“The plane that doesn't exist.”

Miller nodded. “A lot of crazy stuff went on after Germany surrendered. The cold war was getting revved up. People were seeing commies under their beds. All sorts of secret stuff going on. The government got even worse after the Russians developed the bomb. My guess is that they built your plane with a mission in mind and didn't tell anyone about it.”

“What kind of mission?”

“I don't know, but I'd hazard a guess.”

“Hazard for all it's worth, my friend.”

Miller laughed. “The Northrop bomber was the original stealth plane. Radar was still comparatively primitive back then, and it had a hard time picking up the slim silhouette. In 1948 they took a wing out into the Pacific and flew back to the main land at five hundred miles per hour on a direct line toward the Coastal Command radar at Half Moon Bay, south of San Francisco. The plane wasn't detected by radar until it was overhead.”

“A characteristic like that would come in handy if you wanted to get in and out of hostile territory.”

“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.”