The Fly Boys Page 31

  Gold smiled. More then one young engineer had been blistered for ignoring Teddy’s hand-lettered “Do Not Disturb” sign when it was taped to his office door. It meant that Teddy was either working or sleeping. Gold hoped it was the latter, but either way he knew better than to send poor Renolds into the dragon’s lair.

  “Well, then we’d better leave Mr. Quinn be,” Gold said.

  “Yes, sir,” Renolds replied, sounding extremely relieved.

  “Leave a message for Mr. Quinn’s secretary to have him call me when he can.”

  That morning things got busy very quickly, and it was close to eleven before Gold remembered that he’d not yet heard from Teddy.

  That was unusual, Gold thought. He and his chief engineer routinely touched bases several times a day.

  He was about to call downstairs again when a secretary buzzed him to say, “Mr. Campbell on line three, sir.”

  “Tim Campbell?” Gold asked, surprised.

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll check—”

  “No, that’s all right,” Gold stopped her. “I’ll take it.” He picked up the receiver and stabbed the flickering button. “Tim?”

  “Hello, Herman,” Campbell said. “How are you?”

  “Uh… fine, Tim,” Gold said.

  Campbell laughed. “Surprised to hear from me, huh?”

  “Well, it has been some time since we’ve talked,” Gold replied.

  He occasionally ran into Campbell socially, but couldn’t remember the last time either man had intentionally looked up the other.

  “I don’t want to beat around the bush, Herman,” Campbell said. “Amalgamated-Landis is going to issue a press release today. I felt that in consideration of our prior history together I should telephone to give you the news personally.”

  In other words, you want to gloat, Gold thought, smiling. “Okay, Tim,” he said indulgently. “What’s your news?”

  “Just that Amalgamated is offering up to the airlines a commercial jetliner of its own: the AL-12.”

  Son of a bitch, Gold thought.

  “Kind of an unfortunate day to be announcing a new airplane, Timmy,” Gold said pleasantly. “Or haven’t you heard about the SB-100 crash?”

  “Sure, I heard about it,” Campbell said. “But as far as I’m concerned it’s good news. I’m no hypocrite, Herman. You won’t find me crying alligator tears over the fact that the guy ahead of me in a road race just tripped and broke his leg.”

  “The public—” Gold began.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Campbell interrupted. “That the public’s confidence has been shaken. Well, fuck the public,” he said. “Since when did John Q. Public go shopping for a fucking airliner? The public doesn’t buy airplanes, airlines do, and now that Stoat-Black’s wings have been clipped, the airlines have nowhere else to turn but to Amalgamated-Landis.”

  “Excuse me, Tim, but there is the slight matter of the GC-909.”

  “‘Slight matter’ is right,” Campbell scoffed.

  Gold forced himself to control his temper. “Laugh if you want, Tim, but the airlines are behind my project.”

  “Yeah? Then how come three months ago every airline who’d seen your presentation sent a representative to Amalgamated’s offices to beg us to take a crack at designing a jetliner?”

  Gold felt sick to his stomach.

  “Speechless, huh?” Campbell chuckled.

  Gold savagely punched the intercom button.

  “Yes, sir?” the secretary responded.

  Gold put his hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece. “Get Mr. Quinn up here on the double,” he whispered into the intercom.

  “The airlines made quite a strong case for us to get into the race,” Campbell was boasting. “They pointed out how it was unhealthy for the industry for one company to have a monopoly on supplying jetliners. Competition in quality and price is what the American way is all about.”

  “I hope you’ve got deep pockets,” Gold warned.

  “Raising money has never been the problem for me that it’s been for you, Herm.”

  Gold grimaced. Some thirty years ago Campbell had joined GAT to keep track of the company’s finances, back when the fledgling company had been long on ideas but short on cash. Campbell, to his credit, had worked financial miracles for GAT, but Gold wondered if the son of a bitch was ever going to let him forget it.

  “Tim, I know that you can come up with the money,” Gold said. “But you’re going to need a viable jetliner design to spend it on. You’ve got to admit that you’ve never in your life had a creative idea that didn’t involve a decimal point.”

  “It so happens A-L already has its design,” Campbell replied. “Don’t forget I have Don Harrison working for me as my chief engineer.”

  “Oh, yeah, young Harrison,” Gold acknowledged. “I think I’ve met him a few times at industry conferences. Yeah, I do remember him. He struck me as being very bright. I’m surprised you’re willing to let your ace in the hole get out and around.”

  “Calling him ‘bright’ is like calling the ocean deep, Herman,” Campbell said. What other thirty-two-year-old guy is running the R&D department of a major aviation concern?”

  “He’s that good, huh?” Gold said as his secretary stuck her head into the office.

  “Mr. Quinn’s door is still locked, and his sign is still up,” she whispered. “His secretary says he’s taken his telephone off the hook.”

  Gold nodded to dismiss the secretary. That business with the telephone off the hook was Teddy’s favorite trick when he was brainstorming and wanted to be left alone.

  “Harrison may be a wunderkind, all right,” Gold told Campbell, “but you’re still going to find it very expensive getting past the trial and error phase to come up with something the airlines are going to like.”

  “We already have, Herm,” Campbell said smugly. “We’ve previewed our proposal to the airlines, and they’ve endorsed it.”

  “But,” Gold began, astonished, “how could you? You said you’ve only been at it for a few months.”

  “Righto.”

  “But it took us—” Gold paused as all the pieces in the puzzle finally fell into place. “You have our proposal, don’t you?” he demanded softly. “That’s how you were able to streamline your preliminary design phase. Answer me, you fucking crook! You have our proposal.”

  “Now, Herman,” Campbell patronized, “you know there’s no sense asking me such a dumb question. If I admitted that you were right you could cause A-L all kinds of legal trouble.”

  But that’s what happened, all right, Gold thought. The airlines—at least one of them, at any rate—had leaked GAT’s proposal.

  “Why did you call to tell me this?” Gold demanded harshly.

  “Remember, Herman?” Campbell spat into the phone, his voice cutting. “I always said I’d get even. It looks like payback day is at hand.”

  Gold, cursing, slammed down the phone. Campbell’s laughter was still ringing in his ears as he rushed out of his office.

  “I’ll be in the design department,” he told his secretaries as he passed them on his way to the elevators. “I’ll be in conference with Mr. Quinn,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Hold all my calls. I don’t want to be disturbed.”’

  The issue was not that A-L would try to copy the 909, Gold thought as he rang for the elevator. Campbell was not stupid; he would know that a direct steal of even some minor detail of the 909 would give GAT all the opening it needed to nail A-L in court.

  Where the fuck is that elevator? he fumed, and then gave up on it and headed for the stairs.

  No, he didn’t need to lose any sleep over the likelihood of A-L building a duplicate of the GC-909. His fear was exactly the opposite: that the A-L’s jetliner was going to be different.

  Any complex design had drawbacks, and airplanes were no exception. A-L, by getting to examine the GC-909’s design, and also hearing the airlines’ criticisms of the airplane, could design out all of those sticki
ng points in their own jetliner while it was still on the drawing board. Meanwhile, GAT was stuck with what it had: the production lines were already being tooled to produce a full-scale prototype of the military AreoTanker version, and GAT was in too deep financially to try and counter Amalgamated-Landis’s advantage by modifying its basic design.

  Gold began hurrying down the stairs a little faster toward Teddy’s office. There had to be something he could do to counter Campbell, but what?

  Panicking wasn’t going to help, that was for sure, even if he’d worked so hard to make the GC-909 happen. Even if the 909 was meant to be GAT’s replacement for its piston-engined Monarch series, its ticket into the future of commercial aviation.

  Even if the airlines played follow the leader and deserted the 909 for whatever Amalgamated-Landis came up with, and GAT was ruined.

  “Remember, Herman?” Campbell had laughed. “Payback day is at hand.”

  Back in ‘33 Campbell had waged a stock battle against Gold to seize control of Skyworld Airlines. Campbell had ultimately ended up with Skyworld, but not before Gold had forced him to pay dearly for the privilege. Campbell had never talked much about it, but Gold had always suspected that Tim was holding a grudge, and now his suspicions were confirmed.

  Gold needed to talk with Teddy, to tell him what had happened. Screw Campbell’s boy genius of a chief engineer. His chief engineer had been with him from the beginning. Together, there was no problem that the two of them couldn’t solve.

  The temporary replacement was not at her desk outside Teddy’s office as Gold barged into the design studio and hurried down the center aisle to Teddy’s office. The door was still closed. That childishly scribbled “Do Not Disturb” sign was still taped to it.

  Gold knocked on the door, but there was no answer. “Teddy! It’s me!” he called out, but he got no response at all, not even the usual one, Teddy’s crotchety “Go ‘way, Herman! I’m busy in here making you money!”

  Gold tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  “He’s been in there all morning, Mr. Gold,” one of the engineers volunteered. “Haven’t seen him once today.”

  Gold felt a chill travel down his spine. Now don’t be stupid, he lectured himself. He’s all right in there. He’s just working, or better yet, sleeping.

  He went to the vacant desk. There was no intercom. Teddy refused to have one, calling it just one more distraction from his work.

  Gold dialed Teddy’s number on the telephone. He got the busy signal he’d expected due to Teddy’s having taken the telephone off the hook.

  Gold hung up the phone and stared at the door. At that silly sign. “Oh, Jesus Christ….” he murmured.

  He abruptly raced toward the locked door and slammed his shoulder against it, but all he got was a tingling shoulder for his effort.

  He looked around at the engineers, who were staring at him, shocked.

  “Break this door open!” he ordered. They kept staring. “Move!” he yelled.

  Two of them did, slamming their shoulders against the door in unison. It still held.

  Of course the door is holding, Gold swore to himself. It was steel and fire-resistant, with a dead-bolt lock. Now that GAT had set up its Toy Shop project and begun doing work for the CIA, Gold himself had specified that all the doors to offices where sensitive files were kept be replaced with high-security units.

  He glanced at Suzy’s desk. He had also issued a memo to his project managers and senior executives, forbidding them for security reasons from giving office keys to their secretaries, but Teddy had never obeyed a rule in his life—

  Please don’t let him have started now, Gold thought as he pulled out the desk’s center drawer and dumped its contents on the carpet. The engineers were still throwing themselves against the door, and Gold was on his hands and knees, rummaging through the spilled paper clips, pencils, and memo pads for that fucking key when the temporary secretary finally appeared.

  Gold looked up as she stood there, an appalled expression on her face.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  It was so ludicrous that Gold burst out laughing. “I’m Herman Gold,” he managed finally. “Where’s the key to this office?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman shrugged. “I’m only here for today.” Her eyes widened. “Say, if you were really Herman Gold you’d know that it’s against the rules to leave office keys lying around.” She hurried to the telephone. “I’m calling security,” she said.

  “Of course! A pass key!” Gold jumped to his feet and hurried to the desk, where he snatched the receiver from her hand.

  “You’re in big trouble now, whoever you are,” the secretary squawked in outrage.

  Gold dialed the number for security. It was busy.

  He threw the phone down, looked around wildly, and then collared one of the engineers. “You get somebody from security with a pass key to this office,” he ordered. “Tell them it’s an emergency.”

  “Yes, sir!” The engineer went racing off.

  “And somebody call the infirmary!” Gold shouted. “Tell them I think Mr. Quinn is sick, and that we’d better have a nurse—”

  “Mr. Gold!” One of the other engineers was sitting on the carpet, grinning as he removed the key that had been cellophane-taped to the underside of the desk’s center drawer.

  Gold snatched the key and fumbled it into the lock. He twisted it, and the door swung open. He went into the office, while several others stayed bunched up in the doorway.

  Teddy in his white lab coat, his shoes off, and his glasses pushed up on his head, was perched on his stool, bent over his drafting table with his head resting on his folded arms.

  He’s just sleeping, Gold thought. He went over to Teddy and gently prodded the man’s shoulder.

  “Wake up,” he murmured. “Teddy, wake up!”

  Teddy began to move. Gold could feel his tension draining. “You old bastard,” he laughed, turning away. “What a scare you gave me—”

  From the doorway the secretary shrilly screamed as Teddy’s head and shoulders slid off the drafting table and he began to topple from his stool.

  Gold spun around and lunged, just managing to catch Teddy. Together thay sank slowly to the carpet, where Gold sat cross-legged, cradling him in his arms.

  “Hell of a way to treat your best friend,” Gold murmured. He pressed his lips to Teddy’s forehead. His own tears felt shockingly warm against Teddy’s flesh, which was cold and pale as marble. “After all we’ve been through, how can you leave me in a bind like this? Tim Campbell just called me, you know. It looks like we’re up against it again, old friend. Like that time back in ‘25, remember? When the government wanted to take our mail routes away?”

  He held Teddy in his arms, talking to him while the nurse came and went, until the ambulance attendants appeared to gently pry the body from his embrace and take it away.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  (One)

  Over Kumch’ong Airfield

  NKAF Air Base, North Korea

  30 August 1951

  Steve and his wingman Mike DeAngelo brought their Shooting Stars in low in a surprise attack upon the commie airfield. As they crested the hills overlooking Kumch’ong, Steve was braced for automatic antiaircraft-weapons fire. He was surprised that there seemed to be no ground defenses in place. There seemed to be nothing down there but construction equipment and supplies, and the hundreds of laborers who were now scattering from the bomb-cratered strip littered with the charred remains of airplanes and ground-support vehicles.

  Last week Kumch’ong and the commie airfields like it in northwestern Korea had been savagely hit by B-29s. Today’s attack was meant to stop the Reds from putting the facility back into operation, and to cost them their precious Soviet-built construction equipment.

  Close to the airstrip, near what was left of the burned-out compound, a large tent city had been erected to house the laborers. The smoke f
rom the myriad cookfires and charcoal braziers scattered amid the tenementlike cluster of canvas structures rose to form a gray haze over the area.

  “You take the tents, I’ve got the airstrip,” Steve told DeAngelo.

  “Wilco.” DeAngelo’s silver and orange bird banked off toward its prey.

  The laborers out in the open on the airstrip had dropped their picks and shovels and were scattering, but Steve did not bother to strafe. He’d let the napalm canisters shackled beneath his wings do the dirty work. As he dived on the airstrip, he released the canisters and then pulled up and away as the napalm hit the ground and detonated into a thunderous, rolling fog of crimson fire and oily black smoke. The bulldozers, steamrollers, trucks, and other heavy equipment, the piles and barrels of construction material all vanished beneath that high tide of flames.

  As Steve came around, he saw DeAngelo drop his canisters on the tent city, obliterating it. The tents burned like paper. The two fires spawned by the F-80s quickly united to turn Kumch’ong into hell on earth.

  “Let’s go home,” Steve radioed as he gained altitude and banked his Shooting Star onto a southward course.

  “Hard to remember where home is,” DeAngelo remarked as he took up his position a little above and behind Steve.

  “I know what you mean.”

  The 19th Squadron had been one traveling medicine show these past few months. The Air Force had only been able to keep its F-80 groups at Taegu Airfield for a short while before the pierced steel strip that had been laid over the rice paddies broke down under constant use. When Eight Fighter-Bomber Wing went looking for a new home, it found the no-vacancy signs up everywhere. With Seoul’s Kimpo field cratered by enemy bombs, and Suwon and Kawon fields both bogs due to a combination of poor drainage and the summer rains, there was no room, so back the Eighth had to go to the Japanese mainland. That sucked eggs, because nobody liked flying over water, and the great distance from Japan to North Korea meant that the F-80s could spend no more than five minutes over a target.

  Meanwhile, Air Force and Army engineer units were working overtime to get Kimpo’s strip patched up. In June, the Eighth moved there. It didn’t take more than a couple of months to realize that Kimpo’s roughly paved, short runways just weren’t suitable for use by F-80s carrying heavy bomb loads. Tire failures became commonplace, and the F-80s’ engines were suffering wear and tear due to the water and alcohol injection procedures being used to give the heavily loaded jets the extra boost they needed to get airborne so rapidly.