said you're free to do a flight if you'd like.'
Foulois showed his surprise. 'All the work is completed?'
Henshaw shook his head. 'Not yet. But we're held up for a few hours waiting for equipment to arrive. Taking the ship up won't interfere with our program. In fact, we'd appreciate your doing a test flight. Check out the new engines and props, for one.'
Cromwell and Foulois looked at one another and both nodded. 'Gale, will you be with us?'
'Next time. I have some things to do. Colonel Henshaw, may I have the use of your machine shop until that meeting?'
'Of course. Anything special you need?'
'Grinding machine, polishing lathe, metal forming. Routine.'
'You've got it.'
'Thank you. Tarkiz, I recommend you go with these two in the Ford. I'd feel better, after last night, if you'd watch their backs.'
Tarkiz grinned. 'Sure, I do! I am good babysitter, no?'
She patted his hand. 'The best, Tarkiz. The best.' Back to Henshaw.
'Colonel, I'd like to get right to it.'
'Let's go, Miss Parker. I'll take you there myself and make certain you have all the cooperation you need.'
That will help, she told herself. Because after what happened last night, I want some invisible tricks up my sleeves.
Henshaw gathered them together at precisely eleventhirty. They had time for a quick coffee and a sandwich each, then Henshaw, clearly on edge and watching the clock, prompted them to board one of the many similar buses on the field. It was half filled with enlisted men in the ubiquitous work coveralls, and they blended in perfectly with the larger group. None of them missed the fact that every man on the bus was carrying a .45 Colt Automatic strapped to his waist. No one spoke to them and they kept their own silence.
They watched with growing interest as the bus went through a guarded gate into an area marked with signs: danger!
fuel farm—explosive! keep out. authorized personnel only, and other dire warnings against unauthorized entry.
Finally Gale couldn't keep back her questions. 'Colonel Henshaw, this fuel farm . . . thousands of gallons of aviation fuel all around us. Why are we here, of all places!'
'You'll see in a few moments, miss.' He would say no more. Tarkiz, Willard, and Rene answered her looks with don'taskme shrugs. Then they drove into another huge hangar. The bus stopped as the hangar doors closed behind them.
Military police with submachine guns and leashed attack dogs moved along all entrances to the hangar.
They left the bus, following Henshaw to a guarded door. Two MP's checked his identification, then studied the ID
tags of the four people with him and used a telephone to verify names and identification. One MP slid back a heavy steel door. 'Go right through here, sir.'
They entered a waiting room. Raw concrete, naked light bulbs about them.
The door clanged shut. A buzzer sounded and a section of the wall to their left slid open. Henshaw gestured for them to follow. 'This way, please.'
They walked behind him onto a sloping, curved corridor, leading to a lower level. Then another guarded portal, with three MP's and dogs. Once again they went through a security check before the door was opened. Inside, they were kept for several moments in another concrete anteroom. A light glowed above a steel door, it slid to the side slowly, and they looked in surprise at a huge room. 'It's a bloody war situation room,' Cromwell exclaimed softly. 'I've been in them before, but I've never seen the likes of this.'
'I can explain now,' Henshaw started as they walked with him along a yellow line painted on the floor. 'This meeting is of a CFA—' 'CFA?' Cromwell broke in.
'Sorry. I forget we're overheavy with acronyms. It best works out as Committee For Action.'
They passed through a final checkpoint, and guards opened a steel door. It was Cromwell who again grasped the situation. 'Listen carefully, my friends,' he said in a low tone. 'I've only once in my life ever been within what we call an inner sanctum. That's the nerve center of a larger war room, and that is quite where we are at this moment.
Whatever is going on, it is very weighty, or ominous might be a better word, but I'll tell you this. We are in it right up to our bloody armpits.'
'You have such quaint expressions,' Gale grimaced.
'However, he is certainly correct,' Foulois said with the practiced ease of someone who seems casual about his surroundings, but is actually at hairtrigger alertness. It was almost as if these two wartime veterans could smell trouble. Gale had often had the same feeling in the forests and mountains. If Cromwell and Foulois were that touchy, the moment deserved all her attention. She glanced at Tarkiz. He had bunched up his shoulder muscles and was walking with a catlike tread as if any moment he might have to spring away from danger.
'This way.' Henshaw's voice broke into her thoughts. 'That table to the left and slightly behind Professor Jones.
Please take those seats.'
Indy had watched their entrance, had, indeed, studied them carefully as they approached. He offered the slightest nod to acknowledge their presence and then locked his gaze with Gale's. No changing facial expression, but she swore she could read a message in his eyes. And his dress! He's wearing his 'working clothes.' That leather jacket and that sodden hat of his, and he's carrying the whip by the belt loop.
Why on earth is he wearing that Webley in such an obvious manner?
