"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 high-altitude 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 Mcready, sir. And it was some time ago. September of 1921, in fact. McCready took a LePere up to over forty-one 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 high-altitude 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 first-aid 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 earth-induction compass that had dead-on 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 Atiantic 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 swing-down 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 fifty-caliber 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 put in an airplane. That about triples its effective range. It's lightweight, and it'll take any kind of round. Incendiary, steel-jacketed 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."
"Will?"
"Wish I'd had something like that when I was mixing it up with Jerry," was Cromwell's answer.
"Rene?"
"With that kind of weapon," the Frenchman said quietly, "I could have doubled, maybe tripled, the Boche I shot down."
Indy looked to Gale. "What do you think?"
"About what?" she exclaimed. "I'm strictly bow and arrow, remember? Or a crossbow. The professionals say go with it. No arguments from me."
Indy laughed, and pushed together the charts and schematics and the lists they had compiled. "Gentlemen, that does it. Colonel Henshaw, the sooner all this is done, the better."
"Yes, sir. Like I said, my men will be working on double shifts, right around the clock."
Sergeant Korwalski hesitated before speaking again, but he couldn't hold back the question that had been growing in his mind. "Sir, this may be out of line, but can I ask you something?"
"Feel free, Sergeant."
"Everything you're doing with this airplane. I mean, we're building some special bombardment models of the Ford."
"You can tell him," Henshaw said. "It's the XB-nine oh six project."
"But this is way ahead of our schedule," Korwalski went on. "Sir, are we going to war?"
Silence hung among the group like a fog. Indy rose slowly to his feet to face Korwalski, and Indy wasn't smiling.
"Unfortunately," he said slowly, "the answer to that is yes."
7
"Change."
"What?"
"I asked you to change," Indy said to Gale Parker. "You know, a different outfit."
Gale studied herself in the
mirror. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"It's great if we're going hunting, or mountain climbing," Indy answered, trying not to show a smile. "But not for dinner."
"Indy, we're inside a hangar at an army base where—" She studied him carefully, her head tilted slightly to one side.
"I had a dog used to do that," he jibed. "Good-looking dog, too."
"You're comparing me with a dog?" she exclaimed. A touch of red appeared in her cheeks.
"Well, she didn't dress for dinner, either. But I meant the way you tilted your head to one side. Like you were listening extra carefully."
"Indiana Jones, you've lost your mind," she said sharply. "I will not change my clothes simply to sit with this gang of yours in this hangar and—"
"Who said anything about dining with a gang?"
"You said..." She faltered for a moment, trying to get his drift. Try as she could, she couldn't get past the poker face he was holding. "You said, dining," she completed her sentence. "Indy, are you asking me for a date?"
"You could call it that. You could also call it an order. But, yes," he admitted, "it is a date. Not in a hangar, not with our crew. You, me. Downtown. You know, Dayton. There's a great Italian restaurant there. I've made reservations and we leave in ten minutes, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't waste any more time playing word games."
She started to answer but only managed an open mouth.
"Oh, yes, one more thing." He reached into his leather jacket and withdrew a strap holster with a .25-caliber automatic snugged tightly within the leather. "Wear a dress. Strap this on just above your knee. I assume you know how to use this if necessary?"
She had recovered quickly. "Are we going to kill something for dinner? A wild lasagna, perhaps?"
"That's pretty good. I'll tell that to the manager at Del Vecchio. We're going to be late if you don't stop asking questions, lady." He started for the door, looking over his shoulder. "Ten minutes." He was gone.
She stood looking at the closed door for a good thirty seconds. She felt bewildered. Indy... taking her out to dinner? To a classy restaurant? She rifled through her closet. I'll kill him. This is an expedition, not a social event.... Quickly she selected a flare skirt, hardly evening dress. But a silk blouse and a kerchief and—No high heels. The suede boots. They'll do.... She had barely finished dressing and was frantically trying to make something sensible out of her hair when she heard Indy knocking at the door.
She had only once seen him in anything but that beaten-up leather jacket and rumpled trousers. She recognized the suede jacket he'd worn when he went to Chicago, and was amazed to see him in neatly pressed brown trousers. He had a bolo tie. Naturally, it's got the head of a rattlesnake for that real dressy look, she thought sarcastically.
He looked her up and down. "You, Miss Parker, are one spiffy lady."
"Spiffy?"
"It's a compliment."
"You have a strange language over here, Indy."
"Okay," he said pleasantly. "You look swell. Dynamite, in fact. Let's go." He turned and started down the corridor, letting her run to catch up. Outside the hangar a black Packard was parked. He opened the door for her. She wondered if he was going crazy. They were partners, everyone equal. She liked equal, and being offered the courtesies due a lady for an evening engagement was foreign to her.
They sat in silence for several minutes until they were on the road to Dayton. "Indy?"
"Uh-huh."
"What's the occasion?"
"Great food, great wine, beautiful woman. What more could a man ask?"
"No hidden agenda?"
"Who? Me? You wound me."
"Is that natural or from a script?"
"Will you relax, please?"
"I'll try."
"Good girl."
She tilted her head. "Good doggie. That's me."
He burst into laughter and she couldn't help it; she joined in.
"Indy, dinner was fabulous," Gale said with genuine feeling. It was a meal she had never before encountered. Steamed mussels with wine sauce, Caesar salad, rolls baked right in the kitchen, broiled Maine lobster, and a white wine she had never heard of but that equaled anything she had ever had in England or France. "I've never had better. I'm overwhelmed."
"Dessert?"
She shook her head. "I'll pass. But I will accept a cappuccino."
He leaned back in his chair and motioned for their waiter. "Cappuccino for the lady, and I'll have a brandy."
The waiter wasn't gone a minute, but he returned empty-handed. "Dr. Jones, the manager would like you and your companion to be his guest for after-dinner drinks in his office."
Indy lifted an eyebrow. "Ah, you must mean Dominic Carboni."
"Yes, sir."
"We'd be delighted. Just give us about ten minutes, then come back for us."
The waiter beamed. "Yes, sir," and he was gone.
Gale frowned, leaning forward. "How did he know who you were?" Before he could answer she went on. "Of course. You made reservations."
He nodded, but she was still puzzled. "But how, I mean, why would the manager, this fellow—"
"Carboni."
"Why would he want us for company in his office? And how would he know who you were? I don't mean by name, Indy, but—"
"Let me cut this quickly, Gale. He knows who we are because we were in the newspapers today."
"We were?"
"There's a strange echo in here."
"I can't help it. I don't understand what's going on."
"A newspaper story was set up. Professor Jones and Doctor Parker are visiting the workshop of the Wright Brothers. Research on the beginnings of flight. Remember, the original airplane the Wrights built went to England. They were unhappy with the American government and that was their way of telling everybody off. So," he straightened his napkin, "we came here to see how much influence the Wrights had on aircraft design in the early days of flying in the British Isles."
"But that's no secret!"
"No, but it does well enough for a newspaper blurb."
"And this Carboni fellow has something to do with airplanes?"
"I don't believe he's ever set foot in one."
"Indy, you're toying with me."
"Not really. I had to make sure that certain people would know I'm in Dayton tonight. They could find out easily enough that I made dinner reservations here."
"But why?"
"Well, I figured that was the best way for them to find me."
"You wanted to be found?"
"You're getting the idea."
"You didn't tell me why."
"They want something very badly."
"It couldn't be that strange litde pyramid, could it?"
"Brilliant deduction, Miss Parker."
"But—"
"Let it rest, Gale. Here comes our guide." The waiter withdrew Gale's chair, and she and Indy followed the waiter through a curtained doorway and down a long corridor, stopping before a door of massive wooden construction. Indy scanned it carefully. He listened as the waiter knocked on the door, judging that sandwiched between heavy wooden panels was a layer of steel. He knew he was right when he saw the effort it took the waiter to push the door open.
A bulletproof door.
Dominic Carboni rose from a deep leather couch to greet them. Their drinks waited for them on a marble table. Gale looked about the room. "You have exquisite taste," she told Carboni.
"Thank you. The finest there is. I don't hold back nothin' when it comes to the real goods. Real swell, huh?"
A lout in a marble palace, she judged immediately. He has no more business with Indy than he does with me. He's a front for someone else.
They went through small talk as they drank. "This your first trip to Dayton, Miss Parker? How does our town hit you?"
"I haven't really seen it," she parried. She remembered Indy's description of the cover story he'd dropped into the papers. "Mostly I've seen the bicycle shop of the Wrights, studied their
wind tunnel, gone over their notes. It's really quite fascinating."
"Uh-huh. I guess it's real interesting," Carboni said. "If that's what you like, I mean. Me, I'll take the nightclub scene any time. I ain't never seen an airplane that looks better than a great broad." He guffawed with pleasure at his own remarks.
Gale couldn't miss the change in Indy's demeanor. Even the way he sat had undergone a subtle shift. She had been a huntress long enough to recognize when someone moved from relaxation to being a human coiled spring. He placed his brandy snifter gently on the marble table and again shifted position in the chair.
"Carboni, lay it out."
In that moment, Carboni too seemed to change to a different person. The expensive suit and furnishings couldn't disguise the low-life before them.
"I didn't know you were in a hurry, Jones." There it is. Gale spotted it immediately. No more Professor or Doctor; just Jones.
"My driver is waiting for us at your back entrance," Indy said. "And he is a very impatient man."
Would Indy ever stop catching her by surprise? What driver? They came here in that Packard that Indy drove himself. She forced herself to remain quiet, to watch. She shifted in her own seat so that the .25 automatic nestled against her leg was easier to reach. Somehow she knew the polite chitchat was just about over.
"How'd you know about the back entrance, Jones?" Carboni looked at Indy with suspicion. "You ain't never been here before."
"Cut it," Indy snapped, leaning forward. "You're just the agent for Mr. Big, whoever and wherever he is. What's your pitch?"
Carboni smiled like an eel. "You're real cute, you know that, Jones? Besides, you go out the back door you're going to meet a couple of my yeggs who might not like your leaving here without I say so."
"What does Mr. Big want?" Indy pushed.
"Hey, how do you know I ain't Mr. Big?" Carboni sneered.
"Look in the mirror," Indy offered. "What you'll see is a two-bit messenger boy."
Carboni's face flushed. His hands twitched, and Indy knew he was fighting the urge to reach for a gun. Even a messenger boy can be dangerous, when he's a big frog in a small pond.
But the fact of the matter was that as much as Carboni would have liked to put enough holes into Indiana Jones to make him resemble Swiss cheese, he didn't dare to cross or even interfere with the instructions of his overseer. Indy waited as Carboni swallowed both his anger and his pride.
Indiana Jones and tyhe Sky Pirates Page 10