cause.” “Glad you brought that up. Joe?”
Zavala smiled, extracted a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, and unfolded it. “This is only a preliminary sketch,” he said, “but it will give you an idea of what we’ve got in the works.”
Contos’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Hell, it’s beautiful.”
Zavala grimaced. “I wouldn’t go that far. It looks like a de formed guppy, but it will go deeper and faster and carry more instrumentation and mechanical functions than any submersible in the sea. It’s going to require extensive testing.”
“When do we start?” Contos replied.
“The preliminary work has already begun. I’ve got a date with the Smithsonian. They’re planning a memorial to the last pilots of the flying wing, and they’ve asked me to do a few fly-bys to publicize the campaign. But after that I’ll be free to help plan the tests.”
“What are we waiting for?” Gamay said.
“That’s a good question,” Austin said. “Francesca’s process is going to turn this sand pit into a garden, but it’s no place for a bunch of ocean scientists.” He started walking toward a turquoise blue helicopter with “NUMA” printed in black on its side.
“Hey, Kurt, where are you headed?” Zavala said.
Austin turned. “C’mon,” he said with a wide grin on his bronzed features. “Let’s go someplace where we can get our feet wet.”
