Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (22 page)

There was a sudden cascade of trumpets, and they moved with others to the front of a hangar cloaked with blue and gold curtains. A spokesman for BAC took the podium and announced in his best BBC voice that there would be a short film program. The first set of curtains was drawn back, a screen was lowered precariously on two ropes from the top of the hangar, and the spokesman nodded to the cameraman.

Vance watched with some amusement. They did things like this so much better in the United States. Any public relations man there would have been fired on the spot for arranging to show a film in a setting with so much ambient light, and then they would have fired his boss for not introducing all the dignitaries who were on hand.

The crowd settled down in their seats, and the film began with a series of historic early Vickers and English Electric aircraft, ranging from a World War I Vickers “Gunbus” down through Spitfires, Canberras, Vulcans, and the latest mark of the English Electric Lightning, with its unorthodox mounting of its twin engines, one on top of the other. Then the film shifted to rather primitive animation and the TSR.2 was presented flying a typical mission, going out at altitude to save fuel, penetrating at low altitude and high Mach to avoid radar, popping up to release four bombs, thousand-pounders, they looked like, to streak back home. The animation showed vortices curling back from the wingtips at high speeds.

Hooker poked him in the ribs. “It doesn’t show the smoke from the engines. I’m fit to be tied, but I cannot get the test engines to stop smoking at high power settings.”

Even though the animation was crude by American standards, it was evident that the airplane was not. With its delta wing, equipped with downturned wingtips for stability, the TSR.2 was clearly a radical advance in aviation.

Vance and Harry found the performance numbers more than impressive—they were troubling. BAC was claiming a speed of Mach 2.0 at altitude and a combat radius of 1,000 nautical miles. The TSR.2 was supposed to be able to carry up to six tons of bombs. This was on a par with the performance promised by their client, General Dynamics, for the new F-111A. While the TSR.2 would never find a market in America, General Dynamics was hoping to sell the airplane to Great Britain as well as Australia. Hooker was talking animatedly with a passing friend, and Harry whispered, “Looks like I’ll be making a quick trip to Dallas as soon as we get back. General Dynamics won’t be happy with the TSR.2’s potential.”

His dad whispered back, “And it’s no small matter that the TSR.2 is a far better-looking aircraft than the F-111A. Say what you will, many an airplane has been sold on the basis of its looks, and on that score, there is no contest.”

Harry had to agree. The F-111A, with its long drooping nose and complex swing-wing arrangement, was an ugly duckling.

There was another flurry of trumpets, the movie screen was hauled up, and, as the final set of pale gray curtains were drawn, a small tractor emerged, connected by long tow bar to the pure white TSR.2 prototype. It was even better looking in life than on the screen. The tractor towed the aircraft to a spot painted on the tarmac and stopped. The driver raced back, disconnected the tow bar, and then drove away, leaving the gleaming TSR.2 standing amid a still-silent crowd. A few seconds later, a spontaneous cry rang out, and the group surged around the new aircraft, huge for a fighter, standing so tall on its undercarriage that most could walk under the nose or tail without doing more than bending their heads.

The three friends joined the crowd, walking around, mentally taking notes. Deceptively simple looking, the TSR.2 had a shoulder mounted delta wing with a tiny span, no more than thirty-seven feet. Its fuselage was huge, eighty-nine feet long.

“It is absolutely stunning, Stanley! Tell me all about it.”

“Vance, it is beautiful, is it not? But the real beauty is not just skin deep, but in the avionics it carries. This thing can go in at two hundred fifty feet or less, at night, in bad weather, on autopilot. It has a forward and side-looking radar, inertial navigation, and all the information is fed to both the pilot and the autopilot. The terrain-following equipment is incredible—I’ve made test flights with it in a Canberra, and it will make your skin crawl.”

“With all that wing area, it should be able to maneuver pretty well.”

The crowd had begun to thin, moving toward the tables where BAC had laid out a very nice tea, and as they sat down, Vance said, “It looks like a winner, Stanley, but will they let you take the time necessary to get it operating right? You remember what happened to the Avro Arrow.”

When Avro Canada’s Arrow had first flown in March 1958, it had been by far the most advanced fighter in the world, with a speed of Mach 2.5, incredible avionics, and the long range Canada and the United States needed for an interceptor. But a change in government and political infighting canceled the program in February 1959. The new government ordered all ten of the airplanes built so far to be utterly destroyed, along with their tooling, engines, drawings, even their models. It was government vandalism, an engineering and an economic outrage, strangling Canada’s position in the aviation market. Then, adding insult to injury, the government purchased Boeing Bomarc missiles as a substitute.

“Vance, you are exactly right. Everybody expects missiles to be the weapon of the future, and there are already politicians at work claiming that the TSR.2 is an expensive dinosaur that needs to be killed at birth.”

A BAC engineer spotted Hooker and came up with a special set of expensive-looking brochures. A far less technical example had been prepared for the reporters and the rest of the crowd. These, bound in a faux leather, were prepared for the knowledgeable, and he pressed one into Hooker’s hands. Then with a sudden glance of recognition he said, “Mr. Shannon, it’s an honor,” and gave him one as well.

“Ah, Vance, it’s wonderful to be an international celebrity.”

“He’s probably the only man, besides you, in a hundred-mile radius who would know who I am.”

But even as he said it, he felt a glow of pride. He was old, he’d been through the wars, but he still had a little clout, and Harry was there to see it, to be proud of his old man.

Harry excused himself from their dinner engagement. He spent the time in his room analyzing the thick, fact-filled brochure that BAC had provided them, preparing a wire to send to General Dynamics in the morning. In the dining room, Vance and Hooker ate with their usual gusto, while Hooker went on and on about the imminent downfall of the British aviation industry.

“They are trying to force the old firms out of business. Whereas in the old days they tried to keep everybody alive with a few contracts, nowadays they are telling us to merge or die. Pretty soon we’ll be down to one firm, making one airplane, and then
pffft,
it will be over.”

“What about the Concorde? How is that coming along?”

“It’s an amazing cock-up as well, but somehow both teams have a passion for the project, and they overcome the difficulties of language, of measurement standards, of politics with effort and money. Lots of money. The airplane will cost billions in development before one ever flies, but when it does, it will be a treat. I keep telling myself that it has to be done, just to keep up the momentum on research. But I know I’m lying to myself, because it’s using my engines, bigger versions of the Olympus.”

Hooker said, “Now that you’ve pumped me, let me pump you. What’s going on in America on the SST?”

Vance bit his tongue. He should never have asked about the Concorde, for now he had to level with his old friend. “Boeing and Lock heed are competing. Harry is working directly with Boeing, but he keeps me informed. Against his solid advice, Boeing is opting for a swing-wing configuration. Harry kept telling them there is no way that they can sustain the weight of the swing-wing mechanism, but, as usual, they don’t listen. You know how it is with consultants; we have to give our opinion, but once the client’s mind is made up, we salute and follow orders.”

Hooker nodded. “It is the same over here. And what about Lockheed?”

“All I know about Lockheed is that they are going with a delta-wing setup. There are just the two competitors; everyone else has backed out. It is much too expensive to propose an SST, much less build one.”

“Any chance of them teaming up?”

“No, I don’t think so, not this go-around. But that’s coming. Our industry is melting down, too, and there will be some big mergers in the future. Our problems are the same as yours; neither the government nor the airlines are buying enough new airplanes to keep all the companies in business. Airplanes are getting more efficient, so you need fewer, and they are getting more expensive, so you can afford even fewer than you need. One of our leading thinkers, Norm Augustine, has said that if this keeps up, the Air Force will ultimately spend its entire budget to buy just one airplane. Same thing can be said about the airlines.”

Hooker signaled the hovering waiter for another round of cognac, and even though he knew he would pay for it later that evening, Shannon agreed.

“Tell me about your boys, Vance; I was glad you brought Harry and I am sorry to miss Tom.”

“Tom wanted to come, but he’s so busy and traveling so much that he couldn’t. He sends you his best regards. I didn’t want Harry to come, but he insisted. The boys are concerned about me; they think I’m a lot worse off than I am health-wise, and do their best to protect me. They are both doing well in the business, and I’ve brought in a new man that I regard almost as a son, Bob Rodriquez. I’ll send him over to you soon; you would like him.”

Hooker moved his chair closer to Vance and said, “How about sending Harry back over to see me in a few months? There is a strange bit of business going on with the Tupolev bureau; they are asking too many questions about what we are doing with the Concorde, and we are fixing up a poison pill of information for them.”

“What would you want Harry for?”

“He’s got your name, Vance, and he’s got a terrific personality. We’d like to have someone like him, not directly connected with either the British or French firms working on the Concorde, to supply the information to the Russians. Do you think he would be willing?”

Vance thought for a moment. Harry was perfect for a job like this and would enjoy it. “Let me ask him.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

November 26, 1963

Palos Verdes, California

T
he atmosphere of shock and disbelief was swiftly supplanted by one of suspicion bordering on paranoia in the Shannon household. It seemed impossible to Tom and Harry, who had watched him master the Cuban crisis and then saw him at the Air Force Academy less than six months before, that the vibrant, inspiring John F. Kennedy was dead. To Vance, increasingly irascible and opinionated as his health declined, Ruby’s shooting Oswald made it obvious that there was some sort of conspiracy involved.

“Dad, you may well be right, but who is in the conspiracy? You don’t think that Lyndon Johnson had anything to do with this, do you?”

Vance grunted. “I don’t know. I’m more inclined to think it’s the Soviet Union, working with Cuba somehow, trying to avenge the Cuban debacle. Khrushchev will never forget that he had to back down, and Castro will sure as hell never forget the Bay of Pigs.”

The three of them worked the theories over for an hour before the two boys saw that Vance was getting agitated, and knew it was time to go.

As they walked out the door, Vance said to himself,
Gad, I’m getting to be an old man, screaming at my boys over something I don’t know anything about, something nobody really knows about, nobody but the bastards who did it.

He moved over to the desk and pulled out the bottle of cognac. It was only 10:00 A.M. and he rarely drank, but he felt he needed something. George Schairer was coming down for lunch, and it wasn’t going to be easy talking to him, for Vance was smack in the middle of a building confrontation. A few months before he was killed, President Kennedy was alarmed by Pan American’s Juan Trippe placing a “protective order” for six of the British-French SST—they were calling it the Concorde. As a result, he backed the United States building a competing aircraft. Under Jeeb Halaby’s aggressive and enthusiastic leadership, the FAA had put out requests for proposals, and Boeing, Lockheed, and North American had all responded.

This put Vance on the spot, because his firm was working on proposals for all three firms. He had been working with Harry on some preliminary ideas for the Boeing SST, as well as continuing to work on the Bomarc. But Vance was also helping North American with their magnificent Mach 3.0 XB-70 and of course was continuing work at Lockheed on the A-12/F-12/SR-71 programs. All of the programs involved supersonic flight, and he would have to be extremely careful not to give anything away. Normally he would have just excused himself on a potential conflict of interest basis, but he couldn’t do that now, not when George said he needed him.

Vance walked into the bathroom, kept perfectly hospital neat as always by Jill, brushed his teeth, and rinsed with Listerine.

“Never do for George to smell cognac on my breath, especially in the morning.”

Schairer had agreed to come down from Seattle to see him for lunch today when Vance asked to delay the meeting because he didn’t feel like flying up. That meant the meeting was important, for Schairer’s time was too valuable to be spent flying back and forth from Seattle.

Jill flew in, her arms full of flowers.

“What are we giving George for lunch?”

“You said keep it simple, and I did. There’s just fresh shrimp cocktail, two different kinds of sandwiches, ham and cheese and corned beef, and a salad. And ice cream for dessert.”

“Good—I was afraid you might fix one of your Mexican specialties, probably too spicy for George.”

The doorbell rang, and Vance moved to greet his old friend. As soon as the first pleasantries were over, Schairer said, “Do me a favor, please. Let’s not talk about the Kennedy assassination. I’m just heartsick; when I think of it, my mind goes off track and I cannot concentrate.”