Nick felt as if her head would split. She went over the list of special equipment that she thought might be needed fix the expedition. She had to present it to Dr. Alcott by the end of the day. Despite his assurances that E-group would provide all the necessary equipment she had little faith in armchair archaeologists. Her research confirmed her fears that the location of the wreck might not be easy. There had been a similar expedition to the Arctic that had attempted to recover a squadron of B-17s and P-38s that had ran out of gas and been forced to land on the ice eight hundred miles north of the Arctic circle.
Her Val hadn’t landed so far north nor was the terrain as inhospitable. She laughed to herself. She was already referring to the plane as her Val. She’d better try to think of it as the museum’s. It would be nobody’s if they didn’t bring the right equipment. Conventional subsurface radar had proved to be unreliable and Nick was agonizing over whether E-group’s largesse would stretch to the experimental Icelandic equipment when a voice broke her concentration.
“You’ll go blind trying to read those notes,” Gordon Hurst said. “Let me take you away from all this and ply you with the cafeteria’s best brew made from mountain-grown beans, each individually selected by a gentleman of the Latin persuasion.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” Hurst persisted. “Besides, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Gordon, I really can’t. I’ve got to get this list to Alcott. Right now it contains everything but the kitchen sink. If we took everything I have on it we’d need a C-5 for transport. I’ve got to get it down to size.”
“What’s on it?” Hurst asked.
“I’ve been doing some research. In 1942 two B-17s and six P-38s crash-landed in Greenland. They’d been caught in bad weather and ran out of fuel.”
“You’re talking about the Lost Squadron,” Hurst replied.
“Right. Now when the first expedition tried to locate the planes they used magnetometers. They didn’t come up with anything. Of course, they thought that the planes were only under forty feet of snow.”
“And metal detectors don’t work much beyond that depth.”
“Exactly,” Nick continued. “But the second expedition got the Navy to use antisubmarine equipment that’s used to detect subs hundreds of feet under the water. And still nothing.”
“So,” Hurst asked, “what’s your point?”
“It wasn’t until the expedition went to the University of Iceland and acquired an experimental subsurface radar device that they were successful. Most subsurface radar uses high-frequency signals in the hundred and twenty megahertz range. That frequency works well where there is no melting water. The experimental radar has a much lower frequency that works better in temperate ice that is a mixture of both ice and water.”
“And the experimental radar found the planes under two hundred and fifty feet of ice,” Hurst replied. “Nick, I am an aviation historian. I’m very familiar with that particular expedition.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I got carried away, but the point is, we have no ice reports. There’s no way of knowing the precise conditions under which our Val is buried. We’re a small expedition. We can’t possibly take in both types of equipment. I’ve assembled a list here that covers all possible contingencies and it’s twice as long as it should be.”
“That’s easy,” Hurst replied and picked it up and neatly tore it in half.
“Gordon,” Nick protested, “sometimes, I really don’t think you take me seriously.”
“Funny,” Hurst replied. “I was thinking the same about you.” He turned around and walked out of the area.
Nick nearly got up to follow him, then changed her mind. She felt a mixture of disappointment and anger. She’d thought that he was different from most men in her field. Now she wasn’t so sure. It was natural for him to feel left out of what could be a major event in aviation history. Still, she wished that he had behaved in a more adult manner. She sighed and returned to her list. She had to admit to herself that talking to Gordon had helped her to clarify her thoughts. There was someone who might be able to tell her about ice conditions. Mike Barlow had been eager to participate. Perhaps he could get the information she needed.
Mike Barlow was just leaving his small apartment when the e-mail notice came through. He wavered at the doorway, anxious to join the pizza and beer crowd at Murphy’s. I should have turned the damn thing off, he said to himself as he turned back to the computer. It was probably some undergrad wanting a head start on the class notes for the fall.
He clicked on the mail notice and was pleased to see that the message was from Dr. Scott. The young, beautiful, Dr. Scott, he reminded himself.
He looked around his bare room and was satisfied that he was ready for any emergency. His bag was already packed, a single duffel containing his field gear. The refrigerator was empty, its natural condition, except for the occasional moldy bread.
They can’t be canceling at this stage, he told himself, so relax. This was the chance of a lifetime, working with Elliot Scott’s daughter. Hell, he’d been wound up ever since the elder Scott had contacted him. Until that moment, Barlow wouldn’t have bet money that his old professor even remembered his name. And now here he was, doing a favor for the grand old man of Southwestern archaeology, a favor that would be returned one day, Scott had promised. Jesus, that might be enough to guarantee him a job once he graduated. These days a PhD was lucky to work the oil line, let alone teach.
He let out his breath in relief. It wasn’t a cancellation. She wanted ice condition details from him. He could do that. Johnny-on-the-spot, that’s me. He thought carefully about how to frame the reply. Can’t make it sound too easy. He got up and paced the room.
He stopped to take another look the old National Geographic he scrounged from the library, the one with the article on Nick Scott. In all her photos, which had been taken in the jungles of New Guinea, she was wearing shorts, a sweat-stained work shirt, and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. Even so, she was the best looking archaeologist he’d ever seen.
He touched one of her photographs and sighed. Doing this kind of favor was going to be a pleasure.
Tomorrow he’d be meeting her at the airport in Anchorage. Then he’d know if her photographs lied.
The magazine, he noted, was only two years old, so she couldn’t have changed that much.
“Keep your mind on business,” he muttered. It would be better if she looked like a real loser than that he should risk annoying the daughter of a man like Elliot Scott. And she was no slouch herself, but an assistant curator at the Smithsonian. He should be so lucky. Well, one thing was certain—working for her would look good on his resume, if nothing else. And, he reminded himself: if he did a good job he’d have two Dr. Scotts owing him a favor.
He nodded to himself. No doubt about it. If he did a good job, his future was assured. He went back to the computer and typed in his reply. Before he could hit the send button, he heard a knock at the door.
Who could that be? he wondered. All his friends were gone for the summer. Better spell check this before I send it, he thought.
“I’m coming,” he called out, annoyed at the interruption. Whoever it was couldn’t be very important.