[b]The Hangar[/b]

The walk to the plane had been brisk. It had to be. Clark was not going in blind. They had to prepare. While Lewis's leg would drag a little, Clark's was bounding in front. The sight may well have been humorous, if viewed from the outside.

The duo entered the jet-black beast, walling along it's gut to find an adequately sized surface or table. When this requisite was met they stopped, rather more abruptly.

"The Ural Mountains, eh?" Said the elder.
"[u]Hmmm. Where's the map Merriweather?[/u]"
"In the satchel, you bore. Can we never just sit down and enjoy the ride?"

With some effort the two, and their corresponding arms, attempt the loosen the bag of their right shoulder. Gently bringing it onto the table. As the sounds of other feet cross the threshold, they remove their GPS and sit down.

"I hate this thing."
"[u]I know.[/u]"