"With the cooperation and agreement of all the governments and scientific institutions involved, the entire find is now en route to the United States—"
Another uproar, another wait; shorter this time. "To the United States," Castilano continued, "and, specifically, to the Archeological Research Center in the University of Chicago. For those of you unfamiliar with the United States, that is in the State of Illinois, on the shore of a very big lake. For more information I suggest you consult a map."
He paused, and the questions again came in a blizzard. The news crowd here didn't know a fig about historical finds. They had been selected most carefully for their lack of knowledge, which meant they'd ask many stupid questions and, more important, would write incredibly confused stories. And that's as it should be, Castilano thought to himself. He made sure to keep his answers to the point. When he had just what he wanted from this thickskulled mob, he would turn the press conference over to that wonderfully crusty Doctor William Pencraft.
"Where is the find now?" a German reporter called out.
"En route to the United States," Castilano replied.
"How is it being transported?" came another query. Before he could answer the next question was already being shouted at him. "What is the name of the ship carrying such a treasure?"
Perfect!
"The entire find is safely aboard the American heavy cruiser, the U.S.S. Boston. The cruiser is in the company of four destroyers."
"Why did they need a warship, for heaven's sake!" someone shouted.
"To prevent a repetition of the loss of other artifacts discovered in a deep mine in South Africa." Castilano stopped to let that sink in. That was another story all by itself. Rumors had been flying like locusts about some terrible loss from the South African mines.
"Artifacts? From South Africa? What kind, please!"
"I am not certain. Like you, I am much in the dark about details. However, I have heard that an artifact with cuneiform markings was lost in the missing South African shipment."
"Doctor Castilano, what language is cuneiform?"
It was the question he'd been waiting for. "Cuneiform is not, as some people believe, a language by itself,"
Castilano answered. "Think of it as an alphabet. The characters that make up this alphabet are shaped like wedges impressed in clay or metal. However, I would add that cuneiform actually stands as the foundation for the great ancient languages such as Sumerian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Persian—that sort of group. But I have heard reports that the identification of cuneiform is in error, that we are dealing with a language that predates any known level of civilization in this world."
There; he'd done it.
"Where is that American ship, this cruiser, now?"
"I do not know."
"Can you tell us its port of call?"
"I cannot, because I do not know."
"When will the treasure arrive in Chicago?" He was tempted sorely to say When it gets there, you idiot, but he held his tongue, smiled, and took the exit opportunity. "I'll see what I can find out for you," he told the reporter. "In the meantime," he paused as Dr. William Pencraft was pushed in his wheelchair to the edge of the stage, "this gentleman will attend to your other questions."
At nine p.m. sharp the next night the train with eight boxes of ancient artifacts, plus a pyramid three inches across at its base, four inches in height, began to move from a siding where it had been kept under heavy guard through daylight hours. It rolled slowly onto the main line stretching east from Waterloo and began to pick up speed, and soon thundered steadily toward Dubuque where it would cross the Mississippi River. From the east banks of the river the rail line swung southeast.
The train would roll on this track until it reached Savanna and then run eastsoutheast toward Milledgeville.
Beyond that unimposing railside town lay another community, Polo. Between the two the tracks ran alongside a small river, at the bottom of an appreciable valley nestled between hills.
"X marks the spot," Jack Shannon said to his men. His long thin finger tapped his map. "Right there. Now, we've got to do all this right on the money, y'know?
Split the seconds right down their backside, so to speak. When the train stops, Morgan, you and Cappy and Max, you come with me to the third car. Make sure you bring all the stuff, okay?"
"Yah, Jack, okay," came the reply.
They rolled a tank truck across the tracks and shone their headlights on the bright red gasoline—danger! sign painted on the tank. Then they built a fire beneath the truck. There was no way to tell, of course, that the tank was filled with only water. When the train engineer saw this giant bomb sitting on the tracks there was no doubt he was going to slam on the brakes like there was no tomorrow.
That's when they would make their move, and Jack would do just what Indy had given him by way of instruction. On paper, and with drawings, too.
"It's coming!" a lookout called. Far down the tracks they saw the locomotive headlight sweeping back and forth as the train began rounding the curve to the straightaway in the valley. From the engineer's station in that locomotive, the burning tank car and all those headlights would set up the next move.
It came off like clockwork. The locomotive pounded like echoing thunder between the hills. The engineer looked down the tracks, saw light reflecting on the steel rails, and then, as he came close enough to see the blaze beneath the tanker and that magic word gasoline, hauled down on the train whistle, locked the brakes, and tossed people in the following cars like tenpins dumped onto the floor.
Shannon's boys used an old trick. At the first car, the doors were thrown open. Armed guards froze when they saw one of their own gripped tightly about the neck, a revolver held to his head. A second man trained a Thompson on the guards.
The routine went the same way in each car. Shannon's men used heavy gangster accents.
"Y'make one wrong move, we blow his head off. Y'wanna see his brains splattered all over everywhere?
Throw down your guns! Right where we can see 'em! Now, get to the door at the end of the car, get off the train, see?
When you get outside I wants you should keep in mind youse is covered with Thompsons and a buncha doublebarreled hammers. Everybody does good, nobody gets hurt. When youse is outside, start walking. You'll see a road. Get on it and make pittypat with your feet, double time, like the devil hisself is gonna bite y'head off. Move!"
The guard, in the meantime, thrashed about as best he could, putting on an excellent show for the others, who had no way of knowing that the "prisoner" in the hands of the holdup crowd was actually one of Shannon's own men. It worked in the cars with the security teams, and the routine worked perfectly in the third car of the train where the priceless artifacts were kept behind doors barred with iron slats.
Shannon had never understood why they would secure the doors and so often forget the windows. A single burst with a Thompson "opened" the windows. Tear gas grenades followed, misty white swirled within the car, and men choking and with eyes burning hurled open the doors and jumped to the ground, stumbling as far as they could get from the train.