Clive Cussler - Blue Gold

"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.

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."