Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (26 page)

She resumed, “They load the Vatour up beyond its maximum landing weight, and then land at high speeds and brake very hard. The tires burn their way into the runway, leaving big clouds of smoke behind. My mechanic scraped this material from the runway where they land.”

“What is it made of?”

“The tire compound itself? I have no idea. That’s a closely held secret. But it’s not as complex as an atomic bomb! Your scientists will be able to analyze it, and duplicate the formula. There must be four or five ounces of material there. Don’t ask me to get more. It was very risky sending a man out to get this. I had to tell the tower that we were looking for parts that had fallen off the Vatour. They let my man go out there because they didn’t want any foreign-object damage to the next plane to land.”

“How do you know this is from the Vatour? It might come from any airplane.”

“Open the envelope, and look at it. You’ll see red and green fibers. They were put in the test tires on the Vatour to monitor wear. No other airplane has tires like that.”

Pavlov poked through the mound of shredded, burned rubber dubiously, shrugged his shoulders, and handed the envelope to Fabiew, who did exactly the same thing. They nodded to Müller, who suddenly smiled, saying, “This is fine; thank you very much. And I’ll have payment for you within a few weeks.”

Madeline feigned anger. “What? A few weeks? And in francs or dollars this time, or don’t bother; it will be the last business we do. I’m putting my job at risk every time I deal with you, and you are always late with the money.”

The Russians turned and started to walk out. Müller grabbed Pavlov by the arm and turned to Madeline again. “What about taking us around and showing us the rest of the airplanes?”

“Do you think I am a tour guide? It’s time for you and your friends to go. Who knows when somebody might come in? I don’t want to explain what I’m doing here with you.”

The four walked rapidly to the double entrance door. She pushed it open for them, Müller bowed, and they went to their parked Citroën.

She watched them through a window next to the door.

“Müller
would
have a Citroën. He always tries to be more like Jean Gabin than Jean Gabin.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

July 4, 1965

Palos Verdes, California

S
unday was a perfect California day for a backyard picnic, the sun warm enough to encourage shorts and halters for the ladies, the breeze cool enough to keep everybody comfortable. Anna was so pleased with her new figure that she joked about the little bundle of fat that still lapped over the top of her shorts—it was nothing compared to a year ago, and she was determined to shed it with exercise and an even more stringent diet.

It was the first time in months that everyone was home. It hadn’t been planned this way, but it worked out perfectly, for there was a lot of catching up to do. The men of the family—Vance, Tom, Harry, and Bob—took bottles of Budweiser and sat down at the big kitchen table, moved onto the porch for the occasion. Jill turned out her usually dazzling platter of sandwiches—thin-sliced roast beef, pastrami, ham and cheese, and, for Vance, turkey breast on rye, no mayonnaise. An array of condiments surrounded the sandwiches—sliced onion, dill pickles, mustard, catsup, Worcestershire sauce, and even, for Bob, some salsa from the market in Old Town.

Vance, who also loved the salsa but had to watch his intake nowadays, had made a mental laundry list of the things he needed to talk to his boys about, either passing along information or prodding them for the tidbits that never went into their official company reports.

“Let me bring you up-to-date on the TSR.2. The blasted British government has done it again. Stan Hooker—and you know how tight he is with a shilling—has been calling me on the phone regularly. I think spouting off to me keeps him from having a heart attack.”

Vance went on to tell the sad story. On April 6, the British Labour government had terminated the TSR.2 program despite strong protests from the British Aircraft Company—some ten thousand workers had mobilized and marched in the streets of London, but to no avail. Then for weeks afterward Hooker burned up the telephone line with reports on the mendacity of the government in ordering completed TSR.2s to be taken to the firing range at Shoeburyness to be used as gun targets. All parts for airframes were scrapped; tooling was destroyed; even the wooden mock-up was dragged out of storage and burned. The avid government agents destroyed photographs, models, and all test reports to make sure that no succeeding government could revive the project.

Harry spoke up. “It’s just like the Avro Arrow fiasco!”

Tom added, “Well, to look on the bright side, they say they are going to buy General Dynamics’s F-111 aircraft as a replacement. Their Defense Minister, Donald Healey, claims that the F-111 will be less expensive and delivered more quickly than the TSR.2. Man, are they in for a shock!”

Rodriquez, who always had his eye on the bottom line, said, “It’s a big mistake on their part. They could have recouped most or maybe all their research cost on export sales. Vance told us early on that the TSR.2 was far more capable than the F-111 was projected to be. It could have generated a fortune in sales to other governments.”

Tom chimed in, “If the F-111 is as bad as I think it is going to be, the United States might even have bought some TSR.2s.”

All four men were conscious of how fragile the aircraft industry had become. Killing the TSR.2 did not affect just the British Aircraft Company building it—it would disturb the engine manufacturers, the component builders. A ripple effect would reach out, and for the ten thousand BAC people who lost their jobs another thirty thousand workers in other industries would be affected.

“What’s happening with the F-111, Tom?”

“Not much good. The whole thing has been screwed up from the start by McNamara and his insistence on the TFX.”

Secretary of Defense Robert Strange McNamara was trying to manage the defense department as he had managed Ford, using quantitative techniques that reduced everything to dollars and cents. He advocated the TFX as a single aircraft that would serve the Air Force and Navy with minor modifications, just as Ford, Mercury, and Edsel had shared components. The idea, of course, was commonality. If the same basic airplane was produced for both services, there theoretically would be larger production runs, with the resulting economies.”

Tom went on, “The Navy is having nothing but problems with the F-111B, which they never wanted in the first place. I’m sure they will cancel it pretty soon. It’s just too damn heavy and too high-drag. It was crazy to think it could ever operate off a carrier.”

Vance nodded. “Did you know that General Dynamics actually invited Kelly Johnson out to review the high-drag problem? He took one look at it and said it was the way the engine inlets were mounted, close to the fuselage and under the wing. He got a big kick out of it because he knew there was nothing much they could do to solve the problem. He likes nothing better than seeing his competitors stewing in their own juice.”

Vance turned to Harry. “What’s up with Boeing, Harry? Are they still pushing a swing wing for their SST?”

“Yeah, but their heart isn’t in it. If they could find some face-saving way to switch over to a delta wing, like Lockheed is using, they would. But right now, they are toughing it out, insisting the swing wing is the way to go. But I know damn well if they win the contract, they’ll switch to a delta in nothing flat.”

“What do they think about the Concorde?”

“Well, first of all, they know it’s a Mach 2.0 aircraft, so they discount it. But they hate the thought that both BAC and Aérospatiale are already building the prototypes and all Boeing has is a mock-up. It’s a beauty, but it’s mostly plywood.”

“And the Russkies? How are they doing?”

Harry was on the spot. Boeing had permitted him to respond to a BAC request to do some clandestine work, slipping the Russians disinformation. Incredibly, the covert activity had brought him face-to-face with Madeline Behar, looking strangely sad and unwell.

For an instant he was back in Paris, shaking Madeline’s cool hand. Strangely, he was most affected by her voice, the rich French accent,

“Hello, Harry. How is your father, and how is Tom?”

“We’re all fine, Madeline. And you?”

“I’ve had some rough spots recently—some minor health problems—but for the most part I am fine. And how are the women of the family?”

Harry had told her that his father had married Jill and Tom had married Nancy, and she laughed.

“It doesn’t surprise me about your father and Jill, but I had not planned for Nancy and Tom. My last plans for Tom had not worked so well.”

“Well, it worked well for me and Anna.”

Vance’s voice broke through his reminiscence, “What the hell is wrong with you, Harry? I’m just asking about the Russians and their Tupolev.”

“Sorry, Dad. My mind wandered.”

There was no way in the world he could ever let his dad know about his meeting Madeline. He had no idea how Vance might react. He was happy with Jill now; there was no point in raising the ghost of Madeline—it might well break his heart. Harry finished his bottle of beer in one long gurgling gulp before answering.

“The Russians are cutting metal, too. I understand Tupolev has orders to get his SST in the air before the British and the French—a matter of prestige. Khrushchev has ordered that it fly in 1968. They had a great model of it at the Paris Air Show, claiming a Mach 2.3 cruise and a four-thousand-mile range. It looks so much like the Concorde that they are calling it the Concordski as a joke.”

Vance smiled, saying, “People always believe that if any two airplanes look alike, it means that one designer stole the idea from another. Everybody said that the designs of the Japanese Zero and the German Focke-Wulf FW 190 had been stolen from the Hughes racer. The truth was that faced with similar design problems, the designers came up with similar solutions. No doubt that’s how it was with the two SST projects.”

Harry cautiously went on, “Well, Dad, in this case, it’s the truth. The KGB, and some people from the East German secret police, the Stasi, they call it, actually got Concorde blueprints and technical data. They pretended to be working for Aeroflot, and found some Communist sympathizers at the factory in Toulouse. French intelligence arrested a guy named Pavlov, supposed to be the head of the Paris Aeroflot office, caught him with drawings of the Concorde’s brakes, gear, and airframe. Caught his East German colleague, too. They tried to do the same thing in England, trying to learn about the engines, but the Brits were on to them.”

Vance said, “Stan Hooker would kick their ass if they tried to steal secrets from him!”

They laughed and Harry went on, glad to change the subject, “The big surprise for Boeing is their uptick in B-52 maintenance and modification. They are reaping a totally unexpected fortune out of the Vietnam War. SAC has deployed B-52s to Andersen, to use in South Vietnam, mainly. Can you imagine that, the big nuclear long rifle is going to work as an iron bomb dropper. They’ve got a modification going on with the B-52Ds, called Big Belly. They’ll be able to drop more than a hundred bombs, all five hundred pounders, in a single salvo from one bomber. Imagine what a formation of them will do!”

Bob whistled, then said, “This Vietnam thing is a cancer that won’t go away until we get serious. It is going to drain our life’s blood to fight a ground war over there. I can’t imagine what McNamara is thinking of.”

The same man who had forced the TFX on the Navy and the Air Force had insisted on building up the Army to fight a ground war in Vietnam.

Tom laughed. “You got to remember, he’s the man who gave us the Edsel.”

Harry went on, “Boeing was really upset that Lockheed won the big Air Force transport competition. They swear they had the best design, but they think Lockheed might have won because the C-141 is working so well. And they swear that Lockheed has better lobbyists in Washington and more powerful people in the Congress.”

“More powerful than Scoop Jackson? That’s hard to believe!”

“Well, that’s Boeing’s story and they are sticking to it. But they are trying to make lemonade out of the lemon—they are converting their design work so that it applies to a big civilian transport, one that will meet Juan Trippe’s demands for a huge airliner.”

A reflective quiet spread over the table. Decisions on big contracts had a tremendous effect on Aerospace Consultants—Aerocon, as Rodriquez called it. If Boeing had won the design competition for the Air Force transport, there would be lots of work for Aerospace Consultants, because so much new ground would have to be plowed. Lockheed’s winning meant that Aerocon probably wouldn’t get much play, because the new aircraft would be based on the well-proven C-141.

Rodriquez said, “Maybe there is a bright spot. Aerocon is already making C-141 simulators for the Air Force. It won’t take us much effort to update the basic design so that they can serve as C-5 simulators, too. And if Boeing brought out an airliner as big as the C-5, it would certainly need new simulators, too.”

Vance asked him, “How are you coming on the idea of establishing our own simulator facility and renting it out to the smaller airlines?”

“We’ll have one in Colorado Springs by the first of the year. We will have to run it twenty-four hours a day to accommodate the demand. The little outfits have been making do with stationary simulators, not much better than the old Link trainers. They are chomping at the bit to get at our simulators.”

Vance watched Tom, saw the customary mixture of anger and distaste in his face. He’d managed to get along with Bob for a while, but the success of the simulator company seemed to infuriate Tom. It didn’t make any sense, but there it was. Time to change the subject.

“Tom, how is the McDonnell F-4 working out for the Air Force?”