The Fly Boys (47 page)

“I’m going to do more than
touch
him,” Steve said firmly.

Larsen shook his head. “Believe me, a tot of us have tried and failed.”

“I’m not going to fail.”

“Steve, he ain’t called
Yalu
Charlie for nothing,” Larsen chided. “Today was an exception. Usually he sticks to the vicinity of the river like glue. You
know what that means. He’s so good that it’s next to impossible to get him into trouble, but even if you could lock on to
his six o’clock, all he’s got to do is cob the throttle and zip back across the river, and after today you can bet that he’s
going to be
extra particular
about straying far from home.”

“Then that’s the key,” Steve said.

“What is?” Larsen asked, frowning.

“It’s simple. Yalu Charlie thinks he’s safe on the north side of the river. That’s where he lets his guard down.”

Larsen shrugged. “He probably lets his guard down back in Moscow as well, but big shit, you can’t touch him there, either.”

“No, not in Moscow,” Steve said softly. “It’s too far away. But the Yalu is right here. All I have to do is fly across it.”

“You listen to me.” Larsen leveled his index finger like a gun at Steve. “Before your time, I guess it was a year ago, a couple
of the 44th’s pilots got carried away and went across the Yalu. They claimed navigational error, but that didn’t cut any ice
with the CO. He had their balls for breakfast. Do you read me, Steve?”

“You’re pulling my leg,” Steve began.

“Negative!”

Steve was still skeptical. Colonel Gleason was in his fifties. He was a small, bald-headed man with thick wire-rimmed spectacles.
The pilots didn’t see too much of Gleason; he preferred to leave the daily briefings to his staff so that he would have more
time to hunt bugs. It was said that he had an extensive collection and that some of his finds were in museums. In good weather
you could find him with his butterfly net creeping around in the brush on the outskirts of the base.

“Gleason put those two pilots up for a court-martial,” Larsen continued. “They were found not guilty, but he wasn’t satisfied.
He found some excuse to have them grounded for good.”

“Get out of here,” Steve laughed uneasily.

“You think I’m kidding?” Larsen demanded.

Steve stared. “You’re telling me that Gleason actually was vindictive enough to permanently clip their wings?”

“Like they were a couple of his butterflies pinned to a blotter,” Larsen nodded vigorously.

“I guess I believe you,” Steve said dubiously.

“I’m just telling you,” Larsen shrugged. “Believe it or not, Gleason’s the kind of officer who does not believe in anybody
rocking the boat. He’s a stickler for the rules, he likes to hold a grudge, and he knows how to get even. You cross that river,
and you’d better enjoy your flight, because that’ll be your last.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “I hear you. Thanks for the warning. But I still intend to avenge my buddy, and I think I know a way to
do it. The problem is that if it’s going to work, I’m going to need the flight’s cooperation.”

“You just hold on! You leave us out of it! You want to go up against Gleason, that’s your business, but—”

“Listen to me,” Steve implored.

“No way!” Larsen cut him off emphatically. “And that’s final!”

Nodding, Steve leaned back in his chair to study Larsen.
Maybe a little reverse psychology
, he thought. “Ah, hell, I guess you’re right.”

“I
know
I’m right!”

“Anyway,” Steve began, “even if you
did
go along, the other guys would probably veto my idea.”

“What do you mean?” Larsen demanded, sounding affronted. “I’m flight leader,” he smugly thumbed his chest. “If I like the
idea, the other guys will string along, don’t you worry.”

“Okay,” Steve said quickly, leaning in close to Larsen to confide in him. “What I have in mind will leave the rest of the
flight in the clear. I don’t want
you
guys to cross the river. I only need you to cover for me. No way will Gleason be able to nail you.” He paused. “But if you
don’t think you can get the other guys to go along, that’s okay.”

“Nah, nah… don’t worry.”

Steve pretended to hesitate. “Maybe I
should
wait for a time when the entire flight is together.”

“I
told
you there’d be no problem!”

“Well, if you say so….” Steve grinned. “Okay, then, next time Yalu Charlie begins finals week, here’s what I want to do….”

Don Harrison stared longingly out the conference room’s windows, only half listening to the cost analysis report on a new
fighter design. It was a warm, sunny day, and Harrison was suffering from spring fever.

The conference room overlooked the parking lot. Harrison’s new white Hudson Commodore Eight convertible was parked out there.
He’d bought the car to celebrate landing this job. If he craned his neck, he could see it gleaming in the sun.

It would be grand to put the top down on the Commodore and go for a drive along the coast. Or maybe go hiking in the nearby
California foothills. Or even be working at his drafting table in his office.

It was a good day to be anywhere but here, sitting at the head of this conference table, trying to ignore the stony expressions
on the faces of his senior engineers and project managers.

But he had to correct himself. These were not his people. To say that they swore their allegiance to GAT, not to him, would
be a supreme understatement. There wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t gladly plant a dagger between his shoulder blades if given
half a chance.

I’ve been here four months now
, Harrison thought.
Since then these guys have gone from mildly resenting my usurping Teddy Quinn’s authority to completely hating my guts
.

Sitting at the far end of the conference table was Susan Greene, his personal secretary. She attended all the conferences
to take the minutes.

She had been Teddy Quinn’s secretary, so ironically Harrison had initially thought that she would be the only one in the department
who would have trouble making the adjustment to his work style. It had turned out exactly the opposite of what he had expected.
Susan had been the only one to sincerely welcome him with an open mind.

Now Harrison watched her as she busily took down in shorthand what the project manager was saying. She was an extraordinarily
efficient secretary. He didn’t know how he would ever get along without her. She was a damned fine-looking woman, as well.
She was built big but shapely, with lovely skin, gleaming blonde hair, and big brown eyes. She had an easy, feline way of
moving, like a tigress.

He wondered, as he had many times, if she was a tigress in bed.

Susan must have felt his eyes on her. She suddenly glanced up at him and smiled in the oddest way, as if she’d read his mind.

Harrison, flustered and feeling himself blushing, quickly looked away. “Forgive me,” he interrupted the project manager. “I’d
like to hear more, but we’re running short on time, Mr. Randall—”

“Randolph,” the man said evenly. “My name’s Randolph.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Randolph,” he stammered, off balance.
Shit! he thought. They’ll be snickering about this behind my back
.

Randolph was in his forties. His pug nose was too small for his broad, round face, but Harrison envied the man’s thick head
of salt-and-pepper curls. His own, baby-fine blonde hair was making a quick retreat to the back of his head. He had to wear
a hat when riding in his new convertible to avoid a sunburned scalp.

“Anyway, Mr. Randolph,” Harrison said, “if you’ll just route a copy of your analysis to Miss Greene—”

“Sure, I’ll drop a copy onto Suzy’s desk,” Randolph interrupted. He looked at Suzy and winked. The others chuckled.

He’s making fun of me, damn him
. Harrison swallowed his anger.
I’m always odd man out
, he brooded.
They treat me like a barely tolerated guest, not the head of this department
.

“We need to talk about the GC-909,” he said. He looked toward Cal Jennings, the 909 project manager.

“Everything is under control, now that we know what caused the Stoat-Black Starstreak breakups,” Jennings announced.

Harrison nodded. Jennings had co-authored the final report submitted by the British panel that had solved the mystery of the
SB-100’s repeated high-altitude breakups. In March of this year the panel had discovered that the Star-streak’s Achilles heel
had been the cutouts in the hull to accommodate the jetliner’s windows. Repeated pressurizings and depressurizings had weakened
the joinngs where the frames met the hull. At high altitudes, the frame could pop out, causing a split in the hull that would
destroy the plane.

“We’ve made running changes in the 909’s fuselage to avoid this problem situation,” Jennings said. “We’ve designed reinforcements
into the fuselage. Tear-stoppers, if you will.”

“Have you routed a memo on that to public relations?” Harrison interrupted.

“Well, no….” Jennings said. “What we’ve done is very technical. I doubt those flacks upstairs would understand the engineering
aspects. The public sure as hell wouldn’t.”

“If the PR department can’t understand well enough to explain it to the public, it’s your job as project manager to make them
understand,” Harrison said.

“That’s not the way we’ve usually done it—” Jennings began.

“It’s how I want it done,
now
, however,” Harrison replied firmly, and paused. “Miss Greene?”

“Sir?” she asked, looking up.

“Take a memo to PR: I want a promotional film made,” he continued, thinking out loud. “We’ll build a mock-up of the SB-100
and 909’s cabins. We’ll pressurize them, and then, somehow, dramatically puncture both. It should be very impressive to the
public when it sees the SB-100 peel open like a sardine can, while our jetliner—thanks to its tear-stoppers—stays intact.”
Harrison paused and smiled. “Suggest to the PR department that we call our film ‘The Gauntlet of the Sky.’ Mr. Jennings, I
know you’re busy,” Harrison said apologetically, “but after your stint on that panel, you know the SB-100 as well as any Stoat-Black
engineer. I’d like you to supervise the building of the mockups.”

Jennings was scowling through his bushy black beard. “I think I’ll wait until I hear from Herman about this.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Jennings,” Harrison said icily.

“He usually authorizes such expenditures.”

“I’m sick of this insubordination!” Harrison exploded.

“Sir,” Susan quickly interrupted, her voice calmly steady against the shocked silence. “I’ll route a copy of this memo to
the top floor right away, adding a note asking Mr. Gold to initial his approval of the idea.”

“Thank you for that suggestion, Miss Greene,” Harrison nodded. “The rest of you had better realize that when Amalgamated-Landis
committed to entering into this competition to build a jetliner, they decided to play for keeps. They knew that they were
risking a lot by throwing down the gauntlet of challenge, but they have a lot going for them.”

“They’ve also suffered a terrible setback,” Randolph observed.

“What?” Harrison asked, distracted. “Pardon?”

“They’ve lost
you
, right?”

Harrison struggled to keep control of his temper amid the laughter, he knew that he’d made a serious tactical error by losing
it a few moments before.
It’s not necessary that they like me
, he told himself,
as long as they accept the logic of what I have to say
.

“Listen to me,” he said loudly. “Because I’ve only recently come from A-L, I know a few things about what’s going on there.
For instance, A-L salesmen have been telling their prospective customer airlines that although GAT will have earlier deliveries,
if the airlines are willing to wait another year, A-L will supply them with a better airplane.”

That got their attention
, he thought as the laughter subsided.

“That’s a lot of crap,” Randolph said.

“Why?” Harrison shrugged. “Think about it;
all of you
think about it! A-L has been stressing the fact that its jetliner has all the features of the 909, plus none of the drawbacks.
The A-L sales slogan has been that the AL12 ‘puts the icing on the cake.’”

“That can’t be working,” Jennings said nervously.

“Oh, no?” Harrison countered. “Then how come A-L is now ahead of us on advance orders?” The room was silent. “We’ve got a
prototype almost ready to go,” he continued, “and all they’ve got is a paper airline,
and yet their orders outnumber ours
.”

He waited a beat to let that last bit sink in and hopefully shake up these complacent bastards. “Gentlemen, Amalgamated-Landis
may be the tortoise and GAT may be the hare, but as in the fable, the hare now has to scramble to catch up. That’s why I want
to do this promotional film, and why we have to work overtime to solve the problems that continue to plague the 909. We’ve
got to exploit every advantage if the 909 is going to beat out the AL-12 as the world’s foremost jetliner.”

He paused again, and then nodded. “Meeting adjourned.”

He watched from his place at the head of the table as the others collected their papers and filed out, murmuring to each other.
Down at the opposite end of the table Susan Greene was still seated, finishing up her note taking.

When they were the only two still in the room, he broke the silence, asking, “They hate me, don’t they?”

She looked up at him. He could tell that she was forcing a lie. “No, of course they don’t.”

“Oh, come on,” he said plaintively. “I
know
they do.” He shrugged. “I just don’t know what to
do
about it.”

She closed her steno book and looked at him. “Are you asking for my advice?”

“Yes,” he nodded. His heart rate increased and it was suddenly difficult to catch his breath, the way it always was when he
found himself in a personal conversation with an attractive woman.