The Hot Pilots (8 page)

“You know that and I know that,” Harrison replied. “But what would the rest of the world think?”
For instance, Linda Forrester
, he added to himself.

“Come on,” Herman replied, sounding frustrated. “You’ve had nothing but triumphs here. You’re even dating my daughter, for
chrissake—”

Harrison held up his hand in warning. “I think it would be best if we left personal considerations totally out of what is
primarily a business discussion.”

“Business?” Herman echoed in seeming disbelief. How can you be so cold about this?” he demanded. “Can’t you see that you’re
tearing me apart? This is my
son
we’re talking about. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?” Herman looked away; he let his voice drop and grow
hoarse. “I thought we were friends, Don, not just employer and employee …”

Harrison wasn’t sure, but he thought Herman’s eyes looked wet.

“Oh, Herman, of course we’re friends,” he muttered, feeling terrible over how this was turning out. His resolve began to soften
as he realized that what he was really doing was not getting back at the son as much as he was punishing the father. But then
Herman glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, as if waiting for capitulation, and Harrison reminded himself that Herman
Gold was a cagey old bastard, skilled at negotiation, and not above producing a crocodile tear should the occasion warrant
it.

And then Harrison thought about how resentful and embarrassed he’d feel if he had to deal with Steve Gold on a day-to-day
basis. He thought about what it would feel like to be with Suzy while socializing with Steve, and Linda Forrester … He once
again imagined how Steve and Linda must have laughed once he’d left the apartment on that awful night in July; how they would
laugh at him in the
future
if he backed down now…

“Try and be objective,” Harrison said. “If Steve comes into the business you’ll naturally have to make him second-in-command—”

“That’s not true,” Herman quickly interjected.

“Fine! Let’s say for the sake of argument that you bring your son into the business and somehow convince him to take orders
from me, not that I for a minute believe that would happen,” Harrison added skeptically. “The fact remains that the world
would still assume that it was
your son
who was running things
with you.
” He shrugged. “I’m not willing to let Steve take the credit for my work, simple as that.” He shrugged.

Herman’s previously wet eyes had frosted over. “I just figured it out … You think you’re
taking over
this company someday…” He smiled disdainfully. “Isn’t that right, Don? Don’t you think that you’re the heir apparent? Isn’t
that
why you want to shut out my son?”

“That’s as good a version of the truth as any.” Harrison shrugged, and was surprised to realize that in a way, it
was
the truth, as had been all of his previous arguments against bringing Steve in. Sure, he thought he deserved to take over
if—or when—Herman was ready to step aside. Having Steven Gold around would only muddle what now seemed to be a clear-cut line
of succession.

The more Harrison thought about it, the more it seemed to him that in a roundabout way Steve had done him a favor by drawing
first blood. If Steve had not humiliated him Harrison never would have been cold-blooded enough to realize that by keeping
out Herman’s only son, he was advancing the likelihood that GAT would someday fall under his control.

“You gave me an ultimatum a while back,” Herman said softly. “You threatened me with your resignation. Has it occurred to
you that you’ve hurt me and angered me to such an extent that I just might accept your offer?”

Blood is thicker than water
, Harrison thought. He studied Herman’s deadpan expression, trying to tell if the man was bluffing.
After all I’ve done here, would he really let me go?

“I would be sorry if you accepted my resignation,” he said sincerely. “I would hate to leave, but I am prepared to do so.”
He paused, and looked Herman in the eye. “I would not have offered it otherwise.”

Herman sighed. He seemed to sag just a bit in his chair.

He’s backing down
, Harrison thought but was scrupulously careful to smother any sign of glee in his own expression and demeanor: another trick
in the art of negotiation that he had learned from Herman.

“You’re asking me to choose between you and my own son—” Herman protested, and Harrison heard the heartfelt pain in that plea.

It was time to give Herman a way out; a rationalization he could use to soothe his hurt. It was time to tell the deepest truth
of all—

“I like to think that, in a way,
I’m
your son, as well …”

Herman smiled, and Harrison knew he’d won.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out concerning Steve,” Herman sighed. “I’ll tell him something—God only knows what …”
He laughed ruefully. “I can’t believe I’m doing this …”

“I’ll get back to work,” Harrison said, standing up.

“One thing, Don,” Herman said. “Steve can never know about this conversation—”

Suits me
, Harrison thought as he nodded. “And I think it would be best if none of this ever got back to Suzy.”

Lieutenant Colonel Steven Gold’s F-404 Starscythe was at fifty thousand feet when his gloved fingers nudged the throttle.
He felt that lovely kick in the pants as the thruster ignited, and heard his own giddy intake of breath routed from his throat
mike through the earphones of his helmet as the Starscythe leapt forward. Cloud wisps swirled past the plexiglass teardrop
canopy as the screaming jet knifed through the gray blue sky.

The F-404 was the Air Force’s newest fighter. She was being called the “manned missile” because of her speed, climb rate/angle,
and ceiling specs. Amalgamated-Landis had built her in response to the complaints from the fighter pilots in the Korean War
that their birds had lacked the performance of Soviet aircraft.

As far as Steve was concerned, the Starscythe filled the bill. She could do Mach 2, and she was the first combat bird to be
able to break the sound barrier in a
climb
, gobbling up the sky at over ten thousand feet per minute. She was also a strikingly different-looking airplane, thanks to
her stubby, unswept, pylon-tipped wings and T-shaped tail.

That was not to say that the F-404 was perfect, Steve thought as he banked his silver stilletto of a bird through the heavens.
Amalgamated-Landis still had a number of flaws to address. The F-404’s high performance capabilities made her a thirsty bird;
her stubby, rocket-fin wings could not carry much ordinance; she had poor turn radius capabilities, and a nasty pitch-up problem
that Steve intended to see about right now…

He checked to make sure that his safety harness was cinched tight, and then pulled back on the stick and went to afterburner.
The Starscythe rose like the Buck Rogers rocket ship she so much resembled. Steve felt himself being flattened against his
seat back as if a giant were pressing his palm against Steve’s chest, squashing the air out of his lungs. As he climbed higher
the sky turned a darker shade of blue. His altimeter read sixty thousand feet. He was approaching zoom ceiling. His eyes kept
scanning his instruments. At the very last moment before his bird ran out of lift and her oxygen-starved engine flamed out,
he dropped the jet’s needle nose to go over the top.

Steve heard himself groaning from the G-pressure as the F-404 arced into her dive. Far below through the cloud breaks was
the glittering band of blue that was the Chesapeake Bay, and to the west, the green and white city-state of Washington, D.C.,
but Steve had no time for sight-seeing.

Get ready
, he told himself.
If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen now
—

Pilots had been complaining that during attack dives the Starscythe’s chopped wings interacted with its tail fins to cause
the nose to abruptly rise up, stalling the jet, and putting her into a flat spin. Brigadier General Howard Simon, whose pet
project the Starscythe was, had called from Dayton to ask Steve to check the problem out, saying that the F-404 that was waiting
for Steve at Andrews A.F.B. was one of the first off the Amalgamated-Landis assembly lines.

It gave Steve a real thrill to be one of the first to fly a new airplane like this, but not nearly the thrill he felt as his
diving Starscythe’s nose abruptly pitched up and his wings lost their bite. His helmet clanked hard against the canopy as
the stumbling jet slid across the sky and went into its spin.

Well, this is where I wanted to be
, Steve thought to himself. His instrument panel had gone from tranquil green to warning, buzzing amber/red. The Starscythe
was falling like an autumn leaf and also twirling like a top as it fell, like a dog chasing its own tail. Steve watched the
sky whip around sideways as his harness cut into his shoulders: At least the webbing kept him from being hurled against the
steel and plexi walls of his cockpit like the little steel ball that catapulted around the walls of a spinning roulette wheel—

Thinking of which, Steve hoped that his number would
not
come up as he struggled to get the jet’s nose down. He’d taken her up as high as she could go in order to leave himself enough
room to recover from his purposely induced spin—At least that’s what he was hoping.

He was down around thirty thousand feet when he finally got the Starscythe back under control. He leveled her off, and then
came around to bring her back home to Andrews, taking deep breaths to slow the jackrabbit thud of his heart. As he called
in for permission to land he was already mentally composing his report to General Moore. Beneath the green rubber oxygen mask
his grin was as wide as the sky.

The ground crew was waiting for Steve as he taxied the Starscythe along the tarmac toward the hangars. He climbed down out
of the airplane and walked toward the ready room with his helmet tucked under his arm.

“Steve! Wait up!”

He turned, and was surprised to see Jack Horton coming toward him. The wind caught the front of Horton’s gray suit jacket,
lifting it away, and Steve glimpsed the snub-nosed revolver in its high-ride, black leather holster on Horton’s right hip.

“You must really be coming up in the world if your CIA credentials have the clout to get you into an Air Force restricted
access area carrying a piece.” Steve laughed, shaking hands with Horton. “It’s good to see you again, Jack.”

“Yeah.” Horton grinned. “It’s been a while.”

Steve nodded. He and Horton had worked together on Capitol Hill to put a public relations gloss on the joint operation between
the CIA and the Air Force to supply military aid to the French forces in Indochina.

Horton pointed to the Starscythe behind Steve. “Most guys would be spending a beautiful Saturday like this relaxing …”

“Who says I wasn’t?” Steve smiled. “But what brings
you
out here on
your
day off?”

“Who says it’s my day off?” Horton replied. “I came out here to talk to you about a business matter.”

Steve wanted to get his ideas concerning the Starscythe down on paper for General Moore while they were still fresh in his
head. “Tell you what, see if your credentials will get you into the cafeteria over at the main complex.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Okay, you go have yourself a cup of coffee. I’ll hit the lockers and then I’ll join you.”

“That airplane you were flying is new, isn’t it?’ Horton asked.

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “She’s got a few nasty habits, but nothing that can’t be tamed.”

They were at a table in the cafeteria, having coffee and doughnuts. It was after lunch, so the room was nearly deserted. Steve
had showered, trading his sweat-soaked overalls for tropical-weight tan wool slacks, a light blue cotton shirt, and a green
and tan, silk-weave single-breasted sport jacket. In his pocket was his rough draft report on the Star-scythe. On Monday he’d
give it to his secretary to be typed up for General Moore.

“Over all, I’d say that Amalgamated-Landis had built the Air Force a good fighter,” Steve continued.

Horton smiled. “Your father is going to be pissed.”

“That’s true.” Steve laughed. “Even if GAT has temporarily pretty much gotten out of the fighter business in order to concentrate
on commercial jetliners. The one thing my father can’t handle is taking a backseat to anyone in anything.” He paused. “But
you didn’t come here to talk about jet fighters. Outside you’d implied that you were here to see me on some sort of business?”

Horton tore a strip off his napkin and began to methodically shred it. “Let me start off by saying that I was very impressed
with the way you handled yourself calming our little ruckus …”

Steve nodded. It had been tricky back in February smoothing out the Indochina flap. The French had been bracing to make their
stand at Dien Bien Phu, while Eisenhower had been making speeches about what a tragedy it would be for the United States to
get involved. Meanwhile, the President was busy authorizing hundreds of millions in military aid, and a dozen C-119 cargo
transports to fly parachute drops to the French forces surrounded at Dien Bien Phu. The Air Force C-119s and their crews had
belonged to the Air Force but had been transferred to Civil Air Transport, a CIA-backed operation. There had been concern
on the Hill about the wisdom of letting the CIA get involved in the French fight. Ike had been able to silence the critics
by warning that if the United States didn’t lend an indirect helping hand in Vietnam now, the nation might find itself having
to do the whole job later on, but then the shit really hit the fan when it leaked that Ike had authorized the sending of two
hundred Air Force technicians to help the French maintain the CAT fleet of C-119 transports. For a while it looked as if the
CIA’s secret airline was going to get its wings plucked, but the concerted public relations campaign by the CIA and the USAF
had saved the day.