Indiana Jones and the White Witch Page 15

  That meant crossing a very turbulent English Channel. Even the commercial ferries were canceling their scheduled trips. It took the clout of Scotland Yard to roust Bjorn McManus from a warm bed and gather his crew to take Indy and Gale to Cherbourg.

  As they departed the dock in London beneath low, swift-moving clouds and steady rain, Treadwell had explained the weather situation. "There won't be any flying on the mainland, either, I'm afraid. I've talked to our top numbers in France, and they'll have a car waiting for you. Off the ferry, then a straight drive to Paris. Train reservations are already made from there to Germany. You should reach the airfield at Friedrichshafen a few hours before the Graf is scheduled to depart."

  They weren't out of the river passage from London before Indy was already regretting his decision to go along with Treadwell's new plans. Everyone else aboard the Brisbane, as the rotten channel ferry was called, was intolerably cheerful. "Of course they're cheerful," Treadwell explained when Indy wondered how a crew sailing into erazy winds and buckets of rain could maintain such high spirits. "They're being paid triple wages, and that includes the return trip."

  "I'd rather fly," Indy groused.

  "In this weather?" Treadwell exclaimed.

  "Sure. Then I'd be sick for maybe an hour instead of the whole triple-cursed night!"

  Treadwell laughed. "You'll do just fine, lad."

  "Bug off," Indy snarled.

  Contrary to his expectations, Indy survived long enough to reach Cherbourg. To his amazement he managed to retain his last meal. They bid good-bye to Treadwell and climbed into an old cab driven by a leathery old Frenchman who reeked of garlic and brandy and drove with complete abandon along the rain-slicked roads.

  But at least Indy now had the chance to catch up on the details of their upcoming flight. He turned on the overhead light of the cab, producing a long stream of shouted insults from the driver.

  "If the light bothers you, just shut your eyes," Indy told the grumbling old man.

  "I'll take care of this," Gale whispered to Indy. She reached into her bag, produced a flask, unscrewed the top, and handed it to the driver. Without a word he drank deeply, muttered, "Merci," then took another long swallow.

  "Are you trying to kill us all?" Indy demanded of Gale.

  "I've been with these people many times before. He's drinking cognac. He has so much already inside him this won't make a bit of difference."

  "If we hit a tree and die, I'll come back to haunt you," Indy promised her.

  "Great," she returned. "Now look, let's go over the papers before we get to the train station. Wouldn't do for either of us to be using our own names from that point on."

  Indy nodded. "All right. Let's do it. Passports first." Gale produced them from a leather bag. "They're both English," Indy noted.

  "Right. Notice it's the address of your flat. Treadwell said it was likely that this will be checked."

  "The names won't be the same," Indy remarked.

  "They are now," Gale assured him. "It was very clever of Thomas to use my last name for you. All they needed to do was change your last name, and my address to yours in London, to make everything match."

  "Henry Parker," Indy said aloud. "Sounds strange."

  "I like it," Gale said.

  "Jones is more distinguished," Indy teased.

  "In a common sort of way," she riposted. "Shall we get on with it?" He nodded and she produced phony driver's licenses. "And here's the club membership for both of us at the Hogsbreath Inn. Also, your employee identification card for London Municipal Services."

  "And what do I do there?"

  "Zookeeper. You clean out cages." She stifled an outburst of laughter.

  "Great," he said sarcastically. "And you?"

  "Game warden."

  "That fits," he acknowledged. "What else?"

  "Oh, different clubs," she said, riffling papers and dividing them up. "Everything fits, Indy. Thomas is very thorough."

  "Did he remember your pilot's license?"

  She held up addtional papers. "England, France, and the United States."

  "Thorough, all right. What about your school background?"

  "Middlesex. I did go there. No need to change anything."

  "And mine?"

  "You, Mr. Parker, went to a university in, of all places, San Diego, California. That takes care of your accent, the terrible way you dress. After studying animal husbandry, you worked in the cattle country in Texas. You even," she said, studying him, "look like you were a cowboy. At least it explains that whip of yours. You went to work in 1926 at the London Zoo. In fact, your records will show you traveled for the zoo to bring rare animals back to London."

  Indy leaned back. "He seems to have covered all the bases. Tell me, how long have we been married? So to speak."

  "Seven years."

  "You were how old when we got married? According to these records?"

  "Seventeen. Something like that."

  The driver glanced back at them. "Cradle robber." He sneered at Indy.

  Indy exchanged glances with Gale. "Seems like we lost a drunken Frenchman and gained an Englishman," he said calmly, reaching beneath and behind his leather jacket.

  The driver felt sudden hard pressure in the back of his neck. "Pull over. Slowly, very carefully," Indy told him. "Anything sudden and it's lights out, my friend."

  "No need for that, mate," the driver said in perfect English. "Besides, I know what you've got up against me. Schmeiser, point-two-five caliber, six rounds, notched ammo, copper jacket, and scolopendra dust beneath the copper. Interesting how I knows all this, right?"

  "Your advantage," Indy said. "Either you're psychic or—"

  "You've already guessed it, haven't you, Professor Jones?"

  "Go on," Indy said coldly.

  "Not that hard to tell. You don't mind if I keep driving, do you? Clock's ticking, and all that. I know what you've got in your hand, and that holster in the back of your belt, and that a nice gentleman by the name of Sir Thomas gave you that piece as a backup. Any doubts that we're working for the same office, sir?"

  Indy leaned back, the Schmeiser went into its concealed holster. "No," Indy said. "No doubts. What's your name?"

  "On the license of this cab it's Jacques Voltaire. Back home, as we say, I'm known as John Pennington."

  "Why all the cat-and-mouse games, John?"

  "Well, sir, best way to tell just how well you and the missus was coming along was to listen to you two having at it freely. Drunken Frenchie at the wheel, now, he wouldn't care. When I'd heard enough, it was time to warn you. Before we get to the train station in Paris."

  "Warn him of what?" Gale asked.

  "To leave that automatic with me."

  "And why would I do that?"

  "You can't carry it, sir, without special government papers from the Frenchies. And you don't want those because it draws too much attention to you. If you're caught with the piece, it's a bit of a rumpus, sir. Besides, you can't take anything explosive aboard the Graf Zeppelin. No guns, no lighters, no matches. Nothing at all like that, sir. They'll even give you static-free slippers when you get aboard. Both of you. If they find a weapon like that Schmeiser on you or in your luggage—and it's going to be searched, I can assure you of that, sir—you'll both be hauled off the zep and right into jail you goes. I know about your Webley, Prof—sorry, I mean, Mr. Parker, sir. You'll have the proper equipment when you land in the United States, sir. Mr. Treadwell, he's taken care of all that. Permission from the secret service, or whatever is their organization over there."

  Indy released the holster and Schmeiser and handed it over the front seat to Pennington. "That was all neatly done, John Pennington."

  "Thank you, sir. By the by, I'll be staying with you to see you're well set on the train in Paris."

  Gale spoke up suddenly. "Mr. Pennington, mind if I ask a question?"

  "Not at all, miss."

  "Do you have any word on someone named Cordas?"

&nb
sp; "Yes'm. He's at the Zeppelin Company hotel already. He'll be boarding same time you will, like all the others."

  "You seem up to everything, Mr. Pennington. Perhaps you can tell me, if we know so much about Cordas, why we didn't stop him before now or have the authorities in Germany take him into custody."

  "No use apprehending the bloke, ma'am, without proof to hold him more than a day or two. His lawyers would have him out in the twitch of a cat's tail."

  Indy nodded. "Makes sense."

  "Any word," Gale asked their driver, "about someone named Caitlin St. Brendan?"

  "I knows who you means, ma'am. Invisible, she is. Like she just dropped off the end of the earth."

  "Thank you, Mr. Pennington."

  "You're welcome, Miss—Missus Parker."

  "I'm not used to Mrs." Gale laughed.

  "John, are the Germans always that paranoid about guns aboard their gasbag?" Indy asked.

  "Professor, do you want any guns aboard a ship that's ten stories high and more than two city blocks long, and filled with hydrogen gas and blau fuel?"

  "Blau?" Indy echoed.

  "Yes, sir. Hydrogen gas in seventeen gas cells and blau fuel—that's just like propane, sir—to run the Graf's five engines. You'll pardon my saying so, sir, but you two will be riding aboard the biggest bomb ever to take to the skies."

  "Terrific," Indy said.

  13

  Indy emerged from the Zeppelin Company office with a uniformed crewman by his side. "We're in luck," he told Gale. "We've got a few hours before the passengers will be boarding, and the captain has given us permission to take a tour of the Graf."

  "Wonderful," she said, eyes bright with anticipation.

  "This is Fritz Kasner," Indy introduced the crewman. The German nodded stiffly.

  "Come with me, please?" He led them to a service building away from the passenger terminal. Inside, he gestured to a bench. "You will kindly remove anything that is flammable, sir and lady. No matches, lighters, anything like that."

  "We have none." Indy spoke for himself and Gale.

  "Thank you. Now, these, if you will?" He held out two pairs of soft sneakerlike footwear. "These are special shoes. They do not create static electricity when you move in the Graf. With hydrogen gas as our lifting power, we must take every safety precaution."

  They changed their footgear and moments later followed Kasner up a metal ladder to a catwalk, with cables on each side for balance, that led into the underbelly of the zeppelin. They stopped, feeling overwhelmed by the enormous shape stretching far away and above them. Huge rings circled the great ship; girders and cross bracing were everywhere.

  "It's like being inside a cathedral," Gale said in awe.

  Kasner was obviously pleased with her remark. "Thank you. Our crews feels the same way. To us, the Graf is not merely an airship. She is alive, she breathes, like a great whale of the skies." He pointed above them. "You see those cells? There are seventeen of them to contain the hydrogen, and the blau fuel we carry for the five engines that propel us through the sky."

  "Mr. Kasner." Gale spoke, her eyes still taking in the huge shape. "How much does all this structure weigh?"

  "Would you believe, madam, only thirty-three tons?" Kasner was eager to expound on the vessel of which he was so obviously proud. "The metal is a super-light duralumin alloy. Aluminum and copper and other metals. It is only a fraction of the weight of steel but equally strong."

  A breeze flowing over and about the Graf became visible as the rounded flanks of the airship seemed to "breathe." Indy pointed to the undulating sides and upper reaches of the zeppelin. "It moves in a strange manner," he noted. "How thin can the duralumin skin be?"

  "Ah, Herr Parker, it is not duralumin. It is cotton. Of course, the Graf is nearly eight hundred feet long and it is covered with cotton. But such superb cotton! Heavy duty, of course, covered again and again with layers of dope and special paint. It is waterproof. It will stand up under fierce winds. We have proved this, of course, by flying through storms."

  "From outside," Indy said, "it is silver and it looks like metal."

  "Ja,ja," Kasner agreed. "But it is silver paint so that it reflects the rays of the sun. You understand the mechanism of heat, sir? Too much sun and the hydrogen expands and we fly higher than the Kapitan wishes. So the silver is our balance with the sun."

  "I am impressed," Indy told him. "The way it reflects light, well—"

  "You are a very good observer, sir," Kasner broke in. "I was one of the men who helped sandpaper the outer surface."

  Indy seemed taken aback; he was making every move he could to please their guide. That could open doors later. "You sandpapered the entire ship?"

  "That is so. No bubbles, no bumps, so our Graf, she slides easily through the skies. Like silk."

  Indy turned to look at the heart of the zeppelin. "Are those great bags also cotton?"

  Kasner laughed. "That would not be wise, sir," he said quickly. "All these cells—some people call them bags—are made from the intestines of oxen, and are connected to the structure of the Graf. Notice the bracing, Herr Parker, how the full cells push up against it. That is how the Graf lifts, from this internal force."

  "You said they're intestines of oxen?" Indy repeated, as if the whole idea was impossible.

  "Yes, sir. There are seventeen bags, as you can see, and each bag is lined with the intestinal membranes of fifty thousand oxen—"

  Indy stared at the cells. "That means eight hundred and fifty thousand of those animals have gone into these cells?"

  "Ja! It is a wonderful accomplishment."

  "Must have been one grand barbecue," Indy murmured.

  "I do not understand, sir."

  "Barbecue. Big party with all that meat. Oktoberfest."

  "Oh, of course!" Kasner laughed. "Yes, a very big party!"

  Gale wanted to shift the course of their exchange. "How many engines, Herr Kasner?"

  "They are Maybachs, madam. Five with pusher propellers. They are a marvelous design. Each engine in its own gondola, and our crew can service or repair them even in flight."

  Kasner stopped as he heard the clear ringing of bells. "I am sorry, sir, madam. That is the call for the passengers to prepare for boarding. We must return to the ground, and I will take you to where the others gather."

  They joined the passengers ascending to the gondola that would be home and hearth for the next several days. Indy was less than enthusiastic about floating over a trackless ocean in a huge machine made of the guts of nearly a million oxen, especially when the lifting power for the Graf Zeppelin was explosive gas and its engines ran on equally volatile fuel.

  But there was no other way. Cordas would be aboard. No one knew for certain where Caitlin St. Brendan was, but Indy would bet his last dollar she'd be within shouting distance of Cordas, no matter where he might go. And the hard reality of the matter was that this was the fastest way across the ocean. Even if they were going to take the insane route of crossing polar regions, where mechanical problems or structural failure could dump them into freezing water or onto remote arctic wastelands.

  His distaste eased somewhat as he moved through the long passenger gondola, nearly a hundred feet long and twenty feet from side to side. It banished all comparison with noisy, clattering, smelly, vibrating, uncomfortable airliners. Indy was, despite himself, impressed with the luxurious dining and sitting rooms. There was even a band and a dance floor!

  A steward led them to their compartment. "Cabin six, sir, madam," he announced with a formal bow. "Your bags are waiting for you."

  Cabin six was a bit austere compared with spacious hotel rooms, yet it was comfortable and utilitarian. Two "bed bunks," each with side rails in case they flew through turbulent weather. Nonskid flooring and a closet. The Graf had ten cabins in all, and at the end of the row of compartments were washrooms and toilets.

  "Indy, look here," Gale said. She held up a map of the western hemisphere. "They've marked off our route. This is w
onderful!"

  They studied the dashed line marking their course. Gale didn't hide her excitement. "Indy, see here? We'll be crossing Denmark, then up to the coast of Finland. I've never seen these places! Look—we'll cross over part of Sweden and Norway—"

  "Right to Jan Mayen Island," he noted.

  "That'll be for a navigation fix," she remarked. "Look how the path curves a bit to the southwest across the Denmark Strait. We'll be cutting between Iceland and Greenland."

  "Think we'll fly over the icecap?" he asked.

  "Greenland?" She shook her head. "Oh, no! The icecap is ten thousand feet high. Much too high for the Graf. It will be marvelous to look up at an ice shelf, won't it!"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You don't seem too enthusiastic."

  He tapped the chart. "This is Canada," he told her. "When this gasbag is over terra firma again, then I'll be enthusiastic. When I can look down and see moose and bears and wolves, I'll be happy. You enjoy the whales and the icebergs, okay?"

  "You're what you Americans call a party pooper, Indy. You'll love it once we're flying. I promise."

  14

  It all came off as advertised. Passengers gazing through the observation windows watched hundreds of ground crewmen handling mooring and tow lines, gripping the rails along the hundred-foot gondola both to keep the airship on the ground and move it fully from its hangar.

  "It's a three-ring circus," Indy commented to Gale. "But I've got to give those people credit. They're doing everything in lockstep fashion, precise, timed, neat."

  "Did you expect anything else from the Teutonic mind?" Gale responded.

  "Nope," he admitted. "Even down to that brass band they've got oom-pah-pahing away out there."

  She leaned forward to see better. "We're clear of the hangar," she told Indy. "Now's the time for the bells and whistles."

  He raised an eyebrow to peer at her. "Bells and whistles?"