He sat rubbing a pencil back and forth between his palms. All the things he enjoyed, all the work he did, were poor palliatives for the loneliness that gnawed at him. His dreams—night dreams and daydreams—had changed subtly in the last year. He still dreamed of Millie, but now her face was that of Patty Dompnier. It was totally stupid. Howard had more leftover women than the average man could use, and he was always willing to fix Bandfield up. He had gone out a few times, even found himself tumbling happily in bed with some of them, but nothing permanent had developed. He was looking for someone who didn't exist—Millie—and someone he couldn't have—Patty. Or could he?
Maybe it was just a defense mechanism, an excuse to stay single and avoid the responsibilities of marriage. It didn't matter much: for whatever reason he was desperately lonely.
Even as he thought of Patty, Bandfield was uncomfortably aware that his heart had picked up the trip-hammer rhythm of the riveting machines outside, wondering what she was doing. It had been eight months. How long did young women mourn nowadays? Could she be seeing someone else already?
He shrugged the thoughts away. He had more than three strikes against him. She surely must resent his having won the race in which her husband had died. And then there was Hafner! How could he even think of courting the stepdaughter of a man he hated, and a dangerous business rival at that!
He went back to work, wondering what Howard's plans were for the evening. Maybe he'd have a spare.
*
Wright Field, Ohio/June 15, 1933
Wright Field had quite by chance turned into one of those blessed anomalies, a military base where civilian scientists and military officers worked in almost perfect harmony. Their activities had the extraordinary benefit of being considered too complicated for investigation by Congress, which in large measure gave the appropriations and didn't attempt to manage the programs. The result was a fertile hothouse of innovation, where manufacturers, inventors, geniuses, and crackpots all intermixed to create new and better aircraft. England had a direct counterpart at Farnborough, and France, to a lesser extent, at Villacoublay, but there was probably nowhere else in the world where science, business, politics, and service matters melded together in so efficient a manner.
There were plenty of fights, ranging from polite arguments to fist-slinging brawls, and the test pilots were often prima donnas, jockeying to get the most record flights. But the combined effect of tradition and the great good fortune of having several excellent commanders in a row made the place work. It even made it possible for flamboyant showmen like Bruno Hafner to be tolerated.
Hafner Aircraft was there for the bomber competition, but Bruno had pulled off an unprecedented stunt. He had flown the bomber in himself; on its right wing was the new transport, flown by Dusty Rhoades. There had been rumors at Wright Field about the transport, but the big surprise came with the third plane in the formation, a beautiful low-wing amphibian racer. Charlotte Hafner had flown it from Long Island in record-setting time, climaxing the trip by arriving precisely as the two larger planes appeared over Wright Field and doing a barrel roll around them before joining them in formation.
The inevitable result was a complete scoop for Hafner in the local newspapers and the wire services. The Wright Field brass, who liked to keep the competitions as low-key as possible, were furious, but said nothing. Charlotte, legs crossed and the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned, was sitting on the wing of the amphibian, holding court for a flock of reporters, half blind from the flash cameras but loving every minute of it.
It didn't make the Air Corps feel any better when Hafner announced the humiliating fact that both the bomber and the amphibian were faster than the hottest Army plane at the station, a Boeing P-26 pursuit. This was headline material, particularly when a blond "It" girl was doing the most spectacular flying. Then as a throwaway line, Charlotte commented that the transport was "only just as fast as the P-26"; it was frosting on the cake for the reporters, hemlock for the Army.
Yet they couldn't deny the scope of Hafner's accomplishments, and the German ace was jovially expansive as he led Major Henry Caldwell's troupe of grim and tight-lipped engineers around.
Hafner, his face a broad grin, was shouting his familiar chorus, boasting, "I've more goddam Russians working for me than Stalin. Every time Sikorsky loses a contract, another dozen show up at the door. I'm going to have to start borrowing his samovars to keep up with the demand."
Charlotte wondered if anyone had noticed the difference in Hafner's appearance. For years he'd worn the Teutonic skinned-sideburn haircut that had been stylish in his cadet school. Then one evening at the movies, watching The Dawn Patrol (he loved it when the Germans won at the end), he rebelled at the sight of a captured German officer wearing the same style haircut. He had let his hair grow and then gone to see "Arlie the Barber" in Manhattan for a conventional haircut.
It went well with his new corporate manner. He had intensified his supervision when he returned to New Jersey, and had submerged himself in the project for the last few weeks. Charlotte tagged along behind the group, talking to Dusty Rhoades, but listening to Hafner with cynical admiration. The business in France was booming—a good way to put it, since they were selling guns—and Bruno was going back and forth to Europe regularly while still keeping close tabs on everything in the States. There was no doubt that he was in charge. His technique was to delegate important projects to people he trusted for a while, then return and take them over himself again. Spreading himself thin enabled him to get a lot done, but it was disruptive and hard on morale. It was especially difficult for Armand Bineau, who didn't mind taking instructions, but hated Hafner's going around him directly to the engineering and production staff.
After the preliminary inspection, the stone-faced Army officers were obviously impressed, even as Caldwell saw to it that they were arm's-length formal.
"We're not in a position to evaluate any aircraft but the bomber, Mr. Hafner. Other manufacturers might think you were gaining a competitive advantage."
"I understand, Major. But I invited a few friends down to see them—airline presidents like Eddie Rickenbacker, C. R. Smith, Patterson, Ted Mahew, Trippe, a few others. I hope you don't mind."
Caldwell turned several shades darker red. His voice was tight and compressed when he said, "It's highly irregular, Mr. Hafner, but so is almost everything you do." Struggling to end on a graceful note, he added, "They are all friends of ours, so we'll be glad to see them."
A hundred yards away, Hadley Roget and Bandy stood under the wing of their Roget Raider bomber.
"My God, Hadley, Hafner's airplane looks just like your design—the same big fat belly."
"It sure does. Let's hope you were right on what the Army wants and I was wrong."
"How in hell did they pull off three airplanes? We busted our butts to get one done on time."
"Well, the transport's just the bomber with a different fuselage. But the amphibian is really something, with that funny gear. I'm going to nose around and find out how they did it."
Caldwell waved them over to his group. "I believe everyone is acquainted?" They all shook hands except Hafner and Bandy, who didn't even nod to each other.
"Since you're all friends, I'm sure you want to look at each other's products. We'll meet you in base operations in half an hour, and we'll go to the officers' club for lunch." Caldwell marched rapidly off to get ratification from Washington on his handling of Hafner's three-airplane ploy.
Dayton's deadly dullness was reinforced by a savage early blast of Midwestern heat. The sweat-dampened days passed quickly enough as they stayed with the Army inspectors doing their precompetition inspection of the aircraft. The planes were measured, weighed, and photographed while the plans were pored over in brightly lit conference rooms.
The humid nights, sullen with the soiled heat bounced back from street and building, were endless. Work ended promptly at four-thirty, leaving a lot of time to clean up, dress, and eat. Once the loc
al movies had been exhausted, there was not much to do but drink.
After the opening lunch, the Army personnel stayed away from the contractors entirely, not wanting even to have a cup of coffee in private, for fear of someone's complaining about a competitive advantage. Protocol called for the two companies to maintain a friendly but distant relationship. There was very little mixing between the Roget and Hafner people until Wednesday night in the dining room of the Van Gleve Hotel, when Bandfield found Charlotte sitting with Patty at dinner.
He stepped back behind one of the marble columns of the entrance as he debated whether or not to go over to them. He found himself staring at Charlotte, avoiding looking at Patty the way as a child he had saved the best morsel of food for last.
Charlotte was no longer as slender and didn't seem to pay the same attention to her appearance, but she was somehow even better-looking, having a composure and a serenity he'd never seen in her before.
A narrowing of vision and a constriction in his throat told him he'd better breathe again. He did, shifting his gaze to Patty, who was even more beautiful than he had remembered, the golden glow of her skin set off by her simple white linen dress. She wore a single strand of pearls. She was obviously talking about a serious subject, for she was alternately staring at her plate and glancing quickly up into her mother's eyes, while her fingers tapped against the side of her glass.
He walked over and said hello. Both women jumped up, genuinely pleased to see him.
"I just wanted to say how sympathetic all of us were to your loss."
Patty nodded, thanking him with equal formality. "It was a great tragedy for us all, and for aviation. Stephan was a wonderful pilot."
Breaking the awkward silence, he asked Patty, "Did you fly out?"
"No, I'm ashamed to say I took the good old Baltimore and Ohio. I had a lot of paperwork to do."
Charlotte beamed at them. "Bruno keeps her busy. He's been spending a lot of time on the arms business, going back and forth to France."
"Yes, he keeps me busy at everything but flying."
Bandfield tried to judge what the tone of her voice meant. She obviously wasn't angry with her mother, but her comments were tart and tense.
"Will you be doing any of the demonstration work?"
"No, that's what I was just complaining about. Bruno says it would dilute the impact Mother has on the press if we both flew."
Charlotte excused herself to go to the powder room.
Patty reached over and squeezed his arm. "Bandy, I'm so glad to see you. I wanted to get in touch with you, but just didn't know how to go about it."
"Really?"
"I want to ask you a favor."
Bandfield knew that if souls had eyes, his had just rolled them heavenward.
"Shoot."
"For some reason, Bruno is really holding me back. I don't know whether he doesn't have confidence in me, or if he thinks it is too soon after Stephan's death, or what. But all he lets me do is standard production or maintenance test flights."
Bandfield nodded. "Maybe he just doesn't want anything to happen to you."
"Maybe, although that is awfully altruistic for Bruno. Anyway, will you help me?"
"Anything you want. Just ask."
"I want to have someone build me a cross-country racer, and I want to start shooting for the absolute records. Not the women's record, but the record."
Bandfield glanced around. Was he kidding himself, or was Charlotte deliberately staying away so they could have some time together? It didn't matter; they were alone.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well, I can't afford to design something from the ground up. But I thought maybe you could figure out a way to soup up some stock airplane, a Northrop Gamma, maybe a Lockheed Air Express."
"You're talking thirty or forty grand, just doing that."
"Rats. I was hoping to keep it down to about twenty thousand. I finally inherited a little money from my father's—my real father's—family."
"And you want it kept secret, no doubt."
"Has to be. Charlotte and Bruno aren't getting along any too well, and something like this could really be trouble."
"Well, I'll have to think about it. Do you ever get to the Coast?"
"Not often, but I'll make a point of it."
Charlotte came back, and the two women excused themselves. Bandy had mixed emotions on the way things had gone. God knew that Roget Aircraft could use the extra money, and it could be an interesting project. On the other hand he sensed that his real motivation was simply to be with Patty, and he wasn't sure that it was the time for that yet. It had taken him years to get over the tragedy of Millie's death. Could he expect Patty to forget Stephan so soon? Or was he being stupid, imagining that she had any but a professional interest in him? Still, she had squeezed his arm. Perhaps if they worked together on a racer, they could find out more about each other, and see if there was any future for them.
His sober assessment didn't inhibit some heady fantasies about Patty, and these helped Bandfield endure the disappointment of the anticlimactic flight tests of the two competing bombers. Even before the company pilots had finished their demonstration routines, it was clear that the Hafner Skyshark's cleaner fuselage design and one hundred extra horsepower made it superior on every point—speed, range, and bomb load—to the Roget entry. The actual judging would be based on a complicated table that awarded points for performance, ease of maintenance, price, and other factors. But even the normally optimistic Hadley Roget knew that it was no contest.
When the flight activities were concluded, everything sank in a welter of paperwork. The one area that the Roget airplane excelled in was maintenance. The two years Hadley had spent at Wright Field were apparent in the way he'd planned to make changing the engines and wheels fast and easy. But both men knew it was not enough, and they knew Hafner would be quick to adopt similar methods.
They sat in the little saloon next to the Van Cleve, morosely drinking whiskey with beer chasers, as down as they had ever been.
"You know, Bandy, if that fucking Hafner came in a revolving door after you, he'd go out first. He is some slick customer."
"Yeah. And it's my fault. I insisted on using my design. Jesus, Hadley, I guess this is it. Even if they buy the prototype, we're about out of business. I hate to go back and tell the guys they're all out of work."
"We have no choice, Bandy. I don't see how we can even keep them on board until the official results come out. It's just money down the drain."
Consolation came the next morning, as unexpectedly as a June freeze. In the hope of seeing Patty again, Bandy had agreed to attend the briefing on the transport that Hafner was to give the airline executives in the Van Cleve Hotel. Hadley came along just to show the flag.
The German had prepared carefully, putting out the news quietly for days in advance that he was going to make a sensational announcement. The reports that had come out of Dayton, the daily press releases on the performance of the transport, had made their mark, and not a single major airline executive felt he could afford to miss the meeting. Each man, anticipating that Hafner was going to announce prices and delivery schedules, had brought along his chief engineer and top accountant.
There was a short sound film showing the Hafner factory and Charlotte flying the transport, along with some obviously fake indoor shots of smiling passengers being ecstatic over their in-flight lunches. Charlotte and Patty, dressed in identical hostess outfits, passed out red-velvet-covered brochures that extolled the Skyangel's virtues.
The audience was filled with old pros, men who'd been promised the moon by many a manufacturer, but Hafner's presentation had them at fever pitch. Bandfield watched them slide from a glassy-eyed indifference into a febrile, intense mood, itching to buy. As much as he disliked Bruno, he admired how he handled them. The squarehead had just won the bomber competition, and now he was selling transports as if they were Model As.
"I can't quote an exact price,
gentlemen, until we know the quantities involved, but I can tell you that we expect the airplane to come in for about sixty-five thousand dollars."
A murmur roared through the group. It was an unbelievably low price for an airplane that made all the Fords and Fokkers totally obsolete. No passenger would want to fly in a noisy hundred-mile-per-hour trimotor when he could bask in the luxury of the Hafner airliner. It was not a question of whether they should buy the airplane, but how soon they could get it. Every airline man there—executive, engineer, accountant—was completely sold. The normally tight-lipped Rickenbacker stood up. Out of deference, the others grew quiet.
"Good presentation, Captain Hafner. When can we expect delivery of the airplane?"
Bruno savored the moment. Here was an old enemy, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, the American Richthofen, a famous racing driver, a car maker, and now an airline executive, asking him for a favor.
"Well, Captain Rickenbacker, gentlemen, we thought you would like the Skyangel. We feel it will revolutionize the air transportation system here and abroad. Naturally, we plan to equip our own Federated Airlines with the first sixty planes, and then we'll be offering others the first deliveries in the spring of 1935."
There was a stunned silence. Hafner was obviously trying to establish a stranglehold on the market. In two years, Federated would have established itself as the dominant airline.
A cataract of invective broke over Bruno, washing him to the back of the podium in a defensive posture, totally unprepared for the intensity of the reaction. Rickenbacker, normally very gentlemanly in the presence of women, lost control and yelled, "You Kraut son of a bitch, go fuck yourself." He strode from the room, bald head bouncing, lips tightly set, his people following him in a cluster. Allied Airlines' gigantic Ted Mahew, so big that he towered over both Rickenbacker and Hafner, had to be forcibly restrained from hitting Bruno.
"You arrogant bastard! You invited us down here to see the airplane, knowing you weren't going to have any for sale for two years. This is outrageous."
Hafner scurried around, apologizing and explaining, but it was too late. With a despairing look at Charlotte, he watched the airline people stalk from the room.
Trophy for Eagles Page 30