"Get to that bleedin' Indian now!" Cromwell shouted, his voice crackling in their earphones. "He's losing oxygen! Do it quick!"
Indy moved backward, and bent down to check Chino's oxygen gauge. He had almost a full tank. Then Indy saw the problem just as Chino began to sag. He had unknowingly brushed against the valve wheel and reduced his oxygen flow. He was already into the first stages of hypoxia. Oxygen starvation was insidious. Indy turned the valve to full on and grasped Chino.
"Speak to me," Indy snapped. "Count to ten, now."
"Uh, I do, two, four, no . . ." He shook his head. Indy looked into his eyes.
The dim glaze was disappearing. That quickly, he was out of it. "Uh, all right, thanks, Indy—"
"Count!"
Chino rattled off the numbers perfectly. Indy patted him on the arm. "Check your gun. I want a call every five minutes. That goes for you too, Gale."
"I'm having trouble seeing, Indy," she said, pain in her voice.
He checked her oxygen. Everything was fine, including the mask fit. Then he saw what he'd missed. "Your goggles.
You've got to keep them on. Your eyes are tearing, and the tears are freezing as fast as they come out on your cheeks.
Gale, here—" He pulled her goggles over her eyes. "Keep these in place. You can freeze your eyeballs up here."
"God, it hurts. It's all right." She fended off his arm. "Ill be fine."
Cromwell and Foulois were better protected against the cold in the cockpit, where heated air was blasting from bleed manifolds off the nose engine, blowing the hot air across their feet. They could have had more heat within the airplane from wing engine manifolds, but both pilots had insisted the heat from those sources must go to the rocket canisters and the wing guns.
"Twentyeight thousand," Foulois called back from the cockpit. "We're picking up ice."
He wasn't wasting words. It took only a glance to see frost collecting on the enginemount struts, icing up the cabin windows and external control cables, all blasted by the equal of a screaming Antarctic storm.
In the cabin Indy, Gale, and Chino worked desperately to keep their bodies warm, beating their hands together, swinging their arms, working toes in their boots.
Each time they checked their weapons they had to expose parts of their bodies to the howling gale. The outside temperature was down to fiftyfour degrees below zero. The Ford was a block of ice still pushing its way upward.
"Twentynine thousand," Cromwell announced. His voice seemed pained.
"Check your oxygen, everybody. Call in when you've done that with your gauge readings."
They stumbled over the words but followed Cromwell's orders.
"Controls stiffening," Foulois said.
"Amazing how these engines keep running," Cromwell murmured. "The temps are down in the basement."
Chino's voice came into their reports. "We do not need to fly higher," he said.
"Wwhy nnot?" stammered Gale.
"Pilots, to our left, a few, maybe two or three thousand feet lower," Chino said carefully. "There it is."
They all looked to their left and slightly below. There was the huge dirigible, reflecting sunlight like a great beacon in the sky.
"Thank the saints they're below us," Cromwell said stiffly. "I don't think the old girl had much left in her. Leveling off, Rene. Gently, gently . . . No, no, keep full power on. We'll need everything we can get. Indy, you with me?"
"Yyes. Go ahead."
"We've got company, laddie. Look behind and just below the zep. You see what I mean?"
"Uh . . . I don't . . . Got them, Will." Indy had seen sudden bright reflections.
"There's three of them," Cromwell said. "Count on them coming in for a visit."
"Agreed. Gale, Joe . . . your guns. Confirm."
"In position. Strapped and hooked up. Oxygen content seventy percent.
Valve full on." Gale was wisely talking in staccato bursts.
"I am with you," Chino called.
"What's your tank showing?" Indy demanded.
"Sixtyfive percent. Indy?"
"Go."
"It is cold out here." Chino's head and shoulders were exposed to the wind blast down the fuselage.
"It'll be warmer in a few moments, bucko," Cromwell told Chino. Then: "Indy, you still have them in sight?"
"Yeah, Will."
The pilots were banking the Ford gently toward the slowly rising airship.
"This is important, Indy," Cromwell continued. "Watch those discs coming in.
They're sliding about. Wobbling. They're slick in shape, Indy. That means they haven't much lift up here."
"Indy, Rene here. The Britisher is right. They cannot make any real banks for maneuvering. Watch how they turn, like on a flat table. Do you see?"
Indy watched the discs as they approached in wide, very shallow turns. They were right. Those things were devastating down low in thick air, but in this rarefied atmosphere they were barely capable of flight.
"Will, what do you think they'll do?"
"They can't come up sharply from below us," Cromwell answered immediately.
"If they try that, leading edge up, they'll stall out. And no pursuit curves, either.
Not the
way they're flying, like fish out of water. This is a break for us."
"Indy, Rene here. I think they will make a shallow approach from behind. Two of them. Slightly above and behind.
They must travel at full speed or they will fall."
"You said two. What about the third?"
"He will attack us from the front."
"Joe, you hear me?" Cromwell called.
"Yes."
"When they come after us from behind I'm going to swing the nose to the right. That will give you a clear shot at the blighters."
"Aall right."
"Not so fast. There's no interruptor mechanism in your weapon. You understand?"
"No."
"It means you've got to be careful you don't shoot our bloody tail right off this machine! Have you got that?"
"I have it. Tell them to hurry up. I'm freezing."
"I'll send them a telegram, Joe."
"Indy, right after that pass, the ones from behind," Foulois called, "we must continue our turn, but put the nose down. You understand? That will let you fire at the disc that comes on us from the front. Gale Parker, the one from the front must pass beneath us. You will have only a moment to shoot as he goes below you. He cannot climb, so that is how he will fly."
"This ends the sewing circle, ladies!" Cromwell said loudly. "Here they come!"
The discs spewed black smoke behind them as they continued their painful slow turn in toward the Ford. "Get ready . . ." Cromwell said. "Watch those two from behind!"
Chino saw a flashing light at the leading edge of the discs. "They are firing!"
he shouted.
Instantly Cromwell shoved in right rudder, swinging the nose to the right, bringing the tail to the left and giving Chino a brief but perfect opportunity.