CHAPTER VII

The Way of the Future

Frank and Joe were even more pleasantly surprised to find their longtime friend Phil Cohen awaiting them at curbside of the airport terminal. "Phil, You're not joining us too, are you?" Joe asked, slapping Phil's shoulder in greeting.

"Chet has the power of persuasion, that's for sure," Phil answered, winking at the group's round pal. "But maybe one of you can finally tell me exactly where we're going?"

"Hold on a minute everyone," Jones spoke up as he followed the group of Bayporters into the terminal. "Who said anything about 'we'? At the rate we're going this is turning into a study abroad class. And I don't chaperone. Especially where we're going."

Frank took a step towards the esteemed professor. "Dr. Jones," he answered with a set jaw, "These are our friends, Joe's and mine. Even you have brought friends along on your journeys, you said so yourself. And from the looks of it, you're going to need all the help you can get."

Frank and Jones stared at each other for a long moment. Jones was the first to grin. "Better get your tickets, then."

An hour later, the Bayporters and Jones took their respective seats on the Pan Am Boeing 747-100. "Paging passenger Drollinger," a stewardess was heard on the intercom. "Last call to Athens, now boarding," the voice continued.

Joe was delighted to find himself seated next to Iola. "Athens!" Iola squealed as she buckled her seat belt. "I can't believe my parents allowed for this!"

"I can't believe Dr. Jones allowed for this!" Joe exclaimed in a low voice. "But he must have a lot of respect for Dad to trust us."

"I heard about how you saved Frank," Iola returned, causing Joe to blush. "Guess you're going to need a new bike."

"Gosh, you're right," Joe lightly slapped his palm against his forehead. Absently brushing his blonde hair he added, "Course that was Frank's bike. But don't tell him that."

Iola giggled. She looked back some rows behind her. "Poor Dr. Jones," she said, still giggling.

Joe followed her point. A dour expression seemed permanently stuck on Dr. Jones's face as he sat in the middle aisle seat wedged between Biff Hooper and Chet Morton, both of whom had been endlessly chatting since their wait time at the gate.

Chet tapped the sleeve of Jones's tweed jacket. "Professor," Chet asked, "If I may, the Ark of…"

"It's true."

"Golly," was all Chet could muster in response. He sat in welcomed silence for a few moments. Then he tapped the sleeve again. "Professor," he repeated.

"Now what is it, fella?" Jones growled.

"Why do you think SPECTRE wants the Shroud? To me, if SPECTRE sees itself as a terror—," he suddenly shut his mouth as Jones thrust his index finger to Chet's face.

"Quit saying the name, will ya?" Jones admonished. "Now, I like you, kid. But enough's enough, all right? You can ask me anything you want in ten hours."

"Yes, sir," Chet meekly replied.

Jones rested his head against the seat back, positioning his bucket hat so it slightly covered his eyes.

"Professor?" Chet asked again.

Jones opened his eyes, staring up at the roof of the plane. "No fedora?" Chet inquired innocently. "The pictures I've seen have you wearing one all the time."

Jones closed his eyes again. "Those days are done," he answered flatly. "I am my father's son."

Biff and Chet exchanged glances. They each raised their eyebrows and in unison settled in for a nap themselves. Within minutes, both of their heads drooped onto Jones's shoulders.

After the 747 reached flying altitude, a member of first class peered down the long aisle and studied the youthful Bayporters. He made mental notes of every one, particularly the earnest lads in the red and blue sweaters. When his eyes rested on the snoozing Jones, he smiled an unpleasant, crooked tooth grin. As he returned to the first seat in the first row, a stewardess approached him with a glass of champagne and a copy of Scientific American.

"Please let me know what else we can get for you, Mr. Drollinger," she said. "Have a pleasant flight."

Alduous Huxley Drollinger nodded as he sipped his champagne and gazed at the cover of the magazine. It featured a picture of Drollinger himself, arms folded wearing a black turtleneck, standing in front of a desert-like, sun splashed valley. The cover title read, The Dream of Alduous Drollinger: A Silicon Valley.

Over the next few hours, the Pan-Am flight crossed the Atlantic, touching down first in London, then Geneva, and setting course for the final leg to Athens. Along the way, Frank and Joe had swapped seats with Callie and Iola so they could sit next together. They pored over Dr. Jones's Shroud book, discussing possible ways in which the image of the man could have been produced on the linen cloth. Occasionally, their friends would join them in a crash course on sindonology, what they learned was the term for studies on the Turin Shroud.

"My concern is that if it's truly been in the hands of the enemy for twenty years," Frank posited, "Who knows what they might have been able to come up with in that time."

"Agreed," Joe said. "Frank, do you think it's good idea our chums came along? Might we be putting them in danger?"

"Maybe," Frank sighed. "At least we'll all get to see Greece together! Only wish Dad could have been with us."

It was then the captain's voice came across the speaker system. "Uh, attention passengers, sorry for the, uh, interruption. We're, uh, currently over Italian, uh, airspace and have been ordered to make an emergency landing. We'll, uh, get back to you with more information. Thank you."

Passengers stirred in confusion at the news. Frank and Joe exchanged dumbfounded glances. Henry Jones slept right through the announcement.

15 minutes later, the Boeing landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport. "Rome!" Joe exclaimed as he pushed his nose against the windowpane. He leaned over for Iola to peer out the window, who had returned to her seat for landing.

"Incredible," she replied. "Another one of your tricks, Joe Hardy?"

Joe smiled slyly. "Maybe."

The stewardesses directed everyone off the plane. The first was Alduous Drollinger who was demanding to know an explanation from someone, as he had business meetings in Athens that were pressing. He quickly quieted down when a motorcade bearing the yellow and white flags of the Vatican City State pulled up to the tarmac.

A diminutive cardinal emerged from one of the sedans, accompanied by Swiss Guards in their unmistakable blue, red, and yellow uniforms. Callie and Iola gasped at the sight of the guards, all Swiss young men under the age of 25.

The cardinal spoke to the captain of the Pan Am flight, Captain Whelan. The captain then spoke into a bullhorn. "Is Henry Jones from Connecticut present?"

All eyes turned to the man in tweed jacket and bucket hat as he stepped forward. He gestured to Frank and Joe to accompany him. Alduous Drollinger's eyes narrowed at the proceedings.

Jones nodded to the cardinal. "Eminence."

The aged cardinal spoke rapidly in Italian. "Dr. Jones, it is of urgent matter you come with me," he said. "I understand you have the expert American sleuths with you?"

Jones looked to the Hardys. "I used to be good with Italian. Can you help?"

Frank gestured to the crowd of baffled and tired passengers. "Tony!" he called.

Tony Prito trotted over and translated on behalf of the Catholic cardinal. When Jones undertood he answered, "Okay, but my friends come with me," he replied nodding to the Hardys.

"Of course," the cardinal said.

Joe whispered to Tony. "Ask him what might be the trouble?"

Tony gave Joe a look. "Really?" Joe nodded. Tony coughed, and asked the question.

The cardinal was leaning into the car, paused, and turned back. He whispered, "There's been a security breach in the Sistine Chapel. SPECTRE has struck again."