by T. E. Cruise
The Air Force personnel laughed. The CIA spooks didn’t. Gold consoled himself by remembering that a sense of humor was not high on the list of the Company’s qualifications for employment.
“The other thing you should keep in mind is the time factor,” Horton said. “We’re going to need our new bird—”
“Not bird,” Herman interrupted dourly. “No bird was ever built this light. What we’re talking about is an insect. A light-weight insect. Say, a mayfly—”
“Very well, then.” Horton smiled patiently, as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant child. “This Mayfly must be ready within a year.”
“I’ll have to clear the decks to pull it off,” Gold said worriedly. “Put everything else on hold and put the Candy Store team on it full time.” He trailed off, wondering how the hell he was going to juggle his staff. The 909-I had to get built, as well …
“National security is at stake, Herman,” Horton intoned.
It’s always at stake, it seems, Gold thought. “I’ve got some questions.”
“Of course.” Horton nodded expectantly.
“My first concerns the funding,” he began. “As I’ve been telling you for years now, designing airplanes is a very expensive endeavor.” Gold looked from Horton to General Simon. “So who’s picking up the check this time, boys?”
“Well,” Horton began smoothly, “considering that we’re talking about building an entirely new airplane from scratch, I would think that the project falls within the budgetary boundaries of the Air Force.”
“Nice try, Jack,” General Simon scoffed. “You know quite well that the Air Force has been told in no uncertain terms that this is a Company operation.”
“Why is that?” Gold asked.
“The Air Force can’t take the risk of sending uniformed personnel over Soviet airspace,” Simon explained. “The Russians could interpret that as an act of war. The way it’s been worked out is this: The Air Force will lend its technical expertise, and officially discharge those pilots who wish to volunteer for the flight program. Accordingly, since this is officially a Company operation the Company can pay for it.”
“Okay, Howie, you’ve made your point,” Horton sighed. “Herman, the Company will pay, all right. We’ll get the money to you through the usual channels.”
“Good,” Gold said. “I’m prepared to start on this first thing, but I have two preconditions. Number one, if I promise to build you an airplane that meets your specs in the time allotted, you’ve got to be willing to cut me some slack to do it. Agreed, Jack?”
Horton shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Gold laughed. He glanced at General Simon. “Howie, that means I don’t have to check in for approval with your Dayton people—” Gold’s arm swept the room. “Or anybody else involved concerning what the Mayfly looks like, and what’s she made out of; if my engineers working on her have changed their socks, and what they had for breakfast that day. Agreed?”
Simon looked uncomfortable. “That’s not how we’re accustomed to working, Herman …”
“You don’t have the money, and no one has the time for us to get tied up in the usual red tape,” Gold said firmly. “I’ll keep you apprised of our progress as I submit my vouchers, but as long as the work is going smoothly, I’ll expect Dayton, and everyone else to butt out. Agreed?”
“Agreed …” Simon reluctantly sighed.
“You said you had two preconditions?” Horton asked.
Gold thought again about how his engineering department was going to have its hands full trying to design and build a prototype intercontinental jetliner better than Tim Campbell’s AL-12, and design and build a Mayfly prototype. And then he thought about how good old Jack Horton seemed to have connections in virtually all government agencies.
“I’ll have to discuss the second one with you in private, Jack,” Gold said.
Horton studied him a moment, and then nodded. “Let’s get on with new business …”
The meeting lasted another two hours. When it was finally over, Horton sidled over to Gold while he and the others were packing up their briefcases.
“Herman, come take a walk with me. I don’t think you’ve seen my new office …”
(Two)
“Okay, what’s on your mind?” Horton murmured as he led Gold through the narrow, crowded corridors that interlinked CIA’s imposing stone buildings in Foggy Bottom, near the State Department.
“How’s your influence with the CAB?” Gold asked softly.
“The Civil Aeronautics Board?” Horton frowned. “I know some people over there. Why?”
“The CAB inspects commercial aircraft before issuing them a certificate of airworthiness,” Gold said. “Without such a certificate, an airplane is grounded.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I’d like you to use your influence to get the CAB to take a closer look at A-L’s preliminary specifications for its new transatlantic jetliner.”
“You sonofabitch.” Horton laughed, shaking his head. “You want me to help you give Amalgamated a black eye—”
“I want you to suggest to the CAB that they ought to take a closer look at the AL-12,” Gold repeated carefully. “That’s all I want. Knowing that the CAB was for some reason interested in taking a closer look at Amalgamated’s new airplane would make the airlines think twice about ordering it. That’d rob A-L of its momentum, and that would be a tremendous load off my mind. It would also be a load off the minds of my engineers, who could then divert their attention from my own jetliner endeavor to lend themselves to your very crucial Mayfly project.”
Horton nodded. Gold smiled, knowing that the deal was done. The CIA man stopped at a pair of mahogany double doors with gleaming gold knobs.
“Come on in and we’ll have a drink on it,” Horton invited.
“Certainly, Jack,” Gold said, following Horton in.
Horton’s new office was plush, Gold thought. Jack had abandoned his previous office’s antique front parlor look for art deco. Everywhere Gold looked he saw rich black leather upholstery and gleaming silver inlaid with ebony on a wall-to-wall sea of crimson carpeting.
“This office is much bigger than the one you used to have,” Gold remarked.
“Doesn’t everyone’s office get bigger over the years?” Horton asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Gold said, settling into an armchair as Horton crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. “Mine were always big.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
(One)
West Hollywood, California
27 July 1954
The heavy traffic surprised Don Harrison. It was almost seven-thirty in the evening, supposedly well past rush hour, but there were still logjams of cars on the road; an endless procession of lemon headlights and flaring, cherry tail lamps, glowing like neon in the gathering dusk.
Harrison gunned the Hudson Commodore’s powerful V-8 to take advantage of a clear stretch on Sunset. The traffic delays were especially irritating because he’d purposely left his office at GAT late in order to miss the brunt. He’d spent that quiet time after everyone else had gone home making some progress emptying his in-box. The paperwork always piled up when Herman was away.
Harrison turned left onto Havenhurst, gliding past a pair of teenage boys loitering on the corner. The boys nudged each other, pointing at the white convertible.
Harrison enjoyed their admiring glances. The Hudson was flashy, all right; so flashy that he almost hadn’t bought it. His father had certainly disapproved, calling the purchase an extravagant waste of money. His father was a Ford man, and on his advice Harrison had always bought Fords: perfectly adequate little hump-backed hardtops …
It had been Herman who’d convinced Harrison to get a car with style. It had to be a big car, Herman had decreed. With a big engine, the better to take command of the road. And it had to be brightly colored and a convertible, so that people could see it coming and see who was driving it.
Now, when the admiri
ng glances came Harrison’s way he felt proud, the way he felt when he had Linda on his arm.
Linda loved the Commodore. She loved to drive it, and Harrison loved to let her. He would watch her in the same admiring way as other men when she was behind the wheel, her dark curls ruffling in the wind. He would admire her, and wonder at his great good fortune to be in love with her.
His parents had been right, Harrison thought as he parked beneath the tall palm trees in front of the Capullo de Rosa Apartments, the bungalow court where Linda lived. You work hard and you get the rewards. In school you get good marks. In life you get the job, the car, the girl …
Harrison glanced at the dashboard clock. It had taken a long time to get here, all right. It was almost eight o’clock. Better late than never, he thought, and then he chuckled. Of course, you couldn’t be late if you weren’t expected—
He was truly feeling pleased with himself for thinking up this surprise. It had been a struggle not to call Linda to let her know that he was in town these past few days. He knew that Linda was home tonight. Before leaving the office he’d called to check, hanging up as soon as she’d answered, of course. He couldn’t wait to tell her that it had been him on the line … So he was predictable, huh? Well, he’d show her…
He grabbed the bottle of champagne he’d picked up on the way over and got out of the car. The champagne was warm, but a half hour in the fridge would fix that. He smiled, thinking that he and Linda would have no trouble wiling away a half hour…
He entered the apartment court through the low archway, passing by the tenants’ garages as he made his way along the terracotta walk that ran from the street to the far rear courtyard. Linda’s apartment was way in the back, on the second floor, overlooking the swimming pool. Like always, as he made the journey to her door he couldn’t help reminiscing about their first night together. How intoxicating it had been to hurry with her in his arms, past the backlit, splashing fountains and fragrant tropical gardens. At some point at her door, while she’d been fumbling through her bag for her keys, she’d turned toward him, and their mouths had locked for a long and passionate kiss. At that moment Harrison had felt larger than life; that he was forty feet tall, up on the silver screen, in some wild and romantic movie. He had felt that this could not be happening to him, because such things had never happened to him.
He’d been to bed with only two girls in his life before Linda, and neither time had the experience been much to remember, but many times he had fallen in love with girls who belonged to other men, or girls he saw walking down the street whom he did not know and would never see again. When it came to girls, it was a lot like the situation concerning the practical Ford versus the snazzy convertible. The girls who took an interest in him, and whom he felt comfortable approaching, had always been so ordinary, while the glamour girls for whom he’d lusted had always seemed so far out of reach—
Until Linda. Beautiful, glamorous Linda.
Yes, Harrison thought. It was exactly like his father had said: You work hard, you get your reward.
He walked quickly, trying to ignore the snatches of conversations and the tinny spurts of radio music and talk from the televisions leaking from the apartments that he passed. This place was certainly pretty, but the tenants lacked privacy. When the breeze was still, and people had their windows open, you could hear everything. Linda had said she didn’t mind, but then she traveled so much her apartment was more like another hotel room than home.
Things would change when they were married, Don thought as he reached Linda’s building, and made his way up the outdoor staircase to her second-floor apartment. An apartment was no place to raise children.
He knocked on the door, and waited. There was no answer, and it seemed pretty quiet inside. He hoped that she hadn’t gone out during the time it had taken him to drive there, or if she had, that it was just for a moment …
He decided that it made no sense to stand outside wondering about it, and used the key she had given him to enter into the dark vestibule. “Linda?” he called out uncertainly, groping in the shadows for the light switch. He found it and flicked it on.
He wandered into the small living room, and saw her straw beach bag on the tan sofa, and a yellow and black garment of some kind lying crumpled on the peach carpet.
“Linda—?” He went into the galley kitchen, and was putting the champagne in the fridge when he heard hushed murmurings. He went back into the living room. The whispering was coming from behind the closed bedroom door. As he stared at it the bedroom door opened and Linda came out.
“Jesus Christ, Don!” she gasped. Her hair was mussed. She seemed flushed. She was wrapped in a sheet that left her shoulders bare. “What the hell are you doing here—?”
“That’s a hell of a way to greet me.” He laughed, walking toward her, spreading his arms wide to give her a hug.
His smile faded as he got closer. “Oh, Christ,” he whispered, recoiling as he smelled her within the warm, close confines of the living room. A bitch in heat, flashed through his mind, and then he glimpsed movement in the bedroom through the partially opened door.
“Who’s in there, Linda?” he demanded fiercely. “Who—?”
The words died in his throat as the door swung open and Steven Gold, wearing just a pair of bathing trunks, stepped into the living room.
“Linda?” Don stared at her. Despite his rage he desperately hoped that she might tell him something to make this all right; to make everything not be ruined …
“I’m sorry, Don,” Linda murmured, looking away.
He nodded. “There’s some champagne in the refrigerator,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady as the waves of humiliation and loss washed over him. “You two enjoy yourselves …” He could hear the trembling in his voice. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. It seemed that not only Linda, but also his own body was betraying him …
“Look, Don,” Steven Gold said, taking a step toward him. “I want to—”
“Oh?” Harrison cut him off fiercely. “You want to apologize for being here, or maybe for my catching you here?”
“Don—” Steve began again.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Harrison said flatly. It seemed to take forever for him to make it to the front door, to open it, to step out, and to shut the door behind him. As soon as that door was closed he broke into a run down the stairs. He had his fists clenched, and was shaking his head, willing himself not to cry. It would be even worse if he let himself cry.
He ran to his car, started it up, and pulled away, ignoring the outraged horns and squealing brakes of the drivers he cut off. He came around the corner onto Sunset on two tires, and then floored the Commodore, getting it up to fifty, wildly swerving to miss the cross traffic as he ran red lights, as if he could outrun his shame.
And as he drove through the soft California night he saw clearly that it was Steven Gold who had stolen his girl. He knew that he could not physically compete for Linda with a man like Steve. He supposed that he should have known that all along. His father could have certainly told him …
But there would be other arenas in which to confront Steven Gold, Harrison knew. He would think about it. He was an engineer, possessing a creative and logical mind. He would distract himself from his pain by thinking about this the way he might think up a solution to an aeronautical design problem.
And he would come up with a blueprint for getting even.
(Two)
Linda Forrester watched Steve stare at her front door.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Don you were going with?” he demanded.
“What good would that have done?” she asked dejectedly. She was feeling cold, and pulled the bed sheet a little closer around her bare shoulders as she slumped on the sofa.
“Well, for starters, I could have told you that he didn’t go to Washington with my old man,” Steve said.
“Touché.” She laughed thinly as he went to the sideboard where she kept
her liquor.
“You want a drink?”
“A big one,” Linda murmured.
He poured two generous scotches, straight up. He brought them over, sitting down beside her.
“I’m sorry, blue eyes,” he murmured. He set the glasses on the coffee table and gently took her hand in his. “I guess I screwed things up for you … I’m really sorry—”
“Don’t be,” she said. “I invited you here, remember?” She smiled grimly. “Anyway, you’ve done a good deed tonight …”
“How so?” Steve asked, puzzled.
“You saved Don, right? He’ll never know what a favor you did him by putting him off a woman like me …”
“Don’t say that—”
“Why not?” she began curtly. “It’s true, isn’t it? I had that poor chump by the short hairs, but now he can thank his lucky stars he found out about me before it was too late. Maybe now he can find himself a nice girl. A good girl. Not a tramp like me—”
“You’re no tramp,” Steve said, picking up his drink. “I don’t want to hear you saying that, because it isn’t true.”
She had to smile then. “I guess that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me … Thanks … pal,” she added softly, taking the other scotch and clinking her glass against his. “We’re two peas in a pod, you and 1.”
“How so?”
She took a long pull of her drink. “We’re not the marrying kind.”
CHAPTER 5
* * *
(One)
GAT
Engineering Department
28 July 1954
Susan Greene was at her desk outside Don Harrison’s office when her telephone rang. It was the main switchboard. Mr. Gold was calling long distance from Washington to speak to Mr. Harrison.