Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age)

by Walter J. Boyne

  Hawkins was second only to Kelly Johnson at Lockheed; at any other company he would have been chief engineer.

  “Like I said, I couldn’t match Hawkins’s offer to him, I wanted him on staff, so I offered him half as much salary and a ten percent equity. You’ll see—it was one of the smartest things I’ve ever done, even if it pissed Hawkins off; he knows how good Rodriquez is. You know what he told me?”

  Tom, still shaken by the smashing of the radio, a gesture so uncharacteristic of his father, muttered in a low voice, “Who told you?”

  “Dammit, aren’t you listening to me? Willis Hawkins, that’s who. He told me that if Rodriquez had gone anywhere else, he would have outbid anybody to get him, but he figured that if Rodriquez worked for us, he’d always have him on call. Now do you think I did the right thing?”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t know, Dad. I’m still not sure you did.”

  “Tom, would it sweeten the pot to tell you that Bob has already secured a four-million-dollar contract for us with the company making the cameras for the U-2?”

  Tom looked at Harry and said, “We give in, Dad. Bring Bob around, and we’ll welcome him aboard.”

  “I will. He’s out waiting in my car. I’ll go get him.”

  Harry stood up and ran for the door. “Fat chance. I’m going to get him, and I’m taking him out to dinner.”

  Tom chimed in, “Correction. We are taking him out to dinner.”

  “You’re both wrong. All three of us are taking him out to dinner. And after dinner, you two are going out and buy me another radio. It’s getting to be expensive educating you in the business facts of life.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  June 21, 1956

  San Diego, California

  The sunny conference room on the top floor of Convair’s main building brought back a lot of bad memories to Vance. He’d arranged for Madeline to have a job at Consolidated in 1941, long before it became Convair, and she had promptly worked her way up in the hierarchy on the basis of her personality and her language capability—she spoke several languages, including Russian. The Soviet Union had arranged a license agreement to build the Consolidated PBY Catalina, and Madeline had been invaluable in dealing with the tough Soviet negotiators.

  Things didn’t get any better when Lou Capestro walked in, shook Vance’s hand warmly, and sat down beside him. They saw each other fairly often and could talk comfortably about their children’s sad marriages. Lou’s twins had married Vance’s twins, and nothing had worked out well. And Lou was the only person with whom Vance ever discussed Madeline. She had worked for Lou, he had been more than fond of her, and he felt her loss almost as much as Vance did. Fortunately, Lou was tactful and for the most part tried to talk about the early days, when he had hired Vance to work with him on the retractable wingtip floats that became a trademark of the Catalina.

  “Those were the days, Vance. In 1937 we were glad if we could get one hundred and sixty mph top speed out of a Catalina, and now, nineteen years later, we’re talking six hundred miles per hour for our new jets.”

  Vance knew Capestro too well; there was something wrong here. He was doing his “boisterous Italian” routine, laughing and clowning with others in the room, and that usually meant he was nervous and unhappy.

  The meeting was to announce the new airplane, the Convair 600, so-called because of its top speed, to the media. Vance had been integral to the design, working with Gerhard Neumann at General Electric to “civilianize” the J79 engine the new jet employed. The J79 was the engine intended for supersonic fighters and bombers, and Neumann—Herman the German, they called him—was an engineering and managerial genius. Vance enjoyed working with him, learning something new every time they met.

  “Seriously, Lou, is everybody still happy with this idea? Boeing and Douglas are really tooling up, and Aviation Week says Boeing is bringing out a new model, the 720, specifically to compete. Is the market big enough?”

  Capestro’s face went sour. “The only guy happy with this airplane is Howard Hughes. He wants to have the fastest airliner in the business, and he has ordered thirty of them for TWA, so we cannot complain. Delta is picking up another ten.”

  “Well, I’m probably just sore because I lost most of the arguments on this airplane, but I think going for five-abreast seating instead of six-abreast is crazy. The jets make money on cost-per-seat-mile, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to cram in a row of seats than to add twenty knots to the airspeed.”

  There was a fanfare, and a movie screen dropped down at the end of the hall. Capestro whispered, “Watch this and keep your fingers crossed.”

  The film was the usual corporate pabulum, starting off with historical footage of great Consolidated aircraft of the past—the Catalina, the B-24, the B-36, even some shots of the jet-powered B-46—then cutting to scenes of stewardesses serving blissful customers in cabin mock-ups of the new jet. It ended with a powerful sales pitch on the attraction that “the fastest jet in the sky” would have to customers.

  The usual bags of goodies were passed out, filled with brochures, pins, and even a neat little model of the Convair 660 in TWA livery.

  “It’s a great-looking airplane, Lou. When are you going to roll the first one out?”

  “Mr. Hughes says January 1959, and what Mr. Hughes says is usually what happens.”

  Vance started to get up to leave, but Lou tugged at his sleeve. “Have lunch with me, Vance. I’m meeting a guy at Anthony’s; he’s making a pitch to me that I’d like you to hear, to see what you think.”

  “What kind of a pitch?”

  “A business pitch. You and Madeline did well with your business ventures, I know, and I could use some advice.”

  “Lou, it was mostly Madeline, and you know it. She had a gift for business. I don’t. But I’ll come along. What is he trying to sell you?”

  “He’s acting as an agent for some outfit called Hoffman in New York. They import Volkswagens, and he’s got a dealership already in Los Angeles. He wants to set one up in San Diego. I’m considering buying into it. It would be a good place for my boys to work.”

  Lou had four sons; none of them had lived up to Lou’s high standards since they had returned from the war.

  “A Volkswagen, Lou? One of those tiny little Bugs? I don’t think they could climb the hills around here.”

  “No, you’ll see, they are pretty good little cars, and they tell me they are catching on. I’m glad you’ll come along.”

  They rode to Anthony’s Fish Grotto in the comfort of Shannon’s Cadillac, with Shannon mentally comparing its ride, its automatic transmission, its luxury, with the pictures he had seen of Volkswagens. Neither man referred to the last time they had been to Anthony’s together, when their children had married.

  In the old days, patrons had to walk through a little grocery store to get to the restaurant, but Mama Ghio had revamped the place, and now the two men walked into a beautiful waiting area, with a bar to the side.

  The headwaiter surged forward. “Ah, Mr. Capestro, your guest is already here. I took the liberty of seating him at your usual table.”

  At the table, Lou introduced them. “Mr. Obermyer, this is my old friend Vance Shannon. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked him to come along and listen to your proposal. Vance, this is Mr. Fritz Obermyer, who owns the Volkswagen dealership in Los Angeles.”

  Shannon had a sudden mental image of the last—and only—time he had seen the Volkswagen plant, in 1945. The place had been completely destroyed, there was no sign of a Volkswagen car anywhere, but the open bays were lined with machine tools and, at one end, big presses. He knew that the Federal German Republic was counting on the plant to revive the similarly bombed-out German economy.

  Obermyer managed a simultaneous heel click, handshake, and bow and said, “Mr. Shannon is well-known to me. And I believe we have not one but two mutual friends—Dr. von Ohain and Mr. Robert Gross.”

  Obermyer was wearing an expensive suit, and his ha
ir, gray and cropped, gave him the look of a New York executive.

  Taken aback, Shannon mumbled, “Yes, of course, and how is Dr. von Ohain?”

  “I last saw him in Dayton, just a few years ago, and he was doing extremely well.”

  Obermyer elaborated on his friendship with von Ohain back at the Heinkel plant. “He was so young, just out of college, and so polite. But he knew how to get things done—and his jet engine was the first to fly.” As he spoke, something of the old Nazi in Obermyer showed through, and he visibly reacted, suppressing it, changing the subject.

  “I’ve not been in contact with Mr. Gross for some time. I hope he is well.”

  “Yes, he’s fine, taking it a bit easier now, and is grooming his brother, Courtlandt, to replace him. He’s earned a little rest.”

  As they were ordering drinks, it hit Shannon. Obermyer must have been Gross’s clandestine contact in Germany. Years before, during the war, Gross had confided in Shannon, telling him that he was getting amazingly accurate information from a contact inside Germany. Gross was ashamed of the fact, but the information was too valuable not to use. To protect himself, he had informed J. Edgar Hoover about it. Hoover had encouraged him to continue the contacts, promising to protect him if there were any difficulties in dealing with an enemy agent in wartime. Once, when very worn down by other problems, Gross had confided in Shannon, his old and trusted friend.

  Shannon looked at Obermyer with new interest. “And what brings you to San Diego, Mr. Obermyer?”

  “Will you call me Fritz, please? In Germany we were always so formal, always using the titles and the ranks. I like the American way of using first names. More friendly.”

  The waiter came with the three martinis and the menus. They toasted and Obermyer said, “Do you mind if we talk first, and then eat? I’m so sure you will like this idea that I won’t enjoy my food until you hear me out.”

  Capestro said, “Go ahead; we’re listening.”

  “As you know, I have a Volkswagen dealership in Los Angeles. Last year we sold only a few hundred cars. In the United States, Volkswagen sold more than fifty thousand cars, but most of those were on the East Coast, where the big dealerships are. But Volkswagen is going to concentrate on the U.S. market. Our studies show that the American public is dissatisfied with the quality of their cars. When they drive a Volkswagen, they are surprised at first because it is small, but when they see how well it’s built, how it doesn’t rattle, how it parks so easily, and how it gets so good gas mileage, they become enthusiasts, and sell their neighbors.”

  He paused, sipped his martini, and went on. “We are going to have a huge advertising campaign over the next few years. We believe we can sell millions of cars in the United States. And we need a strong dealership in the San Diego area. I want you, Mr. Capestro, to have the first chance at owning a Volkswagen dealership.”

  “Do you have some numbers to show me? The investment you need, the sales projections, when you expect I’d be able to make a profit?”

  Obermyer pushed across a thick packet of papers, sealed in a brown envelope.

  “Everything is in here. Let Mr. Shannon look at it, take it to your accountant, call my people in New York, talk to your lawyers, do whatever you like to check it out. You’ll find that it is a very sensible proposal, a real opportunity. In brief, I’ll tell you what it says. If you put up fifty thousand dollars in capital, you will break even in two years and in three you will be earning a substantial profit, far in excess of the usual car dealerships. You’ll have complete support from me, from the Hoffman organization, and from Volkswagen itself. You just cannot believe how much the Volkswagen company and the Federal Republic of Germany want this to succeed.”

  Shannon felt impelled to say something, even if it was inane.

  “You’ll be getting in on the ground floor, Lou.”

  Obermyer beamed.

  “All right, take the package, look at it, call me tomorrow; I’m at the Coronado.” Then switching gears, he said, “I understand that there was quite a ceremony this morning for the new Convair passenger jet?”

  Lou nodded. “Yes. You would have enjoyed it, given your experience at Heinkel. Did you work on the Heinkel jet fighter, the He 280?”

  “Yes, a little, because it had the von Ohain engines in it at first, and I worked on it then. Later, when we had problems with the von Ohain engines, they substituted Junkers Ju 004 engines, and I was moved to another program.”

  Obermyer spoke as if he were an engineer. Actually, he had been an excellent machinist, a shop foreman, but he also had political influence. He had been a storm trooper with Adolf Hitler in 1934, on the famous “Night of the Long Knives.” Rumor had it that Obermyer had killed one of Hitler’s top enemies, and Obermyer never disputed it. Obermyer ingratiated himself with Ernst Heinkel, the head of the firm, by keeping him posted on the internal politics of the factory. Obermyer also had good contacts with many of the other aircraft firms and was able to provide Heinkel with good, solid information on how the Messerschmitt firm was doing.

  Lou signaled for another round of drinks; Shannon declined, but Obermyer accepted with obvious pleasure, saying, “Thanks so much. By the way, I learned something a few weeks ago that may be of interest to you. You’ll recall how startled everyone was when the Tupolev Tu-104 visited London last March?”

  Both men remembered well, for the entire aviation world had been shocked when the Soviets became the first to put a passenger jet in service. Some had scoffed at its old-fashioned Orient Express style furnishings, all heavy mahogany, brass, and lace, but no one could scoff it out of existence. There were some attempts to downplay it, saying it was just a Tu-16 bomber with a new fuselage, but realists knew that it was a triumph for the Soviet Union.

  Obermyer went on, “Well, Aeroflot is putting it into regular line service, with flights from Moscow to Irkutsk beginning in September this year, with international flights to Prague starting in October.”

  Both Capestro and Shannon leaned forward, stunned by the news. “Regular service, or just introductory flights?”

  “My informant tells me regular service, and he is seldom wrong.”

  Vance asked, “How long does it take the Tu-104 to fly from Moscow to Irkutsk?”

  Obermyer smiled.

  “In the piston-engine Ilyushin Il-14, it was almost fourteen hours. The Tu-104 carries more passengers, and does it in five and one-half hours. It is perfect for the long-distance routes.”

  “At what speed does it cruise?” Capestro was obviously worried about this new and unexpected competition.

  “Top speed is about eight hundred and seventy kilometers per hour—five hundred and forty-five miles per hour. But it cruises at four hundred and seventy, for economy.”

  They had been using first names for an hour by now, but Shannon still felt uncomfortable with it. “Fritz, am I correct if I recall that you used to furnish Bob Gross with information on various companies in Europe?”

  Obermyer smiled. “Ah yes, that was in the old days, when I had to make ends meet. Now I keep my contacts just for old times’ sake; there is much more money in the car business than in clandestine work.”

  Capestro pressed him. “Well, Fritz, if it’s not too nosy to ask, what do you think Tupolev has coming down the line?”

  “Well, sooner than you think, Tupolev will fly his turboprop Tu-114. It’s a passenger version of the Tu-95 bomber. It will be very long-range, able to fly from Moscow to New York, and it will be just as fast as the Tu-104.”

  Shannon looked at Capestro and shrugged.

  “We don’t have anything like it. I don’t think you’ll see any long-range American turboprop airliners, not for a long time. We just aren’t there yet. The Air Force was trying, but it gave up on turboprops and went with jet engines on the B-52.”

  Obermyer laughed and said, “And watch for Ilyushin, too. He’s going to trot out a whole series of jet airliners, large and small, over the next few years. Or so they tell me.”


  Shannon toasted Obermyer with his empty glass and said, “Fritz, I get the feeling that what they tell you is pretty generally correct.” Then turning to Capestro he said, “Lou, how about letting me go over those papers with you this afternoon? If it looks right, maybe we could go in as partners.”

  Capestro smiled in agreement and signaled the waiters that they could, at last, bring the food.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  September 4, 1957

  The Lockheed Air Terminal,

  Burbank, California

  Lockheed always scheduled early-morning takeoffs for the first flights of new aircraft, but there were invariably delays, and today was no different. The beautiful new Model CL-329, the JetStar, had been rolled out promptly at 7:00 A.M., and it was still sitting by the side of the hangar, mechanics swarming over the port engine, a Bristol Orpheus jet with 4,850 pounds of thrust.

  Harry Shannon stood in the small crowd of engineers and technicians who had worked on the aircraft. He always felt comfortable at the Lockheed plant, home to so many great designs, from the wooden Vegas, to the twin-engine P-3 8s, to the steady flow of modern jet fighters and trainers.

  The JetStar was fully in the tradition of those thousands of airplanes. Sleek, with its low-swept wing and tail, it looked more like a fighter plane than a twelve-seat executive transport. It was another product of the Skunk Works, and a rapid one at that, being built only 241 days after the design was approved. Kelly Johnson and his small, dedicated team had worked swiftly, even though for the first few months no one knew which engine would be used.

  Kelly, for once, was relaxed. It was as if this aircraft was so within the Skunk Works’ competence that it was not a challenge. He was as much on the scene, supervising, as ever, but he wore a jovial, collegial air, encouraging people with jokes rather than the iron-hard curses that gushed like bitter rain from him when he was tense. His behavior was unusual, because like all Skunk Works projects, this was his baby, and he and Bill Statler held the patent on the airplane. But Kelly knew something the others did not. The only major competitor for the contract was McDonnell, and he had word that they were about eighteen months behind in their design. It looked like a cakewalk.