“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 pilot
s 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 the 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 mainland 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.”
“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 Martin. 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?”