Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (29 page)

Trippe looked sharply at Allen, who winced and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s the same with seats. You are talking four hundred seats now, but that will grow twenty percent, too, maybe more. And of course, unlike the weight, that will be a net plus when the aircraft is flying.”

Vance looked at a drawing of the 747 on the easel, seeming to study it intensely. Then, with genuine diffidence, he said, “Pratt & Whitney has been a client of our firm for many years. Harry cut his business teeth on the J57. But I have to tell you that I’m worried about the development of the JT9D engine.”

Allen interrupted him. “Juan, Vance Shannon has been in on jet engines from the very start. He worked hand in hand with Frank Whittle, and later with Hans von Ohain. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world that has a better feel for jet engines than Vance.”

Trippe’s brow furrowed. It was clear that he didn’t think he would like what he was about to hear.

Vance went on, “And you are sizing the engine for a five-hundred thousand pound airplane. When it grows—and believe me it will grow—the engines won’t have the power you need. But that’s the least of it. That’s a known factor. What worries me is the unknown unknowns, the inevitable problems that develop with any new engine, but particularly one as powerful as this one.”

He looked around, his expression pleading for a little more time, a little understanding. “The Pratt & Whitney JT9D is a magnificent advance, but it hasn’t been tested enough to be used as a commercial airline engine yet. They are getting up to about forty-three thousand pounds of thrust out of an engine that weighs only eighty-six hundred pounds, dry, and that is fantastic. But it is also an extraordinary stress on the materials, and most of all on the design. I think you run the risk of having engine problems surface just about the time you are supposed to deliver aircraft to the airlines. If that happens, everybody loses—Boeing, Pan Am, Pratt, everybody.”

Trippe had half-risen out of his chair, positioning himself like a linebacker ready to sack a quarterback. “There is always a risk involved in a new airliner, Mr. Shannon; you know that better than anyone.”

“You are exactly right. But the risk isn’t always one that threatens to bankrupt three companies at the same time. And there is another issue.”

“What’s that?”

“Oil prices. An airplane equipped with engines like the JT9D can be a bargain at current oil prices, but what happens if there is a sudden surge in prices? What if there’s a big war in the Middle East and our sources dry up? Oil prices could triple—and that would more than wipe out all the savings of carrying more passengers.”

Allen said, “Vance, can you point to a specific problem with the JT9D that you are concerned about?”

“No, I can’t. The kind of problem I’m afraid of won’t appear for two or three years after you produce your first 747. The problem won’t show up until there are a lot of engines with a lot of time on them. When it comes, it will be a serious one, and you’ll be faced with grounding the fleet, and keeping eighteen-million-dollar airplanes on the ground, and not flying is incredibly expensive.”

Vance suddenly understood why Gray had left. With his accounting acuity, he probably foresaw the downside of the big airplane much more clearly than Trippe or even Allen could. Fuel prices were artificially low now. Some people were already predicting a big increase in oil prices—you could see it in the futures market.

Trippe had drawn up within himself like a coiled spring. Harry watched him closely, expecting him to explode. Instead, he thanked Vance very courteously, saying, “Well then, Mr. Shannon, what is your advice?”

“I think you should delay a minimum of two years to get more information on the engine. Conduct a really aggressive test program, flying the engine on a fleet of smaller aircraft, and putting on as many thousands of hours as you can. I believe that would greatly reduce your risk. I guess what I’m saying is that the expected value of delaying two years is far greater than the expected value of rushing the program.”

Trippe simply nodded, excused himself from Allen, and walked them all the way out to the elevator. There he said, “Mr. Shannon, I remember you from years ago. You were a straight shooter then and you are now. I’ll consider what you’ve said, but I’ll tell you both right here—we are going ahead with the 747.”

With that the elevator arrived, Trippe gave them a little bow, and the door closed.

“Dad, you were terrific. That was the plainest talk he’s had in years, I’ll bet.”

“I hated to put Bill Allen on the spot. A delay might get Lockheed into the big airliner competition, when they get further along on the C-5 program.”

“Well, I noticed he didn’t interrupt you. He knew you were right.”

“We did what we said we’d do, tell them what we think. It didn’t change a thing. I just hope that they have some luck, and that the airplane pans out. With a little luck it could be a winner. And Boeing’s always been lucky.”

The two men were silent all the way back to their suite at the Waldorf, reflecting on the meeting, on its possible adverse effect on their firm.

On the way up in the elevator, Vance said, “Harry, can you pick a great restaurant for lunch, and another one for dinner? I want Jill to have some fun on this trip.”

When they walked in, Jill was standing by the telephone, her face ashen, tears running down her face.

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

“You won’t believe this. You had two telephone calls while you were out. One was from Fritz Obermyer. He’s agreed to buy the dealership at the price you negotiated the last time you met. The other was from Lou Capestro’s lawyer. Lou died today during an emergency operation. I’m so sorry to tell you this, Vance.”

Vance slumped in a chair. Lou Capestro gone. Impossible.

Harry asked, “Did they say anything about how Anna was taking this? I’ve got to call her.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

January 27, 1966

Palos Verdes, California

J
ill glanced for the twentieth time that hour into the library, trying to see how Vance was getting along. The past month had been impossible. There had been Lou Capestro’s death and the huge, almost gaudy funeral. This was followed by a vicious fight with Obermyer over the purchase of the Volkswagen dealership. The price had already been agreed upon, but Obermyer was now contesting the value of the inventory, claiming that it was actually worth several hundred thousand dollars less than Capestro and Shannon had indicated. The draining combination of events, one after the other, was climaxed by the utter deterioration of Anna’s health.

Anna reacted to her father’s death with an overwhelming grief, blaming herself for having caused him so much pain by her drinking. Then she assuaged her guilt by going on a bender of monstrous proportions. She had left the house one evening, ostensibly to go the drugstore for a prescription, and disappeared for four days. She was finally found dead drunk in a filling station south of San Diego, where a sensible attendant had seen her condition, taken her keys, and called the police. The long-suffering Harry had brought her home, but their physician, Dr. Parry, had sent her to the hospital after a quick examination. Harry spent all his time with her, trying to will her back to health.

Then two days ago, the third Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird broke up in mid-air, with Bill Weaver, the pilot, escaping via the ejection seat. Sadly, the backseater, Jim Zwayer, was killed in the accident. Jill knew how down Vance was when he discussed it with her—normally he would never have mentioned the existence of a super-secret aircraft like the SR-71, much less a crash, but Zwayer had been a friend for years, and he was disconsolate. Typically he blamed himself—the right engine had flamed out when one of his own principal spheres of responsibility, the bypass doors, had malfunctioned.

Vance was a difficult man to comfort. When he was down like this, he wanted to be alone, was indifferent to food, didn’t touch a drop of alcohol, but was on the telephone constantly, talking to everyone who might have some insight into the accident. Only Anna’s health and the ongoing argument with Obermyer kept him at home, away from the crash site.

And now Obermyer was at the door, pleading to see him, promising that he was there not to argue but to agree to the original deal.

She entered the room so quietly that he was startled when she said, “Vance, Fritz Obermyer is here to see you.”

“Dammit, Jill, don’t go pussyfooting around like that. If you want to come in, make some noise, bump up against the door, do something, but don’t scare me out of what’s left of my wits.”

He smiled gently and put his arms up to her. She embraced him, asking, “Should I send him in? He says he’s ready to come to an agreement.”

“Sure, why not? The way things have been going, there’s nothing he can say that will make me feel worse.”

Obermyer oozed into the room. Prosperity had turned him into a Peter Grosz caricature of the prosperous German businessman, all paunch and white whiskers, elegantly dressed, and wearing glasses that looked as if two monocles had been joined by a slim silver nosepiece.

“Vance, I’m so sorry to bother you. I know it has been a terrible few weeks for you. It has for me, too. I really admired Lou, and I hoped he considered me his friend.”

“Fritz, of course Lou liked you; he wouldn’t have done business with you if he did not. It has been a good, mutually profitable relationship, and Lou was always talking about how accurately you had predicted the growth in Volkswagen sales. He considered you a friend. As do I.”

An almost imperceptible tear glistened in Obermyer’s eyes. He was not used to talking or thinking in these terms. Life had always been difficult. In the old country, when he was not struggling to survive he was making others struggle to survive. It had been so different in America. Things had gone beautifully, he had become wealthy, and he was proud of his friendship with men such as Capestro and Shannon.

“About the inventory. I know you think I was being greedy, but I’ve had another look at it, and I know I’m right. But let’s forget it. I’m ready to sign today, just as we agreed, and I’ll have the accountants write off the inventory loss as goodwill, or whatever they choose.”

“That’s good of you, Fritz. I don’t agree with your assessment, but I’m glad you are willing to settle. Why don’t we have another meeting later this afternoon, here, if you don’t mind? We can have the lawyers come in, look things over, and then sign the papers.”

“Fine, Vance, thank you so much. And I have another favor to ask. When you are up to it, I need to talk to you about some other things, nothing to do with the car business. Just some things from the past.”

Shannon’s ears perked up. Obermyer had been an industrial informant in the past, trading secrets around the world for a price. He had a reputation for having solid information early, and Vance knew several U.S. firms that had taken advantage of Obermyer’s civil spying. Industrial espionage was always frowned upon but was still always used if it were done in the correct way, that is, without danger to the recipients of the information.

“Sure, Fritz, let’s talk about it after the meeting this afternoon.”

THE AFTERNOON MEETING had gone very pleasantly. Jill had the foresight to put a few bottles of champagne on ice to celebrate the occasion. The signing took a little over an hour, the time spent mostly in Shannon and Obermyer signing and initialing one set of documents after another. Maury Nunes, Lou Capestro’s personal attorney for more than twenty years, was there representing his interests.

Jill was heartened to see Vance take a glass of champagne into the library for his talk with Obermyer. Even if Vance didn’t drink it, it was a gesture, a sign that he might be coming out of his depression.

When they were comfortably settled, Vance said, “Go ahead, Fritz. What is it you want to talk about?”

“It is extremely delicate, but I am being pressed by my old contacts in Germany—East Germany to be exact—to furnish them information on the American supersonic transport. I’m not doing this for money, but my old colleague Gerd Müller is being pressured to come up with some data on what Lockheed and Boeing are doing. Since it is a civilian effort, not a military one, I thought you might be in a position to tell me what kind of progress they are making.”

“Your friend Müller is working for the Soviet Union, of course? We know that Tupolev and maybe some others are working on an SST.”

“Yes, Tupolev is supposed to have an SST flying in 1968—before the British and French fly.”

“Let me think about this, Fritz. I consult for both Lockheed and Boeing and I’m not going to tell you anything that is of proprietary interest. But I do think I can tell you something that isn’t general knowledge, and that you can say is insider information. Will that help?”

“Yes, sure, but not just something from
Aviation Week.
They research all the magazines. I have to give him something that will be new to them.”

Vance put his finger to his lips, closed his eyes, and thought. He wanted to help Fritz but wouldn’t compromise himself.

“What if I tell you something that the Russians won’t want to hear?”

“If it looks like an American secret, I don’t care. It will be up to Gerd to determine whether or not to use it.”

“All right, let me write it down for you.”

Vance moved over to his old portable, rolled a paper in, and began typing:

1. Lockheed or Boeing believes that a Mach 2.0 to Mach 2.5 transport is not worth building. They are shooting for Mach 3.0 and beyond. This means titanium airframes for the most part. Titanium is very difficult to work.

2. There is no way to recover the research and development cost of any supersonic transport because the production runs will be so low.

He stopped and asked Obermyer, “How many people need to go between, say, Moscow and Vladivostok every day?”

Obermyer frowned and said, “Well, I would think perhaps two hundred? Every day? Well, maybe not so many, perhaps one hundred.”