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  “First I’d like to thank the committee for this opportunity to speak on behalf of the B-45,” Harrison said, sounding relaxed. He adjusted the mike to suit him, and then opened up his briefcase and began shuffling through his papers. “Let me begin by outlining to you the B-45’s projected capabilities.” He took a pair of tan, round-framed eyeglasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, perched them on the tip of his nose, and began to read. “The B-45 was created to meet the challenge posed by this country’s need for a long-range bomber capable of delivering a substantial payload to a target seven thousand miles away. The B-45, powered by six thirty-five-hundred-horsepower pusher-prop engines, augmented by four, auxiliary turbojet engines paired in pods mounted beneath the wings, amply answers that challenge….”

  For the next half hour Harrison painted a glowing word picture of the B-45 as a superbomber capable of policing the world on behalf of democracy.

  “What did I tell you?” Campbell nudged Steve. “Harrison is demolishing the opposition.”

  It was true, Steve thought in admiration. Harrison was a skilled and sophisticated public speaker.

  “… The B-45 will carry a maximum eighty-five-thousand-pound bomb load.” Harrison paused to whip off his eyeglasses in a dramatic flourish. “Eighty-five-thousand pounds of bombs…. Gentlemen, let me remind you that eighty-five-thousand pounds is almost twice what a fully loaded B-17 weighs in its entirety.”

  “A perfect quote,” Campbell pointed out to Steve. “Just look at those news hounds scribbling away.”

  Steve, nodding absently, found that his eyes kept being drawn to the brunette who’d come in with Harrison. She had to be romantically involved with the engineer, he decided. She was listening to him speak with rapt concentration. But then, so was everybody.

  Steve wanted to ask Campbell if the woman was Harrison’s wife or sweetheart, but he held back. Questions like that had landed Steve in hot water more than once in his life.

  “… And for those reasons, Senators, it is clear that the B-45 will rightfully take its place as the keystone in the United States’ arsenal,” Harrison continued. “It will force our enemies to think twice before attacking us, and ultimately persuade them not to attack us at all.”

  Harrison paused to fix the senators facing him with an intense stare. “Gentlemen, when I designed the B-45, I had in mind the creation of an airplane so awesome in its capabilities that its mere existence would guarantee peace. It was and is my goal to give my country the same sense of reassurance against threat that the average American householder feels knowing he’s got a shotgun behind the door. The B-45 is America’s shotgun. You cannot—must not—take it away. Thank you.”

  Scattered applause swept the room.

  “Order, please. I’ll have order,” Senator Hill demanded, rapping his gavel. Senator Tabworth looked fit to bust.

  “What did I tell you?” Campbell chuckled to Steve. “Your old man could sway an audience like that in his day.”

  “Mr. Harrison,” Tabworth began as the applause died down. “Isn’t it true that you scientists believe that the United States cannot indefinitely retain its monopoly on the atomic bomb? That sooner or later the Soviets will have an atomic bomb of their own?”

  “Well, sir, I’m an engineer,” Harrison smiled. “Your question addresses a topic out of my bailiwick.”

  “Nice parry,” Campbell observed, nudging Steve. “He’s showing that he’s not one to shoot his mouth off, and that makes what he does say sound all the more important.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Harrison.” Tabworth was scowling. “Surely you’ve given this matter some thought? You have likened your multimillion-dollar bomber to a shotgun,” he scoffed. “If that is so, isn’t the atomic bomb like the ammunition loaded into that shotgun?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Harrison replied.

  Tabworth smiled. “Have you ever hunted waterfowl, Mr. Harrison?”

  “No, Senator, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, young fellow, I have, many times,” Tabworth loudly announced. “And from practical experience I can tell you that a shotgun is only as good as the ammunition loaded into it. Do you mean to tell this subcommittee that you have never considered the possibility that the Soviets will one day possess the same atomic ammunition as we for their ‘shotguns’?”

  “Senator, if you’re asking for my personal opinion, I believe that the Russians will, by hook or crook, eventually have their own atomic bomb.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Harrision,” Tabworth replied triumphantly. “But you have just demolished your own argument on behalf of the B-45.”

  “On the contrary, it has just been strengthened,” Harrison replied.

  “How so?” Tabworth demanded. “What good is your ‘shotgun behind the door’ if the intruders are similarly armed?”

  “Ouch!” Steve said softly. He glanced at Campbell. “Looks like Tabworth has Harrison boxed in.”

  Campbell was smiling. “Listen and learn, Steve….”

  “Senator Tabworth, I suggest that no intruder in his right mind will attack a household if he knows for sure that injury will be his only reward,” Harrison declared. “In other words it is clear that the only viable defense against adversaries armed with atomic weapons is the promise of our inevitable strong offense. Deterrence is the strategy of the future. We must secure our nation by developing and maintaining those weapons, forces, and techniques required to pose this warning to our enemies: If you attack us, expect a devastating counterattack in return.”

  “But what does any of that have to do with the B-45?” Tabworth asked, frowning.

  “Senator, you said you were a veteran waterfowl hunter. Isn’t it true that no matter how good your ammunition, you’ll never get yourself a duck dinner hunting with a short-barreled shotgun? Don’t you need a long-sighting plane for the long-range shooting you’ll be doing?”

  “Well, yes … I suppose that’s right,” Tabworth admitted. “Say, I thought you said you didn’t hunt?”

  “Senators,” Harrison continued addressing the entire subcommittee, “I can’t help but think of our great heavyweight boxing champion, Joe Louis. Louis—coincidentally dubbed the ‘Brown Bomber’ by the sporting press—is blessed with what we might say are ‘atomic fists.’ But what good would his knockout punch be if the champ neglected to straighten his legs, thereby lacking the ability to deliver that decisive blow to his opponent?”

  Off came Harrison’s eyeglasses as he paused meaningfully. “Senators, I put to you the proposition that the atomic bomb has become modern warfare’s knockout punch, but it will prove useless to us, and a meaningless threat to our enemies, if we do not develop the certain means to deliver it. The B-45 is that means. Without the B-45, we are as our champion Joe Louis would be if he were forced to defend his title in the ring while strapped into a wheelchair!”

  Laughter, followed by applause, filled the room. “Order, order please,” Senator Hill called out in vain, pounding his gavel.

  “I have no further questions,” Senator Tabworth muttered into his microphone.

  “What did I tell you?” Campbell elbowed Steve’s ribs. “Talk about your knockout punch!”

  “This is useless,” Senator Hill was declaring. “The hearding will adjourn until Monday morning, when the witness will continue his testimony.”

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the man of the hour,” Campbell told Steve as the hearing broke up.

  Flashbulbs popped as photographers and shouting reporters jostled with one another to get close to Harrison. When the young engineer saw Campbell, he excused himself from the newspaper people and came over. The brunette joined them at the same time.

  “Miss Linda Forrest, may I introduce you to Captain Steven Gold,” Campbell said.

  “How do you do, Captain,” the brunette smiled.

  Well, at least she isn’t Harrison’s wife, Steve thought as she offered him her hand. But is she his girlfriend?

  Steve
was reluctant to let go of her fingers. She was a knockout, all right, even better close up than she was from a distance. She had a wide, sensual mouth, and swell, bright blue eyes, just like that kid Elizabeth Taylor in that movie about the racing horse. But unlike Elizabeth Taylor, Linda Forrest was all grown up. As a matter of fact, now that Steve was close to her, she looked older than he’d initially thought. She looked closer to Harrison’s age, in her late twenties.

  “And this is Donald Harrison,” Campbell said.

  “Congratulations,” Steve said, tearing himself away from Linda Forrest in order to shake hands with Harrison. “You really mopped the floor with Tabworth.”

  “Well, I was captain of my debating team in college,” Harrison laughed. “And it helps when you truly believe in your argument the way I believe in the B-45,” he firmly added.

  Campbell put his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Don, Stevie here is Herman Gold’s son.”

  “Well!” Harrison smiled. “I have to tell you that your father is something of a hero of mine.”

  Linda Forrest laughed. “Looking at all those decorations on the captain’s chest, I’d say that he’s something of a hero in his own right. What do all those pretty ribbons mean, Captain?”

  “Stevie,” Campbell cut in, “show them which one represents the Distinguished Flying Cross you got for single-handedly rescuing that Navy cargo ship from the Japs.”

  “It wasn’t single-handed,” Steve began, glancing at the others. “I had help. A buddy of mine saved my skin when he—”

  “Sure, Stevie,” Campbell cut him off. He poked at the ribbons on Steve’s chest. “But which one is it?”

  Steve glanced at Linda Forrest. She smiled, rolling her big baby blues in commiseration. He smiled back as he pointed to the deep blue bar vertically edged in red and white.

  “That’s lovely,” Linda Forrest said. “I suppose you did something terribly brave to receive it.”

  “You know, that medal is just one grade below the Medal of Honor,” Campbell announced before Steve could stop him. “I happen to think they should have given the kid the Medal of Honor,” he added sourly.

  “I guess they call ‘em the way they see ‘em,” Steve replied modestly. Linda Forrest was still smiling at him as if there were nobody else around. He wondered if Harrison was getting steamed? Basking in a smile like that, he didn’t care.

  “Stevie, Stevie.” Campbell was shaking his head. “You’re never going to get anywhere unless you’re willing to blow your own horn.”

  Linda Forrest was laughing. “I do believe the captain is blushing.”

  “And which is the decoration the Navy lobbied so hard for you to get?” Campbell asked.

  “You mean the Legion of Merit,” Steve said, wishing Uncle Tim would let up. He pointed out the purplish-red bar vertically edged in white.

  “Well, they’re all very impressive,” Linda Forrest told Steve. She cocked her head to one side, a slight smile playing at the corners of her delicious mouth as she looked him over appraisingly. “Someday I’d love to see the actual medals.”

  “Uh … yeah, sure….” Steve mumbled, wondering what the hell she meant by that. He glanced uncertainly at Harrison, who seemed unperturbed.

  “Well, you’ll have to excuse us, Stevie,” Campbell was saying. “We’ve got a drink date with a very important fellow on the House of Representatives Military Appropriations Committee.”

  “Sure … of course.” Steve glanced longingly at Linda Forrest. “Very nice to have met you … and you, too, Mr. Harrison,” he added quickly.

  “Same here,” Harrison said as Campbell began to shepherd them along.

  “Good-bye, Captain Gold,” Linda Forrest smiled, looking back at Steve.

  He watched as she took Harrison’s arm. So she is his girlfriend after all, Steve told himself, feeling sad as he watched her walk away out of his life. Good-bye forever, Baby Blue Eyes.

  He spent a few seconds chatting with a senator’s aide he knew, and then left the hearing room, passing through the building’s octagonal marble rotunda and out the main doors. A cab was just pulling away as Steve ambled down the steps. He thought he glimpsed Linda Forrest looking back at him through the cab’s rear window, but he wasn’t sure.

  He paused to light a Pall Mall, and then began walking in the warm blaze of the dying afternoon down Constitution Avenue. The offices had let out. Steve smiled to himself as he watched the young secretaries in their summery frocks on their way home from work.

  He had plans for the evening: he was going to meet some friends at the Siam Club, a dining and dancing spot. The friends were bringing along a blind date for him, a girl they thought he might like. And tomorrow night he had a date with a cute redhead in his office’s secretarial pool.

  Maybe tonight’s blind date would be a dish like Linda Forrest.

  She would have to be something pretty swell to help him get those big baby blues out of his system….

  (Two)

  The Siam Club

  Washington, D.C.

  That evening a little after eight o’clock, Steve Gold was at the bar at the Siam Club, waiting for his friends to arrive. He was sipping a Rob Roy. (He’d switched from bourbon to scotch about a year ago.) While he was waiting he listened to the dance band play an Irving Berlin tune, “You Keep Coming Back Like an Old Song.”

  The Siam Club was Steve’s favorite nightspot. It was located on 16th Street, near the White House and the city’s ritziest hotels. The nightclub was pretty ritzy itself. Dreamy, dramatic murals portraying in luminous colors scenes from a fantasy Siamese kingdom lined the walls above red velvet draperies. The central chandelier and wall sconces cast romantic light on the linen-covered tables ringing the dance floor.

  While Steve was waiting, he thought about the long letter from Benny Detkin that had been waiting for him in the mail when he’d gotten back to his apartment that afternoon. Benny was still single. He’d graduated from Columbia Law School at the top of his class last summer, and now he was working as an associate at some hotshot New York firm.

  Benny and Steve had remained close. Steve still considered Benny his best friend. They visited with each other a couple of times a year, and wrote to each other regularly. At least Benny wrote regularly, Steve reminded himself, feeling guilty. He hated to write, and usually tried to get by with a hastily scrawled postcard.

  Steve patted the pockets of his charcoal-gray, double-breasted suit for his cigarettes, and then remembered that he’d smoked the last one on the drive to the club. He glimpsed one of the cigarette girls passing by in the backlit mirror behind the bar, and swiveled around on his stool to signal her. As he did, he noticed Don Harrison and Linda Forrest being shown to a table.

  Steve flipped the cigarette girl half a buck for a package of Pall Malls and told her to keep the change. As he tore the cellophane wrapping off the scarlet pack he thought about how happy his superior officer at the Pentagon had been when he’d telephoned in his report on how Harrison had bested Senator Tabworth at today’s hearings. Harrison was definitely a VIP as far as the Air Force was concerned.

  Steve saw a waiter gliding by carrying a champagne setup. It gave him an idea. “I’d like to send a bottle of champagne over to a table,” Steve told the bartender who came over to light Steve’s cigarette.

  “Yes, sir!” The bartender presented Steve with the wine card, and then snapped his fingers to summon a waiter.

  Steve didn’t know much about wine. He wished that he did as he randomly selected a pricey bottle of Bollinger near the top of the list. People who knew about wine and the finer things moved easily through the capital city. Steve wanted to be like them because they had the right skills to survive and win. They were the fighter aces of this place and time.

  He had a running tab here, so he signed for the champagne, adding a tip for both the bartender and the waiter. He instructed the waiter on which table to present the bottle with his compliments, and then sat back, feeling very pleased with himsel
f. He looked forward to telling his superior officer about his gesture on Monday morning. It was, after all, a public relations kind of thing to do, and his superior had been after him to get with the department’s program.

  Getting with the program had been hard for Steve these past two years. His superior officer, a real nice guy even if he had flown a desk all through the war, had once sat Steve down and explained to him that public relations was the art of granting favors and then asking for favors in return. The whole concept was alien to Steve. He hated small talk and beating around the bush, but he really did want to get with the program and advance his military career.

  The only enjoyable part of the job was his expense account. He’d have to remember to file an expense report for the cost of the champagne on Monday.

  “Excuse me, sir—”

  Steve turned to see the waiter who’d delivered the champagne standing beside him.

  “The gentleman thanks you, and asks that you join them for a drink.”

  Don Harrison stood up to shake hands as Steve approached the table. Harrison was dressed in a conservative dark blue double-breasted suit with a barely visible chalk stripe, a white shirt, and a muted tie.

  “Thanks for the bubbly, Captain,” Harrison said.

  “My pleasure,” Steve said. “After the way you championed the B-45 it’s the least I could do. But it’s after hours, I’m off duty, and dressed in civies,” he assed, “so please drop the formalities and call me Steve.”

  “Okay!” Harrison smiled. “And I’m Don.”

  “Please sit down, Steve,” Linda Forrest said as the waiter appeared with a chair, which he placed at the table beside the champagne in its silver ice-bucket stand.

  Steve feasted his eyes on Linda as the waiter busied himself opening the champagne. She had her hair up and was wearing black suede gloves and a low-cut black satin evening dress that revealed the tops of her breasts. Steve had a difficult time preventing himself from staring at her luscious cleavage. She was wearing very little jewelry—just a strand of pearls and matching earrings—but she didn’t need much in the way of extra ornaments.