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 executive jet.
Francesca led the procession. The warriors, three on either side, kept pace a respectable spear’s length away. Francesca stopped near the big well in the village center. Indian women were filling pots with water while gangs of naked children happily chased each other around their mothers’ legs. Francesca beamed with obvious pride.
“Every improvement you see here is part of an integrated scheme,” she said with a sweep of her hands. “I planned the project as if I were building a new infrastructure for Sao Paulo. I worked for months before one spadeful of earth was turned, putting everything in place, right down to the allocation of capital, sources of supply, and labor. I had to establish a subsidiary to manufacture the specialized tools that would be needed to produce wooden pipe, valves, and fittings. At the same time it was necessary to keep the village functioning without interrupting hunting and harvesting.”
“Remarkable,” Gamay said, looking around at the neatly ordered huts. She couldn’t help comparing the village with the
squalor of Dieter’s empire or the relatively civilized settlement where Dr. Ramirez had his house. “Absolutely remarkable,” Gamay repeated.
“Thank you, but once I had the preparations in place it wasn’t as difficult as it looks. The key was water flow. It’s just as essential to life and living here as it is back in the so-called civilized world. I assigned digging crews to divert the river. We had the same problems as any project. The shovel makers complained that we were pushing them too hard and that quality was suffering.” She laughed. “It was exhilarating. We made a canal to open a tributary from the lake. Once we established the water supply, it was a simple matter to divert it to the public wells. The gristmill was basic time-proven technology.”
“The water wheel is as good as anything I’ve seen in the old industrial towns in New England,” Paul said, stopping in front of a hut no bigger than a one-car garage. “But I am really impressed with the plumbing in these public commodes. Back where I come from they used outhouses right into the twentieth century.”
“I’m particularly proud of the public water closets,” she said as they continued their tour. “When I finally admitted to myself that my desalination process would never see the light of day, I turned my efforts to improving the life of these wretched savages. They lived at a Stone Age level. Their hygiene was pitiful. Mothers routinely died in childbirth. The infant mortality rate was incredible. The adults were the targets of every parasite that grows in the rain forest. Their traditional medicinal plants were simply overwhelmed. Diet was of little nutrition. Producing a clean and reliable water flow not only protected the people from their usual ailments, but it allowed them to grow the crops that would keep them healthy.”
“We were wondering whether your talents extended to surgery,” Gamay said. “Tessa’s brother had a peculiar scar on his body.”
She clapped her hands like a delighted child. “Oh, the appendectomy! He would have died if I hadn’t acted. My training
was limited to first aid. I had the Chulo pharmacology to thank. They dip their blowgun darts in the sap from a plant. They use it to paralyze game, but even a small amount can incapacitate a human. I smeared it on a large leaf and placed it on the skin. It functioned as a local anesthetic. The stitches used to close the wound were made with fibers from another plant that seems to resist infection. The knife had an obsidian point, sharper than a scalpel. Nothing high-tech, I’m afraid.”
“I wish I could say the same for those weapons your guards are carrying,” Paul said, eyeing the steel tips of the short throwing spears their guards carried. Each man also carried a bow and a quiver of long-shafted arrows.
“Those bows and spear tips were made with aluminum from the plane. The shortened bow is easier to carry through the forest, and the design makes the arrow fly farther.”
“If Arnaud and his men were still alive they could vouch for their effectiveness,” Paul said.
“I’m truly sorry about those men, but they brought their fate upon themselves. The Chulo are a comparatively small tribe, and they’ve always preferred flight to fight. Oh, they’ll shrink a head or eat an enemy, but they rarely go out and catch someone in a raid. They just want to be left alone. The white man drove them further into the forest. They thought they were safe once they went beyond the Great Falls, but white exploiters continued to press them. They would have been destroyed if I hadn’t helped them improve their defenses.”
“I’ve been noticing the arrangement of the village,” Gamay said. “The layout reminds me of the architecture I’ve seen in old walled cities.”
“Very perceptive. Anyone who got past the stockade fence would be in a most uncomfortable position. The village is full of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys that offer prime opportunities for ambush.”
“What if the intruders were coming to rescue you?” Paul said. “Wouldn’t these preparations be self-
