The Fly Boys Page 35

  “Yeah. Thanks again, Pop. For everything.”

  “I miss you, son.”

  “We’ve both been missing each other for a long time,” Steve said softly. “Maybe sometime pretty soon we can do something about that.”

  (Two)

  The Top Hat Grill

  Los Angeles

  Gold got to the restaurant ten minutes late. The maître d’ told him that his luncheon guest hadn’t yet arrived.

  Nice move, Gold thought. He couldn’t help smiling as he made his way through the crowded dining room to his customary corner booth. The waiter instantly appeared to take his drink order. Gold asked for a Bloody Mary.

  Nice move, indeed. Positively ballsy. If the situation were reversed, I’m not sure I’d have the balls to keep me waiting.

  He waited another few minutes, sipping at his drink, before Don Harrison appeared in the doorway.

  Gold nodded in satisfaction as the maître d’ showed the tall, broad-shouldered young engineer to the booth. Harrison’s thinning blond hair was slicked back. It looked wet, as if he’d just finished combing it. He was dressed to the nines in a three-piece, gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and somber tie. The conservative attire made him look older than thirty-two.

  Yeah, the lateness bit is cute, Gold thought. But appearances don’t lie. The kid was here to make an impression and talk business.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Gold,” Harrison apologized as Gold stood up to shake hands. “We were in meetings all morning, and then the traffic—”

  “Was awful, yeah, I know, Don,” Gold nodded indulgently as they sat down. “Forget about it. What would you like to drink?”

  “Well…” Harrison nervously glanced at Gold’s half-finished Bloody Mary. “I think just a club soda.”

  The waiter came to present them with menus.

  “You know, I’ve never been here before, Mr. Gold.”

  “Call me Herman.”

  Harrison smiled brightly. He put on a pair of tan, round-framed eyeglasses to scan the menu and then set it aside. “You seem to know what you’re having, Herman. What do you recommend?”

  “The lobster salad is out of this world.”

  As the lunch progressed, they chatted amiably about the latest news concerning the Korean peace talks, with both agreeing that it made sense for the UN forces to reject any possibility of an armistice as long as the communists insisted upon building air bases in the North.

  The conversation shifted to politics. The man of the hour was General Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in Europe. A few months ago Ike had been in the headlines when Truman had publicly offered to sponsor him as President on the Democratic ticket. The other day Eisenhower had announced that he would run for President, but as a Republican. Both Gold and Harrison agreed that Ike was pretty much a shoe-in come November.

  They talked sports. Harrison, a Stanford graduate, was disappointed when his team got trounced by Illinois in last week’s Rose Bowl.

  Gold waited for their coffee to be served before he finally brought up the reason that he’d invited Harrison to lunch. “Well, Don, we’ve met several times before, and I’ve always been impressed with you. It goes without saying that you’re highly regarded in the industry. I wanted this opportunity to get to know you a little better, and I must say, I like what I’ve heard from you so far. I like the way you think. I guess you know that I’m looking for someone to fill a very important position at GAT.”

  “I kind of suspected we’d be talking about that,” Harrison began. “I mean, when you called last week to invite me to lunch…”

  Gold nodded. “We’re in for some exciting times at GAT. We’ve got a number of projects on the back burner. One program we’re working on is very special,” Gold added, thinking about GAT’s work for the CIA, “but I can’t tell you about that until you’re officially signed on.”

  “You’re offering me a job?” Harrison asked.

  “Not a job. The job,” Gold emphasized, pausing to look Harrison in the eye. “I’m taking about chief engineer.”

  “Whew,” Harrison laughed. “Like I said, I can’t pretend that this is a complete surprise, but to actually be offered the job…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m leaning toward accepting your offer, Mr. Gold. How could I not be? But I have some reservations.”

  Gold gestured expansively. “Whatever they are, we can work them out,” he said. “For instance, let me say right now that I intend to double the salary.”

  “Twice as much as I’m making at A-L?” Harrison echoed in disbelief. “That’s extremely generous.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll earn it. You’ll be shouldering double your work load and responsibilities. Like I said before, we’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. I think you’ll find that GAT is in another league compared to A-L.”

  “There’s something else on my mind,” Harrison began.

  “Sure there is, Donnie,” Gold nodded “You want to talk about profit sharing, stock options, all that stuff. We’ll work it out to your satisfaction. Don’t worry, Donnie—”

  “Don,” Harrison said forthrightly.

  “Huh?”

  “Excuse me for interrupting you,” Harrison said. “But my name’s Donald, or Don, but not Donnie.” He shrugged, frowning slightly. “Donnie’s a kid’s name. I’m no kid.”

  “Okay, Don,” Gold chuckled. “You surprise me. It took balls to correct me the way you just did. I like ballsy behavior.” Gold paused. “When it’s appropriate.”

  “There are a few other points I’d need to get straight between us.”

  Gold nodded. “For instance?”

  “For instance, are you offering me this job because you want me, or because you want to get back at Tim Campbell?”

  Gold chuckled. “Now I am surprised. Just how much do you know, Don?”

  “When Tim told me he wanted to build a jetliner to compete with what GAT had in the works, I could tell that there was more to the competition than just business,” Harrison replied. “The way Tim was talking, I got the feeling that there was something personal between you two. I know you two were partners back in ‘33, but then you split up.”

  “Old history,” Gold grimaced. “You were, what, thirteen years old in 1933?”

  “I was twelve, growing up in Hartford, Connecticut,” Harrison smiled. “Anyway, from the way Tim was talking about you, I could guess that from his point of view, whatever had happened between you two was still eating at him.”

  “Okay,” Gold said. “I don’t want to go into the whole story today. Someday, maybe, I’ll tell you about it, but not today. Getting back to your question—sure, I wouldn’t mind hamstringing Amalgamated-Landis by stealing you away, but I’m not about to turn over my R&D department to anyone but the best. I think you’re the best, and that’s why we’re having this conversation, okay?”

  “Yes,” Harrison said. “Thank you.”

  “Now I’ve got a question for you. How did Campbell get his hands on the specs to the GC-909?”

  Harrison hesitated. “Through an airline,” he said vaguely.

  “I know that much,” Gold scowled. “But which airline? Who betrayed my confidence?”

  “I’m not ready to answer that yet. Not until I’m officially hired. If I told you what you wanted to know right now, I’d be betraying my current employer. Do you understand?”

  “Sure,” Gold said impatiently. “So I’m officially offering you the job. Do you accept?”

  “Not yet,” Harrison said quietly. “There are a couple more things. A-L is a big company, Herman.”

  “Not as big as GAT,” Gold interrupted.

  “Granted, but big nonetheless,” Harrison smiled. “As A-L’s chief engineer I’ve got total control of R&D.”

  “You can have the same thing at GAT—”

  “Not good enough, Herman,” Harrison cut him off. “I want more.”

  “More what?” Gold asked cautiously.

  “I’m ready to leave A-L be
cause I can’t learn anything form Campbell.”

  Gold shook his head. “I’ve got to say that you’re wrong there. I’ve known Tim a long time. He’s a genius, in his way.”

  “Yeah,” Harrison acknowledged, “but his genius doesn’t do me any good, because he won’t share it. He’s the most secretive man I’ve ever met,” he complained. “He doesn’t trust anybody.”

  Gold thought about his conversation earlier that day with Cal Jennings. “Trust is hard to come by,” he said quietly.

  “I think you’d better listen to me very carefully, Herman,” Harrison began. “You can’t lure me away from A-L with money. I have enough money now, and there are any number of companies who’d be willing to give me more anytime I hinted that I was available. I want something even more valuable from you.”

  “Which is?” Gold asked, intrigued.

  “I want a promise from you to involve me in every aspect of your business. Right now, GAT is one of the biggest and best. That’s because of you. I’ll be your chief engineer, Herman, if I can also be your partner.”

  “You’re talking about being my partner?” Gold frowned. “You said you knew a little something about what happened between me and Tim Campbell.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you must realize that the last time I had a partner it didn’t work out too well.” Gold shook his head. “I don’t know about this, Don. Not even Teddy Quinn was my partner.”

  “I’m not Teddy Quinn,” Harrison said firmly. “You’d better get that straight first thing. You’re not hiring another Teddy Quinn. You’re hiring me.”

  Gold thought it over. Harrison was an interesting kid. He wasn’t at all like Teddy, but that was probably a good thing. Still, the kid was asking a lot.

  Gold glanced at Harrison, who was watching him intently. The kid wasn’t bluffing, Gold realized. If he rufused Harrison’s request, he’d have to continue his search for a new chief engineer.

  “Okay,” Gold nodded. “You want to learn all facets of the aviation business, you’ve got it, but let me warn you now. You can kiss your personal life good-bye. You have a family?”

  “I’m single.”

  “Good thing, because now you’re married to GAT.” Gold extended his hand across the table. “If you’re finally ready to accept my offer?”

  “I am,” Harrison smiled back, suddenly shy as he shook hands with Gold. “I guess I better get back to the office to break the news to Tim.”

  “A word of advice about that,” Gold said. “You move everything that’s meaningful to you out of your office before you tell him. If I know Tim Campbell—and boy, do I ever know him—he’s going to have a security guard escort you directly off the premises once you give him the good news.”

  “Okay,” Harrison chuckled. “Thanks.”

  “One more thing,” Gold said. “Now that you’re officially an employee…”

  “Oh, yeah… how’d Campbell get his mitts on your GC proposal?”

  “Yeah.”

  Harrison laughed. “He did pretty much the same thing that you’re doing now. He got the info through Skyworld Airlines—”

  “But Tim controls Skyworld. It was the only airline to turn down GAT’s invitation to invest in the 909. Skyworld wouldn’t have had access to the Niner’s specs.”

  “That’s why Tim figured that you’d never suspect Skyworld,” Harrison said gleefully. “And it looks like he was right. You see, Tim had Skyworld hire an upper management type away from Nationwide Air Transport, which did buy into the 909. Skyworld made the guy a tremendous offer. No way he could refuse it. There was just one condition. He had to bring with him copies of the 909’s specs, and minutes from all the meetings between GAT and the airlines.”

  Gold nodded ruefully. “And once Skyworld had the information, Campbell had it.”

  “Simple as that,” Harrison nodded.

  “That son of a bitch,” Gold said, shaking his head. “So that’s how he screwed me.” He began to laugh. “You have to admire him. He’s so pure in his way.”

  Now it was Harrison’s turn to laugh. “Like you, you mean?”

  “Huh?”

  “After all, you’re stealing me from him.”

  Gold, grinning, leaned back against the red leather upholstery of the restaurant booth. “Don’t let anyone tell you different. Two wrongs do make a right.”

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  (One)

  MiG Alley, Korea

  4 August 1952

  There were gray rain clouds blanketing the North Korean terrain between the Yalu and Chongchon rivers, but at thirty thousand feet the sky was clear and blue. Steve’s BroadSword flight was on its third sweep of the Yalu’s southern bank when his flight leader, Major Larsen, called “Bingo!” the code word that meant he was low on fuel.

  The flight made a wide, lazy turn toward home, which was about two hundred miles away. Five minutes later Larsen announced that the MiGs were springing their ambush.

  “Steel Fist Three, this is Fist Lead,” Major Larsen called, his voice betraying his excitement. Larsen was flying with his wingman about a quarter mile ahead and a thousand feet below Steve’s element. “Come in, Fist Three—”

  Steve punched his mike button. “This is Steel Fist Three.”

  “Fist Three, GCI out of Cho-Do has bandit tracks.”

  “Affirmative, I’ve been monitoring the channel,” Steve said.

  GCI stood for Ground Control Interception, and Cho-Do was a small island in the Yellow Sea about eight miles off the Korean mainland. GCI was part of Tactical Air Control. It was GCI’s job to guide the Combat Air Patrols to the MiGs, warn the CAPs if they were about to get ambushed, and coordinate pilot rescue operations.

  “Cho-Do says they have eight bandits on their screen,” Larsen chattered. “The bandits crossed at Sui-ho. They’re closing on us fast.”

  Larsen liked to talk, and since he was flight leader, Steve liked to let him. He was an okay guy who’d flown a Jug over the Pacific in the last war when he’d missed becoming an ace by one kill. He was making up for that this time around. He already had six kills: four MiGs and two prop-driven IL-10s.

  “We stick with our original plan, Fist Lead?” Steve asked.

  “Affirmative,” Larsen replied. “We’re still the ‘worm.’ Head on home, but not too fast. We don’t want them to get discouraged.”

  The idea had come down from FEAF Command, in response to pilots’ complaints that something was needed to shake up the status quo. Lately trying to catch MiGs had become even more infuriating than usual. The commie jets would go up in force, and begin a leisurely orbit over the Yalu River, the natural boundary between North Korea and Manchuria. Like Indians around a wagon train the MiGs would circle, flying at fifty thousand feet, too high up for BroadSwords to go and get them, but every now and then a handful of MiGs would swoop down to bounce the F-90s. The BroadSwords would jockey for position and invariably end up on the MiGs’ tails, but before they had time to get a kill, the MiGs would hightail it across the Yalu into Manchuria, where the BroadSwords were not allowed to follow.

  Today’s plan was simple, but it depended on split-second timing. Steel Fist Flight was the “worm”—the bait meant to lure the MiGs away from the Yalu. FEAFcom hoped that the MiGs would be willing to follow because they thought Steel Fist Flight would be easy pickings: four BroadSwords all alone, and after a half hour spent on Patrol, obviously low on fuel. What the MiGs didn’t know was that eight fresh, fully fueled BroadSwords, flying low in flights of two to avoid detection by enemy radar, were closing on the scene. Like cavalry riding to the rescue, the double flight of BroadSwords were the “hook” that would snare the MiGs, hopefully before they had a chance to chew on the “worm.”

  “The bandits should be closing on you anytime now, Fist Three,” Larsen radioed. “Better punch your tanks, to get them all hot and bothered.”

  The plan was for Steve and his wingman to appear as if they were preparing to engage the M
iGs, but they would not do so unless the plan somehow went wrong, and they had to save their skins. The lopsided odds were not the issue. The problem was that their airplanes did not have enough fuel left to engage in combat maneuvers.

  “You heard Fist Lead,” Steve told his wingman, Lieutenant Garret. “It’s time to look tough.”

  “Might as well drop my tanks,” Garret chuckled. “They’re as dry as my mouth was this morning.”

  Steve laughed. There’d been quite a bash last night at the officers’ club to celebrate the Helsinki Summer Olympics, which had ended with the good old U.S.A. having whipped the Soviet Union.

  Steve, with Garret sticking close by, banked his F-90 in a wide turn meant to entice the MiGs to come on ahead; that the two lone BroadSwords wearing the 44th’s bright green, diagonal double slash on their aft fuselages, tail rudders, and wings were foolishly willing to stay and do battle.

  “Heads up, Fist Four,” Steve radioed Garret. “When they come, it’ll probably be from up high.”

  “Affirmative. I just hope the hook gets here when it’s supposed to.”

  “Wouldn’t you like a chance at these bandits?” Steve joked.

  “Normally, sure. But not when I’m running on fumes. And not with this hangover.”

  Yeah, it had been some party last night, Steve thought as he searched the sky for signs of the enemy. It had done everyone good to blow off a little steam. There had been so much pent-up frustration over the way things were going.

  In Panmunjom the peace talks were stalled on the question of whether the commie POWs who wanted to stay in the South would be forced to return behind the Bamboo Curtain when the war was over. Out on the battlefield fighting had entered into a morale-sapping series of bloody skirmishes like the one at that aptly named hellhole, Heartbreak Ridge. Meanwhile, the stalemate on the ground had reached up into the sky. The BroadSword pilots were far superior to their commie counterparts, but their prowess was blunted by the enemy’s superior numbers. Not only weren’t there enough BroadSwords, but maintenance of what was available was continuing to be a problem. The commies, meanwhile, seemed to have an endless supply of fresh MiGs.