Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates

by Martin Caidin

  "Yes. We had detailed maps of the area, of course," Treadwell said, "from Jacques Nungesser. Jacques also placed special agents through the countryside.

  Farmers, tradesmen, that sort of thing, to keep watch on and record the movement of everything that went into or came out of two places in particular.

  RennesleChateau and the Chateau of Blanchefort."

  Pencroft grumbled his distaste. "That is all nonsense," he stated emphatically.

  "That story has been cropping up for years. It's in the same league, you should know, with the tales of Christ living out many of his years right here in England.

  Having a merry old time with the ghost of King Arthur, or perhaps Arthur in person, with Merlin entertaining the crowd. It's about as reliable as the tales of a Christlike figure appearing among the Maya and the Aztecs, and materializing before amazed people in China. Why is all this even brought up in this matter?"

  Treadwell remained patient and understanding. "Because there has been major construction work on Blanchefort and Rennes. You can't hide that sort of thing. Nungesser's people took elaborate photographs of both chateaus. They located unusual radio antenna almost perfectly concealed among the towers and battlements. The moment they saw those, they began a sweep of all radio frequencies that might be used for longdistance transmissions. Nungesser is very sharp, indeed. He struck paydirt almost immediately and, wisely, made no move to interfere or let it be known the places were under surveillance. It wasn't enough to suspect strongly, or even to know that this was, if not the headquarters, at least one of the prime locations of the group behind these attacks. We needed to get inside."

  "So that's how you used Castilano," Dr. Pencroft said quietly.

  "Yes, sir," Treadwell confirmed. "First we set up all that uproar in the press about Christ's bones in a tomb. The Vatican called for an investigation. Which called for Cardinal Castilano, with the blessings of the French government, to make his pilgrimage to the two chateaus and to Arques. Filipo needed to get inside to talk with as many people as he could, to see if he could recognize a face, a voice; anything."

  "It sounds to me as if you sent a lamb into the lion's den," Gale said, her criticism unconcealed.

  "Filipo Castilano is a professional intelligence and espionage agent,"

  Treadwell said quickly. "He is no lamb."

  "Did he find what he was after?"

  "We believe he made a breakthrough. Apparently he recognized one man's voice. His mannerisms. He managed to get a note out with one of his priests—who became ill and had to return to Rome—with his suspicions." "Who was it?" Pencroft demanded. "It's still a bit sticky, sir,"

  Treadwell replied. "The name we received was Cordas. Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas. Extremely powerful. Also, as Professor Jones has indicated, someone in that group is familiar with archeology. We know that Cordas is a dedicated evolutionist, a man who believes in sociallydirected control of the masses. He is also quite competent in metallurgy.

  He owns vast steel plants and machine shops. He fits the pattern perfectly."

  "But Cordas . . . he was killed in that terrible accident in Switzerland!"

  Pencroft protested.

  "Not likely," Indy said. "Not if he did just what we did with the Barclay. Put a double on that flying boat. The difference is that Cordas likely killed many of his own people."

  "Charming fellow," Pencroft murmured. "Did we hear any more from Filipo?"

  Treadwell's face darkened. "No, sir. And I don't believe we ever will. If there was even a hint of suspicion, they would have done him in." Treadwell sipped water.

  "But it gave us a lead that we needed desperately. We're following through on it, of course."

  "And in the meantime," Indy said with sudden authority and no small impatience, "there's that airship and the discs. And that huge ship we saw in the Atlantic."

  "That ship is gone," Henshaw came into the exchange.

  "Gone?" Pencroft echoed.

  "The American and British governments believe the ship, in bad weather, perhaps struck an iceberg and went down without warning," Henshaw said with a straight face.

  A smile creased the old man's face. "How ruddy convenient," he chuckled.

  "Serves the buggers right."

  Indy turned to Henshaw. "It couldn't be one of those icebergs that fires torpedoes, could it?"

  "Difficult to tell," Henshaw said, still with a straight face. "It appears there were maneuvers in that area. Multinavy, so to speak. American, British, French, even one or two submersibles from Italy, I believe. No one's quite sure.

  Terrible weather, storms at sea, that sort of thing."

  "You know, Indy," Treadwell came into their exchange, "it does seem to me there were reports of a most severe explosion in the area. Now, if a berg did slice into an engine room and cold sea water hit the boilers, the effect could be very much like that of a warhead doing the same thing."

  "In the confusion of the maneuvers, there's simply no way to tell which submarine was where at what time,"

  Henshaw added.

  Indy's hand suddenly slapped the table. "By God, that's perfect]" he exclaimed.

  "You are demonstrative at times," Pencraft chided him.

  "I think we've just boxed them in," Indy said with visible excitement.

  Gale smothered a laugh. Even the prospect of getting out of these meeting rooms and interminable conferences was enough to get Indy's blood racing.

  "I do believe I get your drift," Treadwell said to Indy.

  "Would someone mind telling me?" Pencraft said testily.

  Indy turned to the impatient man by his side. "It works this way, sir. From what Colonel Henshaw has been able to find out, there's only one of these giant airships in operation. Now, when we confirmed the existence of that floating dirigible carrier, which seems"—he smiled—"to have been caved in by a very fast iceberg, we pretty well confirmed their method of operation. They couldn't hide that ship when it landed for resupply. It's too big, impossible to conceal. So they modified a tanker or some other big ship that could accommodate that airship and refuel it and give it whatever else it needed."

  Indy almost banged his fist on the table. "But now it hasn't got that floating base any more! It's got to come down somewhere, to some kind of a permanent base. Something that's big enough to move the airship into, so it isn't visible either on the surface or from the air. Does that make sense to you, Dr. Pencraft?"

  "A bit muddled, in your usual way," Pencraft nodded. "But I do begin to sense a loss of options for those buggers. You're right, of course, Jones. Now all you need to do is invoke some magical incantation and come up with where they're going to go."

  Gale had a hand in the air, almost frantic for attention. "Colonel Henshaw, or Mr. Treadwell, whoever," she burst out, "we know where that airship was when it attacked the Barclay. And you—I mean, they—can't hide something that big. Why didn't you send fighter planes after it when you had the chance!"

  "Splendid idea," murmured Pencraft. "Set the buggers ablaze, all right." He studied Treadwell. "It would, you know.

  Hydrogen loves to burn. Whoosh! Just like the sausages over the lines."

  Indy blinked. Sausages? They were leaving him behind. Henshaw spotted his confusion. "Artilleryspotting balloons over the trenches," he said quickly.

  "Tethered to the ground, surrounded by heavy Jerry ackack so they were dangerous as all getout to hit. But once you pumped incendiaries into them, they'd go up like Roman candles."

  "Well, then, why haven't you filled that filthy machine with incendiaries?"

  Gale demanded of Treadwell. "That would finish them off!"

  Treadwell responded with patience. He understood her feeling that they might have missed the opportunity to destroy the great dirigible. "Miss Parker, perhaps I should have made myself clearer with the details. You're right. Set fighters after that zep. The fact of the matter is that we've kept fighter planes at different aerodromes, at the ready, just in case we had a crack at that ai
rship. And when the Barclay was attacked, our fighters were already taking off. Of course, it took them a bit of time to climb to the height where the airship was flying."

  Gale's face turned red. "I—I didn't know. Sorry—" "No apology needed, Miss Parker. We should have taken a crack at this long ago. Waited too long, of course."

  "Well, what happened!" Pencroft snapped. "First off, sir,"

  Treadwell responded, "it was a terrible go. That machine was at twentytwo thousand feet. Our fighters made it up there, but control proved very difficult for them. Bitter cold, and all that. One of our machines had radiotelephone and he kept us in touch."

  "Did they get a crack at that thing?" Indy broke in. "Barely so, I'm afraid."

  "What I want to know," Indy said, unusually intense, "is whether or not they fired tracers into the airship. If they did, then I assume those tracers could have reached the gas bags inside the hull?" "Absolutely," Henshaw said. "Well?"

  Indy kept at Treadwell. "At that height, our machines could hardly maneuver.

  We didn't have machines ready with oxygen equipment. Two of our men passed out, it seems. They fell off in spins. Both of them recovered in time. Another fighter's guns froze in the cold air. The remaining three blokes flew ahead and just above the airship to make a shallow diving attack. Each pilot knew he would have only one crack at it. I've done that sort of thing myself. It's a wicked moment, I'll tell you. From what the chap with the RT called in, three of our fighters, including his, emptied their ammunition into the airship. It flew on as if it had been bothered with mosquitos. Indeed, the chap on the RT said it even accelerated."

  "What was its heading?" Indy said sharply.

  "East, from what I could tell." Treadwell studied Indy. "You starting to latch onto something, Professor?"

  "Maybe. Just maybe. I need a few more facts. Tom, is there anything else, anything at all, that we may have missed? Even Castilano's message about that place in Frances, Arques, and the chateaus. Did he say anything in his message about any other place these people may be using?"

  "Well, not really." Treadwell rubbed his chin as he probed his memory.

  "There was more, of course, but it was sort of gibberish."

  Indy rolled his eyes. "What's gibberish to one man may not be the same to another," he said quickly. "You of all people—"

  "Castilano made some reference to a city in the sky. Something huge in the sky, other than the airship—"

  The pieces began to fall into place in Indy's mind with startling swiftness. It was all coming together like a threedimensional jigsaw puzzle, and the more pieces that dropped into place the faster came the conclusions and the clearer became the picture.

  "Bingo!" he shouted jubilantly.

  16

  "It's going to be a rough flight, Indy."

  Harry Henshaw spoke directly to Indiana Jones, but his audience included the rest of the team who would occupy the Ford Trimotor. Cromwell and Foulois sat quietly in the mess dining hall of the British outpost along England's west coast, listening and watching carefully. Henshaw was right.

  "Why?" Indy asked. "We're taking the same route we took to get here. Just going the other way."

  Henshaw studied Indy and Gale Parker, seated by his side. "Sure, it's the same distance in terms of miles. But that's measuring the miles along the earth's surface. Flying calls for judging and considering the winds as well. And we could be going directly into headwinds. That means more flight time and a slower speed."

  Indy held Henshaw's gaze. "Harry, you want to get that dirigible or don't you?"

  "What kind of question is that?" Henshaw asked, visibly surprised. "Of course we do, you know that as well as—"

  Indy cut him off with an abrupt, impatient gesture.

  "Then let's stop looking for problems. Let's do it." He looked beyond Henshaw to the two pilots.

  "Will, Rene . . . can we do it? Fly back along the same route? Handle the headwinds?"

  Cromwell shrugged. "Short of a hard gale, not quite a cakewalk, but with our longrange tanks filled—"

  "Yes or no, blast it!"

  "Yes." Cromwell said immediately.

  "Then get us ready for takeoff as soon as we can."

  "Just one thing, Indy," Rene Foulois said quickly. Indy waited. "I recommend strongly we plan all our landings in daylight. We may have some weather and—"

  "Just set it up and tell me when you'll be ready to go," Indy said brusquely.

  "Night takeoff," Cromwell said calmly. "Get us to Iceland with plenty of reserve. Check the weather and timing, and go for Greenland. Like you said, just reverse our course." Cromwell turned to Foulois. "I make that just about seven hours from now."

  Foulois nodded. "I agree."

  "Then that's it. Harry," Indy said to the colonel, "you've got the contacts.

  Will you attend to provisions and anything else we may need."

  "Yes, just so long as you know that I think you're all crazy," Henshaw said with resignation.

  "You still going with us?" Indy pressed.

  "Of course," Henshaw answered. "I never made any special claims to be sane."

  The flight westward, into the prevailing winds, was every bit as troublesome, even dangerous at times, as Henshaw had warned—and quite often worse. Weather in a variety of forms, all of it bad save for favorable tailwinds most of the time, swept down from the arctic regions. Cold air mixed with moist warm air along their route gave the Ford a hammering, noisy, jolting ride through skyhigh potholes, bumps, and violent turbulence.

  The weather proved so rotten the first leg of the trip that Cromwell and Foulois chose to land along the northwest coast of Scotland to sit out a period of horrendous rain and darkness. The field where they'd landed was deserted.

  Cromwell and Henshaw went about the buildings trying to find anyone on duty. "Not a living soul," Henshaw mumbled through chattering teeth.

  "Bloody mausoleum," Cromwell confirmed. "No lights, no people, no nothing."

  "Let's tie the Ford down, and we'll break in to get out of this weather," Indy said immediately.

  They dragged thick ropes from their equipment containers, lashing the airplane to the ground, throwing a thick canvas tarp over the cockpit. Gathering sleeping bags, they pushed through the stormlashed night to an operations shack. A heavy padlock secured the door. Indy removed his Webley, firing a single round into the lock.

  "Look," he said sourly. "Magic. Make a lot of noise and the door's opened."

  "That's quite a key you have there," Henshaw told him. "I didn't know you were the criminal type, but I like your style."

  "So do I," shivered Gale, pushing past Indy into the protection of the office.

  "I'll even buy them a new lock."

  Thirty minutes later they had a fire blazing in a large potbellied stove, and soon afterward they were gratefully asleep.

  Rain was still falling at the first sign of dawn. No one from the field had appeared. Henshaw returned to the Ford and switched on the batteries for radio power. In moments he was talking with a weather reporting center nearby. He hung up, switched off the batteries, and went to the door to call the others.

  "It's still pretty cruddy where we are," he explained, "but I talked to Scottsmoor. They have spoken this morning with the islands along our path, and it's much improved the closer to get to Iceland. I suggest we move on out as fast as we can."

  Indy looked at Cromwell, who nodded. Gale spoke up. "Rene, give me a hand with our gear in the office. Indy, I'll leave a note and some money to pay for the lock." She looked at the sky. "I know this weather. It's like two fronts converging.

  Harry, whoever you spoke to just left out one thing. Either we take off within the hour or we'll be on the ground for a couple of days."

  "What makes you so sure?" Henshaw asked, just a touch too tolerant in his attitude toward a woman talking pilot language.

  "Because I learned to fly in this country," Gale snapped. "Day and night for five months. I know it, you don't, so I sug
gest you get cracking, Colonel."

  Indy laughed. "Sounds good to me."

  Twenty minutes later they thundered along the grass strip into the air, climbing in a steady turn to take them northwest. At a thousand feet Foulois called Indy on the intercom. "Take a look out the right side," he told Indy.

  "Looks like our little lady knows the weather here better than anyone else."

  In the distance, no more than a few miles distant, a huge wall of fog and rain advanced against the field they'd just left. "We'll be above this in several minutes,"

  Foulois added, "and we ought to stay on top all the way to Iceland."

  "Good show," Indy replied.

  They flew at eight thousand feet in brilliant sunshine. Gale opened sandwiches, and brought them along with a thermos of hot tea to the cockpit. Like Indy and Henshaw, she preferred coffee while flying. They gathered near the rear of the cabin; away from the propellers, the noise level was almost comfortable and permitted easy speech.