Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (8 page)

Obermyer drove his Porsche 356 Speedster to the Hofbrau Haus, located only four miles away from his apartment. He still enjoyed driving the Beetle, as it was now known almost universally, but felt that as the proprietor of a car dealership he should drive something upscale, and what better than a Porsche, even though it was twice as expensive as the average sixteen-hundred-dollar Volkswagen. Johnny von Neumann had the West Coast dealership for Porsche cars, but Obermyer intended to slice into his business in time.

At the Hofbrau Haus, the German food was of indifferent quality, but they managed a good selection of German beer, all served by cheerful, busty, and sometimes lusty waitresses. No one went there for food, drink, or even sex, for that matter. The Hofbrau Haus’s charm was its unapologetic nostalgia for the Third Reich. There were no overt signs, no swastikas or photos of Hitler, but its ambience brought the German émigrés now flooding into Los Angeles together to reminisce about “the good old days” and feel comfortable about it. There had even been one official reunion of former members of the SS. The meeting had been small and low-key, but Gustav Lieberich, the owner, a thin, unjovial penny counter, the very opposite of the stereotypical German barkeeper, was concerned that such meetings might draw fire from local Jewish groups, so he kept things as informal as possible.

The walls were lined with large oil paintings, some ten by fourteen feet, that would have been praised at any Nazi-era art show—strong, scantily clad young men and women harvesting, working together in industry, or seen at home in tender situations featuring golden-haired children. None of the paintings had a military connotation, and yet they fostered the martial air that was the restaurant’s real theme. Toward the back, where the restrooms were located, there were some kitschy renditions of monks chasing nuns or sampling wine in monastery cellars, all adding to the homey feel.

Early in the evening, the Hofbrau Haus was quiet enough, with couples sitting decorously at tables and a few men drinking at the long bar. But by eleven o’clock, the building began to ring with German drinking songs that within the hour would turn into marching songs. Lieberich was a canny businessman, and he operated two shops as buffers, one on either side of the restaurant. At its left was a quite profitable dry cleaner, flashing a big “One Hour Martinizing” sign. On the right, there was a newsstand where dirty magazines could be purchased under the counter. It barely broke even, but it served the real purpose of isolating his gold mine of a restaurant from neighbors who might complain about the Nazi overtones.

As was his invariable custom, Obermyer arrived early, excited about the prospect of seeing Müller again. He ordered a double Johnnie Walker Black straight up and two Steinhagers, Müller’s preferred drink. Obermyer drank the Scotch quickly, had them remove the glass, and glanced at his watch. Unless Müller had changed, he would be exactly on time, seven o’clock.

And he was, marching through the door in the rambling fashion that Obermyer would have recognized from several blocks away. He stood up, opened his arms, and they embraced, tears running, both embarrassed by it.

They toasted each other with the Steinhagers, signaled for two more, and launched into a long and friendly sharing of memories from the hard days of World War I, through the terrible post-war years, to the few good years they had under the Nazis.

“You know when it was best, Fritz? It was when we were working with Heinkel on that jet that young von Ohain had invented. We had the best of all worlds then, plenty of money, a car, nobody breathing down our necks. I wish it could have gone on forever.”

“Remember how we made fun of him—and today everybody flies in jets. It was a privilege to be there—we just didn’t know it.”

But after the old stories had been covered, at least in part, they settled down to a rapid-fire series of questions and answers, trying to catch up on the last twelve years.

After brushing off probes about how well he was doing, Obermyer asked, “Did the Russians wound you?”

“No, they just captured me—no way out. You remember there was a barrage of mortar fire and we both dove in opposite directions. I went into a cellar filled with dead soldiers, then wandered about in long, dark tunnels, passageways between the buildings.”

Obermyer recalled them well. The Berliners had built tunnels interconnecting the cellars of virtually all the building in the city, to supplement the air-raid shelters and to provide a quick way out of a burning building.

“When I came out, I was on another street and four Ivans collared me, took my watch, my wallet, jerked the ring off my finger, practically cut it off. I expected them to shoot me, but instead they took me into what looked like a company headquarters and threw me in a cell. The next day was May 8, the day of the surrender, and they were celebrating. But the kicker was that they introduced me to a German officer, Hauptmann Reinhard Wachter. He was in Russian uniform of course, but he had been captured at Stalingrad, and had worked with the von Paulus committee.”

Obermyer snorted in disgust. Members of the von Paulus committee were traitors. Adolf Hitler, the man who had made Friedrich von Paulus a field marshall, expected him to die fighting. No German field marshall had ever surrendered, but von Paulus did, saving his own skin while hundreds of thousands had died. Worse, he not only surrendered; he also helped form a committee of officers denouncing Hitler and his conduct of the war.

“Wachter was there to recruit Germans to work with the Russian authorities after the war. The next thing I knew, I was a block leader in the east of Berlin.”

“Why did they pick you? You didn’t speak Russian or anything.”

“It was my age. They wanted older people, not from the ‘Hitler generation,’ and it didn’t take me long to learn Russian, because it was learn Russian or not eat. Pretty soon I was acting as a translator, and got one political job after another. Then, when the German Democratic Republic was formed in 1949, I was recruited into the Stasi—the East German counterpart to the KGB.”

Obermyer chuckled. “I should have known, Gerd, you would bounce out of the frying pan into a soft job. No wonder I couldn’t find you when I asked around about what happened to you.”

“No, I knew you were looking, but I couldn’t respond; they would have fired me on the spot, maybe even killed me. It’s a little dangerous for me still to be talking to you, even now, but I need your help.”

“Anything you want, Gerd, you know that.”

“OK, now what can you tell me about the Lockheed U-2?”

CHAPTER TEN

February 1, 1958

Above the San Joaquin Valley, California

V
ance Shannon felt wonderful as he always did when flying the bargain of a lifetime, a Beech C-45 that he had picked up at a war surplus sale in 1946 for fifteen hundred dollars. It was a steal, for the airplane had less than two hundred hours’ total flight time when he bought it and was in perfect shape. And despite Jill’s undertone of complaints, there was no finer time to fly than early Sunday morning, when his was virtually the only aircraft in the sky.

The Beech had an autopilot, but Vance rarely used it. It was old-fashioned and rather difficult to set up. He preferred flying the Beech himself anyway, enjoying the continual sensual interplay between the air, the controls, and his hands that had given him both challenge and contentment for more than forty years.

Passing over Fresno, he could see Merced in the distance and knew he should deviate a bit to the right to stay out of the B-52 traffic at Castle Air Force Base. It was Sunday, but they’d be flying anyway. As he cranked in a shallow turn to the right, it dawned on him why he was feeling so well. The previous day, the U.S. Army had launched the
Explorer
satellite. After the fiasco of the
Vanguard
blowing up on its pad, he and his sons had watched with pride as the
Explorer
roared off into the night sky in a blaze of glory. Ninety nail-biting minutes had followed until the California track station announced, “Goldstone has the bird”—they were tracking it in orbit.

The early-morning news reports indicated that the United States was reacting with the same patriotic pride shown by the Soviet Union when
Sputnik
was launched. The space race was on, and it was up to Vance to determine how his firm, Aviation Consultants, could help. He decided on the spot that a name change was necessary, perhaps to “Aerospace Consultants” or maybe “Air and Space Consultants.” The firm’s leadership and direction had to change, too, and the best instrument for that would be Bob Rodriquez, who was already dabbling in things so esoteric that Harry was the only other member of the firm able to understand him.

One thing was for sure—to sustain the interest of the public, they’d have to do more than put satellites up into space. Americans were brought up on Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon and, unless there were people in the spacecraft, would lose interest fast. And the people had to be doing thrilling things that challenged the imagination. You had to sell space just as Tex Johnston sold airplanes, doing things that made the public stand up and cheer.

Vance’s mind flashed back to August 7, 1955. He was on the beautiful Boeing company boat, a guest of George Schairer, at the annual Seafair Gold Cup Hydroplane Race at Lake Washington. The entire shoreline was dotted with every kind of vessel from rowboats to multimillion-dollar yachts, and the shore itself was lined with spectators.

His old friend Russ Schleeh, a Boeing test pilot, was just becoming interested in racing the fast boats, and he and Vance were leaning against the bridge. As they stood there, crystal glasses filled with champagne, Vance thought,
I’ve got to get Schleeh to arm wrestle Kelly Johnson. That would be a match.

As big as Kelly was, Schleeh was still the strongest guy Vance had ever known, with hands the size of hams, a powerful build, and a big grin—a natural pilot.

In front of them, Bill Allen, Boeing’s gutsy president, was entertaining some airline executives, potential customers all, with his usual courtesy and wit.

Schleeh nudged Vance with his elbow and pointed over Allen’s head to the north end of the lake.

“It’s Tex Johnston. He’s going to make a pass in the 707 prototype.”

The Seafair announcer came on and alerted the crowd that the new Boeing jet transport would be passing overhead in just one minute.

Everyone grew quiet as Johnston neared the lake, about four hundred feet off the ground and hitting at least 400 miles per hour. There was an audible gasp from the crowd as the big Boeing began to roll, its left wing going up, its nose lifting a little. To the experts it was obvious that the Boeing had gone out of control and was going to crash right there in front of them. Instead, the roll continued, and then everyone gasped again, none louder than Bill Allen, as the beautiful cream, reddish-brown, and gold-painted airliner rolled smoothly over on its back, looking absolutely outrageous with its engines facing up rather than hanging down. This was the crisis moment when pilots expected to see parts flying off and the nose dropping in a headlong plunge into the lake. Instead Johnston continued his impeccable majestic sweep, rolling out into level flight.

Then to make his point to the still-astonished crowd, to convince them that it was not a fluke, Johnston executed another flawless roll before speeding away to land at Boeing Field.

The crowd was stunned at first, and then there burst forth a roar that seemed to shake the waters—no one could believe what they had just seen, least of all Bill Allen, who turned to a friend and asked for nitroglycerin tablets for his heart.

Vance knew that no one would have authorized a demonstration like that—but he also knew that it was the single best advertisement Boeing would ever have. Even so, Johnston would catch hell for it.

Nudging Schleeh, Vance said, “Tex Johnston just sold a whole bunch of airplanes—no one will ever forget this—I hope they don’t fire his ass.”

Schleeh nodded and asked, “Would you call that a barrel roll or an aileron roll?”

“I don’t know; all I can say is that he probably kept it at one g all the way around and the people inside didn’t spill a single drink.”

That was a lot more than could be said for the people watching, who collectively had dropped their jaws, their drinks, and their disbelief before the second roll was finished.

Vance began his descent checklist, heading for McClellan Air Force Base, trying to think of something that would sell the public on space as Johnston had sold them on the 707. Putting a man in orbit was one thing, and the Soviets would probably beat them to it. They probably had something lined up already, dangerous as it was. No, it would take something grandiose, something that von Braun and the others had talked about for years, putting a man on the moon. Trouble was, that was at least twenty years away. They needed something now.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

July 8, 1958

Above Laughlin Air Force Base, Texas

S
quadron Leader Christopher Osborn pressed his back against the seat of his U-2, trying vainly to suppress an itch that had developed three hours ago. Itching was just part of the package of wearing the MC-3 partial pressure suit, necessary because of the altitudes at which the U-2 flew. He was content, nonetheless, for he was at the controls of the most advanced reconnaissance plane in the world, one of four Royal Air Force officers to be accorded the privilege.

Dark-haired and so hook-nosed that his colleagues joked about the need to fit his helmet with a custom faceplate, Osborn flew with his customary precision, recording the events of the flight as if he were over Mother Russia. His last assignment at the Royal Air Force experimental establishment at Boscombe Down had prepared him perfectly for this mission, and he looked forward to the following year, when he would be making overflights of the Soviet Union.