“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.