The Fly Boys Page 15

  “Well, why don’t you tell your father all this?” Benny quietly suggested. “And then try?”

  “Because it’s just a pipe dream!” Steve snapped. “I’m a damned sharp fighter jock, nothing more and nothing less. Sure, I could tell my pop, and I guess he’d be kind to me. He’d find me a spot in the executive suite. But let’s face the facts, Benny. Without nepotism I wouldn’t survive a day at GAT anywhere but in the mailroom or on the assembly lines.”

  “You’re being too tough on yourself.”

  “No.” Steve looked Benny in the eye. “I’m just being honest. Try and understand. I don’t want my life to become a bad joke, with the punch line being a nudge and a knowing snicker when they think I can’t hear: ’His qualifications for the job? Why, he’s Herman Gold’s son.’ “

  Benny shrugged, obviously for once in his life at a loss for words. He gestured toward Steve’s empty glass. “Can I buy you another drink?”

  “No, thanks.” Steve smiled. “Getting drunk is the second best thing I do. Lately I’ve been doing it a lot, but I’ve decided that I’m not going to get drunk anymore. Becoming a booze hound isn’t the answer.”

  Benny, smiling, said, “You do know that you’re my best friend? And if there’s anything I can ever do for you?” He paused, looking embarrassed.

  Steve chuckled. “I guess I’ll miss you almost as much as I’m going to miss my fighter.”

  “Thanks a fucking heap.”

  Benny was frowning, pretending to be pissed, but Steve saw the pleased look in his buddy’s eyes.

  “I’ll see you later, huh?” Steve said, gathering up his cigarettes.

  “Where you going?” Benny asked.

  “Just for a walk,” Steve said, lighting a smoke. “I’ve got to think things through.”

  Steve pushed his way through the crowded club and out into the warm night. As he walked, he wondered: What’s to become of a guy born to be a warrior once the shooting stops?

  BOOK II:

  1945–1953

  * * *

  NATIONAL SECURITY ACT SIGNED INTO LAW—

  Air Force Made Independent Branch of Service—

  Philadelphia Bulletin-Journal

  AIR FORCE BOMBS CAPITOL HILL—

  Defends Controversial B-45 Bomber Program at Senate

  Hearings—

  Washington Star Reporter

  ZIONISTS DEFY ARAB THREAT OF HOLY WAR TO

  DECLARE INDEPENDENT STATE OF ISRAEL—

  Baltimore Globe

  REDS BLOCKADE BERLIN!

  U.S. Vows Not to Be Intimidated—

  Air Force Responds With Airlift—

  New York Gazette

  BROADSWORD’S HIDDEN TALENTS HELP FIGHT

  THE COLD WAR—

  Modified GAT XP-90 Jet Fighter Flies Surveillance Over

  Russia—

  Aviation Trade Magazine

  COMMUNIST TRIUMPH IN CHINA—

  Mao Tsc-tung Establishes People’s Republic—

  San Francisco Post

  REDS CROSS 39TH PARALLEL—

  INVADE REPUBLIC OF KOREA—

  North Korea, Backed by Russia, Pushes Toward Seoul—

  President Truman and United Nations Vow Swift Retaliation—

  Boston Times

  KOREAN WAR HERO’S EXCLUSIVE—

  My Story: How I Captured “Yalu Charlie”—

  by Lt. Colonel Steven Gold—

  PhotoWeek Magazine

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  (One)

  Caucus Room

  Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  12 October 1947

  Steven Gold was bored as hell.

  It was a warm Friday afternoon. Indian summer in Washington. The Senate hearings being held to explore the advisability of continued funding for the Air Force’s hair-raisingly expensive B-45 bomber program had been running six hours a day for the past week. For the past hour an assistant to the Secretary of the Air Force had been droning into the microphone.

  Steve restlessly shifted in his hard-backed folding chair, trying to get comfortable. He was seated in the next to the last row, way back near the caucus room’s main exit. From where he was sitting he could hear footsteps and soft chatter echoing in the corridor outside.

  Must be office workers leaving to get an early start on the weekend, Steve thought enviously. He stared up at the four enormous crystal chandeliers illuminating the marble-paneled room. During the past week he’d already amused himself counting the light bulbs in each fixture. Twice.

  “Now then, Mr. Chairman …” The witness paused to nervously clear his throat. The microphone amplified it into a lion’s roar. “Allow me to bring you up to date concerning what the Secretary has been doing since July 26 of this year, when President Truman signed the National Security Act which brought into being the United States Air Force as an independent branch.”

  A wave of restlessness moved through the crowded gallery. The hearing’s chairman, Senator Hill, rapped his gavel in warning.

  A photographer, shaking his head, got up and left. His camera bag jingled loudly as he walked to the exit.

  Lucky bastard, Steve thought enviously as the photographer passed him on the way out. Steve couldn’t leave. He had orders to attend the hearings from gavel to gavel.

  “The witness may proceed,” Senator Hill intoned. He and the other senators seated up at the front of the room looked as sleepy as Steve felt.

  “Thank you, Senator. Now then, when President Truman signed Executive Order 9877, which defined the roles of the three services …”

  Steve glanced at his watch. Just another couple of hours until adjournment for the weekend. His attention shifted to the couple seated up front.

  They’d come in about a half hour ago. They guy was average, but the dame with him, a brunette with curly shoulder-length hair, was a knockout. She was wearing a light green silk suit and a soft black hat that looked like a beret. Thanks to all the coverage that guy Dior had been getting in the photo weeklies, Steve knew enough to realize that what she was wearing was the latest out of Paris, and had to have cost plenty.

  The brunette was looking around in that politely bored, languid, aristocratic way that reminded Steve of some of his mother’s woman friends. He watched as she discreetly arched her back, stretching like a purebred feline.

  Wonder what it would take to get her to purr? Steve grinned. No question it would be worth the effort.

  Steve also wondered for the countless time if the bookish-looking guy next to her was her husband. Somehow he didn’t think so. She just didn’t look married. But then, the really classy ladies in his parents’ social circle never did, Steve reminded himself. Not even when they were grandmothers.

  The official at the witness table was continuing his testimony.

  “The Air Force’s first step on the road to the development of postwar U.S. air power was the decision to create a force with global capabilities, the Strategic Air Command, which came into being in March of last year. SAC reorganized air power into three Commands: Strategic, Tactical, and Air Defense. The theory behind SAC is that a bomber delivering atomic weapons can handle any situation where diplomacy proves ineffective. Predictably, a certain branch of the service lobbied hard against this point of view—”

  “Excuse me,” one of the subcommittee members, Senator Tabworth, broke in. “I presume the witness is referring to the Navy?”

  “I am,” the Air Force official said stiffly.

  This ought to be good, Steve thought, perking up. The Appropriations Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Hill, was solidly behind the Air Force, but Tabworth, who’d served on a battleship in World War One, was the subcommittee’s chief proponent of the Navy point of view. He’d publicly vowed to do all he could to help the Navy scuttle the B-45 and get the millions earmarked for the bomber project reallocated for the development of a larger class of aircraft carrier capable of launching airplanes carr
ying atomic weapons.

  At the front of the room Senator Tabworth was gearing up to make a speech. “May I remind the witness that the proud United States Navy, which has over a hundred and seventy year history of defending this great nation against—”

  Hill rapped his gavel. “Would the senator please make his point?” he asked wearily.

  “I will, if the chairman shall allow it….” Tabworth huffed.

  Steve found it amusing that these two guys, who for the past week had been bickering like Abbott and Costello, looked so much alike. They were both in their sixties and built slender, except for their potbellies. Both favored three-piece suits and bow ties, wore wire-rimmed specs, and had about five strands of hair apiece, which they wore plastered across their scalps.

  “If the last war has taught us anything,” Tabworth was orating, “it is that the common foot soldier is necessary to get the job done.”

  “Except in Japan,” the Air Force official at the witness table quipped.

  Good for you, Steve thought as an appreciative chuckle erupted across the room.

  “Atomic weapons will be important,” Tabworth agreed, “But such weapons will never replace troops, and that means Navy transports will be necessary to get the troops to where they are going, and that means Navy carriers will be necessary to supply those troops with air support—”

  “Thank you, Senator Tabworth,” Hill determinedly interrupted. “Now then, the witness may continue.”

  “If I may address Senator Tabworth’s point,” the witness began. “The Air Force views the strategic bomber carrying atomic bombs as the single decisive factor in any future conflict with our likeliest adversary: the Soviet Union. Troop involvement in a conflict with the Russians would be minimal, if at all.” The witness paused to glance down at his notes. “Concerning this topic, I would like to quote the Air Force’s Chief of Staff, General Carl Spaatz: ‘We will not have to plod laboriously and bloodily along the Minsk–Smolensk–Moscow road in order to strike at Russia’s vitals. Hence the war may be concluded within weeks and perhaps days.’”

  Nice rebuttal, Steve thought to himself. Behind him he heard the door opening and closing.

  “This seat taken, Captain?” a man whispered as he sidled into the row and sat down next to Steve.

  Steve glanced up. It had been so long that it took him a moment to recognize the face. “Uncle Tim?” he whispered.

  “Long time, no see, Stevie.” Tim Campbell grinned, the laugh lines deepening around his wide-set, dark eyes.

  Campbell was in his late forties. He was short and stocky and wore a rust-colored double-breasted suit. A diamond stickpin winked at Steve from Campbell’s yellow and red polka-dot tie, and the big chunk of gold that was his wristwatch looked heavy enough to sink a battleship.

  “How you been, Stevie?” Campbell kept his voice pitched low so as not to disrupt the hearings. His gray-tinged auburn hair, slicked down and parted in the middle, glistened under the lights.

  “Fine, Uncle Tim,” Steve murmured, even though Campbell wasn’t really his uncle.

  Tim Campbell had once been a close friend and business partner of Steve’s father, back when Skyworld Airlines was still a part of GAT, but at some point Campbell and Steve’s father had suffered a falling-out. Steve didn’t know the details. He’d been a little kid when it had happened, and neither his father nor Campbell would talk about it. Whatever had caused the disagreement, its result had been a split in the company as the two men went their separate ways. Steve’s father had retained control of the aviation design and construction portions of the GAT empire, while Campbell had taken control of the airline.

  “I guess I haven’t seen you since you came back to the West Coast for a visit,” Campbell said. “That must have been almost two years ago, just after the war ended.”

  “I’ve been home since then to see my folks, but only for short trips,” Steve said apologetically. “I guess I should have called.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Campbell said. “I know it can get awkward.”

  Steve nodded. His father and Tim Campbell professed to still be friends, but Steve thought they behaved more like friendly adversaries. After all these years there was still some sort of mysterious game of financial one-upmanship going on between them, but again, neither man would talk about it. Campbell and Steve’s father were cordial with each other when chance brought them together, but neither man went out of his way to look the other up.

  Whatever Campbell’s relationship with Steve’s father, Campbell had remained a presence in Steve and his sister Susan’s lives. Uncle Tim had never forgotten their birthdays. Even during the war, no matter where Steve was stationed, around the time of his birthday a card from Campbell and a small token—a bottle of booze or a box of cigars—had always managed to find their way to him.

  “You’re looking great, Stevie,” Campbell murmured. “And I like that uniform! So that’s the new Air Force blue, huh?”

  “They call it ‘sky blue,’” Steve smiled. “They were just issued last month.”

  Campbell, nodding, gestured toward Steve’s decorations grouped above the left breast pocket of his jacket, below his silver pilot’s wings. “Pretty impressive helping of fruit salad you have there.”

  “Yeah, I guess….” It always embarrassed Steve when people made a big deal over his decorations. As far as he was concerned, he’d only been doing his job, a job he’d loved.

  There was a moment of silence between the two men. Both shifted their attention to the amplified testimony coming from the front of the room.

  “In conclusion, allow me to make the point that to the best of our knowledge the Soviet Union has not yet developed an atomic bomb. Its ground forces, however, greatly outnumber ours and present a formidable threat to most of continental Europe. There can be little debate concerning the Soviets’ ability to overrun Europe, and our inability to stem that scarlet tide. Accordingly, our best hope to halt Soviet drive into Europe is in strategic bombing.”

  “Say,” Campbell whispered, “I guess you were pretty lucky to be allowed to stay in the service. The Air Force has really cut back.”

  “Yes, sir … I guess.”

  Up at the front of the room, Senator Hill was saying, “Let the record show that we extend our thanks to the gentleman from the Office of the Secretary of the Air Force for his valuable testimony.”

  The Air Force official gathered up his papers and left the witness table.

  “So what are you doing here at this hearing?” Campbell asked. “Are you scheduled to testify?”

  “No,” Steve chuckled. “I’m a fighter jock—or, at least I was,” he shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t know beans about bombers. I’m assigned to the Air Force’s Public Relations Department.”

  “Ah, now I get it!” Campbell said knowingly. “What better spot for a handsome young ace?”

  Steve didn’t answer that. “You know the Navy is doing its best to get the B-45 thrown onto the scrap heap?”

  “I do,” Campbell said. “They’d like to get their mitts on the money being spent on the B-45.”

  “Yes, sir,” Steve said. “Well, my superiors felt that my being present might do our side some good against our web-footed friends.”

  Campbell grinned. “Smart move on their part, sending an Air Force pilot who single-handedly rescued a Navy ship.”

  “I’m supposed to lend moral support to the witnesses and get my picture taken….” Steve trailed off, blushing.

  “Well, why not?” Campbell chuckled. “You’re a war hero, right?” He winked. “So you’ve got an office at the Pentagon?”

  “More like a closet than an office, Uncle Tim.”

  “Don’t worry, the big office will come,” he said knowingly. “You’re in a pretty darn good spot for a twenty-three-year-old captain. Public relations is going to be the front line for the military during peacetime. I’m telling you, Stevie, it looks like you’ve got it made.” Campbell winked again. “I’ve got
a feeling I’m talking to a future Air Force Chief of Staff.”

  “Yes, Uncle Tim,” Steve said, embarrassed. “But what brings you here?”

  “Me? I’m here to fight for my baby,” Campbell said.

  “I don’t get it?”

  “Amalgamated-Landis is building the B-45 for the Air Force,” Campbell explained.

  “I know that,” Steve said. A-L, like GAT, was one of the giant companies that made up California’s aircraft industry.

  “Well, did you know that I’m on Amalgamated’s board of directors?” Campbell asked.

  “No!”

  Campbell nodded. “I put money into A-L years ago, but when I got an advance tip-off about the company being awarded a contract to build the B-45, I doubled my stake, buying myself a seat on the board. When the Navy started giving the B-45 program a hard time, I took over the execution of A-L’s counterattack. I know something about public relations myself, Stevie, my boy….”

  “That I knew, Uncle Tim,” Steve smiled. His father had often admitted that if it hadn’t been for Campbell’s masterful handling of GAT’s advertising and public relations, the company would never have survived its early, difficult days.

  Senator Hill was rapping his gavel. “The committee now calls Donald Harrison—”

  “It was my idea to have Don testify,” Campbell boasted to Steve. “He’s A-L’s chief engineer. The B-45 was his brainchild.”

  Steve watched as the bookish-looking guy sitting with the knockout brunette stood up. Steve’s heart sank when he saw the brunette give Harrison a winning smile as he carried his big briefcase over to the witness table.

  Harrison was in his late twenties, Steve guessed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but he looked a little pudgy, soft around the edges. He was wearing a lightweight blue suit, white shirt, and a red knit tie. His thinning dark blonde hair was slicked straight back from his high expanse of forehead.

  “This is going to be good,” Campbell whispered to Tim. “Harrison is a real go-getter. He reminds me a lot of your father in his younger days.”