pytor Buzau, Romania. She tried to read as many names as she could, then stopped as Colonel Henshaw came by and placed a roster before her. As he passed by he whispered to her, "Read it quickly and then slide it to your lap and put it away." She nodded agreement. At the same time she wondered why Henshaw was acting like something out of a fictional spy book. Good grief; all those people knew who they were, and the

nameplates identified everyone else! Well, perhaps there was a reason. She'd look into it later. For the moment she went down the list.

She already knew what lay behind the name of Buzau. Cromwell had already mentioned a face she recognized; he said the face belonged to someone with British Intelligence. Now she connected the name: Thomas Treadwell. She was surprised when she read Filipo Castilano. She not only had seen him, but had spoken with him several times at the University of London, and once or twice at Oxford, on the subject of ancient artifacts. And here he was with his name linked to the Vatican.

How very interesting. . . . Whatever could have persuaded the Italian government to let themselves be represented by the Church!

She continued down the list. Erick Svensen from Sweden. Sam Chen from China. Sam? Well, he probably went to school in the United States or England and wisely adopted a name everyone could pronounce easily. Besides, it lessened the Asiatic imprint enough to make him seem, well, more acceptable. That wasn't the case with the imperial, rigid figure of Yoshiro Matsuda from Japan, right down to his frozen, erect figure and his silk top hat.

Jacques Nungesser from France; ah, yes, he was a cousin of their great fighter ace from the war. She would ask Rene about that one later. George Sabbath from the United States? But there was Indy, and he was an American. She put aside her questions and continued with the list. Vladimar Mikoyan from Russia; Antonio Morillo from Venezuela; Tandi Raigarh from India; Rashid Quahirah from Egypt.

At the bottom was Professor Henry Jones . . . and beneath that a company name—Global TransAir.

They didn't waste any time. A buzzer sounded and the entire room went quiet. Treadwell leaned forward, scanned documents before him, and went directly to the point.

"Gentlemen, you are here because, above all else, you are trustworthy of judging what is best for your government and your country. We are all here for the same purpose. To identify what appears to be the single greatest threat to world peace, on a truly global scale, that we have ever encountered in our lifetimes. You have sufficient background before this meeting, which is the communications nerve center for all of us, to understand that even if we have yet to identify and define our adversary, we are aware of its growing power and danger to us all. Before we reach what is the most contentious aspect of what we have joined together to identify and defeat— which is how it is possible for us to face certain machinery that, by every standard of science and engineering we know, cannot possibly exist—I wish to thank you, one and all, for your support. Not only for financing this operation on an equal per capita basis, but for the magnificent cooperation we have received—"

Filipo Castilano half rose from his seat. Gone was the suave, debonair figure.

"Mister Treadwell, sir, please, do not tell us what we know. I accept on behalf of all of us that we are wonderful people. Get to the heart of the matter!"

Treadwell was unflappable. "Thank you, Signor. I am grateful to dispense with the diplomatic posturing."

"Thank God," someone muttered from the group.

"All right, then." Abruptly, Treadwell was no longer the flawless epitome of diplomacy. The hard professional beneath emerged as suddenly as a light switched on in a dark room. He pushed aside the papers before him.

"An industrial organization, as powerful politically and financially as it is in trade and industry, has obviously decided that the Great War only twelve years behind us was a warning for the future. They apparently hew to the line that the only way to prevent another global conflict is to have the levels of power—industrial, financial, trade, and military—invested in the hands of only one group. That group is to be so powerful that no nation or group of nations could ever resist its pressure or direct attack."

"Your words might come almost directly, I would note," interrupted Japan's Matsudo, "from the proposals for the League of Nations which, I add quickly, has all the power of a tiger without teeth. Very pretty, but no bite."

"Point well taken," Treadwell parried, "except that at its very worst and most confusing, the League did not kill people en masse, destroy commercial ships and aircraft, and embark on its own murderous means of achieving its goal."

Matsudo bowed briefly to accept Treadwell's rebuke, leaving the Englishman free to continue. "This group, which has so far kept absolutely secret the identity of its members, believes in what it is doing. That makes them doubly dangerous, for they are zealots with a new brand of fanaticism.

"I will be blunt. Many of us, if not all, are aware of the rise of new power in Germany. That country is on the upsurge of a new militarism, and for a while we believed that this group, or one of several groups, was behind the attacks from South Africa to the inland Sea of China. But that is not so. Even the best of German engineering has been helpless before this group as it continues on its destructive and, regretfully, successful path.

"We have identified the name under which they operate."

That was enough to bring a hornet's nest of shouting from the group.

Treadwell stood still while waiting for quiet to resume. Gale watched Indy; he was missing nothing. She hadn't noticed the strap about his neck.

Of course! All that paraphernalia he was wearing . . . how beautifully it all but concealed the Leica camera strapped about his neck and suspended just above table level. She watched Indy shifting in his seat, his right hand in the wide pocket of his jacket. So that's it! she realized. Every time he looked directly at any one person, he needed only to squeeze the trigger bulb in his pocket, and he had taken a picture of his target. He never touched the camera draped so casually from his neck along with other equipment. And he made sure to use the camera trigger only when there was enough noise among the group to conceal any metallic clicking sound.

Treadwell went on. "They are very sure of themselves, and be advised that it is our opinion the name we have discovered is used deliberately to convince us they are more powerful than all of us put together. That name is Enterprise Ventures International, Limited." He held up both hands. "I know, I know! The acronym is EVIL. They apparently like to tweak us, along with committing their very lethal operations. But EVIL also has offices in several countries. You will be given addresses, telephone, and Teletype numbers. They maintain these offices so that any of us, or the group, may contact them and yield to their pressure."

"Never!" shouted Buzau.

"Hopefully, you are correct," Treadwell said quietly, earning an angry glare from the Romanian. He ignored the daggers in Buzau's eyes. "I said I will get right to it and I will. The United States has been selected by us all as the main guiding force to act on our behalf. We had all agreed before never to identify who actually heads our program, even though we also have agreed to supply all the weapons, manpower, and other support this person or group deems necessary. We hope the American group, which for obvious reasons of security shall absolutely remain unknown to us—"

Vladimar Mikoyan was on his feet. "You make sounds, my friend, as if we are not to be trusted!"

"A point well taken, Vladimar. Tell me, do you absolutely, implicitly, unquestionably, trust everyone here, as well as their government contacts, not to compromise what I have just outlined?"

"Well, there is always a possibility that—"

"That will do, Vladimar," Treadwell snapped icily. "You've answered my question."

Mikoyan took his seat slowly, obviously smarting from being whipsawed so easily.

"I have had my say," Treadwell concluded. "You will now hear directly from Colonel Harry Henshaw of the American army. So you will understand his position, he is the communications center of this facility. Or I should say, he commands this organization. He does not know the identity of the group tracking down the members of EVIL. He is strictly a conduit, but reports from all over the world funnel through this facility. Colonel Henshaw, if you would, please?"

Gale Parker came up stiffly, her nerves taut, as Henshaw began a recital of deadly attacks against ships at sea, commercial airliners, and selected targets such as banks, show galleries, and privately held vaults. (And trains! she smiled to herself.) Every few moments she studied Indy. He was surprisingly disinterested in Henshaw's reports, either deliberately so as to mislead the others, or because he really didn't care for the growing mountain of minutiae.

She'd find out later when she was alone with him.

"A prime example of what we face, that illustrates the very considerable military power this group, EVIL, has brought together, involves the Empress Kali," Henshaw related. He paused as the group about the table looked to each other for information.

"If you have heard of what happened to the Kali, I assure you much of what was reported was unfounded conjecture. What is reality is that the Kali was not any ordinary freighter. In appearance, yes. In performance and cargo, no. The Kali left Nacala in Mozambique with a cargo of Zambian wood for a southern French port and then overland shipment to Switzerland. The vessel was built with sealed holds; in brief, to be virtually unsinkable. And, she was armed."

He paused to let eyebrows rise with that last remark. "Two threeinchers on the decks, fore and aft, and three gun tubs with heavy machine guns."

For the first time Indy made himself known. To gain attention he eschewed the accepted raising of the hand.

Instead he rapped his knuckles on the table. Heads swiveled. Indy kept his eyes on Henshaw.

"Why?"

His voice was like a shot in the room. Against all the previous verbiage, his singleword query cut to the bone.

Gale watched Henshaw. He too was riming his words for the moment of maximum effect. "Obviously, the cargo was worth a great deal, and with the publicity attached to ships that previously were attacked—"

Again Indy sliced into the presentation. "If the cargo was worth all that firepower it was especially valuable.

Obviously it was not wood." Smiles met his statement. "So I will add questions, Colonel. What other cargo was that ship carrying? And who attacked that vessel? You would not be presenting us with the lamentable fate of the Empress Kali unless disaster befell the ship."

"You are correct, sir," came the response. "However, all I know of the apparently unidentified and presumably valuable cargo, other than wood, is that we cannot identify it. We have confirmed a value in the hundreds of millions of dollars. The cargo was insured by a Swiss carrier, reportedly in concert with Lloyds of London, but they will release no information as to what it was.

"To get right to the most important issue, who or what attacked and destroyed the Kali, our information derives from three survivors. Two men were from Mozambique, the third was a Portugese national. We obtained his story because the rescue vessel was a Portugese destroyer." Henshaw paused, tapped his notes on the table before him, then spoke slowly.

"I am not sure if this esteemed group will believe the description of events as provided by that survivor."

"We appreciate your concern," said Tandi Raigarh, "but I suggest you offer fewer apologies and give us specific information. We will then decide what to believe."

Gale began to understand just how Henshaw was playing this group. Rather than trying to sell them on the veracity of the reports, he had, with Indy's perfectly timed interruption, brought the group virtually to demand his information. He took a deep breath and went on.

"Our report states that a strange flying machine appeared over the Kali," he said, making certain he appeared confused by his information.

"What do you mean by strange?" demanded the representative of Egypt. Rashid Quahirah had little patience for longwinded stories. Again it played perfectly into Henshaw's agenda.

"The machine over the Kali was shaped like a great scimitar. Like a blade rather than a rounded boomerang. It shone brightly in the sun, its metal highly reflective. There were no engines, no propellers, but it made what the survivor called the shriek of a thousand devils. Its speed was considered fantastic and its noise was terrifying."

"How fast is fantastic, if you please?" That from China's Sam Chen.

"The survivor's report states many times faster than any aircraft he had ever seen."

Erick Svensen of Sweden coughed to cover his amusement. "And what did this sensational machine do?"

"This is the strangest part of all. It made radio contact with the Kali. It spoke the native tongue of Mozambique, and quite perfectly. One of our survivors had been in the radio shack and heard the radio call. It ordered the ship to hove to, and to bring its concealed cargo from the safe onto the deck. If there was resistance the ship would be destroyed."

Murmurs ran through the group; Henshaw kept going. "Somehow, this vessel was ready for some sort of interference. The cannon and machine guns opened fire on the scimitar air machine. It accelerated with tremendous speed, swept around to the opposite side of the ship, and as the gunners tracked it a second scimitar machine swept in from another angle. It fired rockets at the Kali."

"Rockets?" someone echoed.

"Rockets," Henshaw emphasized. "When the rockets struck and exploded, they released a terrible gas that soon had the crew choking. They were falling all about the decks. Some apparently died within seconds or minutes."

Antonio Morillo slammed his hand against the table. "This is ridiculous!"

"Do you wish me to continue?" Henshaw asked smoothly.

"Be quiet! Let the man finish!" shouted Treadwell.

"One of the aerial machines fired rockets into the rudder to disable the steering mechanism. Then one scimitar slowed and hovered just above the foredeck.

A gangway extended down, and figures in silver suits and globelike helmets descended. They went directly to the captain's

cabin. An explosion was heard, obviously to blow open the safe and take what was held in there. We have heard everything about the contents of the safe from a crystal skull, to diamonds, to a cube or pyramid with unusual markings on it. This is all guesswork—"

"Guesswork, my Aunt Millie," George Sabbath spat. The others turned to the American, who glared at them all.

"This is poppycock. Drivel!"

"Perhaps so," Henshaw said, unperturbed. "I will not even attempt to explain what happened next. I presume, and you will judge for yourself, that a submarine was also involved. Two torpedoes struck the Kali after the men, or whatever they were, in the silver suits ascended back into the scimitar craft, which had been hovering all this time, continuing to howl like a thousand devils. The hatch closed, the scimitar machine accelerated swiftly, and the ship was torn in two by the torpedo hits. The three survivors clung to some of the cargo of wood and were picked up the next day."

The Romanian delegate, Pytor Buzau, motioned for attention. "I would rather believe the stories of vampires from our old castles than what I am hearing."

"I suggest," Henshaw replied with measured distaste, "you tell that to the Mozambique government, which has lost a ship, its cargo, and fiftyeight men."

Thomas Treadwell stood, waiting until quiet was again at hand. "I will be brief.

One of our airliners, six engines, was lost right at our doorstep. The event was seen by several hundred people near Dover. Do you understand? Several hundred witnesses. Above the airliner, en route to France, the witnesses saw an incredible torpedolike machine. Very high, no engines, great speed, shining in the sun, and making a sound like a great blowtorch. All these people watched three scimitarshaped machines fall away from the larger craft, which they estimated was at least fifteen hundred feet long. Then a fourth machine fell from the mother ship. They said it looked like a great flattened dome, but with the body thickest towards the center. This latter machine flew alongside the airliner and put explosive shells into the cabin. It apparently damaged the airliner just enough so the pilots could make a crash landing along a beach. Once again, just as with the Empress Kali, a scimitar machine hovered by the wreckage, the figures in silvery suits emerged, released that terrible gas that killed everyone aboard the airliner, and went into the wreckage to apprehend a sealed briefcase. That was all they took. They returned to their devilish machine and sped upwards, apparently to be recovered by the mother ship."

He paused, distressed. "As I say, there are several hundred witnesses."

Jacques Nungesser of France rose by Treadwell's side. "I confirm everything you have just heard."

"What was in that briefcase?" queried Yoshiro Matsuda.

"The plans for a new mutual defense treaty between Great Britain and France, with a most thorough review of the capacity of both countries to produce new armaments. And," Treadwell said ominously, "the reports of British Intelligence on the military capacity of every nation in Europe."

Both men resumed their seats. There was no keeping this group quiet anymore, and the gathering soon disintegrated into a shouting match.

9

"Indy, you just cannot keep piling weight onto this machine!" Cromwell became ever more agitated at Indy's seeming indifference. "I'm serious, Indy. We're already well above the permissible gross weight—"

Indy waved Cromwell to silence. "As you would say, Will, bosh and bother."

Gale grinned at his choice of words and Indy acknowledged her compliment with a slight bow. "I may not be a pilot, but I know the mathematics of flight,"

he continued with Cromwell. 'Your figures are for a commercial model with specific restrictions, right? And they're for the engines without our superchargers or the fat blades, right?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"But me no buts, my friend. I've worked out the wing loading, power loading, the shift in center of gravity, all that stuff."

"All that stuff, he calls it," Cromwell complained to Foulois. He studied Indy carefully. "I thought you said you're not a pilot."

"I'm not. Yet. But numbers are numbers, Will. We've still got the power and lift to handle another two or three thousand pounds."

"And she'll fly like a sodding brick!" Cromwell shouted. "Tish and blather."

"What? You sound like a charwoman down on the docks."

"Get ready to fly, both of you," Indy ordered. "We're going down to that restricted area. I want to test out the additional equipment we've added to this thing."

Tarkiz pushed closer, anticipation stamped on his face. "We fire guns?"

"We do," Indy told him. "The works. And I want to test those wing shackles for the tanks, too. We could hang bombs instead of fuel tanks externally, couldn't we?"

"Bombs?" Cromwell groaned, then shook his head in defeat. "Yes, yes, we could."

"Isn't that what you did with those clunker boats you flew in the war?" Indy demanded.

"That was different," Cromwell sniffed. "Why?"

"Because it was a bloody war, that's why! And you took chances!"

"What do you think we're getting into?" Indy asked quietly. "Tea and crumpets? We may need every piece of hardware this thing can carry. And, by the way, every chance we have, I want you to teach me and Gale how to handle this airplane. There'll be times when we can spell you and Rene on a long flight. All we need to do is hold her steady on course. Shouldn't be too difficult." "Nothing to it, right?" Cromwell said sarcastically. "That's the spirit. Load up. Let's go. Henshaw has closed the firing range to everyone but us."

They climbed into the airplane, now painted with new lettering and numbers.

Gone were the army stars and tail numbers. Blue and red stripes adorned the upper and lower fuselage, and in between were the large letters reading global transair.

"For the record, we're checking out routes for our airliners."

"How many planes do we have?" Foulois laughed.

"One," Indy replied. "Let's go. I'm going to stand behind you two flyboys and start learning how to handle this thing."

"You want to start from the ground up, right?"

"Right," Indy said.

"Good," Foulois smiled. "So you start with a walkaround inspection. You will learn to look for popped rivets, any twist or malformation of metal—come along, Indy, you learn as we go through the checklist. And you check the fuel by dipstick, because such instruments as fuel gauges are not to be trusted. The same with the oil." They started at the left engine, inspecting fasteners, the wheels and tires, looking for signs of leaking hydraulic fluid. "Check the propeller blades for nicks or damage. Ah, look carefully at the propeller fastenings. And while we walk, you check the external control cables. Look for slack or cable wear. Check the oil coolers to be certain they are clear. And, over here, we drain fuel from each tank to get rid of any water that has collected from condensation."

When they were through, Tarkiz emerged from the cabin with a large fire extinguisher. "He'll stand to the side of each engine when we start," Cromwell said.

"We may not always have time to do it this way, but whenever we can, we follow the book. If there's a fire, he can douse it at once. All right, inside we go. Wait. We won't go anywhere with those chocks by the wheels. Remove them. And don't walk within the radius of those propeller blades! If one of those things ever kicks in it can slice off your arm or cut you in half." "Yessir," Indy mumbled.

They climbed aboard. Indy listened to Foulois reading off the checklist. They set instruments before starting, adjusted the altimeter to the field elevation, then nodded to one another. Brakes locked. Controls free. Propellers clear.

"Indy, go back and check doorlock security," Foulois directed.

"Tarkiz closed it. I heard—"

"You want to do more than fly, my friend." Foulois smiled. "You want to operate this machine. Check the door."

Indy disappeared, came back with a nod of his head. "Done."

"While we did the walkaround, did you check the security locks on the underwing lockers?"

"Why, I didn't—

"I know. I did," Foulois scolded gently. "You do it by the book, Indy, and you learn to memorize everything. Now, we'll taxi out. I'll work the radios, Will," he told Cromwell, then turned again to Indy. "Notice how he keeps the yoke full back when we taxi. This keeps the tail down and gives us better control on the ground. And while we taxi we'll keep checking the gauges as the engines warm up."

They stopped well short of the active runway. Another checklist, another litany of shouted calls and checks and rechecks. They ran the engines to full power until the Ford rattled and shook as if it had palsy.

Both Cromwell and Foulois turned to grin at Indy. "You remembering everything?"

"Huh? Oh, sure!" Indy said hastily.

"There's a great American saying, my friend." Cromwell laughed. "In a pig's eye, you are. But you'll learn. Now, we'll break a rule. You should be strapped into a seat, but being the magnificent pilot I am," he showed a broad toothy smile, "we'll let you stand where you are. Get a good grip on the seat backs and don't touch anything that moves. Got it?"

"Got it!" Indy told him.

"You're clear to the active and for takeoff," Foulois told Cromwell. The Briton worked the outboard engine, tapping the brakes gently, and lined up the airplane on the runway centerline. He moved all the controls again to their limits, held the yoke full back, adjusted the friction knobs for the throttles, and nodded to Foulois.

"Ready?"

"Like a French goose," Foulois told him.

Cromwell held full pressure on the brakes, and moved the throttles steadily forward to their stops, the propellers screaming. He scanned the gauges, nodded to himself, and released the brakes. The Ford surged ahead, howling.

Almost at once the tail came up and Indy had a clear view of the runway.

Cromwell held in right rudder pressure to keep the Ford tracking true, the speed building up swiftly. In less than four hundred feet the main wheels were off the runway, and Indy looked around to see the ground fall away.

It didn't. Engines and props howling, the Ford tore down the runway barely above the concrete, building its speed steadily. The grin on Cromwell's face told Indy more than enough. These guys were going to pull a surprise on him.

Unknown to them, he'd read the pilot's operating handbook on this airplane, and he knew that even with a full load it was flying and climbing very well, even as slow as eighty miles an hour. He saw the gauge needle on the airspeed indicator tremble at 100, and it kept right on moving around as the runway end rushed at them.

"And it's upsadaisy!" Cromwell sang out as he hauled the yoke back suddenly. Indy was already braced, but he was still surprised and delighted as the "old lady" trimotor lunged skyward in a wild climb, and then seemed to hang vertically as Cromwell wracked her over in a steep bank. The three men were laughing and whooping it up together; Indy glanced back into the cabin where Gale had a grin from ear to ear, and Tarkiz showed a face turning green as his stomach tried desperately to flee his body. I'm going to learn to fly this thing myself, Indy swore.

There wasn't time for anything else but their checkout schedule. Once in the restricted airspace reserved for them, Tarkiz staggered back to the circular container near the cabin rear. He pulled back and locked the sliding hatch atop the fuselage, then turned a crank handle that lifted the machine gun mount and the weapon into the airstream. Lying flat against the fuselage was a panel of curving armor glass.

Tarkiz pushed this upward and locked it into place with folding metal braces; now he had a buffer against the powerful winds of flight. He released the securing pins of the machine gun, slid a heavy round canister with two hundred rounds of ammunition, and shouted at the top of his lungs: "Give me something to kill! It makes better my stomach!" Gale went back, tugged at his sleeve, and handed him a leather helmet with earphones and a mike within the helmet so he would be on intercom.

"Just hang in there and enjoy the scenery, old chap," Cromwell instructed him. "You'll get your chance to play with your new toy."

"Hurry up," growled Tarkiz.

Foulois pointed out their objective, a wide plain of several thousand acres. A huge circle had been painted on the ground and in its center was a small cluster of buildings. "That's our target," Indy announced. "Let's see you two mugs tear it up."

Without hesitation, hurling Indy's body against the entrance side to the cockpit, Cromwell slammed the Ford into a winghigh rollover, coming back on the yoke, rolling in full left aileron, stamping left rudder, and shoving the throttles full forward. He kept his controls moving as the trimotor swung up and around to peel off for the ground, and the next moment their speed went right through the gauge's reading of 150 mph. It was a breathless rush earthward at a terrifying angle.

Cromwell seemed like a madman intent on reaching the ground in the shortest possible time. Indy noticed what he'd failed to see before; a vertical line with crosshairs marked on the windshield. "Damn it, Will," Foulois shouted, "what's the redline on this thing!"

Redline, redline, thought Indy furiously. Of course, that's what they call neverexceed speed. I think it's about oneforty or something. But we're already doing onesixty and—

"I don't know and I bloody well don't care!" Cromwell shouted back to the Frenchman. "You can't hurt this thing and you know it. Now shut the devil up and get with the systems! Guns charged?" "Charged!"

"Tank jettison armed?" "Armed!"

"What the blazes are you going to do?" Indy shouted. "Drop our fuel tanks?"

Cromwell glanced about for only a moment. "Yahooooo!" he shouted in a very unmannerly British war yell. He brought the nose of the Ford up slightly, eased in right rudder to line up his sight markings, and the next moment depressed the button on his yoke. The airplane vibrated and shook from nose to tail as the two wing machine guns roared. Fountains of dirt leaped up along the ground, and then boards splintered and shattered as Cromwell fired dead center into the target buildings. He pulled out of the dive perilously close to the ground, and with their speed still high, hung the Ford on its wingtip in a screaming vertical turn. "Tarkiz! Your turn! Get the center building!"

They heard the machine gun in back firing in staccato bursts, the wind backdraft bringing acrid gunpowder to their nostrils. Above the screaming wind, howling engines and propellers, and firing gun, they heard a terrible strangling noise. "What's going on back there?" Cromwell called to Gale.

She could hardly speak. She seemed to be choking. Indy rushed back, staggering from side to side of the cabin through the wild ride, the hammering gun, and thundering bedlam. Gale grabbed Indy close, spoke into his ear. "It's our hero! Tarkiz! He's throwing up out there!"

She was convulsed with laughter. Swept up in the rush of emotion, she grabbed Indy's waist to hug him fiercely.

Their eyes caught and held. For the instant they might have been alone on a mountaintop. Impulsively Gale's hands swept up, grasped Indy's head, and kissed him fiercely.

He was astonished. He still held her tightly, wideeyed. "This is marvelous!" she shouted. "Let's go forward and see how Tarkiz did!"

Holding onto one another they pushed into the cockpit deck. Foulois pointed to the center building. "He is a superb marksman," Foulois remarked, as calmly as if drinking tea on some quiet veranda. "In America, I suppose you would call him DeadEye Dick. He is really very good."

"Rene, I'm going to sling those tanks into the buildings," Cromwell announced to the Frenchman in the right seat. "As soon as I do that, you've got the controls. Bring her around in a climbing turn and then see if you can put those rockets where they'll do the most good!"

"Righto, cheerio, and wot for, eh?" Foulois mimicked his friend. "Have at it."

The Ford came around with diminishing speed; control and accuracy were everything now. Cromwell held the trimotor straight and true as Foulois held his hand on the emergency release cable handle. "On my mark!" shouted Cromwell. A moment later he sang out, "Three! Two! One! Mark!"

They felt a jolt as the tanks were ejected by powerful coiled springs.

Cromwell brought the Ford up in a high swinging chandelle, close to stalling speed at the top of the curving climb with the left wing down so they could all see the two tanks tumbling as they crashed into the buildings. A white mist leaped into being as the tanks ruptured.

"Bingo!" Indy shouted his congratulations.

"You've got her," Cromwell called to Foulois. The Englishman held aloft both hands and clapped them together in the traditional handingover of control.

There wasn't a nudge to the airplane as Foulois took the controls. He brought down the nose, swept about in a wide turn, and eased into a shallow dive. "I'm going for onethirty," he announced to Cromwell. "Call out the speeds."

"Oneforty, coming down, onethirtyfive, and, that's it, onethirty on the nose." Foulois nudged the throttles as if stroking a woman's hand, and the airspeed needle pegged on 130.

Foulois's voice was calm and cool as if he might be talking about a soccer game or ordering a drink at a Paris club. "Confirm rocket release doors open."

Cromwell looked up at the wings; the covering panels had slid away.

"Doors open, electrical primers armed." "Very good. Thank you." Indy nudged Gale. "I think he's got ice water in his veins.

Gale was too excited to talk. She clung to Indy's arm, eyes wide, immersed in the moment.

"Just about time, and . . . fire," Foulois said calmly, pressing the button. Two rockets from their rails ejected flame and smoke behind them, racing earthward toward the buildings, squiggling like tadpoles as they arrowed ahead of the trimotor. They struck with spouts of flame, and then the gasoline vapors ignited with a huge fireball leaping upward, a boiling mass of flames and smoke.

Foulois already had gone to full power and wracked the trimotor about on its right wing, climbing away from the rising fireball. Safely out of range he swung back again to the left.

"You're hired," Indy told him, slapping him on the shoulder. The buildings were flattened, burning fiercely. "That's it," Indy added.

Cromwell glanced at Foulois. "Take her up to four thousand. It's time for the school bell to ring."

Foulois leveled off at four thousand feet and set the power to cruise. Behind them Tarkiz had lowered the gun mount and closed the hatch, reducing the howl of wind and engine roar from outside. Cromwell climbed from the left seat. "Who's first?" he asked Indy and Gale.

"Ladies first," Indy said. "I'll watch her, and then I'll give it a try."

Gale climbed into the left seat, fastened the seat belt, and let her fingers run lightly over the yoke. "Now, all I want you to do is hold our present course," Rene said soothingly. "You can follow that road ahead of us. If you pick a point on the horizon, just aim for it. Make all your control inputs gently. And don't worry about a thing. I'll be riding the controls with you. I'm sure you'll do fine."

Gale hadn't said a word. Foulois held up both hands in the timehonored signal. "You've got it," he told Gale.

They all expected wandering, the nose rising and falling, swinging a bit to left or right. It didn't happen. Indy stared with growing disbelief as the Ford flew on as though it was on steel rails. Cromwell and Foulois exchanged glances. "I'll be hanged," Cromwell said finally. "She knows how!"

Indy leaned forward, watching everything Gale did. His face mirrored disbelief and no small awe at the woman, her red hair flying in the wind from the open side window. Finally he tapped her shoulder. "You really can fly," he said with masterful understatement. "Why in thunder didn't you tell me?"

She glanced back at Indy, her eyes gleaming, loving his surprise. "No one ever asked me," she said.

Cromwell pushed next to Indy so he could talk to Gale. "Miss Parker, you're no novice."

"Thank you," she said, exasperating the three men all the more.

"When?" Cromwell barked. "I mean, when did you learn?"

"When I was twelve, I spent a summer in Germany with some cousins. They were all mad about gliding, and I joined them. I had three months of flying gliders almost every day."

"Did you solo?" Foulois asked.

"Second week," she said with a straight face.

"And after that?" Cromwell pressed.

"Scotland. More gliders, then an old training plane. My mother had the money, and I spent another summer at a flying school up there."

"I suppose you flew solo in powered machines?" asked Cromwell.

"Yes."

"Well, will you get to the bleedin' point, Miss Parker! Do you have your certificate?"

She turned again with the smile of a lynx. "Single engine, multiengine, commercial privileges."

"I'll be hanged," Cromwell said quietly.

"Indy, do you want to give it a go now?" Gale asked the perplexed man behind her.

"Let's let it wait until tomorrow," Foulois broke in. "I have the field in sight. Not enough time left for now. All right, Gale, I'll take it from here."

She kept her left hand on the yoke and began easing back the throttles to start their descent toward the airfield.

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, it's obvious, I mean, ah," he faltered.

"Why don't you work the radio?" she asked sweetly.

Indy seemed to have a thundercloud over his head. "Sure, you work the radio, Rene," he said in clipped tones. He couldn't believe this. She was going to try to land this thing, her first time on the controls!

She brought the Ford down in a perfect threepoint landing. She taxied off the runway onto the long taxiway back to their hangar. "Would you mind taking it from here?" she asked Foulois as she started from her seat.

"Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you," he said, feeling like an idiot.

She squeezed past Indy, close enough to brush his lips with hers as she went by. "Excuse me, Indy. I need to fix my hair."

10

Indy stood before the door to Cromwell's room. He raised a fist, hesitated, then slammed his fist against the door. He heard a startled "Good God! Are the Huns attacking?" as Cromwell burst from a deep sleep. The next moment a loud crash ensued from the room as Cromwell lurched from his bed and fell over his boots. Indy pushed open the door, staring down at Cromwell with his face pushed into the floor. Indy grasped his arm and hauled the portly Britisher to his feet.

"Do you know what time it is, Will? Do you remember what we're supposed to do first thing this morning? Did you arrange for the plane to be ready?" Indy hurled a barrage of questions at the befuddled pilot still trying to shake cobwebs from his brain.

"No. What time is it?" he mumbled.

"It's already fivethirty, man!"

"Fivethirty? What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?"

"You're going to teach me to fly this morning, you nit! Wake up!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Go away, Indy."

Indy shook life into the sagging body. "Ten minutes, Brigadier. See you in the mess."

Indy stomped into the dining mess, poured a mug of steaming coffee, and slumped into a chair at the table.

Foulois studied him carefully. "Someone left some hot coals in place of your eyeballs, Indy."

Indy grunted, sipping coffee. "Studied most of the night."

"All fired up to get at the controls, no?"

"Something wrong with that?" Indy challenged.

"Perish the thought. I admire your spirit. Where's Colonel Blimp?"

Cromwell slouched into the room, wobbled before the coffee urn, filled his mug, and dragged himself to the table.

He eased into a chair. "I tried your guaranteed, moneyrefunded, can'tmiss wakeup system, Professor Jones."

"I would like to hear what that is," Foulois said.

Cromwell looked at the Frenchman. "He," he started, pointing at Indy, "said the way to come awake is to stand bloody naked in the toilet bowl and pour hot coffee over your head. I tried it. My scalp is scalded, the hair is burned off my chest, and not a drop made it down to my feet. The only problem is that while it is somewhat agonizing, it doesn't wake you up. It just sent me rushing into a cold shower."

Indy nodded to Foulois. "See? It works." He turned back to Cromwell. "Drink coffee. Eat if you can. Then we fly"

"Ah, but you are to be disappointed," Foulois said with a gesture of defeat.

"Not today, mon ami. Have you looked upon the world outside?"

Indy stomped into the hangar and headed for a window. Before he reached it he knew the bad news. A hissing roar, a sudden flash of light, and a deafening crack of

thunder from the lightning bolt. At the window he stared at a monsoonlike downpour.

He stomped back into the mess. "All right," he said grimly to Cromwell,

"we'll do ground school then."

"Not with me, bucko," Cromwell deferred. "I've got a schedule to keep with our iron bird. But first I'm going to get some more sleep. Then I'll fill in the missing items we should have put on our checklist."

"Like what?" Indy demanded.

"For starters, parachutes," Cromwell said.

"Life jackets," Foulois added.

"Survival rations," Cromwell chipped in. "Never mind. We'll take care of it. I'm sure Miss Parker, now identified as our secret ace flyer, can teach you some of the salient points of aeronautics."

Colonel Henshaw joined them in the midst of their exchange. He held his coffee mug to warm his hands. "No schoolwork for you today, Indy."

"Schoolwork! Is that what you call flight training?"

"Every bird must be dumped from its nest, Professor." Cromwell smiled.

"We all went through it, Indy," Henshaw said to mollify the obviously disgruntled Jones. "I know I did when I was a flight cadet."

Indy glared at the group. "Does everyone around here fly except me?"

Tarkiz lifted his head from the next table where he seemed to have been sound asleep. "Indy, my good friend! You, me, we are only two sane people here. We leave flying to the birds and the crazies. Sensible, no? Allah wants us to fly, we would have airline tickets from heaven."

Foulois looked at Belem with surprised respect. "And I always thought the mountain man was a humorless clod." Indy waved them to silence. "Harry, what's up?"

"Coded message." The quiet hung in the room. A coded message and Henshaw's unexpected appearance meant something heavy had come upon them.

"The prefix is notification of a yet unspecified action," Henshaw continued.

"Some travel, it appears. That's simply to alert us. I mean, you."

"And?"

"We're decoding the full message. Finish your coffee. We have at least twenty minutes."

"Who's it from, Harry?"

"First I need to know your handle."

Eyes locked on Henshaw, then turned to Indy. "No offense," Henshaw said quickly. "Those are your rules."

Indy smiled. "Very good, Harry." He had set up the system with Treadwell.

He wrote the coded "handle" on a slip of paper and handed it to the army officer.

Henshaw read, Lone Banger. "Thank you."

Twenty minutes later they were in the message center. A sergeant handed the decoded sheet to Henshaw, who glanced at the name on top and in turn gave it to Indy.

MUST SEE YOU IN PERSON SOONEST POSSIBLE. FACETOFACE

MEETING IMPERATIVE. WE HAVE RECEIVED OFFER

FROM THE PANARAB ARCHEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE OF JORDAN TO

SELL US AN EXTREMELY RARE

ARTIFACT. DESCRIPTION IS CUBE, METALLIC ORIGIN UNKNOWN, UNDECIPHERED CUNEIFORM MARKINGS, THREE BY THREE INCHES. YOUR

JUDGMENT REQUIRED. FUTURE ACTION REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE

BEFORE WE RESPOND. ADVISE ASAP WITH TRAVEL PLANS. ST.

JOSEPH.

Indy gave the paper to Henshaw. He read it quickly, then looked up with a puzzled expression. "St. Joseph?"

"That's St. Joseph of Copertino. A monk who could levitate. It's the handle for Castilano."

"He's one of us?" Henshaw was wideeyed.

"Sure is. Harry, they want me there now. I want Gale along as another set of eyes, with Tarkiz for backup. How long will it take the Ford to make it to New York? That seems like the fastest way."

"No dice, Indy. Even the birds are walking. That weather front, and it's a mean one, has stalled out over this area. I can get you two compartments on the Silver Streak Special. Fastest train in the country. It leaves this afternoon and you'll be in New York tomorrow morning. I can also have private transportation arranged. I'll have the details ready for you in an hour."

Indy nodded. "Thanks. Do it."

"You," Indy said through gritted teeth, "are sleeping with me."

Gale responded with a joke. "Do I take that as an order or an invitation?"

"You know what I mean," Indy snapped back. "I don't want you sleeping alone."

"So I gathered. But your technique is somewhat Stone Age, just in case you're interested."

"Confound it, woman, I'm not asking you to sleep with me!"

Gale studied her nails. "You could have fooled me."

"With me, too," Tarkiz grunted. "Sound like invitation to—"

"Shut up," Indy snarled, stabbing a finger at Tarkiz. He turned back to Gale.

"You are not going to sleep alone in a compartment on this train. Take that as an order if you want. You'll sleep in one bunk and I'll sleep in the other. We have a direct telephone connection with Compartment E right next door where Tarkiz will be staying. We can be in touch with each other at any time. Do I make myself clear now?"

"You disappoint me, Professor," Gale said lightly, "but, yes, I get your drift."