The Fly Boys (30 page)

“I hate Mondays just on principle,” Linda was saying. “But today was particularly rough. Have you called to cheer me up by
proposing matrimony?”

“Sounds tempting….”

“Oh, sure,” she laughed.

“Actually, I called because I could use some advice,” Steve said.

“What’s going on?” Linda asked, becoming serious.

Steve filled her in on the details of his transfer. “So there’s no question that the BroadSword is the airplane of choice.
I’d accept the invitation to join a BroadSword-equipped squadron in a flash, if it hadn’t been for Colonel Harris’s chance
remark…”

“Which was?” Linda asked.

“He told me that getting me into a BroadSword outfit would be no problem at all, considering who my father was.”

“Uh-oh,” Linda sighed. “That spoils it for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it kind of does,” Steve replied. “Remember what I told you about the ribbing I had to take during the war because I
was my father’s son? I had to prove myself every time I was stationed someplace new.”

“And you did,” Linda encouraged.

“Yeah, but how would I prove myself in this situation? Remember that only the cream of the crop are getting the first BroadSwords.
I can’t expect to be welcomed by those pilots when they find out that I haven’t flown since the war, that I’d joined their
ranks thanks to my daddy’s pull.”

“Cap’n, you know that you’re good enough to fly with the best—” Linda began.

“Sure I am,” Steve cut her off. “But that’s not the point. I want the satisfaction of getting to
prove
how good I am, not get the benefit of the doubt thanks to my last name.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve made your decision,” Linda remarked. “You’ll be flying that other kind of jet you were offered,
the
whatsit
—”

“The F-80 Shooting Star,” Steve told her. “Yeah,
but
—” He sighed.

“But what?”

“It’s a bitter pill for me to swallow, Blue Eyes. You see, I was also told that if I chose a Shooting Star–equipped FG, I
would probably get command of a squadron.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Linda interjected.

“Yeah, but I was also warned that squadron would be part of an FG stationed in a backwater part of the world.”

“Steve,” Linda whispered, “are you saying that you’re upset because you’re not going to get to see me so often?”

“Nah, that’s not it.”

“Oh….”

Shit
, Steve thought. “Come on, Blue Eyes,” he said impatiently. “Don’t go all mushy on me. You know I enjoy seeing you.”

“Right.”

She sure was sounding funny.
Women
, he thought. Maybe it had been a mistake to call her.

“Okay, Cap’n. I didn’t mean to get ‘mushy.’ Please continue.”

“Well, the Berlin airlift confrontation has proven what everybody already knew,” Steve began. “That the United States is heading
toward a confrontation with the Reds concerning where in Europe the Iron Curtain is going to fall. But I’ve been warned that
if I choose an F-80 equipped organization. I’m going to end up as part of the Far Eastern Air Force, stationed in Japan, and
being stuck there is as dull as things could get. I mean, there’s no way the Soviets are going to try anything in Asia while
they have their hands full in Europe.”

“Well, the Russians are in North Korea,” Linda pointed out.

“The UN has got the lid on that,” Steve countered.

“And China is falling to the communists.”

“That backward nation is in no position to threaten the world.”

She suddenly broke up laughing.

“What?” Steve demanded.

“This is what I get for becoming involved with a military man,” she managed, trying to catch her breath. “I can’t believe
I’m trying to cheer you up by suggesting possible places for you to go to war.”

Steve chuckled. “I guess I am being kind of silly.”

“Yes, you are, Cap’n. But don’t worry, I have high hopes for you.”

“You do, huh? Any chance of you getting to Washington before I ship out?”

“It might be arranged. I’ll check my calendar in the office tomorrow and give you a call.”

“That’s good.”

“So,” Linda said, “what have you decided?”

“You ever get to Japan?”

“Oh, so
that’s
what you decided.”

“Hey, what the hell, at least it’s flight duty,” he told her. “At least nobody will be able to say I’m not my own man trying
to make it on my own merits.”

“You’re an all-right guy, Cap’n.”

“You’re an all-right girl. Thanks for listening.”

“No problem, Cap’n.”

Steve hesitated, but he told himself that he might as well say it, or else it would just bother him. “Sorry about hurting
your feelings before. I—I really will miss you.”

“I know….” She sighed. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but, what the hell. I’ve got that slot in the New York bureau.”

“New York? Gee, that’s great! It’s the promotion you wanted.”

“Yeah….” Linda said listlessly.

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“I was a lot happier when I thought it would not only advance my career but also put me that much closer to Washington.”

“Oh, right. Gee, you in New York and me in Japan,” Steve said. “Couldn’t get much farther apart if we tried.”

“Nope.”

“Well…” He suddenly felt terribly awkward. He didn’t know what to say, or how to express what he felt. He got all mixed up
inside when it came to Linda. “Thanks again for letting me bend your ear.”

“Like I said, anytime. I’ll do my best to get to Washington before you leave and bend something of yours.”

Steve laughed. “That I’m looking forward to.”

“Wear you out before those geishas get hold of you,” she said lightly.

There, that was better
, Steve thought. He could imagine her smile. “’Bye, Blue Eyes.”

“’Bye.”

He hung up the phone, feeling much better about his decision. Talking it out with Linda had convinced him that he was making
the right choice. Nobody could accuse him of engaging in nepotism.

Yeah, it was worth it to his pride, Steve told himself. Even if it meant that as far as seeing some action was concerned,
he was definitely going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

An Air Force staff sergeant wearing a slate-blue belted overcoat was waiting as Herman Gold exited the Skyworld gate. The
sergeant stepped up and saluted smartly.

“Mr. Gold? Would you follow me, sir? There’s a car waiting.”

Gold nodded, amused. “This is certainly first-class service. I expected to take a cab to the Pentagon.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, noncomittal. “If you’d allow me to carry those for you?” He took Gold’s carry-on and his briefcase.

“How’d you know who I was?” Gold asked.

“General Simon supplied a photograph of you, sir. Allow me to show you to the car, and then I’ll come back for the rest of
your luggage.”

Gold followed the airman past the long ticket and information desks and the telegraph facility, out through the vestibuled
doorway of the busy terminal. It was a blustery cold, gray Monday morning. A light but steady mist slanted down underneath
the portico meant to protect car and taxi passengers. Gold cinched his olive trench coat tightly over his charcoal tropical
wool suit, and pulled his gray fedora low on his brow to secure it from the wind as the sergeant led him to where a car parked
at curbside glistened in the rain. It was a late model, dark blue, unmarked four-door Plymouth with curtained rear windows.

The sergeant opened the rear passenger door for Gold and stood aside. As Gold climbed in, he was surprised to see his old
friend from Air Force Procurement, Major General Howard Simon.

“Howie, good to see you,” Gold said as he settled into the Plymouth and shook hands with Simon. “Congratulations again on
your promotion to two star.”

“Sir, may I have your baggage claim ticket?” the sergeant interrupted politely.

“Here you are.” Gold handed the claim ticket to the sergeant, who shut the Plymouth’s door and then hurried back to the terminal.

“Nasty day, eh?” Simon remarked. “How was it when you left California yesterday?”

“Sunny and mild,” Herman boasted.

Simon sighed longingly. “Not supposed to even hit fifty here today. Rain predicted for the rest of the week.”

“I can’t wait to get back home,” Gold laughed. “It’s funny, I used to love to travel, but the older I get, the more I hate
to leave home.”

“I can understand that,” Simon replied. “Wonderful place, California.”

The sergeant had reappeared with Gold’s luggage. He loaded it into the trunk and then came around the car to slide in behind
the wheel. He started up the Plymouth, set its heater fan roaring and windshield wipers flapping, and then pulled away.

“Howie, I’ve got to say I’m surprised to see you here,” Gold murmured. “I figured that you’d be meeting me at the Pentagon.”
He gestured at the stars on Simon’s shoulders. “Since when does an Air Force general have the time to come to the airport
to pick up visitors?”

For some reason Simon ducked the question. “Herman, you must be exhausted from your flight. Are you sure you’re up to a meeting
first thing this morning? We could take you to your hotel and put things off.”

“Nonsense,” Gold laughed. “I traveled in a GAT Monarch GC-7 sleeper. Last night I had a first-class dinner with champagne
and then curled up in my berth for a marvelous rest. Slept like a baby.” He winked. “Nothing like those purring Rogers & Simpson
engines to lull a fellow to sleep.”

“Okay, okay,” Simon laughed. “You don’t have to sell me on your airplanes, right?”

“Right.” Gold nodded warmly. “Anyway, Howie, I’m always ready to talk about the AeroTanker.”

It had been thirteen months since Gold had challenged his engineers to come up with a jet tanker proposal in forty-eight hours.
They’d done the job in spades, finishing the proposal with a few hours to spare. When General Simon and Lieutenant Colonel
Billy Burnett had arrived at the airport for their flight back to Dayton, a GAT courier had been waiting to present them with
the proposal, which consisted of a detailed three-view drawing of the AT-909, its performance specs, a projected budget, and
a delivery schedule.

Less than a month later, Howie Simon had telephoned Gold to congratulate him on pulling off the impossible. The Air Force
was very impressed with the AeroTanker proposal and would authorize preliminary funding.

Gold had not been surprised. He’d been in the airplane business long enough to be able to separate the hits from the misses.
For example, he’d always had his doubts about the jet bomber project, but he’d felt good about the AeroTanker right from the
start.

GAT had been playing an unfamiliar game of poker with a bunch of veteran card sharps when it had pitched its ill-fated long-range
jet bomber, but GAT’s experience building piston-powered airliners and cargo transports had made coming up with a viable jet
tanker a relative snap. All the pieces had been there; the AeroTanker was the result of the right company putting together
the right airplane for the right customer for the right job to be done.

Six months ago Gold had presented the Air Force with the results of the 909 model’s wind tunnel tests, and the test results
from Rogers & Simpson concerning their new SS-60 jet engine. The Air Force liked what it had seen, and had approved further
funding, up to a point. The appropriations came far short of the projected twelve million dollars GAT would need to build
a full-scale prototype.

Once Gold had been certain of the Air Force’s positive evaluation reports, he’d “anonymously” leaked the news to a contact
who wrote for
Aviation Trade
. Gold had also pointed out to the reporter that the airline industry could ask for nothing better than having the Air Force
put its stamp of approval on the basic design for a commercial carrier.

Pretty soon Gold began getting calls from several of the airline vice presidents in charge of purchasing who were interested
in buying into the project. Conspicuously absent was Skyworld Airlines, but then Gold had expected as much, despite the fact
that Skyworld had once been a part of GAT. Gold’s ex-longtime partner Tim Campbell, who was Skyworld’s chairman emeritus and
still its chief stockholder, was now heavily involved with Amalgamated-Landis. The rumors had it that A-L had a jet airliner
of its own in the works. No doubt Campbell would want to buy A-L’s airplane.

Even without Skyworld, GAT had no trouble putting together a consortium on which to lay off the remainder of the project’s
financial risk during the rest of the development phase and prototype construction. GAT was projecting that a full-scale prototype
of the tanker would roll off the assembly lines in 1953, and the commercial version in ‘54. That would be well after Stoat-Black
was expected to be putting its Starstreak airliner into service, but as Gold had hoped, the U.S. airlines had indicated their
preference for an American-built product that enjoyed the Air Force’s stamp of approval, even if they had to wait for it.

Last week Gold had received a call from General Simon at the Wright-Patterson Research Center, in Dayton, Ohio. The general
had wanted Gold to meet him in Washington for briefings with the top brass at the Pentagon on the AT-909. Gold had agreed
to come, and had left Los Angeles last night for the eight-hour flight to the nation’s capital.

Now Gold was puzzled as he glanced out the Plymouth’s rain-streaked window. They were crossing a bridge. Whitecaps were dancing
on the wind-rolled surface of the water far below them.

“Howie,” Gold murmured. “Isn’t this the Potomac we’re crossing?”

“It is.”

Gold shook his head, confused. “But isn’t the Pentagon on the same side of the river as the airport?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Simon said, sounding uneasy. “We’re not going to the Pentagon.”