Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age

by Boyne, Walter J.

  Lavochkin turned to Mikoyan and spoke for the first time that morning. “You will see that you cannot win every competition. In this one we will grind you into the dust.” Then, realizing that his remarks were being recorded, Lavochkin put his hand over his mouth.

  Mikoyan, irrepressible as always, laughed, saying, “And now you are on record, my friend. We will see who grinds who into what.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  December 20, 1959

  Paris, France

  The two old friends had visited Paris once before, and oddly enough, that visit had been in December as well.

  “Remember that week, Fritz? Nothing but drinking, fucking, and working the black market all week long.”

  Gerd Müller unbent like a jackknife, struggling to get his not-verylong legs out of the door of the blue Renault Caravelle that Obermyer was driving.

  “Do I remember? It was the best time of the war. We were still whipping the Russkies, we’d whipped everybody but the British, and we were down doing business for Heinkel with Renault, setting them up to build parts for the He 111. Now we’re back with Renault, trying to do business for ourselves.”

  The doorman at the George V sprang forward. Obermyer had tipped him a hundred dollars on the day they arrived and twenty dollars every day since. Another attendant darted forward, but the doorman cut him off and took the keys, opening the door as he did so. Obermyer and Müller walked straight to the bar.

  Fritz had become more sophisticated over the years, and wherever he went, he experimented with the drinks and the food. He asked for a pastis, but Müller, trapped in the stifling bureaucratic poverty of East Germany, remained the earnest, hard-drinking soldier he had been in World War I and settled for a beer without even specifying that it be German.

  “We were young fools then, Gerd. We didn’t sightsee, we drank continually, there were whores in the room day and night, and then we wasted some time working for the good Dr. Heinkel.”

  His partner nodded, half his glass of Tuborg already gone. “How did this morning go?”

  Obermyer had been to the Billancourt factory to talk with Renault officials about importing the 1960 Renaults. The Dauphine was already a moderate success in the United States, and he thought the Caravelle—basically a Dauphine with a sleeker body and convertible top—would bring even more people into the showroom. His Volkswagen and Porsche dealerships were doing well, but there were a lot of people who remembered the war and didn’t want to buy German products. For them, the Dauphine could be a VW replacement.

  “It was a little sticky at first. They took care to remind me that the Germans had taken over the plant in 1940, and that as a result the Allies had bombed it almost out of existence. But they want to sell more cars in America, and they think that with my Volkswagen experience, I can do it.”

  Gerd nodded. “It’s a beautiful car.”

  “It’s a piece of shit compared to the Volkswagen. You are comparing it to East German trash like the Moskvich.”

  His partner grinned sheepishly. “That’s true. I’m lucky to have one, but it always needs repair.”

  “So will the Renault. Their quality control is laughable. But it’s more stylish than the Volkswagen, and that will count with the Amis. In any event, I’m signing on to import them, not many to start, but enough to set up a couple of dealerships. In case you decide to defect.”

  Müller blew a long column of smoke into the air and finished his beer. “You know that I never stop thinking about it, and yet I know I can never do it. I like what I’m doing now; it’s the best work I’ve ever had.” Then, realizing the import of what he had just said, he continued, “I didn’t mean working for you—that was a good time. I mean since then. I’ve become somebody. Working with the intelligence people lets me have foreign contacts. I’m able to travel. They watch me and check on me, I know, but it is all right; I’m doing a good job and they know it. But if I came to America, even if you let me have my own business, I’d be back at the bottom of the pile. I guess I’m getting too old to make big changes.”

  He signaled for another round of drinks; this time he took a taste of Obermyer’s pastis, grimaced, and said, “I’ll stay with the beer.”

  Obermyer grinned and then settled down to business. They were going to meet the woman in forty minutes, and they had not really discussed her yet.

  “How did you get in contact with this woman?”

  “I didn’t. She was in contact with my people in East Berlin, and they called me and briefed me from a dossier that went back twenty years and more. She had started out in the American embassy in Paris; when we knocked France over, she went to England and held the same job in the American embassy there. Then your pal, your protégé, Vance Shannon, came along, and she seduced him, went to America with him, lived with him. All the time she was spying for France, and at two levels. On the one she was reporting back to French intelligence. On the other she was working for Dassault.”

  Obermyer nodded. “Dassault is a made-up name, you know. Marcel Dassault was Marcel Bloch before the war. He was sent to Buchenwald, but somehow he survived. His brother, Paul, was in the resistance, had the code name Dassault, the French word for ‘attack.’ Bloch had his name changed after the war. Gets away from his Jewish roots and plays on his refusing to collaborate. Pretty smart.”

  Müller nodded abruptly. He knew all about the name change and a lot more. It bothered him that Obermyer didn’t seem to see the change in their relationship. He was no longer a subordinate; they were equals. It would take some time to get Fritz to see that, but Müller was going to be sure that he did. Then Müller resumed his talk. “She stayed with Shannon, lived with him, ran his businesses for eight years; then she was called back to France. It says in the dossier that it broke Shannon’s heart and almost ruined his business.”

  Obermyer sensed the strength, the new sense of self, in Müller’s remarks. It was a different style, something he realized he would have to adjust to. But just because Gerd had more self-confidence didn’t mean that he had more brains. Obermyer was confident that he could control Gerd, as he always had, if it came to that. He decided he wouldn’t interject any more comments, just ask questions and let Müller talk himself out. “What kind of a woman is she?”

  “She’s still very good-looking, in her mid-fifties, short dark hair, dresses like an executive secretary of a big firm, a little mannish on the surface, but just a hint of a flirt, too. I’d love to take her to bed, but she’s too high-class for me.” He waited a minute, couldn’t help himself, and added, “Or you, too.”

  Obermyer laughed. “I wasn’t going to try. You know my philosophy—pay for the best whore you can find, fuck her, then forget about her in the morning.”

  Looking up, he was embarrassed to see a beautiful woman, short dark hair, full figure, smiling at him, obviously pleased to have caught his remarks about expensive whores. It gave her the upper hand right from the start.

  Gerd was on his feet, blushing, Obermyer thinking, He’s some kind of intelligence agent, blushing like a schoolboy because I said “whore” in front of his new girlfriend.

  The introductions were quick and muddled, and Madeline Behar asked if she could have some coffee. The waiter left them, and the three sat for a moment, studying one another casually, without any concern.

  She broke the silence saying, “I understand that you and a very dear friend of mine, Vance Shannon, are in business together.”

  “Yes, in the sense that I helped him secure his dealership. And I try to pass on to him what I’ve learned.”

  “Be sure to give him my very best wishes when next you see him. He is a fine man.”

  She spoke coolly, without any evident emotion, but Obermyer thought that he caught a hint of sadness in her manner. Somehow the remark struck him as unprofessional, as did her attitude. Still, what could she say? She must have had a dossier on them; she would know that they had one on her. Maybe it was a ploy, to gain their confidence.

  “I’l
l do that. He’s doing very well as a partner in a Volkswagen dealership, along with all his other interests.”

  Madeline smiled inwardly, thinking, A Volkswagen dealership! I never would have invested in that. Then she went on, her German flawless, “Has Herr Müller discussed with you the subject of our meeting?”

  Gerd interjected, “No, I did not. I wanted you to explain it.”

  She nodded and went on, “There is going to be quite a race to create a supersonic transport. The Russians, the British, and the Americans are all going to compete, and so will the French, of course. We would like to be kept abreast of our competition’s research.”

  Obermyer was about to say that he was no longer doing intelligence work but could not bring himself to do so. It was not just Madeline’s charm, although that would have been enough. He felt the old lust within him, the desire to be on the inside of major events, to have information that others wanted, and to sell it at a satisfying price. So, instead, he temporized, “I wonder if we are the right team for you? I’ve been out of the business for many years now, and though I’ve maintained some contacts, I’m not really active. And as Gerd has no doubt told you, there is not much work on the SST going on in East Germany.”

  Madeline had sized the situation up. Two old comrades, their relationship changed by time and events. Gerd Müller was obviously anxious to prove himself to Obermyer. Obermyer was obviously trying to preserve the old order.

  “I’m sure your friend would surprise you. Tupolev has many projects going, and he reaches out for help where he can. I know personally that he has contracts with Hans Wocke.”

  Obermyer looked blank and waved his hands uncomprehendingly. She continued, “Wocke was one of the principal engineers behind the Junkers Ju 287 during the war—the six-jet, forward-swept-wing bomber. He’s still working on forward-swept wings, and on an ogival wing as well. We would like information on that, and of course on what Lockheed and Boeing are planning.”

  Müller looked triumphant and Obermyer dissembled, “Well, I doubt if I can be of much help, but I’ll try, to help my old friend here,” thinking to himself, I can feed them enough from Aviation Week to keep them happy for a while, and maybe, just maybe, I can run some ideas past Vance Shannon.

  Madeline leaned forward. “There is something else. I not only want information; I want to feed the others misinformation. What the Americans call a ‘red herring.’ Anything that will lead them astray—a new kind of fuel, tire compounds, information on composite materials, anything, as long as it’s bogus and will cost them research time. It is important to our people to be first. There is not going to be much of a market for supersonic airliners. First of all, they will be too expensive, and second, they’ll be too efficient; you won’t need as many of them.”

  Obermyer felt the chill again; she was talking too much, telling them more than she should have. And she was no amateur. More than that, she had completely fooled Shannon for years. So there was something up.

  She stood up. “I’ve discussed payments and ways to transmit information with Herr Müller. I hope you will find them of interest.”

  As she left the bar, Obermyer noted that heads still turned after her.

  He turned to find Gerd staring after her. Fine, he thought. She’s spinning a web, and Gerd has already landed in it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  December 31, 1959

  Palos Verdes, California

  Vance Shannon sat slumped in his favorite chair in the library, three carefully placed piñon logs crackling in the fireplace, a snifter of Courvoisier VSOP on the table beside him.

  For years, Vance and Madeline had celebrated New Year’s at home, quietly going over the books and reviewing the events of the year, then, at midnight, drinking most of a bottle of champagne. When she left, Vance tried it once more, alone. It was too utterly sad, and he gave it up.

  Six months ago Jill suggested that it would be a good thing to resume the practice, but instead of making it a private affair, they should invite all of the family in to participate. He had not agreed, but she took silence as consent and had made all the preparations. It always amazed Vance how carefully Jill walked the line of his memories of Madeline, always speaking pleasantly and courteously of her, never trying to outdo her in things where Madeline excelled but instead filling in all the areas in which Madeline had shown no interest.

  He could hear Jill moving in and out of the kitchen, creating what she called her New Year’s table, a long festive board filled with bowls of shrimp, cold cuts, a ham, a bowl of non-alcoholic punch—for Anna and Harry—and a copper bucket that held six bottles of Korbel champagne. As his wife, Jill might well have been jealous of Madeline, for Vance had made no secret of it that she had been the great burning passion of his life. Instead, Jill recognized that without Madeline she never would have met Vance, much less married him, and that Madeline had all along intended her to become Vance’s wife, to take her place when she left. So Jill was grateful rather than jealous and careful not to try to compete in matters like the choice of champagne. She was sure that Madeline would have had more expensive French champagne, Veuve Cliquot or even Dom Perignon, but California champagne was good enough for her, and she knew that Vance would not even notice the taste, much less the label.

  Tom, Harry, and Bob were coming over in about an hour, with Bob bringing a date for the first time. She and Vance had joked about it earlier, saying that his date was probably a six-foot-tall blond surfer—just what the five-foot-six-inch Rodriquez needed. Jill sighed and said, “I just hope she is not a movie star type; it won’t bother Nancy, but it will kill Anna.”

  “If I know Rodriquez, she’ll be a knockout. I’ve seen how women react to him when he walks into a room—he just mesmerizes them.”

  Vance turned back to the desk, where the balance sheet and profit and loss statements the accounting firm had prepared for his company were laid out. It was just a preliminary statement, but it made nice reading. In spite of his policy of paying top dollar to his partners and employees—there were twelve of them now, incredible for what not too many years ago had been a one-man band—the firm had shown a considerable profit, thanks in large part to new contracts that Rodriquez had secured for the U-2 and for some other even more highly classified programs that he could not disclose, even to Vance. Lockheed was always in a hurry, and their contracts usually carried with them incentives for swift completion—and stiff penalties for delays. In a small outfit like Aviation Consultants, such contracts could get priority and be executed in the minimum time, so the incentive clauses really added to the bottom line.

  The accountant had prepared another portfolio, on Vance’s personal financial status, and this year it was not quite as satisfactory. Madeline had handled all his financial matters for years, growing his estate in remarkable fashion by farsighted investments in real estate and, to a lesser degree, in the stock market.

  “Pretty smart businesswoman for a spy,” he mused.

  He had not done well in the stock market this year. He couldn’t get interested in it, even though it was his money, and his financial adviser, Cliff Boyd, never seemed to have a suggestion that paid off anything but commissions for Boyd. Then there were two real-estate deals that unexpectedly had been tied up in court. Vance had begun trying to sell off some of the older, more difficult to maintain properties, and in each case the purchaser had reneged and gone into bankruptcy.

  The only thing that brightened the day was Vance’s 45 plus percent of ownership in Capestro Motors. He was particularly pleased because he had made the decision to join Lou Capestro in the deal without consulting anyone else—it was just a gut feel, and it was paying off. The Bug was wildly popular, and this year Volkswagen’s clever advertisements had sold more than 120,000 cars in the United States. People were lining up to buy them at the dealership, and the thing that amazed Vance was that no one was objecting to the high routine maintenance costs. The Chevrolet and Ford dealers were furious—they charged less than h
alf as much for an oil change and people protested. Somehow, the Bugs were treated as pampered pets by their owners, who seemed to take pride in the amount of money spent on them.

  Fritz Obermyer had been absolutely right. The Volkswagens sold on their perceived quality, and, judging from articles in Motor Trend, even the Big Three were beginning to take notice. Yet Vance had noted that the VW’s greatest appeal seemed to be to young up-and-coming people, usually liberal in their politics and free in their thinking. It amused him that two old-line conservatives such as Capestro and him were making money from left-wing Californians.

  Vance closed the books, shaking his head. He was far better off than he ever could have imagined and more than able to keep reinvesting all the profits from Aviation Consultants into the business. Boyd, the wizard financier, kept telling Vance that he ought to consider incorporating and taking the firm public, but he didn’t like the idea. For years he had exercised a majority control, and for all practical purposes he still did, although his percentage had declined from 52 to 42 percent when he decided to take Bob Rodriquez in as a partner. If he took it public, who knew what could happen?

  He was stacking the papers when he heard the usual cries of greeting as Harry and Tom arrived with their wives. Jill was very close to Nancy, as they had worked together for so long, and always tried to be equally welcoming to Anna, but it wasn’t easy. It struck Vance again, as it had so many times, that Harry was a good son and a good husband, giving up a promising Air Force career to stick with Anna through all her problems with alcohol. Harry was never a heavy drinker, but he abstained completely to keep her from temptation. Now he was facing a new situation affecting her health—her escalating weight.

  The chimes of the door rang again, and Vance thought, Must be Bob and his date. I’ll have to get out there and see how she looks. There was another flurry of greetings, but somehow they sounded strange, off-key, to Vance. Just then the door burst open and Anna literally ran into the room, not easy for a woman of her size. She stared wild-eyed at Vance for a moment, then half-whispered, half-shouted, “Bob’s brought a Negro, a Negress, I mean, to the party.”