I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

     Russian?" Brice asked, looking at Sam Morgan.

The dark compleced Fed pulled the mangled cigar from his mouth and

pointed it toward the twisted wreckage. On the far side, Cartwell and

Dickson were looking it over.

"Why not?" Morgan asked.

"It seems outlandish, somehow."

     Morgan grinned, his peg-like teeth flashing. "You small town cops are

good. I won't take that from you. But you look at everything from a

local viewpoint. In our business, you broaden, you might say.

     "Look at the facts, Callum. The Defense boys spotted the thing up north.

Radar locked on it and gave it a speed of over two thousand miles per.

So it crashes and we find no wings, no tail assembly ... and I have the

hunch that the damned thing ran on nuclear power."

     "Atomic?" Callum whispered, amazed. While the Federal cop talked about

nuclear power and fantastic speeds, all Brice could think of was the

watch he'd found at the scene. How the hell could an artist learn to

pilot a thing like that in a mere thirteen months, and what the hell was

behind it all. "You mean atomic power?"

     Morgan nodded. "See that funnel shaped gismo over there, with the round

ball-like affair?" He was pointing to what was probably the tail of the

ship; at least it was not the section that had absorbed the smash into

the ground.

Callum nodded.

     "That's a nuclear reactor," Sam went on. "Uncle Sam doesn't have

anything in the air with that kind of power. I think we're testing a few

engines, but nothing flying yet."

"Then it is Russian?"

  "That's my guess. No other country would build it. Oh, Great Britain

could, but if it was one of theirs, they would have plastered the red

and blue targets on it. Offhand, it looks to me like a glorified version

of the old U-2 thing, only on their side."

    Brice didn't answer. He stared at the wreckage as though it were some

sort of demon, while a million thoughts burst in his brain. Nick Danson

was in this? He flew it? Where did he get it? How did he get it? Was it

Russian? Was Nick a Russian spy?

     He tried to cover the amazement on his face by lighting a cigarette.

"How come it didn't develop into a pint sized Hiroshima, if it has

atomic power in it?"

    Morgan grinned at him, as though he was a kid. "I said it was powered by

atomic energy, not atomic bombs. There's a kind of difference in..."

"Hey, Sam! C'mere!"

     Both of the men turned to look across the twisted mass of wreckage to

where Cartwell and Dickson were standing. The blond Fed was holding up a

piece of the wreckage and his face glowed with excitement that he didn't

try to cover.

     "C'mon, Callum," Sam grinned. "Let's go see what my buddy dug up ... I'll

bet it's a Russian manufacturer's trade mark."

They skirted the wreck and trotted up to where Cartwell stood with the

piece of metal. "Russian, huh?" asked Sam.

"Russian, hell," Cartwell snorted. "It looks like a cross between

Chinese and Arabic."

     Sam took the piece and looked at it, the cigar clamped belligerently in

his jaws. After a tense moment, he grunted noncommittally and passed the

thing to Callum Brice.

     He knew nothing of Russian, Chinese or Arabic, but he knew what Chinese

characters looked like. The imprinted marks on the metal bore certain

resemblance to the Chinese language, but were not the same. It

consisted of strange marks that were like nothing Brice had ever seen

before.

     "There are similar markings on the control panel," Dickson said into the

silence.

     "Crap," Sam Morgan snorted. "I say Russian. How about you, partner?"

Cartwell furled his blond brows. "I think I'd rather let an expert look

this piece over before I make any kind of guess as to where that wreck

flew from." He turned to Callum. "Where can we find an expert, Brice?"

"Everett College would be the only place I know of."

"Okay, we'll give them a try. Where's Lieutenant Peters?"

     Morgan jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the other side of the

clearing. "Over there," he said, "dressing down one of his Weekend

Warriors."

     "Sam. How about going over and remind him to keep any characters off the

site. I have a horror of having the news boys scoop us on this."

Sam nodded and took off to talk with the Army. Dickson looked at

Cartwell.

"Anything for me?" he asked.

"No. Just continue with your investigators. You can make the

arrangements about having this thing hauled down to Everett, but check

with me before you do. Okay?"

Dickson nodded.

     "C'mon, Brice," Cartwell said. "Let's get Morgan and find out what the

college professors can tell us about this screwy thing."

They wrapped the piece of metal in Cartwell's jacket and the three of

they headed through the forest toward the road in the valley.