Top Gun (36 page)

The first embarrassing leaks concerning the glitches and gremlins cropping up in the GC-600’s development appeared in the
trades about twenty months ago. Since then, the squibs airing GAT’s dirty laundry concerning the GC-600 had regularly appeared
in
Aviation Weekly
and the other industry publications, attributed to an anonymous source whom the various trades had in-house nicknamed “Icarus,”
much to GAT’s displeasure. GAT did not favor having its new jetliner linked within the industry to that first great failure
in manned flight: Icarus, who lost his wax wings when he flew too close to the sun.

From the start of the offending leaks, the trades had rigorously stonewalled GAT’s attempts to find out the source of their
information. Since Watergate, every publication liked to think of itself as heir to the tradition of protecting a “Deep Throat”
source. The aviation trades were no exception concerning Icarus. It was Gold’s wife, Linda Forrester, who was able to use
her old journalism connections to find out from an industry reporter who owed her a favor that Icarus was one of GAT’s engineers.

Trouble was, that didn’t much narrow things down. GAT employed thousands of engineers. Sure, only several hundred were working
on the GC-600, but it was the nature of R & D that all the engineers had computer access to the 600 project so that they could
cross-reference the technical data to supplement their own ongoing work.

“I remember when your father was alive and I was his chief engineer,” Don said, breaking into Gold’s reveries. “Your father
was a genius at inspiring the Engineering Department to meet deadlines. For one thing, Herman led by example. If he asked
us to work eighteen hours a day, he made sure we saw him work twenty. But if inspiration didn’t work, he didn’t hesitate to
use a judicious dollop of fear to drive his people to meet his goals.” Don smiled. “We may have complained—we maybe even hated
him now and again—but we never would have dreamed of betraying Herman the way one of our engineers is betraying us.”

Gold asked, “Is Lane Associates getting anywhere discovering Icarus’s identity?”

Don shook his head. “Otto Lane has his best security and anti-industrial espionage operatives on the case, but he says they’ve
got to take it slow, and I agree with him.” Don nodded seriously. You know, Steve, engineers can be a temperamental lot.”

“Tell me about it,” Gold couldn’t resist wisecracking.

Don, blushing, ducked his head. “Okay, myself included, engineers can be temperamental. They’re—
we’re
—creative artists as well as scientists. In any case, I’ve endorsed Otto’s intention to run a very discreet counterespionage
investigation, even if in this sort of work, discreet is synonymous with slow.”

Gold nodded. “I suppose that is best. The last thing we want to do is alienate more of our people by conducting a witch hunt
in order to smoke out Icarus.”

“A mass exodus of engineering talent coming on top of the embarrassing leaks concerning the GC-600 would also shake investor
confidence in GAT,” Don added. “And that would lead to a sharp dip in the price of our stock.”

“And leave management—namely us—open to a challenge,” Gold said darkly. “It’s no secret that industry opinion of our leadership
of the company is on shaky ground as it is. It’s a fact that World-Bird and the GC-600 are the first projects GAT has initiated
without Herman Gold.”

“Your father had a guiding hand in both the Stiletto fighter and the Skytrain Pont projects,” Don admitted. “That’s why the
leaks are so punishing to us. Every new airplane project has it’s share of glitches and gremlins, but the industry is watching
GAT extra closely these days to see if we can persevere in our attempt to move the company out of Herman Gold’s shadow. We
got off to a mixed start with the Pont and managed to come out of it okay, but the sharks on Wall Street who remember the
scent of our blood in the water are waiting and watching for our next misstep.”

“And for GAT to have a spy in its midst just now further compromises our image,” Gold said. “The industry has got to wonder
what’s wrong within our house if one of our own is telling tales.” He paused. “And with all this going on, you still feel
we should push to meet the external deadline of the Paris Air Show just eight months from now, as opposed to wheeling out
our GC-600 prototype according to our own schedule?”

“I think we have no choice but to debut in Paris,” Don replied. “We must move quickly to squelch the rumors circulating about
the 600 and the company. Consider World-Bird’s place in all this. World-Bird is costing us a mint. It will eventually prove
to be a gold mine for us, but not for years, and World-Bird won’t survive if GAT is not perceived as being on top of things.”

“I agree with that,” Gold said. “It’s precisely why I’m questioning the wisdom of your announcement at this point in time.
How will it look if June rolls around and the GC-600 is not ready?”

“It must be ready!” Don said forcefully. “It will be ready!”

“It’s a gamble,” Gold pointed out. “And I’ve never known Don Harrison to be a gambling man.”

Don smiled. “Sometimes you have to go with a roll of the dice. In this case, I feel that circumstances warrant it. For one
thing, the Paris Air Show gives our engineers a finite deadline to shoot for; it will serve as a rallying point; it will represent
the light at the end of the tunnel for them concerning the GC-600.”

“I hear you,” Gold said, aware that many of the company’s engineers were suffering the knowledge that a turncoat among them
was questioning their abilities in public.

“For another thing,” Don continued, “the announcement I made in today’s issue of
Aviation Weekly
shows the industry that despite the leaks, GAT’s management has confidence in the company’s ability to produce the jetliner.
I guarantee you that GAT’s stock price will rise on the back of this announcement.”

“I hope you’re right,” Gold sighed.

“I hope so too,” Don said. “Anyway, we had to do something to combat the leaks. Otherwise, the GC-600 will be the first airplane
to be branded a lemon before the initial prototype is even built.”

“Well it was a balls-out move,” Gold admitted. “I don’t fault you for making it.” He chuckled. “In a way, I’m proud of you.
But next time, run it past me before you run up the colors, okay?”

“Yeah, I promise,” Don said softly. “Christ, I hope everything turns out okay.”

“Me too,” Gold said. “Because come June if the GC-600 prototype isn’t ready for the Paris Air Show, we are going to look worse
than ever.”

(Three)

In the sky above the California desert, east of Los

Angeles

17 October, 1977

“We should be there in a few minutes, Mr. Layten,” the pilot said.

“Yes, thanks,” Turner Layten nodded, thinking that the annoying
whup! whup!
of the Bell Jetranger’s rotors was only slightly muffled by the radio headset he wore in order to communicate with the chopper’s
pilot.

Layten studied the arid desert terrain through the helicopter’s bubble canopy. The landscape baking under the blazing sun
resembled nearby Death Valley. Everything was burnt brown, or the rusty color of a scabbed-over wound, or purple, like an
old bruise. Here and there the ground was furred over with pale-green scrub and studded with leathery green cactus, but mostly
everything was as dead-looking and dry as a bone left out to bleach in the sun.

“There’s Chopper One!” said the pilot through the cockpit intercom.

Layten looked to where the pilot was pointing and saw the big, twin-rotor helicopter, which was painted green and yellow,
just like this much smaller Jetranger. Amalgamated-Landis kept a fleet of several helicopters and private planes for executive
use at the El Segundo facility, but the twin rotor bird named Chopper One was reserved exclusively for Tim Campbell. Chopper
One had the interior room of a full-size trailer and had everything inside it: a fully equipped office, a media/communications
center, a sleeping area/lounge, even kitchen facilities. Just now. Chopper One looked like some monstrous insect drying its
wings in the sun. A tent or awning of some sort had gone up alongside the copter, and several jeeps, trucks, and other off-road
vehicles were parked nearby.

“I’m setting her down, Mr. Layten.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Layten instinctively looked himself over, as he did whenever he was about to meet his superior. He was
wearing tan chinos and a matching, short-sleeved safari jacket, an Aussie-style bush hat with one side of the brim pinned
up, and wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses. His trouser bottoms were tucked into thick leather boots that covered his legs up
to his knees.

Snakebite-proof boots,
Layten thought, shuddering, and reached beneath the bush jacket to adjust the reassuring heft of the snub-nosed .38 riding
on his hip. He’d been practicing with his gun—unloaded, of course—by drawing on himself in his bedroom mirror. Nobody,
especially
not Steve Gold, was going to take his gun away from him again.

The Jetranger set down about fifty yards from the bigger chopper. “You wait,” Layten told the pilot. “I won’t be long.” He
unbuckled his seat belt, pushed open the door, and hopped out.

The desert heat hit him like a sledgehammer after the air-conditioned cockpit.
Hell of a place to conduct a business meeting,
he thought as he bent low, holding on to to his hat, wincing against the storm of sand and grit churned up by the Jetranger’s
slowing rotor wash.

He hurried toward Tim Campbell’s chopper, where deck chairs and a luncheon table had been laid out beneath the tent awning.
Standing by the table was the serving staff, wearing crisp-looking white coats, and a tanned young woman in a black bikini
and high-heeled sandals. She walked beneath the awning to one of the deck chairs, where she began oiling herself with suntan
lotion.

The woman had her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was beautiful, and as Layten got closer he tried not to stare
at her, but it was hard. Her black thong bikini bottom only delineated and emphasized the heartstoppingly perfect curves of
her flawless ass, while her bikini top barely covered her luscious breasts. Layten could see the suntan lotion sheening her
cleavage. How slippery it would be to the touch…

She must have seen him approaching. She smiled at him, then lanquidly stretched her arms above her head. Her breasts rose,
and her wonderful nipples so clearly outlined beneath the thin black fabric seemed to beckon to Layten.

Oh, God,
Layten thought.
Oh, God.
His hard-on was raging. He had an instant, elaborate fantasy in which he regaled the blonde with stories concerning his mysterious
past as a CIA operative, seducing her into making love right here in the desert. Hidden from prying eyes by the sand dunes,
they would become naked, carnal animals basking like lizards in the sun as they rolled in each other’s sweating, passionate
embrace….

Layten averted his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blonde shrug, then turn away, to settle into a deck chair.
Layten was hugely relieved, excepting his still throbbing erection. You couldn’t be too careful; Tim Campbell could be highly
possessive of his toys.

Layten gave the woman reclining beneath the awning a wide berth as he approached one of the chopper’s crew members. The man,
wearing a tan uniform with a green and yellow stripe down the sides of his trousers, and matching epaulettes on his shoulders,
was standing beside the humming portable generators hooked up to supply power to the chopper’s air-conditioning and refrigeration
units.

“Hi, there, Mr. Layten,” the crew member said, touching the visor of his baseball cap as Layten approached. “You looking for
Mr. Campbell? The boss is still out hunting. You just follow that trail that starts over yonder.”

Layten glanced distastefully at the winding trail that disappeared into the desert wilderness. “Maybe you’d better take me,”
he told the crewman.

“No can do, Mr. Layten. The boss told me to stay here and keep an eye on these generators. He’s got some kind of fancy caviar
to go with his champagne for lunch. Wants it icy cold, he said.”

“Damn.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Layten,” the crew member assured him. “You just follow the trail and listen for the shots. You can’t
miss him.” He paused. “Just keep to the center of the trail. The boss and his boys have really stirred up the wildlife hereabouts.”

“Wonderful.” Layten walked away muttering curses to himself, desperately not wanting to leave behind the relative comfort
of the Chopper One campsite as he picked his way around the rocks and clumps of scrub. The sun was beating down on him. His
safari jacket was already soaked through with sweat. And he hadn’t even reached the damn trail.

Gnats, or wasps, or some such nasty things were buzzing and whining in his ears. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his
collar as he stalked along, trying to breathe in the blast-furnace heat as he started down the trail, which rose as it twisted
its way into the hills. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer as he reached a switchback turnoff and kept going, steadfastly
staring down at his boots, doing his best to ignore the rustlings and skittering movements in the rust-colored rocks and low,
thorny bramble. He tried not to think about hairy, jumping tarantulas and glistening darting scorpions; but most of all, God
help him, he tried not to think about
snakes.

He huffed and puffed his way to the top of a low rise and saw Tim Campbell down at the bottom, standing in the center of a
small clearing ringed with boulders.
When you’re rich they call you eccentric.
Layten thought, studying Campbell.
And when you’re poor, they just call you crazy.

Well, in Tim Campbell’s case, they’d call him very eccentric indeed. Campbell looked like an old desert rat, or maybe Howard
Hughes or somebody like that, Layten thought as he took in his employer’s leathery, tanned skin and Campbell’s absurd dress.
Campbell was wearing a white tee shirt, cut-off denim shorts, fingerless leather gloves, and a pair of the same kind of knee-high
anti-snake bite boots that Layten had on. Campbell was also wearing a bright-pink baseball cap on his head, gold-rimmed, green-lensed,
aviator sunglasses over his eyes, a red bandanna tied loosely around his neck, and a brace of elaborately tooled, light-tan
leather cow-boy holsters strapped around his waist. In each holster was a pearl-handled revolver.