Indy turned to Henshaw. "They call the shots with the plane, Colonel."
"No offense taken, sir," Henshaw said to Indy, directing his gaze to Cromwell. "I only wish this same attitude prevailed among all my men. You have my word, Mr.—"
"Brigadier, if you don't mind?" Cromwell said icily.
"Of course, sir." He gestured to the group. "The bus, please."
As they climbed aboard Tarkiz nudged Indy. "It is maybe a bother, Indiana, but my stomach will no longer keep silent. I must eat soon or perish."
"With that spread of yours, Tarkiz," Foulois quipped, "you could last as long without food as a camel could without water."
"Skinny people always make stupid remarks," Tarkiz answered goodnaturedly. "But I do not want to talk. I want to eat. One more cold frankfurter and—"
"It's all taken care of, sir. Just a few more minutes," said the bartender.
The bus rolled through the sprawling base, then stopped before a high barricade of concrete posts and triple rolls of barbed wire. Signs reading restricted area and authorized personnel ONLY were all about the place.
Guards removed the entry barrier, saluting Henshaw as they went through.
Before them was another great hangar.
Army guards rolled back huge sliding doors and the bus drove inside. The doors closed behind it, and with the muffled thump of the doors coming together bright lights snapped on above it.
The group looked about them with interest. Within the great hangar was what seemed to be part of a small village: cottages, stone office buildings, even a lawn with trees. "This is home for the next couple of days," Indy told his group. "Colonel, I'll go with your men and make sure everybody's gear goes to their assigned rooms."
He banged Tarkiz on the shoulder. "You and the others go with that sergeant. Right to the dining room. They'll take your orders there. Anything you want."
"Dining room? In here?"
"I thought you were starving to death."
"You are right. My stomach knows my throat has been cut." Tarkiz grasped the nearest sergeant's arm. "You have ancestors? Ah, very good. Feed me, or you may meet your ancestors much sooner than you think."
Indy refused answers to all questions after dinner, steering conversation to small talk about the events of the evening, leaving the others frustrated but respectful of his silence. That night they slept in comfortable beds, each within a fully furnished room. There were books and radio facilities in each room, as well as a telephone, but all calls had to be processed through a military security switchboard.
Gale Parker had already learned that Indy's strange aloofness was his means of waiting for information from the outside world, or for the arrival of key people involved in their sometimes baffling machinations. Gale was learning the man. She was still confused by his methods, but tremendously impressed with the swift execution of plans he had drawn with meticulous attention. She felt more and more drawn to him, and was caught by surprise at her feminine response to a man who fairly exuded masculinity, yet managed to treat her with the respect he felt she deserved as a woman and an equal.
It was a magnetism to the opposite sex she had never known, and this sudden upward boiling of emotions puzzled and even frightened her. She was well out of water in her personal life experience. Indy's seemingly split personality toward her was as baffling as it was welcome. Gale knew she was as stubborn as a mountain goat, but Indy never tested that streak that ran so strongly in her.
She would gladly have welcomed his personal attention, yet she could not shake the reality that Indy was still living with the ghost of his dead wife. A dozen times she had started to ask him about Deirdre—what she was like, what had brought them together into marriage, how they had shared the wonder of exploration and adventure.
She gasped with surprise at herself when she realized she was jealous of a woman who had died several years before this moment! The revelation came that she wanted a relationship that would permit herself and Indy to bond closer. Nigh unto impossible, she sighed, in this group of professional killers.
Put it aside, woman! she railed at herself. She would have to do just that.
She must. And then, alone with her thoughts, she realized she was smiling, that she would take every attempt to narrow the gulf between them, to bring Indy to regard her as a woman as well as a partner in this strange mission on which they had embarked.
But does he feel that way about me . . . ?
She slammed a fist into her pillow, frustrated, starting to twist inside. Was she falling for Indy? Could that really be the case? Would she ever be willing to give up her incredible sense of freedom, the lustiness of going with the wind if that was what she desired. I don't need any man! she shouted to herself in another attack of selfrecrimination.
Another voice inside her head spoke quietly, laughingly. You're a liar, Gale Parker.
Alone in her room, she buried her face in her pillow. Oh, shut up, Gale Parker!
Cromwell finished his third cup of coffee and stubbed out his cigarette.
"Dashing great breakfast," he sighed. Tarkiz nodded and let fly with a horrendous belch, beaming at the others. Foulois ignored him, dabbing gently at his lips with his napkin. Indy smiled; Gale kept a straight face.
"I'd like to see our machine," Cromwell said suddenly to Colonel Henshaw, who'd shared breakfast with them.
Before Henshaw could reply, Tarkiz leaned forward and gestured denial with a wave of his hand. "No, no, you cannot do that," he said as if reproving Cromwell.
Henshaw showed surprise; Cromwell responded in his own unique way.
"And why the bloody hell not?" he demanded.
"Ah, the English have such short memories!" Tarkiz said loudly, beaming, turning from one person to another to assure himself of his audience. "Do you already forget what our good colonel here," he pointed to Henshaw, "told us last night? He has orders! And those orders are to make our machine invisible."
Tarkiz leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam on his face. "And not even the English can see invisible machines."
Tarkiz was just a bit too ebullient, judged Indy. He smelled some sort of deliberate confrontation. He knew how much Tarkiz hated being kept in the dark about anything, and that invisibility remark had been chafing under his skin the night through. "Leave it be," he said quietly to Tarkiz.
The big Kurd stared back at him. "Indy! You wound me, my friend. I want very much to see our invisible airplane.
The good colonel apparently can work miracles." He turned to Henshaw. "Tell me, Colonel. Does our invisible airplane still fly? Even though we cannot see it?"
If he thought Henshaw would be taken aback by his sudden sarcastic thrust he was greatly mistaken. Indy busied himself with his coffee mug to keep from bursting into laughter. Henshaw, his face as bland as he could make his expression, looked directly at Tarkiz.
"Mr. Belem, the answer is yes. Your airplane is invisible, and it flies, and it matters not one iota if you can see it."
"How marvelous," Rene Foulois joined in. "I've never flown an invisible airplane. I look forward to such a unique experience."