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

by Walter J. Boyne

  Heyser departed Cuba at 0743, heading for McCoy Air Force Base, Florida, on a heading of seventeen degrees. No flak, no SAMs, no MiGs; the mission was the proverbial piece of cake.

  AS SOON AS Heyser had landed at McCoy, the two large rolls of film were removed from his U-2F and flown to Washington, where they underwent intense analysis by Lundahl and his top people. Six expert photo interpreters pored over the eight cans of film, frame by frame, working from the negatives, which provided almost one thousand times the contrast—and hence the information—as did positive prints.

  Just before 6:00 on the evening of the fifteenth, the interpreters and Lundahl came to an agreement: the shapes were definitely SS-4 medium-range ballistic missiles (MRBM3)—clearly offensive weapons, the very missiles that Premier Nikita Khrushchev had personally assured the President would not be installed in Cuba. Highly reliable, the SS-4s were able to cover a huge swath of the United States with their 1100-mile range. Lundahl informed McGeorge Bundy, the assistant to the President for national security affairs. Bundy decided to delay telling President Kennedy until morning, stating that the President was fatigued from travel and needed his rest.

  The next morning, the President was briefed that three MRBM3 sites had been located and saw that what had begun as a minor diplomatic crisis with the Soviet Union had now escalated to a point where war might be unavoidable.

  Over the next five days, Kennedy maintained an icy control as the anger toward the Soviet Union mounted within him, an anger compounded by his inability to get a single congruent plan from his civil and military advisers. A whole series of options and courses of actions were offered, ranging from obliterating the threat in a series of surprise bombing raids to arriving at an understanding with Khrushchev on the terms of their withdrawal. There was strong opposition from leading members of Congress who felt that they had been brought into the decision-making process far too late. Many of them advocated invasion. Nonetheless, the President chose the temperate but resolute plan he articulated in a televised address to the nation.

  October 22, 1962

  Palos Verdes, California

  ALL OF THE extended Shannon family, which now by habit included Bob and Mae, sat staring at the television image of the young President. Vance’s set—an ancient DuPont—was the bane of Bob Rodriquez’s existence, but Vance was still so schooled by the depression era that he would not part with it as long as it still functioned. The flickering black-and-white accentuated the serious look of the President, so obviously matured by the nature of the threat. Yet his words conveyed enough of his sense of intelligent restraint and his undoubted assurance of sufficient power to be somehow comforting.

  They were silent as Kennedy calmly laid out the unmistakable evidence that Cuba had been transformed into a strategic base of offensive missiles. He made the ultimate use of the missiles clear as he cited the endless lies told by the Soviet Union about their intentions. In clear, unambiguous terms, he stated that the missiles would have to be withdrawn or eliminated.

  The Shannons’ library was silent except for the sound of young V.R. playing with a Tonka truck. Kennedy went on, seeming to speak to them directly, to say that the United States had placed Cuba under a naval quarantine against the introduction of any additional offensive weapons.

  Tom spoke. “Quarantine, but not blockade. Pretty smart.”

  Kennedy did not mention—he did not have to—that if the quarantine failed, the United States would conduct continuous air strikes until the emplaced missiles and the Cuban Air Force had been destroyed.

  The President’s speech, transmitted through formal diplomatic channels, threw the Kremlin into panic. Khrushchev had once again underestimated the resolve of the Americans and their ability to react under pressure. And, always and forever, Khrushchev knew that all along the borders of the Soviet Union, Boeing B-52s were orbiting. The long rifles of the Strategic Air Command and fully loaded with thermonuclear weapons, the B-52s posed a threat that Khrushchev could not counter.

  On October 27, flying a follow-up mission to determine whether or not all the medium-range ballistic sites were operational or not, Major Rudolph Anderson, Keyser’s colleague, was shot down in his U-2 over Cuba, just one day before the Soviet Union capitulated. Frightened by the U.S. military preparations and concerned an invasion of Cuba might take place while the formal diplomatic concession was being decoded, Khrushchev took the unprecedented step of broadcasting agreement to American terms in the clear on Radio Moscow.

  Nuclear Armageddon was avoided, but only by the narrowest of margins. The climax was immortalized by Secretary of State Dean Rusk’s informal statement: “We’re eyeball-to-eyeball, and I think the other fellow just blinked.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  June 5, 1963

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  A couple of hotshot pilots shouldn’t be puffing like this.”

  Tom Shannon paused on the stone steps, looking back at the distance they’d traveled and looking up at the distance yet to go.

  Harry responded, “It’s a damn good thing Dad didn’t come; his ticker wouldn’t take the high altitude or the long walks.”

  They could see the crowd beginning to swell at the entrances to the new football stadium. Security was tight because President Kennedy was to speak, and both men patted their pockets to be sure their passes were on hand.

  Overhead, the sky was a jet blue, a perfect backdrop for the imposing spires of the beautiful Academy Chapel. To the west, the jagged hills of the front range of the Rockies looked placidly over the endless plains that stretched below.

  The Shannon twins were Air Force veterans, and both understood the Academy mystique. Tom had graduated from Annapolis in 1940 and Harry from West Point in the same year. Well-aware of the Air Force penchant for economizing on anything not involving a weapon system, Tom mumbled, “For once they did it right. It doesn’t look like they spared any expense on the campus.”

  Once on level ground the breathing was easier, and they quickly reached the gate where two sets of guards, one Academy and one Secret Service, were vetting each person. As the brothers passed through, the underclassman checked his list and said to Tom, “Colonel Shannon, I’ve got a note for you here from the Commandant of Cadets.”

  Looking surprise but pleased, Tom read the note and passed it to Harry. It read: Tom, you old warhorse, glad you could make it. Stand by near your seats after the President speaks; I want to chat with you, and I want to introduce you to a fan.

  It was signed “Bill Stone.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Bill and I flew together in Korea.”

  They reached their seats, and for once a long wait was actually enjoyable. The magnificent Air Force band kept up a continuous refrain, and it was impossible not to be impressed by the quality of the cadets surging around. They were simply first-rate, the best human material that the United States could produce.

  An electric buzz swept through the stadium, and, preceded by the inevitable phalanx of stony-faced, eagle-eyed Secret Service men, President John F. Kennedy swept onto the stage to a spontaneous standing ovation.

  Tom whispered, “Does Dad know we voted for him?”

  “No. I never talk politics with him. He has some bug about JFK’s father, and insists that the election was rigged. But talk about charisma—look at the man!”

  The introductory speeches were short. President Kennedy took the podium and immediately seized the hearts and minds of the assembled cadets. He spoke in his usual manner, intimate, friendly, and of course gave amnesty to all the cadets with disciplinary infractions. But his message became serious and no one even laughed when some unfortunate band member dropped his cymbals with a clang. The cadets stared at the President with something approaching awe, honoring him for having successfully steered the United States through the Cuban missile crisis and avoiding nuclear war.

  During the speech, the President touched on a visceral matter to the Shannons, calling on the government and indust
ry to work in partnership to build a commercially successful supersonic transport, superior to that being built in any other country in the world.

  Harry nudged Tom. “Good thing Dad isn’t here. You know how he feels about the SST.”

  Kennedy went on, his voice gathering timbre. He was obviously in his element, his audience with him as he closed with a statement that gripped the Shannons, both Cold War fighters: “When there is a visible enemy to fight, the tide of patriotism runs high. But when there is a long, slow struggle with no immediate visible foe, your choice will seem hard, indeed. Your choice, ladies and gentlemen, to take on the problems and possibilities of this time, to engage the world, not to run from it, is the right choice.”

  The Thunderbirds blasted by in full burner overhead as the President acknowledged the roaring applause, then enthusiastically greeted the graduating cadets, congratulating them as they proudly walked up to receive their diplomas, conveying with a word, a smile, a nod, a clap on the back, that he was personally happy for them. It was a psychological tour de force, adding the complete class to his political base. He gave the last man in the class—the proverbial “tail-end Charlie”—a special grin and almost a hug.

  Tom said, “We called the last cadet the ‘anchor man’ at the Naval Academy.”

  When it was over, the cadets tossed their caps high into the air, signaling that four years of agony had come to an end—they were now second lieutenants, and, they believed, with a little luck they would soon be off to war. The President swiftly said good-bye to the Academy dignitaries and was whisked away to his next talk a few hours later at White Sands, New Mexico.

  Tom and Harry stood by, letting the deliriously happy newly commissioned officers in the United States Air Force drift past them with their beaming parents, talking excitedly, embracing classmates, kissing sweethearts. Then Brigadier General Bill Stone showed up, bringing with him the newly minted second lieutenant Steve O’Malley. The strongly built young officer was only about five foot nine. Not handsome but rugged, his short-cropped blond hair topping a square face that merged exactly with his neck, O’Malley had a confident, engaging grin.

  As part of the introductions, Stone put his arm on O’Malley’s shoulder and said, “Tom, Steve here was our ace quarterback for the last three years, but he’s had you for a hero ever since Korea. He’s researched your World War II service, and in general heads the local Tom Shannon Fan Club.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Colonel Shannon, and I hope that I can have a combat record half as good as yours.”

  “The honor’s mutual, son. Let me know if I can ever be of help.”

  They talked briefly before O’Malley’s proud parents frantically signaled him to come on and he ducked away with a quick salute.

  Tom and Bill talked about old times for a while, before Stone had to leave to get to a faculty party.

  “Tom, keep your eye on young O’Malley. If we get in another shooting war—and it looks like Vietnam is going to be it—I swear that Steve will be an ace. And after that, who knows—someday maybe Chief of Staff. He’s the brightest, toughest, most aggressive kid I’ve ever known, and still has all the manners in the world.”

  “I’ll watch for him, Bill. And you take care of yourself.”

  On the long walk back to the parking lot, Tom was quiet, unusual for him on a day like this. Harry finally said, “Tom, from the look on your face, I’d say that you’re having pangs of regret about leaving the regular Air Force.”

  Tom smiled. “Yes, of course, who could come here to this beautiful campus, and see all of this tremendous material, and not feel a touch of sadness?”

  “Well, we had some good years, and you had some great ones. How many people have shot down as many planes as you have? Damn few.” He paused for a second and laughed, saying, “And nobody resents it more than me.”

  “For a long time, I thought being an ace was the most important thing in the world, Harry. I must have been a royal pain in the neck. I’m still proud of it, but that’s not what I miss. What I miss is the camaraderie, the life in a squadron, the constant testing of your abilities. Flying with the Guard is fun, but it’s not the same as life on base. That’s really a wonderful way to live.”

  “It has to be, or they couldn’t get all of these people to do it, to face all the danger and the inconveniences they do, at the low rates of pay. Did you hear what your friend Stone said about Vietnam being the next war? That’s what Dad has been saying for months now.”

  Tom paused to survey the beautiful campus once more. “Yes, and I’m afraid he’s right. China and Russia are backing the North; it could be Korea all over again.”

  “I can see the muscle in your face twitching there, Tom. You better forget about it. You’re getting older, just like me, and you’ve got a wife and kid. I know you’ve kept current in the Guard, but you’ve got responsibilities to your family now and to the firm. Besides, I thought Nancy set you straight the last time.”

  Tom grimaced. “That she did. But she’s not pregnant now. The baby is coming along well, and I’ve been conditioning her to the fact that if the Guard is called up, I’ll have to go. Besides all that, Dad has Rodriquez to run things now.”

  Suddenly it was clear to Harry. Tom didn’t want to go to war so much as he wanted to get away from Rodriquez.

  “Come on, Tom; get over it! There’s nothing wrong with Bob. He’s doing exactly what Dad hoped he would do. I tell you this: he’s doing a lot for our bottom line, more than you and me added together.”

  “That’s another reason for me to go. It would cut down on the overhead.”

  Harry shut up. When Tom was in a mood like this, it was better to let him stew in it for a while. They would have a real argument later, probably on the way back, and that would get it out of his system. Maybe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  September 7, 1963

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Harry Shannon was exhausted. His old friend Dave Elliot, one of McDonnell’s top test pilots, had just taken him on an exhaustive tour of the massive McDonnell plant where the Navy’s hottest fighter—the hottest fighter in the world—the F-4 Phantom II, was being built in ever larger numbers. Now they were headed back down to the flight line to see the first USAF Phantom, the F-4C, make its first flight.

  Elliot slapped Shannon on the back, saying, “You and Gordie Graham did the best selling job I’ve ever seen on this airplane. If it hadn’t been for you two bouncing from base to base, collaring generals, and kicking up your heels, I don’t think the Air Force would ever have agreed to buy a Navy fighter.”

  Graham had “borrowed” a McDonnell F-4B from the Navy and decked it out with Air Force markings. The Navy required a pilot for the front seat and a weapon system operator for the rear, so Harry had no trouble checking out for the series of round-robin trips. They’d gone to Langley Air Force Base first, then hit other Tactical Air Command bases, each time demonstrating that the Air Force had nothing to compare to the Phantom in terms of speed, range, maintenance ease, or anything else. The best fighter in the Air Force inventory, the Convair F-106, simply didn’t measure up.

  “It was always a hard sell starting out. You could see their backs going up about buying a Navy plane, but when they saw the numbers, and when Gordon would put on that crazy aerial display of his, they came around quick enough. The thing that amazed me was that when they did come, they took the airplane almost as is. I was thinking they’d want a lot of changes, you know, no wing folding, no arrester gear, et cetera, but they were smart.”

  The biggest change had been the installation of flight controls in the backseat, for the Air Force planned on having both crewmen be pilots. They changed the refueling system, the tires, and a few other things, but in the main, they bought a Navy airplane.

  “Were you here five years ago for Bob Little’s first flight in the prototype?”

  “No, but my dad was. He and Jim McDonnell go back a long way, and he was in the box with Jim.”
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br />   “How is your dad? We sort of expected him to be with you.”

  “He’s taking things a bit easier these days. It’s about time; he’s had a little problem with his heart, and he’s backing off a bit. Hard on him, but he’s doing it.”

  “Give him my best. He’ll know that when the first prototype flew, McDonnell was expecting to sell maybe three or four hundred airplanes. Now with the Air Force coming in, and with the prospect of some foreign sales looking good, we’re thinking it might be closer to three or four thousand.”

  “Dad is clocking this pretty close, and he told me that he’d never be surprised if you sold more than five thousand. That’s a hell of a number!”

  They were running late, and the gull gray and green F-4C was already rumbling toward the end of the runway, placidly following in the wake of a TWA 707. McDonnell shared Lambert Field with commercial traffic. There were relatively few test flights compared with the number of transport landings and takeoffs, and the only problems occurred on the rare instances when there was an emergency and traffic had to wait for an ailing fighter to land.