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 good-naturedly. "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 self-recrimination.
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 glearn 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 leg-pulling 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 aer
oplane."
"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 clip-on, glass-sealed 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 long-range 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 p
edal 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. Twelve-hour 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.
Indiana Jones and tyhe Sky Pirates Page 9
