Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates

by Martin Caidin

  "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 tha
t 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 p
ut 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."