Eagles at War (44 page)

"You remember how Bandfield was suspicious about the flight tests? Well, there's no question about bad parts this time!"

Caldwell hunched over, his stomach contorting with pain.

"You mean this is fraud—not just some production foul-up?"

"Has to be—the mechanism was designed right in from the start. Somebody's built an extra valve into the pitot-static system so that it gives higher readings as the airspeed goes up. Damn clever, and virtually undetectable."

Caldwell, ashen-faced, asked, "How did it work?"

"A relief valve in the system incrementally reduces static pressure. At four hundred miles an hour, it adds about ten percent to the speed."

"Wouldn't it show up on test flights?"

"Not routinely. And it will be a few months before the airplanes get to the field, where pilots will get a chance to check the performance against other equipment."

"Yeah, but sooner or later it'll be evident."

"I think Troy figures he'll have the airplane cleaned up, and he won't need this gadget. If it's like every other airplane, the first batch will go through a modification center—he can change back to a standard system then."

Caldwell asked Hadley to go get Troy McNaughton, then sat with his head in his hands. It was premeditated fraud, pure and simple. But why hadn't Lee discovered it? He was the hotshot engineer and had been here while the production Mambas were being developed. Now he was six thousand miles away, en route to some godforsaken B-29 base in the Pacific.

When McNaughton entered Caldwell almost threw himself at the younger man's throat.

"How in the hell did this happen, Troy?"

Troy sat down, leaned back in his chair and pulled out a pack of Old Golds. He held the pack with precision, the tobacco stains on his fingertips contrasting with the sheen of his manicured nails. With a little pen-knife he slit the revenue stamp, eased the pack open, tapped it smartly on the desk edge, and offered it to Caldwell. Caldwell instinctively reached for it, then declined.

"Jim Lee suggested the modification on the prototype. You agreed, I've got your signature on the approval."

"What modification? I never approved any modification."

McNaughton shoved a sheaf of papers marked top secret across the desk. It was an engineering change proposal for the pitot-static system. It seemed routine enough, a slight redesign of the static system. The signature on the cover letter was his—but he'd never seen the paper before. A clammy feeling stole over him. The bastards had not only changed the design, they'd made the government pick up the bill for the" change.

"I didn't sign this."

McNaughton was patient, reasoned. "Henry, you remember how you used to bring in two briefcases full of correspondence when you came down to visit Elsie? She did a lot of typing for you, on your own Army stationery and franked envelopes. Once some changes had to be made, and you were in a hurry to leave. Elsie had you sign a few blanks for her to retype on later. We saved a few."

"If I go, you'll go, Henry. And so will Elsie. She's in it just as deep as Lee and I are. We were all working to help you, to keep everybody off your back until we could improve the airplanes. Your letter from Scriabin took us off the hook on the Sidewinder. We want to look good, and we want to make you look good."

"You can actually make yourself look good, Henry, and refute the gossip about your favoring McNaughton. If we can't get the airplane cleaned up, you come out fearlessly for Lockheed as having the best jet, and buy lots of them. Then you can buy the Mamba as a fighter-trainer, something to bridge the gap between Mustangs and the Lockheed fighter."

His voice dropped to a confidential register. "You know the routine. You penalize us for failure to perform, and we'll drop the price on the Mamba."

He might have been a baker, talking about marking down the price on day-old bread. Caldwell glared at him.

McNaughton went on. "Nobody will ever know about this! We'll route all the affected airplanes back through the mod center, and change the pitot system there. Besides, the way the war is shaping up, they're already beginning to cut back production and cancel contracts. They're even cutting down on the number of pilots being trained. It'll all be over in a year or two, and everybody will be anxious to get back to normal times. Nobody will even remember stupid stuff like this. But, if you want us all in jail, fine. You know they won't put Elsie in the same cell with you. No, some dyke matron would be all over Elsie as soon as she walked in."

Caldwell tried to ignore the image, trying to pump up his anger.

"If that's the way it is, that's the way it is. I've been stupid but I haven't been criminal yet. And I'm not going to be."

McNaughton's demeanor changed from the patient sales-hungry vendor to the boss who's tired of the bellyaching. His face turned livid and his lips curled back in a savage snarl.

"Look, you stupid bastard, the gloves are off! I'm tired of listening to your whining. I've got you nailed dead to rights. You've been shooting your mouth off, now you sit back and listen."

A sickening, inexpressible weariness seized Caldwell. McNaughton was too smart not to have anticipated this. What did he have on him?

"You were very generous with Elsie—gave her a car, made the down payment on the farm for her."

"It was my money, I could do anything I wanted with it."

"That's what you say, Henry, I've got private company records, my own personal accounts, that show cash disbursements to you for amounts that are just about the same as you spent on Elsie, just a few days before you spent it. When I offer that to the court-martial board—and the tax people—your goose will be cooked."

"I never took a dime from you or anybody else."

"No, but the records say you did. You might be able to convince a jury that it's a fraud, but I doubt it. Not after we go into all the times you came down here when you were supposed to be going somewhere else, when you used our guesthouse. We kept pretty good tabs, Henry, we even have some photos. Remember that mirror over the dresser in the bedroom? Well, it's one of those one-way jobs. I hated to do it, especially to you and Elsie, but business is business."

"You rotten bastard. Did Elsie know?"

"Of course not. What do you think she is? She's just a woman crazy in love with you, that's all. Everything she's done has been to help you. I've taken advantage of the situation, but I had to."

He paused dramatically, his manner changing again. "Believe it or not, Henry, I was trying my damnedest to build good airplanes for the war effort. Things didn't go like I planned, but I was trying."

Caldwell groaned out loud. Jesus. What a fool he'd been to trust this con man! And what a fool to play footsie on the Army's time. How often had he signed out an airplane to fly from Wright Field to Scott Field and then "diverted" to Nashville? Everybody was doing stuff like that all the time, nobody cared as long as you got some time on the airplanes, burned up the fuel allotment. But in a trial, it would be presented as defrauding the government, a court-martial offense by itself. And if they knew about that, who would believe that he hadn't taken the money, hadn't agreed to the fraud about the performance? Nobody, not in the government, for sure, and absolutely no jury. He was cooked! The image of Elsie and the prison matron suddenly flared in his mind and he lunged at McNaughton.

"You dirty bastard, you've sold the government a bunch of junk, and you've ruined me!"

McNaughton moved calmly around the desk, aware that he held a winning hand.

"It hasn't been junk. These aren't the first airplanes the government's bought that haven't met their performance figures, and they won't be the last. Look at what Scriabin said. The Russians are glad to have the Sidewinder, and the Mamba will make a great fighter trainer. Don't lose your head."

"Where's Elsie now?"

"She's at home, waiting for you. She's sick about what's happened. Let her tell you herself. She was doing it all for you. It's the war, Henry."

The argument was over. McNaughton had won.

It took almost an hour of fast talking to convince Hadley Roget that the best course was to remain silent on the whole business until "after the war." Roget had agreed only reluctantly, with a sadder-but-wiser look on his face which told Caldwell that they were no longer really friends.

Now he drove recklessly down the dusty farm road, squealing to a stop in the gravel of the circular drive in front of Elsie's new house. She met him with a flood of tears, begging his forgiveness, begging him not to let her go to jail, telling him how much she loved him, how much she needed him.

"Henry, forgive me. And forgive how I look, I haven't slept a wink all night. I only did this for you because I thought it was for the best, like Troy told me. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you.

Gratefully, he let her embrace him. As angry as he was, it was heaven to feel her arms around him, to smell her sweet scent.

"Honey, you know how funny I was acting. It was because I was worried."

Amid his anger there was a surge of joy. She hadn't been thinking of Bruno, she'd been worried about him! Yet they argued on, and the more they argued, the more she cried, and the more excited he became. Clinging to him, kissing him passionately, she pulled him with her to the floor. He forgot his anger as they made greedy, forgiving love on the knotted rug.

Later, at two in the afternoon, they were comfortable in her bed, Elsie sleeping deeply, her head on his chest. Caldwell knew that he was hooked on her like an addict on heroin. No matter what happened, no matter how angry she made him, he loved her without reservation. He wasn't going to do anything to harm her, this woman he loved, now lying so trustfully in his embrace. He'd die before he'd let her go to prison.

As for Lee, he'd been a fool—loyal, but a fool. He should never have gone along with McNaughton's scheme to change the pitot-static system design, to fake the test results, no matter how much he believed the airplane's performance could be improved. If he was really trying to save Caldwell, as McNaughton had said, it was still outrageous. Caldwell knew that Lee owed him a lot, but this was too much. He shifted his position and thought that, like most of this mess, it had been his own fault—he'd brought Lee along too quickly. Some people couldn't handle higher ranks.

But at least he'd tried to help. Some people might have stabbed him in the back.

She stirred. It moved him just to look down at her slender body, curled like a child, her full breasts pressed against him and her lovely red hair spilling across his chest. He reached out and, with his fingertip, traced the smooth, melding curves of her body. Her eyelids fluttered and she burrowed against him, stifling a yawn against his flesh, then raising her face sleepily to be kissed. He responded at once, murmuring over and over in a frantic litany, "I love you, Elsie, I love you, I love you."

She responded in a groggy voice, "And I love you." Sleepily, she half-turned to begin kissing his belly, circling him with her hand, moving him gently.

"I love you, and I
really
love little Robert E. Lee Junior here, too—" Elsie sat bolt upright. "I mean, little John Henry Junior." Caldwell was already out of bed. That son-of-a-bitch, Lee!

*

Isley Field, Saipan/November 27, 1944

With a graceful, unexpected move, the American forces had pivoted and sent a smashing body blow to the Japanese by seizing the Marianas. Everyone—even their Allies—had expected the U.S. forces to chew the Japanese up, island by island. Instead, the Japanese forces at Truk and Palau had been isolated and now offered only the threat of an occasional bombing raid as their ground forces withered on the vine.

The B-29 bomber offensive against Japan was doing its own withering, at the end of an overextended vine of supplies, still unable to justify the mammoth cost that had gone into its creation. Operating out of Chinese bases had proved to be exactly the unproductive nightmare Jim Lee had predicted—it was too difficult to get the fuel and bombs to the bases.

But the worst problem was the poor bombing results. The whole doctrine of high altitude precision bombing was at risk, because the B-29s were
not
getting bombs on the target. And now the horrendous cost in men and materiel for invading the Marianas to establish a B-29 base had to be added to the overall program cost.

Saipan had been invaded on June 15th—a week later, the first American aircraft landed. By the 15th of August, Saipan, Tinian, and Guam had begun the typical American transformation from primitive to wartime-luxurious. It was not until late November that the super bomber operation was at last in place—but it was on Saipan, not twelve hundred miles away beyond the Himalayas. It was from Saipan that Brig. Gen. Hay wood S. "Possum" Hansell's XXI Bomber Command would give high altitude precision bombing another chance.

Colonel James Lee, his usually mobile face impassive, sat up on his cot, carefully folded the letter, and put it back in its brown manila envelope.

"Did you read it, Bandy?"

"No—but he's talked to me about Elsie and you, and about McNaughton. Doesn't sound too good, from his point of view, anyway."

"Not from mine, either. Did he send you all the way here just to deliver a goddamn letter?"

"Probably. It's not something he could send through the censors. I've got a day job, of course, same old range-extension stuff, this time for the P-47N. With two external tanks you can get almost twenty-three hundred miles range out of it—if you know what to do."