Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

He picked up the microphone and called the Albany control tower for landing instructions. Within minutes they were on the ground.

The car rental counter had no lines, and before long they were driving out of the city in a four-wheel-drive Pathfinder. Austin headed southwest on Route 88 toward Binghamton through rolling hills and small farms. About an hour from Albany he left the main highway and drove north to Cooperstown, an idyllic village whose neat main street looked like a set from a Frank Capra movie. From Cooperstown they headed west on a winding two-lane country road. This was James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking country, and with a little imaginatio

n Austin could picture Hawkeye skulking through the wooded valleys with his Indian companions. Towns and houses grew even farther apart. In this part of the world the cows outnumbered the people.

Even with a map it was hard to find the place they were looking for. Austin stopped at a gas station–general store, and Buzz went in for directions. When he came out he was clearly excited.

“The old-timer in there says he’s known Bucky Martin for years. ‘Nice fella. Pretty much keeps to himself.’ Go up this road a half a mile and turn left. The farm is about five miles from there.”

The road became narrow and bumpy, the tarmac almost an afterthought. The farms alternated with thick patches of woods, and they almost missed the turnoff. The only marker was an aluminum mailbox with no name or number on it. A dirt drive ran past the mailbox into the woods. They turned onto the driveway and passed through a copse of trees that shielded the house from the highway. Eventually the trees gave way to pastures where small herds of cows grazed. Finally, at least a half a mile from the road, they came upon the farmhouse.

The big two-story building was built in an era when three generations lived together to work a farm. The decorative windows and stained glass indicated that the owner had been successful enough to afford extra touches. A porch ran across the front. Behind the house was a red barn and silo. Next to the barn was a corral with two horses in it. A fairly new pickup truck was parked in the yard.

Austin swung into the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. No one came out to greet them. There was no curious face in the windows.

“Maybe you should let me go first,” Austin suggested. “It might help if I do a little prep work before you meet face-to-face.”

“That’s fine,” Buzz said. “I’m losing courage fast.”

Austin squeezed Martin’s arm. “You’ll be fine.” He didn’t know what he would have done in the man’s place. He doubted he would have been as calm. “I’ll check him out and break it to him gradually.”

“I appreciate that,” Martin said.

Austin left the car, went up to the front door, and knocked several times. No one answered. Nor was there a response when he twisted the knob of the old doorbell. He turned around and threw his hands apart so Martin could see. He descended the porch and walked behind the house to the barn. The only sound was the soft clucking of chickens and the occasional grunt from a rooting pig.

The barn door was open. He walked inside, thinking that barns smelled the same the world over, an unmistakable combination of manure, hay, and big animals. A horse snorted as he walked by its stall, maybe thinking he was bringing it sugar, but there was no sign of Martin. He called out a hello and when there was no response walked out the back door. The chickens and hogs came over to their fences, thinking he had food for them. A lone hawk wheeled in the sky. Austin turned and stepped back into the barn.

“Can I help you?”

The figure of a man was framed in silhouette.

“Mr. Martin?” Austin asked.

“That’s me. Who’re you?” the man said. “Speak loud, son. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

The man took a few steps closer. Unlike his shorter, compact-built son, Martin was a big man with a hard-looking body. He could have posed for a tractor ad. He was dressed in tan shirt and pants, thick-soled workboots, and a soiled Caterpillar baseball hat that covered snow-white hair. His face was dark from the sun and deeply creased. Blue eyes looked out from under frosty brows. Austin guessed that he was in his well-preserved seventies or eighties. He was chewing on the stub of a cigar.

“My name is Kurt Austin. I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Austin?”

“I’m looking for Bucky Martin, who was a test pilot back in the late fifties. Might that be you?”

The blue eyes seemed to gleam with amusement at a secret joke. “Yep, that’s me.”

Austin wondered if he should get right to it and tell the old man his son had come to see him. The old man spoke.

“You come alone?” Martin said.

It was an odd question, and it set an alarm bell off in Austin’s brain. Something about this guy wasn’t right. The old man didn’t wait for an answer. He went outside, where he had a view of the rental car. Apparently satisfied at what he saw, he dropped the cigar and ground it with the heel of his boot, then came back into the barn. Austin wondered what had happened to Buzz.

“Gotta be careful with smokes around all this dry hay,” he said with a grin. “How’d you find me?”

“We went through some old government files, and your address popped up. How long have you run this farm?”

Martin sighed. “Seems like it’s been forever, son, and maybe it has been. There’s nothing like tilling the land and taking care of livestock to let you know why people got off the farm as fast as they could in the old days. Damned hard work. Well, looks like my sentence is about to end, though I didn’t think you’d come this soon.”

Austin was puzzled. “You were expecting me?”