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 sup posed 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 de scent 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 Ser vice 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.
'We've still got a lot of territory to check out. I'd like to keep on going. How are you doing?'
'I'm fine, but the plane is going to need fuel before long.'
'We passed what looked like a fishing camp a short while back. How about breaking for lunch while we tank up old Betsy here?'
Zavala responded by putting the plane into a banking circle. Before long they picked up the river they had flown over earlier and followed it for about ten minutes until they sighted a cluster of plywood shacks. Two float planes were tied up in the river. Zavala scoped out a straight stretch of water. He brought the plane down, skimmed the surface in a near perfect landing, and taxied the plane up to a weather-beaten pier. A stocky young man with a face as round as a full moon saw them coming and threw out a mooring line.
'Welcome to Tinook Village, population one hundred and sixty-seven, most of them related,' he said with a smile as dazzling as sunlight on new snow. 'My name is Mike Tinook.'
Tinook didn't appear surprised to have a couple of strangers drop out of the sky to visit his remote village. With vast distances to cover Alaskans will fly a hundred miles just to have breakfast. Perhaps it has something to do with the scarcity of human contact outside Anchorage, but most Alaskans spin out their stories about how they came north within five minutes of making an acquaintance. Mike related how he grew up in the village, worked as an airplane mechanic in Anchorage, and came back home to stay.
Austin explained they were with the National Underwater amp; Marine Agency.
'Had you figured for some kind of government guys,' Tinook said knowingly. 'Too clean for oil men or hunters and too sure of yourselves to be tourists. We had a NUMA team drop by a few years ago. They were doing research in the Chukchi Sea. What brings you to the Land of the Midnight Sun?'
'We're doing sort of a geological survey, but I must confess that we're not having much success,' Austin said. 'We're looking for a point of land that sticks out into the water. It's shaped like an eagle's beak.'
Tinook shook his head. 'That's my plane out there. I do a lot of flying when I'm not fishing or helping to tend the reindeer herd, but it doesn't ring a bell. C'mon up to the store. We can look at a map.' They climbed a rickety staircase to the plywood building. It was the typical Alaskan general store, a combination of grocery, pharmaceutical, hardware, gift shop, and wilderness outfitter. Customers could take their pick from insect repellent, canned goods, snowmobile replacement parts, and TV videos.
Tinook checked a wall map of the area. 'Nope. Nothing like an eagle's beak.' He scratched his head. 'Maybe you should talk to Clarence.'
'Clarence?'
'Yeah, my grandfather. He used to get around a lot and likes visitors.'
Austin's eyes glazed over. He was impatient to get in the air again. He was trying to think of a diplomatic way to put Tinook off without hurting his feelings, when he noticed a rifle hung on the wall behind the counter. He walked over for a closer look. It was a Carbine Ml, the workhorse rifle carried by American infantrymen in World War II. He had seen M1's before, but this was in exceptionally mint condition.
'Is that your rifle?' he asked Tinook.
'My grandfather gave it to me, but I use my own gun for hunting. That thing has got quite a story behind it.
