The Hot Pilots Page 3

  “Enjoying the view,” Steve said.

  She snuck a peek at him staring down at her, and then quickly averted her eyes. The way he was staring made her acutely aware of just how little of her oiled, tanned body was hidden from view by her skimpy black bikini.

  Then again, she thought wistfully, it was kind of silly—and late—to be feeling modest. It wasn’t as if the two of them didn’t already know every square inch of each other’s bodies, outside and in…

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “It’s a free beach.”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

  He settled down beside her on her towel. She was about to tell him to get the hell off, but then decided, Why act childish? Why let him know that he’s still under my skin?

  His unbuttoned beach jacket gaped open as he took out of his pocket a pack of Pall Malls, allowing her a glimpse of his broad chest and his flat stomach. She was remembering how she’d used to run her fingers over his hard belly, and how he’d reacted when she’d touched him there, and then she thought that maybe he could tell that she was looking at his body—

  She quickly looked up into his eyes, which were so extraordinarily brown. He seemed to be looking right through her.

  “Want one?” he asked, his own cigarette dangling from his lip.

  At first she didn’t quite understand, but then she realized that he was holding out the scarlet cigarette pack. She nodded, taking a cigarette, and then leaned toward him to accept the light held cupped in his hands against the sea breeze. That was a mistake, she thought as she saw him devour her cleavage with his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked again. She knew that Steve had won the Medal of Honor, and had been promoted to lieutenant colonel for having shot down some famous North Korean honcho fighter pilot. The Air Force, wanting to get a leg up on the other service branches when it came time to do battle for appropriations, had put their newest war hero on a public relations tour. Every newspaper in the country, including her own, had run pieces on him, and she remembered the big cover story on Steve that PhotoWeek Magazine had done.

  “Last I heard you were traveling around, selling the Air Force to the Cub Scouts,” she said. “Or was it vice versa?”

  Steve chuckled. “I was, but the Korean War ended. The Air Force decided that maybe the Cub Scouts would rather hear from test pilots, so the war hero has been retired from public speaking.”

  “Too bad …”

  “Nah, I’m glad,” he said. “It was getting to be a chore reciting that speech they wrote for me. Toward the end it felt like the story I was telling had happened to somebody else. I’m still assigned to the Air Force’s Office of Public Information, in Washington.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve been grounded. Don’t you miss flying?”

  “I keep my hand in,” Steve said. “I’ve got clearance at Andrews to evaluate TAC aircraft for Brigadier General Howard Simon, who’s involved in R & D for the Air Force out of Patterson Field, in Dayton, Ohio …” He winked. “And who happens to be a friend of my dad.”

  “How convenient for you,” Linda sniffed.

  “It’s not like being in a front-line TAC squadron, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I had some leave coming, so I decided to come home to sunny California.”

  “You’ve turned into a beachcomber?” she asked lightly.

  “Not really. I’m here in Malibu to do my old man a favor. He owns a bunch of lots along the oceanfront—”

  “A bunch?” Linda gasped. “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. You’ve got to hand it to my old man. He doesn’t miss a trick. Way back when, right after Pearl Harbor, he bought up a lot of this oceanfront for a song. I guess everyone else was expecting the Japanese fleet on the horizon at any moment … Anyway, now he’s building houses on the lots.”

  “I saw that construction.” Linda nodded.

  “I’m kind of keeping an eye on the project for him …” He trailed off.

  Sure you are, she thought sarcastically. What are you doing? Trying to count the building lots and come up with the same number twice?

  She knew that Steve had dropped out of high school, and that in the Air Force had barely managed to pass his high school equivalency exam. By his own admission she knew that he was no genius, and that during peacetime the Air Force brass racked their brains trying to think of a place to park Steve Gold while they waited for another war to come around so that they could strap him into a fighter plane. Shooting down enemy airplanes was the one thing he could do, and to his credit, he did it better than almost anyone else…

  “What are you doing here?” Steve asked her. “Slow day in the news business?”

  “Actually, the opposite. The past week I’ve been working long hours pulling together a biographical Sunday supplement piece on the life of Jackie Cochran.”

  “Oh, right,” Steve said. “The first woman pilot to break the sound barrier in a Sabre jet—”

  Linda nodded. “Anyway, the piece got done, sliding in under the wire, just like usual. I decided I needed to get out of the office for a while.”

  “Well … Good for you …”

  They were silent for a few moments, smoking their cigarettes. She wondered who was going to bring it up first. He did.

  “Well, you seeing anybody these days?”

  She glanced at him skeptically, but he seemed totally sincere. Could Steve not know that she was involved with Don Harrison, the man who was chief engineer at his father’s company?

  “Yes, I am seeing someone …”

  “Oh …” He leaned forward to bury his cigarette butt, and then scooped up a handful of sand. He began to let it trickle through his fingers. “Is it serious?”

  No, he didn’t know about Don, she decided, remembering from her past experiences with him that either through innate honesty, or just plain dumbness, he’d never lied to her. Not even when it might have suited his purposes to do so, like on that last night they’d spent together in Korea. That night she’d let down her guard, revealed her feelings, and so had he when he’d coldly—but sincerely—set her straight about where he stood …

  “Yes, it’s serious,” she murmured, watching as he moved his hand slightly to let some of the sand trickle down onto her toes.

  “So it’s serious …” Steve echoed. “Is it love?” He looked at her then, and she thought he was mocking her.

  “Maybe it is love!” she said furiously, tossing away her cigarette. “And what the hell would you know about the subject, you sonofabitch?”

  “Nothing,” Steve said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m incapable of love. You told me that yourself, remember?”

  “I sure do,” Linda declared firmly. “And I was right …”

  “So, uh, where is this guy?” Steve asked, pretending to be looking around. “He can’t be too bright—”

  “Oh, he can’t be too bright?” she curtly interrupted.

  “—letting a beautiful woman wearing next to nothing hang around this beach all by herself …”

  “It just so happens that he’s away in Washington. On important business,” Linda said, miffed.

  “That’s funny. My old man’s in Washington for a few days, as well. What kind of business is your boyfriend in …?”

  “Chemicals,” she said off the top of her head. The truth was that she didn’t know why Don and Herman Gold periodically went to Washington. She’d asked about it once, and Don had said something about it being classified, so she let it go. Sure, she was a reporter, but she was also a good American. She happened to agree with Senator McCarthy that the press had no business doing the Communists a favor by compromising Americans doing important work for their country.

  Anyway, she would have lied to Steve, no matter what. She couldn’t possibly bring herself to tell him that she was involved with Don Harrison. Steve knew her too well. At the mention of Don’s name he would have burs
t out laughing, knowing exactly what she was up to …

  The irony was that her relationship with Don wasn’t as calculated as Steve would think; not exactly, at least. For example, she and Don had become reacquainted by purest chance. Last December her newspaper had sent her to Las Vegas to cover an aviation industry convention. Her editor had told her to emphasize the hot competition between GAT and Amalgamated-Landis to build the world’s next great commercial transport: a jetliner. When she’d seen Don on the convention floor she’d immediately decided that he was the perfect interview. For one thing, he’d worked for both companies; for another, she already had his bio on file because of that free-lance piece she’d done on him back in ‘47.

  She’d had no contact with Harrison since that free-lance piece, but when she reintroduced herself he’d been very polite. He agreed to an interview, and had even been gracious enough to offer to escort her around the convention. She quickly took him up on his offer, and thanks to Don she’d gotten access to industry VIPs she never could have approached on her own.

  Once they were back in L.A., Linda had called him, thinking only to repay his kindness by offering to treat him to a nice dinner on her expense account. He’d accepted her invitation, and that evening perhaps both had indulged in too much wine because after driving her home he’d made a clumsy, groping pass at her—

  Which she had gropingly, clumsily accepted …

  She’d known even then that it was a terrible mismatch. Everything about him that evening had telegraphed to her that he was inexperienced with women; that he was going to misinterpret her acquiescence; take it much too seriously. But she’d been weak, and Don was attractive, in his way. And it had only been a couple of months since she’d broken off with Steve. She guessed that she’d been on the rebound … that she’d been horny…

  And the rest, as they say, is history. The day after what had been a night of adequate but forgettable sex she’d come home from the office preoccupied with work to find a dozen roses on her doorstep. A few minutes later a delivery man had arrived bearing an iced bottle of champagne. Then, as she’d known it was going to, the telephone had rung. It had been Don, asking if he could come over…

  Reminiscing about it now, Linda remembered how she’d stood there with the phone against her ear, listening to his breathing as she pondered what to do with this sweet creature so trustfully resting in her palm. She’d thought about how lonely her busy life had lately seemed since she’d ended things with Steve Gold. She’d thought about how she wasn’t getting any younger, and about how her news correspondent’s life—the drinking and cigarettes, the lack of sleep and decent food—were catching up with her. She’d thought about how much of life was passing her by; for instance, didn’t she want children?

  And then she’d thought about what a solid bet as a husband wealthy, brilliant, young Don Harrison would be … She’d known that she could have him if she wanted him …

  “Yes, darling,” she breathed into the telephone. “Do come over, right away…”

  And he’d kept coming these past six months, at first shyly, but then boisterously, limbs flopping and tongue lolling in bliss, like a newly adopted puppy. And her initial opinion of him had been right: He was so inexperienced in love that he thought that what they had was real…

  Then again, who’s to say who’s the biggest fool among the three of us, Linda now brooded. Steve and I once had the real thing, but that hadn’t turned out to be any joy ride, either…

  “What do you say I come by your place tonight?” Steve suddenly asked.

  She looked at him, not quite believing that he could be so crude.

  “You fucking bastard—”

  “Yes,” he said calmly, looking into her eyes. “That’s right. I am. But that’s what you want. I can tell. So what do you say?”

  He’s right, she thought. He does know exactly what I want.

  She thought about the consequences.

  There are none, she persuaded herself. Eventually Don would get up the nerve to ask her to marry him, and when he did she would say yes. Once they were engaged she would be true to him. She would stick to her part of the bargain—

  Then stick to it now, nagged her conscience.

  But Don hadn’t yet proposed, she argued. The deal hadn’t yet been made—

  And to hell with the rationalizations, Linda finally thought. What it came down to was that Don was all the way across the country in Washington, so he would never know. That’s all that mattered. It made no sense to pretend that she had virtue—whatever the hell that was—when what she really had was an itch that only Steve knew how to scratch …

  “How’s seven-thirty?” she asked lightly, trying to make a joke of it. His index finger began to trace a figure eight on her thigh just above her knee. She couldn’t keep from flinching. “How’s seven?” she amended. He lifted his hand to her breasts. With his index finger he began to lightly trace a circle around her left nipple, so very swollen beneath the black nylon of her bikini top.

  “Steve …” she pleaded, thinking that at any moment somebody could appear on the beach to see him touching her so wantonly, but she knew that something like that didn’t matter to him. The bastard just didn’t care, just as she knew that there was no way she had the will to deny him.

  Not even to push his hand away…

  “How’s now?” she asked hoarsely, and began gathering up her things.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  (One)

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Washington, D.C.

  27 July 1954

  Herman Gold was beginning to wonder if he’d died in a plane crash during yesterday’s flight to Washington and gone to hell. That would explain why this meeting with Jack Horton and his crew of spooks and Air Force personnel was going to drone on forever.

  It had been about four years since the CIA had first asked Gold to put his best engineers to work developing and perfecting aerial reconnaissance techniques and equipment. In those days the periodic progress meetings that took place at CIA headquarters had proceeded with just Gold, CIA man Jack Horton, and Air Force General Howie Simon in attendance. None of the three had liked beating around the bush, so decisions had always been made quickly. As time passed, however, the attendance at the meetings had grown, to now include over thirty people from the Air Force and from various departments of the “Company,” as Horton liked to call his spy outfit.

  It was too bad, Gold now thought as he struggled unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. As was always the case, the bigger the committee the less work that got done because no decision could be made until everybody had put in their two cents, in order to justify their presence. Today’s meeting was a prime example. It had begun at nine in the morning, and had continued without breaks for the last five hours. They’d worked right through lunch, munching on ham and cheese on white bread, and sipping bad coffee out of cardboard cups as the bureaucrats made their inane comments concerning the various projects going on inside GAT’s top-secret workshop, code named “The Candy Store.” The Candy Store was a guarded building with blacked-out windows in the center of the Burbank complex. It was where Gold’s best and brightest engineers worked aviation engineering magic at the behest of their government.

  “All right, then, I suppose we can move on to new business at last,” Jack Horton sighed from his black leather swivel chair at the head of the long rectangular conference table.

  Horton was in his forties. He favored dark gray or blue suits, white shirts with tab collars, and always, a red tie. He was tall and thin. He wore his dark hair in a crewcut through which the top of his head was beginning to show, and had a thick bottle brush mustache seeded with gray. The area in front of Horton was covered with bits of napkin. He’d developed a nervous habit of shredding paper when he wasn’t using the sheets to polish the thick lenses of his black, hornrimmed eyeglasses.

  “Herman—?” Horton began.

  “Hmmm?” Gold replied languidly, looking
up from the opposite end of the table. He’d been doodling a sketch of the 909-I on his legal pad.

  “A couple of days ago I attended a meeting at the White House,” Horton said self-importantly. “It was a meeting attended by the highest level of government—”

  Gold had to smile. These Foggy Bottom guys, he thought. Why not just say the President has issued some orders, and be done with it?

  “The meeting concerned the increased difficulty we’re experiencing conducting effective reconnaissance flights over the Soviet Union. The Russians have increasingly been challenging us—even on our border flights—and meanwhile the highest levels have called for a way to conduct even deeper penetrations of Russian airspace.”

  “We’ve been talking about this for years,” Gold said crossly. “You want to go deep over Russia, which means you have to go high. The Candy Store has come up with a series of airplane proposals which you fellows have seen. The problem has always been money.”

  “That’s all changed, Herman,” Horton replied. “There’s been an increased insistence from the highest levels for adequate reconnaissance.”

  Gold thought, Trust Ike, the new President, and an old military man, to understand the value of solid aerial reconnaissance in dealing with an enemy … “So tell me what you decided,” Gold said. “And I’ll tell you if it’s possible.”

  “My people in Dayton have compiled a preliminary spec sheet,” Major General Howard Simon said as he passed a manila folder down toward Gold.

  Howie Simon was a taciturn, white-haired, blue-eyed old eagle in his early sixties who worked out of the Air Force’s R & D center at Wright-Paterson AFB, in Ohio. He and Gold had worked together on many projects down through the years, and in the process had become good friends.

  Gold opened the folder and quickly scanned its contents. “Hmmm … You want at least a seventy-thousand-foot ceiling and an extended cruising range …” Gold closed the folder. “The rest I can read later. I can tell you right now that this airplane is going to have to be extremely light to get that kind of performance …” He tore a sheet of paper off his yellow legal pad and quickly folded it into a glider shape, which he held up to Simon. “Have you fellows considered building her out of paper?”