The Fly Boys (36 page)

Now Steve was alone in the mess hut, seated at a long table. There was no one on duty behind the counter when he’d come in,
but there was a coffee urn going. Steve had rummaged around in the food lockers and come up with some bread and ham and mustard.

He was polishing off his second sandwich when he noticed a folded-up newspaper on the floor beneath the table. It was a recent
issue of
Stars and Stripes
, one that he hadn’t seen. While he ate he thumbed through the paper until he came to the headline across the lower half of
the third page:

BROADSWORD BUILDER WARNS AGAINST
SOVIET-BUILT MIGS IN KOREA

LOS ANGELES
, Oct. 4—The president and chairman of Gold Aviation and Transport said here today that the Chinese Communists will soon be
involved in the Korean conflict, and that his company’s F-90 BroadSword jet fighter is the only airplane capable of besting
the Chinese Reds’ Soviet-built jets.

Herman Gold, in a keynote address to the Greater California Business Council, warned, “Now that the UN Forces have crossed
the 38th parallel, it is only a matter of time before the Chinese Reds get into the fighting. Mao Tse-Tung has consistently
warned that he will not stand by and allow North Korea to be defeated, and our own government has publicly admitted that thousands
of Chinese troops have already entered into battle to shore up the flagging North Koreans.

“Up until now, the United States Air Force has had its own way in Korea,” Gold went on to tell his audience, comprised of
the most influential leaders of the California business community. “All that will change when the Chinese Reds introduce their
Russian-built MiG-15s into the conflict. Our pilots are the best in the world, but we can’t expect them to win with inferior
equipment. My sources in Washington have told me that recent intelligence reports have appraised the MiG-15 to be a swept-wing,
state-of-the-art jet fighter. If that turns out to be the case, I’m certain that the only airplane in the Air Force arsenal
capable of besting the MiG and keeping the Korean skies safe for democracy is America’s own swept-wing, state-of-the-art jet
interceptor, the GAT F-90 BroadSword.”

Gold went on to discuss the BroadSword’s record-breaking performance specifications. He then mentioned the various subsidiary
and independent companies that have subcontracted with GAT to produce components for the BroadSword.

“I say hats off to the American business establishment,” Gold concluded to a standing ovation. “It’s a testimonial to the
American way of life that the free enterprise system has produced an airplane like the BroadSword. God willing, the BroadSword
will help our brave boys in Korea keep the communist hordes safely confined behind their Bamboo Curtain.”

Steve pushed away his plate. His appetite had been ruined by what he had just read. How dare his father presume to suggest
that the Air Force wasn’t capable of stopping the commies without GAT-built airplanes!

“Hello, Bugsy—”

Steve looked up. A Negro wearing flight overalls and a sage-green fur-collared flight jacket stood in the doorway, casting
a tremendous shadow. The man was huge. He was at least six feet three inches tall, and had to weigh at least 220.

“Evans?—” Steve asked, startled.

“That’s me.”

Steve nodded. He had, of course, known that there were colored pilots, but he’d never actually met one.

Evans’s smile faded. Steve didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He had nothing against colored people. “My God, Evans,”
he grinned, hoping to hide his astonishment with a joke. “How the hell do they shoehorn a guy your size into a cockpit?”

Evans didn’t reply to that.”You sure it’s just my size that’s taken you by surprise, Major?” he grumbled. “All of a sudden
you’re looking mighty pale.”

“How would
you
know?” Steve grinned, but the joke fell flat. He took out his cigarettes and lit one as Evans went over to the mess counter
to help himself to a mug of coffee. “Well, okay,” Steve said loudly.

“Okay, what?” Evans demanded, looking over his shoulder as he filled his mug from the urn.

“Okay, so you have a chip on your shoulder because you’re colored. I don’t mind,” Steve shrugged. “Maybe I got some chips
on my shoulder, as well. So let’s put this bullshit aside and get back to being friendly.”

“You telling me you don’t care that I’m colored?” Evans challenged.

“Right.”

“That you weren’t taken aback to see a colored man wearing wings and captain’s bars?”

Steve shrugged. “The Air Force gave them to you. They must know what they’re doing.”

Evans hesitated a moment, but then smiled thinly. “Leastways, most of the time,” he said softly.

Steve smiled back. “Captain, the only color I’m currently hating is red. Today you had the balls to do your job when we were
up against those tanks, and that made you okay in my book. Then you stood by me when I was in trouble, and that made you more
than okay. If Major Kell ever comes through with that case of scotch he owes me, I’ll give you half. What more can I say?
I can’t fucking
adopt
you.”

“You’re too fucking irresponsible to be
my
daddy,” Evans laughed as he brought over his coffee and sat down. He extended his hand across the table.”Pleased to finally
meet you in the flesh, Major.”

“Same here,” Steve replied, shaking hands. “Did you get through to Itazuke okay?”

“No problem,” Evans said as he sipped his coffee. “Everything is taken care of. What we’ll do is dismantle your F-80 and truck
it to K-2.”

“Taegu?” Steve asked.

Evans nodded. “The 822nd Engineers have laid six thousand feet of pierced steel planking for you jet jockeys, and backup facilities
are in place. K-2 is now operational for F-80s.”

“That takes care of my airplane,” Steve remarked. “Now all I have to do is figure out a way home.”

“That’s no sweat,” Evans said. “We’ve got a transport coming in here tomorrow to take these reporters back to Japan. You can
hitch a ride with them.”

“That’s great,” Steve said, relieved.

“Speaking of reporters,” Evans continued. “They’re still waiting for you in the briefing room.”

“Lead me to them,” Steve said, standing up.

He followed Evans out of the mess hut. The sky had turned gray and the temperature had dropped, as if to portend the nasty
Korean winter around the corner. One of the Mustang pilots had been willing to lend Steve a leather jacket, since the flight
personnel at Cha-Cha had just been issued their cold-climate gear. Steve now zipped up the A-2, turning up its collar against
the knife-edged wind that was gusting from the east.

“Good thing you landed when you did,” Evans remarked as they crossed the compound toward the cinder-block building along the
airstrip.

Steve nodded in agreement. “I doubt I would have even tried to land if I’d had to contend with this wind. Where’s the briefing
room?” Steve asked as they entered the building.

“This way, but first we have to stop at Major Kell’s office,” Evans said.

“How come?”

“Kell handed the reporters a line about what a big hero he was in helping you to land.”

“Kell told them he
helped
me?” Steve scoffed. “I half expected the son of a bitch to scramble his F-51s to shoot me down.”

“Well, anyway, the Major wants to make an entrance with you in front of those reporters.” Evans shrugged, rolling his eyes.
“You’ll understand when you meet him.’”

He led Steve past the clerk-typist seated outside Kell’s office. “Just try to keep a straight face,” he whispered as he knocked
on Kell’s door, and then opened it.

“Sir, Captain Evans reporting with Major Gold, as ordered, sir.” He came to attention and saluted as Steve edged past him
into the office.

“Ah! There you are, Major Gold,” Kell said briskly, standing up from behind his desk.

“Here I am,” Steve agreed.

Kell was a very short man of slight build. He stood ramrod straight, with his chin jutting, either to make the most of his
diminutive height or to dare somebody else to make something out of it. He had a pencil-thin mustache and wispy, dark brown
hair parted and slicked down across his high-domed forehead. He wore his khaki trousers tucked into high black boots, and
had a dark blue ascot around his throat, tucked into his shirt collar.

“How you doing, Major?” Steve said, shaking hands with Kell. “Nice office you’ve got here,” he added, his eye caught by the
well-stocked, glass-fronted liquor cabinet taking up the corner of the room behind Kell’s desk.

Kell must have seen him looking longingly at the booze. “Would you care for a drink?”

“You bet! Is that a bottle of Chivas I see peeking out from the back of that bottom shelf?”

“You have good eyes, Major,” Kell said lightly, but his smile was colder than the Korean wind.

“Fighter pilots need good eyes,” Steve replied. He watched as Kell took a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the
cabinet, then removed the bottle of Chivas, but only two glasses.

You dumb bastard
, Steve thought.
You’ve got Evans standing right here and you don’t intend to offer him a drink?

Steve glanced at Evans, who seemed to sense what Steve was about to do. Evans began to shake his head no in warning.

“Captain Evans,” Steve said heartily. “What are you having? Chivas as well?”

“Captain, you’re dismissed,” Kell interrupted.

You cheap bum
, Steve thought as Evans crisply saluted and left the office.
Here you’re the CO of a combat outfit, and you deny one of your best pilots a drink
.

It wasn’t as if Kell was on short rations. The cabinet held plenty more bottles of booze, and like everything else in the
office, the labels on those bottles were first-rate.

Kell had plenty of comforts, all right. Despite the cold weather outside, the office was warm, thanks to the potbelly coal
stove. How Kell had managed to get wall-to-wall carpeting out here in the middle of nowhere, Steve couldn’t imagine. And where
had that black leather swivel chair come from, or the pair of brass desk lamps with green glass shades that flanked the pink
marble pen stand? The only standard-issue furnishings were the folding canvas chairs meant for visitors.

The wall behind Kell’s desk was entirely taken up with a huge silk embroidered reproduction of the FEAF insignia. Steve gazed
at it as Kell poured the drinks.

The wall hanging was as big as a double bedspread. It was a beautifully and accurately done insignia rendition. The Air Force
wing and star were sewn against the diamond-shaped dark blue background. Crowning the five-pointed star was the gold sunburst
that represented the Philippine sun. The United States Army Air Force had been chased out of the Philippines by the Japanese
back in ‘41, but history would forever show that the USAAF had more than paid Tojo back for that slap in the face. Beneath
the wing and star were five smaller silver stars arranged in a curve somewhat like a shepherd’s crook. The five stars represented
the Southern Cross constellation; it had been beneath that constellation that General Kenney had activated FEAF in Australia
back in ‘44.

“Here we are,” Kell said. He carefully stowed away his Chivas, relocking the cabinet before handing Steve a glass.

Steve stared glumly. Kell had poured them both a stingy finger’s worth of scotch. “Major Kell, where did you get that hanging?”

“Ah, that,” Kell said, turning to admire it. “Something, isn’t it? I hired some Korean women to sew it for me.” He winked
at Steve. “It cost next to nothing.”

Steve nodded. “And what about this building? Pretty unusual for a post like this to have such luxurious digs….”

“ROK Command was kind enough to put a labor force at my disposal,” Kell explained. “But never mind about the building. Here’s
to our press conference.” He raised his glass. “May it advance both our careers.”

“Sure thing, Major,” Steve said. He knocked back his drink. “That hit the spot.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Kell said, still sipping his drink.

“I don’t suppose you’d come across with a case of Chivas to make good on our bet,” Steve joked.

Kell finished his scotch and set down the empty glass. “Surely you don’t expect me to honor that silly wager?” he demanded.

“A bet’s a bet,” Steve said, putting his glass on Kell’s desk. “Anyway, what’s the beef?” He gestured around the office. “With
your obvious connections, getting a case of scotch should be easy.

“I was only humoring you when I made that bet,” Kell said, shaking his head. “What I did was ascertain that you were on a
very
thin edge
psychologically. Accordingly, I merely agreed to your unorthodox wager in order to relax you, thereby giving you the best
possible chance of landing your fighter in one piece. Do you read me, Major?”

“Oh, you’ve come through loud and clear,” Steve said evenly.
You welsher
.

“Very good,” Kell nodded as he went to the closet and opened it. Steve watched, fascinated, as Kell took out a dark blue visored
crush cap and a swagger stick.

That figures
, Steve thought, glancing in amusement at the stick. He waited as Kell carefully centered his cap on his head as he stared
at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door.

“Now then, Major,” Kell declared, “the press awaits.”

“Well, hell,” Steve said pleasantly. “Let’s not keep them a-waiting any longer than a-necessary….”

The briefing room was next to the radio room, which was at the far end of the building from Kell’s office. They entered through
a side entrance that led directly onto the raised platform at the front of the room.

The newsreel camera people switched on their bright floodlights as soon as Steve entered onto the platform. The lights made
it impossible for him to see who was seated out there. Up on the platform there were a couple of folding chairs in front of
a blackboard, and a map of Korea on an easel. Steve grabbed a chair and sat down. Kell, who remained standing, gave him a
dirty look. Steve ignored it and enjoyed seeing the CO’s face turn red as he began to slap his swagger stick against the side
of his leg.