by T. E. Cruise
“A bunch of us over at the Company have had our eyes on you since you helped smooth out things,” Horton continued. “We don’t forget, kid; not our enemies, and especially not our friends. My superiors have talked with your superiors, and I’ve gotten the okay.”
“Okay for what?” Steve asked sharply. “Jack, nobody’s talked to me—”
“I’m talking to you now. I’m offering you a tour of duty with the Company. You know as well as I do that some time working with us could really advance your career.”
“I do know that,” Steve murmured, intrigued. The CIA and the Air Force had done a lot of work together concerning aerial reconnaissance since the advent of the Cold War. Those Air Force officers who had “sheep-dipped”—taken a temporary tour of duty with the Agency—had moved quickly up the promotional ladder. “But you haven’t told me what it is I’d be doing …”
“We’ve got a new spy plane,” Horton said. “A plane that will allow us to go anywhere we want over the Soviet Union and take pictures to our heart’s content.”
“I’ve heard a little about that.” Steve nodded. “This new bird you guys are building is supposed to be state of the art.”
“It is,” Horton said proudly. “It’s code-named Mayfly—”
Steve laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Horton demanded, sounding affronted.
“Well, hell, Jack, you’ve got to admit Mayfly is kind of a pessimistic moniker. I mean, everybody knows a mayfly only lives for a day…”
Horton stared at him, his eyes blinking rapidly from behind those black horn-rims. “Anyway, the May—our spy plane—is in the prototype stage. We’ve got to start thinking about recruiting and training pilots.”
“Aren’t you going to get them from the Air Force?” Steve asked.
“Yes and no. You see, officially this is strictly a Company operation, but unofficially, the Air Force is working hand in glove with us, and is willing to lend us some pilots. The Air Force is willing to release them for the time they’ll be serving with the Company, and then reinstate them with no penalties concerning promotion or retirement when we’re done with them.”
“It sounds to me like you’re looking for volunteers,” Steve said. “Is that what you want me to do? Volunteer to fly one of these babies?” He thought, If taking snapshots of Red Square is what the future holds, getting out of the Air Force and going to work for Pop is looking better all the time.
Horton shook his head, smiling. “You underestimate yourself, kid. You’re far too valuable to be wasted in a cockpit.”
Hearing that made Steve feel wonderful. That was the first time anybody important who wasn’t related to him had suggested that he was good for something other than flying airplanes.
“Like you said, the pilots we need are going to have to volunteer,” Horton continued. “We’re willing to pay well to get them to work for us, but the job we’re going to be asking them to do is going to be pretty dangerous. Nobody in his right mind would do it just for the money. These pilots are going to need to be recruited, motivated, and trained—” He paused. “That’s where you come in. You’re just the guy we need to get us those pilots and instill in them the need to succeed. You’ve got the wartime record and the reputation to make the guys we’re after look up to you.”
“It kind of sounds like public relations stuff all over again,” Steve said doubtfully.
“It’s not public relations, it’s leadership,” Horton argued. “This is an important job, and it’s going to take brains to pull it off. A lot of the top brass, in and out of uniform will be watching. You pull this off and you’ll be able to write your own ticket: an assignment to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the State Department …”
Steve had stopped listening when Horton had said the job required brains. Here was a job that required smarts, not just a chest full of medals, a handsome mug, and an expense account, and he was being tapped for it. If he could pull it off, and he knew that he could, a lot of people were going to be very surprised, as well as impressed …
“Well.” Horton smiled. “I guess you’ll want some time to think about it?”
“I don’t need to think about it,” Steve said. “I accept.”
“That’s wonderful!” Horton laughed. “But just like that? Are you sure?”
“I don’t see how I can refuse.” Steve smiled. “You told me yourself that it’s an important job that will boost my career. Confidentially, I’ve been looking for a way out of my present assignment. I think I’ve about worn out my welcome up on the Hill, which means I’ve about worn out my welcome at the Office of Public Information.”
“Hey.” Horton shrugged. “You know what they say about blaming the messenger for bad news.”
Steve nodded. Last summer he and the other Air Force personnel lobbying on Capitol Hill had found themselves caught in a cross fire between Congress and the President over who was to blame for the French defeat in Indochina. The shitstorm began when the French, realizing that they were losing at Dien Bien Phu, formally requested United States air power intervention. Ike, who had been warning that the rest of Southeast Asia would fall like dominoes to the Commies if the French were defeated, ordered the Joint Chiefs of Staff to draw a plan of action. The JCS came up with Operation Vulture: Sixty Air Force B-29 bombers escorted by 150 Navy fighters to hit the Commies dug in around the French, but Vulture was never able to get off the ground. Dien Bien Phu fell to the Commies toward the end of May 1954, and the French, humiliated and defeated, went to the Far East Peace Conference in Geneva with their tails between their legs. There they agreed to divide Vietnam into North and South, just the way the Commies wanted it.
“You’ve got to expect a certain amount of finger pointing over this fiasco,” Horton was saying. “You know there was still a lot of bad blood on the Hill concerning China.”
“There’s a lot of bullshit up there, you mean,” Steve grumbled, thinking about how the democratic leaders of Congress, anxious to get revenge on the Republicans for the way the GOP had branded Truman “the man who lost China” back in ‘49, were now claiming that Vietnam had been lost because Ike had vacillated. The President, through his Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles, was now laying down a double line of defense: that Indochina wasn’t all that crucial to the security of Southeast Asia, after all; and that in any case, the responsibility of losing it rested with powerful Democrats like Senator Lyndon Johnson because they did not back Operation Vulture.
“What gets under my skin is that the one thing the entire Hill agrees on is that the Air Force is at fault,” Steve complained. “The noninterventionists are blaming us for lowering America’s prestige by getting involved in the first place, and the ‘should’a-used-the-bomb’ crowd is blaming us for not finishing the fight.”
“Well, you’ve got to understand how badly everyone felt about this,” Horton replied. “I mean, it was—and still is—just inconceivable that some ragtag band of barefoot Commie peasants could whip the French Army…”
“Barefoot Commie peasants?” Steve smiled ruefully. “I’ve heard that before. You weren’t involved in Korea, were you Jack?”
“No, I sat that one out.”
“You know that I didn’t,” Steve replied. “So let me tell you that until you’ve seen them in action you just can’t imagine how effective those so-called peasants can be, especially when they’re supplied with the best weapons the Iron Curtain countries have to offer.”
“But if we’d only committed air power to the battle—” Horton began.
“No way,” Steve cut him off. “I know that’s been the Company’s position all along, Jack, but air power couldn’t have finished the job in Indochina any more than it could in Korea. You can’t fault the Air Force brass for realizing as much, and what’s more, realizing that when air power did fail, the Air Force would have been placed in an awful disadvantage compared to the other branches of the service when it came time to lobby for appropriations.”
“So wha
t are you saying?” Horton demanded. “That the United States was right to stand by and watch the French get whipped?”
“I’m saying that if you expected the Air Force to start the fight, you had to be prepared to bring in the Army to finish it. That’s the way it worked in Korea: Air power could do only so much, and then it was up to the Marines and the Army to do the dirty job of digging out the enemy. Do you think the American people were ready for that? For another mobilization?”
“No way,” Horton admitted. “This country hasn’t the stomach for another war in Asia so soon after Korea.”
“That’s right,” Steve said, and frowned. “But a simple thing like the truth won’t stop the politicians from making the Air Force a scapegoat for their own, and the nation’s lack of will. That’s why I don’t need any time to consider your offer. I’m all through being a whipping boy up on the Hill. I just don’t have what it takes any more to play the diplomat, or to stand politely with hat in hand, hoping to convince a few powerful senators and congressmen to toss the Air Force a few coins.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Jack. I’d already decided to leave the service—”
“No kidding?”
Steve nodded. “Of course, now I’m staying in, so that I can do this job for you.”
“Nobody in the Air Force I talked to seemed to know that you were planning on leaving,” Horton said.
“That’s because I’d been keeping my decision to myself,” Steve explained. “I wanted to let this Indochina flap blow over before I went public with the news. I didn’t want anyone to misunderstand my resignation. I didn’t want the Air Force’s enemies on the Hill to use my resignation as propaganda; to claim that my leaving the service was some sort of vote of misconfidence on my part against the Air Force.”
“I see,” Horton murmured. “What were you going to do once you were back in civilian life?”
“Work for my father.”
Horton smiled. “That’s kind of ironic, because, in a way, you still will be working for Herman. You see, our state-of-the-art spy plane is being built by your father’s company.”
“No kidding?” Steve said, feeling proud.
“But here’s the thing,” Horton cautioned. “We believe in compartmentalization; in other words, ‘the need to know.’ You can’t tell anyone, including your father, about your tour with us.”
“I understand.” Steve nodded. “I suppose I’ll have some kind of cover?”
“Your present Air Force assignment will work fine as your cover,” Horton said. “I’ve already gotten an all-clear with your superiors for you to maintain your office at the Pentagon, but your present OPI duties will be reassigned. You can expect to do a lot of traveling.”
Steve laughed. “I can’t believe you already cleared this with the Air Force. I guess you were pretty confident that I was going to accept your offer…?”
Horton grew solemn. “I was confident that when your country needed you, you’d be there.”
(Two)
GAT
Burbank, California
15 August 1955
Herman Gold was in his office going over some figures with Don Harrison when his secretary interrupted to tell him that his son was on the line. Gold put his finger to his lips to caution Harrison to remain quiet as he picked up the telephone.
“Steve!” Gold said, leaning back in his desk chair. “How are you, son?”
“Fine, Pop.”
“You know, Stevie, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our idea concerning you getting involved with sales. I think the sales department is going to be the best place for you to start—”
“Pop, slow down a minute,” Steve said.
“Yes, what is it?” Gold asked nervously, his son’s tone of voice warning him that something was up.
“Pop, I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to tell you this for the past week, but I guess there is no best way, so I might as well just spit it out: I’ve reconsidered my decision to leave the Air Force. I’m staying in.”
“But Stevie, I thought we’d worked it all out,” Gold protested. “I thought that you’d come to the conclusion that the Air Force was a dead end for you—?”
“I thought it was, Pop, but something new has happened …”
“What do you mean, ‘new’?” Gold demanded. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me—”
“I know you don’t, Pop,” Steve said, sounding wistful. “But unfortunately I’m not allowed to tell you anymore about it. I wish I could …” he added earnestly. “Someday I will be able to tell you, and when I do, I’m confident that you’ll think I did the right thing …”
“This new assignment—or whatever it is—must be pretty important for you to change your mind like this,” Gold murmured.
“Pop, like I said, someday you’ll understand, and when you do, you’ll be proud …”
“I’ve always been proud of you,” Gold fondly chided him. You should know that by now.”
“Yeah, sure I do, Pop,” Steve said softly. “But just wait till I can tell you about this,” he added excitedly. “I swear it, Pop, you’re going to be proud of me in a whole new way. After this, nobody will be able to say I’m not fit for the executive suite …”
“Well, I waited this long for my son to join me,” Gold said philosophically. “I guess I can wait a little longer.”
“Thanks for understanding, Pop,” Steve said, sounding relieved. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a lot to do. Give my love to Mom and Suzy. I’ll call home in a couple of days.”
“All right, son.”
“Bye, Pop.”
“Good-bye,” Gold said, and hung up the telephone.
“Well?” Don asked. “Did it work?”
“Like a charm.” Gold nodded. He pressed down on his intercom button, and told his secretary, “Get me Jack Horton.”
“Good idea,” Don said. “We ought to personally thank him for getting us out of this mess concerning Steve.”
“We owe Jack one big favor, all right,” Gold agreed. “And General Simon, as well,” he added. “It was Howie who pulled the strings with the Air Force to get Jack the permission to recruit Steve …” He smiled. “And you know what, Don? I’m starting to think this is all going to work out for the best, after all …”
“Good,” Don said evenly. “I wouldn’t want there to be any resentment between us concerning my insistence that you find a way to keep Steve out of the company.”
Gold shook his head. “I admit that I was pissed at you for a while, but not now. You can’t imagine how excited and happy Steve was sounding. This tour of duty with the CIA is going to be just the thing to give him the confidence he needs.”
“I want Steve to be happy.” Don nodded. “Happy, and far away…”
CHAPTER 8
* * *
(One)
Gold Household
Bel-Air
Los Angeles, California
17 March 1956
Susan Greene looked out her bedroom window, and saw her mother sitting by the pool. Now’s as good a time as any, she thought. She grabbed a terry cloth robe, put it on over her bathing suit, and hurried from the room. She needed to go through with this before she lost her nerve.
She ran barefoot down the hallway to the curved, marble staircase, and then she did something she hadn’t done in over twenty years: She parked her rump on the banister and slid down it, catching a glimpse of herself in the foyer mirror as she landed flat-footed, flexing her knees and wind-milling her arms for balance.
She burst out in exhilarated laughter, feeling such a tremendous rush of love for this house. Her father had bought it in 1927. It was a rambling, vine-covered, English colonial, sheltered behind stone walls in Bel-Air. There were gardens, one with a splashing fountain, rolling expanses of lawn, a swimming pool, and a four-car garage. A caretaker lived above the garage, and Ramona, the housekeeper who’d been with the family since Susan was a to
ddler, had a bedroom off the kitchen. A couple of girls came in during the week to help Ramona with the cleaning.
Susan had moved out of this house when she was nineteen; that was in 1941, when she’d married Blaize Greene. The couple had moved into Blaize’s little apartment in Santa Monica, near the pier. In those days Blaize, an RAF reserve officer, and an engineer as well as an accomplished racer and test pilot, had been on loan to GAT in order to work on a joint American/British fighter plane prototype. Soon after they were married, the RAF had called her husband back to England, to take fighter pilot training at a base just outside of London. Susan had gone with him, and set up house in a rented flat near Russell Square. For several months Blaize had been able to pull strings to be allowed to spend some nights and scattered weekends with her in London. She became pregnant about the time he graduated from training school. She had only just begun to show when he was assigned to a fighter squadron with the RAF’s Desert Air Force, in Libya …
It was after he’d been killed in action, and after her son Robert Blaize Greene was born, that she’d come back home with her baby to California, to her parents, and to the warm and comforting embrace of this house …
She walked through the downstairs, passing through the big rooms with their fireplaces, parquet floors, high, gilded ceilings, and mahogany paneling. She went out through the solarium’s french doors, to the flagstone patio landscaped with shrubbery and redwood flower boxes.
Her mother, wearing a black tank suit and reclining on a duck canvas chaise longue beneath the shade of a eucalyptus tree, heard her coming and looking up, smiling. Her mother had just turned fifty-four years old, but she seemed much younger. Her appearance had a lot to do with it, Susan thought. Her mother still had a super figure, and wore her blond hair in a short, touseled, Italian cut that emphasized her youthfulness, as did her outlook on life. Her mother seemed proud of the laugh lines around her almond-shaped brown eyes and at the corners of her wide mouth.