Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (43 page)

Perplexed but smiling, von Ohain stood there, waiting.

“Frank was knighted, as you know. Now his primary work is advising the Shell Group. It is not very much to his liking; he’d rather be doing what you are doing, or what I am doing. But when I saw him in London earlier this year, he inquired about you. When he learned that I would probably see you in the next few months he said . . .”

Franz stopped to pull a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Smiling, he said, “I wrote this down to be sure I say it exactly as he said it.” He looked at it for a moment, then declaimed, “Sir Frank said, ‘Dr. Franz, just as you and I were, Dr. von Ohain was a true pioneer in jet engines. But I have been following his work in the United States, and I believe he has gone beyond all of us. Like a good jet engine, he has grown in strength, and I salute him for it.’ ”

Von Ohain was speechless, his eyes tearing. Franz bowed, saying, “You deserve that, Hans! And I agree with Sir Frank.”

Franz pressed the paper into von Ohain’s left hand, shook his right hand, and quickly left the room. Von Ohain reread the message and went back to his desk, pleased beyond measure and wondering how he could tell Hanny about it without appearing boastful. Forty minutes later he was still sitting there, Whittle’s paper in his hand, staring out the window, thinking of the days back in the Heinkel plant, working on the first engine.

The phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie.

“This is Sergeant Lutz at the Main Gate, Dr. von Ohain. You have another visitor here, and he’s driving the funniest little car I’ve ever seen. He says his name is Max Hahn and that he is an old friend. Can I send him in to see you?”

“Of course. Thank you, Sergeant Lutz. Will you give him directions, please?”

“If he’ll let me ride in his funny car, I’ll ride over with him in person, sir.”

Von Ohain was thinking how odd that he should see both Franz and Hahn on the same day when the door sprang open and in walked Fritz Obermyer.

“Hello, Hans. Sorry about using Max’s name, but I wasn’t sure that you would see me.”

“Herr Obermyer—”

“Fritz, please, Hans, we are in America, after all. Come with me; I want to show you the Volkswagen. Once you see it you’ll reconsider my idea about a dealership.”

Numb with a sickening combination of annoyance and fear, von Ohain allowed Obermyer to lead him down the highly polished brown asphalt tile hallway to the entrance door. Right in front in a clearly marked “No Parking or Stopping” zone sat a black Volkswagen.

“Sergeant Lutz is standing by the car, just so no one will complain about where we parked it.”

Obermyer opened the door to the black Volkswagen and motioned for von Ohain to get in. He ran around to the other side and quickly sat beside him, “Go ahead; start it up.”

“No, no, I don’t want to drive it. I have enough trouble with my car.”

It was true; von Ohain was always preoccupied with his engineering challenges as he drove, and he had more than his share of minor accidents.

“Hans, we are going to sell more than six thousand Volkswagens in the United States this year. Next year, we are planning on selling five times that number. You really must think about taking the Dayton dealership.”

“Why don’t you take it, Fritz? You would be a fine car salesman; you know all about it.”

“I cannot. I’ve been given a dealership in Los Angeles! I’m on my way there now, driving across country in this wonderful car.”

The two men climbed out of the car and von Ohain extended his hand. “I wish you the best of luck. But it’s out of the question for me. I hope you sell a million cars someday.”

“We’ll sell many more than a million, and there will be a day when you’ll say, ‘If only I had listened to my old friend Fritz!’ But now, can we go back in your office and talk?”

Von Ohain flushed with annoyance. He had already wasted too much time with this man. “I’ve an appointment in a few minutes. Can we talk here?”

“No, the office would be better. Sergeant Lutz, will you watch over the car for a few minutes?” He threw him the keys, saying, “Take it for a short spin, and tell me how you like it.”

Once settled in von Ohain’s office, Obermyer came right to the point. “Hans, you are a fool if you do not take my offer. All I want in return is the mention of your name at automobile shows. And perhaps, other bits of information.”

Von Ohain stood up. “You want me to be a spy for you? You want me to betray the United States for a miserable car dealership? You must be crazy.”

“No, I’m not crazy, Dr. von Ohain. You might be if you don’t listen to me. You have a nice position here; I did a little investigation; you have a nice home and family. You’d like to keep all that, I’m sure.”

Von Ohain gripped the edge of the desk. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes, I am. Not with bodily harm, but there are certain stories that I can provide that would be uncomfortable for you, to say the least. For example, you will recall that we manufactured Heinkel He 162s, the
Volksjaeger,
at Nordhausen, using slave labor.”

Sputtering, von Ohain said, “I had nothing to do with that! You know that I did not.”

“I know it and you know it, but who can say who might
testify otherwise? Your whole career here could go up in smoke.”

“Just like the people that worked at Nordhausen, eh? Get out of here, Herr Obermyer, and never come back. Do whatever you wish, tell whoever you wish, I will never work with you on anything.”

Obermyer stood up saying only, “You’ll regret this, Dr. von Ohain.”

Von Ohain slumped at his desk for almost fifteen minutes, regaining his composure. Then he picked up the phone and asked for an appointment with the judge advocate general. He had to get this conversation on-the-record, no matter what the consequences.

May 1, 1954, Seattle, Washington

The Olympic Hotel was a far cry from the Windsor, and Vance was as grateful to Boeing for putting him up there as he had been surprised by George Schairer’s call the previous Tuesday morning. Schairer’s haggard voice had shocked Shannon—he was sure that trouble had surfaced with Madeline again.

“Vance, can you come to Seattle on short notice?”

“Sure, George, but when? Is it the Comet thing?”

A Comet 1, G-ALYP, had taken off from the airport at Rome at 9:31 on January 10 and only minutes later rained down in pieces into the sea near the island of Elba. Thirty-five people had died, and the Comet fleet was grounded again.

The wreckage was more than six-hundred-feet down, and before it was recovered, de Havilland had made more than sixty precautionary modifications that convinced the British government to reinstate it in service. Then on April 8, another Comet, also taking off from Rome, exploded in the air, coming down into the sea near Naples.

“Yes, and we have to keep this confidential. Try to get
in late Friday night, and go right to the Olympic Hotel. I’ll have a suite for you there. And I’ll come see you on Saturday morning. Sorry about the secrecy, but I guess you understand.”

“What I don’t understand is why you are calling on me?”

“Vance, you know more about the Comet than any other American, and you have Ron Davies’s implicit trust. He called me and said he was having a complete package of the latest data couriered to me, and he specified that you be on the team. And I want you, as well. The package will be here by the twenty-ninth at the latest.”

Shannon had hung up, pleased and furious at the same time. The work at Lear was at the point where he could leave it for a week or two, and he was glad to have more work. It upset him, though, that Boeing felt it had to keep him out of sight from the public. As he thought about it, his indignation had grown, and he almost called Schairer back and refused to come. But the feeling passed, and he realized that this was, maybe, a better way back into the business than working with Lear.

Schairer came in, looking positively delighted to see Vance again; he introduced two engineers he’d brought along, Henry Myers and Ray McAteer. Both men professed their admiration for Vance’s previous work on the Comet, and it was clear from their remarks that they had studied it carefully.

The suite had a large coffee table, and they quickly spread out the documents that Davies had sent over. The wreckage of the Comet that crashed near Elba had been dredged up from six hundred feet of water, and by April 15 the engines, wing center section, and many parts of the splintered fuselage had been flown to Great Britain to the de Havilland plant. A rush pressurization test had been repeated on the entire cabin of a complete Comet, and after a total of about three thousand simulated flights, the cabin structure failed—at the corner of a cabin window.

“George, how many flights did this plane have on it?”

“Just under thirteen hundred. The last one to crash had only about nine hundred. Apparently there’s a wide band where the failure can occur. Look, Davies and his crew have exactly the same material you have. They want us, with you leading, to evaluate the material and come up with a recommendation. They’ll compare that to their own findings, and decide what they have to do.”

“How long have we got?”

“Ten days, George, and it’s absolutely critical for Boeing.”

“How so?”

“We are going to roll out the Dash 80, our new jet transport, on May 14, and we don’t want to have it on the same day that newspapers are saying that jet airliners are inherently dangerous. If you or if de Havilland comes up with something we haven’t considered, we need to be prepared. We can’t delay the rollout. Too many people are invited—including you.”

Vance found that both McAteer and Myers were very able, and they had teams of engineers at their disposal. The three men worked twelve hours a day for six days, checking figures but, more important, checking the rationale of the de Havilland investigators.

At the end of the week, Vance called Schairer.

“George, there’s no question about it; the Comet’s structure is susceptible to fatigue cracks that propagate far more rapidly than anyone could have predicted. Every Comet is an accident waiting to happen. They have to keep them grounded, no matter what the cost is. I cannot see how they can come up with an engineering Band-Aid that will ever permit them to fly passengers. They might do enough patchwork to convert them to military use, but that would be it.”

“You are saying that they need to do a complete redesign of the fuselage?”

“Absolutely, and doing that will force a major redesign of the wings and tail as well.”

There was silence, and Vance asked, “How does this square with de Havilland’s findings?”

“I’m glad to say that you and Davies are on the same frequency. They will have to scrap the Comets they’ve made and go back to the drawing board. I just hope to God that we don’t run into something like this with the Dash 80.”

Vance was packed and ready to go when the desk clerk called and said a Boeing car was waiting, ready to take him out to the airport. He checked out of the hotel and was surprised to find Schairer sitting in the back of the big Cadillac limousine.

“Thanks for coming up on short notice, Vance. I just got a phone call from Bill Lear telling me that I had to get you back down to Santa Monica; I guess he needs you there.”

“Bill’s a funny guy, but he’s smart.”

“Well, we were not very smart here, Vance, when we let you go. We have some tough projects coming up, and we want you to come back on contract with us. Hell, we’d prefer you to come up and work for us, but I know you’ve got other irons in the fire. Anyway, come on up on July 15; bring Jill and your sons. We’re going to do the first flight of the Dash 80, and you ought to be a witness.”

“We’ll do it—and thanks, George, one more time.”

The last time he had flown from Seattle to Los Angeles, Vance’s heart had been heavy with Madeline’s betrayal and his own sense of failure. The flight this time was much less stressful.

July 15, 1954, Seattle, Washington

Harry and Tom had wanted to stay at the Windsor, for old time’s sake, but decency and common sense prevailed, and Vance put everybody up at the Olympic. Everyone had come up to Seattle, including Anna, doing better this past year, and V.R., doing well as always. More than
anything else, everyone was pleased by Vance’s evident delight at having Boeing as a client once more.

Now they were all in the VIP stands that Boeing had put up at Boeing Field as the beautiful 367-80 was towed out of its hangar, gleaming in the usual Boeing copper brown and cream yellow colors. The very top Boeing brass—Bill Allen, Ed Wells, George Schairer, and the various members of Boeing’s board—were seated in the row in front of them, and Schairer had been thoughtful enough to have Vance’s family positioned immediately behind him, so that they could talk. There would be some ceremonies, a few short speeches, as the Dash 80 was preparing for its scheduled 2:15
PM
takeoff, but the two men had a lot of catching up to do.

Schairer moved his chair around and said, “Did you ever think you’d see the day when there would be a Boeing jet transport, Vance?”

“I knew there would be—I was just doubtful about me being here to see it.”

“That’s all in the past, and we’ll say no more about it.” He paused and looked around, saying, “Nice crowd.”

Vance nodded and said “Too bad that Sir Frank couldn’t come, nor Hans von Ohain. They really should be here.”

“You’re right it’s a shame. Jet aviation has grown so much that we tend to lose contact with the pioneers. What a world of difference there is between now and when those two geniuses started out!” Schairer looked sober and said, “There’s a lot of other people who ought to be here, too, Vance, including some of the old-timers.”

Shannon nodded. He knew Schairer was referring to the people who had lost their lives testing airplanes in the past.

Tex Johnston suddenly appeared and walked directly over to Bill Allen, Boeing’s chairman. Vance could not hear what was said, but it was evident that Allen was worried and Johnston was trying to reassure him.

“Bill’s worried. He’s got sixteen million dollar’s worth of Boeing’s future riding on this flight.”