“Isn’t Price one of your protégés?”
Gross winced; he knew he had a reputation for hiring maverick engineers he believed in, then giving them their head, not tasking them with assignments unless they wanted them, and allowing them to work however they wished. It was unusual in the economy-minded aviation industry. He knew that it upset most of the other engineers, who were conventional thinkers for the most part, and it upset all of the accountants, who hated to have a worker without fixed tasks for charging time and overhead.
“Yes, I give Nate a lot of leeway, just as I do Kelly, but it might be paying off.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “What do you know about turbine engines for aircraft?”
Shannon stirred in the big green leather chair. This was more like it. His whole body came alive as he leaned forward, broad fingers grasping the arms of the chair, blue eyes bright with interest, a confiding half smile registering. This was wine for his soul, a peek into the future; it was what he lived for, the constant quest to please clients by doing a good job.
But it was dangerous territory. The U.S. Army Air Corps called on his talents, too, and the latest request had come straight from the top, from his old friend Major General Henry H. “Hap” Arnold, who wanted him to oversee the transfer of information on the new British turbine jet engine to the United States. It was top secret, and Shannon could not even talk about it to Gross, a trusted friend.
“Hap” Arnold was big, bluff, hearty, and always smiling in public, but in private he was an irascible boss who often demanded more results than could be delivered and always wanted them yesterday. After long service and some real political brawls, he now commanded Army aviation. Arnold was not much of an engineer himself, but he was nonetheless a visionary, always reaching for the latest technology and finding the top scientists to help him. Arnold found that he could talk in lay terms to Shannon, who could translate them into the appropriate engineering phrases. As a result, Arnold called him in on almost every project, some top secret and incredibly important, others just run-of-the-mill, but of interest to Arnold.
Shannon started slow, feeling his way. He would never willingly betray a confidence, but he knew how intelligent and well-informed Gross was and how quickly he could make the correct inference from the most casual remark. “Well, I’ve been following the developments in Germany, Italy, and England.”
Gross knew what he meant. They all read the technical journals and had foreign reviews, such as Flugsport, translated. But the real information came chiefly from the inner circle of military attachés, all of whom carried on as much covert activity as they could. They were always closemouthed about U.S. secrets, of course, but could be depended upon to reveal what they learned about foreign technology.
“I don’t have much on what’s happening in Germany, outside of the fact that there are two or three companies—Junkers, Heinkel, and maybe BMW—experimenting. You’ve heard that they flew a turbine jet, a Heinkel, a couple of years ago. I understand Heinkel is building a twin-engine fighter, but there’s nothing concrete about it coming in.”
“Vance, this is something I need to talk to you about, completely off-the-record. I only do it because I trust you, and you need to know. Don’t tell anyone, not even anyone in the Air Corps, about this, please. It is quite literally a matter of life and death.”
Shannon was impressed. Gross was clearly distressed, as if he were about to confess a fearful crime. He was noted in the industry for his integrity—when there had been a problem with his Lodestar airliners, he immediately took all responsibility and had Lockheed pay for all the necessary repairs. To see him in such a state was alarming.
“I’m afraid that what I’ve done might tarnish Lockheed’s name. The fact is that I have a paid informant—spy, that’s the only thing you can call it—in Germany. He has kept me informed through our Swiss office about developments in German aviation. I don’t know how he does it, but he gets me material from Heinkel and even from Messerschmitt on jet engines and planes that you would not believe.”
Vance was stunned. Just knowing this compromised him.
Gross saw his discomfort and went on. “I’ve done only one thing to protect myself. I went directly to J. Edgar Hoover and told him about it before I began. He is fanatically anti-Nazi, and he encouraged me. But that’s my only lifeline. If something would happen to him, I know I could go to jail for employing a foreign national for something like this.”
“How did you get in contact with him?”
“That, I cannot tell even you, Vance. He made contact with one of our people during the Volta conference at Rome in 1935. That’s all I’ll say, except that I know enough now that we had better get started on turbine power, or we’ll be hopelessly behind. Now, tell me what you know.”
“I guess it’s secret-trading time, Bob.” He paused, his stomach growling as the clock neared eleven. Shannon was a big eater, and he’d missed breakfast today in his hurry to get to Gross’s office. He knew that he had to be careful with the next bit, as it dealt with his Air Corps contract. Shannon took a sip of coffee, wishing that Gross had put out his usual spread of pastries, and went on. “We know that the British Air Ministry published the patent of a jet engine by some RAF serving officer, his name escapes me for the moment, and Italy is flying a primitive jet, the Caproni Campini. I don’t think the Italian job worked out; I haven’t heard anything on it. It was in all the papers for a while, making a big to-do about flying without a propeller.”
Gross nodded. “That’s what our man said. We’ve had some other reports back from Germany, as well. Lindbergh’s visits created a lot of contacts with some people not too happy with Hitler, and they’ve been talking—some for a price. The most important thing about what they say is that they pretty well corroborate our informant.” He looked pained and corrected himself. “My informant. I have not told anyone but Hoover and you, not even Courtie.”
Courtlandt Sherrington Gross was his brother, his confidant, his adviser. If Bob Gross had not told Courtie, then Shannon knew how heavily the secret weighed on him.
Considering carefully how to phrase what needed to be said, Shannon went on. “As you must know by now, the Germans have flown a rocket plane and a jet, too, both by Heinkel. For some reason, they seem to be on the back burner right now, and I hope they stay there. We dug out the British patent—had to get it translated from Flugsport, by the way, couldn’t find the British originals—and we know the Royal Air Force flew a jet by Gloster on May 15 of this year. It had what they call the Whittle engine, after the RAF pilot who invented it. General Arnold is very interested in it.”
Shannon squirmed inwardly—Arnold was indeed interested. He decided that he would have to at least let Gross know that he had another connection to the subject.
Gross refilled their coffee cups, saying, “Well, we are interested, too. That’s why I’ve asked you here. Nate Price has come up with a design for a jet engine, and he and Kelly have worked out a plane to fly it in. It would be a fighter, and they claim it will fly at six hundred mph.”
Shannon whistled. “Pretty sensational if it works.”
“I know. It is revolutionary. But I need an outsider’s opinion on whether to let them proceed with it or not. Lord knows we have enough to do now, but we have to look ahead. What’s your take on jet engines?”
“Well, let me say two things first. One I can only give you a hint about, just a heads-up, and that is that Arnold has filled me in more on the English turbine than I can tell you. Don’t ask me any more; I’ve probably gone too far telling you even that. And then, I must tell you that neither Kelly nor Nate will be very happy about your asking me to evaluate their program. They both think they are smarter than I am, and they’re probably right. Besides, we didn’t exactly get along on the other project.”
“I’m not surprised that Arnold has tapped you for information—you’ve been in on all the major Air Corps projects for years. By the way, it’s not the Air Corps anymore—as of last mo
nth, it’s the U.S. Army Air Forces.”
Shannon nodded. “It’ll take some getting used to.”
Gross went on, “As for Nate and Kelly, I don’t care what they think, Vance; I’ve known you a long time, and I know you’ll give me an objective answer. I’d ask internally, but Kelly is so smart and has such a powerful personality that he has the other engineers intimidated, even Hall Hibbard and Willis Hawkins, and he’d get an automatic thumbs-up. So what do you think?”
“All I know right now is that most people think the jet is impractical—that it requires too much fuel and is too heavy.”
Gross nodded. “Yes, but we have problems with piston engines, too. They take forever to develop—the Allison has been in work for more than ten years and still is not fully matured. I’ve seen studies on many of the big new engines—and there are at least half a dozen of them—and they are becoming much too complex. They have to have intercoolers and turbo superchargers and fuel injectors and everything adds weight and bulk and maintenance hours. Besides that, propellers are already giving us trouble, with their tips going supersonic. We need to find something to replace them.”
Shannon was struck by Gross’s vehemence; normally he spoke in crisp, short sentences, keeping his tone warm and personal, never emotionally charged. This was clearly an important subject to him, and he was absolutely right in thinking so.
“I’ll be glad to work with you on it, Bob, as long as it doesn’t put me crosswise with Hap. I’ll have to use my best judgment on that. But do you have the space and the equipment to build engines? They are not like airplanes; you can’t just rivet sheet metal together and fly them away.”
“No, I would go somewhere else, Menasco, maybe, to build the engines, but we could easily build the airframes. The Hudson will probably phase out in a year or two, and we need to have something to follow the P-38.”
As he spoke the roar of twin Allison engines split the air and a P-38 came roaring down the runway, fifty feet off the ground, then pulled back in a soaring climb that took it out of sight in the bright blue California sky.
Gross shook his head. “Tony LeVier. He thinks he’s racing at Cleveland. The CAA is going to get him someday.”
“Don’t worry about Tony; he has more friends than sense, and if the CAA came over, they’d just want his autograph.” Tony was just a “new guy” compared to Shannon, whose flying career went back to the Great War, where he had scored his fifth victory on November 8, 1918, becoming an ace just three days before the war ended. But both Shannon and LeVier had worked with John Nagel at the old Los Angeles East Side airport, and both men knew how to stretch a glide and stretch a dollar.
Grinning in agreement, Gross handed Shannon a briefcase bulging with papers. Some were pushing out the top, their borders cluttered with notes and columns of figures. He recognized the feathery, involved drawing style of Nate Price. Kelly Johnson’s drawings were always smaller, almost miniatures, and very precise, done in a spidery style that seemed to say he sought economy in everything, even paper and ink.
“Take this along and study it tonight and tomorrow, and come see me again on Monday, if you can.”
“Is this stuff classified? Will I get stopped by the guards?”
“No, it’s not classified yet—we’ve not even shown it to the local government representatives. But it is proprietary, of course. I’ll escort you to your car myself, so no one will stop you. And I need to have it all back Monday morning. Don’t copy any of it, and try to keep it as much in order as you can.”
Shannon understood. Gross had received the material from his two engineers, and he was not going to tell them that he had someone outside the company look at it.
“I get it. Mum’s the word. But Bob, my two boys are home at the same time for once. Harry came in Friday. He’s ferrying a Curtiss P-40 up to Hamilton Field and has a three-day layover. Luckily, Tom could get the weekend off. He’ll be shoving off for Hawaii in a few days. I was planning to spend some time with them.”
“Too bad you didn’t have a third son, Vance—you could have named him Richard, and had Tom, Dick and Harry all in the family.” Surprised, Vance looked at him, and Gross, always the consummate gentleman, was immediately embarrassed—it was unlike him to make any kind of joking remark that might be interpreted as insensitive.
Then Vance grinned, easing the situation. “No, if we had a third son, it would have been Vance Junior. Tom and Harry are named for Margaret’s brothers—and they had already heard all the jokes.”
Yet as innocent as Gross’s remark had been, it triggered the dark, anxious feeling that had enveloped Vance for the last week. He was incredibly proud that both boys had done so well with their military flight training. But he wondered what the odds would be that both would survive the war that he knew was coming. Tom and Harry had always been friendly rivals, but in recent months their flying experience had put a hard edge on their competitiveness. They were not just rivals anymore, they were rival pilots, and Vance knew that led to accidents.
“Spend it with them looking at the jet project. They are both smart boys, and maybe they’ll get to fly one someday.”
“You mean it? That would be great, if you are serious.”
“I’m serious—get them to look at it with you, but tell them to keep their lips buttoned. They are young and might have some insight an old duffer like you wouldn’t have. And I know you value their opinions.”
It was true. Vance Shannon had brought his sons into the aviation business early, teaching them to fly in his open-cockpit Travel Air biplane in their early teens and later taking them with him on consulting trips in his maroon Beech Staggerwing. They both shared his passion for aviation—they were superb pilots, careful, able to wring the maximum performance from their aircraft. Both had a good grasp of both aeronautical engineering and business, but both were at the dangerous stage of flying, with enough experience to be very proficient but not enough to be cautious.
They shook hands, Gross clasping his arm around Shannon’s shoulder as he always did with old friends. They talked about the weather and sports on the way to the car, but Shannon’s thoughts were concentrated on the contents of the briefcase and the hope that somehow he could use it to give his sons a little lesson in safety.
July 20, 1941, La Jolla, California
Tom’s rhythmic grunts echoed from the other room as he went through his daily weight-lifting routine, delayed by their perusal of the contents of Gross’s briefcase. In the background, Margaret’s old Victrola was wound up for the first time in years, as Tom played his latest record, “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good,” for the tenth time.
Still seated at the drafting table, Harry was deeply absorbed in the project books, his fingers stinging from the residual ammonia of the Ozalid process used to duplicate the reports and the fold-out drawings. As new military pilots, they were flattered to be in on the ground floor of what might be the future of aviation and readily pledged to keep the matter secret.
Vance Shannon watched them with his usual combination of affection and apprehension. He loved them both equally and wanted the best for them. As he had done every day since their birth, he worried about how life would treat them. He knew they were going to be successful, if they were cautious enough to stay alive. And, with Margaret gone, he felt doubly responsible.
He realized how contradictory his feelings were. What could he expect from them? They had grown up watching him fly some of the hottest, most dangerous airplanes in the country, even competing in the air races in Cleveland, where he had placed in both the Thompson and the Bendix races. Margaret was always brave and put a good face on things, but she could not have concealed her fears. He’d have to be careful when talking safety to them so that they didn’t think he was a complete hypocrite.
The two boys—they would always be that to him, his two boys, no matter how old they were—had always gotten along well, keeping their competitive spirit in hand except when seeking their mother’s affection. Mar
garet had loved them equally, disciplined them fairly, and tried hard—but failed—to conceal her partiality for Harry.
Both boys were perfectly matched physically, just under six feet tall and weighing about 180. Vance Shannon in his youth had sandy hair, but it had darkened over the years. But Margaret was a pure blonde and the boys had inherited her hair and blue eyes. They were well-muscled, built up from swimming most of the year and daily workouts in the stark, functional exercise room Vance had built in the basement against Margaret’s protests. Tom had always been more outgoing and popular with the girls, while Harry had been the student, introspective, a little shy. Tom had been the first to walk and Harry the first to talk. In school, Harry was the natural student and Tom the natural athlete, but their competitive routine was so ingrained that each always managed to match and sometimes exceed the other in his specialty. In high school, Tom wound up with a higher grade point average while Harry earned one more letter than Tom.
It seemed to Vance that they had started to change after Margaret’s death, just before they had gone off to prepare for their respective service academies. God forbid that they would go to the same school! Vance had to scramble to get them appointments, working his industry connections with a senator and a local congressman. More than one friend had complained about Vance’s being greedy, and he knew they were right. But if the boys wanted to go to West Point and Annapolis, he was going to help them, no matter how greedy he seemed.
It was not the money. Vance had always made a good income from his test flying and his consulting, and his and Margaret’s only indulgence had been their house in La Jolla. They had not been able to swing beachfront property, but they were only a block away, and as outrageously expensive as it seemed at the time, it had been a good investment. He could have sent the boys to Stanford or even to an Ivy League school and would have sold the house and his soul to do so, but they had been determined to go to a military academy, and then enter flight training.
Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age Page 3