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
