Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“I had a little help from a ghost.” Austin reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small spiral-bound notebook. The brown cover was worn, but it was still possible to read the words “U.S. Army Air Force” and the name inked just below. He handed the notebook to Zavala. “This is the diary of Buzz Martin’s father, the pilot who flew the wing on its last mission.”

Zavala laughed with delight. “You should have been a magician. You couldn’t have done better pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”

“This rabbit jumped into my lap. After Sandecker met with LeGrand, the CIA poked around and came up with Martin’s personal effects. They must have been in a hurry to get rid of incriminating evidence and didn’t vet the stuff thoroughly. Buzz found the notebook tucked into his father’s uniform. He thought it might contain something of importance and gave it to me just before we left Washington.”

Zavala thumbed through the curling pages. “I don’t see a detailed map to follow.”

“You didn’t think this was going to be easy, did you?” Austin took the book back and opened to a page where he had placed a yellow sticky tab. “Martin was a good soldier. He knew that loose lips sink ships. Most of the diary is devoted to how he missed his wife and kid. But he let a few things sneak in. Here, let me read you the first paragraph:

“To my dear wife Phyllis and son Buzz. Maybe someday you will read this. I had a lot of time on my hands and started this diary on the way to No-Name. If the brass knew I was taking notes, I’d be in hot water. This thing is even more secret than the Manhattan Project. As the spooks frequently reminded me, I’m just a dumb sky jockey who’s supposed to follow orders and not ask questions. Sometimes I feel more like a prisoner. I’m kept under close supervision with the rest of the crew. So I guess this journal is a way of saying, hey, I’m a person. They’re feeding us well, Phyllis, I know how you worry about the way I eat. Lots of good fresh meat and fish. The Quonset hut was not made for the frozen north. The snow slides off the roof, but metal is a lousy insulator. We keep the wood stove going day and night. We’d be better off in an igloo. The plane gets the first-class accommodations in its hidey-hole. Sorry to complain. I’m lucky to be flying this baby! I can’t believe an aircraft as big as this can maneuver like a fighter plane. It’s definitely the aviation wave of the future.”

Austin stopped reading. “He goes on to say how homesick he is and how glad he’ll be to get back.”

“Too bad Martin didn’t get to enjoy that future. He had no idea he was not only a prisoner but a condemned man as well.”

“Martin wasn’t the first or last patriot thrown to the dogs in the interests of what the higher-ups said was the greater good. Unfortunately he can’t have the satisfaction of knowing his little diary will show us the way to No-Name.”

“That’s even more obscure than the dateline they used to use during the war: ‘Somewhere in the Pacific.’ ”

“I thought so, too, until I remembered a story I heard years ago. Seems a British Navy officer sailing off Alaska in the 1850s saw land that wasn’t on the chart so he wrote in ‘?Name.’ The Admiralty draftsman who recopied the chart thought the question mark was a C and that the a in Name was an o. No name became Cape Nome which became Nome. Here’s something else:

“Uneventful trip from Seattle. Plane handles like a dream. Touched down thirty minutes past No-Name.”

“What was the cruising speed of the wing?” Zavala asked.

“About four hundred to five hundred miles per hour.”

“That would put them two hundred to two hundred fifty miles beyond Nome.”

“My calculations exactly. Here’s where it starts to get interesting:

“Got my first look at our destination. Told the guys it looks like Doug’s nose from the air.”

“A dog’s nose?”

“No, the proper name, Doug.”

“That narrows it down to a few million guys,” Zavala said wearily.

“Yeah, I know, I had the same reaction until I read the rest: All it needs is a corn cob pipe to look like old Eagle Beak.”

“Douglas MacArthur. Who could forget that profile?”

“Especially someone who had come out of the Big War. In addition, Nome is only one hundred and sixty-one miles from Russia. I thought it was worth ordering up some satellite pictures. While you snoozed your way over the continental United States, I was going over the photos with a magnifying glass.”

He handed the satellite views to Zavala, who examined them for a few minutes and shook his head. “I don’t see anything that resembles an eagle’s beak.”

“I didn’t find one, either. I told you it wasn’t going to be easy.”

They were still going over the photos and map when the NUMA pilot announced that the plane was starting its descent to Nome Airport. They gathered their gear in a couple of bags and were ready when the plane rolled to a stop on the tarmac of the small but modern airport. A taxi took them to town along one of Nome’s three two-lane gravel roads. The bright sun did little to relieve the monotonous terrain of flat, treeless tundra, although the Kigluaik Mountains could be seen in the distance. The cab took them onto Front Street, which bordered the blue-gray waters of the Bering Sea, past the turn-of-the-century city hall, terminus for the Iditarod dogsled race, dropping them off at the barge port and fishing harbor where their leased float plane awaited with a full tank of fuel.

Zavala was more than pleased with the plane, a single-engine Maule M-7 with short takeoff and landing capability. While Joe checked out the plane Austin picked up some sandwiches and coffee at Fat Freddie’s diner. They were traveling light. They brought clothing mostly, although Austin had packed his trusty Bowen revolver. Zavala had brought along an Ingram machine pistol capable of firing hundreds of rounds a minute. When Austin asked why he needed such lethal firepower in the desolate northland, Zavala had muttered something about grizzly bears.

With Zavala at the controls the Maule headed northeasterly along the coast. The plane stayed low, cruising at a hundred and seventy-five miles per hour. The day was cloudy but with none of the rain the Nome area is noted for. They quickly settled into a routine. Austin called out a promising-looking piece of real estate, and Zavala circled it a couple of times. Austin pencil-shaded the areas they covered on his map. Their excitement at being on the hunt quickly faded as the plane droned over mile after mile of ragged coastline. The barren land was broken only by lacy rivers and shallow ponds created by melted snow.

Austin kept them amused by reciting poems of Robert Service which Zavala translated into Spanish. But even “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” didn’t dull the monotony of their quest. Zavala’s usual good humor was beginning to wear. “We’ve seen parrot beaks, pigeon beaks, and even a turtle beak, but no eagle,” he grumbled.

Austin studied the shaded portions of his map. A substantial amount of coastline had yet to be covered.