Blue Gold

by Clive Cussler

  Driving a turquoise NUMA-issue Jeep Cherokee, Austin headed south and then east across the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge into Maryland, where he left the Beltway. In suburban Suitland he pulled off the road at a complex of metal buildings so boringly nondescript that they could only have been built by the federal government.

  A docent in the visitor center took his name and made a call. Minutes later a trim middle-aged man arrived carrying a clipboard. He wore paint-splattered jeans, a denim work shirt, and a baseball cap with the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum logo. He gave Austin a firm handshake and introduced himself.

  “I’m Fred Miller. We talked on the phone,” he said.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “No problem.” Miller raised a quizzical brow. “Are you the same Kurt Austin who found the Christopher Columbus tomb in Guatemala?”

  “That’s me.”

  “That must have been some adventure.”

  “It had its moments.”

  “I’ll bet. I have to apologize. Aside from what I read in the papers of NUMA’s undersea exploits, I don’t know a lot about your agency.”

  “Maybe we can both learn something about our respective work. I don’t know much about the Paul E. Garber Preservation, Restoration, and Storage Facility. Your Web site says you restore historical and vintage airplanes.”

  “That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Miller said, showing the way to the door. “C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”

  He led Austin outside and continued his narrative as they walked past a row of identical buildings, all with low roofs and big sliding doors. “Paul Garber was a plane nut, which was fortunate for us. When he was just a kid he saw Orville Wright fly the world’s first military aircraft. Later he worked for the Smithsonian and was instrumental in creating the National Air Museum. The Air Force and Navy had collected examples of the planes that won World War II and some of the enemy planes they beat. They wanted to get rid of them. Garber did an aerial survey and found twenty-one acres owned by the federal government out here in the sticks. There are thirty-two buildings at the center.” They stopped in front of one of the larger structures. “This is Building Ten, the workshop where we do the restorations.”

  “I saw some of your work on the live Web cam.”

  “You might have spotted me. I just came from there. I worked for years as a project manager for Boeing in Seattle, but I’m originally from Virginia, and when I had a chance to come to the center I jumped at it. At any given time we’ve got several projects going. We’ve been finishing up a Hawker Hurricane restoration. It’s been a little delayed because of a parts problem. We’re restoring the fuselage of the Enola Gay, the B-29 that carried the A-bomb over Hiroshima. There’s a nifty little biplane called Pitt’s special ‘Little Stinker’ that’s getting its fabric skin painted. It’s not just planes. We’ve had a Russian air-to-surface missile, plane engines, even the spaceship model they used in that movie Close Encounters. We can stop in for a look on the way back.”

  “I’d like that. Sounds like an eclectic collection.”

  “Oh, it is. We’ve got aircraft from all over the world that we’re getting ready for exhibition. Three buildings are devoted to exhibition restoration alone. This is a high-class club. The artifacts have to have a story behind them to qualify for a makeover. Something historical or technological, or maybe they’re the last of their kind. Here, this is what you’re interested in.”

  They entered a building laid out like a warehouse. High metal shelves ran from one end to the other. Stacked neatly on the shelves were hundreds of taped cardboard boxes of all sizes. “Storage is our third most important function, along with restoration and preservation,” Miller explained. “We’ve got more than one hundred and fifty aircraft and tons of other artifacts spread throughout the complex. This is mostly parts in here.”

  Consulting a computer printout on a clipboard, he walked down one of the aisles with Austin trailing.

  “How do you find what you’re looking for?” Austin asked with bewilderment.

  Miller chuckled. “It’s not as bad as you might think. Every important part from every plane in the world has something stamped on it. We’ve got complete records of serial numbers, registration numbers, or letter codes. Here, this is what we’re looking for.”

  Using a pocket knife, he slit the sealing tape on a cardboard box. After reaching inside, he pulled out a metal cylinder about two feet long. Austin thought it was the part he had sent from California, but it was too shiny, and its surface was free of dents and nicks.

  “This is identical to the artifact you sent us.” He extracted Austin’s cylinder from the box. “We matched the two objects through their serial numbers. This first is from a plane that was decommissioned and taken apart, which is why it’s in such good condition.”

  He handed the cylinder to Austin, who hefted it. Like the other, it was lightweight aluminum and weighed only a few pounds.

  “What was this used for?”

  “It was a water- and airtight storage container. This one is pristine because the plane never went into active service. We examined the interior of yours, but the seawater leaked in through the hole and contaminated the residue of what, if anything, was inside. We can tell you what aircraft these things came from.”

  “Anything would be a help.”

  Miller nodded. “You’ve heard of the Northrop flying wings?”

  “Sure, I’ve seen pictures of them. They were the original delta-winged aircraft.”

  “Jack Northrop was way ahead of his time. Take a look at the stealth bomber and fighter, and you’ll know he was onto something.”

  “What does the flying wing have to do with these cylinders?”

  “They both come from flying wings. Where’d you get this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It was found in the water off the coast of Baja California.”

  “Hmmm. That makes the mystery of our phantom plane even deeper.”

  “Phantom?”

  Miller lay the cylinders side-by-side on the shelf. “Our artifact comes from a plane that was junked after the war. With the numbers on this thing we can trace its history right back to the assembly line.” He tapped the battered artifact with his finger. “The numerical designation on this part doesn’t match up to any plane we have record of. It came from a plane that didn’t exist.”

  “How could that be? A mistake?”

  “Possible, but not likely. Taking a long shot, I’d say that the government ordered up a plane, but maybe it didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “Could you be more specific about the type of plane?”

  Miller carefully replaced both cylinders in the box and retaped it. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Building 20 was crammed with aircraft, bombs, and plane parts. They stopped in front of an odd-shaped single-passenger plane with a broad swept-back wing. Two propellers faced backward from the trailing edge.

  “This is the N1-M, Jack Northrop’s first project. He wanted to prove a flying wing could fly without all the drag-producing surfaces like engine housings and tail sections.”

  Austin walked around the plane. “Looks like an overgrown boomerang.”

  “Northrop called it the Jeep. He built it in 1940 basically as a flying mockup. It had some real problems during the tests, but it performed well enough for Northrop to talk the Air Force into building the B-35 bomber.”

  “Interesting, but what does this have to do with the cylinder?”

  “Northrop used this model to talk General Hap Arnold into funding bigger wings, right up to bomber size. After the war they converted a couple of big propeller-powered B-35 wings to jet power and called them the B-49 series. The plane broke every speed and distance record on the books. It had eight jet engines that gave it a cruising speed of four hundred miles per hour at forty thousand feet. Even after one crashed during a test flight, the Air Force ordered thirty with various airframes. The pilot
s liked the plane. They said it handled more like a fighter than a big bomber. Then in 1949, only months after making its big order, the Air Force canceled the flying wing program in favor of the B-36, even though that was an inferior plane. A six-engine wing survived and was broken up. It was the plane our cylinder comes from. Yours came from another bomber.”

  “The plane that doesn’t exist.”

  Miller nodded. “A lot of crazy stuff went on after Germany surrendered. The cold war was getting revved up. People were seeing commies under their beds. All sorts of secret stuff going on. The government got even worse after the Russians developed the bomb. My guess is that they built your plane with a mission in mind and didn’t tell anyone about it.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d hazard a guess.”

  “Hazard for all it’s worth, my friend.”

  Miller laughed. “The Northrop bomber was the original stealth plane. Radar was still comparatively primitive back then, and it had a hard time picking up the slim silhouette. In 1948 they took a wing out into the Pacific and flew back to the mainland at five hundred miles per hour on a direct line toward the Coastal Command radar at Half Moon Bay, south of San Francisco. The plane wasn’t detected by radar until it was overhead.”

  “A characteristic like that would come in handy if you wanted to get in and out of hostile territory.”

  “That’s my guess, but I have no evidence to substantiate it.”

  “What could have happened to the plane?”

  “Even with its low radar profile it could have been shot down. More likely, though, it was scrapped like the others or crashed during a test or a mission. They were still working out the bugs in the design.”

  “Neither possibility explains how a piece of the plane ended up in the sea off Mexico.”

  Miller shrugged.

  “Maybe I can find something in the records,” Austin suggested.

  “Good luck. Remember what I said about crazy stuff happening after the war? After the Air Force canceled its contract for the last batch of wings, it went into the plant, cut up all the planes being built, and carted them away as scrap metal. They refused the Smithsonian’s request for a plane to put on exhibition and ordered all production jigs and dies destroyed. All the official records on the flying wing were ‘lost,’ supposedly under direct orders from Truman.”

  “That was convenient.” Austin stared at the flying wing as if the answers to the puzzle were locked in its aerodynamic fuselage, but like the plane, his thoughts refused to get off the ground. “Well, thanks for all your help,” he said finally. “It looks like a dead end.”

  “Wish I could have been of more help,” Miller said. “I’ve got a suggestion. It’s a long shot. A widow of one of the test pilots lives not far from here. She showed up one day looking for information about her husband. He died while they were testing one of the big wings. She was compiling a scrapbook to pass on to the kids and grandchildren. We gave her some pictures, and she was happy with that. Her husband could have said something to her. Maybe he didn’t know about our missing plane, but there are always rumors.”

  Austin glanced at his watch. He hadn’t planned to be back at his NUMA office until after lunch. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll see if I can track her down.”

  They returned to the visitor center and looked up the woman’s name and address. She had made a substantial donation to the center in her husband’s name. Austin thanked Miller and headed south beyond the suburbs that ring Washington until the countryside began to look more rural. The address was a big two-story gingerbread Victorian on a back road. A car was parked out front. Austin went up to the front door and rang the bell. An athletically built man in his fifties answered the door.

  Kurt introduced himself. “I’m looking for Mrs. Phyllis Martin. Do I have the right house?”

  “Yes, this is the Martin house. But I’m afraid you’ve come a little too late. My mother passed away several weeks ago.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Austin said. “Hope I haven’t bothered you.”

  “Not at all. I’m her son, Buzz Martin. I’m taking care of some things around the house. Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Possibly. I’m with NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I’m doing some historical research on flying wings and was hopeful your mother might like to talk about your father.”

  “Doesn’t NUMA deal with the ocean sciences?”

  “That’s right, but this might have a connection with NUMA’s work.”

  Buzz Martin gave Austin a long look. “It’s no bother, really. I’d be happy to talk to you. Have a seat on the porch rocker. I’ve been working in the cellar and could use some fresh air. I just made a pot of ice coffee.”

  He went inside and returned a few minutes later with two tumblers that clinked with ice. They sat in a couple of Adirondack chairs. Martin looked out at the oak trees shading the big lawn.

  “I grew up here. I haven’t been around much with the demands of job and family. I run an air charter service out of Baltimore.” He sipped his drink. “But enough about me. What can I tell you about my father?”

  “Anything you can remember that might help clear up a mystery having to do with the flying wing he piloted.”

  Martin’s face lit up like a streetlight. He smacked his hands together. “Aha! I knew the cover-up would unravel one day.”

  “Cover-up?”

  “That’s right,” Martin said bitterly. “This whole crummy deal with my father and the phony crash.”

  Austin sensed that he’d learn more by saying less. “Tell me what you know,” he said.

  The suggestion was hardly necessary. Martin had been waiting for years for a friendly ear to listen to his tale.

  “Excuse me,” he said with a deep sigh. “This stuff has been building up for a long time.” He stood and paced the length of the porch. His face was contorted by anguish. He took several deep breaths to get his emotions in check. Then he sat on the railing, arms folded, and began to tell his story.

  “My father died in 1949. According to my mother, he was testing one of the new flying wings. There were bugs in the design, and they were always tinkering with one thing or another. On one flight the plane supposedly rolled; he couldn’t get it under control. He died in the crash. I was seven years old.”

  “It must have been devastating for you.”

  “I was pretty young,” he said with a shrug, “and the whole thing was exciting, what with the Air Force brass and the president sending messages. I never saw my father much anyway. During the war he was away a lot.” He paused. “Actually, it really hit me when I discovered he wasn’t dead.”

  “You’re saying your father wasn’t killed in a crash?”

  “He looked quite healthy when I saw him at Arlington Cemetery.”

  “You’re talking about seeing him in the coffin, you mean.”

  “No. He was watching the funeral from a distance.”

  Austin scrutinized Martin’s face, not sure what he was looking for.

  Detecting no sign of dementia, he said, “I’d like to hear about it.”

  Martin broke out into a broad grin. “I’ve been waiting more than forty years to hear somebody say those words.” He stared into space as if he could see the scene playing out on an invisible screen. “I still remember the little things. It was in the spring, and robins were flitting around. I can recall the way the sun reflected off the buttons on the Air Force uniforms, the smell of new-cut grass and earth. I was standing by the casket, next to my mother, holding her hand, squirming in my suit because it was so hot and the collar was tight. The minister was going on and on in this droning voice. Everyone had their eyes on him.” He took a deep breath as his memory drifted back in time. “I saw a movement, a bird maybe, and looked beyond the crowd. A man had stepped away from a tree. He was dressed in dark clothes. He was too far away for me to see his face, but there was no mistaking him. My father had a funny way o
f standing on one leg, kinda crooked. Old football injury.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Nothing. He just stood there. I knew he was staring at me. Then he raised his right arm a little, as if he were about to wave. Two men came up beside him. They talked. It looked as if they were arguing. Then they all walked away. I tried to get my mother’s attention, but she shushed me.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t the wishful thinking of a distraught boy?”

  “Yes. I was so certain that after the funeral I told my mother what I had seen. It only made her cry. I’ll never forget those tears. I never brought it up again. She was young enough and remarried. My stepfather was a nice guy. He was successful in business, and they had a good life. They were very happy for many years.” He laughed. “I was my father’s kid. My mother tried to talk me out of flying, but I became a pilot. This thing has burned in me all that time. I made inquiries but never got anywhere. I was convinced the truth would never come out. Then you show up and start asking questions.”

  “What do you know about your father’s job?”

  “He was a veteran pilot. He was hired by Avion Corporation, the company Northrop set up to manufacture flying wings, although he was still in the Air Force. Dad had several close calls. The wing design was a great concept, but with the materials and the know-how at the time, flying the prototypes was risky business. That’s why nobody was surprised when his plane crashed.”

  “You were very young, but do you remember anything he said?”

  “Not much. My mother told me he loved to fly those contraptions, that he said they were going to revolutionize aviation. He seemed quite excited about his assignments. At one point he disappeared for a period of weeks. No communication, no contact except in the direst emergency. Mom said that when he came home she said something about his sunburn. He laughed and said it was more like snow burn, but he never explained what he meant.”

  “Did he leave any papers, a journal or diary?”

  “Nothing I know of. I remember after he died that a bunch of Air Force people came to the house. They might have taken whatever he had written. Does any of this help?”