"Ours, Captain. German."
"What do they say, Stryker!"
Stryker swallowed before speaking. "Sir, they order us to land immediately on the sea below, or be destroyed."
Von Moreau ran the insanity of the moment through his mind. The huge shape above. Obviously a flying mother ship of some kind, an airborne aircraft carrier.
Impossible in shape and size and performance, but there it was, nevertheless. And now these even more incredible crescents, gleaming, impossibly swift and with no visible means of propulsion. So far advanced over their powerful Romar that they might as well have been in a rowboat. He had no doubt that the threat of destruction was real.
"Tell them we will comply," von Moreau said. Gottler stared at him disbelievingly.
"I cannot do that, sir," Stryker said. "Their orders were for us to begin our descent immediately. They also said there was no way for me to return the communication."
Von Moreau had no doubts. Instinct born of flying combat experience, years of controlling great airliners, what he was seeing of such incredible performance: All came together in unquestioned intuition. His right hand began easing back on the throttles to reduce power, the nose lowered, and they were on their way to a landing at sea in the middle of the Mediterranean.
They could not call anyone on their radios, but von Moreau knew they were being tracked on charts in Hamburg and in Berlin, and when they did not make landfall over Catania in Sicily, which lay directly beneath their projected flight path, the alert would be sounded. "Stryker, keep sending out an emergency signal with our position.
Send on every frequency we have. I know; the radios are jammed somehow.
But something may happen. Changing altitude may make a difference. Whatever; do your best."
"Yes, sir."
Von Moreau concentrated on their descent, preparing for the landing. Gottler peered ahead. "There is a low cloud layer moving in from the west, sir," he reported.
"There may be fog very soon on the surface."
"I hope so," von Moreau said sourly. "I do not like any of this. I feel like a rat in a trap."
"Yes, sir."
Now they were on the water, holding the nose of the flying boat pointed into an increasing wind that pushed the clouds toward them and sent the first wisps of fog swirling about the flying boat. But there was just enough light and visibility for them to see the monstrous vessel that had been far above them also descending, moving directly toward them.
"You know, Franz, when we get out of this madness— if we get out of it—and we tell people what we are seeing and what has been happening, nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe a word we say."
"I'm sure, Captain, we don't need to worry. Not with what we are carrying, sir. They won't stop at anything to find us. Berlin won't waste a moment."
Von Moreau studied the dismal weather closing in, the huge shape growing ever larger. "Except that no one knows where we are, and that what we are looking at cannot possibly exist. Other than that, my fine young friend, we haven't a thing to worry about, do we?"
Franz Gottler didn't attempt a reply.
2
He's aged. Good Lord, the years have been heavy on the old man. I never thought I'd see him in a wheelchair.
Unless, of course—Professor Henry Jones smiled to himself— he had a rocket tied to the back of it and went flaming about these hallowed halls.
Jones feigned a casual acceptance of the approaching presence of Dr. Pencroft.
Even in the wheelchair and at the age of seventy, Pencroft still carried with him his aura of authority and domination. He had been Chairman of the Department of Archeology of the University of London for more years than most people could remember, and now, with the years amassing against him, his hair a white shock above eyes gleaming behind thick glasses, he left no doubt that he remained in control of his office. The spectacles seemed to narrow his face even more than the constriction of parchmentlike skin. One expected a frail voice to accompany the body; whoever thought so was taken aback by Pencraft's strength and energy when he spoke. There was never hesitation, never a question of his experience and authority.
Professor Henry Jones—who much preferred his nickname Indiana—held old man Pencroft in great admiration. For his part, Pencroft treated Jones with a dichotomy of approach, seemingly intolerant of Jones for being so much younger and for committing the unforgivable sin of being an American, an interloper from the colonies, as it were. It was all facade, for he much appreciated Jones's enthusiasm and knowledge, his almost reckless willingness to pursue any goal set for him, as Pencroft so long ago had been guilty of the same hard drive. More than once Pencroft had intervened against the bludgeon of university authority as it sought to remove Jones from its staff and send him back across the ocean
"where he belonged, along with the crudities and crass manners of the Americans." Outlander Professor Jones might be in ancient and hallowed halls, but he was an outlander with a brilliant mind and an incredible intuition for finding whatever he sought in the secrets of the past. Pencroft would never admit that he thoroughly enjoyed acting as buffer for Jones; it was like watching himself decades past.
Pencraft's manservant stopped the wheelchair precisely six feet from Professor Jones. For long moments neither man spoke. This was Pencraft's way, to take his time when approaching a situation different from any other in the past.
Gather his thoughts, consider what was afoot, and speak not a word until he knew what he would say, not just at this moment, but in the exchanges to follow.
And certainly, from what Pencroft had been told in a very private conversation, different held a meaning he'd never before encountered.
Indeed, Pencroft didn't believe a word of it. Sheer nonsense and balderdash.
Frightened men and ghosts and goblins; that sort of rubbish. He'd been flabbergasted when the people from Number 10 Downing Street had come to meet with him, and the more those people talked the more grew his own amazement. Not at their outlandish tale, but that the highest levels of government would even bother with such rot. And he'd told them so in no uncertain terms. Representatives of the Prime Minister or not, he almost accused them of being sodden drunks.
They took it all in stride, which itself was a critical clue for the wily old Pencroft. It was immediately obvious to him that they had already gone through the very thoughts he was experiencing as they spun their outlandish tale. So they were quite serious, after all, and if they'd stepped down from their bureaucratic heights to visit Professor Pencroft, they must be desperate indeed.
Which had finally brought him to seek out Professor Jones. More precisely, Indiana Jones, that ridiculous name the man had attached to himself. He knew that Jones's closest friends had shortened his name to Indy, but Pencroft couldn't quite lower himself to do so. He pushed aside the peripheral nonsense in his head.
"What are you doing now?" he demanded suddenly of Jones. The moment he'd uttered the words he regretted the slip. Jones had too much fun with the thrustandparry.
"Unless I am sadly mistaken, sir," Jones cut back, "I am occupying a space in this hallway, as you are. It's a rather bleak place to meet, I would say."
"The devil you say!" Pencroft snapped. He tipped his head to one side.
"Listen to me, you troublemaker," he went on with a touch of gnarly affection. "Come to my office. Ten minutes from now and not a moment later."