“Oh yeah, I think I might dig up something.” Devine rose heavily from behind his desk and opened a closet filled from floor to ceiling with thick black-vinyl-bound books. “Old maintenance manuals,” he explained. “I’m probably the only nut in commercial aviation who hangs on to them.” He went directly to one volume buried among the mass and began thumbing through its pages. After a minute he found what he was looking for and passed the open book across the desk. “That close enough for you?”

Pitt and Dolan leaned forward and examined an exploded-view line drawing of a nose-gear assembly.

“The wheel castings, parts, and dimensions”-Dolan tapped the page with his finger-“they’re one and the same.”

“What aircraft?” asked Pitt.

“Boeing Stratocruiser,” answered Devine. “Actually I wasn’t that far off when I guessed a B-twenty-nine. The Stratocruiser was based on the bomber’s design. The Air Force version was designated a C-ninety-seven.”

Pitt turned to the front of the manual and found a picture of the plane in flight. A strange-looking aircraft: its two-deck fuselage had the config—

Vixen 03 I 29

uration of a great double-bellied whale.

“I recall seeing these as a boy,” Pitt said. “Pan American used them.”

“So did United,” said Devine. “We flew them on the Hawaii run. She was a damned fine airplane.”

“Now what?” Pitt turned to Dolan.

“Now I send the nose gear’s serial number to Boeing, in Seattle, along with a request to match it with the parent aircraft. I’ll also make a call to the National Transportation Safety Board in Washington, who will tell me if they show any lost commercial Stratocruisers over the continental United States.”

“And if one turns up missing?”

“The FAA will launch an official investigation into the mystery,” Dolan said. “And then we’ll see what turns up.”

Pitt spent the next two days in a chartered helicopter, crisscrossing the mountains in ever-widening search-grid patterns. Twice he and the pilot spotted crash sites, but they turned out to be marked and known wrecks. After several hours in the air-his buttocks numb from sitting, the rest of his body exhausted from the engine’s vibration and from the buffeting by surging drafts and crosswinds-he was genuinely thankful when Loren’s cabin came into view and the pilot set the copter down in a nearby meadow.

The skids sank into the soft brown grass and the blades ceased their thump and idled to a stop. Pitt unclasped his safety belt, opened the door, and climbed out, luxuriating in a series of muscle stretches.

“Same time tomorrow, Mr. Pitt?” The pilot had an Oklahoma twang, and a short-cropped haircut to go with it.