“That leaves the big one, then. Russian?”
Cartwell shrugged. “Could be. If it is, we want the wreckage. No matter what it is, or whose it is, we are very interested in any aircraft that travels at speeds of fifteen to nineteen thousand miles per hour.”
Nolan whistled again. “That’s rolling,” he grinned.
“Yeah,” mused Sam Morgan, “and we’d kind of like to know what makes it roll like that.”
“Okay. Let’s go into a huddle,” Nolan said. “But I can tell you this. If the thing went down in north central Pennsylvania, it’s in some pretty rugged country.”
“Great,” Cartwell snarled.
[p27]
CHAPTER THREE
The dream was of a woman.
He was lying on a strangely made bed, the warm breezes of evening rolling in off the crashing sea and the woman stood in the ornate doorway that entered the bedroom. About him lay all manner of bright silks