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 lastminute 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.'
