Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Chapter 16

Brunhild Sigurd ran her far-flung empire from a turret office high above the sprawling Viking edifice she called Valhalla. The windowless room was built in an exact circle, the geometric form closest to perfection. The walls were stark white and unadorned by paintings or wall hangings. She sat in front of a flat-screen monitor and a telephone console of white plastic. It was all she needed to be in instant touch with her operations around the world. The temperature was kept at a cool thirty-eight degrees summer and winter. The few who had been allowed into this aerie compared it to being in a walk-in refrigerator, but it suited her fine.

As a girl growing up on an isolated farm in Minnesota, she had come to love the cold and reveled in the purity to be found in subfreezing temperatures. She would ski alone for hours under the stars ignoring the icy chill that stung her cheeks. As she grew in height and strength she distanced herself even more from humanity, the "little people" as she called them, who saw her as a freak. At school in Europe, her natural brilliance al lowed her to excel at her studies even when she seldom at tended class. Those times when she couldn't hide and had to suffer the stares of others only drove her ambition, fueled her smoldering resentment, and planted the seeds for her megalomania.

She was talking on the speaker phone: "Thank you for your

support of the Colorado River legislation, Senator Barnes. Your state stands to gain quite handsomely for your key vote, especially when your brother's firm starts picking up contracts for the work we have planned. I hope you've taken advantage of the suggestions I've made."

"Yes, ma'am, I have, thank you. I've had to avoid the conflict-of-interest thing, of course, but my brother and I are quite close, if you know what I mean."

"I do, Senator. Have you talked to the president?"

"Just got off the phone with his chief of staff. The White House will veto any bill that seeks to overturn the privatization legislation we passed. The president is a firm believer that the private sector can always do a better job than government, whether it's running prisons, social security, or pumping water."

"What sort of backing does the Kinkaid bill have?"

"Only a scattering of votes, nothing serious. Damned shame about Kinkaid having that accident. I always liked the man. But without him around to whip up the troops, an override is bound to fail."

"Excellent. How are the other privatization bills faring?"

"They'll do just fine. You'll be seeing publicly run water facilities being privatized all over the country."

"So there are no problems?"

"One maybe. The biggest pain in the butt is the editor of the daily paper in my state capital. He's raising a ruckus, and I'm afraid he might bollix things up."

She asked the editor's name and made a metal note of the senator's answer. Her desktop was free of pen and paper. She committed everything to memory.

"By the way, Senator Barnes, was the contribution to your reelection campaign sufficient?"

"Yes, ma'am, it was very generous considering I'm running unopposed. Having a big war chest discourages the opposition."

A red light was blinking on the phone console.

"We'll speak again. Good-bye, Senator."

She pressed a button, and a door opened in the wall of the room. The Kradzik brothers, wearing their usual black leather, stepped inside.

"Well?" she said.

The thin lips widened in identical metallic smiles.

"We have fired Mexican farmer . . ."

". . . and lawyer as you ordered."

"No complications?"

They shook their heads.

"The authorities will spend little time on the farmer's case," she said. "The lawyer had many enemies. Now to other matters. There have been some developments on the explosion at our Mexican operation."

She touched the screen, and two photos appeared. One of the photos, taken by a surveillance camera, showed Austin and Zavala in the reception area of the tortilla plant. The other picture was an enlarged shot of the two men standing on the deck of the Sea Robin off Ensenada. Brynhild's eye went from the wide-shouldered man with the silver-white hair for a moment, then shifted to the handsome dark-haired man.

"Do you know who these men are?"

The brothers shrugged.

"That's Kurt Austin, head of NUMA's Special Assignments Team, and Jose Zavala, a member of the team."

"When can we . . ."

". . . eliminate them?"

The temperature in the cool room seemed to drop another twenty degrees.

"If they were responsible for the destruction of the Baja facility, they will pay with their lives," Brynhild said. "But not now. There's a minor problem to be taken care of." She gave them the name of the newspaper editor and said, "That's all. You can go."

The brothers hastened from the room like a pair of dogs sent to fetch a bone, and Brynhild was alone again. She sat there brooding about the Baja facility. All that work wasted. Even worse, the supply of the catalyst was destroyed in the blast. She stared with hate-filled eyes at the faces of the two men on the computer monitor.

"Little people," she snarled.

With a wave of her hand the screen went blank.

Chapter 17

Paul Trout turned the shower off and again examined its workings with scientific admiration. Water flowed through a wooden pipe and sprayed out through tiny holes in the hardened shell of a hollowed-out gourd. A simple wooden valve controlled the flow. The water disappeared through a drain hole in the hardwood floor. He stepped from the wooden stall, dried himself with a cotton towel, wrapped his body in another, and went through a doorway into an adjacent room lit by clay lamps.

Gamay was stretched out on a comfortable grass-filled mat tress placed on a platform bed. She had fashioned her towel into a toga, had combed and braided her dark red hair, and was sampling fruit from a large bowl like a woman of ancient Rome. She eyed Paul, whose towel looked ridiculously small on his tall figure. "What do you think of all this, nature boy?"

"I've seen worse plumbing back in the so-called civilized world."

"Did you know a civilization can be measured by the sophistication of its plumbing?"

"I can't say much for the uncivilized habit the locals have of sticking heads on sharpened poles, but this whole village is a miracle. Look at the workmanship in these walls," he said, running his fingers over the white plastered surface. "I've got a mil lion questions. Any word from our hostess?"

"She sent Tessa by and said she would see us after we've had a chance to rest. Talk about pulling a rabbit out a hat. I thought the Chulo grabbed Dieter's wife."

The goddess had offered no explanations. After greeting the Trouts by name and producing Tessa, she simply said, "Please be patient. I'll explain everything in time."

At a clap of her hands two young Indian women had emerged with heads lowered from behind the curtain. The bare-breasted ladies-in-waiting led the Trouts to their bedroom, demonstrated the workings of the shower, and left them with a bowl of fruit.

"I know better than to disobey a white goddess," Paul said, sitting alongside his wife. "What do you make of her?"

"Let's deal with the obvious." Gamay tallied her conclusions on her fingers. "She didn't grow up in these parts. She speaks English with a slight accent. She's smart. She's friendly. And certainly knows her fruit. Here, try one of these little yellow ones. It tastes like an orange sprinkled with cinnamon."

Trout sampled the plum-sized blob and agreed with the assessment. Then he stretched out on the bed, his feet sticking out over the end. They only intended to rest a little while, but exhausted from the long trek in the sun and relaxed by the shower, they fell asleep.

When they awoke they saw an Indian lady-in-waiting sitting cross-legged on the floor watching them. Seeing them stir, she slipped silently from the room. Lying on a table were their clothes, which had disappeared when they were in the shower. Their shorts and shirts had been washed clean of sweat and grime and were neatly folded. Trout checked his watch. They had slept three hours. They dressed quickly, hastened by the aroma of cooking food.

Tessa arrived and beckoned for them to follow. She led them along a passageway to a large chamber. A dark wood table and three covered stools occupied the center of the room. An Indian woman was tending to clay pots bubbling on a ceramic stove whose exhaust was carried through the ceiling by pipes.

The white goddess arrived a moment later, her barefoot presence announced by the soft jingle of her metal bracelets and anklets. A pendant similar to that worn by the dead Indian hung from her neck. She was wearing a two-piece suit of jaguar skin which hugged the contours of her bronzed body nicely. She had Oriental eyes and high cheekbones. Her hair, bleached to a honeyed blond by the sun, was combed back and cut in bangs the way the native women wore theirs. Taking a seat at the table, she said, "You look more rested." "The shower helped immensely," Gamay said.

"That's a remarkable setup," Paul added. "As a native New Englander, I was intrigued by your Yankee inventiveness."

"It was one of my first projects, thank you. The water is pumped by windmill into a holding tank to maintain pressure. It ties in with a ventilated system of pipes that runs through these walls and keeps this place cool even on the hottest days. It was the best air conditioning I could come up with given the materials I had to work with." Anticipating their curiosity, she said, "First we'll eat, and then we'll talk."

The cook brought over a vegetable and meat stew served with salad greens in blue-and-white bowls. Questions were for gotten as Gamay and Paul plunged into their food, washing their meal down with a refreshing faintly alcoholic beverage. Sugar sweetened cakes were served for dessert. The goddess looked on, amused at their hunger.

When the dishes were cleared, the goddess declared, "Now it is time to pay for your dinner." She smiled. "You must tell me what has been going on in the outside world for the past ten years."

"That's a cheap price for a meal like that," Paul said.

"You may not think so when I'm through. Start with science if you will. What advances, great or small, have come about in the last decade?"

They took turns, describing the advances in computers, the widespread use of the Internet and wireless communication, the space shuttle missions, the Hubble telescope, unmanned space probes, discoveries by NUMA in the field of oceanography, and

advances in medicine. She listened with fascination, her chin resting on her folded hands. Occasionally she asked a probing question that indicated her own scientific background, but mostly she absorbed the information with the dreamy look of an addict inhaling opium fumes. "Now tell me about the political situation," she requested.

Again they pored through the events in their memory: American presidential politics, relations with Russia, the Persian Gulf wars, the strife in the Balkans, droughts, famines, terrorism, the European Union. She asked about Brazil and seemed pleased when they said the country had become a democracy. They talked about movies and plays, music and art, about the deaths of well-known figures. Even Paul and Gamay were surprised at the incredible busyness of the past decade. Their jaws were get ting tired from the litany of events.

"What about cancer? Have they found a cure?"

"Unfortunately no."

"What about fresh water? Is it still a problem for many countries?"

"Worse than ever, between development and pollution."

She shook her head sadly. "So much," she said in a faraway voice. "I've missed so much. I don't know if my parents are still alive. I miss them, my mother especially." A tear gleamed in her eye, and she wiped it away with her napkin. "I must apologize for being so demanding, but you have no idea how awful it is to be isolated here in the forest, with no communication to the out side world. You have been very kind and patient. Now it is time for you to hear my story." She called for tea to be served, then dismissed the Indian women so that there were only the three of them.

"My name is Francesca Cabral," she began. For an hour the Trouts listened raptly to the goddess's story, starting with her family, going through her education in Brazil and America, up to the time of the plane crash.

"I was the only survivor of the crash," she said. "The copilot was a scoundrel, but he knew how to fly. The jet skidded into

muddy wetlands near the river. The mud cushioned the landing and prevented fire. When I woke up I found myself in a hut where the Indians carried me. I was in terrible pain from my cuts and bruises, and my right leg was broken. A compound fracture, the worst kind. As you've heard, the rain forest medicines can be potent. They set my leg and treated me with potions that dulled the suffering and promoted healing. I learned later that the plane had landed on top of their chief's house and killed him. They held me no ill. In fact, it was just the opposite." "They made you their goddess," Gamay said.

"You can see why. The Chulo retreated from the onslaught of the white man a long time ago. They've been completely cut off from the world. Then I come like a comet flaming from the sky. Gods are supposed to behave that way to keep people in line. They figured the chief had angered the gods. I became the center of their religion."

'A cargo cult?" Gamay offered.

Paul said, "Back during World War II, natives who saw planes overhead for the first time built replicas on the ground to worship."

~

~

"Yes," Gamay said. "Remember that movie The Gods Must Be Crazy? A Coke bottle dropped from an airplane became an object of religious veneration and started all sorts of trouble."

"Precisely," Francesca said. "Think of how those natives would react if they had an actual plane in their possession."

"That explains the shrine with the plane at its center."

She nodded. "They hauled the pieces of the jet there and did a fairly good job of reassembling it. Sort of a 'chariot of the god.' We have to sacrifice an animal now and then so the gods won't wreak more destruction on the tribe."

"The plane was blue and white," Gamay said. "The natives paint themselves with the same color scheme. No coincidence?"

"They believe it will give them protection against their enemies."

"How did Tessa come to be here?"

"Tessa is half Chulo. Her mother was captured during a raid

by a neighboring tribe and traded to a European who was Tessa's father. He was killed during a tribal dispute, and Tessa became Dieter's property. He knew of the Chulo and married Tessa when she was still a girl, erroneously thinking it would give him entree to the tribe and its medicinal herbs, which he trafficked in." "Why did she stay with Dieter?"

"She thought she had no choice. Dieter reminded her constantly that she was a half-breed, spoiled goods. An outcast."

"What about the Indian whose body we found?"

"Tessa wasn't the first child born to her mother. She had a half-brother who lived here. He was determined to find his family and began to make explorations beyond the falls. He learned that his mother had died but that he had a sister. Tessa. He went to bring her back. The Chulo take family honor very seriously. The plant pirates working with Dieter captured him. They wanted him to show them where to find blood root."

"Arnaud mentioned the plant."

"It's the miraculous species that was used to help me after the plane crash. The tribe considers it to be sacred. He refused to tell them where to find it, so they tortured him. He was shot trying to escape, and you found him. Dieter stole the specimens. I sent a search party to look for Tessa's brother. She was trying to get back here when they ran into her, and she told them the story. I sent her back to Dieter's with instructions to keep us in formed about what was going on. Then you showed up unexpectedly. Tessa tried to warn you off. When that didn't work she helped you escape. Or so she thought. You reappeared on our doorstep."

"We're in one piece. That's more than I can say for Dieter and his friends."

"The men of the tribe brought the heads back as gifts to me." She glanced around the dining room which was hung with colorful tapestries of village life. "Shrunken heads would clash with my decor, so I suggested they put them outside the village."

"Were you also responsible for our welcoming committee?"

"Oh, yes. You must admit that big orange-and-blue balloon

you were flying was not inconspicuous. The men reported that you had almost flown into the falls. I had ordered that if you were seen you would be observed but not harmed. They were tracking you from the start. I was surprised when you started this way. You couldn't have been lost." "We thought we might borrow a canoe."

'Ah. How audacious! You wouldn't have stood a chance. The reputation these people have is well deserved. They tracked you for miles. Sometimes I think they truly are the ghost people. They can melt through the forest like the mists the other Indians say they are made of."

Paul had been pondering Francesca's story. "Why would someone want to hijack the plane and kidnap you?"

"I have an idea why. Come, I'll show you."

Francesca rose from the table and led the way through torch lit hallways to a large bedroom. She reached into a chest and pulled out a battered and scarred aluminum case. She set it on top of her bed, then opened it. Inside was a jumble of broken wires and circuits.

"This was a model of the experiment I was carrying to Cairo. I won't go into the technical details, but if you pour seawater in on this end, the salt is extracted and fresh water comes out here."

"A desalting process?"

"Yes. It was a revolutionary approach unlike any devised be fore. It took me two years to perfect. The problem with desalination has been its cost. This process would transform hundreds of gallons for only pennies. At the same time it produces heat which can be transformed into energy." She shook her head. "It would have turned deserts into gardens and allowed people the benefits of power."

"I still don't understand," Paul said. "Why would someone want to prevent a boon like this from being made available to the world?"

"I've asked myself that question many times in the past ten years and still have no satisfactory answer."

"Was this your only model?"

"Yes," she said sadly. "I took everything with me from Sao Paulo. All my papers were burned in the plane crash." Brightening, she said, "I was able to put my hydraulic engineering skills to work here. It can be boring just sitting around being adored all day. I'm virtually a prisoner They hid me from search parties after the crash. The only place where I am truly alone is this palace. Only those who are invited can enter. My servants were handpicked for their loyalty. Outside the palace I'm watched by my Praetorian guard."

"Being a white goddess isn't all it's cracked up to be," Paul said.

"An understatement. Which is why I'm so happy you dropped out of the sky. Tonight you rest. Tomorrow I will give you a tour of the village, and we will start planning."

"Planning for what?" Gamay said.

"Sorry, I thought that was obvious. Planning to escape."

Chapter 18

Austin had a quick breakfast of ham and scrambled eggs on the deck of his boathouse below the Potomac palisades in Fairfax, Virginia. He stared longingly at the slow-moving river, thinking that a brisk row in his scull would be far preferable to morning traffic on the Beltway. But the events of the last few days gnawed at him. Having narrowly missed being killed twice had injected a personal note into the case.

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 clip board. 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 some thing."

"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 any one to know about it."

"Could you be more specific about the type of plane?"

Miller carefully replaced both cylinders in the box and re taped 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 back ward from the trailing edge.

"This is the Nl-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 pilots 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 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 main land 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."