Blue Gold

by Clive Cussler

  Austin stopped reading. “He goes on to say how homesick he is and how glad he’ll be to get back.”

  “Too bad Martin didn’t get to enjoy that future. He had no idea he was not only a prisoner but a condemned man as well.”

  “Martin wasn’t the first or last patriot thrown to the dogs in the interests of what the higher-ups said was the greater good. Unfortunately he can’t have the satisfaction of knowing his little diary will show us the way to No-Name.”

  “That’s even more obscure than the dateline they used to use during the war: ‘Somewhere in the Pacific.’ ”

  “I thought so, too, until I remembered a story I heard years ago. Seems a British Navy officer sailing off Alaska in the 1850s saw land that wasn’t on the chart so he wrote in ‘?Name.’ The Admiralty draftsman who recopied the chart thought the question mark was a C and that the a in Name was an o. No name became Cape Nome which became Nome. Here’s something else:

  “Uneventful trip from Seattle. Plane handles like a dream. Touched down thirty minutes past No-Name.”

  “What was the cruising speed of the wing?” Zavala asked.

  “About four hundred to five hundred miles per hour.”

  “That would put them two hundred to two hundred fifty miles beyond Nome.”

  “My calculations exactly. Here’s where it starts to get interesting:

  “Got my first look at our destination. Told the guys it looks like Doug’s nose from the air.”

  “A dog’s nose?”

  “No, the proper name, Doug.”

  “That narrows it down to a few million guys,” Zavala said wearily.

  “Yeah, I know, I had the same reaction until I read the rest: All it needs is a corn cob pipe to look like old Eagle Beak.”

  “Douglas MacArthur. Who could forget that profile?”

  “Especially someone who had come out of the Big War. In addition, Nome is only one hundred and sixty-one miles from Russia. I thought it was worth ordering up some satellite pictures. While you snoozed your way over the continental United States, I was going over the photos with a magnifying glass.”

  He handed the satellite views to Zavala, who examined them for a few minutes and shook his head. “I don’t see anything that resembles an eagle’s beak.”

  “I didn’t find one, either. I told you it wasn’t going to be easy.”

  They were still going over the photos and map when the NUMA pilot announced that the plane was starting its descent to Nome Airport. They gathered their gear in a couple of bags and were ready when the plane rolled to a stop on the tarmac of the small but modern airport. A taxi took them to town along one of Nome’s three two-lane gravel roads. The bright sun did little to relieve the monotonous terrain of flat, treeless tundra, although the Kigluaik Mountains could be seen in the distance. The cab took them onto Front Street, which bordered the blue-gray waters of the Bering Sea, past the turn-of-the-century city hall, terminus for the Iditarod dogsled race, dropping them off at the barge port and fishing harbor where their leased float plane awaited with a full tank of fuel.

  Zavala was more than pleased with the plane, a single-engine Maule M-7 with short takeoff and landing capability. While Joe checked out the plane Austin picked up some sandwiches and coffee at Fat Freddie’s diner. They were traveling light. They brought clothing mostly, although Austin had packed his trusty Bowen revolver. Zavala had brought along an Ingram machine pistol capable of firing hundreds of rounds a minute. When Austin asked why he needed such lethal firepower in the desolate northland, Zavala had muttered something about grizzly bears.

  With Zavala at the controls the Maule headed northeasterly along the coast. The plane stayed low, cruising at a hundred and seventy-five miles per hour. The day was cloudy but with none of the rain the Nome area is noted for. They quickly settled into a routine. Austin called out a promising-looking piece of real estate, and Zavala circled it a couple of times. Austin pencil-shaded the areas they covered on his map. Their excitement at being on the hunt quickly faded as the plane droned over mile after mile of ragged coastline. The barren land was broken only by lacy rivers and shallow ponds created by melted snow.

  Austin kept them amused by reciting poems of Robert Service which Zavala translated into Spanish. But even “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” didn’t dull the monotony of their quest. Zavala’s usual good humor was beginning to wear. “We’ve seen parrot beaks, pigeon beaks, and even a turtle beak, but no eagle,” he grumbled.

  Austin studied the shaded portions of his map. A substantial amount of coastline had yet to be covered.

  “We’ve still got a lot of territory to check out. I’d like to keep on going. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, but the plane is going to need fuel before long.”

  “We passed what looked like a fishing camp a short while back. How about breaking for lunch while we tank up old Betsy here?”

  Zavala responded by putting the plane into a banking circle. Before long they picked up the river they had flown over earlier and followed it for about ten minutes until they sighted a cluster of plywood shacks. Two float planes were tied up in the river. Zavala scoped out a straight stretch of water. He brought the plane down, skimmed the surface in a near perfect landing, and taxied the plane up to a weather-beaten pier. A stocky young man with a face as round as a full moon saw them coming and threw out a mooring line.

  “Welcome to Tinook Village, population one hundred and sixty-seven, most of them related,” he said with a smile as dazzling as sunlight on new snow. “My name is Mike Tinook.”

  Tinook didn’t appear surprised to have a couple of strangers drop out of the sky to visit his remote village. With vast distances to cover Alaskans will fly a hundred miles just to have breakfast. Perhaps it has something to do with the scarcity of human contact outside Anchorage, but most Alaskans spin out their stories about how they came north within five minutes of making an acquaintance. Mike related how he grew up in the village, worked as an airplane mechanic in Anchorage, and came back home to stay.

  Austin explained they were with the National Underwater & Marine Agency.

  “Had you figured for some kind of government guys,” Tinook said knowingly. “Too clean for oil men or hunters and too sure of yourselves to be tourists. We had a NUMA team drop by a few years ago. They were doing research in the Chukchi Sea. What brings you to the Land of the Midnight Sun?”

  “We’re doing sort of a geological survey, but I must confess that we’re not having much success,” Austin said. “We’re looking for a point of land that sticks out into the water. It’s shaped like an eagle’s beak.”

  Tinook shook his head. “That’s my plane out there. I do a lot of flying when I’m not fishing or helping to tend the reindeer herd, but it doesn’t ring a bell. C’mon up to the store. We can look at a map.” They climbed a rickety staircase to the plywood building. It was the typical Alaskan general store, a combination of grocery, pharmaceutical, hardware, gift shop, and wilderness outfitter. Customers could take their pick from insect repellent, canned goods, snowmobile replacement parts, and TV videos.

  Tinook checked a wall map of the area. “Nope. Nothing like an eagle’s beak.” He scratched his head. “Maybe you should talk to Clarence.”

  “Clarence?”

  “Yeah, my grandfather. He used to get around a lot and likes visitors.”

  Austin’s eyes glazed over. He was impatient to get in the air again. He was trying to think of a diplomatic way to put Tinook off without hurting his feelings, when he noticed a rifle hung on the wall behind the counter. He walked over for a closer look. It was a Carbine M1, the workhorse rifle carried by American infantrymen in World War II. He had seen M1s before, but this was in exceptionally mint condition.

  “Is that your rifle?” he asked Tinook.

  “My grandfather gave it to me, but I use my own gun for hunting. That thing has got quite a story behind it. Sure you wouldn’t want to talk to Clarence? Might be worth your while.”
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br />   Zavala saw Austin’s newfound interest. “I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs for a while longer. At least we don’t have to worry about getting home before dark.”

  Joe’s point was well taken. Daylight was more than twenty-two hours long, and even after the sun set, technically, night was only a short period of dusk.

  Mike guided them along a muddy street past more shacks, gangs of round-faced children, sleeping huskies, and racks where crimson strips of salmon dried in the sun. He went up to the door of a shack smaller than the others and knocked. Someone inside told them to come in. They stepped into the one-room house. It smelled of wood smoke and something meaty cooking on a camp stove. The house was sparsely furnished with a bunk bed in one corner and a table covered with a red-and-white checkered oilcloth. A man who looked as old as a glacier sat at the table carefully painting a wooden polar bear figure about six inches high. Several others, figures of wolves and eagles, had been painted and lined up.

  “Grandpa, these men would like to hear the story about your rifle.”

  Dark Oriental eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor from a face creased in a thousand wrinkles. Clarence wore dark-framed glasses, and his thick silvery hair was neatly parted on one side. His mouth widened in a grin that seemed to take over his whole jaw. Although he must have been in his eighties, he shook hands in a bone-crunching grip and looked as if he could still wrestle a sea lion to the floor. Yet the voice that should have been amplified by the powerful frame was as soft as wind-blown snow.

  His grandson said, “I have to go back to the shop. I’ll have the plane refueled by the time you get back.”

  “I make these for the gift shops in Anchorage,” the old man said, putting the polar bear and paints aside. “Glad you dropped by. You’re just in time for lunch.” He indicated a couple of rickety chairs, and, refusing the protests of his guests, he spooned the stew from the stove pot into some chipped willow-pattern china bowls. He took a big spoonful as if to show there was no harm in his cooking. “How is it?”

  Austin and Zavala tentatively sampled the stew and pronounced it quite good.

  The old man beamed with pleasure.

  “Is it caribou?” Zavala asked.

  The old man reached into a trash bucket and pulled out a can of Dinty Moore beef stew.

  “Mike’s a good boy,” Clarence said. “He and his wife buy me stuff so I won’t have to cook. They worry that I’m lonely since my wife died. I like visitors, but I don’t want to bore you men.”

  Austin looked around the room. The walls were decorated with primitive harpoons and Eskimo folk art. A Norman Rockwell print with the boy sitting in the dentist’s office was hung incongruously next to a fierce walrus mask. There were family pictures, including many of a stout, handsome woman who could have been the old man’s wife. The most out-of-place object was a computer tucked in the corner. Grandpa Tinook saw Austin’s amused gaze and said, “It’s amazing. We’ve got the satellite so the kids can learn about the rest of the world. I can talk on that machine with anyone, so I’m never alone.”

  Clarence was no old blubber-chewing windbag, Austin deduced. He was sorry he had been in such a rush to avoid meeting him. “If you don’t mind, we’d very much like to hear your story,” he said.

  Grandpa Tinook noisily scooped up the last of his stew, put the bowls in the sink, and sat down again. He squinted as if the memory were hard to recall, but when he started to talk it was clear he had spun this tale before.

  “One day many years ago I was out hunting. There was some good trout and salmon fishing, fox to trap, and herds of caribou. I always got something. I had this little aluminum skiff and a fine motor. Got me around pretty good. It was too far to come home after the hunt, so I used to stay over a couple of nights at the old airfield.”

  Austin glanced at Zavala. Alaska is dotted with airfields hardly worth the name.

  “Where was this airfield?” he asked.

  “Up north a ways. Left over from the Big War. They used to ferry planes to Russia and used it as a stopoff. Blimps there used to look for subs. Not much left. There was a hut where I could light a fire and keep warm and dry. I could store game and smoke it there ’til it was time to come home.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, fifty years ago or so. My memory ain’t what it used to be. I remember when they said I had to stop going there, though.”

  “They?”

  The old man nodded. “For months I never seen anybody. Then one day two men come by in a plane just as I’m cooking up some trout. Hard-lookin’ white men. They flash their badges, say they’re with the government and want to know what I’m doing. I give them some fish, and they’re a lot nicer. They say there’s going to be a big secret at the base and I can’t come there anymore. But they will buy any fresh meat and fish I can get them. One of them gave me that gun you saw so I could shoot game. I took them lots of game and fish, never to the base, though. I’d meet them halfway.”

  “Did you see any planes?”

  “Sure, lots coming and going. Once I was hunting and I heard one that sounded like a hundred rushing rivers. Big as this whole village and crazy shape.”

  “What kind of shape?”

  He went to the wall and took down a harpoon. Touching the sharp metal point with his finger, he said, “Something like this.”

  Austin’s gaze was unwavering. “How long did you hunt game for these men?”

  “ ’Bout six months, I think. One day they showed up, said they didn’t need any more. They told me to stay away from the airfield. Didn’t want me to step on a mine. Said I could keep the rifle. They left in a big hurry.”

  Zavala said, “We’ve been looking for an old airfield supposed to be on a piece of land that looked like an eagle’s nose, but we can’t find it.”

  “Oh, sure, this place used to be like that. Things have changed from ice and wind. In the summer the water comes in from rivers and floods the land. Doesn’t look the same as it did back then. You got a map?”

  Kurt pulled the map from his jacket and unfolded it.

  Grandpa Tinook’s thick finger came down on a section of coast under the pencil shading. “Right here,” he said.

  “We must have flown right over it,” Zavala said.

  “Tell me,” Austin said, “those men, did they give you their names?”

  “Sure, Hewy and Dewy, they said.”

  Zavala chuckled. “I suppose Lewy was busy.”

  The old man shrugged. “I read Donald Duck when I shipped out on merchant ships out of Anchorage. They figured I musta ate whale blubber all my life. I let them think that.”

  “It was probably a good thing that you did.”

  “Like I said, they were hard men, although we became pretty good friends. I went back to the old base after the war. I think they just said that about the mines to scare me off. Felt like something had been poisoned and left to rot.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe you can tell me. One thing I always wondered. What was the big secret? We weren’t fighting the Japanese. The war was over.”

  “Some men can’t live without war,” Austin replied. “If they don’t have one they find another.”

  “Sounds crazy to me, but what do I know? Well, that was years ago. Why do you men want to go to that old place?”

  For once Austin was at a loss for words. He could have said how important it was to find an odd substance named anasazium before Gogstad got its hands on it and made worldwide mischief. But he suspected his real reasons were more visceral. The story of Buzz Martin’s father had smoldered in him and offended his sense of right and wrong.

  The best answer he could muster was, “There was a boy once who went to his father’s funeral, only his father wasn’t dead.”

  The old man nodded solemnly as if Austin had been the soul of clarity.

  Austin’s mind was already racing toward the task ahead. “Thank you very much for telling us your story,” Kurt said, rising. “And for lunch, too.”
/>   “Wait,” Clarence said. He perused the wooden figures he’d carved, picked out two, and gave one to each of the NUMA men. “Take these. The bear for strength and the wolf for cunning.”

  Austin and Zavala thanked the old man for his generosity.

  “Makes me feel better to give you some luck after telling you how to get to that place. You go back to that old base, I got the feeling you’re going to need it.”

  30

  THE SUN’S BLINDING REFLECTION on the mirrored surface of the water had prevented a good look at the Eagle’s Beak on the first pass. Only a thin, ragged crescent of tundra could be seen, part of an inundated coastal plain extending into a pear-shaped bay. Zavala angled the plane so that the dark outline of General MacArthur’s nose was visible under the translucent covering of water. Austin gave Zavala the thumbs up. This is it. The thumb pointed down. Land.

  Zavala brought the plane around in a low sweep and flew the length of the peninsula at an altitude of about two hundred feet. The crooked finger of land was more than a mile long and less than half as wide. Blackwater marsh had encroached on its borders and added to the ravages of wind and ice that had distorted its original shape.

  “See how close you can get us to those moraines,” Austin said, pointing to the low, glacier-carved mounds that began where the peninsula joined the mainland.

  Zavala tapped the brim of his NUMA baseball cap. “No sweat. This baby can land on the head of a pin. Stand by for a picture-perfect landing.”

  Austin had every bit of confidence in his partner’s flying ability. Zavala had logged hundreds of hours flying every conceivable type of aircraft. There were times, though, when Austin had visions of Snoopy pretending his doghouse was a World War I Sopwith Camel. He pushed the thought out of his mind as Zavala circled the strip again, dropped into a long glide, and reduced speed until the plane’s floats skimmed the shallow water.