The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  I looked back at the plane as Morrissey kept on talking. It sure as hell was a revolutionary design. It looked like a big black panther squatting there on the hangar floor with its long nose jutting out in front of the swept-back wings and the plastic bubble over the cockpit shining like a giant cat's eye in the dim light.

  "Very interesting," I heard the General say. "Now, I have just one more question."

  "What's that, sir?" Morrissey asked.

  The General chuckled, looking at his aides. They permitted a faint smile to come to their lips. I could see the old fart was going to get off one of his favorite jokes. "We Army men look over about three hundred of these so-called revolutionary planes every year. Will it fly?"

  I couldn't keep quiet any longer. The million bucks it had cost me to get this far with the CA-4 gave me a right to shoot off my mouth. "She'll fly the ass off anything you got in your Army, General," I said. "And any other plane in the world, including the new fighters that Willi Messerschmitt is building."

  The General turned toward me, a surprised look on his face. I saw his eyes go down over my grease-spattered white coveralls.

  Morrissey spoke up quickly. "General Gaddis, Jonas Cord."

  Before the General could speak, a voice came from the doorway behind him. "How do you know what Willi Messerschmitt is building?"

  I looked up as the speaker came into view. The General had evidently brought a third aide with him. The silver wings shone on his blouse, matching the silver oak leaves on his shoulders. He was about forty, slim and with a flier's mustache. He wore just two ribbons on his blouse – the Croix de guerre of France and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

  "He told me," I said curtly.

  There was a curious look on the lieutenant colonel's face. "How is Willi?"

  The General's voice cut in before I could answer. "We came out here to look over an airplane," be said in a clipped voice, "not to exchange information about mutual friends."

  It was my turn to be surprised. I flashed a quick look at the lieutenant colonel but a curtain had dropped over his face. I could see, though, that there was no love lost between the two.

  "Yes, sir," he said quickly. He turned and looked at the plane.

  "How do you think she looks, Forrester?"

  Forrester cleared his throat. "Interesting, sir," he said. He turned toward me. "Variable-pitch propellers?"

  I nodded. He had good eyes to see that in this dim light. "Unusual concept," he said, "setting the wings where they are and sweeping them back. Should give her about four times the usual lift area."

  "They do," I said. Thank God for at least one man who knew what it was all about.

  "I asked how you thought she looks, Forrester?" the General repeated testily.

  The curtain dropped down over Forrester's face again as he turned. "Very unusual, sir. Different."

  The General nodded. "That's what I thought. Ugly. Like a toad sitting there."

  I'd had about enough of his bullshit. "Does the General judge planes the same way he'd judge dames in a beauty contest?"

  "Of course not!" the General snapped. "But there are certain conventions of design that are recognized as standard. For example, the new Curtiss fighter we looked at the other day. There's a plane that looks like a plane, not like a bomb. With wings attached."

  "That baby over there carries twice as much armor, plus a thousand pounds of bombs, seven hundred and fifty miles farther, five thousand feet higher and eighty miles an hour faster than the Curtiss fighter you're talking about!" I retorted.

  "Curtiss builds good planes," the General said stiffly.

  I stared at him. There wasn't any use in arguing. It was like talking to a stone wall. "I'm not saying they don't, General," I said. "Curtiss has been building good airplanes for many years. But I'm saying this one is better than anything around."

  General Gaddis turned to Morrissey. "We're ready to see a demonstration of your plane," he said stiffly. "That is, if your pilot is through arguing."

  Morrissey shot a nervous look at me. Apparently the General hadn't even caught my name. I nodded at him and turned back to the hangar.

  "Roll her out!" I called to the mechanics, who were standing there waiting.

  Morrissey, General Gaddis and his aides walked out. When I got outside I saw that Morrissey and the others had formed a group around the General but Forrester stood a little to one side, talking to a young woman. I shot a quick look at her. She was stuff, all right – wild eyes and sensuous mouth.

  I followed the plane out onto the runway. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around. It was Morrissey. "You shouldn't have teed off on the General like that."

  I grinned at him. "Probably did the old bastard good. He's got enough yes men around him to be a movie producer."

  "All the same, it's tough selling him as it is. I found out Curtiss is bidding their planes in at a hundred and fifty thousand each and you know the best we can do is two twenty-five."

  "So what?" I said. "It's the difference between chicken shit and chicken salad. You can't buy a Cadillac for the same price as a Ford."

  He stared at me for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders. "It's your money, Jonas."

  I watched him walk back to the General. He might be a great aeronautical engineer, but he was too anxious ever to become a good salesman. I turned to the mechanic. "Ready?"

  "Ready when you are, Mr. Cord."

  "O.K.," I said, starting to climb up to the cockpit. I felt a hand tugging at my leg. I looked down.

  "Mind if I come along for the ride?" It was the lieutenant colonel.

  "Not at all," I said. "Hop in."

  "Thanks. By the way, I didn't get your name."

  "Jonas Cord," I said.

  "Roger Forrester," he answered, holding out his hand.

  I should have guessed it the minute I heard his name, but I didn't tie it up until now. Roger Forrester – one of the original aces of the Lafayette Escadrille. Twenty-two German planes to his credit. He'd been one of my heroes when I was a kid.

  "I've heard about you," I said.

  His smile changed into a grin. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

  We both laughed and I felt better. I pulled on his hand and he came up on the wing beside me. He looked into the cockpit, then back at me.

  "No parachute?"

  "Never use 'em," I said. "Make me nervous. Psychological. Indicates a lack of confidence."

  He laughed.

  "I can get one for you if you like."

  He laughed again. "To hell with it."

  About thirty miles out over the ocean, I put her through all the tricks in the book and then some only the CA-4 could do, and he didn't bat an eyelash.

  For a clincher, I took her all the way up in a vertical climb until, at fourteen thousand feet, she hung in the sky like a fly dancing on the tip of a needle. Then I let her fall off on a dead stick into a tailspin that whipped the air-speed indicator up close to the five hundred mark. When we got down to about fifteen hundred feet, I took both hands off the stick and tapped him on the shoulder.

  His head whipped around so fast it almost fell off his neck. I laughed. "She's all yours, Colonel!" I shouted.

  We were down to twelve hundred feet by the time he turned around; eight hundred feet by the time he had the spin under control; six hundred feet before he had her in a straight dive; and four hundred feet before he could pull back on the stick.

  I felt her shudder and tremble under me and a shrill scream came from her wings, like a dame getting her cherry copped. The G pinned me back in my seat, choking the air back into my throat and forcing the big bubbles right up into my eyes. Suddenly, the pressure lifted. We were less than twenty-five feet off the water when we started to climb.

  Forrester looked back at me. "I haven't been this scared since I soloed back in fifteen," he yelled, grinning. "How did you know she wouldn't lose her wings in a dive like that?"

  "Who knew?" I retorted. "But this was as good a time a
s any to find out!"

  He laughed. I saw his hand reach forward and knock on the instrument panel. "What a plane. Like you said, she sure does fly!"

  "Don't tell me. Tell that old coot back there."

  A shadow fell across his face. "I'll try. But I don't know if I can do much good. It's all yours," he said, raising his hands. "You take her back in now."

  I could see Morrissey and the soldiers standing on the field, watching us through field glasses as we came in. I put her into a wide turn and tapped Forrester on the shoulder. He looked back at me. "Ten bucks says I can take the General's hat off on the first pass."

  He hesitated a moment, then grinned. "You're on!"

  I came down at the field from about a thousand feet and leveled off about fifteen feet over the runway. I could see the startled expression on their faces as we rushed toward them, then I pulled back the stick. We went over their heads, into an almost vertical climb, catching them full blast in the prop wash.

  I looked back just in time to see the captain running after the General's hat. I tapped Forrester's shoulder again. He turned to look back. He was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes.

  She set down as lightly as a pigeon coming home to its roost. I slid back the plastic canopy and we climbed down. I glanced at Forrester's face as we walked over to the group. All the laughter was gone from it now and the wary mask was back on.

  The General had his hat on his head again. "Well, Forrester," he said stiffly. "What do you think?"

  Forrester looked into his commanding officer's face. "Without a doubt, sir, this is the best fighter in the air today," he said in a flat, emotionless voice. "I'd suggest, sir, that you have a test group make an immediate check to substantiate my opinion."

  "Hmm," the General said coldly. "You would, eh?"

  "I would, sir," Forrester said quietly.

  "There are other factors to be considered, Forrester. Do you have any idea of what these planes might cost?"

  "No, sir," Forrester answered. '"My only responsibility is to evaluate the performance of the plane itself."

  "My responsibilities go much further than that," the General said. "You must remember that we're operating under a strict budget."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Please bear it in mind," General Gaddis said testily. "If I went off half-cocked over every idea you Air Corps men had, there wouldn't be money enough left to keep the Army running for a month."

  Forrester's face flushed. "Yes, sir."

  I glanced at him, wondering why he stood there and took it. It didn't make sense. Not with the reputation he had. He could step out of the Army and knock down twenty times what he was making with any airline in the country. He had a name as good as Rickenbacker's any day.

  The General turned to Morrissey. "Now, Mr. Morrissey," he said in an almost jovial voice. "Whom do we talk to about getting a few facts and figures on the cost of this airplane?"

  "You can talk with Mr. Cord, sir."

  "Fine!" boomed the General. "Let's go into the office and call him."

  "You don't have to do that, General," I said quickly. "We can talk right here."

  The General stared at me, then his lips broke into what he thought was an expansive smile. "No offense intended, son. I didn't connect the names."

  "That's all right, General."

  "Your father and I are old friends," he said. "Back during the last war, I bought a lot of the hard stuff from him and if it's all right with you, I'd like to talk this over with him. Purely for old times' sake, you understand. Besides, this can turn out to be a mighty big deal and I'm sure your daddy would like to get in on it himself."

  I felt my face go white. I had all I could do to control myself. How long did you have to live in a man's shadow? My voice sounded flat and strained even to my own ears. "I'm sure he would, General. But I'm afraid you'll have to talk to me; you can't talk to him."

  "Why not?" The voice was suddenly cold.

  "My father's been dead for ten years," I said, turning my back on him and walking toward the hangar.

  2

  I walked through to the small room in the back that Morrissey used as an office. I shut the door behind me and crossing to his desk, took out the bottle of bourbon that was always there for me. Pouring a shot into a paper cup, I tossed the whisky down my throat. It burned like hell. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling.

  There are some people who won't stay dead. It doesn't make any difference what you do to them. You can bury them in the ground, dump them into the ocean or cremate them. But the memory of them will still turn your guts into mush just as if they were still alive.

  I remembered what my father said to me one morning down at the corral in back of the house. It was a little while after his marriage to Rina and I’d come down one morning to watch Nevada break a new bronc. It was along about five o'clock and the fast morning sun was just raising its head over the desert.

  The bronc was a mean one, a wiry, nasty little black bastard that, every time it threw Nevada, went after him with slashing hoofs and teeth. The last time it threw him, it even tried to roll on him. Nevada scrambled out of the way and just did make it over the fence.

  He stood there leaning against the fence and breathing heavily while the Mex boys chased the bronc. Their shrill whoops and yells split the morning air. "He's a crazy one," Nevada said.

  "What're you going to do with him?" I asked curiously. It wasn't often I saw Nevada take three falls in a row.

  The Mexicans had the horse now and Nevada watched them lead it back. "Try him once more," he answered thoughtfully. "An' if that doesn't work, turn him loose."

  My father's voice came from behind us. "That's just what he wants you to do."

  Nevada and I turned. My father was already dressed as if he was going straight to the plant. He was wearing his black suit and the tie was neatly centered in the thickly starched white collar of his shirt. "Why don't you put a clamp on his muzzle so he can't snap at you?"

  Nevada looked at him. "Ain't nobody can git near enough to that hoss without losin' an arm."

  "Nonsense!" my father said tersely. He took a short lariat from the pegs on the fence and ducking between the bars, stepped out into the corral. I could see his hands working the rope into a small halter as he walked toward the horse.

  The bronc stood there pawing the ground, its eyes watching my father balefully. The Mexicans tightened their grip on the lariats around the horse's neck. The bronc reared back as my father brought the loop up to catch it around the muzzle. At the same time, it lashed out with its forefeet. Father just got out of the way in time.

  He stood there for a moment, staring into the horse's eyes, then reached up again. The bronc shook its head wildly and slashed savagely at my father's arm. Again the hoofs lashed out, just missing Father.

  The bronc was really wild now, twisting and turning as if there were a rider on it. The Mexicans leaned on their lariats to hold it still. After a moment, it was quiet and Father walked back to it.

  "You ornery son of a bitch," my father said quietly. The bronc bared its teeth and snapped at him. Father seemed to move his arm just a fraction of an inch and the bronc's head flashed by his arm. "Let him go," my father yelled to the Mexicans.

  The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then shrugging in that almost imperceptible manner they had to absolve themselves of responsibility, let up on their lariats.

  Free of restraint, the bronc was motionless for a fraction of a second, bewildered. My father stood there in front of him, tall and broad in his black suit. Their eyes were about on a level. Then slowly my father started to bring his hand up again and the bronc exploded, its eyes flashing, its teeth bared, as it reared back and struck out with its hoofs. This time, my father stepped back and then darted as the bronc came down.

  I saw my father's clenched fist hanging high in the air over his head for a flashing second. The bronc's four hoofs struck the ground and Father's fist came down like a hammer, jus
t over the bronc's eyes. The thud of the blow echoed back against the side of the house like a small explosion. The bronc stood there for a moment, then sagged slowly to its knees, its front legs crumpling as if they had suddenly turned to rubber.

  Quickly my father walked around to the side and slapped his open palm against the bronc's neck. The horse toppled over on its side. For a moment, it lay there, its sides heaving, then it raised its head and looked up at my father. The four of us – the Mexicans, Nevada and I – were silent as we stood there watching them.

  The bronc's raised head threw a long morning shadow in the corral dirt that was dwarfed only by the shadow of my father as they stared into each other's eyes. Then the bronc seemed to heave a giant sigh and dropped its head back on the ground.

  My father looked down at the bronc for a moment, then bent over and taking the reins near the bronc's mouth, pulled the horse to its feet. The bronc stood there, its legs trembling, its head hanging dejectedly. It didn't even raise its head as my father crossed in front of it and came back through the fence to us.

  "You won't have any trouble with him now." My father hung the lariat back on the peg and started for the house. "Coming in for breakfast, Jonas?" he called without turning his head or breaking his stride.

  Nevada was already back in the corral, walking toward the bronc. "Yes, sir," I said, starting after my father. I caught up to him on the back porch. We turned and watched Nevada mount the horse. The bronc bucked and sawed but it was easy to see his heart wasn't in it.

  My father turned to me, unsmiling. "Some horses are like people. The only language they understand is a clout on the head."

  "I didn't think you cared that much about the horses," I said. "You never come down to the corral."

  "I don't," he said quickly. "It's you I care about. You've still got a lot to learn."

  I laughed. "Fat lot I learned from your hitting a bronc on its head."