"Sure, boss. I'll bring her out on the train with me."
Hafner slipped behind the wheel of his Duesenberg, a brand new Model J with a Bohman & Schwartz custom body. Despite its huge size, there was room only for two; Murray was going to have to drive out to the field in the sedan.
Charlotte climbed in the other side, and Hafner slipped the car into reverse. There was a shrieking howl of pain, and Murray cried: "Stop, you backed over Nellie!"
"Oh my God!" Hafner leaped from the car; Nellie was lying under the huge rear wheel of the Duesenberg, eyes wild, snapping, her back crushed.
"Here, baby, let Daddy—" Hafner screamed as Nellie's frenzied jaws closed on his hand.
"Get a blanket, Murray! We've got to get her to a vet!"
Murray looked at him in disbelief. Hafner was crying, his eyes streaming tears.
"You go on to the field, boss. I'll take care of her."
"Goddam you, get a blanket. Nobody is taking care of her but me.
Murray grabbed the lap robe from the car, and Hafner seized the bumper in his hand. Exercising a fear-driven strength, he lifted the car so Nellie, now whimpering, could be pulled from beneath the wheel. The agonizing eight-mile drive to the vet passed in silence except for Hafner's frantic apologies to Nellie. Charlotte watched him in the mirror, amazed at the tenderness and the devotion he was showing, emotions he had never shown to her, or to anyone.
*
Wright Field, Ohio/June 24, 1935
It was six o'clock in the morning, and only two things kept Bandfield from being completely happy: being too far from Patty and too close to the bomber competition, where Hafner Aircraft was getting its mammoth bomber ready to make its first demonstration flight. The rest of his life was pure joy, for Caldwell had put him to work flying the new crop of Seversky and Curtiss fighters.
It galled him to see the bomber on the ramp. His only satisfaction was that he had heard that the Army was clearly dissatisfied with Hafner's paperwork submissions. Henry Caldwell, scrawnier than ever under the pressure of his work, filled him in.
"This bird is way overweight, Bandy, according to the rumors. Hafner says he's 'lost' the weight and balance history."
Bandfield shook his head. The weight and balance of an aircraft was absolutely vital; Hafner couldn't have "lost" it. He had talked to Charlotte earlier, and she had warned him, "Steer clear of him, Bandy. I think he's lost his mind. All he can talk about is that poor dog. When the vet told him he had to put her to sleep, he blubbered like a baby. He's just now beginning to get over it."
The hazy red June sunrise had stacked purple stratus clouds like rungs in a ladder. There was no wind, and the high grass made boots glisten with the heavy dew. Ground crews were checking the aircraft over; the engines were raucous in the dawn calm. Bruno was conferring with Rhoades at the edge of the runway. Bandy was scheduled to fly the Curtiss Model 75 again, and he sat quietly with
Charlotte in the operations building, drinking coffee and chatting. Since his marriage to Patty, Charlotte had treated him like a son, and they had grown close.
"Are you sure you want to do this? That's a mighty big airplane."
She grinned at him. "Yes, my junior birdman, that's the whole point. It's about twice as big as anything Earhart has ever flown."
She tapped him on the arm and pointed out the window. "Have you noticed how good Dusty looks?"
"Yeah, I did notice. He's put on some weight."
"Believe it or not, I think I've got him to kick the habit, finally. After this competition, we're going directly to the Mayo Clinic for a full course of treatments. It's taken me years to get him to agree."
Bandy felt awkward about the revelation. "What will Bruno say about that?"
"He says it's a great idea. I think he's even more ready for a divorce than I am, God love him." She giggled and said, "God had better love him, because damn few humans do."
She reached over and patted his arm. "I'm glad Patty has you. I think Dusty and I will move away, go down South somewhere. I want to get him out of the New York environment."
"How about your flying? Are you willing to give that up?"
"Oh my God, yes. You knew I set a New York-Dayton record coming out. Going back I'm going to go for the altitude record, and next week I'll try some closed-course records. That will be enough to have even George Putnam throwing rocks at Amelia. And that will be enough for me."
Bandfield walked with her out to the airplane, sensing her eager nervousness. He could not detect any animosity at all in the discussion Hafner and Rhoades were having on how the flight would be conducted.
"Look, Dusty, don't do anything flashy. This first flight is for the brass, not the papers. Don't pick up the gear until you've passed the point where you can land, don't make any low passes. Just a gentle demonstration. Got it?"
Dusty was smiling. "Got it, Bruno. Don't worry about a thing."
A strange world, Bandfield thought as he did the walk-around inspection on his fighter. He kept an eye on the other airplane. Charlotte swung herself up into the fuselage, followed by Dusty Rhoades, Hafner, and another Air Corps test pilot, a young lieutenant named Joe Teague.
Bandy crawled into the Curtiss, adjusting his parachute and headset. The crew chief was an old friend, who asked, "What's bothering you, Bandy? You keep looking at the Hafner airplane like it's going to blow up."
Bandy shrugged, and saw Teague drop out through the front compartment. Then Bruno appeared at the rear, his sharkskin suit rumpled, apparently having crawled through the fuselage and out the aft door. It seemed strange to Bandfield; he had been inside and seen how crowded the fuselage was. Hafner would have had to crawl over the center-section fuel tank and around the side of the bomb bay. He probably just wanted to be sure everything was stowed properly.
Bandfield's headset crackled. Radio communications were a new wrinkle at Wright Field competitions, and he was surprised at the clarity of the transmission when he heard Rhoades announce that they were ready for takeoff.
Inside the bomber, Charlotte motioned for Rhoades to lean over. She kissed him and whispered, "This is the last competition, Dusty. After this we're going to settle down and live like normal people. Well, maybe like almost-normal people."
Always all-business in the cockpit, Rhoades squeezed her hand and gave her a thumbs-up sign, then completed his checklist and nodded. She eased the throttles forward, and the huge Hafner bomber moved across the grass, the four propellers sending a spray of dew in shining curls over the wing as it gathered speed.
Charlotte said, "Call out seventy-five miles per hour for me, Dusty," just as the nose of the bomber jerked off the ground in a rocketing climb. Both pilots shoved forward on the control column as the airplane trembled, not yet a hundred feet high.
Her voice calm, she said, "Controls are locked." Dusty had placed his feet on the wheel and was pushing forward with all his strength when the airplane stalled. He didn't see Charlotte turn to him, didn't hear her say, "I love you," as the airplane's nose merged with the earth.
Bandfield had watched unbelieving as the bomber broke ground at about sixty miles an hour, pulling up so sharply that he could see the full outline of the wing, the engines racing, smoke pouring back from the exhausts. Bandy heard Charlotte's call about the control locks just before the aircraft shuddered and pitched violently forward to dive vertically, crashing just inside the field boundary. A black balloon of smoke and flame roared up as crash wagons started their claxons. Bandfield was transfixed, noting in surprise that he had seen the crows in the trees lining the field scatter in flight even before he had heard the explosion. Shoving the throttle forward, half flying, half taxiing, he hurried toward the wreck.
On the ramp, Hafner and Murray were hustled into a staff car that raced to the scene. Hafner sat sunk in the backseat while Murray perched forward, tears in his eyes. He turned and drove his fist into Hafner's face.
"You bastard, you killed her! It was the control locks, wasn't it? You stupid crazy bastard, you ca
red more about that goddam dog than you did about Charlotte!"
He hit him again, and Hafner made no move. A young captain leaned back and grabbed Murray's arm as they pulled up to the site.
Bandy stopped one hundred yards from the crash. By the time he was out of the airplane and running toward the flames, he knew it was too late for anyone to help. The bomber had impacted vertically, and the flames consumed it from the nose to the tail. The only recognizable parts were the wingtips, propellers, and the outline of the rudder.
Murray had rushed toward the crash site. A fireman was restraining him when a secondary explosion knocked them both flat, the wall of flame broiling Murray's face and hands.
Within an hour, the fire had died sufficiently for the crash-investigating team to take a preliminary look. The internal control lock had kept the elevator firmly fixed in the full-up position. No matter how strong Charlotte and Rhoades had been, they could never have broken it loose.
Bandy stayed until the firemen, using their long steel hooks, dragged the charred lumps from the crash. Then he went back into the operations shack to telephone Patty. In the brief time since the crash, the reporters had flooded the news circuits, and the operators were busy, handling the deluge of calls. Henry Caldwell came in and shoved a photo, still wet from the developer, across the table to him. "Our photographer snapped this right at the top of its climb. You can see that the controls are locked."
Bandfield tapped the picture of the elevator with his finger. "Full up. She never had a chance." He paused, then asked, "How is Bruno taking this?"
"He and Murray both acted like they were crazy. Murray was badly burned, had to go to the hospital. Then Bruno climbed into a staff-car ambulance and demanded to be taken into town. He really depended on Charlotte, didn't he?"
Bandfield could tell that something was behind Caldwell's questions. He nodded his head yes, as Patty came on the telephone line. "Bad news, honey."
There was silence on the other end, then a single anguished sob. Patty's voice was weak as she asked, "A crash?"
"Yes. On takeoff. Nobody had a chance."
The sobbing came more deeply now. Bandfield's heart constricted in sympathy.
"Oh, God. I knew it would happen someday. What was it, engine failure?"
He waited, picturing her as she cried, her eyes closed, tears welling down her face. He said, "We don't know yet what happened. The main thing was that she didn't suffer, honey. It was instantaneous."
There was a silence, and he could feel her gathering herself together, calling on that magnificent inner strength.
"Call me later, will you? I just need to cry now."
"You shouldn't be alone. I'll get there as soon as I can."
"I'll be all right. Call back in an hour. I love you."
He hung up, sorrowing more for Patty than for Charlotte.
Caldwell had stood, head down, during the conversation, thinking of Charlotte in the A-11, of her dash in flying in the amphibian. Now she was gone, like so many others, in an inexplicable instant.
Caldwell cleared his throat and managed to say, "This was awful, Bandy, the worst I've seen. Tough luck, Bandy. She was a great woman."
He took a deep breath and went on. "Apparently Dusty Rhoades had no next of kin. We don't know who to contact. Do you know anyone?"
Bandfield shook his head as a deep inner grief seared him. He'd seen accidents like this so many times in the past. He wondered how often he would have to see them in the future.
Beaten as if he'd run a marathon, Bandfield had just thrown himself down on his hotel-room bed when the phone rang.
"Caldwell here. Come out to base headquarters, right now."
"Jesus, Henry, can't it wait? There's nothing we can do for anybody now."
"Oh yeah? Just get your ass out here, now."
Bandfield drove to Wright Field in a daze, trying to put some reasonable meaning on the day's events. An interminable Illinois Central freight train had kept him stalled as it rumbled past, sparks flying. When it cleared, he charged forward into sharp consciousness when a passenger train, hidden by the freight cars, roared by behind his rear bumper. He stumbled unshaven and still in his smoke-stained flying suit, past some tight-lipped military police into the base commander's office.
The suspended incandescent lights barely burned through the fog of cigarette smoke, casting long dark shadows like those in a Howard Hawks movie. Grim-faced military policemen stood at parade rest around the walls. In the center, at a brightly polished wooden table, sat Murray Roehlk, one arm pillowing his square head, the other dangling straight down. Bandfield could see that he had been crying.
"What's going on, Henry? What's going on with Murray?"
Caldwell raised his voice. "The little bastard is under arrest. And Bruno Hafner is gone."
"Slow down, Henry I don't follow you. What's with Murray?"
"The son of a bitch sabotaged the aircraft and murdered two innocent people."
Murray roused himself like a wounded bull seal protecting his harem, shook his head, and shouted, "I didn't. It was Hafner. I wouldn't never have hurt Charlotte. I idolized that woman. She was a living saint."
Time seemed to stand still for Bandfield. He looked at Murray in amazement. He had never seen the man express any emotion before. Now his face, burned and blackened, partially covered with bandages already needing changing, was filled with a bitter mixture of sorrow at Charlotte's death and livid rage that Caldwell was detaining him.
And Henry Caldwell had changed as well. His face was a mask of suppressed fury and blind hate, as if Murray were the one man in the world upon whom he could vent all his frustrations.
"I'll living saint you, you sawed-off gorilla! We've got a witness that says Charlotte had unlocked the controls. Lieutenant Teague says he saw her move the safety lever before he got out of the cockpit."
Roehlk turned on him, his eyes savage with hate. Bandfield felt that either man would have killed the other without a second thought. "Yeah, and that's what I'm telling you. That's why Hafner went out the back. He must have manually reinserted the control lock."
Caldwell's brow furled in fury. "I don't believe you. I "don't believe one goddam thing you say!"
"Wait a minute, Henry. I saw Hafner come out the back of the airplane. He might have done it then. Where is Hafner? Why don't we question him?"
"We don't know. He's just disappeared."
Caldwell turned and jabbed his finger in Murray's face. "And he's left Roehlk to take the fall. Somebody is going to fry for this, and it might as well be you." Roehlk turned as pale as the burns and dirt would let him.
Caldwell took Bandfield into the dreary room next door. "The two MPs working him over will get the truth out of him. Would you call Armand Bineau? See if you can find out what might have happened, if Hafner could have done something to sabotage the airplane."
Bandfield let his eyes wander over the room's standard austere Air Corps decor, white-enameled overhead reflectors, painfully plain brown furniture, and dismal beige walls, as he waited for the call to Bineau to go through.
When his voice came over the phone, weak and tearful, Bandfield was almost sorry he had called. After some preliminary commiseration, Bandy asked, "Mr. Bineau, what I have to ask sounds terrible, but you are the only one I can turn to. Was there any way someone could have manually reinserted the control lock after the pilot removed it with the normal system?"
Bineau's voice was almost inaudible. "Let me think. Yes, perhaps. If one knew the system, one could. There is a connection just aft of the bomb bay. It is a knurled nut, a union. If someone disconnected the push rod there, it would be easy to reinsert the remaining part manually in the tail of the airplane. It would lock the rudder and the elevator, but, of course, not the ailerons."
Bandfield probed, "And the pilots wouldn't have been able to tell, would they?"
' "No, they would have been holding the wheel full back, to keep the tail down. They wouldn't have become aware of it
until the takeoff run."
There was silence, and Bandfield asked, "In the ordinary course of events, would Captain Hafner have been familiar with the system?"
"Why yes, it was his baby from the start. I didn't want the extra weight and complexity." Suddenly, anxiety strengthened the timbre of Bineau's voice. "Are you saying this was sabotage?"
"I don't know. Please don't say anything about this to anyone. I'll keep you informed."
He hung up the old-fashioned upright phone and said, "God, Henry, I probably gave him another heart attack, poor guy. He says it could have been done, that Hafner was familiar with the system."
"Yeah. After Charlotte had unlocked the controls, Hafner could have disconnected the push rod, then put the end of the rod back into the elevator-control lock. Neither Charlotte or Dusty would have been able to tell it was in place."
"That's why the ailerons were unlocked. The whole thing's incredible. Why would he do it? He tossed away a multimillion-dollar contract."
Caldwell shook his head. "Nothing figures."
They walked back in, and Roehlk snarled, "Jesus, man, don't you see it? How fucking blind can you be? He sabotaged the airplane, he killed Charlotte."
Caldwell set a bottle of Black & White on the desk. He poured a shot for Bandy, and took one himself. He hesitated, then poured a generous measure for Murray. Maybe it would loosen him up.
"What makes you say this? How do you know?"
Roehlk downed the scotch, coughing. "I know because I know what a rotten bastard he is."
Even from across the desk, Murray smelled terrible, a ferocious combination of fear, hate, burned flesh, and unwashed body somehow adding plausibility to his story.
Caldwell said, "Why would he destroy his own airplane, Roehlk? He was sure to win, to get millions in future orders."
"The goddam thing was four thousand pounds overweight. He wanted it to crash. He figured the Army would be impressed enough with the paper performance to finance a second prototype."
He was silent for a moment, obviously puzzling things out in his mind. "It figures for another reason, you know. Maybe he didn't want to win. He's been draining all his companies of cash for the last two years. I don't know what he does with it. He had me doing a lot of the work, but he's siphoned off most of the money and squirreled it away. Hafner Aircraft is damn near bankrupt. After the crash, it probably is."
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