Intense light flared beneath the golden machine so high above them. In the same instant, a beam of blinding light snapped into being, a pillar of eyestabbing radiance from the airship directly to the Barclay. The passengers had never seen a light so incredibly bright. It lit up the ferry with the effect of a physical blow, bringing people to cover their eyes, crying out in alarm.
The light was seen by dozens of other vessels, small and large, at that moment moving across the channel. It flared long enough to bring heads turning for many miles around, and then the onlookers stared in disbelief as a huge ball of flame erupted from the Barclay. From a distance there was yet no sound. Seconds later the force of an enormous explosion boomed across the channel. Moments later the boilers of the Barclay ripped the ferry in two, the secondary blasts claiming most of the people who'd survived the terrible initial explosion.
The light from the airship was gone, as if a switch had been thrown. There was still unexpected light on the surface of the channel as the flaming remnants of the Barclay began to slip beneath the water, taking more than two hundred men and women with her.
Pencraft's secretary crossed Dr. Pencroft's office to his private telephone on a side table. On the third ring she picked up the handset. 'Yes?'
Then she turned to the group and nodded to Thomas Treadwell. 'Sir? It's your office.'
Treadwell went quickly to the phone. Watching him, Indy, Gale, and Pencroft remained silent as Treadwell listened to the caller for several minutes, interrupting only with terse questions. Henshaw, who had arrived in England by ocean liner only that morning, paced nervously. Foulois and Cromwell were occupied at the aerodrome nearby.
Finally Treadwell said, 'Right. I'll be at this number for a while. Call me immediately with anything new.'
He slowly replaced the telephone on its stand. A subdued click was followed by a tired exhalation. 'That ruddy well does it,' he said, his face reflecting inner anguish. 'It's the Barclay. She was blown apart by that airship. No ghost that. Sent down some kind of light beam, extraordinarily intense from the initial reports, and the Barclay was torn in half. Took most of her people with her.'
Sir William Pencroft trembled from age, fatigue, and the blow of the news. He looked from Treadwell to Colonel Harry Henshaw. His eyes traveled to Gale Parker, whose impassive look concealed her own feelings. Her eyes were like deep glass marbles, and she sat like a stone.
Treadwell turned to his side. 'You're dead, you know,' he said to Professor Henry Jones.
Indy didn't answer for the moment. He knew the minuscule odds of Frances Smythe and Jocko Kilarney surviving the ghastly explosion and swift sinking of the Barclay. Indy shook off the pall of death hanging in the room.
'Any word? I mean, about our people?' he asked finally.
'Your double is confirmed,' Treadwell said, forcing himself to remain distant from personal loss. 'He was one of our best men. One of the ships that picked up some of the survivors found his body. With your identification, of course.'
'Frances?'
'No word. I'm sorry, Indy. As soon as we hear anything—'
Gale Parker emerged from the selfinduced isolation that she used to finally subdue her emotions. 'Jocko. Has anybody had any news about Jocko? He'd be impossible to miss, and—'
'Miss Parker, we have every available person and search team out there right now,' Treadwell said carefully.
'Many of the people aboard the ferry were, well, they were—'
'I'm well acquainted with death, sir,' Gale said stiffly. 'You're trying to tell us that many of the people were blown apart, or incinerated, or were trapped in the wreckage, and they're at the bottom of the channel.'
'Yes,' Treadwell said. There was no need to elaborate.
Indy turned to Treadwell. 'A great many people died this afternoon because this insane group is after me,' he said, painfully aware of the grievous loss. 'If they didn't believe I was on that ferry, they would never have blown up that ship.'
'You're wrong, Professor,' Treadwell said quickly.
'How?' Indy demanded. 'You know they set me up with that invitation to meet with their top people.
Why, I don't know, but we all agreed to go ahead anyway.' Deep furrows lined his brow. 'But why would they destroy the ferry? They didn't need to kill all those people. And I could just as well be one of the survivors.' He looked from Treadwell to Henshaw for answers, then returned his gaze to the British intelligence agent.
'The attack this afternoon had a double purpose,' Treadwell said. 'We've been aware that this group has been setting up a very public demonstration of their power—'
Pencraft coughed for attention, trying to speak, but his throat emitted only a feeble rattle. Immediately someone held a glass of water to his lips. Gale rested her hand on that of the elderly man. 'May I?' she said. Pencraft nodded.
'I've stayed out of most conversations,' Gale said stiffly. 'But now it's time for a question. I've heard you discussing the how and why and the means these people use when they strike at us. And Indy—Professor Jones—
has more than once made it clear that one of the flaws in their operations has been that they use the same weapons we use. Until now, that is.'
Pencraft had found his voice. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Tonight they used some kind of radiation beam!' Gale said with a burst of anger. 'I've listened to the reports Mr.
Treadwell repeated for us. That airship, whatever it is, still races about the sky without a sign of any engines.
