Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (32 page)

“Good-bye.”

Von Ohain hung up the phone, physically ill. He wanted nothing to do with Obermyer or with any of the Nazi past. Von Ohain hated everything about it then, and he certainly would not deal with any of them now. He wondered if he should report the call, then reluctantly decided against it. There was nothing to report. If Obermyer was in this country, he must have been cleared at some point. And just being a Nazi was not a crime, not anymore. If he knew Obermyer at all, he was no longer a Nazi, anyway—there was no longer a profit in it. But to think that there would be profits in the Volkswagen. What an idea. Obermyer must have had something else in mind. Everyone at the Heinkel plant knew that he was corrupt, but no one knew exactly how.

Nervous, von Ohain spoke to himself aloud: “What can he want? What do I have that he would need?” The answer was obvious. Obermyer presumed von Ohain was working on highly classified projects, and he wanted information.

Von Ohain’s office suddenly seemed less secure, less private. With a shudder, he finally sat down to resume his work, his eyes continually returning to the—he hoped—untapped phone.

March 15, 1949, San Diego, California

Tom Shannon had faced the ultimate embarrassment of an annulment with Marie’s help. She had testified quite willingly, almost with pride, that their marriage had not been consummated and that she was still a virgin. The whole matter had been arranged discreetly, with the
complete cooperation of the Capestro family. Lou Capestro, famous for his fiery temper and his fierce protectiveness, had been apologetic to Tom.

“Son, do not feel that there is any blame on your part. We are really at fault. In our love for her, we helped conceal the fact that Marie was not the person she seemed to be, because we hoped that marriage would help her. I am glad that we can use the annulment process and avoid a divorce.”

“Lou, I still love her. It hurts me that she is not well. I’m not a doctor, but I believe that she is torn between her fear of making love to me and her shame at disappointing me by being cold.”

His language was obviously too candid for Lou. “Let’s not talk about that. You are doing the right thing here, and we’ll get her medical attention. You have a life to live, I know. We will keep you informed on how she is doing.”

Tom looked at him, knowing that Lou was lying, that he would never do anything that might revive the marriage. He seemed content that his baby was back at home, where he could take care of her. It was clear that he did not dislike Tom, but it was equally clear that Tom had served his purpose. He had been allowed to try to help Marie; he had failed; the experiment was over; he was no longer necessary. In Lou’s view Tom was now an impediment to Marie’s well-being.

Talking with Lou about the annulment had been easier than talking to his dad or to Harry. It was humiliating to admit to them or to anyone that he lived for almost two years with Marie without possessing her, nor could he mitigate things by saying at times she would accommodate him with her hands. He absolutely could not tell them that he had, for the last year, maintained a torrid affair with another woman, one they both knew, for she worked with Jill Abernathy in the family business. Jill had hired two girls to assist her, with one, Nancy Strother,
mostly doing public relations. He and Nancy had hit it off almost immediately and soon became lovers. Tom believed they had deceived everyone but Madeline, who looked on with equanimity, neither approving nor disapproving, just accepting.

Not surprisingly, Nancy was very different in appearance and personality from Marie, being taller, blonder, and far more athletic. She surfed and snorkeled, and much of their time together was spent on Mexican beaches, far away from anyone who might recognize Tom. The long drives down Route 101, crossing the border at San Ysidro and then having a drink at the “Long Bar” in Tijuana, were a magic preparation for their long nights of intensive, inventive sex.

Both Harry and his father had reacted to the news of the annulment admirably. Both were stoic, expressed their sympathy, wished Marie well, and urged Tom to get on with his life.

For Tom, getting on with his life meant getting back into the service, where he could do some real flying. Nancy seemed to understand this. She had been pleased at the news of the annulment but careful not to presume that they were now going to wed—at least right away. Tom felt that they had an understanding. She was not sure but accepted the situation, willing to let him have some time to recover from his years with Marie.

Tom had made many friends during his tour flying foreign fighters at Eglin, and one who owed him a great deal was Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Mahoney, now commander of the 4th Fighter-Interceptor Wing at New Castle County Airport, Wilmington, Delaware. The 4th was assigned to the Eastern Air Defense Force, and its mission was to stop any incoming Soviet bombers.

The memories of their last flight at Eglin raced through Tom’s mind. Ralph was flying a clunky British carrier plane, the two-seat Fairey Firefly, with Tom on his wing in a P-51. The Firefly’s Rolls-Royce Griffon engine let go
with a catastrophic malfunction that blew the cowling off its front attachments, heaving it up like a dive brake as the canopy was drenched with oil. Mahoney called a Mayday and began letting down. Tom told him to bail out, but Mahoney refused, saying he could make it back to the field even though he had no forward visibility.

Mahoney next lost all communications, and a trail of smoke began curling from underneath the cockpit area. The excess drag from the blown cowling kept pulling the Firefly down. About six miles out from Eglin’s main runway, and too low to bail out, it was apparent that Mahoney was going in. Tom pulled up on his wing. When Mahoney glanced to the side, Tom indicated he would fly him in to a forced landing.

The two planes descended rapidly, as Tom led Mahoney to the only cleared acreage for miles around, a fairly short strip, not wide enough for both airplanes, bounded on all sides by tall pine trees. They were a little too close and Tom S-turned, to kill off altitude, with Mahoney matching him inch for inch. Finally, at the last second, Tom pulled up to avoid the trees and Mahoney put the Firefly down, gear up, at the very edge of the strip. In the meantime, Tom was on the radio, guiding the fire trucks and ambulances out to the field where Mahoney now stood on the Firefly’s wing, waving his jacket in thanks.

So when Tom called Mahoney, explained his situation, and asked for a flying job in the Air Force, he got a response in two weeks—report to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas for requalification training and then to New Castle to fly with the 4th. The only downside was Tom’s rank; they bumped him down to captain, despite the fact that he was a nine-victory ace with the rank of lieutenant colonel. An earnest young lieutenant had called from the Air Force personnel office in San Antonio and explained the situation to him, but it still didn’t make any sense. In the end, he didn’t care; he was just glad to be back doing some real flying.

The six weeks training at Nellis went well, and Mahoney was waiting for Tom the day he reported in at New Castle.

June 1, 1949, Wilmington, Delaware

“Tom, I’ve had them get your flying gear all set. You and I are going out to do a little rat racing, to show you how we do it in the Fourth.”

A moist spring had turned the countryside into a riot of color. Long used to California’s burnt hills, Tom found the rivers, lakes, and green farmlands of Delaware enchanting. The day was warm enough for heat waves to send mirages that sheathed the runway distance markers in a shimmering haze. Tom was already soaked with sweat by the time Mahoney turned on to the runway and was cleared for takeoff.

They rendezvoused after takeoff in the climb, with Tom getting in trail with Mahoney, who leveled off at 25,000 feet and called, “Tom, just follow me through; try to stay with me.”

Things started conventionally, with Mahoney making fairly tight turns to the left and right. He gradually tightened them up so that they were pulling four g’s, before beginning a series of sharp reversals. Tom stayed with him as he reversed, then counterreversed, and they wound up in a spiraling dive, canopy to canopy, noses pointed straight down until the approaching ground had them break off and fly back to land.

In the briefing room Mahoney had laughed, saying, “Tom, you looked like a blasted decal on my mirror; no matter what I did, you didn’t move out of position. I’ll get you some flights tomorrow with some of the other guys.”

Tom slept better that night than he had in months, more at home on the flat springs of a narrow Army cot than he had been for years back in his double bed in California.

July 27, 1949, Hatfield Aerodrome, Hertfordshire, England

It was late in the evening. They had enjoyed a few drinks and a barely acceptable meal at the White Horse and were contentedly reliving the day’s events.

“Stanley, I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to be here, of all days. What a treat Cunningham gave us!”

Hooker, still tall but bent over a bit from his years of scanning drafting tables and production lines, smiled jovially. “Well, you are most welcome, but no one was more surprised than I when John took off.”

A few hours earlier, thirty-year-old John Cunningham had celebrated his birthday by making the first flight ever in the new de Havilland D.H. 106 Comet, a passenger jet that surpassed all previous transports. Tall and blond, the affable “Cats Eyes” Cunningham was Great Britain’s premier night-fighter pilot in World War II, with more than twenty kills, sixteen in a Beaufigher and four in a de Havilland Mosquito. Dressed in shockingly dirty white coveralls, Cunningham had spent the afternoon in taxi tests and in short “hops” where he lifted off the runway and touched down immediately, braking. Then, unexpectedly, he had the aircraft refueled, called his four-man crew aboard, and made a takeoff that left the few hundred de Havilland employees on hand gasping.

Shannon and Hooker had stood with them as the truly beautiful aircraft taxied slowly down the taxiway and moved into position on the relatively short runway. There was a roar as the four engines were brought to full power and held there. Shannon knew what Cunningham and his crew were doing, checking every instrument, making sure that nothing was overlooked. Then the brakes were released and the Comet moved forward, slowly, majestically at first, its wheels running along a runway that had launched so many previous de Havilland designs, from the tiny Tiger Moth to the swift, deadly Vampire. The
Comet gathered speed and broke ground so quickly that both Hooker and Shannon let out involuntary cheers. With its big wing area and huge flaps, the Comet took off more swiftly than many smaller piston engine aircraft.

Cunningham climbed to 10,000 feet, flew around at different airspeeds for thirty minutes, then made one low-altitude, high-speed pass over the runway to the roar of an elated crowd. They knew what they were watching—Great Britain had just seized the initiative in the airliner race—and they knew, too, that no one else was within years of competing with them. Cunningham was not just flying a gorgeous jet airliner; he was flying national prestige, thousands of jobs, and millions of pounds in sales. Only the British press would take exception, for the flight was made without prior notice. The de Havilland public relations people were disappointed, but Cunningham did not care, for more than five years of intense development had obviously paid off with a first-class aircraft.

Stanley Hooker asked, “One more whiskey?” and, against his better judgment, Shannon nodded yes. Hooker ordered two large whiskeys at the bar, brought them back, and said, “To John Cunningham.”

They sipped their drinks, and Vance said, “We need at least two more toasts, so let’s stretch this drink out. First of all, we must toast Frank Whittle, because while the Comet’s engines may have Rolls-Royce’s name stamped on them, they wouldn’t exist without Frank’s work and sacrifice.”

“To Frank Whittle.”

Shannon lifted his glass again; there was a half finger of whiskey remaining and he said, “To Geoffrey de Havilland,” and Hooker responded, “And his sons.”

They drained their glasses and were silent, each man thinking of his own family in the light of the de Havilland tragedies. Geoffrey de Havilland had lost one son, John, in 1943, in a mid-air collision of Mosquito fighters. Then in 1946, a second son, Geoffrey, was killed testing
their experimental D.H. 108, a tailless, swept wing jet designed to gain information for the Comet and for supersonic flight. He had been preparing to break the world’s speed record when the airplane broke up on a high-speed run over the Thames Estuary. Vance was glad that his own two sons had survived their flying so far, but he knew that all aviation was built on sacrifice and that his sons accepted the dangers. He had put them at risk in their youth with his own flying. There were dozens of times when he might have been killed, sometimes on the first flight of an advanced aircraft, sometimes in a routine test hop when things suddenly went wrong, sometimes when testing some individual’s ill-advised private design.

Shannon and Hooker looked up and smiled, coming out of their mutual reveries. Hooker brought them back to the real world when he leaned forward and said, “Forgive my asking, but what do you think today’s flight means to Boeing?” It was a not so gentle reminder that Hooker had invited him to Hatfield Aerodrome as a matter of their mutual business concerns.

“Well, for one thing, it means they’ll have to get someone high up in the chain of command over here to see the airplane. They’ll be glad to have my report, but you can bet that Ed Wells or Bill Allen will be over in England before the year is out, looking for themselves. But from my point of view, it means that Boeing has got to get cracking on a jet transport right now, without losing a moment, or it will be left at the starting gate. This is the start of the second revolution in jet aviation. The only chance Boeing would have to catch up is if something happens to the Comet during testing, or when it finally starts carrying passengers.”

“I don’t think that likely. They’ve been testing the airplane pretty extensively, and de Havilland has a world of experience.”