"That's my guess, but I have no evidence to substantiate it."
"What could have happened to the plane?"
"Even with its low radar profile it could have been shot down. More likely, though, it was scrapped like the others or crashed during a test or a mission. They were still working out the bugs in the design."
"Neither possibility explains how a piece of the plane ended up in the sea off Mexico."
Miller shrugged.
"Maybe I can find something in the records," Austin suggested.
"Good luck. Remember what I said about crazy stuff happening after the war? After the Air Force canceled its contract for the last batch of wings, it went into the plant, cut up all the planes being built, and carted them away as scrap metal. They refused the Smithsonian's request for a plane to put on exhibition and ordered all production jigs and dies destroyed. All the official records on the flying wing were 'lost,' supposedly under direct orders from Truman."
"That was convenient." Austin stared at the flying wing as if the answers to the puzzle were locked in its aerodynamic fuselage, but like the plane, his thoughts refused to get off the ground. "Well, thanks for all your help," he said finally. "It looks like a dead end."
"Wish I could have been of more help," Miller said. "I've got a suggestion. It's a long shot. A widow of one of the test pilots lives not far from here. She showed up one day looking for information about her husband. He died while they were testing one of the big wings. She was compiling a scrapbook to pass on to the kids and grandchildren. We gave her some pictures, and she was happy with that. Her husband could have said something to her. Maybe he didn't know about our missing plane, but there are always rumors."
Austin glanced at his watch. He hadn't planned to be back at his NUMA office until after lunch. "Thanks for the tip. I'll see if I can track her down."
They returned to the visitor center and looked up the woman's name and address. She had made a substantial 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?"