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  “If you say so….” Linda replied, sounding unconvinced.

  “I know so.” Steve poured two generous drinks and handed one to her. “To us—” he toasted as they clinked glasses.

  “Umm, wonderful stuff,” Linda said as she sipped the scotch. “But I’m still cold. If we spread my parka out on the carpet, what will we use to cover us once we’re undressed?”

  Steve looked around the room. His eyes fell on the wall-sized FEAF tapestry. “You shall be covered in silk,” he told Linda, and then went over to the wall hanging and gave it an experimental yank. It was attached by only a couple of tacks, and came down easily.

  “You are clever!” Linda applauded as Steve bundled up the woven silk and carried it over. She took another swallow of her drink, and then set aside the glass. “And cleverness should be rewarded,” she whispered.

  She shrugged off her parka and spread it out on the carpet with its quilted lining facing up. Now she kept her eyes on him as she began to unbutton her shirt, letting it drop to the floor. She undid the brass slide of her canvas belt, unzipped her trousers, and stepped out of them.

  Steve laughed giddily. What a kick to see her shed her tomboy’s fatigues to reveal that she was wearing a lacy chemise.

  “These military things are so drab and unflattering,” she smiled. “I felt the need to wear something feminine underneath. Do you like?”

  “I like,” Steve said as she pirouetted for him, looking like an angel in her silky lace, and more than a little devilish in the red light.

  Steve finished his drink and quickly shed his own clothes. As he went to her, she put one arm around his neck and with the other hand reached down to gently encircle his erection. Steve sighed as he pressed his face into her dark, tousled hair. Her hand was still on him as she laughingly sank to the floor, gently tugging him down. He disengaged himself in order to grab the wall hanging and spread it out over them so that the FEAF insignia made a silken canopy under which they burrowed.

  “Make love to me right now,” she whispered urgently as he glided his hands over her smooth, curvy ass and kissed and sucked her nipples. She pulled him down on top of her and spread her legs, all the while fondling him until he had to stop her or else risk coming too soon.

  He was just about to enter her when he abruptly stopped, groaning, realizing that he had no condom. “Linda, we’ve got no protection for you—”

  “I don’t care!” she hissed, clawing at him.

  “You could get pregnant—”

  “Don’t worry! It’s just before my time of the month!”

  She grabbed him and pulled. It was either go along or else risk her breaking it off. They rocked and squirmed beneath the silk, and both climaxed in less than a minute.

  Once the initial edge was off, they were able to settle down for a long, leisurely go-around. Forty-five minutes and another round of Chivas later, they were still under the wall hanging, nicely sheened with sweat and just beginning third-round preliminaries when the lights in the office abruptly snapped on.

  Steve quickly scuttled halfway out from beneath the now damp and wrinkled tapestry to see Major Kell standing in the doorway. The major was smoking a pipe and wearing a parka over striped pajamas. He had bedroom slippers on his feet and a bundle of manila folders under his arm.

  In dogfighting it was best to take the offensive. “What are you doing here?” Steve demanded.

  “What am I…?” Kell trailed off. “My beautiful wall hanging!” he gasped.

  “It’s none the worse for wear,” Steve said, looking at it, and then shrugged. “A little stained maybe…”

  “Dammit, Gold! You’d better have a good explanation! You—you—” Kell paused, sniffing and then wrinkling up his nose. “What’s that awful smell?”

  Linda stuck her head out from under the silk. Her blue eyes looked dreamy, and her dark hair hung in damp ringlets around her flushed face. “You were right, Kell, He is a major.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  (One)

  Gold Household,

  Bel-Air, California

  28 August 1951

  The ringing telephone tore Herman Gold from a deep sleep. He reached out in the darkness of the bedroom to fumble for the receiver in its cradle, found it, and brought it to his ear.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled, not yet really awake. “Hello?”

  “Herman, it’s me.”

  “Teddy?” Gold yarned. “God, what time is it?”

  “It’s a little after four A.M.”

  “What the hell—?” Gold began.

  Beside him, Erica stirred in her sleep. “What is it?” she murmured. “Has something happened?” She switched on the lamp on her side of the bed.

  Gold, squinting against the light, waved her quiet. “Teddy, where are you?”

  “I’m in the design lab.”

  “Has he worked all night again?” Erica demanded.

  Gold shrugged irritably. “Teddy,” he began, “I thought that we’d agreed that you were going to take things a little bit easier?” he asked carefully.

  “These problems we’ve got with the GC-909 aren’t going to solve themselves.”

  That’s the truth, Gold thought. The AT-909 AreoTanker project for the Air Force was proceeding along according to schedule, but the design team working on the commercial version of the jet transport, the GC-909, had hit some snags. The most serious problem was the commercial jetliner’s projected runway requirements. Fully loaded, in warm weather, the GC-909 was going to need too much runway to operate from most of the nation’s airports.

  I told you that I plan to retire once the GC-909 is operational,” Teddy said. “I’ll have plenty of time to rest then.”

  Gold scowled as he heard the double click of Teddy’s cigarette lighter.

  “Anyway, Herman, I didn’t wake you up to chat about the 909,” Teddy said, noisily exhaling smoke. “I’ve been listening to the radio while I was working. They’ve just broadcast a news bulletin. Another SB has gone down.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Gold sighed. He glanced at Erica. “A fourth Stoat-Black Starstreak has crashed,” Gold told her.

  “She went down over the Mediterranean, off the coast of Italy,” Teddy continued. “The radio says there was a full crew aboard, and capacity passengers.”

  “They say what they think happened? I mean, can they pin it on a storm or something?”

  “Nope. Not yet, anyway. She went down in daylight. There were witnesses on the ground who claim the weather was perfect. They reported that one minute the plane was soaring and the next she just broke up. She was carrying a full crew of six and twenty-five passengers. No survivors, of course.”

  “It sounds just like the last one,” Gold muttered. “That’s four crashes in a little over a year. They’ve got to ground them all now.”

  “Already have, according to the radio,” Teddy said. “Anyway, I’m sorry about waking you up, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I appreciate the call,” Gold said. “Now I wish you’d go home and get some rest,” he added.

  “I’ll stretch out here for a few hours,” Teddy promised.

  “Please see that you do,” Gold implored. “I’ll see you in the office at the regular time.”

  “If I’m asleep, don’t wake me,” Teddy joked, and hung up.

  Gold hung up the telephone. He felt wide awake. He sat up and swung his feet out of the bed, sliding them into his slippers.

  “Where are you going?” Erica asked.

  “Downstairs,” Gold said, pulling on a burgundy velour robe. “I’m up, but I don’t want to disturb you.”

  Erica, looking at him, shrugged and began getting out of bed. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “It’s been one hell of a month for the aircraft industry,” Gold said as he sipped his coffee.

  He was sitting at the marble-topped, wrought-iron table in the tiled kitchen. The kitchen was dimly lit. The only light was from the recessed fixture above
the double sink.

  “First Circle Airline is grounded due to its pilots going on strike,” he muttered. “And then that Trans-Way airliner goes down over Africa….”

  “And now this,” Erica sighed. She had her back to Gold as she rummaged through the cabinets. “I know there are some cookies somewhere if I can just figure out where Ramona put them.”

  Gold watched as Erica took down a tin, opened it, and began to put some cookies on a plate. She was wearing a short-sleeved ivory-colored silk robe over her nightgown. For a while now she’d been wearing her blonde hair cut into a mass of short curls that she said was called a poodle clip. The youthful haircut, combined with her trim figure, made her look a decade younger than her fifty-one years.

  “What will Stoat-Black do?” Erica asked as she brought the plate of cookies over to the table and sat down.

  “The only thing they can,” Gold said. He began nibbling on a cookie. “They’ve got to cooperate fully with the British government and the European airlines in an investigation.”

  “Do you think there’s something intrinsically wrong with the SB-100?” she asked as she added a dollop of cream to her coffee.

  “A few months ago I would have said no,” Gold replied, taking another cookie. “I would have told you that it had to be pilot error. Now I just don’t know what to think. Neither do the European airlines, nor Stoat-Black, I would imagine, and that’s why they’ve moved so quickly to ground the Star-streaks.” He shrugged. “When you look at the total picture, it’s just overwhelming. The first Starstreaks went into service in Europe in April of last year. Within six months there were two serious accidents, but both of them occurred on takeoff and were attributable to pilot error. Takeoff procedures were modified, and everything seemed back to normal. Then, a couple of months later, while supposedly flying high above a storm, a Starstreak went down over the North Atlantic. That was considered a mysterious but not totally implausible accident.”

  “Because of the storm,” Erica said.

  “Right,” Gold nodded. “All airplanes are vulnerable in bad weather, but now there’s this accident,” Gold said. “From what Teddy told me, it suspiciously resembles the last one, except that this time there’s no bad weather to blame. This has got to cast doubt on wheather bad weather was truly responsible for knocking down that Starstreak over the North Atlantic.” He shook his head in anger and disgust. “Whatever the hell is happening, until the authorities can nail it down, they’ve got to keep those planes on the ground.”

  “Don’t become so upset about it,” Erica said. “It’s not your problem—”

  “I’m in the airplane business,” Gold cut her off impatiently, grabbing another cookie and stuffing it into his mouth. “So it is my problem,” he managed with his mouth full. “In this business, whenever something terrible happens —to me or one of my competitors—it only serves to undermine the public’s confidence in aviation, and that hurts everyone in the industry!”

  “But—” Erica tried to interrupt.

  “But, nothing!” Gold snapped at her. “You asked me so I’m telling you. Be quiet and listen. Jets are new to the public, and when something is new people are naturally wary of it. Stoat-Black anticipated that problem by marketing their jetliner as the most safety-tested airplane in history, and the public—in Europe, at least—believed it. Now that the supposedly fail-safe Starstreak has been taken out of service due to its annoying habit of falling out of the sky, how do you think the public is going to react when GAT eventually unveils the GC-909?”

  “I understand all that,” Erica said coolly. “What I don’t understand is why you’re yelling at me.”

  Gold leaned back in his chair, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I guess I’m upset, and you know me….”

  “That I do,” she said wryly.

  “When I get this way I need to blow off steam.”

  “And eat,” Erica added, eyeing the empty cookie plate.

  “And eat,” Gold acknowledged as Erica got up to refill the plate.

  “I accept your apology,” she smiled. “But I’m a little upset, too.”

  “About what?” he asked as she sat back down.

  “About you,” she declared firmly. “I hate to see you get this worked up. You’ve only just started to calm down since that incident concerning Steven.”

  Gold held up his hand in warning. “Don’t even bring that up now,” he grumbled. “It’s been months since he made me a laughing stock, and the needling I’ve had to take on account of it has just begun to die down.”

  “Oh, Herman—”

  “Don’t ‘Oh, Herman’ me,” he frowned, reaching for a cookie. “About Steven I have a right to be upset! I still can’t believe how my own son could stab me in the back. It was in the newspapers and newsmagazines, on the radio and the television: ‘Fighter pilot voices lack of confidence in father’s aircraft design.’”

  “Herman, you know very well that you started it with that speech.”

  “I started it, all right. But not with the speech,” he said sourly. “I started it twenty-seven years ago, when I didn’t wear a rubber.”

  “Herman!” Erica gasped, looking appalled. Gold winked at her, and she giggled.

  Gold, smirking, reached for another cookie. Erica smacked his hand away.

  “No more for you,” she said, sliding the plate to her side of the table. “You’re cut off. I think all that sugar has affected your brain.”

  “Oh, you know I was just kidding,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve got nothing to be upset about anymore,” he grinned broadly. “I’ve been proven right. Stevie’s the one who’s got egg on his face now.”

  Back in November the Red Chinese had gotten into the fighting in Korea, just as Gold had predicted. That same month MiG-15s had appeared in the sky. The F-80 Shooting Star pilots who had tangled with the MiGs had scored some kills, but they were quick to admit that their airplanes were outclassed by the Soviet-built swept-wing fighters.

  And then, in December, the first BroadSwords had gone into action against the MiGs, with excellent results. Now, according to Gold’s contacts in Washington, the biggest news out of Korea—next to the fact that the Soviets had called for negotiations on a cease-fire—was that all F-80–equipped squadrons had been pretty much relegated to ground support and bombing missions. Unless they were attacked, they were to leave the dogfighting to the Broad-Swords.

  “You know what bothers me almost more than Stevie’s betrayal?” Gold began. “Since December he’s written home many times. He even called us from Japan that weekend he was on leave. He had all those chances, and not once did he mention his betrayal of GAT, let alone apologize. I don’t mind that my son should disagree with me, but I am disappointed that he’s not man enough to admit when he’s wrong.”

  “Oh, Herman,” Erica laughed affectionately, “that’s the biggest crock you’ve handed me in years.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Gold said sincerely.

  “I just don’t believe you have the gall to look me in the eye and lie like that, Herman Gold! You claiming that you don’t mind that your son disagrees with you. What a crock!”

  He glanced at the clock on the wall above the stove. It was almost six; time to get ready for the office. He stood and stretched. “Erica, I don’t know whether you’ll believe it or not, but I think something’s changed inside of me. I don’t want to fight with Stevie anymore. I can’t. It’s his life, I’m ready to admit that. He can and should lead it the way he wants.”

  “I believe we have a breakthrough here,” Erica teased. “That almost sounded emotionally mature.”

  Gold made a face. “I just wish my son could be as mature. Honey, he should have apologized to me for what he did.”

  “You’ll pardon me for pointing this out to you,” Erica said gently, “but it’s taken you fifty-three years to become this mature. Your son is only twenty-seven. However, I’m still gratified concerning your progress.” She slid the cookie plate t
oward him. “You may have a cookie.”

  (Two)

  GAT

  Burbank

  Gold got into the office a little before nine, before any of his secretaries were due in, and immediately telephoned downstairs to check in with Teddy.

  The telephone rang several times before it was picked up. “R&D,” answered a male voice.

  “This is Herman Gold—”

  “Yes, sir! This is Renolds, sir.”

  Gold vaguely remembered that Renolds was an engineer, but he couldn’t picture the man. Not surprising. Renolds was a junior member of the team, and for some years now the weekly R&D progress meeting that Gold attended had been restricted to personnel at the project-manager level or higher.

  “Mr. Quinn’s secretary isn’t at her desk yet.”

  Gold knew as much. His daughter was taking her own car to work these days because she had to leave later in order to have time to get her son, Robert, now nine years old, ready for school.

  “Shall I have Mrs. Greene call your office when she gets in?” Renolds asked.

  Gold remembered that Suzy wasn’t going to be in at all today. She had some sort of parents-teachers conference to attend at Robert’s school. The personnel department would be assigning Teddy a floater for the day.

  Gold wondered if Renolds knew who Suzy really was? Likely not. Suzy used her married name, and while Erica had suggested to Teddy that he spread it around that Suzy was widowed, and hence available, she had also warned him against intimidating any possible suitors by revealing that she was the boss’s daughter. Suzy liked going along with the pretense, even going so far as to call him ‘Mr. Gold’ when others could hear. Like Stevie, she clearly wanted people to accept her on her own terms, not because of who her father was.

  “Is Mr. Quinn available?” Gold asked.

  “Sir, I think he’s in his office,” Renolds began reluctantly. “But he’s got his sign up.”