Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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"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 Mar tin. 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 de sign, 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 of 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 re married. 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 con tact 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?"

Austin thought about his conversation with Fred Miller at Garber, particularly the mention of early stealth aircraft technology. "My guess is that your father was training for a secret mission in the north." "That was fifty years ago. Why still keep it secret?"

"Secrets have a way of justifying themselves beyond the point of necessity."

Miller looked out over the shady yard. "The worst thing is knowing that my father could have been alive all those years." He turned back to Austin. "Maybe he's still alive. He'd be in his eighties."

"It's possible. It also means that there might be someone out there who knows the real story."

"I'd like the truth to come out, Mr. Austin. Can you help me?"

"I'll do what I can."

They talked further. Before parting they exchanged phone numbers. Austin vowed he would call if he learned anything. He started back for Washington. Like any good detective he had knocked on doors and used up some shoe leather, but this puzzle was too old, too complex for ordinary methods. It was time to see NUMA's computer whiz, Hiram Yaeger.

Chapter 19

The Indian village was a marvel of city planning. Strolling along the network of hard-packed earthen paths that connected the thatched huts, the Trouts could almost forget that their entourage included a mysterious and beautiful white goddess in a jaguar-skin bikini and a silent escort of six armed Chulo Indians painted the color of an executive jet.

Francesca led the procession. The warriors, three on either side, kept pace a respectable spear's length away. Francesca stopped near the big well in the village center. Indian women were filling pots with water while gangs of naked children happily chased each other around their mothers' legs. Francesca beamed with obvious pride.

"Every improvement you see here is part of an integrated scheme," she said with a sweep of her hands. "I planned the project as if I were building a new infrastructure for Sao Paulo. I worked for months before one spadeful of earth was turned, putting everything in place, right down to the allocation of capital, sources of supply, and labor. I had to establish a subsidiary to manufacture the specialized tools that would be needed to produce wooden pipe, valves, and fittings. At the same time it was necessary to keep the village functioning without interrupting hunting and harvesting."

"Remarkable," Gamay said, looking around at the neatly ordered huts. She couldn't help comparing the village with the

squalor of Dieter's empire or the relatively civilized settlement where Dr. Ramirez had his house. "Absolutely remarkable," Gamay repeated.

"Thank you, but once I had the preparations in place it wasn't as difficult as it looks. The key was water flow. It's just as essential to life and living here as it is back in the so-called civilized world. I assigned digging crews to divert the river. We had the same problems as any project. The shovel makers complained that we were pushing them too hard and that quality was suffering." She laughed. "It was exhilarating. We made a canal to open a tributary from the lake. Once we established the water supply, it was a simple matter to divert it to the public wells. The gristmill was basic time-proven technology."

"The water wheel is as good as anything I've seen in the old industrial towns in New England," Paul said, stopping in front of a hut no bigger than a one-car garage. "But I am really impressed with the plumbing in these public commodes. Back where I come from they used outhouses right into the twentieth century."

"I'm particularly proud of the public water closets," she said as they continued their tour. "When I finally admitted to myself that my desalination process would never see the light of day, I turned my efforts to improving the life of these wretched savages. They lived at a Stone Age level. Their hygiene was pitiful. Mothers routinely died in childbirth. The infant mortality rate was incredible. The adults were the targets of every parasite that grows in the rain forest. Their traditional medicinal plants were simply overwhelmed. Diet was of little nutrition. Producing a clean and reliable water flow not only protected the people from their usual ailments, but it allowed them to grow the crops that would keep them healthy."

"We were wondering whether your talents extended to surgery," Gamay said. "Tessa's brother had a peculiar scar on his body."

She clapped her hands like a delighted child. "Oh, the appendectomy! He would have died if I hadn't acted. My training

was limited to first aid. I had the Chulo pharmacology to thank. They dip their blowgun darts in the sap from a plant. They use it to paralyze game, but even a small amount can incapacitate a human. I smeared it on a large leaf and placed it on the skin. It functioned as a local anesthetic. The stitches used to close the wound were made with fibers from another plant that seems to resist infection. The knife had an obsidian point, sharper than a scalpel. Nothing high-tech, I'm afraid."

"I wish I could say the same for those weapons your guards are carrying," Paul said, eyeing the steel tips of the short throwing spears their guards carried. Each man also carried a bow and a quiver of long-shafted arrows.

"Those bows and spear tips were made with aluminum from the plane. The shortened bow is easier to carry through the forest, and the design makes the arrow fly farther."

"If Arnaud and his men were still alive they could vouch for their effectiveness," Paul said.

"I'm truly sorry about those men, but they brought their fate upon themselves. The Chulo are a comparatively small tribe, and they've always preferred flight to fight. Oh, they'll shrink a head or eat an enemy, but they rarely go out and catch someone in a raid. They just want to be left alone. The white man drove them further into the forest. They thought they were safe once they went beyond the Great Falls, but white exploiters continued to press them. They would have been destroyed if I hadn't helped them improve their defenses."

"I've been noticing the arrangement of the village," Gamay said. "The layout reminds me of the architecture I've seen in old walled cities."

"Very perceptive. Anyone who got past the stockade fence would be in a most uncomfortable position. The village is full of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys that offer prime opportunities for ambush."

"What if the intruders were coming to rescue you?" Paul said. "Wouldn't these preparations be self-defeating?"

"I gave up hope of rescue a long time ago. My father would have made sure search parties scoured the forest. He must have become convinced that I was dead, which is just as well. Three men died in the plane crash, and the tribal chief was killed be cause of me. I wouldn't want to be responsible for additional deaths."

"It's ironic," Gamay mused. "The more you do for these people, the less likely they are to release you."

"True, but they would have kept me captive even if I just sat around making goddess sounds and getting fat. As long as I had to be here, it would have been sinful not to use my talents to improve their lot. When white men finally come, I hope the Chulo will use their knowledge rather than their arms to deal with civilization's impact. Unfortunately in the meantime I have little control of the tribe's more murderous instincts. Once Arnaud and his friends showed hostile intent they were doomed. There was no way I could save them. In your case it was easier. You were so helpless in the forest, they never saw you as a threat until now."

Gamay's ears perked up. "A threat?"

"Try not to look alarmed," Francesca said. A smile played on her lips, but her eyes were deadly serious. "They don't under stand what we're saying, but they sense things." She stopped to demonstrate a water pipe that served as a fire hydrant, then resumed her casual walk. "They're worried. They think you are flawed gods."

"If we're so insignificant, why are they concerned?" Gamay

"They're afraid you're here to take me back into the sky where I came from."

"They told you that?"

"They don't have to. I know these people intimately. In addition, Tessa's been picking up whisperings. They're talking about burning you. The smoke from your bodies will take you back into the sky. Problem solved."

Paul ventured a sidelong glance at the guards, but he failed to detect any change in their stony expressions.

"I can't argue with their logic, but that solves the problem for them, not for us," he said.

"I agree. It makes it all the more urgent that we escape as soon as possible. Come with me. We'll be able to talk about a plan without the palace guard peering over our shoulders."

They had arrived at the white stone walkway that led through the forest to the shrine. With the Trouts following, Francesca walked to the circular clearing with the plane at its center and sat down on a polished wooden bench facing the nose of the Learjet. The Trouts sat cross-legged on the tiled ground.

"I come here to be alone. Only the priests are allowed at the shrine otherwise. The warriors will be in the forest watching our every move, but we'll be able to talk about our escape plans."

Gamay glanced toward the jungle where the warriors had melted out of sight.

"I hope you've got something up your sleeve, because we don't," she said.

"Your original instincts were on the mark. Our only way out is by water. Up the tributary and canal t0 the lake, then follow the main river. We would never make it through the forest. They would catch us in an instant, or we'd become lost."

"I've seen your boys handle a canoe," Paul said. "We'd need a substantial jump on them."

"We would have a few hours. But they are skilled and strong paddlers. They would be getting their strength just as we were tiring."

"What would they do if they caught us?" Paul asked. "Theoretically speaking."

"No theory about it," Francesca said. "They would kill us."

"Even you, their goddess?"

She nodded. "Leaving them would constitute a demotion in my status, I'm afraid. My head would be up there on the stockade fence along with yours."

Paul involuntarily rubbed his neck.

All at once they were no longer alone. An Indian had stepped

into the clearing followed by eight armed warriors. He was taller than the other Chulo by a few inches, and unlike the flat facial features typical in the tribe, his profile was almost Roman. His muscular body was painted red rather than blue and white. He stepped over to Francesca and spoke, gesturing from time to time at the Trouts. Francesca stood like a rearing cobra and cut him short with a dagger-sharp reply. He glared at her, then bowed his head slightly. His companions followed suit. They backed up several steps, turned, and quickly strode away from the shrine. Francesca watched them go, her eyes blazing with heat. "This is not good," she said. "Who were those people?" Gamay said.

"The tall man is the son of the chief I killed in the plane crash. I have named him Alaric after the Visigoth king. He's quite intelligent and a natural leader, but he tends to be a bully. He would like to depose me and has gathered a group of young Turks around him. The fact that he set foot on the forbidden shrine shows that he has become bolder. He is obviously exploiting the questions raised by your arrival. We must get back to the palace."

As they left the shrine the guards materialized from the forest and took their places alongside. Francesca walked briskly, and they were back at the compound within minutes. Something was different inside the stockade fence. Knots of Indian men stood around. They averted their eyes when the procession passed. There were no friendly smiles as on the way out.

About twenty armed warriors were gathered in front of the palace with Alaric at their center. They parted with sullen looks at a wave of Francesca's hand, but Gamay noticed that they took their time doing it. Tessa greeted them inside the door. Her eyes were wide with fright. She and Francesca talked in their language for a minute, then the white goddess translated for the Trouts.

"The priests have made a decision. You're to be killed in the morning. They'll spend the night getting their courage up and building the pyres to burn you."

Gamay's mouth hardened. "Sorry we can't stay for the barbecue," she said. "If you would point us to the nearest canoe, we'll be saying good-bye."

"Impossible! You wouldn't get ten feet now."

"Then what do we do?"

Francesca mounted her dais and sat on her throne, her eyes glued to the chamber door. "We wait," she said.

Chapter 20

The ancient ship hung in space as if suspended from invisible cables, its multi-decked hull outlined by shimmering spiderweb lines of gossamer blue. The great square sails were bowed full, and ghostly pennants fluttered at the masthead as if tossed by a freshened breeze.

Hiram Yaeger leaned back in his chair and studied the spectral image hovering over a platform in front of his horseshoe shaped console. "It's beautiful, Max," he said, "but the detail needs sharpening."

A soft and disembodied feminine voice filled the room from a dozen speakers set in the walls. "You only asked for a blue print, Hiram." There was the hint of petulance in the tone.

"That's right, Max," Yaeger said, "and you've gone far be yond that. But now I'd like to see how close we can get to the finished product."

"Done," said the voice.

The ship's hull solidified like a specter materializing from ectoplasm. Its hull blazed with gold that highlighted the elaborate carvings covering the sides from stem to stern. Yaeger's eyes lingered on the beak head, crowned by a wooden image of King Edgar, the hoofs of his charger trampling the seven fallen monarchs whose shorn beards bordered his mantle. Then he studied the astronomical panels that represented the glories of the

Olympic gods, going back to the high stern, embellished with biblical figures. Every detail was perfect.

"Wow!" Yaeger said. "You didn't tell me you had programmed the full picture. All it needs now is a couple of dolphins."

Instantly, simulated seas appeared under the ship, and at her bow a pair of dolphins leaped and splashed. The three-dimensional image spun slowly as the whistles and twitters of the dolphins filled the air

Yaeger clapped his hands and laughed like a child with de light.

"Max, you're brilliant!"

"I should be," the voice replied. "You created me."

Not only had Yaeger created the vast artificial intelligence system, but he had programmed his own voice into the original program. He didn't like talking to himself, so he modified it into Max's female tones. The computer system had developed a feminine personality all on its own.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Yaeger said.

"Thank you. If you're through I'll take a break to allow my circuits to cool down. Holograms always exhaust me."

Yaeger knew Max was prone to exaggerate and that the ship represented only a tiny fraction of the capacity in her circuits. But along with a feminine version of his own voice, he had programmed in some human traits, including the need to be appreciated. He waved his hand. The ship, the roiling seas, the leaping dolphins vanished in a blink of the eye.

Yaeger turned to the sound of applause and saw Austin standing there clapping his hands.

"Hi, Kurt," he said with a grin. "Have a seat."

"Quite a show," Austin said, easing into a chair next to Yaeger. "Right down to the vanishing act. I doubt even David Copperfield could make a full-blown English capital ship disappear."

Yaeger was truly a magician, but his sleight of hand was per formed with computers rather than a top hat and wand. He was an unlikely-looking magus, dressed with a studied scruffiness in Levi's jeans and denim jacket over a plain white T-shirt. Beat-up cowboy boots adorned his feet. Yet he presided like a master sorcerer over the vast computer network that covered nearly the en tire tenth floor of the NUMA building. The National Underwater amp; Marine Agency oceans center stored and processed the most enormous amount of digital data on oceanography and related sciences ever assembled under one roof.

"That was nothing," he said with boyish delight. Excitement danced in the gray eyes behind wire-rimmed granny glasses perched on his narrow nose. "Wait until you see the treat Max and I have planned for you."

"I can hardly wait. That was Sovereign of the Seas?"

"Right. Launched in 1637 at the orders of Charles I. One of the largest seagoing vessels constructed up to that time."

'Also one of the most top-heavy, as I recall. She had her top deck cut down, which was appropriate, given that Charles lost his head."

"I'll add the modifications later. The new program will be available for the nautical archaeology department of any university that wants it. Max has been making a list of hundreds of old vessels. We feed their plans, architect's renderings, dimensions, history, everything we know about a vessel, into the computers. Max pulls it all together into a holographic reconstruction. She'll even fill in missing details when information is incomplete. Max, would you mind telling Kurt what you found with the material he gave us?"

The face of a lovely woman appeared on the huge monitor just beyond the platform. Her lips parted in a white smile.

"I'd come off my coffee break any time for Mr. Austin," the voice said flirtatiously.

The air above the platform shimmered with blue light at the nexus of lasers scattered in the walls. Stud by stud, beam by beam, but with lightning speed, the flashing lasers assembled a long open ship with a single square sail.

"C'mon." Yaeger got up, and they walked onto the platform. Austin's vision blurred for a second. When it cleared they were

standing on the deck of the vessel looking toward the gracefully upturned bow. Circular wooden shields adorned the sides.

"This is the next evolution in the program. Not only will you be able to see the ships in our inventory, you'll be able to walk around on the decks. The virtual perspective changes as you move. The simplicity of design made this one fairly easy. "

"I'd say I'm standing on the deck of the Gogstad ship."

"Correct. Built in Norway between A.D. 700 and 1000. The original ship was seventy-nine feet long and was constructed entirely of oak, something a bit more substantial than light beams. This is a half-scale model."

"It's beautiful," Austin said, "but what does it have to do with the material I gave you?"

"I'll show you what I found."

They walked through the shimmering walls back to the con sole.

"It wasn't hard getting some data on the Mulholland Group," Yaeger said. "As your dead lawyer friend told you, the company is involved in hydraulic projects. I had to dig around, but I found that it was part of a larger corporation called Gogstad. The logo of the parent company is the ship you see be fore you." The hologram disappeared, and a stylized version of the ship appeared on the monitor.

"Tell me more."

"I asked Max to start playing around with Gogstad. I didn't get much on the company, but apparently it's a huge trans national corporation involved in all kinds of stuff. Finance. Engineering. Banking. Construction."

He handed Austin a computer disk. "This is what I found Nothing startling. I'll keep trying."

"Thanks, Hiram. I'll review it. In the meantime I've got an other favor to ask of you and Max." He related his visit to the Garber center and his interview with the pilot's son. "I'd like to know if this plane was ever built and what happened to the I pilot."

Max had been attentive again. A photograph of a large wing shaped craft appeared on the screen.

"This is a picture from the Smithsonian files of the YB-49A, the last Northrop flying wing bomber to take to the air," the low voice purred. "I can give you a three-D rendering, like the ships."

"This is fine for now. The designation etched on the cylinder was YB-49B."

The photograph was replaced by a drawing. "This is the YB 49B," Max said.

"What's the difference between this model and the one you just showed us, Max?"

"The designers ironed out the oscillation problem that bothered the bombardiers. In addition it would have flown faster and farther than the earlier model. It was never built."

Austin knew better than to argue with Max. Instead, he watched the statistical and performance figures roll under the picture. Something in the data bothered him.

"Wait," he said. "Go back. See there, it says the cruising speed was five hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. How would they have known the speed if they hadn't conducted field trials?"

"It may be an estimate?" Yaeger ventured.

"Maybe. But it doesn't say that it's estimated."

"You're right. They would have to have conducted field trials back then because they didn't have smart machines like Max to simulate flying conditions."

"Thank you for the compliment, although it does state the obvious," Max said. "Kurt has a point, Hiram. While you were talking I checked and found that in every instance where a plane was designed but not actually built, its speed was estimated. Except for this one."

Yaeger knew better than to argue with Max. "It seems that maybe this plane did exist? But what happened to it?"

"This may be as far as we get for now," Austin said. "The Northrop and Air Force records were lost. What can Max tell us about the pilot, Frank Martin?"

"Do you want the quick economy search or the full-blown probe?" Max asked.

"What's the difference?"

"The quick tour goes to the Pentagon's armed services registry, which contains the name of everyone, living or dead, who served in the armed forces. The full monte digs additional information from the Pentagon's classified files. I'll throw in the National Security Council, the FBI, and the CIA just for ha-has."

"This is a mere technicality, but isn't it illegal to hack into those databases?"

"Hack is such an ugly word," Max said. "Let's say I'm simply paying social calls on fellow computer systems so we can ex change gossip."

"In that case, do all the socializing you want to," Austin said.

"Interesting," Max said after a moment. "I've tried to open several doors, but in every case Harry has put a lock on them."

"Who's Harry, another computer?" Yaeger said.

"No, silly. Harry Truman."

Austin scratched his head. "Are you saying that all the files on this pilot were sealed by order of the president?"

"That's right. Aside from the most basic information about Mr. Martin, everything else is still classified." There was an un characteristic pause. "That's peculiar," Max said. "I just got a trace. It was as if someone opened a door that was locked. Here's your boy." A picture of a young man in an Air Force uniform appeared. "He lives in upstate New York near Coopers town."