Cliff chose to ignore these and other portents. It was easy enough to argue that in the military procurement game, nothing much had changed. The infighting for a head start on new contracts for missiles and planes and radar systems was as ferocious as ever. Congress’s arrogance and greed in the politics of procurement were not noticeably different. The new president, Richard Nixon, was an advocate of a strong America. The defense budget remained gigantic.
As the limousine nosed into the rush-hour traffic, Mike Shannon told Cliff that the Senate committee would undoubtedly approve the plan to pay Buchanan three-fourths of the two-billion cost overrun immediately. The remaining $500,000,000 would have to be appealed to several layers of Air Force review boards. But they would get the money eventually. “The White House is with us all the way. Adrian’s doing a great job there.”
Those last words abruptly cooled Cliff’s satisfaction with his performance before the subcommittee. Adrian Van Ness had settled in Charlottesville, Virginia and made President Richard Nixon his target number one in Washington. He had succeeded so well, Cliff was virtually superfluous in that arena. Cliff did not like being superfluous anywhere.
The Norwegian reception was in the ballroom of the Hay-Adams Hotel, across Lafayette Park from the White House. After shaking the required hands, Cliff looked for more worthwhile targets. Standing in a corner was scowling Colonel Anthony Sirocca, one of Curtis LeMay’s deputies in the struggle for the Warrior. Tony was in war plans these days, on his way to his first star.
They exchanged bone-crushing handshakes and Cliff went to work on behalf of Buchanan’s close support plane, the Thunderer. McNamara had tried to persuade the Air Force to buy it but they had resisted mightily, in spite of (or because of) the enthusiasm the Navy and Marines had for its performance in Vietnam. They were still resisting the new secretary of defense. Tony listened, his Sicilian eyes glittering with hostility, while Cliff poured on the persuasion.
“I’ve got a kid in the Marines who may end up flying one of those things. I’m not blowing smoke when I say it’s a good plane,” Cliff said.
The superstitious side of Cliff’s salesman’s psyche seized him by the throat. Was he risking Charlie’s life, using him to sell the plane? No—he believed in the Thunderer. He had been out to Vietnam. He had talked to the Marine and Navy pilots who were flying it. They called it the Iron Blimp and joked about its speed. But they all swore by its ability to put bombs on a target and take fantastic punishment from ground fire.
Two months ago, Charlie had quit UCLA in his sophomore year and enlisted as a Marine air cadet. Cliff had been moved by the decision. He knew what it meant—Charlie was choosing his father’s side in the quarrel that was tearing the country apart.
Sarah, better known to Cliff by an unspoken nickname, the Smiling Zombie, had lost her English self-control and begged Cliff to stop him. But Cliff had already bragged to half the executives in the company the day he got the news. He told Sarah to stiffen her English lip and smile proudly at his side.
Mentioning Charlie softened the resistance in Tony Sirocca’s dark eyes. “It may be a good plane, Cliff,” he said. “But right now we’re more interested in the big one. If that contract doesn’t keep you happy for the next ten years, we’ll start to think nothing satisfies you guys.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cliff said.
Tony looked baffled. “The new bomber. Son of the Warrior. We need a production schedule, fast. Like the day before yesterday.”
Cliff could only shake his head in bewilderment while a flush of humiliation traveled through his body. “Adrian Van Ness sold the package to Tricky Dick at a private dinner last week,” Sirocca said. “Doesn’t Adrian bother to tell you little details like a ten-billion-dollar deal?”
“I guess it slipped what’s left of his mind,” Cliff said.
“Frank Buchanan’s got to redesign her for a completely new mission. Instead of flying high she’s gotta go low—fifty, twenty-five feet low. With a profile that will go through the other guys’ radar like the fucking invisible man.”
“How many copies?” Cliff said.
“Two hundred.”
“What’s the big number?”
“We’re figuring fifty million a plane.”
That was ten billion dollars, all right. The biggest contract in Buchanan’s history. It would require a virtual reorganization of the production lines. The chairman of the board had not bothered to mention a word of this to the company’s president.
“Nixon wants a bomber good enough to scare the shit out of the Chinese and the Russians,” Sirocca explained. “The B-Fifty-twos can’t handle those SAM missiles.”
“How many planes have we lost over Vietnam?”
“Six thousand,” Sirocca said. “I wish I could have gotten someone to listen to Frank Buchanan when he told us to go stealth ten years ago.”
“I’ll talk to Frank this afternoon,” Cliff said.
Pretending to be the man in charge. In charge of what? The washroom? Cliff blundered across the ballroom toward the door, avoiding eyes, faces. Who should be arriving but the Creature and an entourage of flunkies, most of them from left-wing think tanks that specialized in trashing the military-industrial complex. The Creature was their darling these days.
“You got away from us this time, Morris,” the senator said. “But we put some salt on your tail. The next time you’ll tell the truth.”
For the Creature, this was almost friendly chitchat. Ordinarily, Cliff would have slapped him on the back and said something about being old friends. But his salesman’s personality was submerged by his rage at Adrian Van Ness.
“The next time, Senator, maybe I’ll give the committee a little history of how many lies I’ve heard you tell since we met at the crash of the Starduster in nineteen fifty-eight,” he said.
“You can’t threaten me!” the Creature snarled. “This only proves how much you’ve got to hide.”
Leaving Mike Shannon at the party, Cliff taxied to Buchanan’s Washington office, which now had a staff of fifty working to keep Congress and the Pentagon happy and eager to do business. It cost them fifteen million a year. Dick Stone was appalled but Cliff insisted it was money well spent.
Mike Shannon’s busty red-haired secretary, Jeremy Anderson, gave Cliff a sultry look. Shannon had obviously touted him as one of the great lovers of the century. “Adrian Van Ness has been trying to get in touch with you,” Jeremy said.
“I’m about to get in touch with him—in spades,” Cliff growled.
“Cliff?” Adrian said. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I was down in Florida with the president and his friend Rebozo.”
“We’re going to build another bomber,” Cliff said. “I just found it out by accident from an Air Force colonel. He was nice enough to wipe the egg off my face.”
“Now Cliff—”
“Now Adrian, listen to me, once and for fucking all. You can be a hell of a big help to us here. But not if you start crossing all my wires without telling me.”
“Cliff—I apologize.”
“Okay. Let’s forget it. Let’s figure out how the hell we can take on a ten-billion-dollar bomber program, finish the Colossus without going broke, do another production run on the Thunderer and incidentally get the Aurora in the air.”
“How does that look, by the way?”
“Not good. Lockheed is coming up fast on the rail with that goddamn L Ten-eleven. Douglas is building a DC-Ten. The airlines are trying to play us off against each other.”
“Can’t you work your usual magic overseas?”
“The Prince has run out of gas.”
“Then it’s up to you. Surely you’ve learned how to play the game by now. Take Dick Stone along if you still need a partner.”
Cliff cursed silently. The Aurora had become his personal challenge, the plane he needed to show the company and the world that he could do it better than his predecessor. Adrian seemed to know it and take pleasure in his di
fficulties.
“Adrian,” Cliff said, “I think we should let someone else build this bomber. It’s more than we can handle.”
“Cliff—may I remind you I’m still the chairman of the board? I will personally ask you to explain to the other directors why you turned down a ten-billion-dollar contract.”
“Because I don’t think we should spread ourselves so thin. Because I can see the same headaches we ran into on the Warrior, times ten. Who says Nixon can get this thing through Congress?”
“That’s irrelevant. If you expect me to go back to the president of the United States and tell him we don’t want to make a plane that I’ve convinced him no one else can build—you better look up the telephone number of Lockheed’s personnel department.”
Cliff had not felt so humiliated since Buzz McCall panicked him in SkyRanger II when he was seventeen. He was not Buchanan’s chief executive officer. He was Adrian Van Ness’s errand boy. In a corner of his mind Billy whispered: having fun, Big Shot?
“Okay. I’ll talk to Frank about the bomber.”
“Let me know if there’s a problem. I have some moves I can make with him, these days. We’re almost friends.”
That only proves Frank Buchanan is one of the simpletons of all time, Cliff thought.
“Ten billion dollars, Cliff! I thought you’d be crawling down the wire to kiss me. I hope you’ll communicate a lot more enthusiasm to the workforce when the contract comes through.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” Cliff snarled and slammed down the phone.
Jeremy Anderson still had the phone in her hand as Cliff burst out of the office. She had been listening on her extension. “You’ve got the makings of a third-rate spy!” he roared. “Get me a seat on an eight A.M. plane.”
“I was just trying to see if you were still on the phone,” Jeremy said, with a guilty pout. “Mike’s on line five.”
Jeremy’s spying was a symptom of Cliff’s weakness. Mike Shannon’s political skills extended to playing power games inside Buchanan Aircraft. For the moment he was poised between Adrian, Cliff, and Dick Stone.
“What do you want?” Cliff snapped at Shannon.
“What the hell did you say to the Creature? He spent a half hour tearing my ass off.”
Cliff’s rage deepened. There was only one thing to do, swallow his humiliation and take most of the credit for reviving the Warrior. Adrian’s undercover role in its sale would be known only to a handful of top executives such as Dick Stone. If Cliff handled it right, it might not even be known to them.
“Fuck him,” Cliff said. “I just got the word from Tony Sirocca. We’ve got the contract of everyone’s dreams. Ten billion bucks to build the next-generation bomber. Son of the Warrior.”
“That’s no reason to make an enemy out of the Creature,” Shannon said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cliff said. “We don’t have to worry about anything from now on.”
The next morning, Cliff flew to California aboard an American Airlines 707. Seated next to him was an angular, not especially pretty brunette with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing gogo boots, Levi’s, and a denim jacket with a Peace Now button on the lapel. It irritated him that someone with enough money to fly first class was wearing this revolutionary outfit.
Cliff pulled a copy of Aviation News from his briefcase and snapped it open. On its cover was a picture of Buchanan’s new high-performance fighter, the SkyDemon.
His companion got the message. “Are you a pilot?” she said.
“I used to be. Now I make them. I made this one,” he said, pointing to the picture of the SkyDemon climbing at a 90-degree angle.
Silence for a half hour. The story on the SkyDemon was positive. Bruce Simons had done a good job. When Cliff looked again, his seat companion was reading a copy of the Hollywood Reporter, the bible of West Coast show business. He remembered Tama reading it in the old days.
“You an actress?” he said.
She nodded. “You’ve probably never heard of me.”
“My mother was one. You’ve probably never heard of her either. Everyone can’t be a star.”
“How did you get into the plane business?”
“Come on. Say it. How did you get to be a warmonger? That’s what you’re thinking.”
Her smile was rueful but warm. “You don’t look like a warmonger,” she said.
“Fly forty-nine missions over Germany with guys throwing bullets and shells at you from all directions. It’s an instant cure for warmongering. I hate it as much as you do. My son’ll be a Marine flier in six months. I’d give a million bucks to make that button on your chest come true.”
“Fascinating,” she said. “What are you doing to make it happen?”
“Building this,” he said, pointing to the SkyDemon. “And other planes that’ll make us strong enough to end the war we’re in—and make sure another one doesn’t start.”
She sighed. “You sound like my father. What about trusting people? Just saying we’ve had enough killing?”
“Who’s your father?”
“Robert Sorrento. A character actor. He died last year.”
“Character actor, hell. I remember him coming to our house at Redondo Beach to see my mother on Sunday afternoons. He was the handsomest, suavest guy I ever saw. Everyone was sure he was going to be the next Valentino. I used to wish he was my father.”
“Was your father in the movies?”
“I don’t know what he was in. My mother divorced him before I was born.”
“I never saw much of my father either until I got old enough to loan him money.”
Suddenly they were telling each other the hidden parts of their lives. He described Tama and her lovers and his stepfather Buzz. She told him about her screenwriter mother, who had lived with a dozen movie actors and executives after she ditched Robert Sorrento. Their tone was rueful, wry, nostalgic. The more they talked, the more they realized they shared a past.
Cliff revealed his long-defunct ambition to become a director. “I guess I always liked to run things,” he said.
“How do you direct something as huge as an aircraft company?”
“You pick a good supporting cast—and make yourself the star.”
That blew her away. She seemed ready to forgive him for his warmongering. She seemed ready to do a lot of things. Cliff could almost feel the rising warmth.
“I’ve never seen an aircraft factory. What’s it like?” she asked.
“You’ll see one today—unless you’ve got a movie to make.”
“I should be so lucky,” she said.
They drove from LAX to the new headquarters at El Segundo in Cliff’s white Mercedes. He took off her Peace Now button and put it in his pocket as they strolled into the building.
“What’s your name?” Cliff asked, as the guard opened the visitor’s book.
“My real name’s Angela Perry. Use that instead of my screen name.”
“Don’t want to be seen consorting with the enemy?”
She laughed and Cliff felt twenty years younger. He thought of Sarah the Smiling Zombie waiting for him on Palos Verdes, their occasional perfunctory sex in the big bedroom off the windswept terrace. This woman was adventure, conquest—he had no doubt whatsoever he could change her half-baked opinions about plane makers. This visit was the first step.
In a moment they were walking down the assembly line, with dozens of skeletal Thunderers hoisted on jigs. The scream of metal, the hammer of rivet guns filled the huge hangar, which was as long as two football fields. From the balcony dangled a tremendous American flag.
“The workers bought that flag themselves,” Cliff said. “It’s their way of saying they believe in what they’re doing.”
Cliff grabbed a balding pot-bellied supervisor by the arm, reading his name off his security badge. “How’s things, Eddie? Any problems?”
“Not with this plane, Mr. Morris,” Eddie said.
“This young
lady’s thinking of making a movie about the business. I’m showing it to her from the inside.”
Eddie got the idea. “You couldn’t get a better guide,” he said. “Except maybe Billy McCall, eh, Mr. Morris? And he’s not around any more.”
“Yeah,” Cliff said, returning Eddie’s knowing smile, even if he did not have any enthusiasm for the comparison. He was a star. Performing.
Angela was awed by the immensity, the complexity of the show. Exactly what Cliff wanted to happen. They climbed up on the jigs and she sat in the cockpit of a half-finished Thunderer to look at the bewildering instrument panel.
“Imagine yourself in a nine-g pull-out in one of these,” Cliff said. “You fly them in your mind all the time. That’s the best part of making a plane.”
They went into the next hangar, where they were making a half-dozen prototypes of the SkyDemon. They were like slim, stripped swallows compared to the pigeon-breasted Thunderers. Cliff told her how fast the Demons climbed, how incredibly maneuverable they were at fifty thousand feet. In the next hangar, a Colossus was being checked for final delivery to the Air Force. The plane’s stupendous black bulk loomed above them.
“You build that too?” Angela said.
“The biggest in the world,” Cliff said.
A scene in the technicolor movie of his life began scripting itself in Cliff’s mind. A scene that surpassed anything Billy McCall had ever attempted with a woman at ten thousand feet. Careerwise, Cliff Morris was at thirty, maybe forty thousand feet. Eventually he would get rid of Adrian Van Ness and be up there, cruising at sixty thousand. In the meantime he would do something that would send Adrian a message—and make Cliff Morris a legend in his own right.
Back in the headquarters building, they shot up to the sixteenth floor in the noiseless elevator and strolled into Cliff’s corner office. His Mexican secretary’s eyes widened as she got a look at Angela.
“Mr. Morris,” she said. “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“Emergencia,” he said.
The oak-paneled office had a painting of the Rainbow Express fighting its way home from Germany on one wall. It was a duplicate of the one Sarah had given Cliff for the Palm Springs house when he became president. The wall opposite the door was glass, giving them a magnificent view of the airport and the city beyond it, unfortunately almost obscured by smog. They watched a Boeing 727 charge down the runway and head for the sky. Cliff put his arm around Angela’s waist and gave her his supersalesman’s smile.
Conquerors of the Sky Page 68