The Fly Boys Read online

  “Um, pardon me?” Gold blinked away his dark reveries as he stared at Wilcox.

  Wilcox was in his fifties. He had a long, thin face with a hawk’s beak of a nose and a brush cut and mustache the color of iron filings. Wilcox was a first-rate engineer. He had a string of degrees from MIT, and had been Teddy’s departmental administrative assistant, as well as the Broad-Sword project manager. He was also the most senior member of the R&D department, so he’d pretty much expected to take over Teddy’s spot. At the time, Gold, who had been distraught and hadn’t any better ideas about filling the vacancy, had been willing to oblige.

  “I think you were a thousand miles away, Herman,” Wilcox declared hotly.

  “Sorry about that,” Gold muttered, thinking that Wilcox had been exactly right, but was nevertheless a fool for saying it.

  Gold had never really liked Wilcox. He thought he had, but these days Wilcox was definitely rubbing him the wrong way. Gold disliked the way Wilcox sat perched on the edge of his chair, the way he kept his charcoal flannel–clad knees pressed together and his report file on his lap like some old spinster. Wilcox was so compact and tidy, his necktie always perfectly knotted, his shirts and suits and shoes all just so. He made Gold feel large and sloppy by comparison.

  “The topic currently under discussion was the Air Force’s requested design modifications to the BroadSword,” Wilcox said crossly.

  “Yes, of course,” Gold forced a smile. Wilcox, he thought, you’ve got a face like a hatchet. He picked up a pencil and began to doodle a hatchet on a legal pad.

  “The Air Force wants a more powerful engine for the fighter, but Rogers & Simpson has said that will have to wait for a while,” Wilcox continued. “Meanwhile, the Air Force has come up with a way to modify the BroadSword’s wing to improve its performance.”

  Gold nodded. “I’ve already spoken to General Simon about it.” He glanced up at Wilcox and then added a brush cut and mustache to the hatchet. “Howie’s R&D people in Dayton think that the new wing slat will reduce drag and increase high-altitude performance?”

  “Our test evaluations concur,” Wilcox replied. “The modifications will make the BroadSword superior to the MiG in every way.”

  “Howie also said that the Air Force has begun to retrofit the F-90s they already have,” Gold said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “All right, then,” Gold said. He scribbled over the doodle, and then tossed aside his pencil. “I want to get the specs on the new wing design to all the companies who have subcontracted with us to build BroadSwords.”

  Wilcox looked horrified. “Excuse me, but you don’t mean you want to make this new wing design a running modification?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Herman”—Wilcox shook his head in the manner of a man about to explain something to an idiot—”it’ll cost GAT a fortune if they have to halt their production lines to retool.”

  “I appreciate your concern about the budget,” Gold said, thinking that Wilcox lacked Teddy’s creative spark, but that he was a good administrator and always careful with a dollar, like now. “Normally I would agree with you, Ken, but in this specific instance there’s more at stake than profits. This is GAT’s finest hour. For the first time in history—maybe the only time—our country is in a war where our airmen are almost exclusively flying GAT-produced fighters.”

  “That’s no reason to throw money away,” Wilcox began.

  “Our boys in Korea are depending on us to supply them with the finest airplanes possible,” Gold said. “I don’t intend to let them down.”

  “Nevertheless, Herman, as chief engineer—”

  “Excuse me, Ken, but you’re only acting chief engineer,” Gold snapped, and immediately regretted his harsh tone. Before he could say anything further, Wilcox had jumped to his feet.

  “These past five months I’ve taken a lot from you, Herman—”

  Oh, shit. Gold thought wearily. “Just sit down, Ken—”

  “No! I’ve had it! I’ve taken all the insults I’m going to take! It’s been almost five months since Teddy died, and since I took over there hasn’t been one thing I’ve done right as far as you’re concerned. You don’t want a replacement for Teddy, you want a whipping boy. Well, I’m not it! I’m resigning from GAT, effective immediately.”

  Gold watched, bemused, as Wilcox stormed out of the office.

  “Feeling relieved?” Calvin Jennings suddenly asked, startling Gold. Jennings had been so quiet the last few minutes that Gold had almost forgotten he was there.

  Now Gold stared at him. Jennings was in his early forties. He was a dark-haired, dark-skinned native Californian with a bushy black beard.

  “You have something to add to this, Cal?” Gold demanded belligerently.

  Jennings held up both hands in mock surrender. “You know, nobody killed Teddy Quinn,” he said quietly. “Teddy just up and died.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jennings only shrugged. He reached into the inside pocket of his herringbone sports jacket for a curved-stem bulldog briar pipe. There was no tobacco in it. Jennings didn’t smoke. He just liked to chew on the pipe.

  Gold took a deep breath and let it out. “You think I’ve been too tough on Wilcox, is that it? He was only in the job temporarily. I never figured on making him Teddy’s replacement permanently—”

  “I don’t think you much liked Wilcox in the first place,” Jennings interrupted.

  “That’s true.”

  “But even if you had liked him at first, you would have ended up disenchanted with him. It’s the mama’s-cooking syndrome.”

  “What?”

  “You know why I never got married, Herman?” Jennings asked, chewing on his pipe. “I came close a number of times, but I always backed out after the woman cooked me a meal, because it just didn’t taste like mama’s cooking. You get it?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Gold sighed. “Wilcox didn’t do things the way Teddy did, which meant that as far as I was concerned, he was doing things wrong.”

  “You got it,” Jennings nodded. “Between us, I never much liked Wilcox either, but he was right on the money when he said that you’ve been treating him like a whipping boy. You know, filling Teddy’s shoes on technical expertise alone is going to be a tall order. It’s going to be next to impossible if you also insist on that person being Teddy.”

  “Yeah, I guess I know that,” Gold admitted. “I was thinking of bringing in somebody from outside the company.” He paused. “Cal, you’ve been with us, what, five years?”

  “A little more,” Jennings said.

  “Okay,” Gold nodded. “How do you think the department would react if I did bring in somebody new? Do you think there’d be any animosity if I didn’t pick a successor from in-house?”

  “I think that the staff will have trouble getting used to anyone new who replaces Teddy, but we’ve come to the realization that the adjustment will be necessary. The question is, Herman, have you?”

  Gold hesitated before answering. “Yeah, I guess I have, finally.” He nodded. “For the longest time I guess I was denying to myself that Teddy was gone. I was digging in my heels, as if I held out long enough, death would acquiese and send back Teddy. I know that won’t happen and that I owe it to the company to deal with my personal grief on a separate basis and get on with filling Teddy’s position. As a matter of fact, I’m having lunch today with someone I’ve been thinking of offering the job to.” He grinned. “Unless, of course, you’d like a crack at it, Cal?”

  “Not a chance!” Jennings said quickly. “I’m an excellent engineer, but a lousy administrator. I can’t even keep track of my own checkbook. No way do I want to take on running a department.”

  “Okay, okay,” Gold chuckled. “Just kidding.”

  “Anyway,” Jennings smiled, “if I became chief engineer I’d have to deal with you a lot more often.”

  Gold didn’t think that was so funny. “We’d just bett
er get on with our meeting,” he said evenly. “What’s the latest on the SB-100?”

  Jennings was just back from the Royal Aircraft Establishment laboratories in Farnborough, England, headquarters for the investigative team searching for the cause or causes of the SB-100s’ mysterious crashes. As one of the world’s foremost authorities on high-altitude aerodynamics, Jennings had been Stoat-Black’s first choice when Sir Hugh Luddy had contacted Gold to ask for personnel to assist in the British-government sponsored investigation.

  Gold had been glad to lend Jennings, because he sincerely wanted to help Stoat-Black, but also because having Jennings at the RAE labs meant that GAT now had an inside track on where the investigation was leading. Gold was hopeful that as the possible causes of the crash became known his company could discover and engineer out any similar design flaws in the AeroTanker/GC-909 project. For that reason Gold was holding up construction of the AeroTanker prototype, but he couldn’t postpone the construction start date forever. The Air Force was getting antsy.

  Now Gold listened as Jennings outlined the lengthy underseas search for the wreckage, and the time-consuming examination of what had been salvaged from the ocean floor. Jennings explained that the investigative team had eliminated from blame both the SB-100’s engines, and its fuel delivery system.

  “We’re starting to take a closer look at the question of metal fatigue,” Jennings concluded.

  “That theory creates more questions than it answers,” Gold scowled.

  “Nevertheless, we do have those witness reports claiming that the SB just came apart in the air,” Jennings said, gesturing with his pipe. “If we eliminate the engines and the fuel system and sabotage, there’s not a hell of a lot left beyond metal fatigue that could cause an airplane to come down the way the SBs did.”

  “So you’re thinking the explosion was actually rapid decompression due to metal fatigue?” Gold asked.

  “It’s basically a question of isolating what structural component failed,” Jennings nodded.

  “It could be any number of things,” Gold sighed. “Anything and everything, from the interior framework to the rivets.” He studied Jennings. “I don’t suppose you’d care to hazard a guess?—”

  “A guess?” Jennings looked pained.

  “Yeah, you know. What’s your gut reaction?”

  “Herman, I’m a scientist. I couldn’t possibly issue an informed opinion until all the test results are in.”

  “Right.” Christ, I miss you, Teddy. “Okay, Cal. You’ll be going back to England at the end of the week?”

  “Yes, after a short visit with my mother.”

  “What’s next on the agenda over there?”

  “Well, we’ll be trying a number of things. We’re going to run pressure chamber tests on structurally accurate scale models of the SB-100, and we’ll be building a water pressure tank in order to subject a full-scale Starstreak fuselage to repeated sudden pressure changes, and some of us have volunteered to monitor changes in an SB-100 while it’s in flight—”

  “Whoa!” Gold interrupted. “Slow up there a minute. You mean to say that some of you intend to actually go up in a Starstreak and try to duplicate the conditions that led to the previous crashes?”

  Jennings nodded.

  “Nah, that’s out of the question for you, Cal. I’m ordering you not to take part in that particular experiment, and that’s final. I’ll cable Luddy and tell him as much. I admire your courage, Cal, really I do, but I don’t want to risk losing any more of my best engineers.”

  “Well, if you say so, Herman,” Jennings shrugged.

  “I say so,” Gold said firmly. “Anyway, I can’t have you off flying around, because I want you at Farnborough. I want you to cable daily reports.”

  “Things don’t happen that quickly in this sort of work,” Jennings smiled.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Gold insisted.

  Jennings was frowning. “I thought you were ready to begin learning to trust others?”

  “Now you just listen to me—” Gold began, his temper flaring, but the amused expression on Jennings’s face stopped him. “You’re right, Cal,” he admitted. “You’re the best there is. Even better than Teddy in your particular specialty, which is why Stoat-Black begged me to send you. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that there’s nothing to report.”

  Gold’s intercom buzzed. He pressed the talk button. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Your son is on the line.”

  “What? Steve?” Gold blurted, startled. He glanced at Jennings. “It’s my boy. He’s in Korea.”

  “I’ll let you take your call in private.” Jennings got up to leave.

  “Thanks for your report, Cal,” Gold called after him. “And for the advice.”

  Jennings smiled over his shoulder as he stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  Gold snatched up the telephone. “Stevie? Hello, Stevie?”

  “Hi, Pop. Happy New Year!” Steve said, his voice faint against the crackling long-distance connection.

  “Happy New Year to you, son. Are you all right? Nothing’s happened, has it?”

  “I’m fine,” Steve assured him. “At the moment I’m sitting here in a beautiful hotel in Tokyo, where I’m on leave for three wonderful days, so I thought I’d call.”

  “Of course I’m glad to hear from you,” Gold said. “But you should have called when you could catch me at home so that your mother could speak with you as well.”

  “I’m planning to, Pop, but I wanted the chance to talk to you about something without Mom listening.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “It’s been on my mind since September, but I’ve waited until now because I knew I was scheduled for some leave time. I wanted to be able to telephone, to discuss it with you personally.”

  “Okay,” Gold said. “What is it?”

  Steve seemed to hesitate. “But first let me tell you how sorry I was to hear about Teddy. I wrote you as soon as I heard.”

  “Yes, I got your letter,” Gold said softly. “It was a very nice letter, too. Thank you for sending it.”

  “Well, Teddy meant a lot to me, too, Pop,” Steve said.

  “I know.”

  “He was like an uncle. You wrote that it was a heart attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I could have been at the funeral. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “I know what you mean,” Gold said, and then forced lightness into his voice. “Anyway, it’s about eight P.M. in Tokyo, so whatever you want to discuss with me must be pretty important if it’s got you cooped up in your hotel room talking to your old man when you could be out and around.”

  “It is, Pop….” Steve said reluctantly. “Okay,” he sighed. “I might as well just say it. I want a favor. I want you to pull some strings to get me transferred into a Broad-Sword fighter outfit.”

  Gold laughed coldly. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Pop…”

  “You’ve got a lot of balls, Stevie, I’ll say that much for you,” Gold began, growing angry. “Back in ‘49 I begged you to join a BroadSword outfit, and you spit in my eye. Then you proceeded to humiliate me by going public with your doubts about the BroadSword. You were proven wrong and I was proven right, but did I ever get an apology from you? No!”

  “Pop—”

  “Never mind a public apology,” Gold said. “All I’m talking about is a private admission from you that you were wrong, but I never got it. Now you expect me to call in favors to put you at the top of the list to be assigned an airplane everybody in the Air Force wants to fly!”

  “Pop, I’ve never asked you for anything—”

  “Wrong, Steve!” Gold exploded. “That’s wrong! You’ve constantly been asking me for something, and do you know what it’s been? It’s been my indulgence, while you’ve treated me like dirt.”

  “Okay, Pop, you’re right and I’m wrong,” Steve said quietly. “Is that what you want
to hear? I apologize to you.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I mean it, Pop! No more bullshit. This is on the level! I was wrong not to have apologized before. I’ve always been wrong.”

  He paused, and when he began again Gold could hear his desperate urgency. “Look, I don’t want to—I can’t—negotiate with you about this. It’s something I need, and you can do it for me. I’ll do anything—pay the price—if you’ll do it, but I’m begging you.”

  “What’s happened?” Gold asked sharply. “What’s going on?”

  “Ah, Pop…” Steve’s voice broke. “You always said I was selfish. Well, maybe it’s caught up with me.”

  “Dammit, Stevie, what’s got you so upset?” Gold demanded, his own anger forgotten in his worry concerning his son.

  “I—I think I got somebody killed, Pop.”

  “Talk to me,” Gold said calmly. “Just talk to me. Start from the beginning.”

  Gold kept asking questions until he’d managed to coax out of his son the whole story concerning the pilot who’d died during the dogfight Steve had initiated against the MiGs. When Steve was done, Gold said, “So you want to get into a BroadSword fighter unit in order to try and avenge your friend’s death, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your CO was right, you know. This wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t bring your friend back,” Gold said, realizing as he said it that it was a banal remark, just like the supposedly comforting platitudes offered up to him concerning Teddy.

  “I know all that stuff, Pop. But it doesn’t make any difference to the way I feel.”

  “But hunting MiGs will?”

  “If Mikey knew what I was up to, he’d approve. I feel that, Pop. Right now I have to go with my feelings.”

  “I’ll get you into a BroadSword unit.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” Steve said, and then hesitated. “I really am sorry about the way I’ve been acting for so long. I guess I had a chip on my shoulder, but it’s gone now.”

  “Forget it. It’s yesterday’s news,” Gold replied, and then laughed. “I guess my chip’s gone as well. It’s a good feeling, huh, Stevie?”