Authors: Walter J. Boyne
Another plus was that Howard Hughes was drifting away more and more. He had asked early on to help in designing the cockpit layout, and he'd done well, seeing to it that the instruments were
grouped sensibly for two-pilot use. The problem was that he became
too proprietary, too insistent on having the final word. To get some relief, Bandy had sent him on a survey trip, to check out what was
wrong with the current fleet of airliners that they might be able to fix
in the RC-3.
Still traveling incognito as Charles Howard, Hughes came back bubbling with ideas. Mahew's airlines operated both Ford and
Hafner trimotors, and Bandy had asked Hughes to make the thirty-
six-hour trip from Chicago to Los Angeles on the Allied line, just to
see if he could get any ideas.
"Bandy, I learned as much on the train trip out as on the flight
back. On the trip out I learned that I like to eat and drink and sleep in comfort. On the trip back I learned I didn't like the noise, the heat, the cold, or the rubber chicken."
Even Hadley, pretty fed up with Hughes for some time now, seemed amused.
"You know what they give you when you get on the trimotor? A
kit that has cotton to stuff in your ears/smelling salts, and a paper bag to throw up in! Damn near needed it, too. It was so hot on the ground in Chicago that a woman fainted, passed out right in the aisle. Then between Denver and Salt Lake it got so cold my hand stuck to the metal chair edge."
Hughes ruffled through the drawings and glanced out the window
at the floor.
"Listen, you get out there and tell those guys that we're not just building an airplane, we're going to build comfort and stick wings on it. We want heaters that heat and seats that don't blister your ass and insulation to cut the noise down. The Ford is bad, but the
Hafner trimotor is worse. I was sitting in the second seat, on the leg from Salt Lake to Sacramento, and the propellers felt like they were
driving lag bolts into my eardrums."
With a "mission accomplished" nod, Hughes left, bounding out to his latest hobby, a huge Doble steamcar. He was talking about setting up a company to build the steamers and running General
Motors and Ford out of business, right after he finished setting some
records in the new racer he'd conceived. Hughes had learned all he could from Bandfield and Roget, and he wouldn't be with them
long. He had sketched out what he thought a racer should look like,
and he served notice that he'd be calling on them for help when the time came. Even though he'd become an enormous pain in the ass,
he'd get whatever he asked for, having saved Roget Aircraft's bacon
more than once.
They spent the afternoon going over the production schedule, marking up the existing drawings to make the conversion from
bomber prototype to transport as easy as possible. There wasn't a massive amount of rework, but Bandy thought it worthwhile to call
Mahew and warn him that Roget Aircraft might be asking for a two-week extension for delivery of the first plane.
The call to Chicago went- through surprisingly fast—too fast—as
it turned out.
"Not a goddam day, Bandfield!" Mahew's explosive temper was
legendary, and Bandy pulled "the earpiece away to protect his hear
ing.
"You people got a sweetheart contract because I was pissed off at
Hafner and you were handy. Now my board of directors is all over my ass because I didn't compete it with Douglas or Boeing or
somebody. I've been saying you. could do the job, and you goddam
well better. If you don't, I'll get fired and Allied will tear up the contract."
There was a pause as Bandy tried to think of a graceful way to close.
Mahew roared again. "Another thing. We've hired Lindbergh as a consultant. He's going to be/checking over the design, and the
board insists that your airplane have the capability to take off with a
full load from the highest airport on our route with one engine out. You might want to consider a trimotor again."
Bandfield took a pencil and-drew a mustache on the smiling calendar girl drinking a Coke on the wall near his desk.
"That's one hell of a change in the contract, Mr. Mahew. We'd
want to negotiate some money and some schedule differences for
that."
"Negotiate hell! Take it or Leave it. It would take one phone call
to Douglas to get them started. The DC-1 they're building for TWA
will do most of what I want. Any questions?"
Bandy said no, gently returning the phone to the table.
"Back to the drawing board. Mahew wants an engine-out capabil
ity with a full load from Denver."
"Holy shit, Bandy. I'm not sure it's possible."
"Let's see that slide rule smoke, Hadley. I'll call Hartford to see
where Hamilton Standard is with their new propellers."
Late that afternoon, they pushed the papers back. With split flaps
and the new controllable-pitch Hamilton Standard props, they could just do it.
Bandfield's mind was churning. He'd decided that they had better
figure on three shifts a day to gain some time while Hadley designed
the flaps. The wing modification alone would take three weeks just
for the flaps. If worst came to worst, they could extend the wingspan
another ten feet or so to lower the wing loading.
The worst effect was the complete demolition of the budget. They
had planned to be breaking even by the tenth production aircraft. Now they wouldn't make a dime until they sold forty airplanes.
Forty airplanes. The most Roget had ever built of one kind before
was the five Rockets, one of which had become the company plane because they'd never been able to sell it. Spread out over the years,
that was hardly a roaring production rate. Forty airplanes!
*
Farmingdale, Long Island/July 17, 1933
Bruno Hafner motioned Murray to sit down while he continued his business discussion with an associate.
"You fucking guinea! I paid you a thousand dollars to burn that warehouse."
Tony Bonaventure squirmed. "It was impossible, Bruno. For Christ's sake, ask Murray! There were people all around, and the goddam cops were having some sort of a meeting in the building next door. You ought to be glad I saw what was going on."
"Do it tonight. That place is filled with obsolete parts that will
never sell, and I've got to get rid of them. There's lots of thinner and
paint there, and a lot of fabric. It'll burn like a torch once you light it off."
Bonaventure left, glad to have gotten off so lightly, and Murray
cleared his throat to speak.
Hafner interrupted him. "What can I say, Murray? Nobody's got balls anymore."
Murray was no more comfortable with the new Bruno, the airline
executive, than he'd been with the old Bruno, the gunrunner. He knew better than anyone how fast his moods could shift, how fine the line between the conservative businessman and the killer. Today, after an almost eight-year association, Murray still sat on the edge of his seat, sweat staining his collar.
"I hear that Rhoades is going to the Coast to work for Hughes."
"He is. Howard wants him to do most of the procurement for his
racer. He actually expected me to go! All he ever did for me was let me risk my neck in a movie he was making. At least he's cut out the
crap about calling himself Charles Howard. He never fooled anybody, not in this country, anyway."
Murray tried not to look pleased at Rhoades's departure; Dusty
had gotten too comfortable in his relationship with Charlotte, and it
bothered Murray very much. Bruno, smile fixed and eyes burning, sat as still as a hawk on the hunt watching Murray. Bruno speculated whether in his long devotion Murray had ever gotten even a quick tumble from Charlotte. No, probably not.
Bruno went to the bar and gestured with the bottle. "Sometimes I
wish it was like the old days, when we were just pushing rifles and
machine guns, before we got into planes and airlines and all the rest. You've done a good job with the arms sales, Murray."
"It's hard to miss, boss, with wars flaring up all over the world. The communists are blowing things up all over Spain, Sandino is
still raising hell in Nicaragua, after all these years, the natives are
fighting the Dutch in Java, there's another rebellion starting in
Cuba
..."
He paused. "I counted them up this morning—there's at
least half a dozen. The Japs are scaring the hell out of everybody. I've had three Chinamen in buying everything in sight. And every time this new guy Hitler makes a speech, I get calls."
Hafner spilled his whiskey at the name Hitler. He mopped the bourbon up, and moved to shift the topic.
"Did the Chinks ask about airplanes?"
"No, but I'll ask them. They're coming in again tomorrow."
"Give me a call when they come in. I'd like to size them up, see how they behave."
"I even had some Paraguayans—can you believe it, I didn't even know where the goddam country was—wanting to buy everything, for a war with Bolivia. They came right out and said they could pay
in cocaine. They got no idea what it's worth. We'll clean up."
"Is it any good?"
"I don't know. I'm having the doc test it, but even if we have to refine it somehow, it will be worth it."
Bruno was concerned. "Jesus, it's a good thing Dusty's going to the Coast; he'd burn a hole right through his nose. The problem
with cocaine is that the Feds will get really involved if they find out
about it. Let's think about that one."
"Okay, will do." He gauged the other man to see if he could get by with some flattery, then make his exit.
"You know, Bruno, we couldn't have done half as well without the warehouse in France. I could smuggle Mount Everest out of that port, and no one would be the wiser. That was one of the smartest deals you ever made. And old man Dompnier was a real
help at the start; he spread the grease around like an artist. I've, seen the gendarmes stop traffic for us when we're bringing in a big piece,
a 105 or something."
Hafner laughed, scratching Nellie behind the ears.
"But since Stephan was killed, he's turned into a rummy."
"And how is Monique?" Hafner studied him closely. He had been tempted by Monique, but decided he wouldn't share yet
another woman with Dusty. There were already too many scores to
settle there.
"Monique is fine. She's as smart as the old man, and tougher. The spies and the wogs and the people like that don't like dealing with her at first, you can tell, but she soon sets them straight."
"Is she a decent lay, Murray?"
"Man, I wouldn't know, but there's a lot of hoochy-kootchy action going on all the time. She's got the office fixed up with a couch the size of a football field."
Murray was lying, and they both knew it, but it was the right answer. After Stephan's death, his compunction about the family relationship had vanished. But it was nothing to talk about even now.
"If that's it, boss, I got to get back to the shop. I brought back a big
antique grandfather's clock on the last trip, and I got all the parts laid out. I want to get it back together before I forget how it came apart."
The big man sat twirling the ice cubes in his glass with his finger, satisfied that things were working well. Hafner had an acute sense of
distance and timing exceptional even for a pilot, an ability to relate
things spatially that gave him an edge in combat and aerobatics. In a
twirling aerial combat, his ability to integrate his own position and
attitude with that of his opponents meant that he could instantly compute the deflection necessary for a quick snap shot in a churn
ing dogfight. He had somehow transferred this to business practice,
and it was part of the secret of his success, an almost uncanny knack
of judging how things were progressing, as well as how and when
they would come together. He mentally calculated the things that were on the way, the things that had to be done, and the people concerned that would be involved in his going back to Germany.
He'd be an officer again, but wealthy this time, not having to live on
the tiny salary.
The single most difficult problem was Charlotte. A divorce was
out of the question; it would ruin an officer's career. They had been
ardent lovers, and done well in business together. Charlotte would have been irreplaceable in any normal situation, with her business acumen and her ability to get along with the Army procurement people. It was typical of her to have insisted that the plant needed more professional engineering support for Bineau. But the curious fact was that neither had ever liked the other. They had probably loved each other at some point, but they were always more attuned to each other's vices than to their virtues. The infatuation with Rhoades was obviously a serious thing, something he hadn't
counted on. At first it had turned out to be very convenient; it might
have been awkward if she had fallen for someone else. But they had
not been discreet. The antlers Rhoades had hung on him were
increasingly visible, and circumstances had forced him to endure it.
He still needed them. For a while.