Air Force Eagles

by Walter J. Boyne

  Ruddick looked up at the sound of his voice, and boomed, "Come in, Colonel Bandfield, come in. Delighted to see you. I'm glad you and your friend could drop by."

  Surprised, Bandfield came forward. As Coleman started the introductions, Roget walked toward the jade-green Viper, gleaming iridescent under the overhead lights. It was well named. The grotesquely long engine stretched out behind the huge four-bladed propeller and seemed to pulse with energy even at rest, overpowering the tiny wings and tail surfaces.

  "Who in hell designed this man-killer?"

  Bandfield winced; Roget was telling it like it was. Both Ruddicks, father and son, scowled at the remark. Coleman rallied smoothly, "You're partly right, Mr. Roget, it's a killer to look at, but an angel in the air. Let me tell you about it."

  Coleman picked up a clean red shop rag and, flourishing it like a matador's cape, walked to the streamlined radiator pod at the wing tip.

  "This is the sleekest finish ever applied to an aircraft surface—ten coats of paint and fifteen coats of wax." Coleman laid the rag on the top of the pod; it slipped off to scuttle like an escaping squid down the length of the wing, up the fillet, and down to the ground. If Coleman had used a marble for the trick, it wouldn't have been remarkable, but the sliding rag, frictionless as a glob of mercury, was a stunner.

  Roget nodded with appreciation, the last approving gesture he'd make as Coleman went on. "You probably recognize these pods, Bandy; they were made from surplus seventy-five-gallon drop tanks. We've installed the coolant radiators in .them. Located outside the propeller slipstream like this, they have far less drag than the regular Sidewinder belly system. And they act as tip-plates, improving the lift. Best of all, the heat exhausted out the back adds thrust like a jet engine.

  Roget shook his head. "It'll heat up in a minute on the ground, though. You better have guys standing by with hoses to squirt through there."

  Coleman closed his eyes, smiled, and nodded at Roget, indicating that they'd already thought of that. Then, strutting like a model on a car-show turntable—he obviously liked his new role—Coleman spread his hands and said, "You'll note that the right wing is one foot shorter than the left wing—it's a new way to offset torque."

  Roget snorted. "Yeah, really new, except the Germans did it in the First World War, and the Italians did it in the Second!"

  Unfazed, Coleman went on. "At max power the engine will deliver twenty-eight hundred horsepower via this four-bladed propeller. As you see, the propeller is a new design, with very wide blades and an extremely thin cross section. Costs us ten thousand dollars each, just for the blades."

  Roget was relentless. "This power plant's way too big for the airframe. The goddamn torque will twist this monstrosity into the ground on takeoff like a corkscrew going into a cork. You haven't got enough vertical surface to handle that much power."

  Milo Ruddick boiled over, losing his normal Southern gentleman's composure to yell, "Who is this wiseass? Bandfield, I never should have let you in the door."

  Roget scowled at him and said, "Mr. Ruddick, I'm not trying to be a wiseass. I just know it's criminal to tinker with aerodynamics like this. And I know that if I were you, I'd take my boy back home, and not let him within a hundred miles of this killer."

  Bob Ruddick started to speak, but his father silenced him with a peremptory wave, his accent thickening with his anger. "Bob"—it sounded like Baob—"already has ten hours in this airplane. Yesterday he beat ten other racing planes to win the Ohio Trophy race with it. You all don't be telling us that it's dangerous!"

  Roget started to apologize and Ruddick interrupted.

  "Bob here has got a damn sight more experience in fighters than Bill Odom, and he's the favorite! You go over and tell Odom not to race if you want to, but knock it off around here!"

  Roget shrugged. "I'm sorry. I'm sure your son is a fine pilot. But I've got to say what I think. And I think this airplane is more than dangerous—it is deadly."

  Bandfield ran his good hand nervously through his curly black hair, which was beginning to be salted with silver. He was quiet, content to let Roget express his own feelings while he observed the emotions of the others—Coleman clearly confused that his presentation was interrupted, the senior Ruddick furious, the younger Ruddick concerned and embarrassed. In the background, Abe Corrson lurked, a wrench in his hand, a sinister scowl on his face.

  "If I could go on?" Coleman sounded like the host of the "$64 Question" radio quiz show when the audience got out of hand.

  "Let me try to allay some of your fears, Mr. Roget. I test-flew the airplane, and I knew you couldn't use full power on takeoff. Too much torque, just as you say. But it's no problem! When Bob won the Ohio Trophy, he used half-power on takeoff, only about sixty inches of manifold pressure. We've got a quick-action gear that cleans the airplane up fast, and as speed builds, you've got more than enough control to handle the torque."

  Roget threw up his hands. "Don't listen to an old fogey like me. You guys know it all. I'm not going to say anything more. I wish you the best of luck, I really do."

  He turned to the younger Ruddick. "You be real careful out there, son, don't let anything happen to make you take chances."

  That night in their hotel room, Hadley was still mumbling as he poured Old Crow over ice cubes in two thick glass tumblers. There was a timid knock at the door. He opened it and Bob Ruddick walked in, asking if they'd spare him a few minutes' conversation. He'd obviously been doing some serious drinking.

  "I want to thank you for what you tried to do today. The truth is I'm scared shitless."

  "Well then, don't race. You're not being cowardly, you're being smart. No point in pushing your luck."

  "My dad won't see it that way. After the Ohio Trophy race, he's convinced I can win. And it's my fault, I've been telling him I could. The way Troy and Stan have brought me along, teaching me everything, I thought I could win it easy. But everything you said confirmed what I already knew. I've bitten off more than I can chew with this airplane."

  Bandfield asked, "How was it in the race yesterday? You did okay?"

  "Sure, but it was just like my qualifying heat. I was only pulling partial power, averaging about three-ninety—and I was ahead of everybody, the air was smooth. It was no different than practicing back in Nashville." He paused. "Can I have a drink?"

  "Sure, if you think you ought to. You've already had a few and you're flying tomorrow."

  "Maybe, maybe not. But right now I need a drink." He took a glass and poured it a quarter full.

  Ruddick's voice was low, barely controlled. "You know they changed the course layout—seven pylons instead of four. And it's only going to be fifteen laps instead of twenty."

  Bandfield tried to encourage him. "If you decide you've got to race, both of those things should help you. You can just cruise high and wide, fly a big circle, like Doolittle did in 1932 with the Gee Bee. That's how the jets will be doing it tomorrow, too. Even if you feel you have to race, that doesn't mean you have to kill yourself trying to win."

  Roget swirled the whiskey in his glass. "There's lots of ways out of this, Bob. You can just say you don't think it's safe. That's the best way, 'cause it's not. But if you can't do that, abort on takeoff—say your gauges showed an overheat, or you got smoke in the cockpit. Ground-loop the bastard. Hell, say or do anything, it won't matter to anybody a week from now, not even your dad."

  Ruddick's face was resigned. "No, you don't know him. As smart as he is about business, he's a fanatic about other things, just like his own daddy was. We Ruddicks are weird people, believe me."

  Throwing down the rest of his whiskey, he reached for more, whispering, "There were always strong men in the Ruddick family, until they got down to me."

  "Don't talk like that, Bob, there's nothing the matter with you! You flew in the war, you've already won a race in the Viper—that's enough to prove you're a man to anybody!"

  "You don't know my dad—the Ohio Trophy meant nothing to him! He didn't
even want to have my picture taken with the cup! I've got to win the Thompson; nothing else will do. My dad's like that. He's a brilliant man, but when he gets an idea in his head, nothing will change it. It's my fault, I know, I encouraged him. I can't explain it, but it's like his whole life is bet on this race."

  "You got that wrong—it's your life that's being bet."

  "Sure, but you know what I mean. He's done everything for me, given me a chance other pilots would kill for."

  "You're young. Get some experience. Take the stock Sidewinder and fly it next year in the races. You don't have to win the first one you enter. Your daddy doesn't need that. He sure doesn't need to have you killed."

  "No, that's the crazy part of it. He not only wants me to win, he wants me to win the first time out! He's already talking about me winning both the Thompson and the Bendix next year! This whole thing is a fantasy he's had since I was a kid, we've talked about it all my life. It's like a guy who wanted to be in the majors, training his kid to play baseball. You've seen that before."

  Roget was blunt. "You don't get killed shagging flies, Bob. If your dad is this stupid, it's your duty to yourself to do what's right."

  Bandfield thought about his wife, Patty, just down the hall, entertaining Lyra and the children. He considered asking her to come in—she'd know how to comfort this poor guy, tell him he was fine, encourage him to do what he wanted. She'd done it often enough for him. He asked, "Well, what are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to fly. And try not to kill myself."

  Bandfield spent time the next morning with Troy McNaughton, pleading with him to withdraw the Viper from the race. "Look, Troy, I know what you are doing. You want to butter up Milo Ruddick. I can understand that; he controls a lot of contracts. But if you kill his kid in your airplane, you'll make an enemy out of him for life."

  McNaughton snorted. "First of all, we're not going to kill anybody. Bob Ruddick doesn't have to race if he doesn't want to. That would actually be the best thing for me—his dad would always feel an obligation for all the trouble we went to."

  "Yeah, but Bob is going to race. I'm certain of it."

  "Me, too. But that doesn't mean he'll kill himself."

  "But if he does, Troy, think about that."

  McNaughton shook his head. "How long have I known you now, Bandy, maybe ten years? In all that time, you've never gotten any smarter about business. If Bob Ruddick kills himself today, his dad will chalk it up to fate. I know the type. He can't blame me because that would mean he was blaming himself. And guys like him never blame themselves. The only way I can get in trouble with Milo Ruddick is to not let his son race. But you'd never be able to see that."

  He paused. "In fact, if he gets mad at anybody, it will be you and Roget. He'll say you spooked the boy."

  "Jesus, Troy, you must be nuts! Forget about Milo Ruddick and contracts and who's mad at who. Don't you see anything morally wrong with a young guy killing himself when he doesn't have to?"

  "Look, you want me to ban the Thompson Trophy, stop car racing, crusade against boxing? Get out of here, Bandy, go do something you know how to do—like watch a race."

  McNaughton watched Bandfield slam the door, thinking that the younger man had never learned how the game was really played, or what the rules really were. All Bandfield saw was that McNaughton was doing Ruddick a favor by building the racers for his son. It didn't even occur to him that there might be other, deeper ties.

  McNaughton pulled out a Dutch Master cigar, bit off the end, and lit it. The airplanes he'd built for Ruddick were nothing, mere show. His hooks now were jabbed and set far into Ruddick's dark, vulnerable past. He inhaled deeply, and the cigar tip glowed cherry red. Why did people like Bandfield meddle in business when they never even saw the satisfying side of it? Any idiot could make money—the pleasure was in power and control. Hell, even Elsie knew that!

  The night before at the hotel they had paired off in little groups. Bandy and Roget talked quietly, still concerned about Ruddick's chances. The Bandfield children were noisy, with George and Charlotte acting big, arguing about everything as they tried to explain the races to Ulrich. Patty and Lyra were going through the latest issue of Vogue magazine. They wore almost identical linen dresses; Lyra took her cue from Patty in everything from hairstyles to underwear, and Patty was flattered by it.

  When the idea of going to the races had first been proposed, Lyra had demurred. Patty thought she was concerned about the expense, so she had insisted, pointing out how much Ulrich would learn about the country on a train trip, how good it would be for Charlotte and George to have someone to be responsible for. But not until last night did she understand that Lyra was really frightened to come to the races with them.

  After two stiff drinks, Lyra had opened up.

  "Patty, forgive me, but I hate airplanes and pilots—you and Bandy excepted. Ulrich's father was the kindest man in the world, but airplanes destroyed him."

  "It was the war, Lyra. War changes men."

  "It was the war, true, but it was mostly the airplane, the jet fighter—it blinded him. First he wouldn't see what the Nazis were doing—then he didn't care."

  Patty patted her hand.

  "Helmut changed from a decent, loving, compassionate man into an amoral killer. He became obsessed with a technology he thought would save Germany—and Nazi Germany wasn't worth saving."

  "Was he really a Nazi?"

  "He was worse than most Nazis because he was brilliant—he had no excuse. Most of them ..." She fell silent, shivering with loathing at the memory of her reluctant affair with Joseph Goebbels, a brilliant monster.

  "Lyra?"

  "I'm sorry—I have so many bad thoughts of the war. You can't know what it means to see your lover change, day by day, into a killing machine."

  Patty felt she knew something about Josten's addiction to aviation. Flying had cost her too much as well—her mother and her first husband had died in crashes. The tension and the absences had more than once almost broken up her marriage to Bandfield.

  The next morning, race day, Bandfield had encouraged them to watch. Ulrich and the children wanted to go, and Lyra had to give in.

  Service participation at Cleveland was a time-honored tradition; there was no better way to show the taxpayers what their money was buying than to send a few fighters to race around the pylons. Even though the eighty thousand spectators knew that it was more of a demonstration than a race, not many people had ever seen a jet. The pretty little silver F-86s, with their swept wings and raucous engines, were crowd pleasers.

  Down on the starting line, Bayard Riley sat sweating, sucking on 100 percent oxygen, delighted to have a chance to compete in the Thompson Jet Trophy Race. At precisely 3:55, the four F-86s launched, streaking for the first pylon.

  Riley had just finished familiarization in the airplane at George Air Force Base, and as much as he wanted to win, he was more determined not to kill himself. As they hit the first turn, the number three F-86 pulled up and out. Riley didn't see any smoke—probably some sort of a control problem. The remaining three fighters began flying a circular course, covering almost twenty miles instead of a pylon-hugging fifteen, turning the first lap at just over six hundred miles per hour.

  Riley was enjoying himself, glad that the leader was being sensible, when he noticed that the distance between him and the first two planes was widening. He shoved his throttle to the firewall, the competitive urge surging, the gap staying about the same.

  It was tough flying. The air was turbulent, and they were pulling a constant 6 to 7Gs to maintain the tight circle; when they hit a gust, the Gs went up a couple of brutal notches. The primitive G-suits helped, but Riley felt as if he were in the grip of a python.

  On the sixth lap, he squeezed past the second place machine, its fuselage frayed, the glossy paint trim worn away as if it had been beaten by a chain. Six-hundred-miles-per-hour bugs beating an airplane to pieces, he thought.

  On the eighth lap, Riley forced his
way into the lead, forgetting about his galloping fuel consumption, pushing past Mach .95, way beyond the F-86's low-level limits.

  Riley was totally lost to the racing urge now, pulling the airplane even tighter, letting the G-forces build as he tried to increase his lead. A tremendous jar hammered through the stick, rolling the airplane sharply to the right, outside the race course.

  A wail went up from the crowd—half-hoping for an accident, half-praying for the pilot—followed by a cheer as Riley regained control. He slowed the F-86 down and came in to land.

  As he taxied by, Bandy nudged Roget.

  "Look at his right wing! He must have lost an inspection panel. It's damn lucky he didn't crash."

  Later, when the other two F-86s landed, Bandy took his family and friends down to meet the pilots.

  "Patty and Lyra, may I present Captain Riley? Bear, this is my wife, and our friend, Lyra Josten."

  A fan asked Bandfield for an autograph, and as he signed, Riley stared at Lyra. He ran his hand through his jet-black hair, wet with sweat; he wiped it on his flight suit and extended it to her. It had been months since Helmut Josten had shown him the photograph, but he recognized her instantly. Reluctantly, she pressed her fingertips against his own, as he continued to stare intently at her, wondering if he should admit that he knew Helmut, that he was working to get him into the country. In the end, he decided to say nothing.

  To Patty's amused concern, Lyra had withdrawn her hand with a little shudder, wiped it with a handkerchief, and turned away.

  Bandfield had not noticed the building intensity and was surprised when a discomfited Riley declined his invitation to come by the hotel for drinks and dinner.

  Later Patty teased him. "By golly, Bandy, I believe you were trying to be a matchmaker for Lyra. I should have told you that she doesn't like pilots."

  "Nonsense. All women like pilots. Some just like them a little more than others."

  The afternoon heat hung across the field like a hot towel, soaking the tired and edgy crowd. It was almost five o'clock and eleven airplanes were being positioned for the start of the Thompson Trophy race for piston-engine aircraft. There were three of the big Goodyear F2G Corsairs, gull-winged monsters with huge R-4360 engines; six Mustangs in varying degrees of modification and preparation from stock to the superslick Beguine; a Bell King Cobra and the McNaughton Viper. The Cleveland Plain Dealer had picked Bill Odom, flying the Beguine, as the favorite, but the radical appearance of the Viper and Ruddick's boyish appeal had also attracted a lot of followers.