Standing in the airblast, facing backwards, Indy brought the box above the gun mount coaming, opened the lid, and began to scatter the ashes of Tarkiz Belem over the waters of Long Island Sound. In the wild turbulence, the ashes flew about in a swirling cloud against his face and into his nostrils; most of the ash cloud hurtled backward and flashed out of sight. Several banging sounds drifted to them.
"Those are small pieces of bone striking the tail," Jocko told Gale. "Not even cremation turns it all to ashes."
Gale shuddered, remembering the big, crude man who had twice saved her life. She remained silent as Indy completed his task and then hurled the mahogony box from the plane. He slid back into the cabin, closed the hatch, and went to the water basin to soak his handkerchief to wipe the ashes of Tarkiz from his face and hands. He sank into a seat across from Gale and Jocko. "Tell Will to pick up his course," he asked Gale.
The Ford set its nose for Bangor.
Gale took sandwiches and coffee to the cockpit as they flew across New England, the sky spotted with puffy clouds. She returned to her seat to join Indy and Jocko in a conversation she'd wanted for days to hear.
"Let's have it out on the table, Jocko," Indy was saying. "I need to know as much as I can about my people. Otherwise I'm liable to miss opportunities when they arise."
"You mean this isn't a job interview?" Jocko smiled.
"I thought you worked for the museum," Gale said between bites of her sandwich.
"I do. But I'm on this airplane because I was instructed to go along with what the professor needs. Or wants," he added as an afterthought.
"What's your background, Jocko?"
"Tell me what you know already, Boss. It will be easier to fill in the blanks, perhaps."
"For starters, you're a hell of a lot smarter than you show with that Jamaican jingo you present to the world."
"That real kind of you, mon," Jocko mimicked his singsong tone.
"But why do you do that?" Gale asked.
"You can hide that you are a witch, Miss Parker—"
"Gale, please."
"Thank you. As I say, you easily conceal that you are a witch. You even change your name. There is Arab blood in you. I see it in the bone structure of your face, the small differences in your skin—well, call it shading instead of color." Jocko smiled with tolerance born of severe experience. "How long can you hide your family tree if you are as black as me?"
Gale studied the big man before her, beginning to understand his true depth.
"Not long at all," she admitted.
"Why do you hide yours?"
Gale shrugged. "It unnerves people. Upsets them. Even frightens some. So I changed to a name with which people are more comfortable."
"It is much easier to change your name than it is for me to change my ebony appearance," Jocko offered. "Being black, and being intelligent, is acceptable only under certain conditions. And only with certain people."
"You have that much trouble?" Indy asked.
"Being a smart black man in certain places means a very short lifespan. I know." He leaned back and smiled, but with little humor. "Let me explain. It is not just the black that matters. It is the difference in color. It is even the difference in the black. Those blacks of African descent, or from the islands, or anywhere, for that matter, if they are light-skinned, they hate people like me. Because I am so different from them. It is foolish. It is even stupid. But it is the real world."
"You have your degree in geology from the university in Caracas," Indy slipped into the exchange.
"Yes," Jocko said, offering no further information.
"And you took marine biology at the University of Miami."
"I did not obtain my degree there."
"How many did you get?" Indy asked.
"You know many things, Professor," Jocko said without smiling.
"You don't need to tell us, Jocko. But the more I know the stronger we all are."
"Four," Jocko said.
"Four white men," Indy answered for him.
Jocko shook his head, but he seemed glad this was in the open. "They had a meeting. I guess it was the Klan. Got all liquored up. My teacher, Veronica Green, she was white. She wanted to talk to me about underwater work in the Caribbean—"
"He's a qualified skin diver and deep-sea diver," Indy interrupted. "Searches for old wrecks for the museum. Their treasures are more than gold and silver. Artifacts from an age long gone."
"That's what this woman wanted to talk about. She taught in a classroom, I lived in the world she dreamed about. But we made a mistake. We had hamburgers together at a beachfront joint in Miami Beach. These whites came in, drunk, angry, filled with hate. They said not one word, but suddenly they were coming at me with knives and brass knuckles. They were no problem for me—"
"Four against one and it's no problem?" Gale couldn't hold back the question.
Again Indy answered for him. "He'd never tell you this himself, but Jocko is a martial arts master. Judo, jujitsu, karate, to say nothing of a year he spent in India with the Ghurkas."
Jocko showed his surprise. "How did you know that?"
Indy ignored the question. "Finish what happened in Miami."
Jocko shook his head with sadness. "The woman stood before me, as if she were a barrier they could not cross. The man before her buried his knife in her stomach. I—I never have been certain just what I did."
"He killed that man," Indy said for him. "Not the others, though. Once the woman went down they tried to run. Jocko broke their legs, and their arms and I understand he did some heavy damage to livers and spleens and—"
"That's enough, Indy. It's not important."
"All right."
"But what happened after that?" Gale demanded.
"I did what any black man with half a mind would do. I got out of Miami just as fast as I could. I had a deep-sea fishing boat and I took off in that. I knew there would be a search, so I doubled back. That night I painted the hull and changed the name, hid in a small island off the Keys, and went back to Jamaica. It was Dr. Franck who straightened it all out."
"And assigned you to this little jaunt," Indy appended.
"I go wherever Dr. Franck asks. I owe the man my life," Jocko said sternly. "Let me ask you something, Boss Man."
"Shoot."
"Just where are we going?"
"Paris. Eventually, that is. It's quite a trip."
"Across the ocean in this?"
"Uh-huh."
"Couldn't we just take an ocean liner?"
"We could, but we'd miss the attention I want this way. After that, we'll see. Now you two go talk all you want. Later I want to brief you on this camera. For now, it's nap time."
They watched as he slumped in his seat, patted his seat belt, shoved his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes, and clasped his hands across his midriff.
"Can he just drop right off like that?" Jocko asked Gale.
"Jocko, he's already asleep. I'm going forward to see if they need a break up there."
Jocko looked doubtful. "Drive carefully."
"Just like you in your cab," she smiled.
"The Great One protect us," he murmured.
The flight, expected to be long, battering to the ears, and less than comfortable, kept its promise. Every landing was a blessing as they walked away from three thundering sets of propellers and engines vibrating the corrugated box of the Ford fuselage. "When they named this thing the Tin Goose," complained Foulois, "they were short of their mark. It should have been called the Horrendous Honk."
"Or the Boiler Factory," added Cromwell. He looked at the operations shack on Bangor Field. "Now, if we had just remembered to bring along ear plugs... Oh, well, we just might luck out here. I'd stuff a pomengrate in my ears if it would help."
They were in luck; spongy ear protectors to screen out the higher frequencies were plentiful, and they accepted them eagerly. They filled their large insulated cans with hot coffee, loading up on high-energy food bars, fresh
sandwiches, and other last-minute items to be carried aboard the airplane. They also spent as much time as possible walking about to improve body circulation.
Another takeoff, another opportunity to monitor closely every gauge and mechanical operation of the airplane systems, and a landing at Moncton in New Brunswick, Canada. They topped off the fuel tanks, filled the oil tanks, and headed north for Goose Bay, a remote Royal Canadian Air Force field in Newfoundland. Will and Rene brought the Ford down through buffeting winds in a mildly exciting night landing. Indy and Gale were fast asleep in their seats, but Jocko was in the cockpit, watching every move the pilots made with awe-widened eyes.
"It looks like flying down a tunnel," he told them. "Except for those pitiful little lights. How can you people see where the devil you are going and when it is time to land?"
Cromwell half turned. "It works this way, laddie," he said with a straight face. "I set the machine on final approach, like we are now, descending like the good fairy coming down a moonbeam. Then I close my eyes real tight and—"
"You fly down to land with your eyes closed?"
"Absolutely."
"But how do you know when to level out, to land!"
"That's Frenchy's job, you see. He watches the runway coming up at us. Just before we're about to smash into the ground, he always—never fails, believe me—sucks in his breath and sort of screams. More like a strangled gurgle, really. When I hear him do that, why, I chop the power and ease back on the yoke and we land just as smooth as a mug of ale."
Jocko left without saying another word.
Goose Bay was on the edge of nowhere. Before them lay a run of eight hundred and thirty miles, give or take another thirty because of the unreliability of charts. With full tanks and the underwing tanks they could fly sixteen hundred miles in still air. One of those "piece of cake" jaunts to which Cromwell referred so often.
But the two pilots went over the weather reports from the ships at sea and Greenland stations with excruciating detail, checking temperatures and winds aloft, shifting pressure zones, and then listening to the advice of the old-timers who flew this part of the world the year-round.
"You'll never have a better time than right now," Captain T. C. Hampton of the RCAF told them. "You'll want to arrive at Narssarssuaq on the south lip of Greenland in daylight. Going in there at night is suicide. I'd recommend you go airborne at midnight or so. With your speed," he smiled, "you should get there with splendid visibility."
They gathered their notes. Hampton leaned on the counter and studied them. "Hard to believe Lindbergh did this only three years ago."
"Assuredly," Foulois told him with as much dignity as he could muster. "But Lindbergh was mad, you know. He had only one engine and he was making the trip nonstop. He even fell asleep on the way and nearly splashed into the ocean. How he expected to stay awake with tea instead of coffee or good French brandy has never been explained."
"Besides," Cromwell added with a sniff of disdain, "you'll remember he took the easy way home. On a ship with his flying machine neatly tucked away in a large box."
"Have a good flight. Take care," Hampton told them as if they hadn't said a word. Nothing would help matters. Anyone flying across the North Adantic was crazy.
Jocko lay spread-eagled on the cabin floor, legs braced against seats, his head and shoulders over the open space where the floor hatch had been slid aside. He looked downward through powerful binoculars. He wanted to convey the incredible sense of wonder he felt, but trying to talk in the engine thunder and wind howling past the open hatch was impossible.
The whales. Magnificent! He'd never seen so many, and even from three thousand feet he saw clearly as they sent white spray cascading above them when they broke the surface. The plane was well into the northern reaches, and icebergs appeared as floating white sentinels. The flight was pure magic to him. He'd already dismissed his apprehensions; if that woman was completely at home up here he could hardly be less so. He felt a tug on his leg, and glanced about to see Indy motioning to him. Jocko slid the hatch closed and joined Indy and Gale.
"You have the look of a teacher on your face," he remarked to Indy.
"And yours is that of the student. The both of you," Indy told him. "You're right. School's on." Indy removed the camera from about his neck. He opened a leather case and brought forth a duplicate of the Leica he'd been carrying. "I want you both to be able to work these things without delaying a moment when you'll need them. I'll carry one, you two will switch back and forth, but either one of you must be ready to shoot at any time we're flying."
Jocko had been studying the Leica. "I've seen many cameras. This is something new, isn't it?"
"Test models. Dr. Franck obtained one for us, the other came from Doctor Pencroft in London. They both have the right contacts with Leica. Now, much of this is going to be completely new to you. It was to me as well, so let me start at the beginning."
He went through his instructions with exacting step-by-step demonstrations. "This model isn't on the market yet. It's a Leica One with a factory model number One-B. We'll set up both cameras so they're identical in film, shutter speeds, everything."
The Leica 1B was virtually a handmade model, a 35mm package that used 35mm film in a roll of twenty-four exposures. "You load from the bottom. Normally each exposure for a camera like this must be wound by hand, using this winding and rewinding knob on top. But they've added a battery-powered autosystem so that as soon as you take one picture, the camera will set the film automatically for the next exposure. That way you can take pictures as rapidly as you work the button, here, and the film rotates into position for your next shot. Still with me? Good. Now, you won't have to set the system. Well, it will be different depending upon lighting conditions, but basically we'll keep things as simple as possible."
He passed them a film roll. "This is Plus X film. Its got an ASA of one hundred—"
"Which means?" Jocko asked.
"That's the film speed rating. Watch what I'm doing with the camera and where I leave the settings. That way you can double-check very quickly the way it's supposed to be with the long lens."
"Long lens?" Gale said.
"You don't need to remember these things," Indy told her. "Besides, you can bone up with the instruction booklet later. What it all means is that with this lens, if something is a long ways off, this thing functions like a telescope and brings it much closer. Something that's a dot with the regular lens will be a closeup shot with this lens. What I want you both to do is to shoot scenes outside—beyond—the airplane. Icebergs, any ships we see, coming down over Greenland. Keep a record of the settings and the conditions. Don't worry about wasting film. Use all you want until you're completely comfortable with the system. The first chance we get we'll have the film processed so you can compare what you've been doing with the results. From that point on I expect you both to be whizzes with this thing."
"Uh-huh," Jocko said.
"You have a lot of faith in us," Gale offered with a touch of sarcasm.
"Shouldn't I?"
Jocko said, "You're hoping we'll find something specific to take pictures of? I'm trying to stay one step ahead of what you're after."
"Good point," Indy said. "And you're right. Something very specific."
Gale couldn't remain out of the exchange. "Which is?"
Indy leaned back in his seat, bracing himself against a sudden lurch from turbulence.
"A disc. A scimitar, or whatever shape those things are. In short, a flying saucer. Call it what you like, but it most likely will be flying and it won't have any engines." He almost added the words "that you can see," but kept that to himself.
Besides, both Gale and Jocko were staring at him in open disbelief.
"But, Indy!" Gale exclaimed. "Everything you've said at the meetings, the way you ridiculed... I mean, you've made it clear you don't believe in these things!"
He corrected them. "I believe in them, all right. I just don't believe they're from any
other planet than good old Earth. They're real. In fact, I'm counting on them to come after us."
Foulois was walking back from the cockpit to talk to them. "I don't think you want to miss this. We've got visual on Greenland. You can take turns up front."
Gale stared out the cabin windows. "I didn't even notice it was daylight!"
"That Canadian, he was right about the weather. We've had a tailwind of better than sixty miles an hour out of Goose Bay. We're way ahead of schedule. And with the light so low on the horizon, the sight before us is—well—" He smiled. "Ladies first, Gale."
She eased into the right seat. "I... I never imagined it could be so beautiful!" she said to Cromwell. She stared in wonder at the glearning white icebergs drifting off the coast and the huge glaciers gripping the coastline. It was a fairyland of white, peaks and slopes and massive ice walls. "Will, how far out are we?"
"What do you think?"
"Ten, fifteen miles, I guess."
"Well, then, this is likely the clearest and cleanest air you've ever been in. That shoreline is seventy miles away." She remained there several minutes, then left so Indy and Jocko could share the incredible sight before them.
Foulois returned to the cockpit. "Sorry, Indy. I'll need to be up here for this approach. The airport we're looking for, a bare strip, really, isn't on the coastline."
"Bloody well it isn't," Cromwell chimed in. "It's a killer. It lies up one of those fjords," he pointed ahead of them, "about fifty miles inland. We're going to be weaving our way in between mountains five thousand feet high and we don't dare make any wrong turns, because then there's no way out. We must have the proper fjord, and then we thread the needle." He chuckled. "It's really simple. You've got only one way to get in and when we leave we have only the same way out. And we must make a proper approach the first time."
"What if we don't?" Indy asked.
"Well, then, we go smashing into the mountain that's at the far end of the runway."
"Piece of cake, right?" Indy smiled.
"Certainly. If you do it right, that is."
Indiana Jones and tyhe Sky Pirates Page 18
