by T. E. Cruise
Steve was worried. Stewart could fuck this up for him if he had a mind to. “You’re not mad, are you, Colonel, sir?” Steve asked.
“No, I suppose not,” Stewart sighed. “Although I would have preferred it if you’d spoken to me before you put your request to Colonel Harris.”
“Sorry, sir, but I didn’t want to bother you in case it all turned out to be nothing.” Steve paused. “My transfer is contingent on your approval, Colonel.”
“Yes, I know it is.” Stewart frowned.
Oh, shit, Steve thought. “You did just say that if there was anything you could do to help me….”
“I know what I just said,” Stewart replied sharply. Suddenly he laughed, shaking his head. “All right. Don’t worry about your transfer. I won’t stand in your way.”
“Thank you, sir!” Steve said, relieved.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Stewart warned. “I think you’re making the wrong decision—”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate your concern, sir, but I do think it’s the right decision for me. I need to feel that I’m the best at what I do, and there’s no way I’m going to outclass the competition with a typewriter and a telephone.”
“Your promotion to major really was on its way—” Stewart said.
“Thank you, sir, but I’ve been pretty much guaranteed a promotion to major once I go back on flight duty, and depending on where I end up being stationed, there’s even the possibility of my taking command of a fighter squadron.”
Stewart grunted. “Well, I can see your mind is made up, so I wish you all the best, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time, sir.” Steve stood up.
“You know where you’re going to be stationed?” Stewart asked.
“Well, sir, some of it is up to me,” Steve replied, shrugging. “I can either go into immediate service with a squadron flying piston-engined Mustangs, or take some time to train to fly a jet. Right now I’m leaning toward the Mustang. I flew one toward the end of the war, and she was a fine plane.”
“Steve,” Stewart began. “Man to man, can I give you a bit of advice?”
“Uh, yes, sir!” Steve said, startled. “Of course you can, Colonel.”
Stewart chuckled ruefully. “You sounded surprised that I might have advice to give someone like you, but I do.” He sighed. “I know you don’t think much of an old dog desk jockey like myself.”
“No, sir, that’s not true at all, sir,” Steve said earnestly. “Colonel, you’re where you want to be in the Air Force, and that’s what I want for myself.”
Stewart looked amused. “You may find that where you want to be keeps changing relative to where you are.”
Steve let that one go by. “Any advice you might give me would be appreciated, sir.”
“Okay. If flying is your passion, I strongly urge you to learn to fly jets while the Air Force is willing to teach you. You’ve already accepted the fact that your lack of an education has severely limited your career options. Don’t further limit yourself in your chosen specialty by getting stuck flying an obsolete war machine.”
Steve nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, sir.”
“Let me teach you one last thing, and that’s to think before you act. You’re not a kid anymore. Now that you’re older, and starting to rise up through the ranks, you’re going to find that people are going to be far less forgiving of your reckless nature.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve was anxious to get out of the office. He had to telephone Colonel Harris, and he had a million other things to do.
“Hmm.” Stewart, staring at him, seemed to have read his mind. “You’re dismissed, Captain.” Stewart reached for his telephone. “I’ve got to start the paperwork to request your replacement.”
(Two)
Alexandria, Virginia
It was a warm night for so early in the spring. Steve was lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the ceiling, a scotch and soda within easy reach. He’d been playing Charlie Parker on the record player. The intricate, tortured wail of Bird’s alto sax mixed with the street sounds coming in through the open windows, filling the spartan rooms.
He’d had a dinner date with some friends, but he’d canceled out. This evening the music was all the company Steve wanted. He needed to make some decisions and ponder his future.
He’d already come to the conclusion that Colonel Stewart’s advice made a lot of sense. Steve had decided to put aside both his sentimentality concerning the Mustang and his anxiousness to get back to active flight duty as soon as possible, and take advantage of this opportunity to get the jet pilot training he was going to need to stay current.
Yeah, jet fighter training was definitely the way to go, as he’d so informed Colonel Harris over the telephone earlier that day.
But his decision to take jet fighter training meant that he now had another decision to make. Colonel Harris had offered him his choice of being assigned to a fighter group flying the F-80 Shooting Star, or an FG being equipped with F-90 BroadSwords.
For most pilots there would be no question about which way to go, Steve thought bitterly. The BroadSword had it all over the Shooting Star. Only the most prestigious fighter groups based stateside, or deployed in Europe to face off with the Soviets, were in line for the first of the swept-wing fighters rolling off the GAT production lines.
Yeah, in terms of prestige and performance, the jet to fly was definitely the BroadSword, but for Steve the choice was a little too complicated to be made merely on the basis of which was the superior machine.
He’d realized he’d been wrong, that he did need company. He needed the advice of someone he trusted and respected….
He got up off the bed and went to the dresser, where his little black book was lying beside the telephone. He dialed the operator and told her he wanted to call California and then read off Linda Forrest’s telephone number.
He glanced at his watch while he listened to the clicks and hisses on the telephone as the operator put the call through. It would be a little before seven in Los Angeles. At the other end of the line the telephone began to ring, once, twice, three times. If she was going out for the evening, maybe he’d be lucky and catch her before she left.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Baby Blue Eyes,” he said, settling down on the floor with the telephone on his lap.
“Well, well, Cap’n, how’s Washington since I was there last?”
Every couple of months Linda managed to wrangle her wire service into sending her to Washington. Whenever she was in town they spent their nights together.
“Springlike,” Steve said. “I didn’t catch you on your way out, did I?”
“Hardly.”
Steve smiled. Some dames would hand a guy a line about how they were about to go out on a hot date, just to try and get him jealous, but not Linda. She was beyond all that stuff, which was one of the reasons—nonphysical reasons, at least—why he liked her so much.
“I hate Mondays just on principle,” Linda was saying. “But today was particularly rough. Have you called to cheer me up by proposing matrimony?”
“Sounds tempting….”
“Oh, sure,” she laughed.
“Actually, I called because I could use some advice,” Steve said.
“What’s going on?” Linda asked, becoming serious.
Steve filled her in on the details of his transfer. “So there’s no question that the BroadSword is the airplane of choice. I’d accept the invitation to join a BroadSword-equipped squadron in a flash, if it hadn’t been for Colonel Harris’s chance remark…”
“Which was?” Linda asked.
“He told me that getting me into a BroadSword outfit would be no problem at all, considering who my father was.”
“Uh-oh,” Linda sighed. “That spoils it for you, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it kind of does,” Steve replied. “Remember what I told you about the ribbing I had to take during the war
because I was my father’s son? I had to prove myself every time I was stationed someplace new.”
“And you did,” Linda encouraged.
“Yeah, but how would I prove myself in this situation? Remember that only the cream of the crop are getting the first BroadSwords. I can’t expect to be welcomed by those pilots when they find out that I haven’t flown since the war, that I’d joined their ranks thanks to my daddy’s pull.”
“Cap’n, you know that you’re good enough to fly with the best—” Linda began.
“Sure I am,” Steve cut her off. “But that’s not the point. I want the satisfaction of getting to prove how good I am, not get the benefit of the doubt thanks to my last name.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve made your decision,” Linda remarked. “You’ll be flying that other kind of jet you were offered, the whatsit—”
“The F-80 Shooting Star,” Steve told her. “Yeah, but—” He sighed.
“But what?”
“It’s a bitter pill for me to swallow, Blue Eyes. You see, I was also told that if I chose a Shooting Star–equipped FG, I would probably get command of a squadron.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Linda interjected.
“Yeah, but I was also warned that squadron would be part of an FG stationed in a backwater part of the world.”
“Steve,” Linda whispered, “are you saying that you’re upset because you’re not going to get to see me so often?”
“Nah, that’s not it.”
“Oh….”
Shit, Steve thought. “Come on, Blue Eyes,” he said impatiently. “Don’t go all mushy on me. You know I enjoy seeing you.”
“Right.”
She sure was sounding funny. Women, he thought. Maybe it had been a mistake to call her.
“Okay, Cap’n. I didn’t mean to get ‘mushy.’ Please continue.”
“Well, the Berlin airlift confrontation has proven what everybody already knew,” Steve began. “That the United States is heading toward a confrontation with the Reds concerning where in Europe the Iron Curtain is going to fall. But I’ve been warned that if I choose an F-80 equipped organization. I’m going to end up as part of the Far Eastern Air Force, stationed in Japan, and being stuck there is as dull as things could get. I mean, there’s no way the Soviets are going to try anything in Asia while they have their hands full in Europe.”
“Well, the Russians are in North Korea,” Linda pointed out.
“The UN has got the lid on that,” Steve countered.
“And China is falling to the communists.”
“That backward nation is in no position to threaten the world.”
She suddenly broke up laughing.
“What?” Steve demanded.
“This is what I get for becoming involved with a military man,” she managed, trying to catch her breath. “I can’t believe I’m trying to cheer you up by suggesting possible places for you to go to war.”
Steve chuckled. “I guess I am being kind of silly.”
“Yes, you are, Cap’n. But don’t worry, I have high hopes for you.”
“You do, huh? Any chance of you getting to Washington before I ship out?”
“It might be arranged. I’ll check my calendar in the office tomorrow and give you a call.”
“That’s good.”
“So,” Linda said, “what have you decided?”
“You ever get to Japan?”
“Oh, so that’s what you decided.”
“Hey, what the hell, at least it’s flight duty,” he told her. “At least nobody will be able to say I’m not my own man trying to make it on my own merits.”
“You’re an all-right guy, Cap’n.”
“You’re an all-right girl. Thanks for listening.”
“No problem, Cap’n.”
Steve hesitated, but he told himself that he might as well say it, or else it would just bother him. “Sorry about hurting your feelings before. I—I really will miss you.”
“I know….” She sighed. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but, what the hell. I’ve got that slot in the New York bureau.”
“New York? Gee, that’s great! It’s the promotion you wanted.”
“Yeah….” Linda said listlessly.
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“I was a lot happier when I thought it would not only advance my career but also put me that much closer to Washington.”
“Oh, right. Gee, you in New York and me in Japan,” Steve said. “Couldn’t get much farther apart if we tried.”
“Nope.”
“Well…” He suddenly felt terribly awkward. He didn’t know what to say, or how to express what he felt. He got all mixed up inside when it came to Linda. “Thanks again for letting me bend your ear.”
“Like I said, anytime. I’ll do my best to get to Washington before you leave and bend something of yours.”
Steve laughed. “That I’m looking forward to.”
“Wear you out before those geishas get hold of you,” she said lightly.
There, that was better, Steve thought. He could imagine her smile. “’Bye, Blue Eyes.”
“’Bye.”
He hung up the phone, feeling much better about his decision. Talking it out with Linda had convinced him that he was making the right choice. Nobody could accuse him of engaging in nepotism.
Yeah, it was worth it to his pride, Steve told himself. Even if it meant that as far as seeing some action was concerned, he was definitely going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
(One)
Washington National Airport
Virginia
5 September 1949
An Air Force staff sergeant wearing a slate-blue belted overcoat was waiting as Herman Gold exited the Skyworld gate. The sergeant stepped up and saluted smartly.
“Mr. Gold? Would you follow me, sir? There’s a car waiting.”
Gold nodded, amused. “This is certainly first-class service. I expected to take a cab to the Pentagon.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, noncomittal. “If you’d allow me to carry those for you?” He took Gold’s carry-on and his briefcase.
“How’d you know who I was?” Gold asked.
“General Simon supplied a photograph of you, sir. Allow me to show you to the car, and then I’ll come back for the rest of your luggage.”
Gold followed the airman past the long ticket and information desks and the telegraph facility, out through the vestibuled doorway of the busy terminal. It was a blustery cold, gray Monday morning. A light but steady mist slanted down underneath the portico meant to protect car and taxi passengers. Gold cinched his olive trench coat tightly over his charcoal tropical wool suit, and pulled his gray fedora low on his brow to secure it from the wind as the sergeant led him to where a car parked at curbside glistened in the rain. It was a late model, dark blue, unmarked four-door Plymouth with curtained rear windows.
The sergeant opened the rear passenger door for Gold and stood aside. As Gold climbed in, he was surprised to see his old friend from Air Force Procurement, Major General Howard Simon.
“Howie, good to see you,” Gold said as he settled into the Plymouth and shook hands with Simon. “Congratulations again on your promotion to two star.”
“Sir, may I have your baggage claim ticket?” the sergeant interrupted politely.
“Here you are.” Gold handed the claim ticket to the sergeant, who shut the Plymouth’s door and then hurried back to the terminal.
“Nasty day, eh?” Simon remarked. “How was it when you left California yesterday?”
“Sunny and mild,” Herman boasted.
Simon sighed longingly. “Not supposed to even hit fifty here today. Rain predicted for the rest of the week.”
“I can’t wait to get back home,” Gold laughed. “It’s funny, I used to love to travel, but the older I get, the more I hate to leave home.”
“I can understand t
hat,” Simon replied. “Wonderful place, California.”
The sergeant had reappeared with Gold’s luggage. He loaded it into the trunk and then came around the car to slide in behind the wheel. He started up the Plymouth, set its heater fan roaring and windshield wipers flapping, and then pulled away.
“Howie, I’ve got to say I’m surprised to see you here,” Gold murmured. “I figured that you’d be meeting me at the Pentagon.” He gestured at the stars on Simon’s shoulders. “Since when does an Air Force general have the time to come to the airport to pick up visitors?”
For some reason Simon ducked the question. “Herman, you must be exhausted from your flight. Are you sure you’re up to a meeting first thing this morning? We could take you to your hotel and put things off.”
“Nonsense,” Gold laughed. “I traveled in a GAT Monarch GC-7 sleeper. Last night I had a first-class dinner with champagne and then curled up in my berth for a marvelous rest. Slept like a baby.” He winked. “Nothing like those purring Rogers & Simpson engines to lull a fellow to sleep.”
“Okay, okay,” Simon laughed. “You don’t have to sell me on your airplanes, right?”
“Right.” Gold nodded warmly. “Anyway, Howie, I’m always ready to talk about the AeroTanker.”
It had been thirteen months since Gold had challenged his engineers to come up with a jet tanker proposal in forty-eight hours. They’d done the job in spades, finishing the proposal with a few hours to spare. When General Simon and Lieutenant Colonel Billy Burnett had arrived at the airport for their flight back to Dayton, a GAT courier had been waiting to present them with the proposal, which consisted of a detailed three-view drawing of the AT-909, its performance specs, a projected budget, and a delivery schedule.
Less than a month later, Howie Simon had telephoned Gold to congratulate him on pulling off the impossible. The Air Force was very impressed with the AeroTanker proposal and would authorize preliminary funding.
Gold had not been surprised. He’d been in the airplane business long enough to be able to separate the hits from the misses. For example, he’d always had his doubts about the jet bomber project, but he’d felt good about the AeroTanker right from the start.