Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age

by Boyne, Walter J.

  O’Malley pointed to the clock on the dashboard and they got out, joining the long line filing into the Fort Myer chapel. The Air Force Chief of Staff General Merrill McPeak was there, solicitously seeing that the grand old man of the space program, General Bernie Schriever, was escorted to his seat. As they glanced around they realized that if aviation had a royalty, it was here, paying homage to Jimmy Doolittle.

  The two men were silent during the rest of the simple but moving ceremony. The horse-drawn gun carriage, the empty saddle, the measured pace all might have seemed incongruous for Jimmy Doolittle, who had led his nation in both air and space since 1917. But in the dappled sunlight of Arlington, among the hush of the crowd, each person obviously involved with his or her own memory of Doolittle, it seemed perfect.

  The ceremonial rifle volleys and the always plaintive taps brought emotions almost to a peak. There was a parade of modern aircraft, F-16s, F-15s, a B-1, followed by the puttering roar of a North American B-25, the once-powerful bomber in which Doolittle had bombed Tokyo. The ultimate salute was four F-16s sweeping across in the moving “Missing Man” formation, the number three aircraft peeling off and upward toward where everyone knew Jimmy Doolittle was looking down at them.

  O’Malley’s elbow nudged Shannon. With tears in his eyes, he said, “Gets me every time. What a tribute that is, to Doolittle, and to everyone else who’s gone West.”

  Later, as they drove back to Andrews Air Force Base, Shannon asked, “Do you think we have more Doolittles coming up the pike?”

  O’Malley nodded. “You wouldn’t think so, given all Jimmy did, but I guarantee that we do. It’s really incredible. We’ve got a pure volunteer force, and it is the highest caliber of people in history. We’re so strong in our noncommissioned ranks that other countries cannot believe it. And our officer corps is strong, too. Sure, there are more Doolittles out there. It will just take time and circumstances to reveal him. Or her.”

  December 31, 1993

  Palos Verdes, California

  “WELL, IT LOOKS like the big annual Shannon New Year’s party has dwindled down to just us.”

  Harry and Anna Shannon sat in the center of the big round oak dining-room table. Bob and Mae Rodriquez sat on their left while Dennis Jenkins and Warren Bowers sat on their right.

  Warren, always politely inquisitive, asked, “Where is everybody?”

  Mae Rodriquez spoke up. “Our son is in Ireland, trying to work out an even more comprehensive deal with Ryanair in Ireland. They are sort of like our Southwest Airlines, but not nearly so popular. Rod has some ideas he hopes will change their image—and make a lot of money for AdVanceAir Leasing.”

  Bowers’s face changed perceptibly and they laughed. He had steadfastly invested in AdVanceAir, and seen its stock rise and fall. Despite good advice on diversification from Harry and others, Warren had stuck to it, convinced that in the long run, AdVanceAir would pay off for him.

  As was usual of late, Bob remained silent, basking in the glow of being back with Mae again. They were obviously happy. Rodriguez had “come in from the cold” and, instead of immediately plunging back into business, had set about spending all of his time completely oriented on Mae, trying to make up for the years when he had dropped completely out of sight, and even more, trying to make up for the hard years before their marriage had broken up. Mae continued to run AdVanceAir with their son and managed a successful real estate firm on the side. At her urging, Bob was now slowly easing back into business, doing some consulting for Paul MacCready’s Aero-Vironment, and investing in a small company that made radio-controlled model aircraft.

  Mae said, “Tell them about your project for Paul, Bob. It’s not classified, and I think they’d be interested. Warren especially!”

  They leaned forward as Bob took a drink of wine to give him time to think. Part of the project was top secret; part was unclassified, left as a cover in case someone got wind of the testing going on near Pasadena.

  “Well, you’d have to see it to believe it.” He paused for a moment as he said, “For that matter, you’d have to see Paul to believe him. He’s so soft-spoken and so intense; sometimes when he talks to you he just slows down his delivery until it’s almost painful, and then you realize that he’s time-sharing with you, he’s thinking about another one of his projects while he’s talking to you. What he’s done, from human-powered flight to solar-powered flight to wind-powered generators, is just incredible.”

  They watched him shedding years as his enthusiasm took over, looking just like the Bob Rodriquez of twenty years before when he had been fired up over every new project.

  “Now we have tiny remote control model planes, no bigger than a sparrow; they can carry cameras and remote sensors, and you can use them just to have fun, or the military can use them to gather information. They are electric-powered, of course, so they are virtually silent.”

  That much was safe; what he couldn’t tell them was there were even smaller versions, some no bigger than a butterfly, that could be flown deep inside an enemy fortification, a bunker, a mosque, anything, and record everything going on. It was a miracle of miniaturization.

  “I’ll bring one down next time we meet, and you can fly it. It’s much easier than flying a big radio control plane—most of the flying is automated, all self-controlled, everything is already canned on a tiny chip.”

  There was a buzz of conversation, a pause, and Jenkins spoke up.

  “What about Steve O’Malley? I thought he’d be Chief of Staff by now.”

  “So did we all, Dennis, but he was just too forceful, stepped on too many congressional toes. I think the Air Force wanted him, but they knew he’d have trouble getting confirmed. He was too outspoken about the terrorist threat, and a lot of people just don’t want to hear about it.”

  Warren put on his historian’s hat, saying, “It might be just as well. Curt LeMay was the best air combat commander in the world with the Strategic Air Command, but he was stifled as Chief of Staff. Just didn’t have the personality for it.”

  Jenkins said, “That’s what’s so surprising. Nobody is more charming than Steve O’Malley—except when he’s on the case of something. I think he stubbed his toe finally with the F-22 and the V-22. Both great projects, but they are taking too long to get operational. Nobody can back programs like that for so long and not be tarnished.”

  Rodriquez asked, “What are his options?”

  “I think he’ll serve as long as they’ll let him; he’s carved out a niche of his own, and he’s too valuable to retire. He’s got plenty of money, of course, and that’s been part of the problem—a lot of people resented that he had both wealth and rank.”

  Anna sat quietly as always, embarrassed by so many memories of the past when her drinking had caused so many problems. Finally, as if she realized she had to contribute somehow to the conversation, she asked, “Where is V. R.? I wish he would meet another woman. It’s been a long time since he lost his wife.”

  It was an awkward question. Everyone was worried about V. R.; he was entirely too focused on getting revenge for Ginny. They all believed that her loss and O’Malley’s obsession with the terrorist threat had changed him.

  “He’s over in the Middle East, flying Operation Northern Watch, you know, suppressing any Iraqi flying, making sure that Hussein doesn’t kill any more Kurds, all that sort of thing.”

  Harry saw that Anna realized she had not said the right thing—again. He patted her hand, and glanced around the table. They all admired him for tending so faithfully to Anna for all these years. And he had tended to her. But not faithfully. For, what was it, twenty-seven years now, his life had been made sweet, useful, and fulfilling by another woman, a perfect lover, his own true love. And he would see her tomorrow, as he did each Saturday, and she would be undemanding, understanding, and amazingly, given their ages, exciting. She made his life worthwhile. He hoped he made her life worthwhile in return.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE PASSING PARAD
E: Sarajevo (where WW I started) pounded by Serbian heavy weapons; Los Angeles jolted by major earthquake, scores die; Aldrich Ames, most damaging spy in U.S. history, arrested; Hutus begin slaughter of hundreds of thousands of Tutsis in Rwanda; Nelson Mandela wins 60 percent of votes, elected President of South Africa; O. J. Simpson arrested in murder of wife and her friend; Hubble Telescope confirms existence of black holes; strike in Major League Baseball cancels World Series; the United States asserts influence in Persian Gulf with armed forces; Republicans sweep House and Senate races; Russians attack secessionists in Chechnya; Japanese earthquake kills more than 5,000; United States gives $20 billion aid to bail out Mexico; American terrorists blow up federal building in Oklahoma City; increase in fighting in Bosnia and Croatia; O. J. Simpson found not guilty by L.A. jury; assassin kills Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin; Dr. Bernard A. Harris is first African American astronaut to walk in space.

  August 29, 1994

  Palos Verdes, California

  Over the years Vance Shannon’s home in Palos Verdes had been changed from a family residence to a sort of high-level hostel for the various members of the Shannon clan as they migrated through the area on business. As a part of a larger plan to induce Bob Rodriquez to become more active in the family firm, Vance Shannon, Incorporated, Harry Shannon had asked Bob to supervise the enlargement of the Palos Verdes house, equipping it with the latest in video, film, and audio equipment. The ostensible purpose was so that highly classified briefings could be held there without any risk. The real reason was to have briefings that would intrigue Rodriquez and lead him to once again infuse the firm with some of his old genius. Harry and Steve O’Malley had discussed the idea for months, and today’s meeting was part of their master plan.

  Remodeling the house suited Rodriquez, who was enjoying his new freelance status immensely. For the last year he had spent part of his time working on Paul MacCready’s black projects and part just dabbling in things that interested him. The house was a project that appealed to two of his many interests—hands-on construction and an elaborate installation of the most intricate electronic gear available.

  Surveying the scene, Harry shook his head in wonder.

  “Can you imagine what Dad would have said about this? He spent hours in here in silence, going over drawings and technical specifications, and now you’ve turned it into an electronic paradise.”

  “It’s more than that, Harry. I didn’t just install the stuff you called for, I brought in experts from your firm to modify the acoustics of the room. It is totally soundproof and it has been hardened so that nobody will be able to use any kind of electronic eavesdropping equipment to detect what’s going on in here.”

  Rodriquez was breathing hard, and Harry watched him critically.

  “You had a physical recently, Bob? Seems to me like you’re puffing a bit.”

  “Well, it’s hard for an iron man like you, seventy-six and fit as a fiddle, to understand, but some of us old guys are not in the best of shape.”

  Harry considered that for a while. It wasn’t surprising that Bob would have health problems, considering the tough, demanding covert life he’d led.

  “You didn’t answer the question. Have you had a physical?”

  Bob smiled. “Yes, and for a good reason. I’m going to start flying again, and they passed me with flying colors. I’m about ten pounds underweight, and they told me to stay that way if I could. But next week I’m going to start checking out in the company planes. I’ll begin with the Cessna Caravan and work my way up to the Gulfstar V. I’ve cleared it with everyone, they told me no problem.”

  “That’s great news. I stopped flying when they put me on Xanax a few years ago, and I miss it. I still fly with a check pilot, of course, and that’s what I’d advise you to do as well.”

  Rodriquez didn’t say anything. He’d fly with a check pilot until he was current; after that, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do his own flying.

  Harry read the message on Rodriquez’s face and smiled. It was the kind of response he wanted.

  “Are we ready to go for the big meeting? O’Malley wouldn’t have called us all here if it wasn’t something important.”

  “When is he getting out? He’s gone as far as he can go as a four-star, and they cannot keep finding special jobs to keep him busy.”

  “No, I think they will. He can stay in for another three years at least, if they still work things the way they used to. After that they might make him an Assistant Secretary or something—anything to keep his knowledge and energy in the Pentagon.”

  Harry paused. This was dangerous ground. O’Malley had left the business world and returned to the Pentagon because of Bob Rodriquez’s crazy determination to take over Vance Shannon’s firm many years ago. All that was past history now, but he knew Rodriquez didn’t like to be reminded of it.

  So it was quite a surprise to him when Rodriquez said, “It’s surprising how many lives I fucked up over time, isn’t it? Tom’s, maybe Nancy’s, Mae’s, Rod’s, Steve’s, probably Dennis, and maybe even you and Anna. I’m the one they should have put on Xanax, and they should have done it years ago.”

  His tone was casual but it was evident he meant what he said. Harry tried to smooth it over. “That’s all in the past, Bob. You did what you had to do. We’ve all got demons driving us—look at Tom, look at Anna, look at me, for Christ’s sake, nobody’s perfect. Nancy’s a perfect example, she had her own demon and damn near ran our company into the ground. Nobody’s perfect.”

  Rodriquez said nothing, just stared at the wire-splicer he still held in his hand.

  Harry went on. “In a way it might have been a good thing. Our companies actually got stronger because of your opposition, and God knows what you did for the country while you were undercover. They don’t hand out the Presidential Medal of Freedom to troublemakers.”

  Rodriquez nodded, saying, “That’s the hardest secret I’ve ever been asked to keep. I want to tell everybody, and of course I can’t.”

  Two months before, in a secret ceremony at the White House, William Jefferson Clinton had awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian award, to Rodriquez. The only people attending were O’Malley, Mae, Rod, and on Rodriquez’s special plea, Harry Shannon. Clinton was his usual charming self, pointedly remarking that while he could not say what the medal was being awarded for, he could tell those present that it was much deserved, so much so that even as well as they knew the recipient, they could never imagine what he had done.

  “Someday you will be able to tell, and that will clear up everything for everybody. I’m glad Mae was there; it gives her some insight that she probably needed.”

  Rodriquez stood up abruptly. “They’re due here in about ten minutes, and that crew is never late. I’m going to wash up.”

  O’Malley had asked that all the central figures of what the industry called the “Vance Shannon gang” be present, and if possible, he wanted them to be able to stay over a day.

  Nine minutes later the door burst open and they filed in with the precision of aviators and the deference of longtime friends, each urging the other to go ahead. V. R. Shannon and Rod led the way, V. R. slapping his uncle Harry on the shoulder and Rod unashamedly embracing his father in a long hug. Dennis Jenkins trailed after them, and the rear was brought up by an unusually boisterous Steve O’Malley, holding a videocassette over his head and yelling, “Behold the future, gents, I’m going to let you in on the hottest new weapon in aviation. But only after I give you some big news and a stern lecture.”

  Rodriquez had spared no expense on turning the library into an electronic studio and there were more than a dozen leather recliners to choose from. Harry had already put out a few beers, knowing they would be passed over for the most part, and a larger set of bottled water and soft drinks.

  O’Malley didn’t waste any time.

  “You’ll probably remember what Norm Augustine called ‘The Last Supper’?” Augustine was chairm
an of Martin Marietta and one of the most articulate men in the industry.

  Harry, V. R., and Dennis nodded. Bob Rodriquez said no, and his son stayed silent, not wanting his dad to be alone in not knowing something of pretty general knowledge.

  “Well, briefly, back in 1993, the Secretary of Defense, Les Aspin . . .” He paused while the usual groan went up—Aspin was no friend to the military. “Moving right along, Aspin and Bill Perry invited the top aerospace people in the industry, informing them that they could expect at least a 40 percent reduction in defense spending in the future. The word was: consolidate, merge, or get out of the industry, because DOD wasn’t going to pay for overcapacity.”

  O’Malley paused to drink from his water bottle and went on. “The budget had already declined from $600 billion in 1988 to $300 billion in 1993, and the companies were already hurting. Both Aspin and Perry were brutally straightforward. They said that they needed only one contractor for bombers, two contractors for rocket motors, two for tanks, one for submarines, and so on. The message was clear: the party was over.”

  There was a general silence as each man sought to determine the import of O’Malley’s story to his own activities. O’Malley went on. “The trend to mergers started a year ago in March, when Lockheed acquired the General Dynamics fighter facility at Fort Worth.”

  They all knew this one was close to O’Malley’s heart. He’d been a big proponent of the F-16, and he followed its success with a parent’s pride.

  “Dan Tellep, Lockheed’s chairman, told me how that one came about. Bill Anders, the astronaut and chairman of General Dynamics, had come to him with a stunning proposal: he was asking to buy the Skunk Works. Bill was worried that GD lacked the engineering capacity to generate a follow-on project to the F-16. Dan refused, of course; the Skunk Works is part of Lockheed’s legend. Then Anders floored him, saying, ‘Well, how about Lockheed buying our Fort Worth facility? I’ll sell it to you for less than the value of the orders we already have on the books.’ ”