Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (7 page)

“I’ll see him when his chute opens. He better be quick about it, though.”

Rolling level, Shannon checked his fuel and realized he had to get back to the field or they would be out looking for him as well. He rolled inverted again for one last scan, hoping to see the white shroud of St. John’s parachute opening. Instead he caught the sudden flash of flame and smoke as the stricken T-38 dove into the ground.

Four hours later, Shannon sat in the Officers Club with Ginny, both disconsolate, both crying.

“It’s impossible, Ginny, one minute he was there, flying lead; two minutes later he’s smashed into the ground, dead, his parachute unopened.”

Unable to speak, she squeezed his hand.

Shannon had talked to the Air Force rescue team that brought
Charlie’s body back. They found St. John, still strapped into the ejection seat, next to a big hole in the ground. The seat had hit hard, making a two-foot depression, then bounced out to land a few feet away, St. John still strapped in.

“The medic from the chopper told me that it looked like Charlie was knocked unconscious when he ejected. And none of the automatic systems worked. They’ll probably ground all the T-38s until they find out why the seat malfunctioned.”

Ginny spoke, her voice welling with emotion. “I hope they do. Flying is too dangerous. I wish you would give it up and do something else.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “Give up flying? I come from a family of flyers. My dad is an ace, my grandfather was an ace and a legendary test pilot. My uncle Harry is famous for his flying and his engineering. How can I give it up? I won’t give it up, don’t even think that.”

Shannon’s tone disturbed Ginny. “Your best friend was just killed, and you get angry with me because I want you to stop flying? This is a new side of you, and I don’t like it.”

V. R. bounded up, ready to walk out, then abruptly sat down and put his arms around her.

“Ginny, angel, we’re upset. Charlie’s death has got us both confused. I’m sorry I was angry.”

“I wish I could believe you, honey, but I saw something in your eye just now that I’ve never seen before. I saw exactly where I stand when it comes to a choice between me or flying. It will be flying.”

V. R. hugged her, knowing she was right and knowing that there was probably not going to be any sex tonight.

July 18, 1975
Sunnyvale, California

B
OB
R
ODRIQUEZ GLANCED
around his office at ActOn, the company Steve O’Malley and he had founded. The name came from a phrase O’Malley used constantly: “We’ve got to act on this now.” It didn’t make much sense, but it had a ring to it that they both liked.

But what in the hell had happened? Six months before, they had opened the new facility on one of the “scientific campuses” flourishing around Stanford. His office had been a thing of beauty, with cleanlined furniture, a big conference table, and comfortable chairs. Now it swam in files and folders, endless printouts from the company’s big IBM computer spilling off to the floor, every flat surface encumbered with plans, books, and odd bits of the hardware they were developing. Two huge chalkboards, both filled with numbers, one with sheets of paper draped over sensitive information, stood there, dripping chalk dust. The only neat spot was a table behind his desk where he had half a dozen photos of his ex-wife, Mae, and his son, Bob Jr. The photos brought him equal amounts of comfort in the memories and pain at his loss.

The antic disarray embarrassed him because O’Malley’s office, across the hall, still looked brand-new. Of course, O’Malley was gone most of the time. General Dynamics had won the lightweight fighter competition in January, and O’Malley was pounding the streets in Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Oslo, and Brussels, the first four foreign countries who would operate the aircraft.

It was just as they had predicted. The foreign governments liked the F-16—the Fighting Falcon as the Air Force had named it—but they needed more than an air superiority fighter. Every one of them expected the F-16 to do double or triple or quadruple duty. They wanted planes for reconnaissance, for attack, even for level bombing, not just for dogfighting. ActOn was trying to be the catalyst that transformed the F-16 to their needs with a whole series of weapons packages and radar options.

Relatively new procurement requirements facilitated ActOn’s efforts. Every country who bought the F-16 had it written into their contracts that they could build some or all of the aircraft in factories in their own country. There were lots of variations on the theme, ranging from building wings and tails to totally irrelevant transactions. In one case O’Malley had to arrange for a huge shipment of grain to be sent to Holland as part of the deal, and had spent two valuable weeks scouring the United States for the best way to achieve it. But for the most part, the companies were content to have their factories build components, especially those that met their specific national needs for alternate weapons systems.

It was a bonus they had hoped for, but had not counted on. When the foreign manufacturers introduced a new product—anything from a precision guided missile to a bomb rack to a transponder—ActOn was often able to see that it was snapped up by the USAF for installation on later model F-16s. O’Malley called it the “inverted cornucopia,” saying you poured a little effort in the small end and huge contracts came spewing out the other.

Rodriquez knew that it was more than just luck. He had created the line of products over the last five years, and patented each one, but he was no salesman. O’Malley knew exactly how to combine a salesman’s
bon homme
manner, dispensing martinis at expensive restaurants with the detailed scientific knowledge that a smart customer demanded. No matter what he was asked, he had the answer, right then, without checking with anyone, and he impressed people, gaining one contract after another. Most competing company teams used two types of people, one for the martini drinking, one for the technical details. O’Malley did both.

But everything they had planned together, all of their best estimates, was completely overshadowed by a totally new development. Four countries—Norway, Belgium, Denmark, and the Netherlands—had signed up to buy 348 F-16s for more than $2.1 billion. Every one of those countries wanted to share in the coproduction, and few of them had contacts with more than one or two of the almost fifty U.S. suppliers. They all had experience working with Pratt & Whitney and General Dynamics, but they were at a loss when it came to lower tier producers.

That’s where O’Malley scored the most; he had a wide network in the United States and spent his days linking up U.S. producers with their foreign counterparts, always with a contract generated for ActOn in the process. The work kept him so busy that he was looking for a new hire who could handle the GPS side of their business.

O’Malley was back in town, and now breezed into his office, slapping a wad of papers down on top of the stack confronting Rodriquez.

“Here we are, Bob; five new contracts. Three of them are for F-16 simulators.”

Rodriquez’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about, Steve? That’s not our bailiwick! Nancy Shannon will go through the roof when she hears this, she’ll think we are poaching on her turf.”

“And we are. The reason we are is because she’s let the simulator end of her business slide. After you left, there was no one there to push it. The result is she’s not competitive, and I don’t think she cares.”

“I’ll tell you who will care. It will be Tom. He’s always hated me, and now something like this will infuriate him. I don’t know what you were thinking of, you know all this.”

“Right, Roberto, I do, and I did it deliberately. Nancy Shannon is running the company into the ground; she’s lost millions on that stupid mall she got involved in, and now she’s being sued for millions more. Vance Shannon, Incorporated, didn’t have a prayer of getting these contracts for simulators. If I didn’t bid on them, they would have gone to Link or some other big simulator outfit, pure and simple.”

Rodriquez shook his head, not convinced. “Let me think about this a bit.”

He glanced at the clock and said, “Let’s watch the news, and see how our boys are getting along with the Russkies up in space.”

The Apollo Soyuz Test Project was a sign of the growing spirit of détente between the United States and the Soviet Union. An American Apollo spacecraft, virtually identical to the one that had orbited the Moon, had launched on July 15. It was to meet the standard Soviet Soyuz vehicle, already in orbit. To join up, they needed a universal docking module to serve as an airlock and a transfer corridor between the two spacecraft. Rodriquez had helped in the design and construction of the docking module.

The first story was a hit-and-run accident in Sunnyvale, but the news switched to a fuzzy view of the American astronauts floating easily in space and grinning for the camera as they shook hands with their rather glum Soviet counterparts.

O’Malley asked, “Do you know those guys?”

“I know Tom Stafford pretty well. I haven’t met Brand, but everybody’s pulling for Slayton.”

“Deke” Slayton had been one of the original seven astronauts, slated to fly in the Mercury program, but pulled off because of a suspected heart problem. He’d persevered, and here he was, fourteen years later, in space at last.

“You’d think there was a KGB man on board, the way the Russians are acting.”

“Maybe not on board, but you can be damn sure they are on the
ground watching. One slipup, one smile in the wrong place, and there would be no more cosmonaut program for these guys. They have to be careful.”

The news switched to local matters again, and Rodriquez flicked the set off.

“This brings up a good point, Steve. NASA has this monster space shuttle program coming along, and we haven’t been doing anything with it. It’s going to be slow, but it’s the future of manned spaceflight, no doubt about it.”

O’Malley nodded. “Problem is, I’m like Vance; unless it’s got wings, I don’t like it.”

“Well, the Space Shuttle will have wings; it will be the world’s biggest glider, no doubt about it. But where does ActOn fit in?”

“We’ve got our hands full now, with more and more F-16s being sold every day, but you’re right, we have to look ahead. The F-16 program will go on for years, but our edge, our entry to it, probably has peaked, and we’ll need to replace it with other business. Problem is, I feel out of the loop with the Space Shuttle. We know people at NASA and at Rockwell, too, but it’s not like the aircraft industry, where we know people everywhere.”

Rodriquez nodded. “And don’t forget the GPS. It’s starting slow, but it will accelerate. Getting some Space Shuttle business might be tough, but for one thing, it would keep us out of Nancy Shannon’s hair. She won’t have any interest in this at all, nor will Tom or Harry. I’m more worried about these simulator contracts; it’s like a declaration of war.”

O’Malley, his usual cheerful smile stretching from ear to ear, said, “Don’t worry about it, old son. I’ll personally guarantee that there’s no problem with these. I’ve got to go—I need to get home, get showered, and get to the airport, I’ve got a meeting back in Amsterdam tomorrow afternoon.”

Rodriquez almost had the last word. “No more simulator contracts.”

O’Malley turned. “Wrong. More simulator contracts. And wait here one second. I’m going to introduce you to somebody you’ll be glad to meet.”

He left the room, returning with a tall, lean young man of serious demeanor.

“Bob, I want you to meet Dennis Jenkins. He started out as an
Army chopper pilot and wound up working as a test pilot for Northrop on the YF-17. How he did that, I’ll never know. But the great thing is he knows more about space than you and I and the rest of the company put together.”

Jenkins shrugged his shoulders and stuck out his hand.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Rodriquez; Steve has told me a lot about you. Of course I knew quite a bit, for I’ve been following your work in simulators and precision weapons.”

O’Malley’s cheerful voice broke in, “Dennis is going to be our point man on the GPS and the Space Shuttle. He’s young, but he’s well connected, and unlike you or me, he can write. We are going to need a whole new approach to proposals on these projects, and we need somebody who can speak the language.”

Rodriquez smiled; O’Malley vouching for the man was enough for him.

“Did you two talk salaries?”

“Not yet. I told Dennis that you would be fair. I’ll leave you two now, I’ve got to get to the airport.”

For the next hour the two men talked about Jenkins’s prospective projects, Rodriquez periodically pouring coffee from a seemingly bottomless silver carafe on his crowded desk.

“Where do we stand on GPS right now?” Rodriquez was more than well informed; he had fathered the program, before seeing it taken over by the services. He wanted to see how up-to-date Jenkins was.

Jenkins was cautious, formulating his words. “As you know, the Department of Defense designated the Air Force as lead on a multiservice program; they called it the ‘Defense Navigation Satellite System.’ ”

Rodriquez nodded, saying, “Didn’t they cobble together the Air Force, Army, and the Navy approaches?”

“Exactly! I never met General Ken Schultz, but the Air Force owes him a lot, because he appointed Colonel Bradford Parkinson—and I know Brad quite well—to manage the joint program to develop the GPS. Brad was able to synthesize all the various competing systems into one. He played the services like a menu in a Chinese restaurant, taking one from column A and one from column B, picking the most useful from each one.”

Jenkins took a swallow from the cup of coffee Rodriquez had given him.

“I don’t think anyone else could have done it. The Army, the Navy, the Air Force, all had ideas about how to do it, and they all had vested interests, of course, you know how the advocacy system works. But Brad chose to use the atomic clocks, higher orbits, the right number of satellites, and the correct frequencies for the digital signals—and melded it into what they now call the NavStar Ground Positioning System. And he got everybody to agree on what to do.”