Indiana Jones and tyhe Sky Pirates

by Martin Caidin

  Only Marcia Mason remained silent. Indy ignored her. He knew she would figure in his life soon enough. Without another word or a backward glance, he left the room, followed closely by Gale, Jocko, and Tarkiz.

  Waiting for the elevator, Gale turned to Jocko. "Could we go through that diorama again? I'd like another look at that. It gives me ideas for museum presentations."

  Indy nodded. He was still thinking about that workman and the manner in which he'd left their conference room.

  They retraced their steps to the huge hall with the northern woods diorama. Indy was impressed. They'd even kept a woods scent present in the area. He looked up into the trees, and they were real trees, their roots in tubs concealed by brush.

  He was impatient to get back to his search. He turned to Gale. "Seen enough?"

  "Yes." Her eyes shone with pleasure. Suddenly her eyes widened. "Indy!" she gasped. "The bear—LOOK OUT!"

  He heard the coughing roar from behind him. For just an instant his senses triggered to the presence of danger, even though he realized where they were and that the bears were electromechanical objects.

  The next moment he was struck a powerful blow; he felt as if he'd been hit by a charging rhino, and felt his body spinning about as he was hurled from his feet. He had a fleeting glimpse of Tarkiz—the man had dashed full-tilt into Indy to smash him aside. Indy shook his head to make sense of what was happening.

  Then he saw the huge Kodiak bear lunging forward and downward from its display position, its front paws with terrible claws unsheathed swinging together as it came down. The great "animal," fully nine feet tall and weighing several hundred pounds, crashed into Tarkiz, one paw slicing across his face with savage force.

  The claws laid the side of his head open to white bone. A ghastly gurgle rattled in the big man's throat as he toppled to the floor beneath the immense figure of the bear. Tarkiz died instantly.

  Indy had already spun about. There! A flash of white... the white coat of the turbaned workman who'd slipped away from the conference room. If anyone would have worked the controls to send the mechanical animal rushing at Indy it must have been him, and now he was trying to sneak away.

  Jocko was already running full speed to head off the man before he could disappear into the labyrinthine hallways and side rooms of the below-ground sections of the museum. Indy had his hand about the grip of the Webley, but before he, or Jocko, could stop the man, Gale had stepped forward, one arm held stiffly before her. Indy heard the sudden twang of metal under strain and a hissing sound. He saw a blur as something snapped across the room toward the flash of white.

  A moment later a muffled scream reached them and they heard the crash of a falling body against a floor. Indy turned to look at Gale. She had a strange smile on her face; a look of unexpected triumph.

  "Got him," she said quietly.

  "With what?" he asked.

  She pulled back her jacket sleeve. Indy stared at a circular bolt-launcher fitted securely to her forearm. "Remember when I used the machine shop back at the airfield?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Notched bolt," she explained. "Fast as a crossbow." She smiled grimly. "Never mind how small it is. It's tipped with curarine. About six times deadlier than curare. He's paralyzed, and he won't live much longer."

  Indy was already running about the wide curve of the diorama. He came upon the man in the white jacket and turban on the floor, Jocko standing over him.

  "Don't kill him," Indy snapped. "I need some answers from him."

  "Too late, Boss. I don't know what hit him, but his lungs and vocal cords are paralyzed. He won't last much—"

  There wasn't any need to continue. Eyes bulging, tongue protruding, the man twitched violently, heels drumming on the floor. His head snapped back violently. They heard the crack of his neck breaking.

  "Let's get out of here, now," Indy ordered.

  "You're leaving two dead men behind," Jocko said unnecessarily.

  "Castilano will handle it. He's an old pro at getting rid of bodies." Gale had followed them and he grabbed her arm, half dragging her to a stairway.

  "Lead the way, Jocko. Right to your cab," Indy snapped. "When we're driving, make sure we're not being followed, and then get us onto Long Island."

  They dashed up the stairways. Jocko went into the parking lot first, opened the cab's hood to check for any explosives, slipped beneath the cab to do the same, then signaled Indy and Gale to follow.

  Moments later they were driving through Central Park. "I'll work us down to the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge," jocko said. "I know the back roads, and no one can follow us without my knowing about it. Where to on the island?"

  "Roosevelt Field. Our plane is already there," Indy told him.

  Gale studied Indy. "Any more surprises in your bag of tricks?"

  He nodded. "You'll see."

  12

  Indy sat in the right seat of the Ford cockpit. Cromwell was at the controls to his left, Foulois standing partially between and behind the seats. Unless both men were required by circumstances to be together in the cockpit, Indy was determined to spend as much time as possible with his hands and feet working the trimotor's systems. What he was learning through hands-on experience might not make him a pilot but it sure was a great leap forward. And it kept his mind off the death of his friend Tarkiz, a scene it would take him years to forget.

  He was learning the sensations of engine sounds, the rumble of the airplane over uneven ground, the effects of winds, especially from the side that could blow the airplane off its straight-line takeoff or landing. There were control pressures to learn, the need for pressure on the right rudder pedal during the takeoff roll and climb-out to counteract swirling propeller wash and engine torque. Needs small and large, some constant, others only at certain times, but above all he had already cemented into his thinking that flying skillfully demanded much more than simply pushing, pulling and shoving. What seemed so easy to his two pilots (and don't forget Gale! he told himself) was a masterful orchestration that appeared to be carried out with the most casual effort.

  "You'll learn, way beyond the mechanical," Cromwell told him, "that the smoothest flying is actually a constant correction of errors that only you, the pilot, not only know but can anticipate. Any clod can push an aeroplane through the air, but that is not flying. You've got to caress the controls as you would a lovely lady—"

  "Talk about the airplane," Indy growled.

  "Touchy, touchy," Cromwell grinned. "All right, bucko, I'll add this to the litany of learning. Never, absolutely never, try to fool this machine. I mean that, Indy. You can fool anybody on the ground. You can tell grand stories to your mates. But if you lie to your machine, it will kill you. It will do so in a heartbeat. Learn to love your aeroplane as you might love a true mate. You're bonded to it as closely as you ever will be to a human being, and your life depends on it."

  He turned to Foulois. "Frenchy, they all strapped in back there?"

  Foulois glanced back at Gale and their newest member, Jocko. "I don't believe our dark friend is all that happy about flying," he said, smiling.

  "He'll get used to it quickly enough. All right, Indy, as I begin to get us under way, I'll be talking every move, every step of the way, so you will know what happens and can start to learn that secret of anticipation. You ride the controls with me. Do it gently. And if you ever hear me, or Frenchy if he's in this seat, say 'I've got it,' get your bleedin' hands and feet off the controls at once. Got it?"

  "Shut up and fly," Indy growled.

  "Ah, the enthusiasm of the wingless young pup," Cromwell laughed. "All right, here we go. Yoke full back; that's it. Brake pedals depressed to hold us in place. Scan the gauges. All of them. The throttles start forward now, keep your eyes scanning, check all the temps and pressures, double-check the wind outside, it can change in a flash, throttles all the way forward, feel her shake, she wants to fly, call out RPM, oil temp, cylinder head temp, pressure, fuel flow, quantity, check the revs, see how close th
ey are, look outside, be quick about it, blast you, look for other traffic! All right, you check the trim, you clod? Forget it, I did; now, last glance across the panel, the windsock, look for any animals or people that may have wandered into our takeoff run, everything's set? You strap in your seat belt, and brakes coming off, there's good acceleration, ease off the yoke back pressure a mite, that's it, get in steady pressure on the right rudder, DON'T STOMP LIKE A CLODHOPPER, GENTLY BUT FIRMLY! Feel the tail coming up, the vibration is easing, HOLD HER STRAIGHT, YOU NIT, that's it, KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE THROTTLES SO THEY DON'T BACK OFF! You've got speed coming up, watch it, you're drifting left, blast it, Indy, look at your airspeed, why aren't you FLYING? Indy, did you ever think of becoming a cobbler to earn your living?"

  Beads of perspiration appeared on Indy's brow and upper lip as Cromwell lambasted him every foot of the way up to three thousand feet where they leveled off and the noise and vibrations eased. "What were you in your former life, Will, a galley slave master with the Romans?"

  Cromwell ignored him. "We took off from Roosevelt Field, we're going to that private grass strip on Block Island just east of Montauk Point, right?"

  Indy nodded.

  "Well, this isn't by guess and by gosh, Professor. Have you noted temperatures, humidity, dewpoint, density altitude? What's our ETD, ETE, ETA? Fuel time aboard, how many gallons do we burn every hour at this setting? When's the last time you scanned the gauges? If your name wasn't tattooed on your forehead you would by God forget that, too! Would you like to meet George?"

  "George?" Indy looked puzzled. "Who the devil is George?"

  "George, m'lad, is the latest wonder of the ages. Directly from the development laboratory of Sperry Gyroscope. It's a device that's linked to our directional gyroscope and to our artificial horizon. George is our automatic pilot; consider the name as a shameless sign of affection. When I turn on George, it derives heading and bank information from the gyros. It will keep this machine flying with wings level. Here; watch. And stay off the controls."

  Cromwell moved several controls and leaned back in his seat. Nobody touched the foot or hand controls. "George" was slaved to the gyro instruments and locked the Ford in level flight on the heading determined by the directional gyro. To Indy, it was magic. The airplane was flying itself It flew as though invisible hands and feet were on the controls, rocking gently in mild turbulence, but flying with dazzling precision.

  "Where are we, o ace of the skies?" Cromwell nudged Indy.

  "What? Oh. I was watching how this thing flew, I mean—"

  "You mean you forgot to keep track of where we were flying, where we were, how long it's been since takeoff, how far we are from Block Island, when we're supposed to start our descent, right? Other than that," Cromwell sneered, "you're doing a splendid job. I always wonder how a slip of a girl like Gale is so good at this game, while the world-famous explorer and adventurer, the Professor Henry Jones, can't keep track of where he is over Long Island!"

  "I may kill you," Indy glowered.

  "Tut, tut, my friend. Today was simply an introduction. Piece of cake. Simple for a ten-year-old child. It shouldn't take you more than ten or twenty years to get the hang of it."

  "Ignore him, Indy," Foulois said, leaning forward. "It's just been a long time since he screamed and shouted at any students. He's in his element, that's all."

  Indy turned to Cromwell who grinned broadly at him. "All right, mate, we'll be starting a long descent. On the controls, gently, just follow me through for the feel. I don't want you doing any work. You've had enough for one session, so this is cheat time for you."

  Fifteen minutes later Cromwell, arrowing downward, feeling the headwind fading away, crossed the controls and nudged the Ford into a forward slip, the wings askew and the airplane descending in an unnerving sideways crab. At the last moment Cromwell straightened out everything, and the big airplane sighed onto the grass strip in a masterful touchdown. "There's a barn over to your left," Indy told him. "Taxi over there. By the time we get there the doors will be open front and back, so you can taxi right inside without blowing down the place."

  "How wide?" Cromwell queried.

  "One hundred ten feet side to side," Indy told him.

  "Piece of cake, mate."

  He shut down the engines when they were inside the huge "barn," but the only part of the structure that was farmyard was its external appearance. Cromwell looked about him. "Very neat, Indy. In here we have simply disappeared."

  "That, slave driver, is the idea." He left the cockpit to return to the cabin.

  "How did it go?" Gale asked.

  "My ego is flatter than yesterday morning's pancake," he told her. "Jocko, help Gale with our gear. We'll be staying in that farmhouse tonight. And sometime this evening a boat will arrive from Connecticut with the equipment we ordered for you."

  "You got it, Boss."

  "Why do you keep calling me Boss?"

  "Sure sounds better than Whitey."

  Gale stifled a laugh. "You two are going to be lots of fun."

  "Never mind the chuckles," Indy said. "We've got work to do."

  "Mind telling me what's on the agenda, Boss?"

  "Why not? We've got to find the Martians, or whatever they are. Or, more to the point, we've got to help them find us."

  "You got a death wish, Whitey?"

  "Boss, remember?"

  Three men and one woman ran the Block Island "farm," a rolling expanse on the island isolated by water from the eastern tip of Long Island. None of the four people were farmers; the coveralls they wore provided a loose and comfortable fit for the powerful .44 Magnum revolvers each carried in holsters.

  "It doesn't take a physicist," Gale said slowly to her own group, "to conclude that as a farm, this place is a bust."

  "Well, it's also a weather station," Indy noted, pointing to equipment atop a small building. "That attends to any questions about towers and antenna for the radio equipment here."

  "And if you try to come here by boat at night you got to be stupid or crazy," Jocko said. He'd already studied the angry waters between Long Island and Block Island. "Now I see why this hayfield is such a great landing strip."

  In the "farmhouse," one of the men introduced the others. "I'm Richard. This is Mike, and the short dumpy character is Ozzie. The lady is Katy. Please introduce yourselves and use first names only. We don't need to know any more." When the introductions were complete they helped carry the bags and equipment to rooms on the second floor. "Indy, you've got two-oh-one. Someone else will share it with you tonight."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know, but you know each other. Will and Rene, two-oh-two is yours. Gale, two-oh-three, and you'll be on your own. Jocko, you're two-oh-four. Several more rooms will be occupied tonight."

  "How are they arriving?" Indy asked.

  Richard, if that was his name, pointed a finger at the sky. Answer enough.

  "We were asked to have an early meal ready for you," Richard went on. "They wish to get right into the meeting after they land."

  "Great," Cromwell boomed. "What is the fare, may I ask? Cold bologna sandwiches, no doubt, on this forsaken real estate?"

  "Roast duck, spiced apples, choice of wine, candied carrots, kitchen-fried potatoes, French bread, coffee."

  "You're serious?" Cromwell gaped at the man.

  "Sir, this is a duck farm. That is the truth. We have six thousand ducks here. Katy and Ozzie are superb chefs. That is their profession. Mike and I prefer to kill the stinking birds."

  Ten minutes after the table was cleared, they heard the sound of an approaching aircraft. Cromwell went to the front door to open it wide. He cocked his head better to hear the sound. "Radial engine, single, descending, throttled back, coming in fast," he announced.

  "You can tell all that by just sticking your ear into the night air?" Indy queried.

  "Everything but the pilot's name," Cromwell said confidently. "In fact, ground lights should be coming on about, um, well, abou
t, now." As if in response to his last word, a double row of lights came on along the grass strip, and a floodlight illuminated the windsock. Moments later a two-seat fighter—radial engine just as Cromwell had said—whistled down the runway on a clearing pass. They heard the engine thunder with increased power for the climb, then ease off as the pilot came around in a tight curving descent, rolled onto final approach, and eased the fighter to the grass. As soon as the pilot cleared the runway the lights winked out, the plane was moved into the hangar, and silence lay across the field again.

  Colonel Harry Henshaw and Filipo Castilano emerged from the hangar to greet Indy and the others. They went together into the farmhouse. "Coffee," Henshaw said to Richard. His demeanor left no doubt as to whom Richard and the others worked for. Coffee was placed on the table along with sweet rolls.

  "Okay, let's get down to it," Indy said. The long machinations until this moment had been grinding away his patience.

  "Indy," Henshaw began, "I've been digging as deeply as I can into every known instance of unexplained flight—unexplained in terms of our present science, engineering, and technology—since the first historical records ever kept. I didn't do it myself, of course. We turned to every college and university and research office with which the government has any kind of contract. We leaned on them and we leaned real heavy. We have used everybody from Navajo shamans to long-deceased priests, thanks to the effort of Filipo, here," he nodded to Castilano. "We've gone into Hebraic, Moslem, Akkadian, Sumerian, Babylonian, Chinese, Japanese, voodoo, Hindu, every Christian sect and every ancient sect from people who made the ancient Egyptians look like Johnny-come-latelies."

  This was Indiana Jones's home territory. He was enjoying himself in a way he hadn't anticipated. "Witches, too?"

  "Witches, too." Henshaw wondered about the sudden smile on the face of Gale Parker.

  "Colonel, how deeply did you go into the Mayan, Aztec, Inca, and other cultures?" she put in.

  "All the way."