'I'd say I'm standing on the deck of the Gogstad ship.'
'Correct. Built in Norway between A.D. 700 and 1000. The original ship was seventy-nine feet long and was constructed entirely of oak, something a bit more substantial than light beams. This is a half-scale model.'
'It's beautiful,' Austin said, 'but what does it have to do with the material I gave you?'
'I'll show you what I found.'
They walked through the shimmering walls back to the con sole.
'It wasn't hard getting some data on the Mulholland Group,' Yaeger said. 'As your dead lawyer friend told you, the company is involved in hydraulic projects. I had to dig around, but I found that it was part of a larger corporation called Gogstad. The logo of the parent company is the ship you see be fore you.' The hologram disappeared, and a stylized version of the ship appeared on the monitor.
'Tell me more.'
'I asked Max to start playing around with Gogstad. I didn't get much on the company, but apparently it's a huge trans national corporation involved in all kinds of stuff. Finance. Engineering. Banking. Construction.'
He handed Austin a computer disk. 'This is what I found Nothing startling. I'll keep trying.'
'Thanks, Hiram. I'll review it. In the meantime I've got an other favor to ask of you and Max.' He related his visit to the Garber center and his interview with the pilot's son. 'I'd like to know if this plane was ever built and what happened to the I pilot.'
Max had been attentive again. A photograph of a large wing shaped craft appeared on the screen.
'This is a picture from the Smithsonian files of the YB-49A, the last Northrop flying wing bomber to take to the air,' the low voice purred. 'I can give you a three-D rendering, like the ships.'
'This is fine for now. The designation etched on the cylinder was YB-49B.'
The photograph was replaced by a drawing. 'This is the YB 49B,' Max said.
'What's the difference between this model and the one you just showed us, Max?'
'The designers ironed out the oscillation problem that bothered the bombardiers. In addition it would have flown faster and farther than the earlier model. It was never built.'
Austin knew better than to argue with Max. Instead, he watched the statistical and performance figures roll under the picture. Something in the data bothered him.
'Wait,' he said. 'Go back. See there, it says the cruising speed was five hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. How would they have known the speed if they hadn't conducted field trials?'
'It may be an estimate?' Yaeger ventured.
'Maybe. But it doesn't say that it's estimated.'
'You're right. They would have to have conducted field trials back then because they didn't have smart machines like Max to simulate flying conditions.'
'Thank you for the compliment, although it does state the obvious,' Max said. 'Kurt has a point, Hiram. While you were talking I checked and found that in every instance where a plane was designed but not actually built, its speed was estimated. Except for this one.'
Yaeger knew better than to argue with Max. 'It seems that maybe this plane did exist? But what happened to it?'
'This may be as far as we get for now,' Austin said. 'The Northrop and Air Force records were lost. What can Max tell us about the pilot, Frank Martin?'
'Do you want the quick economy search or the full-blown probe?' Max asked.
'What's the difference?'
'The quick tour goes to the Pentagon's armed services registry, which contains the name of everyone, living or dead, who served in the armed forces. The full monte digs additional information from the Pentagon's classified files. I'll throw in the National Security Council, the FBI, and the CIA just for ha-has.'
'This is a mere technicality, but isn't it illegal to hack into those databases?'
'Hack is such an ugly word,' Max said. 'Let's say I'm simply paying social calls on fellow computer systems so we can ex change gossip.'
'In that case, do all the socializing you want to,' Austin said.
'Interesting,' Max said after a moment. 'I've tried to open several doors, but in every case Harry has put a lock on them.'
'Who's Harry, another computer?' Yaeger said.
'No, silly. Harry Truman.'
Austin scratched his head. 'Are you saying that all the files on this pilot were sealed by order of the president?'
'That's right. Aside from the most basic information about Mr. Martin, everything else is still classified.' There was an un characteristic pause. 'That's peculiar,' Max said. 'I just got a trace. It was as if someone opened a door that was locked. Here's your boy.' A picture of a young man in an Air Force uniform appeared. 'He lives in upstate New York near Coopers town.'
'He's still alive?'
'There seems to be some disagreement on that. The Pentagon says he died in a plane crash in 1949. This new information says just the opposite.'
'A mistake?'
'I wouldn't be surprised. Humans are fallible. I'm not.'
'Does he have a phone?'
'No. But I have an address.'
A printout came out of a slot on the console. Still puzzled, Austin looked at the name and address as if they were in vanishing ink. He folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. 'Thanks, Hiram and Max. You've been a great help.' He started for the door.
'Where you off to now?' Yaeger said.
'Cooperstown. This may be my one and only chance to get into the Baseball Hall of Fame.'
Chapter 21
Across the Potomac at the new CIA headquarters building in Langley, Virginia, an analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence was wondering if his computer was having the hiccups. The analyst, an eastern European specialist named J. Barrett Browning, stood up and peered over the partition into the adjacent cubicle.
'Say, Jack, do you have a second to look at something really weird?'
The sallow-faced man at the cluttered desk put aside the Russian newspaper he had been marking up and rubbed his deep-set eyes.
'Sex, crime, and more sex. I don't know what could be weirder than the Russian press,' said John Rowland, a respected translator who had joined the CIA after the agency's dark Nixon days. 'It's like U.S. supermarket tabloids on hormones. I almost miss the tractor production statistics.' He rose from his work station and came around into Browning's cubicle. 'What's the problem, young man?'
'This crazy message on my computer,' Browning replied with a shake of his head. 'I was scrolling some historical material on the Soviet Union, and this popped up on the screen.'
Rowland leaned forward and read the words: 'PROTOCAL ACTIVATED FOR SANCTION WITH EXTREME PREJU DICE.'
Rowland tugged his pepper-and-salt goatee. 'Extreme prejudice? Nobody uses language like that anymore.'
'What's it mean?'
'It's a euphemism. Goes way back to the cold war and Vietnam. It's a polite way of referring to a hit.'
'Huh?'
'Don't they teach you anything at Yale?' Rowland said with a grin. 'Sanctioning someone is setting him up for assassination. Real James Bond stuff.'
'Oh, I get it,' Barrett said, looking around the room at the other cubicles. 'Let's guess which of our esteemed
