The Fly Boys Read online

  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.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Our Pentagon session isn’t scheduled until tomorrow,” Simon continued. “And the upcoming meeting, for which I got you here a day early, and on false pretenses, isn’t about the AeroTanker.”

  Gold shook his head, confounded. “Howie, what the fuck is going on?”

  “You’ll see. In the meantime, I wanted to come meet you personally to make it clear to you that I wouldn’t have taken part in this subterfuge if I hadn’t been convinced that it was absolutely essential to the national interest.”

  “Holy shit—” Gold laughed weakly. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  Simon gestured to the driver. “That’s all I can say right now. You’ll know everything in a few minutes.”

  Gold, his thoughts in turmoil, nodded mutely as the Plymouth, its tires humming on the wet asphalt, left the river behind and made its way through the crowded Washington streets. Several times when the traffic threatened to slow them up, the driver touched a switch mounted beneath the Plymouth’s dash. A siren blared, and the traffic parted to allow them to continue smoothly on their way.

  It began to rain more steadily. Thanks to the decreased visibility, Gold, who rarely visited Washington, soon lost his bearings. “Where are we now, Howie?”

  “What’s called Foggy Bottom,” Simon smiled. “See? There’s the Lincoln Memorial.” He pointed out the white marble building wreathed in mist like some ancient temple on Mount Olympus.

  Gold caught a glimpse of the Washington Monument in the distance, the great spire piercing the fog, and then they were turning onto a narrow side street. Simon pointed out what he said was the rear of the State Department as they drove down a hill and then turned through a gate marked GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE. They came to a stop in an interior, blacktopped courtyard formed by three imposing gray stone buildings.

  The sergeant driver got out of the car and came around to open Gold’s door. Gold and Simon got out. Simon hurried him through the rain into one of the buildings. A muscular-looking young man in a too-snug suit was seated behind a desk just inside the door.

  “General Simon and Herman Gold to see Jack Horton,” Simon told the young man, who used the telephone on his desk to relay the news.

  “Jack Horton!” Gold echoed. “I haven’t seen him since 1945! Howie, what’s going on?”

  “You’ll understand everything soon, Herman,” Simon assured him. “Just come with me.”

  “I’ll have to get someone to escort you, General,” the young man apologized as he relieved them of their coats and stowed them in a closet. “It’s Agency procedure.”

  “What agency?” Gold whispered to Simon as the young man returned to his telephone.

  “Central Intelligence Agency,” Simon whispered back.

  “What’s that?” Gold muttered. “Wait, I can probably guess. If Jack Horton is involved with it, it’s got to be cloak and dagger.”

  Simon nodded. “Nobody has publicized it for obvious reasons, but part of the legislation Truman signed back in ‘47 to create the Department of Defense also authorized a new intelligence-gathering outfit to replace the OSS.”

  A young woman appeared from a hallway, and led Gold and Simon through several rambling corridors lined with offices to an unmarked, closed door. A secretary seated outside the office smiled and said, “Go right in, gentlemen.”

  Simon opened the office door and stood aside to let Gold enter. Inside the office, Jack Horton, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and red tie, stood up from behind his large antique walnut desk. He was as tall and skinny as ever, Gold thought. Horton had grown a rakish bottle-brush mustache, but he still favored a military-style haircut and black horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

  “Herman, thank you for coming.”

  “Jack, don’t mention it, but then you never did mention it, right?” Gold smiled thinly. “I’ll say this for you, you don’t look a day older than when I last saw you.”

  Horton smiled. “It comes from staying single and loving my work.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, and I quit smoking a year ago.”

  Gold nodded. “Smart. I wish I could get my chief engineer off those coffin nails.”

  “Who, Teddy?” Simon asked.

  Gold nodded. “Teddy’s been looking like hell lately.” He glanced around the office. “Well, Jack, your work must love you, as well,” he remarked. “You certainly seem to have come up in the world since our last meeting.”

  Horton’s large corner office was furnished to suggest a front parlor in a prosperous Georgian town house instead of a place of business. The walls were painted turquoise, and a large rectangular, blue and gold Oriental carpet covered most of the polished wooden floor. A striped Sheraton sofa and a matching armchair were arranged facing Horton’s desk, which was swept clean. There wasn’t so much as a pen stand on it.

  “This is all very nice, indeed,” Gold elaborated. �
�So, Jack, have you gone into the antique business or are you still a spy?”

  Horton grimaced. “You’re sore at us for fooling you,” he mused. “That’s okay.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding,” Gold said dryly.

  Behind Horton, the tall rain-splattered windows rattled in the wind. Horton moved aside to let Gold see the distant but dramatic view of the Mall.

  “On a good day you can see the Washington Monument,” Horton said. “But today it’s in the fog.”

  “It’s not the only thing in the fog,” Gold said pointedly. “Come on now, seriously—if you wanted to see me, why didn’t you just call and say so?”

  “You’ll understand everything in a little while,” Horton replied.

  “Everybody keeps telling me that,” Gold said sadly. Horton gestured to the armchair, and Gold sat down.

  “Herman, Jack figured it would attract a lot less attention at GAT if your people thought you were coming to Washington for a routine get-together with Air Force Procurement,” Simon said as he sat down on the sofa. “It’s best if nobody back at GAT knows about any of this.”

  “Leastways, not until you agree to help us,” Horton began.

  “Assuming I agree to help you….” Gold cut him off crossly.

  “Fair enough,” Horton smiled, settling in behind the desk. “I’ll start from the beginning, but first I need your word that no matter what you decide, everything we discuss in this office will remain absolutely confidential. You’ll understand why—”

  “In a little while.” Gold scowled. “That I know already. Nothing else do I know, but that has been drummed into me.”

  “Herman,” Jack Horton cut him off, frowning. “Exactly one week ago today—on August twenty-ninth—the Soviets test detonated their first atomic bomb.”

  Gold stared at Horton a moment, and then he looked at Simon. “Is he kidding?”

  “I’m afraid not, Herman,” Simon replied. “I’d better add that this is highly classified information. As of yet, not even the President’s cabinet has been advised.” Simon’s blue eyes glinted with sardonic amusement. “The only reason they told me was because they needed my cooperation to lure you here.”

  Gold nodded, trying to come to grips with what he’d just heard. The Russians had the bomb— He felt his shoulders hunch, as if to ward off a sudden blow.

  “I guess we all knew that it was going to be only a matter of time,” Gold muttered. “But it makes life a little bit more complicated now, doesn’t it?” He shivered. “The world just got to be a lot smaller, more dangerous place….”

  Horton nodded somberly. “Smaller in one sense, but larger in others.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Gold said.

  “They don’t call it the Iron Curtain for nothing, Herman. We live in an open society, so the commies are having themselves a picnic snooping on us, but Russia is a closed society. We need hard information on them, but we’re having a devil of a time getting it.”

  “Don’t you have spies over there?” Gold asked.

  “We’ve got agents in place,” Horton nodded. “But what our people are able to send back to us is limited and vague.”

  “Back before the Berlin airlift, when it became clear that the Cold War was heating up, the CIA came to the Air Force to discuss their problem,” General Simon said. “And the matter got kicked over to the research center at Dayton, which was how I got drawn into it. Our lab boys came up with an interim solution: a high-altitude balloon, carrying a powerful camera. We float them from Europe. Over Russia they snap their pictures, and then we hope like hell that they make it to Japan, where a radio signal detaches the camera so it can come down by parachute.”

  “Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t,” Horton said, shrugging. “When it doesn’t, and the commies get ahold of it, we stiff it out, claiming that it’s nothing but a weather balloon. The commies don’t believe us, but we don’t much care. What really bothers us is that the balloon’s routes vary randomly with the wind, and they can only shoot pictures of what happens to be below them. What we need is a way to travel directly to a chosen, specific target.”

  Gold nodded. “In other words, an airplane.”

  “An airplane,” Horton agreed.

  “I can’t help thinking back to my own flying days in the military,” Gold smiled. “You know, of course, that during World War One, long before airplanes were used as fighters or bombers, they were used as observation and scouting craft—”

  “Excuse me, Herman,” Horton interrupted, glancing at his wristwatch. “But getting back to the matter at hand, General Simon has suggested that there might be a way to adapt your BroadSword fighter to high-altitude photographic and electronic reconnaissance.”

  Gold frowned. “The BroadSword is fast enough, and it wouldn’t take much to fit her with a camera pod, but there’s a cruising range problem.” He brightened. “Howie, I’m sure you’re familiar with the work Bell Labs has been doing for the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics?”

  “Sure, the X-series rocket plane,” Simon replied.

  Gold nodded. “Well, the X-series carries so little fuel and uses it up so rapidly that it has to be air launched—carried up hitched to the belly of a bomber and then released in midair.”

  “Would that work for a BroadSword, General?” Horton asked eagerly.

  Simon grinned. “If Herman says it will.”

  Gold smiled back. “I see no reason why we can’t modify some BroadSwords to carry your photographic and electronic snooping gear and rig them to be air launched along the Russian border. From there, within reason of course, they can dart in and out of the Soviet Union.”

  “Sounds feasible,” Simon decreed. “Herman, I think it would be very helpful if some of your people at GAT worked with us on the modifications. Most have Government security clearances, and nobody knows the BroadSword like they do.”

  “I like that idea,” Horton said. “And it’s given me one of my own. Herman, you’ve got some of the best aviation minds in the nation working for you.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Gold shrugged.

  “Once you’ve selected your BroadSword team and have them working with the Air Force’s people, why not keep them together?” Horton continued. “What I’m suggesting is an ongoing research and design lab devoted to advancing aerial reconnaissance research. For example, the Broad-Sword’s modifications will serve as a stopgap solution to our problem, but we still need a reconnaissance airplane with the range to penetrate the innermost reaches of the Soviet Union. Your secret team within GAT could begin the R&D on such a plane.”

  “Look at you!” General Simon laughed. “Jack, you look like a kid dreaming of being let loose in a candy store.”

  “An exclusive Agency candy store is exactly what I want,” Horton grinned. He eyed Gold. “How about it, Herman? You willing to run one for us?”

  If I don’t do it, somebody else will, Gold thought. That would probably cost GAT essential government goodwill and lucrative government contracts. Besides, Gold found the whole idea intriguing, provided his company did not have to bear the brunt of the cost involved.

  “This kind of work gets expensive,” Gold cautioned. “You can’t expect GAT to pay for it out of its own pocket.”

  “Of course not,” Horton replied. “On the other hand, it would blow security and attract commie agents the way spilled honey pulls flies if we funded you overtly….” He was quiet for a moment. “Try this on for size. What would you say to an arrangement where appropriations were channeled to you from this agency through a cutout?”

  “What’s a cut-out?” Gold asked.

  “It’s a middleman,” General Simon replied. “Jack, what about your contacts at the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics?”

  “Yeah,” Horton smiled. “I’m owed a favor over there. Howie, we could probably divert some additional funding to the candy store through the Air Force, right?”

  When Simon nodd
ed, Gold said, “You two guys work pretty closely, don’t you?”

  Simon shrugged. “You said it yourself, Herman. Observation and aviation have gone together from the very beginning.”

  “To put it another way, we’re the spies, but the Air Force owns the skies,” Horton said whimsically. “Okay, Herman, if we can solve the appropriations problem, are you willing to build us what we need?”

  “I’m willing to try,” Gold replied. “Who will I report to?”

  “Me,” Simon and Horton said in unison.

  Gold laughed.

  “For now, I guess, you’d best report to both of us,” Horton said uneasily.

  Simon, looking disgusted, nodded.

  This, Gold thought to himself, is one match that wasn’t made in heaven….

  (Two)

  Mayflower Hotel

  Washington, D.C.

  “The thing with Horton and his spooks,” Howie Simon explained, “is that they push too hard. They just never know when to quit.”

  Gold nodded. They were in the coffee shop at the Mayflower. Simon had given Gold a ride to the hotel, and had then accepted Gold’s offer to come in for coffee and a chat.

  “Back during the war, and just after, when it was still the OSS, these guys were content to come along for the ride,” Simon continued irritably. “They needed wings for their observation and spy missions, and they just about kissed our asses when we were willing to lend a hand. Now they’re getting pushy,” he repeated. “I happen to know that they’ve successfully recruited some Air Force officers into their fold. Sometimes I think that they’re trying to build themselves their own private air force inside the one we’ve already got.”

  “On the other hand,” Gold said, smiling, “from the little I heard this morning, something tells me Horton and his bunch have on occasion funded some Air Force operations.”

  “Well, maybe once in a while we’ve gotten them to pay their fair share for projects that were of mutual interest,” Simon grumbled.

  “There you are, Howie,” Gold said. “They pay, so they figure they’re entitled to have a say in things.”