The Hot Pilots (21 page)

Then Robbie had gotten on the telephone. The boy had talked briefly with his mother, and then had surprised Harrison by asking
to speak to him …

The cab was pulling up in front of a brick town house. Harrison asked the driver to wait, and then ducked out of the cab,
hurrying through the rain into the front foyer of the building. He rang Steve’s bell, and Steve buzzed him in. As Harrison
climbed the stairs to the fifth floor apartment he felt himself perspiring under his gray flannel suit and tan trench coat.
His blond hair was a rain-damp tangle on his brow. His eyeglasses, their lenses misted by the rain, had begun to fog. He took
them off to wipe them clear with his tie as he stood outside Steve Gold’s door, and then he knocked.

Steve opened the door. He was barefoot, wearing dungarees and a light blue crewneck sweater over a white T-shirt.

“Hello.” Harrison smiled tentatively, offering his hand.

“Hi, come on in,” Steve said, turning away, as if he hadn’t seen Harrison’s outstretched hand.

Harrison quickly let his hand fall to his side. “Nice apartment,” he commented, stepping into the living room and looking
around. “Beautiful neighborhood …”

“Thanks.”

Steve didn’t offer to take his coat, or ask him to sit down. Harrison stood there in his sweaty suit and damp trench coat,
wondering how to begin to talk to this man whom he hadn’t seen in over two years. Then Robbie came out of the bedroom, wearing
new-looking tan chino slacks and a dark blue windbreaker.

“Robbie’s clothes were kind of worn out,” Steve explained. “So I picked him up some new things to get him home.”

“Thanks.” Harrison nodded quickly. He wondered if he should offer to pay … Better not … “Robbie, there’s a cab waiting for
us downstairs. Would you go down now? I’d like to talk with your uncle a moment …”

“Sure, Don …” Robbie hesitated in the doorway, looking at Steve. “Thanks …”

“Drop by anytime.” Steve smiled.

Robbie nodded, smiling slightly, and then he was off, heading down the stairs.

Harrison looked at Steve. “Uh, on the telephone Friday night, Robbie told me what you’d said to him …”

Steve nodded, silent, waiting for him to go on.

“Well, what I wanted to know…” Harrison took a deep breath. “Was what you told him true? About trying to get into NASA, and
the Air Force’s space program, I mean?”

“Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t,” Steve said. “None of this is about me, it’s about Robbie doing the right thing for himself
…”

Harrison quickly ducked his head in agreement. “Well, in any case, what I want to say is that I know that telling Robbie all
that had to be a tough thing for you to do.”

“I’d do
anything
for that kid,” Steve declared. “I don’t care what he thinks of me as long as he does the right thing …”

“I understand that completely,” Harrison said. “Suzy—and I—Well, we don’t know how to thank you …”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said dryly. “I didn’t do it for you, I did it for Robbie.” He paused. “He wants a career in
the Air Force, you know?”

“That’s not a problem as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Steve continued. “What Robbie ought to do is try to get into the Air Force Academy at Colorado
Springs. He needs to be nominated for consideration by an elected or military official, but between us, we could get him a
hatful of recommendations …”

“I’d already thought of that,” Harrison said. “Trouble is, he hasn’t got the academic record to gain admission.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Steve said wistfully. “I don’t recommend that he go the military prep school route. It’d mean an
extra year of school, and I don’t think he’s got the stomach for it, and there’d still be no certainty he’d meet the academy’s
academic standards.”

“No, I agree,” Harrison said. “So I figured that whatever college he goes to has got to have an Air Force ROTC program …”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Steve nodded. “You should see that he looks into that …”

“Well,” Harrison began. “I thought we could
both
help him look into that …”

“You want me to have a hand in it?” Steve was looking hopeful and doubtful.

“Suzy and I discussed it,” Harrison pressed on. “We would very much like your involvement concerning Robbie’s future.”

“I’d like that,” Steve said shyly.

“You’ve always been like a father to him …”

“Well, you’ve tried to be one to him, as well,” Steve mumbled, looking down at the the carpet.

“Yes, I have tried,” Harrison said sincerely. “But trying and succeeding aren’t the same …”

“No, that’s true,” Steve murmured.

“Maybe between the two of us, we can be the father he deserves …”

“Maybe so …” Steve nodded.

Harrison was satisfied. “Well, I’ve got a cab waiting …”

“Yeah, you’d better get going …” Steve followed him out to the landing, then stood in the doorway. “See you …”

Harrison nodded. As usual, he was dumb enough to want to say something more, and maybe muck things up all over again. Fortunately,
Steve had the brains not to let him; he shut the apartment door.

Robert Blaize Green was alone in the den, sitting on the floor on the Navaho rug, watching television. His parents were out
for the evening. His two-year-old half brother Andy was being put to bed by his nanny. Robert had told the housekeeper that
he would make his own dinner, and now he had a FlufferNutter and a Coca-Cola behind him on the coffee table.

He knew that he should have been doing his summer school homework—he was taking English and civics—but he couldn’t tear himself
away from the television. In awhile they were going to have a special news broadcast about the latest development in the spy
plane crisis: Today the Russians had formally charged the MR-1 pilot Chet Boskins with espionage against the Soviet Union.
On the news someone had said that the Russians’ decision to hold the trial was “a response” to President Eisenhower’s economic
blockade of Cuba. The politicians they’d talked to on the television had expressed concerns that the “confrontation could
escalate.” That was another way of saying war, Robert guessed, which nobody wanted. Especially not him.

Not until I’m done with school
, Robert Blaize Greene thought, reaching for half of his FlufferNutter.
Let those MIGs stay grounded until I’m ready to bag me some
…

BOOK II:
1960–1967

KENNEDY OVER NIXON—

Democrat Takes Presidency by Narrow Margin—

Los Angeles Tribune

U.S. LAUNCHES NAVAHO MISSILE—

Government Extends Contract with GAT Aerospace—

Internal Guidance System Deemed Successful—

Aero-Tech Magazine

BERLIN DIVIDED BY COMMIE WALL—

U.S. and Soviet Union Increase Defense Spending—

Kennedy: “We Stand Prepared to Defend Freedom”—

Miami Daily Telegraph

U.S. CHARGES CUBAN MISSILE INSTALLATIONS—

Soviets Warn Attack on Cuba Could Mean Nuclear War—

Philadelphia Tattler

SOVIET RELEASE IMPRISONED U.S. SPY PLANE

PILOT—

Chet Boskins Exchanged for Russian Spy—

Baltimore Globe

VIETCONG ROUT SOUTH VIETNAMESE TROOPS—

Congress Votes on Gulf of Tonkin Resolution—

President Johnson Given Broad Powers to Strike Back at Reds—

Providence Herald

MIDDLE EAST BOILS OVER IN SIX-DAY WAR—

Israel Smashes Arabs and Gains Control of Jerusalem—

Egypt Charging American Involvement in Air Attack—

Nasser Severs Diplomatic Relations with U.S.—

Boston Times

The indoor firing range had a cement slab floor and pale green walls. There were two stalls where shooters could stand abreast
to fire at targets up to seventy-five feet away. Fluorescent ceiling fixtures lit the range, while a pair of powerful exhaust
fans rumbled to suck out the gun smoke.

Steven Gold, wearing heavy flannel trousers, hiking boots, and a green, thick wool turtleneck sweater, stood on the firing
line. He wrapped both hands around the black plastic, checkered grips of the stainless steel, long-slide, custom Colt .45,
thumbed off the safety, and sighted down on the paper target the full twenty-five yards away: a one-third size human torso
silhouette gridded with concentric numbered circles. He steadied his breathing and squeezed off a shot. The .45 rose up, the
recoil stinging his hand as orange flame stabbed from its barrel. The auto’s report had him wincing, despite the fact that
he was wearing hearing protection.

Steve cast a questioning glance over his shoulder at his host.

“Hot load, huh?” Benny Detkin asked knowingly. He was also wearing a foam-stuffed headset to protect his hearing.

“Armor-piercing, you mean.” Steve frowned. He transferred the .45 to his left hand and tried to shake the sting out of his
right.

“I made those up myself, in case of grizzly bear attacks.” Benny smiled broadly. He was wearing boots, tan corduroys, and
a blue crewneck sweater over a red chamois shirt. Benny stood about five feet ten inches tall. He was slender but kept himself
very fit. He had heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes, a broad, flat nose, and a strong jawline. He wore his thick, black curly hair
cut moderately short with no part. Steve, who had not seen his old World War II buddy for some time, had been shocked to see
that Benny’s hair had become seeded with gray.

“Well, what’s the matter, Air Force? Can’t handle it?” Benny leaned against the gun locker, obviously relishing Steve’s discomfort.
“You didn’t hear me complaining when it was my turn. And all mine printed tight in the X-ring.”

Steve, rolling his eyes, turned back to the target. He held the .45 straight out in front of him with his elbows locked, and
emptied it with three double taps. The series of two round bursts set the paper silhouette quivering. The last shot, emptying
the gun, left the auto’s slide open. Steve removed its magazine, and set both it and the auto down on the firing stall table.
As he and Benny removed their headsets Steve activated the overhead electrical pulley that brought his target whooshing back
to him.

“That load is brutal,” Steve complained.

Benny laughed. “Tell you the truth, I can’t stand to shoot them myself. That’s why I gave them to you …”

“Thanks a lot.” Steve took his finger off the pulley switch as the target reached him. None of his rounds were well grouped.
“Ugh, just look at that,” Steve said, disgusted.

“Hey, they’re all in the black,” Benny said. “At twenty-five yards that ain’t chopped liver…”

“Yours weren’t scattered around like these.”

“Don’t forget I’m used to the load,” Benny said. “And I practice a lot. When was the last time you fired a handgun?”

“Point well taken,” Steve muttered.

Benny tapped Steve’s target. “If that had been a bad guy, any one of your hits would have done the job.”

“What else do you have besides this cannon?” Steve asked.

“Lots of stuff.” Benny went over to the gun locker. “A .22 Woodsman target auto, a Browning nine millimeter, a brace of engraved,
single-action Colt Peacemakers. Back at the house I’ve got another .45—”

“I know, in case of grizzly attacks,” Steve said wryly.

Benny looked back, smiling. “You can’t be too careful …” He turned back to the locker. “Oh, and I’ve got this pair of Smith
and Wesson .38 Special, Combat Masterpieces—”

“Now you’re talking,” Steve enthused. “Get them out. We’ll shoot against each other with those, and I bet I whip your ass
…”

“Not a chance.” Benny laughed.

Probably right
, Steve thought as he studied the shelf of trophies Benny had won in shooting competitions down through the years. “You win
most of these with a .38, or a .45?”

“Some of each,” Benny replied, handing Steve the guns and a box of cartridges. “But lately I’ve been concentrating on the
.45. Most of the serious shooters are switching over to autos …”

Steve examined the revolvers. They were blued steel, with four-inch barrels, squared walnut target stocks, red ramp front
sights, and adjustable, white-outlined rear sights.

“You know, I carried a piece like this during the Korean War…”

“Well, load them, and we’ll see how you do,” Benny replied, clipping two fresh targets to the pulley system and running them
out the length of the range until they were hanging against the backstop.

Steve fed six semi-wadcutters into each gun, and handed one of the revolvers to Benny, who took it into the adjoining stall.
Steve replaced his hearing protection, and gripped the Combat Masterpiece with two hands, aiming so that the bright red front
blade was level centered in the U-shaped, white-outlined rear sight.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Benny called.

“Now…”

“Huh?”

Steve replied by squeezing off a round. The .38 barked, spitting fire, but the piece felt as smooth as silk after the .45’s
mule kick. He emptied the revolver, concentrating on pulling the trigger straight back, not letting the gun jerk right or
left as he fired, and resisting the urge to look over his sights at the target to see how he was doing. Benny finished firing
an instant after him, and then both men were working their pulleys to reel in their targets.

Steve, grinning, plucked his target from the pulley and confidently strode toward Benny’s stall.

Benny met him halfway. “Read it and weep,” he said, proudly presenting his own target.

Both men laughed as they compared scores. Each had closely grouped all of his rounds in the center X-ring.

“That’s the way we used to do it when we were flying together,” Benny said quietly. “Knocking Zeros out of the sky over the
Solomons.”