by T. E. Cruise
“I ran away because I couldn’t take it anymore at home,” Robbie was explaining. “The guy was just at me all the time.” He looked up at Steve for affirmation. “You know how Don can be …”
“I know,” Steve said wryly.
They were sitting in the living room. Steve was in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. His second and final scotch on the rocks—these days he was limiting himself to two a night—was within easy reach on the end table. Behind Steve in the galley kitchen the sink was filled with the dishes from their supper. Robbie was on the sofa cradling a coffee mug in his hands. He was showered and shaved, his thick, black hair still a damp tangle as he sat wrapped in Steve’s blue terry cloth robe. He had asked Steve for a cigarette, and for some brandy in his coffee, and Steve had allowed him both, thinking that his nephew was a man now. You could see it in his stature, and in the reservoir of hurt already apparent in his emerald eyes.
“… I was having some trouble in school,” Robbie continued. “Right away, Don got on my case, getting Mom, and Grandpa and Grandma all upset by telling them I wasn’t going to get into college.”
“Are you doing that poorly?” Steve asked.
“In some things.” Robbie shrugged. “I’m doing okay in math and science.”
“Just okay?”
“Well, I’ve got a B average in algebra, but I’m just passing in English, and social studies,” Robbie confessed. “So I said to myself, the hell with it! Who needs school.” He grinned. “I figured I’d be like you—”
“What?” Steve blurted, surprised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I want to be a fighter pilot, like you,” Robbie began. “You ran away from home when you were about my age. You never finished high school—”
“I got my high school equivalency diploma—” Steve said quickly.
“Okay, then I will, too …” Robbie replied. “While I’m taking pilot’s training.”
“Robbie …” Steve hesitated. Lately he’d been thinking about how he might relive his life if he had the chance … He’d made some real mistakes in his professional and personal life, shot himself in a foot any number of times, but not getting himself an education topped them all. Now, in a way, he was getting that chance to make things right, through Robbie. There would be a point to his mistakes; they might count for something, if he could keep Robbie from making the same ones …
His nephew was staring at him; ready to hang on his every word, but then Robbie had always idolized him. Steve had never realized how important to his own self-image his nephew’s adulation had been … Until now…
Steve thought: Someday I’ll learn to appreciate what I have before it’s lost.
“Robbie, it’s time you knew the truth about me.” He had a hard time looking the kid in the eye as he confessed, “I’m a failure …”
“Come on, Uncle Steve …” Robbie laughed. “What are you talking about? You’re great! You’re a double ace in two wars. A Medal of Honor winner. You made lieutenant colonel when you were twenty-eight—”
“And now I’m thirty-six, and I’m still a lieutenant colonel,” Steve pointed out.
“What are you talking about?” Robbie demanded, incredulous. “You’ve got a great job—”
Steve held up his hand to quiet his nephew. “Remember that dinner at your grandpa’s and grandma’s? When your stepfather and I had it out?”
“Yeah.” Robbie grinned. “I’ll never forget the way you tore into Don.”
“We were arguing over whether I should apply for admission to NASA’s Project Mercury astronaut program,” Steve reminded him.
“And you really told off Don good!” Robbie chuckled. “I still remember what you said about how those astronauts were going to be white rats in a tin can …”
“I’m glad you remember it so well, buddy.” Steve frowned. “Do you want to know the real reason why I got so hot under the collar that night? It was because I was lying. Don didn’t have to tell me about the NASA program. I already knew about it because I’d already tried to volunteer—”
“You wanted to be an astronaut?”
Steve nodded. “But they turned me down flat, just the way they did at the Air Force Aerospace Research Pilots School at Edwards Air Base.”
“I don’t believe you—” Robbie said. “Why wouldn’t they take you?” He looked near tears.
“Because I don’t have the education to make the cut, buddy,” Steve said quietly. “The future of aviation belongs to the educated guys, the ones who can hack the math and high-powered engineering that’s required to drive today’s latest fast movers. I’m talking about guys like your stepfather. You should be looking up to Don, not me. Guys like Don Harrison are going to be tomorrow’s aviation heroes: the hot pilots.”
“All right,” Robbie murmured, his eyes downcast.
“And if you want to be a hot pilot you’ve got to go to college, like your folks want—”
“I said all right!” Robbie snapped, his green eyes cool.
And that’s what I wanted, Steve thought, leaning back in his chair. And that’s what I got … He stared at his empty glass. And I guess tonight I’ve earned myself another scotch …
“I’ll call your folks now,” Steve said, standing up. “Let them know you’re all right …”
(Two)
Steven Gold’s Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
8 May 1960
Don Harrison flew into Washington National Airport on a rainy Sunday. He took a cab to Alexandria, giving the driver Steve’s Prince Street address.
During the ride he pondered the past frantic week. Robbie’s disappearance had overshadowed everything, including the superpower confrontation over the downed, GAT-built MR-1 spy plane. As Herman had so tellingly put it to Harrison last week, “When there’s trouble in your family, you realize what’s really important …”
Friday night poor Suzy had collapsed into tears of relief when Steve had called to say that her son was with him, safe and sound. Harrison had gotten on the telephone with Steve to say that he would immediately fly out to get the boy. It had been the first time he’d talked with Steve since that night they’d almost come to blows over two years ago.
On the phone Steve had been cordial, if a bit cool, which was certainly understandable, and so they’d confined their brief conversation to working out the logistics of Harrison’s visit. Not once did Steve reproach him over the fact that nobody had called to inform him that Robbie had run away. Harrison, feeling guilty about that, considering how it had been Steve who had come to the rescue, had been grateful for his brother-in-law’s tact.
Then Robbie had gotten on the telephone. The boy had talked briefly with his mother, and then had surprised Harrison by asking to speak to him …
The cab was pulling up in front of a brick town house. Harrison asked the driver to wait, and then ducked out of the cab, hurrying through the rain into the front foyer of the building. He rang Steve’s bell, and Steve buzzed him in. As Harrison climbed the stairs to the fifth floor apartment he felt himself perspiring under his gray flannel suit and tan trench coat. His blond hair was a rain-damp tangle on his brow. His eyeglasses, their lenses misted by the rain, had begun to fog. He took them off to wipe them clear with his tie as he stood outside Steve Gold’s door, and then he knocked.
Steve opened the door. He was barefoot, wearing dungarees and a light blue crewneck sweater over a white T-shirt.
“Hello.” Harrison smiled tentatively, offering his hand.
“Hi, come on in,” Steve said, turning away, as if he hadn’t seen Harrison’s outstretched hand.
Harrison quickly let his hand fall to his side. “Nice apartment,” he commented, stepping into the living room and looking around. “Beautiful neighborhood …”
“Thanks.”
Steve didn’t offer to take his coat, or ask him to sit down. Harrison stood there in his sweaty suit and damp trench coat, wondering how to begin to talk to this man whom he hadn’t se
en in over two years. Then Robbie came out of the bedroom, wearing new-looking tan chino slacks and a dark blue windbreaker.
“Robbie’s clothes were kind of worn out,” Steve explained. “So I picked him up some new things to get him home.”
“Thanks.” Harrison nodded quickly. He wondered if he should offer to pay … Better not … “Robbie, there’s a cab waiting for us downstairs. Would you go down now? I’d like to talk with your uncle a moment …”
“Sure, Don …” Robbie hesitated in the doorway, looking at Steve. “Thanks …”
“Drop by anytime.” Steve smiled.
Robbie nodded, smiling slightly, and then he was off, heading down the stairs.
Harrison looked at Steve. “Uh, on the telephone Friday night, Robbie told me what you’d said to him …”
Steve nodded, silent, waiting for him to go on.
“Well, what I wanted to know…” Harrison took a deep breath. “Was what you told him true? About trying to get into NASA, and the Air Force’s space program, I mean?”
“Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t,” Steve said. “None of this is about me, it’s about Robbie doing the right thing for himself …”
Harrison quickly ducked his head in agreement. “Well, in any case, what I want to say is that I know that telling Robbie all that had to be a tough thing for you to do.”
“I’d do anything for that kid,” Steve declared. “I don’t care what he thinks of me as long as he does the right thing …”
“I understand that completely,” Harrison said. “Suzy—and I—Well, we don’t know how to thank you …”
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said dryly. “I didn’t do it for you, I did it for Robbie.” He paused. “He wants a career in the Air Force, you know?”
“That’s not a problem as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Steve continued. “What Robbie ought to do is try to get into the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. He needs to be nominated for consideration by an elected or military official, but between us, we could get him a hatful of recommendations …”
“I’d already thought of that,” Harrison said. “Trouble is, he hasn’t got the academic record to gain admission.”
“Yeah, I figured as much,” Steve said wistfully. “I don’t recommend that he go the military prep school route. It’d mean an extra year of school, and I don’t think he’s got the stomach for it, and there’d still be no certainty he’d meet the academy’s academic standards.”
“No, I agree,” Harrison said. “So I figured that whatever college he goes to has got to have an Air Force ROTC program …”
“Yeah, that’s good.” Steve nodded. “You should see that he looks into that …”
“Well,” Harrison began. “I thought we could both help him look into that …”
“You want me to have a hand in it?” Steve was looking hopeful and doubtful.
“Suzy and I discussed it,” Harrison pressed on. “We would very much like your involvement concerning Robbie’s future.”
“I’d like that,” Steve said shyly.
“You’ve always been like a father to him …”
“Well, you’ve tried to be one to him, as well,” Steve mumbled, looking down at the the carpet.
“Yes, I have tried,” Harrison said sincerely. “But trying and succeeding aren’t the same …”
“No, that’s true,” Steve murmured.
“Maybe between the two of us, we can be the father he deserves …”
“Maybe so …” Steve nodded.
Harrison was satisfied. “Well, I’ve got a cab waiting …”
“Yeah, you’d better get going …” Steve followed him out to the landing, then stood in the doorway. “See you …”
Harrison nodded. As usual, he was dumb enough to want to say something more, and maybe muck things up all over again. Fortunately, Steve had the brains not to let him; he shut the apartment door.
(Three)
Harrison Household
Brentwood, California
9 July 1960
Robert Blaize Green was alone in the den, sitting on the floor on the Navaho rug, watching television. His parents were out for the evening. His two-year-old half brother Andy was being put to bed by his nanny. Robert had told the housekeeper that he would make his own dinner, and now he had a FlufferNutter and a Coca-Cola behind him on the coffee table.
He knew that he should have been doing his summer school homework—he was taking English and civics—but he couldn’t tear himself away from the television. In awhile they were going to have a special news broadcast about the latest development in the spy plane crisis: Today the Russians had formally charged the MR-1 pilot Chet Boskins with espionage against the Soviet Union. On the news someone had said that the Russians’ decision to hold the trial was “a response” to President Eisenhower’s economic blockade of Cuba. The politicians they’d talked to on the television had expressed concerns that the “confrontation could escalate.” That was another way of saying war, Robert guessed, which nobody wanted. Especially not him.
Not until I’m done with school, Robert Blaize Greene thought, reaching for half of his FlufferNutter. Let those MIGs stay grounded until I’m ready to bag me some…
BOOK II:
1960–1967
* * *
KENNEDY OVER NIXON—
Democrat Takes Presidency by Narrow Margin—
Los Angeles Tribune
U.S. LAUNCHES NAVAHO MISSILE—
Government Extends Contract with GAT Aerospace—
Internal Guidance System Deemed Successful—
Aero-Tech Magazine
BERLIN DIVIDED BY COMMIE WALL—
U.S. and Soviet Union Increase Defense Spending—
Kennedy: “We Stand Prepared to Defend Freedom”—
Miami Daily Telegraph
U.S. CHARGES CUBAN MISSILE INSTALLATIONS—
Soviets Warn Attack on Cuba Could Mean Nuclear War—
Philadelphia Tattler
SOVIET RELEASE IMPRISONED U.S. SPY PLANE
PILOT—
Chet Boskins Exchanged for Russian Spy—
Baltimore Globe
VIETCONG ROUT SOUTH VIETNAMESE TROOPS—
Congress Votes on Gulf of Tonkin Resolution—
President Johnson Given Broad Powers to Strike Back at Reds—
Providence Herald
MIDDLE EAST BOILS OVER IN SIX-DAY WAR—
Israel Smashes Arabs and Gains Control of Jerusalem—
Egypt Charging American Involvement in Air Attack—
Nasser Severs Diplomatic Relations with U.S.—
Boston Times
CHAPTER 14
* * *
(One)
Near Saratoga Springs, New York
4 November 1964
The indoor firing range had a cement slab floor and pale green walls. There were two stalls where shooters could stand abreast to fire at targets up to seventy-five feet away. Fluorescent ceiling fixtures lit the range, while a pair of powerful exhaust fans rumbled to suck out the gun smoke.
Steven Gold, wearing heavy flannel trousers, hiking boots, and a green, thick wool turtleneck sweater, stood on the firing line. He wrapped both hands around the black plastic, checkered grips of the stainless steel, long-slide, custom Colt .45, thumbed off the safety, and sighted down on the paper target the full twenty-five yards away: a one-third size human torso silhouette gridded with concentric numbered circles. He steadied his breathing and squeezed off a shot. The .45 rose up, the recoil stinging his hand as orange flame stabbed from its barrel. The auto’s report had him wincing, despite the fact that he was wearing hearing protection.
Steve cast a questioning glance over his shoulder at his host.
“Hot load, huh?” Benny Detkin asked knowingly. He was also wearing a foam-stuffed headset to protect his hearing.
“Armor-piercing, you mean.” Steve frowned. He transferred the .45 to his left h
and and tried to shake the sting out of his right.
“I made those up myself, in case of grizzly bear attacks.” Benny smiled broadly. He was wearing boots, tan corduroys, and a blue crewneck sweater over a red chamois shirt. Benny stood about five feet ten inches tall. He was slender but kept himself very fit. He had heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes, a broad, flat nose, and a strong jawline. He wore his thick, black curly hair cut moderately short with no part. Steve, who had not seen his old World War II buddy for some time, had been shocked to see that Benny’s hair had become seeded with gray.
“Well, what’s the matter, Air Force? Can’t handle it?” Benny leaned against the gun locker, obviously relishing Steve’s discomfort. “You didn’t hear me complaining when it was my turn. And all mine printed tight in the X-ring.”
Steve, rolling his eyes, turned back to the target. He held the .45 straight out in front of him with his elbows locked, and emptied it with three double taps. The series of two round bursts set the paper silhouette quivering. The last shot, emptying the gun, left the auto’s slide open. Steve removed its magazine, and set both it and the auto down on the firing stall table. As he and Benny removed their headsets Steve activated the overhead electrical pulley that brought his target whooshing back to him.
“That load is brutal,” Steve complained.
Benny laughed. “Tell you the truth, I can’t stand to shoot them myself. That’s why I gave them to you …”
“Thanks a lot.” Steve took his finger off the pulley switch as the target reached him. None of his rounds were well grouped. “Ugh, just look at that,” Steve said, disgusted.
“Hey, they’re all in the black,” Benny said. “At twenty-five yards that ain’t chopped liver…”
“Yours weren’t scattered around like these.”
“Don’t forget I’m used to the load,” Benny said. “And I practice a lot. When was the last time you fired a handgun?”
“Point well taken,” Steve muttered.
Benny tapped Steve’s target. “If that had been a bad guy, any one of your hits would have done the job.”