“The global water crisis would be over,” Austin said. “Nearly seventy percent of the world’s population lives within fifty miles of the ocean.”
“Exactly,” Francesca said, her mood lightening.
“Are you telling me you have this magic wand?”
“Something almost as good. I have developed a revolutionary means to extract salt from seawater.”
“You must know that desalting is hardly a new concept,” Sandecker said.
Francesca nodded. “The extraction of salt from seawater goes back to the ancient Greeks. Desalination plants have been built around the world, including many in the Middle East. There are several methods, but all are costly. In my doctorate I proposed a radically new approach. I threw out all the old methods. My goal was a process that would be efficient and cheap, available to the poorest farmer trying to scratch a living from the dust. Think of the implications. Water would be nearly free. Deserts would become centers of civilization.”
“I’m sure you thought of the undesirable consequences,” Sandecker said, “the fact that cheap water would stimulate development, population growth, and the pollution that goes with them.”
“I thought long and hard about that, Admiral Sandecker, but the alternatives were even more unpalatable. I would make orderly development a requirement before allowing a country to use my process.”
“It goes without saying then that your experimentation was a success,” Austin said.
“Very much so. I was bringing a working model of the process to the international conference. Seawater would go in one end, fresh water come out at the other. It would produce energy and little to no waste products.”
“A process like that would have been worth millions of dollars.”
“No doubt. I had offers that would have made me immensely rich, but I planned to give my process to the world free of charge.”
“That was quite generous of you. You say you had offers. Then someone knew of your process and plans?”
“Once I contacted the United Nations to attend the conference it became an open secret.” She paused. “Something has always puzzled me. Many people knew about my process. The people who tried to kidnap me would be immediately exposed if they tried to profit from my work.”
“There’s another possibility,” Austin suggested. “Maybe they wanted to bury your work and keep the process a secret from the world.”
“But why would anyone try to stop a boon to humanity?”
“Perhaps you’re too young to remember,” said Sandecker, who had been listening intently. “Years ago stories circulated about the inventor who supposedly built a car engine that could go a hundred miles on a gallon or burn water. The details aren’t important. The oil companies reportedly bought the secret and buried it so they could continue to make profits. The stories were apocryphal, but do you see my point?”
“Who would prevent the poor nations from enjoying cheap water?”
“Our investigations have given us an advantage over you, Dr. Cabral. Let me ask you a theoretical question. Suppose you controlled the world’s supply of fresh water. How would you greet the arrival of a process that suddenly makes cheap water available to all?”
“My process would end your theoretical water monopoly. But this is a moot point. It is simply not possible for someone to control the world’s water.”
Sandecker and Austin exchanged glances.
Taking over from Sandecker, Austin said, “A lot has been happening in the past ten years, Dr. Cabral. We can fill you in on the whole story later, but we’ve discovered that a huge pan-national organization called the Gogstad Corporation is very close to acquiring a monopoly over the world’s fresh water.”
“Impossible!”
“I wish it were.”
Francesca’s eyes hardened. “Then this Gogstad must be the one who tried to kidnap me, who stole those ten years from my life.”
“We have no solid proof,” Austin said. “There is certainly strong circumstantial evidence pointing in that direction. Tell me, what do you know of a substance called anasazium?”
Francesca’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Recovering quickly she said, “Is there anything you people at NUMA do not know?”
“Quite a bit, I’m sorry to say. We know very little about this stuff other than the fact that it can affect the hydrogen atom in strange ways.”
“That’s its most important property. It’s a very complex relationship. This material is at the heart of my desalting process. Only a few people know of its existence. It’s extremely rare.”
“How did you come across it?”
“By chance. I read an obscure paper written by a former Los Alamos physicist. Rather than try to improve on the existing methods of desalting, I wanted to deal with it at a molecular or even nuclear level. A solution had eluded me until I heard about this substance. I contacted the scientist who wrote the article. He had a small amount of the material and was willing to part with it when I told him why I needed it.”
“Why is it so rare?”
“Several reasons. With no apparent economic use for it, the demand was nonexistent. Then, too, the refinement process is quite complicated. The main ore source is in a troubled part of Africa that is constantly at war. I had several ounces, enough for a working model. I would have proposed that the nations of the world pool their resources to produce enough anasazium to set up pilot projects. Working together we could have viable quantities of this substance within a short time.”
“Gogstad was running an installation off the coast of Mexico. It was destroyed in a tremendous explosion.”
“Tell me more about this installation.”
Austin gave her a quick summary, starting with the death of the whales. He described the storage cylinder after the explosion and how he traced it to the flying wing. Sandecker filled her in on the cold war mission to Siberia.
“A fantastic tale. It’s too bad about the whales,” she said sadly. “My process produces heat which can be turned into energy. The material can be unstable and under certain circumstances becomes a powerful explosive. These people must have been trying to replicate my desalination process and were unaware of the material’s instability. Where would they have acquired the anasazium?”
“We don’t know,” Austin said. “We are aware of a large source but don’t know its exact location.”
“We must find it so I can resume my research,” Francesca insisted.
“There’s an even more important reason,” Sandecker interjected.
“I know no more important reason than to continue my work,” she said defensively.
“In time, Dr. Cabral, in time. Your work will have little meaning if Gogstad succeeds in its plans. Whoever controls the world’s water controls the world.”
“It sounds as if you’re talking about global domination, Admiral Sandecker.”
“Why not? Napoleon and Hitler failed, but their attempts were made through force of arms. In each case they came up against somebody with a bigger stick.” He took a smooth puff on his cigar and watched the cloud of smoke. “The people protesting globalization, all that business with the World Trade Organization and the International Monetary Fund, were onto something. The danger is not in these entities but in the fact that it is easier now for someone to exert total control over an economic sector.”
“A sort of global Al Capone?” Austin offered.
“There are similarities. Capone was ruthless about exterminating the competition and had a fine instinct for organization. His economic power gave him political clout. Bootleg booze is a far cry from water. The world can’t do without water. Those who control its flow will have the ultimate political power. Who will stand up against someone whose word can condemn you and your country to die of thirst? That is why I say with all due respect, Dr. Cabral, that there are more important matters to be taken care of first.”
“You’re right, Admiral Sandecker,” Francesca conceded. “If this Gogstad finds the m
ain supply of anasazium, it will control my process as well.”
“Intelligence and beauty are such a welcome combination,” Sandecker said with unveiled appreciation. “The young lady has stated my fears exactly. It’s imperative that we find that long-lost cache before Gogstad does.”
“I was trying to figure out how to pinpoint the location when you called. I’m going to need some help.”
“That’s not a problem. Use any NUMA resource that you need, and if we don’t have them we’ll find them elsewhere.”
“I think Joe and I should leave as soon as possible for Alaska.”
“Before you go dashing off to the Yukon there’s something else we have to discuss. This buildup of tankers that Joe’s reporter friend told him about has me worried. What do you make of it?”
“At the very least Gogstad is expecting to move lots of water from Alaska to someplace that needs it. There has been talk of transporting water to China.”
“Perhaps,” Sandecker said, unconvinced. “I’ll talk to Rudi Gunn. Maybe he and Yaeger can shed light on this mystery. While you and Joe are trying to nail down this flying wing, they can see what they can find about the tankers.”
Austin rose and said, “I’ll start things moving.” He shook hands with Francesca and said, “I’ll show you out, Dr. Cabral.”
“Thank you, and please call me Francesca,” she said as they strolled to the elevator.
“I will if you call me Kurt. Tell me, do you prefer Korean, Thai, Italian, or just plain old American cooking?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No one told you?” he said with mock amazement. “Dinner is part of the Austin rescue package. I hope you won’t refuse. Who knows how long I will have to subsist on whale blubber and walrus steaks after today.”
“In that case, I would be happy to accept your invitation. Would seven o’clock be convenient?”
“That’s fine. It will give me plenty of time to start making preparations for our trip to Alaska.”
“I’ll see you then. As you know I am staying with the Trouts. And Korean would be fine.”
Austin bid Francesca good-bye near the huge globe that rose from the center of the sea-green floor in the NUMA lobby, an atrium surrounded by waterfalls and aquariums filled with colorful and exotic sea life. Then he went back to his fourth-floor office, called Zavala to let him know of his meeting with Sandecker, and lined up transportation for their trip.
• • •
Francesca was ready when he arrived at the Trouts’ Georgetown house to pick her up. He chatted with Paul and Gamay long enough to be polite, then drove to his favorite Korean restaurant, housed in an unpretentious building in Alexandria.
Austin recommended that they order belogi, thin strips of marinated beef cooked on a hot plate on the table. Ordinarily it was one of his favorite meals, but he hardly tasted it; he was too busy looking at Francesca. She was dressed simply in a stone-washed denim dress whose light blue color set off her dark complexion and long luxurious hair that seemed to have captured the light of the sun. It was hard for Austin to reconcile the picture of this cultured and beautiful woman, who was clearly delighted over the simple pleasure of a civilized meal, with the tale he had heard of her reign as a white goddess among savage Indians. She seemed relaxed and entirely at ease, but even as they laughed over her inept use of chopsticks, Austin couldn’t shake the feeling he experienced when they first met. Despite the civilized veneer, the jungle had seeped into her blood. He saw it in the feline gracefulness of her movement, and the watchfulness in her dark eyes. It was a quality that fascinated and attracted Austin, and he vowed to see more of Francesca when he returned from his mission.
Which was why it was all the more painful when Austin apologized for calling it an early night. He had much to do before leaving for Alaska, he explained. As he dropped her off on the Trouts’ doorstep, he asked if she would like to go out again when he returned.
“Thank you. I’d like that, very much,” she said. “I plan to be in Washington for some time and hope we can get to know each other better.”
“Until then,” Austin said. “At a time and place to be announced.”
She smiled and pecked him lightly on the lips. “It’s a date.”
29
WITH SANDECKER’S BACKING, Austin had no trouble commandeering a NUMA jet. Streaking across the country at five hundred miles per hour, the turquoise Cessna Citation Ultra had refueled at Salt Lake City before pushing on to Anchorage. After the all-night trip they arrived as the morning light cast a rosy glow over the Chugach Mountains on the outskirts of Alaska’s big city, which some of the locals call Los Anchorage. They were airborne within minutes, pushing on to their destination in Nome.
Shortly after the NUMA jet took off from Anchorage, Zavala came back from the galley with a couple of steaming mugs of coffee. Austin was studying an old map spread out on the table that folded down between the seats. He was directing his attention to a fist of land whose knuckles jabbed at the former U.S.S.R. a few miles across the Bering Strait.
Settling into the chair opposite Austin’s, Zavala sipped his coffee and looked out the window at the vast land mass below. Black mountains edged by rivers and heavy forests were visible through a scattering of whiskered cirrus clouds.
“That’s big country,” Zavala said lazily. “Any idea of our next port of call after Nome?”
Austin leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared into space. His broad mouth curled in a wry smile. “More or less,” he said.
Zavala knew his partner wasn’t trying to be mysterious. Austin simply didn’t like surprises. When time allowed he cautiously collected the facts before making a move. Zavala pointed downward. “I’m sure it doesn’t come as any surprise to you that there is more down there than less.”
“Something like six hundred thousand square miles, last I heard. I have no illusions about the formidable task we’re up against. We could search until we became eligible for NUMA pensions and not find a thing.” Austin’s brow furrowed in thought. “That’s why I decided to work my way backward from what we know, not what we don’t know.”
Zavala swiftly grasped the premise. “We know what the target was in the Soviet Union.” He pointed on the map to the northwest coast of Alaska where blunt fingers of the ragged coastline, all that remained of the old land bridge, reached toward Asia. “What was the flying wing’s statistical range?”
“Around three thousand miles cruising at around five hundred miles per hour. I’m assuming that its fuel storage capacity would have been beefed up to extend the range as much as possible for this mission.”
“There’s always the possibility of midair refueling,” Zavala said.
“I’ve taken that into consideration. I’m guessing that they would have kept the operation simple and short to avoid detection.”
Taking a sharp pencil in hand, Austin drew an arc from Barrow to the Yukon Delta.
Zavala let out a low whistle. “You’re talking about a trip that could be more than a thousand miles from target. That’s still a lot of territory to cover.”
“It’s bigger than some states,” Austin acknowledged. “So I made an educated guess. The cloak-and-dagger boys wanted to keep this crazy scheme as hush-hush as possible. Building a new base would be costly and time-consuming, and most important, it might attract unwanted attention.”
Zavala snapped his fingers. “They would use an existing base.”
Austin nodded. “During World War II, Alaska bristled with gun emplacements and airfields because of fears Japan would invade. Each red dot on the map denotes an airstrip from World War II.”
Zavala pondered the problem. “What if the base were secret?”
“It was secret, at least up to now.” Austin jabbed the map with his pencil at Nome and drew a wide circle around the dot. “We’ll find what we’re looking for here, although I must admit that with all the suppositions I’ve made, it’s still a crapshoot.”
&nb
sp; Zavala studied the map, and his lips twitched up at the corners in his trademark smile. “How can you be certain this is the right area? The plane could have taken off from dozens of places.”
“I had a little help from a ghost.” Austin reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small spiral-bound notebook. The brown cover was worn, but it was still possible to read the words “U.S. Army Air Force” and the name inked just below. He handed the notebook to Zavala. “This is the diary of Buzz Martin’s father, the pilot who flew the wing on its last mission.”
Zavala laughed with delight. “You should have been a magician. You couldn’t have done better pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”
“This rabbit jumped into my lap. After Sandecker met with LeGrand, the CIA poked around and came up with Martin’s personal effects. They must have been in a hurry to get rid of incriminating evidence and didn’t vet the stuff thoroughly. Buzz found the notebook tucked into his father’s uniform. He thought it might contain something of importance and gave it to me just before we left Washington.”
Zavala thumbed through the curling pages. “I don’t see a detailed map to follow.”
“You didn’t think this was going to be easy, did you?” Austin took the book back and opened to a page where he had placed a yellow sticky tab. “Martin was a good soldier. He knew that loose lips sink ships. Most of the diary is devoted to how he missed his wife and kid. But he let a few things sneak in. Here, let me read you the first paragraph:
“To my dear wife Phyllis and son Buzz. Maybe someday you will read this. I had a lot of time on my hands and started this diary on the way to No-Name. If the brass knew I was taking notes, I’d be in hot water. This thing is even more secret than the Manhattan Project. As the spooks frequently reminded me, I’m just a dumb sky jockey who’s supposed to follow orders and not ask questions. Sometimes I feel more like a prisoner. I’m kept under close supervision with the rest of the crew. So I guess this journal is a way of saying, hey, I’m a person. They’re feeding us well, Phyllis, I know how you worry about the way I eat. Lots of good fresh meat and fish. The Quonset hut was not made for the frozen north. The snow slides off the roof, but metal is a lousy insulator. We keep the wood stove going day and night. We’d be better off in an igloo. The plane gets the first-class accommodations in its hidey-hole. Sorry to complain. I’m lucky to be flying this baby! I can’t believe an aircraft as big as this can maneuver like a fighter plane. It’s definitely the aviation wave of the future.”
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