The Fly Boys Page 21

  Gold enjoyed coming to the Top Hat when he was entertaining business prospects from out of town. The place was undeniably the essence of moviedom glamour; the Top Hat’s sizzle was what sold its steaks. When Gold had telephoned his visitors from Dayton to suggest the restaurant for lunch, he’d heard the excited intake of breath at the other end of the line.

  “Herman, good to see you,” General Simon said, standing up as Gold reached the booth.

  “Howard, Billy,” Gold nodded in turn as he shook hands with both men.

  Billy Burnett sidled up close. “Is that who I think it is?” he whispered, pointing at a nearby table.

  “John Wayne?” Gold said, amused. “Why, yes it is.”

  “Holy shit,” Burnett breathed, shaking his head. “You don’t know him, do you, Herman?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have met him. GAT had occasion to lease some airplanes to the studio for one of his war pictures.”

  “Damn….” Burnett sighed.

  “Would you like to meet him?” Gold asked.

  “Uh—” Burnett blushed bright red. “Maybe later. He looks like he’s busy talking right now.”

  “Dammit, Billy, show some gumption,” Howard Simon laughed, shaking his head. “You’re a real airman. He’s just played them in the pictures.”

  Gold chuckled as he slid into the booth, and all three men sat down.

  “I could understand a man getting the shakes over meeting Ava Gardner,” Simon continued to rib his junior officer, and then he perked up. “Say, Herman—she’s not around, is she?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be, Howie.”

  “Too bad….” Simon winked.

  “Have you had a drink yet?” Gold asked.

  “Well, I’d rather have Ava Gardner,” Simon persisted. “But a drink will do.”

  “Why don’t I order champagne?” Gold smiled brightly as he flagged a waiter. “I trust we are here to celebrate the Air Force’s acquisition of its latest bomber?”

  Simon and Burnett exhanged dark glances. Uh-oh, Gold thought, but when the waiter came he ordered the champagne anyway.

  They caught up on old times while they were waiting for the wine to be served. Gold wanted to steer the conversation back to his bomber, but he figured that Howie Simon would get around to it in his own good time.

  The waiter appeared with the wine. “Congratulations on the BroadSword breaking the record,” Simon said, lifting his glass once champagne had been poured all around.

  “Thanks,” Gold grinned. He sipped at his champagne. “This bubbly is sweet, but not as sweet as breaking that record.”

  In July, an F-90 BroadSword at Muroc had broken Mach One in a shallow dive, to become the fastest combat aircraft in the Air Force. A few days later a successful attempt on the world speed record had been made, and the BroadSword had entered the record books as the fastest combat aircraft in the world.

  “You know, I got a whole stack of congratulatory telegrams when the BroadSword entered the record books,” Gold confided. “It felt really good to get the recognition from the industry after all the years of setbacks trying to come up with a viable jet fighter.” He grinned. “It shows that if you can just hold on long enough, things always get better.”

  “Well, that’s a good way to look at it,” Billy Burnett seemed to pounce. “Win a few, lose a few.” He laughed nervously. “Sometimes you’re on top, and sometimes you’re on the bottom. You know how pleased the Air Force is with the BroadSword. We’ve done business with you in the past, and you know that we’ll be doing business with you again in the future.”

  Gold stared blankly as Howard Simon held up his hand to silence Burnett. “What he’s trying to say is that your bomber is a bust.”

  “I see,” Gold muttered. He felt numb with disappointment as the waiter arrived to present them with menus, and then went away.

  “There’re a number of things we don’t like about the airplane,” Burnett said, setting his menu aside. “The bottom line is that we’re sticking with Boeing. We’re very pleased with their progress to date on the XB-47.”

  Gold nodded. He knew from the industry grapevine that Boeing had some time ago come up with a lovely swept-wing design for a jet bomber, and a little birdy had told him a bit about the XB-47’s specs. “She’s a fine airplane, all right, but she hasn’t got intercontinental range—”

  “How did you know that?” Simon asked sharply.

  “Howie,” Gold chided affectionately, “these things get around.”

  “Well,” Simon grumbled, “they’ve submitted a proposal for a larger intercontinental bomber—”

  “General … sir….” Burnett said in warning.

  “Um, I guess that’s all I can say about it, Herman,” Simon shrugged. “Bottom line, Boeing is offering us a better airplane than what you came up with.”

  Gold didn’t say anything. He guessed that he should be arguing on behalf of GAT’s design, but his mind was a blank. Anyway, what was the point? The decision had been made.

  “GAT has proven itself to be a leader when it comes to building fighter aircraft,” Simon was saying. “But Boeing has far more experience building bombers.”

  “I hear you,” Gold replied.

  “Now, then, Herman,” Simon smiled, holding up his menu, “do we still get lunch?”

  “Howie,” Gold began, deadpan, “if I were as ugly an old coot as you, I’d sure as hell work on my personality.”

  Simon laughed. “Just for that, I’m ordering me a lobster salad!”

  Chuckling, Gold signaled the waiter. They ordered the lobster all around. “What the hell, might as well give the GAT/MJB-1 a Viking’s funeral,” Gold joked. “Maybe I should send this lunch tab to Boeing.”

  “They’re going to be able to afford it,” Burnett replied. “Just between us, Herman, their XB-47 is one outstanding airplane. If it weren’t limited in range, it would be ideal. As it is, it’s going to put us ahead of the Soviets for some time to come.”

  Limited range, Gold thought. He knew that the SAC’s chief prided himself on his organization’s long reach. That meant Boeing’s new bomber would have to refuel in flight.

  The idea, when it came to Gold, was so totally, outrageously audacious that it gave him a chill.

  He took a deep breath. “Okay, so you don’t want our bomber. But what about our proposal for the tanker?”

  Simon glanced inquiringly at Burnett. Burnett shrugged.

  “What tanker?” Simon asked.

  “The GAT AeroTanker,” Gold said, and then smiled. “Come on, Howie. Quit kidding around. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Herman, I don’t recall a tanker proposal from you,” Simon said, his brow furrowing.

  “The AT-909,” Gold insisted, making up a designation on the spur of the moment, as he had the entire airplane. “We sent you the proposal for it along with our bomber specs.” He struggled to look convincing as General Simon stared at him.

  “Um, Herman …” Billy Burnett was nervously fingering his mustache. “I don’t seem to recall a GAT proposal for a tanker.”

  “Shut up, Billy,” Simon muttered. “Herman, what are you trying to pull?”

  “Pull? Me? I’m not trying to pull anything,” Gold declared, trying to sound insulted. “Look, if you guys lost my proposal, just say so.”

  “We didn’t lose your proposal,” Simon began.

  “Um, we never got it,” Burnett said. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.” The fact that he sounded apologetic inspired Gold to push on.

  “Well …” Gold tried to sound aggrieved. “My people are going to hit the roof, but I guess I can put together another set of specs and rush them over to your hotel.”

  “How big of you.” Simon was scowling.

  “You’re going to be in town for what,” Gold persisted, “another three days?”

  “Two days,” Simon replied. “Herman, all kidding aside. We’re not looking for a new tanker.”

  “Come on, you guys need a new tan
ker,” Gold said, talking fast. “Sure, Amalgamated-Landis is promising you delivery of its B-45 long-range bomber next year, but you yourself just admitted to me that the only decent jet bomber that’s even close to going into production is the XB-47. There’s no way that she’s going to be able to reach Moscow without in-flight refueling.”

  “We’ve got tankers,” Billy Burnett objected.

  “Sure, KC series airplanes,” Gold replied. “But they’re prop driven, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing!” Gold overrode Burnett. “No way are those prop-driven clunkers going to be able to keep up with jets. You know what’s going to happen? Your brand-new, shiny jet bombers are going to find themselves very close to stalling when they try to creep along slow enough to fly nose to tail to those KCs. SAC won’t need a war to lose bombers. Routine in-flight maneuvers will do your bombers in long before the Soviets get their chance.”

  “Well, actually we were thinking about a new tanker,” Billy Burnett began to hedge. “Somewhere down the road….” he trailed off.

  Now it was Gold’s turn to pounce. “Ah-hah! Down the road! But GAT already has a proposal put together for the jet tanker you’re going to need to support your jet bombers.” Gold shook his head sadly. “If only you guys hadn’t lost it.”

  “But we didn’t lose it!” Burnett complained. “We never got it.”

  “Sure, Billy.” Gold looked disgusted.

  “Well… maybe you could send us over another set of specs,” Billy began. He glanced at Simon. “That is, if the general is agreeable?”

  “What the hell,” Simon shrugged as the waiter appeared with their lunch. “It’s highly unusual, but seeing as how we lost the first set—” he scoffed merrily.

  “You understand that all we can do is present it?” Burnett warned.

  “Of course.” Gold was nodding so hard he thought his head was going to snap off and land in his plate.

  “Why don’t you tell us more about your tanker proposal that we lost?” Simon suggested gleefully as he dug into his lobster.

  “Well, um…” Gold hedged. “It’s been awhile since I ‘ooked those specs over, you understand.”

  Simon cackled. “Tell you what, Herm—” He snapped his fingers to signal the waiter. “This lobster is delicious, but I’m gonna need a whole lot of wine to wash down this proposal of yours. You’d better order another bottle of champagne.”

  Gold smiled at the waiter. “You heard the man.”

  By the end of lunch—and a second bottle of wine—Gold had managed to persuade Simon to allow GAT the full forty-eight hours “to assemble and collate another set of specs.” Gold would have a courier waiting at the airport with the proposal when the two officers arrived for their flight back to Dayton. Gold also got Billy Burnett to outline all of the Air Force’s objections to GAT’s bomber proposal.

  They were lingering over their coffee when Billy Burnett excused himself in order to use the men’s room. General Simon, puffing contentedly on a cigar, waited until his junior officer was gone, and then demanded, “All right, Herman, what’s this crap about?”

  Gold struggled to look innocent. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t bullshit me any more than you already have, which is a substantial amount. Admit it, you ain’t got a tanker.”

  “What I have is forty-eight hours,” Gold said steadily. “Right?”

  “Sure, sure. Forty-eight hours,” Simon snorted. “What you going to do? Backdate the blueprints?”

  Gold allowed himself a thin smile. “You really want to know?”

  Simon, studying the tip of his cigar, sighed and shook his head.

  Gold shrugged. “Then don’t ask.”

  “All right, Herman. But you know we’re going to be objective,” Simon cautioned. “Forty-eight hours or forty-eight months, the specs will move through channels just like any other proposal.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “One more thing,” Simon said. “We’d better not let Billy in on this.” His bright blue eyes glinted as he grinned around his cigar. “Old Billy would bust himself a new asshole if he ever found out.”

  (Three)

  GAT

  Burbank

  The Caddy’s tires squealed in protest as Gold skidded into the parking lot and then thrust the big car into its space like a dagger into a sheath. He’d made the drive back to the plant in record time. His heart was pounding and he felt giddy.

  Forty-eight hours to come up with a new airplane design from scratch. If GAT pulled this off, it would become legend!

  He ignored the astonished stares from his employees as he dashed into the building with his coattails flapping and his necktie streaming over his shoulder like an aviator’s silk scarf. He pounded the elevator’s call button. When it arrived, its passengers were stupefied as he commandeered it, ordering the operator to take him directly to the floor where Teddy Quinn’s R&D engineering department was located.

  In the design studio, the young engineers in their shirtsleeves and loosened ties stopped what they were doing to gape, their mouths open, as Gold stampeded past the rows of desks and drafting tables on his way to Teddy’s corner office.

  Gold’s daughter Susan looked up, startled, from her desk outside Teddy’s door as he approached. “Daddy? Are you all right?” she asked, sounding flustered.

  “Of course I am!” Gold said.

  “Are you sure?” she asked uncertainly. “You look—strange.”

  “I’m fine,” Gold replied impatiently. “Teddy in?”

  “Yes, Daddy—”

  Gold barged past her and into Teddy’s office.

  “Hi, Herman. Where’s the fire?” Teddy asked mildly, not looking up from the papers on his lap. He was sitting slouched in his chair behind his desk, where he was almost hidden by a precariously balanced wall of stacked folders. The folders threatened to topple into the automobile hubcap overflowing with butts that Teddy used as an ashtray. He had his shoes off, and his stockinged feet—one sock was blue and the other was brown—were propped on an open desk drawer. He was wearing an open-necked green and red plaid sport shirt, tan corduroy pants, and a white lab coat. As usual, the lab coat was smudged with the accumulation of ash that had fallen from the smoldering cigarette stuck between his lips.

  “God, Teddy,” Gold scowled. He personally needed a tidy workplace, but Teddy was one of those who seemed to thrive creatively amid chaos. The office was a mess. Balled-up papers littered the carpet, and haphazard drifts of folders and rolled-up blueprints blanketed Teddy’s drafting table and every stick of furniture. The only oasis of neatness was the glass display case that took up one whole wall. The case held scale models of the entire GAT family of aircraft, including the latest, the BroadSword.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute….” Teddy murmured. His tortoiseshell eyeglasses were perched on the tip of his nose as he studied the work perched on his lap. He had a pen in one hand, and in the other a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola from which a bent straw bobbed.

  Gold wrinkled his nose. “It smells like week-old sweat socks in here.”

  “I resent that insinuation.” Teddy wiggled his stockinged toes. He jotted a quick note on the top sheet of the papers on his lap and then tossed them aside. He swung his feet off the desk drawer and sat up. “How’d it go with our bomber at lunch?” he asked.

  “Fuck the bomber,” Gold said. “We’re building them a tanker.”

  Teddy didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared at Gold, his green eyes magnified by the thick lenses. Then he said, “What?”

  “A tanker,” Gold repeated.

  Teddy ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, salted with gray. “Herm, I’m your chief engineer, right?”

  “Of course,” Gold said distractedly.

  “Well, unless you’ve got some other chief engineer stashed away around here someplace, I’m pretty sure we haven’t designed a tanker.”

  “I know that! We’ve got forty-eig
ht hours to come up with one.”

  “Forty-eight hours?” Teddy echoed weakly.

  “Right.”

  The cigarette between Teddy’s lips had burned down to almost nothing. Teddy pinched the inch-long butt between thumb and nicotine-stained index finger, took a final drag, and then shook loose a fresh cigarette from the pack of Camels on his desk. He lit it off the butt.

  “You smoke too much,” Gold said.

  “That’s because I work for you.” Teddy exhaled a perfect smoke ring and then flicked the butt through it. It arced, trailing smoke like a crippled fighter before nose-diving into the hubcab. He gestured toward the folder-laden armchair in front of his desk. “Herman, throw some of that crap on the floor, sit down, and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Gold filled him in on what had taken place at lunch. “So I think Howie is on to us,” he concluded. “But I’m pretty sure Billy Burnett hasn’t caught on.”

  Teddy frowned. “I don’t get something. If the general knows that you were bullshitting, why would he go along?”

  Gold laughed. “I think Howie thinks the whole idea is a pisser. If I know him—and I do—I’d wager that he’s willing to go along just to see if we can do it.”

  “Okay,” Teddy nodded. “Now I understand.”

  “Good!” Gold jumped to his feet. “Now we haven’t got any time to waste! Let’s get everyone together in the conference room and—”

  Teddy held up his hand. “Herm, I understand, but I don’t want to do it.”

  Gold wanted to shout, but he forced himself to remain calm. After all, he wouldn’t have lost his temper with Howie Simon or Billy Burnett. It was hard to be as diplomatic with friends as he could be with business acquaintances.